eviannadoll

Latest Posts by eviannadoll

The Days We Built Out of Time

Summary: In the years that follow, you and Bucky slowly fall in love, build a life together with four children, and handle storms of joy, chaos, and sadness. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 5.2k+

Disclaimer & A/N: Fluff. ANGST. Hurt/Comfort. Lots of time skips. Other stuff to avoid spoilers. I hope everyone likes this as much as I did. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Part 1

Things didn’t change all at once. That would’ve made it too easy.

But they changed.

It was in the way Bucky started showing up more often. Not just for missions, not just in the training room, but everywhere. In the kitchen at midnight. On the common room couch, pretending to scroll through news he wasn’t really reading. By your side when the silence between you didn’t need filling.

Neither of you talked about her. Not right away. The grief was too tender, too strange. Like mourning a ghost of someone who hadn’t died, a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

But you felt her. In Alpine, who sat by the door every evening for weeks after, waiting. In the hallway, where you sometimes caught the echo of a laugh that wasn’t yours. And in the mornings, when you and Bucky made scrambled eggs out of habit, not hunger. You always made too much. You never threw it away.

One morning, you found Bucky at the window, holding that same little mouse toy she’d left behind. The string was even more frayed now, Alpine had dragged it around like a treasure for days.

You walked over, leaning against the frame beside him. He didn’t look at you, but his voice was soft.

“She looked like you,” He said. “Same smile. Same way of raising one eyebrow when she thought I was being ridiculous.”

You smiled. “She had your timing. That dry, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sarcasm.”

He laughed once under his breath. “Yeah.”

Silence again. But this one was warmer. Safe. You let it linger, before asking softly.

“Do you think we’ll ever see her again?”

He was quiet a long time.

And then he said, “I think… if she’s real, and that future’s real, then maybe we already will.”

You turned toward him, brow raised.

“She said not to wait too long,” He murmured. “And I don’t want to.”

You blinked. “Bucky…”

“I’m not saying we rush anything.” He turned to face you fully now, the weight of too many years and too many almosts settling in his shoulders. “I just mean… I want to find out, with you.”

You hesitated for a moment before nodding with a soft smile.

“Okay.”

And that was all it took.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t fate snapping into place. Love didn’t sweep in like a storm.

Instead, it came in like fog. Soft and gradual, settling into the corners of your lives without either of you noticing at first.

It started with quiet company. You found yourselves sharing space more often. Not really talking, not planning anything, just… existing together. Reading at opposite ends of the same couch. Sitting on the floor while Alpine played between you. Making tea in the late evening and watching the sun set.

You started swapping small comforts. You kept an extra coffee mug in your cabinet. The black one chipped at the rim, the one Bucky always reached for. He started leaving the lights on in the hallway when you came back late, muttering something about “tripping hazards” despite always waiting in the chair until he heard your key turn.

There were no confessions. No grand, sweeping moments. Just slow trust.

You noticed he laughed more when you were around. It wasn’t the full, careless kind. Not yet at least, but the corners of his mouth tugged easier. His shoulders weren’t always braced. He started sitting beside you instead of across from you, like the distance between you had shrunk without asking permission.

He’d lean in just slightly when you spoke. He’d bump your shoulder with his when you made a joke. He’d start telling you things he hadn’t told anyone else. Like about the noise in his head, the quiet in his heart, and the weight he’d been carrying for decades.

You listened. You didn’t try to fix it. You just let him be seen.

And Bucky… Bucky made space for you, too. When you were too tired to speak, he didn’t push. When you needed to cry, he didn’t offer excuses or explanations. He just held out his hand and stayed close until the storm passed. He remembered things: how you liked your toast, the exact way you flinched when someone raised their voice, which music calmed you best when sleep wouldn’t come.

One night, weeks after the girl vanished, you found him on the balcony with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He looked like a man balancing on the edge of something, grief maybe. Or maybe hope.

You didn’t say anything. You just wrapped another blanket around your shoulders and leaned into him. He didn’t speak. He just shifted gently, so your head could rest against his.

You both stayed like that until the sky turned dark and the stars began to appear.

After that night, something changed.

You started finding excuses to touch, to be close to him. Your hand would brush his when you passed him the remote or your knee would bump against his on the couch. He didn’t flinch anymore. He didn’t retreat. His fingers started lingering just a little longer on your back when he passed by. His voice softened when he said your name.

You weren’t just comforting each other. You were choosing each other. You learned each other slowly. Not just the surface things, but the deep ones. What made the other shut down. What silence meant. What love looked like when spoken in gestures instead of words.

And somewhere in the years that followed, without ceremony or flashing lights, the “I love you”s slipped in. Not all at once, but in small moments.

Like when he sat at the edge of the bed one night, rubbing a hand over his face after a nightmare, and you handed him a glass of water, kissed his temple, and didn’t ask questions. Or when you walked into the kitchen and found him swaying gently to an old jazz song, holding Alpine like she was a baby. He looked up, grinned sheepishly, and said, “Don’t tell Sam.”

It crept in the cracks. It filled them. And you thought: This is how it starts. This is how it lasts.

You moved in together one late fall, after months of unofficial sleepovers and his things slowly multiplying in your apartment: a second toothbrush, his dog-eared paperbacks, and his hoodies mysteriously appearing in your laundry basket.

He never asked to move in and you never asked him to.

You just came home one day to find him fixing the sink and said, “Is this your way of paying rent?”

He simply grinned and said, “Guess that means I live here now.”

You picked out a little place just outside the city. Not too far from the team, but far enough to hear birds in the morning. The kind of house with creaky floorboards and a porch swing you built together, badly, and kept anyway because it tilted just enough to be charming.

The first night there, you sat on the floor with takeout containers, unpacked books, and no curtains. He looked around and said, “Feels like ours.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder and replied, “That’s because it is.”

You weren’t expecting it.

The proposal, that is.

You and Bucky had talked about forever, sure. In the quiet, in-between hours wrapped in blankets with your legs tangled, speaking without fear. There were promises in the way he looked at you. In the way he reached for your hand even in sleep.

But he never rushed. He always let the love grow like it needed to. Warm and steady.

Therefore, the proposal came not with a grand speech or some elaborate spectacle. It came on a Sunday morning.

You were in pajamas, hair tied up, reading the news on your tablet with Alpine curled against your leg. The smell of pancakes lingered from breakfast. Bucky was puttering in the kitchen, humming something low and probably old.

He walked in, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and knelt beside the couch.

You didn’t even register what he was doing until he held up a small ring. It looked handmade. Delicate, brushed metal. The stone in the center was a simple pale blue, like his eyes when he was soft with sleep.

He looked at you like he had all the time in the world. Like he’d already chosen you a hundred times before.

“I’ve loved you in every way I know how. And I want to keep learning. I want to build the rest of everything with you.”

You sat up slowly.

“Marry me,” He then quickly added. “If you want to.”

You blinked once. Twice.

Then: “Bucky, are you seriously proposing in socks and a coffee-stained T-shirt?”

He smirked. “If I waited for the right outfit, I’d chicken out.”

You leaned forward, took his face in both hands, and kissed him so hard the ring nearly fell from his hold.

“Yes,” You breathed.

He rested his forehead against yours and let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah?”

“Of course yes.”

Alpine meowed loudly between you both.

You didn’t want anything over-the-top. Neither did he.

So it was just the two of you and a handful of people who mattered most. Sam gave a toast that made you cry. Steve cried through the ceremony but denied it. Natasha smirked when Bucky almost dropped the ring. Wanda caught the bouquet with a knowing look and a wink. The others watching proudly, happy another of them found love.

Bucky wore a navy suit with clean lines. His hair was slicked back, but the same old dog tags were present and tucked under his collar. Meanwhile, you wore something soft and flowing with little sewn stars in the hem because he said once you reminded him of constellations. Like something he was always trying to find his way back to.

When you walked toward him, Bucky looked at you like he was witnessing a miracle he still didn’t think he deserved. His hands were steady when he took yours, but his voice cracked when he said his vows.

“I didn’t think I’d get this,” He whispered. “Not in this life.”

You squeezed back. “You do. You get all of it.”

“I don’t have a lot of firsts,” He told you quietly. “But this… this is my favorite.”

Your vows were messy and tearful. You forgot half of what you meant to say and had to laugh through the rest. He kept glancing down like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And when you kissed him, Bucky held you like he never planned to let go and kissed you like he’d been waiting for years. And maybe he had.

You found out you were pregnant on a quiet Tuesday.

You waited until after dinner to tell him, too nervous to find the words, so you just handed him the test and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Bucky held it in his hands for a long time, saying nothing. His thumb brushed over the faint pink lines again and again. He looked stunned, hollowed out.

You weren’t sure what that meant.

And then, so softly you barely heard him: “I get to be there from the beginning this time.”

You cried. He held you so close you could feel his heartbeat echoing in your spine.

The pregnancy was hard sometimes. Your body tired, your heart terrified of how deeply you already loved someone you hadn’t met yet. But Bucky never missed a single appointment. He stayed up late with you through cravings, through nerves, and through every little kick.

And when your baby was born, when he screamed for the first time and Bucky’s face broke open like sunrise, you knew.

Steven James Barnes.

Born with lungs full of determination and fists already clenched like a fighter. The moment Bucky held him, held this small, furious miracle, he stared down at him like time had cracked open.

When Steve met him for the first time, he didn’t speak either. He just held that baby in his arms, eyes full and voice thick when he finally whispered:

“You gave him my name.”

Bucky nodded.

“You gave me back my life. Seemed fair.”

Steven grew fast. He had your fire and Bucky’s eyes. Curious, bold, loyal. Always the first to throw himself into a sibling’s defense, even if it was just against a scary vacuum cleaner.

And throughout it all, Bucky? Bucky was all in.

Baby monitor clutched like a comms device. Diaper bag packed with military precision. He read Steven bedtime stories like they were classified briefings. He paced with him through fevers, nightmares, tantrums; never missing a beat.

He never once complained. He just loved quietly and fiercely.

“Steven’s gonna be better than me,” He said one night, watching him sleep. “That’s the whole point, right? Make sure they don’t carry the same ghosts.”

You reached over, threading your fingers through his. “And he’ll have you to keep them away.”

A year or two later, when life had settled into something beautiful and real, your first girl arrived.

She was gentler, quieter, but sharp. Watched more than she spoke. She clung to Bucky like a second shadow and slept best curled in the hollow of his arm.

She looked just enough like that girl from years ago to make your heart ache. But now, you didn’t fear it. She was yours in every way that mattered.

Steven adored her instantly. He named her favorite stuffed animal and promised her cookies in exchange for her blocks. He stood guard over her crib. Declared himself “first responder” for baby cries.

Bucky just kept looking at her like he knew. Like somehow, deep down, he remembered.

Even so, your family didn’t stop growing.

The morning started with the chaos only a house full of Barnes children could bring.

Pillow forts had been overtaken by war games. One sibling shouted something about spies; another had hidden Alpine in a basket as “hostage,” and the cat was not pleased. You stepped around building blocks and toy shields, holding a cup of tea like it was a peace treaty.

“Steven!” You called, raising the mug like a white flag. “We don’t hold Alpine for ransom, remember?”

A mop of tangled hair peeked out from behind the couch.

“She walked into the base willingly,” Your son declared solemnly. “We merely questioned her loyalty.”

You sighed and gave him the look. He groaned in defeat and unzipped the basket, and Alpine padded out with wounded pride.

From the hallway came soft, measured footsteps.

You turned and there she was. Not the stranger from years ago, not a time traveler with secrets. But your eldest daughter. Seven now. Barefoot, braid trailing down her back, wearing one of Bucky’s oversized shirts as pajamas and holding a book half as big as her face.

She blinked sleepily at the commotion, then glanced at you and smiled. Small, crooked, and familiar. The same smile she’d given you before, when neither of you had known why it felt so natural.

“Morning,” She murmured.

“Hey, baby.” You brushed her hair back and kissed her temple. “You slept in.”

“Had a weird dream,” She yawned, rubbing her eyes. “Felt like déjà vu.”

Bucky came in from the kitchen, coffee in one hand, his other already reaching for her instinctively. She leaned into him without a word, wrapping both arms around him and resting her cheek against his chest.

He bent down, kissed the top of her head. “Good weird or bad weird?”

She hesitated. “…Both?”

The other kids were too busy constructing a “shield launcher” out of couch cushions to notice the stillness in the room. But you and Bucky noticed.

You both looked at her and you both remembered. The girl in the hallway. Her sleepy grin. Her wide, knowing eyes. Her quiet heartbreak when she’d said goodbye.

And now, she was here.

The memory of that event wasn’t sharp, not anymore. Time had blurred the edges. Neither of you had talked about it in years not since she was born. It felt impossible to explain, impossible to believe.

But when she tilted her head and gave you both that same mischievous, unguarded smile, you knew.

You had really met her before. She didn’t remember it. Not really. But maybe… some part of her did.

Because she looked between you and Bucky now, then glanced toward her siblings causing a ruckus and said, offhandedly:

“I dreamt this, that we were all here. You two. Me.”

She paused. “Even Alpine.”

Bucky’s hand stilled on her back.

You said gently, “What happened in the dream?”

She shrugged. “I was older. And I… I think I missed you.”

A moment passed. Then she pulled back, brightening like she always did when she decided she’d thought too hard about something.

“Anyway,” She said, flipping the book open. “Can you read me the story about haunted space pirates again?”

And like that, the moment moved on.

Later, after the kids had fallen asleep in a tangle of limbs and blankets, you and Bucky sat on the porch swing.

You held hands without needing to say why.

“She really doesn’t remember,” You said softly.

“She doesn’t have to,” Bucky murmured. “She’s here.”

You looked out across the quiet yard, moonlight silvering the grass. The wind was warm. The house behind you pulsed with life and love and noise. And in the middle of it all was her, yours.

The girl from the future. Now exactly where she belonged.

The years moved fast. Faster than you ever thought they would.

But they were full, achingly full. And Bucky, for all his years spent frozen in time, finally started measuring life not by wounds, but by moments.

And those moments were everything.

Like when Steven was nine and he made his first “shield.” It was a pizza pan, dented from being used as a Frisbee too many times, painted red, white, and blue with permanent markers. You found him in the backyard with it as he held a mop like a spear.

“He says he’s gonna be a ‘peace soldier,’” Your daughter whispered to you from the kitchen window. “Like Uncle Steve and Dad but without punching.”

Bucky snorted into his coffee.

“He’ll still punch someday,” You murmured. “Just diplomatically.”

Later that week, you caught Steven trying to sneak out in a cardboard costume to patrol the neighborhood. You and Bucky stayed near the porch steps to watch until he tripped over the hose and blamed Alpine.

Or another time when the twins were walking now, and your house had stopped functioning like a normal space.

Someone was always crawling under the table, someone else scaling the cabinets like a mountain goat. One child asked for Bucky’s knife “just to look at it” while another sobbed because they couldn’t make their toy train “phase through walls like Vision.”

Bucky looked at you one night as he held a screaming toddler under one arm and a bottle of Pepto in the other and said deadpan:

“I think we’re outnumbered.”

You laughed until you cried. You’d never felt so full.

Five years passed in a blink.

Your son turned fourteen and started asking about being a superhero already. Your daughter started sketching out inventions of her own and trying to create them. One of the twins declared she would be the next Iron Man, but with better color coordination while the other found an old watch of Bucky’s and took it apart just to put it back together perfectly.

And you,

You were still you.

Still the heart of the house. Still the calm in the storm. Still the one they all turned to without thinking. The keeper of scraped knees and burnt cookies and early morning talks under too many blankets.

But lately, Bucky started watching you more closely.

You’d say you were just tired. Just a little sore. He’d nod. Trust you. But his eyes always lingered.

It started with small things. You were always the one up first, putting the kettle on, checking on whoever had wandered into your bed in the night, or moving around the quiet house like morning was something sacred.

But lately, Bucky was the one making the tea. Noticed it when he stood in the kitchen waiting, and you didn’t come. The first time, he figured you’d just slept in. He didn’t question it. Carried the mugs back anyway, set yours by your usual spot, waited to hear the sound of your footsteps padding through the hall.

You didn’t come.

Then it happened again. And again. You said you were tired.

“It’s nothing, honey. I’ve just been running around too much. It’s been a week.”

And it had been. Kids with fevers. Broken furniture from indoor superhero games. A trip to the city for a check-up that left everyone overstimulated and cranky. You’d smiled through all of it and kept everything moving like you always did.

But that smile… it had started to falter around the edges.

The next clue came when you forgot the grocery list.

Not just misplaced, forgotten. You stared at the fridge like it was supposed to write it for you, frowning in that quiet way you always did when your brain refused to keep up with your will.

“You okay?” He asked softly.

“I think I need to write things down more,” You muttered, and laughed like it was funny. “I’m going to turn into my own mom.”

He said nothing and simply kissed your cheek.

But he started watching. He noticed the way you held your side when you stood too fast. The way you let the kids climb all over you until suddenly, you didn’t. Until you started sitting out more. Hand on your stomach. Or your back. Or your head.

He asked once, “Should we go in?”

You waved it off. “I’ve got a weird bug or something. Just tired.”

You always said just tired.

And he didn’t push. He didn’t want to smother you. But the fear in his chest was a quiet, growing thing. A seed that had planted itself after all those years of learning what it meant to lose something. What it meant to feel a silence that lasted forever.

So he continued watching. He held your hand more often. He found himself counting your breaths while you slept. He memorized how your voice sounded when you called his name, just in case there came a day when you didn’t anymore.

One night, it was just the two of you.

The kids were finally asleep. The living room was littered with little bits of invention and toys from the day, scraps of wire, half-finished Lego sculptures, drawings on small chalkboards. The TV was playing low as the moonlight came in soft, spilling across your face.

You were curled against him, quieter than usual, eyes fluttering with the edge of sleep.

Bucky held you tighter than he meant to.

“You’re hurting,” He murmured. “Aren’t you?”

You were silent for a long time.

Then: “I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

He swallowed hard. “You won’t.”

“I didn’t want them to be scared.”

He closed his eyes.

“They won’t be,” He said. “They’ve got me.”

You laughed once, too softly. He rested his forehead against yours. His voice cracking.

“We’ll go in tomorrow.”

“…Okay.”

He held you tighter than usual through that night. Because somehow, without needing to say it, you both already knew what was to come.

The word treatable came first. Then: slowed, not stopped. Then finally, the one they all danced around like it was a cliff edge… Terminal.

It came wrapped in smiles, soft voices, and long timelines. But Bucky heard it for what it was. The beginning of goodbye.

But the house didn’t fall quiet overnight.

It happened in waves.

At first, life looked the same. You still smiled through breakfast, still tucked hair behind ears and kissed cheeks and pressed bandages onto scraped knees. You still hummed around the kitchen sometimes, still smoothed wrinkles out of Bucky’s shirt collar with a hand that trembled more now.

But the air had shifted. Like someone had opened the windows too wide in winter.

The kids didn’t know the details.

Only that something was wrong. And that their father, who never raised his voice and never missed a school drop-off, had stopped sleeping through the night. Who had taken to memorizing your favorite mug, your slipper placement, your cough patterns.

You tried to keep things light. Made jokes about “boring old people pills.” Laughed off Bucky trailing you room to room like he was on some invisible leash.

“I’m not made of glass,” You said once, swatting at his arm.

He didn’t respond. Just looked at you like you were made of time instead. Fragile. Precious. Finite.

The youngest two started asking questions. They didn’t know how to phrase them yet. The closest was:

“Why is Mom always tired?”

Bucky crouched down, hands on small shoulders, forcing his voice not to shake.

“Because her body’s fighting really hard right now,” He explained gently. “And that makes her extra sleepy. But she’s still here.”

Still here. Those words clung to everything.

Meanwhile, your daughter stopped building things for a while. Then quietly started again. But different this time. Not gadgets or play-weapons.

But comfort items. A heating pad you didn’t have to plug in. A headband with cooling gel beads. A remote that paused every speaker in the house at once so you could rest. Even if some of them didn’t work perfectly, you accepted each one with the proudest smile. You called them genius. Your voice was softer now sure, but still full of pride.

Bucky kissed the side of your head when you weren’t looking.

“She gets that from you,” He murmured.

You rolled your eyes. “She gets it from love.”

However, Steven took it the hardest. He didn’t say much. Just became… vigilant. Like if he stayed good, if he kept his grades up, if he helped with the dishes and fed Alpine and read bedtime stories to the twins, maybe the world wouldn’t take you.

He didn’t cry in front of anyone. But Bucky found him once in the hallway, gripping the doorframe so hard his knuckles had gone white. He didn’t speak.

Bucky just sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and let silence do the holding.

Throughout everything, you tried to stay up late some nights like you used to. Curled next to Bucky on the couch, as the firelight danced across both your faces. But your body, traitorous thing that it had become, began giving out earlier.

Some nights, Bucky would carry you to bed.

Some nights, he’d just sit there after you’d fallen asleep; your head against his chest, your breath shallow as he’d memorize the weight of you again.

Your laugh. Your warmth. Your heartbeat pressed close to his.

He never stopped being grateful. Even as grief slowly moved in like fog. He still thanked the universe for you. Every single night.

Until it took you away.

It rained the morning of your funeral. Not a storm. Nothing dramatic. Just a slow, gray drizzle. Gently falling, like it was trying not to interrupt. It was like the sky mourned you softly. No thunder. Just the kind of quiet that gets into your bones.

The kids sat in the front row, pressed in close beside Bucky like they were trying to hold each other up with the weight of their grief. Small hands in his. Shoulders tucked beneath his arms. No one cried loudly.

It wasn’t a loud kind of grief. It was the kind that hollowed things out.

The kind that made the world feel tilted, just slightly, like everyone was pretending not to notice that something vital had slipped out of place and wasn’t coming back.

There were flowers, but you never were a fan of flowers at funerals.

So they brought other things.

Letters. Little toys. A book you always read at night. A sketch one of the kids had drawn, stick figures with big smiling eyes.

And in the center of it all: your wedding ring looped around a ribbon.

Bucky didn’t wear his suit jacket that day. He couldn’t. Not without your hands tugging the sleeves right, smoothing the collar. So he stood there in a black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair tied back, jaw clenched like he was holding in the ocean.

He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. His silence was the loudest thing there.

Afterward, the house was full of people trying to help.

Steve came. Wanda, Natasha, even Tony too. Sam kept the kids entertained in the backyard for hours. Everyone brought food. No one touched it. The house smelled like casseroles and clean laundry and the faint trace of your perfume on your pillow.

Bucky sat in your spot on the couch and didn’t move for almost an hour.

And at night, it was even worse.

He waited for your footsteps out of habit. Waited for your voice in the dark. Sometimes he swore he could hear it, the soft hum of you brushing your teeth or the quiet click of the porch light.

But the house didn’t answer him anymore.

He folded your cardigan and left it on your pillow. He put your coffee mug back on the shelf, even though no one else would touch it. He whispered “good night” to the empty half of the bed.

The kids also changed in small, invisible ways.

Your daughter got quieter. The oldest got louder, like he was trying to take up the space you left behind. The twins asked fewer questions but clung more. At bedtime. At the sound of thunder. At the way Bucky hesitated before reading your favorite story.

He never got through it. Not all the way. Not yet.

When someone would come over to help babysit, Bucky took to walking late at night. Through the neighborhood. Past the trees you used to point out in the fall. Past the shop where you used to get extra muffins for the kids when no one was looking.

He’d walk until he could breathe again. Until the ache in his chest dulled just enough to let him go home.

And of course, there were photos. You’d insisted on them. Snapshots of life, pinned to the fridge and framed on the mantle or tucked into books, pockets, and memory.

You laughing. You braiding someone’s hair. You and Bucky at the kitchen table, arms tangled, foreheads pressed close, with that soft look that only ever belonged to you two.

He didn’t look at them often. He couldn’t yet. It was still too close. Still too raw.

But he never moved them. Never turned them face down.

You were gone. But you were here, too. In their faces. In their voices. In the quiet way your family still knew how to love.

And due to that love, it may have been why your eldest daughter grew more obsessed with her inventions; more specifically, time travel. Working with others to find a way to see you once again.

Echoes of a Nobody

Summary: The Avengers discover you may now be working with a hostile organization, sparking confusion, guilt, and questions about whether you were taken or left by choice.

Word Count: 2.1k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

The Tower still functioned. The lights still came on at sunrise, the coffee still brewed automatically, and the world, predictably, still needed saving.

But it wasn’t the same. Not really. They didn’t talk about you anymore. Not in meetings. Not in the break room. Not even in the way people usually mention someone who left like “I wonder how they’re doing,” or “Remember how they used to do this?”

Your name hadn’t been spoken in weeks and no one looked at the desk the same way. Even with the new intern, no one admitted they noticed the difference in the reports. The missing efficiency. The absence of quiet competence. You’d made things easy for them, too easy. Because you hadn’t needed praise. You hadn’t asked questions when the assignments piled too high. You never made a scene when someone else took credit.

You were just… reliable. Invisible.

And now, you were gone. Not fallen in battle. Not reassigned. You left on your own terms. And somehow, that made it worse. Because the truth was, they’d all gotten used to you being around without ever really seeing you.

Sam noticed first. He didn’t say anything out loud, but every time he found an old file tagged with your formatting or caught a smart line of code the intern didn’t recognize, his jaw would clench just a little.

Clint complained more. “Why is everything in the wrong place?” He muttered once, staring at a disorganized gear locker that used to run like clockwork under your watch.

Bruce rubbed his temples during mission debriefs now. Things were falling through. Small details, easily fixable mistakes, but they stacked up. Quietly. Subtly.

As for Bucky, he still didn’t say anything either. He still trained. Still showed up. Still leaned into quiet corners with that girl he was so drawn to, the one with the bright laugh and easy smile. They were exactly what they were meant to be: Happy. Whole. Seen.

Yet still, something in Bucky’s expression occasionally flickered. Like when he asked the intern for last quarter’s field logs, the kind you used to prepare without being asked. The intern blinked had. “Wait, were we supposed to keep those updated?”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t scold. Just nodded tightly and walked away.

He hadn’t really known you. Not the way he knew her. But maybe he knew enough now to feel the edges of your absence even if he didn’t understand it. Because no one really understood what you did until you weren’t there to do it anymore.

And now, the Tower moved on like it always does. Your desk still sat there, empty. No one had claimed it really. And when the lights dimmed and the late night silence crept in, the air around your space felt heavier. Like the room knew something had been lost.

Not loudly. Just quietly. Like everything you ever did.

Therefore, what came next was a surprise to them all. It was Bruce who discovered it first, he didn’t mean to find it.

It was late that day, late enough that the Tower was more shadows than light, more quiet hums of distant servers than footsteps in the halls. His coffee had gone cold an hour ago and he wasn’t even sure why he was still at his desk. The mission reports were dull, mostly cleanup work from intel they’d intercepted last week from an anti-shield faction operating out of the Balkans.

He was skimming out of obligation, not curiosity until he opened the fifth folder.

The file tree wasn’t remarkable at first. Standard formatting. But the subfolders were ordered a little too neatly. The names weren’t generic; they were contextual, smart. Predictive.

Then came the layouts. His eyes narrowed.

Line after line of data filtered across the screen, and his breath caught, not because of the content, but because of the structure.

The headers. The symbols. The little quirks in spacing that most people wouldn’t notice.

But Bruce did. Because he remembered seeing it for years. Quietly, reliably, every week formatted the exact same way. You used to send summaries with this layout. It wasn’t a style. It wasn’t even a system. It was… you. Distinct. Efficient. Invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking for it.

Bruce sat up straighter, heart tapping a little faster. He clicked deeper. Opened a timestamped diagnostic from a surveillance relay taken offline days before an attack. Whoever wrote the analysis had restructured the data logs to show energy signatures layered over civilian heat maps. It was clean. Elegant.

Too elegant.

“Wait,” He muttered, leaning closer.

There were redundancies in the formula. Little backups, hidden verification lines built into the metadata. He’d seen them before. He remembered once asking about them, years ago, why you'd included them when no one else did.

You had shrugged. “Because systems fail. People forget. I don’t.”

Bruce’s fingers paused over the keyboard. He sat back slowly, eyes still fixed on the screen. The quiet hum of the tower seemed suddenly louder, more isolating.

He didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Didn’t want to assume something that wasn’t possible. Except… it was. And no matter how much he told himself it couldn’t be you, that this was probably just someone who used your old files, or mimicked your workflow, he felt the truth in his gut.

This wasn’t mimicry. This was your work. Your habits. Your voice, written in lines of code like a ghost.

He didn’t say anything to the others at first. Not yet. Because if he was right… It meant you weren’t just gone. You were working for them now. And there was a high chance, you weren’t coming back.

-

Bruce spent most of the night reviewing the files again, hoping he’d find something, anything that would disprove his gut.

He didn’t.

So when the team gathered for the morning briefing, he stood silently near the edge of the table, clutching his tablet like a lifeline. Steve was mid-sentence about a possible weapons facility when Bruce finally spoke.

“I think she’s working with them.”

The room shifted. It was subtle, but sharp. Natasha looked up. Clint stopped halfway through unwrapping a protein bar. Sam’s brows dipped in confusion. Steve frowned.

“What?” Steve asked.

Bruce tapped his tablet and cast the projection into the center of the room and said your name. The file structure lit up in pale blue: neat, layered, and efficient.

“She designed this,” Bruce said. “The data formatting, the way it parses real-time risk indicators, and the multi-tier flagging structure. This isn’t like hers. This is hers.”

Bucky, who’d been leaning against the wall near the back, arms folded, finally looked over.

“You’re saying she’s helping them now?” He asked, voice low. More like a statement than a question.

“I’m saying I don’t know,” Bruce admitted. “But this level of detail? It’s not someone copying her style. It’s her work. I’d bet everything on it.”

Sam squinted at the file, then crossed his arms. “So, what? She was a mole this whole time? Just embedded with us, waiting?”

“No.” Bruce’s tone sharpened. “No way. She didn’t have access to anything sensitive until the last year, and even then she didn’t take advantage of it. This is recent.”

“So she was taken?” Natasha asked. “Maybe they’re forcing her to work for them.”

“Could be,” Steve said quietly. “We’ve seen that happen before.”

Bruce hesitated, his thumb brushing over the edge of his tablet. “If that’s true, then why does this read like she cares? There’s attention to detail in this. Clean backups. This isn't bare minimum compliance. It’s-“

“Deliberate,” Bucky finished.

Everyone turned to him. He didn’t look at anyone. Just kept his arms folded, eyes fixed on the holoscreen, jaw tight.

“She used to keep my files color-coded,” He said after a pause. “Even though I never asked her to. Wouldn’t even have thought to.”

“She did that for you?” Clint muttered. “She never even looked me in the eye.”

“She barely talked,” Sam added.

“Because none of us ever really gave her a reason to,” Natasha said, voice quiet.

Steve’s mouth tightened. “She was reliable. Smart. I just thought she preferred to be behind the scenes.”

Bruce looked down. “Well, if they’re treating her better… if she’s found a place where she feels like she belongs…”

“…Then maybe she didn’t need to be forced,” Natasha finished.

There was a long silence that sank into the walls like fog.

Sam glanced at Steve. “So what do we do?”

No one answered. Because deep down, they were all wondering the same thing: If you chose to leave, if you found people who valued you in ways they never did…

Do they even have the right to go after you? And worse, would you even want to come back?

The holoscreen was still glowing when she walked in, heels soft against the floor, a cup of something warm in her hand.

She smiled easily, the kind of smile that made people look up even when they didn’t mean to. Bucky did. His posture eased just slightly, eyes flicking toward her like muscle memory. The one he loved brushed his arm with the back of her hand as she passed him and made her way to the table.

“Hey,” She said with a curious tilt of her head. “What’s all this?”

Steve didn’t answer immediately. Neither did Bruce. The tension still hung from earlier like humidity in the air.

“We think one of our old administrators might be working with the group we’re tracking,” Steve finally said, tone careful.

She blinked. “Oh?” Her eyes flicked to the display, then back. “Who?”

Bruce hesitated. “She left a few months ago. Used to run most of our comm scrubs and data threads.”

A small pause before her mouth curved. “Ohhh. You mean the quiet one? I think I remember her.”

She said it gently, like trying to recall the name of someone she might’ve sat next to in a lecture hall years ago.

“She didn’t talk much, did she?” She continued, sipping her drink. “I always thought she seemed sweet, but kind of… you know. Overwhelmed?”

Bucky didn’t respond. Natasha’s expression sharpened subtly, but the woman either didn’t notice or didn’t mind.

“She left,” Bruce said, steady but not unkind, “Because we made her feel invisible.”

Her brow rose slightly, as if surprised by the weight of the statement. “Oh. I didn’t realize she felt that way.”

“She might’ve been taken,” Steve said. “Or maybe she joined them willingly. We’re still piecing it together.”

The woman tilted her head. “And you think she’s helping those guys now?”

“We have signs of her system work embedded in their infrastructure,” Bruce confirmed. “The designs match her exactly.”

A thoughtful hum. She leaned lightly against the table. “That’s kind of impressive, actually. I mean… good for her?”

There was a pause.

She blinked. “I just mean, it sounds like she found a place where she fits, you know? I always thought she looked like she didn’t want to be here most of the time.”

“She probably wanted to be useful,” Natasha added.

“Sure, but maybe she is now,” The woman replied, light and certain. “I mean, I don’t want to sound harsh or anything, but if she didn’t have much clearance, how dangerous can it really be?”

Bruce stiffened. “She knew more than anyone realized. She was just never loud about it.”

“Right.” A gentle nod, like she understood. “Still… maybe it’s not worth making this a whole mission. I mean, do we really want to drag her back into this if she’s finally found her place?”

No one answered, not right away.

“She might be compromised,” Steve said firmly. “Or being manipulated.”

“Of course. But if she’s doing it by choice?” She gave a soft, almost sympathetic smile. “It just doesn’t seem worth disrupting everything over someone who didn’t even seem to like being here.”

“Maybe she didn’t like how she was treated,” Bucky muttered.

She blinked again, this time with a little laugh. “Oh… well, we were all busy. I’m sure nobody meant anything by it.”

Sam and Natasha exchanged a look.

She gave Bucky’s arm a soft squeeze. “I just think you all have bigger things to worry about than chasing down someone who’s probably better off without us. But… I know you’ll do what you think is right.”

She offered them all one last sweet smile and drifted out the way she came, calm and weightless as a breeze. Only when she was gone did anyone breathe again.

Bucky’s gaze turned back to holoscreen.

He didn’t know what unsettled him more: her gentle way of brushing it all aside, or the fact that he’d once agreed with her without even thinking twice.

He wasn’t sure what was right anymore.

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal

i would loooooove to see more invisible!reader if you are taking requests🥹love your writing💓💓

Hello, love! Sorry it took a bit, but I loved your request! Invisible!reader was one of the first ones I wrote about that really resonated with me and was a special turning point to what I wanted to write here. So, thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!

The Way He Comforts

Summary: After overhearing teammates question your stability and usefulness during a mission, you silently spiral and retreat deep into the compound and yourself to be alone and unseen. Bucky, noticing your absence and familiar patterns, finds you and gently reassures you that he sees your worth no matter how overlooked you feel. (Bucky Barnes x invisible!reader)

Disclaimer: Hurt/Comfort. ANGST. Reader has the power of invisibility. Part 2 to The Way He Notices.

Word Count: 2.2k+

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You hadn’t meant to overhear.

You were just… staying behind. Letting the others clear out of the control room first. The mission had been a blur of adrenaline, blood, gunfire, and hazes of movement and orders shouted over comms. Your body was back in the compound, but your mind was still locked in the field, replaying every move you made, every step you took or didn’t.

Were you too slow? Did you hold the team back? Did you make the right decisions?

You hovered near the back of the room, invisible out of reflex. Not hiding. Just breathing. Just existing where no one could touch you, or expect you to explain anything.

That’s when the conversation started.

“Look, I’m just saying,” A voice rung out sharply. Male. One of the newer field leads, you couldn’t remember his name, only that he talked too much during ops and liked to fill silences that weren’t his to break. “When we’re in a live-fire zone, I need to see my team. Literally. We can’t afford to have someone going ghost mid-fight.”

Your spine stiffened. They were talking about you.

You stepped back without thinking, foot brushing softly against the wall, mind screaming at your body to stay silent.

“She got the job done,” Natasha said coolly. A defense quick and firm.

You’d thank her later. Maybe. If you could look her in the eye again.

“Barely,” The man replied with a bitter huff. “We don’t even know how her powers work really. What if she’s compromised out there? I mean… they vanished mid-mission. Again. What if one of us had been hit and needed cover?”

Your heartbeat spiked. They thought you hadn’t done your part.

They didn’t see the gun that almost took Steve’s head off, one you disabled while invisible. They didn’t know you redirected a blast meant for Natasha or jammed the comms that would’ve called reinforcements. You did it all unseen. That was the point.

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. Then came a snort from someone else. A laugh, short and mean.

“Kind of sounds like a trauma response.”

And it was, wasn’t it?

You’d spent years trying to make it something more, something useful. A gift. A shield. A way to survive. But here, in the cold buzz of the compound’s overhead lights, they made it sound like a liability. Like a malfunction.

“I’m just saying,” He went on, like he hadn’t just scraped the skin off your insides, “Is she stable? If she freaks out in the field, the rest of us pay the price. Might be time for someone to assess whether she’s really combat-ready. Not just… a ghost with clearance.”

The silence that followed was worse than anything. No arguments. No defenses. Just quiet. Agreement, maybe. Or indifference.

You felt your chest pull tight. Not with anger, but grief. A familiar, heavy kind of grief. The one that told you it didn’t matter how hard you trained. How hard you fought. Some people would only ever see you as a shadow. A risk. An afterthought.

You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

You slipped through the hallway unseen, your footsteps noiseless, even to yourself. You weren’t sure where you were going. You just knew you had to move before your throat gave out, before your body betrayed you, before the tears came and refused to stop.

-

On the days that followed the conversation, you stopped sitting at the table during team meetings.

You still attended, sure. Friday still registered your presence, and Natasha always handed you a second copy of the mission files without comment, but you sat on the edge now. A ghost in the corner. Your chair pushed half out of the circle, body barely visible, sometimes not at all.

And no one said a word.

Not one person asked why you didn’t speak up during the last debrief. Or why your plate went untouched in the kitchen. Or why you left your locker door cracked open now, like you were one second from walking away for good.

No one but Bucky.

He didn’t confront you or press. He just watched.

The first day, he caught your eye as you passed him in the hallway. That alone was unusual, you rarely made eye contact with anyone when you were phased out, drifting. But something about the way his gaze narrowed told you he already knew something wasn’t right.

You disappeared halfway through that morning’s training exercise. You weren’t even trying to be stealthy. You just… didn’t want to be perceived anymore.

And Bucky didn’t call it out. He just tilted his head and quietly adjusted the team formation. Covered the gap like it was part of the plan.

That night, there was a cup of tea outside your room.

No note. Just the kind you liked: strong, a little bitter, and steeped longer than necessary. It was still warm too.

You sat on the other side of the door for a long time, legs drawn to your chest, forehead pressed to your knees. You didn’t drink it. You didn’t throw it away either. You simply it there.

The second day, your invisibility didn’t drop for twelve hours even in the compound, even in your room. You didn’t eat and you barely breathed.

You stood in the hallway outside the gym long after lights-out, just listening to the steady thud of someone working the punching bag inside. You knew it was Bucky. You could tell by the rhythm in how it was sharp, controlled, and a little angry, like he was fighting something he couldn’t say out loud. His grunts were quiet as the chain squeaked with every impact.

You pressed your back to the wall and closed your eyes.

They think you’re a liability.

The words echoed, over and over, like your own heartbeat.

You didn't step inside. You couldn’t. You were afraid of what he’d see on your face, afraid of what you’d see reflected in his.

The third day, you didn’t show up for the briefing.

Not late. Not phased out. Just… not there.

Natasha texted once. “You good?”

You stared at it for a long time, then let your phone drop to the floor.

A soft knock came hours later.

Even though you didn’t answer, you didn’t have to. You already knew who it was.

“…I brought food,” Bucky said after a while. His voice was calm, a little hoarse from a day of not talking much. “Didn’t know what you wanted, so I brought four things.”

Silence.

You sat on the edge of your bed, trying not to shake. You could hear the tray when he set it down outside. The gentle clink of ceramic. He waited a few seconds longer, then added, quieter:

“You don’t have to talk. Just eat something.”

And then he left. You counted the steps. Fifteen down the hall. The soft sound of the elevator. Only then did you move. You opened the door slowly like your body wasn’t sure it was safe to fully exist.

There on the tray was a bowl of soup, crackers, apple slices, and your favorite sandwich. The one you always got when the team stopped for food on the way back from a mission.

And a sticky note.

It only said: “You’re not invisible to me.”

You stood there in the dark, tray in your hands, and blinking fast. Bringing the tray into your room, you sat on the floor, legs crossed, and took your first bite in two days.

It tasted like you might not have to survive alone this time.

-

The breaking point came two days later. It was late.

Too late for most of the compound to be awake, except maybe Bruce overworking in the lab or Tony arguing with the AI. But the gym lights were still on; dimmed and humming low. You stood just outside the weight room, fingertips brushing the edge of the wall, considering whether or not to walk in.

You’d been doing that more lately. Standing near things. Near people. Not fully in or out. Present, but only barely. You weren’t invisible this time though. You didn’t want to be.

Inside, Bucky sat on the floor against the far wall, arms resting on his knees, head tilted back as if he’d been staring at the ceiling for a while. He didn’t react when you entered. Didn’t flinch when your shoes padded softly across the floor. His gaze didn’t shift from the overhead light, but you knew he saw you. He always did.

You lowered yourself to the floor a few feet away, crossing your legs, and remaining silent. The air between you was quiet, restful; not awkward. You appreciated that about him. He never tried to fill your silence. He just made space for it.

After a while, he spoke.

“You stopped laughing.”

You blinked, looking over.

His head turned just slightly toward you.

“Not that you ever laughed much,” He added, voice low. “But you did. Sometimes. At stupid jokes. At Clint falling asleep standing up. At that dog in the documentary that ran into a sliding glass door.”

You gave a small, almost-invisible shrug.

“I miss that sound,” He said.

That was it. No demand. No pressure. Just a quiet observation. A reminder that he noticed you. That your absence, even your emotional one, meant something to someone.

You swallowed hard.

He looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers once.

“I don’t know what happened,” He continued. “I know it was something. You don’t move like that unless something’s broken.”

You didn’t flinch, but your breath caught. Barely. Like a string pulled tightly inside your chest.

“I’m not asking you to tell me,” His voice was gentle as he leaned his head back again. “But if you ever want to… I’ll be here.”

No more words.

Just that.

And it felt like enough. Like the space between you had shifted. No longer something to hide inside, but something you could share. Quietly. At your own pace.

You didn’t mean to speak, but words came out like breath. So soft they didn’t feel real at first, like mist escaping between your lips before you could stop it.

“I wasn’t supposed to hear it.”

Bucky glanced over at you. His expression was morphed in that same ever so patient way, like you could say anything and you would have hung the moon.

You swallowed hard. Your throat ached like something had been lodged there for days which maybe it had.

“It was right after the last mission. I stayed behind in the control room.” You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t mean to listen. I just… hadn’t faded back in yet. And… I heard them talking about me.”

You blinked fast, but the heat behind your eyes didn’t fade. Your voice stayed low, like the words weren’t meant to be heard, but had nowhere else to go.

“They said I was unstable. That I disappear when something goes wrong. That they didn’t know how my powers work. Like I’m a risk. Like I’m just a… ghost with clearance.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. Just slightly. Not in anger at you, of course. Never at you. But at what had been said. The way his shoulders straightened told you he was holding something down. Something sharp.

“I didn’t even know who said most of it,” You added after a beat. “Just… someone new. But the others were quiet. No one really disagreed.”

The last part was the hardest to admit. Bucky moved closer to you slowly, settling in beside you. Not touching. Not crowding. Just there.

“The silence,” You murmured. “It felt like agreement.”

It hung in the air, heavy and uninvited. But then, after a long, thoughtful pause, his voice came, low and certain.

“I would’ve said something.”

You looked at him. His expression wasn’t gentle this time, not exactly. It was solid. Grounded. The kind of gaze that didn’t flinch when you showed the broken parts of yourself.

“Not just because I care about you,” He went on. “But because they were wrong.”

A small breath left your chest, like your lungs had finally been allowed to exhale.

“I know how your powers work,” He said. “Not the science. But I know you. You disappear to stay in control, to protect. Not to fall apart.”

You blinked hard.

“You’re not unstable. You’re surviving.”

That did it. The tears didn’t fall. Not yet. But they burned. Stung hot like they were ready, if you’d only let go. You opened your mouth to speak but Bucky shook his head, just once.

“You don’t have to defend it or say anything,” He said. “You shouldn’t have to defend yourself. Just… know that you do belong.”

His hand moved slowly, deliberately, and came to rest beside yours on the floor. He wasn’t exactly touching yet, simply close enough that if you wanted to reach, you could. A small gesture he always had of letting you reach first.

And you did.

Fingers brushing his, tentative at first. Then curling just slightly. A silent answer. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you felt real again. Not a shadow. Not a ghost. Seen.

Unexpected Outlook

Summary: The Avengers launch a mission to raid a known base of the organization you now work with and discuss over what they found.

Word Count: 1.7k+

A/N: A little shorter since it’s Father’s Day, but I also wanted to add more weight to the previous chapter and progress the story.

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

Preparations moved fast. Too fast, maybe.

Steve didn’t like that they were running with incomplete information, but the longer they waited, the deeper this organization could dig itself into global systems. And the more time you had to assist them, whether willingly or not.

Still, it didn’t sit right. None of it did.

Bruce pulled the files. Natasha studied known locations. Sam monitored chatter. Bucky cleaned his weapons with a look in his eyes like he wanted answers he didn’t have the right to ask.

Yet no one brought up your name again. At least, not directly. But it hovered beneath everything.

The way Bucky checked each plan twice. The way Natasha’s jaw twitched when she reviewed footage. Even the way Steve hesitated before calling it an official mission.

The woman Bucky liked didn’t voice objections anymore. She simply kept a kind, quiet distance, like someone watching friends argue over a lost cause.

And within a week, the op was set.

Steve gave the greenlight with his jaw tight and eyes harder than usual. The mission was clear: infiltrate a suspected communications hub. A nondescript, rural compound masked as a grain storage facility. Satellite data showed encrypted signals routing through it over the last month, signals that matched ones the Avengers used internally.

Which meant either someone was watching. Or someone had been taught how.

They went in with a small team. Just Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Bucky. No need for Hulk or Thor; this wasn’t a battering ram job. It was a retrieval and disrupt operation. Quiet and clean.

Or so they thought.

The quinjet landed half a mile out, under cover of dense fog rolling over the hills. The forest beyond the compound was eerily still like it had been holding its breath since before dawn.

“They want us to find this,” Natasha muttered, brushing a branch aside as they crept through the trees.

Steve didn’t argue. His shield was strapped to his arm, but he hadn’t raised it once.

They reached the clearing. The compound was just as expected. Gray concrete, flat roof, minimal security fencing, and a gravel path leading to two entrances. No guards. No movement. Even the air felt… hollow.

Sam scanned the building with a handheld sensor. “No heat signatures. Not even a rat.”

“Too clean,” Bucky said, voice low.

They breached the back door.

Inside, it was dark but not ruined. Every surface was wiped. Consoles powered down. Not destroyed, removed. Carefully like a move-out rather than an attack. Upon investigating further, files had been cleared, drawers emptied, and chairs pushed in with bland desks.

Whoever had been here knew exactly when to leave.

Steve turned in a slow circle, taking it in.

“This was active,” He said. “Days ago.”

“Hours, maybe,” Natasha said, crouching beside a desk. She tapped the edge, there was a faint spot where something electronic had been sitting. Someone had worked here… and then vanished.

Sam stepped into the central control room. There was only one thing left behind: a monitor left switched on, flickering a soft blue light in the dimness.

A single message scrolled across the screen.

Too late, Captain.

That was it. There wasn’t any long monologues. No other mocking comments. Not even a signature or sign-off present. Just a cold fact. Steve stared at it like he could will it to change. Bucky stood a step behind him, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“I don’t like this,” Sam muttered.

Natasha approached a wall panel and pried it open effortlessly. Inside, wires had been sliced. Intentionally. However, there were no explosives. No traps could be seen anywhere either. It was all just… closure.

“They stripped this place surgically,” She said. “No fingerprints, no traces. It’s like they wanted us to know they were here… but not who they are.”

Steve closed the monitor with a clenched jaw. “This wasn’t a base. It was a decoy.”

“No,” Bucky said suddenly. His voice was soft but steady. “It was a base. It just outlived its usefulness.”

They all turned toward him. He looked at the empty room, the missing equipment, and the quiet hallways. Then, to the message. And for a moment, something shifted in his eyes. Guilt, maybe or something deeper.

“They planned for this,” He murmured. “Someone told them exactly how we’d come.”

No one responded, but no one needed to. Because they were all thinking it.

-

The debrief room was thick with a heavy silence, the kind that pressed down harder than shouting. Ghost-blue blueprints and photos of the abandoned compound still flickered on the monitors, reminders of how quickly their plan had unraveled. Notes about the missing equipment and the chilling message on the screen scrolled slowly, marking everything they should have anticipated.

Steve hadn’t sat once since they returned. He stood rigid at the head of the table, hands braced on his hips, and a deep furrow like it was etched there permanently. Sam had stopped pacing but his leg bounced nervously, jaw clenched tight. Natasha’s fingers tapped against her thigh in a rhythm so steady it barely seemed voluntary.

Only Bucky remained perfectly still, arms crossed, and eyes locked on the screen across the room. He said very little since they’d left the empty compound since that message haunted him.

Too late, Captain.

The words weren’t just text; they carried a weight, a deliberate coldness that dug into Bucky’s mind. Whoever had left it knew him. Not just the soldier, but his moves, his instincts. And worse, their enemy had used the knowledge you once held to outmaneuver them.

The memory played on loop in his mind. Not just the words but the feel of them. The calculation in them. Whoever was behind that terminal… knew him. Not just facts. His patterns.

And maybe worse than that, they’d used your knowledge to do it. They probably used you to do it.

The door hissed open.

She stepped in with her usual soft elegance, cradling a fresh cup of tea between her hands like she had no idea anything had gone wrong. Dressed casual, warm, and comfortable. Like she belonged. Like she didn’t feel the same tension that pulled everyone else taut. The one you used to be jealous of had sat out for the mission after all.

“Oh,” She said lightly. “You’re all back already.”

Her tone wasn’t mocking. If anything, it was gently surprised, as if she’d simply walked into a meeting that ended early. Steve didn’t answer right away. Neither did the others.

She blinked, smile sweet and expectant, like someone unaware they were intruding. “Was it a short mission?”

“We were too late,” Steve said flatly, straightening.

Her brows lifted, and she crossed to the table, setting the tea down. “Really? That’s unfortunate. I thought it was just one of those cleanup things. You all make those look so easy.”

Sam looked over, jaw tight. “They cleaned up, alright. Took every last trace of themselves. Left us a polite message, too.”

“They knew how we’d approach,” Natasha added with her arms crossed now. “Like they knew our pattern. Our flow. They stripped the place within hours of our arrival window.”

“Hmm.” She tapped a fingernail against the ceramic. “That’s strange. Maybe they had inside intel?”

“No,” Steve spoke, narrowing his eyes. “Not unless someone studied us long before they left.”

“Oh.” She blinked, tilting her head. “So… do you think your old administrator friend told them?”

Bucky stiffened.

Natasha’s voice was sharper now, eyes narrowing. “She’s not our anything.”

That seemed to amuse her. She let out a light laugh, the kind meant to dissolve tension, not that anyone was asking for it. “Well, you’re not wrong,” She smiled. “ She didn’t really fit in here anyways, did she?”

Bruce, who had been mostly quiet, looked up sharply. “She worked here for over two years.”

She didn’t seem phased. There was no malice on her face actually. Just soft confidence.

“I guess I didn’t think she’d be important,” She sighed simply. “Kind of kept to herself. I always assumed she’d move on.”

Sam stood, voice tight. “She did. Straight into the hands of the people trying to tear us apart.”

Her smile faltered just a touch. “I didn’t mean—look, I’m sure she was… sweet. I just don’t see how it helps to chase after someone who clearly didn’t want to be here. Don’t you think she made her choice?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t know that yet.”

“I mean, sure,” She said gently, “But if she’s really that dangerous, wouldn’t you have noticed before she left? You didn’t even realize she was gone until weeks later, right?”

Bucky shifted slightly. The burn in his chest deepened. Not from her words exactly, but from how true they rang.

They hadn’t noticed. They hadn’t looked.

The woman moved closer to Bucky, noticing his subtle distress as she rested her hand lightly on Bucky’s shoulder.

“I just worry about you,” She confessed softly, smiling up at him. “You’re all stretched so thin already. I’d hate to see you waste energy chasing ghosts.”

Her hand lingered. But Bucky’s jaw clenched, and for once, he didn’t lean into her touch.

“She’s not a ghost,” He muttered. “She’s a mirror. Of everything we missed.”

Her expression flickered for barely a moment. Then the sweet smile returned.

“Well, if you have to go after her,” She brushed her hand away, her expression turning more solemn. A hint of pity evident, “I hope you’re prepared for what you find. Sometimes people change… and not always in ways you can fix. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

She reached for her tea again, her fingers wrapping around the cup like it was an anchor.

“And if you do decide to keep going after her, well.” She gave a gentle little laugh, looking around with open, innocent eyes. “I hope it goes well. I really mean that. And if you need my help at all… just let me know. I’m always happy to support the team.”

The door hissed softly behind her as she walked out, quiet heels tapping against the floor in steady, graceful rhythm.

The rest of the team stood in silence for a few long seconds, each lost in their own storm of thoughts.

Steve broke it first.

“We move forward. We stop that organization before it spreads deeper.”

“And if she’s helping them willingly?” Sam asked, his voice low.

Steve hesitated.

So, Bucky answered instead.

“Then we stop her, too.”

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal @winchestert101 @greatenthusiasttidalwave

Just Like Dad

Summary: On Father’s Day morning, Bucky’s energetic twins surprise him with breakfast and heartfelt gifts, proudly emulating their dad’s cool, soldier-like demeanor. Later, you all head to the park where Bucky trains the twins in a playful “spy mission,” strengthening their bond and reminding him that building a family is his greatest mission yet. (Dad!Bucky Barnes x mom!reader)

Word Count: 1.6k+

A/N: In honor of Father’s Day, something quick and sweet. Happy Father’s Day! Also this is not connected or in the same universe as the other fic of their daughter from the future. (Out of time, Into Our Lives). Regardless, Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

Father’s Day morning began with stifled giggles and the unmistakable scrape of a chair being dragged across the kitchen tiles, definitely not as quiet as your children thought they were.

In your cozy Brooklyn apartment, light from the early sun poured through the windows, pooling in golden patches on the hardwood floors. The aroma of toast still clung to the air from breakfast preparations, though it was now being overtaken by the uncertain blend of peanut butter, jelly, orange juice, and something suspiciously sticky.

Two small figures were orchestrating the chaos with a focused seriousness only six-year-olds attempting a “mission” could have.

Your twins: Grant and Becca.

Grant was all limbs and boundless energy, hair sticking up from the effort of whatever plan he was currently hatching. He was your fearless talker, a blur of movement and ideas that never stopped. Today, he wore his black hoodie zipped up to his chin, a belt slung diagonally over his shoulder to mimic Bucky’s gear strap. His socks skidded across the tile as he tried, barely, to balance a wobbly tray of orange juice, a peanut butter-covered slice of toast, and one folded napkin.

Becca, his twin by only a few minutes but his total opposite in temperament, trailed close behind. She was quieter, softer, and more deliberate. Her voice rarely rose above a whisper unless she was laughing. Today, she’d dressed in a little all-black outfit with leggings and a black shirt, and on her left arm was a carefully wrapped layer of aluminum foil. Her version of her dad’s metal arm courtesy of your help earlier. She’d even combed her dark hair back, trying to copy his style, though a few gentle curls had already sprung loose.

In her small hands, she carried a handmade card that read: “You’re The Coolest, Dad.”

It was written in glitter-glue with a sparkly silver star beneath it.

“Okay, okay,” Grant whispered like he was leading a covert op, “We walk in super quiet, say HAPPY FATHER’S DAY really loud, and then! Becca, you do the speech.”

“I didn’t write a speech…” She whispered back, nervous. “It’s just the card.”

“You can say something cool. Like, ‘You are our hero,’ or, ‘Permission to hug, sir.’ That sounds like a soldier, right?”

You stood just down the hall, sipping coffee and watching with amused fondness as they prepared to burst in. Bucky was still in bed, at least pretending to be asleep, and you had a sneaking suspicion he’d been awake the whole time, listening to their not-so-secret plan.

Becca and Grant reached the door of your bedroom, armed with breakfast and love. Grant gave a dramatic nod, kicked the door open with more flair than necessary, and shouted at the top of his lungs:

“HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!!”

Bucky blinked slowly, dragging a hand across his face like a man being awakened after years on ice. He looked at the tray, the glitter card, and the foil-arm twins with a mix of shock, pride, and restrained laughter.

“Well,” He said in his mock-serious voice, “Are you two here to capture me, or is this a peace offering?”

Grant leapt onto the bed with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning. “Both!” He declared proudly, dropping the tray with only minor juice spillage.

Becca climbed up more carefully, settling beside Bucky with her card still clutched tightly in both hands. She lifted her foil-covered arm like a solemn badge and said shyly, “I wanted to be like you today. ‘Cause you’re cool.”

Bucky’s expression softened immediately. He took her tiny wrist in his hand, examining the foil like it was made of vibranium, like it was priceless.

“You’re more than cool,” He said gently, pressing a kiss to her hair. “You’re my brave Becca.”

She beamed quietly, cheeks flushing pink.

Grant flopped onto Bucky’s chest next, laughing. “I’ve got stealth moves now. Watch this!”

He rolled off the bed dramatically, crawled across the floor, then popped back up beside Bucky’s head with a whisper-shout: “I’m invisible!”

You finally stepped into the room, laughing. “I think they’re trying to replace you, Buck. You better keep up.”

Bucky’s arm reached out to pull you onto the bed beside them. “Let them try,” He said with a tired smile, reaching out and wrapping one arm around you and the other around the twins.

In that moment, your world was warm. Messy, chaotic, glittery, but full of love.

Father’s Day hadn’t even officially started, and it was already perfect.

-

After breakfast (which involved only one spilled drink, one emergency toast replacement, and a glitter explosion from Becca’s card that no vacuum would ever fully clean), Bucky stretched his arms behind his head and let out a slow, content sigh.

You’d expected him to kick back for a slow, lazy morning, you even had his favorite coffee made and a plan to coax him into staying horizontal for another hour. But your twins had other ideas.

Grant stood on the bed like a general addressing his troops. “Dad. We request training.”

Becca nodded solemnly from where she was still curled at Bucky’s side, the foil on her arm slightly crinkled now but still intact. “We want to learn how to be cool like you.”

Bucky’s brows lifted slightly, but his mouth twitched with a smirk. “Cool like me, huh?”

“Super cool!” Grant corrected. “You have the metal arm. And spy eyes. And you know how to do ninja moves.”

“Ninja moves?” Bucky echoed, glancing at you with mock pride. “Did you hear that? I’m a ninja now.”

You chuckled, already guessing where this was going. “Be careful. If you agree, you’re going to have to run ‘training missions’ all day.”

“I don’t negotiate with mini-operatives,” Bucky said dramatically, sitting up and cracking his knuckles. “Let’s suit up.”

Twenty minutes later, the four of you were out in the small community park a few blocks from your apartment.

It was still early, so the park was quiet with just a few joggers and a sleepy dog-walker or two. Grant had turned a small stick into a “tactical baton” and was practicing forward rolls across the grass, only occasionally yelling “ow” when his shirt rode up and grass scraped his belly. Becca walked behind Bucky in perfect step, mimicking him as best she could, right down to the way he looked over his shoulder now and then.

“She’s watching your every move,” You whispered, catching up beside him as you walked the path circling the playground.

Bucky smiled softly, glancing down at Becca. “She’s quiet about it, but yeah. I see it.”

“She even asked me to put gel in her hair this morning,” You smiled. “Wanted it to stay back like yours.”

“She did good,” He murmured, then nudged your elbow. “You know, I think she walks quieter than I did at that age.”

You laughed. “Did you walk quietly at that age?”

He shrugged. “Probably not. But she’s serious. That’s how you know she’s dangerous.”

“Hey!” Grant shouted from a distance, now hanging upside down from the monkey bars. “Come watch! I’m training my grip strength like Dad!”

Bucky saluted him with two fingers. “Nice form, soldier.”

Becca stopped walking. “Can we do a mission now?”

Bucky crouched down so he was eye-level with her. “What kind of mission?”

She glanced at the playground, then leaned in close to whisper with all the intensity of a top-level SHIELD agent. “We could sneak past the swing area without anyone seeing us.”

Bucky nodded, equally serious. “Covert stealth ops. Code name: Operation Sneaky Slide.”

Becca’s eyes lit up.

“Grant!” Bucky called. “You in?”

“I was born in!” Grant shouted, landing with a dramatic thud that made you wince. He ran over, panting. “What’s the mission?”

Becca took over, voice stronger now with purpose. “We sneak across the grass. No noise. No being seen. If we get caught, we lose.”

Grant nodded, eyes wide. “Got it. No losing.”

You stood back as Bucky took a knee beside them both. “Rule one: stay low. Rule two: stick together. Rule three: don’t giggle.”

Grant already giggled. Becca elbowed him.

“Let’s go,” Bucky whispered, and the three of them dropped into crouches like a little team of spies.

You watched from the bench as they shuffled, crawled, and tumbled across the grass. Grant whispered updates into a walkie-talkie which was really just a large rock he’d found. Meanwhile, Becca did the hand gestures she’d seen people do in her cartoons. And Bucky? He looked more at peace than you’d seen him in weeks. Knees in the dirt, stealth-walking beside his kids like this was the most important assignment of his life.

And maybe it was.

When they reached the far side of the playground without being “caught,” they threw their arms in the air like true champions.

Becca leaned against her father, flushed and smiling. “We did it.”

“You sure did,” Bucky said, sweeping both kids up in his arms, his enhanced strength making the act seem effortless. “Best team I’ve ever had.”

You jogged over, laughing as Grant tried to salute while being carried. “So, Sergeant Barnes, what’s the post-mission protocol?”

Bucky looked at you, then back at the twins. “Snack time and cartoons.”

“Hurray!” The kids shouted in unison.

He set them down, and as they raced around the playground before it was time to go back. Bucky lingered a moment beside you.

“They really think I’m cool,” He spoke quietly, almost amazed.

You reached out and laced your fingers with his. “That’s because you are.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

“You came home,” You whispered, “And built a family.”

Bucky looked out at the twins; Grant chasing butterflies now, Becca adjusting her foil arm with quiet pride, and his eyes softened.

“Best mission I’ve ever been on.”

Ella,

I have a request if it seems of interest to you: a bucky x reader story pirate au where the reader is kidnapped by Bucky and his crew originally for ransom payment, but then Bucky realizes he's too much in love with the reader to dig himself out and ends up keeping the reader for himself. (Potentially a soft!dark!Bucky maybe???) But he wants to give the reader everything, no matter how battered he and his crew get when trying to get what Bucky wants to give the reader.

I love your writing, thank you and have a good day

Hello, dear! So, I’m afraid I’m going to have to do your request a little differently than the others. It’ll be in two-parts since I want to get this out before I leave as well as not make it ridiculously long. Therefore, do check back for part two later on tonight or tomorrow!

With that being said, this was such a fun and interesting request. I’ll definitely add more of the darker bits in the second part. I like setting the stage lol. Hope you enjoy! Thank you for the request and Happy reading!!!

Crimson Waters, Stolen Hearts

Summary: Captain Bucky Barnes commands a loyal crew who sails under a reputation for precision, power, and taking only what he needs. When he captures you, the beloved daughter of a powerful trading magnate, he claims it’s only for ransom, a means to an end to fund his next conquest. (Pirate AU! | Soft!Dark!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.6k+

Main Masterlist | Part 2

The legend of Captain James Buchanan Barnes drifted on sea winds like smoke. Never seen for long, never caught, but always felt. Sailors spoke of him in hushed voices over cheap rum in dark taverns, describing a man built of iron and vengeance.

They said he was born from the wreck of a warship, that his left arm was forged from cannon shrapnel and blacksmith curses, and that he’d once sunk an entire fleet for touching the wrong woman’s hand.

But those were only stories.

The truth was sharper.

He’d once been a soldier, long ago. Fought in a war that buried too many good men. When the world forgot him, he disappeared into the ocean and never looked back. Now, he was the Captain of the Red Sabre, a war-painted beast of a ship with sails like blood-soaked banners and cannons that struck before warning.

Barnes wasn’t a loud man. He didn’t shout to command respect, he willed it. Eyes like storm clouds, hair always wind-tangled, beard flecked with salt. His voice was low and steady, the kind that curled around your throat before you realized you were being pulled under. He was known to slit throats with the same grace he drank tea. Known to spare a child’s life, only to raze a fortress an hour later.

The kind of man who did what needed to be done, no matter how many screams it took.

Yet, he didn’t kill for fun. That’s what made him dangerous. Barnes didn’t need chaos. He chose it. Carefully. Precisely. Like someone who’d seen peace and found it disappointing.

He had a loyal crew, half of them former prisoners, outlaws, and men broken by the world. But they all followed him. Because he never lost. And because there was still something strangely noble beneath the darkness, like the ghost of honor refusing to die.

And you?

You weren’t just another merchant’s daughter.

You were the keystone in an empire of wealth and diplomacy, the only child of Lord Alric Dorne, a man whose influence reached across oceans and kingdoms. Nobles bowed in his presence, generals owed him favors, and entire ports opened their gates at the mention of his name. Your family didn’t just fund trade, they controlled it. Routes, ships, goods, and even wars had been won or lost by your family’s gold. You were the kind of person pirates avoided, not because of your guards, but because of the retaliation your disappearance would bring.

You were the girl too valuable to touch.

And yet, you were no porcelain doll.

Educated in statecraft and warfare, fluent in multiple tongues, and sharper than most of the men who surrounded you, you were raised to inherit an empire, not simply survive within it. When dignitaries came to negotiate, it was often your voice they feared more than your father’s. And when ships set sail, your signature sealed the fates of cities. You carried the weight of legacy on your shoulders and the fire of rebellion under your skin.

Still, for all your power, you were restless.

The silk walls of high society had grown thin. The rules felt like shackles, the protection like a cage. You had begun traveling more frequently, escorting shipments under the guise of oversight, learning the routes, the ships, the whispers. You stood on deck in storm, eyes set not on the horizon, but what might lie beyond it.

The sea spoke to you, not with songs, but with promises: of danger, of freedom, of something more than obedience and expectation.

You didn’t know that your curiosity would catch the attention of the most dangerous pirate alive. You didn’t know that stepping onto that ship would make you a prize, not just for ransom, but for something far more complicated.

And you certainly didn’t know he’d been watching you from the moment your sails crested the edge of his world.

The sea was too calm that morning.

No gulls. No swell. Just the hollow groan of the current, and the kind of silence that even seasoned sailors didn’t trust. Aboard The Harrowcrest, your father’s prized trade vessel, the men shifted nervously, fingers brushing blades, and glancing over their shoulders as if the ocean itself might bite.

You stood near the quarterdeck, eyes on the map in your hands, unaware that several miles out, danger was watching. Stalking.

Hidden in a pale sheet of fog, The Red Sabre drifted like a predator waiting for the right breath of wind.

On the prow stood its captain, the man feared across every sea charted and uncharted. The Sabre was his monster, his kingdom, and his weapon. But this time, Barnes didn’t want gold. He didn’t want blood.

He wanted you.

The moment he saw you on that deck, focused, steady, and wind in your hair and fire in your eyes, he knew. He lowered the spyglass.

“That’s her,” He stated, quiet but firm.

Behind him, leaning on a cannon like he’d been born beside it, Sam Wilson, his quartermaster, raised a brow. “You sure? That’s the Dorne girl?”

“Positive,” Bucky muttered. “Staring straight down a map like she owns the sea.”

“You know this’ll paint a target on our backs, right?” Natasha, the red-haired helmswoman, spoke dryly from beside the wheel, chewing a sliver of jerky. “You kidnap her, you’re not picking a fight with a fleet. You’re picking a fight with a world.”

“And I’ll burn that world if I have to,” Bucky retorted without blinking.

Standing tall by the armory hatch, Steve Rogers, the captain’s first mate and Bucky’s oldest friend, gave a soft grunt of approval. “If you’re sure she’s worth it.”

“She is,” Bucky said, more to himself. “She’s not guarded like someone who knows her worth.”

“Or like someone who wants to be caught,” Natasha added under her breath.

He didn’t answer. Just stared.

And then:

“Prep the guns,” Bucky ordered, voice commanding and sharp. “Hooks, no cannonballs unless they fire first. Clint, you’re taking the rigging. Steve, you’re on the lead team.”

Clint, up in the crow’s nest already, gave a cocky wave. “Try to keep up.”

Within minutes, the Sabre sprang to life. The black sails unfurled, ropes pulled taut, and every crewmember moving with ruthless grace. Bruce, the quiet ship’s surgeon with hands far too precise for his own good, secured the infirmary. Tony, the surly weapons master below deck, prepped the cannons without being asked, grumbling, “Kidnap a girl, he says. Quietly, he says…”

The trap was set.

Your ship didn’t stand a chance.

The Harrowcrest went down fast and hard. The rudder shattered from a well-placed chain shot. Grappling hooks soared from the fog. Shouts erupted as boots thundered onto your deck. Your guards fought bravely until Steve personally disarmed two of them in seconds and Natasha danced through a trio like a blade wrapped in fire.

You, blade drawn, managed to slash one man across the thigh—Sam, who only winced and gave you a quick nod of respect before pinning your wrist.

You were furious. Fighting. Unbroken. And then he walked in.

Captain Barnes stepped onto the Harrowcrest’s deck like a storm breaking over still waters. Everything slowed. His coat moved with the wind. His metal arm glinted dully in the gray light. You could feel him before you saw him, his presence thick and cold like thunderclouds rolling in.

Two pirates held you fast, but your eyes locked with his the moment he approached. You expected cruelty. Or amusement. Or mockery.

But he only looked at you. His blue eyes sharp, cold. Interested.

“You’re her,” He said quietly, as if confirming something to himself.

“And you’re a dead man,” You hissed back.

His lips curved slightly. Not quite a smile. Something slower. Something darker.

“I like her,” He muttered to no one in particular. Then, louder: “Bring her aboard. Alive and unharmed.”

“What do you want?” You demanded.

He stepped close, too close, and leaned in just enough for you to hear the words against your ear:

“You’ll know soon enough, sweetheart.”

With a snap of his fingers, they dragged you away. And just like that, your fate was rewritten.

Not by politics. Not by power. But by a pirate whose gaze made your spine stiffen… and your heart beat just a little faster.

They didn’t throw you in a cell.

You expected rusted iron bars, chains, filth. Instead, you were brought to a small, private cabin tucked below the quarterdeck. It wasn’t luxurious but it wasn’t cruel. A sturdy cot. A desk bolted to the floor. A basin of fresh water. Even a window with thick glass that let in pale blue light.

The moment the door closed behind you, you turned and tried it. Locked, of course.

The storm of battle had faded into quiet outside. No screams, no clashing steel. Just the slow groan of ropes and sails, and the steady lap of water. The rhythm of a ship that knew what it was doing. A ship that didn’t panic.

Neither did you.

You paced the room like a caged animal, hands clenched. You knew what this was. A ransom. Political leverage. The daughter of Lord Dorne was worth more than most fleets combined. They wouldn’t hurt you… yet. Not if they wanted to see a single coin.

Still, the silence pressed in around you.

An hour passed. Then two.

Then the lock clicked. The door opened, and he walked in.

Captain James Barnes.

His coat was gone. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, showing the glinting metal of his left arm. He didn’t carry a weapon, he didn’t need one. His presence alone was sharp enough.

You straightened immediately, spine rigid, and chin lifted.

“I don’t care who you are,” You said coolly, “My father will never-“

“Refuse to pay for you?” He finished, voice low, even. “I’m counting on that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know what taking me means. You’ve essentially declared war.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I didn’t do anything. You just… vanished. Pirates are unpredictable like that.”

His gaze swept over you. Quick, unreadable. Not lascivious. Not kind. Just… measured.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” He added. “You’ll be fed. Protected. No one touches you.”

“Oh, how noble,” You snapped. “For a man who boards ships and steals people.”

He tilted his head, mildly amused. “I steal cargo. You’re a high-value shipment.”

You didn’t flinch, but you hated how calm he was. How methodical. How professional this all felt.

He took a step forward. “Do you know why I chose your ship?”

You didn’t answer.

“Because for someone so valuable,” He murmured, “You’ve been sailing dangerously far from your father’s reach. Alone. Curious. Maybe even bored.”

You swallowed hard, pulse kicking up.

“I was watching before we even closed in,” He admitted. “You don’t hide well.”

“And you don’t care what happens after this,” You bit out.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “I care about getting what I want.”

“And what is it you want, Captain?”

Bucky’s gaze held yours, steady and cold.

“A letter written in your hand to confirm you’re alive,” He said. “You’ll write it tomorrow.”

You stared.

“And then what?” You asked. “You chain me to the mast? Parade me around like a trophy?”

“No chains,” He spoke evenly. “And no parading.”

He turned to leave, then paused at the door.

“Eat something,” He said. “You’ll need your strength. Your father’s not the only one who’ll be looking for you.”

With that, he left you alone again, your heart pounding harder than it had during the raid.

You were supposed to be afraid. And you were. But more than that… You were intrigued.

Morning crept in slow.

You hadn’t slept, not really. The cot was decent enough, the rocking of the ship surprisingly gentle, but your mind had refused to settle. You lay there in your borrowed clothes (a simple linen tunic and trousers, practical and plain), staring at the wooden ceiling while the sounds of the ship carried on above and below. Boots on the deck. Ropes creaking. Low voices, too far to make out.

You weren’t afraid of them. But you knew better than to trust comfort where it wasn’t earned.

When the door opened just after dawn, it wasn’t the Captain this time.

It was Natasha.

Her braid was pulled over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. She glanced over you like one might check a weapon for cracks, then set a plate on the desk. “Eat,” She said simply. “You’ll walk the deck after.”

You sat up, brushing hair from your face. “And if I refuse?”

She met your eyes. “Then I bring Barnes. You don’t want that.”

You did eat. Not out of obedience, but calculation. You needed your strength. And because the pirate crew of The Red Sabre already seemed like the kind that would offer food and protection not out of kindness, but because they were waiting to see what they’d get in return.

By midmorning, you were led topside.

The light hit you like fire after a day below. You blinked through it, hand shading your face, the sea a glittering sprawl on all sides. There was no land in sight. Just blue, blue, and more blue until the color of the sails around you caught your eye.

Deep crimson.

The Red Sabre lived up to its name.

Men and women moved like clockwork across the deck, efficient and fast. You recognized several faces from the raid: Clint, perched high in the rigging like a bird of prey. Steve, near the helm, speaking low with Natasha. Sam moving crates.

No one spoke to you. They all looked, of course. But no one came close. You weren’t sure if it was respect… or something colder.

“Captain wants you to walk,” Natasha said beside you. “To know your legs work. He doesn’t like weakness.”

You raised a brow. “Does he also like letting his crew see his ransom prize out in the open?”

Natasha gave a barely-there smile. “If anyone tried anything without his say, they wouldn’t have hands left to try again.”

You believed her.

By the time the sun reached its peak, you were back in your cabin, heart pounding from the climb up and down ladders, across ropes and narrow walkways. It wasn’t torture, but it wasn’t freedom either. It was a game. You were being tested.

And then that knock again. Low. Rhythmic.

Captain Barnes stepped in, arms crossed, this time with a sealed letter in one hand.

“Sit,” He ordered. “Write.”

He handed you the parchment and a fountain pen. You glanced down. It was already addressed: To Lord Alric Dorne, from the hand of his daughter.

You looked up at him. “This is extortion.”

“It’s a transaction.”

“He’ll kill you.”

Bucky’s voice was calm. “He’ll try.”

You sat slowly. “And you think I’ll make this easy for you?”

“I think you will,” He said, “Because you know he won’t pay if he doubts it’s real. You’ll write your usual flair. Your tone. Your clever little turns of phrase. You’ll make it sound like you.”

“And if I don’t?” You tested, pen still poised.

His eyes narrowed just slightly.

“Then I stop being polite.”

There it was, that edge beneath the surface. The ice beneath the calm water. He hadn’t shouted. He hadn’t threatened. But it chilled your spine more than any scream ever could.

You wrote.

It wasn’t a long letter. But it was enough. Enough for your father to know you were alive, uninjured. Enough to know the pirates knew exactly who they’d taken.

When you handed it back, Bucky took it without reading.

“Good,” He said.

You stared at him. “What happens now?”

“Now?” He stepped back toward the door. “You stay alive.”

He paused, gaze lingering on you for a breath longer than before.

“And you get used to me.”

Then he was gone again.

Leaving you there with ink still drying on your hands, and a strange flutter in your chest you refused to name.

Crimson Waters, Stolen Hearts (Pt. 2)

Summary: Things start to shift as Captain Bucky Barnes begins offering quiet comforts, protecting you more than necessary, and ignoring chances to trade you for riches. As time progresses, he slowly begins to reveal the possessive intensity growing beneath his calm exterior, insisting he won’t give up something he now considers his. (Pirate AU! | Soft!Dark!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.6k+

Main Masterlist | Part 1

Four days passed.

Four sunrises since they’d taken you. Four sunsets since the Captain handed your letter off to a quiet courier ship that slipped away before dawn. You'd watched it from your cabin window, how quickly freedom could vanish over the horizon.

You didn’t beg, didn’t plead. You stayed sharp. Quiet. Unshaken.

You were worth more that way anyways.

Bucky didn’t speak to you every day, but you always felt him. Heard his voice outside. Saw him at a distance on the deck, barking orders, speaking low with Natasha or Steve. Always in motion. Never laughing. Never smiling.

He didn’t treat you like a prisoner, but he didn’t treat you like a guest either.

You weren’t chained, but you weren’t free either.

Instead, your days began to take on a strange routine. Natasha brought you food. Sam taught you how to climb to the crow’s nest, “in case of emergency,” he said dryly. Clint started tossing you small knives like a game, and after catching one, you earned a surprised look and a rare grin.

But it was Bucky who lingered in your thoughts, even when he wasn’t near.

Because when he was, when he did appear at your door, or pass you at the railing, or glance over during a storm briefing, something inside you tightened. Not in fear.

In something… else. And that scared you more than the pirates ever had.

It was the fifth night when the storm came.

Not the kind you could plan for. The kind that crept up and swallowed everything.

The sea rose in black walls. Rain fell sideways. Sails groaned and snapped. The deck became a blur of boots and ropes and shouted orders.

You were in your cabin until a hard knock nearly broke the door open.

“Move!” Steve Rogers barked as he shoved it wide, soaked and scowling. “Below deck’s flooding. Captain wants you up top!”

You didn’t hesitate.

Water slammed against the ship as you emerged. Wind tore at your hair. Salt stung your eyes. You tried to move, but the deck was chaos. Voices screamed. Ropes whipped past.

And then, suddenly, you slipped.

Your foot went out from under you and your body slammed hard against the slick wood. You skidded dangerously close to the railing, heart in your throat.

A flash of silver.

Then, arms. Solid and unyielding. A metal hand grabbed your wrist, hauling you upright.

Bucky.

“You alright!?” He barked over the storm.

You could barely hear him, but you nodded, coughing.

“Stay by me!” He ordered, pulling you toward the center of the deck. His grip was strong, possessive. Protective. “Don’t go near the railings again.”

“I can handle myself!” You shouted.

Lightning flashed. He yanked you closer, face inches from yours.

“Not out here, you can’t.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Because in that moment, between the thunder and the crashing waves, you saw something raw flicker across his face.

Panic.

Not rage. Not annoyance.

Real panic.

For you.

But then it was gone. Buried beneath that cold command again. His hand stayed tight on your arm until the sails were secured and the wind began to calm.

By the time dawn broke, the storm had passed. Half the crew collapsed where they stood. And you? You were back in your cabin. Drenched, bruised, exhausted, and alive.

And not alone.

Because Captain Barnes was still there.

He sat at your desk, staring out the tiny window in silence. Rain trickled down the glass. His coat was soaked through, his hair curling at the edges.

You were the one who broke the silence.

“You didn’t have to pull me back.”

He didn’t look at you. “Yes, I did.”

You hesitated. “Why?”

His jaw ticked. And then, finally, he said it:

“Because I need you alive.”

For the ransom. You told yourself that. You repeated it. Over and over.

But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something in his voice had cracked just a little.

Like maybe the ransom… wasn’t the only reason anymore.

The aftermath of the storm was worse than expected.

Sails had torn straight through like paper. The main mast groaned each time the ship tilted, splintered deep at its base. The lower deck reeked of damp wood and blood. Two crewmen were injured, one hobbling with a splint, the other stitched along the thigh by Bruce’s shaking hands. Everything was heavy, slow, and weighed down by exhaustion.

Everyone looked to the Captain for rest.

But he never took it.

Bucky Barnes hadn’t stopped moving since the storm broke. He bled from a shallow cut above his eyebrow, his shirt clinging to him with seawater and sweat, his left arm glinting faintly beneath the torn sleeve where metal met flesh. He worked beside the others without pause, pulling down ruined rigging, knotting new lines, and securing down crates that had nearly gone overboard.

He snapped orders, yes, but took the brunt of the labor himself. Anyone who tried to help him too long was pushed away. He only let Steve in briefly. Sam was told to “get some goddamn sleep before you fall.” Even Clint got barked at. Twice. Loud enough for the whole ship to hear.

You watched it from the shadows of the main deck. No one told you to stay inside this time, but it didn’t matter.

No one approached you because no one dared.

Because wherever Bucky was on the ship, his eyes found you. Every time. A flick of his gaze across the chaos, checking to make sure you were still there. Still standing. Still breathing.

You weren’t stupid though. You knew you weren’t here by invitation, but the way his attention lingered like he was measuring every step you took, every glance someone else gave you, it felt like more than caution.

It felt like possession.

By the time the sun began to sink beneath the horizon, bleeding gold across the sea, most of the crew had slumped into hammocks or curled up against the railing. Their strength was spent. Their hands were blistered. Natasha was sat cross-legged by the stern, boots off, and sharpening a blade. Steve had a rag over his shoulder and blood on his knuckles.

But Bucky?

Still moving, walking, and silent. And still looking at you.

You didn’t expect him to stop and you certainly didn’t expect him to approach.

But he did.

He didn’t speak at first, just reached into his long coat and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. He held it out to you like it was nothing. Like it was just another piece of rigging. No ceremony. No explanation.

Your brow furrowed as you took it, and paused. It was a bundle of tea leaves. Expensive. Familiar. Yours.

The very same kind you’d rationed in private aboard the merchant vessel. The one your father had specially imported from the southern ports. You hadn’t seen it since your capture.

Your breath caught. “What is this?”

Bucky met your eyes, his voice calm and low. “It’s what you drank. Every night. You had a tin in the third drawer under your bunk.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the cloth. “You went through my things?”

His expression didn’t change. “No.”

There was a heavy pause.

“I watched.”

He said it without shame. Without even a flicker of hesitation. Not as an apology, but a statement of fact. Like it was perfectly acceptable for him to have memorized your nightly rituals, your favorite comforts, your private moments. Like remembering your tea preference was as natural as remembering your name.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you said nothing and took the tea.

That night, while the crew slept on soggy hammocks and patched sails above deck, you returned to your small cabin and hesitated at the door.

Something had changed.

You stepped in slowly. The air was warmer, more lived in. A single candle flickered on your writing desk, its wax halfway down. Someone had been here. Not long ago.

Your cot had a new blanket, thick, woolen, and dark red. The kind only traded in coldwater ports, expensive. There was a tray on your desk: warm food, not salted rations. A bowl of soup, still steaming faintly. Someone had left a small pile of books beside the basin of clean water, all untouched. All clearly brought for you.

You moved through the room like someone sleepwalking, fingertips brushing over the thick material of the blanket. The stitching was tight. Professional. Not stolen, but commissioned.

Your gaze went back to the tea in your hand. This wasn’t care. This was curation. A room transformed not for comfort, but for keeping.

The next afternoon, Clint dropped beside you on the steps of the upper deck without asking. His bow was slung lazily over one shoulder, and he had a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“He’s gone full beast-of-burden over you, y’know,” Clint muttered, cracking his neck.

You gave him a sidelong glance. “Over me?”

He jerked his head toward the main area. “Split his side open on a broken hook this morning. Refused stitches. Nat tried and got yelled at. Steve tried, got decked.”

“I didn’t ask him to–”

“You didn’t have to,” Clint cut in, low and dry. “He doesn’t do this. Not for anyone.”

You looked down at your hands, then back toward the bow of the ship, where Bucky stood in the light with his coat snapping in the wind, shirt sticking to his back, and movements deliberate. He was tired, controlled, and still working. Always working.

Clint watched your silence for a long beat, then added, “By the way, the courier returned.”

Your stomach turned.

“What courier?”

“The one from your ransom letter. It came back yesterday morning, just before dawn. You were asleep.”

You froze. “And?”

Clint scratched at his stubble. “Your father agreed. Said he’d pay double if we delivered you before sundown. Yesterday.”

Your heart stopped cold.

“…And Bucky?”

Clint gave a single, humorless chuckle. “We’re still sailing.”

You sat very still, fingers clenching in your lap.

It wasn’t about ransom anymore.

It hadn’t been since the night he pulled you from the storm. Since he started bleeding just to keep your world warm. Since he began rearranging his entire ship not for profit, but for you.

He was still calling you a prisoner. Still keeping his voice calm and his gaze cool. Still pretending this was about leverage.

But deep down, somewhere twisted and raw, you knew.

You weren’t being held. You were being claimed.

And Captain James Barnes was going to ruin himself to make sure the sea never got close enough to take you away again.

The silence between you and the Captain had changed. It wasn’t the kind that came from two strangers occupying different corners of the same ship. It wasn’t even the kind that hung between captor and captive, like smoke refusing to clear. This silence had weight now. An edge. A sharpness that pricked at your skin the longer it stretched on.

You hadn't spoken to him since Clint told you the truth. That your ransom had been accepted, that your father had offered to pay double for your return, and yet… you were still here. Still breathing sea air, still wrapped in expensive blankets, still sipping the tea he brought you with hands still bleeding from work he refused to delegate.

It wasn’t about money anymore.

It was about you.

And now, as the stars blinked into view and the crew fell into the hush of exhaustion, you found yourself climbing the steps to the quarterdeck where Captain James Barnes stood alone, silhouetted against the darkening sky.

He didn’t turn to acknowledge you. His posture was rigid, boots planted wide at the helm, coat rippling faintly in the breeze. You saw the faint shimmer of sweat clinging to the back of his neck. He hadn’t rested. Not since the storm. Not since you.

“Captain,” You called out, voice steady despite the tightness in your chest.

He didn’t turn.

“You’re not supposed to be up here,” He replied coolly, eyes fixed on the horizon.

You took another step closer. “We need to talk.”

“I’m busy.”

“No.” You exhaled slowly, letting the truth gather at your tongue. “You’re stalling.”

He stilled, if possible, even more. The tension in his frame told you he knew what was coming and that he’d hoped to avoid it.

“The courier came back,” You said, watching him.

He didn’t respond. The ocean moved rhythmically against the hull in the stillness.

“My father,” You continued, “He offered the ransom. You got your price and could’ve handed me over. Sailed away, bought a new ship, and paid your crew for months. But you didn’t.”

Still nothing.

You stepped closer, until only a foot of space separated you, and the smell of salt, leather, and blood clung to the air between you. “Why?”

A long, heavy beat passed.

Then he said quietly, voice so low you nearly missed it: “Because I don’t take payment for something I’m not giving up.”

The world slowed.

Your breath caught in your chest, stuck between a heartbeat and something more dangerous.

You stared at him. “I’m not a thing.”

At last, he turned to you. The moonlight caught his eyes, blue-gray and unreadable. There was no smile on his lips, no mockery or cruelty. Just something deeper. Something darker. A quiet, burning want that he didn’t even bother trying to hide anymore.

“I know,” He murmured.

You felt your heart thrum faster, uncomfortably loud in your chest. “Then what am I to you?”

His gaze dragged over you slowly, like he was memorizing every line of your face. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before. More raw. “You were leverage. Then you were a risk. Now…”

He paused, jaw twitching as if the words cost him something.

“Now you’re the only thing on this ship I give a damn about.”

It landed in your stomach like the drop of an anchor. You could barely breathe around it.

You backed up half a step. “I’m not yours.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes, regret maybe. Pain. But it vanished just as quickly, replaced by something steadier. More resolved.

“No,” He said, softly. “Not yet.”

The quiet between you stretched taut, like the edge of a blade held between steady hands.

He wasn’t threatening you. Not physically. But there was no mistaking it. This man who killed for coin and bled for reputation was unraveling all of it at the altar of you. Quietly and willingly, with the same discipline he commanded his crew with. He was turning that need inward, carving out space in his world that only you could fill.

You tried to look away, but you couldn’t. Not when he looked at you like this. Like he already belonged to you and was just waiting for you to realize it.

That night, your cabin was still warm from the candle someone had lit. The blanket still soft beneath your hand. The tea already steeped, left in silence. But it felt different now.

Not like comfort, like a gift. Like a man who didn’t know how to love gently, but was trying anyway.

You moved to the window of your door and pulled back the curtain.

And there he was. Outside your door, seated on a barrel with his sword laid across his lap, the shadows swallowing the lines of exhaustion in his face. He wasn’t guarding the ship anymore.

He was guarding you.

And as the wind picked up, tugging gently at his coat, he looked up, eyes catching yours through the window, steady and unblinking.

He didn’t nod, didn’t speak.

But in that stillness, you understood.

This wasn’t about gold. It wasn’t about power, pride, or war. It was about you.

And if someone came to take you now, even if they offered kingdoms in return, he’d burn every last one of them to the sea to keep you.

Where Were You Then?

Summary: You and a bunch of other people are moved to a new base due to the Avenger’s meddling. There, you bond more with one of your colleagues who warns you one night about what the Avengers may be up to; leaving you to sit with the weight of knowing they’re only now interested for reasons unknown.

Word Count: 2.9k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

You were just finishing up the day’s work when the knock came.

Not sharp, not urgent. Just a brief, polite tap on the metal frame of your open door. When you glanced up, a man in dark gray stood there. Clean uniform with no insignia you recognized, but the kind of posture that said he didn’t waste time unless it mattered.

“Can I speak with you?” He asked.

You gave a short nod and pushed your chair back. “Now’s fine.”

He stepped inside, calm but brisk, like someone used to planning six steps ahead. “We’re relocating you.”

You blinked. “Relocating?”

“It’s not disciplinary,” He clarified quickly. “Your record’s clean, your contributions are beyond solid. This is a matter of preemptive caution, for everyone.”

You straightened. “Meaning what, exactly?”

He hesitated, just a second too long.

“Details are on a need-to-know basis,” He spoke carefully. “But your transfer has been cleared. Secure transport will arrive within the next forty-eight hours. You’ll be reassigned to a secondary site more isolated and protected. Same role, just… farther from high-traffic areas.”

There was a weight to his words, one he wasn’t allowed to unpack.

Your mind jumped too easily. The Avengers? Could they have found a trail? No one here had ever said it outright, but this organization didn’t recruit former personnel from that world without reason. You didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer. But something in his tone softened when you stayed silent for too long.

“You’ve done good work here,” He said. “There are people who’ve noticed. This isn’t a punishment. It’s just… insurance.”

You nodded slowly. “Understood.”

He gave a short nod back. “You’ll receive the full transfer package in the morning. Pack light, essentials only. We’ll handle the rest.”

Then he left. Just like that. No apologies. No threats. Just… consideration. Like your presence actually meant something here, like moving you was part of protecting an asset, not brushing aside a liability.

It was strange, being treated like you mattered. Unsettling, almost.

You stared at your desk for a long time after, thoughts circling like vultures. You weren’t sure what was coming, or who was coming for that matter but this time, someone had moved you before the storm hit.

And somehow… that made all the difference.

They moved everyone at dawn.

For you, there was no drama. No armed escort. Just two people in a quiet transport vehicle, neither of whom spoke unless you did. The silence wasn’t cold, it was purposeful. Measured. Like even the air between words had been screened for unnecessary noise.

You watched the base disappear through a small, reinforced window. The trees beyond it blurred into gray-green smears. You didn’t ask where you were going. If you were meant to know, someone would’ve told you.

The transport itself took most of the day.

Surprisingly, there were no trackers, handcuffs, or weapons secured on your back. Just a sealed case of your belongings at your feet, and the weight of knowing this wasn’t just a job shift, it was a severing. A quiet severing from the last version of your life.

When you finally arrived, it wasn’t to a bunker or a prison. It was… clean. Remote, yes. Nestled in the shadow of a cold, low mountain range and shielded by layers of climate camouflage but still functional. It had a sharp-edged, efficient charm to it. Made of glass and steel, but no gloss.

Someone met you at the gate. Middle-aged, sun-weathered, and the kind of face that belonged more to ranches than espionage.

“Welcome.” He greeted, eyes kind but searching. “We’ve been expecting you.”

He didn’t offer his name, just a handshake. Firm, not too long. Genuine. You nodded once in return and stepped inside.

The interior was no different; quiet hallways, soft lighting, nothing flashy. Your new quarters were modest but well-prepared. A real bed. A desk with working equipment already logged in under your name. A few small touches that made it feel not temporary. There was also a chair pulled out. A folded set of fresh clothes. A cup and kettle beside sealed packs of tea.

Someone had gone out of their way to prepare for you.

That was new.

You didn’t unpack right away, just stood in the center of the room and let the silence fill in all the gaps the Avengers used to ignore.

Nobody here looked at you like you were an afterthought. They didn’t praise you either, but somehow that felt more honest. More grounded. You still weren’t anyone special, but you weren’t invisible.

Later, someone would bring you a meal without being asked. Even later, someone else would knock softly to ask if you needed help setting up your gear.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected when they said you were being relocated. Isolation? Containment? But not this. Not quiet competence. Not care in the form of practical support.

Still, the question lingered at the edges of your mind like a bruise that hadn’t healed right.

Why now? Why move you before anything happened?

What were they protecting you from?

Or more hauntingly, what were they protecting from you?

Regardless, you couldn’t dwell on it too much, you still had work. A job. You were still needed, wanted. Speaking of such, it was sometime past midnight when the knock came.

Two soft gentle taps, just enough to make sure you were awake, not enough to demand your attention if you weren’t. It was considerate.

You were awake, of course.

Sleep didn’t come easy anymore though. So you sat up, brushing the throw blanket from your legs, and moved to open the door.

Maren stood on the other side, still in her boots, curls pulled back in that effortless way that made her look always in motion. She had a folder tucked under one arm and a mug in the other, something warm and lightly spiced, if the smell was anything to go by.

“Sorry,” She apologized sheepishly. “I know it’s late. You can throw something at me if you want.”

You didn’t. You stepped aside.

She entered and settled into the chair near the desk with a soft sigh, setting the mug down in front of your chair. Cinnamon, you realized.

“I figured you were up,” She added, flipping open the folder on her lap. “Also figured if I stared at this mess any longer without asking someone smarter than me, I’d end up walking into a wall tomorrow.”

You arched a brow. “That happen often?”

“Oh, sure,” She replied easily, glancing at you with a lazy grin. “But this time I’d have deserved it.”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t leave either. You sat down slowly, fingers curling around the mug. It was warm. Too warm to pretend you weren’t grateful.

Maren didn’t talk for a moment, just flipped through the schematics, frowning and murmuring something under her breath. Then:

“You ever miss it?” She asked. “The Tower. The mission boards. The forty-five emails from Stark at 2 a.m. because he was convinced everyone else had forgotten how to sleep?”

You didn’t answer right away.

She glanced up. “Sorry. I said I wouldn’t bring it up. I’m just–… curious.”

You stared into the steam curling from your mug. “I don’t miss being invisible.”

She didn’t smile at that, didn’t say “of course” or “you weren’t invisible.” Just nodded like someone who believed you.

“I used to work under people who never remembered my name,” She confessed after a moment. “I learned to smile fast, be useful, be quiet. Eventually someone told me I had a ‘pleasantly neutral presence.’” She snorted. “Didn’t know whether to thank them or cry.”

Your lips twitched, just a little. That was the thing with Maren. She didn’t really dig. She didn’t poke either. She just… dropped little stories beside you like breadcrumbs and let you decide if you wanted to follow.

You didn’t know what her role was here, not exactly. She wasn’t one of the shadowed higher-ups who briefed you through glass. She wasn’t part of security, or intel. But she had access. She came and went freely. Her badge could open more doors than yours.

And she kept coming back.

Every day, she brought something. Not always files. Sometimes it was a snack. A joke. A book she thought you’d like. Once, a scarf. “It’s ugly,” She warned you with a smirk. “But it’s warm. Don’t get sentimental.”

You’d kept it anyway.

Now, she leaned back in the chair and tapped a page in the folder. “This code, they’ve been using it to mask movement through the lower grid. I think it’s one of the Avengers’ old cloaking patterns. But I can’t break it alone. Thought maybe you’d enjoy the irony.”

You took the folder without replying and that was enough of an answer for her.

She pushed herself up a second later, stretching slightly, then moved toward the door, but paused before she left.

“…Hey,” She called softly, hand still on the frame. “If you ever get the urge to leave… walk out, disappear, whatever, I won’t stop you.”

You blinked. She turned slightly, looking at you over her shoulder. Her voice was quieter now. “I just hope someone finally deserves you enough to give you a reason to stay.”

The door closed gently behind her.

You stared at the folder in your lap. At the mug. At the silence she left behind, warm for once, not cold. And you didn’t know what scared you more:

That you were starting to truly care. Or that maybe… she already did.

In the new base, your days started earlier now.

Not because anyone made you. There were no mandatory check-ins, no shouting instructors or looming supervisors. But people noticed when you showed up early, and unlike the Tower, they actually said something about it.

Noticed you, that is.

The job was… well, it wasn’t so different, really. Coordination, data analysis, and communication relays between cells. You monitored activity across networks the Avengers didn’t know how to see, flagged inconsistencies, tracked patterns. Only this time, when you submitted a report, someone actually read it.

Once, someone even scribbled:

Brilliant work. You saved us three days. - E

On the margin of your printout in ink, as if it mattered.

It felt strange, at first. Being thanked and being seen. Even stranger was how the others treated you. They weren’t perfect. Some were gruff, standoffish, or slow to trust. But it wasn’t personal. It was how they were with everyone. You weren’t an outsider, they just weren’t the warm and fuzzy type.

Still, you found your rhythm.

There was Janek from logistics, who swore too much and brought you coffee and stale biscotti when he was grateful. There was Yara, who ran fieldwork planning and somehow always knew when you needed five minutes of silence and a desk light turned away just so to help your headaches.

And of course, there was Maren.

Her visits were less daily now, but they lingered longer. She’d still drop files or jokes or awful candy bars she pretended to love, but some days she just sat across from you, legs propped up on a nearby chair, flipping through a book or doodling in a notebook while you worked.

She never hovered, never demanded, never asked what you were thinking. But she always seemed to know when something was off.

One afternoon, when your hands had been trembling under the desk for half an hour, she passed you a pen you didn’t need and said, “You don’t have to break yourself to be useful here. That’s not the deal.”

You didn’t reply. But you held the pen a little tighter, just for the weight.

You weren’t in a cell. You weren’t being coerced. You hadn’t signed your name in blood. But somewhere between the cracked teacups, the high-security reports, the nods of appreciation, and Maren’s steady quiet, the lines had blurred.

This place, they made you feel like you mattered. And no one had ever done that before.

Still, there were nights you stared at the ceiling, palms clammy, and wondering if it was all too easy.

Too good. Too tailored. But when you thought about leaving, really leaving, your heart didn’t race with freedom. It knotted with fear. Not just fear of what they’d do, but of what it would feel like to go back to being invisible again.

The Avengers never saw you. But here, people did. Maybe that was manipulation. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you didn’t care.

However, you would have to figure it out sooner or later. The fact becoming more evident in your recent visit with Maren.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Most nights, you kept to your quiet rhythm. Work, rest, repeat. The corridors outside your quarters stayed empty this late, and that was how you liked it. Silence had become more of a comfort than people ever had.

So when the knock came with soft, deliberate, two even taps, you knew exactly who it was.

You didn’t speak. Just opened the door.

Maren stood there with her hands in the pockets of her jacket, shoulders relaxed but eyes too focused for this to be casual. She didn’t smile.

That alone made your chest tighten.

“Can I come in?” She asked softly.

You stepped back to let her through.

She hovered by the desk instead of sitting, gaze sweeping briefly over the files you’d abandoned and the mug still half-full beside them. It looked like any other night but she wasn’t treating it like one.

“You don’t usually stop by this late without something to drop off,” You said finally.

“I know.” She glanced at you. “Didn’t want to wait.”

That answer made something cold settle at the base of your spine.

You crossed your arms loosely, leaning back against the wall. “So don’t make me guess.”

Maren let out a breath, slow and tired. “They’re moving. The Avengers.”

You didn’t react outwardly, but your fingers curled just slightly against your sleeves.

“How close?”

“Not at the gates or anything. But they’ve started poking around. Someone pulled old records; training logs, field reports, tech inventories with your name half-scratched out of them.”

You looked away, jaw tight.

“You knew this might happen,” She said. “Didn’t you?”

You gave a soft shrug. “Eventually. I just thought they wouldn’t care enough to follow through.”

Maren didn’t deny it. “They didn’t… until now.”

She finally stepped closer, but not enough to crowd you. She wasn’t here to push. Just to deliver something real.

“I wanted you to hear it from me,” She said. “Before it’s sirens or breach codes or worse.”

You searched her expression. “Why warn me at all?”

She gave a small, tired smile. Nothing like the smirks or smiled she used when teasing you about snacks or work stuff.

“Because you’ve been more honest with me by saying nothing than most people ever are running their mouths,” She said. “Because you help, you’re there. And because even if you never told me what really happened with them, I can see it. In how careful you are, quiet, like you learned the hard way not to expect anyone to come back.”

You looked down. That last part hurt in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“And you’re not trying to stop me,” You murmured.

“No,” She said. “I’m just making sure you don’t get caught waiting for a rescue that may not happen.”

The silence stretched. Then, just as she turned to go, she paused and glanced back.

“Remember what I said… If you want to disappear, I won’t stop you. I’ll help. If you want to stay and fight, I’ll cover you. But whatever you choose, do it because you decided, not because you’re still trying to be something for people who never saw you.”

Your throat felt tight, but you nodded.

Maren didn’t say goodbye. She just touched the edge of the desk as she passed it again, a quiet habit she’d picked up, and slipped out into the hallway like she’d never been there at all.

You didn’t move for a long time once she was out of sight. Her words echoed, low and slow, like ripples spreading through still water. You sat down at your desk, fingers brushing the edge where she’d touched it last. An absent gesture, meaningless to most, but it reminded you that she saw you. Had, maybe, for longer than you wanted to admit.

But that didn’t make this choice any easier.

You’d walked away from the Avengers quietly, with barely a notice. Not because you wanted to disappear, but because they never looked hard enough to remember you were there in the first place. And yet, somehow, you weren’t gone. You were just… on the other side now.

Funny how that worked.

They’d start a war to fix a system, but not a conversation to fix a person.

You stared at the half-drunk coffee on your desk. The files a colleague had brought earlier, harmless recon work. Nothing personal, but it all now felt like a test. A choice dressed in paperwork. Stay or run. Fight or vanish.

Or wait for someone who never looked back.

You couldn’t decide tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow.

But you knew this: If the Avengers showed up, you wouldn’t be caught off guard. Not scrambling, not pleading, not waiting. You weren’t that girl anymore.

And if they asked you why?

…You still didn’t know what you’d say.

Maybe nothing at all. Maybe just:

"Where were you when I needed someone?"

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal @winchestert101 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @avivarougestan

Wounded Pride

Summary: When Bucky overhears you referring to him as not exactly being a badass, he over dramatically makes sure you don’t forget what was said. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 1.3k+

A/N: Based on that one behind the scenes clip. If you know, you know…. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

The Tower’s elevators were notorious for having a mind of their own. Sometimes they opened without warning, sometimes they took an eternity to arrive, and sometimes, just sometimes, they timed their arrival with the cruel precision of a sitcom writer.

You were mid-conversation with Sam, leaning against the wall across from him in the hallway, arms crossed, foot tapping. He was lazily scrolling through something on his phone while the two of you traded jabs to pass the time.

It had started innocently. A stupid debate about who on the team would fall apart first during a zombie apocalypse, which then derailed into who would be the least useful in a survival situation. You didn’t think much when your lips curved into a smirk and the words fell out of your mouth, quick and flippant:

“Bucky? Please. He’s more dramatic than cool.”

Sam’s head snapped up, eyebrows raised. “You sure you wanna say that out loud? Man’s got enhanced hearing and a long memory.”

You waved it off with a shrug and a grin. “Oh come on. He broods, wears all black and leans against walls like he’s posing for a noir poster. He’s not exactly a badass.”

The elevator dinged.

And you turned too late.

There stood Bucky Barnes, holding a paper cup of coffee, one brow already arched as if he’d caught the sentence at just the perfect moment. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared at you with that unreadable, piercing expression.

Then his face crumpled into the saddest mock expression of betrayal you had ever seen.

“…What?” He said, softly. So softly.

It was the kind of “what” that sounded like he’d just walked in on his birthday party being canceled. Or found out the puppy he’d been promised as a child was a lie. His eyes widened ever so slightly, lips parting, and he clutched his coffee like it was all he had left in the world.

Sam choked on a laugh and turned to the wall, hiding his face in his elbow as he made strange wheezing noises.

Your mouth opened, trying to find the right words. “I—I didn’t mean it like that.”

But Bucky’s expression was now carved from theatrical devastation. He didn’t even glance your way, just stared ahead, stiff as a statue as you and Sam entered the elevator.

“It’s fine,” He said with the grave seriousness of someone announcing their own funeral. “I’m not a badass. I’ll just go take knitting classes. Maybe open a flower shop. Maybe I am soft.”

“Bucky.”

He sipped his coffee. Slowly. Painfully. “Guess all those years of being a deadly ghost assassin mean nothing now.”

You blinked. “Okay, first of all-“

“I mean, I’ve only jumped out of moving vehicles, disarmed bombs, and taken on half a HYDRA base solo, but clearly, clearly, I should’ve worn sunglasses and played electric guitar instead. That’s what real badasses do, right?”

The elevator doors began to slide closed behind you, trapping you in his theater of sorrow. Sam was practically doubled over now, shoulders shaking violently.

“Jesus Christ,” You muttered, smacking your palm to your forehead. “You’re worse than Clint when someone eats his snacks.”

Still, Bucky didn’t let up. He turned slightly now, just enough to glance at his own metal arm, as if questioning its very existence. “Might trade this in. Get one of those foam Hulk hands instead. They squeak.”

You stared at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

He finally met your gaze, lip jutting out in the most exaggerated pout you’d ever seen on a fully grown man. “You wounded me.”

And then, there it was, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You squinted at him. “You’re faking it.”

“Am I?” He asked, sipping his coffee with unbothered elegance. “Or is this just how it feels when someone you care about betrays you so publicly?”

Your mouth opened to argue, but no words came. You just pointed at him in silent outrage as Sam completely lost it behind you.

And Bucky? He leaned against the elevator wall, lifting his cup with a quiet, smug sip.

You didn’t speak the rest of the elevator ride. Neither did Sam because he had been too busy nearly hyperventilating with laughter. Bucky stayed committed to the bit the entire way down, arms crossed now, coffee now forgotten in one hand as he stared up at the ceiling like a Shakespearean ghost, pondering his tragic fate.

The second the elevator doors opened, you bolted.

“I take it back!” You called behind you. “You're totally a badass! King of brooding! Master of knives! Alpha of angsty wolves or whatever!”

But Bucky’s voice floated after you like a sigh in a funeral parlor. “Too little, too late.”

You groaned and turned the corner, only to hear Sam laugh again behind you.

The next few hours passed in relative peace. You figured he’d drop it. Bucky had a sense of humor. Dry as the Sahara, sure, but a sense of humor nonetheless. And you had apologized. Well. Kind of.

But when you stepped into the training room later, towel slung over your shoulder and water bottle in hand, you stopped short.

There he was.

Bucky Barnes.

Perched dramatically on a bench in the center of the mat, head bowed, posture slouched in such a carefully performed display of melancholy you almost applauded. His dog tags were visible today, glinting beneath his dark shirt. A single training knife spun in his hand like it had betrayed him, too.

You hesitated at the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Reflecting,” He answered without looking at you.

You frowned. “On…?”

“My failures. My illusions. The lie I lived under, thinking I was intimidating.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Oh, you are so full of shit.”

He looked up, expression completely deadpan. “Am I, though?”

You walked in slowly, water bottle dangling from your fingers. “You were never this dramatic back when we fought those mercs in Berlin.”

“I was trying to impress you back then,” He said in a pouty, exasperated tone. .

You nearly choked. “Excuse me-”

He stood slowly, rising with the look of a man preparing to duel at dawn. “No need to pretend now. I know what you really think of me. Just a washed-up ex-assassin who can't even scare a field agent.”

“I never said that!”

“Oh?” He said, pointing the training knife at you. “Then what did you mean by ‘not exactly a badass’? Hm? Let’s hear it. Please enlighten me.”

Your mouth flopped open, then shut. You walked closer and poked his chest with a finger. “I meant you're a different kind of badass! The slow-burn kind! The guy who doesn’t need to puff his chest and scream at the sky!”

Bucky tilted his head. “You think I scream at the sky?”

“That’s Thor, Barnes!”

He blinked. “…Fair.”

You turned, throwing your hands up. “God, why am I explaining myself to a man who eats plums and sulks like it’s a sport-“

Suddenly, a strong arm wrapped around your waist and spun you fast and easy, like you weighed nothing at all, and you found yourself pressed up against him, back to his chest, your wrist caught gently in his hand.

His mouth was next to your ear.

“Still not a badass?”

Your heart stuttered. Your brain short-circuited. You hated how smug he sounded.

“…Okay,” You muttered. “Maybe a little.”

He grinned against your cheek. “Mm. Thought so.”

You shoved him off with a scowl, ignoring how warm your face felt. He didn’t resist, just stepped back with that same cocky smile spreading across his lips.

“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?” You asked, grabbing a practice baton.

“Nope,” He said cheerfully. “But don’t worry.”

He spun his knife again with a wink.

“You can always make it up to me.”

Group Therapy

Summary: Tony forces you, Bucky, and Sam into a mandatory group therapy session meant to improve communication, but it quickly devolves into passive-aggressive chaos, exaggerated breathing, and glitter-based threats. (Bucky Barnes x reader x Sam Wilson)

Word Count: 1.3k+

A/N: Lots of dialogue. Loosely inspired by the boy’s bickering during that one therapy session. Also lowkey nervous to post a different ship than stucky or just Bucky. Anyways, Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

You should’ve known something was off the second you saw Tony Stark’s name on the file labeled “Avengers Personnel Wellness Initiative.” It was slipped into your inbox with a cheery little note scribbled in red ink:

“Mandatory. I’d make it optional, but let’s be honest. Some of you are one more sarcastic quip away from homicide. See you Thursday, - T”

You’d barely finished reading when Sam popped his head in your room, looking smug and holding up the same file. “You get the invite to Avengers Couple Counseling Hour too?”

You narrowed your eyes. “It’s not couples counseling.”

“It is if you’re dating us,” Bucky added flatly from the hallway, already walking away like this wasn’t his problem to solve.

You groaned.

And that’s how you ended up here, sitting in a perfectly neutral gray room with soothing paintings of trees and lakes, heading the stiff chair that squeaked every time Sam shifted his weight. The therapist, Dr. Halliday, looked terrified but determined. Her notebook was already open, pen ready to scribble down trauma and ego in neat bullet points. Bucky had already made a comment under his breath about the notebook.

She smiled too wide and greeted the room like it didn’t hold two supersoldiers and someone who once watched one of them chase the other with a hot pan for drinking the last of the coffee.

“So, I understand you’re here for emotional synchronization and group cohesion?”

Bucky blinked. “We’re here because Tony wants to bully us.” Sam scoffed. “He’s just mad because he had to fill out a feelings worksheet.” “I didn’t fill it out.” “You drew a middle finger on it.”

Meanwhile, you slowly leaned back in your chair, already regretting every life decision that led you to this moment.

The therapist cleared her throat. “How about we start with a simple question. What’s one thing you admire about each other?”

There was a long silence. Bucky folded his arms. Sam raised an eyebrow. You offered a small shrug.

“I mean… Bucky’s good with knives,” You offered.

Dr. Halliday smiled, a hint of nervousness seeping through. “That’s… specific. And Sam?”

You hesitated. “He has a great smile.”

Sam immediately grinned and nudged Bucky. “Did you hear that? Great smile. Can your war journals do that?”

Bucky glared. “Say smile one more time and I’m throwing yours into orbit.”

You sighed.

Then it was Bucky’s turn. The therapist asked him to share something positive about you and Sam. He stared at the ceiling like he was begging the universe to open up and consume him whole. Finally, he muttered, “You both talk too much, but you make the world less awful. Sometimes.”

“That was almost sweet,” You said.

Sam leaned back with a smug smirk. “Bet that hurt to say, huh?”

“I hated every syllable.”

“Okay!” The therapist said, chipper but clearly dying inside. “Let’s shift to—uh—conflict resolution styles! What do you usually do when you’re upset with each other?”

“I jump out the window,” Bucky said flatly. “I put hot sauce in his coffee,” Sam added with zero shame. You blinked. “You what—”

“I know,” Bucky said, gesturing toward you. “She takes deep breaths and then threatens us in passive-aggressive Post-It notes. It’s terrifying.”

“I only do that when you two make me the middle spoon and fall asleep on me.”

“It's called protection,” Bucky muttered.

“It's called heat stroke,” You shot back.

The therapist’s pen hovered, unsure whether to write or cry.

You’d made it thirty minutes in.

Dr. Halliday put down her pen. “Let’s…try a grounding exercise.”

Bucky leaned toward Sam. “That sounds fake.”

Sam whispered back, “Bet it involves breathing.”

Dr. Halliday reached under her desk, pulled out a small glass jar labeled “lavender-mint serenity,” and lit it with the kind of intensity usually reserved for summoning spirits.

“This is a grounding exercise,” She said, placing the candle on the coffee table like it was the solution to world peace. “Focus on your breathing. In for four seconds… hold for four… out for four…”

You tried. You really tried. But next to you, Sam was making exaggerated whooshing sounds with every exhale.

“Innnnn… oooouuuuut… like that, right?”

Dr. Halliday gave him a pained smile while Bucky wasn’t even pretending. He stared at the candle like he wanted to throw it at someone.

You peeked at him through the corner of your eye. “Just breathe, Buck.”

“I don’t need a candle to inhale oxygen,” He hissed.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “He gets like this when you take away his combat knife. It’s part of his routine.”

“It’s grounding,” Bucky shot back. “My way just involves punching something.”

“I can print out a photo of Tony for you to hit later,” You offered. Bucky actually looked tempted.

Dr. Halliday scribbled something down. Probably: Patient shows aggression toward candles, sarcasm, and emotional openness.

She then looked up and smiled, tightly. “Let’s try something else. A communication-building exercise.”

“Define communication,” Sam muttered.

“Each of you will take turns expressing a frustration using I feel statements,” She explained gently. “Without blame.”

You, Sam, and Bucky exchanged a slow, dreadful look.

“I’ll start,” Dr. Halliday said, either to model the behavior or remind herself she was still in control. “I feel overwhelmed when sessions go off-track, because I want to help, but I need everyone’s cooperation.”

You nodded. “Fair.”

Sam crossed his arms, clearly enjoying this more than he should. “Okay, my turn. I feel deeply annoyed when Bucky eats the last protein bar and then blames it on gravity.”

You turned to Bucky. “You blamed gravity?” “The box fell over. They rolled. I didn’t plan it.”

Sam leaned forward. “You looked me in the eye and said, ‘Fate chose me.’”

“Okay,” Dr. Halliday cut in quickly, “Remember, no blame-“

“I feel,” Bucky interrupted flatly, “That Sam is a smug, winged menace who chews with his mouth open and makes my eye twitch.”

“That’s not a feeling,” The therapist said weakly.

“I feel violated when I find feathers in the dryer.”

Sam gasped. “That’s just racist.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay. I feel like I’m babysitting two adult toddlers who also happen to be capable of mass destruction.”

“That’s fair,” Dr. Halliday muttered under her breath, then cleared her throat. “Let’s shift to nonverbal communication.”

“Oh boy,” Sam whispered.

She handed you each a blank piece of paper and a marker. “I want you to draw how you see your dynamic. No words. Just visuals.”

Sam immediately started sketching a stick figure version of himself with a halo, Bucky with angry eyebrows, and you in the middle with a giant coffee cup and stress lines. Bucky took a full minute before drawing a broken clock, a knife, and a cartoon bird exploding. You just drew a couch… sinking into lava.

You all held up your art like traumatized third-graders at a very intense PTA meeting. Dr. Halliday stared at them in silence. Then she gently folded her notebook closed.

“Well,” She said after a long pause. “That was… illuminating.”

“Can we go?” Bucky asked.

“Is there a points system for good behavior?” Sam added.

You just raised your hand and said, “Do I get a sticker or something for not screaming?”

Dr. Halliday let out a tired sigh. “You get a gold star and a recommendation for individual therapy.”

Sam and Bucky both turned to you.

“Oh look,” Sam grinned, “You’re finally the favorite.”

“Better be laminated,” You mumbled.

You all filed out of the room in silence, the scent of lavender and mint clinging to your clothes like shame.

Outside the door, Bucky turned to Sam. “Next time you put hot sauce in my coffee, I’m putting glitter in your wings.”

Sam snorted. “Joke’s on you, I like glitter.”

You walked ahead of them and muttered, “I will duct tape your mouths shut next week.”

And somehow, that was the most productive session you’d ever had.

⋆༺The One You Don’t See༻⋆

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: An ongoing story following you, the quiet presence who keeps everything running, always helping but never truly seen or included. Not by Bucky, not by the rest of the Avengers, not even by your own coworkers. You’re simply the quiet, unseen support: diligent, unnoticed, and ultimately forgotten.  Disclaimer & A/N: This little series is still WIP, so the summary is left relatively vague as to not give out spoilers. There may also be more than four parts.

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi

Main Masterlist

⪼----➢ Chapter 1: Always There, Never Seen

⪼----➢ Chapter 2: The Weight of Being Forgettable

⪼----➢ Chapter 3: The Side That Noticed

⪼----➢ Chapter 4

WIP.

Hii! I absolutely love your fics, and I wanted to send in a request, could be thunderbolts or og avengers, i don't mind, but where reader is like, insecure about her body and she's the only one of the women who isn't wearing fitting clothes, and Bucky showing her how pretty she is - no smut, just him like, kissing the places she's insecure about.

<3

Greetings, dear! Thank you for the kind words and the request. What a lovely idea, it was a joy fulfilling it! Just the type of comfort I love writing actually.

I chose OG Avengers since I have yet to watch Thunderbolts to get a good grasp on those characters. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this! Happy reading!!!

Soft Kisses, Loud Truths

Summary: You, always hiding beneath oversized clothes, finds quiet, affirming comfort in Bucky Barnes. A man who shows you love not just through words but through gentle presence and reverent kisses to every place you hide. Without pressure or expectation, he stays by your side, reminding you that you don’t need to change or be perfect to be worthy of love.

Word Count: 2.1k+

Main Masterlist

You weren’t one for tight clothes. Not because they didn’t fit, though you always insisted they didn’t, but because they fit too well. Too much. They hugged in the wrong places, outlined dips and curves you’d rather keep secret.

And in a room full of confident women, all in sleek dresses or jeans that clung like they were made just for them, you stuck out in your oversized sweater like a kid playing dress-up in her older sister’s closet.

The compound was lively tonight. Some low-stakes celebration Tony had insisted on throwing, complete with music, snacks, and beer someone had spiked with something “better.” Everyone was relaxed, loose, and glowing under the low warm light. Meanwhile, you felt like a smudge on the painting.

You hovered near the edge of it all, picking at your sleeve and tugging it over your hands. The fabric was safe. Baggy. It kept attention off your chest, your arms, your stomach. It helped you feel invisible or, at least it used to.

Because Bucky Barnes had a habit of looking at you like you were the only person in the room.

Your relationship with him was slow. Not fragile, but… careful. Bucky never pushed. He always waited for you to lead, even when he clearly wanted more. Even when your fingers brushed, and he didn’t let go. Even when his eyes flicked to your lips mid-conversation. Even when he held you too long after nightmares you didn’t mean to share.

You weren’t together-together, not officially. But it was obvious there was something between you two. There were many things that didn’t need labels to be real.

Like how he always gravitated toward you, no matter who was talking to him. Or how he’d lean down and murmur some sarcastic comment into your ear that made your lips twitch into a smile, even when you were trying not to be seen.

Tonight was no different.

You felt him before you saw him. His presence, a low hum in the back of your head, like the way you can feel the pressure shift before a storm. Then there he was, easing beside you without a word, his drink in one hand while his other rested lazily at his side like it was waiting for yours.

You glanced up. He wore black, like always, but fitted in a way that made you stare. He looked relaxed and breathtaking. Everything you weren’t.

“Why are you hiding over here?” He asked, voice low and soft.

You shrugged, eyes flicking back to the crowd. “Not really a fan of parties.”

He studied you. “You wore that sweater again.”

“I like it.”

“I know you do.” He paused before carefully adding. “But it’s hot in here.”

You tensed slightly. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t argue. Bucky never argued about your boundaries. But his eyes drifted over your hunched shoulders, the way your arms were crossed protectively, and how you kept adjusting your hemline like it might magically shift your shape.

He leaned closer, a hint of cologne catching in your breath. “You always hide when you don’t think you belong.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know how.

Bucky’s fingers brushed your elbow, light and careful. “You do belong,” He murmured, not as words of reassurance but as truth.

You didn’t know how to believe it. Not when you’d seen the others like Natasha, Wanda, or Sharon who were all stunning, confident, and comfortable in the bodies they moved in like second skin. You saw the way people admired them or stared at them for a beat too long, effortlessly magnetic.

But Bucky, he wasn’t looking at them.

He was looking at you. And he wasn’t looking away.

-

Later, after the party had thinned and laughter faded into distant murmurs, Bucky found you again. However, this time you were in the quiet space of your own room, curled on your side with that same sweater still swallowing you whole. You hadn’t meant to leave without saying goodbye, but you also hadn’t known how much longer you could stand to pretend.

The knock was soft. Two simple, familiar beats.

You opened the door halfway.

He didn’t smile like earlier, just looked at you with those gentle, storm-colored eyes. His hair was pulled back and his voice nearly a whisper.

“Can I come in?”

You gave a small nod and stepped aside. The door clicked shut behind him. He didn’t ask questions right away as he looked around your room like he’d never seen it, then back at you. His eyes landed on your sleeves, the way you clutched them.

“You disappeared.”

“I just got tired.”

“You always get tired when you start comparing yourself to everyone else.”

That made your throat tighten.

Bucky stepped closer. “You looked beautiful tonight. I wish you saw what I did.”

You shook your head before you meant to, bitter at how fast the insecurity rose.

“No one looks at me like that,” You said quietly. “Not like they look at them.”

“They don’t,” He agreed. “Because they don’t see what I see.”

You looked away. He didn’t try to force you to meet his gaze. Instead, his metal hand reached out slowly, silently asking.

So, you let him touch the end of your sleeve.

“Can I?” He asked, voice gentler than before.

You nodded, barely. He pushed the sleeve up, past your wrist, and up your arm.

Then he leaned in and kissed it. Right where your arm softened in ways you hated, where you’d always tried to hide the way it curved and dipped.

Your breath caught.

He continued, lips brushing the skin like it deserved tenderness. Reverence. As if this wasn’t a place to be ashamed of, but one to be adored.

“Here,” He murmured between kisses, “is soft and warm. You try to shrink it, but I want to hold it.”

He kissed your shoulder next, after gently tugging the collar of your sweater to the side. The metal fingers of his left hand ghosted over your back, not pushing, just feeling.

You said nothing, but you didn’t stop him either.

“And here,” He said, pressing a slow kiss just below your collarbone, “is where you carry all your tension. I feel it every time you pull away.”

He moved next to your stomach, after you hesitated, then slowly let him lift the hem of your sweater. You almost stopped him, almost apologized for the stretch marks, for the softness, for not being the version of beautiful the world seemed to want.

But Bucky went to his knees in front of you, on his knees for you, and kissed every line.

Every dip. Every place you’d avoided mirrors for.

“Don’t hide from me,” He whispered into your skin. “Not this. Not you.”

Your eyes stung. You couldn’t look down at him without your throat closing.

His hands were steady, one flesh, one metal. His palms warm and patient as they held your hips like they weren’t something to be ashamed of.

“I don’t need you to be thin, small, or perfect,” He said. “I just need you to be here, with me.”

And when he stood, and you finally looked into his eyes again, you saw no pity. No discomfort nor disgust. Just awe. Like you were something rare, worth worshiping, worth loving.

You trembled, and for the first time, not from shame.

“…You really think I’m beautiful?” You whispered.

His thumb brushed your cheek.

“No,” He said, voice low, steady. “I know you are.”

And then he kissed you. Slow and deep, like he was answering every unasked question you’d ever buried in the mirror.

The kiss itself was like a held breath finally released, full of the tenderness you never knew how to ask for. Bucky didn’t kiss like a man chasing lust. He kissed like someone memorizing or like he was making up for every time you’d stared at your reflection and flinched.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. You could feel his breath on your lips, the slight tremble in his chest like your closeness was almost too much and not enough all at once.

“We don’t have to do anything more,” He murmured, his hands still resting gently on your waist, not pushing or pulling, just holding. “You set the pace. Always.”

You swallowed hard. Your sweater hung halfway off your shoulder, the bottom still pushed up slightly. However, you didn’t feel fully exposed. Not in the way you feared at least. Because somehow with Bucky, it felt more like being seen than being looked at.

You nodded, just a little. “Stay?”

That one word, barely above a whisper, broke something in him. Not in a painful way but in the way something softens when it’s finally allowed to feel. He kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then both your cheeks like he was stitching something invisible back together.

“I’ll stay as long as you want me to,” He said.

And true to his word, he did. Later that night, you ended up curled in your bed, sweater discarded, and wrapped in an old soft T-shirt of his he’d left in your room weeks ago. He said it looked better on you, and this time, you almost believed him.

The lights were off, save for the low glow of your lamp. Bucky was laying beside you on his side, propped up slightly and tracing the back of your hand with his thumb. Your legs tangled loosely beneath the blanket. Nothing rushed. Nothing heavy. Just the comfort of bare skin and deep breathing.

His voice was low, like he didn’t want to startle the peace.

“You know what I noticed about you?”

You looked at him, curious.

“You always say ‘sorry’ when you mean ‘I’m afraid I’m too much.’ Or ‘not enough.’”

Your throat tightened.

“I never want you to be sorry for existing exactly how you are,” He said, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “You don’t have to earn space or softness. Or love.”

A tear slipped down before you could stop it. He kissed it away like it was sacred.

Then, slowly, his hand settled on your stomach again, warm and grounding. “This is yours,” He said softly. “You don’t have to suck it in or apologize for it. It’s beautiful.”

His hand moved to the side of your thigh where the stretch marks you hated resided. “This too.”

Then his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist. “And this. So strong.”

His hand shifted once more and now hovered over your chest, over your heart. “And this,” He said, voice slightly rough, “is what I want to protect.”

By the time he finally settled back beside you, your hands had found his. Your body had stopped resisting his touch. For the first time in a long time, your skin didn’t feel like something that needed to be hidden.

You leaned closer into him, voice small but steady. “You make me feel… safe.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss into your hair. “That’s all I ever wanted to do.”

You didn’t mean to cry, but the tears came anyway. Quiet and slow, as if your body had finally decided it was allowed to feel. Bucky didn’t flinch. He just reached up, cupped your face, and brushed each tear away with the back of his hand like he had all the time in the world.

He didn’t try to hush you. He didn’t ask you to smile. He just let you be.

You both lied there together, not tangled in passion, but wrapped in stillness. He didn’t undress you. He didn’t ask for more. He simply rested beside you, his hand cradling yours between them like something precious.

He looked at you like he saw you. Not a version of you. Not a comparison. Just… you.

And maybe that was enough.

He shifted closer, his voice just a whisper against the dark.

“You don’t have to fight your reflection anymore.”

You didn’t respond with words, just the smallest squeeze of his hand.

Bucky pulled your joined hands to his chest, let you feel the slow, steady beat beneath your palm. “This is yours. With every beat, I’ve always got you.”

His thumb brushed your knuckles until your breathing slowed, until the last tear had dried, until your eyes finally slipped closed.

And long after you fell asleep, he stayed awake, watching the quiet way your chest rose and fell, holding your hand like a vow whispered into the night.

He didn’t need you to love yourself all at once.

He just needed you to know: You were already loved.

And even if you couldn’t see it yet, he would keep showing you until the day you finally did.

⋆༺Shapeshifting Shenanigans༻⋆

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: A collection of different one-shots with a shapeshifter reader causing various mischief, running into precarious situations, and being an absolute menace in feline form. Bucky Barnes has the misfortune of being on the receiving end of your shapeshifting shenanigans.

A/N: I realized I had written a lot of this type of reader. Also, I will try to find a way to branch out to other animals if people like this enough. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Keys | Fluff ✿ | Angst ⛆ | Dark 𓉸 | Hurt/Comfort ❦

✿ Chaotic Cat Curse - You were accidentally cursed and turned into a cat, causing all kinds of fun chaos for Bucky: destroying things, attacking his shoelaces, and generally making his life impossible.

✿ Stray Magic - After your last incident of being cursed into a cat, you now stumble, quite literally, across the ability to shift into a feline form whenever you want.

✿ Catnapped - A mercenary tries to kidnap “the weird cat that’s always with the Avengers.” They succeed temporarily.

✿ The Great Bed Heist - After a rough mission, Bucky returns to his room only to find you, in cat form, perfectly loafed in the center of his bed and entirely unwilling to move.

✿ Laptop Warfare - In your cat form, you relentlessly sabotage Bucky’s attempts to work by sitting on his laptop. ✿ Cat Politics - (Coming soon.)

Cookie Baked Disasters

Summary: You somehow manage to bake poisonous cookies which prompts Bucky to supervise all your baking endeavors from now on. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.1k+

A/N: Loosely based on some audio I heard on tiktok the other day. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

There were many things the Avengers had come to expect when you walked into a room: chaos, genius, caffeine jitters, trivia no one asked for, and the occasional accidental fire. But no one, absolutely no one expected you to show up to the kitchen with a tray of suspiciously perfect cookies and the most serious expression you’d ever worn.

“Those cookies are poisonous,” You said, setting the tray down on the counter with dramatic flair, “So no one eat them.”

Everyone stared.

Then Sam burst out laughing. “Ha! Duh. That’s obviously a bit.”

You blinked slowly. “Sam.”

“What?”

“…Go throw up.”

A pause. Confusion.

“I didn’t eat any-“

“Go. Throw. Up.”

Panic.

Sam bolted for the sink.

Bucky, sitting across the room cleaning a knife, froze mid-motion. “Wait, what the hell do you mean poisonous?”

You sighed, already pulling out your tablet. “Okay, so, technically they’re not poisonous to me, because I built up a tolerance over the past three weeks—don’t look at me like that—but it turns out the sugar substitute I used breaks down into a compound that causes moderate to severe liver distress in most mammals.”

Natasha put her coffee down with slow, measured dread. “You’re not most mammals.”

“Exactly,” You chirped, clearly missing the point. “Also, I was testing if I could make a biodegradable, calorie-free sugar using mold spores and hydrogen combined with cactus oil. Spoiler alert: I can. But apparently only I can eat it. Which is fine, more for me.”

Bucky was already on his feet, striding over, and staring at you like you’d grown a second head. “Why didn’t you just… make normal cookies?”

You blinked up at him, tilting your head. “Because that’s boring.”

“Because that’s safe,” He snapped.

“But boring.”

From the sink, Sam gagged dramatically. “I didn’t even eat one, but I feel like I did. I’m throwing up for safety.”

Tony wandered in, glanced at the tray, and immediately turned back around. “Nope. Not again.”

You rolled your eyes. “God, that was one time, and technically the lasagna incident was Steve’s fault for telling me to ‘eyeball it.’ I don’t have normal eyes.”

Steve walked in a beat later, took one look at Sam hurling into the sink, and another at the tray. “I don’t even wanna know.”

Bucky rounded on you, hands on his hips. If he had a sass meter, it would be through the roof. “You cannot just leave deadly baked goods in a communal kitchen.”

“I labeled them,” You said, pointing to the tiny sticky note that read “NOT FOR MOUTHS.”

“That’s not a label!” Bucky barked. “That’s a suggestion written like a dare!”

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it when you realized he had a point.

“I’ll lock them up,” You offered brightly. “Put them in my danger fridge.”

“You have a danger fridge?!”

“Where do you think the uranium cupcakes went?”

Bucky closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” He muttered.

You grinned. “Yeah, but I’d do it creatively.”

Despite himself, his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. Then he sighed and pulled you away from the tray and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You’re banned from baking unsupervised.”

You beamed. “So, supervised poison baking is still on the table?”

He groaned.

You took that as a yes.

Therefore, exactly two days later, you dragged your poor boyfriend into the kitchen who was surveying the area like it was a crime scene.

“You said supervised baking was allowed,” You pointed out cheerfully, tying your apron with the kind of confidence usually reserved for villains and reality TV chefs.

Bucky, arms crossed, eye slightly twitching like he already regretted everything, gave you the look.

“That was before I knew you considered ‘supervised’ to mean ‘talking me through your thought process while I physically stop you from poisoning everyone.’”

“Exactly,” You said, pulling out ingredients with absolutely no regard for organization. “Teamwork.”

“Why is there a car battery on the counter?”

“That’s for the frosting.”

He didn't respond. He just slowly picked it up and placed it out of reach like it was a loaded weapon.

You hummed a little song as you poured something vaguely flour-colored into a bowl. The bag just said ‘experimental starch, not food safe.’ You’d crossed it out and written “maybe food safe??” in Sharpie.

Bucky gently turned you away from it.

“No.”

“Rude,” You muttered.

“We’re making normal cookies. Flour, sugar, butter, and eggs.”

“Got it.” You nodded. “So I’ll substitute the eggs with carbonated eggplant foam, and the butter with an algae-based salve I’ve been developing-“

“NO!” Bucky all but shouted, grabbing both your wrists like he was wrangling a particularly enthusiastic octopus before he sighed deeply. “You’re gonna follow the recipe, step by step, and if at any point I see you reach for something glowing, humming, or labeled ‘unknown,’ I’m locking you out of the kitchen permanently.”

You blinked. “You’re kinda hot when you’re bossy.”

He looked skyward. “God help me.”

You finally, finally, started putting real, safe ingredients in the bowl. Bucky hovered nearby like a sleep-deprived babysitter watching a toddler use a chainsaw. However, you made it known how miserable you were. You cracked the eggs like they’d insulted your mother, accidentally got shells in the batter, and when he tried to help, you threatened to scientifically improve him.

“I swear to God,” He muttered, digging the shards out with a spoon, “This is worse than combat.”

“You say that like cookies aren’t a battlefield,” You said, dumping the sugar in aggressively and vaguely guessing the right amount needed. “We’re fighting for joy, Barnes.”

“We’re fighting for survival,” He corrected. “Mine.”

Half an hour and seventeen emotional breakdowns later (six of them his), the cookies were baking in the oven and the kitchen wasn’t on fire. This was a historic win.

You leaned against the counter, beaming like a kid who’d just presented macaroni art to their teacher. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Domesticity suits me.”

Bucky looked around: flour everywhere, butter smears on the ceiling, a suspiciously missing spatula (likely melted somewhere), and a bowl labeled “cookie prototype v2” quietly vibrating under the sink.

He sighed.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Lucky and dangerous. Like an endangered bird with a knife.”

He blinked. “You’re never baking again.”

“But I followed the rules!”

“You tried to carbonate the dough halfway through!”

“I succeeded, actually-“

He kissed you then, mostly to shut you up. You grinned against his mouth, and he could taste sugar and disaster and whatever it was that made you so you.

And yeah, the cookies would probably be slightly radioactive.

But at least no one was throwing up this time. Yet.

Can you write a Bucky x reader fic that has the red string of fate/invisible string soulmates theory? I haven’t seen anyone write these and I think it could be kinda angsty and fluffy

Hello there, dear! I loved this idea, very unique. I think this turned out more angst than fluff, but I can definitely write additional follow ups to include more fluff later on! Hope you enjoy it and thank you for the request! Happy reading!!!

Tangled Threads

Summary: You’ve always felt the red string of fate for better or worse, but when it finally leads you to Bucky Barnes; both of you avoid each other, too afraid of ruining the other. Over time, the unspoken tension wears you both down until a forced confrontation finally brings the truth out. (Soulmate AU! | Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 3.4k+

Main Masterlist

You’d never believed in soulmates.

Not really. Not the way some people did, anyway. Like the ones who walked around with hearts in their eyes and poetry in their throats. The ones who would obsess over the faint, red threads that sometimes coiled around their pinkies like destiny’s leash. Or those who made dating decisions based on whether the string tingled or tugged, like a compass spinning toward fate.

You didn’t have the luxury of romantic idealism. Not when your string had spent the better part of a decade ruining your life.

Every time you tried to date someone or every time you flirted with a guy in a bar, went out for drinks, or even let someone kiss you, the string would pull. Tug. Burn. Like it was punishing you. And worse than the pain, worse than the guilt that bloomed inexplicably in your chest, was how it always ended the same way.

Knots. Tangles. Snaps.

The relationship would basically implode. The person would leave, or you would. One guy had even blamed you for making him feel “haunted.” He said he felt like there was always someone watching him when he was with you. Another girl you tried to date had burst into tears during dinner and said she couldn’t stop thinking about someone else, someone she’d never even met.

You didn’t know who your soulmate was and honestly, you didn’t want to. It wasn’t romantic, this invisible leash tied around your soul. It was exhausting. Unrelenting. And frankly? It made you bitter.

So you stopped dating. You stopped looking entirely and threw yourself into work.

As fate would have it, that’s when you were recruited to work logistics for the Avengers.

It was supposed to be your fresh start. You handled team schedules, mission support, resource allocation, and emergency routing. You kept your head down, did your job, and ignored the fact that the red string on your finger never stopped humming faintly.

But then came James Buchanan Barnes, arriving late on a Thursday, trailing quiet steps and old guilt. You watched his arrival from the corner of the control room, fingers curled around a lukewarm coffee mug. He didn’t smile and he barely spoke. He was all shadow and silence, hunched shoulders and downcast eyes. You tried not to look. Tried not to care.

But the moment he entered the building, your string flared. It was like someone had grabbed it from the other end and yanked.

You had gasped as the mug fell from your hand and shattered on the tile.

Everyone turned toward the sound, but you didn’t see them. Your vision had narrowed to the throb in your finger, to the ache in your chest, to the man who hadn’t even looked your way. A stranger. A storm in a suit. You turned and fled the room before anyone could stop you.

That night, you stared at your ceiling, wide-eyed, red string pulsing faintly under your skin. You knew what it meant. Knew it in your gut. Knew it the way birds know where to fly in winter.

Your soulmate had arrived. However, you told yourself it was just a coincidence.

The red string pulsing against your finger? It was reacting to stress. Nothing more. You’d been tired lately, maybe spent too many long nights in the compound and dealing with too many high-stakes missions on the board. That had to be it.

But that lie didn’t hold when Bucky walked by you for the third time that week in the hallway, his steps heavy, his eyes fixed straight ahead; and still, the string pulled.

And it wasn’t subtle. Not the kind of whispering ache you were used to. No, this was worse. The thread practically yanked toward him like it knew him, like it had been waiting years to be close again. Every time he got near, your body reacted before your brain could stop it. Your heart would race. Your lungs would freeze. And that thread would burn under your skin like fate was trying to dig itself out.

So you kept your distance.

You shifted your schedule. You took your lunch breaks earlier. You stopped using the gym after hours and switched to morning training, even though you hated mornings. You turned the other way when you heard his boots in the hallway, and when you had to be in the same room whether it be for briefings, tech updates, or field intel, you sat at the opposite end of the table. Silent and still.

You didn’t speak to him. You didn’t even look at him. Not that he noticed anyways. Or so you thought.

What you didn’t realize and what you couldn’t see, was that Bucky was avoiding you too.

He had noticed you the moment he arrived, even if he hadn’t looked. Not directly. Not openly. But he’d seen you. You were the one in the back of the room with the broken mug, eyes too wide, mouth set in a line too tight for a casual expression.

And then you’d vanished like a ghost.

He felt… off after that. There was a sensation in his chest he couldn’t name. A quiet wrongness. Something half-forgotten and buried deep.

So he started walking different routes through the compound. Skipping meals he didn’t want just to stay out of the kitchen when you were there. Ducking out of gym sessions early. He didn’t speak to you either. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. He didn’t know why he felt so tense around you, so hyperaware, but it made him feel cornered.

And afraid.

He’d spent years under control, under programming, under orders. Soulmates were a fairytale. A luxury. Not something made for someone like him, someone HYDRA had hollowed out and filled with blood.

And still… the red string that had dulled during his Winter Soldier days now hummed faintly every time you passed. He refused to look at his hand, refused to follow the string. And maybe you mistook that for indifference. Maybe he mistook your silence for hatred.

So the two of you danced around each other like gravity and defiance, orbiting but never colliding.

But the string? The string never gave up. It tangled tighter. It pulled harder. And it waited for one of you to give in first.

-

When you weren’t avoiding Bucky, you did get to meet a lot of the people you worked with and for. Of course, you weren’t close to many people at the compound.

But Sam?

Sam Wilson had a way of sneaking into your life like sunlight through blinds. He didn’t try to crack you open or ask too many questions. He just showed up.

You bonded over coffee at first. Both of you were early risers, though for very different reasons: you, out of anxious insomnia; Sam, out of habit built in warzones and battles. Eventually, those quiet mornings became more than just caffeine. They became small check-ins. Casual jokes. Breakfasts shared across mission briefings. Banter that made you feel less like background noise and more like a person.

He never pushed. But he noticed. Especially when it came to Bucky.

At first, Sam chalked it up to coincidence.

The way you’d leave a room the moment Bucky entered. The way Bucky’s shoulders would tense whenever he sensed you nearby. How neither of you ever looked at each other, even when seated at the same table. At first, Sam thought maybe something had happened between you like an argument, a disagreement, or maybe even a past mission gone bad.

But then he started noticing the timing.

The way Bucky took the long route to the gym. The way you checked the corridors before turning into them. The way your fingers would twitch toward your covered hand like something itched beneath the skin. The way Bucky kept glancing at his hand when he thought no one was watching.

That was when Sam’s brow started furrowing.

Because he’d seen the red string of fate work before. He’d seen it between two agents back in his SHIELD days, an unspoken bond visible only under certain lights, but always felt. He remembered the tension, the ache, the gravitational pull people fought even as it dragged them closer.

And he saw that same tension between you and Bucky, but worse.

Because you weren’t just soulmates avoiding each other. You were ghosts haunting each other. Two people pretending not to bleed from the same wound.

Even Steve noticed too.

The Captain didn’t say anything outright, he rarely did honestly, but he lingered longer in rooms where you both occupied opposite ends. His gaze flicking subtly between you. He frowned when Bucky avoided eye contact. He narrowed his eyes when you left too quickly, your knuckles white around your clipboard.

Natasha, on the other hand, didn’t bother pretending.

“You’re not subtle,” She told you one evening, arms crossed as you reviewed intel in the common room.

You blinked at her. “About what?”

She raised an eyebrow. “About him.”

You flushed. “I’m not… there’s nothing-“

Nat cut you off with a shrug. “You can lie to yourself. Just don’t expect it to fool anyone else.”

And then she walked off, leaving you burning with the realization that the others weren’t just noticing, they were waiting. Waiting for the moment the string snapped or finally pulled taut enough to bring you both crashing into each other.

However, it was Sam who decided he was done waiting.

You hadn’t noticed how often he brought Bucky into conversations with you. It started off casual at first, asking your opinion on mission tech when Bucky was in the room, suggesting both of you work on the same security drill. You kept dodging it. Sidestepping the awkwardness. Swallowing your discomfort. But Sam wasn’t blind.

One morning over coffee, he finally leaned in across the table and said, “You know… you can’t outrun a red string.”

You stiffened before slowly looking up.

Sam didn’t smile. He just looked at you in a calm and unbothered way, but his expression was knowing.

“Is that what this is?” You asked quietly. “You think he’s…?”

“I don’t think,” Sam said. “I see.”

You looked down at your hand, hidden under your sleeve.

“It’s been burning since the day he arrived,” You whispered.

Sam’s voice gentled. “Then maybe it’s time to stop pretending it’s not there.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

So Sam just nodded once and added, “If you won’t say something, I will.”

You thought he was bluffing so you changed the conversation and let it go.

-

Meanwhile, Bucky was having a considerably hard time as well. He didn’t mean to notice, but he did.

He noticed everything, really. Supersoldier senses, it was a curse he couldn’t shake, a leftover from too many years being trained to sense threats before they moved. But you? You weren’t a threat. Not to anyone but maybe him.

You were the one person he hadn’t been able to read. Not because you were guarded, though you were, but because being near you made something in him short-circuit. Your presence wasn’t like anyone else’s. It was too still. Too loud in a way that had no sound. Like something had been missing in him for years, and you were the reminder of it.

So he continued to avoid you, but he didn’t stop watching.

He noticed how often you sat with Sam in the mornings, how the two of you laughed over quiet jokes and mismatched mugs. He noticed the way you let your shoulders relax around Wilson. Like relax, in a way you never did around Bucky. Not when you saw him. Not when you passed each other in the hall and he kept his eyes on the floor.

You looked safe with Sam.

And it twisted something in Bucky’s chest that he didn’t like to name.

He told himself it was good. Better, even. That you should be around someone like Sam who was someone stable, someone warm. Someone who hadn’t been forged into a deadly weapon like him. You deserved easy mornings and easy friendships. You deserved a soulmate who didn’t have a kill list longer than your entire history. You deserved someone who wasn’t haunted.

He told himself the ache in his ribs every time you laughed with Sam was just guilt. That it wasn’t jealousy. But the thread on his finger tightened every time.

And when he caught the way Sam looked at the space between you and Bucky; the unspoken one, the thread-pulled one, he knew.

Sam knew.

But Bucky still wouldn't do anything about it. Because if he acknowledged it, if he gave in, what then?

What if you hated him for it? What if the string only existed to remind you both that fate was cruel? That the universe thought it was funny to pair a bruised heart like yours with someone who'd broken a hundred others with his bare hands?

So he didn’t speak, didn’t reach out, nor explain why he left every room you were in like it was on fire.

But the rest of the team saw it all. And Bucky could feel the confrontation coming. Like thunder in the distance.

-

It was Sam who finally shattered the stalemate.

You were in the tech wing, running diagnostics on the quinjet for tomorrow’s mission. The lab was quiet, humming with low light and LED glow, and you were just beginning to enjoy the silence when the door hissed open and you heard his voice.

“I thought this hangar was clear.”

Bucky’s voice. Dry, flat, and instinctually distant.

Your head snapped up and there he was. Standing in the doorway, a tablet in one hand, brow furrowed in that perpetually tired way of his. His eyes met yours for half a second before you looked away.

“Sorry,” You muttered. “I’ll finish later.”

You started to pack your tools, but Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t walk in but he didn’t walk out either.

Then, suddenly:

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

Both of you turned, just as Sam Wilson stormed through the opposite door.

He looked between you like a fed-up parent catching two stubborn kids refusing to apologize.

“I knew it,” He muttered, pointing a gloved finger between you both. “You two. You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” You asked sharply, far too quickly.

Sam gave you the flattest look imaginable. “That ‘I’m avoiding him but also vibrating like a tuning fork every time he enters the damn room’ thing. You’ve been doing it for weeks.”

“I haven’t-“

“Yes, you have.”

He turned to Bucky. “And you. Man, you’ve been walking the long way around the building just to dodge someone you haven’t even spoken to.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “I didn’t-“

“Don’t.” Sam cut him off. “You two are tied together like moths to a flame and it’s getting real uncomfortable to watch. Just talk. Ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Sam was already stepping out the door. The door closed behind him like a gavel.

Silence followed, thick and immovable. You didn’t dare move as you were still gripping the edge of the diagnostics console like it could anchor you, but it couldn’t stop the sting behind your eyes.

You could feel him.

Even with your back turned, you knew Bucky hadn’t left. You could sense him, feel him, just like always. That subtle magnetic pull low in your gut, the electric hum at the edge of your skin. The red string wasn’t just glowing now.

It was buzzing.

You didn’t need to look to know it arced across the space between you like a live wire. Still, you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because you weren’t ready to hear what he might say. That this wasn’t real. That he didn’t want it. That you weren’t enough.

“…I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” He said, voice rough.

The sound of it broke something open in you.

Your throat tightened. “You didn’t. I just…” You swallowed, still not turning around. “I figured you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “That’s not it.”

You turned slowly.

He was standing near the wall, not quite meeting your eyes. His shoulders were tense, jaw set like he was bracing for a punch. Your voice came out in a whisper.

“…You feel it too?”

God, your voice. It hit him like a bomb shell.

He nodded slowly. “Since the moment I saw you.”

You flinched, like that was worse. Like it made things harder, not easier.

“I didn’t think I’d ever feel it again,” He said quietly. “HYDRA… what they did to me, whatever magic’s in this string, it… it went silent for a long time. I thought it broke. I thought I broke it.”

You stepped closer, the red between you pulsing brighter. Bucky’s chest ached with the way your eyes held sorrow instead of hope.

“It came back when I showed up,” You stated, not a question. A fact.

He nodded again. “And I ran from it. From you.”

“Why?”

He looked away.

Because I don’t deserve a soulmate, he thought. Because I’ve hurt too many people to believe someone could be mine. Because if I touched you and you pulled away, I think it would kill me.

“I thought…” He exhaled shakily. “I thought the universe was playing a joke. Giving me something good just to watch me ruin it.”

Your gaze softened. That pain in your eyes, that was familiar. Too familiar. He saw himself in it. All the years of pretending you didn’t need the thread. All the little heartbreaks you must’ve carried in silence.

“I thought the same thing,” You said quietly.

You stood inches from him now. The string was glowing full-force, twisting gently between you like it had been waiting years for this moment. You could both feel it pulsing like your hearts hammering in your chests.

You lifted your hand. So did he. And then, finally, you both touched.

It wasn’t magic. Not really. There were no sparks or flashes of light. But the moment your fingers brushed in that slow, hesitant, gentle way, everything settled. The ache. The noise. The burning uncertainty.

It went quiet.

The thread between you pulsed once, deeply, and then simply rested as though it had been holding its breath this entire time.

You exhaled. So did he.

“Hi,” You said softly.

His voice broke around the answer. “Hi.”

Neither of you moved at first. Your fingers were gently wrapped around Bucky’s, his calloused palm tentative against yours, like he wasn’t sure if holding you would make the thread vanish or knot tighter. You half-expected to feel overwhelmed. But instead… everything in your chest finally stopped clenching.

Even though you felt peace, still, you hesitated.

“Just because we’re connected…” You began quietly, eyes flickering to the thread that now glowed with an even, steady rhythm between your hands, “…doesn’t mean we have to do anything. We don’t owe it anything… or each other.”

Bucky’s eyes lifted slowly to meet yours. You expected resistance, or maybe guilt. But instead, he gave you the smallest nod.

“I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

His jaw worked for a moment like he was chewing on the words before speaking them aloud.

“I’ve had enough of people making decisions for me. I’m not gonna do that to you.” He swallowed. “If you want to take it slow—or walk away, I won’t stop you.”

You could see it, feel it in him. That deep, worn-in belief that letting go was the only good thing he had to offer. The way he held your hand like he expected you to pull away at any second.

But you didn’t.

“I don’t want to walk away,” You said. “I just… want to breathe for once. And not feel like I’m ruining something just by existing.”

That caught him off guard. He flinched, not from your words, but from the echo of them.

“Yeah,” He whispered. “Me too.”

And the thread didn’t demand anything. It didn’t pull you closer or tighten like a leash. It just existed as a steady tether, a presence, like the quiet hum of a heart still beating after the worst of it has passed. Still glowing. But content, now. Patient.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” You admitted quietly.

“Me neither.”

You hesitated. “But I’d like to figure it out.”

Bucky didn’t say anything at first. But after a long moment, he held your hand a little tighter almost as a confirmation. You gave him a small smile, finally feeling like you didn’t have to rush toward something. You could just… sit in it. Let the connection exist without a name. Without pressure. Without promises you weren’t ready to make.

The string between you flickered once. Steady and. Not binding. Not demanding. Just waiting. And for the first time, you weren’t afraid to wait with it.

Hey :)

I love your writing!!! It comforts me and I often find myself re reading your stories, they're so frickin good <3 (Clementine made me almost cry; if you could write more for that au that would be so awesome of you because I really wanna hear more about Bucky and the reader as well as their daughter and Clementine. I haven't been able to find any other bull rider au!)

I have a fanfic request for a Bucky Barnes x reader fic for a reader with SA! PTSD who either has a flashback and helps comfort the reader through it

or who sees her/his/their (your choice of pronouns) attacker in public and protects them when their attacker tries to talk to them???

Thank you, you're beautiful and one of the best writers ever, and better than most authors of books you see on the shelves at ya local barnes n noble.

Hello there, dear. I’m afraid you’ve sent the ask to the wrong author as I’ve never written anything described in your side note there. However, do be sure to send your love to the person you intended this for!

I did like the request though and ended up fulfilling it. Have a lovely day and Happy reading!

Quiet in the Storm

Summary: After experiencing a sudden flashback, you spiral into panic. However, Bucky stays calm and gently grounds you, reminding you that you're safe. He offers comfort without pressure, reassuring you that you're not broken and never have to face things alone. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Alludes to SA and PTSD, Panic Attack, Angst, Hurt/Comfort. You are responsible for the media you consume. Do take care of yourselves.

Word Count: 1.5k+

Main Masterlist

You didn’t talk about it, not directly, not often. It hung in the air sometimes, between the clatter of dishes or the silence of late-night TV. It showed itself in the way your shoulders tensed when a man’s voice rose too loud or how your eyes darted around a crowded street. But mostly, you kept it tucked away like something broken on a high shelf. If you didn’t touch it, maybe it wouldn’t fall.

Bucky never asked for more than you were ready to give. He never pried. He never pushed. But he saw the little things. How you sat with your back to the wall in restaurants, how you flinched when someone walked too close behind you. The first time you told him, it wasn’t with words. It was in a look. A quiet panic behind your eyes one night when he reached for your wrist too quickly. He’d stopped immediately, palms up, and soft as rain.

“I’m here. I won’t ever hurt you.”

And you believed him. Most of the time. But trauma doesn’t follow a schedule. It doesn’t wait for safe spaces or daylight. And tonight, it came when you least expected it.

The movie was some harmless rom-com. You weren’t even paying attention to it. You were curled up on the couch beside Bucky, his arm around your shoulder, the other hand gently stroking your thigh through the blanket. You trusted that touch. You knew it. But something shifted when a scene came on. Some stupid, throwaway moment with a drunk character and a joke that hit too close to the bone.

You didn’t realize you were slipping until Bucky said your name.

“Hey. Hey, sweetheart.”

You blinked, breath caught in your chest. The blanket suddenly felt too tight. His hand, warm and grounding, was on your thigh, but now it felt like a chain. You were underwater. Sinking. The room had changed, morphed, turned into something else. Somewhere else.

His voice called your name, his tone calm and steady. “Look at me. You’re safe.”

But your body didn’t believe him.

You flinched hard, pushing yourself away from him and curling into the corner of the couch, heart pounding like it would break through your ribs. The panic was everywhere, sinking underneath your skin. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop shaking.

Bucky didn’t come closer. He stayed exactly where he was. That was a first mercy.

“I’m not touching you,” He said softly, his voice barely more than a breath. “You’re okay. You’re here, with me. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The flashback had you caught like a snare around your throat. Your hands were clenched into fists in your lap, nails digging into your palms.

“Can you hear my voice?” He asked. “Can you nod for me?”

It took effort, like dragging yourself through quicksand, but you nodded once.

“That’s good. That’s so good, doll. You’re doing great.”

Tears ran hot down your cheeks, and you weren’t even sure when they’d started. Your throat hurt from how tightly you were holding everything in. But still, he didn’t come closer. He waited.

“You’re not there anymore,” Bucky said gently. “You’re safe. You’re not alone.”

He slowly shifted onto the floor closer to you, sitting cross-legged near the couch but not touching it. Not crowding you. Just… there.

“Can I tell you where you are?” He asked. “Just so you can hold onto it?”

You nodded again.

“You’re in our apartment. Brooklyn. Your favorite blanket’s on the couch. The one with the little blue stars. There’s a candle burning, lavender scented. You made me light it earlier ‘cause I forgot to do laundry.” He smiled softly. “You’re with me. Just me. I’ve got you.”

His voice was steady. Not too soft, not too firm. Just right like a tether in the dark.

You started breathing again. Taking shaky, shallow breaths at first, then a little deeper. Your fists unclenched as the room slowly came back into focus, one detail at a time. The glow of the TV. The warmth of the blanket. The safe weight of Bucky’s presence just a few feet away.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t mean-“

“No.” His voice was quiet but firm. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

You looked at him then. His blue eyes were steady, kind. Yet fierce in the way someone could be when they cared too much and didn’t know how to fix what hurt.

“It’s not your fault,” He said. “None of it.”

You nodded again, even though your throat ached.

“Can I come closer?” He asked gently. “Only if you want me to.”

It took a long moment before you whispered, “Please.”

He moved slowly, carefully. Not reaching out until you did first. And when you did, your fingers brushing against his, he wrapped your hand in both of his like it was the most precious thing in the world. He kissed your knuckles, one by one, and rested his forehead lightly against yours.

“I’m proud of you,” He murmured. “For staying. For letting me in.”

The flashback was over, but the ache lingered. It always did. But with Bucky there, his arms wrapped gently around you, his heartbeat steady against your back, it felt a little easier to bear.

And for now, that was enough.

Later that night, he stayed up with you. The TV was on but muted, casting a soft flicker over both of you. Your head rested against his chest, and his hand ran through your hair in slow, rhythmic motions, grounding you with every pass. Every time you closed your eyes, some phantom image tried to drag you back but his voice was there, low and constant, murmuring things like, “You’re here with me. You’re safe.”

At some point, you fell asleep against him, your fingers twisted in his shirt like you were afraid he’d vanish if you let go.

-

The morning came slow and strange.

You felt heavy. Not physically, but inwardly. In the way that made you feel like you were made of soaked cloth. But the room was filled with sunlight creating a warm atmosphere. Bucky was already in the kitchen, moving with that careful quiet of someone who knew what it meant to be haunted.

He didn’t look at you with pity. He looked at you like you were brave.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” He said gently, when you padded barefoot into the room. “Didn’t want to wake you, so I made you tea. It’s that kind you like, the fancy one with the rose petals you keep calling ‘expensive leaf water.’”

You almost smiled. He placed the mug on the counter without handing it to you. You’d told him, once, that sometimes you didn’t like being handed things first thing in the morning. And he remembered, like always.

You took the mug in both hands and stared at the steam.

“I had a flashback yesterday,” You murmured. Your voice was soft, but not shaking this time. “You probably figured that out.”

Bucky nodded once. “Yeah.”

You looked up. “Did I scare you?”

His eyes softened, brows pulling together like the question pained him. “No. You didn’t scare me. I was scared for you, but not of you. Never of you.”

You took a breath. “I hate that it still happens. It’s been… years.”

He came to lean beside you on the counter, keeping just a little distance between you in case you needed space. “I know. But it doesn’t mean you’re weak. Having flashblacks doesn’t mean you’re broken. They mean you survived something you weren’t supposed to. It’s just… your brain’s still learning how to feel safe again.”

His words hit something raw in you.

You looked down at the tea, at your fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic, and whispered, “Sometimes I think I’m too much. Too damaged. Like… I’m always going to be that scared girl again, no matter how much time passes.”

Bucky didn’t interrupt. He waited until the silence had run its course before saying, “You’re not too much. And you’re not that girl anymore. You’re someone who went through hell and still wakes up every day and tries to live. That’s not damage, that’s strength.”

He paused, watching your fingers twitch against the mug. Then added, softer, “You don’t have to carry it alone, not anymore.”

Your eyes burned again but this time, the tears weren’t panic. They weren’t terror clawing at the walls of your mind. They were grief, yes. But also relief. And maybe even hope. You set the mug down and stepped toward him, slow and steady, until you were close enough to bury your face in his chest. He didn’t hesitate. His arms wrapped around you instantly, secure and careful all at once.

“I’m right here,” He whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallowed. “Thank you… for being so patient.”

He leaned in, forehead pressed gently to yours. “There’s no clock on healing, doll. I’m in this with you. However long it takes.”

And you knew, right then, that maybe healing wasn’t about forgetting. Maybe it was about having someone who stayed when it was hard. Someone who didn’t try to fix you, but just loved you no matter what.

Even when the storm came. Especially when the storm came.

The Side That Noticed

Summary: After being kidnapped, you resist at first by giving them the silent treatment, wary of your captor’s friendliness. However, their subtle kindness, attention, and respect slowly chip away at your defenses; leaving you questioning where you truly belong.

Disclaimer: ANGST, Mentions/Alludes of Kidnapping aftermath.

Word Count: 2k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

They didn’t come in with threats. No electric shocks. No screaming demands. Just a door that opened with a soft click and a chair across from yours.

The man who sat across from you wasn’t in tactical gear. He wore dark slacks, a black sweater. Not unlike someone who might’ve passed you in the Tower lobby. He smiled like he already knew the answer to the question he hadn’t asked.

“You were with the Avengers for how long?”

You didn’t answer. You moved your gaze back down, not even looking at him.

“Certainly long enough to know where the mission reports were stored. Long enough to predict patterns in deployment rotations. Long enough to keep the Tower from burning down with its own disorganization.”

He leaned forward slightly. Not threatening. Not close. Just… present.

“But not long enough,” He added, “for any of them to remember your birthday.”

That made you flinch, just slightly. And he noticed. You hated that he noticed. He didn’t press the moment though. He didn’t need to.

“They talk about being a team,” He continued after a pause. “A family. But families don’t let people like you walk out the door unnoticed.”

You clenched your jaw. The silence between you curled tight.

“You kept them alive more times than you probably realize,” He added, tapping the table once. “And they never even learned your name.”

Still, you didn’t speak. And still, he didn’t stop.

“That report you corrected on Sokovia’s evac timeline?” He said. “Saved twenty-seven lives. And that comms system update you suggested but didn’t get credit for? We used it. Works better for us, too.”

You looked up at him then, and he smiled like he’d won something.

“You were never invisible,” He said. “Just standing in the wrong light.”

Even though you didn’t grace him with a response, he didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he presented you with a terminal. No shackles. No threats. Just a system full of flaws you could fix with one hand tied behind your back.

You didn’t touch it the first time it was offered. You stared at it with your fingers curled tight in your lap and your spine straight, refusing to lean forward. The screen glowed a soft blue. It was familiar, not unlike the ones you'd sat in front of back at the Tower. But here, it felt wrong. Even if no one had tied you down, it still felt like a trap.

So you said nothing, did nothing. And they didn’t push.

The man, he hadn’t given his name, only offered you a shrug and stood. “Suit yourself,” He spoke, easy. Like this was your choice.

When he left, the door clicked closed again. No lock that you could tell, but you knew better.

The next day, they brought coffee. The kind you always got back at the Tower, from that place three blocks over no one else ever remembered. It was stupid that they got it right. It was also… unnerving.

“I figured you were probably tired of the protein bars,” He had said casually, placing the cup down like it was nothing. “Not everyone likes being caged with nutrition paste.”

You stared at the cup in silence then looked away.

“You’re not a prisoner,” He said simply, like it was obvious. “We’re not interested in forcing anyone to work with us. But we do value skill.”

He gestured at the untouched terminal. “And you? You’ve got more than most of them ever realized.”

You’ve yet to give him a proper response, not even blinking at him. Yet, he took the silence in stride.

Before he left, he glanced back and said, “You’d be surprised how many people here were overlooked first.”

That night, you stared at the terminal for three straight hours. Not because you were curious. Not because you wanted to help them. But because… what if it was true? What if all the things they said were things the Avengers just refused to see?

However, you still didn’t open it.

The next day, they brought a chair with better back support. It was stupid. It was small. It was intentional.

“You always sat weird at your desk, looked uncomfortable,” The man said, not unkindly. “Thought you might want something a little better.”

That was the first time something in you cracked, not all the way, but enough to where you looked at him. Really looked at him. And you hated that he was right. You hated that someone had paid attention.

That night, you hesitantly approached the computer and opened the terminal. You didn’t touch anything at first, more so just reading, scrolling, looking. You found various files, patterns, and outlines you could’ve made better in your sleep. And a part of you itched to fix them. You told yourself it was curiosity. Just that and nothing more.

The next day, he didn’t ask you anything. Didn’t comment or show any indication that you finally did something. Imstead, he just handed you a pastry with your coffee. The one you always got on Tuesdays.

“Did you know we used to intercept intel before it even reached your department?” He asked casually. “We'd look at the files and laugh sometimes, because they were such a mess until you rewrote them.”

You didn’t laugh, you just stared. But something in your chest twisted, low and tight. Because you remembered working late and alone. Always alone doing something whether it was reformatting, correcting, or smoothing over data others had fumbled only to watch someone else get all the credit or your work to go unnoticed.

And now, someone finally acknowledged it. They weren’t cruel. They weren’t threatening. They were kind. Kind in the way people are when they want you to stay, not when they want to break you.

And maybe that was worse. Because part of you started wondering, if being good meant being invisible, forgotten, alone…

Then maybe being bad meant finally being valued.

Even if the warmth they offered was manufactured, it was still warmer than the silence the Avengers left behind.

And so, you told yourself the terminal was just a distraction. That fixing their data was no different than solving a crossword in a waiting room. You weren’t joining them. You were… coping. Keeping your mind sharp and staying sane.

But soon enough, someone left a stylus beside the terminal, one of those nice ones that were weighted and smooth and happened to be the kind you always preferred but never let yourself buy. You didn’t even ask for it, but they left it anyway without expecting anything in return.

A few days later, another face showed up. A woman this time, younger than you expected, with dark curls pulled back and a quiet, dry wit.

She brought you a small stack of files.

“You don’t have to look at these,” She said, grinning as she laid them out beside your coffee. “But if you do, we might actually stop getting our drones blown up every time they try to cross Stark-issue fences.”

You raised a brow. “You’re assuming I want your drones to survive.”

She smirked, leaned against the wall. “Honestly? That’s fair. But I figure you might be tired of pretending you’re not three times more efficient than half the people who used to ignore you.”

You blinked. Slowly. But didn’t reply.

She didn’t push. Just winked and walked away. You came to realize her name was Maren. She started dropping by daily. Sometimes with questions. Sometimes with snacks. Sometimes just to talk.

She never asked about the Avengers, never brought up your past either. Instead, she talked about books. About music. About her annoying roommate before she joined the organization.

You hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone just talked to you without needing something.

Soon enough, others followed. People started greeting you in the hallway. Saying your name. Remembering it.

One day, a nervous, red-haired technician peeked into your space and handed you a soldering tool.

“You mentioned the other one was misaligned last week,” He said. “This one should be better. Also- uh, your breakfast order’s on the counter. Hope I got it right.”

You blinked at him. You hadn’t even realized he’d been listening.

It wasn’t much. None of them fawned over you, but they saw you. You’d spent years in the Tower as a ghost in plain sight. Yet now, for the first time, people paused when you spoke. They remembered what you liked. They asked how you were.

You hated how easily you started to relax. How good it felt to be called a peer. How you caught yourself looking forward to the next day, the next problem to fix. Not because you agreed with their side, but because they asked you like you mattered.

One evening, you stood by a long window looking out into the dark. Rain blurred the horizon, city lights distant and soft.

The man from the first day stepped up beside you, hands in his pockets.

“I don’t expect loyalty,” He said. “Not from someone like you.”

You didn’t respond.

“But you don’t owe them anything either.” His voice was calm and level. “Not after how they treated you.”

You swallowed.

He didn’t press. Just patted your shoulder gently and walked away. And yet, the silence that followed wasn’t empty anymore. It was quiet. Comforting. Like something inside you had finally stopped being so tense.

Maybe you hadn’t chosen this side. But this side had chosen you.

And in all honesty, you could still leave. That was the truth. They hadn’t locked the doors. Hadn’t chipped you. Hadn’t twisted your arm behind your back and made you sign anything in blood. You weren’t a prisoner here, not exactly, and that unsettled you more than any chains would have.

On some nights when the hallways were still, you would sit on the edge of your cot with your shoes on, fully dressed, and staring at the door. You’d check your pockets. There was always a keycard. Yours. Allowing unrestricted access to almost every level.

They hadn’t taken anything. Not your autonomy. Not your mind. And that was the part that made everything worse. Because the question echoed over and over:

If you’re free to go… then why haven’t you?

You told yourself you were gathering intel. You told yourself you were playing the long game. You told yourself you were buying time, waiting for the Avengers to reach out, to realize something was wrong and to bring you back.

But they didn’t.

There wasn’t a ping nor a whisper. You bet there wasn’t even a raised eyebrow. And that little crack inside your chest… widened.

Maren still showed up most mornings. She started leaving jokes on sticky notes under your coffee mug. Sometimes crude. Sometimes clever. Always personal. She knew your humor now and you knew hers. She also knew when to talk, and when to stay quiet.

Meanwhile, the others greeted you by name. They made space for you at the long table during planning sessions. They asked for your thoughts and they listened. Sometimes, they even debated you, and you didn’t have to raise your voice to be heard. You felt like you actually mattered for once, like you were someone worth paying attention to as well.

And that made you start wondering: Was it really so wrong to want to stay where you were respected?

But then you’d go back to your cot and remember everything they’d done. The files you’d glimpsed. The agents they’d taken down. The systems they were dismantling. You hadn’t helped with anything directly. At least, not yet. But… you were here. And that meant something.

Didn’t it?

You still told yourself you hadn’t chosen a side. You were just… drifting. Floating in a quiet current no one else seemed to notice.

But some nights, you would stare at the ceiling and feel it. The undeniable weight of the truth:

You could have left on Day 1. Day 3. Even today. But you didn’t. You haven’t.

And that, more than anything, frightened you. Because maybe it wasn’t that you couldn’t escape. Maybe it was that, deep down, you weren’t sure you wanted to.

Because this place made you feel more real and alive than anywhere else ever had.

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox

hii!

since i saw that you’re taking request, can i request bucky having sex with reader for the first time since he’s free from hydra

thanks alot💕

Hello there, love. I do appreciate the request. However, I must say I’m not the most comfortable (or experienced) in writing hardcore smut or NSFW scenes like that. Therefore, I tried to fulfill your request within the boundaries of what I am capable of and hope you enjoy it!

I did try searching for stories similar to what you wanted. However honestly, if you look up the tag “Bucky Barnes Smut” you’d find a lot of amazing pieces by many wonderful authors. Happy reading!!!

Yearning Warmth

Summary: The first time Bucky initiates something more with you. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: MINORS DNI. Light NSFW, Intimate Scene(s)/Writing. You are responsible for the media you consume.

Word Count: 1.5k+

Main Masterlist

The apartment was quiet in the way only early mornings could be. Still and heavy with sleep, but alive with the promise of healing. You sat cross-legged on the couch with a steaming mug in your hands, wearing a too-big hoodie that didn’t belong to you.

It was his, worn soft at the sleeves, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and something colder, metallic. But it was his. And he’d let you wear it.

You’d met Bucky Barnes six months ago. Not the Winter Soldier, not Sergeant Barnes, but the man just trying to remember how to breathe again in a world that didn’t flinch every time he blinked. You weren’t an Avenger, not some high-ranking agent assigned to keep tabs on him. You were just… you. A friend of a friend. Someone who’d offered him coffee the first day he showed up to Sam’s VA group meeting in silence. Someone who hadn’t looked at him like a ticking bomb.

You’d become something steady in his life, in a time when the ground beneath him never seemed to stop shifting. At first, he didn’t talk much. He just watched, nodded, and occasionally offered a small smile that always seemed to vanish before you could fully register it. But you saw the effort, the cracks in his armor. And you didn’t try to fix him. You just showed up.

Movie nights. Long walks when the city felt too loud. Dinners shared mostly in quiet until he began to speak. Conversations about the 40s. About Steve and Brooklyn. About nightmares that left him staring at the ceiling, heart pounding like gunfire. You never asked for more than he gave. And maybe that was why he gave you everything. Slowly, uncertainly, like a soldier dismantling a bomb he’d once called his own heart.

Now, six months in, he was staying more nights at your apartment than his own. He left a toothbrush here. A pair of socks. A dog-eared paperback he never admitted he liked.

He hadn’t touched you, not really. Not like that. He held your hand sometimes. His kisses were soft, hesitant, like he was still unsure if he was allowed to want something gentle. Sometimes, he’d touch your cheek and linger, gaze so intense it made your breath catch. But when things got too close, when the air thickened between you, he always pulled away. Apologized with his eyes before words even had a chance.

You understood though. He had ghosts, scars beneath the skin that memory could still tear open.

But something was different lately.

He stood in the hallway now, quietly watching you from the doorway. The way he always did when he didn’t want to wake you but couldn’t help himself. His hair was damp from the shower, curling a little at the ends. He wore a black shirt and gray sweats, both clinging to the strength of a body rebuilt for war, but now searching for peace.

“You always get up before me,” He murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

You looked up at him, gave him that soft smile, the one he once told you made his chest feel “too full.”

“You always need sleep more than me.”

He stepped into the room slowly, like he still half-expected something to snap. But it didn’t. It never did. Not with you.

“You’re warm,” He said, sitting beside you, fingers brushing against yours on the mug. “You always are.”

“Comes with being human,” You teased gently.

But he didn’t laugh. Not really. He just looked at you, deeper than usual, his hand now resting fully on yours.

“I think I’m ready,” He said quietly. His voice trembled just slightly, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right to say it out loud. “I want to… with you. If you still want me.”

Your heart beat a little faster. Not with expectation or pressure, but with the weight of the moment. Of everything he had gone through to get here. Of everything he was still fighting to reclaim.

You set your mug down. Reached for his hand. His real one first. Then the cold one, the metal one he always seemed hesitant to offer.

“Only when you’re ready,” You said, voice warm. “Only if it’s what you want.”

He looked down at your hands wrapped around his, one flesh and one forged.

“I want to remember what it feels like,” He whispered. “To want something. And have it… be good.”

You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. Breathing him in. Grounding him.

“It can be good,” You promised. “We’ll make sure of it.”

His breath shuddered softly against your skin, and for the first time since he came back to himself, Bucky Barnes allowed hope to settle in his chest.

He kissed you like it was the first time he’d ever touched something fragile and wanted to keep it whole.

His lips were tentative against yours, unsure. You could feel the restraint in him, like he was holding back a flood he wasn’t sure you were ready for, but you were. You kissed him back gently, steadily. There was no rush, just the rhythm of shared breath and time-earned trust.

Your hand came up to cup his jaw, feeling the faint stubble under your fingertips. His eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned into your palm like he was starving for human contact. Safe, welcomed contact. You could feel the tension in his shoulders, in the careful way he gripped your waist like he thought he’d hurt you if he pressed too hard.

“You’re not going to break me,” You whispered between kisses.

“I’m not worried about breaking you,” He murmured, voice low and cracked. “I’m worried something in me will break.”

You brushed your nose against his. “Then let me help hold you together.”

That seemed to do something to him. A shift. A crack. A breath of relief through old fear.

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Still slow, but with more confidence, more heat that had been buried for too long. Your fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt, and he let you lift it over his head. The room wasn’t cold, but goosebumps rose across his skin anyway.

His body told a story even his silence couldn’t. Scars, some faded, some newer, moved in patterns across his chest and back like a map of wars he hadn’t wanted to fight. Your fingers traced one near his ribs, soft and reverent, never flinching.

“I’m not ashamed,” He said suddenly, quietly, like a confession he’d never dared speak.

You looked up. “I’m proud of you.”

Something in his throat worked at those words. His hands found the hem of your hoodie—his hoodie, and he paused. Waiting. Asking without asking.

You nodded, helping him lift it off you, letting him see you as you were: unpolished, raw, and trusting.

He kissed you again, but this time, his hands explored slowly. He touched like a man trying to memorize, not conquer. There was no rush. Just quiet understanding. Tenderness in the way his metal fingers grazed your shoulder, the way his flesh hand skimmed your spine like he was grounding himself in every inch of you.

When you moved to the bedroom, it wasn’t frantic. There was no tearing of clothes, no hurried gasps. It was soft. Purposeful. Like the world outside had finally gone quiet for both of you.

He took his time with you, worshiped really. Every kiss he pressed to your skin was a thank-you. For your patience. For your kindness. For being the one who hadn’t given up on him when he couldn’t look in the mirror.

He hovered above you at one point, breath ragged, eyes searching yours like he needed to make sure again.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, holding his face in your hands. “I’ve never been more sure.”

And when he finally sank into you, it was with a soft gasp that cracked at the edges. He stilled, completely overwhelmed by the moment, by the intimacy, by you. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him to you, whispering soothing things against his ear until he started to move again, slow and unsure, but growing steadier with every breath.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t choreographed. But it was real. Beautiful in the way only hard-won love could be.

He buried his face in your neck at the end, trembling slightly as the world narrowed to the rise and fall of your chests pressed together.

You stayed like that for a while, tangled in limbs and warmth, and your fingers moving gently through his hair.

Eventually, he whispered, “You make me feel human again.”

You kissed his forehead. “You always were. You just forgot for a while.”

His arms tightened around you, like he never wanted to let go again.

And for the first time in what felt like a century, Bucky Barnes fell asleep not as a weapon, not as a ghost, but as a man in love. Safe in the arms of someone who saw him not for what he’d done… but for who he was becoming.

Misfire

Summary: Bucky Barnes accidentally botches a summoning ritual, leaving you, a laidback, powerful demon, permanently tethered to him and stranded in the mortal world. Despite his repeated (and often ridiculous) attempts to send you back, he slowly realizes he doesn’t actually want you gone. (Bucky Barnes x demon!reader)

Word Count: 2.8k+

A/N: Not going to lie, I like this, have been wanting to post this and turn it into something similar to Earth’s Mightiest Headache, exploring different one-shots/scenarios. So, hope you like it too. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

You weren’t always tied to a former assassin with a vibranium arm and a perpetual scowl, but the universe or more specifically, a botched ritual in a Siberian bunker years ago, had other plans.

It started with a flicker of blood, a page torn from a corrupted HYDRA book, and a young soldier being pumped full of something more arcane than serum. One moment you were lounging in your plane of brimstone and blissful laziness, the next you were being yanked from your hammock by a summoning circle that was mostly duct tape and desperation.

You expected pain, fire, maybe war. What you got was James Buchanan Barnes blinking up at you through a haze of brainwashing and cold, his hand twitching as your eyes met. You didn’t know what he was. He didn’t know what you were. But something latched between you two that day, something binding and unshakeable. You were tethered. Not controlled, not enslaved. Just… summoned. A willing contract. He needed, you delivered. No price beyond your amusement and his begrudging tolerance.

Decades passed and the world changed, but you didn’t. You remained ageless, hellfire-forged and perpetually unimpressed, only appearing when the man muttered your name with that low, gravelly voice that always sounded like he didn’t actually believe you’d show up again.

Which is how you found yourself this evening materializing in a Brooklyn alleyway. Head-first, upside down because the summoning marks were crooked and Bucky had apparently done the entire circle while nursing a bullet wound and an attitude.

You blink slowly, lips parted with a lollipop hanging from the corner of your mouth. “Seriously?”

Bucky, crouched behind a dumpster with a gun in one hand and a half-burned spellbook in the other, gives you the driest look known to mankind. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

You land gracefully if a little exaggerated with a dramatic roll of your shoulders, licking your lollipop with purpose. “I swear, if I get stuck in this dimension for another twelve hours because you couldn’t align your candles properly…”

“I didn’t have candles. I used a car headlight.”

“Of course you did.” You pause, sniff the air. “And you're bleeding again.”

A hail of gunfire cuts off your commentary. Bucky’s head ducks down, jaw tense. “There’s twelve of them. Maybe more. And at least one has something enhanced, might be gamma-based. I need backup.”

You hum, amused. “You didn’t summon a demon for backup. You summoned me because you’re bored, stubborn, and refuse to ask Sam for help.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Rolling your eyes, you flick your wrist, and shadows creep up your spine like living smoke. Horns begin to shimmer at your temples, and a faint glow pulses beneath your skin, ember-like and ancient. You’re not even trying yet. You never do.

“One of these days, Buckaroo,” You tease, conjuring your flaming whip with a snap, “You’re going to learn that sloppy summoning has consequences.”

He huffs, shaking his head as he reloads. “Like what? And, don’t call me that.”

You grin. “Like me deciding to stick around longer than you want me to.”

He freezes for a beat. Then, finally, that half-exasperated smile slips onto his face, the one he only gives you.

“You already do.”

The air crackled as you stepped forward, boots barely making contact with the ground. Smoke curled around your ankles, licking the pavement with a life of its own. The alley reeked of gasoline, gunpowder, and bad decisions. Bucky was crouched beside you, gun steady, his vibranium arm flexed and ready. You, on the other hand, looked like you were headed to brunch.

“Right,” You drawled, stretching your neck with a soft crack. “Let’s ruin some asshole’s night.”

A bullet zipped through the air. You caught it lazily between two fingers and held it up for Bucky to see.

“See? Rude.”

Then, you flicked the bullet back but not with force or aim. Just casual indifference. It whistled through the alley and embedded itself in a tire, exploding the getaway car and sending two mercenaries flying.

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Still a show off, huh?”

“I live to impress you,” You said flatly. “Truly. It’s the fire in my hellish heart.”

Another wave of attackers moved in, and you rolled your shoulders, flames licking your fingertips now. You raised your hand and murmured something ancient and absolutely unnecessary, but damn if it didn’t sound good. The shadows rose behind you, a twisted mirror of your silhouette with horns like daggers and a grin too wide.

You let it lunge forward.

The screams started almost immediately.

You didn’t watch. You leaned against the nearest wall, arms crossed, licking your lollipop again. “So… who were these guys? Discount HYDRA?”

“Black-market bio-enhancers. Trying to harvest my blood for the serum or something again,” Bucky muttered as he aimed and fired cleanly into a crate of stolen weapons, blowing it apart with a boom. “Same old.”

“Wow. You get all the fun gigs.”

The shadow beast tore through three more men before slithering back into your chest like smoke curling into a bottle. You burped, loud and unapologetic.

“Charming,” Bucky said without looking at you.

“I try.”

As the last guy standing, a hulking brute with glowing green veins and a face like a blender accident, charged, Bucky stepped forward to intercept. But you held out a hand.

“I’ve got this one. You’ll break a hip.”

“I’m over a hundred years old.”

“And I’m over nine hundred. Sit down, whippersnapper.”

Before he could reply, you flicked your wrist. A sigil flared under the brute’s feet, and suddenly he was screaming about worms crawling through his brain and snakes in his shoes. You made a mental note to clean up the hallucination spell later… or not. Bucky stepped over him when he dropped like a sack of terror.

“Done?”

You dusted off your sleeves. “Darling, I was barely awake for that.”

Then you clapped once, then twice. The air didn’t shift. The circle beneath your feet didn’t flare back to life. Your tether didn’t pull you back to your plane.

“Huh,” You said.

Bucky turned slowly toward you. “What?”

You turned a slow, deliberate circle in place. “You really did smudge the runes, didn’t you?”

“I was bleeding on the floor!”

“Well now I’m stuck here.”

“How long?”

“Dunno. Could be twelve hours. Could be… forever.”

Bucky’s face did a slow twitch, that tick in his jaw flexing just a bit. “You’re telling me I summoned you wrong and now you’re just… living here?”

You grinned, wide and wicked. “Looks like it.”

A long, painful silence passed between you.

“So,” You said cheerfully, “what’s for dinner?”

-

Bucky had begrudgingly brought you back to his apartment, not wanting some creature from hell roaming the streets. Still, his place was quiet. Too quiet.

You stepped inside like you owned the place because, technically, at the moment, you did. The summoning mishap hadn’t just anchored you to the mortal realm; it had linked you to him. Wherever he was, you were. Until the tether corrected itself or until someone, somewhere, realigned the ritual’s symbols with fresh blood and an offering from a creature rarer than a virgin in Brooklyn.

In the meantime… he had a couch. And a mini-fridge. You could make it work.

You flicked on the lights, grinning when the bulbs sparked and then dimmed to a soft red hue. Much better. Cozy. Sultry. Slightly ominous. Honestly, you were proud.

Behind you, Bucky entered like a man walking into a trap. His boots hit the floor heavy, like he was bracing for chaos.

“I’m not sleeping in the same bed as you,” He said flatly, dropping his gear by the door.

You gave him a long, unimpressed look over your shoulder. “Darling, if I wanted your bed, I’d already be in it, probably upside down and lighting candles shaped like your face.”

He made a sound, part snort, part groan and walked past you toward the kitchen.

You helped yourself to his couch, dramatically collapsing backward with your boots still on and your arm draped over your eyes. “You should really invest in a fainting chaise. Or a coffin. Just something with character.”

“I live here, not haunt it.”

“That explains the IKEA furniture.”

He returned with a glass of water and eyed you carefully before tossing you a throw blanket. You caught it with a lazy flick of your tail, yes, your tail, which had recently reappeared now that you were in his domain long enough to let your guard down. It swayed lazily behind you like a bored cat’s.

“Are you always like this?” He asked, finally sitting in the armchair across from you.

You cracked open one eye. “Amazing? Gorgeous? Irresistible?”

“I was going to say annoying.”

You flashed your teeth. “Only to people who don’t drink enough coffee.”

He gave you a long, lingering look. Not distrustful. Just… weighing. Measuring. Then he leaned back, rested his head on the cushion, and finally allowed himself to exhale.

Silence settled between you in a comfortable, yet strange way.

Until the next morning.

Bucky awoke to the smell of eggs, cinnamon, and… sulfur?

He sat up, blinking. For one blessed moment, he thought it was a dream. That he’d hallucinated the summoning gone wrong. That he hadn’t found you were floating two inches off the floor in his kitchen wearing one of his hoodies and frying eggs over a small, hovering fireball.

“Morning, soldier,” You said without looking, tail flicking while you flipped an omelet midair.

He groaned, running a hand over his face. “You can’t just- what are you wearing?”

“You left me unsupervised. This hoodie is now mine. I’ve bonded with it.”

You passed him a plate like this was normal. Like you hadn’t just turned his microwave into a portal that whined every time it ticked down a second.

He took the food. Sat down. Stared at it.

“…You poisoned this, didn’t you?”

You sipped from a coffee mug that said WORLD’S #1 PROBLEM. “No, but I did enchant it. Every bite improves your sarcasm by 5%.”

He hesitated, then ate it anyway.

“…This is actually good.”

“Food by a demon. Duh.”

-

From there, it had only been three days since your magical mishap of a summoning, but for Bucky, it felt like three months. You were still there, living in his apartment like it was your damn vacation home in the mortal realm. You’d rearranged the knives ("for feng shui"), filled his bathtub with lava for “ritual skincare,” and replaced every mirror with ones that whispered compliments. (He only noticed that last one when he looked into the bathroom mirror and it said, “Nice ass, soldier.”)

This morning, Bucky woke up to the scent of coffee and a Latin chant being sung by a chorus of crows outside his window.

He sat up fast. “No.”

You were at the kitchen counter again, spinning a pen with your fingers, your legs up on the table. You were humming something eerie. The pen was levitating. The mug next to you floated lazily midair, steam curling from it in the shape of little hearts. You grinned when you saw him.

“Morning, sunshine. Did you know your neighbor is part-witch? She’s been feeding the crows again.”

He walked past you and downed half the coffee straight from the pot. “I’m sending you back today.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Sure you are.”

“No, I’m serious this time.”

“You said that yesterday. And the day before.”

He gave you a flat look. “You possessed my Roomba.”

“It was lonely.”

“You made it sing.”

“It needed a purpose.”

“I caught it offering tribute to you with screws it pulled out of my wall.”

You shrugged. “Devotion. I’m an icon.”

He ran a hand down his face and dropped into his chair. “Okay. New plan. We’re doing this my way now.”

You perked up. “Ooh. A ritual? Incantations? Should I get the chalk?”

He didn’t answer. An hour later, you were sitting cross-legged in the middle of his living room while Bucky flipped through an old HYDRA spellbook like it was a malfunctioning IKEA manual.

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” You said cheerfully, inspecting your claws.

“I’m improvising.”

“Your last improvisation got me trapped here.”

“Exactly.”

You raised a brow. “Are you trying to undo a summoning… with a reversal spell written in blood, translated through Soviet tech runes, and halfway burned through at the edges?”

“Yes.”

You blinked. “Hot.”

He glared.

With an annoyed grunt, Bucky began drawing the circle again. You watched, amused, as he did his best to align the runes correctly this time. He even lit some candles, actual candles, not headlamps or car headlights, and managed to keep from bleeding on the floor this time.

You were genuinely impressed.

That is, until he finished the final line and shouted, “Begone!”

You didn’t even twitch. You sipped your coffee. “Wow. Harsh.”

The circle flared once… then fizzled out with a sad little pop.

A single puff of smoke rose. A goat sneezed into existence in the corner.

“…Did you summon a goat?” You asked mildly amused.

Bucky stared at it, face blank. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

The goat stared back.

You sipped again. “You need help.”

“I’m not asking you.”

“Good, I wasn’t offering.”

He stood and pointed a firm, accusatory finger. “I will get this right.”

“I believe in you,” You said sweetly. “But if you mess up again, there’s a 50% chance I become permanently anchored to your soul and start aging with you.”

Bucky froze.

You grinned.

“Better hurry, soldier.”

-

The next time Bucky tried to banish you, he didn’t do it alone.

He stood in the middle of the Sanctum Sanctorum’s foyer, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching you twirl on the edge of the ancient rug like it was a dance floor. You were humming a tune that definitely hadn’t been heard in this realm since the fall of Babylon, and your tail was flicking in time with the beat. The Sorcerer Supreme was not impressed.

Stephen Strange raised a brow. “You’re sure you want me to banish them?”

“Yes,” Bucky said through clenched teeth.

You pouted from across the room, holding a glowing snow globe filled with miniature screaming souls you’d found on a shelf. “Banishing sounds so cold. Why not just ask me to leave?”

“Because you won’t.”

You gave a little shrug. “I go where I’m wanted.”

“You’re not.”

You smiled. “Yet here I am.”

Strange sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know this won’t be easy, Barnes. Whatever summoned them tied them to you. It wasn’t just a summoning spell, it was a binding. Old magic. Pre-human, even. You’d need a cleansing ritual, a blood sacrifice, and someone with actual consent from the demon to undo it.”

Bucky looked at you.

You smiled wider and sipped your milkshake you materialized from God knows where. “Nope.”

He blinked. “What do you mean ‘nope’?”

“No consent.” You grinned. “I like Earth. I like your couch. I like your goat. And, let’s be honest, deep down? You like me too.”

“I do not.”

“You made me pancakes.”

“I accidentally made too much batter.”

“You poured mine in the shape of a heart.”

Strange looked between the two of you, clearly rethinking his entire career. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Barnes, you have two options: perform the blood-cleansing ceremony yourself, or just… learn to live with it.”

Bucky was already grabbing the grimoire off the table, eyes narrowed. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.”

-

Back at the apartment, you were lounging upside down on the couch again, feet hanging over the back, reading a magazine you’d conjured yourself.

Bucky stomped in with purpose. “I need your blood.”

You flipped a page. “Buy me dinner first.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You set the magazine down, tail curling lazily across the armrest. “You think getting rid of me will fix something? What, you afraid I’ll see too much? Get under your skin?”

“I don’t need a demon watching me shower and judging my coffee choices.”

You smirked. “I’ve seen worse. I was summoned to Nero’s bathhouse once. And honestly, your coffee isn’t bad. You could add nutmeg, though.”

He groaned and turned away, but he didn’t say anything else. He just stood there for a long moment, looking at the rune-drenched book in his hands, watching the way your fire didn’t burn his carpet and your presence didn’t wreck his walls.

You were a storm, yes. But a strangely gentle one.

Finally, he muttered, “…You really don’t want to go back?”

You rolled onto your stomach and looked at him properly. The grin dropped, just a little. Your voice was quieter. “Back there, I’m a tool, weapons. Some monster to be bartered and used. Here, I’m… just me.”

He met your eyes, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“Then maybe,” He said slowly with a sigh, like the words weighed more than his metal arm, “You don’t have to go.”

Covert Attraction

Summary: When S.H.I.E.L.D. pairs Bucky Barnes with you, a sharp-tongued, effortlessly flirtatious field agent, it's supposed to be a simple mission: infiltrate a suspected Hydra front in Prague by posing as a newlywed couple. The assignment is all business until it isn't. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 3.1k+

A/N: Since I’ve been gone a bit, thought to put out something more than 900 words. I’ll be writing for a flirty Bucky soon. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

You weren’t born to be a spy. You chose to be one. Maybe it was the thrill, maybe it was the danger, or maybe it was the way people underestimated you, mistaking charm for weakness. Whatever the reason, here you were: walking arm-in-arm with James Buchanan Barnes through a cobblestone plaza in Prague, red lips curved into a smirk as you leaned into him just a little too close for comfort.

“Smile, darling,” You murmured under your breath, twisting your voice into something sweet and syrupy. “You’re my adoring husband, remember? Try to look less like you’re imagining fifty ways to murder the guy behind us.”

Bucky grunted, his jaw clenching tight. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

You tilted your head, giving him a faux-innocent smile. “Of course I am. You’re brooding and devastatingly handsome. I’m allowed to enjoy myself.”

His eyes flicked sideways at you, just for a moment. The usual hard blue softened and the edges of his mouth twitched, like he was fighting the smallest of smiles. It was progress.

The mission was simple enough: go undercover as a newlywed couple to draw out an arms dealer known for targeting American honeymooners with military ties. You’d been briefed. You’d trained. And, most importantly, you knew exactly how to get under Bucky Barnes’ skin.

You leaned your head on his shoulder as you walked, sighing dramatically. “You know, for a fake honeymoon, this is pretty romantic. Maybe after we finish this mission, we could actually get married. I want a destination wedding. Bali sounds nice.”

“Is this how you treat all your partners?” He asked dryly, guiding you down a narrow alley. His hand was steady at your lower back; too firm to be casual, too gentle to be professional.

“Only the grumpy ones.” You winked.

The safehouse was tucked behind a wine shop with a secret keypad hidden beneath a crate of imported Bordeaux. Once inside, the air was cooler, the windows blacked out, and the silence heavier. Bucky moved ahead of you, always scanning and always vigilant. You, however, took your time slipping off your heels, stretching your arms overhead, and giving an exaggerated sigh.

“Home sweet home. Now, do we cuddle on the couch like good newlyweds, or do I start making you jealous by talking about my fake ex-husband?”

He shot you a look over his shoulder, unamused, but there was color rising at the base of his neck. You noticed. You always noticed.

You flopped onto the couch like you owned it and patted the seat beside you. “Come on, Sergeant. Can’t have our target thinking we sleep in separate rooms. Or worse… that we don’t love each other.”

He hesitated. You grinned wider.

“You’re insufferable,” He muttered, but sat down beside you anyway. He was stiff, tense, like every nerve in his body was bracing for impact.

You leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder, lips brushing just beneath his jaw as you whispered, “You’re going to have to kiss me eventually, Barnes.”

His heart skipped. You felt it. But he didn’t move. Not yet. He didn’t kiss you either.

Instead, Bucky leaned back just slightly, resting his head against the wall behind the couch, eyes closed like he was already regretting every decision that had led him here. His vibranium hand rested loosely on his thigh. You could see his fingers twitching, always alert, even when trying to look relaxed.

You didn’t push. Not directly. That was the fun part watching him wrestle with himself. You just leaned into his side with casual ease, head against his shoulder, legs tucked under you on the couch like you belonged there.

“You’re warm,” You said, voice soft and feather-light.

“You’re impossible,” He muttered.

“Not denying the warm part.”

He didn’t reply.

But he didn’t move away either.

Later, you stood at the kitchen counter, pretending to flip through intel files while sneaking glances at him. He had taken up residence at the window, curtains cracked just enough for a view of the alley. Guard dog mode. That was his default.

“You know,” You said, twirling your pen idly, “I used to think you hated me.”

“I did.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Not like that.” He turned, lips twitching again. “You were too loud. Too… flirty. Always smiling like the world hadn’t tried to kill you yet.”

You walked toward him, slow steps echoing in the quiet space. “And now?”

“Now,” He said, eyes fixed on yours, “I know you’re dangerous.”

You smiled, stepping close, so close his breath hit your cheek. “So are you.”

The moment cracked like static. It wasn’t a kiss, not yet, but it wanted to be.

You tilted your head, speaking in a low voice. “Do you always get this close to your undercover wives?”

He didn’t move. “Only the ones who drive me crazy.”

You reached up, fingers brushing the zipper of his jacket. “Crazy in the ‘I’m going to jump off this balcony’ way, or the ‘I might kiss her if she keeps looking at me like that’ way?”

His breath hitched. You felt it, subtle and sharp.

Then came the knock.

Two short, one long. The signal.

Just like that, the atmosphere shattered. Bucky was on alert instantly as he stepped past you toward the door, that soldier mask snapping back into place. You followed, heart still racing but now it had nothing to do with adrenaline.

“Back in character,” He murmured without looking at you.

“Oh, baby,” You purred behind him, sliding your arm around his waist just as the door opened. “I never left.”

The man who entered was all smiles, gold tooth flashing, hands held up like a man pretending to be harmless. But your eyes weren’t on him. They were on Bucky on the tension in his shoulders, on the way his jaw locked, on the phantom heat of where his lips nearly touched yours.

Tonight, you’d play the devoted wife.

Tomorrow? You’d make him beg.

The man who entered the room, Gregor Malenko, alias “The Butcher of Odessa”, smelled like cologne and danger. His designer coat clashed with the filth on his soul, and you recognized the glint in his eye: the kind of predator who liked feeling in control. He scanned the room, eyes lingering too long on you before finally offering Bucky a stiff handshake.

“You must be the happy couple,” He said, accent thick and words too smooth. “Fresh from America, yes?”

Bucky didn’t smile. He never did. “That’s us.”

You slid your hand up Bucky’s chest and laid your head on his shoulder, voice warm and sugary. “We’ve been dying to see Europe. Everyone said Prague was… unforgettable.”

Gregor smiled like a man who thought he was the most interesting person in the room. “It can be. Especially for people like you.” His eyes flicked toward Bucky. “Military?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

You answered for him. “Former. My brave husband here’s retired. Now I get to have him all to myself.” You traced your fingers over Bucky’s collar, feeling the muscle jump in his neck as he suppressed a reaction.

He was trying not to react which made teasing him so much better.

The conversation that followed was a careful dance of coded language, veiled threats, and fake laughter. You kept smiling, kept leaning into Bucky, kept letting your fingers trace lazy circles on the back of his neck. And every time, you felt the shift. The tiniest crack in that Winter Soldier armor.

Later, once Gregor had gone, Bucky slammed the door behind him and locked all three bolts.

“That guy’s gonna be a problem,” He muttered.

You were already across the room, pulling your jacket off. “You mean aside from the fact that he clearly wants to dismember us and sell our parts on the black market?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He was brooding again, pacing.

You plopped down on the couch and started unlacing your boots. “You okay, Sarge?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Barnes?”

He turned, eyes stormy. “Stop touching me like that.”

Your brows rose. “Excuse me?”

“You keep-“ He gestured vaguely. “Leaning in. Whispering in my ear. Running your fingers over my neck like it doesn’t mean anything.”

You tilted your head, heat flickering under your ribs. “And if it does mean something?”

His silence was deafening.

You stood slowly, walking toward him with measured steps. “I touch you because it’s the only time you let me close, James. Because you act like I don’t matter to you, but your heart races when I lean in, and your hands shake when I smile at you, and I think you’re lying through your teeth.”

You stopped a breath away.

“I think you want to kiss me.”

“I don’t,” He lied.

You smiled. “Then prove it.”

You leaned in just an inch, just enough and his resolve cracked. One hand shot to your waist, the other to the back of your neck, and when he kissed you, it was fast, heated, and desperate like it had been building for weeks.

You kissed him back with the same energy, half laughter, half hunger as you curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt like you were anchoring yourself to the one place you wanted to be lost.

And then just as quickly, he pulled back.

His eyes were wild, breathing uneven. “This doesn’t change anything.”

You looked up at him, flushed and breathless. “Sure it does.”

You turned away first, walking back toward the bedroom, tossing over your shoulder, “Now you’ll have to be twice as convincing tomorrow.”

He didn’t move for a long time.

-

You woke up first.

The Prague safehouse was quiet in that eerie kind of way, like the walls were holding their breath. You padded barefoot into the kitchen, stealing one of the good mugs from the stash and filling it with bitter coffee, black. The events from last night played on loop behind your eyes, the way Bucky’s hands had tightened on your waist, the wild heat of his kiss, the way he'd yanked himself away like he was afraid of drowning.

The man had enough restraint to hold up a collapsing building with sheer will alone.

You leaned against the counter and took a long sip, smirking softly to yourself. Footsteps could be heard from behind you. They were quiet, deliberate, but not trying to hide. You didn’t look. You didn’t have to.

“You always up this early?” Bucky’s voice was lower in the mornings. Rough with less armor.

“Habit,” You said, sipping. “Less time for regrets to catch up.”

He moved to the opposite counter and poured himself a cup. No cream. No sugar. Of course not.

You let the silence stretch, counting the seconds before he cracked.

He didn’t disappoint.

“About last night,” He started, gaze pinned to his cup.

“Oh, this should be good,” You teased, lifting your brow.

He paused, jaw working. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

And there it was. The cop-out. You expected it. Hell, you invited it. But it still stung.

“Because we’re partners?” You asked, voice light, but your fingers tightened around the mug. “Or because you don’t kiss people unless they’re in your trauma support group?”

Bucky looked up sharply.

You shrugged. “I’ve been in this game long enough to know what fear looks like, Barnes. You don’t kiss like a man who didn’t want it. You kiss like someone terrified they’ll want more.”

He didn’t respond right away. The air felt tight between you.

“I’m not built for this kind of thing,” He said finally. “You deserve someone who isn’t…” He motioned vaguely, as if ‘everything wrong with him’ was too big to say out loud.

You stepped toward him, slowly, deliberately, until you were toe-to-toe. You set your mug down.

“And you think I’m fragile?” You said, eyes on fire. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lie for a living? To seduce and manipulate and smile while your heart stays locked behind six inches of steel? Don’t insult me by pretending this is about me.”

He looked at you, really looked, like the walls between you were cracking just a little.

“I’m not afraid of you, Bucky,” You whispered.

He blinked slowly, voice quiet. “You should be.”

But you weren’t. You were furious. You were hooked. And you were already halfway gone.

Unfortunately, the moment shattered when your comm crackled to life.

“Eyes up,” came Natasha’s voice. “You’ve got company headed your way. Four, maybe five. Doesn’t look friendly.”

You and Bucky locked eyes. The mission snapped back into place like a gun cocking. The conversation would have to wait. You grabbed your gear. Bucky grabbed his weapon.

But as you passed him by, he caught your wrist briefly, electric.

“You’re not fragile,” He said quietly.

You grinned, even as the danger mounted.

“Damn right I’m not.”

-

The door didn’t explode, but it might as well have. One second, the safehouse was filled with sharp tension and bitter coffee. The next, it was adrenaline and chaos.

Bucky moved first. He always did. One fluid lunge and he was pushing you away, out of the line of fire as the first shots tore through the windows.

“Two on the left side!” He barked over his shoulder. “You take the hallway!”

You didn’t argue.

Your knife slid into your hand like it belonged there which, let’s face it, it did and you launched down the narrow corridor with a practiced grace. You were quick, clean. One guy barely had time to grunt before you put him down, another stumbled into your elbow before tasting the tile floor.

But somewhere in the noise, in the gunfire and shouting, you heard something different.

A grunt. Low. Guttural.

Bucky.

You spun.

He was in the living room, fighting off two men hand-to-hand, no gun, just teeth, fists, and fury. His vibranium arm caught one by the throat and threw him across the room like a ragdoll. The other got in a shot close range where you saw it hit.

Your heart stopped.

“BUCKY!”

He stumbled back, just for a second, hand clutching his side. Blood.

You didn’t think. You just moved. You drove your knife into the attacker’s ribs with a shout and shoved him off, catching Bucky as he swayed.

“I’m fine,” He growled through gritted teeth.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve bled worse.”

You pressed your hand against his side anyway, glaring at him. “Stop trying to die five minutes after kissing me. It’s bad form.”

He actually smiled. It was small. Crooked. But real.

The aftermath was quiet and smoky. The room looked like hell. But you were alive and he was alive.

Bucky slumped into the armchair as you patched him up, your hands surprisingly steady.

“I said I’m fine,” He mumbled again.

You looked up. “You want me to let it get infected?”

He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh.

You dabbed gently at the blood, and when you finally looked up, his eyes were already on you in that soft, stormy, searching sort of way.

“I meant what I said earlier,” You told him, voice lower now. “You don’t scare me.”

He reached up, fingers brushing your jaw. His movements were gentle, uncertain, reverent.

“I should,” He whispered.

“But you don’t.”

The silence held like a wire stretched too tight.

Then finally, finally, he tugged you forward and kissed you again.

This one wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t fast. It was slow, deep, like a confession. His hand tangled in your hair, your palm rested against his chest, and for one long, raw moment, there was no mission. No danger. No lies.

Just you. And him.

And the way you fit together like a secret you weren’t ready to share yet.

-

Three days later, you and Bucky walked hand in hand through a glitzy gala in Bucharest, dressed to kill. Literally.

You in a slinky black dress with a slit high enough to be criminal. Him in a tailored black suit that made your pulse jump every time you glanced his way. To anyone watching and there were plenty watching, you looked like the perfect couple. Confident. In love. And dangerous.

Which was ironic, considering how much closer that was to the truth than either of you were ready to admit out loud.

Your earpiece crackled.

“Target’s moving toward the balcony,” Natasha said. “You two lovebirds know what to do.”

“Copy that,” Bucky murmured, voice smooth, calm but his hand gave yours the smallest squeeze. You glanced at him. His eyes flicked toward the terrace doors, then back to you.

Showtime.

You slipped your arm around his and leaned into him as you walked. Your lips brushed his ear. “If this ends with us pretending to dance while stealing a flash drive again, I’m gonna need dinner first.”

Bucky smirked. “I thought you liked it when I swept you off your feet.”

“I liked it better when you actually kissed me after.”

“I did kiss you after.”

You grinned. “Exactly.”

The mission went smoothly. Almost too smoothly.

The target handed off the drive. You intercepted. A quick sleight of hand, a soft distraction with a stolen kiss on Bucky’s cheek and the tech was yours.

On the way out, you were all smiles and warm touches, like two spies on their honeymoon. But the moment you were back in the car, the performance faded. What lingered was something heavier. Something real.

You sat in silence for a minute before Bucky spoke.

“After this… what happens to us?”

You blinked. “Us?”

He nodded slowly. “I know this started as an assignment, as a cover story. But I don’t think I’ve been pretending since Prague.”

You turned toward him, heart thudding. “And what do you think this is, Barnes?”

He met your eyes, steel softened by something vulnerable.

“I think I’m not ready to let you go.”

You swallowed hard. For a man who’d lived decades running from everything: his past, his pain, his reflection, that was the most honest thing he could’ve said.

You reached over and laced your fingers with his.

“Then don’t,” You said.

He looked down at your hands, then back to you. “You’re not scared of me. Not even after everything?”

“Nope,” You whispered. “But you should know… I snore, I steal blankets, and I’m annoyingly good at poker.”

He chuckled and damn if it wasn’t the most beautiful sound in the world.

“I can handle all that.”

“You sure?” You teased. “You really ready to be the grumpy one in this spy couple dynamic?”

His eyes softened. “You’re the reckless flirt. I’m the brooding assassin. Seems balanced.”

You leaned in, smile turning soft. “Then we’ve got ourselves a hell of a partnership.”

And this time, when he kissed you, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing your cheek, you knew there were no more lies. No covers. No pretending.

Just Bucky.

Just you.

And maybe, finally, a future worth fighting for.

Arm Dilemma

Summary: Your first time catching Bucky using the dishwasher to wash his metal arm. (Husband!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 600+

A/N: Inspired by that one scene in the thunderbolts trailer of Bucky’s arm in the dishwasher lol. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Bucky Barnes was many things: a former brainwashed assassin, a super soldier, a brooding Avenger, and surprisingly to many, a man with a very strong opinion about dish soap. You learned that about two months into marriage, when you bought off-brand lemon-scented detergent and he stared at the bottle like it had personally betrayed him in a Cold War mission.

But nothing quite compared to what you discovered one quiet Tuesday afternoon.

You had come home early from work, your arms full of groceries and your head full of plans. Nothing wild, just dinner and maybe a movie if Bucky wasn’t in one of his “I’m too emotionally complicated for romantic comedies” moods. As you kicked the door shut behind you, you noticed two things immediately: first, that the apartment was suspiciously silent. Second, that the dishwasher was running.

Bucky? Voluntarily doing chores?

You set the groceries down slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile domestic miracle occurring in your kitchen. You approached the dishwasher with reverence, like you were sneaking up on Bigfoot. You squatted down, peeked through the tiny, cloudy window in the front panel, and your brain short-circuited.

There, nestled between a pasta strainer and a coffee mug with Tony Stark’s face on it, was Bucky’s metal arm.

You blinked, rubbed your eyes, then looked again.

Still there.

You stood in stunned silence for a long moment before you did the only logical thing: you yelled, “BUCKY BARNES, GET YOUR SUPER-SOLDIER ASS IN HERE RIGHT NOW.”

There was a pause. A creak. Then soft, sheepish footsteps.

He appeared in the hallway, shirtless, with only his flesh arm scratching the back of his neck. “Hey, doll.”

“Don’t you ‘hey doll’ me,” You said, gesturing wildly toward the dishwasher. “Why is your vibranium arm in there?!”

He glanced toward the appliance and had the audacity to shrug. “Had peanut butter on it.”

“Peanut-” You choked on your words. “How does a trained assassin get peanut butter on his arm?”

“I was making a sandwich. The jar slipped. It was a high-velocity incident.” He actually looked offended on behalf of his own coordination. “Some of it got into the grooves.”

“You could’ve wiped it down. With a towel.”

He looked at you like you’d just told him to polish a jet engine with toilet paper. “There are micro-particles in the joints. This is precision tech. Do you know what peanut oil does to vibranium?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’m fairly certain it does not cause spontaneous combustion if left on for twenty minutes.”

He crossed his arms. Or rather, arm. “Steve would’ve backed me up.”

“Oh don’t you dare bring Steve into this- Steve washes his shield with dish soap and a sponge like a normal person!”

You stomped to the dishwasher and pointed at it like it had wronged your ancestors. “Do you know how expensive this is? If you break it with your high-tech Marvel Lego piece, I swear to God-“

“It’s on the bottom rack,” Bucky mumbled, sulking now. “Delicate cycle.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and took a deep breath.

“I swear, one day you’re going to wash your soul in the laundry hamper because you got it dirty.”

He gave you a lopsided grin, the one that still made your heart do a traitorous little flutter even after years together. “Would you still love me if I did?”

You tossed the towel at his face. “Only if you remember to use fabric softener.”

It then became a running joke. You’d leave sticky notes on the dishwasher that said “NOT FOR BODY PARTS,” and he’d respond by leaving his own sticky notes over your notes with “WARNING: May Contain Metal Parts. Proceed With Caution!” It was domestic life with Bucky: chaotic, a little ridiculous, and somehow the best kind of normal you never thought you’d have.

And despite his broody past, his spy instincts, and the tendency to sometimes treat modern appliances like alien tech, Bucky Barnes was yours.

Even if he occasionally mistook a dishwasher for a tactical cleaning unit.

Raccoon Negotiations

Summary: You finally get to meet a talking raccoon whom tries multiple times to bargain for your boyfriend’s metal arm. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.3k+

A/N: Requested by @daystarpoet and @michaelfuckinglangdon which was super fun to fulfill and imagine. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

You were mid-bite of a bagel (untoasted, cold, probably two days old, yet still incredible) when a voice said, “You gonna eat that, or are you just giving it mouth-to-mouth?”

You froze.

Your eyes scanned the room. Empty except for Bucky, still in the hallway arguing with Stark about defensive systems. And then, sitting on the counter next to the coffee pot like he’d always belonged there, was…

A raccoon.

A small, vaguely pissed-off raccoon standing on two legs, holding what looked like a plasma rifle, wearing a jumpsuit, and staring at your bagel like it owed him rent.

You blinked.

He blinked back.

Then, with the certainty of someone who’d clearly never interacted with you before, he added: “You alright there, human? Or did you have a stroke while chewing?”

You stood up slowly, eyes wide. “You can talk.”

Rocket snorted. “Wow. You must be the brainy one around here.”

“Okay, no like- I knew there was a raccoon on the ship. Bucky told me. I just thought he was exaggerating. Or having another weird Winter Soldier-flashback dream thing.”

“Ex-cuse you,” Rocket said, leaping off the counter and stalking toward you. “I’m not just some Earth-trash mammal with a vocabulary. I’m Rocket. I’ve broken into more heavily-armed fortresses than you’ve had dumb thoughts.”

“That’s a bold claim,” You said. “Because I believe the moon is just Earth’s emotional support rock and thunder is just the sky clapping for itself.”

Rocket squinted at you. “…okay, yeah, maybe I underestimated you.”

You leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowing in awe. “You’re so small. And yet, the homicidal energy is enormous. You’re like if Bucky had fur and worse impulse control.”

“Hey-“

You turned to where Bucky had finally entered the room and was already sighing. He didn’t even look surprised. “Yeah, that’s Rocket. Rocket, this is the disaster I’m dating.”

You beamed. “He talks! He walks! He’s a death machine in a jumpsuit! I love him. This is so validating.”

Bucky rubbed his temples. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Rocket perked up immediately. “Wait… you’re dating the arm guy?”

You paused. Looked at Bucky. Then back at Rocket.

“…Yeah?”

A slow, terrifying grin spread across Rocket’s face.

“You got any plans for the arm?” He asked casually. “Like… long term?”

You tilted your head. “Other than excessive touching and probably biting it during arguments? No.”

Rocket rubbed his furry little hands together. “Because I have a few ideas. Think we could reach a business agreement? Little trade? You get, say… a box of Kree tech I may or may not have stolen, and I get to borrow the arm.”

“Borrow?” You asked. “Like, while Bucky’s still wearing it?”

“Oh no,” Rocket said gleefully. “I mean borrow in the very permanent, kind of dismember-y sense.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “You touch the arm, you lose yours.”

Rocket scoffed. “Killjoy.”

You grinned, still watching the two of them bicker like this was the most normal day of your life. Honestly, it was close. You had once gotten into an argument with Sam about the physics of penguin knees for forty-five minutes. This? This was pretty average.

Rocket narrowed his eyes. “You sure you’re not a Guardian? You’ve got the same mix of brilliant and brainless I usually work with.”

You put your hands on your hips. “You think I’d survive five minutes on your ship? Clint holds it against me that I once put a Pop-Tart in the microwave in the wrapper. I’m a walking OSHA violation.”

Rocket smirked. “I like you.”

You beamed. “I like you too, murder rat.”

“Raccoon.”

“Tomato, to-mah-to.”

Bucky, in the background, stared into the middle distance like he was reliving every bad decision that led to this exact moment.

-

While the two of you clicked in some strange way, it became increasingly exhausting when you realized Rocket was not a quitter. Not when it came to schematics, explosions, or black-market tech auctions. And certainly not when it came to Bucky Barnes’ vibranium arm.

The first time he brought it up again, you were eating spaghetti with a fork that bent mid-twirl because you'd put it in the dishwasher with an experimental metal compound. You stared at the spiraled noodle carnage with mild offense.

Rocket, perched on the back of the couch, cleared his throat. “So. Hypothetically. If someone were to give you a fully operational piece of alien tech that projects holograms and can play music through bone conduction-“

“No,” You said without looking up.

Rocket scowled. “You didn’t even let me finish!”

“You said ‘hypothetically.’ That’s code for ‘I want to take Bucky’s arm again.’”

He grumbled something in what might’ve been space-raccoon swear words.

You smiled faintly. “Also, holograms and music? Tempting, but I already built something that projects TikToks onto the wall when I whistle the opening to Phantom of the Opera.”

Rocket blinked. “…You need to be studied.”

You stuffed more spaghetti in your mouth and spoke through it, “I have been. Briefly. They sent me home with a helmet and a fidget cube. 2/10. Never again.”

The second time was more of a performance. Rocket had dragged you into a secure SHIELD hangar with a tarp over something massive.

“This,” He said dramatically, yanking the cover back, “is a rebuilt Sakaarian battle drone. She sings, flies, and makes waffles. Trade you for the arm.”

You took one look, gasped, and immediately sprinted past him.

“Oh my god! She has a toaster slot!?”

Rocket beamed. “So we have a deal?”

You turned, clutching the side of the drone with wide, reverent eyes.

“No,” You said, “but I will name her Beepie.”

Rocket’s face fell. “You’re not even gonna run this by him?”

You gave him a look. “Rocket. I love you. You’re the first talking raccoon I’ve met that wasn’t a hallucination and validated my belief that half the raccoon species are murderous. But if you think I’m trading even one bolt of Bucky’s arm, which, by the way, I have kissed more than I care to admit, then you don’t understand the depth of my insanity.”

There was a long pause. Then:

“I’ll throw in a jetpack,” Rocket muttered.

You gasped. “With adjustable altitude?”

“Yep.”

“Still no,” You said even though your answer sounded like it physically hurt you.

The third time, he got sneaky.

You were tinkering in the lab late at night, hunched over a circuit board, tongue sticking out in deep concentration, when Rocket skittered in and dropped a sleek metal glove onto your desk.

“Custom-made,” He said nonchalantly. “Enhanced dexterity. Built-in taser. Perfect for a girl with too many ideas and not enough restraint.”

You barely glanced at it.

“Rocket.”

He leaned in. “You could build anything with this. A gravity-flipping belt. Portable wormholes. A coffee maker that actually respects you. All I need is-“

“Bucky’s arm. I know. I’m not stupid.”

“Debatable.”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile and leaned in conspiratorially. “Here’s the thing, furball. That arm? Not mine to give. I didn’t build it. I didn’t earn it. I just kiss it sometimes and occasionally let it hold snacks. I love him. I’m not trading a part of him. Even for cool stuff. Even for toaster robots.”

Rocket looked genuinely surprised. “You’d really pass up a Sakaarian war-toaster… for him?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Even when he leaves wet towels on the bed. Even when he sighs like an old man every time I rewire the TV to play Jeopardy in reverse.”

There was a beat.

Rocket groaned, flopping onto the table in defeat. “You’re the worst. The absolute worst.”

You grinned and patted his head. “Thanks, murder rat.”

“Raccoon.”

Bucky appeared in the doorway then, raising a brow as he took in the scene: Rocket sulking, you cradling a vibro-glove like it was a puppy, and your very serious expression of moral superiority.

“I don’t wanna know,” He said dryly.

You beamed. “Good. Because if you did, you’d probably start sleeping with your arm chained to your chest.”

Borrowed Gifts, Steadfast Love

Summary: You accidentally trigger a moment of amnesia in Bucky after giving him precognition during training. In the aftermath, Bucky, gentle and vulnerable in his confusion, asks if you’re someone important to him. When his memory returns, the two of you gradually confess what you’ve both been holding back. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the ability to temporarily bestow powers to other people.

Word Count: 3.5k+

A/N: It has been a while since I’ve had something for this series. Though, I’ve mostly covered my favorites so far, so I’ll need to brainstorm ideas for other abilities lol. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You had a rare and unnerving gift. One that terrified some of the Avengers more than it reassured them. With a touch, you could grant powers to others. Temporarily. Specific abilities, curated like items on a menu but always with a cost. The more potent the power, the more unpredictable the side effects. Some people got migraines. Others felt emotionally drained. And a few… well, a few forgot their names for an hour or two.

That last one had landed Tony flat on his back once, insisting he was a ballet dancer named Cheryl.

You hadn’t been born with powers yourself. You were experimented on briefly, in your early teens by a defunct program obsessed with replicating the abilities of others. Their tests failed to give you any power of your own. Instead, your body became a kind of channel, like a living transmitter. You couldn’t fly, lift tanks, or shoot lasers but you could let someone else do it. For a while. Ten minutes, fifteen if you really focused. Maybe twenty, but that always came with a nosebleed or worse.

SHIELD picked you up after the facility fell, though you never quite belonged in the field the same way the others did. You weren’t a soldier. You were a tool they deployed when someone needed an extra edge.

Bucky Barnes was one of the few who treated you like more than that.

You met him a year after he rejoined the Avengers, still finding his footing in a world that changed too fast. At first, he was quiet and standoffish, not unlike you. People like Steve and Sam tried to loop you in with group dinners, training sessions, or "team bonding" game nights that only made you feel more like a guest in someone else’s home. But Bucky? He never pressured you. He saw your silences and matched them. Sat next to you on the sidelines without needing to fill the air. Slowly, like frost melting under careful sun, you two grew close.

You trained together sometimes. Your power fascinated him in a way you didn’t expect. He’d ask questions no one else thought to: Did it hurt you? Did the powers you gave others come from somewhere, or from you? Could you give him one and take it back before it fully formed?

He was the first one to ask if you liked using your powers.

Most people just expected you were fine with it, already having some idea of what you were supposed to like, do, or be. But you never felt that pressure nor those expectations with him.

Therefore, you spent more time together after that. Coffee in the kitchen before morning briefings. Patrolling side by side, because he said he liked your “measured pace.” Evenings where you’d sit outside on the Tower balcony and he’d talk about Brooklyn before the war, or ask you what it felt like to see someone else use what wasn’t truly theirs. Sometimes you didn’t answer. Sometimes you did. Regardless, he never pushed.

Even with these shared moments, you didn’t dare name whatever was forming between you. Not yet. There was comfort in the undefined, in the quiet understanding between two people still trying to trust themselves again. You weren’t healed, but neither was he. However, you were there and that mattered.

The only time he ever raised an eyebrow was the day he caught you sketching in the rec room. It was an old habit you formed from before the facility, something you rarely indulged in. You tried to hide the notepad, but he saw it before you could. You were fully prepared to defend yourself.

Until he saw the page. A portrait of him. Focused. Sharp lines. Gentle shading.

He didn’t tease you.

He just said, “You made me look like someone worth drawing.”

You had to look away.

“I draw things I don’t want to forget,” You whispered.

That moment hung between you like an unspoken truth. One neither of you were ready to face. Not yet. Not until later. Not until the day you gave Bucky the ability to see a few seconds into the future and he forgot the past. Including you.

It started with a sparring match.

You weren’t planning to use your powers. You rarely did in training, unless asked. But Bucky was frustrated and off his rhythm. He was distracted and getting increasingly impatient with himself. You’d watched from the edge of the mat as he shook out his shoulders, jaw tight, and muttering curses under his breath.

“Want to cheat?” You asked, casually tossing him a water bottle. “I’m offering a limited-time preview of danger-dodging.”

He arched a brow. “What, like Spider-sense?”

“Closer to precognition. A few seconds ahead.” You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “Enough to give you an edge.”

He hesitated. You could see the thought wheels grinding behind his eyes, then he stepped forward and extended his hand. “Hit me with it.”

You reached up and pressed two fingers gently to the side of his neck, just under his jawline. A safer place than the wrist, less prone to backlash. A flicker of gold shimmered under your skin, then transferred into his.

“There. Ten minutes. You’ll feel it kick in.”

He blinked, eyes fluttering slightly, then his pupils dilated. His stance changed instantly into something more grounded. Lighter and alert. You backed up and watched as Sam moved in to spar with him, a little too eager to knock Bucky off his game.

But Bucky didn’t miss a beat.

He dodged Sam’s attacks before they landed, twisting just out of reach, predicting moves before they were even made. You saw Sam frown. Then grin. “Okay, okay, cheating is kind of cool.”

“Don’t get used to it,” You warned, arms crossed, already feeling the beginnings of a tension headache.

Everything was going fine until the timer ran out.

You didn’t notice right away. Bucky had stepped back, grabbing a towel and breathing a little hard. But then you saw him frown, glance around the gym like something was wrong. Like the lights were too bright. Or the air too thin.

“Bucky?” You asked cautiously.

He turned to you and blinked, staring at you like you were a stranger. Not the kind he feared, not someone threatening, just someone whose shape should’ve meant something. His brow furrowed like your presence itched at the back of his brain, like a song he almost remembered.

“Sorry,” He said again, voice quiet. “You look… familiar.”

You gave a tight smile, hiding the panic behind your eyes. “It’s okay. You’ve had a bit of a power hangover.”

“Power?” He looked down at his hands, then flexed his vibranium fingers. “Did I… hurt someone?”

“No. You were training. You asked me to give you a temporary ability.” You moved in front of him, trying to keep your voice steady. “Precognition. It lets you sense movements a few seconds ahead. You handled it like a pro.”

“Guess I didn’t handle it that well,” He said with a weak, lopsided smirk. Then his smile faded. “I really don’t remember.”

He sounded more concerned now. Not panicked yet, just… vulnerable. That was rare for him, especially in front of others. But now, it was like something raw had surfaced under his skin. The carefully constructed guard he wore every day had holes punched through it, and he didn’t know why.

You glanced to the training room door, where Sam was now standing uncertainly with a towel slung around his neck, unsure whether to intervene. You gave him a small shake of your head. This wasn’t something that needed a team.

“Come sit,” You murmured, gently taking Bucky’s arm and guiding him to a bench in the corner. He followed without resistance, like you were the only thing anchoring him.

Once seated, he studied your face for a long moment. His eyes were softer than usual, curious and searching. Like he wanted to remember you but didn’t know how.

“So we… know each other?” He asked carefully.

You nodded. “We work together. Trained together. Talked… a lot.”

He tilted his head. “Are we… close?”

Your throat tightened. “Yes.”

There was a long beat, and then, completely sincere, he asked, “Are we dating?”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“I’m just asking,” He said, sheepish but oddly confident in a way the real Bucky never was. “You seem like someone I’d… want to be close to.”

Your heart jumped into your throat. He doesn’t remember you, You reminded yourself. He’s just reaching for familiarity. Don’t fall for the illusion.

Still, you answered, “No. We’re not.”

Bucky looked disappointed, genuinely. “Are you sure?”

You gave him a half-hearted glare. “Even amnesiac, you’re a flirt.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t feel like me. It’s like I’m dreaming with my eyes open.” He looked down at his hands again. “I hate this.”

“I know. And it’ll wear off. Soon.”

He turned back to you, brow knitting. “You said you gave me a power? You… can do that?”

“I can lend them out. For a short time. Sometimes there are… side effects.” You hesitated. “You usually remember everything just fine.”

“Usually,” He echoed. “Lucky me.”

“I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His eyes lifted back to yours again. “You said my name.”

You smiled softly. “Yeah.”

He blinked slowly, taking that in. “And yours is…?”

You gave him your name and he repeated it quietly. The way he said it nearly undid you. It was gentle in the way as if he wanted to commit it to memory now, before it slipped through his fingers again.

“I don’t want to forget you,” He whispered, without thinking.

Your breath caught. You reached out then, almost instinctively, placed your hand over his.

“I won’t let you. I’m going to fix it,” You promised quietly. “Just… give me a minute.”

It took concentration, channeling the right counterbalance of power, guiding a mild recall ability through touch. When your hand met his again, you saw flickers of your face, training sessions, shared coffee. The sketch. His smile when he saw it. His voice, gentle and real: “You made me look like someone worth drawing.”

And then, the power flickered back before either of you were ready.

One moment, Bucky was holding your gaze like he was memorizing every detail of your eyes, your name, and the warmth of your hand covering his. Then the next, his fingers twitched beneath yours and his breath caught.

You saw it in his expression immediately.

Like a floodgate creaking open too fast, memory rushed back into his mind. You watched him blink once, twice, his face flickering through confusion, realization, then… guilt.

“It’s you,” He said softly.

You nodded slowly, afraid to speak first.

He sat up straighter, pulled his hand from under yours. Not harshly, but more so like he was grounding himself. His brows furrowed as his eyes darted around the training room, checking every shadow, and every sound. You could see his instincts coming back online.

“I remember,” He said.

Your shoulders slumped slightly. Relief mixed with… something sharper. A part of you had cherished that fragile, disarmed version of him. It felt wrong to miss it, but you did.

“I’m sorry,” You said. “I should’ve stopped the transfer sooner or done something-“

“No,” He interrupted quickly, looking at you again. “Don’t. Don’t blame yourself. I asked for it. You warned me. And besides, I’ve had worse side effects from coffee.”

You huffed a breath of dry amusement, though you didn’t quite smile.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you. “What… did I say?”

Your eyes dropped to the mat. “Nothing terrible. Just…” You fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve. “You forgot me. Asked who I was and if we worked together.”

“And?”

“And then you asked if we were dating.”

He stiffened slightly. “Did I?”

“Mm-hm.” You tried to play it off lightly. “You also asked if you hurt anyone, so clearly your priorities were intact.”

He didn’t laugh. He was still watching you too carefully. “And what did you say?”

“That we weren’t.”

He tilted his head. “And was I disappointed?”

You hesitated, wondering why he would ask that. “You said… I seemed like someone you’d want to be close to.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. Then: “I wasn’t wrong.”

Your eyes lifted to his, startled. There was something cautious in his voice, yes, but it was also honest. Maybe that amnesiac version of him didn’t just say things out of confusion. Maybe it said things he usually didn’t let himself say.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” You murmured, voice quieter now, rawer. “But… I didn’t hate it. Sitting with you. Talking without all the walls.”

His jaw tensed, eyes flicking down for a beat. “I don’t always know how to be soft on purpose,” He admitted. “But I want to, with you.”

A long silence stretched between you. And then, slowly, he offered you his hand. Not out of confusion. Not because of borrowed power. Just his hand. Open, steady, and inviting.

You took it.

“I may not remember everything at times,” He said quietly. “But I won’t forget that part.”

You gave a small nod, sitting in silence with him for a moment. Reality slowly began to creep back in like a fog settling over warm ground. The gym lights felt too bright. The air too still. Sam had already quietly slipped out, leaving the two of you alone to untangle the strange, fragile thread left behind by the power’s fading echo.

So, you made the decision to stand slowly, brushing your palms on your pants as Bucky followed suit.

Neither of you quite knew what to say. The rawness of the moment still lingered between you like something unspoken, and neither of you dared break it yet.

“I should… probably check in with Bruce,” You muttered. “Make sure there aren’t any lingering neurological disruptions. It’s been a while since I gave someone that particular ability.”

Bucky nodded. “Right, yeah. I’ll shower. Try to not stare into space too long.”

You huffed softly. “Good plan.”

Then came that moment, the moment. The one where your eyes met just before you both turned away. You caught a flicker in his gaze, something he wanted to say but didn’t. Something you wanted to hear, but couldn’t ask for. So instead, you both retreated to your corners of the compound.

-

In your room, you sat cross-legged on your bed with a cold compress on your forehead, scrolling through your tablet with one hand and letting the other rest uselessly in your lap. You weren’t reading anything. Not really.

Your mind was stuck in the echo chamber of You seem like someone I’d want to be close to and Maybe you should’ve said not yet.

You told yourself not to read into it. It was just scrambled-brain honesty. He wasn’t thinking straight. People say things when they forget their walls.

Still… he remembered now. And he hadn’t pulled away.

You ran a hand through your hair and dropped your tablet on the bed, then stared out the window. The sky had shifted from orange to deep navy. The tower was quiet. Too quiet.

Meanwhile in Bucky’s quarters, he had showered and dried off. Now sitting on the edge of his bed in sweats and a black T-shirt, staring at the cup of water he hadn’t touched.

His mind replayed the way your hand had felt in his. The nervous quirk of your mouth. The devastation in your eyes when he didn’t remember your name. The tenderness when he did.

He knew what he wanted to say. He had known it for a while. But now it felt like the air was thinner around you. Charged. He wasn’t sure if that was because of the power or because it exposed something deeper between you. Something neither of you had dared voice before.

He stood, opened his door, and walked down the quiet hall. Looking to end up in the one place he hoped you’d be.

-

Later that night, you were sitting alone on one of your favorite balconies, legs pulled up to your chest, and the air cool against your skin.

A quiet shuffle of boots sounded behind you.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Bucky settled down beside you, offering a second cup of tea. You took it without question.

“I keep thinking,” He said, “About how easily I forgot you. Like one wrong spark and poof.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

He nodded slowly. “Still… I don’t like that. I’ve worked so hard to build this life. The idea that someone could take a piece of it and I wouldn’t even know what was missing?”

Your fingers curled around your cup.

“I’ve spent years being forgettable,” You said. “By choice or by design. It’s safer that way, less… risky.”

Bucky turned his head to look at you. “You’re not forgettable to me.”

You finally met his eyes.

“I don’t care what kind of power tries to take that away. You’re not something I’d lose easily.”

And just like that, you didn’t feel like a tool anymore. You felt like someone worth remembering.

The night was hushed between the two of you, save for the faint hum of the city far below and the way Bucky’s thumb lightly tapped against his tea cup. Nervous energy. Not from fear, just hesitation. Like he was weighing each word before he let it out.

“I don’t want to forget you again,” He added quietly.

You watched him, and something in your expression whether it be gentle, surprised, or open, made him go still.

“Not from power backlash, not from time, not from fear. And if I’m being honest…” He trailed off, then exhaled. “I don’t want to waste time pretending you’re just a teammate. Or just someone who gives me an advantage in combat. You’re not that to me.”

You set your cup down slowly, the heat of it fading from your hands, replaced by the thrum of something warmer beneath your skin. “Then what am I?”

He looked at you fully and deliberately.

“You’re the person I look for in every room,” He said, voice low and sure. “The one I feel calm with. The one I trust when everything else gets loud in my head. You matter to me more than I’ve let myself admit.”

The words hit softly, like the first snow, but carried weight. Real and steady. You blinked, unsure if your heart had always beat this fast or if he’d just jump-started it.

“I thought maybe…” Your voice came out smaller than you expected. “If I let myself believe you might feel the same way, I’d mess everything up. That you’d need someone steadier. Someone who wouldn’t make you forget your own name when they touch you.”

His lips twitched into a quiet smile at that, but he didn’t joke. He didn’t downplay it. Instead, he leaned in slightly. His shoulders brushing yours.

“I won’t do anything unless you want me to. You’ve always given everyone else power. Maybe it’s time someone gave you the choice.”

There was no pressure in his tone, no coaxing. Just offering.

And something in you, long hidden and cautious, stirred.

You turned toward him fully, the dim light casting soft shadows across his features. You could see the tired but hopeful gleam in his eyes. You lifted one hand slowly, tracing your fingers along the line of his jaw, anchoring yourself in this moment.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” You admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then I’m all yours,” He replied, breath catching slightly as he leaned in.

You closed the gap.

The kiss was gentle at first. Something that could be described as cautious, exploratory, or like a question answered in a language both of you had forgotten how to speak. But then his hand came to rest at the side of your neck, warm and steady, and yours slid over his chest, feeling the weight of everything he wasn’t saying but always meant.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was better. It was safe, solid, and real.

When you both pulled back, neither of you spoke right away. But then Bucky’s voice broke the silence, low and steady:

“I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

Your lips quirked into the faintest smile. “Me too.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, almost reverent. “I don’t know what happens next,” He admitted, eyes meeting yours, vulnerable and unguarded. “But I know I want it with you.”

You nodded, fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt like you weren’t ready to let go. “Then stay. That’s all I need right now.”

A breeze stirred your hair, and he leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to your temple this time. Gentler, more certain.

“I’m not going anywhere,” He whispered.

And under the quiet sky, for the first time in a long while, you believed it.

The Great Bed Heist

Summary: After a rough mission, Bucky returns to his room only to find you, in cat form, perfectly loafed in the center of his bed and entirely unwilling to move. (Bucky Barnes x shapeshifter!reader)

Word Count: 500+

Main Masterlist | Original Fic

It started out innocent enough.

One evening, after a particularly grueling mission involving a collapsing HYDRA base, malfunctioning comms, and at least two near-death experiences (one of which involved you dangling upside down over a vat of electrified water), Bucky was ready for sleep. Not food, not a shower, just a bed and six hours of unconsciousness.

He dragged himself to his room, still half in tactical gear, kicked off his boots, and opened the door to find…

You. In cat form.

Curled up dead center on his bed.

A perfect little loaf with paws tucked under, tail wrapped around, and eyes squinted in smug feline bliss. You didn’t even lift your head. You just blinked slowly at him, like you were doing him a favor by allowing him into his own room.

He stared. “No.”

You blinked again. Yes.

“I need to sleep.”

You stretched one paw lazily and yawned in an exaggerated, almost theatrical way.

Bucky sighed the way only a man who’s fought in multiple wars and still lost a bed to an eight-pound shifter-cat could. He approached the bed. “Come on. Off.”

You flopped to your side, showing your belly in a deceptively adorable display of innocence.

He frowned. “You’re not gonna move, are you?”

You chirped. A soft, high-pitched little meow that sounded for all the world like a definitive “nope.”

With the patience of a saint and the expression of a man seconds from swearing in every known language, Bucky gingerly scooped you up and held you like a slightly cursed loaf of bread.

Therefore, you responded by executing your best defense measures. You immediately went limp. Full ragdoll. Zero bones. Pure, spiteful jellycat mode.

He tried to place you at the foot of the bed.

You squirmed and climbed up his arm, momentarily perching on his shoulder like a little parrot-cat before backflipping right back into your previous loaf position. You curled up as if the interaction hadn’t even happened.

Bucky stared at you in pure betrayal. “Seriously?”

You tucked your head down.

He sat on the edge of the mattress. It was a big bed. King-sized. There was room.

So, fine. He figured he’d just lie down and ignore you.

Ten minutes later: you were slowly, imperceptibly inching closer.

He felt it. Like a cat-shaped glacier scooting toward his ribs.

When he cracked one eye open, you were three inches from his chest, staring directly at his face.

He exhaled sharply. “You planning to smother me in my sleep?”

You gently reached out one paw and touched his cheek.

He muttered something that was half curse, half exhausted laugh, and rolled to his side.

You followed. Instantly.

Eventually, Bucky gave up and just curled around you. One arm draped over your fluffball body, like some reluctant pet owner who did not ask for this, but also didn’t really want to move you anymore either.

“I swear, if you start snoring-“

PrrrRRRRrrrrr.

He groaned into the pillow. You purred louder. The bed was officially yours.

-

The next morning, Sam passed by Bucky’s room, paused at the door, and snapped a picture.

You were stretched across Bucky’s chest, limbs sprawled in all directions. His metal arm was dangling off the edge of the bed while he was unconscious, mouth slightly open, and looking like a man who hadn’t gotten a single inch of his side.

The photo was uploaded to the team group chat with the caption: “Cat: 1. Terminator: 0.”

You still use it as your phone wallpaper.

Prank Wars

Summary: You and Bucky Barnes start as chaotic, bickering frenemies locked in a prank war filled with glitter bombs, insults, and grudging teamwork. What begins as rivalry evolves into a sharp-edged romance, complete with teasing, team gossip, and quiet moments that prove even the most combative hearts can find their match. (Bucky Barnes x Avenger!reader)

Word Count: 3.5k+

A/N: Wanted to write something with a sort of friendly rivalry type vibe. I think it turned out to be a fun read. So, Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

You weren’t sure how it started. Maybe it was the time you’d called Bucky a “grumpy vintage action figure” during sparring, or maybe it was when he’d scoffed at your taste in music loud enough for the entire compound to hear. Either way, it was clear from day one: you and Bucky Barnes didn’t get along… but also couldn’t seem to stay away from each other.

You were a field agent with a smart mouth, a tendency to disobey orders, and a deep love for chaos. Bucky was a stickler for rules (at least the ones he liked), a human grimace with vibranium arms and trauma to spare, and somehow you kept ending up on the same teams. That first year at the Tower had been nothing but sarcastic quips, mutual eye rolls, and explosive chemistry that was definitely not romantic. At all. Probably.

Still, he never missed a mission with you. He’d grumble, complain, and occasionally fake gag when assigned to your squad, but he always showed up, and you always had each other’s backs. That didn’t mean peace. Oh, no. It meant war. Pranks, to be specific.

It began with the coffee incident. You’d woken up earlier than usual and decided to be kind for once. So, you brewed Bucky’s preferred dark roast before heading to the gym. But when you returned, your favorite mug (“World’s Okayest Agent”) was full of lukewarm decaf. A tiny sticky note on the handle read: Thanks for the bean water. I upgraded it. -B.

You were fuming. You didn’t say anything. You simply retaliated.

The next morning, Bucky found his boots filled with glitter. Not just glitter, iridescent, microfine, impossible-to-wash-out glitter that puffed into the air with each step like a magical dust trail from hell. You heard him curse halfway across the compound and smiled, eating your breakfast yogurt.

From there, it escalated. Your shampoo was swapped with syrup. His knife belt mysteriously vanished and reappeared glued to the ceiling. Your favorite hoodie went missing and was later found on Alpine who now refused to give it back. You switched his phone settings to speak and only read in French. He hacked your earpiece during a mission so it played 90s boyband music every time you tried to speak. Natasha bet twenty bucks on who would snap first. Clint started recording everything for “training purposes” (a.k.a. blackmail).

Still, you and Bucky kept a strict code: no permanent damage, nothing during missions, and no involving civilians. The rest was fair game.

There was an unspoken tension that came with it though. The kind of energy that lingered in the way you stood just a little too close during briefings, or the way Bucky always made sure you had your favorite protein bar stashed in the quinjet after tough missions. You could argue like enemies, scheme like tricksters, and still be the first ones to bandage each other’s wounds in silence.

And maybe that’s why, one night, when your newest plan involved rewiring his door sensors to trigger a confetti cannon… you hesitated.

You stood there, crouched in the hallway, wires in hand with your face lit by the soft glow of your tablet screen. Something was off. A quiet hum in the air. Your instincts itched. You weren’t alone.

“Don’t move,” came a voice behind you, calm, smug, and too close.

You sighed. “That’s what you said last time, and then I ended up zip-tied to a barstool with Steve giving me a lecture about boundaries.”

Bucky stepped into your peripheral vision, arms crossed. “Because you tried to saran-wrap my motorcycle.”

“It was a creative deterrent.”

He leaned down. “And this is… what? Revenge? Retaliation? Or are you just obsessed with me?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “What can I say? I love a fixer-upper.”

His eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of amusement. He reached past you slowly and disconnected a wire before you could stop him. The door made a sad little beep as the trap disarmed. You stared at him, defeated.

“I was going to use that for the hallway next week,” You muttered.

He leaned in even closer, his voice lower. “Try harder.”

And just like that, he walked off. You were still crouched in the hallway, flushed, stunned, and already plotting.

The war wasn’t over. It was just getting good.

-

During your next mission, you weren’t sure what set off the alarm in your head. It wasn’t anything loud or dramatic, just a moment. A brief flicker of tension in the air during an otherwise routine mission.

You and Bucky were assigned to a low-level extraction. Some simple, easy to navigate warehouse but you were both grumbling the whole time, because being sent on “babysitting detail”, as you’d called it, meant no time for new pranks. He’d called you “bored and dangerous,” and you’d called him “paranoid and constipated,” because that’s what you two did. Banter was the language. Biting, sarcastic, familiar.

But then, something shifted.

You’d split up to secure the area. You were in the northwest wing, scanning crates for the target intel when your comm crackled, static. No voice, just dead silence.

“Barnes?” You tried, tapping your earpiece. “Buck, come in.”

No answer.

That was fine. Annoying, but fine. He’d probably gone off comm on purpose to mess with you even if that went against the “rules”. You rolled your eyes, muttered something unspeakable, and kept moving. But then, the overhead lights flickered, and a strange smell reached your nose, smoke. Not fire. Something burning.

You pulled your weapon and turned the corner just in time to see two unknowns in black body armor dragging a third figure toward the loading dock. Bucky. His arms limp. One eye half-open, dazed. Blood at his temple.

You didn’t think. You moved.

It wasn’t flashy, wasn’t graceful. It was fast, brutal, and angry. You’d never felt this kind of burn before. Like someone had tried to mess with your territory. You fired two rounds, took a pipe to the ribs, wrestled one attacker to the ground, and jabbed a shock baton straight into the other’s side.

By the time you got to Bucky, he was already regaining consciousness, his voice a ragged growl.

“’M fine,” He muttered, trying to sit up.

“You look like hell,” You snapped, crouching beside him. “What happened?”

He blinked at you, blood still dripping down his cheek. “Trap. One of them said your name.”

That made you freeze.

“What?”

“They weren’t after me,” He said, grimacing. “They were using me to draw you out.”

Your mouth went dry. The adrenaline started wearing off, and something unfamiliar twisted in your gut.

They weren’t random mercs. They were targeting you.

You didn’t know what you were more pissed about, the fact that they almost got away with it, or that Bucky had taken a hit meant for you.

Back at the Tower, you didn’t speak to him for a full hour. Not because you were mad at him but because you didn’t know what to do with the feeling that had sunk under your skin like lead.

You sat by his med bay cot with your arms folded, pretending to be annoyed when really, your leg wouldn’t stop bouncing.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Bucky murmured, glancing at you from the bed.

You scowled. “You’re lucky I didn’t punch you. Running off like that without backup.”

“I had backup. You found me.”

“Not the point.”

He gave you a long look. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached into your jacket pocket and wordlessly handed him a folded sheet of paper.

He frowned and unfolded it. A crude drawing of a scoreboard. At the bottom, you’d scribbled:

Injured in the line of duty (for dumb reasons): You – 7 Me – 5 Bonus point for catching me off guard. Bastard.

For the first time that day, he actually smiled. Not his usual smirk, but something a little softer, quieter.

“Does this mean the prank war’s on hold?” He asked.

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed again. “Not a chance.”

And then, after a beat:

“…But maybe we cool it with the glitter bombs for a week.”

And so it did. The prank war didn’t end after the warehouse incident. It just… slowed. Morphed into something quieter. The jokes were still there like dry comments and sarcastic smiles but the glitter bombs were replaced by things like Bucky bringing you an ice pack before you asked. You, in turn, dropped by the training room with his favorite protein shake the day after his stitches came out.

And of course, everyone noticed.

Natasha cornered you in the gym a week later, twirling a throwing knife with deliberate laziness as you wiped sweat from your brow.

“So,” She said, nonchalant. “You and Barnes done setting the Tower on fire yet?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

She arched an eyebrow. “I mean the tension. The bickering. The very specific brand of foreplay that involves booby-trapping his bedroom door.”

You tossed the towel over your shoulder and rolled your eyes. “It’s not foreplay. It’s war.”

Nat gave you a slow, knowing smirk. “Sure. That’s why you look like someone kicked your puppy every time he gets hurt now.”

You didn’t respond because she wasn’t wrong.

It wasn’t that you liked Bucky Barnes. He was infuriating, overly serious, deeply confusing, and didn’t know how to share snacks. But he was also reliable, frustratingly observant, and lately, the look he gave you when you smiled, like you were the only one in the room, made your brain short-circuit.

You thought about it again later that night when Steve roped the two of you into a debrief on a rooftop overlooking the city. The mission had been a success, barely. You’d both walked away with bruises, dust in your hair, and a couple of near-death moments. Typical.

Steve cleared his throat when neither of you said anything.

“So, I just wanted to say… the teamwork is improving. Kind of.”

Bucky grunted. You didn’t look up from your seat on the low concrete ledge.

“But,” Steve added, crossing his arms, “I’d also like to point out that the Tower can’t afford another prank incident involving electrical rewiring, sparklers, and… what was it last time? A taxidermy raccoon?”

You smiled faintly. “He started it.”

“She painted my arm pink,” Bucky said flatly, leaning beside you.

“It was fuchsia,” You corrected. “Tasteful fuchsia.”

Steve exhaled like a parent trying very hard not to ground both his kids.

“…Just- figure it out, okay?” He said, before leaving the rooftop with a muttered “I miss the days when people just punched each other.”

You sat in silence for a while, watching the city lights flicker in the distance.

“You okay?” Bucky asked after a beat.

You nodded, then tilted your head toward him. “You?”

He shrugged. “Tired. Still sore.”

You leaned back on your palms, glancing up at the stars. “Nat thinks we’re flirting.”

He scoffed. “Is that what this is?”

“God, I hope not. I’d hate to be attracted to someone who uses the phrase ‘back in my day.’”

He glanced sideways, something sharp flickering into something soft in his eyes. “You’d miss me.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

“…Yeah,” You admitted, barely above a whisper. “Maybe so.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to shift the air. Then, he bumped your shoulder with his.

“Don’t tell Clint. He’ll never shut up about it.”

You smirked, your voice quieter this time. “Don’t worry. This never happened.”

-

Things changed during your next mission together. It wasn’t supposed to be a high-stakes adventure. A simple recovery op in a half-abandoned research facility on the outskirts of Prague. The intel said light security and no hostiles. Which of course meant it immediately went sideways.

You were cornered behind a crumbling wall with Bucky beside you, bullets chewing up stone, and the mission blown to hell. Your heart thundered in your chest, breathing ragged, but your mind was laser-focused until you caught a glance at Bucky’s face.

Blood streamed down from his temple. Again. The same spot as last time. You hated how that made your stomach twist.

“I told you to watch your six,” You snapped, crouching low to reload.

“I did!” He snapped back.

You shoved a fresh mag into your weapon and glared at him. “You are a human disaster.”

“And you’re a walking magnet for trouble.”

“Funny, coming from the guy with five knives hidden in his boot and a death wish.”

Another round of gunfire rang out closer this time. You both ducked instinctively, his body shielding yours without a word as he pulled you into a room to hide. You froze, just for a second, with his shoulder brushing yours and the warm pressure of his hand steadying you behind your ribs.

Your eyes met. The world blurred around the edges.

Something cracked.

The space between you wasn’t wide, wasn’t safe. It had been pulled tighter and tighter through months of snark, bruises, bullet wounds, glitter bombs, and unspoken care. And now it felt like the only logical conclusion was combustion.

“This is insane,” You muttered, your voice barely audible over the chaos.

“Yeah,” He agreed, still close to you. “We’re gonna die, aren’t we?”

You looked at him, seeing the blood at his temple, the sharp lines of frustration, the flicker of something else entirely under his words. You saw everything that had gone unspoken.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. Or the fear. Or maybe you were just done pretending. But whatever the reason, you surged forward.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It was frantic and rough and tasted like dirt, smoke, and months of unresolved tension. You grabbed the front of his suit; he pulled you closer like he’d been waiting for this since your first argument over coffee. The world was still burning around you, but for a second, it didn’t matter.

When you pulled back, breathless and stunned, he stared at you like he’d been hit by something harder than any punch he’d ever taken.

“That was…” He started.

“Shut up,” You said. “Don’t ruin it.”

He blinked, then huffed a laugh, the real kind. Warm and sharp and barely hidden behind years of practiced scowling. “Took you long enough.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me? I kissed you.”

He smirked. “Right. That’s why my knees went weak.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks flushed despite the danger. “We still have to get out of here alive.”

Bucky’s smile softened just enough to make your chest ache. “Then let’s finish this. Fast. So I can do that again properly.”

You reloaded, nodded, and moved out together, side by side, like always.

Only now, everything had changed.

The Tower was quiet when you got back. Mission was technically successful with the intel secured, the bodies left behind, and the bruises already starting to bloom beneath your jacket. You showered, changed, limped a little too dramatically down the hall, and did the most responsible thing you could think of: you avoided Bucky Barnes.

You didn’t mean to. But after the kiss, your entire nervous system had gone haywire. You weren’t used to him being real with that warm, rough voice in your ear when he said he wanted to do it again. It’d been easier when he was just a rival, a nuisance, a sarcasm-laced headache wrapped in leather and trauma.

Now he was something else. Someone who kissed you like you were gravity itself.

So you hid.

He gave you a full twelve hours.

You were in the common room the next morning, pretending to read a mission report, but mostly just sipping lukewarm coffee and staring into the distance like a haunted Victorian widow. Until the door opened.

You didn’t need to look up. The energy shifted immediately. You felt him walk in, heard his boots heavy, and presence heavier. You took another slow sip of your coffee.

“You’re sulking,” He said from across the room.

“I’m not.”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I avoid a lot of things,” You replied. “Dentists. Feelings. You’re not special.”

He stepped closer, the weight of him familiar now in a way that made your skin feel too tight. “So the kiss didn’t happen?”

You closed the file and set it aside, keeping your tone carefully casual. “Adrenaline makes people do weird things.”

“Right,” He said, voice dry. “So next time we’re in a life-or-death situation, I should expect you to confess your love to Steve or kiss a vending machine.”

You looked up sharply. “I don’t love anyone.”

He tilted his head. “Didn’t say you did.”

You hated him a little in that moment, not really, not at all but enough to scowl and mutter, “Why are you even here?”

“Because I don’t want that to be something we pretend didn’t happen.”

Your breath caught. He sat across from you, elbows on his knees, expression unusually open. Honest in a way that made your stomach twist.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” He began. “You drive me crazy. You’re reckless and loud and allergic to sitting still. But I’ve never met anyone who makes me laugh the way you do. Or who I’d trust to watch my back in a fight. Or who’d glue my knife belt to the ceiling and still patch me up afterward.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

He leaned forward, gentler now. “I meant it. When I said I wanted to kiss you again.”

You stared at him. Then down at your coffee, then back at him.

“…This doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop putting glitter in your boots,” You said finally.

He smirked. “Wouldn’t expect you to.”

You hesitated. Then sighed and leaned across the table, grabbing his shirt collar and tugging him into a kiss, softer this time. Slower. No adrenaline, no smoke. Just you and him, in the quiet.

When you pulled back, you grinned faintly. “You really are kind of obsessed with me.”

He exhaled a laugh. “Yeah. I really am.”

-

BONUS:

By the end of the week, everyone knew.

You thought you were being subtle. A few quiet looks, the occasional shoulder bump in the hallway, a shared smirk during mission briefings. But Avengers Tower was a den of spies, assassins, super-soldiers, and gossip. You had no chance.

The first to say something out loud was Clint.

You walked into the kitchen one morning, bleary-eyed and in desperate need of caffeine, only to find Clint already there, sipping from his mug. He glanced up, looked from you to Bucky trailing in behind you with his usual scowl and morning hair, and just grinned.

“Oh,” He said, like a man who had just confirmed a winning bet. “You two finally stopped fake-hating each other?”

You reached past him for a mug, unbothered. “We still hate each other. Just with tongue now.”

Clint snorted so hard he spilled his coffee. “Jesus.”

Bucky, behind you, didn’t say a word, just patted Clint on the back as he passed, expression entirely neutral. Clint looked personally betrayed.

Later that day, Natasha cornered you in the elevator.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned back against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, and gaze sharp. You kept your eyes on the floor numbers.

Finally, she said, “I had fifty bucks on you being the one to kiss him first.”

You blinked. “There were bets?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Please. There were charts. Steve ran the bracket.”

“…Steve?!”

Speaking of Steve, he found you both in the training room a few days later, sparring in what could only be described as borderline flirt-fighting. You’d just knocked Bucky on his ass (with some help from gravity and a well-timed insult), and were grinning down at him when Steve cleared his throat.

Bucky didn’t move. “Don’t say it.”

“I’m not saying anything,” Steve said, holding up his hands. “I’m just impressed. You made it a whole six months before punching each other turned into making out.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re the one who made us partners.”

He looked at you both, sweaty, bruised, smiling like idiots, then sighed. “You’re each other’s problem now. Don’t drag me into it.”

Sam was the worst. Every time you walked into a room, he’d do the voice.

“Well well well, if it isn’t the Tower’s resident enemies-to-lovers plotline.”

One time, you and Bucky entered the kitchen holding hands. Sam immediately stood and slow-clapped.

Bucky just turned around and walked back out.

Tony? He didn’t even blink. Just tossed you a keycard to one of the private Tower suites and said, “Soundproofed. You’re welcome. And for the love of all that’s holy, don’t ruin the common couch.”

And Bruce…

Bruce looked up from his tablet one afternoon and said casually, “So when’s the wedding?”

You choked on your water while Bucky left the room.

Eventually, you stopped pretending.

You still bickered like cats in a sack. You still pranked each other with glitter bombs, hair dye in shampoo bottles, or emotionally incriminating Spotify playlists over the Tower speakers. But now there were quiet moments too. An arm around your waist on late nights. Soft smiles when one of you thought the other wasn’t looking. Kisses stolen between missions, sometimes bloody, sometimes breathless.

The whole team may have seen it coming before either of you did. But in the end, no one could deny it:

You and Bucky were still frenemies.

Just… now with benefits, bruises, and a whole lot more trouble for anyone who got between you.

Sticker Salon

Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]

Summary: You wake up in little space and decide to run a "Sticker Salon," decorating Steve and Bucky with sparkly stickers while they play along lovingly. Later, they save some of the stickers as keepsakes, reminding you just how loved and treasured you are.

Word Count: 600+

A/N: Haven’t written much of this kind of content in a while. So, here’s something small and fluffy. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

The morning had been slow, one of those rare days where the sunlight spilled through the windows just right to make everything feel cozy and golden.

You’d woken up regressed, clingy and soft around the edges. You were still in your onesie and fuzzy socks when Steve scooped you out of bed and carried you into the living room like you weighed nothing.

Bucky was already there, sprawled on the couch in sweats, flipping through channels with one hand and holding a coffee mug in the other. He looked over and smiled as you were set down onto the big pile of throw blankets between them.

“You’re lookin’ extra cuddly today, sweetheart,” He said, setting the remote aside to make room for you in his lap.

You mumbled around your paci and gave him a sleepy nod, tucking yourself against his chest like a small, clingy kitten. But it didn’t take long before your morning daze wore off and your wiggles started. Fidgety hands, swinging feet, a curious little noise here and there as you began poking around in the bin of toys by the couch.

That’s when you found it: a brand-new sticker book.

Butterflies, stars, silly animals, glittery shapes. Over 500 stickers in shiny, pastel colors all unopened, untouched, and waiting.

You gasped dramatically, holding up the sticker book excitedly. “Can I? Please, please, please?”

Steve looked up from the book he was reading and grinned. “What’re you thinking, bug?”

“Sticker salon,” You said, with the kind of importance usually reserved for royalty.

“Oh boy,” Bucky chuckled. “Are we the customers?”

You nodded seriously, flipping the book open and already peeling off a big sparkly star. “Uh-huh. You gotsa sit still. No movin’. No talkin’. Jus’ be pwetty.”

Steve laughed softly, setting his book down. “Guess we’re in good hands, Buck.”

Bucky shot him a mock-nervous glance as you climbed into his lap again and pressed the sparkly star right in the middle of his forehead. “There,” you said proudly. “You’re a space prince now.”

“Oh am I?”

“Shhh. Prince can’t talk. It’s the rules.”

You worked with deep concentration, occasionally furrowing your brow or humming around your pacifier as you pressed heart stickers on his cheeks and tiny flowers on the metal of his arm. Then you moved to Steve, sitting on his lap and patting his cheeks like a canvas. He raised his eyebrows obediently, still grinning as you stuck a unicorn sticker to the tip of his nose and several rainbow dots above his brows.

“There,” You whispered when you finished, radiating pure satisfaction. “Now you both fancy.”

Steve touched the unicorn on his nose and gave a mock-serious nod. “Very official.”

Bucky was already pulling out his phone to take a selfie of the three of you. “This better go on the fridge.”

You giggled, wriggling happily between them as they both leaned in for a picture. You wore a smile with your hands resting on their sticker-covered faces, as two of the most powerful men in the world wore your stickers like crowns.

The rest of the day passed with them still wearing your artwork. Steve even left his unicorn sticker on during a video call with Sam, who choked on his water laughing.

And when bedtime came, and your stickers were gently peeled off one by one, Bucky saved the star from his forehead and Steve placed the unicorn sticker on his sketchbook near his nightstand.

“Best salon in town,” Steve murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair as he tucked you into bed.

“Yeah,” Bucky added with a smile, “But next time I want glitter butterflies too.”

You nodded drowsily, proud and full of joy, already dreaming up the next makeover.

Laptop Warfare

Summary: In your cat form, you relentlessly sabotage Bucky’s attempts to work by sitting on his laptop, messing with his reports, and opening multiple tabs; forcing him to revert to handwriting like it’s the 1940s. (Bucky Barnes x shapeshifter!reader)

Word Count: 1k+

A/N: I want to create a mini-series similar to this but have reader shift into different kinds of animals. Anyways, enjoy more cat shenanigans. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

Bucky Barnes was not what you'd call a tech-savvy man, but he’d gotten used to the basics.

He could handle mission logs, internal reports, and the occasional strongly-worded email to Stark with minimal suffering. That morning, he even made coffee without breaking anything. Things were going well.

Then you, in your most annoying form: soft, smug, and four-legged, jumped onto the table with a thud. See, you started this infuriating habit of annoying your metal-armed teammate. After all, his reactions were too priceless to resist.

He didn’t even have to look up to know you were planning something.

“Don’t.”

You let out a soft meow, too innocent to trust.

He kept typing while you sat beside the laptop. Tail curled neatly around your feet. Just watching.

He narrowed his eyes.

“I mean it.”

Another soft, purring mewl. You blinked up at him. All wide-eyed, pure, and completely harmless.

Then plop.

You landed directly on the keyboard, your entire floofy body sprawled across the keys like a warm, vibrating puddle.

The screen flickered as you mashed four separate function commands at once. The report on infiltration routes vanished.

“No- hey! I didn’t save that!”

Bucky leaned over, trying to gently lift you off.

You melted into the keyboard like wet spaghetti.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

He tried again. You stretched dramatically, rolling onto your back and extending your claws in every direction like a lazy sun god. The screen beeped and a random browser opened. Then another. And another. Somehow you had 17 tabs open and a YouTube video about “How To Boil Water” playing in the background.

Bucky stared at the screen then at you. You yawned innocently, completely unbothered.

“That’s it.”

He picked you up like a toddler with attitude under the armpits, your fuzzy arms outstretched. You could see the betrayal in his eyes. You dangled in the air, tail twitching for a moment before he set you on the floor. You stared up at him and waited three seconds.

Then leapt back up and planted yourself exactly in the same spot. This time with a little extra tail flick into his coffee.

The sip he was halfway to taking halted midair.

“Are you serious?”

You purred and licked your paw.

He exhaled slowly. You could almost see him counting to ten. “Okay. Fine. You win.” He reached behind the couch, pulled out a dusty old notebook, and a pen.

You blinked. Slowly. Smug.

“Happy now?” He muttered, beginning to handwrite his mission log like it was the 1940s.

You curled up, content, purring over the keyboard while the laptop screen faded.

He muttered something about “goddamn cats” and “Stark’s fault” but didn’t move you again.

Ten minutes later, Steve walked in, saw the whole scene, and paused.

“…You writing reports by hand now?”

“She won’t let me type.”

Steve squinted. “Can’t you just move her?”

“I’ve tried. She becomes heavier. It’s unnatural.”

You blinked up at Steve, completely motionless. Your mind already planning something else to get back at Bucky for calling you fat.

He started laughing. Loudly. “She’s your problem now, Buck.”

Bucky sighed and kept writing. You didn’t even bother looking up. You’d already won.

By the next morning, you were still a cat.

Still smug. Still fuzzy. Still very much in control, but you had graciously moved spots sometime within the night.

Bucky looked like he hadn’t slept. His hair was a little messy, his now untouched coffee was colder than it should be, and his posture screamed a man defeated by pounds of fur and spite.

You were currently draped across the back of a couch, tail flicking slowly. Watching. Waiting.

When he sat down at the table and opened his laptop again, now freshly charged with a report half-written, you stretched. You then jumped down with a soft thump, and padded over, silent as a whisper.

He saw the shadow of you moving in the reflection on the screen.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You meowed sweetly and hopped onto the table with your most innocent blink. Then, without breaking eye contact, you sat squarely on the keyboard again.

Bucky sighed and dropped his forehead onto the table.

You purred.

“I swear to God,” He muttered, “I’ve fought HYDRA agents less persistent than you.”

You just made yourself more comfortable, curling into a neat loaf. The screen dimmed again. The report? Gone. Replaced with articles about cat behavior, one open Amazon cart containing 30 cat toys, and somehow, a dating site page.

Bucky looked up, absolutely done. “Are you trying to ruin my life?”

You chirped and flopped onto your side. A clear victory pose.

That’s when Tony walked in, sipping his drink and eyeing the scene.

“…Still refusing to shift back, huh?”

“She’s gone full gremlin mode,” Bucky muttered. “She won’t let me work. She sleeps on my face. She bit my sock yesterday.”

Tony smirked. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“I tried to out-stubborn her.”

Tony laughed. “You tried to out-stubborn a shapeshifter in cat mode. That’s on you, Barnes.”

Bucky glared as Tony took out a small device. “What is that?”

Tony tapped a button. A little laser dot appeared on the floor. You lifted your head immediately, ears perking.

“Oh no,” Bucky groaned.

Tony moved the dot slowly across the floor.

You stared. You stalked.

Tony flicked it once.

Pounce. You slid across the hardwood like a tiny panther.

“NO!” Bucky shouted. “Don’t reward her! That’s like giving Loki the Tesseract when he’s bored!”

But you were already chasing the dot like your life depended on it, slamming into a chair, knocking over a throw pillow, then skidding into a bookshelf as you pounced again with feral energy.

Tony was dying laughing. “Oh, this is so going on the security feed.”

Bucky just dropped his face into his hands. “I can’t live like this.”

You leapt up onto the table again and batted at the laser on the laptop screen.

It closed his report.

Again.

Bucky looked up slowly, jaw clenched.

You flopped over and licked your paw, grooming like none of this had anything to do with you.

He stared for a long, long second.

Then leaned back and muttered, “That’s it. Stark, make me a second laptop. A decoy one. Covered in catnip and self-destructs when sat on.”

You meowed.

Tony grinned. “I’m so glad I installed cameras in this room.”

Comedic Relief

Summary: After overhearing teammates call you the "comic relief" and question your seriousness, you begin to doubt your place on the team despite being a genius in disguise. Bucky finds you spiraling in your lab, reminds you of your brilliance, and confesses how deeply he values and loves you. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.4k+

A/N: Wanted something angsty. I also debated having them run away temporarily and having Bucky find them first, but I liked how this turned out in the end. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

You weren’t supposed to hear it.

Honestly, you never meant to. You were crawling through the ceiling vent to test your portable gravity-altering boots as one does and accidentally dropped into the hallway by the training center. You didn’t land gracefully. You bounced. Twice.

No one noticed.

You were about to make a dramatic entrance to demand “scientific respect and perhaps a sandwich” when your name floated through the crack of the door.

“She’s just… not serious,” One of the rookies was saying. “I know she’s smart, obviously, but it’s like, can you trust her in a real op? Last week she got distracted mid-mission because she thought the enemy base’s reactor looked ‘like a sexy espresso machine.’”

You could hear someone chuckle before another added, “Yeah, and she asked Fury if ‘thermonuclear’ was a made-up word.”

You blinked. That was a joke. You knew what thermonuclear meant. You’d accidentally built a thermonuclear coffee machine last year that tried to launch itself into low orbit. They made you name it and put it in a SHIELD containment box.

“Honestly, she’s more of the comic relief, you know?” Another said. “Like, she’s the team mascot. Not really part of the brain or someone you should trust.”

You weren’t sure what part of you tensed first. Maybe it was your jaw, your spine, or your heart. It wasn’t a new feeling. Not really. It was just louder this time. More final. Heavier.

Mascot.

The word stuck to you like wet concrete.

You backed away before you could hear any more of the conversation, suddenly hyperaware of every squeak of your boots and every stupid joke you’d ever made this week. The “avocado bomb” prank on Steve. The trivia challenge you crushed but then celebrated by pronouncing “Columbus” as “Co-LUMB-us.” The marble run you built through the ventilation system that made the whole compound sound like a wind chime when it rained.

God. Was that all they saw?

You didn’t go to dinner. You didn’t reply in the group chat, even when Sam tagged you and asked why Bucky was sulking in the corner muttering “Where is she?” like a pissed-off gargoyle.

You didn’t even remember walking back to the lab. Your feet had carried you here on autopilot to your safe place, your mess, your cathedral of chaos and half-finished thoughts.

You locked the door behind you, not that anyone ever came in uninvited. Not unless Bucky had something to smuggle in for you (usually food or a weapon you weren’t technically cleared to modify). Not unless Tony wanted to gawk at your entropy.

The lab lights flickered on automatically. You winced at the brightness.

You moved like a ghost, almost afraid to touch anything. Your hands hovered above your desk, your workbench, the tower of half-functional prototypes stacked like a junkyard Jenga tower. You didn’t sit. You just stared at the avalanche of yourself. Your weird, brilliant, overwhelming mind spilled out across surfaces. Wires like spaghetti. Notes written in both formulae and doodles. Gel pens next to soldering irons. A circuit board shaped like a cat.

It all looked… childish. Stupid.

What were you even doing?

You finally collapsed into your chair, spinning once, twice, then fast enough that the corners of the room blurred. You kicked off the counter and made a loop around the floor, feet dragging. The motion didn’t help. If anything, it amplified the static in your chest.

Mascot.

You blinked hard, squeezing your temples. “No. No no no. Shut up. We’re not doing this today.”

You spun to your desk. Grabbed a marker. Scrawled something on the board.

atomic weight of hydrogen: 1.00784 u. bananas are a lie. you don’t need potassium that bad. you matter. you matter. you matter.

You stared at it for a long time. Then erased “you matter” so hard the whiteboard squeaked. Your hand kept going long after the words were gone. Until it hurt.

You stood. Paced a little more. Opened a drawer. Slammed it shut. You tugged at the sleeves of your hoodie, pacing faster now, muttering in a half joking, half begging, yet all unraveling way. “Who the hell builds a weather balloon to see if birds migrate better with Taylor Swift playing on a speaker? Who sets a toast-loving AI loose in the kitchen and calls it a ‘learning moment’ when it sets off four smoke alarms?”

You knocked into your shelf, and something clattered. You didn’t catch it. You didn’t care.

You backed into your chair and sank again, hands braced on your knees like gravity got heavier just for you. Your eyes burned.

“They’re right,” You said quietly. “I’m a joke. A distraction. They keep me around because it’s easier than telling me to leave.”

Somewhere behind you, the electronic calendar chimed softly:

Reminder: Tell Bucky you love him. (He already knows, but say it anyway.)

Your throat closed up.

You covered your face with both hands and curled forward, trembling. The quiet buzz of your machines felt deafening. You had built this place, crafted it like a cocoon, a temple, a home. Now it felt like a parody of genius.

You didn’t hear the knock at the door. Or the creak as it opened.

But you felt it when Bucky entered, his presence like a storm and a lighthouse all at once. Steady. Warm. Wordless.

He stood there for a moment. Watching. Taking in the wreckage. You hadn’t noticed the tears on your face until he knelt in front of you and reached up, thumb brushing just below your eye. He didn’t say anything right away. He just held you.

You weren’t even sure when your body had folded into his. One moment, you were curled in on yourself, vibrating with self-loathing, and the next, your face was buried in the crook of his neck and his arms were wrapped around you like armor. Like he could physically keep the world out if he just held on tight enough.

You gripped the front of his henley like it was the only solid thing left. It smelled like coffee and the soap he never admitted to stealing from Steve.

“I thought you were joking when you said you could feel my breakdowns in your soul,” You whispered, voice raw.

“I can,” He murmured against your hair. “Like a bat signal but sadder.”

You let out a broken sound, half sob, half laugh.

His metal hand rubbed slow, careful circles on your back; warm from the adaptive heat plates he let you install. The other hand cradled your head like you were fragile, which only made the cracks inside you widen. He never looked at you like you were fragile. Not until now.

“They think I’m a joke,” You mumbled into his chest. “They think I’m just the team jester with a few fun facts and a death wish.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“They’re not wrong.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, not with pity, but with fire.

“You built a quantum drive in a toaster oven,” He said firmly. “You hacked an alien translator using a flashlight and a Etch A Sketch. You—” He huffed, voice breaking. “You are the only reason half this team is alive.”

You stared at him, voice stuck in your throat.

“But I make everything a joke.”

“Because that’s how you survive,” He said softly. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be underestimated because people are more comfortable laughing at you than respecting you?”

You looked down. “I just… if I stop being funny, I’m afraid they’ll stop wanting me around.”

Bucky reached up, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking beneath your eye.

“If they can’t handle all of you, not just the jokes and chaos and weird trivia, then they don’t deserve you. But I can.” His voice was low, steady. “I love you. All of you. The ridiculous, the brilliant, the heartbreaking mess of you. You could set the tower on fire trying to build a better microwave and I’d still think you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

You blinked fast, and a soft smile tugged at your lips. “That was one time.”

“Twice,” He corrected. “And the second time, you swore it was intentional to teach Tony humility.”

You let out a breathless laugh, and he smiled. That sweet, rare smile he only ever gave you like you were something secret and sacred.

“C’mere,” He said, pulling you in again, tighter this time.

You curled into his lap and let yourself stay there, finally still, finally quiet. His hands never stopped moving, thumb tracing your spine, fingers gently combing through your hair, grounding you with every touch.

And in that moment, you didn’t feel like a mascot or a distraction.

You felt like someone loved and seen.

Tiny Caretaker

Summary: Steve returns from a mission injured and emotionally drained. You wordlessly comfort him using small, nature-based gifts. Later, Bucky arrives, sees what you've done, and is deeply moved. Both men sit in reverent silence, realizing just how much your small, silent love means to them. (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 1.1k+

A/N: Thank you to @cherryblossomfairyy for the request/suggestion. Enjoy and Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Original Fic

The door clicked open just past midnight.

You were already awake. You had been for hours, sitting curled in the tiny hammock you’d woven between two books on the shelf. The wind had felt strange tonight, sharp at the edges. A whispering kind of sharp. You’d known something was wrong before you heard the heavy steps in the hallway, slower than usual.

When Steve stepped inside, you didn’t rush to him.

You just watched. Observed.

He dropped his shield near the couch with a soft clatter. He was still in the dark navy suit, but it was torn in places. There was a long gash across the side and bruises blooming along his jaw. His shoulders were slumped in that way they only were when something had gone wrong. Not physically wrong, emotionally wrong.

He sighed as he lowered himself to the couch, hand pressed against his side. You saw red, dull and drying, on his gloves. You fluttered down silently, your wings barely whispering in the dim light.

He didn’t notice you right away. He had his eyes closed, breathing through the pain and focusing inward, as humans often did when they didn’t want to feel anything at all.

You stood on the coffee table in front of him, arms folded, brow creased. You didn’t like this. He was your Tree. And trees weren’t supposed to fall.

You disappeared for a moment, darting across the shelves, climbing inside the drawer where you kept your special collection. By the time you returned, Steve had opened his eyes.

He didn’t say anything though. He didn’t need to. Because there you were, wings fluttering tiredly, arms full of your treasures for him.

You placed a smooth, round stone beside his knee. The one you’d kept for three seasons because it felt like sunshine when you touched it. You set down your best leaf, soft and silvery on one side. Good for calming dreams. You also had a tiny pot they had given to you before, filled halfway with real honey. The kind you only used for injuries. You unscrewed the top with some effort and nudged it toward his hand.

Then finally… your favorite button.

It was a pale blue one, the color of the sky on warm days. You’d once told Bucky it was “lucky” with a proud little tap and a wide grin. It had always stayed in your drawer, wrapped in a bit of thread like a tiny treasure.

Now it sat beside Steve, on the curve of his palm. His fingers closed around it slowly.

“Is this for me?” He asked, voice rough and tired.

You nodded then sat cross-legged on his knee, your glow dim but steady. You didn’t speak much. You didn’t need to. Your wings brushed his arm gently, a small touch acting as a reminder that you were here, that he wasn’t alone.

Steve exhaled softly and leaned his head back against the couch, hand still curled around the button, the honey pot beside him.

“…Thank you,” He whispered.

You didn’t answer, but you stayed. And your silent company said the rest.

The sun hadn’t risen yet when Bucky pushed open the door.

The team was back, the worst was over, and he’d spent the last few hours finishing debriefs, patching his own wounds, and pacing. He hadn’t seen Steve since the quinjet landed.

So when he opened the door, he froze in the doorway.

Steve was half-asleep on the couch, sprawled awkwardly with one hand clutched loosely over his ribs and the other cupped around a single, small, pale blue button.

His eyes flickered open at the sound. “Hey.”

“You look like hell,” Bucky said, walking in, voice softer than his words.

Steve cracked a tired smile. “Felt worse.”

That’s when Bucky spotted you curled on Steve’s shoulder like a fallen petal, wings tucked tightly around yourself, and your arms holding a bit of thread that had come loose from your pouch. Your cheek was pressed to the fabric of his torn uniform, your tiny form rising and falling with his every breath.

Bucky stopped in his tracks.

There was a leaf on the armrest, a smooth stone by Steve’s knee, and a small pot of honey with the lid off, just barely untouched. And that button… your button.

Bucky knew that one. You’d once protected it from the vacuum like it was sacred. He had joked about it being your “dragon hoard,” and you had hissed at him like an angry kitten, then patted the button gently and flown off in a huff. You’d even growled at Sam once for trying to borrow it.

He stepped closer, crouching beside the couch, eyes flicking between the little offerings and the soft expression on Steve’s face.

“She left them for me,” Steve murmured. “Didn’t say anything. Just… stayed.”

Bucky stared at you for a long moment as his features softened. He reached out, and with one gloved finger, gently fixed the corner of the blanket that had fallen from Steve’s chest, then carefully draped a second piece over your tiny form, shielding you from the draft.

“She always knows,” He muttered, more to himself than Steve.

Steve let out a breath. “She gave me the button.”

Bucky blinked. “The button?”

Steve nodded, voice quiet. “Think I was supposed to hold it till I felt better.”

Bucky huffed, half-sigh, half-laugh. “She gave me a sunflower petal when I had a panic attack last month.”

“She didn’t say much, but… it worked,” Steve said, looking down at you again. “I feel better.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you curled up. You were so still, wings trembling slightly in your sleep. “You think she knows we’d burn the world down for her?”

Steve chuckled weakly. “She probably does.”

They both sat in silence for a while, watching the way your wings fluttered in your dreams. Then Bucky, very gently, reached into his pocket. He pulled out a dried dandelion puff, impossibly intact, and set it beside the button in Steve’s palm.

“She gave me this,” He spoke softly. “When you went dark on a mission last month. Said it was for… wishing.”

Steve looked at him.

“You keep it,” Bucky added. “Until she asks for it back.”

Steve nodded. His fingers curled around the puff and the button, chest rising with something deep and quiet. You shifted, still asleep, and leaned closer into the warmth of Steve’s neck.

Bucky turned to go fetch the Medkit before pausing at the door.

“Get some rest, Stevie,” He said over his shoulder. “She’s got you.”

Steve looked down at the little fairy asleep against his collarbone, then back at Bucky.

“So do you.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, just dipped his head in a small nod before slipping into the hallway, the door shutting quietly behind him.

Steve leaned back, hand still cradling the button and the wish, and let his eyes fall closed again. This time, he slept without pain because you were there.

And somehow… that made all the difference.

Infected by the Chaos

Summary: Overtime, your questionable tendencies and unpredictable phrases have rubbed off onto your boyfriend. The team reacts by trying their best to un-corrupt the supersoldier. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: Thank you to @ozwriterchick for the idea. Enjoy and Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

There was a debriefing. The usual boring, long, and necessary meeting. Everyone sat around the conference table looking various degrees of irritated.

You were leaning back in your chair, chewing gum, spinning a pen between your fingers, and mentally ranking everyone’s haircuts from “tragic” to “god-tier.” (Sam had climbed two spots today.)

Steve was talking, bless him, but honestly, your brain had already turned into a screensaver.

“-and next time, we need tighter communication. Nat, cover the north entrance. Sam, recon from above. And you two,” He gestured at you and Bucky. “Try not to burn the entire building down next time.”

You opened your mouth, probably to say something deeply unhelpful and not at all relevant but then it happened.

Bucky got there first.

Deadpan, casual, and not even glancing up from his notepad, he muttered:

“I don’t control the fire. The fire controls me.”

The room went silent.

Sam slowly turned his head. “What.”

Nat blinked. “I’m sorry- Did Barnes just say that?”

Steve dropped his tablet. You were staring at him like he’d just told you he was pregnant with a spider-dog hybrid.

Bucky glanced up with a shrug. “What? It’s true.”

“No, no, no, back up.” You stood, pointing at him. “That’s my level of chaos. You don’t get to say things like that with a straight face. That’s my thing.”

“Pretty sure I’ve earned chaos privileges by now,” He said in an even tone, biting into an apple.

Nat coughed. “What else have you been saying lately?”

You whirled on Bucky. “You didn’t even flinch. You said it like a man who has absolutely Googled whether rats can legally vote.”

Bucky smirked. “I have due to our last date. They can’t yet.”

Sam slid down in his chair. “Oh god, there’s two of them now.”

Tony, who had joined the meeting late with a coffee and zero patience, looked between you and Bucky. “I always knew one of you was a bad influence. I just didn’t expect it to be her.”

“I resent that,” You said.

“I expected more from you, Barnes,” Tony replied.

Steve looked like he was having a mild stroke. “I spent a decade dragging him out of assassin mode and you…you-“ He pointed at you with all the drama of a soap opera actor. “You corrupted him.”

You crossed your arms. “Excuse me, I elevated him. You think he’d even know what a possum rave is without me?”

“Wait,” Bucky said, serious again. “That’s real?”

“Unfortunately,” Sam muttered.

Bucky turned to you. “Do you think we could-“

“No,” Steve and Sam said in unison.

Later that night, you and Bucky were sitting on the roof, feet dangling over the ledge, and watching the stars while splitting a packet of strawberry Pop-Tarts.

You nudged him with your shoulder. “You really said it, huh?”

He smirked. “It just came out.”

“And the fire controls you?”

He looked at you with something soft and proud in his eyes. “Maybe I’ve just been spending too much time with my favorite disaster.”

You grinned and leaned into his side. “Next step: getting you to name a pigeon.”

“Already done. His name’s Charles. He watched us fight three agents yesterday.”

You gasped. “You’re perfect.”

“I know,” Bucky said. “You trained me well.”

-

As time passed, Bucky was the problem now.

At first, the team found it endearing. The grumpy super soldier smiling at dumb jokes, randomly throwing out facts about duck mating rituals, or muttering “vibe check failed” after knocking someone out. In some strange way, it was charming. Odd, but charming.

But then he named a second pigeon. And that was the last straw.

“We need to intervene,” Natasha said, deadly serious with her arms folded as she stood at the head of the war room table.

“Why?” Bucky asked, mid-bite of a toaster strudel. “Charles Junior likes me.”

“Exactly,” Tony said, pointing dramatically. “The fact that you’re calling it Charles Junior is the problem.”

“I don’t see the issue,” You said from your seat next to Bucky, proudly wearing your ‘#1 Chaos Hero’ necklace again. “It’s genetic. Charles Prime had strong leader energy.”

Steve looked between you both like he was watching two people fall off a moral cliff in slow motion. “You used to be a soldier.”

“He is a soldier,” You said. “He just also knows five ways to make banana bread ”

Bucky nodded solemnly. “Just don’t over-mix the batter.”

Tony facepalmed. “Nope. This is a brain rot virus, and you’re patient zero.”

You smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”

“I wasn’t complimenting you.”

“Still taking it that way.”

Natasha, still painfully calm, pulled out a folder labeled “OPERATION: WINTER DETOX.”

“Oh no,” Bucky muttered.

“Yes,” She said. “We're deprogramming the chaos out of you. We're doing it for the safety of the building, and also the pigeons.”

-

During phase one, you were banned from interacting with Bucky for 48 hours. No comms. No breakfast together. No late-night feral cuddling where you told him shark facts until he passed out.

You broke the rule in 6 minutes.

Literally. You broke into the vent system and dropped into his room from the ceiling like some kind of gremlin god.

“Did you know octopuses have nine brains?”

Bucky looked up from his book, deadpan. “I do now.”

When Sam burst in to yell at you, he found Bucky trying to braid your hair while you explained the 36 reasons flamingos are both cursed and divine.

Sam left with his soul cracked in half.

Phase two didn’t end much better either. They tried re-soldiering him. Military documentaries. Physical training drills. A six-hour silent stare-off with Steve.

You showed up with a whiteboard that said “Today’s Mission: Turn Bucky Into a Lizard.”

Steve had to lock you out of the room and block your contact from Bucky’s phone for two hours.

By phase three, the team tried pairing Bucky with other Avengers. Nat. Rhodey. Bruce.

Each one ended up slightly more unhinged than when they started.

Bruce now exclusively drinks out of a cup shaped like a frog. Nat started saying “mood” unironically. Rhodey got a ferret and named it “Mini War Machine.”

“Do you see what you’ve done?” Steve begged one night as you and Bucky made soup in the communal kitchen while retelling an episode of River Monsters using only metaphors and curse words.

“I made the team fun,” You said, stabbing a ladle toward him.

Bucky beamed. “They laugh more now. And I haven’t threatened to murder anyone in two weeks.”

Tony nodded slowly. “He’s not wrong. Still terrifying, but now it’s… unpredictable terrifying.”

The breaking point came the next morning. Bucky walked into the briefing room wearing a shirt that said: “Emotionally Stable is a Strong Word”

You wore one that said: “I Know the Assignment. I Am Choosing to Ignore It.”

Steve stood then walked out muttering something about moving to Wakanda.

The team officially gave up trying to fix Bucky Barnes.

-

Later that night, Bucky was lying beside you, watching the stars again as the city hummed below.

“They really think I’m broken now,” He said.

You shrugged, twirling a glow stick between your fingers. “They just don’t know how to handle dual-wielding emotional repression and chaotic brilliance.”

He turned to you, smiling. “You really think it’s brilliance?”

You kissed his cheek. “Obviously. I don’t waste my time on mediocrity. Now help me build a pigeon obstacle course on the balcony.”

He nodded. “It’s what Charles Prime would’ve wanted.”