Falling For You, Again And Again
Falling For You, Again and Again
Summary: Each time you "die" and return, you fall in love with Bucky all over again in different ways. Bucky sees a new version of you every time, but he’s always his same self. Each time, you both always find your ways back to each other, but you never know it's happened before. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power of immortality. However, each death erases your memory of what you knew and who you were before. ANGST.
Word Count: 2.6k+
A/N: I wasn’t even sure if I could classify this under this series. However, it’s still an enhanced ability. Also, I’m hoping y’all like this. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
The first time you came back to life, it took three days. You woke in a hospital morgue, shivering under a white sheet, the taste of salt and ash on your tongue. You had no memory of your name, no recollection of what had killed you, and no sense of identity.
The only thing you possessed was a quiet panic and the sharp, cold awareness that you should not be here. You stumbled out into the world with no guidance, no answers, and one inexplicable truth: you couldn’t die.
You learned the pattern eventually. Every time you died whether by accident or violence, sickness or sacrifice, you returned. The process was inconsistent though. Sometimes, it took hours. Other times, days or weeks. Each time, you emerged in your body just as it was before death, seemingly untouched… but your memories, every one of them, were stripped away.
You couldn’t remember the name of the man who’d died holding your hand on a battlefield. Or the child you once saved from drowning. Or the language you’d spoken fluently last time you were alive. Every death reset your soul like a blank canvas, and the world became something you had to re-learn.
Sometimes people told you things about who you were, where you’d been, but they felt like borrowed stories. You smiled politely. Pretended. Sometimes even fell in love with the past versions of yourself they described. But you never felt like her.
The only exception was him.
The first time you saw Bucky Barnes, it was in a coffee shop in D.C. You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know yours, either. He was sitting alone reading something dense and battered yet you were inexplicably drawn to him, like an invisible thread pulled you into his orbit. You stood in line behind him without realizing, your fingers twitching as if remembering a touch you’d never felt. He glanced back. His eyes locked on yours.
He stared like he’d seen a ghost.
You didn’t speak,not then but you sat across from him twenty minutes later because you felt you should. Because your heart beat faster when he smiled, and it shouldn’t have. Because he seemed to know you, and you… you wanted to know why.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” He asked, softly, one hand wrapped around a warm mug.
You shook your head. “I don’t even remember me.”
He swallowed hard, staring at the steam between you. “I think you’ve died again.”
You didn’t ask how he knew. You just believed him.
It was like that every time.
You’d die. Come back. Then forget.
And somehow, Bucky would find you. Or you’d find him. A different place. A different life. But the same pull. You might meet him at a bookstore, brushing fingertips over the same worn copy of Catch-22. Or in a combat zone, both fighting for someone else’s cause. Or on a rainy street corner where he offered you a shared umbrella without knowing if you’d remember him this time. Sometimes you’d fall in love quickly. Sometimes slowly. But always, deeply.
He tried not to hold on too tightly. He never told you too much too fast. He let you find your own path, even if it meant losing you all over again.
But every version of you looked at him like you’d known him forever. Every version of you fell in love with him, as if your soul remembered even when your mind couldn’t.
And that was the tragedy of it. For him, it was always a reunion. For you, it was always the beginning.
-
Rain fell in soft curtains over the city, blurring the glass of the bookstore window and washing the world into dull, dreamlike greys. Inside, the scent of old paper, dust, and aging wood filled the quiet. Bucky sat in the far corner, a thick book open in his lap, though he wasn’t really reading. His fingers had gone still on the page twenty minutes ago.
He’d spent the past eleven months scouring D.C. by checking shelters, hospitals, cafés, the Metro; anywhere someone who had nothing might go. Most of the time, you always seemed to come back near where you died, and though he didn’t know exactly where that had been this time, instinct had guided him here.
The bookstore had become his checkpoint. A place of stillness where he could let the anxiety press against his ribs without showing on his face. He came every Sunday, pretending to read, waiting for a flicker of something to pull the world back into motion.
Then the door opened.
The bell jingled, and cold air swept in, heavy with rain and city smoke. A figure stepped inside, hunched slightly with hair damp and clinging to their cheeks. You looked up, blinking against the light, eyes wide and searching.
Bucky went still.
You’d returned.
Even before you saw him, even before you reached for the books on the nearest shelf, he knew. It wasn’t just the way you looked even though your face never changed. It was something else. A tension in your posture. A flicker of familiarity in your eyes that didn’t belong to this version of you, not yet.
You drifted further into the store, trailing fingers over spines as though pulled by instinct. He stood slowly, book forgotten on the chair behind him, as his heart hammered in his chest.
Then, like fate nudging you into place, your hand stopped on a copy of Catch-22.
It was always that book.
You ran your hand over the cover like it meant something you couldn’t name before your gaze flickered over to his. “Have we met?” You asked in a soft and uncertain tone. “I’m sorry… I feel like I should know you.”
God, it hit him like a punch every time.
Bucky’s voice caught in his throat before he forced a quiet, “Yeah. We’ve met before.”
You smiled politely, a little nervous. But your eyes lingered on his face like they were trying to etch something into memory that didn’t exist yet. “Do you… do you know who I am?”
He nodded. “I do.”
And he wouldn’t say more, not yet. He never did. You needed to come to it in your own time. So he took a step back, gestured to the armchair in the reading corner. “Do you want to sit for a while?”
You blinked at him, then at the chair, as if the idea of resting had never occurred to you. Slowly, you nodded.
“I’d like that.”
You stayed for two hours. Browsing, reading, or asking cautious gentle questions that Bucky answered with care. You didn’t remember dying. You never did. But you’d woken up in a hospital two weeks ago, no ID, no fingerprints on file. A social worker had told you your memory loss might be trauma-induced. You didn’t tell them about the dreams, about the way your hands shook when you tried to sleep. Or how you sometimes stared at your reflection and didn’t feel like it belonged to you.
Bucky listened quietly, never once pressing. He never once was asking you to be someone you weren’t ready to become again.
And just before you left, you turned to him. “I know this sounds strange, but… I feel safe with you. Like I’ve known you before.”
He swallowed hard, nodding. “You have.”
You opened your mouth like you wanted to ask more but didn’t.
Instead, you said, “I think I’d like to see you again.”
He smiled. “I’ll be here.”
You hesitated one more moment, then added, “Maybe I’ll come back next week… and you can tell me a story.”
He watched you go, heart aching.
He had hundreds. All of them about you.
You came back the next Sunday, just like you said you would. Same bookstore with the same faint, hesitant smile. This time, your coat was dry and your hair was pulled back. There was a small bandage on your knuckle from some accident you wouldn’t remember. You hadn’t told Bucky that, but he noticed. He always noticed the small things.
The two of you sat in the corner by the fogged-up window, and Bucky brought you tea from the shop next door without asking what kind you liked. He already knew. You took it with a grateful murmur, sipping slowly before your eyes flickered up to him.
“You said last week that you knew me,” You spoke cautiously but curious. “How? Did we work together or…?”
He studied you for a moment, then looked down at the teacup in his hands. “Not work. We were close, for a long time.”
You tilted your head, watching him. “Were we… lovers?”
There it was. The question that always came eventually. He looked back up. Your expression wasn’t flirtatious, it was vulnerable. Searching.
“Yes,” He answered quietly. “Many times.”
Your breath hitched just a fraction. And then, “You say that like we’ve done this before.”
He hesitated. “Because we have.”
You stared, frowning. “Have what? Met?”
“Fallen in love.”
You didn’t speak for a moment. Then you looked down at your hands. “Is that why I feel… strange around you? Like I should be afraid to get too close, but also like I want to?”
“Probably,” He laughed softly. “Most versions of you have that same feeling. You never remember me, but something in you always recognizes me. I don’t know if it’s instinct, or your soul remembering, or just… whatever’s left behind.”
You were silent, absorbing that. Then, in a quiet voice, “How many times?”
Bucky met your eyes. “Forty-eight.”
You looked away sharply. “Forty-eight deaths.”
“That I know of.”
“And I don’t remember any of them?”
“No.”
You stared out the window, your fingers tightening around the mug. “Then how can you… how do you not hate me for forgetting?”
He leaned forward, voice steady. “Because I remember you. All of you, and because every version of you is worth meeting again.”
Tears welled up in your eyes without control as you wiped them quickly, embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t know why that made me-“
“It happens sometimes,” He reassured gently. “Your body remembers things your mind doesn’t. Emotions bleed through.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him and something in your chest ached. Something deep and familiar.
“Tell me a story,” You whispered. “Tell me something about her- about me. A version you knew.”
Bucky nodded.
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small, battered notebook. The leather was fraying at the edges, the pages slightly warped from time and tears. He set it on the table, his hand resting on the cover.
“You used to hum in your sleep,” He said quietly. “Sometimes it was a lullaby, sometimes it was nothing at all. But it was always soft. And when you had nightmares or when the dreams got too heavy, you’d say my name before you woke up.”
You stared at the journal, transfixed.
Bucky’s voice didn’t tremble, but there was a break in it now. “That version of you was terrified of losing herself. You left notes, voice recordings, instructions. But every time you came back, you were still a stranger to yourself.”
You reached for the journal before you could stop yourself.
“Can I… read them?”
His hand remained on the cover for a moment longer, then he slowly slid it toward you.
“You can.”
You took it carefully. Reverently. Like it was something sacred.
Every time you left his world, he added another entry in that journal and kept it close with him. It was as if to keep a piece of you nearby when he couldn’t find you right away. The journal was heavier than it looked.
Not in weight, but in presence. It felt lived in, full of love and plagued with grief. You held it in your lap like something precious and terrifying, afraid that turning the page would tear a hole in your chest you didn’t know how to close.
You glanced up at Bucky. He hadn’t moved as he watched you with the quiet patience of someone who had waited through storms you couldn’t remember. You looked down again as your fingers brushed over the leather cover. There were marks, faint indents from a pen pressed too hard. Some pages were dog-eared. One corner had a smear of dried paint. Or maybe blood.
“I don’t understand,” You whispered. “Why would you keep doing this? Why would you…wait for me? For this?”
Bucky exhaled slowly. “Because even when it breaks me, you’re still worth every second I get.”
Your mouth opened slightly. No sound came out. Instead, you opened the journal.
The first page held a drawing. A sketch in faded pencil, your face, or someone who looked like you. The features were careful, practiced. You were looking down in the image, eyes shadowed, but peaceful. Beneath it, in neat handwriting:
11th time: She liked to paint near windows in sunlight. Said it made her feel alive. She told me to keep going, even when she was gone. I didn’t know how. Still don’t, but I’m trying.
Your heart pounded.
You turned the page.
31st time: She left me a voicemail before she died. Said if I ever found her again and she didn’t remember me, to tell her it was okay. That she was stronger than her forgetting. That love wasn’t something the body forgot, it was something that echoed in the soul and bones.
And the next:
42nd: She came back scared. She didn’t trust anyone, not even herself. But the second I said her name, she cried. She didn’t know why, just said it felt like home.
Your hand shook as you flipped further.
Tiny mementos were tucked inside throughout the journal. A movie ticket. A torn page from a crossword puzzle. A faded photo of the two of you, you laughing with your arms around him, eyes bright with a love you didn’t remember but suddenly longed for like oxygen.
And then… your voice.
Not now. Not this version. But one of you from before. It was a clipped audio, barely two minutes long, the file embedded into a tiny recorder taped to a page.
You pressed play.
“Hi. I know you’re me. Or some part of me. Or… maybe you’re someone entirely different now. That’s okay. You don’t have to remember everything. I just want you to know he’s safe. His voice is safe. His hands are safe. If you don’t remember anything else, remember that.”
You felt the sob before you heard it. Your hand flew to your mouth as your chest crumpled in on itself. You had said this. You had known you’d forget. And you’d wanted to leave yourself something, some thread to hold on to.
Across from you, Bucky didn’t speak. His eyes were glassy, but he didn’t interrupt. He never did. He let you come to him, always.
The journal was shaking in your hands. “I don’t know how to live like this,” You said, broken. “How can I be me if I’m always being rewritten?”
He leaned forward, voice low and certain. “Because no matter how many times the world erases you… you always find your way back.”
You looked at him again and something in you moved. A thread, a spark. Not a memory but an emotion. A warmth like sunlight through your body. It didn’t bring images, names, or facts. But it brought trust. Safety. The echo of something lost but not gone.
“Stay with me,” You pleaded in a whisper.
“I always do,” He said, steady.
And for the first time, in this lifetime, you reached for his hand. Not out of obligation. Not from the ghost of some former self. But because your heart, untouched by memory, still knew him.
And Bucky held on like he had every time before.
More Posts from Orellazalonia and Others
Caged in Comfort (Pt. 5)
Summary: You’re slowly starting to slip into exactly what they want. While you aren’t their bright little girl yet, they’re patient and present as your inner turmoil and outward resistance gradually fades. How long it will last is unknown to both you and them. (Dark Stucky x little!reader)
Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Forced Age Regression (Implied drugging). Kidnapping. References to Labs. Stockholm Syndrome in the future likely. You are responsible for the media you consume.
Word Count: 2.3k+
A/N: Would love to do a timeskip next chapter so I can explore interactions with the other Avengers. Maybe some of the others are in similar dynamics.
Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Previous | Next
You don’t know how much time passes. Minutes stretch long inside the room, dulled by soft lights and the gentle hum of something mechanical just out of sight. It’s too quiet. No voices outside. No footsteps. Just Steve and Bucky and you.
You keep your hands busy with the coloring book, eyes low. You can feel Bucky’s stare less now. He’s sitting in the corner, arms no longer crossed, just resting, watching. Steve’s still near, perched on the edge of the armchair like he’s about to tell a story. And maybe he is.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Steve says gently. “You’ve done really well today. And we’re proud of you for being so brave.”
You don’t respond, but you tilt your head slightly toward him. That’s enough to make him smile.
“We think it’s time we start going over the rules now,” He continues, voice warm like he’s saying something kind. “Just so things stay nice and easy here. You want things to be easy, don’t you?”
Your heart gives a dull thud, but you nod once.
“We’re gonna keep things simple for now,” He seems pleased, folding his hands together. “Rule number one: No wandering off. Ever. Not without one of us holding your hand. If you leave your room, it’s because one of us is with you. At least for now.”
You swallow as Bucky speaks next. His tone is low and gravelly, less gentle, more grounding.
“Number two: No lying. Not about how you’re feelin’, not about what you want, and definitely not about tryin’ to leave.”
Your shoulders tense, but you don’t move.
Steve gives him a quick look. Then softens his own voice again, like it’s meant to balance the weight of Bucky’s.
“We’ll always keep you safe. But we can only do that if you’re honest with us, okay? If something’s wrong, you tell us. Littles don’t need to worry about anything grown-up. That’s our job.”
You glance up at him. “What if I don’t wanna be… little?”
It comes out smaller than you mean it to. Careful. Testing.
Steve’s smile doesn’t falter. “That’s just the scared part of you talking, honey. You are little. You’ve just forgotten how to feel safe.”
Bucky stands now, slow and steady, and walks over. You hold your breath as he kneels beside you again. His eyes don’t soften, but his voice drops to something quieter.
“You’re ours now. You get to stop running.”
You turn your gaze away as Steve continues.
“Rule number three: Big girls don’t make the rules here. Littles follow the routine. You’ll get up when we say, eat what we give you, and nap when it’s time. And if you’re good, sweetheart…” His tone drops to a purr. “You’ll get certain rewards. Books. Toys. Maybe outings if you’ve been extra good.”
“And… if I’m not good?” You ask, voice barely a whisper, already suspecting the answer.
Bucky speaks first.
“Then we teach you.”
It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.
Steve gives a lighter version. “We help you remember what’s best. That’s all.”
There’s a silence after that, thick and expectant. Then Steve brightens a little, clapping his hands softly once.
“But you’ve been very good today, haven’t you? I think someone’s earned a little reward.”
You sit frozen, the rules echoing in your head. No wandering. No lying. No questioning the routine. You’re sure there’s more they aren’t mentioning yet.
You’re still holding the crayon in your hand, the colors blended together on the page. Steve’s footsteps are soft as he walks to the small counter on the other side of the room, but you don’t pay any attention to him. The world feels strange, like the edges are becoming blurry. You can’t focus on the drawings anymore. The crayon feels wrong in your fingers, too heavy. Everything’s shifting, like the walls are closing in.
Bucky’s voice breaks through the fog. It’s firm, steady, like it’s always been, but now there’s something gentler behind it. Like he’s trying to make you feel something you can’t put into words.
“Time for your snack, little one.”
You flinch. The words hang in the air, just as oppressive as they were earlier, but now, they feel different. Heavy. You swallow hard and feel a knot form in your throat. It’s like your brain can’t decide whether to resist or to just let it happen. Your fingers tremble as they grip the crayon tighter.
Steve’s voice is next, and it’s gentler, almost coaxing. “You’ve been a good girl. Now, it’s time to get your treat. You deserve it, sweetheart.”
The word girl makes something tighten in your chest. You want to argue. Want to snap that you’re not a child. That you can take care of yourself. But the resistance feels… heavy. It’s like a pull inside your chest, urging you to listen, to do what they say.
Bucky returns with a bottle given to him by Steve. The milk inside is warm and thick, the smell faintly sweet, like it’s supposed to be comforting. Your stomach churns. It smells like safety, something your body is telling you it’s supposed to trust, even though your mind rebels.
You try to pull away, but Bucky’s already there, crouching beside you again. His eyes flick over your face, calculating. For a moment, it feels like he’s waiting for you to make the next move, but you don’t. Your head dips a little. A silent surrender. You feel the smallest twinge of guilt, like something inside of you’s letting go. The last thread of resistance. Your mouth parts instinctively as Bucky raises the bottle to your lips.
“It’s good for you,” Steve says softly, standing close behind him. “Nice and warm. Makes you feel better.”
The bottle feels too big in your mouth. You sip it slowly, unsure, but the warmth settles in your stomach, spreading outwards. It feels… safe. A little too safe. You don’t want to admit it, but it’s there. You almost want to sink into it, but you can’t.
You drink, slow and hesitant, until the bottle’s empty. Bucky takes it away without a word, and you blink up at him, trying to hold onto some fragment of yourself, some edge of defiance. But the fog is thicker now. You can feel your eyelids heavy, the weight of everything pressing down on you. Still, you fight to keep your eyes open, not wanting to give in.
Steve’s voice cuts through the haze.
“Good girl.”
His words are soft, but they settle in your chest like something warm. You don’t know why, but it’s enough to make your body sink a little deeper into the softness of the cushions, like your muscles are finally giving up the fight.
“You’re doing so well,” Steve continues, his fingers brushing through your hair gently. “We’re proud of you.”
A part of you wants to pull away, to refuse the soft touches, the kind words that feel too familiar now. But another part of you is weak, and it feels nice. Your breath catches in your throat, and you feel the pressure build up behind your eyes.
But Bucky’s voice cuts through before you can retreat any further.
“You’ll learn to trust us,” He mutters, like a promise. “You’ll see that we’re here to take care of you.”
You feel yourself shrinking inward, like the words are pushing you back into a corner. Your face heats, your stomach tightens. The bottle and the warmth from it make your body want to give in, even if your mind still screams to fight.
You want to escape. You want to run, but there’s nowhere to go. Your body’s too heavy, too compliant now. And your mind is so small, so young. You can’t focus on anything other than the weight of their presence, their hands, their soft, soothing words. They surround you like a cocoon, and part of you feels like you could disappear into it. It’s almost easier.
But it’s not right. You know that. You want to scream, but instead, the words come out weak, almost childlike.
“Don’ wanna be here… wanna go home…”
It’s barely a whisper, and before you can even think about it, tears prick at your eyes. Your chest tightens painfully, longing for a home that never existed.
Steve’s eyes soften immediately. His hand moves to your cheek, warm and comforting, like the moment your vulnerability slips free, he’s there to catch it.
“You are home,” Steve reminds you, voice quiet but firm. “This is where you’re safe now.”
And that’s when you realize, no matter how hard you fight, no matter how much you wish it weren’t true, their version of safety has started to settle into your bones. You blink back the tears, but they come anyway, soft and silent, like a child finally giving in to the feeling of being held. Steve is there to hold you gently as your body melts into his arms even if your mind rebels, comforting you softly.
Steve and Bucky exchange a quiet look. There’s something different now in the air, something that shifts the dynamic between them, like they’re waiting for something to happen. But they’re patient, and that patience settles over you, pushing your shoulders to relax just a little bit more.
Steve’s voice comes first, low and soothing.
“You’re feeling little now, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
You nod slowly, your head still heavy, your body sluggish, but warm. Comfortable. It’s a strange sensation. It’s like something that feels a little too good to resist, even though you know, deep down, it’s wrong. You swallow, trying to fight it, but your body betrays you. You feel small, too small to push away their words, to hold onto the edges of yourself.
Bucky’s gaze flickers over to Steve for a moment before he turns back to you. His voice is softer than it has been all day.
“Alright, little one. Wanna get back to your playtime?”
Your heart skips a beat at the question. It sends a ripple of discomfort through you, but it’s too late to pull back now. The milk and the warmth have dulled everything down, leaving you tired and vulnerable. You look up at them, uncertain, like a child unsure of what’s coming next.
Steve looks down at you, his expression patient but expectant. “We got you some other toys to play with. Do you want to see them?”
Your eyes flicker between them, making a small movement of your head, nodding. Like you’ve given in without realizing it.
Bucky moves across the room, gathering a few plush toys, blocks, and a soft blanket from a nearby shelf. He arranges them in front of you, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s setting up a space for you to feel safe.
“There you go,” He mutters, settling on the floor beside you. “All for you.”
You stare at the plush toys and blocks, unsure of what to do with them. The toys look soft, inviting, like something that should belong to a little girl. A little you. Something in you pulls at the thought, and your fingers twitch as if reaching for them, but your mind is still cloudy. It’s hard to make decisions now, hard to decide whether you want to push away or lean in.
Steve’s voice is gentle when it comes again, pulling you back into the moment. It’s like he can see you struggling as he encourages you, “You can do whatever you want, honey. Just relax and have fun. No need to think about anything else.”
You hate the way they make you feel, like you have to be small. But there’s an undeniable pull in his tone, something comforting that makes it hard to resist. And so, your hands move almost automatically toward the plush toys. They’re soft, almost too soft, and they feel like a childhood that you never got to have.
You turn your attention to a stuffed bear, picking it up and running your fingers over its fuzzy ears. Your face softens without meaning to as you curl the bear into your lap. Something inside you lets go.
Bucky watches you from his place on the floor, his gaze is less guarded now. There’s a small shift in his posture, like he’s watching a part of you unfold that he’s been waiting for. Both of them are being careful in their movements as they watch you regress.
“That’s a great friend you have there, kiddo,” He speaks, his voice lower now, less sharp.
Steve sits beside you, his hand resting gently on your back, providing an anchor. His touch is comforting in a way that feels almost too real.
“You’re safe, sweetheart. Just play with your bear, okay? No one’s going to hurt you here.”
The words sound so simple. So easy. But they strike deep. Your fingers move to tuck the bear into the crook of your arm, holding it close. You feel small. Like a child. And even though part of you tries to pull away, tries to scream no, another part of you is so tired, so tired of resisting. You bury your face against the soft fur, closing your eyes for just a moment.
A soft sigh escapes you, and you feel Steve’s hand rub your back gently. His thumb makes little circles, just enough to ground you. Just enough to make it easier to slip deeper into this state.
And you become a little more pliable in that moment. The situation settles in like a balm to a wound. Your body feels heavy, lethargic, and in the same breath, there’s a part of you that’s letting go. Fully leaning into the care they’re offering. You don’t have the strength to fight anymore. Not now, at least.
You curl the bear tighter, pulling it to your chest as if to keep the tiny shreds of your older self intact. The way you play is slow, hesitant, and yet… you start to feel like it’s not that bad. Not if you let it wash over you like this. Let yourself be small.
After the Noise
Summary: During a meeting, everything becomes too much for you. Your fathers notice instantly, bringing you to a quieter space and reassuring you that you don’t always have to be big. (Stucky x little!reader) [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]
Word Count: 1k+
Main Masterlist
You hadn’t expected it to be this loud. The conference room at the compound is packed. Agents, teammates, unfamiliar faces. And everyone’s talking over one another. The sound is a rising tide, voices blending into a thick, dizzying fog. You try to focus on Steve’s voice across the table, but his words get swallowed in the noise. Your chest tightens. The lights seem too bright. Everything feels too big.
You shift in your seat and grip the edge of your chair. The room starts to close in. You know you’re supposed to be “big” right now, supposed to sit still, be quiet, and listen. But your hands are shaking. Your breathing gets shallow. Your skin prickles like it’s not your own.
Across the room, Bucky sees it before anyone else does. He watches the way your shoulders curl inward, the way you glance toward the door, your eyes wide and glassy. He doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he just stands, quiet and steady as he crosses the room.
“Hey,” He murmurs, leaning down beside you, his voice cutting through the chaos like a lifeline. “Come with me.”
You nod quickly, not trusting your voice. Your fingers twitch as he gently guides you out of your chair, one hand warm on your back. No one stops you. You keep your head down as Bucky leads you out of the room and down a quiet hallway. Steve is swift to finish his part, excusing himself from the meeting to follow the both of you to the elevator. His brow creased with quiet worry.
“Too much?” Steve asks softly.
You nod again, clutching your sleeves.
Steve opens his arms. “C’mere, sweetheart.”
You don’t hesitate. You fold yourself into his chest, breathing in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He wraps you up without a word, one hand moving gently over your back. Bucky stands beside you both, a silent guard keeping the world at bay.
“You’re okay,” Steve says into your hair. “You’re not in trouble. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“It was just a lot,” Bucky adds, his voice low and calm. “Happens to all of us.”
Your fingers fist in the front of Steve’s shirt. It’s quieter here. Safe. You still feel small and shaken, but their presence helps ground you, like anchors when everything else is spinning.
“We’re gonna go upstairs,” Steve murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “Someplace quiet. Somewhere just for us.”
Bucky offers you a reassuring look, and you manage the smallest nod. Between the two of them, you’re brought to the elevator and out of the noise. No questions. No judgment. Just warmth and comfort and calm. And for the first time all morning, you feel like you can finally breathe again.
As Bucky presses the button to their floor, the elevator hums softly as it rises, the gentle motion lulling you into a calmer rhythm. You stay tucked against Steve’s chest, your cheek resting against the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t shift or speak, just holds you close with the quiet patience he always has when you’re in this kind of space. The small, overwhelmed version of yourself you rarely show anyone else.
When the doors slide open, the light is different. Softer. Warmer. Bucky steps out first, leading the way down the familiar hall to one of your favorite quiet rooms. Not particularly a bedroom, not an office either. Just a little tucked-away space with soft blankets, shelves of books, and no expectations. It's a place meant for slowing down and today, that’s just what you need.
Steve gently sets you down on your feet but doesn’t let go of your hand. “We’re here,” He says softly. “You did good.”
Bucky’s already over by the low couch, pulling down your weighted blanket from the shelf and setting out your favorite comfort item. A soft, floppy stuffed dog you’d once found in Steve’s old storage trunk and quietly claimed as yours. He lays it down like it belongs in your hands.
You cross the room slowly, not quite ready to speak yet. The buzzing in your head is starting to fade, but your body still feels too big and too small at once. You curl up on the couch as Bucky drapes the blanket over you. It smells like the laundry soap Steve uses. Like safety.
Steve kneels in front of you. “Do you want us close?” He asks gently, “Or some space for a bit?”
You pause, then mutter out the former. He understands instantly. He always does. Within seconds, both of them are settled nearby. Bucky sitting at the foot of the couch, his arm resting along the cushion behind your legs, and Steve sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, one hand resting where your knee peeks out from under the blanket. They don’t ask you to talk. They don’t ask you to explain. They’re just there. The chaos of the meeting long forgotten.
You clutch the stuffed dog in your hands, the weight of the blanket pulling you back into your body, little by little. You can hear Steve hum softly, a melody you can’t place. Something old and calming as you feel Bucky’s thumb draws quiet circles against the side of your calf.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. Eventually, you whisper, “Sorry.”
Steve looks up at you, soft and warm. “For what?”
“For… needing to leave.”
Bucky’s voice is gentle but firm. “You don’t have to be sorry for listening to your body. You told us without even using words. That’s brave, doll.”
You blink, eyes stinging again, but not from fear this time. From relief.
“You don’t have to be big all the time,” Steve reassures as always, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “Not with us.”
You nod slowly, the tension finally slipping out of your shoulders. You’re not sure you’re ready to go back downstairs. Maybe not for a while but right now, here, wrapped in their quiet protection, you feel safe and that’s enough.
Haha, they’re so much fun even if she doesn’t make a bit of sense sometimes. Thank you for reading!!! ♡
Chaos Counseling
Summary: You accidentally becomes the Avengers' unofficial therapist, delivering unhinged wisdom that changes lives whether they like it or not. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)
Word Count: 1k+
A/N: As a psychology major, I do not condone the advice or techniques reader uses for a professional setting (lol). It’s all for speculative fun. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist
It started because you caught Peter Parker crying in the hallway and handed him a Capri Sun.
Partially because of a real desire to help, but mostly because you just had one in your pocket. Peter took it like it was a lifeline. He sniffled then muttered, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this.”
You blinked, leaned in, and whispered solemnly, “Crying is just eye vomiting. You gotta get it out or your soul gets constipated.”
Peter stopped crying. Not because he felt better, but because he had no idea what to do with that sentence.
He went silent for ten seconds, wiped his eyes, and hesitantly said, “That’s… actually helpful?”
“Yeah,” You stabbed another Capri Sun with aggressive force. “I’m basically Freud if he was raised by raccoons and Disney Channel.”
And just like that, you became the Compound’s Emotional Support Cryptid.
By the time Bucky found out three days later, you’d already “accidentally therapized” Peter, Clint, Sam, and most surprisingly Wanda, who now referred to you as her “mind gremlin of peace.”
He entered the rec room to find Sam staring blankly at the wall, murmuring, “I am not my productivity.”
“…What the hell did you do to him?” Bucky asked.
You were upside down on the couch, feet in the air while eating an apple with a spoon.
“I told him hustle culture is a capitalist trap designed to keep us from achieving true inner joy. Also that pigeons are government spies. One of those hit him real hard.”
Bucky stared. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”
You shrugged. “No. But apparently my unmedicated inner monologue is therapeutic.”
The final straw (or blessing, depending who you ask) was Tony Stark’s meltdown. He’d been spiraling in the lab for days now with low sleep, bad attitude, and a full ego. The standard stuff. You wandered in eating popcorn with chopsticks and sat on his table, pushing one of his gadgets aside with your foot.
“You need to feel your feelings, Tony.”
He didn’t even look up. “I built a suit of armor to avoid that exact thing.”
“Cool,” You said, chewing. “But now your trauma is building you a suit of armor. And it’s ugly.”
Tony froze, slowly turning to you. “That… was either the dumbest or most brilliant thing I’ve ever heard.”
You offered him a bag of marshmallows and patted his cheek. “Let’s call it both and have a cry.”
He did.
-
You weren’t trained, of course. And you didn’t plan to become the Avengers’ emotional crutch. But one by one, they came to you.
Natasha sat beside you and confessed she sometimes felt like a ghost. You told her ghosts are just trauma that didn’t pay rent.
Wanda asked how to cope with her past. You said to build a new house out of grief and invite joy over for tea.
Steve admitted once he was tired of being the symbol of hope. You handed him a juice box and told him it’s okay to be a tired little guy sometimes.
Every time, Bucky watched from the sidelines, equal parts baffled and smitten.
“You’re not qualified for this,” He muttered one night, watching Clint sob out of the room from something profoundly dumb you said while you knitted a scarf out of yarn you had found in the vents.
You just smiled at Bucky, eyes soft. “Nope. But neither is life, and I’m still doing that too.”
He pulled you in by the waist, kissed your forehead, and muttered, “God, I love you.”
“Obviously,” You said, already distracted. “Anyway, pass me that bowl. I’m about to emotionally dismantle Loki.”
-
Nick Fury tried to fire you. Twice. He wanted to submit a formal request to “hire an actual mental health professional.” He was denied.
The first time, you responded by sending him a PowerPoint titled “Why I Am Vital to Team Morale: A Threat and a Promise,” which included hand-drawn pie charts, quotes you definitely made up from Plato and Beyoncé, and a photo of a possum in a teacup labeled “Emotional Support Rodent (not metaphorical).”
The second time, he walked into the compound and found all the Avengers crowded in your room. Thor was wrapped in a blanket you made him (“my thunder cocoon”), Wanda asleep against your shoulder, Sam and Clint mid-debate over which Pokémon best represents childhood abandonment, and Bucky sprawled on your bed, fast asleep with your hand in his hair and a peaceful look on his face like he hadn’t had in years.
Fury stood silently in the doorway for a full ten seconds, then turned around and walked out.
No one’s heard from him since.
A few nights later, you and Bucky were curled up on the couch. You were using him as a weighted blanket while reading a quantum physics book upside-down and occasionally arguing with the toaster nearby (which you'd programmed to “vibe check” everyone who used it).
He was half-asleep, running his thumb over your shoulder, when he murmured, “You know they’d fall apart without you, right?”
You snorted. “They’d be fine. Steve can tie a tie and Sam knows how to keep plants alive. That’s practically domestic stability.”
“No,” He said, voice low and eyes steady. “You help them in the best way. You say the things no one expects but everyone needs. You make the weird stuff feel normal. You make me feel normal.”
You blinked, heart flipping slightly sideways in your chest.
Then you smirked. “You just like me because I told Thor his emotional baggage could crush Mjölnir.”
Bucky laughed, the low, warm kind that curled in your ribs and stayed there. “Maybe. And because you somehow gave Loki a complex about not recycling.”
You shifted to give him a quick kiss before whispering, “You love me.”
“I do.”
You rested your head against his chest with a content hum. “Good. Now help me convince Tony to install a therapy ball pit. For, like, emotional regulation purposes.”
He sighed. “God help me, I’ll do it.”
And he would. Because somehow, against all logic, you made chaos feel like home.
She for real is!!! I love her energy and nonsensical reasons for doing things, so much fun to write. Thank you for reading!!!
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 | Sequel | Extra
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 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.”
I’d say I did my job well with this fic :D
But it is left open-ended for both versions so you can always imagine a happy ending! Thank you for reading!!! ♡
I’ll Still Love You
Summary: After a mission gone wrong, you lose all memory of your relationship with Bucky. Even though it pains him to the core with grief, he stays by your side and quietly swears he’ll always love you no matter what happens. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Word Count: 2.8k+
A/N: This has ANGST!!! I hope you cry /j. I love this version more than the other to be honest, maybe you all will like it too! You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Your Version
There were things Bucky didn’t think he’d ever have again.
Peace. Sleep. A future. And you.
You came into his life like silence after gunfire. Still and steady, almost unnoticeable at first. You didn’t push or prod. You didn’t flinch at the name Winter Soldier or look at his arm like it was a loaded weapon. You just existed in that calm, present, and kind way.
Many times you would ask how his day was, not his past. You told him what you dreamt about instead of asking what woke him screaming. You made him feel like a person, not a project nor a burden. And that was enough to terrify him.
But he kept coming back.
The first time he held your hand, it was hesitant. He was half-expecting you to pull away, but you didn’t. The first time he kissed you, it was desperate. Like he was drowning in memories and you were the only air left. And you kissed him back like you already knew how many pieces he was in, and didn’t mind picking them up one at a time.
He didn’t say I love you for a long time, not until it slipped out during a fight that he couldn’t remember why it happened to begin with. The words had always felt too big, too fragile. But he knew it the night you fell asleep on his chest, your breathing slow and your fingers resting over the surface of his metal arm. Like you cherished even the parts of him that brought so much destruction. He watched you sleep for hours, just holding you, trying to remember what it felt like to want to stay alive.
Sixteen months with you, and he still couldn’t believe it was real.
The little apartment above the bookstore wasn’t much, but it was yours. The heater barely worked. The neighbors were loud. But there were books in every corner, and a photo of you both pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a cat. You called it “home.” And for once in his life, Bucky did too.
Every morning, he woke up with you tangled in the blankets beside him. Your head tucked beneath his chin, one arm slung over his waist. You always woke up first, but you never moved until he stirred. You said you liked to watch him even though he never knew why.
He always figured you saw something in him he couldn’t. And maybe that was what scared him most. That somehow, one day, you'd wake up and see him for what he really was. Not a man. Not a boyfriend. Just a weapon with blood on his hands.
But that day hadn’t come. Not yet.
-
When the mission briefing came through, it was supposed to be simple and low risk. An abandoned Hydra lab flagged for cleanup. Just intel recovery and demolition. No fights, no enemies. He didn’t want you going in. Something about the location sat wrong in his chest. But you insisted. Said you’d handled worse.
And maybe that was the problem. You always handled everything for him. For others. Even when you shouldn’t have had to.
He watched as you went down another hall to split up and cover more ground. He wished he had never left your side. Because then came the moment of static on the comms, then the flicker of power loss, and lastly the sudden radio silence.
He ran. It took six minutes to find you.
You were in a containment room, collapsed near a machine that looked like something between a scanner and a torture device. Your body was curled on the ground, breathing shallow, hands twitching.
He dropped to his knees beside you. “Hey. Hey… C’mon, Doll, open your eyes.”
You blinked and looked up at him. You stared at him like he was a stranger. When you spoke up, your voice was hoarse. “Who are you?”
The question didn’t register at first. He thought maybe it was the shock. Or a concussion. Maybe you were disoriented. But then you pushed yourself away from him and crawled back, visibly panicked. Your eyes were wide and your throat was working hard to swallow a scream.
“Please… don’t touch me.”
And just like that, the air left his lungs. He tried to stay calm. He tried saying your name, gently. Over and over. You flinched every time like it was a threat. Like he was. It was the look in your eyes that gutted him the most. Not fear of what had happened. Not confusion. But the absence of everything.
Everything you’d shared. The way you looked at him every morning. The jokes you made in the kitchen. The way you once whispered you’d never been safer than in his arms. It was all gone.
You didn’t know who he was. You didn’t know you loved him. And in that moment, he’d never felt more like the ghost they said he was.
-
You didn’t come home right away.
When he managed to coax you back to the tower, the Medics cleared you, of course. Physically, you were fine. Not a scratch on you. But the memory loss was real. The device had done something. Wiped neural pathways, scrambled connections, stripped entire years like peeling wallpaper.
You remembered your name. Your training. How to handle a weapon. How to take apart a gun and stitch a wound. But not him. Not the man who held you every night like you were the only thing tethering him to this century. Not Bucky.
At first, you stayed in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility while they ran scans and tests. Bucky barely left your side. He hovered in corners, not too close, watching you try to relearn yourself in pieces. You were calm, quiet, and even polite.
You just didn’t know him.
He heard it in your voice every time you said his name: Barnes, not Bucky. Cold and distant like a fellow agent rather than the man who once made you laugh so hard you cried over a burnt grilled cheese sandwich in the middle of a power outage.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” You told him once, hands folded in your lap, and voice so gentle it cut him clean. “But… I don’t feel anything when I look at you. I’m sorry.”
He nodded and didn’t say anything more. What could he say?
He didn’t cry in front of you. But later, in the hallway, he braced his metal hand against the wall and exhaled like it hurt just to breathe. They had given you the option not to work for S.H.I.E.L.D anymore, to never see him again. To transfer and reset your life wherever you wanted.
But you didn’t. You looked at him and said, “Maybe… if I spend time with you, it might come back.”
So you came home.
You sat in the apartment like it was a museum. You traced the spines of your own books with unfamiliar fingertips. You opened drawers and stared at the little things like the shared grocery lists, photos of the two of you at Coney Island, a half-finished mug you’d made in a pottery class Bucky had hated but gone to anyway, just because you asked.
None of it sparked anything. But you wanted to remember and that mattered.
He made dinner the first night. Pasta, simple. You smiled faintly and said it tasted good. But you had always used to make fun of him for using too much garlic. He waited for you to say it, but you didn’t.
Later, you sat on opposite sides of the couch while a movie played in the background. You asked questions about yourself: what kind of music you liked, what books you used to read, or if you ever learned to play the old keyboard tucked beside the bookshelf.
Bucky answered every one like he was handling glass.
“You hated horror movies,” He said softly. “Used to bury your face in my shoulder even during the trailers. But you’d watch them anyway, just to laugh at me jumping.”
You tilted your head. “You get scared at horror movies?”
He cracked a faint smile. “Terrified.”
You laughed, really laughed, and for a second, just one fragile moment, it felt like you. He clung to that.
He didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you. Didn’t call you doll or lean against you the way he used to. You weren’t his anymore. Not yet. Maybe not ever again. But every time you laughed or asked about a memory, he let himself hope.
Hope that somewhere, buried deep inside your mind, you were still his.
When he wasn’t spending time around you, he could tell how the rest of the team practically tiptoes around him now.
Some aren’t subtle. Natasha gives him long looks across briefing tables, equal parts pity and protectiveness. She doesn’t speak unless spoken to and whenever she does, her voice is softer than usual. Controlled.
Sam tries, bless him. He cracks a joke or two, light and quick, as if humor could stitch something this deep. He claps Bucky on the shoulder once in the gym and says, “You’re still in there. She’ll find you.” But he doesn’t say anything back, simply giving a tight nod before walking off.
Tony doesn’t gloat much anymore. He doesn’t joke either. He just sends a file to Bucky’s secure inbox about neural-recovery tech, theories, names of people who’ve studied memory wipe reversal. No subject line. No message. But Bucky understands it for what it is: support in Stark language.
Even Clint says it plain. “You’re not giving up.” And Bucky says it back. “I’m not.”
But none of them really know how to be there for him.
Because they saw the way you used to look at him, like he wasn’t a weapon or a man with blood on his hands, but simply yours. And now… you don’t even flinch when you stand near him, because you don’t remember what there is to be afraid of or to love.
So they give him space. But not Steve.
It’s late when Steve knocks. He doesn’t bother answering, but Steve comes in anyway. He finds Bucky in the kitchen, t-shirt and sweatpants, staring at a chipped mug on the counter like it just insulted him.
Steve doesn’t say anything at first, just leans back against the counter, crossing his arms and waiting.
Bucky exhales, but doesn’t look up. “She used to use that one,” He murmurs. “Every morning. Even when the handle cracked.”
His best friend glances at the mug to see the tiny sunflowers on it, slightly faded from too many washes. He remembers seeing it in the sink a hundred times. He remembers seeing you curled against Bucky on the couch, sipping from it with both hands while Bucky tucked a blanket around you like you were something breakable.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Bucky says. His voice is low, shaky even now. “She’s here. She’s here, Stevie. But it’s like watching her ghost walk around our apartment.”
Steve swallows as his chest aches, but he doesn’t show it.
“She’s not gone, Buck.”
“She doesn’t remember me.”
“But she’s trying.”
That lands hard. Bucky finally looks up, eyes bloodshot but dry.
Steve pushes off the counter and takes a slow step forward. “You’re angry. You’re grieving her, even though she’s right in front of you. That’s hell. But Bucky…” He sighs. “You know what it’s like to lose everything and still survive. You’ve done it before.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches. “It’s not the same.”
“No. It’s not. Because this time, she’s trying to come back to you. You just have to be patient.”
Bucky looks down at the mug again. He breathes slowly, his tone more vulnerable now. “What if she never remembers? What if she falls in love with someone else, and I’m just some… ghost in a photo?”
Steve’s expression cracks for a moment but his voice remains gentle. “Then you’ll still love her. You’ll still be there, however she needs. Because that’s what you do when someone’s your home.”
Silence fills the air before Bucky finally nods. It’s a slow, pained motion done only once.
Steve steps closer to his friend and grips his shoulder, firm and steady. “You’re not alone in this. You never were.”
And with that, Bucky stays. He stays by your side at a comfortable distance, offering a steady presence and patient answers to any questions you have.
Even though it hurts him to see you this way, makes him sick to his stomach with grief and anguish at the loss of your love; Bucky never let it show around you, not even once.
Because if there was one thing he remembered and understood better than anyone, it was what it meant to lose pieces of yourself. He couldn’t be angry with you for forgetting, not when he’d spent decades trying to remember who he used to be.
So he doesn’t beg. Doesn’t plead. He doesn’t guilt you into trying harder either. He just stays.
Sometimes, you asked him questions.
“Did I… love you?”
He never lied. Never told you stories to manipulate your heart into remembering. He just answered, gently and honestly.
“Yeah,” He’d say. “You did. And I loved you too.”
And when you looked down or away or offered a polite smile instead of a knowing one, he’d excuse himself for a few minutes to the hallway where he could breathe through the ache in his chest. But Bucky wasn’t a man who gave up. Not on you. Not now.
Because the truth was, he’d wait as long as it took. Even if you never remembered. Even if he had to fall in love with you all over again from scratch and let you fall for him at your own pace, in your own way.
-
On some days, something sparked enough to give him hope.
One morning, it started small. Not with a kiss. Not with some dramatic tearful moment or sudden flood of recognition. Just… a hum.
You’re making tea, quiet and slow, the way you always did. The kettle hisses and clicks, and you’re standing in Bucky’s- your kitchen, waiting.
And you hum. A stupid little melody. Out of tune and familiar.
Bucky freezes in the doorway, his breath caught like a hook in his throat.
Because you always used to hum that song. A dumb old jazz piece he played on vinyl one night just to tease you, and you rolled your eyes and said it sounded like elevator music. Then you got it stuck in your head for weeks to the point where he’d find you humming it while brushing your teeth or waiting for the microwave. Once he heard it while you were patching up a bullet graze.
And now you’re doing it again, without realizing. He doesn’t say anything. He’s afraid if he moves too fast, the moment will vanish like mist.
You pour the tea then turn enough to notice him, tilting your head slightly in concern. “You okay?”
He swallows. “Yeah. Just… you always used to hum that.”
You blink. “Did I?”
He nods and you don’t say anything else. But you look thoughtful. Like maybe, for a flicker of a second, something stirred inside.
Later, it happens again.
You’re sitting on the couch. He’s a few feet away. Respectful as always. You yawn, curl your legs up under you, and reach for the blanket on the back of the couch. Without thinking, you toss one corner toward him.
He stares. Because you always used to share it like that. The dumb little blanket-sharing ritual, a habit you never talked about. Just muscle memory. A routine born of hundreds of nights side-by-side.
And now… now your body remembers what your mind doesn’t.
You notice the way he’s looking at the blanket. “Is this something I used to do?”
He nods again, slower this time. “Yeah.”
“…Do you want it?”
“No,” He says quickly, quietly. “I’m good.”
You study him a moment longer, then gently drape it across both your laps anyway. You don’t say anything. Neither does he. But he doesn’t move for a long time.
That night, when you go to bed, Bucky stays on the couch like he always does now. It’s separate and distant, yet safe. But his heart is full of knives. Because every second you’re here, every time you smile or laugh or hum that dumb melody, he remembers how it used to feel. The ease and the intimacy. The way you’d tuck your face into his chest and call him “Buck” in that soft, sleepy voice like you’d never say it for anyone else.
And he wonders if he’ll ever have that again. But even if he doesn’t, even if you never remember, and even if you move on someday and love someone else…
He knows one thing like gospel truth:
He will still love you. Always. Even if it breaks him.
Because it was never a choice. Not with you. You were the first thing that made him believe he could have a future. And he’ll keep loving you even if all you ever give him now are flickers of hope.
And now, even with your memory scattered like ash in the wind, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever lost.
Girl we need more of chaotic reader it was literally so funny how does one even come up with this😭
Hello there! Most of the credit still goes to @ghouljams in one of their posts. But once the inspiration hit, it was so fun to come up with other weird, questionable, and/or chaotic things. Will definitely be posting more sometime since a lot of folks seemed to love it as much as I did! Thank you for reading!!! ♡
Just got the notification today, thank you all for 100 likes! I know it’s spread out among posts and might be too small a milestone to be proud of. However, I’m grateful nonetheless! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
Thank you! I’m glad you liked it. Thanks for reading!!! ♡
Even If You Forget
Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Bucky loses all memory of his relationship with you. Though heartbroken, you patiently stay by his side, offering gentle support and quiet company. Despite the emotional distance, you hold onto the hope that someday he’ll find his way back. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Word Count: 2.1k+
A/N: This has ANGST by the way. I absolutely adore anything to do with memories, so much potential. I might write another version of this where the reader loses her memories instead. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
The mornings with Bucky were always slow, quiet, and warm.
His arm was usually draped over your waist by the time the sun started to creep through the blinds. He breathed a little heavier in the mornings, caught between dreams and the weight of his history. However, he never seemed to stir until you moved.
You liked it that way. It gave you time to look at him, at the faint worry lines that softened in sleep, at the longer strands of brown hair you liked to brush behind his ear, at the mouth that rarely smiled in public but had no trouble curving up for you when the world was far away.
You loved him deeply. In the way people loved after surviving something. There were scars on both of you and silences that stretched longer than they should’ve, but you understood him, and he had never once looked at you like he regretted being understood.
Your relationship had started quietly, like most things with Bucky did. It wasn’t love at first sight. It wasn’t loud declarations or stolen kisses in the rain. It was simpler. He’d sit near you during debriefings and glance over to make sure you understood the mission. He’d knock on your door late at night when he couldn’t sleep and leave a book outside if you didn’t answer. He remembered how you liked your coffee and never asked why you kept a light on when you slept.
Eventually, he started sitting a little closer. Touching your hand a little longer. Smiling a little easier. It wasn’t fast, but it was safe and real. You both needed that.
Sixteen months into the relationship, you'd moved in together into a tiny apartment, tucked above an old bookstore with creaky floors and a heater that only worked when Bucky kicked it. You painted the walls together. He helped pick out the furniture. You made him tea when his nightmares left him shaking, and he kissed your forehead when your hands trembled after bad missions.
He was never one to say I love you right away and especially not out loud. But he showed it, every single day.
And when he finally did say it, it was late at night, in the middle of an argument about laundry or groceries or something equally domestic and ridiculous when you both froze. He looked horrified that it slipped out. You looked stunned for barely a second before smiling and leaning closer to him, saying it back like it was the easiest thing in the world.
You thought nothing could take that from you.
But you were wrong.
You and Bucky had been paired up for another mission like normal to infiltrate an abandoned Hydra facility. Retrieve what remained of their stolen technology and data, destroy the rest. Bucky didn’t want you going in at first, but you reminded him that you were a trained operative, not a civilian. Besides, you worked better together anyways.
You were halfway through the facility when the alarms went off. Not an intruder alert but something else. Something that triggered deeper in the system. You split up briefly to cover more ground, and that was the last time Bucky looked at you like he knew who you were.
When you found him again twenty minutes later, he was hunched over and clutching his head near a strange, flickering device. When he raised his head, all you could see was cold, calculating eyes staring back.
Like a stranger.
And when you called his name, your voice shaking, and your hands reaching out to steady him; he backed away like you were poison.
“Who the hell are you?”
You froze in your spot. His voice wasn’t like Bucky’s. It was lower, flatter. Measured. It lacked the hesitant warmth that usually colored his words when he spoke to you. It was the voice of someone evaluating a threat.
Your hand, half-raised, trembled in the air between you.
“Bucky,” You whispered, like maybe the sound of it would crack something open. “It’s me.”
He stood slowly, the whir of his metal arm slicing through the silence. His eyes didn’t flicker with recognition. No softness. No guilt. Just analysis and caution.
You’d seen that expression before. Once. Years ago, when the Winter Soldier was still a ghost wandering about without a strip of autonomy. You definitely didn’t see this expression on the man who crawled into your bed at night and tucked a blanket around your shoulders.
But, here he was. You could feel how painfully your heart pounded in your chest.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” He said, almost to himself. He looked around, scanning the shadows like he expected enemies to crawl out of the dark. His hand hovered near the side holster at his thigh. “Who sent you?”
“No one sent me,” You said, stepping forward. “You’re-… Bucky, you’re not well. That machine, something happened. Let me help-“
“Stop,” He snapped. Your name was unfamiliar to him now. It didn’t make him pause. It didn’t register. “You’re not cleared to speak to me. I don’t know you.”
The words landed with brutal precision. You stepped back like you’d been struck. Because in a way, you had. He didn’t remember you.
The realization settled over you slowly, like frost creeping across glass. You felt your lungs tighten, your throat close. You could still see the outline of the relationship you'd built, months of laughter and late nights and slow healing, but he stood on the other side of it now, locked out.
You reached for your comm, fingers clumsy and stiff with dread as you called for backup and reported the situation.
When the team arrived, faster than you had expected, they didn’t ask many questions. You let them take over while you stood to the side, arms wrapped tightly around your chest, eyes fixed on the man who no longer knew your name.
Steve had been brought with the other agents. Miraculously, Bucky still remembered him and trusted his words to lead him to safety. He had followed Steve back to the Quinjet without hesitation. There was a time when he would have trusted you without a second thought too, but now you were just another stranger.
You sat in the back of the jet, silent and numb, your eyes never leaving his tense form. One hand was curled loosely near his chest. You remembered how he used to hold your hand that way when he slept. Like he needed to know you were real.
Now he didn’t know you at all.
Back at HQ, medical scans confirmed your worst fear. The machine had been some kind of neural disruptor, a crude prototype designed to extract and overwrite memory. Hydra tech, of course. The data was incomplete, scrambled, but the damage wasn’t.
He remembered Steve. Missions. Pieces of his past. It didn’t bring back the Winter Soldier thanks to his time in Wakanda. However, anything recent or anything soft, was gone.
You. Erased just like that.
You spent three days outside the glass of the room he stayed in, watching him rebuild his reality in pieces. He spoke little. Ate less. The team tried reintroducing him to other faces, but he flinched away from most of them. He was polite, distant, cautious. Like a soldier unsure of his orders.
Every time you entered the room, his eyes would land on you and linger. But they never softened. He never said your name, not even once.
And every night, you’d sit alone in your apartment above the bookstore, staring at the spot on the couch where he used to fall asleep during movie nights, wondering how you could miss someone who was technically still alive, just out of reach.
You never forced him to remember. You didn’t even try. Because you knew memory wasn’t something you could demand back. It wasn’t a switch you could flip or a locked door you could break down with frustration or anger. It was delicate. Fragile. Like glass edges that could cut him deeper if handled carelessly.
So instead, you became quiet. You became gentle even though visiting him wasn’t easy. Each time you entered the room, you reminded yourself to soften your eyes, to keep your voice low, calm. To be someone who he might feel safe with, even if he didn’t remember why.
“Hey,” You’d say, just like that. Simple. No pressure. No demands.
You’d bring small things like his favorite book, a picture from your last trip, or a worn jacket he’d left behind. You hoped these would speak to something buried inside him, a spark.
Some days, he’d look at you with confusion. Others, with suspicion. Sometimes, his eyes would flicker like he was searching for a ghost behind your face.
You hated that, but you never showed it. You never let him see it because you couldn’t. You remembered how lost he felt the first time you met him, before all the pieces of you and him fit together. And you knew patience was the only thread strong enough to hold you both together now.
Because you could tell he was afraid. Of you. Of himself. Of what he’d lost. And you were afraid, too. Afraid you’d never get him back. Afraid he’d forget the moments you shared, the trust you built. All the moments you shared together.
But you stayed. Every passing day, every painful visit, you stayed. Even when it hurt to see the distance in his eyes or the way his hand no longer found yours in the dark or the way his voice no longer softened when he spoke your name.
Because love wasn’t about forcing recognition or surfacing memories of what used to be. It was about waiting. Waiting until he could find you again, on his own terms.
-
In the halls of the Avengers compound, you often caught the looks of the team. Quiet glances that lingered too long before they quickly looked away. Soft expressions shadowed with pity. Sometimes, it was Tony shaking his head slightly when he thought you weren’t looking. Sometimes, Natasha’s eyes would meet yours briefly, sympathy buried beneath her usual stoic mask. Steve especially, steady as ever, gave you a small nod of understanding whenever your paths crossed.
They all knew. They knew what you were going through. They knew exactly what you had lost, but no one said it aloud. They didn’t need to after all.
You felt the weight of it, like invisible hands pressing down on your chest when you thought you were alone. The way they looked at you said, She’s holding onto someone who’s slipping away. She’s pretending to be okay, but she’s breaking.
You never asked for their pity. You never wanted it. It felt like another reminder that things were broken beyond repair. So you kept forcing yourself to keep your head high and to keep moving forward.
You showed up for briefings. You trained with the others. You made sure your smiles were steady, your voice calm. But deep within you, every step was heavy. Every breath felt borrowed. Because the truth everyone was coming to realize, no one could fix this but Bucky. And Bucky couldn’t remember you.
And as days bled into weeks, your visits with him continued. Still quiet, steady, and unyielding. But no breakthroughs. No magic moments where Bucky suddenly remembered your name or the warmth of your touch.
But slowly, you learned to be okay with that. Because sometimes, healing wasn’t about the big gestures. It was about the small ones.
A flicker of recognition in his eyes when you laughed at a joke you’d shared long ago. A twitch of hesitation before he pulled back when you offered your hand. A breath held a moment longer when you read aloud from his favorite book.
Those tiny cracks in the wall gave you hope.
One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the compound, you found yourself sitting beside him on the couch. No words were spoken, there was no need.
His hand, tentative and unsure, brushed against yours. You paused for a moment and didn’t dare pull away. Instead, you let your fingers intertwine slowly, grounding both of you in that fragile moment of connection.
It wasn’t the past rushing back. It wasn’t a promise of what would come. But it was something. A beginning. A chance. And sometimes, that was enough.
Because you knew this story wasn’t finished. Not yet.
And as long as you both were willing to try, maybe one day, he’d find his way back to you.
The Weight of the Truth
Summary: You form an unlikely bond with Bucky Barnes during your time with the Avengers. What begins as mutual trust and quiet companionship slowly deepens into something more. However, when Bucky begins pulling away without explanation, it leaves you hurt and confused. Tension builds until a raw, emotional confrontation forces the truth out of both of you. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to compel people to tell the truth against their will. Light angst. Hurt/Comfort.
Word Count: 3k+
A/N: Based on the poll I ran, the majority voted Truth Compulsion and Telepathy. I chose the first for now and will do telepathy next, maybe something lighter or fun for the latter. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
You weren’t born with the power to pull truth from people’s mouths. It came later in life one rainy afternoon, so suddenly, like a curse wrapped in silk. It didn’t matter how much someone wanted to lie; if you asked the question and truly wanted the answer, they had to speak it. Every word dragged from their chest like it weighed a hundred pounds. You didn’t need to raise your voice, threaten, or coax. No. Your voice simply made the truth impossible to hold in.
Some people thought it was a gift. However, you never saw it that way, knowing what people really felt, what they really meant, and what they were too afraid to say. You were too young back then when you failed to realize most people didn’t want honesty. And some truths, once spoken, couldn’t be unsaid.
Therefore, you weren’t used to people staying. Not when they learned what you could do.
Your presence alone made people uneasy, not because you were loud or threatening, but because you listened. People were afraid of what you might ask, afraid that even an innocent question like “Are you okay?” might unravel something carefully buried. Over time, you learned how to walk lightly, how to speak softly, and how to exist without pressing.
When the Avengers found you, you were a wild card to them. Useful indeed, but dangerous. You could end a fight with one question or tear a team apart with one sentence. As a result, most of them kept their distance. Not out of fear, exactly but more out of caution. As if being near you meant something deep inside them might be accidentally pulled to the surface.
Natasha was polite. Steve was kind but wary. Wanda, empathetic but unreadable. But Bucky? He didn’t avoid you. He didn’t tiptoe. That’s what made Bucky Barnes different.
He didn’t fill the space around you with noise. He didn’t dance around your power. He never stared, never fidgeted, never waited for you to break the silence with something intrusive or painful. He just… sat beside you. Quietly, like he had nothing more that could possibly be confessed considering the world knew most of his past by now.
You noticed him long before he noticed you. You picked up on how he scanned every room like someone would pop out and attack him. How he clenched his jaw every time someone brushed against him without warning. How he kept his left arm always at an angle, like he was guarding something, himself. It was like he didn’t know if he was allowed to be comfortable in his own skin.
Regardless, you never asked questions. Not even once. You gave him something rare: Space.
And in return, he gave you something rarer: Presence.
It started with him sitting near you in the common room during team meetings, even if it meant skipping an open seat to get there. Then came the training sessions, where you sparred silently, never needing to speak but always aware of each other’s limits. You matched each other’s pace like you’d done this for years. Then came the early mornings. You’d enter the kitchen with your favorite mug in hand and find him already there, black coffee in one hand, gaze out the window. The first time, he only nodded. By the third week, he was pouring you a cup before you even spoke.
You noticed the way he remembered things no one else did. That you hated synthetic fabrics, that the buzzing of certain lights gave you migraines, or that your favorite tea had to steep exactly three minutes. He didn’t say anything, he just did things. Adjusted the lighting, quietly requested your sheets be swapped for cotton, left your tea on the table with a timer set. It warmed your heart in some way. You never thanked him aloud, but you knew he felt your gratitude anyways.
In return for his kindness, you learned to read his silences.
There was a difference between when he was tired and when he was haunted. A difference between when he wanted company and when he couldn’t stand to be alone but didn’t know how to ask. On those nights, when the ghosts were louder than his thoughts, he’d find you. Sometimes just to sit beside you on the couch, sometimes to walk the perimeter of the compound in wordless patrol, and sometimes… to talk. Little things and often one sentence at a time. A memory or a sarcastic comment. Sometimes a moment of truth disguised as a joke.
You fell for him slowly. Hopelessly.
In the way his voice softened when he said your name. In the way he watched you like he was memorizing every move, not to predict it, but to understand it. In the way he spoke of nightmares but never had them when you’d fall asleep on his couch for movie nights. In the way you never had to use your power, but he always told you the truth anyway.
You told yourself it wasn’t love. Not yet. Just admiration or connection. It was just the beginning of something you’d never be brave enough to touch.
And still, you saw the way his eyes lingered a second too long when you laughed at one of Sam’s jokes. How he stiffened whenever someone else stood too close to you. How his voice dropped an octave when he asked “You okay?” like the answer would define the rest of his night.
There was always something unfinished between you. Something neither of you dared name. So when your moments of silence became distant and suffocating, it chipped away at your sanity and heart each time.
You had always thought that silence was something you could share. Something safe. But over the last few weeks, the quiet between you and Bucky had begun to feel like an unwelcome gap, a widening chasm neither of you wanted to cross.
It started slowly. You started to notice a coldness in his gaze when he used to look at you with an unreadable warmth. Distance in his movements that used to feel comfortable, like two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together, now felt like two pieces of glass, edges sharp and unyielding.
It was subtle too, little things you thought you could brush off. Like when you’d walk into the common room after a long day and find him sitting there, but when you sat next to him, his shoulders would stiffen. He’d give a tight smile, then turn his attention back to the mission reports without saying much. Or when you found yourself at the training mats together, and he’d deliberately avoid your eye contact when he used to be the first one to look at you after a move. You wondered if he was just tired, or if it was something else but it didn’t feel like tiredness.
Then came the mission.
It was a routine operation. It was a simple extraction clean and precise. You and Bucky worked seamlessly together, as always. He covered your back while you disabled the security system. You moved in tandem, a perfect machine. But when you completed the mission, something shifted in the air. It was like he was pulling away, retreating into himself again. He didn’t speak much during the debriefing, and when you caught him glancing at you, there was something unfamiliar in his expression. Something distant. Something… closed off.
That night, when you returned to the compound, you thought it was just the usual exhaustion from a mission. But Bucky didn’t act like himself. He didn’t come by the kitchen for the usual quiet company. He hadn’t sat next to you during team discussions. He didn’t even bother to make small talk as he passed you in the hall. You caught him avoiding your gaze, his face a mask of calm, but his posture rigid.
It confused you. And it hurt more than you cared to admit.
Had you said something wrong? Done something wrong?
You spent the next few days wondering if you were the cause of it. Maybe he’d gotten too comfortable around you, and now he needed space. Maybe he just didn’t want to deal with whatever had started between you. He was still Bucky, still the same guy who’d saved your life more times than you could count. But now, everything felt like an impenetrable wall.
You didn’t want to push him. You never wanted to be that person. You never wanted to be the one who pried, the one who pushed when someone needed time to process. After all, your powers had long pried out the secrets and words of too many people to count. But Bucky was never like this before. His silences were always comfortable. The absence of his presence now felt like it was hollow, like it was filled with unsaid words and unexplored tension.
You tried to get his attention, at first, with small gestures. A shared look during a team briefing. A subtle joke meant to make him laugh. A fleeting touch of your hand on his arm when you walked by. But each time, he stiffened or pulled away. It wasn’t like him.
The hardest part was not knowing what you’d done. Maybe you had said something wrong, maybe you’d done something that made him close off. It wasn’t like you had any experience in relationships, not any real honest connections. You weren’t even sure what you and Bucky had, but you had thought it was something good and worth holding onto.
Days turned into weeks, and the distance between you both only seemed to grow. There were moments when he was still around, when he still spoke to you in clipped sentences, still walked beside you when the missions called for it. But there was no warmth behind it. No understanding or connection like before. And every time you tried to talk to him to try and ask what was wrong, he’d pull back. His responses were short, almost guarded. Every time you tried to bridge the gap, he’d distance himself further.
-
Finally, one night, after yet another cold interaction, you couldn’t take it anymore. You cornered him in the hallway. His steps faltered when he saw you, but you weren’t going to let him walk away this time.
"Bucky," You called out, your voice a mix of frustration and hurt. "What’s going on? You’re avoiding me."
He stiffened, eyes darting to the floor. His lips pressed into a thin line, like he was fighting a battle inside himself. “I’m not avoiding you," He muttered, but you could hear the lie in his voice. It wasn’t convincing and you knew it wasn’t the truth.
"Then why is it like this? What did I do?" You couldn’t keep the edge of desperation out of your voice. “You’ve been pulling away from me for weeks now and I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s wrong, but you’re driving me crazy, Bucky.”
His jaw clenched as he stood there for a moment in silence before he finally looked at you. His eyes were wide, vulnerable in a way that scared you. This wasn’t Bucky Barnes, the man who always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and kept his emotions under lock and key. This man, standing in front of you, was someone broken, someone you couldn’t fix with a touch or a kind word.
"Is it because of the mission?" You pushed gently, your voice softer. "Did I mess up somehow? If I did, just tell me. I’ll fix it."
Bucky shook his head slowly, his hand running through his hair in frustration. "No. It’s not the mission. It’s…" He looked away, and for the first time in a long while, you saw the weight of everything he’d been hiding in his eyes. "It’s me."
You were silent for a moment, the realization creeping up slowly. Your heart beat in your chest as you tried to keep your voice steady. "Bucky, you’re scaring me. You’re shutting me out, and I don’t know why."
“Just… nevermind. Forget it. Goodnight.” He said tightly, moving to depart with his gaze incapable of facing you directly.
It was then that something inside you snapped. The years of silence and loneliness, of holding back, and of not letting your power show when it was the only thing that might break through. You had to know the truth. You had to hear him say it. You had no other choice. You couldn’t just keep waiting for him to open up not after you’ve tried relentlessly and hopelessly the past couple of weeks.
You focused. You’d never used your ability on him before, not because you were afraid of the power, but because you never wanted him to experience another situation where he had no control. You were afraid of what you might find if you pushed him too hard; but tonight, you weren’t going to let him walk away.
You took a deep breath, your voice steadier than you felt, mentally asking for his forgiveness as you spoke firmly. “Bucky, I need you to answer me. Why are you really pushing me away?”
His body stiffened. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the way he fought against your words, as if he could physically resist them. But it was futile. The pull of your power was subtle, like an invisible tether pulling at him, a force beyond his control.
His mouth opened, and for a moment, it was as if he tried to choke back the words. It was like he tried to shove them down into the depths of his mind where he thought they’d stay buried forever. But they spilled out anyway, raw and jagged, his voice betraying him in a way you hadn’t expected.
”Because if I let myself love you,” Bucky whispered, his eyes flickering with the weight of the confession, ”I don’t know if I could survive losing you too.”
The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the cracks in the armor that he’d built around himself. The fear, the raw terror, that if he let himself love again, he wouldn’t be able to bear the inevitable heartbreak. Because Lord knows how much he’s lost and had to grieve in his life.
You didn’t know what to say. For a moment, everything felt like it was frozen in time. You’d never seen him so exposed, so raw and it made your heart ache for him.
His breath hitched, like he was waiting for you to run, waiting for you to take his confession as an excuse to push him away, just as he had done to you.
"What do you mean?" You were barely breathing, every word feeling too heavy to bear.
"I’m not good for you," He spoke softly. "You deserve someone who doesn’t drag you down with their demons." He took a step back, shaking his head. "I can’t give you what you want. What you need."
And there it was. The wall he’d been building between you had a name: fear. Fear of opening up or of what you might see. Fear of the man he used to be and the damage he’d done.
But you weren’t afraid. You never were, not of him.
"I don’t need you to be perfect,” You stepped closer, heart hammering, and placed your hand on his chest. "I just need you to be here."
His breath hitched at your words. For a moment, you thought he might step back again. That he might raise those walls so high you’d never reach him. But he didn’t move. Instead, he just stood there, chest rising beneath your hand, heart pounding steadily under your touch.
“I’m not going anywhere,” You repeated softly, like a promise. “Even if you try to push me away.”
He closed his eyes, and something in him cracked, right there in front of you. Not loudly or with any dramatics. But it was like watching winter thaw, slow and quiet and inevitable.
“I tried to stay away,” Bucky admitted, his voice low, rough, like it hurt to speak. “I thought if I could put some space between us, it’d fade. That maybe I could stop wanting you.”
The confession landed like a lightning bolt. Your lips parted, a thousand emotions flooding you at once: relief, confusion, heartbreak, hope.
“You tried to stop wanting me?” Your voice echoed, barely above a whisper.
His eyes opened then, meeting yours, and you saw it, everything he’d been holding back. All the pain, fear, and longing. “I’ve wanted you for months,” He said. “Maybe longer. But I thought if I kept my distance, you’d find someone better. Someone who doesn’t wake up screaming. Someone who hasn’t done what I’ve done.”
Your fingers twitched against his chest. “But I don’t want someone better,” You said quietly. “I want you.”
Bucky stared at you like he didn’t quite believe it. “Even after everything?”
You nodded slowly, fiercely. “Especially after everything. Because I’ve seen you, Bucky. Not just the soldier. Not an assassin. You. The man who watches bad movies with me in silence. The one who always notices when I’m tired or hurting and doesn’t say a word, just sits a little closer. The one who remembers how I take my coffee. Who makes me feel safe, even when everything else falls apart.”
He looked away for a heartbeat, jaw tight, like he was trying to keep himself together.
You moved forward, stepping a little closer. Your heart racing as you added in a firmer voice. “And you don’t get to decide that you’re unworthy of being wanted. Not for me. Not when I’ve been falling for you this whole damn time.”
And that, broke something in him. He exhaled sharply, like the weight he’d been carrying finally tipped over. His hand came up hesitantly before it settled over yours on his chest, warm and shaking.
“I don’t know how to do this,” He admitted. “I’m not good at… feeling.”
“That’s okay,” You whispered. “You don’t have to be. I’m not asking you to be perfect. Just to let me in.”
He looked at you like you were sunlight cracking through a storm cloud, his thumb brushing gently against the back of your hand. “You already are.”
And then, slowly, carefully, he leaned in. It wasn’t rushed nor desperate. Just real. When his lips met yours, it was tentative, like a question. But when you kissed him back, it became an answer. One you’d both been waiting for.
Good afternoon, my lovelies. I am currently on my 12+ hour car ride back home and will try to post at least one fic later tonight. Hope everyone is doing well and thank you all again for all the support and engagement recently! Happy reading!!! ♡
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She/Her | 18+ | Marvel WriterAsks/Requests are welcomed!
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