Even If You Forget
Even If You Forget
Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Bucky loses all memory of his relationship with you. Though heartbroken, you patiently stay by his side, offering gentle support and quiet company. Despite the emotional distance, you hold onto the hope that someday he’ll find his way back. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Word Count: 2.1k+
A/N: This has ANGST by the way. I absolutely adore anything to do with memories, so much potential. I might write another version of this where the reader loses her memories instead. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | His Version
The mornings with Bucky were always slow, quiet, and warm.
His arm was usually draped over your waist by the time the sun started to creep through the blinds. He breathed a little heavier in the mornings, caught between dreams and the weight of his history. However, he never seemed to stir until you moved.
You liked it that way. It gave you time to look at him, at the faint worry lines that softened in sleep, at the longer strands of brown hair you liked to brush behind his ear, at the mouth that rarely smiled in public but had no trouble curving up for you when the world was far away.
You loved him deeply. In the way people loved after surviving something. There were scars on both of you and silences that stretched longer than they should’ve, but you understood him, and he had never once looked at you like he regretted being understood.
Your relationship had started quietly, like most things with Bucky did. It wasn’t love at first sight. It wasn’t loud declarations or stolen kisses in the rain. It was simpler. He’d sit near you during debriefings and glance over to make sure you understood the mission. He’d knock on your door late at night when he couldn’t sleep and leave a book outside if you didn’t answer. He remembered how you liked your coffee and never asked why you kept a light on when you slept.
Eventually, he started sitting a little closer. Touching your hand a little longer. Smiling a little easier. It wasn’t fast, but it was safe and real. You both needed that.
Sixteen months into the relationship, you'd moved in together into a tiny apartment, tucked above an old bookstore with creaky floors and a heater that only worked when Bucky kicked it. You painted the walls together. He helped pick out the furniture. You made him tea when his nightmares left him shaking, and he kissed your forehead when your hands trembled after bad missions.
He was never one to say I love you right away and especially not out loud. But he showed it, every single day.
And when he finally did say it, it was late at night, in the middle of an argument about laundry or groceries or something equally domestic and ridiculous when you both froze. He looked horrified that it slipped out. You looked stunned for barely a second before smiling and leaning closer to him, saying it back like it was the easiest thing in the world.
You thought nothing could take that from you.
But you were wrong.
You and Bucky had been paired up for another mission like normal to infiltrate an abandoned Hydra facility. Retrieve what remained of their stolen technology and data, destroy the rest. Bucky didn’t want you going in at first, but you reminded him that you were a trained operative, not a civilian. Besides, you worked better together anyways.
You were halfway through the facility when the alarms went off. Not an intruder alert but something else. Something that triggered deeper in the system. You split up briefly to cover more ground, and that was the last time Bucky looked at you like he knew who you were.
When you found him again twenty minutes later, he was hunched over and clutching his head near a strange, flickering device. When he raised his head, all you could see was cold, calculating eyes staring back.
Like a stranger.
And when you called his name, your voice shaking, and your hands reaching out to steady him; he backed away like you were poison.
“Who the hell are you?”
You froze in your spot. His voice wasn’t like Bucky’s. It was lower, flatter. Measured. It lacked the hesitant warmth that usually colored his words when he spoke to you. It was the voice of someone evaluating a threat.
Your hand, half-raised, trembled in the air between you.
“Bucky,” You whispered, like maybe the sound of it would crack something open. “It’s me.”
He stood slowly, the whir of his metal arm slicing through the silence. His eyes didn’t flicker with recognition. No softness. No guilt. Just analysis and caution.
You’d seen that expression before. Once. Years ago, when the Winter Soldier was still a ghost wandering about without a strip of autonomy. You definitely didn’t see this expression on the man who crawled into your bed at night and tucked a blanket around your shoulders.
But, here he was. You could feel how painfully your heart pounded in your chest.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” He said, almost to himself. He looked around, scanning the shadows like he expected enemies to crawl out of the dark. His hand hovered near the side holster at his thigh. “Who sent you?”
“No one sent me,” You said, stepping forward. “You’re-… Bucky, you’re not well. That machine, something happened. Let me help-“
“Stop,” He snapped. Your name was unfamiliar to him now. It didn’t make him pause. It didn’t register. “You’re not cleared to speak to me. I don’t know you.”
The words landed with brutal precision. You stepped back like you’d been struck. Because in a way, you had. He didn’t remember you.
The realization settled over you slowly, like frost creeping across glass. You felt your lungs tighten, your throat close. You could still see the outline of the relationship you'd built, months of laughter and late nights and slow healing, but he stood on the other side of it now, locked out.
You reached for your comm, fingers clumsy and stiff with dread as you called for backup and reported the situation.
When the team arrived, faster than you had expected, they didn’t ask many questions. You let them take over while you stood to the side, arms wrapped tightly around your chest, eyes fixed on the man who no longer knew your name.
Steve had been brought with the other agents. Miraculously, Bucky still remembered him and trusted his words to lead him to safety. He had followed Steve back to the Quinjet without hesitation. There was a time when he would have trusted you without a second thought too, but now you were just another stranger.
You sat in the back of the jet, silent and numb, your eyes never leaving his tense form. One hand was curled loosely near his chest. You remembered how he used to hold your hand that way when he slept. Like he needed to know you were real.
Now he didn’t know you at all.
Back at HQ, medical scans confirmed your worst fear. The machine had been some kind of neural disruptor, a crude prototype designed to extract and overwrite memory. Hydra tech, of course. The data was incomplete, scrambled, but the damage wasn’t.
He remembered Steve. Missions. Pieces of his past. It didn’t bring back the Winter Soldier thanks to his time in Wakanda. However, anything recent or anything soft, was gone.
You. Erased just like that.
You spent three days outside the glass of the room he stayed in, watching him rebuild his reality in pieces. He spoke little. Ate less. The team tried reintroducing him to other faces, but he flinched away from most of them. He was polite, distant, cautious. Like a soldier unsure of his orders.
Every time you entered the room, his eyes would land on you and linger. But they never softened. He never said your name, not even once.
And every night, you’d sit alone in your apartment above the bookstore, staring at the spot on the couch where he used to fall asleep during movie nights, wondering how you could miss someone who was technically still alive, just out of reach.
You never forced him to remember. You didn’t even try. Because you knew memory wasn’t something you could demand back. It wasn’t a switch you could flip or a locked door you could break down with frustration or anger. It was delicate. Fragile. Like glass edges that could cut him deeper if handled carelessly.
So instead, you became quiet. You became gentle even though visiting him wasn’t easy. Each time you entered the room, you reminded yourself to soften your eyes, to keep your voice low, calm. To be someone who he might feel safe with, even if he didn’t remember why.
“Hey,” You’d say, just like that. Simple. No pressure. No demands.
You’d bring small things like his favorite book, a picture from your last trip, or a worn jacket he’d left behind. You hoped these would speak to something buried inside him, a spark.
Some days, he’d look at you with confusion. Others, with suspicion. Sometimes, his eyes would flicker like he was searching for a ghost behind your face.
You hated that, but you never showed it. You never let him see it because you couldn’t. You remembered how lost he felt the first time you met him, before all the pieces of you and him fit together. And you knew patience was the only thread strong enough to hold you both together now.
Because you could tell he was afraid. Of you. Of himself. Of what he’d lost. And you were afraid, too. Afraid you’d never get him back. Afraid he’d forget the moments you shared, the trust you built. All the moments you shared together.
But you stayed. Every passing day, every painful visit, you stayed. Even when it hurt to see the distance in his eyes or the way his hand no longer found yours in the dark or the way his voice no longer softened when he spoke your name.
Because love wasn’t about forcing recognition or surfacing memories of what used to be. It was about waiting. Waiting until he could find you again, on his own terms.
-
In the halls of the Avengers compound, you often caught the looks of the team. Quiet glances that lingered too long before they quickly looked away. Soft expressions shadowed with pity. Sometimes, it was Tony shaking his head slightly when he thought you weren’t looking. Sometimes, Natasha’s eyes would meet yours briefly, sympathy buried beneath her usual stoic mask. Steve especially, steady as ever, gave you a small nod of understanding whenever your paths crossed.
They all knew. They knew what you were going through. They knew exactly what you had lost, but no one said it aloud. They didn’t need to after all.
You felt the weight of it, like invisible hands pressing down on your chest when you thought you were alone. The way they looked at you said, She’s holding onto someone who’s slipping away. She’s pretending to be okay, but she’s breaking.
You never asked for their pity. You never wanted it. It felt like another reminder that things were broken beyond repair. So you kept forcing yourself to keep your head high and to keep moving forward.
You showed up for briefings. You trained with the others. You made sure your smiles were steady, your voice calm. But deep within you, every step was heavy. Every breath felt borrowed. Because the truth everyone was coming to realize, no one could fix this but Bucky. And Bucky couldn’t remember you.
And as days bled into weeks, your visits with him continued. Still quiet, steady, and unyielding. But no breakthroughs. No magic moments where Bucky suddenly remembered your name or the warmth of your touch.
But slowly, you learned to be okay with that. Because sometimes, healing wasn’t about the big gestures. It was about the small ones.
A flicker of recognition in his eyes when you laughed at a joke you’d shared long ago. A twitch of hesitation before he pulled back when you offered your hand. A breath held a moment longer when you read aloud from his favorite book.
Those tiny cracks in the wall gave you hope.
One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the compound, you found yourself sitting beside him on the couch. No words were spoken, there was no need.
His hand, tentative and unsure, brushed against yours. You paused for a moment and didn’t dare pull away. Instead, you let your fingers intertwine slowly, grounding both of you in that fragile moment of connection.
It wasn’t the past rushing back. It wasn’t a promise of what would come. But it was something. A beginning. A chance. And sometimes, that was enough.
Because you knew this story wasn’t finished. Not yet.
And as long as you both were willing to try, maybe one day, he’d find his way back to you.
More Posts from Eviannadoll and Others
Left Alone with the Air Fryer
Summary: You leave him home alone with a new air fryer and strict instructions not to use it. He does it anyways. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Word Count: 400+
A/N: Hi, I’m sick. So, enjoy Bucky being a slight menace. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
You were only gone for a couple of hours.
That’s it. Two hours. You had a simple errand: pick up your dry cleaning and stop by the store. You even made sure to leave Bucky with very clear instructions, a sticky note that read: “Do not touch the air fryer. Just eat the leftovers.” It was short, straight to the point, and should have been foolproof.
Except you apparently forgot who you were dealing with.
When you walk through the door, the first thing you notice is the smell. It’s not bad. It’s… actually kind of amazing. A mix of melted cheese, garlic, and something slightly suspicious, like someone tried to recreate fair food from memory. The second thing you notice is the mess. Not a disaster, exactly but Bucky Barnes, ex-assassin and super soldier, is hunched over the kitchen counter, squinting at the air fryer like it just gave him attitude.
“Hey,” He says, without looking up. “Quick question. Is it supposed to smoke like that?”
You drop your bags and rush over. Your heart is skipping a beat, but the smoke is minimal, more of a dramatic wisp. Still, there are three bowls on the counter, each filled with what appears to be a different kind of fried cheese. One has mozzarella sticks (burnt on one side), another has some kind of pizza roll Frankenstein hybrids, and the last looks like he tried to batter and fry actual slices of provolone.
You blink. “Bucky. What… happened?”
He finally looks up, face too serious for the situation. “Okay so, I was hungry. You said not to touch the air fryer, but it was… calling to me.” He gestures vaguely, like the machine whispered forbidden secrets. “And I remembered you said something about preheating it, but then I forgot what button that was, so I just hit all of them. Twice.”
“You what?!”
“Look, I fixed it! I googled a YouTube guy who said air frying was an ‘art form’ and I think I may have found my calling.” He walks over to the counter and presents a Tupperware container with a proud flourish. Inside? Perfectly golden, crispy mozzarella sticks. Like… dangerously good.
He grins, immensely proud over his perfect appetizer. “I even plated them or contained them.”
You narrow your eyes. “You did all this in two hours?”
“Oh, no, this took like… twenty minutes. I spent the rest of the time organizing the spices alphabetically. Also, your cinnamon expired in 2019. I’ve buried it in the trash can.”
Despite yourself, you start laughing and he looks entirely too smug about it. Bucky leans back against the counter, arms folded, saying with mock seriousness, “I’m not saying I’m that Gordon fellow for air fryers, but I am taking name suggestions for my cooking channel.”
You walk over, take one of the mozzarella sticks, and bite into it. It’s amazing, annoyingly amazing.
“I hate you.”
He beams. “That’s fair. But… want to try the pizza bites next?”
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Feel free to suggest something else that isn’t listed here! Refer to my Main Masterlist if needed.
Exactly As You Are
Summary: You slowly form a tender, deeply emotional relationship with Bucky Barnes supports you through the bad days and gently breaks down the walls you’ve built from past abandonment. Despite fears of being a burden, Bucky stays, proving with quiet strength and unwavering presence that love doesn’t need to be perfect to be real. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Disclaimer: Reader is chronically ill. Mentions/Depictions of symptoms of said illness. Angst. Hurt/comfort.
Word Count: 2.3k+
A/N: This is sort self-indulgent but still an enjoyable read regardless. I left the type of illness ambiguous. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
The first time Bucky saw you, he thought you were just tired.
You were sitting on a bench outside a small, independent bookstore in Brooklyn, a reusable water bottle half-empty beside you, a paperback open in your lap. It was cold out, the kind of sharp October chill that cuts through jackets and settles in bones. But you sat completely still with your shoulders slumped, hands trembling slightly, and breath shallow.
He might not have noticed if not for the way your fingers struggled to hold the book steady.
He didn’t stop. Not at first. He just glanced, like a thousand other people passing by, and kept walking. But two blocks later, something tugged at him soft and persistent, like a memory he couldn’t place. He turned around.
You hadn’t moved from your spot.
By the time he walked back and crouched in front of you, your lips were pale, and your skin had that waxy undertone he recognized from war hospitals and med units. His instincts kicked in, but not the soldier kind, rather the man who’d learned how to read distress in the quietest forms.
“You okay?” He asked, voice low but steady.
You blinked up at him slowly, as if hearing him from underwater. Then you offered a weak, breathless smile and said, “Yeah, just… my body does this sometimes.”
“Does what?”
“Stops.”
He didn’t fully understand what that meant then. But it wasn’t pity that made him sit beside you, not fear or heroism either. It was something else. Familiarity. A kind of haunted recognition.
“Can I call someone for you?” He asked. “Friend? Partner? Family?”
You shook your head. “No one close by. It’ll pass. I just need a minute.”
But your hand was still shaking as you reached for the water. He watched silently, then gently reached over and held the bottle steady so you could drink.
“Thanks,” You murmured.
He nodded. He didn’t press. He simply sat there, beside a stranger who looked like their body was betraying them one breath at a time.
After a long stretch of silence, you spoke again. “You don’t have to wait.”
“Don’t want you to pass out on a sidewalk.”
You huffed a dry laugh. “Romantic.”
He smirked. “I’ve heard worse.”
You turned to look at him then, and something in your expression shifted.
“You’ve had bad days too,” You said.
His breath caught. You weren’t asking. You knew.
He gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”
Your eyes softened. Not out of pity, but out of understanding. “Then you get it.”
He didn't reply out loud, but the way his hand hovered hesitant, then steady, offered the only answer you needed.
Eventually, you regained enough energy to stand. He offered his arm, and you took it without flinching at the metal. That surprised him. Most people still tensed.
Inside the bookstore, he bought a copy of the same book you'd been reading before slipping you his number. You noticed, and raised a brow.
“Trying to impress me?”
He shrugged. “Trying to have an excuse to see you again.”
You laughed then. Still tired, still aching, but real. “Well. It worked.”
-
You didn’t start dating right away. There were slow texts. A few coffee shop visits where he learned which chairs were softest for you to sit in for long periods, which days your hands couldn’t hold a cup, and how sometimes you’d go quiet mid-sentence but not from disinterest, just exhaustion.
But Bucky never minded. He’d lived too many years rushing through the world. With you, everything slowed down. And for once, that felt like healing.
On your first date, he had planned it carefully.
Not because he thought you needed to be impressed but because he wanted to show you he was paying attention. That he’d been listening, clocking every tiny detail you never made a big deal about.
So when he asked, “Dinner with me?” and you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because your body was in one of its quiet warning phases, he didn’t try to convince you. He simply offered an alternative.
“I know a rooftop,” He said. “It’s a quiet and private place with a good view. I’ll bring the food.”
You smiled, that same tired-but-warm curve of the lips he was learning to read better each time. “What kind of food?”
“Soft stuff,” He smiled before teasing. “Things that won’t piss off your stomach.”
You laughed, which he counted as a win.
The night of the date, he showed up at your door with a reusable picnic bag over one shoulder and that awkward, lopsided grin of his. You were in your softest clothes, sweatpants and a knit sweater two sizes too big, and your hair wasn’t doing what you wanted it to.
But he looked at you like you were wearing a red carpet gown.
“I like this,” He said simply, and gestured to your entire self. “It’s very you.”
“Exhausted?”
“Real.”
The trip to the rooftop was just a short elevator ride and half a flight of stairs, but halfway up, your legs started to tremble.
You tried to play it off, pausing to “check the sky,” you said. But Bucky had already seen the shift in your breathing, the tremor in your hand as you gripped the railing.
Without a word, he stepped behind you and wrapped an arm gently around your waist, the cool metal of his left hand bracing your spine.
“You okay with help?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.
You nodded once. He didn’t rush you. Just matched your pace, supporting you the whole way to the roof.
By the time you sat down on the old couch someone had dragged up there years ago, your body was already crashing. You tried to hide it like you always did. But your hands were limp in your lap, your eyes glassy, and your shoulders had that slight slump Bucky was learning to hate.
He knelt beside you.
“Tell me what you need,” He said gently. “No pressure. Just… tell me.”
You wanted to smile. To tell him he didn’t have to stay, or fuss, or worry. But the words stuck somewhere behind your ribs.
“…I don’t want to ruin this.”
His eyes softened. “You’re not.”
“It’s not fair. You finally ask me out and I’m… this.”
“You were always this,” He countered. “And I asked you anyway.”
That made you blink.
He took the blanket from the bag, yes he’d brought one, and wrapped it around your shoulders. Then he pulled out a thermos of broth and a soft rice dish you’d once mentioned in passing. No wine. Just herbal tea. No candles. Just the city lights. No pressure to be anything but what you were.
You looked at him and he didn’t flinch from the fog in your eyes or the weakness in your voice. He didn’t reach for the version of you from the good days. He reached for you.
“I don’t need the perfect night,” He told you gently, watching you carefully. “I just need you.”
You let out a slow, aching breath. “What if I never get better?”
He brushed a knuckle down your cheek. “Then I’ll learn every version of ‘bad’ until I can walk you through it with my eyes closed.”
You felt something in your chest unravel.
And when he curled up beside you, careful not to jostle your fragile form and content to just sit in silence; you knew, with absolute certainty, that this wasn’t the beginning of something fragile.
It was the beginning of something real.
-
There were days that weren’t as pleasant. Yet time and time again, Bucky insisted on staying. Comforting and reassuring you every step of the way.
One afternoon, the apartment was quiet but not the peaceful kind. The kind of silence that pressed against the walls, thick and tense. The kind that settled in your chest and made it hard to breathe.
You sat on the couch with your knees pulled up, a blanket draped around your shoulders even though it was midafternoon. You should’ve taken your meds earlier, should’ve eaten something by now, should’ve answered the texts piling up on your phone. But your joints ached like they were full of broken glass, your head pounded from hours of tension, and every sound, every thought, felt like it might shatter you.
You didn’t hear Bucky come in. Not at first.
He always moved quietly, even when he wasn’t trying to. It was a habit that never left him. A ghost of another life. He didn’t say anything right away, just took in the picture in front of him. The faraway look in your eyes. The way your hand gripped the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering you to the room. The way your body curled in, like it was trying to disappear.
He crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, not touching you yet, but remaining close.
“Hey,” He greeted gently. “Rough day?”
You nodded, barely. Your throat felt too tight to speak.
Bucky waited. He was good at that, waiting. Letting you come to him on your own time with no pressure or pity. Just quiet, patient presence.
But then the words came tumbling out before you could stop them.
“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracked. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this all the time. With me.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed, not in confusion, but in a kind of slow heartbreak. Like he’d heard this before because he had, and every time it hurt more.
He reached slowly, brushing your hand with his gloved fingers before gently taking it in his.
“Don’t say that,” He spoke quietly.
You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “But it’s true. You didn’t sign up for this. For all the canceled plans, and the bad days, and the… God, the way I feel like a burden.”
He exhaled, long and steady, and then stood, just enough to sit beside you. His arm curled around your shoulders, pulling you in with a kind of care that felt deliberate. Solid and unshakeable.
“I know what it feels like to think you’re too much,” He began slowly. “To think you’re broken, that people will get tired, or that you’ll wear them down until they leave.”
You swallowed hard.
“I spent years feeling like that,” He continued. “Even when Steve stayed. Even when Sam stuck by me. It never went away easy. But then I met you.”
His hand found yours again. Held it tighter.
“You taught me that people aren’t burdens. That pain doesn’t make someone less worthy of love. That needing help isn’t weakness.”
You shook your head, voice hoarse. “That’s different. You went through hell. You didn’t choose it.”
“And neither did you.” His voice was low but firm now. “You didn’t ask for this. You fight through more pain in a day than most people even imagine. And you still smile. You still care. You still show up.”
“But this isn’t fair,” Your voice was shaky. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this. You could… you could have anyone.”
Bucky went very still.
You turned your head away. “I don’t want you to stay because you feel obligated. I don’t want to trap you in something broken.”
His voice was low, firm as he asked. “You think I stay out of pity?”
“No. I think you’re kind. And maybe you don’t realize yet how permanent this is. How much this takes. I can’t go on missions with you, I can’t run, I can’t even cook without getting dizzy. Some days I can’t even-“
You broke off. Voice cracking.
“I can’t give you a normal life, Bucky. I’m tired all the time. And someday you’re going to wake up and realize I’m more burden than person and I can’t survive that again-“
Your breath caught. You hadn’t meant to say again. But it was out there now.
He didn’t try to shush you. He didn’t give you empty words or say you’re not broken, or you’re still beautiful, or it’s not that bad. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead gently against yours. His voice was raw and honest.
“You think I want a normal life?”
You blinked at him.
“I spent years being turned into someone else’s weapon,” He whispered. “I wake up some nights not knowing what year it is. I have blood on my hands I can’t wash off, and a mind that doesn’t always feel like mine. You think I came here for normal?”
He exhaled shakily. “No, sweetheart. I came here for you. Just you.”
Your chest caved with a soft, helpless sob.
“I don’t want perfect,” He said. “I don’t want easy. I want real. And you… this pain, this fight, all of it; it’s real. You’re still here. You keep going. And if you think for one second I’m walking away because your body’s at war with you…”
His hand slid into yours, careful and steady.
“…then you don’t know me yet. I choose to be here,” He said. “Not out of obligation. Not because I feel sorry for you. But because I love you. All of you. Even on the bad days. Especially on the bad days.”
Tears welled up before you could stop them. You hated crying in front of people but with Bucky, it never felt like weakness. It just felt honest, safe.
He pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin, wrapping both arms around you like a fortress. “You are not a burden,” He murmured. “You are my home.”
And in the stillness, something inside you began to loosen. Not the pain, no, that stayed. But the guilt, the weight of it all began to lift just a little as you let yourself be held.
For once, it felt okay to just exist. To be loved, even when you didn’t feel lovable.
And Bucky held you like he’d never let you forget it again.
Because he didn’t try to fix you.
He just loved you.
Exactly as you are.
Beach Day
Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]
Summary: You and your caregivers go on a trip to the beach where you have an action-packed day of building sand castles, splashing in the water, and spending time with your daddies.
Word Count: 3.1k+
A/N: I tried to make reader actually speak more this time, more excited in little space. I’m also going to the beach this week, so maybe I’ll find some inspiration to write more beach-related scenarios. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
Sunlight peeks through your curtains, warm and golden. Before you’re even fully awake, you feel it, that fluttery kind of excitement deep in your belly. Today is the day you take a trip with your daddies to the beach.
You practically tumble out of bed, your stuffie clutched in one hand and your blanket trailing behind you like a cape. Your feet patter down the hall to the kitchen where Steve is already pouring coffee and Bucky’s at the table packing snacks and food into a cooler bag.
As soon as they see you, both of their faces light up.
“Well, good morning, sunshine,” Steve says with a grin, crouching down as you barrel into him for a hug.
“‘S beach day!” You declare, bouncing on your toes and giggling. “Gon’ swim, an’ eat sammiches, anddd… maybe find a crab!”
Steve chuckles and ruffles your bedhead. “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”
Bucky comes over and lifts you into his arms with a dramatic motion. “You sound ready to explode with excitement, doll.”
“Boom!” You shout happily, flopping into his shoulder with a squeal.
“Alright, tiny firecracker,” Bucky says with a smirk, kissing your temple, “Let’s pick out that swimsuit, huh? I laid out a few.”
He carries you back to your room, setting you down in front of the bed where three different swimsuits are folded: one with little sharks, one with rainbows and glitter, and one with ducks wearing sunglasses.
You gasp. “Ducks!! ‘M wearin’ the ducky one!”
“Excellent choice,” Steve says from the doorway, holding up a tiny bottle of sunscreen like it’s a secret weapon. “Operation Sunshield begins after we’re dressed.”
You squeal again and squirm excitedly while Bucky helps you into the ducky swimsuit, gently tugging the fabric into place and letting you spin in front of the mirror.
“Look at you,” He teases. “The duck commander herself.”
You pose with your hands on your hips. “Quack,” You say seriously before breaking into giggles.
Steve brings over your favorite sunhat, the one with little cat ears sewn on top. He crouches down to tie the strings carefully under your chin. “There. Our beach baby is ready.”
You nod with a wide smile, pointing to yourself. “Beach baby. Dat’s me.”
Bucky hands you your beach bag, shaped like a strawberry, already packed with your floatie, water bottle, a towel, and your favorite shell-collecting bucket. You peek inside and spot your teddy tucked in there too, wearing his own little sunglasses.
“Brownie comin’ tooooo!” You squeal, hugging the bag tight.
Steve chuckles and kisses your forehead. “Of course. He’s our co-pilot.”
You skip toward the door, flip-flops smacking the floor, bag bouncing against your side, already humming a made-up beach song.
And behind you, Steve and Bucky exchange a soft look, all warm smiles and quiet love, before following you out the door.
It doesn’t take long until you’re all buckled into your seat in the back of Steve’s big SUV, your strawberry beach bag beside you and Brownie resting in your lap. Your feet are swinging back and forth and you’ve got a sippy cup of cold apple juice in one hand.
Bucky’s driving, sunglasses on and arm relaxed out the window, while Steve twists in the front seat to check on you again.
“Got everything, sweetheart?”
You nod enthusiastically. “Mhm! Brownie, got snacks, got juice… oh! Forgot da crayons- wait, no I didn’t! They in the bag!” You unzip it and proudly show off your zip-up pouch full of stubby, broken crayons and coloring pages.
Steve gives you a dramatic sigh of relief. “Phew. Beach emergency averted.”
Bucky grins at the road. “Can’t survive a beach trip without crayons. Everyone knows that.”
You lean back and hum a little song to yourself while kicking your feet. Then, suddenly, “Papa?”
Steve turns again, his expression soft. “Yeah, bug?”
“How many waves do ya fink there gonna be? A gazillion?”
He hums in thought before answering, “Maybe a gazillion and one.”
You giggle and wiggle in your seat. “I’mma jump in alla them! Gonna splash ev’rywhere!”
Bucky snorts, joking. “Better not splash me, unless you wanna get launched into orbit.”
You gasp, wide-eyed. “Like a rocket?!”
“Yup. Straight to the moon, kiddo.”
Steve leans over and smacks Bucky’s arm playfully. “No launching beach babies today, sergeant.”
“Awwww,” You whine with a little pout, “But I wanna go moon swimmin’…”
They both laugh, and Bucky says, “Okay, okay. We’ll settle for ocean splashing. But you are gonna need to hold our hands in the water if you don’t have your floatie with you.”
You cross your arms with a dramatic sigh. “Cuz waves big?”
Steve nods. “And ‘cause we love you. Wanna keep you close.”
That makes you go quiet for a second before you agree with a nod, “Okay. I hold your hands forever!”
The car is quiet after that for a few minutes, filled only with the sound of tires on pavement and the music playing softly through the speakers, one of your favorite silly beach songs.
Eventually, your eyes start to feel a little heavy from the sun and excitement, and your voice gets small. “Tell me when we’re there?”
Steve turns slightly in his seat, watching you snuggle up with your teddy bear. “Of course, baby. You rest. We’ll get you there safe.”
And with Bucky humming along to the song and Steve’s assurance warm and steady, you drift off to sleep, dreaming of ducks in sunglasses and waves that reach the stars.
-
The car slows down into a parking lot full of stray sand, and you awaken instinctively.
“We here?” You mumble, still a little sleepy, rubbing your eyes.
“We’re here, baby,” Steve says, twisting to smile at you. “And there’s the shore.”
You sit up fast, blinking at the blue sky, the seagulls flying overhead, and the endless stretch of sparkling ocean beyond the dunes. Your mouth opens in a soft gasp. “Iss sooooo biiiiig!”
Bucky chuckles as he parks the car. “Told ya the ocean was a giant bathtub.”
“Bath tub don’t got birds,” You correct him seriously.
Steve laughs and gets out, opening the back door and unbuckling your seatbelt and helping you out. “You’re right, smarty-pants. No seagulls allowed in bathtubs.”
Bucky lifts the beach bag and tosses a towel over his shoulder. Your floatie, shaped like a giant donut with pink frosting, is tucked under his arm. “Alright, sunshine, grab a hand.”
You immediately reach for both of them, one hand in each of theirs, swinging between them as the three of you walk toward the beach. You can feel the sand seep onto the surface of your flip-flops and the ocean breeze tugs playfully at your hat, but you don’t mind one bit. You’re too busy bouncing in excitement.
“Papa! Daddy! Look, look, a doggie!” You shout, pointing to a golden retriever with a stick in its mouth.
“I see him,” Bucky says. “Reckon he’s here for the waves too.”
“Bet he surfs,” You whisper, awed.
The beach opens up in front of you, wide and bright, with the tide glittering under the sun. Steve lays down a big blanket while Bucky sets up the umbrella and cooler. You spin in place, arms out, squealing, “So big!! So blue!! So sandyyyy!!”
“You’re gonna be so sticky by the end of the day,” Steve teases, “Sticky and sandy and tired.”
You beam. “Dat’s the best kinda day.”
He chuckles, holding out the donut floatie. “Want it on now or wait till we go in?”
You tap your chin like you’re thinking real hard, then answer, “Gon’ wait. ‘Mma build da castle first.”
Bucky sets the floatie down, securing it to make sure it doesn’t blow away in the wind. “Then let’s build the biggest castle in the whole world. Fit for a beach princess.”
“I’m a queen,” You say matter-of-factly, plopping down and grabbing your bucket.
“Apologies, your majesty,” Bucky replies with a bow, handing you your shovel.
You take it gratefully. Now sitting criss-cross in the sand, shovel in hand, and your tongue poking out the side of your mouth in deep, serious concentration. “Dis side gonna be da dungeon,” You declare, patting down a lopsided tower with a wet slap.
“Uh-oh,” Steve says, leaning over with a raised brow. “Who’s getting sent to the dungeon?”
You look up at him dramatically. “Any bad guys. Like… da people who steal snacks. Or take my floatie wifout askin’.”
Bucky smirks. “That first one’s harsh, kiddo. Even I snuck a bite of your granola bar last week.”
You gasp, eyes wide. “DADDY!”
He holds up both hands. “I surrender to the queen.”
You scramble up and point your shovel at him. “To the dungeon!!”
Steve is already half-laughing as he scoops up a little wet sand with his palm and begins forming a jail cell beside your crooked tower. “There. You can lock him up right next to the crab moat.”
“Crab moat?” You squeak, spinning to look and sure enough, Steve has drawn a little wavy trench in the sand around your castle.
“Yup. To keep the villains out. Filled with tiny crab soldiers.”
You light up. “Can I name ‘em?!”
Bucky grins from where he’s now digging a tunnel. “They need names if they’re gonna work for you.”
You begin listing in a sing-song voice as you place little seashells at intervals around the moat. “Dis one’s Sir Pincie. Dat one’s Lady Clawdia. Ooooh! And King Crunch!”
“You’re a natural monarch,” Steve says, brushing sand off your nose gently.
The three of you work for a long while like that. Steve shapes towers and walls with his big, careful hands, while Bucky digs tunnels and hides treasure shells underneath the sand (“For adventurers later,” He says with a wink). Meanwhile, you are darting between them, giving orders, adding stick flags, and occasionally squashing the sand with your knees when things get too exciting.
At one point, you tug Steve’s hand and whisper, “Papa, look! I made a tiny throne!” and point to a lumpy mound near your castle.
He crouches beside you, looking at your creation with a warm smile. “That’s perfect, baby. Just your size.”
You plop onto it,sticking your legs out and puffing up proudly. “Now I’m da queen of da whole beach.”
Bucky bows low. “Queen of Shelltown.”
“Queen of Snacksville,” Steve adds with a smile.
You nod seriously. “I rule wif kindness… and naps.”
Sand coats your legs and arms, your cheeks are flushed pink from the sun and all the giggles, and there’s a little grain of sand stuck to your bottom lip, but you’re glowing from all the fun.
And when the tide starts creeping closer, Steve leans over and murmurs, “Wanna defend the castle, or let the waves have it?”
You consider that deeply, then whisper, “They can have it. I’ll build a new one. Wif you an’ Daddy.”
Steve kisses your temple. “Always, sweetheart.”
-
The castle’s been claimed by the tide, you had waved goodbye to Sir Pincie and Lady Clawdia, and now it’s ocean time.
Bucky crouches down beside you, holding your floatie. “Alright, sunshine. Arms up.”
You giggle and shoot both arms skyward. “Up, up, up!!”
He gently slides the floatie down over your head and around your tummy, adjusting the back. “There ya go. You’re officially donut-fied.”
Steve steps up beside you, brushing hair out of your face and slipping your goggles down over your eyes. “Ready to swim, baby?”
You nod furiously, bouncing in place. “Ready!! Wanna splash! Wanna gooooo!”
“Okay, okay,” Bucky chuckles, scooping you up into his arms. “Let’s get those little feet wet.”
As he carries you toward the water, your legs kick excitedly in the air. The waves rush up to greet you and Bucky sets you down in the shallows, keeping a hand on your floatie. “Whoa there, jellybean. Don’t go zoomin’ off just yet.”
The water laps at your knees and you squeal. When Bucky helps you a bit further to where you can float in the water, you exclaim with glee. “I’m floatin’! I’m a boat!! Papa, look!! I’m a boat!!”
Steve walks in beside you, letting the waves wash over his ankles as he chuckles. “Best boat I’ve ever seen. Might need to name you ‘Captain Giggles.’”
You dramatically turn the wheel of your imaginary ship. “Aye-aye, Captain Papa!”
Bucky lets you drift out a little more, still holding on. The floatie bobs up and down with the swell, and you squeal every time the water splashes up. “The ocean’s ticklin’ me!!”
“You’re lucky it likes you,” Bucky teases.
Another wave comes, bigger this time, and it lifts you gently, your floatie catching it just right. “WHOOOOA!!” You twist in the floatie and throw your arms up. “DO IT ‘GAIN!”
Steve laughs and nudges the float gently from behind so you rock back into Bucky’s waiting hands. “You’re fearless today, huh?”
You beam up at them through your goggles. “M’brave. ‘Cause I gots you two.”
Something about the way you say it makes both men soften instantly.
“That’s right, baby,” Steve murmurs. “You always got us.”
Forever, even when the tide rolls in.
-
After some more fun in the ocean, your floatie squeaks faintly as Bucky lifts you out of the water, droplets running down your legs and arms. “Okay, okay, little sea monster,” He says with a soft smile. “Time for snacks before you turn into a prune.”
You giggle, leaning your wet cheek against his shoulder. “I’m not a monster… I’m a…. mermaid now!”
“Even mermaids need snacks,” Steve calls from where he’s already crouched by the umbrella, unfolding a soft towel with cartoon sea creatures on it, the one you picked out at the store yourself and insisted “smells like sunshine.”
Bucky lowers you onto it, and Steve helps remove your floatie then immediately starts rubbing you down gently with another dry towel, working from your toes up with patient, warm hands. “You did a lot of splashing out there,” He says as he dries your hair with a little tousle. “You hungry, sweetheart?”
You nod dramatically. “M’really hungwy. Like…” You pause to think, then spread your arms wide, “…like this much hungry.”
Bucky chuckles as he pops open the cooler. “Well lucky for you, I packed the royal picnic. Your Majesty’s favorites.”
You scoot onto your knees and peek eagerly as he starts unpacking it all. Slices of juicy watermelon cut into stars, a crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut into triangles just the way you like, a little container of goldfish crackers, and a juice box with a tiny superhero on it. Your mouth already waters just looking at the watermelon.
Steve sits cross-legged beside you, passing you the juice box with the straw already poked in. “Start with some sips, okay? You got lots of sun.”
You sip happily, legs folded under you. “Dis tastes like blue.”
“That’s ‘cause it is blue,” Bucky teases, handing you one of the watermelon stars on a tiny plastic fork. “Eat that before your sandwich. Hydration first.”
You crunch into it and immediately let out a content hum. “Mmmmmm. Cold!”
Both men smile as they eat alongside you, not rushing, not talking much. It’s just quiet, sun-warmed company. Seagulls squawk in the distance. Waves roll in soft and lazy now, like the ocean’s getting sleepy too. There’s sand on your knees, salt on your cheeks, and watermelon juice running down your chin.
Steve reaches over with a napkin and dabs your face gently. “You’re makin’ a mess, aren’t you?”
You look up at him, grinning. “I’m da mess queen.”
Bucky leans over and plants a kiss to your temple. “Then we must be the mess kings.”
You end up snuggled between them, leaning back against Bucky’s chest with your legs draped across Steve’s lap, half a sandwich in hand. The sun peeks out from behind a cloud, warming your face. You let out a little yawn around a bite.
Steve notices and brushes your damp hair back. “Sleepy?”
You shake your head slowly, though your body sags against Bucky. “Noooo. Jus’… comfy.”
Bucky pulls a second towel over your legs, letting you burrow in like a little cocoon. “That’s okay, sweetheart. You just rest. We’ve got you.”
“Uh-huh,” you murmur, eyes fluttering closed. “You always do.”
And they always will.
-
The sun is dipping low now, casting long golden streaks across the parking lot as Steve loads up the trunk. The beach towels are a little sandy, the cooler is mostly empty, and your floatie sits squished between the seats like a deflated donut. Everything smells like salt and sunscreen.
Bucky lifts you gently from where you were half-dozing under the umbrella, your cheeks warm and your limbs floppy with that worn-out, sun-drenched tiredness that only little ones know.
“C’mon, peanut,” He murmurs, cradling you close against his chest. “Time to go home.”
You mumble something into his shirt, mostly vowels and half-syllables, nothing real, but your arms curl around his neck automatically. He smiles, brushing a kiss into your damp hair.
The backseat’s already set up, your soft blanket with the stars and moons, Brownie resting nearby, and a small travel pillow that smells like home. Bucky settles you in carefully, buckling you up while keeping the blanket snug around your legs before shutting the door carefully and moving into the passenger’s seat.
Steve climbs into the driver’s seat and glances back at you in the rearview mirror. “All set, sweetheart?”
You blink slowly, eyes heavy. “Goin’ home?”
“That’s right,” He says, starting the engine. “You did so good today. Brave in the water, kind to the sand crabs, full of giggles. I’m proud of you.”
You smile sleepily, turning your head toward the window as the car pulls away from the beach. The world passes by in a blur of fading light, palm trees, street signs, the occasional swoop of a bird overhead. Your eyelids flutter, heavier with every mile.
Bucky twists in his seat, watching you for a moment. His voice is softer now. “Get some rest, babydoll. We’ll be home soon.”
You hum softly, barely awake, your fingers curling in the corner of your blanket. “You stay wif me?”
“Always,” He whispers. “Not going anywhere.”
The car hums along the road, the sound of tires and the occasional song from the radio blending into the perfect lullaby. Steve drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting quietly on Bucky’s thigh, and the two of them share a look, the kind that says everything without words.
And in the back seat, warm and all out of energy from the big day… you drift off to sleepy, safe and loved as ever.
Operation: Lover’s Retreat (You Think)
Summary: Sent on a recon mission in the Carpathian Mountains, you treat it like a romantic getaway including but not limited to bath bombs, a sparkly kazoo, and one shared bed. Bucky remains constantly torn between exasperation and deep affection. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)
Word Count: 1.2k+
A/N: More fun stuff while I think of other stuff. Happy reading!!!
Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist
To be fair, no one explicitly said it wasn’t a romantic vacation. Which is why, when Fury assigned you and Bucky to a “low profile surveillance op” in the Carpathians, your brain heard:
Secluded mountain lodge. Cozy fires. Spy sex.
So naturally, you packed accordingly.
Bucky blinked at the rolling heart-shaped suitcase you proudly hauled to the Quinjet, emblazoned in bold pink letters: “His & Hers”.
“What is that?” He asked flatly.
You grinned. “Our mission supplies, James.”
“I said pack light.”
“I did! This is vacation-light. I only brought four books, one board game, two full sets of bath bombs, a crockpot for ambience and a grappling hook.”
He opened the suitcase, found the glow-in-the-dark stars you planned to stick on the ceiling of the safehouse, and muttered, “We’re supposed to be covert.”
“And what’s more covert than a deeply-in-love couple on a sensual nature retreat where someone might accidentally dismantle a black market weapons trade?” You batted your lashes. “Besides, you love when I do the ‘danger honeymoon’ bit.”
He exhaled slowly. “I never said I loved it.”
“You didn’t have to,” You whispered dramatically, wrapping your arms around his neck and swaying like you were dancing to a song only you could hear. “Your eyes said it. Remember when I threw that flaming fondue pot at that one Hydra guy last time? There were hearts in your eyes.”
“There were burn injuries, sweetheart.”
“Burns of passion.”
He tried, really tried hard to look annoyed, but you saw it. The tiniest twitch of his lips. He kissed the top of your head like he was apologizing to himself for encouraging you.
“You’re lucky I love you,” He said.
“I am lucky. And hot. And very well packed.”
He peeked into the duffel again. “You brought a kazoo.”
“For distraction purposes.”
“You labeled it ‘Sexy Danger Kazoo.’”
You nodded proudly. “It has sparkles.”
-
The Quinjet touched down just as twilight was bleeding over the dense Carpathian forest, a soft purple washing the sky. You hopped off with all the energy of a kid who just found out naps were optional as Bucky followed, grim-faced but patient, lugging a backpack that looked suspiciously heavier than your luggage.
The safehouse was an old cabin, camouflaged perfectly by thick vines and the shadows of tall pines. From the outside, it looked like it hadn’t been touched since the Cold War, but inside? Well… that was a different story. Stark had apparently outfitted the place with every modern convenience a couple on a "low-profile mission" might need. You immediately spotted the sleek coffee maker and made a beeline for it.
“Why do you think Fury left us here?” Bucky muttered, peeling off his jacket.
“Because this is the perfect place for a romantic getaway disguised as espionage,” You answered, pulling a ridiculous “MISSION: COZY” banner from your bag and hanging it over the cracked fireplace mantel.
Bucky froze, then rubbed his temples. “You are unbelievable.”
“I’m also in love with you,” You added, flashing a grin that was half apology, half challenge.
He sighed, shaking his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Fine. But this is recon. Keep it professional.”
“Professional as in,” You plopped down on the one and only large bed, arms stretched wide, “Professional cuddles?”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed, and then his lips curved into something like a smile. “You know there’s only one bed, right?”
“Oh, I know. It’s your fault for not bringing a sleeping bag.”
“You knew that,” He said, sitting down heavily next to you.
“Details, details.” You leaned your head on his shoulder and pulled the blanket over both of you. “This is perfect.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was comfortable. Bucky’s hand found yours, fingers lacing together like they fit perfectly. After a moment, you whispered, “So, what’s the actual mission?”
“Observe and gather intel. Don’t get caught. Probably freeze our asses off.” He let out a dry chuckle. “And babysit you.”
You smirked. “Babysitting, huh?”
“Yeah. Someone’s got to keep you from setting off the alarm with your kazoo.”
You pouted but laughed anyway. “Hey, I’m a tactical genius with a flair for drama.”
“And a flair for eating four bananas in one sitting,” He reminded you, eyes softening.
You groaned. “Don’t remind me. My stomach is still plotting revenge.”
He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The soft crackle of the fireplace was the perfect soundtrack to your “romantic” evening. Bucky, finally starting to relax after a long day of surveillance and your relentless banter, had just pulled the blanket tighter around you when you produced your “Sexy Danger Kazoo” from your jacket pocket. You gave him a mischievous grin.
“Want to hear my latest war tactic?” You whispered, raising the glittery instrument like a weapon.
Bucky’s eyes widened. “No.”
But of course, you played it anyway. A bizarre, off-key rendition of the Avengers theme that sounded more like a dying duck than a call to arms.
His sigh was so long it almost became a sound effect. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly in love,” You corrected, settling back down with a triumphant smirk.
Then, just as you were about to doze off, because even chaotic geniuses need sleep, the quiet night shattered.
CLANK.
The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed through the cabin.
Bucky shot up, pulling you with him. “Hydra.”
You blinked. “Already?”
He didn’t wait for you to grab your grappling hook or glitter gel pens. He was moving, fast and silent. You tried to follow, but your pajama pants tangled on the bedframe, and you stumbled, barely catching yourself on the wooden floor.
“Smooth,” Bucky muttered from the shadows.
The door to the cabin burst open, and two Hydra agents stepped inside, rifles raised. But before they could fully process their surroundings, a sudden blaring kazoo shattered the silence. Yours, of course.
“Surprise!” You yelled, charging like a glitter-wielding warrior.
Bucky facepalmed.
Before the Hydra agents could react, you whipped out a handful of glowsticks and started flinging them like grenades, the room suddenly glowing in psychedelic neon colors that were suspiciously brighter than any he had ever seen.
“What the hell is going on?!” One Hydra operative shouted, squinting at the glowing chaos.
Bucky took the opportunity to disable one with a swift punch, then ducked behind the counter to cover you.
“You did say you had distraction expertise,” He hissed.
You grinned wildly, still buzzing with adrenaline. “I’m a tactical genius. Trust me.”
The fight was brief but chaotic, involving a lot of slipping on stray bananas you’d left in the kitchen (don’t ask), glitter explosions from one of your surprise bombs, and a kazoo solo that was definitely more disorienting than tactical.
When it was finally over, Bucky turned to you, exasperated but undeniably impressed.
“You’re the worst mission partner I’ve ever had.”
“And the best,” You said, grabbing his hand and pulling him close. “But hey, if you wanted a boring recon op, maybe you should’ve asked Sam.”
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Next time, I’m bringing the actual weapons and leaving the kazoo at home.”
You leaned in, brushing your lips against his. “Now where’s the fun in that?”
Outside, the Carpathian night resumed its quiet, the stars blinking down on a cabin that was very much not low profile. But inside, you and Bucky knew something important:
Chaos was one of the only things you did well and somehow, it was working perfectly.
Certified Genius, Unlicensed Moron
Summary: Exploring more of your relationship and dynamics with the rest of the Avengers, they are well-acquainted with how much whiplash and how many headaches you give them on a daily. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Word Count: 1.2k+
A/N: The other going on dates fic didn’t have enough unhinged questionable reader for me. And to be honest….I didn’t like it as much as the prequel. So! I wrote this to cheer me up and feed my need for dumb & genius reader. Purely self-indulgent but hopefully you like it too. Happy reading!!!
Main Masterlist | Original Fic
Being an Avenger came with certain expectations. Tactical prowess. Cool one-liners. Teamwork. A mild-to-moderate understanding of physics.
You had exactly none of that. And yet, you were thriving.
You had taken on aliens, mercenaries, HYDRA agents, and that one time, an actual raccoon with a vendetta. You once guessed the password to a SHIELD vault on the first try by inputting “boob69.” It worked. Nobody ever explained why. You were untouchable.
But nothing broke the team more than the group chat.
It had been a standard team communication channel at first: briefings, updates, emergency alerts. Then you joined and everything fell apart.
-
GROUP CHAT: “Earth’s Mightiest Dumbasses”
Tony: Meeting in the conference room at 9 A.M. sharp.
You: what’s 9 AM in frog time
Natasha: What does that mean?
You: like if a frog wears a watch is the time upside down
Tony: Please, I’m begging you to just answer the question like a normal person.
You: normal is a strong word
-
You once sent a photo of a pigeon wearing a hat with the caption “me when I infiltrate enemy lines.” No one questioned it. Mostly because they couldn’t.
After all, you’re the same person who confidently gave a TED Talk about the strategic history of medieval siege warfare mid-mission while wearing Crocs. The same person who once said, “Vibranium tastes like disappointment,” and then refused to elaborate. You somehow manage to both ace every debrief but also once asked if Wi-Fi is just helpful air soup.
Thor called you “small thunder” after you electrocuted yourself trying to microwave aluminum “as a science experiment.” You did not have lightning powers. It was just dumb luck. And you’d do it again.
-
GROUP CHAT:
Clint: who the hell labeled all the fridge items in latin?
You: idk man maybe someone wants you to be cultured
Bucky: You labeled the eggs, “Future ankle peckers, do not anger them”
You: ...and have you been attacked? no? you’re welcome.
-
Bucky still doesn't understand you. Not even a little.
And a lot of times, that haunts him.
He watches you eat hot sauce straight from the bottle like it's a health tonic, quote Shakespeare when you’re tired, and wear mismatched crocs into certain battles because "they're my war shoes." One has a tiny sword glued to it.
You once looked him dead in the eye and said, “I wasn’t born. I was assembled in a Target parking lot during a thunderstorm.”
And then walked away.
He’s been thinking about it for months.
Another time you brought him a bag of gummy worms, patted his head, and said, “For when the depression demons attack.”
Despite all your nonsense, he can’t stop looking at you like you hung the moon with glitter glue and then ate half of it because that brand “smelled like frosting.”
He had tried to pretend you’re a nuisance at first, shaking his head and sighing at some of your antics. But it’s all morphed to reluctant acceptance of the fact that he’ll have to live with so many unanswered questions. That doesn’t stop him from taking care of you though.
He brings you hot chocolate after missions. He makes sure you’re behind him when it gets dangerous. He drags you out of fountains you jump into because you wanted to know what the regals birds like about it. He even downloaded TikTok just to understand your references.
One time you disappeared in the Tower. For five hours.
He found you in the broom closet, sitting cross-legged with three Roombas, wearing a crown made of forks.
“They know secrets,” You whispered. “I’m learning their ways.”
Bucky blinked.
“…I brought you pizza.”
You gasped. “I knew the prophecy would come true.”
-
GROUP CHAT:
Steve: Can someone explain what this is?
Image attached: You in a vent near the ceiling wearing a bad ghost outfit like a cursed Halloween decoration, eating Cheez-Its.
You: surveillance
Steve: Why…
You: i wanted to know what Bucky does when I’m not looking
Bucky: They’ve been up there for 6 hours. I offered help. They hissed at me.
-
Despite it all, you were deadly in the field.
You’d spout off the periodic table in the middle of a fistfight, pull off gravity-defying stunts “because I saw it in a cartoon once,” and solve encrypted Hydra codes in 30 seconds, all while questioning if Mickey Mouse and his friends ever had to pay rent to live in the Mickey Mouse clubhouse.
Bucky, your begrudgingly loving boyfriend, no longer reacts when you do things like wear medieval armor to a stealth op for morale reasons or quote Shrek during hostage negotiations. He just quietly takes your hand and steers you away before you lick anything radioactive.
Steve once asked why you were on a mission wearing roller skates. You said, “Speed and style, Cap,” then crashed directly into a vending machine and pulled out a single uncrushed Twix with solemn reverence.
Tony called you “the human embodiment of a broken Google search.” Wanda called you “a mystery I’ve chosen not to solve.” Natasha just called you “terrifying.”
Because for every baffling thing you did, like calling her “Mom” during a sniper stakeout because “you give off stern PTA energy”, you turned around and cracked encrypted intel before Bruce finished making coffee.
Once, in a mission briefing, Rhodey asked, “Wait, wasn’t the Hindenburg caused by a gas explosion?” and you, dead serious, replied, “Who’s the Hindenburg? That sounds like a guy who collects teeth.”
Everyone went dead silent.
Sam just nodded slowly and said, “Right, okay. Yeah, cool. This is the part where I stop paying attention.”
Nobody could figure you out.
Bruce once ran 14 psychological profiles on you. None of them matched. One came back as possibly a goat in human form.
Clint swears you once explained string theory using sock puppets and a waffle. And it made sense.
-
GROUP CHAT:
Tony: I’m updating the security protocol. Everyone needs to re-register their biosignatures.
You: what if I am a security risk
Tony: You are. Absolutely. Every day. In every way.
You: then I win
Natasha: What did you win?
You: You’ll see 😈
Tony: I have forgotten what peace feels like anymore.
-
You called yourself “The Distractinator” in combat.
Enemies didn’t know what to do with you. Were you a genius? Crazy? Feral? Was that a printer you just threw at their face while quoting Pride and Prejudice?
Yes. To all of it.
And somehow, impossibly, you were everyone’s favorite. Because while you were a chaos gremlin of untold magnitude, you cared.
You noticed when Clint seemed tired and unorthodoxically left snacks in his quiver.
You taught Steve how to use TikTok but made sure to curate only dog videos and motivational frog memes.
You convinced Bucky he could wear purple and look amazing. He does now. Regularly.
You helped Tony fix a faulty AI loop by accident while trying to build “a blender that screams.”
You’re not just a part of the team. You’re the emotional support cryptid.
And no matter how many explosions you cause with your “experiments,” or how many philosophical debates you start about whether lasagna is a cake, the Avengers wouldn’t trade you for the world.
…Though Tony did try to sell you to the X-Men once.
It didn’t work.
They sent you back with a fruit basket and a strongly worded letter.
Chaotic Cat Curse
Summary: You were accidentally cursed and turned into a cat, causing all kinds of fun chaos for Bucky: destroying things, attacking his shoelaces, and generally making his life impossible. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Word Count: 1.4k+
A/N: Will be writing another fic with reader having the power to shapeshift into animals, but for now; I’m testing the waters with cat and chaos. Happy reading!!!
Main Masterlist
You didn’t mean to touch the glowing, ominous-looking artifact in Strange’s Sanctum. Really, you were just trying to dust it off and maybe get a better look. It was dusty! And pulsing with weird red light! How were you supposed to know it was cursed?
The moment your fingers grazed it, there was a loud pop, a blinding flash, and then… paws. Fur. Whiskers. And an overwhelming urge to knock things off shelves.
Bucky was not impressed when he found you ten minutes later, sitting smugly atop a bookcase, licking your paw and knocking down an ancient scroll with a flick of your tail.
"You’ve got to be kidding me," He muttered, staring at your tiny, floofy form. You blinked slowly at him, then meowed very dramatically. It didn’t help that Wong started laughing the second he walked in. "They touched the Soul of Bastet? Oh, that’s rich."
Strange said the spell would wear off in a few days. Until then, you were stuck as a cat. A small, fluffy, highly expressive cat who unfortunately still had all your chaotic human instincts. Just… furrier.
Two days into your feline vacation, Bucky had to bring you along to Sam’s apartment while waiting for Strange to “align the right moon phase” or whatever nonsense he was mumbling about. You were restless, bored, and determined to explore every inch of Sam’s place. Which led you to the kitchen.
And the catnip.
To be fair, Sam did foster animals sometimes. So technically, the bag of catnip wasn’t for you. But Bucky had looked away for two seconds, and you were already rolling on the floor. Eyes wide, pupils dilated, and tail puffed up. The sounds you made could only be described as a mix between a war cry and screech.
Bucky walked into the kitchen to find you mid-roll, rabbit-kicking the air like a tiny lunatic. “What the hell?” He muttered, only to freeze as you bolted toward him and latched onto his boot like it owed you money.
“Seriously?” He tried to shake you off gently. “You’re high off your tiny furry face.”
You yowled in mock betrayal, then darted under the couch only to return five seconds later to attack his laces with renewed fury. Bucky was trying to have a perfectly normal conversation with Steve over speakerphone while you turned his shoelaces into your mortal enemy.
“I swear, this is just temporary,” He said, ignoring your furious little growls as you pounced on his foot. “Strange said they’ll be back to normal soon.”
“Are you being mauled?” Steve asked, deadpan.
“No. It’s fine.”
You flipped onto your back at that exact moment, paws curled and pupils blown wide. You stared at Bucky upside down like a possessed Furby.
“…Okay maybe a little.”
Eventually, you flopped in the middle of the floor, panting softly and staring at the ceiling like it just insulted your mother. Bucky sighed, grabbing a blanket and gently wrapping you like a tiny burrito.
“You better appreciate this when you’re human again,” He carried your limp, purring body to the couch. You immediately drooled on his shirt and let out a happy little meow.
Bucky looked down at you with the flattest expression imaginable. “Never telling Sam about this.”
By day three, Bucky had accepted begrudgingly that life with you as a cat meant no peace. He couldn't eat, sleep, or walk around barefoot without risking a stealth attack from a small feline assassin with a personal vendetta.
This morning, he woke up to find you perched on his chest like a judgmental gargoyle. Your face was three inches from his, your tail flicking with menace.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” He asked groggily.
You didn’t blink. Instead, you yawned. A very slow, dramatic, fang-filled yawn, then delicately slapped him across the nose with your paw.
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Then you jumped off the bed like nothing happened, leaving him to question every decision he’d made.
Later that day, you discovered a mirror. Not a small mirror. A full-length one leaning against the wall. And you were not okay with the strange, fluffy imposter staring back at you. You puffed up like a Halloween decoration, back arched, tail three times its normal size. You hissed, swatted the glass, then bolted out of the room like it owed you money.
From the kitchen, Bucky heard the thump, the screech, and then the sound of something shattering.
He found you on top of the fridge, tail flicking furiously, glaring at the now-cracked mirror like it insulted your ancestors.
“Did… did you fight yourself?”
You blinked at him with absolutely zero shame.
“Right. Of course.”
Another time, you had discovered it completely by accident. Bucky had taken off his vibranium arm to clean the joint, and you’d been fascinated. It gleamed, it was shiny, it made noise.
So obviously, it had to be your new toy.
The moment he left the room, you pounced.
He returned to find you curled around it, swatting at the fingers occasionally. When he tried to take it back, you hissed like a tiny demon and chomped down on the thumb with impressive commitment for a creature with no actual fangs.
“I can’t believe I’m being held hostage by my own arm,” Bucky muttered.
You growled in reply and flopped dramatically over it, like a dragon hoarding treasure.
That evening, Steve even brought over a laser pointer as a joke. Bucky thought it was stupid. You thought it was the greatest thing ever created by humankind.
The first time the red dot skittered across the floor, you chased it like your life depended on it. You bounced off furniture. You slid across the floor. At one point, you ran headfirst into Bucky’s shin so hard he dropped his coffee.
You immediately launched into a somersault, landed on your feet, and meowed at the laser dot like it had insulted your honor.
Steve was in tears. Bucky was unamused.
“Stop encouraging them,” He grumbled as you launched into another full-speed chase across the living room, knocking over a lamp.
“They’re going to break everything.”
Steve was still laughing, holding the laser pointer “Worth it.”
-
You’d been a cat for what felt like forever, and while the novelty was fun (mostly for you), you were more than ready to be yourself again. Bucky had been surprisingly patient even though he was tempted to cage you in an upside down laundry basket a few times and tape it to the ground.
Today, you were curled up in Bucky’s lap, purring softly as he absently ran his fingers through your fur. For a cat, you’d definitely picked the best spot in the whole compound: warm, safe, and right where you could hear his steady breathing.
Bucky was surprisingly calm, almost… fond of having you like this, despite the chaos you'd caused. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” He muttered, his voice low and rough.
You blinked up at him, half-asleep, when suddenly a strange warmth spread through your body. It started at your paws and traveled fast, like someone was flipping a switch from fuzzy to flesh. Your fur melted away, your legs stretched, and your claws shrank into fingers. Before either of you could blink, you were sitting there fully human again, only much bigger, and very, very confused.
Bucky froze. His eyes went wide, mouth hanging open like he’d just seen a ghost. “You’re-“ He started, then cut himself off, because honestly? No words could describe the moment.
You looked down at yourself, touched your face, then looked back up at Bucky with wide eyes. “I’m… me again?” You whispered.
He reached out carefully, almost afraid you’d disappear again. “Yeah. You’re you. Took you long enough.”
You stretched, flexing your fingers like you hadn’t used them in ages. “Yeah, being a cat is fun and all, but I kinda missed this.”
Bucky chuckled and shook his head. “Glad to have my partner back. Though I have to admit, I’m gonna miss the little fur ball who kept me on my toes.”
You grinned. “Don’t get used to it. No more letting me near cursed objects, okay?”
He nudged you gently. “Deal. But next time you turn into a cat, at least warn me so I can get some popcorn.”
You laughed, and for the first time in days, the apartment felt exactly like home again.
i would loooooove to see more invisible!reader if you are taking requests🥹love your writing💓💓
Hello, love! Sorry it took a bit, but I loved your request! Invisible!reader was one of the first ones I wrote about that really resonated with me and was a special turning point to what I wanted to write here. So, thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!
The Way He Comforts
Summary: After overhearing teammates question your stability and usefulness during a mission, you silently spiral and retreat deep into the compound and yourself to be alone and unseen. Bucky, noticing your absence and familiar patterns, finds you and gently reassures you that he sees your worth no matter how overlooked you feel. (Bucky Barnes x invisible!reader)
Disclaimer: Hurt/Comfort. ANGST. Reader has the power of invisibility. Part 2 to The Way He Notices.
Word Count: 2.2k+
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
You hadn’t meant to overhear.
You were just… staying behind. Letting the others clear out of the control room first. The mission had been a blur of adrenaline, blood, gunfire, and hazes of movement and orders shouted over comms. Your body was back in the compound, but your mind was still locked in the field, replaying every move you made, every step you took or didn’t.
Were you too slow? Did you hold the team back? Did you make the right decisions?
You hovered near the back of the room, invisible out of reflex. Not hiding. Just breathing. Just existing where no one could touch you, or expect you to explain anything.
That’s when the conversation started.
“Look, I’m just saying,” A voice rung out sharply. Male. One of the newer field leads, you couldn’t remember his name, only that he talked too much during ops and liked to fill silences that weren’t his to break. “When we’re in a live-fire zone, I need to see my team. Literally. We can’t afford to have someone going ghost mid-fight.”
Your spine stiffened. They were talking about you.
You stepped back without thinking, foot brushing softly against the wall, mind screaming at your body to stay silent.
“She got the job done,” Natasha said coolly. A defense quick and firm.
You’d thank her later. Maybe. If you could look her in the eye again.
“Barely,” The man replied with a bitter huff. “We don’t even know how her powers work really. What if she’s compromised out there? I mean… they vanished mid-mission. Again. What if one of us had been hit and needed cover?”
Your heartbeat spiked. They thought you hadn’t done your part.
They didn’t see the gun that almost took Steve’s head off, one you disabled while invisible. They didn’t know you redirected a blast meant for Natasha or jammed the comms that would’ve called reinforcements. You did it all unseen. That was the point.
You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. Then came a snort from someone else. A laugh, short and mean.
“Kind of sounds like a trauma response.”
And it was, wasn’t it?
You’d spent years trying to make it something more, something useful. A gift. A shield. A way to survive. But here, in the cold buzz of the compound’s overhead lights, they made it sound like a liability. Like a malfunction.
“I’m just saying,” He went on, like he hadn’t just scraped the skin off your insides, “Is she stable? If she freaks out in the field, the rest of us pay the price. Might be time for someone to assess whether she’s really combat-ready. Not just… a ghost with clearance.”
The silence that followed was worse than anything. No arguments. No defenses. Just quiet. Agreement, maybe. Or indifference.
You felt your chest pull tight. Not with anger, but grief. A familiar, heavy kind of grief. The one that told you it didn’t matter how hard you trained. How hard you fought. Some people would only ever see you as a shadow. A risk. An afterthought.
You didn’t wait to hear the rest.
You slipped through the hallway unseen, your footsteps noiseless, even to yourself. You weren’t sure where you were going. You just knew you had to move before your throat gave out, before your body betrayed you, before the tears came and refused to stop.
-
On the days that followed the conversation, you stopped sitting at the table during team meetings.
You still attended, sure. Friday still registered your presence, and Natasha always handed you a second copy of the mission files without comment, but you sat on the edge now. A ghost in the corner. Your chair pushed half out of the circle, body barely visible, sometimes not at all.
And no one said a word.
Not one person asked why you didn’t speak up during the last debrief. Or why your plate went untouched in the kitchen. Or why you left your locker door cracked open now, like you were one second from walking away for good.
No one but Bucky.
He didn’t confront you or press. He just watched.
The first day, he caught your eye as you passed him in the hallway. That alone was unusual, you rarely made eye contact with anyone when you were phased out, drifting. But something about the way his gaze narrowed told you he already knew something wasn’t right.
You disappeared halfway through that morning’s training exercise. You weren’t even trying to be stealthy. You just… didn’t want to be perceived anymore.
And Bucky didn’t call it out. He just tilted his head and quietly adjusted the team formation. Covered the gap like it was part of the plan.
That night, there was a cup of tea outside your room.
No note. Just the kind you liked: strong, a little bitter, and steeped longer than necessary. It was still warm too.
You sat on the other side of the door for a long time, legs drawn to your chest, forehead pressed to your knees. You didn’t drink it. You didn’t throw it away either. You simply it there.
The second day, your invisibility didn’t drop for twelve hours even in the compound, even in your room. You didn’t eat and you barely breathed.
You stood in the hallway outside the gym long after lights-out, just listening to the steady thud of someone working the punching bag inside. You knew it was Bucky. You could tell by the rhythm in how it was sharp, controlled, and a little angry, like he was fighting something he couldn’t say out loud. His grunts were quiet as the chain squeaked with every impact.
You pressed your back to the wall and closed your eyes.
They think you’re a liability.
The words echoed, over and over, like your own heartbeat.
You didn't step inside. You couldn’t. You were afraid of what he’d see on your face, afraid of what you’d see reflected in his.
The third day, you didn’t show up for the briefing.
Not late. Not phased out. Just… not there.
Natasha texted once. “You good?”
You stared at it for a long time, then let your phone drop to the floor.
A soft knock came hours later.
Even though you didn’t answer, you didn’t have to. You already knew who it was.
“…I brought food,” Bucky said after a while. His voice was calm, a little hoarse from a day of not talking much. “Didn’t know what you wanted, so I brought four things.”
Silence.
You sat on the edge of your bed, trying not to shake. You could hear the tray when he set it down outside. The gentle clink of ceramic. He waited a few seconds longer, then added, quieter:
“You don’t have to talk. Just eat something.”
And then he left. You counted the steps. Fifteen down the hall. The soft sound of the elevator. Only then did you move. You opened the door slowly like your body wasn’t sure it was safe to fully exist.
There on the tray was a bowl of soup, crackers, apple slices, and your favorite sandwich. The one you always got when the team stopped for food on the way back from a mission.
And a sticky note.
It only said: “You’re not invisible to me.”
You stood there in the dark, tray in your hands, and blinking fast. Bringing the tray into your room, you sat on the floor, legs crossed, and took your first bite in two days.
It tasted like you might not have to survive alone this time.
-
The breaking point came two days later. It was late.
Too late for most of the compound to be awake, except maybe Bruce overworking in the lab or Tony arguing with the AI. But the gym lights were still on; dimmed and humming low. You stood just outside the weight room, fingertips brushing the edge of the wall, considering whether or not to walk in.
You’d been doing that more lately. Standing near things. Near people. Not fully in or out. Present, but only barely. You weren’t invisible this time though. You didn’t want to be.
Inside, Bucky sat on the floor against the far wall, arms resting on his knees, head tilted back as if he’d been staring at the ceiling for a while. He didn’t react when you entered. Didn’t flinch when your shoes padded softly across the floor. His gaze didn’t shift from the overhead light, but you knew he saw you. He always did.
You lowered yourself to the floor a few feet away, crossing your legs, and remaining silent. The air between you was quiet, restful; not awkward. You appreciated that about him. He never tried to fill your silence. He just made space for it.
After a while, he spoke.
“You stopped laughing.”
You blinked, looking over.
His head turned just slightly toward you.
“Not that you ever laughed much,” He added, voice low. “But you did. Sometimes. At stupid jokes. At Clint falling asleep standing up. At that dog in the documentary that ran into a sliding glass door.”
You gave a small, almost-invisible shrug.
“I miss that sound,” He said.
That was it. No demand. No pressure. Just a quiet observation. A reminder that he noticed you. That your absence, even your emotional one, meant something to someone.
You swallowed hard.
He looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers once.
“I don’t know what happened,” He continued. “I know it was something. You don’t move like that unless something’s broken.”
You didn’t flinch, but your breath caught. Barely. Like a string pulled tightly inside your chest.
“I’m not asking you to tell me,” His voice was gentle as he leaned his head back again. “But if you ever want to… I’ll be here.”
No more words.
Just that.
And it felt like enough. Like the space between you had shifted. No longer something to hide inside, but something you could share. Quietly. At your own pace.
You didn’t mean to speak, but words came out like breath. So soft they didn’t feel real at first, like mist escaping between your lips before you could stop it.
“I wasn’t supposed to hear it.”
Bucky glanced over at you. His expression was morphed in that same ever so patient way, like you could say anything and you would have hung the moon.
You swallowed hard. Your throat ached like something had been lodged there for days which maybe it had.
“It was right after the last mission. I stayed behind in the control room.” You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t mean to listen. I just… hadn’t faded back in yet. And… I heard them talking about me.”
You blinked fast, but the heat behind your eyes didn’t fade. Your voice stayed low, like the words weren’t meant to be heard, but had nowhere else to go.
“They said I was unstable. That I disappear when something goes wrong. That they didn’t know how my powers work. Like I’m a risk. Like I’m just a… ghost with clearance.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed. Just slightly. Not in anger at you, of course. Never at you. But at what had been said. The way his shoulders straightened told you he was holding something down. Something sharp.
“I didn’t even know who said most of it,” You added after a beat. “Just… someone new. But the others were quiet. No one really disagreed.”
The last part was the hardest to admit. Bucky moved closer to you slowly, settling in beside you. Not touching. Not crowding. Just there.
“The silence,” You murmured. “It felt like agreement.”
It hung in the air, heavy and uninvited. But then, after a long, thoughtful pause, his voice came, low and certain.
“I would’ve said something.”
You looked at him. His expression wasn’t gentle this time, not exactly. It was solid. Grounded. The kind of gaze that didn’t flinch when you showed the broken parts of yourself.
“Not just because I care about you,” He went on. “But because they were wrong.”
A small breath left your chest, like your lungs had finally been allowed to exhale.
“I know how your powers work,” He said. “Not the science. But I know you. You disappear to stay in control, to protect. Not to fall apart.”
You blinked hard.
“You’re not unstable. You’re surviving.”
That did it. The tears didn’t fall. Not yet. But they burned. Stung hot like they were ready, if you’d only let go. You opened your mouth to speak but Bucky shook his head, just once.
“You don’t have to defend it or say anything,” He said. “You shouldn’t have to defend yourself. Just… know that you do belong.”
His hand moved slowly, deliberately, and came to rest beside yours on the floor. He wasn’t exactly touching yet, simply close enough that if you wanted to reach, you could. A small gesture he always had of letting you reach first.
And you did.
Fingers brushing his, tentative at first. Then curling just slightly. A silent answer. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you felt real again. Not a shadow. Not a ghost. Seen.
Escape Room Chaos
Summary: You take Steve and Bucky to an escape room for a fun, relaxing evening, but things quickly spiral into chaos. Both somehow ignore the obvious clues in favor of dramatic theories and property damage. You’re just trying to survive until you can successfully escape without a lawsuit. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)
Word Count: 1.6k+
Main Masterlist
You really should’ve known better.
The moment Bucky rolled up his sleeves and said “This’ll be easy,” you felt the first ripple of doom. You’d booked the escape room as a fun, harmless activity. Something like a little post-mission team bonding that didn’t involve hand-to-hand combat or collapsing buildings. You even picked a cheesy detective theme, thinking they’d enjoy something grounded and puzzle-y. Maybe even quiet.
You were wrong.
The three of you stood in the lobby of “The Great Escape,” surrounded by plastic magnifying glasses, dusty fedoras, and a suspiciously chipper staff member in suspenders and a fake mustache. She gave you the usual speech: 60 minutes to escape, no real danger, don’t break the props, yada yada.
Steve nodded solemnly like he was being briefed before an intense mission. Bucky? He crossed his arms and smirked. You could already tell his competitive switch had flipped.
The room itself was dimly lit and lined with fake wood panels. A ticking clock glowed red above the door while there were clues scattered everywhere ranging from files, books, old telephones, and even a fake fireplace. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, Steve took a deep breath like he was about to deliver a speech at a press conference.
“We should split up to cover more ground. Look for patterns, numbers, keys. And be sure to keep a level head.”
You blinked. “It’s not a hostage situation, Cap.”
But Steve was already kneeling to inspect a lockbox with the intensity of a man deciphering enemy codes. Meanwhile, Bucky was tapping along the walls with the knuckles of his metal hand.
“Could be a hidden panel,” He muttered.
“Could be drywall,” You replied, dragging your palm down your face.
Ten minutes in, you had two clues solved and one increasingly serious argument about whether the bookshelf was a red herring or not. Bucky was now trying to climb it.
“James Buchanan Barnes, get down before you collapse the whole set!” You hissed.
He looked down, half-smirking. “It’s not real, doll. Look.” He gave it a little shove, just enough for it to creak ominously. You glared.
Steve, across the room, had located a cipher wheel and was mumbling to himself. “It’s gotta be a Caesar shift. Or maybe Morse code…”
“Steve, it’s literally a riddle that says ‘Look in the desk drawer,’” You pointed out, pulling it open and revealing a key taped inside.
He looked genuinely offended. “They’re dumbing it down.”
You exhaled through your nose. “Yes, they’re dumbing it down for people who aren’t 100-year-old super soldiers who do escape rooms like they’re battle strategy.”
By minute twenty, you were regretting everything. Steve had taken charge like a squad commander and Bucky had declared himself the “wildcard” of the team, which essentially meant “loose cannon with a metal arm and no patience.”
You were the only one actually reading the instructions on the wall.
By minute thirty, you’d reached the room’s second stage which was a secret chamber revealed when Bucky yanked on a wall sconce you definitely weren’t supposed to touch.
You all froze when the wall creaked and groaned like a bad horror movie. Then, with the slow drama of a B-grade haunted house, the panel slid open.
Steve actually clapped, cheering.
“I knew there was a hidden passage!”
“No, you didn’t,” You said, stepping cautiously inside. “You were still trying to decode that cipher wheel that said, ‘The butler did it.’”
The new room was darker with a desk, some faux-blood splatter, and a very questionable plastic skeleton slumped over a chair. Its skull was tilted sideways with a bowler hat perched on top of its head. There was also a magnifying glass clutched in one bony hand, and a suspicious envelope glued to its chest with “CLUE #6” scrawled across it in marker.
Steve stared at it. “I think we’re meant to… talk to him?”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Interrogate the corpse.”
You opened your mouth to say something, then thought better of it. You just took out your phone and started recording. For science… and for future blackmail.
Steve crouched beside the skeleton, folding his hands like he was addressing a witness. “We’re here to help. If you can tell us who killed you, we’ll bring them to justice.”
You bit your lip so hard trying not to laugh, you swore you tasted blood.
Bucky leaned over the desk and yanked the envelope from the skeleton’s chest.
Steve’s jaw tightened. “You’re contaminating the scene.”
“It’s a twenty dollar prop, Steve. I don’t think it’s going to trial.”
Then Bucky poked the skeleton’s head, making it fall off and clatter dramatically to the floor.
Everyone stared at it. Steve looked personally offended.
You raised an eyebrow. “Did you just decapitate our only lead?”
“It… it was barely hanging on anyway,” Bucky muttered, setting the skull back with exaggerated care. “These things happen.”
Steve knelt beside the fallen plastic remains, eyes full of regret. “He served his purpose. We thank him for his sacrifice.”
You threw your hands in the air. “It’s a skeleton, not a fallen comrade!”
The intercom crackled. “Hey guys,” The perky staff member’s voice rang out, “Just a reminder: Please don’t disassemble the props. Sir with the metal arm? Yes, you. Please don’t interrogate the decor.”
Bucky gave a small chuckle. Steve immediately stood at attention. “Sorry, ma’am.”
You looked between your two supersoldier boyfriends and the half-decapitated skeleton, then turned toward the camera in the corner and gave it a deadpan stare. “I just wanted a nice evening. That’s all. Just puzzles and maybe a little fun but no. Instead I get a dramatized cold case and two very intense golden retrievers with trauma.”
“Hey,” Bucky said with a shrug. “You’re the one who invited us.”
You squinted at him. “…You know what? That one’s on me.”
By minute forty-five, you were starting to suspect the real puzzle wasn’t the escape room. It was figuring out how you were going to survive this without needing a drink afterward. Bucky had taken it upon himself to test “structural weaknesses” in the fake brick walls. His version of “testing” was punching one lightly. With his metal arm.
The wall cracked and the room went silent.
From the intercom: “Please do not damage the set. Also, we are not responsible for injuries caused by over enthusiastic participation. Thank you!”
You turned on him like a storm. “What happened to ‘this’ll be easy’?”
“It is easy. The wall just looked suspicious,” Bucky replied, wiping fake cobwebs from his sleeve like a man with no regrets.
“It’s foam!” You yelled. “It’s suspicious because it’s clearly styrofoam!”
Steve, meanwhile, had discovered a locked chest with an old rotary phone on top. He was pacing in front of it like he was expecting it to ring with instructions from headquarters.
“I think it’s a code,” He murmured. “We dial something, and it opens. Maybe if we spell out a word using the numbers-”
“Steve,” You interrupted, pinching the bridge of your nose, “The clue literally says: ‘Dial 911 to unlock the final key.’ That’s not a code. That’s just instructions.”
Steve blinked. “Oh.”
He dialed 911 on the dusty phone. The chest popped open with a ding and a dramatic puff of dry ice that startled all three of you.
Inside was a black keycard and a note that said “Final door: 5 minutes remain.”
Bucky snatched the keycard. “Let’s finish this thing. I’ve got a hot date with a milkshake and a nap.”
Steve furrowed his brow. “We should think this carefully and plan. There could be traps in the last room.”
You looked between them and snorted. “What, like the staff’s gonna throw in a booby trap just to spice it up?”
“…They could,” Steve muttered. “It’d be unexpected, that’s good design.”
You made a mental note to ban both of them from anything resembling a mystery game for the rest of your natural life.
Then came The Moment.
You all stepped into the final room that was all dark with eerie music playing from a hidden speaker, and a blinking red countdown above the last door. Dramatic fog rolled out across the floor.
There was a button on the wall.
Just a red, glowing button with a sign above it that said:
“EMERGENCY ESCAPE – DO NOT PRESS UNLESS YOU GIVE UP.”
You hadn’t even opened your mouth to say “don’t” before Bucky pressed it. The room lights blared on and the music stopped. The countdown froze at 00:03 as you all stood in stunned silence.
The intercom crackled again.
“…So, you technically escaped, but also forfeited. That’s… a first.”
Bucky blinked. “What? It said emergency. I figured it’d blow something up. Or, like… open a trapdoor. Something dramatic.”
Steve looked personally betrayed. “We were three seconds away from winning with full completion.”
“You were still looking for tripwires,” You snapped. “I was reading the last clue. He just wanted to blow something up!”
Bucky looked sheepish. “You can’t give me a glowing red button and not expect me to press it. That’s on them.”
You stared at the ceiling like it might offer you divine intervention. “I invited two enhanced soldiers into a puzzle-themed children’s attraction. This is my fault. I accept that.”
As the final door clicked open and the staff came in to escort you out, one of them gave you a pitying smile.
“Hey,” She said brightly, “At least no one tried to climb into the air vents this time!”
You blinked. “Wait. That’s an option?”
Steve immediately looked intrigued.
You grabbed both their arms. “Nope. Out now. I’m buying you both ice cream so you don’t break anything else.”
What We Fight For
Summary: Thrown into a tense alliance, you and Bucky Barnes clash into a rivalry with cold stares and harsh words. But when a rooftop fall, a late-night patch-up, and a brutal argument strip away both of your defenses, the truth hits harder than any mission ever could. (Bucky Barnes x Super soldier!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has a similar serum as a super soldier.
Word Count: 3k+
A/N: Apologies if this seems messy. It’s not really a power that gives me much to work with, but it turned out alright in the end. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
You weren’t recruited. You were assigned.
Born from a black-ops experiment the government quietly buried once the serum stabilized, you were a living weapon they kept in their back pocket. A contingency plan. When word came that the Avengers might need more muscle in the field, they didn’t ask. They deployed.
You didn’t come to make friends. You came to fulfill orders and win.
And yet, here you were, staring across the mat at Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier himself, while Sam smirked from the sidelines and Steve muttered something about “team bonding.” You were here to train, but Bucky had that look again that said you’re not welcome here.
“Again,” You say flatly, shrugging out your jacket and stepping onto the mat.
Bucky’s jaw ticks. “Thought you’d had enough yesterday when I put you on your ass.”
Your lip twitches. “I slipped.”
“Sure you did.”
He circles you slowly, assessing. His arms are relaxed at his sides but you’re not fooled. He’s reading your stance, waiting for your weight to shift, for your hips to square. You’d be insulted if you weren’t doing the exact same thing. You lunge first, test him. He blocks it easily, metal arm catching your strike mid-air. You twist, pivoting into a sweep that nearly clips his ankle, but he hops back with a grunt.
“Getting slower, Barnes,” You mutter.
“You talk a lot for someone who hasn’t landed a hit all week.”
The sparring sessions had started as training. Then they became contests. Now, it was just war. He didn’t like the way you fought. It was too sharp, too efficient. You didn’t like the way he looked at you, like he recognized something he hated in himself.
You fake going left and land a solid elbow to his ribs on the right. The air leaves him in a hiss. He recovers fast, but not fast enough to stop the cocky grin that pulls at your mouth.
“Gotcha.”
He narrows his eyes. “Beginner’s luck.”
He rushes you, sudden and aggressive. For a moment, you're toe-to-toe, exchanging blows with brutal precision. Metal arm meets gloved knuckles. You both move like predators. Mirrored, practiced, and too much history in your blood to fight sloppy. Eventually, you end up on your back, panting, his knee pinning your chest, breath hot against your cheek.
“Yield,” He growls.
Your fingers flex against the mat. “Not a chance.”
He hesitates for a beat too long and that’s when you slam your forehead into his nose. He yelps, a very undignified sound you wish you had recorded, and rolls off with a curse, cradling his face.
You scramble to your feet, wincing slightly from the impact. “You get distracted too easily.”
He looks up, eyes narrowed, blood trailing from his nose. “You’re insane.”
You toss him a towel. “Takes one to know one.”
For a moment, the room goes quiet, both of you catching your breath. Then he says, “They trained you like me, didn’t they?”
You don’t answer. You don’t have to.
“I can tell,” He continues, voice lower now. “You fight like you’re not allowed to lose. Like you don’t know what it means to stop.”
Your jaw tightens. “Then stop underestimating me.”
“I don’t,” He says quietly. “That’s the problem.”
The air shifts. Charged and uneasy as you both stand there, bruised and sweaty. Too close and too silent. Then Steve’s voice cuts in from the hallway.
“Good session, you two.”
You step back. Bucky wipes his nose. Neither of you says another word. But the next day, he’s already waiting on the mat before you get there. And he doesn’t hold back anymore.
-
The compound is quiet at midnight. The kind of stillness that wraps around you and presses into your bones. You slip into the kitchen in your sweats, body sore from training, head still buzzing from the adrenaline you never quite know how to shake. You don’t bother turning the lights on.
The fridge hums in the background. The tile is cold beneath your feet as you reach for the kettle. Then-
“You always drink tea like you're in a British spy movie, or is this just your midnight ritual?”
Your spine stiffens. You recognize the voice behind you, of course you do. But you don’t turn around, acknowledging him in a flat tone. “Barnes.”
“Didn't peg you for the insomnia type.”
You glance over your shoulder. He’s leaning in the doorway like he owns the room. Loose black t-shirt. Arms crossed. Shadows catch the angles of his face just enough to make his scowl look carved.
You gesture at the kettle. “Some of us have things on our mind.”
He steps into the kitchen, walking past you to open the cabinet above your head. You don’t move from your spot. He reaches over you, brushing against your shoulder on purpose, you’re sure. His body heat trails behind him like a warning.
“Stealing my tea now?” You ask flatly.
“You took my towel earlier.”
“You were bleeding on it.”
“I was using it.”
You roll your eyes and pour the hot water into two mismatched mugs. He raises an eyebrow when you slide one over.
“Poisoned?”
“Not yet.”
You both sip in silence as the fluorescent light over the sink flickers. He leans against the counter across from you, sipping slowly as he watches you. He always watches like he’s looking for something, maybe cracks in your walls.
“You always like this?” He asks.
You tilt your head. “Like what?”
“Walled off and sharp edges. Acting like you don’t need anyone.”
Your jaw tightens, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Better than acting like you used to be someone else.”
His expression darkens. The silence stretches. You should apologize, but don’t.
“Right,” He mutters, setting the mug down. “Guess we’re both good at pretending.”
You don’t look at him, but your voice comes quieter than intended. “Maybe we don’t know how to stop.”
He hesitates, and you notice something shift in his tone.
“You hit hard,” He says.
“You go easy on me.”
He scoffs. “I don’t go easy on anyone.”
You glance up at him. “Then maybe I hit harder than you expected.”
His lips twitch, just slightly. “Maybe.”
You stand there for a moment, two supersoldiers in the dead of night, staring at each other over mugs of tea like it’s some kind of game neither of you knows the rules to.
Then he says, voice lower now, “You’re not like them.”
You blink. “Them?”
“Soldiers. The ones they send. You’re colder, smarter. Meaner.”
You smirk. “Flatter me some more, Barnes.”
“I’m saying I know what it feels like to be made for war and expected to act like a person afterward.”
Something sinks in your chest. Deeper than you want it to.
“You think I’m not a person?” You ask.
He looks straight at you. “I think you’re trying real hard not to be.”
That lands too accurately. Way too close to the bone. You grip the mug a little tighter. He notices, but doesn’t push.
“I’m going to bed,” You mutter, setting the mug down.
As you pass him, his voice follows.
“Don’t forget tomorrow. Training at seven.”
You pause in your tracks, glancing back at him with narrowed eyes.
“You trying to kill me?”
“No,” He says with a ghost of a grin. “If I was, you’d already be dead.”
You smirk just a little. “Maybe you’re getting slow.”
His smile fades, but something warm lingers in his eyes.
“You wish.”
And for the first time, your heartbeat feels less like a threat, and more like a dare you don’t know whether to act upon.
-
The comms crackle in your ear as the wind howls around the rooftop. Rain slicks the concrete beneath your boots. Below, the city lights blur and flicker, distorted by smoke, shadows, and chaos.
The mission was to apprehend the target then turn them in. A simple in and out. Something you should have been able to complete with ease.
But you had been ambushed.
You skid across the rooftop, breathe ragged, blood sticky under your ribs. Something’s broken, probably more than one thing, but you don’t stop. You can’t.
Bucky’s voice cuts through the storm as he calls your name, sharp and commanding, “You’re heading for the west corner. That fire escape’s blown out. Stop moving.”
You ignore him. Every second wasted is another second the target might vanish. You need to cut them off. You need to move.
“Damn it—”
The roof crumbles under your weight. You drop.
It’s not far, three stories, maybe, but pain flares bright as you hit a ledge hard, the edge of it catching your side with a crunch. You roll, barely catching yourself before you slide off completely.
And then he’s there. Hands on your arms. Dragging you up, fast, rough, and angry.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Bucky’s face is too close, eyes wide, rain streaking through his hair. “You were told to pull back!”
“I had them!” You wheeze, swallowing the metallic taste of blood. “We can’t let them run-“
“You can’t breathe.”
You try to shake him off. He doesn’t let go.
You hiss, teeth gritting, “I didn’t need your help.”
“That’s not what it looked like when you were halfway to death’s door.”
His grip tightens on your arms, but it’s not pain he’s trying to inflict. It’s panic he’s trying to hide. His metal hand is cold from the rain and trembling just slightly. You hate that you notice.
You turn your face away. “I’ve survived worse.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is it?”
“That I care, damn it!”
The words slip out hot and ragged, louder than the rain.
You freeze and so does he.
The only sound for a moment is the wind, and your breath, shallow and uneven between you. His hands drop away from your arms slowly, like he’s just realizing he touched you at all.
He backs up a step. “Forget it.”
You stare at him, stunned. Blood is still soaking through your shirt, but your heart is thudding hard behind your ribs and not from the pain.
“You care,” You echo quietly, almost like a question.
He exhales, clearly frustrated and embarrassed. “Forget I said anything.”
“I didn’t think you did.”
“I didn’t want to.”
You look at him. Really look. There’s a flicker of something soft beneath all that steel. Vulnerability edged with guilt. It’s the one of the first times he’s looked at you without his guard up. It’s one of the first times you’ve looked at him without wanting to hit him.
“You should’ve let me fall,” You whisper.
He shakes his head. “No. I shouldn’t have.”
He pauses for a moment before adding:
“And I wouldn’t have.”
You say nothing as he steps closer. He doesn’t touch you this time. Doesn’t need to. But his voice drops to a murmur only you can hear, “You don’t have to keep proving you don’t need anyone. I already know you don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere.”
You hate how much it rattles you. You hate that you believe him. You lower your gaze to your hand, still bloodied, still shaking slightly from adrenaline.
When you speak again, your voice is barely audible.
“Help me back up.”
He does.
This time, his hand stays in yours longer than necessary. And neither of you lets go first.
-
You hate medical bays. Always have. Sterile light. Quiet beeping. That faint scent of alcohol and regret. You had shooed away the staff, saying you could do it yourself and would call if you needed anything.
You sit on the edge of the bed, shirt peeled halfway off, bruises blooming violet-black across your ribs, blood crusted at your temple. You’ve already tried to patch yourself up, but your hands won’t stop shaking and the gauze keeps slipping.
Bucky walks in without knocking.
You glare up at him. “Ever heard of privacy?”
He tosses a med kit onto the table and takes off his jacket. “You lost that privilege when you almost threw yourself off a roof.”
You scoff, but don't argue.
He opens the kit, pulling out antiseptic and gauze, and stands between your knees without asking. You don’t stop him even though you should, his admission earlier still echoing in your mind.
He dips the cotton in alcohol. “This is going to hurt.”
“I’m not new.”
He raises a brow. “Then stop flinching.”
You open your mouth to snap something back but he presses the soaked cotton against the gash on your side before you can, and pain sparks like electricity up your spine. Your hand shoots out instinctively and grips his arm. You feel the muscles tense under your fingers.
“Still not flinching?” He murmurs.
You grit your teeth. “Screw you.”
His lips twitch, barely.
The silence that follows is tight and thick, like something fragile stretched to the edge of breaking. His hand moves gently now, slower, wiping away blood. His touch is careful in a way that makes your chest ache more than your ribs.
You glance up at him. He’s too close. And he’s not looking at the wound anymore, he’s looking at you.
You could lean in. Just a little. You could close that impossible space and finally… you don’t. He doesn’t either.
Instead, he murmurs, “You don’t take care of yourself.”
You look away. “Don’t need to.”
“Bullshit.” His voice is low. Angry. Not at you, at whatever taught you to think like that. “You treat your body like it’s disposable.”
“Maybe it is.”
The silence that falls after that isn’t the kind you fill. It’s the kind that hurts.
He gently presses a bandage against your ribs, then tapes it in place. His fingers linger on your skin for a moment longer than necessary.
“You’re not disposable,” He says quietly. “Not to me.”
You freeze. There he goes again.
The air shifts. Then you do something you didn’t expect, you reach out and touch his jaw. Just two fingers, gently as if to test the weight of your own choice.
He doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t move closer, either. You draw your hand back like the moment never happened. But it did.
“I’ll change the dressing tomorrow,” He says, voice rough.
“I’ll be fine,” You reply, just as quiet.
He turns to leave before stopping in the doorway.
“You don’t have to keep doing things alone,” He says without turning around, and then he’s gone.
You sit there for a long time after. Holding your breath like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling.
-
As time passes and you’re assigned to go on more missions, the tension between you and him builds for better or worse.
You had recently returned from a solo mission. The compound is quiet, but the air inside the training room crackles with something volatile. You slam the door behind you, furious.
And he’s already there. Bucky’s pacing with his gloves off and shirt clinging to his back. His jaw is tight and his hands are fisted like he’s been holding back from punching something or someone.
“I told you,” He growls, not even looking at you, “Not to go in alone.”
“I handled it.”
“You were shot.”
“I’ve been shot before.”
He spins on you, blue eyes wild. “That doesn’t mean it’s fine!”
You throw your bag down, with a frustrated sigh. “Why do you even care, Barnes?”
He’s on you in seconds; closer than he should be, breathe sharp with adrenaline and frustration.
“Because I’m tired of watching you bleed for people who wouldn’t do the same for you!”
“You think I don’t know that?” You snap. “You think I don’t feel that, every time I’m stitched up in some cold-ass medical bay while everyone else celebrates the win?”
His face is stone, but his eyes… God, his eyes are raw.
“Then why?” He demands. “Why keep doing it? Why keep throwing yourself at the fire when you know no one’s coming to pull you out?”
You try to shove him hard, but doesn’t move. You hate that he cares. You hate that he can’t just ignore you and view you as a tool like everyone else. When you go to answer, your voice is loud and it cracks:
“Because I don’t know how to stop!”
There it is. The silence after that is explosive. You’re both breathing hard, staring at each other. Daring the other to say something that will break the last barrier you’ve both kept between yourselves. That fragile, stupid boundary you’ve both pretended exists.
He takes a step forward and you match him.
His voice drops, dangerous. “You think I don’t see it? How you act like you hate me, just to keep from admitting you don’t?”
Your heart kicks into your ribs. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know you fight me harder than you fight anyone else.”
“Maybe because you deserve it.”
His jaw flexes. “Or maybe because you’re scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of wanting something real.”
You watches you flinch like he hit you, but he doesn’t back down. “You act like I’m the enemy, like pushing me away makes you stronger, but every time you fall, you look for me. Don’t lie.”
You swallow hard. “Don’t act like you don’t do the same.”
You’re chest to chest now. The air is boiling. You can feel the heat coming off his skin. Your hand is still curled in the fabric of his shirt from when you shoved him, but you haven’t let go.
He looks at your mouth and you look at his. The moment stretches before it breaks.
“You want to hate me?” He breathes. “Then say it.”
You stare at him, trembling now.
Say it, You tell yourself. End it. Push him away for good.
But the words won’t come. Instead, you whisper, too soft, too vulnerable:
“I don’t.”
That’s all it takes.
His mouth crashes into yours like a dam breaking. Like something starved, angry, desperate. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers in his hair. His hands grips your waist, then your back, then your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold all of you at once.
It’s not gentle. It’s not clean. It’s everything you’ve both tried not to feel. But it’s real.
When you finally pull back, barely, his forehead rests against yours. No words are shared. Just slow shaky breathing and the terrifying, undeniable truth:
You don’t hate each other. You never did.
-
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