Chaotic Cat Curse

I’ll Still Love You

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, you lose all memory of your relationship with Bucky. Even though it pains him to the core with grief, he stays by your side and quietly swears he’ll always love you no matter what happens. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.8k+

A/N: This has ANGST!!! I hope you cry /j. I love this version more than the other to be honest, maybe you all will like it too! You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Your Version

There were things Bucky didn’t think he’d ever have again.

Peace. Sleep. A future. And you.

You came into his life like silence after gunfire. Still and steady, almost unnoticeable at first. You didn’t push or prod. You didn’t flinch at the name Winter Soldier or look at his arm like it was a loaded weapon. You just existed in that calm, present, and kind way.

Many times you would ask how his day was, not his past. You told him what you dreamt about instead of asking what woke him screaming. You made him feel like a person, not a project nor a burden. And that was enough to terrify him.

But he kept coming back.

The first time he held your hand, it was hesitant. He was half-expecting you to pull away, but you didn’t. The first time he kissed you, it was desperate. Like he was drowning in memories and you were the only air left. And you kissed him back like you already knew how many pieces he was in, and didn’t mind picking them up one at a time.

He didn’t say I love you for a long time, not until it slipped out during a fight that he couldn’t remember why it happened to begin with. The words had always felt too big, too fragile. But he knew it the night you fell asleep on his chest, your breathing slow and your fingers resting over the surface of his metal arm. Like you cherished even the parts of him that brought so much destruction. He watched you sleep for hours, just holding you, trying to remember what it felt like to want to stay alive.

Sixteen months with you, and he still couldn’t believe it was real.

The little apartment above the bookstore wasn’t much, but it was yours. The heater barely worked. The neighbors were loud. But there were books in every corner, and a photo of you both pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a cat. You called it “home.” And for once in his life, Bucky did too.

Every morning, he woke up with you tangled in the blankets beside him. Your head tucked beneath his chin, one arm slung over his waist. You always woke up first, but you never moved until he stirred. You said you liked to watch him even though he never knew why.

He always figured you saw something in him he couldn’t. And maybe that was what scared him most. That somehow, one day, you'd wake up and see him for what he really was. Not a man. Not a boyfriend. Just a weapon with blood on his hands.

But that day hadn’t come. Not yet.

-

When the mission briefing came through, it was supposed to be simple and low risk. An abandoned Hydra lab flagged for cleanup. Just intel recovery and demolition. No fights, no enemies. He didn’t want you going in. Something about the location sat wrong in his chest. But you insisted. Said you’d handled worse.

And maybe that was the problem. You always handled everything for him. For others. Even when you shouldn’t have had to.

He watched as you went down another hall to split up and cover more ground. He wished he had never left your side. Because then came the moment of static on the comms, then the flicker of power loss, and lastly the sudden radio silence.

He ran. It took six minutes to find you.

You were in a containment room, collapsed near a machine that looked like something between a scanner and a torture device. Your body was curled on the ground, breathing shallow, hands twitching.

He dropped to his knees beside you. “Hey. Hey… C’mon, Doll, open your eyes.”

You blinked and looked up at him. You stared at him like he was a stranger. When you spoke up, your voice was hoarse. “Who are you?”

The question didn’t register at first. He thought maybe it was the shock. Or a concussion. Maybe you were disoriented. But then you pushed yourself away from him and crawled back, visibly panicked. Your eyes were wide and your throat was working hard to swallow a scream.

“Please… don’t touch me.”

And just like that, the air left his lungs. He tried to stay calm. He tried saying your name, gently. Over and over. You flinched every time like it was a threat. Like he was. It was the look in your eyes that gutted him the most. Not fear of what had happened. Not confusion. But the absence of everything.

Everything you’d shared. The way you looked at him every morning. The jokes you made in the kitchen. The way you once whispered you’d never been safer than in his arms. It was all gone.

You didn’t know who he was. You didn’t know you loved him. And in that moment, he’d never felt more like the ghost they said he was.

-

You didn’t come home right away.

When he managed to coax you back to the tower, the Medics cleared you, of course. Physically, you were fine. Not a scratch on you. But the memory loss was real. The device had done something. Wiped neural pathways, scrambled connections, stripped entire years like peeling wallpaper.

You remembered your name. Your training. How to handle a weapon. How to take apart a gun and stitch a wound. But not him. Not the man who held you every night like you were the only thing tethering him to this century. Not Bucky.

At first, you stayed in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility while they ran scans and tests. Bucky barely left your side. He hovered in corners, not too close, watching you try to relearn yourself in pieces. You were calm, quiet, and even polite.

You just didn’t know him.

He heard it in your voice every time you said his name: Barnes, not Bucky. Cold and distant like a fellow agent rather than the man who once made you laugh so hard you cried over a burnt grilled cheese sandwich in the middle of a power outage.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” You told him once, hands folded in your lap, and voice so gentle it cut him clean. “But… I don’t feel anything when I look at you. I’m sorry.”

He nodded and didn’t say anything more. What could he say?

He didn’t cry in front of you. But later, in the hallway, he braced his metal hand against the wall and exhaled like it hurt just to breathe. They had given you the option not to work for S.H.I.E.L.D anymore, to never see him again. To transfer and reset your life wherever you wanted.

But you didn’t. You looked at him and said, “Maybe… if I spend time with you, it might come back.”

So you came home.

You sat in the apartment like it was a museum. You traced the spines of your own books with unfamiliar fingertips. You opened drawers and stared at the little things like the shared grocery lists, photos of the two of you at Coney Island, a half-finished mug you’d made in a pottery class Bucky had hated but gone to anyway, just because you asked.

None of it sparked anything. But you wanted to remember and that mattered.

He made dinner the first night. Pasta, simple. You smiled faintly and said it tasted good. But you had always used to make fun of him for using too much garlic. He waited for you to say it, but you didn’t.

Later, you sat on opposite sides of the couch while a movie played in the background. You asked questions about yourself: what kind of music you liked, what books you used to read, or if you ever learned to play the old keyboard tucked beside the bookshelf.

Bucky answered every one like he was handling glass.

“You hated horror movies,” He said softly. “Used to bury your face in my shoulder even during the trailers. But you’d watch them anyway, just to laugh at me jumping.”

You tilted your head. “You get scared at horror movies?”

He cracked a faint smile. “Terrified.”

You laughed, really laughed, and for a second, just one fragile moment, it felt like you. He clung to that.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you. Didn’t call you doll or lean against you the way he used to. You weren’t his anymore. Not yet. Maybe not ever again. But every time you laughed or asked about a memory, he let himself hope.

Hope that somewhere, buried deep inside your mind, you were still his.

When he wasn’t spending time around you, he could tell how the rest of the team practically tiptoes around him now.

Some aren’t subtle. Natasha gives him long looks across briefing tables, equal parts pity and protectiveness. She doesn’t speak unless spoken to and whenever she does, her voice is softer than usual. Controlled.

Sam tries, bless him. He cracks a joke or two, light and quick, as if humor could stitch something this deep. He claps Bucky on the shoulder once in the gym and says, “You’re still in there. She’ll find you.” But he doesn’t say anything back, simply giving a tight nod before walking off.

Tony doesn’t gloat much anymore. He doesn’t joke either. He just sends a file to Bucky’s secure inbox about neural-recovery tech, theories, names of people who’ve studied memory wipe reversal. No subject line. No message. But Bucky understands it for what it is: support in Stark language.

Even Clint says it plain. “You’re not giving up.” And Bucky says it back. “I’m not.”

But none of them really know how to be there for him.

Because they saw the way you used to look at him, like he wasn’t a weapon or a man with blood on his hands, but simply yours. And now… you don’t even flinch when you stand near him, because you don’t remember what there is to be afraid of or to love.

So they give him space. But not Steve.

It’s late when Steve knocks. He doesn’t bother answering, but Steve comes in anyway. He finds Bucky in the kitchen, t-shirt and sweatpants, staring at a chipped mug on the counter like it just insulted him.

Steve doesn’t say anything at first, just leans back against the counter, crossing his arms and waiting.

Bucky exhales, but doesn’t look up. “She used to use that one,” He murmurs. “Every morning. Even when the handle cracked.”

His best friend glances at the mug to see the tiny sunflowers on it, slightly faded from too many washes. He remembers seeing it in the sink a hundred times. He remembers seeing you curled against Bucky on the couch, sipping from it with both hands while Bucky tucked a blanket around you like you were something breakable.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Bucky says. His voice is low, shaky even now. “She’s here. She’s here, Stevie. But it’s like watching her ghost walk around our apartment.”

Steve swallows as his chest aches, but he doesn’t show it.

“She’s not gone, Buck.”

“She doesn’t remember me.”

“But she’s trying.”

That lands hard. Bucky finally looks up, eyes bloodshot but dry.

Steve pushes off the counter and takes a slow step forward. “You’re angry. You’re grieving her, even though she’s right in front of you. That’s hell. But Bucky…” He sighs. “You know what it’s like to lose everything and still survive. You’ve done it before.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “It’s not the same.”

“No. It’s not. Because this time, she’s trying to come back to you. You just have to be patient.”

Bucky looks down at the mug again. He breathes slowly, his tone more vulnerable now. “What if she never remembers? What if she falls in love with someone else, and I’m just some… ghost in a photo?”

Steve’s expression cracks for a moment but his voice remains gentle. “Then you’ll still love her. You’ll still be there, however she needs. Because that’s what you do when someone’s your home.”

Silence fills the air before Bucky finally nods. It’s a slow, pained motion done only once.

Steve steps closer to his friend and grips his shoulder, firm and steady. “You’re not alone in this. You never were.”

And with that, Bucky stays. He stays by your side at a comfortable distance, offering a steady presence and patient answers to any questions you have.

Even though it hurts him to see you this way, makes him sick to his stomach with grief and anguish at the loss of your love; Bucky never let it show around you, not even once.

Because if there was one thing he remembered and understood better than anyone, it was what it meant to lose pieces of yourself. He couldn’t be angry with you for forgetting, not when he’d spent decades trying to remember who he used to be.

So he doesn’t beg. Doesn’t plead. He doesn’t guilt you into trying harder either. He just stays.

Sometimes, you asked him questions.

“Did I… love you?”

He never lied. Never told you stories to manipulate your heart into remembering. He just answered, gently and honestly.

“Yeah,” He’d say. “You did. And I loved you too.”

And when you looked down or away or offered a polite smile instead of a knowing one, he’d excuse himself for a few minutes to the hallway where he could breathe through the ache in his chest. But Bucky wasn’t a man who gave up. Not on you. Not now.

Because the truth was, he’d wait as long as it took. Even if you never remembered. Even if he had to fall in love with you all over again from scratch and let you fall for him at your own pace, in your own way.

-

On some days, something sparked enough to give him hope.

One morning, it started small. Not with a kiss. Not with some dramatic tearful moment or sudden flood of recognition. Just… a hum.

You’re making tea, quiet and slow, the way you always did. The kettle hisses and clicks, and you’re standing in Bucky’s- your kitchen, waiting.

And you hum. A stupid little melody. Out of tune and familiar.

Bucky freezes in the doorway, his breath caught like a hook in his throat.

Because you always used to hum that song. A dumb old jazz piece he played on vinyl one night just to tease you, and you rolled your eyes and said it sounded like elevator music. Then you got it stuck in your head for weeks to the point where he’d find you humming it while brushing your teeth or waiting for the microwave. Once he heard it while you were patching up a bullet graze.

And now you’re doing it again, without realizing. He doesn’t say anything. He’s afraid if he moves too fast, the moment will vanish like mist.

You pour the tea then turn enough to notice him, tilting your head slightly in concern. “You okay?”

He swallows. “Yeah. Just… you always used to hum that.”

You blink. “Did I?”

He nods and you don’t say anything else. But you look thoughtful. Like maybe, for a flicker of a second, something stirred inside.

Later, it happens again.

You’re sitting on the couch. He’s a few feet away. Respectful as always. You yawn, curl your legs up under you, and reach for the blanket on the back of the couch. Without thinking, you toss one corner toward him.

He stares. Because you always used to share it like that. The dumb little blanket-sharing ritual, a habit you never talked about. Just muscle memory. A routine born of hundreds of nights side-by-side.

And now… now your body remembers what your mind doesn’t.

You notice the way he’s looking at the blanket. “Is this something I used to do?”

He nods again, slower this time. “Yeah.”

“…Do you want it?”

“No,” He says quickly, quietly. “I’m good.”

You study him a moment longer, then gently drape it across both your laps anyway. You don’t say anything. Neither does he. But he doesn’t move for a long time.

That night, when you go to bed, Bucky stays on the couch like he always does now. It’s separate and distant, yet safe. But his heart is full of knives. Because every second you’re here, every time you smile or laugh or hum that dumb melody, he remembers how it used to feel. The ease and the intimacy. The way you’d tuck your face into his chest and call him “Buck” in that soft, sleepy voice like you’d never say it for anyone else.

And he wonders if he’ll ever have that again. But even if he doesn’t, even if you never remember, and even if you move on someday and love someone else…

He knows one thing like gospel truth:

He will still love you. Always. Even if it breaks him.

Because it was never a choice. Not with you. You were the first thing that made him believe he could have a future. And he’ll keep loving you even if all you ever give him now are flickers of hope.

And now, even with your memory scattered like ash in the wind, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever lost.

Cookie Baked Disasters

Summary: You somehow manage to bake poisonous cookies which prompts Bucky to supervise all your baking endeavors from now on. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.1k+

A/N: Loosely based on some audio I heard on tiktok the other day. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

There were many things the Avengers had come to expect when you walked into a room: chaos, genius, caffeine jitters, trivia no one asked for, and the occasional accidental fire. But no one, absolutely no one expected you to show up to the kitchen with a tray of suspiciously perfect cookies and the most serious expression you’d ever worn.

“Those cookies are poisonous,” You said, setting the tray down on the counter with dramatic flair, “So no one eat them.”

Everyone stared.

Then Sam burst out laughing. “Ha! Duh. That’s obviously a bit.”

You blinked slowly. “Sam.”

“What?”

“…Go throw up.”

A pause. Confusion.

“I didn’t eat any-“

“Go. Throw. Up.”

Panic.

Sam bolted for the sink.

Bucky, sitting across the room cleaning a knife, froze mid-motion. “Wait, what the hell do you mean poisonous?”

You sighed, already pulling out your tablet. “Okay, so, technically they’re not poisonous to me, because I built up a tolerance over the past three weeks—don’t look at me like that—but it turns out the sugar substitute I used breaks down into a compound that causes moderate to severe liver distress in most mammals.”

Natasha put her coffee down with slow, measured dread. “You’re not most mammals.”

“Exactly,” You chirped, clearly missing the point. “Also, I was testing if I could make a biodegradable, calorie-free sugar using mold spores and hydrogen combined with cactus oil. Spoiler alert: I can. But apparently only I can eat it. Which is fine, more for me.”

Bucky was already on his feet, striding over, and staring at you like you’d grown a second head. “Why didn’t you just… make normal cookies?”

You blinked up at him, tilting your head. “Because that’s boring.”

“Because that’s safe,” He snapped.

“But boring.”

From the sink, Sam gagged dramatically. “I didn’t even eat one, but I feel like I did. I’m throwing up for safety.”

Tony wandered in, glanced at the tray, and immediately turned back around. “Nope. Not again.”

You rolled your eyes. “God, that was one time, and technically the lasagna incident was Steve’s fault for telling me to ‘eyeball it.’ I don’t have normal eyes.”

Steve walked in a beat later, took one look at Sam hurling into the sink, and another at the tray. “I don’t even wanna know.”

Bucky rounded on you, hands on his hips. If he had a sass meter, it would be through the roof. “You cannot just leave deadly baked goods in a communal kitchen.”

“I labeled them,” You said, pointing to the tiny sticky note that read “NOT FOR MOUTHS.”

“That’s not a label!” Bucky barked. “That’s a suggestion written like a dare!”

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it when you realized he had a point.

“I’ll lock them up,” You offered brightly. “Put them in my danger fridge.”

“You have a danger fridge?!”

“Where do you think the uranium cupcakes went?”

Bucky closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” He muttered.

You grinned. “Yeah, but I’d do it creatively.”

Despite himself, his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. Then he sighed and pulled you away from the tray and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You’re banned from baking unsupervised.”

You beamed. “So, supervised poison baking is still on the table?”

He groaned.

You took that as a yes.

Therefore, exactly two days later, you dragged your poor boyfriend into the kitchen who was surveying the area like it was a crime scene.

“You said supervised baking was allowed,” You pointed out cheerfully, tying your apron with the kind of confidence usually reserved for villains and reality TV chefs.

Bucky, arms crossed, eye slightly twitching like he already regretted everything, gave you the look.

“That was before I knew you considered ‘supervised’ to mean ‘talking me through your thought process while I physically stop you from poisoning everyone.’”

“Exactly,” You said, pulling out ingredients with absolutely no regard for organization. “Teamwork.”

“Why is there a car battery on the counter?”

“That’s for the frosting.”

He didn't respond. He just slowly picked it up and placed it out of reach like it was a loaded weapon.

You hummed a little song as you poured something vaguely flour-colored into a bowl. The bag just said ‘experimental starch, not food safe.’ You’d crossed it out and written “maybe food safe??” in Sharpie.

Bucky gently turned you away from it.

“No.”

“Rude,” You muttered.

“We’re making normal cookies. Flour, sugar, butter, and eggs.”

“Got it.” You nodded. “So I’ll substitute the eggs with carbonated eggplant foam, and the butter with an algae-based salve I’ve been developing-“

“NO!” Bucky all but shouted, grabbing both your wrists like he was wrangling a particularly enthusiastic octopus before he sighed deeply. “You’re gonna follow the recipe, step by step, and if at any point I see you reach for something glowing, humming, or labeled ‘unknown,’ I’m locking you out of the kitchen permanently.”

You blinked. “You’re kinda hot when you’re bossy.”

He looked skyward. “God help me.”

You finally, finally, started putting real, safe ingredients in the bowl. Bucky hovered nearby like a sleep-deprived babysitter watching a toddler use a chainsaw. However, you made it known how miserable you were. You cracked the eggs like they’d insulted your mother, accidentally got shells in the batter, and when he tried to help, you threatened to scientifically improve him.

“I swear to God,” He muttered, digging the shards out with a spoon, “This is worse than combat.”

“You say that like cookies aren’t a battlefield,” You said, dumping the sugar in aggressively and vaguely guessing the right amount needed. “We’re fighting for joy, Barnes.”

“We’re fighting for survival,” He corrected. “Mine.”

Half an hour and seventeen emotional breakdowns later (six of them his), the cookies were baking in the oven and the kitchen wasn’t on fire. This was a historic win.

You leaned against the counter, beaming like a kid who’d just presented macaroni art to their teacher. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Domesticity suits me.”

Bucky looked around: flour everywhere, butter smears on the ceiling, a suspiciously missing spatula (likely melted somewhere), and a bowl labeled “cookie prototype v2” quietly vibrating under the sink.

He sighed.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Lucky and dangerous. Like an endangered bird with a knife.”

He blinked. “You’re never baking again.”

“But I followed the rules!”

“You tried to carbonate the dough halfway through!”

“I succeeded, actually-“

He kissed you then, mostly to shut you up. You grinned against his mouth, and he could taste sugar and disaster and whatever it was that made you so you.

And yeah, the cookies would probably be slightly radioactive.

But at least no one was throwing up this time. Yet.

Arm Dilemma

Summary: Your first time catching Bucky using the dishwasher to wash his metal arm. (Husband!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 600+

A/N: Inspired by that one scene in the thunderbolts trailer of Bucky’s arm in the dishwasher lol. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Bucky Barnes was many things: a former brainwashed assassin, a super soldier, a brooding Avenger, and surprisingly to many, a man with a very strong opinion about dish soap. You learned that about two months into marriage, when you bought off-brand lemon-scented detergent and he stared at the bottle like it had personally betrayed him in a Cold War mission.

But nothing quite compared to what you discovered one quiet Tuesday afternoon.

You had come home early from work, your arms full of groceries and your head full of plans. Nothing wild, just dinner and maybe a movie if Bucky wasn’t in one of his “I’m too emotionally complicated for romantic comedies” moods. As you kicked the door shut behind you, you noticed two things immediately: first, that the apartment was suspiciously silent. Second, that the dishwasher was running.

Bucky? Voluntarily doing chores?

You set the groceries down slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile domestic miracle occurring in your kitchen. You approached the dishwasher with reverence, like you were sneaking up on Bigfoot. You squatted down, peeked through the tiny, cloudy window in the front panel, and your brain short-circuited.

There, nestled between a pasta strainer and a coffee mug with Tony Stark’s face on it, was Bucky’s metal arm.

You blinked, rubbed your eyes, then looked again.

Still there.

You stood in stunned silence for a long moment before you did the only logical thing: you yelled, “BUCKY BARNES, GET YOUR SUPER-SOLDIER ASS IN HERE RIGHT NOW.”

There was a pause. A creak. Then soft, sheepish footsteps.

He appeared in the hallway, shirtless, with only his flesh arm scratching the back of his neck. “Hey, doll.”

“Don’t you ‘hey doll’ me,” You said, gesturing wildly toward the dishwasher. “Why is your vibranium arm in there?!”

He glanced toward the appliance and had the audacity to shrug. “Had peanut butter on it.”

“Peanut-” You choked on your words. “How does a trained assassin get peanut butter on his arm?”

“I was making a sandwich. The jar slipped. It was a high-velocity incident.” He actually looked offended on behalf of his own coordination. “Some of it got into the grooves.”

“You could’ve wiped it down. With a towel.”

He looked at you like you’d just told him to polish a jet engine with toilet paper. “There are micro-particles in the joints. This is precision tech. Do you know what peanut oil does to vibranium?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’m fairly certain it does not cause spontaneous combustion if left on for twenty minutes.”

He crossed his arms. Or rather, arm. “Steve would’ve backed me up.”

“Oh don’t you dare bring Steve into this- Steve washes his shield with dish soap and a sponge like a normal person!”

You stomped to the dishwasher and pointed at it like it had wronged your ancestors. “Do you know how expensive this is? If you break it with your high-tech Marvel Lego piece, I swear to God-“

“It’s on the bottom rack,” Bucky mumbled, sulking now. “Delicate cycle.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and took a deep breath.

“I swear, one day you’re going to wash your soul in the laundry hamper because you got it dirty.”

He gave you a lopsided grin, the one that still made your heart do a traitorous little flutter even after years together. “Would you still love me if I did?”

You tossed the towel at his face. “Only if you remember to use fabric softener.”

It then became a running joke. You’d leave sticky notes on the dishwasher that said “NOT FOR BODY PARTS,” and he’d respond by leaving his own sticky notes over your notes with “WARNING: May Contain Metal Parts. Proceed With Caution!” It was domestic life with Bucky: chaotic, a little ridiculous, and somehow the best kind of normal you never thought you’d have.

And despite his broody past, his spy instincts, and the tendency to sometimes treat modern appliances like alien tech, Bucky Barnes was yours.

Even if he occasionally mistook a dishwasher for a tactical cleaning unit.

hii!

since i saw that you’re taking request, can i request bucky having sex with reader for the first time since he’s free from hydra

thanks alot💕

Hello there, love. I do appreciate the request. However, I must say I’m not the most comfortable (or experienced) in writing hardcore smut or NSFW scenes like that. Therefore, I tried to fulfill your request within the boundaries of what I am capable of and hope you enjoy it!

I did try searching for stories similar to what you wanted. However honestly, if you look up the tag “Bucky Barnes Smut” you’d find a lot of amazing pieces by many wonderful authors. Happy reading!!!

Yearning Warmth

Summary: The first time Bucky initiates something more with you. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: MINORS DNI. Light NSFW, Intimate Scene(s)/Writing. You are responsible for the media you consume.

Word Count: 1.5k+

Main Masterlist

The apartment was quiet in the way only early mornings could be. Still and heavy with sleep, but alive with the promise of healing. You sat cross-legged on the couch with a steaming mug in your hands, wearing a too-big hoodie that didn’t belong to you.

It was his, worn soft at the sleeves, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and something colder, metallic. But it was his. And he’d let you wear it.

You’d met Bucky Barnes six months ago. Not the Winter Soldier, not Sergeant Barnes, but the man just trying to remember how to breathe again in a world that didn’t flinch every time he blinked. You weren’t an Avenger, not some high-ranking agent assigned to keep tabs on him. You were just… you. A friend of a friend. Someone who’d offered him coffee the first day he showed up to Sam’s VA group meeting in silence. Someone who hadn’t looked at him like a ticking bomb.

You’d become something steady in his life, in a time when the ground beneath him never seemed to stop shifting. At first, he didn’t talk much. He just watched, nodded, and occasionally offered a small smile that always seemed to vanish before you could fully register it. But you saw the effort, the cracks in his armor. And you didn’t try to fix him. You just showed up.

Movie nights. Long walks when the city felt too loud. Dinners shared mostly in quiet until he began to speak. Conversations about the 40s. About Steve and Brooklyn. About nightmares that left him staring at the ceiling, heart pounding like gunfire. You never asked for more than he gave. And maybe that was why he gave you everything. Slowly, uncertainly, like a soldier dismantling a bomb he’d once called his own heart.

Now, six months in, he was staying more nights at your apartment than his own. He left a toothbrush here. A pair of socks. A dog-eared paperback he never admitted he liked.

He hadn’t touched you, not really. Not like that. He held your hand sometimes. His kisses were soft, hesitant, like he was still unsure if he was allowed to want something gentle. Sometimes, he’d touch your cheek and linger, gaze so intense it made your breath catch. But when things got too close, when the air thickened between you, he always pulled away. Apologized with his eyes before words even had a chance.

You understood though. He had ghosts, scars beneath the skin that memory could still tear open.

But something was different lately.

He stood in the hallway now, quietly watching you from the doorway. The way he always did when he didn’t want to wake you but couldn’t help himself. His hair was damp from the shower, curling a little at the ends. He wore a black shirt and gray sweats, both clinging to the strength of a body rebuilt for war, but now searching for peace.

“You always get up before me,” He murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

You looked up at him, gave him that soft smile, the one he once told you made his chest feel “too full.”

“You always need sleep more than me.”

He stepped into the room slowly, like he still half-expected something to snap. But it didn’t. It never did. Not with you.

“You’re warm,” He said, sitting beside you, fingers brushing against yours on the mug. “You always are.”

“Comes with being human,” You teased gently.

But he didn’t laugh. Not really. He just looked at you, deeper than usual, his hand now resting fully on yours.

“I think I’m ready,” He said quietly. His voice trembled just slightly, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right to say it out loud. “I want to… with you. If you still want me.”

Your heart beat a little faster. Not with expectation or pressure, but with the weight of the moment. Of everything he had gone through to get here. Of everything he was still fighting to reclaim.

You set your mug down. Reached for his hand. His real one first. Then the cold one, the metal one he always seemed hesitant to offer.

“Only when you’re ready,” You said, voice warm. “Only if it’s what you want.”

He looked down at your hands wrapped around his, one flesh and one forged.

“I want to remember what it feels like,” He whispered. “To want something. And have it… be good.”

You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. Breathing him in. Grounding him.

“It can be good,” You promised. “We’ll make sure of it.”

His breath shuddered softly against your skin, and for the first time since he came back to himself, Bucky Barnes allowed hope to settle in his chest.

He kissed you like it was the first time he’d ever touched something fragile and wanted to keep it whole.

His lips were tentative against yours, unsure. You could feel the restraint in him, like he was holding back a flood he wasn’t sure you were ready for, but you were. You kissed him back gently, steadily. There was no rush, just the rhythm of shared breath and time-earned trust.

Your hand came up to cup his jaw, feeling the faint stubble under your fingertips. His eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned into your palm like he was starving for human contact. Safe, welcomed contact. You could feel the tension in his shoulders, in the careful way he gripped your waist like he thought he’d hurt you if he pressed too hard.

“You’re not going to break me,” You whispered between kisses.

“I’m not worried about breaking you,” He murmured, voice low and cracked. “I’m worried something in me will break.”

You brushed your nose against his. “Then let me help hold you together.”

That seemed to do something to him. A shift. A crack. A breath of relief through old fear.

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Still slow, but with more confidence, more heat that had been buried for too long. Your fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt, and he let you lift it over his head. The room wasn’t cold, but goosebumps rose across his skin anyway.

His body told a story even his silence couldn’t. Scars, some faded, some newer, moved in patterns across his chest and back like a map of wars he hadn’t wanted to fight. Your fingers traced one near his ribs, soft and reverent, never flinching.

“I’m not ashamed,” He said suddenly, quietly, like a confession he’d never dared speak.

You looked up. “I’m proud of you.”

Something in his throat worked at those words. His hands found the hem of your hoodie—his hoodie, and he paused. Waiting. Asking without asking.

You nodded, helping him lift it off you, letting him see you as you were: unpolished, raw, and trusting.

He kissed you again, but this time, his hands explored slowly. He touched like a man trying to memorize, not conquer. There was no rush. Just quiet understanding. Tenderness in the way his metal fingers grazed your shoulder, the way his flesh hand skimmed your spine like he was grounding himself in every inch of you.

When you moved to the bedroom, it wasn’t frantic. There was no tearing of clothes, no hurried gasps. It was soft. Purposeful. Like the world outside had finally gone quiet for both of you.

He took his time with you, worshiped really. Every kiss he pressed to your skin was a thank-you. For your patience. For your kindness. For being the one who hadn’t given up on him when he couldn’t look in the mirror.

He hovered above you at one point, breath ragged, eyes searching yours like he needed to make sure again.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, holding his face in your hands. “I’ve never been more sure.”

And when he finally sank into you, it was with a soft gasp that cracked at the edges. He stilled, completely overwhelmed by the moment, by the intimacy, by you. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him to you, whispering soothing things against his ear until he started to move again, slow and unsure, but growing steadier with every breath.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t choreographed. But it was real. Beautiful in the way only hard-won love could be.

He buried his face in your neck at the end, trembling slightly as the world narrowed to the rise and fall of your chests pressed together.

You stayed like that for a while, tangled in limbs and warmth, and your fingers moving gently through his hair.

Eventually, he whispered, “You make me feel human again.”

You kissed his forehead. “You always were. You just forgot for a while.”

His arms tightened around you, like he never wanted to let go again.

And for the first time in what felt like a century, Bucky Barnes fell asleep not as a weapon, not as a ghost, but as a man in love. Safe in the arms of someone who saw him not for what he’d done… but for who he was becoming.

In Every Form, You Still Saw Me

Summary: As a shapeshifter, you often shift into someone else for missions, laughs, or what others want. However, you start shifting to make one man who sees you for you, smile. You learn how he yearns for the true you no matter how scary it feels to be yourself. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to shapeshift. Sort of pining for each other.

Word Count: 3.8k+

A/N: It’s so fun writing for Readers with different abilities. I wonder which power I could try next. Also, I think this is the longest work I’ve done yet. If you liked “The Way He Notices”, you might like this!

You weren’t born with your powers. You woke up with them after a freak accident during your childhood. It had left you comatose for three days and with no control over your own face when you came to.

You could shapeshift, but it wasn’t pretty at first. Reflexive transformations, triggered by emotion or proximity. Someone made you laugh? You morphed into them. Someone yelled at you? You wore their angry face. It was chaos until you finally got a hold of them.

When you first joined the team, Tony Stark dubbed you "Copycat" until you threatened to turn into Pepper and start signing contracts in her name. The nickname didn’t stick after that.

But Bucky? He always called you by your name. Even when you shifted. Even when your skin wasn’t yours and your voice belonged to someone else. He never flinched, never made a joke, never looked away in discomfort like the others sometimes did.

Maybe that’s what started it.

That quiet, steady way he treated you like you were solid. Real. Like you weren’t just some flickering mirage of other people’s identities.

Over time, you and Bucky fell into a rhythm. He was blunt; you were sarcastic. He grunted; you rolled your eyes. He brooded in corners; you shapeshifted into Steve just to annoy him. At some point, it stopped being just teasing. Or maybe it didn’t, but the way he started looking at you changed.

Or maybe you changed. Maybe you stopped shifting just to play around. You were careful though, of course. Always careful. He didn’t like surprises, didn’t like people messing with his head, and you knew how close your powers came to crossing that line. But you started shifting because you wanted to know what might make him smile.

There was something different about Bucky’s smile. It wasn’t the wide, toothy grin you saw from Sam or the sarcastic half-smirk you got from Tony. No, Bucky’s smile was the kind that crept up on you. A slight tug of his lips, something quiet, almost like a secret. It was the smile of a man who didn’t trust easily, who didn’t share his joy unless he was sure it was real. But when it came, when you made him laugh, genuinely, there was something almost intoxicating about it.

You didn’t understand why at first. Maybe it was the way he’d become so guarded, so emotionally distant after all that had happened to him. You saw him in ways the others didn’t: the small furrows in his brow when his mind wandered to the past, the way his eyes would harden when people mentioned Hydra, or how his posture would stiffen when someone still called him "The Winter Soldier" behind his back. Because, he’d become more than just a soldier, more than the guy with the metal arm. He was a man who was constantly carrying the weight of the past on his shoulders.

But when you made him smile… it was like the weight lifted, even just for a second. It was a flicker of hope, an acknowledgment that underneath it all, Bucky Barnes still had the ability to feel something real.

And you didn’t mind being the one who brought that out.

It started as harmless fun. A playful game. You’d shift into Sam, mock his attempts at being a "serious" soldier, exaggerating his speech, his hand gestures. You’d throw in the occasional “You good, Buck?” just to hear Bucky’s exasperated sigh. The first time it worked, Bucky had grunted, shaking his head in mock annoyance, but then that little smile crept across his face.

“Alright, alright, I get it. You think you’re funny,” He had muttered, crossing his arms over his chest, but the tension in his shoulders had loosened.

It was enough. It was always enough for you to want to do it again, to see that smile once more, to know that maybe, just maybe, you were the one who could make him feel light, even if it was for just a moment.

Then there was another day you shifted into Natasha, just to show off a little during sparring. You were better than you gave yourself credit for, and Bucky never failed to push you to improve. But this time, you took it up a notch. You copied her form, her speed, the way she moved with deadly precision, and you could see it in Bucky’s eyes as he watched. It was a sense of admiration mixed with surprise. And if you were being honest with yourself, a hint of something deeper.

"You're really trying to piss her off, huh?" He had joked as you took a jab at him, mirroring Natasha’s infamous fighting style.

You paused, lowering your stance, your eyes shifting back to yourself for a just second. The rush of power you felt from the change, the way you could tap into anyone’s skill, anyone’s identity, it was like you were borrowing their strengths. But when Bucky’s eyes softened, when he gave that little chuckle, you felt something else, something that wasn’t about power at all.

Quite frankly, you never really thought about your powers in the same way the others did. To most of the team, shapeshifting was just another tool in the arsenal. It was useful for infiltration, misdirection, and the occasional prank. But to you, it was something far more personal. More fragile. Every time you morphed into someone, deep down, you felt a part of yourself slip away. A mask over your real face, a shield to hide behind, a way to slip through the cracks unnoticed. You'd never been sure of who you were without the transformation, until you realized how real it felt to see Bucky’s reactions when you did.

You realized over time there was something in his eyes when you morphed back to your own face briefly, something that you couldn’t quite place. You were used to being invisible or someone else, used to people ignoring you or pretending you weren’t there when you didn’t fit their expectations. But Bucky didn’t do that. He just… watched. Like he was studying you, trying to figure out the hidden parts of you that you kept locked away.

It felt almost safe in a strange way. Some would say creepy, but you knew him better than that. It was an odd realization. With Bucky, you didn’t feel like you were performing. Because truly, when you shapeshifted into someone else, it was no longer about escaping yourself or following orders. It was about finding a way to connect with him.

You didn’t mind looking silly in front of him. Actually, you kind of liked it. There was something about making him laugh that made your chest flutter, like you were finally being seen for something more than your powers, more than a stranger in someone else’s skin. You weren’t playing a role, you were just… you. And Bucky smiled.

But there were times when it hit you hard. When you realized you were holding on to those smiles like they were the only thing that kept you grounded. And it terrified you. Because making Bucky smile felt like your own fragile version of normal. But what if you lost that? What if one day, he saw through you? Would you be able to stand, knowing you weren’t just the shapeshifter who made him laugh, but the person behind the masks?

You tried to focus on the feelings, the lightness you got when you saw Bucky react. You used your powers to make him smile, forget about his troubles, because in those moments, you could forget about hiding. And maybe that was enough for now.

The trouble was, you knew it couldn’t stay like this. Sooner or later, you'd have to show him the real you, all of you, without a mask, without someone else’s form to hide behind. And when that day came, you weren’t sure whether he’d still smile.

But for now, you'd keep shifting. Keep playing the game. Because as long as Bucky looked at you with those eyes so curious, attentive, and just a little bit warmer than usual; it felt like you were finally getting a glimpse of the real you too.

Until then, he’ll continue to think this is just a game. And you will continue to pretend that it didn’t hurt to hide behind other people’s faces.

—

The lounge was quiet, the way it always became after midnight. Most of the team had long gone to their quarters, the lights dimmed to a soft amber. Outside the tower windows, New York glittered in silence. Alive, but far away.

Bucky sat on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, the other cradling a glass of water. He looked tired, in that way he always did after missions where too many things exploded and too many people screamed. He wasn’t injured, at least not on the outside, but he hadn’t said much since coming back.

You had a habit of finding him during moments like these. You padded in barefoot, wearing the appearance of someone else. You’d slipped into it earlier out of habit, mostly to annoy Sam in the elevator. But when Bucky’s tired eyes met yours across the room, the faint lift of his brow said he wasn’t in the mood.

“You gonna sit, or keep pretending to be someone else?” He asked, voice low and dry.

You sighed, letting whoever’s frame, it didn’t matter, melt away. Muscles shifted, bones cracked softly beneath your skin as you returned to your natural form. One you rarely wore when anyone else was around. You always thought of it as your “in-between” face. Not as striking as Wanda, not as symmetrical as Steve. Just… you.

Bucky’s eyes stayed on you for a moment longer than usual.

You walked over, dropping onto the cushion beside him and pulling your legs up beneath you.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed you an extra water bottle from the coffee table. You took it, your fingers brushing his metal ones briefly.

“Rough mission?” You asked, softly.

He gave a faint nod. “Yeah. But I’m used to it.”

You looked at him sidelong. “Still. I get it. I had to shift into some sleazy arms dealer in front of a bunch of actual criminals. I swear one of them winked at me.”

He huffed a short laugh, the sound sharp and unexpected. “Bet he regretted that.”

“I may have broken his nose with a champagne bottle. In heels.”

He gave you a look. “You’re way too comfortable wearing other people’s faces.”

“Comes with the job.” You gave a weak smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Besides… nobody wants to see mine anyway.”

The words slipped out too fast, too quiet. You hadn’t meant to say them.

Bucky went still.

You immediately tried to cover it up. To deflect, twist, joke, anything at all. So, you shifted again.

But this time… it wasn’t Natasha, Steve, Sam, or anyone else on the team.

It was you. The true you.

The version of yourself that was curled up in bed at 2 a.m. The version that existed without expectation. The one who watched Bucky when he wasn’t looking and imagined what it would feel like to hold his hand, just once.

And with that form came your voice, your real voice.

“You know…I care for you, Bucky,” It said, trembling, unsure. “More than I should. I like you.”

There was a pause. Too long. Too exposed. You started to shift again, panic rising, ready to bury the moment beneath another borrowed face, another safe joke.

But his hand caught yours.

“You always do that,” He said quietly.

Your breath caught. “Do what?”

“Hide when it’s really you.”

The world slowed. Your skin flickered, unstable for a second, but he squeezed your hand gently, grounding you.

“I don’t want Natasha. Or Steve. Or anybody else,” He said. “I want you. The real you. Even if you’re scared, because I like you too.”

Your breath hitched, you couldn’t look at him at first. Could barely breathe. But when you did, really looked, you didn’t see pity. Or regret. Or fear.

You saw recognition. Love. Unexpected and unconditional warmth as he smiled.

“Besides,” Bucky added, softer now, “If I have to keep watching you flirt with me using Sam’s face, I might actually throw myself off the roof.”

You laughed, startled, and leaned into him without thinking.

This time, you didn’t shift. The room was quieter now, save for the soft hum of the city below. You sat close to Bucky on the couch, the space between you barely noticeable. His warmth radiated against your side, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a grounding presence in the stillness of the night. You hadn’t noticed how tense you’d been until the tension was gone.

His hand was still wrapped around yours, loosely, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he held on too tightly. You couldn’t blame him; you’d spent so long hiding behind someone else, never fully revealing all of yourself to anyone.

“I’ve been waiting for you to do that for a while you know,” Bucky said, his voice low and casual, as if he was talking about the weather. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and the simple gesture made your heart stutter in your chest.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to play it cool despite the warmth flooding your face. “Waiting for me to… what?”

“To stop pretending. To stop hiding behind someone else’s face.”

A small, uncomfortable laugh slipped from you, but you didn’t pull away. “Guess I’m not good at being me.”

Bucky’s eyes softened as he turned to face you more fully. There was no teasing in his gaze now, no sharp edge to his words. “You’re not the only one, you know,” He said quietly, as if sharing a secret. “I’ve spent more than half my life pretending to be something I’m not. Something I hate. But I’m not that guy anymore.” His voice dropped an octave, almost a whisper. “And you don’t have to be anyone else around me, either.”

You blinked at him, your breath catching in your throat. There was something so raw, so real in his voice. The same kind of vulnerability you had been hiding for so long. You found yourself leaning a little closer, drawn in by the strength of his words, the sincerity of his presence.

“Then… why’d you wait for me?” You had to ask, voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, I—" You hesitated, unsure how to express what had been swirling in your chest for so long. "I’ve never exactly made it easy for you to see the real me.”

Bucky’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. “Maybe I’m stubborn, maybe I looked forward to your jokes,” He said, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path over your hand. “Or maybe I saw the real you long before you did.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling a surge of warmth in your chest. “I…” You stop yourself, swallowing the lump in your throat. You didn’t know how to say the words you’d been bottling up for so long. How do you tell someone that, for the first time in your life, you were willing to be seen? That you weren’t afraid of him looking too closely?

Bucky squeezed your hand gently, as if he understood the inner turmoil you were going through. He could probably see it on your expression, your face. “You don’t have to explain. Not to me.”

He leaned forward just slightly, his face a little too close for comfort, but you didn’t pull back. Instead, you held your breath, waiting for the next moment. Wondering if you were about to fall into some quiet oblivion or if you’d be able to navigate this fragile space between you and him.

His gaze dropped to your lips for a split second, then back to your eyes. “Can I kiss you?” He asked with a sense of nervousness that could be seen as cute; his voice barely more than a murmur.

You nodded, heart pounding in your chest. “Please.”

And then, for the first time in your life, you accepted the idea of letting yourself be seen. Not as anyone else nor what others want of you, but as you. Just you.

Bucky’s lips brushed against yours softly, hesitantly, as if testing the waters. But the kiss deepened almost immediately, the tension between you melting away. His hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you in closer, and you didn’t fight it. You didn’t want to fight it.

It was just the two of you now. The past, the masks, the fears—all of it felt so far away. It was just Bucky, and it was just you.

When the kiss finally broke, your foreheads rested together, both of you breathless, sharing the same space in a way that felt simple and true.

“I’ve been waiting for you too,” You admitted, your voice shaky with the emotions flooding you.

Bucky’s chuckle was low and soft. “I figured as much.” He gave your hand another gentle squeeze before pulling you into his side, his arm wrapped around you like he’d been doing it for years.

“You know,” He said after a beat, voice muffled as his chin rested on your head, “I think you’ll get used to being yourself more often. It just takes time.”

You nodded, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart against yours. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel the need to hide.

And in that quiet, peaceful moment, you realized that maybe being seen wasn’t so scary after all.

Bonus:

It was a typical debriefing in the common area, probably weeks later. You and Bucky were sitting side by side on one of the couches, trying to maintain the illusion of a professional team meeting. The problem? You couldn’t stop smiling.

You were sitting closer than usual, your legs brushing under the table. A soft, knowing look passed between you and Bucky whenever your eyes met. Neither of you were saying anything out loud, but there was a certain… tension in the air.

Steve, who was in the middle of explaining the next mission’s details, glanced over at you and Bucky. Something was off, and Steve had a knack for noticing subtle changes.

“You two okay?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re acting… weird.”

Bucky looked up, his usual serious expression never faltering. “What do you mean ‘weird’?” He replied, though his tone was a little too defensive.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Steve’s eyes narrowed, a mischievous glint appearing. “You two seem… a little too comfortable.” He leaned forward. “You’re not…” he motioned vaguely with his hands, “…you know, getting close or anything?”

You felt a flush creeping up your neck and quickly busied yourself with your water bottle. But Bucky, ever the stoic, didn’t flinch.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cap,” Bucky said, shrugging nonchalantly. “We’re just here for the mission.”

You, however, were a little less composed. You cleared your throat. “Yeah, we’re just… listening.” You floundered for words.

Steve raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, and then his eyes flicked to Clint, who had been watching the exchange with far too much interest.

Clint, ever the instigator, grinned widely. “Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever you say.” He turned to Sam, who was pretending to be absorbed in his phone but was clearly eavesdropping. “Hey, Sam, did you notice how Bucky's been looking at her lately?” He clearly gestured to you.

Sam smirked, lowering his phone just enough to catch your eye. “Oh, I’ve noticed. Definitely noticed.”

"Whoa, whoa," You said quickly, leaning back in your seat, but Clint wasn’t letting up.

“Nope, nope. I definitely saw that look. The one where he actually smiles when no one else is looking. Bucky smiling. We’re all witnesses to this. He’s gone soft,” Clint teased, turning to Steve with an exaggerated gasp. “This wasn't what I expected from the brooding sergeant. A romantic at heart? Who knew?”

You buried your face in your hands, trying not to laugh despite the embarrassment spreading across your face.

“Clint, shut up,” Bucky muttered, but he couldn’t help the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Does that mean we should start calling you ‘Casanova’ from now on?” Sam quipped, leaning back with a satisfied smirk.

“Guys, stop,” You blurted, though your voice cracked, betraying the calm act. “We’re not-“

“Well, it sounds like you two are,” Clint interrupted. “You’re over there being all cute and whispering to each other like you’re plotting to steal all of Tony’s suits.” He turned to Bucky with a grin. “Bucky, are you sure she’s not just in it for the tech? You know, she could get into the suits and—”

“Clint,” Bucky growled, his face flushed. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to keep his cool. You knew this was far from over, and you weren’t sure whether to laugh or hide in a closet.

“Well, this is awkward,” Tony’s voice rang out suddenly, cutting through the banter. He had appeared in the doorway, completely unaware of what had been happening. “What did I miss?”

“We were just talking about Bucky’s secret love life,” Clint said with a gleam in his eye. “I have all the details, Tony. Want the rundown?”

Tony raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking to you and Bucky, then back to Clint. “Oh, so this is happening now, huh?”

You groaned and stood up quickly, holding your hands out in surrender. “Okay, okay. You got us. We’re together. Happy?”

Bucky just leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, trying to look unfazed but failing miserably as the team erupted in teasing applause.

“Finally,” Steve said with a relieved sigh. “I was starting to think I’d have to play matchmaker.”

Sam slapped Bucky on the back. “About time you stopped brooding and did something about it.”

You shot Bucky a look, and he smirked, shrugging helplessly. “I guess I couldn’t keep it a secret forever.”

Tony clapped his hands together, a playful glint in his eye. “Alright, now that we’ve got the romantic drama out of the way, anyone want to help me with this new project? I need someone who doesn't spend their time making out in the common room.”

You felt your face heat up, but Bucky just chuckled, leaning back against the couch, looking much more at ease than he had in weeks.

And you? You might have been embarrassed, but you couldn’t help but smile. There was something oddly comforting or satisfying about the team finding out. Maybe it was because you knew you didn’t have to hide anymore. You didn’t have to hide your love for the man who loves you more than anything or anyone you could become. And that, in itself, was worth all the teasing.

The Days We Built Out of Time

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

Word Count: 5.2k+

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

Main Masterlist | Part 1

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

But they changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed once under his breath. “Yeah.”

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

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

He was quiet a long time.

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

You turned toward him, brow raised.

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

You blinked. “Bucky…”

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

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

“Okay.”

And that was all it took.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that night, something changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You weren’t expecting it.

The proposal, that is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sat up slowly.

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

You blinked once. Twice.

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

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

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

“Yes,” You breathed.

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

“Of course yes.”

Alpine meowed loudly between you both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You found out you were pregnant on a quiet Tuesday.

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

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

You weren’t sure what that meant.

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

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

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

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

Steven James Barnes.

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

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

“You gave him my name.”

Bucky nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even so, your family didn’t stop growing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the hallway came soft, measured footsteps.

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

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

“Morning,” She murmured.

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

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

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

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

She hesitated. “…Both?”

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

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

And now, she was here.

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

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

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

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

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

She paused. “Even Alpine.”

Bucky’s hand stilled on her back.

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

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

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

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

And like that, the moment moved on.

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

You held hands without needing to say why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And those moments were everything.

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

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

Bucky snorted into his coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

“I think we’re outnumbered.”

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

Five years passed in a blink.

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

And you,

You were still you.

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

But lately, Bucky started watching you more closely.

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

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

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

You didn’t come.

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

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

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

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

The next clue came when you forgot the grocery list.

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

“You okay?” He asked softly.

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

He said nothing and simply kissed your cheek.

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

He asked once, “Should we go in?”

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

You always said just tired.

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

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

One night, it was just the two of you.

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

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

Bucky held you tighter than he meant to.

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

You were silent for a long time.

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

He swallowed hard. “You won’t.”

“I didn’t want them to be scared.”

He closed his eyes.

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

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

“We’ll go in tomorrow.”

“…Okay.”

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

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

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

But the house didn’t fall quiet overnight.

It happened in waves.

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

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

The kids didn’t know the details.

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

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

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

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

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

“Why is Mom always tired?”

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

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

Still here. Those words clung to everything.

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

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

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

“She gets that from you,” He murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

Some nights, Bucky would carry you to bed.

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

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

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

Until it took you away.

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

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

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

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

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

So they brought other things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And at night, it was even worse.

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

But the house didn’t answer him anymore.

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

The kids also changed in small, invisible ways.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture Perfect

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

Word Count: 700+

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

Main Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glitter, Gunfire, and Grape Juice

Summary: You throw yourself between a rookie and an energy blast.  Bucky panics. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Word Count: 1.3k+

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

The mission was going well. Suspiciously well, which should’ve been your first red flag. Another ordinary Hydra facility with minimal guards that was unusually quiet. You were even humming as you strolled through the hallway, twirling a baton and pointing it at doors like a remote.

Behind you, Bucky muttered, “Don’t touch anything.”

You responded, “That’s exactly what someone hiding treasure would say.”

Sam sighed. “Can you at least pretend to take this seriously?”

“I am taking it seriously. That’s why I packed four granola bars and a Capri-Sun.”

Bucky grinned, despite himself. He always did when you were like this, loose-limbed and smiling. Like the world couldn’t possibly touch you, which made what happened next all the more terrifying.

It happened in the blink of an eye.

An explosion of sound coming from the energy shot from a hidden drone. It was too fast to stop, too sudden to predict. One of the rookies on the mission—a wide-eyed kid with barely two field ops under his belt froze, dead in the line of fire.

So you didn’t.

You shoved him out of the way with a grunt and took the hit square in the side. It knocked you off your feet with a sickening crack.

The kid shouted. Bucky screamed your name.

When you hit the floor, you blinked up at the ceiling like it had just betrayed you. “Oh,” You said, dazed. “That’s not ideal.”

You were bleeding, quite a lot. Bright red blooming fast across your suit, staining your hand as you pressed it to your side with a hiss. “Y’know,” You mumbled, “I don’t remember having this many organs.”

“Stay with me- hey, hey, stay with me.” Bucky was suddenly at your side, voice hoarse, pressing his hands over yours to help stem the bleeding. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

You gave him a lazy grin, adrenaline running high. “If I die, delete my browser history and bury me with snacks. No one needs to know how often I google if raccoons can feel love.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Don’t joke.”

“You love me because I joke.”

“I love you because you’re you,” He rasped. “But right now, I need you to fight and stay with me, okay?”

“Already fought,” You slurred. “I did the thing, saved the baby agent. Hero moment. I want a sticker.”

“Doll, if you die on me, I will bring you back just to yell at you.”

You laughed and winced immediately. “Hurts to laugh, write that down and it to the science books.”

The med team arrived then, Sam yelling over his comms, the rookie sobbing apologies, the chaos dimming into a kind of tunnel vision where all you could see was Bucky’s face above you. His eyes were wet and scared.

You lifted a bloody finger and tapped his nose weakly. “Boop.”

“God, you’re infuriating,” He whispered. Then he kissed your forehead with trembling lips. “Don’t leave me, okay? I don’t care how many granola bars you packed. You don’t get to check out early.”

-

A day later in the medbay, you woke up groggy and attached to enough wires to hack a satellite. You blinked blearily at the ceiling.

Bucky was there, instantly. “You’re awake.”

You looked at him then looked around. “Where’s my Capri-Sun?”

He closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. “You almost died, and that’s what you’re asking?”

“I saved a life, I bled dramatically, I deserve juice.”

He let out a shaky breath. Then, quietly, “Don’t ever do that again.”

You turned to get a good look at him. He looked wrecked honestly. Unshaven, sleepless, and red around the eyes. It’s clear he had barely left your side. “Hey,” You said softly, reaching for his hand. “I’m here.”

He held your hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And for the first time, you didn’t joke. Didn’t quip. You just said, quietly, “I’d take the hit again, Buck. Every time.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “Don’t make me live in a world without you, alright?”

You smiled. “Deal. But next time, you bring the juice.”

-

As you had to spend more time in the medbay for recovery, you gradually grew bored. You’d never been a fan of hospital beds. They were too stiff, too white, too… beep-y.

So naturally, the first thing you did the moment you could sit up without passing out was try to climb out of one.

“Sit. Down.”

Bucky’s voice cracked like a whip across the room. He was standing by the medbay door with a takeout container in one hand and the fury of a thousand protective boyfriends in the other.

You blinked up at him. “I’m just stretching-“

“You have stitches, dumbass.”

You squinted. “You still love me though.”

He sighed and walked over, setting the food on your tray. “Unfortunately.”

You poked at the soup. “This doesn’t look like juice.”

“It’s miso. Doctor Cho said no juice until you’re off pain meds.”

You gasped like he’d personally betrayed your bloodline. “What about a popsicle?”

“You were clinically dead for twelve seconds and you want a popsicle?”

“…grape, preferably.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do I love you.”

You leaned back against the pillows, smug. “Because I am an intellectual enigma with the survival instincts of a cat in traffic.”

Before Bucky could respond, there was a knock on the door.

Enter: The Rookie.

He crept in like a kid walking into the principal’s office, holding something behind his back and looking two seconds from crying again. “H-Hey.”

You grinned. “If it isn’t the human shield I saved.”

He flinched. “I’m so sorry-“

“Hey, no. Don’t do that.” You waved your spoon like a wand. “No guilt in my presence. It was my call and I would do again.”

Bucky muttered, “Don’t say that,” but you ignored him.

The rookie stepped forward, visibly shaking, and handed you what looked like… a paper plate necklace. With glitter. It said: “#1 Chaos Hero.”

You stared at it, then at him, then back at it.

“I didn’t know what to get you and I felt awful and I don’t have clearance for flowers and this was the only glitter glue left in the break room,” He rambled. “Also it’s taped because we ran out of string.”

You put it on immediately. Bucky just stared like he was reevaluating every life decision that led him to this moment.

“This is the greatest honor I’ve ever received,” You declared.

“You’re literally wearing a paper plate.”

“From a child soldier,” You corrected.

“I’m nineteen!” The rookie said.

“Exactly,” You said.

Later on, Bucky helped you back to your quarters. The both of you were walking slow with his metal hand on your back like he was afraid you might fall apart again. You let him tuck you in, mostly because you were still high on painkillers and partially because you liked the way he fussed when he was scared.

“I mean it,” He said quietly, sitting beside you. “You can’t keep risking yourself like that. Not for people who won’t do the same.”

“They will someday. Because people pay kindness forward, especially when it costs someone else blood.” You nudged him. “Plus, you did the same for Steve a hundred times.”

“That was different.”

“It wasn’t.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then:

“I almost lost you.”

You took his hand and held it gently.

“But you didn’t.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple. “You’re infuriating.”

“You love me.”

He sighed before whispering into your hair, “I really do.”

-

GROUP CHAT:

Tony: Who tf gave glitter glue to the interns?

Sam: The rookie made her a PAPER PLATE NECKLACE

Steve: She hasn’t taken it off in six hours.

Natasha: She told me it’s a ‘badge of honor’…

Wanda: They also threatened the vending machine for not having grape juice

Bucky: She got shot and she’s more upset about the juice

You: i saved a life AND survived a flesh wound, i earned grape juice

You: also i’m naming the scar after the rookie

Bucky: Please don’t

You: too late, buckaroo. i christen it kevin 2.0

[Bucky has left the group chat.]

When They Need You

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

Summary: Steve has been having a rough day, trying to hide his exhaustion from Bucky and you, but you can tell something’s off. In your little headspace, you take it upon yourself to comfort him, offering him a stuffed bear, sharing your favorite snack, and gently inviting him for cuddles. 

Word Count: 1k+

A/N: I also realized I’ve been writing too much fluff, too much happiness. Needed some variety to balance it out lol. Remember! You are responsible for the media you consume.

Main Masterlist

It was a quiet evening, the kind that stretched longer than usual as the golden hues of sunset slowly faded into dusk. You sat cross-legged on the couch, a blanket thrown over your legs, surrounded by your stuffed animals, a cup of juice resting beside you. The soft hum of the TV played in the background, but your attention was elsewhere. Steve had been unusually quiet all day. He’d been frowning when you saw him, his voice a little lower, his steps a little heavier. It wasn’t like him at all.

You hadn’t asked, but you could tell something was wrong.

Bucky had noticed, too, though he’d been the one keeping his distance, busy with his own tasks in the living room. He’d been giving Steve space, just like Steve liked when he had a bad day, but that didn’t stop Bucky from throwing occasional glances at his partner. His eyes filled with worry and concern made it clear he, too, was picking up on it.

The silence finally broke when Steve settled on the couch beside you. He let out a deep sigh, trying to hide the exhaustion on his face with a forced smile. “Hey, kiddo,” he said softly, his voice strained. “How’s my favorite little star?”

You didn’t buy it. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, and the way his shoulders slumped was something you’d seen in the past when he was trying to hide something from you. He was good at it, but not good enough to fool you.

You scooted closer to him, sensing his discomfort. “You okay…?” You asked, tilting your head, not fully regressed but definitely in a tender little space. You didn’t speak much when you were in these moments, but you were always in tune with their moods.

He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Bucky before giving you a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah, sweetheart. Just… tired, I guess.”

Bucky, who’d been standing nearby, noticed the exchange. He stepped closer, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “He’s been a little off all day,” Bucky explained quietly, trying to keep it light. “You think you could cheer him up, princess?”

You looked between Steve and Bucky for a moment, then nodded. They were your family, your safe place. You always wanted to make sure they were happy and taken care of, just like they did for you. There was no question about it. You knew you could help, in your own little way.

Moving off the couch and going over to your pile of stuffed animals, you pulled out one of your favorite bears, the one with the soft, patchy fur and the little bowtie that was starting to fray at the edges. You walked back to the couch and held it out to Steve with both hands, your eyes wide and full of affection. “Patches is here, Papa,” You said, your voice sweet and comforting. “He makes people feel better.”

Steve chuckled quietly, his eyes softening as he took the bear from you. He squeezed it slightly, a little sigh of relief escaping him. “Thanks, kiddo,” He muttered. The bear was a small gesture, but it seemed to soothe him more than he let on.

You weren’t done, though. You noticed the faint bags under his eyes, the way his fingers fidgeted with the bear’s ears. That was your cue. You reached over to the coffee table, where one of your caregivers had set out a small bowl of goldfish crackers earlier, and grabbed the edge of the bowl. You gently nudged the bowl towards him, offering the snack like it was the most important thing in the world.

“Want some?” You asked with a little smile, your voice hopeful. “Goldfish make you smile.”

Steve’s lips twitched at the corner, a faint smile tugging at them. He reached forward slowly, taking a few of the crackers, his fingers brushing against yours. You watched him with a hopeful gaze, waiting for his reaction. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just chewed thoughtfully, but when he looked at you again, the weight in his eyes seemed to lift slightly.

“They do, huh?” He said with a soft laugh, as if it was the first real laugh he'd had all day.

You nodded seriously, making sure he understood the importance of snacks in lifting a mood. “Uh-huh. And cuddles too.”

At your words, Bucky chuckled softly and sat down on the couch and pulled you close to him with one arm. You felt his steady heartbeat next to you, the way his chest rose and fell in that reassuring, comforting rhythm.

With a gentle hand, you reached out for Steve’s hand, tugging it lightly. “You come cuddle too?” You asked quietly, not demanding but gently offering. You’d seen how Steve and Bucky needed affection in their own way, and sometimes, just being close was enough.

Steve’s smile grew a little wider as he glanced at Bucky, who just nodded, a silent encouragement. Slowly, Steve shifted, inching toward the two of you. He sat with his back against the couch, pulling you between him and Bucky, your head resting on his chest and your legs tangled with theirs.

Bucky wrapped his arm around you tighter while Steve found his place to cuddle you closer. For a long moment, the three of you just sat there in quiet comfort. You felt their tension start to melt away, slowly but surely, the weight of the day lifting in the warmth of each other’s presence.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Steve whispered after a while, his voice softer than before. “I feel better just being with you two.”

You smiled sleepily, your eyes drifting half-closed as the peaceful feeling of being surrounded by love made your own worries fade. “We always take care of each other,” You murmured, your voice drowsy now.

Bucky kissed the top of your head, his voice low and steady. “That’s right. And we’ve got you, always.”

And as you rested there, between Steve’s comforting warmth and Bucky’s steady presence, you realized you didn’t need to do much more than just be there. Because sometimes just being there is enough to lift up anyone’s day.

Because He Always Knows

Summary: You're close friends with Bucky Barnes, trusting his quiet, protective nature. What you don’t know is that Bucky is secretly obsessed with you. Watching you, tracking your every move, and quietly eliminating anyone who gets too close. And he’ll do anything to keep you safe, close…and his. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x reader)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes. Stalking. Tracking reader (location, cameras, etc.) Some implied violence toward others. Yandere themes.

Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: Not going to lie, I have not seen many Yandere Bucky fics. Maybe I’m not looking hard enough. I think it’d be cool to turn this into a series though, depends if other people like it or not. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.

You’d known Bucky Barnes for a while now. Ever since you joined the Avengers on the intel and support side, he’d somehow gravitated toward you. Quiet and subtle. He never talked much unless spoken to, and whenever he did, it was always calm and short. But around you, he softened a little. He offered small, quiet smiles, sat beside you even when there were empty seats elsewhere. And he always seemed to know when you needed help. It was comforting. Familiar. You thought of him as a good friend, someone who didn’t push or pry.

What you didn’t know was that Bucky knew your schedule better than you did. He knew what time you got your coffee, which café down the block you preferred, and even which music you played in your room when you were winding down.

He never broke your trust. At least, not in any obvious way. But he was always watching. From rooftops. From darkened hallways. Even from shadows in the compound when you thought you were alone. He wasn’t trying to be creepy, not in his mind. He just needed to make sure you were safe. That no one got too close. That you didn’t drift away from him.

When you talked about a new friend one afternoon, some guy from the tech department who made you laugh, Bucky’s smile faltered for only a second. You didn’t notice it, but it was there, a flicker of cold calculation beneath the warmth. He nodded, asked a few harmless questions about him, and then let the topic drop. Later that day, the tech guy mysteriously fell down a flight of stairs. Nothing serious, but just enough to keep him out of work for a few weeks. Bucky never said anything. He simply showed up at your door like any other day with soup this time and a quiet, “Need company?”

You welcomed him in. Why wouldn’t you? He was always so gentle with you, always so present. His gloved hands carried your groceries, fixed your lock when it jammed, even installed extra security on your windows “just in case.” You never questioned how he knew you’d been anxious after that strange man on the subway followed you home. You never told anyone about it, but Bucky acted before you even had to.

Sometimes, you’d catch him watching you a second too long. His gaze intense, unreadable. He’d look away quickly, but the feeling would linger. You chalked it up to Bucky just being… Bucky. A little odd, a little broken, but ultimately good.

You didn’t see the way his jaw tensed when someone touched your arm. You didn’t notice the thin notebooks he kept tucked away, filled with observations about you. What you wore, what you said, who you talked to. Every page was a soft obsession written in ink, filled with the belief that you were his. Not in a romantic, normal way. In a quiet, inevitable, belonging sort of way. You were his peace, his reason, and he would burn the world down before letting someone else take you.

To you, he was just a friend. A good one. Steady. Loyal. Maybe a little protective.

To Bucky, you were everything. And he was never more than a few feet behind you; watching, guarding, and waiting. Always waiting.

One evening, you stayed late in the compound’s tech lab. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Just a backlog of reports and an excuse to avoid your empty apartment, then you heard the door open. Bucky stopped by with two coffees, one black, one exactly the way you liked yours. He didn’t ask if you wanted one. Come to think of it, he never did. Somehow, he just knew.

You smiled and thanked him as he sat nearby, silent as ever, occasionally glancing at your screen. It was quiet, comfortable even, until you laughed at something on your phone.

“Who’s that?” Bucky asked, and you glanced up. His tone was calm, but you noticed the way his shoulders tightened.

“Just a guy I matched with,” You said, smiling without much thought. You didn’t think he would know or understand what dating apps are in the modern day. “We’ve been texting a little. He’s funny.”

You missed it, but Bucky’s knuckles whitened around his cup. “You gonna meet him?”

“Maybe,” You shrugged. “We’ll see.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the floor for a beat too long. You assumed it was one of his quiet spells again: those moments where the past clawed at him and left him speechless. You reached over and gently squeezed his arm.

“Hey. You okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

You didn’t ask what about. You’d learned not to push him. You knew he would talk if he needed to. But behind his still eyes, something shifted.

That night, he followed you home like he always did. He was quiet as a shadow, footsteps masked by the hum of the city and his experience as the Winter Soldier. You made it home safely, texted him a “thank you for the coffee,” and turned in for the night. Bucky stayed outside your building for hours, hidden across the street. He didn’t move for a while, didn’t blink. Just waited.

The next day, your date canceled. No explanation. Just a sudden, awkward message and a block. You frowned at your phone, confused and disappointed.

“He didn’t deserve your time anyway,” Bucky tried to comfort you later when you vented about it. The way he looked at you, soft smile and worried eyes, you found yourself agreeing. Though, you weren’t sure why.

Days passed. The missed connections started to pile up. Plans you made with others were mysteriously interrupted. It was always something: car issues, sudden emergencies, sick coworkers. Yet Bucky was always around, always the one to stay and offer, “Want to grab food instead?” or say “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.” You welcomed the company. He was stable, kind and he cared.

But something started to gnaw at you. The feeling of being watched never quite left. Doors you were sure you locked felt slightly ajar. Items shifted. Your phone sometimes buzzed with strange glitches. You mentioned it in passing to Bucky. But he reassured you softly like he always did, “You’re safe. I promise.” His voice was low, almost reverent.

And you believed him, because no one protected you like Bucky did. No one was as constant, as present. Besides, you were probably overthinking it anyways.

What you didn’t see were the cameras tucked in the corners of your ceiling, hidden well behind the smoke detector and air vents. You didn’t know some tracking program had been installed on your phone nor the way Bucky’s fingers traced your location like a map he’d memorized.

To you, he was just Bucky. A little rough around the edges. A quiet and stead friend who was always there for you.

To him, you were the reason he hadn’t fallen apart completely. You were everything. His home. His anchor. And if you ever tried to leave him, if you ever even thought of running, he’d know. But he knows you wouldn’t do such a thing, you don’t even suspect a thing. Perhaps you never will. It’s better for you this way. But if you did, he would catch on immediately. Because he always knows.