Difficult Morning

The Solstitial Truce

Summary: You met him at the border between realms every solstice. Neither of you spoke of the war or how many souls were claimed. You simply watched the stars together, two entities out of place, bound by quiet conversation and the kind of silence that speaks more than words ever could. (Demon!Bucky Barnes x Angel!reader)

Word Count: 2.5k+

A/N: This takes place in the winter solstice by the way! I had this idea earlier and hope you like it as much as I did. I tried to do more descriptive language/scenes. This has ANGST by the way. References to a war too, but not explored. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

The sky was a tapestry of frozen silence.

Stars flickered like dying embers, scattered across the heavens above the boundary. The solstice wind stirred the trees into brittle whispers, and the snow under your feet crunched with every tentative step. You shouldn’t have been there. Angels weren’t meant to wander so close to the borderland, not without orders, not without reason.

But tonight, something had drawn you in. A pull like a thread around your ribs, subtle but unyielding. You followed it, quiet, unsure, your wings folded close to your back like a secret you weren't ready to share.

And then, you saw him.

At first, you thought it was a shadow. A patch of darkness that refused to yield to the moonlight. But no. He moved. Slowly, with the weariness of someone who had lived through too many endings.

He knelt in the snow near a half-dead tree, one hand buried in the frozen soil, fingers clenched like he could still hold onto something that had long since slipped through. Smoke curled faintly around him, not from fire, but from him. It coiled at his shoulders like a protective beast, breathing in rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest.

You froze when you realized who he was. A demon.

Not just any demon, him. The Winter Demon. The one they spoke of in the higher halls. The one who fell long ago but never quite burned out. You recognized him from the whispers. A former soldier. A shattered soul. A blade that had once been wielded by hell itself.

Your hand moved instinctively toward the hilt of your blade, but you didn’t draw it. Something in you held back.

He didn’t move or flinch. Didn’t seem surprised by your presence either.

“I thought angels didn’t walk this far down,” He spoke in a voice low and rough, like it had been dragged through gravel and time. “Unless they’re looking for a fight.”

You hesitated. “I’m not here to fight.”

He chuckled, but it was a hollow sound. “That’s what the last one said.”

You stayed silent, watching him closely. He didn’t turn. Didn’t rise. Just kept his hand in the dirt, like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

The wind stirred again, ruffling the edges of your robes. Your wings shifted restlessly, feathers rustling with unease.

“I’m not here on Heaven’s orders,” You finally answered, your voice barely audible over the wind. “I came because… I felt something. A pull.”

“Funny,” He muttered. “So did I.”

That made you blink.

He finally looked up, just enough for you to see his face, half-shadowed, but unmistakable. There was no cruelty there. No hunger for sin or conquest. Just exhaustion. Blue eyes that had seen centuries of death, hands that had done terrible things, and yet, beneath it all, still remembered mercy.

“I should leave,” You said quietly, unsure whether it was directed to him or to yourself.

“Then why haven’t you?”

The question hung in the cold air between you like an open wound. You didn’t give him an answer because truthfully, you didn’t have one. So you stayed.

Not close and not far. Just within sight. The two of you sat there, separated by ruthlessness and faith, by war and fire, peace and light. You didn’t speak again that night. You just watched the stars together.

And for a brief moment, the world felt like it had paused. As if Heaven and Hell had looked the other way, just long enough for two things that should never coexist to breathe in the same silence.

When you finally rose to leave, he didn’t stop you. But he didn’t look away either. And somehow, you knew you’d see him again. And you did.

You never ask his name.

He never asks yours.

There’s no point, not here, not in this place where names don’t hold power, where they melt into the snow like forgotten prayers. You know what he is and he knows what you are. That remains enough for now.

Solstice after solstice, you come back to the edge of the world, to the boundary where no song from Heaven reaches and no scream from Hell echoes. The silence here is sacred in its own way. Unclaimed. Unwatched. It belongs only to you and to him.

This time, you arrive before he does. The frost has crept higher since last year, lacing the dead branches in silver threads that catch the moonlight like cobwebs made of glass. You sit on a stone half-buried in snow, your wings draped around your shoulders like a cloak.

You don't wait long before you feel him.

Not see. Feel.

The temperature shifts subtly. The wind thickens. The smell of ash and old iron fills the air.

He walks through the trees as though they part for him, his breath visible in the cold. The same worn coat, the same heavy boots. The metal of his left arm catches the moonlight like ice. And as always, the smoke follows him, not malicious, just… present. Like a memory he can't shake off.

He sits beside you without a word, the way he always does.

You don’t look at each other at first. There’s no need. You both understand the rules of this fragile ritual: no questions, no fights, and no judgment.

You sit in the cold, close enough to feel the soft heat of him. His unnatural warmth, something Hell must have carved into his bones to keep him burning in all the wrong ways. You stay far enough that the stars won’t take notice, won’t whisper of betrayal.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The frost creeps slowly over the fallen branches, delicate and determined. You both watch it, as if it matters. As if the way it grows, inch by inch, might teach you something about stillness. About survival.

Like usual, sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't.

Tonight, he breaks the silence first.

“I used to be human,” He confesses, almost absently. His eyes stay fixed on the sky, where clouds drift like smoke across the moon. “A long time ago.”

You glance at him, not surprised. You had suspected it. There was always something in the way he spoke, the way he moved, like he hadn’t quite forgotten what it meant to bleed in the ways that mattered.

He continues before you can answer. “Can’t remember much. Just flashes. Pain. Screaming. Cold water. And someone-“ He cuts himself off with a bitter breath. “I think I had a name before… Bucky. Maybe that was it or maybe not.”

You don't speak immediately. The words settle like snow, quiet and heavy.

Then, ever so softly, you speak: “You remember enough to mourn it.”

He turns his head a fraction, just enough to meet your eyes. He doesn’t refuse your comment, doesn’t try to argue. And that, somehow, feels more painful than anything else.

You both return to silence as he leans back against a frost-bitten tree, metal fingers twitching restlessly in his lap. You can feel something aching inside him, coiled too deep for words. Guilt? Regret? Or maybe just the echo of what once was.

You don’t try to fix it. You just stay. Because that’s the unspoken promise of the truce. Not salvation. Not forgiveness. Just presence.

And somehow, in a world that burned the both of you down into what you are now… maybe that’s enough.

-

During your next meeting, the snow falls heavier this time.

It comes in thick, whispering sheets, softening the world until even your footsteps are silenced. The sky is overcast, swallowing the stars, and yet you walk the old path by memory. Your wings are hidden this time beneath a dark cloak. Your halo, long dimmed near the boundary, pulses faintly, a reminder of the place you still belong to, even if you don't feel like you do.

He's already there when you arrive, perched on a broken stone wall, hood drawn low, and smoke curling lazily around his shoulders. He doesn’t look at you when you approach, but his metal fingers tap once against the stone, a quiet acknowledgment. A habit, maybe. Or a signal meant just for you.

You sit beside him, brushing snow off the ledge. Neither of you says anything for a long time. The snowfall thickens. It clings to your lashes, melts slowly against the heat of his shoulder when it drifts close. You almost lean toward him. Almost. But you don’t. Because this… this thing between you isn’t named or defined. It’s a careful, wordless balance, like walking a tightrope strung between Heaven and Hell. And you don’t know what happens if one of you leans too far.

So you speak instead.

“They’re starting to wonder where I go,” You murmur. “The others.”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “Same.”

You glance at him, startled. You didn’t think demons would care.

“I shouldn’t be here. They don’t trust me much,” He says. “Never did. I’m not… obedient enough. Still got too many memories, I think.”

You study the side of his face, how the flickering light catches the scar near his jaw, how snow gathers in the folds of his coat, how his eyes stay fixed on the horizon like he’s waiting for something that never arrives.

You whisper, “Why do you keep coming back here?”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares into the white blur of the trees.

Then: “Because this is the only place I don’t feel like I’m supposed to be anything.”

The words hit harder than they should as you can feel your throat tighten. Because you understand. Because that’s the reason you come too. Not for salvation. Not for curiosity. But because here, on this forgotten ledge at the edge of war, you get to just exist.

Not as a Weapon or a Symbol. Not a Messenger, Servant, or Slave either. Just… as yourself. And maybe that’s why it almost happens.

The shift.

It begins as silence, broken only by the snowfall and the distant cry of something too old for naming. Your knees are nearly touching. His arm is barely a breath from your shoulder. And then, he turns to you. Really turns to you. The snow on his lashes. The flicker in his eyes. The pain he doesn’t speak about and the comfort he doesn’t ask for.

You don’t breathe.

His hand lifts slightly, hesitating between you, as if asking without asking. As if unsure whether reaching out will ruin everything you’ve built from the silence and distance.

Your breath fogs between you and you don’t move as that moment hangs like crystal in the air. Fragile. Shimmering. Dangerous.

But then he blinks and withdraws, looking away. The space between you swells again with all the things you didn’t say. All the things you didn’t do.

He clears his throat. “Should go. They’ll notice.”

You nod, but don’t stand.

He hesitates, then turns, walking back through the trees. The smoke follows him. Softer now. Calmer.

You stay until the snowfall covers where he sat. You don’t cry. Angels don’t cry. But something in you bends. And maybe next solstice… maybe it will break.

-

The snow is late this year.

The sky is too clear, too wide, the moon too full, as if the heavens are watching, waiting. You sit on the same broken stone wall, cloak wrapped tight, wings folded beneath layers of quiet. You haven’t spoken aloud since your last meeting. No words seem right unless they’re for him.

He’s late this time. You don’t pace. Angels don’t pace. But your fingers twitch and your breath stutters. The frost gathers along your lashes, and still, he does not come.

Then… you hear movement. The trees stir. Smoke curls through the air, faint at first, then thick, clinging to the wind like a memory refusing to be forgotten. And then he’s there. Shoulders hunched. Jaw tight. There’s a limp in his step you’ve never seen before. Something about the way he moves, it’s quieter. Smaller. Like he’s folding in on himself.

You don’t speak yet. Not yet. You watch as he stops before reaching the wall. He doesn’t move to sit. He stands there, hood shadowing his face, and one hand clenched tight inside his coat pocket. The other twitches at his side, fingers curling and uncurling like he’s trying to hold onto something too fragile.

You wait, watching him in silence for a minute. Two. Ten.

Finally, he speaks.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

Your voice is steady, even if your heart stumbles. “You say that every year.”

His eyes lift to yours. Something in them flickers resembling pain maybe, or guilt.

“No.” The word is thick. Real and raw. “I mean it this time.”

You don’t ask why. You could. You could demand the answer, peel it from his throat if you wanted. But some truths aren’t meant to be touched. Some are better left where they lie, between silence and suspicion.

Instead, you ask quietly, “Then why come?”

He looks down, taking a slow breath before moving closer to you. Slowly and Carefully, like it costs him something. From inside his coat, his gloved hand emerges, clenched around something small and heavy. When he opens it, the object catches the moonlight and your breath.

A coin. Worn. Misshapen. Half-melted, like it passed through fire and never forgot. Its edges are jagged, dangerous, like the lives it's touched. Like his life. You know what it truly is though.

A soul coin.

You’ve only seen one before, only once a long time ago. It served as proof of salvation. The kind no demon carries unless they’ve done the unthinkable, not damn a soul, but save it. It is a mark of rebellion, of change. Of loss.

He holds it for a moment more, then steps closer before holding it out to you. You hesitate, but only for a heartbeat. Your fingers close around it gently, reverently. It’s warm. Alive, almost. You can feel its weight and the cost of it.

And then, his voice, quieter now.

“Proof,” He states. “That I’m not all gone.”

Your eyes search his face, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way he’s trembling, but only slightly, like a man who’s fought too long and finally let himself feel it.

“Why give this to me?” You ask, barely above a whisper.

You watch as his gaze drops and hear the silence swell between you. Then, he says it. The thing that breaks you.

“Because next solstice…” He stops. His throat works around a word he doesn’t speak. His eyes close, “I might not be here.”

And that’s when it hurts. Because demons don’t lie. Not like this. Not with this kind of sorrow. You reach for him, but he steps back. Not in fear or nervousness this time. In resolution.

Like if you touched him now, he’d stay. And he’s already chosen to leave. When he vanishes, it isn’t with fire. It’s with smoke swirling softly and quietly. Like the ghost of a memory that never settled right.

He leaves behind nothing more than the coin in your hand, still warm, and a silence that feels too alive to be empty. A terrible ache in your chest builds, because angels don’t hope.

But tonight, you do. You hope to see him again.

The Way He Notices

Summary: As the teammate with invisibility, your powers often result in you disappearing from the Compound when the day becomes too much. However, you’re always seen by one person who has started to sit in silence with you, offering occasional comments and comfort. (Bucky Barnes x invisible!reader)

Disclaimer: Angst (sort of). Hurt/Comfort. Reader has the power of invisibility.

Word Count: 1.3k+

A/N: I had fully intended to just make this a blurb. I like imagining the reader with different powers, but this went over the 500 words I had initially planned lol

The compound was too loud.

Even if no one was yelling, even if no one was fighting, your skin buzzed with the memory of raised voices, flashing lights, hands that weren’t kind. Your breathing had gone shallow the moment the door shut behind you. Your hands trembled. Your pulse raced. Your instincts screamed.

So you disappeared. Literally. One blink, one breath, and maybe the world would forget you were there. Invisibility was your gift. When activated, everything fades. Body, clothes, scent; not even heat sensors can detect you. It remains a power you hold to help people from the shadows. Both your shield and your curse.

And right now, you use it to curl up into the corner of your room, legs pulled tight to your chest. Your breathing was quiet now, nearly silent. You liked it that way. Invisible and silent, unnoticed to the world.

But Bucky noticed. He always did. You never told anyone about what it really meant, to vanish. Not in words. Not out loud. But Bucky figured it out anyway.

He paid attention in a way most people didn’t. Not the loud kind, not the prying kind. Just quiet observation, patterns, and pauses. He noticed the things others dismissed: the way your fingers twitched when a voice got too sharp. The way your leg bounces nervously when the room turns tense. The way your eyes never quite met anyone’s after a hard mission.

And most of all, he noticed when you were suddenly gone.

Not physically. Not entirely. Just… hushed. Faded. The kind of gone where your seat at the table was still warm, your plate barely touched. The kind of gone where you stopped making eye contact, stopped breathing deep, stopped existing in the room even if you were still in it. The kind where your powers were not needed at all to remove your presence from a space.

Then overtime, he learned the different ways you could vanish. And unlike others, he didn’t joke about it. Didn’t push or pull or guilt you back. He just waited. A silent and steady presence to turn to.

The first time it happened, he stood in your doorway for ten full minutes, speaking to the air. Not because he thought it would fix anything. But because he knew what it meant to be terrified, voiceless, and unseen, yet still wanting someone to come find you anyway.

After that, it became a kind of rhythm between you. A quiet understanding. Then, the similarities began to show themselves. You weren’t touchy, and neither was he. Your voice was soft, never one to stand out in a room full of people. He was quiet, selective who he spoke to as he watched more than he engaged. You didn't open up easily. But you know he also struggled to do so as well. And when the world pressed too close and you disappeared into silence, he was the only one who could sit with it without trying to fix you.

It wasn’t romantic, not in the beginning. But it was intimate.

In the moments you let yourself be visible, Bucky saw you in ways no one else did. The slight tilt of your lips when you made a dry joke. The way you tilted your head when you were curious, and the way you flinched when someone raised their voice, even if it wasn’t at you. He never made it a big deal. Never made you feel small, insecure, or unworthy. Not even when you couldn’t quite express how you felt and never for existing.

He just noticed. And remembered.

So when your door clicked shut, and you didn’t speak, didn’t eat, didn’t check in? He knew. Because this man had memorized both your presence and absence like a shadow. It was what led him behind your door now, knocking three times. Three simple, soft taps. The kind that asked for permission, not attention.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“Doll?” His voice was soft, the edge of gravel worn down into silk. “I know you’re in here.”

Still, you stayed quiet. Hidden. Gone.

The door creaked open. He didn’t turn the lights on. He didn’t need them to know you were there. Sometimes you cursed his super soldier hearing.

“I saw you leave the training room without speaking to anyone. That’s not like you.”

There was no accusation in his voice. Just concern. Measured, careful concern. He stepped in further, and you saw the glint of metal catch the moonlight through your window.

“I know what it’s like,” He said after a long pause. “To want the whole world to stop seeing you. To disappear because it’s safer that way.”

You turned your head slightly, though you weren’t sure why. He still couldn’t see you. No one could.

“I used to hide,” He continued. “Behind orders. Behind missions. Behind… the Soldier.”

The reference hit the air with a dull ache. He sat down on the floor, not too close, but close enough.

“I’m not sure what happened. Maybe I never will. But I know you don’t have to be alone.”

You heard a quiet rustle before spotting his hand reaching out, palm up, resting between you both.

“I won’t touch you. I won’t even look, unless you want me to. Just know I’ll be here.”

Your breath hitched. Not because of the panic, but because of him. He stayed yet again. You still can’t get used to it, like somehow you’ve convinced yourself you’re not worth it.

But minutes passed, maybe an hour or more. Who knows. Bucky had learned the hard way how to sit with silence. How to let it breathe instead of trying to fill it. How sometimes just being there meant more than any words.

But slowly, carefully, you let the invisibility fade. Like dust in sunlight. Your fingers, trembling and pale, reached out and barely brushed his.

His hand didn’t move. Instead, you heard his voice, gentle and soft.

“There you are,” Bucky whispered, a ghost of a smile upon his face.

Something in his chest loosened. Not relief exactly, but… a sense of trust. Pride almost. You trusted him enough to come back, to be seen.

Because for the first time all day, you weren’t afraid. You weren’t alone nor unseen. He had stayed there, grounding you.

Your voice didn’t answer him, not out loud. You didn’t need to. Instead, you leaned just a little closer, the barest shift of weight, but he felt it. You were still trembling, but you weren’t hiding. Not from him.

He turned his palm so his fingers could wrap lightly around yours. Not tight. Just enough to remind you he was there.

“I know the world feels like too much sometimes,” He began quietly. “I don’t blame you for disappearing. I used to want to do it all the time. Hell, I did.”

He gave a short, hollow laugh; no humor, just memory.

“When I first came here, I kept thinking: If I can just vanish, if I can just keep still enough, no one will look at me like I’m broken. Like I’m dangerous. Like I’m one bad memory away from snapping.”

You shifted. Still silent, but listening. He could feel it.

“I saw that same look in your eyes today. Like you were made of glass and someone was swinging a hammer.”

The grip of your hand tightened slightly.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened. Not now. Not ever, if you don’t want. But if you need someone who gets it, you know I’m here.”

He tilted his head toward you, careful to keep his movements soft.

“No pressure,” He said quickly, a beat of hesitation filling the space before he added. “Just… if you ever wanna disappear, let me be the one who waits with you in the silence.”

A pause. Then, barely above a whisper:

“Okay.” You nodded. It was tiny, fragile; but Bucky felt it like a damn earthquake.

You didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t move an inch.

He doesn’t try to fix you. He just stays. Listens. Waits. And somehow, in a world that seems to forget you're there the moment you vanish, you're still seen. Completely, quietly, without question, because of the way he notices.

Mischief Meets Alpine

Summary: Bucky introduces Alpine to you and Mischief one afternoon. An intense, one-sided, stare off ensues with an interesting truce that practically leaves you speechless when they start influencing each other for better or worse. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.

Word Count: 2.3k+

A/N: To be honest, I wrote this one based on the idea given by @kissingkillercriminals in their reblog of the prequel. Hope it turns out to be a fun read for you and everyone else. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist | Prequel

It was a slow afternoon in the Tower. Clouds had gathered thickly in the sky, casting a grayish hue through the windows. Rain pattered gently against the glass, the soft drumming filling the silence in the common room.

You were curled up on the armchair with a book in your lap and Mischief lounging across your legs like the possessive feline empress she was. Her tail twitched lazily every few seconds, ears flicking to the rhythm of the raindrops. Her eyes were half-lidded, content.

That is, until the elevator dinged. Her ears perked immediately. You looked up as footsteps echoed down the hallway. Familiar ones.

“Hey,” Bucky greeted from the doorway, a little damp from the drizzle. But he wasn’t alone.

Nestled comfortably in his arms, perched like a queen surveying her domain, was a stunning white cat. Blue-eyed, snowy-soft, and eerily calm, almost regal in the way she looked around the room.

Mischief went still.

Your eyes widened. “Is that… Alpine?” You had heard of Bucky’s cat before, but never seemed to have the chance to meet her until now.

Bucky nodded, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips as he stepped in. “She was pacing by the window when I left the room this morning. Figured she might want a change of scenery.”

Mischief lifted her head. Her pupils narrowed sharply as she fixed her gaze on the uninvited guest. A low growl began to bubble in her throat, barely audible to anyone but you.

You gently placed your hand on her back. ‘Easy’, You thought, not even needing to speak it aloud. She didn’t seem to pick up on your message because her entire body was locked, tense, and offended.

Bucky moved slowly, like he knew he was treading on sacred ground. “Didn’t mean to start a turf war. Just figured maybe it was time.”

You stood slowly, Mischief reluctantly hopping off your lap. Her tail whipped once in warning.

Alpine was unfazed. Her blue eyes landed on Mischief with mild interest. She gave a soft, courteous mrrrow, as if greeting a fellow royal.

Mischief’s eyes narrowed. She sat, but her body language screamed intruder.

“She’s beautiful,” You said gently, watching Alpine with cautious awe. “I didn’t know she was so calm around new places.”

“She’s used to traveling,” Bucky replied, setting Alpine down slowly onto the floor. “Doesn’t like being cooped up. Kinda like me.”

You watched with a held breath as Alpine took a few exploratory steps forward. Mischief didn’t move, but her eyes tracked every inch like a sniper zeroing in. When Alpine got within a few feet, she paused. Then, with the unbothered grace of someone who feared nothing, she laid down.

Mischief hissed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even aggressive. But it was unmistakably territorial.

“Mischief,” You warned softly, crouching next to her. “She’s not a threat.”

Bucky crouched too, beside Alpine, who had begun grooming her paw without a care in the world.

“Look at them,” He said, his voice hushed like it was a secret. “It’s like they’re trying to decide who owns the building.”

You laughed under your breath. “Mischief thinks she owns it.”

“Alpine knows she doesn’t need to prove it.”

As the two cats stared each other down, you caught it, soft and calm, threaded right beneath the silence.

She’s dramatic.

You blinked. Wait… That voice, sleek, composed, feminine, was Alpine’s. Not a meow, not a growl. Words.

You glanced at Bucky, but he was oblivious. Still watching the feline standoff like it was a chess game. Mischief’s growl rose slightly. Alpine remained still.

She likes you. That’s why she hasn’t lunged yet.

Alpine added, her voice as silky as her fur.

But I don’t back down either. So this should be interesting.

You noticed Mischief didn’t seem to hear your telepathic conversation with the newcomer. So you didn’t respond aloud, instead responding in your mind. ’You’re really not bothered, are you?’

He smells like snow and blood, but his hands are gentle. She’s possessive, not of the tower. Of you.

You felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rain. ‘I can see why.’

Mischief hissed quietly, and you caught a flicker of Alpine’s tail.

She wants me to leave.

’Will you?’ You thought, unsure if you were asking out of hope or curiosity.

No. But I’ll wait. I’m patient. She’s not the only one who’s bonded.

The two cats remained still, locked in a silent standoff. Well, more like a one-sided standoff. A slow, deliberate blink passed from Alpine to Mischief.

To your utter shock, Mischief paused for a moment before blinking back. A beat passed before she turned her head and sat down with a huff. Not surrender. But perhaps a reluctant acknowledgment.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Was that…?”

You blinked. “I think that was the feline equivalent of a handshake.”

He grinned, proud. “Progress.”

You looked down at both of them, one lounging and one sulking. You rose to your feet now, and as you did, Mischief brushed your leg with her tail, circling your feet like she was claiming you. Alpine simply hopped onto the rug and began inspecting a string toy left forgotten from Tony’s latest failed bribery attempt.

“So,” Bucky said after a moment, straightening. “What are the chances our girls end up tolerating each other?”

You glanced down at Mischief, who gave you a look that seemed to say, I allow this only because you do.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” You murmured. “But… It’s a start.”

Bucky stepped a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “They’re like us,” He said quietly. “Cautious. But… maybe not beyond letting someone in.”

You turned your head toward him slowly, heart skipping.

“Maybe,” You said. “If they’re lucky enough to find the right person.”

And beneath the steady sound of rain, the two of you watched the loved cats learning the quiet language of trust across the room.

-

Though, you didn’t know what that trust would actually entail. The first incident began with silence, which, in your experience with Mischief, was never a good sign.

The Tower was unusually quiet that morning. You were sipping tea in the kitchen, reading reports while waiting for the coffee machine to finish sputtering its way through Bucky’s drink order. Mischief had been suspiciously absent since breakfast. Alpine had vanished not long after.

You glanced toward the hallway only to find nothing out of the ordinary.

Then, a crash, coming from the direction of Tony’s lab.

Not a small bump or a gentle thud. No, this was a metallic, shattering, the Tony-will-not-be-pleased sort of crash.

You bolted upright, nearly spilling your tea, and sprinted toward the noise. Bucky was already there, jogging in from the elevator, sweatpants loose, hair damp from his time at the gym.

“You heard that too?” He asked, eyes narrowing.

Another sound followed. A high-pitched zip-zip-zip noise, like drones activating. Followed by… pawsteps?

You and Bucky skidded to a stop at the entrance to Tony’s lab. It looked like a bomb had gone off.

Three of Tony’s prototype micro-drones were hovering erratically midair, one of them twirling in panicked circles. The rest lay in pieces scattered across the floor, wires tangled like a crime scene. And in the middle of the chaos sat Alpine, tail curled delicately around her paws, completely unbothered.

On the counter nearby, Mischief crouched with a gleam in her eye that could only be described as unrepentant. She looked directly at you, then at Bucky, and gave a soft meow as if to assert her innocence.

“I think we just missed the heist,” You said breathlessly.

Bucky muttered, “Alpine was supposed to be the calm one.”

“I never said Mischief was a good influence.”

You both stepped forward carefully, surveying the disaster. Mischief had clearly pried open one of the drawers, Tony’s "Do Not Touch" ones. Wires were dragged out like spaghetti noodles. A spilled jar of who knows what rolled lazily across the floor.

“Is that my cloaking device?” Came a voice from the hallway.

You winced as Tony rounded the corner before stopping dead at the sight.

Alpine jumped gracefully down and walked over to Bucky’s feet, brushing against him as if she hadn’t just helped dismantle a small fortune in tech.

Tony's eye twitched. “Why are your cats smarter than my interns?”

“I ask myself that every day,” Bucky said, scooping up Alpine. “You didn’t leave any exploding gadgets out, right?”

“Not this week,” Tony snapped, waving a tablet like a club. “Do you even understand what they’ve broken? That drone was programmed to help defuse bombs.”

“I’m sure they had a good reason,” You offered, not that it helped, gently lifting Mischief off the counter. She purred, content and absolutely smug.

“Ask her what the hell kind of reason that would be,” Tony snapped at you.

You looked at Mischief, questioning in a flat tone. “Why?”

Mischief stretched lazily, flicked her tail, and in a nonchalant, mental whisper, said:

It blinked first.

You groaned at the excuse, hesitating before giving the answer. “She says it blinked at her.”

Tony blinked. “It blinked? That’s your defense?”

“She’s a cat, Tony.”

“Whatever.” He pointed at Bucky. “And your cat?”

Bucky looked down at Alpine, who yawned wide and graceful. She murmured to you with eerie composure,

I wanted to know if it could fly backward. It couldn’t.

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

“What?” Tony demanded, head snapping towards you.

You waved him off. “You… don’t want to know.”

Later that evening, after Tony had barricaded the lab and implemented new retinal scans to keep out the feline menaces (his words, not yours). You found Bucky in the living room with Alpine lying beside him with a toy and Mischief perched on the back of the couch.

“They’re lucky they’re cute,” You muttered, flopping down beside him.

Bucky glanced sideways. “I think they’re bonding.”

“They broke a drone.”

“Exactly.”

You looked at the two cats now comfortably sharing the space, Alpine nibbling at the feather toy, Mischief eyeing the object like it had wronged her.

You shook your head. “It’s like watching spies team up.”

“They are spies,” Bucky corrected, definitely not taking this seriously, evident by the grin he wore. “Tiny, furry, manipulative spies.”

Mischief flicked her tail in agreement as Alpine blinked slowly. And for a brief moment, peace, albeit temporary, settled over the Tower.

-

However, while the first incident was annoying for Tony, the second was catered more toward you and Bucky.

It started small to the point where you didn’t notice it at first. Mischief, your eternally territorial shadow, began to behave… differently. She still took up her usual place on your lap, still growled at anyone who got too close, and still owned the Tower like she paid the bills. But she started following you and Bucky when you left rooms. Lingering in the halls, appearing on counters and ledges when the two of you happened to be in the same space.

Alpine, meanwhile, watched everything from a perch of regal detachment, or so it seemed. But you knew better since you heard her.

Don’t hiss this time. Just watch. Let him sit next to her first.

You had paused when you heard it the first time, over breakfast. Mischief was on the table (illegally), staring daggers at Bucky as he walked in. Alpine, curled on the windowsill, barely flicked her tail, but her voice unintentionally slipped into your thoughts again as she directed the ‘secret’ information to Mischief:

She likes it when he brings her things and when he calls her 'trouble.' You should let her admit that.

You almost choked on your toast, but didn’t say anything when Bucky looked over at you with a questioning, concerned gaze.

That was the first clue.

The second clue came two days later, when Bucky was helping you patch up a cut you'd gotten during training. It was nothing, barely a nick, but he'd insisted. Kneeling in front of you, his gloved hand cradled your wrist while the other applied antiseptic.

Mischief watched from the armrest, her ears twitching. It was clear she was tense, jealous… until Alpine hopped up beside her and gently nudged her with her head.

Now. Purr. So she relaxes.

Mischief blinked slowly, tail twitching. Then, shockingly, she purred. Loudly and deeply. You actually laughed, easing into the moment, and Bucky glanced up at you with that rare, boyish half-smile that made your chest ache.

You knew that had been Alpine's doing. And Mischief, traitor that she was, seemed fine with it.

The third clue? Bucky confessed it.

You were sitting together in the lounge late one night, watching the rain tap softly at the windows, each of you nursing mugs of tea. Mischief dozed between you on the couch. Alpine had curled beside her, touching, no less. A miracle in itself.

Bucky tilted his head toward the sleeping cats. “You know, Alpine's been… weird.”

“Weird how?”

He hesitated. “She… keeps pushing me toward you.”

Your heart did a very stupid, very hopeful thing. “She told you that?”

He gave you a sheepish look. “She doesn’t talk to me like she talks to you, of course. But she’ll nudge me when I move away too soon. Block seats unless I sit beside you. Once she knocked my phone out of my hand when I was trying to leave the room.”

You could feel your heart beat faster, but tried to cover up your nervousness with a laugh, joking a little. “She’s matchmaking.”

“I think Mischief’s in on it, too. Last night, she dragged your hoodie into my room.”

Your eyebrows shot up. So that’s where your hoodie went, of all places.

“And then Alpine slept on it like it was a peace offering.”

You looked down at the two curled balls of fur, now subtly pressed together. Mischief’s tail lay loosely draped over Alpine’s back.

“Is this what a truce looks like?” You whispered.

Bucky’s fingers brushed yours, and you didn’t pull away.

“Looks like,” He murmured.

You didn’t answer this time, but your fingers curled around Bucky’s gently as Alpine purred softly and Mischief, even in sleep, didn’t object.

That was enough of an answer until either of you could act on the same thing both of your hearts wanted.

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.

Toy Store Visit

Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]

Summary: You go to a toy store with a budget and pick out one new stuffie. Your caregivers gently guide you and remain patient as you carefully choose which stuffed animal or toy to bring home.

Word Count: 1.2k+

Main Masterlist

The car ride felt like forever even though in reality, it was maybe fifteen minutes, but your legs were already bouncing with excitement by the time Steve pulled into the parking lot. You were pressed up against the window, nose leaving a faint smudge on the glass, eyes wide as the bright, colorful sign of the toy store came into view. You gasped, your hands grabbing at the straps of your seatbelt.

“We there we there we there!” You chanted, voice high and bouncy in your little headspace.

Bucky chuckled from beside you, already unbuckling himself. “Yeah, peanut, we’re here. But don’t forget the rules, okay?”

Steve turned in the driver’s seat to look back at you, his tone gentle. “One toy, just one. Doesn’t matter what it is. It can be big or small but we’re sticking to one, alright, sweetheart?”

You nodded fast. “Uh-huh! One! Jus’ one. Promise!”

“Alright then,” Steve said with a smile. “Let’s go.”

You practically wiggled out of your car seat as Bucky helped undo the buckle, and you reached up for his hand without thinking. His metal fingers curled softly around yours as you stepped out onto the sidewalk, sticking close between your two caregivers. Your eyes lit up the moment the automatic doors whooshed open, rows and rows of colors, boxes, plush, and puzzles stretched out in front of you like magic.

You didn’t know where to start.

Steve leaned down and whispered in your ear, “Take your time, honey. No rush.”

So you did. You wandered down every aisle, with Bucky patiently walking beside you and Steve keeping an eye out from a few feet behind. Every so often, you’d stop and gasp while you pointed at something shiny, squeaky, or soft. You picked up a few things to study them carefully before putting them back with a quiet, “Not the one…”

Steve and Bucky never rushed you. Even when you doubled back to the same aisle three times, debating between a pink dinosaur plushie that roared when squeezed and a sensory pop-it shaped like a turtle.

“Dino roars,” You mumbled to Bucky, your bottom lip pushed out in a thinking pout. “But turtle’s got bubbles.”

He knelt beside you, his metal hand brushing your hair out of your face. “What does your heart say? Which one makes it feel warm?”

You placed both toys down carefully and looked between them, then slowly reached for something you hadn’t noticed before: a soft little stuffed jellyfish that was pale blue with velvety tentacles and sleepy embroidered eyes. You held it to your chest instantly. “This one,” You whispered, voice low and in awe. “She’s soft an’ shy like me.”

Bucky smiled gently. “Then I think she’s perfect.”

You beamed, holding her tighter. “Her name’s Bubbles,” You informed them proudly, skipping just a little as you made your way to the front register. Steve gave you a wink as he took her to scan, slipping her right back into your arms after the purchase. “Welcome to the family, Bubbles,” He teased as you giggled, cradling her like something fragile and precious.

Back in the car, snuggled in the back seat with your seatbelt carefully fastened, you stared out the window, petting Bubbles’ soft head. Bucky passed you your juice box, and Steve glanced back briefly.

“You did really good, sweetheart,” Steve said softly.

“Waited your turn, made a thoughtful choice, and you didn’t get overwhelmed,” Bucky added, a proud smile on his expression.

You looked up at them, eyes wide with sleepy pride. “Thank you f’r takin’ me.”

Steve smiled. “Always. You’re our little, this stuff matters.”

You curled into your seat, jellyfish in one arm, juice in the cup holder next to you, and a heart full and warm.

-

Back at home, the apartment had the faint scent of dinner leftovers still lingering in the air, and soft music playing in the background belonging to one of Steve’s old vinyl records humming low from the living room speaker.

You kicked your shoes off clumsily at the door, still cradling Bubbles in your arms like a fragile baby. Bucky was right behind you, taking your shoes and putting them by the door neatly, while Steve carried in your empty juice box and tossed it in the recycling with a soft chuckle.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Steve said, ruffling your hair. “Show Bubbles around. Bet she’s curious.”

You nodded seriously. “Uh-huh. She don’ know where nothin’ is.”

Bucky smiled, settling on the couch to watch you. “Well then, she’s lucky to have the best tour guide in the whole house.”

You led Bubbles around the space starting with the living room, holding her up so she could “see” the couch, the blanket basket, and your bin of toys tucked in the corner. You pressed her soft jelly legs against each thing, whispering things like, “This the squishy blankie, but sometimes I share… sometimes…” or “That’s the remote. Not ‘llowed to touch it. Papa says so.”

Then you padded down the hall to your room where a soft nightlight was already glowing along the baseboards. Your room smelled like lavender and lotion, felt like home and safety. You climbed up on the bed and sat cross-legged, settling Bubbles in your lap.

“This is home,” You whispered to her, brushing her soft fabric head. “S’our room now.”

Steve leaned in the doorway, arms crossed gently. He was watching with that patient, warm expression he always got when you were especially little. Bucky peeked in behind him with your favorite sippy cup. He walked over and handed you yours with a quiet, “Hydrate, little fish.”

You giggled at the nickname and took a careful sip before setting your drink down on the nightstand. Then you picked up your favorite blankie and tucked Bubbles under it, right beside your pillow. “She’s sleepy,” you whispered to Steve. “She gots all tired in the car.”

Steve came in and crouched down beside the bed. “Think she needs help falling asleep?”

You nodded. “Need lull’by. She scared.”

Bucky climbed in beside you, pulling you into his lap so you could watch while Steve tucked Bubbles in properly by adjusting the blanket and fluffing a little pillow under her round jelly head. Then he began to hum a soft, comforting slow rhythm that you’d heard a dozen times, usually when you were dozing against his chest or curled in bed half-asleep.

You sighed content and leaned into Bucky, thumb in your mouth now, eyelids fluttering as Steve continued.

By the time he finished, you were barely awake, still holding Bucky’s hand while your body melted into the calmness of the atmosphere. Steve kissed your forehead gently, then Bubbles’, then helped you lay down beside her.

“She’s okay now,” You mumbled, already halfway gone. “She gots us…”

“She sure does,” Bucky whispered, brushing hair back from your cheek. “Just like we got you.”

Steve flicked off the bedside lamp, and both men stayed until your breathing slowed and softened. You were wrapped in blankets and love, Bubbles tucked close, and your tiny fingers resting gently on her soft head as sleep took over.

Just like your new plush friend, you were home, safe, and loved.

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.

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.

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.

Picture Perfect

Summary: You’ve always loved photography but never dared to try until your boyfriends encourage you to pick up a camera and capture the world through your eyes. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 700+

A/N: Another self-indulgent mini fic. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Despite your quiet love for photography, there was always a voice inside you holding you back. A whisper of doubt that never quite went away. It wasn’t just about not having a camera or the technical know-how; it was something deeper, rooted in old fears you rarely admitted aloud.

You’d spent so much time playing it safe, afraid to try because you didn’t want to fail. What if you picked up the camera, clicked the shutter, and nothing came out the way you imagined? What if your photos were just… ordinary? Unremarkable? Worse, what if trying and failing made you feel small and invisible all over again?

There were memories tangled in that fear. Times when you had dared to put yourself out there in other ways by trying new things, opening up emotionally, yet it hadn’t gone well. Moments when your efforts went unnoticed, or worse, were quietly dismissed.

You worried that photography, something so personal and expressive, might expose that part of you you kept locked away; the part that wasn’t sure if you were good enough.

Even more, you feared that your love for it would fade if you faced disappointment early on. The idea of giving up on something you cared about felt like losing a piece of yourself, and that was terrifying.

That changed one Saturday afternoon. You sat curled up on the couch, flicking through an old photo album filled with faded memories containing snapshots of laughter, adventure, and the quiet moments in between. The nostalgia settled warmly over you, like a soft blanket, and for once, you felt a spark. Some sort of urge to capture moments yourself.

Steve noticed the way your eyes lingered on a black-and-white picture of a city street and smiled gently. “You’ve got a good eye for this,” He sat down beside you, presence steady and comforting like an anchor.

Bucky, lounging on the other side with a book, looked up and nodded. “Yeah. You’ve always been the one who sees the little things. The stuff most people walk right past.”

You glanced between them, cheeks warming at the encouragement. It wasn’t often they focused on something so small and personal. Steve reached over and lightly squeezed your hand. “Why don’t you try it? Start small. I bet you’d be amazing.”

The idea was both thrilling and terrifying. But watching Steve and Bucky’s easy confidence in your abilities was like a gentle breeze breaking through your self-imposed storm. They saw you clearly, without judgment. Their encouragement wasn’t just words, it was a promise they believed in you when you couldn’t fully believe in yourself.

Bucky put his book down, his gaze sincere. “We’re here to help. Hell, we’ll even be your models if you want.”

You laughed softly, the weight of hesitation lifting just a bit. “I don’t even have a camera,” You admitted, feeling slightly vulnerable.

Steve’s eyes twinkled with that familiar determination. “We’ll fix that.”

It wasn’t long at all before the next day where Bucky surprised you with a simple but reliable camera. A gift wrapped with a note that said, “For all the moments you’re ready to capture.”

You ran your fingers over the smooth body of the camera, heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves. It wasn’t just a piece of equipment to you; it was a chance.

That evening, the three of you went out for a walk, Steve and Bucky encouraging you every step of the way. Steve pointed out the soft glow of the streetlights, the way shadows played on the walls, while Bucky suggested interesting angles and compositions.

With every click of the shutter, you felt a little more confident. Your breath caught when you caught Steve’s smile in a candid moment or when Bucky’s steady gaze was perfectly framed against the fading light.

“You’re a natural,” Bucky said, ruffling your hair as you reviewed the shots.

Steve nodded, wrapping an arm around you both. “To think this is just the beginning.”

For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were stepping into something that was truly yours. Something that was worth exploring, with the two people you loved cheering you on every step of the way.

Tiny Wings, Gentle Things

Summary: Steve gently teaches you human things like books, buttons, and manners, while Bucky encourages mischief, showing you how to pull harmless pranks around the tower. The others react with a mix of confusion, amusement, and affection. (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 700+

A/N: Little day in the life as I work on something else for them. Thank you to @lexi-anastasia-astra-luna for some of the ideas here. Enjoy! Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Original Fic

No one really knew what to do with you.

You were small, winged, usually perched somewhere high, and spoke only when you really had something to say. And even then, it was usually short answers or a half-muttered grumble. But Steve and Bucky understood your silences, the way you blinked slowly to show you were listening, or how you folded your wings just slightly when you were shy.

Tony tried, for about five minutes. He offered you a nanobot containment suit that looked like a miniature Iron Man armor. You stared at it, picked it up, and immediately used it as a bowl to hold berries.

Clint once tried to feed you a gummy worm. You were offended he gellied a worm, threw it back at his face, and disappeared in a sparkle.

Natasha never tried. She just nodded at you once, quietly, like she saw you in the way only someone used to silence really could. You nodded back. A silent truce.

But it was Steve and Bucky who brought you into their strange human world piece by piece.

Steve started with books.

Children’s stories at first, Grimm’s fairy tales (which you found rude), then picture books, then little poems he read aloud to you in the warm morning sun. You’d perch on the windowsill, legs swinging, wings drowsy and half-spread out, as he explained what a “library” was. You didn’t say much, just blinked slowly, then nodded once.

Then came buttons.

You were obsessed with them, often hoarding them after being given some as rewards for your lessons with Steve. The man would sit you on the table and give you different things one at a time. Sometimes it was light switches, other times old radio dials or clicky pens, and he would explain each time what they did.

“Elevator,” Steve said once, pointing to the big silver doors. “You press that button, and it takes you to another floor.”

You looked at him then at the button before pressing it. When the doors opened, you flew inside and hovered in the corner like a suspicious bee.

He didn’t laugh. Just waited.

You ended up going up four floors by yourself and refused to speak for two hours afterward.

Bucky, on the other hand, was… different.

He saw your silences as permission. Permission to teach you everything you weren’t supposed to know.

“Okay,” He whispered one evening, crouched beside the kitchen island like he was about to spill government secrets. “This is a prank. It’s not bad. It’s mischief. And Sam deserves it.”

You blinked slowly, sitting on his shoulder.

He held up a spoon and nodded toward the sugar bowl.

“Swapped with salt. Classic.”

You didn’t say anything, but when he looked away, you fluttered over and swapped every single label in the spice rack.

Bucky stared, then smirked. “Okay. Overachiever.”

From then on, it became a game.

You’d turn invisible and move Sam’s phone two inches to the left every day until he questioned reality.

You filled Peter’s web-shooter with glitter. You unzipped Tony’s backpack halfway so it spilled post-its everywhere. No one ever suspected you except maybe Nat, who watched you a little too knowingly.

You never laughed out loud. But sometimes, when no one was looking, your wings would pulse in little ripples like soft, silent giggles.

And sometimes Bucky caught you smirking behind your hand.

You didn’t talk much. But you listened.

You remembered that Steve said “please” and “thank you” even to vending machines. That Bucky never let anyone touch his dog tags but didn’t mind when you rested on them. That Sam talked too loudly but always smelled like clean laundry and summer air. That Wanda could feel emotions like a river and once gifted you a leaf shaped like a heart.

You never spoke of it, but sometimes you left little gifts.

A petal in Natasha’s drawer.

A marble in Peter’s hoodie.

A single, silver button beside Steve’s bed.

You were quiet, mysterious, and easily mistaken for decoration sometimes. But the tower shifted around you, softened. They grew used to the way coffee mugs were suddenly left out around the place or how the microwave would beep and no one was there.

And every morning, without fail, Steve would say, “Good morning, sweetheart,” to the windowsill just in case you were there, curled in a sock, pretending not to care.