Escape Room Chaos

Heart First, Sanity Later

Summary: You, a dangerously chaotic genius with the common sense of a soggy spoon, somehow captures the heart of Bucky Barnes. Despite the constant emotional whiplash, raccoon-related injuries, and deeply cursed inventions, Bucky finds himself falling hard… somewhere between a Capri Sun intervention robot and a vent-related rescue. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: This was based on this post I came across from @ghouljams earlier. Please let me know if you want me to remove any of the information you listed here.

Word Count: 3.4k+

A/N: I had a blast writing this and I am begging on my hands and knees that other people like this as well so I can write more of unhinged reader. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Bucky didn’t mean to get attached. In fact, he very specifically meant not to get attached to you.

You, with your wide smile and increasingly concerning decision-making skills. You, who walked into a briefing ten minutes late with a Slurpee, claimed you got “time-displaced,” and then flawlessly identified the year, model, and VIN of a car from a blurry photo Tony handed out. “That’s a 1972 Chevelle SS,” You’d said casually. “But the rims are from a later model. 1976, I think.”

He stared at you. Everyone did.

You slurped. “What?”

Later, Bucky watched you put your phone in the fridge, forget about it, then ask him if he’d “seen a text from 7-Eleven recently.” You didn’t even seem high. That was the worst part. You just… existed like that. All the time.

A living contradiction. A walking cosmic joke. The human version of a browser with 72 tabs open, one playing music, none labeled, and all of them about wildly different topics ranging from “theoretical wormhole stability” to “can ducks feel shame.”

And the worst part? You were insanely good at your job.

When it came to the field, you moved like you’d choreographed every punch in advance. Like your brain hit a switch and rerouted all the loose marbles into sheer precision.

But outside of that? Absolute chaos.

One time you asked if the word “colonel” was a typo because you’d only ever read it.

"Why is it spelled like 'colon-el'?” You’d asked Bucky, eating popcorn with a throwing knife for apparently no reason. “Like. You’re telling me we all just agreed to ignore the 'L'?”

He blinked slowly. “Yes.”

“Sounds fake but okay.”

He wanted to strangle you. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to wrap you in a blanket and take you to a doctor because no one should eat four bananas and not know why their stomach hurts. (“I thought they were like… nature’s snack bars!” You’d wailed from the floor. “Why does nature lie?”)

Still, there was something undeniably magnetic about you. Something that made Bucky keep finding excuses to be around you. Something that made him bite back a smile when you declared, with utter confidence, that “Citizen Kane” was a man’s full name and you “felt bad for him growing up with that.”

Sam had to leave the room. Steve looked like he aged five years. Bucky? He just leaned back in his chair and muttered, “You’re so lucky you’re pretty.”

You beamed. “I know, right?”

And that was just the beginning.

-

Bucky knew it the moment you turned to him in the middle of a high-stakes infiltration and whispered:

“Hey. Do you think raccoons ever get embarrassed?”

He froze mid-step, crouched beside you behind a cluster of storage crates, both of you watching a Hydra compound patrol pace along the wall ahead. Guns primed. Comms live. Two minutes to breach.

You blinked at him, eyes wide and totally serious about the question in the entirely inappropriate setting.

“What?” He hissed.

You frowned thoughtfully, like he was the weird one. “They have those little hands, right? Like… what if one drops its snack in front of another raccoon. Is that, like, raccoon shame? Do they feel judged?”

Bucky stared. He wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating. It had been a long week after all.

Then you added, “Anyway, two guards approaching. They’ll pass each other in about four seconds. I can take the left. You want the one with the scar?”

You didn’t even wait for an answer. Your body vanished into the shadows, clean and calculated. Three seconds later, both guards were unconscious and being gently rolled into the bushes like unwanted pizza boxes.

Bucky just stood there, breathing. You terrified him but not in the way enemies did. No, that would be too simple. Because he could fight Hydra, take a bullet, disarm a bomb, but you?

You were something else. A walking contradiction.

You once tripped over your own shoelaces while explaining quantum theory, then beat four highly trained operatives unconscious with a clipboard. You called a Glock a “grippy lil’ pew stick” but recited the Geneva Convention word-for-word because you “liked bedtime reading.”

And tonight was no different.

By the time the mission was done, the intel recovered, and the building cleared, Bucky was sore, bruised, and fully convinced that he was doomed. Because somewhere between the absurd commentary, the flawless fighting, and the way you wiped blood from your brow and grinned at him like you weren’t covered in chaos, he felt it.

That thing. The awful, nauseating, heart-clutching feeling.

Affection.

It hit him in the middle of your post-mission debrief, which mostly consisted of you sitting on the quinjet floor, drinking chocolate milk out of a thermos and recounting the entire op like it was a cute story you were telling children.

“And then I was like, Bam! right to the neck, and he just went down like a sack of sad potatoes. Did you see that? You saw that, right, Buck? I did the thing with the kick!”

He didn’t answer. He was looking at you like you’d grown a second head or like how you were the only thing stuck in his head these days. God, you were awful.

You had two blood on your elbow and half your gear undone. You were sprawled out on the floor like a sleep-deprived gremlin, and when you looked up at him and smiled, like he was the only person in the world who mattered… He was done. Gone.

“You okay there, Grumpypants?” You asked.

“I think I might hate you,” He muttered, sitting down beside you.

You grinned, bumping his shoulder with yours. “That’s fair. I’m an acquired taste. Like oysters. Or war crimes.”

He barked a laugh before he could stop it. You looked so proud.

“I’m serious,” He said, sobering. “You’re gonna get yourself killed one day. You don’t take anything seriously.”

You just stared at him for a moment, and then, quietly, you said, “I take you seriously.”

The jet went quiet.

And Bucky sat very, very still because somehow, that hit harder than any mission ever had.

You weren’t just funny. Or weird. Or brilliant in a way that made his head hurt.

You were kind. Kind in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Like you saw through the Winter Soldier and the scowl and the kill count, and you still chose to sit beside him, sipping chocolate milk and talking about raccoon shame.

And Bucky Barnes, world-weary assassin, trauma-laden super-soldier, turned to you and realized:

He was fucked.

In love with a person who once confidently said “quinoa” was pronounced “kin-oh-ah” and didn’t believe him when he corrected you.

You looked up from your thermos. “You’re doing the staring thing again. Am I bleeding from the ear?”

“No,” Bucky said, voice low. “You’re just…”

“Sexy?” You offered helpfully.

“…Terrifying.”

You winked. “Same difference.”

And Bucky Barnes, against all logic, reason, and survival instinct, knew he was already in too deep.

-

The next mission had gone off without a hitch… at least, for everyone except Bucky.

A few cuts here, a couple of bruises there, but nothing too serious. At least, that’s what he told himself as he sat on the edge of the quinjet, feeling the burn in his shoulder from a bullet graze. But the moment you walked into the medbay with a roll of bandages in your hand, it was like everything inside him twisted in a way he couldn’t explain.

“Okay, Bucky. Time to let the master do her magic,” you said, flashing that grin of yours, the one that always made his heart do weird, involuntary things.

Bucky blinked, trying to shake the disoriented feeling. “You’re the one who got shot today. Why am I the one getting patched up?”

“Because I’m immortal,” You said matter-of-factly. “Also, I’m not bleeding anywhere you can see, so that’s a bonus.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You’re immortal?”

You sat down beside him, rolling your sleeves up. “No, but I like to pretend I am. You know, like a cooler superhero.”

He winced slightly as you poked at his side. “That’s what I’m dealing with, huh?”

“You love it,” You teased, squeezing out some antiseptic onto a cotton pad.

“You’re lucky I haven’t thrown you out of a plane for this,” Bucky muttered, though he couldn’t stop the faint grin from tugging at his lips.

“Not gonna lie, I’d be mad if you did,” You admitted, gently dabbing at his side. “Also, I’d haunt you. I know how to haunt people. I’ve read a lot of books about ghosts.”

He chuckled, despite himself. “Of course you have.”

“Oh, absolutely. I even have a theory about why the Titanic sank, and it’s completely different from the official one. But I’m telling you right now, it’s not what they say.”

Bucky glanced over at you, eyebrow raised. “This I gotta hear.”

You leaned closer, lowering your voice dramatically as if revealing state secrets. “Okay, so. It wasn’t an iceberg that caused the sinking. It was actually the government trying to erase all evidence of the giant squid they were experimenting on, and they blamed it on the iceberg to cover up the real cause.”

Bucky blinked, unsure whether you were serious or not. “Wait, what?” He asked slowly.

You looked at him deadpan. “You didn’t hear the rumors? They found footage, you know. The squid was huge. It even had tentacles.”

He stared at you, speechless.

"Anyway," You continued, as if you hadn’t just suggested the world’s greatest conspiracy, "What we do know is that my bandage technique is flawless. See this?" You lifted a corner of the bandage to show him a perfect wrap around his side.

Bucky blinked. "Did you just distract me with a giant squid theory while you patched me up?"

“Absolutely.” You beamed at him. “Works every time. Just don’t tell anyone you’re in love with me because I’m not responsible for any heart attacks.”

Bucky froze, his heartbeat suddenly in his throat.

You were still so nonchalant. Still so you, so damn confident and so sure of yourself. It took everything in him not to lean in and kiss you right there.

But then, you looked up at him, and for the briefest moment, that smile of yours softened. “You’re good, Bucky,” You said quietly. “You’ve been through more shit than any of us. But you’re still here. That’s something, you know?”

His chest tightened.

“And you know what?” You continued, your voice so much softer now, like a quiet reassurance. “You don’t have to be a soldier all the time. Sometimes, you can just be Bucky.”

He swallowed, looking at you. “And what about you?”

“Oh, me? I’m a mess,” You shrugged, finally looking away, as if it was no big deal. “I’m just here to make the chaos look cute.”

Your eyes flicked back to him, that familiar teasing glint in them. “That’s my secret. You like it.”

Bucky chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He wanted to say something, wanted to admit something. That little voice in his head kept screaming at him to just say it already, but he was scared. He was scared of how deep you had burrowed under his skin, of how easy it was to forget everything else when you were around.

Instead, he just leaned forward and cupped your face, his thumb gently brushing your cheek. “You’re… something else, you know that?”

You blinked at him in surprise, your lips parted, as if trying to process the sudden shift in the air. For a moment, there was a palpable tension between the two of you, like the universe was holding its breath, waiting for one of you to do something.

But then, in your usual way, you broke it, shrugging with a grin. “I know. You’re welcome.”

Bucky’s heart did a weird flip, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to truly relax, just a little. He didn’t want to admit it. Not yet. Not even to himself.

But as you leaned in to finish wrapping his side, your hand brushing his skin lightly, he knew he was already in way too deep.

-

The next incident started with a toaster. Not even a cool toaster. Just a boring, silver Stark-issued kitchen appliance that you were suspiciously proud of. I You’d taken it apart and rebuilt it but “better.” No one asked you to. No one gave you permission. You just did it.

“Now it sings the SpongeBob theme when your toast is done,” You explained, beaming as you held up a slice of whole wheat like it was a golden ticket.

Bucky stared at you. “You tampered with government property.”

“Enhanced.” You corrected. “And before you ask, no, I will not apologize. This is the future.”

Then it sang. “Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?” BWEEEEEP - Toast done.

Bucky looked like he was praying for divine intervention. “You’re gonna get us all court-martialed over this.”

Two hours later, you were banned from the kitchen, which didn’t stop you from relocating to the common area with your newest project: building what you claimed was a “mousetrap but for anxiety.”

It was made of pipe cleaners, glow sticks, and what might’ve been a dismantled Roomba.

“I call her Deborah,” You said, gently stroking it. “She senses emotional instability and gives you a juice box.”

As if on cue, it whirred over to Bucky, bumped into his leg, and slowly offered him a Capri Sun.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I’m not drinking that.”

“Then she thinks you’re too far gone. She’s very wise.”

Steve walked in, surveyed the scene, and simply turned around without speaking. He didn’t even ask anymore.

Later that night, Bucky caught you in the hallway attempting to climb into the ceiling with a flashlight between your teeth and a jar of pickles under your arm.

“Do I want to know?” He asked, exhausted.

You paused halfway into a vent, dropping the flashlight briefly. “Depends. Do you believe in ceiling gremlins?”

“No.”

“Then I’m doing taxes.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Please. I’m begging you. Come down.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then slowly slid back out like a raccoon emerging from a trash can. “Okay. But only because you asked nicely and not because I got stuck.”

You had absolutely gotten stuck. And the worst part? He was smitten.

Every time you did something completely absurd, which was always, he found himself watching you a little too long, smiling a little too much, wondering what the hell you were going to do next and why it made his chest ache in a weirdly pleasant way.

Even now, covered in ceiling dust and holding a pickle jar, you looked up at him with that infuriatingly endearing grin.

“You’re in love with me,” You stated confidently.

Bucky blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” You popped a pickle in your mouth. “You’ve got that look. Like a grumpy cat who accidentally cuddled someone and doesn’t want to admit it.”

“I do not look like-“

“It's okay. You don’t have to say it.” You patted his chest affectionately. “Your body language screams ‘emotionally unavailable man finds chaotic cryptid and feels things.’”

“I am not emotionally unavailable.”

“You have a go bag, Bucky.”

“…That’s standard protocol.”

“Your toothbrush is still in the packaging.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. You’d won. Again.

“You’re gonna kiss me one day,” You said as you walked past him, pickle jar under one arm, flashlight in your other hand. “And when you do, I’m gonna be so smug you’ll try to throw yourself off the building.”

Bucky stood there in the hall, alone, heart doing its dumb little thudding thing. He hated you. He adored you. And he was never getting that toothbrush insult out of his head.

-

When the big moment happened, It wasn’t a big mission. It wasn’t even a real mission. It was just supposed to be recon.

And yet somehow, you were sitting on the floor of a dusty, abandoned warehouse with a concussion, holding a broken walkie-talkie like it personally betrayed you.

“Okay, but in my defense,” You slurred slightly, “I didn’t know the raccoon had a knife.”

Bucky stared at you, expression unreadable, as blood dripped slowly from your temple.

“You ran into an unmarked building alone, set off three alarms, fell through a skylight, and got jumped by wildlife.”

You held up a finger. “Armed wildlife.”

He ran a hand down his face.

“I swear to God, you are one poorly timed pun away from getting locked in a broom closet until the end of time.”

You blinked up at him. “Kinky.”

He turned away so fast you could almost hear his brain blue-screen. “Jesus Christ.”

But when he looked back at you: your lip bloodied, eyes dazed, hair full of insulation from where you’d crashed through the ceiling like a chaotic Christmas angel, something in his chest snapped.

You were always like this. Impossible. Endearing. Brilliant in the most horrifying ways. A human Wikipedia article with a death wish and a spark in your eyes that made him forget, just for a second, that the world was awful.

And that spark was flickering. Just a little. And he hated it.

“You can’t keep doing this,” He began, voice tight. “You can’t keep treating your life like it’s expendable.”

You blinked slowly. “That sounds fake. I’m clearly immortal.”

“I’m serious.” He crouched in front of you, fists clenched. “You run into every situation like you’re bulletproof, and you’re not. One day, I’m not gonna be there to drag your dumbass out of a flaming building or disarm a guy who has a bazooka made of forks or- or whatever the hell today was!”

“It was a raccoon with a grudge.”

“That’s not a thing!”

You stared at him in silence for a beat, then said, very softly, “You’re worried about me.”

He froze.

“I’m always worried about you,” He said, almost too quiet to hear. “You think I wake up every day wondering what country I’ll have to fly to because you thought jumping off a roof would ‘probably be fine’ if you landed in a bush?!”

You tilted your head. “It was a very fluffy bush.”

”I love you, you absolute menace!”

Silence. You blinked. Then he blinked. Somewhere in the warehouse, a raccoon chittered menacingly.

“…You love me?” You echoed, like he’d just said he wanted to marry a zucchini.

Bucky looked like he might actually combust. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“Say it like what?”

“Like I love you. Which I do. But I was gonna do it after, like… dinner. Or when you weren’t bleeding.”

“Is this why you made me tea every time I electrocuted myself?”

“Yes!”

“And why you punched that guy who called me a liability?”

“Also yes!”

“And why you didn’t kill me when I installed motion sensors in the hallway and forgot to tell anyone?”

“I almost killed you.”

You were quiet for a long moment. Then: “Okay.”

He blinked. “Okay?”

You nodded, still loopy but smiling now. “Okay. I love you too.”

He stared. “You do?”

“Yeah. I mean, why else would I let you eat the last cookie that one time? Or give Deborah full permission to follow you around and scan your emotional damage like a clingy Roomba?”

He laughed, just once, short and stunned.

You leaned forward and poked his chest with one finger. “Also, I have a very deep fondness for emotionally repressed war criminals. It’s kind of my thing.”

Bucky groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet. You’re in love with me.”

“I’m regretting it deeply.”

“No you’re not.” You smiled that crooked, chaotic smile that had ruined his life in the best way.

And despite everything, the dust, the blood, the deeply traumatized raccoon now watching you both from the shadows, he leaned in and kissed you.

It was gentle. Just for a second. As if to say, Yes. You’re chaos incarnate. But you’re mine.

When he pulled back, it was silent for a moment. Both of you looking in each other’s eyes before you whispered, “Did you just kiss me in front of a knife raccoon?”

Bucky exhaled slowly, already regretting all his life choices. “God help me. I did.”

Covert Attraction

Summary: When S.H.I.E.L.D. pairs Bucky Barnes with you, a sharp-tongued, effortlessly flirtatious field agent, it's supposed to be a simple mission: infiltrate a suspected Hydra front in Prague by posing as a newlywed couple. The assignment is all business until it isn't. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 3.1k+

A/N: Since I’ve been gone a bit, thought to put out something more than 900 words. I’ll be writing for a flirty Bucky soon. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

You weren’t born to be a spy. You chose to be one. Maybe it was the thrill, maybe it was the danger, or maybe it was the way people underestimated you, mistaking charm for weakness. Whatever the reason, here you were: walking arm-in-arm with James Buchanan Barnes through a cobblestone plaza in Prague, red lips curved into a smirk as you leaned into him just a little too close for comfort.

“Smile, darling,” You murmured under your breath, twisting your voice into something sweet and syrupy. “You’re my adoring husband, remember? Try to look less like you’re imagining fifty ways to murder the guy behind us.”

Bucky grunted, his jaw clenching tight. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

You tilted your head, giving him a faux-innocent smile. “Of course I am. You’re brooding and devastatingly handsome. I’m allowed to enjoy myself.”

His eyes flicked sideways at you, just for a moment. The usual hard blue softened and the edges of his mouth twitched, like he was fighting the smallest of smiles. It was progress.

The mission was simple enough: go undercover as a newlywed couple to draw out an arms dealer known for targeting American honeymooners with military ties. You’d been briefed. You’d trained. And, most importantly, you knew exactly how to get under Bucky Barnes’ skin.

You leaned your head on his shoulder as you walked, sighing dramatically. “You know, for a fake honeymoon, this is pretty romantic. Maybe after we finish this mission, we could actually get married. I want a destination wedding. Bali sounds nice.”

“Is this how you treat all your partners?” He asked dryly, guiding you down a narrow alley. His hand was steady at your lower back; too firm to be casual, too gentle to be professional.

“Only the grumpy ones.” You winked.

The safehouse was tucked behind a wine shop with a secret keypad hidden beneath a crate of imported Bordeaux. Once inside, the air was cooler, the windows blacked out, and the silence heavier. Bucky moved ahead of you, always scanning and always vigilant. You, however, took your time slipping off your heels, stretching your arms overhead, and giving an exaggerated sigh.

“Home sweet home. Now, do we cuddle on the couch like good newlyweds, or do I start making you jealous by talking about my fake ex-husband?”

He shot you a look over his shoulder, unamused, but there was color rising at the base of his neck. You noticed. You always noticed.

You flopped onto the couch like you owned it and patted the seat beside you. “Come on, Sergeant. Can’t have our target thinking we sleep in separate rooms. Or worse… that we don’t love each other.”

He hesitated. You grinned wider.

“You’re insufferable,” He muttered, but sat down beside you anyway. He was stiff, tense, like every nerve in his body was bracing for impact.

You leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder, lips brushing just beneath his jaw as you whispered, “You’re going to have to kiss me eventually, Barnes.”

His heart skipped. You felt it. But he didn’t move. Not yet. He didn’t kiss you either.

Instead, Bucky leaned back just slightly, resting his head against the wall behind the couch, eyes closed like he was already regretting every decision that had led him here. His vibranium hand rested loosely on his thigh. You could see his fingers twitching, always alert, even when trying to look relaxed.

You didn’t push. Not directly. That was the fun part watching him wrestle with himself. You just leaned into his side with casual ease, head against his shoulder, legs tucked under you on the couch like you belonged there.

“You’re warm,” You said, voice soft and feather-light.

“You’re impossible,” He muttered.

“Not denying the warm part.”

He didn’t reply.

But he didn’t move away either.

Later, you stood at the kitchen counter, pretending to flip through intel files while sneaking glances at him. He had taken up residence at the window, curtains cracked just enough for a view of the alley. Guard dog mode. That was his default.

“You know,” You said, twirling your pen idly, “I used to think you hated me.”

“I did.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Not like that.” He turned, lips twitching again. “You were too loud. Too… flirty. Always smiling like the world hadn’t tried to kill you yet.”

You walked toward him, slow steps echoing in the quiet space. “And now?”

“Now,” He said, eyes fixed on yours, “I know you’re dangerous.”

You smiled, stepping close, so close his breath hit your cheek. “So are you.”

The moment cracked like static. It wasn’t a kiss, not yet, but it wanted to be.

You tilted your head, speaking in a low voice. “Do you always get this close to your undercover wives?”

He didn’t move. “Only the ones who drive me crazy.”

You reached up, fingers brushing the zipper of his jacket. “Crazy in the ‘I’m going to jump off this balcony’ way, or the ‘I might kiss her if she keeps looking at me like that’ way?”

His breath hitched. You felt it, subtle and sharp.

Then came the knock.

Two short, one long. The signal.

Just like that, the atmosphere shattered. Bucky was on alert instantly as he stepped past you toward the door, that soldier mask snapping back into place. You followed, heart still racing but now it had nothing to do with adrenaline.

“Back in character,” He murmured without looking at you.

“Oh, baby,” You purred behind him, sliding your arm around his waist just as the door opened. “I never left.”

The man who entered was all smiles, gold tooth flashing, hands held up like a man pretending to be harmless. But your eyes weren’t on him. They were on Bucky on the tension in his shoulders, on the way his jaw locked, on the phantom heat of where his lips nearly touched yours.

Tonight, you’d play the devoted wife.

Tomorrow? You’d make him beg.

The man who entered the room, Gregor Malenko, alias “The Butcher of Odessa”, smelled like cologne and danger. His designer coat clashed with the filth on his soul, and you recognized the glint in his eye: the kind of predator who liked feeling in control. He scanned the room, eyes lingering too long on you before finally offering Bucky a stiff handshake.

“You must be the happy couple,” He said, accent thick and words too smooth. “Fresh from America, yes?”

Bucky didn’t smile. He never did. “That’s us.”

You slid your hand up Bucky’s chest and laid your head on his shoulder, voice warm and sugary. “We’ve been dying to see Europe. Everyone said Prague was… unforgettable.”

Gregor smiled like a man who thought he was the most interesting person in the room. “It can be. Especially for people like you.” His eyes flicked toward Bucky. “Military?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

You answered for him. “Former. My brave husband here’s retired. Now I get to have him all to myself.” You traced your fingers over Bucky’s collar, feeling the muscle jump in his neck as he suppressed a reaction.

He was trying not to react which made teasing him so much better.

The conversation that followed was a careful dance of coded language, veiled threats, and fake laughter. You kept smiling, kept leaning into Bucky, kept letting your fingers trace lazy circles on the back of his neck. And every time, you felt the shift. The tiniest crack in that Winter Soldier armor.

Later, once Gregor had gone, Bucky slammed the door behind him and locked all three bolts.

“That guy’s gonna be a problem,” He muttered.

You were already across the room, pulling your jacket off. “You mean aside from the fact that he clearly wants to dismember us and sell our parts on the black market?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He was brooding again, pacing.

You plopped down on the couch and started unlacing your boots. “You okay, Sarge?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Barnes?”

He turned, eyes stormy. “Stop touching me like that.”

Your brows rose. “Excuse me?”

“You keep-“ He gestured vaguely. “Leaning in. Whispering in my ear. Running your fingers over my neck like it doesn’t mean anything.”

You tilted your head, heat flickering under your ribs. “And if it does mean something?”

His silence was deafening.

You stood slowly, walking toward him with measured steps. “I touch you because it’s the only time you let me close, James. Because you act like I don’t matter to you, but your heart races when I lean in, and your hands shake when I smile at you, and I think you’re lying through your teeth.”

You stopped a breath away.

“I think you want to kiss me.”

“I don’t,” He lied.

You smiled. “Then prove it.”

You leaned in just an inch, just enough and his resolve cracked. One hand shot to your waist, the other to the back of your neck, and when he kissed you, it was fast, heated, and desperate like it had been building for weeks.

You kissed him back with the same energy, half laughter, half hunger as you curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt like you were anchoring yourself to the one place you wanted to be lost.

And then just as quickly, he pulled back.

His eyes were wild, breathing uneven. “This doesn’t change anything.”

You looked up at him, flushed and breathless. “Sure it does.”

You turned away first, walking back toward the bedroom, tossing over your shoulder, “Now you’ll have to be twice as convincing tomorrow.”

He didn’t move for a long time.

-

You woke up first.

The Prague safehouse was quiet in that eerie kind of way, like the walls were holding their breath. You padded barefoot into the kitchen, stealing one of the good mugs from the stash and filling it with bitter coffee, black. The events from last night played on loop behind your eyes, the way Bucky’s hands had tightened on your waist, the wild heat of his kiss, the way he'd yanked himself away like he was afraid of drowning.

The man had enough restraint to hold up a collapsing building with sheer will alone.

You leaned against the counter and took a long sip, smirking softly to yourself. Footsteps could be heard from behind you. They were quiet, deliberate, but not trying to hide. You didn’t look. You didn’t have to.

“You always up this early?” Bucky’s voice was lower in the mornings. Rough with less armor.

“Habit,” You said, sipping. “Less time for regrets to catch up.”

He moved to the opposite counter and poured himself a cup. No cream. No sugar. Of course not.

You let the silence stretch, counting the seconds before he cracked.

He didn’t disappoint.

“About last night,” He started, gaze pinned to his cup.

“Oh, this should be good,” You teased, lifting your brow.

He paused, jaw working. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

And there it was. The cop-out. You expected it. Hell, you invited it. But it still stung.

“Because we’re partners?” You asked, voice light, but your fingers tightened around the mug. “Or because you don’t kiss people unless they’re in your trauma support group?”

Bucky looked up sharply.

You shrugged. “I’ve been in this game long enough to know what fear looks like, Barnes. You don’t kiss like a man who didn’t want it. You kiss like someone terrified they’ll want more.”

He didn’t respond right away. The air felt tight between you.

“I’m not built for this kind of thing,” He said finally. “You deserve someone who isn’t…” He motioned vaguely, as if ‘everything wrong with him’ was too big to say out loud.

You stepped toward him, slowly, deliberately, until you were toe-to-toe. You set your mug down.

“And you think I’m fragile?” You said, eyes on fire. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lie for a living? To seduce and manipulate and smile while your heart stays locked behind six inches of steel? Don’t insult me by pretending this is about me.”

He looked at you, really looked, like the walls between you were cracking just a little.

“I’m not afraid of you, Bucky,” You whispered.

He blinked slowly, voice quiet. “You should be.”

But you weren’t. You were furious. You were hooked. And you were already halfway gone.

Unfortunately, the moment shattered when your comm crackled to life.

“Eyes up,” came Natasha’s voice. “You’ve got company headed your way. Four, maybe five. Doesn’t look friendly.”

You and Bucky locked eyes. The mission snapped back into place like a gun cocking. The conversation would have to wait. You grabbed your gear. Bucky grabbed his weapon.

But as you passed him by, he caught your wrist briefly, electric.

“You’re not fragile,” He said quietly.

You grinned, even as the danger mounted.

“Damn right I’m not.”

-

The door didn’t explode, but it might as well have. One second, the safehouse was filled with sharp tension and bitter coffee. The next, it was adrenaline and chaos.

Bucky moved first. He always did. One fluid lunge and he was pushing you away, out of the line of fire as the first shots tore through the windows.

“Two on the left side!” He barked over his shoulder. “You take the hallway!”

You didn’t argue.

Your knife slid into your hand like it belonged there which, let’s face it, it did and you launched down the narrow corridor with a practiced grace. You were quick, clean. One guy barely had time to grunt before you put him down, another stumbled into your elbow before tasting the tile floor.

But somewhere in the noise, in the gunfire and shouting, you heard something different.

A grunt. Low. Guttural.

Bucky.

You spun.

He was in the living room, fighting off two men hand-to-hand, no gun, just teeth, fists, and fury. His vibranium arm caught one by the throat and threw him across the room like a ragdoll. The other got in a shot close range where you saw it hit.

Your heart stopped.

“BUCKY!”

He stumbled back, just for a second, hand clutching his side. Blood.

You didn’t think. You just moved. You drove your knife into the attacker’s ribs with a shout and shoved him off, catching Bucky as he swayed.

“I’m fine,” He growled through gritted teeth.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve bled worse.”

You pressed your hand against his side anyway, glaring at him. “Stop trying to die five minutes after kissing me. It’s bad form.”

He actually smiled. It was small. Crooked. But real.

The aftermath was quiet and smoky. The room looked like hell. But you were alive and he was alive.

Bucky slumped into the armchair as you patched him up, your hands surprisingly steady.

“I said I’m fine,” He mumbled again.

You looked up. “You want me to let it get infected?”

He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh.

You dabbed gently at the blood, and when you finally looked up, his eyes were already on you in that soft, stormy, searching sort of way.

“I meant what I said earlier,” You told him, voice lower now. “You don’t scare me.”

He reached up, fingers brushing your jaw. His movements were gentle, uncertain, reverent.

“I should,” He whispered.

“But you don’t.”

The silence held like a wire stretched too tight.

Then finally, finally, he tugged you forward and kissed you again.

This one wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t fast. It was slow, deep, like a confession. His hand tangled in your hair, your palm rested against his chest, and for one long, raw moment, there was no mission. No danger. No lies.

Just you. And him.

And the way you fit together like a secret you weren’t ready to share yet.

-

Three days later, you and Bucky walked hand in hand through a glitzy gala in Bucharest, dressed to kill. Literally.

You in a slinky black dress with a slit high enough to be criminal. Him in a tailored black suit that made your pulse jump every time you glanced his way. To anyone watching and there were plenty watching, you looked like the perfect couple. Confident. In love. And dangerous.

Which was ironic, considering how much closer that was to the truth than either of you were ready to admit out loud.

Your earpiece crackled.

“Target’s moving toward the balcony,” Natasha said. “You two lovebirds know what to do.”

“Copy that,” Bucky murmured, voice smooth, calm but his hand gave yours the smallest squeeze. You glanced at him. His eyes flicked toward the terrace doors, then back to you.

Showtime.

You slipped your arm around his and leaned into him as you walked. Your lips brushed his ear. “If this ends with us pretending to dance while stealing a flash drive again, I’m gonna need dinner first.”

Bucky smirked. “I thought you liked it when I swept you off your feet.”

“I liked it better when you actually kissed me after.”

“I did kiss you after.”

You grinned. “Exactly.”

The mission went smoothly. Almost too smoothly.

The target handed off the drive. You intercepted. A quick sleight of hand, a soft distraction with a stolen kiss on Bucky’s cheek and the tech was yours.

On the way out, you were all smiles and warm touches, like two spies on their honeymoon. But the moment you were back in the car, the performance faded. What lingered was something heavier. Something real.

You sat in silence for a minute before Bucky spoke.

“After this… what happens to us?”

You blinked. “Us?”

He nodded slowly. “I know this started as an assignment, as a cover story. But I don’t think I’ve been pretending since Prague.”

You turned toward him, heart thudding. “And what do you think this is, Barnes?”

He met your eyes, steel softened by something vulnerable.

“I think I’m not ready to let you go.”

You swallowed hard. For a man who’d lived decades running from everything: his past, his pain, his reflection, that was the most honest thing he could’ve said.

You reached over and laced your fingers with his.

“Then don’t,” You said.

He looked down at your hands, then back to you. “You’re not scared of me. Not even after everything?”

“Nope,” You whispered. “But you should know… I snore, I steal blankets, and I’m annoyingly good at poker.”

He chuckled and damn if it wasn’t the most beautiful sound in the world.

“I can handle all that.”

“You sure?” You teased. “You really ready to be the grumpy one in this spy couple dynamic?”

His eyes softened. “You’re the reckless flirt. I’m the brooding assassin. Seems balanced.”

You leaned in, smile turning soft. “Then we’ve got ourselves a hell of a partnership.”

And this time, when he kissed you, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing your cheek, you knew there were no more lies. No covers. No pretending.

Just Bucky.

Just you.

And maybe, finally, a future worth fighting for.

What You Can’t Heal

Summary: You would think being a healer made you careful, more cautious of getting hurt. However, it made you the opposite, more willing to throw yourself head first into danger. And your mission partner does not like that one bit. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to heal. You and Bucky get hurt in this.

Word Count: 1.7k+

A/N: To be honest, I want to write another version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. But I thought it’d be fun to explore the recklessness that having healing powers can bring.

The compound gym was almost empty when you slipped in, quiet as breath. Just the sound of gloves striking a punching bag. Slow, rhythmic, and methodical. The kind of pace that didn’t burn energy but burned thoughts. You stopped just inside the doorway, watching the man in front of it all.

Bucky Barnes.

His black t-shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat, muscles rippling beneath ink and scars. His metal arm glinted in the low light, the sound of knuckles against canvas falling into a pattern like a heartbeat. You hadn’t known he’d be here. Or maybe you had. Subconsciously.

He didn't look at you. Not right away.

“You gonna stand there all day or join in?” He asked, voice low, still facing the bag.

You blinked, then stepped in. “Didn’t want to interrupt. You looked like you were winning the argument.”

“Wasn’t an argument,” He muttered, grabbing a towel and rubbing the sweat from the back of his neck. “Just… quiet.”

He finally turned, eyes landing on you. Not unkind, but guarded, always guarded. Like he expected you to flinch at something he hadn’t said yet.

“You’re not on the rotation today,” He pointed out.

You shrugged, tapping the inside of your wrist where a faint mark from yesterday’s spar still lingered. “Figured I could use the practice.”

He scoffed softly. “You mean more bruises to fix.”

You smirked. “Lucky for me, I’m the easiest medic to find.”

He didn’t smile, not really , but something in his jaw relaxed.

“…You’re too comfortable with pain,” He said after a moment, picking up a pair of training pads.

“You’re too afraid of it,” You countered, stepping onto the mat.

He paused. That sharp glance again, not angry and not insulted. Just watching. Assessing. Like you’d said something truer than he wanted to admit.

“Alright, healer,” He said, tossing you a pair of gloves. “Let’s see if you’re as tough as you act.”

You caught them easily, grinning.

You didn’t notice the faint flicker in his expression, the one that wasn’t annoyance or frustration. It was worry. Care, maybe. Hidden so deep, not even he knew where it lived anymore.

The training room echoed with the dull thud of fists against pads and the occasional grunt of effort. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a sterile glow over the gym's scarred walls. Bucky Barnes stood in the center of the mat, arms crossed, the faintest trace of a frown pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"You’re not supposed to let them hit you just to prove you can heal," He said, voice sharp but quiet, like thunder muffled by snow.

You shrugged, rolling your bruised shoulder. The bone was already snapping back into place beneath your skin, just a faint crunch and a soft hiss of pain. “I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point.” His eyes narrowed. “You don’t need to take every hit. Healing doesn’t make you invincible.”

You hated how his gaze pinned you. The ex-soldier still wore that half-haunted, half-suspicious expression like a second skin. But you knew he meant it. Not just the words. The worry behind them.

“You’re treating this like a game,” Bucky continued. “Out there, if you rely on your powers like a crutch, someone’s going to find a way to break you faster than you can fix yourself.”

“I don’t use it as a crutch,” You tried to keep your tone even. “It’s a tool. Just like your arm. Or your training.”

He stepped closer, close enough that the steel of his vibranium arm caught the overhead light. “Difference is, my arm doesn’t stop me from bleeding out if I get cocky.”

You looked away, jaw tight.

That was always the line, wasn’t it? The part they didn’t say out loud, the assumption that your powers made you reckless. Untouchable. Like pain didn’t matter to you.

But it did. You just didn’t show it.

“I’m not afraid of getting hurt,” You said finally, sighing in the process.

Bucky’s voice softened, but the weight in it didn’t lift. “Then maybe you should be.”

You met his eyes again. Blue-gray, storm-worn, and so damn tired. He looked at you the way someone looks at a puzzle they’ve tried to solve too many times. His frustration wasn’t just with you. It was with himself too, but you didn’t know that.

“…We’ll start again tomorrow,” He turned away now. “Don’t show up unless you’re ready to stop playing superhero.”

Then he left you standing on the mat. Your shoulder was fully healed, but your chest aching in a way no power could fix.

Two days later, the mission came.

A Hydra splinter cell operating out of an abandoned medical research facility on the outskirts of Munich. Stark had muttered something about leftover tech, too unstable to be ignored. You and Bucky were assigned to go in quiet, extract the data, and disable any weapons they were cooking up.

Bucky didn’t speak to you much on the quinjet. Just the usual mission prep. Tactical. Tense. You sat across from him, checking your gear in silence, biting down the bitter aftertaste of his last words.

”Don’t show up unless you’re ready to stop throwing yourself into danger.”

You showed up anyway.

The facility was dark, corridors lit only by flickering emergency lights. It smelled of antiseptic and rust, of blood dried long ago. Bucky moved ahead of you, every step measured, gun raised, breathing steady. You were right behind him, senses stretched taut. It wasn’t fear of getting hurt, not really. It was the quiet between you, heavier than the air, more suffocating than the mission itself.

Then came the ambush.

The first explosion sent you both to the floor. Ears ringing, you scrambled behind a lab table, catching a glimpse of Bucky. He was bleeding from a small gash near his temple, dazed but moving.

Three Hydra operatives advanced from the left.

Bucky cursed, firing off a few shots, but they kept coming. One tackled him, knocking the gun from his hands, the two others circling like wolves. You bolted forward without thinking, slamming into one with your shoulder and catching a knife through your side in return.

Pain flared. Warm blood soaked your shirt.

You welcomed it.

Bucky’s voice cracked through the haze as he shouted your name.

He was on his feet in an instant, grabbing the soldier by the throat and slamming him into the wall with a growl. The second Hydra agent went for you, but your powers were already at work. The tissue knitting, nerves sparking back into place, the blade sliding out of you with a slick noise.

You stood, bloody but calm, and delivered a solid punch that sent him sprawling.

By the time it was over, Bucky was breathing hard, hands shaking. Not from the fight, but from seeing you go down.

“Are you insane?” He shouted, storming toward you. “You ran into a knife! You could’ve-“

“I healed.”

“That’s not the damn point!”

His eyes burned. Your heart pounded. Not from adrenaline, but from the sharp edges in his voice, the way they cut deeper than any wound.

“You said I wasn’t ready,” You defended, quietly. “I proved I was.”

“No,” He said, stepping closer, voice dropping. “You proved you’re still willing to throw yourself away.”

You didn’t have a response to that.

He reached for you suddenly; gloved fingers brushing your side, feeling the warm blood that was already drying. His touch hovered, unsure.

“Stop doing that,” He spoke softer now. “Stop making me watch you get hurt just because you can.”

There it was. Raw, bare, unguarded. Not anger. Not frustration. Fear.

“I’m not afraid…” The rebuttal came out, barely above a whisper.

“I am.”

His voice barely made a sound, but it hit you like a punch to the ribs. Not the Winter Soldier voice, cold and precise. Not the soldier tone that was tactical, measured, and distant. No, this was Bucky. Just Bucky. Human. Frayed around the edges. Afraid.

Of losing you.

You stood frozen, not from pain, that was already gone, but because of the crack in his walls. The thing no one else ever got to see.

“You’re afraid for me,” You corrected, voice steadier than you expected.

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, Bucky dragged a hand down his face, leaving a smear of blood on his cheekbone, yours or his, you didn’t know. He looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the mission.

“Every time you go down, even for a second…” He exhaled hard, shaking his head. “I forget you’ll get back up. My body still reacts like I’m watching someone die. Like I’m helpless again.”

Your breath caught. He didn’t mean to say that last part. Helpless.

The word hung between you like smoke in a locked room. Bucky Barnes, who’d had his mind torn apart, his hands used for things he didn’t choose. Of course he feared helplessness. And now you understood why watching you get hurt, even if you healed, chipped away at whatever fragile peace he’d built. Your voice came next.

“I didn’t think it scared you like that.”

“I know,” He replied. “That’s the part that scares me more.”

You stepped closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, to see the small tremor in his metal hand. Close enough that the scent of his sweat and blood mixed with yours.

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” You explained yourself softly. “I just don’t know how else to help. I can’t punch like you. I can’t take down ten guys with one arm.”

“No,” He said firmly, meeting your gaze, “But you run toward pain like it’s your job to carry it.”

Silence filled the air once again. Then, gently, like he thought he might scare you; Bucky reached out, his hand brushing the side of your jaw, just enough pressure to ground you.

“I don’t want to watch someone I care about get used up trying to make up for everything they can’t fix.”

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until those words.

Care about.

You leaned into his touch, just barely. Enough to let him know you weren’t running. Not from this. Not from him.

“I’m trying to learn,” You whispered. “Maybe… you could help me.”

Bucky’s thumb grazed your cheekbone, just once, before he let his hand fall. But something had shifted, something deeper than bone and scar tissue. His walls weren’t down, not completely, but they weren’t steel anymore. He nodded once.

“I’ll teach you how to fight smart,” He said, voice low. “And in exchange, you stop putting yourself in harm’s way every time.”

And just like that, the truce between you wasn't just tactical anymore.

It was personal.

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.

Prank Wars

Summary: You and Bucky Barnes start as chaotic, bickering frenemies locked in a prank war filled with glitter bombs, insults, and grudging teamwork. What begins as rivalry evolves into a sharp-edged romance, complete with teasing, team gossip, and quiet moments that prove even the most combative hearts can find their match. (Bucky Barnes x Avenger!reader)

Word Count: 3.5k+

A/N: Wanted to write something with a sort of friendly rivalry type vibe. I think it turned out to be a fun read. So, Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

You weren’t sure how it started. Maybe it was the time you’d called Bucky a “grumpy vintage action figure” during sparring, or maybe it was when he’d scoffed at your taste in music loud enough for the entire compound to hear. Either way, it was clear from day one: you and Bucky Barnes didn’t get along… but also couldn’t seem to stay away from each other.

You were a field agent with a smart mouth, a tendency to disobey orders, and a deep love for chaos. Bucky was a stickler for rules (at least the ones he liked), a human grimace with vibranium arms and trauma to spare, and somehow you kept ending up on the same teams. That first year at the Tower had been nothing but sarcastic quips, mutual eye rolls, and explosive chemistry that was definitely not romantic. At all. Probably.

Still, he never missed a mission with you. He’d grumble, complain, and occasionally fake gag when assigned to your squad, but he always showed up, and you always had each other’s backs. That didn’t mean peace. Oh, no. It meant war. Pranks, to be specific.

It began with the coffee incident. You’d woken up earlier than usual and decided to be kind for once. So, you brewed Bucky’s preferred dark roast before heading to the gym. But when you returned, your favorite mug (“World’s Okayest Agent”) was full of lukewarm decaf. A tiny sticky note on the handle read: Thanks for the bean water. I upgraded it. -B.

You were fuming. You didn’t say anything. You simply retaliated.

The next morning, Bucky found his boots filled with glitter. Not just glitter, iridescent, microfine, impossible-to-wash-out glitter that puffed into the air with each step like a magical dust trail from hell. You heard him curse halfway across the compound and smiled, eating your breakfast yogurt.

From there, it escalated. Your shampoo was swapped with syrup. His knife belt mysteriously vanished and reappeared glued to the ceiling. Your favorite hoodie went missing and was later found on Alpine who now refused to give it back. You switched his phone settings to speak and only read in French. He hacked your earpiece during a mission so it played 90s boyband music every time you tried to speak. Natasha bet twenty bucks on who would snap first. Clint started recording everything for “training purposes” (a.k.a. blackmail).

Still, you and Bucky kept a strict code: no permanent damage, nothing during missions, and no involving civilians. The rest was fair game.

There was an unspoken tension that came with it though. The kind of energy that lingered in the way you stood just a little too close during briefings, or the way Bucky always made sure you had your favorite protein bar stashed in the quinjet after tough missions. You could argue like enemies, scheme like tricksters, and still be the first ones to bandage each other’s wounds in silence.

And maybe that’s why, one night, when your newest plan involved rewiring his door sensors to trigger a confetti cannon… you hesitated.

You stood there, crouched in the hallway, wires in hand with your face lit by the soft glow of your tablet screen. Something was off. A quiet hum in the air. Your instincts itched. You weren’t alone.

“Don’t move,” came a voice behind you, calm, smug, and too close.

You sighed. “That’s what you said last time, and then I ended up zip-tied to a barstool with Steve giving me a lecture about boundaries.”

Bucky stepped into your peripheral vision, arms crossed. “Because you tried to saran-wrap my motorcycle.”

“It was a creative deterrent.”

He leaned down. “And this is… what? Revenge? Retaliation? Or are you just obsessed with me?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “What can I say? I love a fixer-upper.”

His eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of amusement. He reached past you slowly and disconnected a wire before you could stop him. The door made a sad little beep as the trap disarmed. You stared at him, defeated.

“I was going to use that for the hallway next week,” You muttered.

He leaned in even closer, his voice lower. “Try harder.”

And just like that, he walked off. You were still crouched in the hallway, flushed, stunned, and already plotting.

The war wasn’t over. It was just getting good.

-

During your next mission, you weren’t sure what set off the alarm in your head. It wasn’t anything loud or dramatic, just a moment. A brief flicker of tension in the air during an otherwise routine mission.

You and Bucky were assigned to a low-level extraction. Some simple, easy to navigate warehouse but you were both grumbling the whole time, because being sent on “babysitting detail”, as you’d called it, meant no time for new pranks. He’d called you “bored and dangerous,” and you’d called him “paranoid and constipated,” because that’s what you two did. Banter was the language. Biting, sarcastic, familiar.

But then, something shifted.

You’d split up to secure the area. You were in the northwest wing, scanning crates for the target intel when your comm crackled, static. No voice, just dead silence.

“Barnes?” You tried, tapping your earpiece. “Buck, come in.”

No answer.

That was fine. Annoying, but fine. He’d probably gone off comm on purpose to mess with you even if that went against the “rules”. You rolled your eyes, muttered something unspeakable, and kept moving. But then, the overhead lights flickered, and a strange smell reached your nose, smoke. Not fire. Something burning.

You pulled your weapon and turned the corner just in time to see two unknowns in black body armor dragging a third figure toward the loading dock. Bucky. His arms limp. One eye half-open, dazed. Blood at his temple.

You didn’t think. You moved.

It wasn’t flashy, wasn’t graceful. It was fast, brutal, and angry. You’d never felt this kind of burn before. Like someone had tried to mess with your territory. You fired two rounds, took a pipe to the ribs, wrestled one attacker to the ground, and jabbed a shock baton straight into the other’s side.

By the time you got to Bucky, he was already regaining consciousness, his voice a ragged growl.

“’M fine,” He muttered, trying to sit up.

“You look like hell,” You snapped, crouching beside him. “What happened?”

He blinked at you, blood still dripping down his cheek. “Trap. One of them said your name.”

That made you freeze.

“What?”

“They weren’t after me,” He said, grimacing. “They were using me to draw you out.”

Your mouth went dry. The adrenaline started wearing off, and something unfamiliar twisted in your gut.

They weren’t random mercs. They were targeting you.

You didn’t know what you were more pissed about, the fact that they almost got away with it, or that Bucky had taken a hit meant for you.

Back at the Tower, you didn’t speak to him for a full hour. Not because you were mad at him but because you didn’t know what to do with the feeling that had sunk under your skin like lead.

You sat by his med bay cot with your arms folded, pretending to be annoyed when really, your leg wouldn’t stop bouncing.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Bucky murmured, glancing at you from the bed.

You scowled. “You’re lucky I didn’t punch you. Running off like that without backup.”

“I had backup. You found me.”

“Not the point.”

He gave you a long look. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached into your jacket pocket and wordlessly handed him a folded sheet of paper.

He frowned and unfolded it. A crude drawing of a scoreboard. At the bottom, you’d scribbled:

Injured in the line of duty (for dumb reasons): You – 7 Me – 5 Bonus point for catching me off guard. Bastard.

For the first time that day, he actually smiled. Not his usual smirk, but something a little softer, quieter.

“Does this mean the prank war’s on hold?” He asked.

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed again. “Not a chance.”

And then, after a beat:

“…But maybe we cool it with the glitter bombs for a week.”

And so it did. The prank war didn’t end after the warehouse incident. It just… slowed. Morphed into something quieter. The jokes were still there like dry comments and sarcastic smiles but the glitter bombs were replaced by things like Bucky bringing you an ice pack before you asked. You, in turn, dropped by the training room with his favorite protein shake the day after his stitches came out.

And of course, everyone noticed.

Natasha cornered you in the gym a week later, twirling a throwing knife with deliberate laziness as you wiped sweat from your brow.

“So,” She said, nonchalant. “You and Barnes done setting the Tower on fire yet?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

She arched an eyebrow. “I mean the tension. The bickering. The very specific brand of foreplay that involves booby-trapping his bedroom door.”

You tossed the towel over your shoulder and rolled your eyes. “It’s not foreplay. It’s war.”

Nat gave you a slow, knowing smirk. “Sure. That’s why you look like someone kicked your puppy every time he gets hurt now.”

You didn’t respond because she wasn’t wrong.

It wasn’t that you liked Bucky Barnes. He was infuriating, overly serious, deeply confusing, and didn’t know how to share snacks. But he was also reliable, frustratingly observant, and lately, the look he gave you when you smiled, like you were the only one in the room, made your brain short-circuit.

You thought about it again later that night when Steve roped the two of you into a debrief on a rooftop overlooking the city. The mission had been a success, barely. You’d both walked away with bruises, dust in your hair, and a couple of near-death moments. Typical.

Steve cleared his throat when neither of you said anything.

“So, I just wanted to say… the teamwork is improving. Kind of.”

Bucky grunted. You didn’t look up from your seat on the low concrete ledge.

“But,” Steve added, crossing his arms, “I’d also like to point out that the Tower can’t afford another prank incident involving electrical rewiring, sparklers, and… what was it last time? A taxidermy raccoon?”

You smiled faintly. “He started it.”

“She painted my arm pink,” Bucky said flatly, leaning beside you.

“It was fuchsia,” You corrected. “Tasteful fuchsia.”

Steve exhaled like a parent trying very hard not to ground both his kids.

“…Just- figure it out, okay?” He said, before leaving the rooftop with a muttered “I miss the days when people just punched each other.”

You sat in silence for a while, watching the city lights flicker in the distance.

“You okay?” Bucky asked after a beat.

You nodded, then tilted your head toward him. “You?”

He shrugged. “Tired. Still sore.”

You leaned back on your palms, glancing up at the stars. “Nat thinks we’re flirting.”

He scoffed. “Is that what this is?”

“God, I hope not. I’d hate to be attracted to someone who uses the phrase ‘back in my day.’”

He glanced sideways, something sharp flickering into something soft in his eyes. “You’d miss me.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

“…Yeah,” You admitted, barely above a whisper. “Maybe so.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to shift the air. Then, he bumped your shoulder with his.

“Don’t tell Clint. He’ll never shut up about it.”

You smirked, your voice quieter this time. “Don’t worry. This never happened.”

-

Things changed during your next mission together. It wasn’t supposed to be a high-stakes adventure. A simple recovery op in a half-abandoned research facility on the outskirts of Prague. The intel said light security and no hostiles. Which of course meant it immediately went sideways.

You were cornered behind a crumbling wall with Bucky beside you, bullets chewing up stone, and the mission blown to hell. Your heart thundered in your chest, breathing ragged, but your mind was laser-focused until you caught a glance at Bucky’s face.

Blood streamed down from his temple. Again. The same spot as last time. You hated how that made your stomach twist.

“I told you to watch your six,” You snapped, crouching low to reload.

“I did!” He snapped back.

You shoved a fresh mag into your weapon and glared at him. “You are a human disaster.”

“And you’re a walking magnet for trouble.”

“Funny, coming from the guy with five knives hidden in his boot and a death wish.”

Another round of gunfire rang out closer this time. You both ducked instinctively, his body shielding yours without a word as he pulled you into a room to hide. You froze, just for a second, with his shoulder brushing yours and the warm pressure of his hand steadying you behind your ribs.

Your eyes met. The world blurred around the edges.

Something cracked.

The space between you wasn’t wide, wasn’t safe. It had been pulled tighter and tighter through months of snark, bruises, bullet wounds, glitter bombs, and unspoken care. And now it felt like the only logical conclusion was combustion.

“This is insane,” You muttered, your voice barely audible over the chaos.

“Yeah,” He agreed, still close to you. “We’re gonna die, aren’t we?”

You looked at him, seeing the blood at his temple, the sharp lines of frustration, the flicker of something else entirely under his words. You saw everything that had gone unspoken.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. Or the fear. Or maybe you were just done pretending. But whatever the reason, you surged forward.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It was frantic and rough and tasted like dirt, smoke, and months of unresolved tension. You grabbed the front of his suit; he pulled you closer like he’d been waiting for this since your first argument over coffee. The world was still burning around you, but for a second, it didn’t matter.

When you pulled back, breathless and stunned, he stared at you like he’d been hit by something harder than any punch he’d ever taken.

“That was…” He started.

“Shut up,” You said. “Don’t ruin it.”

He blinked, then huffed a laugh, the real kind. Warm and sharp and barely hidden behind years of practiced scowling. “Took you long enough.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me? I kissed you.”

He smirked. “Right. That’s why my knees went weak.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks flushed despite the danger. “We still have to get out of here alive.”

Bucky’s smile softened just enough to make your chest ache. “Then let’s finish this. Fast. So I can do that again properly.”

You reloaded, nodded, and moved out together, side by side, like always.

Only now, everything had changed.

The Tower was quiet when you got back. Mission was technically successful with the intel secured, the bodies left behind, and the bruises already starting to bloom beneath your jacket. You showered, changed, limped a little too dramatically down the hall, and did the most responsible thing you could think of: you avoided Bucky Barnes.

You didn’t mean to. But after the kiss, your entire nervous system had gone haywire. You weren’t used to him being real with that warm, rough voice in your ear when he said he wanted to do it again. It’d been easier when he was just a rival, a nuisance, a sarcasm-laced headache wrapped in leather and trauma.

Now he was something else. Someone who kissed you like you were gravity itself.

So you hid.

He gave you a full twelve hours.

You were in the common room the next morning, pretending to read a mission report, but mostly just sipping lukewarm coffee and staring into the distance like a haunted Victorian widow. Until the door opened.

You didn’t need to look up. The energy shifted immediately. You felt him walk in, heard his boots heavy, and presence heavier. You took another slow sip of your coffee.

“You’re sulking,” He said from across the room.

“I’m not.”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I avoid a lot of things,” You replied. “Dentists. Feelings. You’re not special.”

He stepped closer, the weight of him familiar now in a way that made your skin feel too tight. “So the kiss didn’t happen?”

You closed the file and set it aside, keeping your tone carefully casual. “Adrenaline makes people do weird things.”

“Right,” He said, voice dry. “So next time we’re in a life-or-death situation, I should expect you to confess your love to Steve or kiss a vending machine.”

You looked up sharply. “I don’t love anyone.”

He tilted his head. “Didn’t say you did.”

You hated him a little in that moment, not really, not at all but enough to scowl and mutter, “Why are you even here?”

“Because I don’t want that to be something we pretend didn’t happen.”

Your breath caught. He sat across from you, elbows on his knees, expression unusually open. Honest in a way that made your stomach twist.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” He began. “You drive me crazy. You’re reckless and loud and allergic to sitting still. But I’ve never met anyone who makes me laugh the way you do. Or who I’d trust to watch my back in a fight. Or who’d glue my knife belt to the ceiling and still patch me up afterward.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

He leaned forward, gentler now. “I meant it. When I said I wanted to kiss you again.”

You stared at him. Then down at your coffee, then back at him.

“…This doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop putting glitter in your boots,” You said finally.

He smirked. “Wouldn’t expect you to.”

You hesitated. Then sighed and leaned across the table, grabbing his shirt collar and tugging him into a kiss, softer this time. Slower. No adrenaline, no smoke. Just you and him, in the quiet.

When you pulled back, you grinned faintly. “You really are kind of obsessed with me.”

He exhaled a laugh. “Yeah. I really am.”

-

BONUS:

By the end of the week, everyone knew.

You thought you were being subtle. A few quiet looks, the occasional shoulder bump in the hallway, a shared smirk during mission briefings. But Avengers Tower was a den of spies, assassins, super-soldiers, and gossip. You had no chance.

The first to say something out loud was Clint.

You walked into the kitchen one morning, bleary-eyed and in desperate need of caffeine, only to find Clint already there, sipping from his mug. He glanced up, looked from you to Bucky trailing in behind you with his usual scowl and morning hair, and just grinned.

“Oh,” He said, like a man who had just confirmed a winning bet. “You two finally stopped fake-hating each other?”

You reached past him for a mug, unbothered. “We still hate each other. Just with tongue now.”

Clint snorted so hard he spilled his coffee. “Jesus.”

Bucky, behind you, didn’t say a word, just patted Clint on the back as he passed, expression entirely neutral. Clint looked personally betrayed.

Later that day, Natasha cornered you in the elevator.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned back against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, and gaze sharp. You kept your eyes on the floor numbers.

Finally, she said, “I had fifty bucks on you being the one to kiss him first.”

You blinked. “There were bets?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Please. There were charts. Steve ran the bracket.”

“…Steve?!”

Speaking of Steve, he found you both in the training room a few days later, sparring in what could only be described as borderline flirt-fighting. You’d just knocked Bucky on his ass (with some help from gravity and a well-timed insult), and were grinning down at him when Steve cleared his throat.

Bucky didn’t move. “Don’t say it.”

“I’m not saying anything,” Steve said, holding up his hands. “I’m just impressed. You made it a whole six months before punching each other turned into making out.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re the one who made us partners.”

He looked at you both, sweaty, bruised, smiling like idiots, then sighed. “You’re each other’s problem now. Don’t drag me into it.”

Sam was the worst. Every time you walked into a room, he’d do the voice.

“Well well well, if it isn’t the Tower’s resident enemies-to-lovers plotline.”

One time, you and Bucky entered the kitchen holding hands. Sam immediately stood and slow-clapped.

Bucky just turned around and walked back out.

Tony? He didn’t even blink. Just tossed you a keycard to one of the private Tower suites and said, “Soundproofed. You’re welcome. And for the love of all that’s holy, don’t ruin the common couch.”

And Bruce…

Bruce looked up from his tablet one afternoon and said casually, “So when’s the wedding?”

You choked on your water while Bucky left the room.

Eventually, you stopped pretending.

You still bickered like cats in a sack. You still pranked each other with glitter bombs, hair dye in shampoo bottles, or emotionally incriminating Spotify playlists over the Tower speakers. But now there were quiet moments too. An arm around your waist on late nights. Soft smiles when one of you thought the other wasn’t looking. Kisses stolen between missions, sometimes bloody, sometimes breathless.

The whole team may have seen it coming before either of you did. But in the end, no one could deny it:

You and Bucky were still frenemies.

Just… now with benefits, bruises, and a whole lot more trouble for anyone who got between you.

Beach Day

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

Summary: You and your caregivers go on a trip to the beach where you have an action-packed day of building sand castles, splashing in the water, and spending time with your daddies.

Word Count: 3.1k+

A/N: I tried to make reader actually speak more this time, more excited in little space. I’m also going to the beach this week, so maybe I’ll find some inspiration to write more beach-related scenarios. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Sunlight peeks through your curtains, warm and golden. Before you’re even fully awake, you feel it, that fluttery kind of excitement deep in your belly. Today is the day you take a trip with your daddies to the beach.

You practically tumble out of bed, your stuffie clutched in one hand and your blanket trailing behind you like a cape. Your feet patter down the hall to the kitchen where Steve is already pouring coffee and Bucky’s at the table packing snacks and food into a cooler bag.

As soon as they see you, both of their faces light up.

“Well, good morning, sunshine,” Steve says with a grin, crouching down as you barrel into him for a hug.

“‘S beach day!” You declare, bouncing on your toes and giggling. “Gon’ swim, an’ eat sammiches, anddd… maybe find a crab!”

Steve chuckles and ruffles your bedhead. “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

Bucky comes over and lifts you into his arms with a dramatic motion. “You sound ready to explode with excitement, doll.”

“Boom!” You shout happily, flopping into his shoulder with a squeal.

“Alright, tiny firecracker,” Bucky says with a smirk, kissing your temple, “Let’s pick out that swimsuit, huh? I laid out a few.”

He carries you back to your room, setting you down in front of the bed where three different swimsuits are folded: one with little sharks, one with rainbows and glitter, and one with ducks wearing sunglasses.

You gasp. “Ducks!! ‘M wearin’ the ducky one!”

“Excellent choice,” Steve says from the doorway, holding up a tiny bottle of sunscreen like it’s a secret weapon. “Operation Sunshield begins after we’re dressed.”

You squeal again and squirm excitedly while Bucky helps you into the ducky swimsuit, gently tugging the fabric into place and letting you spin in front of the mirror.

“Look at you,” He teases. “The duck commander herself.”

You pose with your hands on your hips. “Quack,” You say seriously before breaking into giggles.

Steve brings over your favorite sunhat, the one with little cat ears sewn on top. He crouches down to tie the strings carefully under your chin. “There. Our beach baby is ready.”

You nod with a wide smile, pointing to yourself. “Beach baby. Dat’s me.”

Bucky hands you your beach bag, shaped like a strawberry, already packed with your floatie, water bottle, a towel, and your favorite shell-collecting bucket. You peek inside and spot your teddy tucked in there too, wearing his own little sunglasses.

“Brownie comin’ tooooo!” You squeal, hugging the bag tight.

Steve chuckles and kisses your forehead. “Of course. He’s our co-pilot.”

You skip toward the door, flip-flops smacking the floor, bag bouncing against your side, already humming a made-up beach song.

And behind you, Steve and Bucky exchange a soft look, all warm smiles and quiet love, before following you out the door.

It doesn’t take long until you’re all buckled into your seat in the back of Steve’s big SUV, your strawberry beach bag beside you and Brownie resting in your lap. Your feet are swinging back and forth and you’ve got a sippy cup of cold apple juice in one hand.

Bucky’s driving, sunglasses on and arm relaxed out the window, while Steve twists in the front seat to check on you again.

“Got everything, sweetheart?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Mhm! Brownie, got snacks, got juice… oh! Forgot da crayons- wait, no I didn’t! They in the bag!” You unzip it and proudly show off your zip-up pouch full of stubby, broken crayons and coloring pages.

Steve gives you a dramatic sigh of relief. “Phew. Beach emergency averted.”

Bucky grins at the road. “Can’t survive a beach trip without crayons. Everyone knows that.”

You lean back and hum a little song to yourself while kicking your feet. Then, suddenly, “Papa?”

Steve turns again, his expression soft. “Yeah, bug?”

“How many waves do ya fink there gonna be? A gazillion?”

He hums in thought before answering, “Maybe a gazillion and one.”

You giggle and wiggle in your seat. “I’mma jump in alla them! Gonna splash ev’rywhere!”

Bucky snorts, joking. “Better not splash me, unless you wanna get launched into orbit.”

You gasp, wide-eyed. “Like a rocket?!”

“Yup. Straight to the moon, kiddo.”

Steve leans over and smacks Bucky’s arm playfully. “No launching beach babies today, sergeant.”

“Awwww,” You whine with a little pout, “But I wanna go moon swimmin’…”

They both laugh, and Bucky says, “Okay, okay. We’ll settle for ocean splashing. But you are gonna need to hold our hands in the water if you don’t have your floatie with you.”

You cross your arms with a dramatic sigh. “Cuz waves big?”

Steve nods. “And ‘cause we love you. Wanna keep you close.”

That makes you go quiet for a second before you agree with a nod, “Okay. I hold your hands forever!”

The car is quiet after that for a few minutes, filled only with the sound of tires on pavement and the music playing softly through the speakers, one of your favorite silly beach songs.

Eventually, your eyes start to feel a little heavy from the sun and excitement, and your voice gets small. “Tell me when we’re there?”

Steve turns slightly in his seat, watching you snuggle up with your teddy bear. “Of course, baby. You rest. We’ll get you there safe.”

And with Bucky humming along to the song and Steve’s assurance warm and steady, you drift off to sleep, dreaming of ducks in sunglasses and waves that reach the stars.

-

The car slows down into a parking lot full of stray sand, and you awaken instinctively.

“We here?” You mumble, still a little sleepy, rubbing your eyes.

“We’re here, baby,” Steve says, twisting to smile at you. “And there’s the shore.”

You sit up fast, blinking at the blue sky, the seagulls flying overhead, and the endless stretch of sparkling ocean beyond the dunes. Your mouth opens in a soft gasp. “Iss sooooo biiiiig!”

Bucky chuckles as he parks the car. “Told ya the ocean was a giant bathtub.”

“Bath tub don’t got birds,” You correct him seriously.

Steve laughs and gets out, opening the back door and unbuckling your seatbelt and helping you out. “You’re right, smarty-pants. No seagulls allowed in bathtubs.”

Bucky lifts the beach bag and tosses a towel over his shoulder. Your floatie, shaped like a giant donut with pink frosting, is tucked under his arm. “Alright, sunshine, grab a hand.”

You immediately reach for both of them, one hand in each of theirs, swinging between them as the three of you walk toward the beach. You can feel the sand seep onto the surface of your flip-flops and the ocean breeze tugs playfully at your hat, but you don’t mind one bit. You’re too busy bouncing in excitement.

“Papa! Daddy! Look, look, a doggie!” You shout, pointing to a golden retriever with a stick in its mouth.

“I see him,” Bucky says. “Reckon he’s here for the waves too.”

“Bet he surfs,” You whisper, awed.

The beach opens up in front of you, wide and bright, with the tide glittering under the sun. Steve lays down a big blanket while Bucky sets up the umbrella and cooler. You spin in place, arms out, squealing, “So big!! So blue!! So sandyyyy!!”

“You’re gonna be so sticky by the end of the day,” Steve teases, “Sticky and sandy and tired.”

You beam. “Dat’s the best kinda day.”

He chuckles, holding out the donut floatie. “Want it on now or wait till we go in?”

You tap your chin like you’re thinking real hard, then answer, “Gon’ wait. ‘Mma build da castle first.”

Bucky sets the floatie down, securing it to make sure it doesn’t blow away in the wind. “Then let’s build the biggest castle in the whole world. Fit for a beach princess.”

“I’m a queen,” You say matter-of-factly, plopping down and grabbing your bucket.

“Apologies, your majesty,” Bucky replies with a bow, handing you your shovel.

You take it gratefully. Now sitting criss-cross in the sand, shovel in hand, and your tongue poking out the side of your mouth in deep, serious concentration. “Dis side gonna be da dungeon,” You declare, patting down a lopsided tower with a wet slap.

“Uh-oh,” Steve says, leaning over with a raised brow. “Who’s getting sent to the dungeon?”

You look up at him dramatically. “Any bad guys. Like… da people who steal snacks. Or take my floatie wifout askin’.”

Bucky smirks. “That first one’s harsh, kiddo. Even I snuck a bite of your granola bar last week.”

You gasp, eyes wide. “DADDY!”

He holds up both hands. “I surrender to the queen.”

You scramble up and point your shovel at him. “To the dungeon!!”

Steve is already half-laughing as he scoops up a little wet sand with his palm and begins forming a jail cell beside your crooked tower. “There. You can lock him up right next to the crab moat.”

“Crab moat?” You squeak, spinning to look and sure enough, Steve has drawn a little wavy trench in the sand around your castle.

“Yup. To keep the villains out. Filled with tiny crab soldiers.”

You light up. “Can I name ‘em?!”

Bucky grins from where he’s now digging a tunnel. “They need names if they’re gonna work for you.”

You begin listing in a sing-song voice as you place little seashells at intervals around the moat. “Dis one’s Sir Pincie. Dat one’s Lady Clawdia. Ooooh! And King Crunch!”

“You’re a natural monarch,” Steve says, brushing sand off your nose gently.

The three of you work for a long while like that. Steve shapes towers and walls with his big, careful hands, while Bucky digs tunnels and hides treasure shells underneath the sand (“For adventurers later,” He says with a wink). Meanwhile, you are darting between them, giving orders, adding stick flags, and occasionally squashing the sand with your knees when things get too exciting.

At one point, you tug Steve’s hand and whisper, “Papa, look! I made a tiny throne!” and point to a lumpy mound near your castle.

He crouches beside you, looking at your creation with a warm smile. “That’s perfect, baby. Just your size.”

You plop onto it,sticking your legs out and puffing up proudly. “Now I’m da queen of da whole beach.”

Bucky bows low. “Queen of Shelltown.”

“Queen of Snacksville,” Steve adds with a smile.

You nod seriously. “I rule wif kindness… and naps.”

Sand coats your legs and arms, your cheeks are flushed pink from the sun and all the giggles, and there’s a little grain of sand stuck to your bottom lip, but you’re glowing from all the fun.

And when the tide starts creeping closer, Steve leans over and murmurs, “Wanna defend the castle, or let the waves have it?”

You consider that deeply, then whisper, “They can have it. I’ll build a new one. Wif you an’ Daddy.”

Steve kisses your temple. “Always, sweetheart.”

-

The castle’s been claimed by the tide, you had waved goodbye to Sir Pincie and Lady Clawdia, and now it’s ocean time.

Bucky crouches down beside you, holding your floatie. “Alright, sunshine. Arms up.”

You giggle and shoot both arms skyward. “Up, up, up!!”

He gently slides the floatie down over your head and around your tummy, adjusting the back. “There ya go. You’re officially donut-fied.”

Steve steps up beside you, brushing hair out of your face and slipping your goggles down over your eyes. “Ready to swim, baby?”

You nod furiously, bouncing in place. “Ready!! Wanna splash! Wanna gooooo!”

“Okay, okay,” Bucky chuckles, scooping you up into his arms. “Let’s get those little feet wet.”

As he carries you toward the water, your legs kick excitedly in the air. The waves rush up to greet you and Bucky sets you down in the shallows, keeping a hand on your floatie. “Whoa there, jellybean. Don’t go zoomin’ off just yet.”

The water laps at your knees and you squeal. When Bucky helps you a bit further to where you can float in the water, you exclaim with glee. “I’m floatin’! I’m a boat!! Papa, look!! I’m a boat!!”

Steve walks in beside you, letting the waves wash over his ankles as he chuckles. “Best boat I’ve ever seen. Might need to name you ‘Captain Giggles.’”

You dramatically turn the wheel of your imaginary ship. “Aye-aye, Captain Papa!”

Bucky lets you drift out a little more, still holding on. The floatie bobs up and down with the swell, and you squeal every time the water splashes up. “The ocean’s ticklin’ me!!”

“You’re lucky it likes you,” Bucky teases.

Another wave comes, bigger this time, and it lifts you gently, your floatie catching it just right. “WHOOOOA!!” You twist in the floatie and throw your arms up. “DO IT ‘GAIN!”

Steve laughs and nudges the float gently from behind so you rock back into Bucky’s waiting hands. “You’re fearless today, huh?”

You beam up at them through your goggles. “M’brave. ‘Cause I gots you two.”

Something about the way you say it makes both men soften instantly.

“That’s right, baby,” Steve murmurs. “You always got us.”

Forever, even when the tide rolls in.

-

After some more fun in the ocean, your floatie squeaks faintly as Bucky lifts you out of the water, droplets running down your legs and arms. “Okay, okay, little sea monster,” He says with a soft smile. “Time for snacks before you turn into a prune.”

You giggle, leaning your wet cheek against his shoulder. “I’m not a monster… I’m a…. mermaid now!”

“Even mermaids need snacks,” Steve calls from where he’s already crouched by the umbrella, unfolding a soft towel with cartoon sea creatures on it, the one you picked out at the store yourself and insisted “smells like sunshine.”

Bucky lowers you onto it, and Steve helps remove your floatie then immediately starts rubbing you down gently with another dry towel, working from your toes up with patient, warm hands. “You did a lot of splashing out there,” He says as he dries your hair with a little tousle. “You hungry, sweetheart?”

You nod dramatically. “M’really hungwy. Like…” You pause to think, then spread your arms wide, “…like this much hungry.”

Bucky chuckles as he pops open the cooler. “Well lucky for you, I packed the royal picnic. Your Majesty’s favorites.”

You scoot onto your knees and peek eagerly as he starts unpacking it all. Slices of juicy watermelon cut into stars, a crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut into triangles just the way you like, a little container of goldfish crackers, and a juice box with a tiny superhero on it. Your mouth already waters just looking at the watermelon.

Steve sits cross-legged beside you, passing you the juice box with the straw already poked in. “Start with some sips, okay? You got lots of sun.”

You sip happily, legs folded under you. “Dis tastes like blue.”

“That’s ‘cause it is blue,” Bucky teases, handing you one of the watermelon stars on a tiny plastic fork. “Eat that before your sandwich. Hydration first.”

You crunch into it and immediately let out a content hum. “Mmmmmm. Cold!”

Both men smile as they eat alongside you, not rushing, not talking much. It’s just quiet, sun-warmed company. Seagulls squawk in the distance. Waves roll in soft and lazy now, like the ocean’s getting sleepy too. There’s sand on your knees, salt on your cheeks, and watermelon juice running down your chin.

Steve reaches over with a napkin and dabs your face gently. “You’re makin’ a mess, aren’t you?”

You look up at him, grinning. “I’m da mess queen.”

Bucky leans over and plants a kiss to your temple. “Then we must be the mess kings.”

You end up snuggled between them, leaning back against Bucky’s chest with your legs draped across Steve’s lap, half a sandwich in hand. The sun peeks out from behind a cloud, warming your face. You let out a little yawn around a bite.

Steve notices and brushes your damp hair back. “Sleepy?”

You shake your head slowly, though your body sags against Bucky. “Noooo. Jus’… comfy.”

Bucky pulls a second towel over your legs, letting you burrow in like a little cocoon. “That’s okay, sweetheart. You just rest. We’ve got you.”

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, eyes fluttering closed. “You always do.”

And they always will.

-

The sun is dipping low now, casting long golden streaks across the parking lot as Steve loads up the trunk. The beach towels are a little sandy, the cooler is mostly empty, and your floatie sits squished between the seats like a deflated donut. Everything smells like salt and sunscreen.

Bucky lifts you gently from where you were half-dozing under the umbrella, your cheeks warm and your limbs floppy with that worn-out, sun-drenched tiredness that only little ones know.

“C’mon, peanut,” He murmurs, cradling you close against his chest. “Time to go home.”

You mumble something into his shirt, mostly vowels and half-syllables, nothing real, but your arms curl around his neck automatically. He smiles, brushing a kiss into your damp hair.

The backseat’s already set up, your soft blanket with the stars and moons, Brownie resting nearby, and a small travel pillow that smells like home. Bucky settles you in carefully, buckling you up while keeping the blanket snug around your legs before shutting the door carefully and moving into the passenger’s seat.

Steve climbs into the driver’s seat and glances back at you in the rearview mirror. “All set, sweetheart?”

You blink slowly, eyes heavy. “Goin’ home?”

“That’s right,” He says, starting the engine. “You did so good today. Brave in the water, kind to the sand crabs, full of giggles. I’m proud of you.”

You smile sleepily, turning your head toward the window as the car pulls away from the beach. The world passes by in a blur of fading light, palm trees, street signs, the occasional swoop of a bird overhead. Your eyelids flutter, heavier with every mile.

Bucky twists in his seat, watching you for a moment. His voice is softer now. “Get some rest, babydoll. We’ll be home soon.”

You hum softly, barely awake, your fingers curling in the corner of your blanket. “You stay wif me?”

“Always,” He whispers. “Not going anywhere.”

The car hums along the road, the sound of tires and the occasional song from the radio blending into the perfect lullaby. Steve drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting quietly on Bucky’s thigh, and the two of them share a look, the kind that says everything without words.

And in the back seat, warm and all out of energy from the big day… you drift off to sleepy, safe and loved as ever.

Certified Genius, Unlicensed Moron

Summary: Exploring more of your relationship and dynamics with the rest of the Avengers, they are well-acquainted with how much whiplash and how many headaches you give them on a daily. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: The other going on dates fic didn’t have enough unhinged questionable reader for me. And to be honest….I didn’t like it as much as the prequel. So! I wrote this to cheer me up and feed my need for dumb & genius reader. Purely self-indulgent but hopefully you like it too. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Original Fic

Being an Avenger came with certain expectations. Tactical prowess. Cool one-liners. Teamwork. A mild-to-moderate understanding of physics.

You had exactly none of that. And yet, you were thriving.

You had taken on aliens, mercenaries, HYDRA agents, and that one time, an actual raccoon with a vendetta. You once guessed the password to a SHIELD vault on the first try by inputting “boob69.” It worked. Nobody ever explained why. You were untouchable.

But nothing broke the team more than the group chat.

It had been a standard team communication channel at first: briefings, updates, emergency alerts. Then you joined and everything fell apart.

-

GROUP CHAT: “Earth’s Mightiest Dumbasses”

Tony: Meeting in the conference room at 9 A.M. sharp.

You: what’s 9 AM in frog time

Natasha: What does that mean?

You: like if a frog wears a watch is the time upside down

Tony: Please, I’m begging you to just answer the question like a normal person.

You: normal is a strong word

-

You once sent a photo of a pigeon wearing a hat with the caption “me when I infiltrate enemy lines.” No one questioned it. Mostly because they couldn’t.

After all, you’re the same person who confidently gave a TED Talk about the strategic history of medieval siege warfare mid-mission while wearing Crocs. The same person who once said, “Vibranium tastes like disappointment,” and then refused to elaborate. You somehow manage to both ace every debrief but also once asked if Wi-Fi is just helpful air soup.

Thor called you “small thunder” after you electrocuted yourself trying to microwave aluminum “as a science experiment.” You did not have lightning powers. It was just dumb luck. And you’d do it again.

-

GROUP CHAT:

Clint: who the hell labeled all the fridge items in latin?

You: idk man maybe someone wants you to be cultured

Bucky: You labeled the eggs, “Future ankle peckers, do not anger them”

You: ...and have you been attacked? no? you’re welcome.

-

Bucky still doesn't understand you. Not even a little.

And a lot of times, that haunts him.

He watches you eat hot sauce straight from the bottle like it's a health tonic, quote Shakespeare when you’re tired, and wear mismatched crocs into certain battles because "they're my war shoes." One has a tiny sword glued to it.

You once looked him dead in the eye and said, “I wasn’t born. I was assembled in a Target parking lot during a thunderstorm.”

And then walked away.

He’s been thinking about it for months.

Another time you brought him a bag of gummy worms, patted his head, and said, “For when the depression demons attack.”

Despite all your nonsense, he can’t stop looking at you like you hung the moon with glitter glue and then ate half of it because that brand “smelled like frosting.”

He had tried to pretend you’re a nuisance at first, shaking his head and sighing at some of your antics. But it’s all morphed to reluctant acceptance of the fact that he’ll have to live with so many unanswered questions. That doesn’t stop him from taking care of you though.

He brings you hot chocolate after missions. He makes sure you’re behind him when it gets dangerous. He drags you out of fountains you jump into because you wanted to know what the regals birds like about it. He even downloaded TikTok just to understand your references.

One time you disappeared in the Tower. For five hours.

He found you in the broom closet, sitting cross-legged with three Roombas, wearing a crown made of forks.

“They know secrets,” You whispered. “I’m learning their ways.”

Bucky blinked.

“…I brought you pizza.”

You gasped. “I knew the prophecy would come true.”

-

GROUP CHAT:

Steve: Can someone explain what this is?

Image attached: You in a vent near the ceiling wearing a bad ghost outfit like a cursed Halloween decoration, eating Cheez-Its.

You: surveillance

Steve: Why…

You: i wanted to know what Bucky does when I’m not looking

Bucky: They’ve been up there for 6 hours. I offered help. They hissed at me.

-

Despite it all, you were deadly in the field.

You’d spout off the periodic table in the middle of a fistfight, pull off gravity-defying stunts “because I saw it in a cartoon once,” and solve encrypted Hydra codes in 30 seconds, all while questioning if Mickey Mouse and his friends ever had to pay rent to live in the Mickey Mouse clubhouse.

Bucky, your begrudgingly loving boyfriend, no longer reacts when you do things like wear medieval armor to a stealth op for morale reasons or quote Shrek during hostage negotiations. He just quietly takes your hand and steers you away before you lick anything radioactive.

Steve once asked why you were on a mission wearing roller skates. You said, “Speed and style, Cap,” then crashed directly into a vending machine and pulled out a single uncrushed Twix with solemn reverence.

Tony called you “the human embodiment of a broken Google search.” Wanda called you “a mystery I’ve chosen not to solve.” Natasha just called you “terrifying.”

Because for every baffling thing you did, like calling her “Mom” during a sniper stakeout because “you give off stern PTA energy”, you turned around and cracked encrypted intel before Bruce finished making coffee.

Once, in a mission briefing, Rhodey asked, “Wait, wasn’t the Hindenburg caused by a gas explosion?” and you, dead serious, replied, “Who’s the Hindenburg? That sounds like a guy who collects teeth.”

Everyone went dead silent.

Sam just nodded slowly and said, “Right, okay. Yeah, cool. This is the part where I stop paying attention.”

Nobody could figure you out.

Bruce once ran 14 psychological profiles on you. None of them matched. One came back as possibly a goat in human form.

Clint swears you once explained string theory using sock puppets and a waffle. And it made sense.

-

GROUP CHAT:

Tony: I’m updating the security protocol. Everyone needs to re-register their biosignatures.

You: what if I am a security risk

Tony: You are. Absolutely. Every day. In every way.

You: then I win

Natasha: What did you win?

You: You’ll see 😈

Tony: I have forgotten what peace feels like anymore.

-

You called yourself “The Distractinator” in combat.

Enemies didn’t know what to do with you. Were you a genius? Crazy? Feral? Was that a printer you just threw at their face while quoting Pride and Prejudice?

Yes. To all of it.

And somehow, impossibly, you were everyone’s favorite. Because while you were a chaos gremlin of untold magnitude, you cared.

You noticed when Clint seemed tired and unorthodoxically left snacks in his quiver.

You taught Steve how to use TikTok but made sure to curate only dog videos and motivational frog memes.

You convinced Bucky he could wear purple and look amazing. He does now. Regularly.

You helped Tony fix a faulty AI loop by accident while trying to build “a blender that screams.”

You’re not just a part of the team. You’re the emotional support cryptid.

And no matter how many explosions you cause with your “experiments,” or how many philosophical debates you start about whether lasagna is a cake, the Avengers wouldn’t trade you for the world.

…Though Tony did try to sell you to the X-Men once.

It didn’t work.

They sent you back with a fruit basket and a strongly worded letter.

Falling For You, Again and Again

Summary: Each time you "die" and return, you fall in love with Bucky all over again in different ways. Bucky sees a new version of you every time, but he’s always his same self. Each time, you both always find your ways back to each other, but you never know it's happened before. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power of immortality. However, each death erases your memory of what you knew and who you were before. ANGST.

Word Count: 2.6k+

A/N: I wasn’t even sure if I could classify this under this series. However, it’s still an enhanced ability. Also, I’m hoping y’all like this. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

The first time you came back to life, it took three days. You woke in a hospital morgue, shivering under a white sheet, the taste of salt and ash on your tongue. You had no memory of your name, no recollection of what had killed you, and no sense of identity.

The only thing you possessed was a quiet panic and the sharp, cold awareness that you should not be here. You stumbled out into the world with no guidance, no answers, and one inexplicable truth: you couldn’t die.

You learned the pattern eventually. Every time you died whether by accident or violence, sickness or sacrifice, you returned. The process was inconsistent though. Sometimes, it took hours. Other times, days or weeks. Each time, you emerged in your body just as it was before death, seemingly untouched… but your memories, every one of them, were stripped away.

You couldn’t remember the name of the man who’d died holding your hand on a battlefield. Or the child you once saved from drowning. Or the language you’d spoken fluently last time you were alive. Every death reset your soul like a blank canvas, and the world became something you had to re-learn.

Sometimes people told you things about who you were, where you’d been, but they felt like borrowed stories. You smiled politely. Pretended. Sometimes even fell in love with the past versions of yourself they described. But you never felt like her.

The only exception was him.

The first time you saw Bucky Barnes, it was in a coffee shop in D.C. You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know yours, either. He was sitting alone reading something dense and battered yet you were inexplicably drawn to him, like an invisible thread pulled you into his orbit. You stood in line behind him without realizing, your fingers twitching as if remembering a touch you’d never felt. He glanced back. His eyes locked on yours.

He stared like he’d seen a ghost.

You didn’t speak,not then but you sat across from him twenty minutes later because you felt you should. Because your heart beat faster when he smiled, and it shouldn’t have. Because he seemed to know you, and you… you wanted to know why.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” He asked, softly, one hand wrapped around a warm mug.

You shook your head. “I don’t even remember me.”

He swallowed hard, staring at the steam between you. “I think you’ve died again.”

You didn’t ask how he knew. You just believed him.

It was like that every time.

You’d die. Come back. Then forget.

And somehow, Bucky would find you. Or you’d find him. A different place. A different life. But the same pull. You might meet him at a bookstore, brushing fingertips over the same worn copy of Catch-22. Or in a combat zone, both fighting for someone else’s cause. Or on a rainy street corner where he offered you a shared umbrella without knowing if you’d remember him this time. Sometimes you’d fall in love quickly. Sometimes slowly. But always, deeply.

He tried not to hold on too tightly. He never told you too much too fast. He let you find your own path, even if it meant losing you all over again.

But every version of you looked at him like you’d known him forever. Every version of you fell in love with him, as if your soul remembered even when your mind couldn’t.

And that was the tragedy of it. For him, it was always a reunion. For you, it was always the beginning.

-

Rain fell in soft curtains over the city, blurring the glass of the bookstore window and washing the world into dull, dreamlike greys. Inside, the scent of old paper, dust, and aging wood filled the quiet. Bucky sat in the far corner, a thick book open in his lap, though he wasn’t really reading. His fingers had gone still on the page twenty minutes ago.

He’d spent the past eleven months scouring D.C. by checking shelters, hospitals, cafés, the Metro; anywhere someone who had nothing might go. Most of the time, you always seemed to come back near where you died, and though he didn’t know exactly where that had been this time, instinct had guided him here.

The bookstore had become his checkpoint. A place of stillness where he could let the anxiety press against his ribs without showing on his face. He came every Sunday, pretending to read, waiting for a flicker of something to pull the world back into motion.

Then the door opened.

The bell jingled, and cold air swept in, heavy with rain and city smoke. A figure stepped inside, hunched slightly with hair damp and clinging to their cheeks. You looked up, blinking against the light, eyes wide and searching.

Bucky went still.

You’d returned.

Even before you saw him, even before you reached for the books on the nearest shelf, he knew. It wasn’t just the way you looked even though your face never changed. It was something else. A tension in your posture. A flicker of familiarity in your eyes that didn’t belong to this version of you, not yet.

You drifted further into the store, trailing fingers over spines as though pulled by instinct. He stood slowly, book forgotten on the chair behind him, as his heart hammered in his chest.

Then, like fate nudging you into place, your hand stopped on a copy of Catch-22.

It was always that book.

You ran your hand over the cover like it meant something you couldn’t name before your gaze flickered over to his. “Have we met?” You asked in a soft and uncertain tone. “I’m sorry… I feel like I should know you.”

God, it hit him like a punch every time.

Bucky’s voice caught in his throat before he forced a quiet, “Yeah. We’ve met before.”

You smiled politely, a little nervous. But your eyes lingered on his face like they were trying to etch something into memory that didn’t exist yet. “Do you… do you know who I am?”

He nodded. “I do.”

And he wouldn’t say more, not yet. He never did. You needed to come to it in your own time. So he took a step back, gestured to the armchair in the reading corner. “Do you want to sit for a while?”

You blinked at him, then at the chair, as if the idea of resting had never occurred to you. Slowly, you nodded.

“I’d like that.”

You stayed for two hours. Browsing, reading, or asking cautious gentle questions that Bucky answered with care. You didn’t remember dying. You never did. But you’d woken up in a hospital two weeks ago, no ID, no fingerprints on file. A social worker had told you your memory loss might be trauma-induced. You didn’t tell them about the dreams, about the way your hands shook when you tried to sleep. Or how you sometimes stared at your reflection and didn’t feel like it belonged to you.

Bucky listened quietly, never once pressing. He never once was asking you to be someone you weren’t ready to become again.

And just before you left, you turned to him. “I know this sounds strange, but… I feel safe with you. Like I’ve known you before.”

He swallowed hard, nodding. “You have.”

You opened your mouth like you wanted to ask more but didn’t.

Instead, you said, “I think I’d like to see you again.”

He smiled. “I’ll be here.”

You hesitated one more moment, then added, “Maybe I’ll come back next week… and you can tell me a story.”

He watched you go, heart aching.

He had hundreds. All of them about you.

You came back the next Sunday, just like you said you would. Same bookstore with the same faint, hesitant smile. This time, your coat was dry and your hair was pulled back. There was a small bandage on your knuckle from some accident you wouldn’t remember. You hadn’t told Bucky that, but he noticed. He always noticed the small things.

The two of you sat in the corner by the fogged-up window, and Bucky brought you tea from the shop next door without asking what kind you liked. He already knew. You took it with a grateful murmur, sipping slowly before your eyes flickered up to him.

“You said last week that you knew me,” You spoke cautiously but curious. “How? Did we work together or…?”

He studied you for a moment, then looked down at the teacup in his hands. “Not work. We were close, for a long time.”

You tilted your head, watching him. “Were we… lovers?”

There it was. The question that always came eventually. He looked back up. Your expression wasn’t flirtatious, it was vulnerable. Searching.

“Yes,” He answered quietly. “Many times.”

Your breath hitched just a fraction. And then, “You say that like we’ve done this before.”

He hesitated. “Because we have.”

You stared, frowning. “Have what? Met?”

“Fallen in love.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. Then you looked down at your hands. “Is that why I feel… strange around you? Like I should be afraid to get too close, but also like I want to?”

“Probably,” He laughed softly. “Most versions of you have that same feeling. You never remember me, but something in you always recognizes me. I don’t know if it’s instinct, or your soul remembering, or just… whatever’s left behind.”

You were silent, absorbing that. Then, in a quiet voice, “How many times?”

Bucky met your eyes. “Forty-eight.”

You looked away sharply. “Forty-eight deaths.”

“That I know of.”

“And I don’t remember any of them?”

“No.”

You stared out the window, your fingers tightening around the mug. “Then how can you… how do you not hate me for forgetting?”

He leaned forward, voice steady. “Because I remember you. All of you, and because every version of you is worth meeting again.”

Tears welled up in your eyes without control as you wiped them quickly, embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t know why that made me-“

“It happens sometimes,” He reassured gently. “Your body remembers things your mind doesn’t. Emotions bleed through.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him and something in your chest ached. Something deep and familiar.

“Tell me a story,” You whispered. “Tell me something about her- about me. A version you knew.”

Bucky nodded.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small, battered notebook. The leather was fraying at the edges, the pages slightly warped from time and tears. He set it on the table, his hand resting on the cover.

“You used to hum in your sleep,” He said quietly. “Sometimes it was a lullaby, sometimes it was nothing at all. But it was always soft. And when you had nightmares or when the dreams got too heavy, you’d say my name before you woke up.”

You stared at the journal, transfixed.

Bucky’s voice didn’t tremble, but there was a break in it now. “That version of you was terrified of losing herself. You left notes, voice recordings, instructions. But every time you came back, you were still a stranger to yourself.”

You reached for the journal before you could stop yourself.

“Can I… read them?”

His hand remained on the cover for a moment longer, then he slowly slid it toward you.

“You can.”

You took it carefully. Reverently. Like it was something sacred.

Every time you left his world, he added another entry in that journal and kept it close with him. It was as if to keep a piece of you nearby when he couldn’t find you right away. The journal was heavier than it looked.

Not in weight, but in presence. It felt lived in, full of love and plagued with grief. You held it in your lap like something precious and terrifying, afraid that turning the page would tear a hole in your chest you didn’t know how to close.

You glanced up at Bucky. He hadn’t moved as he watched you with the quiet patience of someone who had waited through storms you couldn’t remember. You looked down again as your fingers brushed over the leather cover. There were marks, faint indents from a pen pressed too hard. Some pages were dog-eared. One corner had a smear of dried paint. Or maybe blood.

“I don’t understand,” You whispered. “Why would you keep doing this? Why would you…wait for me? For this?”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “Because even when it breaks me, you’re still worth every second I get.”

Your mouth opened slightly. No sound came out. Instead, you opened the journal.

The first page held a drawing. A sketch in faded pencil, your face, or someone who looked like you. The features were careful, practiced. You were looking down in the image, eyes shadowed, but peaceful. Beneath it, in neat handwriting:

11th time: She liked to paint near windows in sunlight. Said it made her feel alive. She told me to keep going, even when she was gone. I didn’t know how. Still don’t, but I’m trying.

Your heart pounded.

You turned the page.

31st time: She left me a voicemail before she died. Said if I ever found her again and she didn’t remember me, to tell her it was okay. That she was stronger than her forgetting. That love wasn’t something the body forgot, it was something that echoed in the soul and bones.

And the next:

42nd: She came back scared. She didn’t trust anyone, not even herself. But the second I said her name, she cried. She didn’t know why, just said it felt like home.

Your hand shook as you flipped further.

Tiny mementos were tucked inside throughout the journal. A movie ticket. A torn page from a crossword puzzle. A faded photo of the two of you, you laughing with your arms around him, eyes bright with a love you didn’t remember but suddenly longed for like oxygen.

And then… your voice.

Not now. Not this version. But one of you from before. It was a clipped audio, barely two minutes long, the file embedded into a tiny recorder taped to a page.

You pressed play.

“Hi. I know you’re me. Or some part of me. Or… maybe you’re someone entirely different now. That’s okay. You don’t have to remember everything. I just want you to know he’s safe. His voice is safe. His hands are safe. If you don’t remember anything else, remember that.”

You felt the sob before you heard it. Your hand flew to your mouth as your chest crumpled in on itself. You had said this. You had known you’d forget. And you’d wanted to leave yourself something, some thread to hold on to.

Across from you, Bucky didn’t speak. His eyes were glassy, but he didn’t interrupt. He never did. He let you come to him, always.

The journal was shaking in your hands. “I don’t know how to live like this,” You said, broken. “How can I be me if I’m always being rewritten?”

He leaned forward, voice low and certain. “Because no matter how many times the world erases you… you always find your way back.”

You looked at him again and something in you moved. A thread, a spark. Not a memory but an emotion. A warmth like sunlight through your body. It didn’t bring images, names, or facts. But it brought trust. Safety. The echo of something lost but not gone.

“Stay with me,” You pleaded in a whisper.

“I always do,” He said, steady.

And for the first time, in this lifetime, you reached for his hand. Not out of obligation. Not from the ghost of some former self. But because your heart, untouched by memory, still knew him.

And Bucky held on like he had every time before.

Ella,

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

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

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

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

Crimson Waters, Stolen Hearts

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

Word Count: 2.6k+

Main Masterlist | Part 2

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

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

But those were only stories.

The truth was sharper.

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

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

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

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

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

And you?

You weren’t just another merchant’s daughter.

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

You were the girl too valuable to touch.

And yet, you were no porcelain doll.

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

Still, for all your power, you were restless.

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

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

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

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

The sea was too calm that morning.

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

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

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

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

He wanted you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t answer. Just stared.

And then:

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

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

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

The trap was set.

Your ship didn’t stand a chance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want?” You demanded.

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

“You’ll know soon enough, sweetheart.”

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

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

They didn’t throw you in a cell.

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

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

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

Neither did you.

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

Still, the silence pressed in around you.

An hour passed. Then two.

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

Captain James Barnes.

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

You straightened immediately, spine rigid, and chin lifted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t answer.

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

You swallowed hard, pulse kicking up.

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

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

He didn’t answer right away.

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

“And what is it you want, Captain?”

Bucky’s gaze held yours, steady and cold.

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

You stared.

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

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

He turned to leave, then paused at the door.

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

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

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

Morning crept in slow.

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

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

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

It was Natasha.

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

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

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

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

By midmorning, you were led topside.

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

Deep crimson.

The Red Sabre lived up to its name.

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

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

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

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

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

You believed her.

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

And then that knock again. Low. Rhythmic.

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

“Sit,” He ordered. “Write.”

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

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

“It’s a transaction.”

“He’ll kill you.”

Bucky’s voice was calm. “He’ll try.”

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

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

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

His eyes narrowed just slightly.

“Then I stop being polite.”

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

You wrote.

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

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

“Good,” He said.

You stared at him. “What happens now?”

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

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

“And you get used to me.”

Then he was gone again.

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

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.