The Days We Built Out Of Time

⋆༺The One You Don’t See༻⋆

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: An ongoing story following you, the quiet presence who keeps everything running, always helping but never truly seen or included. Not by Bucky, not by the rest of the Avengers, not even by your own coworkers. You’re simply the quiet, unseen support: diligent, unnoticed, and ultimately forgotten.  Disclaimer & A/N: This little series is still WIP, so the summary is left relatively vague as to not give out spoilers. There may also be more than four parts.

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

Main Masterlist

⪼----➢ Chapter 1: Always There, Never Seen

⪼----➢ Chapter 2: The Weight of Being Forgettable

⪼----➢ Chapter 3: The Side That Noticed

⪼----➢ Chapter 4

WIP.

Sticker Salon

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

Summary: You wake up in little space and decide to run a "Sticker Salon," decorating Steve and Bucky with sparkly stickers while they play along lovingly. Later, they save some of the stickers as keepsakes, reminding you just how loved and treasured you are.

Word Count: 600+

A/N: Haven’t written much of this kind of content in a while. So, here’s something small and fluffy. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

The morning had been slow, one of those rare days where the sunlight spilled through the windows just right to make everything feel cozy and golden.

You’d woken up regressed, clingy and soft around the edges. You were still in your onesie and fuzzy socks when Steve scooped you out of bed and carried you into the living room like you weighed nothing.

Bucky was already there, sprawled on the couch in sweats, flipping through channels with one hand and holding a coffee mug in the other. He looked over and smiled as you were set down onto the big pile of throw blankets between them.

“You’re lookin’ extra cuddly today, sweetheart,” He said, setting the remote aside to make room for you in his lap.

You mumbled around your paci and gave him a sleepy nod, tucking yourself against his chest like a small, clingy kitten. But it didn’t take long before your morning daze wore off and your wiggles started. Fidgety hands, swinging feet, a curious little noise here and there as you began poking around in the bin of toys by the couch.

That’s when you found it: a brand-new sticker book.

Butterflies, stars, silly animals, glittery shapes. Over 500 stickers in shiny, pastel colors all unopened, untouched, and waiting.

You gasped dramatically, holding up the sticker book excitedly. “Can I? Please, please, please?”

Steve looked up from the book he was reading and grinned. “What’re you thinking, bug?”

“Sticker salon,” You said, with the kind of importance usually reserved for royalty.

“Oh boy,” Bucky chuckled. “Are we the customers?”

You nodded seriously, flipping the book open and already peeling off a big sparkly star. “Uh-huh. You gotsa sit still. No movin’. No talkin’. Jus’ be pwetty.”

Steve laughed softly, setting his book down. “Guess we’re in good hands, Buck.”

Bucky shot him a mock-nervous glance as you climbed into his lap again and pressed the sparkly star right in the middle of his forehead. “There,” you said proudly. “You’re a space prince now.”

“Oh am I?”

“Shhh. Prince can’t talk. It’s the rules.”

You worked with deep concentration, occasionally furrowing your brow or humming around your pacifier as you pressed heart stickers on his cheeks and tiny flowers on the metal of his arm. Then you moved to Steve, sitting on his lap and patting his cheeks like a canvas. He raised his eyebrows obediently, still grinning as you stuck a unicorn sticker to the tip of his nose and several rainbow dots above his brows.

“There,” You whispered when you finished, radiating pure satisfaction. “Now you both fancy.”

Steve touched the unicorn on his nose and gave a mock-serious nod. “Very official.”

Bucky was already pulling out his phone to take a selfie of the three of you. “This better go on the fridge.”

You giggled, wriggling happily between them as they both leaned in for a picture. You wore a smile with your hands resting on their sticker-covered faces, as two of the most powerful men in the world wore your stickers like crowns.

The rest of the day passed with them still wearing your artwork. Steve even left his unicorn sticker on during a video call with Sam, who choked on his water laughing.

And when bedtime came, and your stickers were gently peeled off one by one, Bucky saved the star from his forehead and Steve placed the unicorn sticker on his sketchbook near his nightstand.

“Best salon in town,” Steve murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair as he tucked you into bed.

“Yeah,” Bucky added with a smile, “But next time I want glitter butterflies too.”

You nodded drowsily, proud and full of joy, already dreaming up the next makeover.

The Side That Noticed

Summary: After being kidnapped, you resist at first by giving them the silent treatment, wary of your captor’s friendliness. However, their subtle kindness, attention, and respect slowly chip away at your defenses; leaving you questioning where you truly belong.

Disclaimer: ANGST, Mentions/Alludes of Kidnapping aftermath.

Word Count: 2k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

They didn’t come in with threats. No electric shocks. No screaming demands. Just a door that opened with a soft click and a chair across from yours.

The man who sat across from you wasn’t in tactical gear. He wore dark slacks, a black sweater. Not unlike someone who might’ve passed you in the Tower lobby. He smiled like he already knew the answer to the question he hadn’t asked.

“You were with the Avengers for how long?”

You didn’t answer. You moved your gaze back down, not even looking at him.

“Certainly long enough to know where the mission reports were stored. Long enough to predict patterns in deployment rotations. Long enough to keep the Tower from burning down with its own disorganization.”

He leaned forward slightly. Not threatening. Not close. Just… present.

“But not long enough,” He added, “for any of them to remember your birthday.”

That made you flinch, just slightly. And he noticed. You hated that he noticed. He didn’t press the moment though. He didn’t need to.

“They talk about being a team,” He continued after a pause. “A family. But families don’t let people like you walk out the door unnoticed.”

You clenched your jaw. The silence between you curled tight.

“You kept them alive more times than you probably realize,” He added, tapping the table once. “And they never even learned your name.”

Still, you didn’t speak. And still, he didn’t stop.

“That report you corrected on Sokovia’s evac timeline?” He said. “Saved twenty-seven lives. And that comms system update you suggested but didn’t get credit for? We used it. Works better for us, too.”

You looked up at him then, and he smiled like he’d won something.

“You were never invisible,” He said. “Just standing in the wrong light.”

Even though you didn’t grace him with a response, he didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he presented you with a terminal. No shackles. No threats. Just a system full of flaws you could fix with one hand tied behind your back.

You didn’t touch it the first time it was offered. You stared at it with your fingers curled tight in your lap and your spine straight, refusing to lean forward. The screen glowed a soft blue. It was familiar, not unlike the ones you'd sat in front of back at the Tower. But here, it felt wrong. Even if no one had tied you down, it still felt like a trap.

So you said nothing, did nothing. And they didn’t push.

The man, he hadn’t given his name, only offered you a shrug and stood. “Suit yourself,” He spoke, easy. Like this was your choice.

When he left, the door clicked closed again. No lock that you could tell, but you knew better.

The next day, they brought coffee. The kind you always got back at the Tower, from that place three blocks over no one else ever remembered. It was stupid that they got it right. It was also… unnerving.

“I figured you were probably tired of the protein bars,” He had said casually, placing the cup down like it was nothing. “Not everyone likes being caged with nutrition paste.”

You stared at the cup in silence then looked away.

“You’re not a prisoner,” He said simply, like it was obvious. “We’re not interested in forcing anyone to work with us. But we do value skill.”

He gestured at the untouched terminal. “And you? You’ve got more than most of them ever realized.”

You’ve yet to give him a proper response, not even blinking at him. Yet, he took the silence in stride.

Before he left, he glanced back and said, “You’d be surprised how many people here were overlooked first.”

That night, you stared at the terminal for three straight hours. Not because you were curious. Not because you wanted to help them. But because… what if it was true? What if all the things they said were things the Avengers just refused to see?

However, you still didn’t open it.

The next day, they brought a chair with better back support. It was stupid. It was small. It was intentional.

“You always sat weird at your desk, looked uncomfortable,” The man said, not unkindly. “Thought you might want something a little better.”

That was the first time something in you cracked, not all the way, but enough to where you looked at him. Really looked at him. And you hated that he was right. You hated that someone had paid attention.

That night, you hesitantly approached the computer and opened the terminal. You didn’t touch anything at first, more so just reading, scrolling, looking. You found various files, patterns, and outlines you could’ve made better in your sleep. And a part of you itched to fix them. You told yourself it was curiosity. Just that and nothing more.

The next day, he didn’t ask you anything. Didn’t comment or show any indication that you finally did something. Imstead, he just handed you a pastry with your coffee. The one you always got on Tuesdays.

“Did you know we used to intercept intel before it even reached your department?” He asked casually. “We'd look at the files and laugh sometimes, because they were such a mess until you rewrote them.”

You didn’t laugh, you just stared. But something in your chest twisted, low and tight. Because you remembered working late and alone. Always alone doing something whether it was reformatting, correcting, or smoothing over data others had fumbled only to watch someone else get all the credit or your work to go unnoticed.

And now, someone finally acknowledged it. They weren’t cruel. They weren’t threatening. They were kind. Kind in the way people are when they want you to stay, not when they want to break you.

And maybe that was worse. Because part of you started wondering, if being good meant being invisible, forgotten, alone…

Then maybe being bad meant finally being valued.

Even if the warmth they offered was manufactured, it was still warmer than the silence the Avengers left behind.

And so, you told yourself the terminal was just a distraction. That fixing their data was no different than solving a crossword in a waiting room. You weren’t joining them. You were… coping. Keeping your mind sharp and staying sane.

But soon enough, someone left a stylus beside the terminal, one of those nice ones that were weighted and smooth and happened to be the kind you always preferred but never let yourself buy. You didn’t even ask for it, but they left it anyway without expecting anything in return.

A few days later, another face showed up. A woman this time, younger than you expected, with dark curls pulled back and a quiet, dry wit.

She brought you a small stack of files.

“You don’t have to look at these,” She said, grinning as she laid them out beside your coffee. “But if you do, we might actually stop getting our drones blown up every time they try to cross Stark-issue fences.”

You raised a brow. “You’re assuming I want your drones to survive.”

She smirked, leaned against the wall. “Honestly? That’s fair. But I figure you might be tired of pretending you’re not three times more efficient than half the people who used to ignore you.”

You blinked. Slowly. But didn’t reply.

She didn’t push. Just winked and walked away. You came to realize her name was Maren. She started dropping by daily. Sometimes with questions. Sometimes with snacks. Sometimes just to talk.

She never asked about the Avengers, never brought up your past either. Instead, she talked about books. About music. About her annoying roommate before she joined the organization.

You hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone just talked to you without needing something.

Soon enough, others followed. People started greeting you in the hallway. Saying your name. Remembering it.

One day, a nervous, red-haired technician peeked into your space and handed you a soldering tool.

“You mentioned the other one was misaligned last week,” He said. “This one should be better. Also- uh, your breakfast order’s on the counter. Hope I got it right.”

You blinked at him. You hadn’t even realized he’d been listening.

It wasn’t much. None of them fawned over you, but they saw you. You’d spent years in the Tower as a ghost in plain sight. Yet now, for the first time, people paused when you spoke. They remembered what you liked. They asked how you were.

You hated how easily you started to relax. How good it felt to be called a peer. How you caught yourself looking forward to the next day, the next problem to fix. Not because you agreed with their side, but because they asked you like you mattered.

One evening, you stood by a long window looking out into the dark. Rain blurred the horizon, city lights distant and soft.

The man from the first day stepped up beside you, hands in his pockets.

“I don’t expect loyalty,” He said. “Not from someone like you.”

You didn’t respond.

“But you don’t owe them anything either.” His voice was calm and level. “Not after how they treated you.”

You swallowed.

He didn’t press. Just patted your shoulder gently and walked away. And yet, the silence that followed wasn’t empty anymore. It was quiet. Comforting. Like something inside you had finally stopped being so tense.

Maybe you hadn’t chosen this side. But this side had chosen you.

And in all honesty, you could still leave. That was the truth. They hadn’t locked the doors. Hadn’t chipped you. Hadn’t twisted your arm behind your back and made you sign anything in blood. You weren’t a prisoner here, not exactly, and that unsettled you more than any chains would have.

On some nights when the hallways were still, you would sit on the edge of your cot with your shoes on, fully dressed, and staring at the door. You’d check your pockets. There was always a keycard. Yours. Allowing unrestricted access to almost every level.

They hadn’t taken anything. Not your autonomy. Not your mind. And that was the part that made everything worse. Because the question echoed over and over:

If you’re free to go… then why haven’t you?

You told yourself you were gathering intel. You told yourself you were playing the long game. You told yourself you were buying time, waiting for the Avengers to reach out, to realize something was wrong and to bring you back.

But they didn’t.

There wasn’t a ping nor a whisper. You bet there wasn’t even a raised eyebrow. And that little crack inside your chest… widened.

Maren still showed up most mornings. She started leaving jokes on sticky notes under your coffee mug. Sometimes crude. Sometimes clever. Always personal. She knew your humor now and you knew hers. She also knew when to talk, and when to stay quiet.

Meanwhile, the others greeted you by name. They made space for you at the long table during planning sessions. They asked for your thoughts and they listened. Sometimes, they even debated you, and you didn’t have to raise your voice to be heard. You felt like you actually mattered for once, like you were someone worth paying attention to as well.

And that made you start wondering: Was it really so wrong to want to stay where you were respected?

But then you’d go back to your cot and remember everything they’d done. The files you’d glimpsed. The agents they’d taken down. The systems they were dismantling. You hadn’t helped with anything directly. At least, not yet. But… you were here. And that meant something.

Didn’t it?

You still told yourself you hadn’t chosen a side. You were just… drifting. Floating in a quiet current no one else seemed to notice.

But some nights, you would stare at the ceiling and feel it. The undeniable weight of the truth:

You could have left on Day 1. Day 3. Even today. But you didn’t. You haven’t.

And that, more than anything, frightened you. Because maybe it wasn’t that you couldn’t escape. Maybe it was that, deep down, you weren’t sure you wanted to.

Because this place made you feel more real and alive than anywhere else ever had.

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox

Rest for the Restless

Summary: You and Bucky Barnes slowly build a bond through shared understanding, periodic teasing, and finding comfort in each other’s company. In a world full of uncertainty and chaos, you become each other's calm. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power of telepathy.

Word Count: 2.9k+

A/N: Telepathy was next from the poll. I started it out fun (hopefully) but then had to throw in the classic heartfelt stuff. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

The dim light of the room cast long shadows across the space. Bucky Barnes was pacing slowly, his brows furrowed in deep thought. His metal arm clinked faintly with each step, but he didn’t seem to notice. You, on the other hand, were sitting on the couch, trying to focus on what he was saying.

You weren’t just anyone. You had a unique ability that set you apart. Telepathy. It was a power you hadn’t exactly asked for, but it had made you useful to the team. You could hear people’s thoughts, even feel their emotions, often before they spoke.

It wasn’t always easy to control, especially in situations like this, when your mind wandered. It was a double-edged sword, one that Bucky had learned to live with over time, though it wasn’t always smooth sailing.

Your relationship with Bucky had been complicated at first. He was a man with a past as turbulent as your own, a shared sense of struggle and understanding that had drawn you closer. You had both found comfort in silence, in the understanding that sometimes words weren’t necessary. He was patient with you, mostly. After all, he’d dealt with enough chaos in his own mind to know what it was like to be overwhelmed by your own thoughts.

But right now, it seemed like your mind had a mind of its own. Bucky was talking about the mission strategy, his voice low and serious, but your focus was slipping. You could hear his thoughts faintly in the background, always steady and calculating, but your own mind… well, it was a different story.

“…and we need to be careful about how we move in and out, making sure we don’t attract-“ Bucky paused mid-sentence, his sharp blue eyes narrowing at you.

You blinked, suddenly aware of how distant you’d become. Your thoughts had drifted. But before you could even register what you were thinking, the thought slipped out, clear as day in Bucky’s mind:

I wonder what’s for dinner tonight…

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Bucky stood still. His eyes narrowed further, the faintest shift in his expression signaling that he’d caught the thought. You could almost feel him trying to process it, but he didn’t miss a beat.

“What?” He asked slowly, his voice a little too calm, like he was trying to control a laugh. “Are we talking about dinner now?”

You felt your face flush, immediately regretting it. No, no, no… You cursed inwardly, trying to pull your attention back to the conversation, but Bucky wasn’t letting it go.

He folded his arms, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re really thinking about food while we’re planning a mission?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could say anything, your mind had already started to wander again. What do you think? I haven’t eaten all day… You cursed again, hoping he wouldn’t pick up on it.

But of course, he did.

Bucky’s smirk grew, his eyes lighting up with amusement. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He shook his head as if in disbelief, but his grin was widening. “What is it? Pizza? Burgers? Oh, wait, you were probably thinking about pasta, huh?”

You sighed in exasperation. “I’m… trying to concentrate, Bucky,” You muttered, desperately trying to focus. But your thoughts refused to comply.

Do I even have any leftovers in the fridge?

Bucky raised an eyebrow, obviously entertained by your mental chaos. “Seriously? We’re literally talking about life-or-death stuff, and you’re over here planning dinner.” He leaned in a little closer, his voice dripping with teasing affection. “Do you think I’d be a good cook? Because I could totally whip up something after this mission, if you can stop thinking about carbs for two seconds.”

You could feel your face growing warmer by the second, but you refused to back down. “I’m trying to stay focused,” You said, though the words didn’t come out with quite as much conviction as you hoped.

But your thoughts were betraying you again.

Wait, do we have any garlic bread left? I hope not. It tasted stale.

Bucky shook his head, the smirk never leaving his face. “Seriously, garlic bread? You're impossible.”

“I'm sorry!” You protested, a little louder than you meant. “I’m really trying to focus! It's just… it’s been a long day!”

Bucky softened a little at your frustration, but his teasing didn’t stop. “It’s fine, I get it. You’re hungry. But I’m not planning to raid any kitchens while we’re in the middle of a mission, alright?”

You sighed, rubbing your temples in frustration. “I know, I know,” You muttered, trying to refocus. “I’ll try to focus.”

Bucky gave you a reassuring smile, but there was still that mischievous glint in his eyes. “Good. And hey,” He added, his voice quieter now, “I’ll let you decide what we eat after we save the day. No garlic bread involved.”

You gave him a small, embarrassed smile, feeling both flustered and oddly comforted by his easygoing nature. But as your thoughts slowly returned to the mission, you couldn’t help but think: What if we get Chinese takeout?

Bucky’s eyebrow quirked up instantly. He caught it in an instant. “Chinese takeout?” He leaned forward, his grin widening. “You can’t be serious.”

You fought back the smile threatening to break through. “I didn’t say anything,” You muttered, trying to sound serious, but failing miserably.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Fine, after the mission, we’ll do Chinese.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no hiding the warmth that spread through you. Despite your wandering thoughts, Bucky was right there, patient, teasing, and always ready to catch you both mentally and emotionally when you needed it.

-

While the lighthearted moments came here and there, often you two enjoyed each other’s company in silence with a sort of calmness in the air.

Today, the sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving a soft orange glow in the sky. The safe house was quiet, almost too quiet, the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen the only sound breaking the stillness. You were sitting on the couch, your legs tucked under you as you stared at the TV. It wasn’t even on; you were just lost in thought, trying to unwind from the mission earlier that day. It had been a long one, but nothing too intense. Still, you felt mentally drained.

You knew Bucky was nearby, probably in the kitchen, making sure you both had something to eat. In all honesty, he was a quiet guy, but his presence was always enough. The two of you had settled into a comfortable routine, one where you didn’t have to say much to understand each other. His past was full of silence and trauma, and so was yours, in different ways. Over time, you'd found solace in the space between the fun moments, a shared understanding that didn’t require constant chatter.

You heard Bucky’s footsteps approach before the smell of something warm hit your nose, something savory. You didn’t look up, though, knowing he was there. He wasn’t one to disturb you unless he had to. And when he did speak, it was always in that low, steady voice, like he was trying to make up for the years he’d lost, years he often seemed to spend in quiet contemplation. It was part of what made him… Bucky.

He leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed, observing you with that same watchful gaze he always had. His eyes were soft, but you could tell he was assessing you, sensing that something was on your mind.

“Food’s ready,” He said simply, the words not holding any pressure, but an invitation to join him nonetheless. His tone wasn’t demanding, just offering. That was Bucky. He’d been through so much in his life, but he never imposed his feelings on anyone, not even when you knew he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

You nodded, but didn’t move right away. Instead, you rubbed your temples, sighing softly.

“Hey,” Bucky said, his voice just a touch gentler now, as though he knew what was going on in your head even though you hadn’t said anything. “You okay?”

You glanced up at him briefly, then dropped your gaze to the floor. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… tired. It's nothing.”

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me,” He teased, but there was a hint of concern hidden behind it. “If you’re not fine, you don’t have to pretend.”

You bit your lip, a small part of you still trying to keep up that wall you’d built, the one you both knew was always there, even if unspoken. “It’s just… everything. The mission, the noise in my head, all of it,” You admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “Sometimes it feels like it’s too much, you know? And I can’t shut it off.”

Bucky stood silently for a moment, his gaze softening as he processed your words. He couldn’t hear your thoughts this time. It seems like you were controlling your power to prevent him from doing so. But he didn’t push, didn’t try to fix anything. That was the thing about Bucky. He knew better than anyone that not everything needed to be fixed right away. Sometimes, the most comforting thing was just knowing someone understood.

He finally walked over to where you sat, leaning down so he could rest one hand on the back of the couch. There wasn’t a rush to it, no sense of urgency. He was just there, present, allowing you the space to breathe.

“You know,” He said quietly, “You don’t have to go through this alone. Not anymore.”

You didn’t answer right away, just letting his words hang in the air, mixing with the silence. It felt nice, though, nice to hear it out loud, even if it wasn’t something you’d said yourself.

Bucky reached out, placing a hand on your shoulder, his touch warm and solid, like a grounding force. “I get it,” He added softly. “The thoughts, the noise. I can’t always shut mine off, either. But… we’ve got each other. I’m not going anywhere.”

His words weren’t dramatic or heavy, just matter-of-fact, the kind of comfort only someone who had lived through darkness could offer. You leaned into his touch for a brief moment, allowing yourself the quiet comfort of his presence.

“Thanks,” You murmured, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Bucky gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Probably survive just fine,” He said, the humor in his voice lightening the moment, “But I’m glad I’m here anyway.”

You chuckled softly at that, feeling the tension in your shoulders loosen just a little. “You’re impossible.”

“Yup,” He agreed with a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But you love me anyway.”

You couldn’t help but smile, the warmth of the moment creeping in. “I don’t know about that…”

“Sure you do,” Bucky teased, standing up straight again. “Now, come eat before I eat all the food myself.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the weight of the day slowly lifting. There was something comforting about these quiet moments with Bucky, just two people finding solace in each other’s company. No words necessary, just the simple act of being there.

As you walked into the kitchen behind Bucky, the soft clink of plates being set down on the counter pulled you from your thoughts. He’d already set out two bowls of whatever he'd made, the smell of savory spices filling the air. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a simple homemade dish but somehow, it felt like it was exactly what you needed.

You sat down at the table, taking the bowl he handed you. You didn’t speak right away. Your mind kept flicking back to how you and Bucky had even gotten to this point in your relationship, this place of quiet understanding. You both hadn’t expected things to evolve this way, but here you were, comfortable, without needing much more than each other’s company.

Your relationship had started off slowly, cautiously. When you’d first met, you had both been wary of forming any kind of connection. You were part of the team, but you kept mostly to yourself, not exactly trusting anyone too easily. After all, you had your own demons to deal with, and opening up meant letting people see parts of you you weren’t sure you wanted anyone to see.

Bucky had been no different. At first, he’d kept his distance. He used to be the Winter Soldier, after all, even if he was trying to leave that behind. His past was complicated, full of violence and control, and the last thing he wanted was to drag anyone else into it. Especially someone like you who could hear everything he thought, feel everything he felt. It terrified him to think you might be able to read all of that pain in his mind.

But then, slowly, the walls between you had started to come down. It wasn’t anything grand. No big gestures. Just quiet moments where you were forced to share the same space. Things like missions that pushed you both together, nights in the compound where you sat next to each other without needing to say much.

Bucky, in his own way, started to understand your telepathy. He’d been so used to keeping things locked away, the idea that someone could hear his thoughts was strange at first. But after a while, he became more comfortable with it, even appreciated it. You weren’t like everyone else; you didn’t push for him to talk, didn’t force him to relive his past. Instead, you just knew. It was comforting in a way that words couldn’t always express.

And then there was the day it all clicked. You’d been on a mission together, just the two of you, a covert op to track down a rogue HYDRA agent. It had been a tense, exhausting day. You’d gotten separated during the mission, and the panic in your head had nearly overwhelmed you when you couldn’t find Bucky for a few minutes. The only thing that had kept you calm was knowing that you could reach him, that somehow, you could always feel his presence. When you finally found him, his own relief mirrored yours, though neither of you said anything about it.

That night, back at the compound, you’d been sitting on the couch together. The quiet stretched out between you, and for the first time, Bucky had asked you a question he hadn’t before.

“Do you ever just… feel like you’re too much?” He had asked, his voice low. “Like your head’s just full of everyone else’s thoughts, and you can’t escape it?”

You had looked at him then, meeting his eyes for the first time with the raw understanding of someone who had the same kind of burden. Yes. You had said that word in your mind to him, even if you didn’t speak it aloud. You could see the way his posture softened. His tense expression gave way to something quieter, something more vulnerable.

“I don’t know how to stop it,” You had admitted quietly, your gaze falling to the floor. “Sometimes it feels like I’m drowning in everyone else’s feelings.”

“I get it,” He had said softly, leaning in a little closer. “You’re not alone in that.”

And then, without another word, he had reached over and taken your hand. It was a small gesture, but it meant everything in that moment. It was the first time you felt like you didn’t have to hide the mess in your mind because he already understood it. He was right there with you.

From that moment on, things had shifted between you. There had been no grand confession, no dramatic realization. It had just happened, two people finding comfort in each other’s chaos.

When Bucky had kissed you for the first time a few weeks later, it wasn’t anything extravagant or over the top. It was simple. Just a soft press of his lips to yours after a long day, both of you knowing without words that this was where you were supposed to be. You didn’t need to read each other’s thoughts to understand that.

Now, sitting together at the table, you glanced over at him again. He was eating in that quiet way he always did, not rushing through it, just savoring the moment. You hadn’t needed any of the usual pretenses or forced conversations to make this work. There was an ease between you now; one built on shared understanding, occasional teasing, and the kind of companionship that didn’t need to be explained.

Bucky looked up from his bowl and caught your gaze. There was a quiet warmth in his eyes, a tenderness that made you feel like you were exactly where you were meant to be. And for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to believe it.

“Thank you,” You said quietly, the words more meaningful than they appeared.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “For what?”

“For being here,” You spoke a little more softer. “For making me never having to hide what’s in my head.”

Bucky’s gaze softened, and he reached across the table, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to hide anything with me,” His voice firm yet kind. “I’m not going anywhere, remember?”

You nodded, feeling a sense of peace settle over you. This was more than just a relationship. It was a partnership, built on understanding, comfort, and the freedom to be your truest self. And in that quiet moment, with the weight of the world outside and the noise of your mind finally quieting, you knew that you had exactly what you needed.

And you were ready to hold on to it, no matter what came next.

⛧⋆༺Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist༻⋆⛧

Pairing: Avengers x reader. (Mostly Bucky x reader unless requested otherwise.)

Summary: A collection of different one-shots with reader having different powers or abilities, each in their own universe.

Main Masterlist

Keys| Fluff ✿ | Angst ⛆ | Dark 𓉸 | Agere ʚɞ | Hurt/Comfort ❦

✿⛆❦ The Way He Notices - Reader with the ability to turn invisible. (Bucky Barnes x invisible!reader)

✿ In Every Form, You Still Saw Me - Reader with the ability to shapeshift. (Bucky Barnes x shapeshifter!reader)

❦ What You Can’t Heal - Reader with the power to heal. (Bucky Barnes x healer!reader)

⛆❦ The Price of Saving Until You Care - Reader has the power to transfer people’s injuries onto herself. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

✿ Mischief Managed - Reader with the ability to talk to animals. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

✿ Mischief Meets Alpine - Sequel to Mischief Managed. Reader with the ability to talk to animals. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

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.

Again

Summary: You live in a carefully constructed world with Bucky Barnes, unaware he’s been resetting your memories every time you try to leave him. Each time you begin to remember the truth, he gently erases it, cloaking control in affection. To you, it feels like love. To him, it is. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x reader)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes, Memory loss, Gaslighting, Obsessive love, Hints of confinement, Yandere themes, etc.

Word Count: 2.9k+

A/N: Been a while since I’ve written something dark. Can you tell I love stories that have something to do with memories yet? You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.

Main Masterlist

You weren’t really the kind of person who got involved with superheroes.

You worked quietly at a small publishing office in Brooklyn, mostly handling edits and scheduling for midlist fantasy writers. Your days were filled with manuscript notes, cheap coffee, and chasing deadlines. It was all comfortably mundane.

You weren’t the kind to chase chaos. You didn’t attend Stark-sponsored gala events or run towards falling buildings with a camera. The Avengers were just another headline, another source of distant awe that didn’t belong in your world.

Until him.

You met Bucky Barnes on a Tuesday morning in the rain. Your umbrella had fallen apart five minutes into your walk to work, and you’d ducked into a tiny, half-hidden café. He had held the door open for you; tall, quiet, gloved hands, and hood up.

You nodded your thanks. He nodded back. That was it.

The second time you saw him was two days later at the same café. He was at the same seat near the back window. You ordered your tea, and he was already nursing his coffee. You’d never seen him speak to the barista, but his drink always arrived without question. You wondered if he’d once lived in this neighborhood, before the metal arm, before the wars.

Weeks passed before you spoke again. It started small with quick glances, polite smiles, and silent nods that eventually turned into one-word greetings. Then one afternoon, as you sat reading a worn paperback in your usual seat, he asked what book it was.

You looked up, startled. His voice was gravel and velvet all at once. You told him the title, and he tilted his head, thoughtful.

“Used to read a lot,” He said. “Stopped for a while.”

You asked why to which he smiled faintly. “Memories. Some of ’em don’t belong to me.”

You didn’t comment on it considering his past.

After that, he started waiting for you.

Or maybe you started going there hoping he’d be there. You couldn’t tell when it changed. Your work days blurred together, but those moments with him became sharp, vivid pieces of color. You learned that he liked his coffee bitter and preferred home-cooked meals over fast food. He told you small things about himself: that he didn’t sleep well, that he liked jazz, that he used to have a sister. Never much more.

You never asked about the arm. You never needed to.

He started walking you home when it got dark. Just in case, he’d say, glancing at the sidewalk like it was dangerous. At first, he’d leave you at the corner of your street. Then at your building’s door. Then one evening, he followed you up.

Nothing happened that night. He didn’t even kiss you. But he looked around your apartment with that solemn, haunted stare, like he’d stepped into a dream he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have.

When you made him tea that night, he sat on your couch like he was afraid it would vanish if he blinked.

That was the beginning.

You didn’t fall for him in a rush of heat or fire. It was something quieter like water slipping under a door. He was gentle with you, more gentle than you'd imagined a man like him could be. He handled you like a secret. In some way, you liked that. It made you feel chosen.

He memorized you.

Your favorite foods, the way you liked your windows cracked just an inch at night, how your nose scrunched when you were skeptical. He’d brush your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, kiss your temple when you frowned at your laptop, run his thumb across your knuckles while you rambled about work.

When you finally asked if you were together, he simply nodded. “You’re mine,” he said, not possessively. Just… firmly. As if it had always been true.

You smiled. It felt warm and real after all.

As weeks passed, you didn’t realize how much of yourself was already unraveling.

You didn't notice that he always picked your meals before you had a chance. That when you asked about his past, his face turned to stone. That when you mentioned taking a weekend trip with friends, he flinched. Then the next day, every one of those friends mysteriously canceled.

You didn’t realize how often he said “You don’t need to remember that.”

Or that your own memories like how you met or how long you’d been dating started to feel soft, blurry, like a watercolor left out in the rain.

You didn’t question it then though because when you were with Bucky, you felt safe. And safety can be addicting, especially when you don’t know what’s missing.

But the truth was already whispering beneath your skin. And you were about to hear it for the first time.

Again.

You never noticed the changes at first.

They crept in like dust on a windowsill so subtle and quiet, you didn’t realize how much had shifted until it was far too late.

It began with a contact missing from your phone. You were trying to text your friend about a shared memory from childhood, a stupid inside joke involving a haunted amusement park, but her name was just… gone. Not grayed out. Not blocked. Gone. You assumed it was a glitch. You’d call her later.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t seem to remember the number. You opened your gallery to find the picture of the two of you at the beach with your arms around each other, her tongue out at the camera, wind in your hair yet the photo wasn’t there. Not in albums. Not in cloud storage. Not even in your deleted folder.

You frowned and chalked it up to a syncing error. You’d been so tired lately after all. Work had been relentless, your sleep scattered. It was probably your fault.

Besides, Bucky said you’d been overwhelmed.

“You’ve been stressed, doll,” He murmured that night, when he found you staring blankly at your phone. He slid into bed behind you, arms curling around your waist like a shield. “You’ve been forgetting things, yeah? That’s okay. I’m here now.”

His lips pressed to the back of your neck, soft and warm and grounding. “I’ve got you.”

And you believed him. Because Bucky didn’t lie. Because love was supposed to feel safe. Because it was easier than the other option: that something was wrong.

Then the dreams began.

Not nightmares in the traditional sense. They weren’t filled with monsters or screams. They didn’t leave you sobbing or breathless. They just felt wrong… familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

In the dreams, you were in a room with white walls, too white. The sterile scent of alcohol and metal stung your nose. Your wrists were strapped to a gurney, a chill biting at your skin through the thin hospital gown. Machines beeped in the distance. Shadows moved behind frosted glass.

And you were crying.

Not screaming. Not pleading.

Just… crying. Quietly and exhausted like this had happened before.

Then a voice; male, calm, and clinical: “She’s starting to remember.”

Static buzzed through the dream, warping your hearing like water rushing through your ears.

And then, him.

Bucky.

But not your Bucky, not the gentle hands and tired smile that whispered “I’ve got you.” This Bucky stood behind the glass, unmoving, and half-shrouded in shadow. His face was unreadable and cold, tight-jawed with his blue eyes sharp with calculation. And something else beneath that: Guilt. Desire. Possession.

You always woke with your chest heaving, heart racing like a prey being hunted.

The dreams clung to your skin like fog. You couldn’t shake them, couldn’t forget the way your own voice had cracked in the dream: “Please, don’t do it again.”

You told Bucky about them one morning, curled on the couch with a blanket over your shoulders and your head pounding.

“They felt too real,” You explained, knuckles white around the mug he’d just handed you. “I… I don’t know. I was in some lab, or hospital maybe, and I was tied down, and someone said-“

You paused, trying to remember the exact words. They slipped through your mind like sand.

“‘She’s starting to remember.’”

Bucky froze. Just for a moment to the degree where you barely caught it. The tension in his jaw before it was gone, smoothed over by the version of him you trusted. He stepped closer, cupping your cheek in one calloused hand. His thumb brushed your temple, slow and steady.

“They’re just dreams,” He whispered. “You’re okay. I’m right here, remember? Nothing bad’s ever going to happen to you again.”

The pressure of his fingers lingered, gentle but firm. You leaned into it.

And you didn’t see the flicker of fear in his eyes. You didn’t notice how his hand trembled for just a second before he pulled it away.

Didn’t follow his gaze to the mirror where, behind the glass, a soft blue light blinked silently. A small device tucked into the frame, some HYDRA tech masked by a smear of dust. Unnoticeable unless you remembered it was there.

It hummed with quiet intent, its function cruel and simple: To monitor. To smooth the cracks. To start over.

Again.

-

The turning point finally came on the day you found the journal.

It was supposed to be a cleaning day.

Rain tapped gently against the windows. Bucky had gone out for groceries. He never let you go alone anymore, said it wasn’t safe. So you’d decided to reorganize the closet in your bedroom. It was cluttered, and you needed a distraction. Something to silence the weight of those dreams that had begun to come more often, vivid and fractured. Something to quiet the silence.

You were pulling out an old shoe box when your foot caught on the corner of the floorboard. It shifted under your weight with a soft, unnatural creak. Curious, you crouched and ran your fingers over the edge, pushing until the plank lifted just slightly enough to wedge your hand underneath.

There was something hidden beneath the wood. Wrapped in worn fabric, almost carefully. You pulled it free as your breath caught in your throat.

It was a journal. Black leather with no name on the cover. You didn’t remember buying it. You didn’t remember writing in it. But it was yours.

The handwriting was unmistakable. Slanted letters. Loopy e’s. The way you crossed your t’s too high. And inside…

Inside was your words: Unfiltered, unedited, and terrified.

He’s done something to me. Every time I leave, I wake up back in his bed. I think it’s him. I think it’s always been him. He smiles and tells me, “This is better. This is love.” Do not trust him. Do not trust him. You’ve done this before.

Your hands shook as you turned the pages. There were days recorded in scribbled fragments. Warnings. Notes written like you were trying to reach yourself across some invisible line.

You remembered none of them.

Not the time you described trying to run: “He caught me before I reached the door. Said he’d fix it. He always fixes it.”

Not the drawing of the device in the mirror. “It hums when I remember too much, blares out if I touch it.”

Not the shaky, final note: If you’re reading this, you still have a chance. Don’t let him see this. Don’t let him see you panic.

But it was too late.

Your breath hitched as you looked up. The walls of your apartment, the space you’d painted and decorated and thought you’d built with love, suddenly felt wrong. It was all too neat. Staged. The color schemes, the framed photos, the scent of lavender in the air, it was all… curated.

Like a set. Like a memory someone else had chosen for you.

And then you felt it. That presence. You turned, heart already racing.

Bucky stood in the doorway, grocery bag in one hand. His other hand was empty, fingers flexing once. Twice. His eyes weren’t on you.

They were on the open journal.

His expression didn’t twist in shock or confusion. He didn’t ask what it was. He didn’t even look surprised. He just stared at you for a moment, quiet, as if waiting to see which version of you he’d come home to.

And then, slowly, he set the bag down.

He stepped forward in a manner that wasn’t hurried, not frantic, just controlled. Measured, like a man who’d done this before.

“Doll,” He spoke softly, as if you were spooked. As if you’d simply read something silly. “That’s not what you think it is.”

Your mouth was dry as you stepped back, clutching the book.

“I wrote this,” You whispered. “I… I’ve done this before. Haven’t I?”

His jaw tightened. “You weren’t well. You didn’t understand what you needed.”

“I tried to leave.”

“And I couldn’t let you,” He said, eyes burning now but not with anger, rather something worse. Devotion. “You don’t remember how bad it was out there. You begged me to make it stop. You asked me to take it away.”

You backed into the wall.

“I don’t remember any of that.”

“I know,” He murmured. “That’s the point.”

He stepped closer. The air thickened.

“You were scared, and I saved you. Over and over again. I keep you safe, I give you peace. Isn’t that what you said you wanted?”

You shook your head. “No. I didn’t-“

“You did,” Bucky interrupted, “And even if you forgot, it doesn’t matter. I remember for both of us.”

Your chest was heaving as you took a step back. The journal slipped from your fingers and hit the floor between you. He picked it up carefully, smoothing the pages like an old wound.

Bucky watched you for a long moment, the journal still in his hands, the weight of your realization hovering between you both like smoke. You didn’t run, you couldn’t. Your body felt frozen in place, as if your mind already knew what was coming. Like it had before.

He approached slowly with no malice nor violence, just intention.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” He said gently. “You know that. I never have.”

Your breath hitched as he reached up. Not to strike, not to grab, but to brush your hair behind your ear. The gesture was intimate.

“But you always panic when it comes back. Always think you want out. And then you cry, and I have to watch you fall apart all over again.”

He moved slightly, lips brushing your temple.

“This is love, sweetheart. It’s just… not the kind you remember.”

That’s when he reached behind the mirror.

You didn’t struggle. Maybe part of you didn’t want to know the truth. Maybe part of you had been here before again and again, and each time ended in the same outcome: surrender wrapped in warmth and silence.

You heard the hum before you felt it. That low, soft frequency, like a lullaby trapped beneath your skin. Your vision blurred. The room warped slightly, as if you were seeing through water. Your knees gave out, and Bucky caught you easily, cradling your head to his chest.

“Sshhh. Just sleep,” He whispered into your hair. “I’ll keep you safe. I always do.”

-

The next morning, sunlight spilled across the room in pale golden stripes. The curtains swayed lazily with the breeze, and the air smelled like maple syrup and cinnamon. Somewhere in the distance, a record crackled softly with a melody playing something smooth and familiar.

You blinked up at the ceiling, your head foggy and strangely heavy. A dull ache pulsed just behind your eyes.

But your heart was quiet.

No fear. No dread. Just a lingering melancholy you couldn’t name, like missing a song you forgot you loved.

You sat up slowly, fingers curling into the sheets. The bed was warm and the room was tidy. On the nightstand sat a single framed photo of you and Bucky wrapped in a shared scarf, cheeks pink from the cold.

Something fluttered in your chest. You didn’t know why, but the sight made your throat tighten.

Then came his soft voice, full of that low, soothing rasp that always made your shoulders ease.

“Morning, doll.”

You looked up to find him standing in the doorway, wearing gray sweatpants and a soft black shirt with a spatula held in one hand and a dishtowel that rested over his shoulder. He smiled at you with such warmth, such relief, that it made your eyes sting.

“Smells good,” You mumbled, voice thick.

“Thought you could use something sweet.” He tilted his head. “You okay?”

You blinked at him, your eyes burning for some reason.

“Yeah. I think so. Just… a weird dream.”

His smile deepened, that tender practiced smile.

“Don’t worry,” He said. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

He always did.

And you’d never know how many times before: Never know about the journal that was burned in the fire pit. Never know how your phone only held five contacts, four of them fake. Never know how your reality was trimmed, polished, and maintained like a greenhouse.

Each morning reborn in the life Bucky made for you. Each memory rewritten not out of cruelty but love. Twisted, obsessive, relentless love.

And for now, this time, you were his again. Just as you were meant to be.

Toy Store Visit

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

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

Word Count: 1.2k+

Main Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t know where to start.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”

Love Letters in the Smoke

Summary: During his rehabilitation, Bucky writes anonymous letters to process his thoughts. One night, he drops one at your circus campfire by mistake. You write back as a pen-pal romance begins. (Bucky Barnes x aerialist!reader)

Word Count: 1.6k+

A/N: I wanted to write something circus themed and thought this was a cute story. I hope the indents for the letters doesn’t look weird. Regardless, Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

The circus smelled of smoke, greasepaint, and a hint of nostalgia. The kind of place that looked like it had time-traveled from another century. Its canvas tents patched with care, and string lights casting soft golden halos in the dusk. You called it home.

Every night, after the crowd dispersed and the last child had been tugged away from the caramel stands, you’d sit by the communal fire pit with a notebook and your own thoughts. The crackle of flames soothed your nerves after a long evening performing. Tonight was no different until you found the letter.

Folded neatly in half, it was tucked beneath a rock near the fire. No name. No address. Just worn, thick paper, like it had been clutched tightly before being left behind. The handwriting was rigid, practiced, like someone who didn’t write often.

"I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe to make sense of the noise. I’m not used to silence. When I have it, the ghosts scream louder. I think I was someone good once, but I don’t know if that matters anymore. So I keep walking, city to city, place to place, hoping I can outrun myself."

Your fingers tightened around the paper, heart stirring with something strange. You didn’t know the writer, but you knew the feeling. So you wrote back.

Your first response was clumsy. You weren’t used to being vulnerable. But you scribbled on the back of a circus flyer:

“Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder if the reflection is mine or someone else’s memory. If you were good once, maybe that piece is still inside you. If it hurts, it means it mattered.”

You left your letter the same way by the fire, under the same rock. You didn’t expect anything to come of it. But the next night, there was another one waiting.

"Didn’t expect a reply. It’s strange. Your words feel like a calm I haven’t earned. But thank you. I needed them more than I thought."

The letters became a ritual.

While the rest of the troupe celebrated, drank, or collapsed into their trailers, you and your ghost wrote to each other. You told him about your performances, your nerves before every show, how the roar of the crowd always seemed distant. He told you about dreams he didn’t understand, faces he couldn't name but could never forget.

"Sometimes I see their eyes. Just eyes. Hundreds of them. People I’ve hurt. People I lost. I wish I could believe I was still worth saving."

Your response was always gentle, honest.

“Pain doesn’t cancel out worth. I don’t know what you’ve done. But if you’re trying now, if you’re writing to a stranger in the dark just to stay afloat… then yes. You’re worth it."

He never signed his letters. You didn’t, either. But a bond was forming. Raw and quiet. The kind of intimacy that only comes when truth is stripped bare, and nothing is expected in return.

A week later, a new stranger joined the circus.

He didn’t give much away, just said his name was James, and he was helping fix up the rigging for the aerial performers. He was tall with broad shoulders. Dark hair pulled into a low bun. Quiet, watchful, like a man used to danger. You noticed the glove on his hands, the way he flinched when touched, and the haunted glint in his eyes.

He didn’t say much, but when he watched you during your act, a graceful ribbon aerialist twisting in midair, there was something almost reverent in his gaze.

He started lingering by the fire after hours, sitting a few feet away. You’d nod. He’d nod back. Neither of you spoke much. But his presence was… comforting.

The letters continued.

"There’s a performer here. I don’t know her name yet. She climbs like she wants to touch the stars. When she’s up there, it’s like she’s weightless. Untouchable. I think she feels more at home in the air than on the ground. I envy that."

You read that one twice, your stomach fluttering. Could it be?

You looked at James differently after that. You caught him watching you once, a rare smile twitching at his mouth before he quickly looked away. He never asked personal questions, but he always listened when you spoke. Even the small things. What you had for dinner. What color ribbon you liked the best.

And still, each night, the letters came.

Until the day it stopped.

You came to the fire, letter in hand, heart pounding. You had written it that afternoon, deciding finally to sign it with your real name.

But there was no letter waiting. Not that night. Not the next.

And James was gone.

You asked around only to find out that he had packed up quietly, said goodbye to no one, and left like a ghost.

-

Weeks passed. The circus moved on, as it always did.

You still checked the firepit sometimes. Just in case. A hope inside your heart that would be chipped away each time you found no letter.

Then, one night, as the stars blanketed the sky and your arms ached from rehearsal, you found it. A single letter. Folded tight.

Your name was on the front.

"I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. I was afraid. You knew me before you knew who I was. And that scared me more than anything. I’ve done things, things I can’t ask forgiveness for. But when I read your words, I believed for a moment that maybe I wasn’t just a weapon. That maybe I could be more. You called me worth saving. No one ever said that to the Winter Soldier. But you said it to James."

Your hands trembled as you read the last part.

"I want to see you again. If you'll let me. There’s a train station just outside the next town. I’ll be waiting. – Bucky"

You folded the letter to your chest and smiled through your tears.

Finally, a name.

And maybe, just maybe, a beginning.

The next town was a blur of winding back roads and wind-chilled mornings. The circus was set up at the edge of a sun-dried field, the ground cracked from lack of rain. But you barely noticed any of it. Your mind was somewhere else, back at the firepit, at the letter pressed to your chest, at the name that made everything real.

Bucky.

It suited him somehow. Solid and sincere. A little old-fashioned like the man himself.

You folded the letter so carefully that it felt like folding a prayer. You didn’t show it to anyone. Some part of you was still terrified it might vanish if you spoke it aloud. But you couldn’t ignore it.

He said he’d be at the train station. So you went.

You left after rehearsal dressed in simple clothes, your hair braided back, and palms sweating in your coat pockets. The station was small and mostly empty. Just one old bench, a vending machine that wheezed when it tried to light up, and a single streetlamp buzzing like a nervous heart.

He was there.

Bucky stood near the tracks, hands in his pockets, back tense like he wasn’t sure he should stay. A battered duffel sat by his boots. His eyes were distant, tracking the horizon. Like he was still prepared to run.

You almost called out to him, but he turned first. When your eyes met, it hit you like a second heartbeat.

You'd read this man’s pain. Held his words in your hands like they were fragile glass. You had whispered encouragement to him under stars he couldn’t see. And now he was here. Real. Vulnerable. Waiting.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” He said, voice rough with nerves.

“I wasn’t sure you would wait,” You answered, stepping closer.

He let out a low quiet laugh, more exhale than sound. “I almost didn’t.”

“I’m glad you did.”

There was a long pause, but it wasn’t awkward. It was full. Thick with every letter, every word, every emotion neither of you had dared speak aloud.

“I’m sorry for disappearing,” Bucky began as his gaze dropped. “I… panicked. Thought it was safer if I left before I messed it up. But the truth is… I missed you.”

Your throat tightened. “You didn’t mess anything up. I… I missed you too. Every night I checked that fire.”

He stepped closer, the soft scrape of gravel under his boots. “I didn’t know how to do this. I still don’t.”

“Me neither,” You whispered. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest.

His gloved hand lifted, like he wanted to reach for you but was waiting for permission. So you met him halfway, pressing your hand gently to his chest. Through his shirt, you could feel the heavy rhythm of his heart, strong and steady, like it had finally found a beat worth chasing.

“I wasn’t falling for a stranger,” You said softly. “I was falling for the man in the letters. For the one who writes like he’s fighting for every word. That was you. It was always you.”

Bucky closed his eyes. Then, slowly, carefully, he leaned his forehead against yours.

And in that moment, there were no ghosts. No stages. No performances. Just the hush of the night air, the scent of iron and oil and smoke, and two people who had found each other in the most unexpected of ways.

“I want to try,” He murmured. “With you. If you’ll have me.”

You smiled. “Only if you write to me sometimes, even if we’re just a tent away.”

He chuckled, and it was the most alive you’d ever heard him. “Deal.”