Caged In Comfort (Pt. 4)
Caged in Comfort (Pt. 4)
Summary: A fresh day, a fresh start. They help you to breakfast and show you to the playroom. Throughout the morning, you become more acquainted with the household, your undignified circumstances, and the new dynamics. No matter how frustrating they may be. (Dark Stucky x little!reader)
Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Forced Age Regression. Kidnapping. References to Labs. Lots of dialogue. Stockholm Syndrome in the future likely. You are responsible for the media you consume.
Word Count: 3.8k+
A/N: I think the next chapter would have more emphasis on reader being regressed. Such an interesting balance. I wonder what their rules are. Wonder what the second door is. Should you explore it?
Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Previous | Next
You wake up slow.
Not in the comfortable, lazy way people are supposed to, more like your body is a second too late for everything. Your fingers twitch, then your toes. Your head feels like it’s wrapped in cotton, heavy and dazed. There’s a soft hum in your ears, the faintest ache in your stomach. You’re warm, too warm, the blanket cocooned around you so tight it feels deliberate.
You try to remember where you are. And then it all comes back to you.
The panic doesn’t come right away. Instead, it’s buried under the haze of whatever they drugged you with the night before. Milk. You remember the taste of it now, sickly sweet and unnatural. Bucky’s arms. Steve’s soft cooing. You swallowing it down with every intention of pretending, of escaping, of winning. You lost.
Your eyes stay shut, muscles tensing beneath the blanket. You’re not restrained anymore, you don’t think, but you’re too groggy to trust yourself with a sprint. A breath catches in your throat.
“She’s stirring,” Steve’s voice says from somewhere beside the bed. It’s low, careful, like he’s trying not to startle you. “Give her some room, Buck.”
A pause.
Then Bucky, voice gruff and firm from across the room, unmistakably annoyed. “She better not be planning anything again.”
You force yourself to stay still. Small. Controlled. However, you can’t resist cracking your eyes open just slightly.
The room is soft-lit, sunlight bleeding through light blue curtains. The bed is real and clean just like it had been the previous night. The room looked much more welcoming in the light too. The kind of place you’d think was safe if you didn’t know better. Steve is perched on the edge of the mattress, in a plain white T-shirt and sweatpants, like he never left. His face lights up the second he sees you awake.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” He speaks to you softly, like nothing happened. “You slept a long time.”
You blink slowly and try to focus your vision. Your voice comes out dry and cracked, straight to the point today despite the previous night. “Let me go.”
Steve doesn’t flinch. His hand moves gently to your blanket, smoothing a corner. “You must be starving. We made your favorites.”
You swallow hard, mouth sour and cotton-dry as you repeat. “Let me go.”
“No, baby,” Bucky’s voice comes from the doorway. You look toward him and see him leaning there, arms folded tight across his chest, watching you with that narrowed, sharp-eyed look. “That’s not on the table.”
Steve shifts slightly, picking up a hairbrush from the nightstand. His tone stays maddeningly patient. “We’re gonna help you get ready for the day, okay? Quick brush, soft clothes. Then breakfast.”
You push yourself up onto your elbows, the blanket falling away. Your body protests the movement, but you manage. You glare at them both, even as your arms shake.
“New rule,” Bucky says evenly, not missing a beat. “No glaring.”
You let out a breath, jaw tightening. “You can’t just make up rules. I’m not a kid.” You resist the urge to add that it was a stupid rule anyways.
Steve looks at you with quiet sadness, like you just don’t understand something simple. “You’re our little girl,” He says gently. “And little girls behave and have routines.”
You jerk your head away when he tries to smooth your hair.
“Don’t touch me.”
“You’re allowed to be upset,” He murmurs. “This is all new for you. You’ve been through a lot. But that doesn’t change what you need.”
You look back at Bucky, hoping maybe you’ll get something different there. You don’t know why you tried though. He simply meets your eyes without hesitation.
“You think you know how to take care of yourself?” His tone is firm and flat. “That lab didn’t raise a person. It raised a little girl who had to fight to survive and doesn’t know any better. And we’re not gonna let you keep living like that. Not anymore.”
You clench your fists in the sheets, every inch of your body trembling from the effort of staying upright and the indignity of it all.
Steve stands slowly and puts the brush aside for now. Instead, he retrieves and lifts a soft little sweater from the foot of the bed. It’s pale yellow with embroidered bunnies along the bottom hem, deliberately infantilizing. He holds it up, patient as ever.
“Arms up,” He says. “We’ll help with the rest after.”
You don’t move an inch. You can’t. Your brain is screaming at you to fight, to run, to do something, but your body won’t listen. It’s too early, too soon. You’re too tired. You know they’re taking advantage of that fact.
“You don’t have to like the rules,” Steve says gently, folding the sweater over his arm. “But you do have to follow them. You’ll understand soon.”
“She’s just testing limits,” Bucky mutters, pushing off the doorframe and walking over. His footsteps are heavy, deliberate. “She still thinks she’s got a say.”
“I do,” You snap, though your voice cracks. “You don’t own me.”
He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. He just stands at the foot of the bed and says with chilling calm, “You’re ours now and you’re home. And you’re not going anywhere.”
Steve smiles, reassuring and soft and completely out of sync with the nightmare unfolding around you. “Let’s get you dressed, honey. Then we’ll show you your spot at the table.”
You can’t do anything to stop him as he takes his time dressing you, like you’re fragile, like any sudden movement might break you. He doesn’t mention your glare again, doesn’t need to. Bucky already set the tone. Every time you twitch, hesitate, or look like you might refuse, you can catch Bucky’s eyes narrow just enough to remind you: He’s watching. They both are.
You let the sweater be pulled over your head. You don’t resist the leggings or the socks with soft rubber paw prints on the bottoms. You let yourself be moved like a doll, pretending your limbs are too tired to fight. You let Steve hum while he smooths your hair. You let them think they’re winning. Because you need the drugs to wear off, then you need them to stop looking. To turn their backs again.
When they guide you toward the kitchen, the scent of something warm hits first: cinnamon, butter, maybe apples. There’s a plate already set at the table, complete with a plastic cup with handles and a bib draped over the back of the chair.
Bucky pulls out the chair and gestures for you to sit down. “Go on.”
You stare at the scene with hesitation clear enough that it went on for a beat too long, prompting his tone to shift.
“Now.”
Your body moves to obey, slowly. Cautious almost.
Steve slips the bib around your neck, like this is normal, like you haven’t long passed the years when you needed one. “You need food in your belly,” He says softly. “We want you strong. Safe.”
You glance at the plate: a small bowl of oatmeal, sliced fruit, and two animal-shaped pancakes staring up at you. The plastic fork and spoon beside the bowl look like they belong in a toddler’s lunchbox. It’s humiliating on your part and perfectly calculated on their part.
Your hands stay in your lap.
Bucky leans on the back of your chair, watching you attentively. “Pick up the spoon.”
Your fingers twitch, but you don’t act.
He leans down closer, voice low and heavy against your ear. “Don’t make me feed you again.”
The panic returns like a short, sharp spike in your chest. You remember what happened last time when they took you away like you weighed nothing. The way your body betrayed you. How it shut down under the milk. How they tucked you in like nothing had happened.
You pick up the spoon.
“That’s it,” Steve says, sitting beside you with a warm smile like you just passed some important test. “Good girl.”
You don’t respond. You take a spoonful of oatmeal. It’s warm, sweet, and comforting. It’s comforting in a way that sickens you, like they planned it. Like they want your body to respond before your brain can resist. Every bite is loaded with more than food. It’s expectation. Control.
The plastic spoon feels awkward in your hand. Childish, thick-handled, and too large for your mouth yet somehow designed to make you feel smaller. The bib itches against your neck, scratchy where the edge meets your collarbone. You pretend not to notice. You pretend a lot now.
You chew slowly.
Steve watches you with gentle, unwavering attention. His hands rest folded on the table beside his own untouched cup of coffee. He smiles each time your spoon scrapes the side of the bowl.
"That’s it, sweetheart,” He says softly. “Eat up. You need your strength.”
Bucky, on the other hand, stands off to the side now, arms crossed, eyes sharp as glass. He doesn’t praise. He studies. One wrong movement and he’ll pounce. You can feel it in the air, like a storm barely held in check. It’s clear he still held some sort of grudge from your stunt last night.
Your eyes flicker over to the plastic cup full of who knows what.
“Try it,” Steve encourages, nudging it closer. “You’ll like what’s in there.”
Your heart skips at the comment as you eye it suspiciously now. It’s an opaque, thick plastic, definitely impossible to see inside. You know better than to assume it’s safe. However, Steve’s smile doesn’t falter. “It’s just juice, I promise.”
He’s probably not lying. Not today. You really don’t want to comply, but you know they would just force you to if you didn’t do it yourself. At least they’re not so insistent on hand-feeding you this morning.
You take a slow sip and taste…apple juice. Nothing comes after it that you can detect, you can’t taste anything wrong. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t something there.
“See?” Steve speaks in a pleased tone. “Told you it was just juice.”
You don’t give him a response, resisting the urge to make a snarky comment.
Bucky shifts slightly. “Not even a ‘thank you’?”
You freeze for half a breath.
“…Thank you,” You mumble, pushing the words out like something sour.
He raises one brow. “You’re welcome. Now finish.”
You shovel the rest of the oatmeal into your mouth, quicker now. Your actions were not out of hunger, but because you want it done. The fruit goes down next, soft bananas and sliced grapes. Then the pancakes, one shaped like a bear, the other like a cat, syrup already soaked in.
Every bite makes your stomach twist. You couldn’t even enjoy the meal. Because they’re feeding you like you’re five. Talking to you like you’re four. Watching you like you’re a child.
You keep your eyes down as you eat, only glancing up once to see Bucky still watching, his eyes narrowed just slightly. Nothing else is said, but the tension in the air is still present no matter how much Steve tries to ignore it.
When the plate’s empty, you drop the spoon.
Steve is up in an instant, dabbing at your mouth with a cloth napkin before you can stop him. “Messy little thing,” He murmurs fondly.
You jerk your head away a little. Not enough to count as rebellion. Just enough to remind yourself you still exist.
“Such a squirmy girl today,” He remarks, not unkindly.
“She’s testing,” Bucky’s tone is flat, said like it’s a fact.
Steve sighs and crouches to your eye level again. “Are you testing us, honey?”
Your head turns to stare at him. He waits patiently for a response, nothing but gentleness and a hint of disappointment in his gaze. You shake your head.
“That’s good,” He exhales. “Because if you were, we’d have to do more quiet time. And you’ve had enough of that, haven’t you?”
The memory of the milk and the floaty nothingness. The way the world tilted when your limbs stopped working. You can’t bring yourself to reply, so you give him a slow nod.
“Good girl.”
Bucky moves then, walking past and ruffling your hair. Not particularly gentle, but not cruel. Just enough to make it clear, to send a message that you can’t escape his reach. “We’ll clean up. You sit right there. Don’t. Move.”
You stay frozen in your seat, hands still in your lap as the clinking of dishes starts. The bib gets removed, folded. Steve hums under his breath again as he washes the dishes. Something soft. Something wrong.
He turns back to you, drying his hands. “You’ve been so good,” He smiles at you softly. “Would you like some playtime before we go over your rules?”
“Play?” You echo, startled despite yourself.
“Mhm.” He taps your nose with his finger, not pointing out your slight flinch. “Blocks, crayons, picture books. You get choices now, sweetie. That’s what happens when you’re a good little girl.”
Despite the inviting offer, you find yourself hesitating. Even though the choices sound like freedom, a chance to regain your autonomy, it isn’t actually there. Because freedom doesn’t truly exist here, not with them.
Still, you nod, if not to appease them, then to buy some time.
Steve beams. “See, Buck? I told you she’d settle in.”
The man doesn’t return the smile. “She’s pretending to settle in.”
Your body tenses because you know he’s not wrong. Why was he so perceptive? Can’t he see it’s not like they’re giving you much of an option but to comply? You try to calm yourself.
Steve ignores him and holds out a hand. “Come on, lovebug. Let’s go pick something fun.”
You let him lead you, careful and warily. Your legs move on autopilot now, like it’s all part of the act. Steve’s hand is warm as it folds around yours, larger than life, too gentle for someone so strong. You feel the ridges of his palm, the faintest drag of calluses that speak of battlefields and shields, not nurseries and crayons.
Your bare feet make almost no sound against the sleek floors of the Compound. The hall stretches wide and bright, too pristine, like the world outside has been scrubbed away and replaced with a dream you didn’t ask for. The lights above hum softly. You pass windows, high and armored. It takes you a moment to realize they’re fake windows. They show nothing but the city skyline, looping in a projection so perfect it takes a second glance to spot the repetition.
This isn’t a home. It’s a story they’ve built around you.
As you walk, Steve slows his steps to match yours. Every so often, he glances down at you with that infuriating, infallible smile. Like he truly believes this is right. That you belong here, your hand in his.
“This whole floor’s just for us,” He explains as you turn the corner, noting the curiosity in your gaze. “Private access, state of the art security, fully soundproofed rooms.”
You don’t ask why that’s necessary nor what that might mean for you. Because somewhere deep down, you already know.
Bucky trails behind, boots thudding heavier than Steve’s footsteps. You can feel the weight of him even when you’re not looking. Like a shadow carved from iron. He doesn’t speak. There’s no need for him to.
They round a final corner, and Steve stops at a wide, reinforced door. He presses his palm to the panel beside it. A soft chime. The door unlocks with a hiss.
“This’ll be your space during playtime,” Steve says.
The room is deceptively cozy, almost impressive. The space has warm lighting, soft carpet, a wall of shelves holding books, plush toys, puzzles, art supplies, and so much more all arranged with care. There's even a beanbag chair in one corner and a low table with pastel plastic cups and empty tea sets.
As you step into the room, silence fills the air. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
Steve crouches beside you, his hand still holding yours.
“You don’t have to talk yet,” He reassures soothingly. “You’re probably still scared. But we’re not gonna hurt you, okay? You’re safe now. You’re ours. And that means we take care of you.”
You look at him, trying not to dwell on the contradictions in his statement. What did he think this was doing to you? The answer must not matter because his eyes hold nothing but kindness. And in some way, that’s what makes it worse.
Behind you, Bucky closes the door with a firm click. The lock slides back into place. You couldn’t figure out why a playroom would need a lock. But here you are, alone in a room full of toys with two super soldiers who believe, truly believe, you belong to them.
Steve stands again and gestures to the shelves. “You can choose. Anything you want.”
You know better than to say "no." So you nod, stepping forward carefully, fingers twitching as you brush the edge of a coloring book. You don’t look at the vents yet. Don’t scan for cameras or any other listening bugs. You just pretend again.
Pretend you’re adjusting, like you’re settling. Pretend you don’t notice the second door across the room. The one that was sealed with no knob, marked only with a small red light above it.
It must be another test put into place by them. Another line they’re wondering if you’ll try to cross. You don’t focus on it and instead swallow down your panic by reaching for a crayon. Because the longer they think you’re behaving, the better your chances when it counts.
You sit cross-legged on the soft carpet, a crayon loose in your hand. It’s a dusky purple, almost the same color as the sky in the fake windows you passed earlier but less blue. The coloring book in front of you is filled with gentle cartoon animals, wide-eyed and smiling, their expressions eerily similar to the ones Steve wears. You press the crayon down, start to color, slow and deliberate strokes.
You’ve never really got to do this before, not often at least. It used to be given as a fleeting reward for good behavior until they deemed you no longer needed or required such comforts.
Behind you, your two captors watch.
Steve settles into a padded armchair across the room, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, like he’s giving you space, but not too much. Bucky stands near the door, arms crossed. He hasn’t said a word since entering the room, but his presence speaks loud enough. You’re not going anywhere.
You shift your weight slightly before Steve breaks the silence first.
“That’s a really pretty color,” He compliments, voice low, meant to soothe as usual. “You always liked purples and blues in the files. We thought that might help. Familiar things.”
You don’t answer, trying not to think what else they read. Trying not to wonder what else they know about you. You keep coloring, slow and steady.
“Don’t gotta be shy,” Bucky adds after a beat, arms still crossed. “This is your place now. No one has to hurt you here.”
It’s not what they say. It’s how they say it.
You nod faintly, pretending to focus on the page. But your eyes flick upward to the shelves. You count six plushies. Three puzzles. Two identical dolls. All too neat. Nothing worn. Nothing loved. Not even the smallest sign of use. Everything here was bought new… for you. As if a new identity could be assembled out of soft fabric and crayons.
After a bit, you finally force your voice out. It sounds quiet, strained, but careful.
“…I like this one.”
Steve smiles like you’ve handed him the sun.
“Yeah?” He rises slowly, moving over to kneel beside you. “You’re doing so well. We’re proud of you.”
You feel it before it happens, his hand smoothing over your hair. Too gentle. Like you're breakable. Like you're small.
You flinch again, but only slightly. And just like before, he doesn't notice or he doesn’t make it a big deal. You don’t know which one.
As time passes, the quiet stretches long in the softly lit room, broken only by the soft scritch of your crayon on the paper. You keep your head down, shoulders relaxed, posture small. Intentional or not, you were starting to enjoy it. The simple act of coloring, but you justified it by saying you were complying. You’ve done that before. In the lab, in holding cells, in other places where survival meant silence and passivity.
You can still feel their eyes on you. Both of them.
Steve hums gently as he’s sat across the room again, reading one of the books in the room as his eyes occasionally flicker over to you. Bucky lingers closer, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes always alert.
But you’ve noticed it, how the tension in Bucky’s jaw eases, just slightly, when you don’t resist. When you obey. When you’re good.
You reach for another crayon, soft pink, and start filling in the petals of a daisy. Your movements are slow, deliberate. Calm. You don’t dare look up, but you feel it: the shift in the room’s energy. The way Bucky’s stance loosens just a fraction, his weight shifting from foot to foot.
“…She’s quieter today,” He mutters, not quite to you, not quite to Steve.
“She’s getting used to it,” Steve says gently. “Told you she would. Just needs routine.”
You glance up, just once, and catch Bucky watching you, brow furrowed. Not angry. Not cold. Just… watching. So you do something risky. You offer a small nod.
Bucky blinks.
He doesn’t smile, you don’t think you’ve seen him smile once actually, but he exhales like something inside him unclenched. He pushes off the wall and crosses the room with slow steps, stopping just beside where you sit.
You tense, your body ready to flinch away if he touches you. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he lowers himself into a crouch beside you and rests his arms on his knees. His voice is lower than Steve’s, rough around the edges, but quieter now. Almost careful.
“Coloring, huh?” He mutters.
You nod again.
“Better than scribbling on a wall, I guess.”
You don’t give him an answer. But you slide the coloring book slightly toward him, an invitation. It’s barely noticeable, but his gaze softens.
“…Haven’t done this kind of thing in a long time.”
You risk a glance at his face. His eyes aren’t cold now. They’re watchful, yes. but less like a threat, more like something gentle or protective. He doesn’t reach for a crayon, but he stays there beside you.
“You’re doin’ good,” His voice has that sharp undertone still, but something in it has shifted. He doesn’t sound like a captor. He almost sounds… proud.
You duck your head, hiding the grim twist in your stomach. A part of you hates that you liked the sudden praise. But you’ve seen this before. Attachment through obedience. Trust built on chains. And if it softens the harder one, if it makes him hesitate when the time comes, then you’ll take it. Even if it makes your skin crawl.
What you weren’t realizing though, you were slowly leaning into it all, gradual and slow. The lines between pretend and reality blurring. And they could tell, they just needed to keep it slow, encouraging enough for your walls to fall unconsciously. And if that doesn’t work, there’s always a little something one of them can give you to push you over the edge.
More Posts from Eviannadoll and Others
Mischief Managed
Summary: With the power to talk to animals, your feline companion, Mischief, hates everyone at the tower except you. Therefore, when you start getting closer to Bucky, you watch as she slowly starts to trust the super soldier. However, with all things, it doesn’t go well at first. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.
Word Count: 3k+
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
You never expected your strange bond with animals to shape your life so completely. From the time you were little, the voices of birds, dogs, squirrels, even ants, were a constant hum in your mind. You couldn’t explain how or why, but you understood them, and they understood you. You didn’t just hear noises or read body language. You heard words. Emotions. Stories. And most importantly, you could talk back.
At first, it was a secret. A party trick for only the most trusted friends, who usually assumed you were joking. But now, it’s just part of you. You’ve learned to filter out the constant chatter.
You’ve learned to help animals when they’re in trouble and, occasionally, when SHIELD needs it, use them for information. Sometimes, rats knew more about hidden Hydra facilities than satellites ever could.
But for all your strange gifts, you lived a relatively quiet life in the Avengers Tower. Most of the others accepted your ability with curiosity or amusement. Tony had tried to run tests on your brain, and Clint still jokingly called you “Dr. Dolittle.” You didn’t mind. Your companions whether they be feathered, furred, or scaled had always had your back. And one in particular? She guarded you like a dragon guards treasure.
Her name was Mischief. A sleek, coal-black cat with amber eyes and a resting glare that could curdle milk. You’d found her three years ago, injured and starving in an alley, snarling at rats and pigeons for scraps. She hadn’t trusted you at first, but the moment you spoke to her, really spoke, her entire posture changed. It took a few trips bringing food to her, taking things slow. And slowly, you began to realize you hadn’t just earned her trust, you’d earned her devotion.
Since then, she rarely left your side. Mischief judged everyone you interacted with, and she never hid her opinions. She Tolerated Steve. Hated Tony’s cologne. And she absolutely loathed anyone who flirted with you.
That became a problem the day Bucky Barnes moved into the Tower.
He was quiet, scarred, and carried the weight of too many ghosts behind stormy blue eyes. He barely spoke to anyone, kept to himself, and moved like someone always waiting to be attacked. You saw it the first day in how he looked at everyone sideways, how he didn’t sit with his back to a door, how he flinched when someone approached too fast.
And Mischief? She was watching him like he’d brought a knife to your front door.
She sat on the windowsill in your room, tail twitching, eyes narrowed like tiny slits of fire. He’s hiding something, Her voice was flat, echoing in your mind like dry leaves scraping across pavement. He smells like ghosts. Like regret mixed with metal and blood. I don’t like him.
You sighed, brushing a hand over her silky back. “He’s been through a lot. Be nice.”
Nice? You want nice? Find a golden retriever. I’m watching him.
You didn’t know it then, but Mischief’s “watching” would escalate. She wasn’t just wary of Bucky Barnes. She was preparing for war. And you? You were caught in the middle of a cold war between an ex-assassin with a tragic past… and your jealous cat.
It started small at first.
Bucky would pass you in the hallway, nod a quiet hello, and Mischief would hiss from your shoulder like a kettle set to boil.
You tried to explain it away as best as you could. "She’s just like that at first," You said once when Bucky raised a brow at the low growl coming from your tote bag. Mischief liked to crawl inside and travel with you unnoticed. “She doesn’t warm up easily.”
He gave a short, humorless chuckle. “Neither do I.”
You weren’t sure what drew you toward him. Maybe it was the way he always seemed almost comfortable in silence, the way he sat on the common room couch like it didn’t quite belong to him, or how he listened to conversations without ever trying to steer them. Maybe it was how he never asked you questions unless he thought the answer would matter. He was calm. Still. A rare kind of quiet you’d only ever felt around animals.
But Mischief noticed.
One night, you caught her sitting in the kitchen sink like a gargoyle, glaring at the hallway. When you asked what she was doing, she said, Waiting for the metal-armed brooder. If he comes in here again, I’ll gut the loaf of bread he likes.
Sure enough, Bucky wandered in a minute later, offered you a soft smile, and went for the exact loaf.
The next morning, it was shredded. You sighed at the sight as you went out to get a replacement.
Still, you didn’t stop spending time with him.
You started joining him in the gym after hours. The excuse given was wanting to stretch, but really, you just liked the way he relaxed when no one else was around. Sometimes you brought a dog or two in from the compound’s training fields, let them rest while you and Bucky talked. Or didn’t talk. You didn’t need to.
“I think animals like you,” You told him one evening, watching a scruffy mutt rest his head on Bucky’s knee.
He blinked down at the dog like it had just spoken fluent Russian. “That’s a first.”
He’s got soft hands, The dog murmured. I like him.
You smiled to yourself. “I think they know.”
“Know what?”
“That you’ve got a good heart.”
He looked away quickly, jaw tight. You didn’t say anything more, letting it go.
Later that night, Mischief perched on your chest like a stone weight and narrowed her eyes. You’re getting attached.
“I’m not.”
You are.
“You scratched a loaf of bread.”
It deserved it.
You sighed, having not expected that response, but then again, it was typical of her. Mischief wasn’t one to be easily appeased, and her possessiveness was notorious. But this time, she didn’t go on about it. Instead, she flicked her tail, an uncomfortable tension hanging in the air. Her voice softened, almost like a reluctant admission. You’re… different with him.
“Different?” You tilted your head, trying to understand her point.
You relax around him. You listen more. I don’t like it.
It struck a chord in you. You weren’t blind to the shift in your own behavior. With Bucky, things felt easier. Calmer. He had this way of being present and patient in a way that drew you in, as if there was a shared understanding of pain that made silences less heavy. Sure, there were times where the past still haunted him. But his company was always one you found yourself subconsciously seeking.
He didn’t demand things from you. He didn’t ask for anything you weren’t ready to give. And when you were with him, the world felt… simpler.
But Mischief’s words stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated.
“I’m not going to stop seeing him just because you don’t like it,” You murmured, feeling the weight of her gaze.
I know you won’t, She responded in a quieter tone now. But if he hurts you, I’ll bite his face off.
You chuckled softly at the absurdity of the threat. “I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who would hurt anyone… but thanks for the warning.”
Mischief gave a long, almost disappointed sigh, as if she realized there was nothing she could do to change your mind. You’ve always been good at ignoring my advice. I’ll be here, though. Watching.
And just like that, she padded off your chest and curled up on the windowsill, turning her back to you in a huff.
You didn’t feel the usual pang of guilt for not heeding her advice. Instead, you lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Bucky’s quiet demeanor, his unspoken trust, and how, somehow, he made you feel less like an outsider.
But the cat was right about one thing: you were getting attached. And that was something even Mischief couldn’t stop.
Over the next few weeks, Bucky Barnes became a quiet fixture in your life. He wasn’t the kind to join in on group outings or large training sessions. He mostly kept to himself, which, in a way, you could relate to. The weight of his past was something you recognized in yourself. A type of emotional burden carried alone, pushing people away without ever intending to.
Mischief, however, now had different ideas about Bucky. She followed him around like a shadow, watching his every move, her eyes always narrowing suspiciously whenever he so much as looked in your direction.
And then came the first moment that Bucky spoke to her directly.
You were sitting in the common room, legs tucked underneath you, reading a book when Bucky entered, his usual silent demeanor drifting through the door like a storm cloud. You barely looked up, but Mischief did. She jumped down from the windowsill with a graceful thud, making her way slowly toward Bucky. He froze, eyes narrowing as she circled his feet.
"You've got a problem with me, huh?" He asked, voice low, as if speaking to a wild animal.
Mischief didn’t answer. Instead, she sat down and stared at him, her eyes unblinking, before giving a loud, unmistakable hiss.
Bucky took a slow, measured step back, unsure whether to laugh or be alarmed. “Right… definitely got a problem with me.”
You looked up from your book, feigning innocence. “She’s just… protective.” You tried not to laugh, but the cat’s blatant territorial behavior was almost too much.
“Protective?” Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Of you?”
You nodded, setting your book aside. “She doesn’t like anyone getting too close to me. Especially not new people.” You gave him a playful smile, though there was an undercurrent of caution. You had no idea what he might say next. Yeah, he’s graciously ignored her behavior the past couple of encounters. But you know that not everyone reacted well to Mischief’s… directness.
Bucky looked at Mischief, who was now sitting on the arm of the couch, staring at him with intense focus but a bit more relaxed. Like she was really assessing him now. He couldn’t seem to hide the slight tension in his shoulders, though his eyes softened just a fraction. “I’ll take her behavior as simply me being new then?” He asked with a wry grin.
You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Like I said before, she warms up to people eventually.”
“Eventually?” He turned to you, crossing his arms. “How long does that usually take?”
“A few months,” You answered, fully serious, but Mischief’s sudden purring interrupted the tension in the air. You blinked in surprise. Mischief didn’t purr for just anyone, certainly not for someone she didn’t trust who she had threatened previously.
You try not to make it a big deal, knowing maybe something changed her mind and she’s likely trying to give Bucky a chance for you. Or she’s trying to spite you. Either works.
Bucky let out a short, amused huff. “I guess I’m getting there.”
As time passed with your relationship with Bucky slowly becoming more comfortable, he started showing up more too. Helping you with groceries, joining you on the Tower’s rooftop garden, even sitting beside you when you fed a flock of sparrows that landed whenever you called. The birds adored you. One bold little sparrow even landed on Bucky’s knee once, chirped at him twice, and fluttered away.
“She says you look sad but safe,” You told him.
He stared at the spot where the bird had been. “…I’ll take it.”
You didn’t realize it back then, but Mischief had stopped watching Bucky like a threat. She still narrowed her eyes when he got too close, but the claws stayed retracted. And one morning, after Bucky fell asleep on your couch with a book resting on his chest, you walked into the room and found Mischief curled on the back of the couch above his head, keeping watch.
Don’t make this a habit, She warned, but you saw the way she rested her tail across Bucky’s shoulder like a soft little truce flag.
He didn’t wake up. But when he did, and she didn’t move, you didn’t miss the quiet surprise and the ghost of a smile on his face.
Bonus:
The Avengers had long accepted that Mischief was… a little difficult. And by “difficult,” they meant that she was impossible.
Steve tried to be friendly and charming, his warm smile and gentle hands never working when it came to earning her trust. He once tried to bribe her with tuna, only for her to leap onto the counter, knock the can on the floor, and give him a look that suggested he was the most pitiful creature to ever walk the Earth.
Tony, of course, had tried his usual route. Gifts. Expensive toys, cat condos, custom-made collars with diamond studs. Mischief had only hissed at him, her tail twitching with disdain, and turned her back on him every time he walked past. Tony had even tried to sneak in some extra treats with a drone, but Mischief had launched herself at it like a panther on a hunt, sending the drone crashing to the ground in a flurry of sparks and broken components.
Clint and Wanda were no better. Clint had tried talking to her like they were two old friends. He’d even imitated her meows, thinking he could “speak her language.” His reward was a sharp swipe to the face that left him sporting a red scratch for a week. Wanda had tried charm, offering the cat quiet moments and gentle pats. But Mischief simply stared, unblinking, until Wanda gave up, shaking her head and muttering, “She’s something else.”
A couple of the others had tried too, but failed just like the rest. They had all made their peace with it. Mischief was your cat, your problem. None of them expected to get closer to her.
So, when they found out Bucky managed to break some of her walls, it certainly drew some attention.
It wasn’t even anything spectacular at first. At first, it was just him sitting in the common room with his coffee, his book, his quiet presence that always seemed to put you at ease. You, in your usual spot, with Mischief curled at your feet.
But slowly, Bucky had started talking to her. Not in any particular way, just gentle words, a little teasing, soft hums that she might respond to. At first, they were just passing exchanges.
“You’re looking smug today,” Bucky had said, watching Mischief stretch out on the windowsill, her tail swishing slowly.
To his surprise, she’d looked at him, unimpressed, and flicked her tail toward the floor like she was dismissing him entirely. Bucky chuckled softly.
“That’s fine. I’m used to being ignored,” He’d muttered, before turning back to his book.
No one had thought much of it. Until it happened again. And again.
One afternoon, you came into the living room to find Bucky sitting cross-legged on the floor, Mischief lying across his lap. She’d never done that with anyone else. She was curled up, purring softly, and Bucky’s hand was resting just behind her ears, stroking her fur gently.
The other Avengers were lounging around, preparing for the evening’s mission debrief. Steve and Clint had been discussing logistics while Tony fiddled with a gadget, but all of them froze when they saw the scene unfolding in front of them.
Mischief, the aloof, temperamental queen of the Tower, was utterly content in Bucky’s lap.
Tony’s jaw dropped first. “Wait a minute,” He pointed at the scene. “Is that… Mischief?”
“Yeah…” Clint said, his voice a mixture of disbelief and awe. “Is she… purring?”
“I’ve never seen her so… calm,” Bruce added quietly, watching the scene. “She always runs away from us. We can’t even get close without her hissing or hiding.”
“I don’t understand,” Steve said, furrowing his brow. “What is he doing differently?”
Bucky glanced up, catching their stares. He shrugged with an easy grin. “I don’t know, she just… likes me, I guess.”
Everyone stared at him. Even Tony, who never really lacked for confidence, looked a little thrown off.
“How?” Wanda asked, her tone hesitant. “She’s never… let anyone get that close. Not even me, and I’ve tried for weeks.”
Bucky just chuckled, his hand continuing to stroke Mischief’s back. “I don’t know. Maybe she sees something in me. Or maybe I just smell like someone who doesn’t mind the silence.”
The others exchanged baffled glances. It was true. Bucky was quiet, reserved. He never pushed, never pried. Perhaps that had something to do with it. But no one could quite figure out how he’d managed to break through the barrier that had kept them all at arm’s length.
“I don’t think it’s just that,” Clint said thoughtfully, his eyes still on the cat, his fingers twitching like he was about to reach for her. “I’ve been here longer than you, man. And she’s never let anyone get that close.”
Bucky’s smile faltered for a moment, as if he was considering something deeper. “Maybe she just needed someone who didn’t expect anything from her.”
The team was silent, still watching Mischief as she stretched lazily on Bucky’s lap, a low purr vibrating the air around them. It was the first time anyone had seen her so relaxed in front of someone who wasn’t you.
Steve shook his head in disbelief. “I think we’ve just witnessed a miracle.”
Tony was already pulling out his phone. “I’m gonna start a betting pool. Bucky Barnes: Cat Whisperer. Who knew?”
Wanda chuckled softly, still a little stunned. “What did you do, Bucky? Did you offer her a deal?”
“I think she’s just decided I’m not worth the trouble,” He said, finally giving Mischief’s ears a gentle scratch that made her eyes flutter shut in contentment. “Sometimes, that’s all it takes.”
And just like that, the Avengers knew. There was something about Bucky Barnes, something quiet, something patient, that had finally cracked through the walls of the grumpy black cat that no one else had been able to breach.
Mischief had chosen him. And the rest of them? They were just going to have to deal with it.
Operation: Lover’s Retreat (You Think)
Summary: Sent on a recon mission in the Carpathian Mountains, you treat it like a romantic getaway including but not limited to bath bombs, a sparkly kazoo, and one shared bed. Bucky remains constantly torn between exasperation and deep affection. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)
Word Count: 1.2k+
A/N: More fun stuff while I think of other stuff. Happy reading!!!
Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist
To be fair, no one explicitly said it wasn’t a romantic vacation. Which is why, when Fury assigned you and Bucky to a “low profile surveillance op” in the Carpathians, your brain heard:
Secluded mountain lodge. Cozy fires. Spy sex.
So naturally, you packed accordingly.
Bucky blinked at the rolling heart-shaped suitcase you proudly hauled to the Quinjet, emblazoned in bold pink letters: “His & Hers”.
“What is that?” He asked flatly.
You grinned. “Our mission supplies, James.”
“I said pack light.”
“I did! This is vacation-light. I only brought four books, one board game, two full sets of bath bombs, a crockpot for ambience and a grappling hook.”
He opened the suitcase, found the glow-in-the-dark stars you planned to stick on the ceiling of the safehouse, and muttered, “We’re supposed to be covert.”
“And what’s more covert than a deeply-in-love couple on a sensual nature retreat where someone might accidentally dismantle a black market weapons trade?” You batted your lashes. “Besides, you love when I do the ‘danger honeymoon’ bit.”
He exhaled slowly. “I never said I loved it.”
“You didn’t have to,” You whispered dramatically, wrapping your arms around his neck and swaying like you were dancing to a song only you could hear. “Your eyes said it. Remember when I threw that flaming fondue pot at that one Hydra guy last time? There were hearts in your eyes.”
“There were burn injuries, sweetheart.”
“Burns of passion.”
He tried, really tried hard to look annoyed, but you saw it. The tiniest twitch of his lips. He kissed the top of your head like he was apologizing to himself for encouraging you.
“You’re lucky I love you,” He said.
“I am lucky. And hot. And very well packed.”
He peeked into the duffel again. “You brought a kazoo.”
“For distraction purposes.”
“You labeled it ‘Sexy Danger Kazoo.’”
You nodded proudly. “It has sparkles.”
-
The Quinjet touched down just as twilight was bleeding over the dense Carpathian forest, a soft purple washing the sky. You hopped off with all the energy of a kid who just found out naps were optional as Bucky followed, grim-faced but patient, lugging a backpack that looked suspiciously heavier than your luggage.
The safehouse was an old cabin, camouflaged perfectly by thick vines and the shadows of tall pines. From the outside, it looked like it hadn’t been touched since the Cold War, but inside? Well… that was a different story. Stark had apparently outfitted the place with every modern convenience a couple on a "low-profile mission" might need. You immediately spotted the sleek coffee maker and made a beeline for it.
“Why do you think Fury left us here?” Bucky muttered, peeling off his jacket.
“Because this is the perfect place for a romantic getaway disguised as espionage,” You answered, pulling a ridiculous “MISSION: COZY” banner from your bag and hanging it over the cracked fireplace mantel.
Bucky froze, then rubbed his temples. “You are unbelievable.”
“I’m also in love with you,” You added, flashing a grin that was half apology, half challenge.
He sighed, shaking his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Fine. But this is recon. Keep it professional.”
“Professional as in,” You plopped down on the one and only large bed, arms stretched wide, “Professional cuddles?”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed, and then his lips curved into something like a smile. “You know there’s only one bed, right?”
“Oh, I know. It’s your fault for not bringing a sleeping bag.”
“You knew that,” He said, sitting down heavily next to you.
“Details, details.” You leaned your head on his shoulder and pulled the blanket over both of you. “This is perfect.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was comfortable. Bucky’s hand found yours, fingers lacing together like they fit perfectly. After a moment, you whispered, “So, what’s the actual mission?”
“Observe and gather intel. Don’t get caught. Probably freeze our asses off.” He let out a dry chuckle. “And babysit you.”
You smirked. “Babysitting, huh?”
“Yeah. Someone’s got to keep you from setting off the alarm with your kazoo.”
You pouted but laughed anyway. “Hey, I’m a tactical genius with a flair for drama.”
“And a flair for eating four bananas in one sitting,” He reminded you, eyes softening.
You groaned. “Don’t remind me. My stomach is still plotting revenge.”
He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The soft crackle of the fireplace was the perfect soundtrack to your “romantic” evening. Bucky, finally starting to relax after a long day of surveillance and your relentless banter, had just pulled the blanket tighter around you when you produced your “Sexy Danger Kazoo” from your jacket pocket. You gave him a mischievous grin.
“Want to hear my latest war tactic?” You whispered, raising the glittery instrument like a weapon.
Bucky’s eyes widened. “No.”
But of course, you played it anyway. A bizarre, off-key rendition of the Avengers theme that sounded more like a dying duck than a call to arms.
His sigh was so long it almost became a sound effect. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly in love,” You corrected, settling back down with a triumphant smirk.
Then, just as you were about to doze off, because even chaotic geniuses need sleep, the quiet night shattered.
CLANK.
The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed through the cabin.
Bucky shot up, pulling you with him. “Hydra.”
You blinked. “Already?”
He didn’t wait for you to grab your grappling hook or glitter gel pens. He was moving, fast and silent. You tried to follow, but your pajama pants tangled on the bedframe, and you stumbled, barely catching yourself on the wooden floor.
“Smooth,” Bucky muttered from the shadows.
The door to the cabin burst open, and two Hydra agents stepped inside, rifles raised. But before they could fully process their surroundings, a sudden blaring kazoo shattered the silence. Yours, of course.
“Surprise!” You yelled, charging like a glitter-wielding warrior.
Bucky facepalmed.
Before the Hydra agents could react, you whipped out a handful of glowsticks and started flinging them like grenades, the room suddenly glowing in psychedelic neon colors that were suspiciously brighter than any he had ever seen.
“What the hell is going on?!” One Hydra operative shouted, squinting at the glowing chaos.
Bucky took the opportunity to disable one with a swift punch, then ducked behind the counter to cover you.
“You did say you had distraction expertise,” He hissed.
You grinned wildly, still buzzing with adrenaline. “I’m a tactical genius. Trust me.”
The fight was brief but chaotic, involving a lot of slipping on stray bananas you’d left in the kitchen (don’t ask), glitter explosions from one of your surprise bombs, and a kazoo solo that was definitely more disorienting than tactical.
When it was finally over, Bucky turned to you, exasperated but undeniably impressed.
“You’re the worst mission partner I’ve ever had.”
“And the best,” You said, grabbing his hand and pulling him close. “But hey, if you wanted a boring recon op, maybe you should’ve asked Sam.”
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Next time, I’m bringing the actual weapons and leaving the kazoo at home.”
You leaned in, brushing your lips against his. “Now where’s the fun in that?”
Outside, the Carpathian night resumed its quiet, the stars blinking down on a cabin that was very much not low profile. But inside, you and Bucky knew something important:
Chaos was one of the only things you did well and somehow, it was working perfectly.
Tiny Caretaker
Summary: Steve returns from a mission injured and emotionally drained. You wordlessly comfort him using small, nature-based gifts. Later, Bucky arrives, sees what you've done, and is deeply moved. Both men sit in reverent silence, realizing just how much your small, silent love means to them. (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes)
Word Count: 1.1k+
A/N: Thank you to @cherryblossomfairyy for the request/suggestion. Enjoy and Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Original Fic
The door clicked open just past midnight.
You were already awake. You had been for hours, sitting curled in the tiny hammock you’d woven between two books on the shelf. The wind had felt strange tonight, sharp at the edges. A whispering kind of sharp. You’d known something was wrong before you heard the heavy steps in the hallway, slower than usual.
When Steve stepped inside, you didn’t rush to him.
You just watched. Observed.
He dropped his shield near the couch with a soft clatter. He was still in the dark navy suit, but it was torn in places. There was a long gash across the side and bruises blooming along his jaw. His shoulders were slumped in that way they only were when something had gone wrong. Not physically wrong, emotionally wrong.
He sighed as he lowered himself to the couch, hand pressed against his side. You saw red, dull and drying, on his gloves. You fluttered down silently, your wings barely whispering in the dim light.
He didn’t notice you right away. He had his eyes closed, breathing through the pain and focusing inward, as humans often did when they didn’t want to feel anything at all.
You stood on the coffee table in front of him, arms folded, brow creased. You didn’t like this. He was your Tree. And trees weren’t supposed to fall.
You disappeared for a moment, darting across the shelves, climbing inside the drawer where you kept your special collection. By the time you returned, Steve had opened his eyes.
He didn’t say anything though. He didn’t need to. Because there you were, wings fluttering tiredly, arms full of your treasures for him.
You placed a smooth, round stone beside his knee. The one you’d kept for three seasons because it felt like sunshine when you touched it. You set down your best leaf, soft and silvery on one side. Good for calming dreams. You also had a tiny pot they had given to you before, filled halfway with real honey. The kind you only used for injuries. You unscrewed the top with some effort and nudged it toward his hand.
Then finally… your favorite button.
It was a pale blue one, the color of the sky on warm days. You’d once told Bucky it was “lucky” with a proud little tap and a wide grin. It had always stayed in your drawer, wrapped in a bit of thread like a tiny treasure.
Now it sat beside Steve, on the curve of his palm. His fingers closed around it slowly.
“Is this for me?” He asked, voice rough and tired.
You nodded then sat cross-legged on his knee, your glow dim but steady. You didn’t speak much. You didn’t need to. Your wings brushed his arm gently, a small touch acting as a reminder that you were here, that he wasn’t alone.
Steve exhaled softly and leaned his head back against the couch, hand still curled around the button, the honey pot beside him.
“…Thank you,” He whispered.
You didn’t answer, but you stayed. And your silent company said the rest.
The sun hadn’t risen yet when Bucky pushed open the door.
The team was back, the worst was over, and he’d spent the last few hours finishing debriefs, patching his own wounds, and pacing. He hadn’t seen Steve since the quinjet landed.
So when he opened the door, he froze in the doorway.
Steve was half-asleep on the couch, sprawled awkwardly with one hand clutched loosely over his ribs and the other cupped around a single, small, pale blue button.
His eyes flickered open at the sound. “Hey.”
“You look like hell,” Bucky said, walking in, voice softer than his words.
Steve cracked a tired smile. “Felt worse.”
That’s when Bucky spotted you curled on Steve’s shoulder like a fallen petal, wings tucked tightly around yourself, and your arms holding a bit of thread that had come loose from your pouch. Your cheek was pressed to the fabric of his torn uniform, your tiny form rising and falling with his every breath.
Bucky stopped in his tracks.
There was a leaf on the armrest, a smooth stone by Steve’s knee, and a small pot of honey with the lid off, just barely untouched. And that button… your button.
Bucky knew that one. You’d once protected it from the vacuum like it was sacred. He had joked about it being your “dragon hoard,” and you had hissed at him like an angry kitten, then patted the button gently and flown off in a huff. You’d even growled at Sam once for trying to borrow it.
He stepped closer, crouching beside the couch, eyes flicking between the little offerings and the soft expression on Steve’s face.
“She left them for me,” Steve murmured. “Didn’t say anything. Just… stayed.”
Bucky stared at you for a long moment as his features softened. He reached out, and with one gloved finger, gently fixed the corner of the blanket that had fallen from Steve’s chest, then carefully draped a second piece over your tiny form, shielding you from the draft.
“She always knows,” He muttered, more to himself than Steve.
Steve let out a breath. “She gave me the button.”
Bucky blinked. “The button?”
Steve nodded, voice quiet. “Think I was supposed to hold it till I felt better.”
Bucky huffed, half-sigh, half-laugh. “She gave me a sunflower petal when I had a panic attack last month.”
“She didn’t say much, but… it worked,” Steve said, looking down at you again. “I feel better.”
Bucky’s gaze lingered on you curled up. You were so still, wings trembling slightly in your sleep. “You think she knows we’d burn the world down for her?”
Steve chuckled weakly. “She probably does.”
They both sat in silence for a while, watching the way your wings fluttered in your dreams. Then Bucky, very gently, reached into his pocket. He pulled out a dried dandelion puff, impossibly intact, and set it beside the button in Steve’s palm.
“She gave me this,” He spoke softly. “When you went dark on a mission last month. Said it was for… wishing.”
Steve looked at him.
“You keep it,” Bucky added. “Until she asks for it back.”
Steve nodded. His fingers curled around the puff and the button, chest rising with something deep and quiet. You shifted, still asleep, and leaned closer into the warmth of Steve’s neck.
Bucky turned to go fetch the Medkit before pausing at the door.
“Get some rest, Stevie,” He said over his shoulder. “She’s got you.”
Steve looked down at the little fairy asleep against his collarbone, then back at Bucky.
“So do you.”
Bucky didn’t say anything, just dipped his head in a small nod before slipping into the hallway, the door shutting quietly behind him.
Steve leaned back, hand still cradling the button and the wish, and let his eyes fall closed again. This time, he slept without pain because you were there.
And somehow… that made all the difference.
Devoted Possession
Summary: To the outside world, including Steve Rogers, you're just a close couple. But as Steve begins to notice subtle shifts: distance, lies, unease, he starts suspecting something is wrong. In the moments he tries to confront you both about it, you and Bucky, still cloaked in innocence, continue playing the part. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x Yandere!reader)
Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes. Dark reader. Yandere themes. Implied stalking/watching immensely. Implied death. (Hydra agent)
Word Count: 1.8k+
A/N: I could definitely continue this, but I wanted to focus on an outsider’s perspective for this one. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.
Main Masterlist | Obsessive Love (Part 1.)
Steve Rogers wasn’t the kind of man to jump to conclusions. He believed in giving people the benefit of the doubt, in second chances and quiet patience, especially when it came to Bucky.
So when he noticed that you and Bucky had grown closer, he smiled. It was good, he thought. Bucky deserved someone kind. Someone who made him laugh again, even if it was that small, fleeting kind of laugh Bucky rarely let out. Steve had seen it once or twice when you were around; a twitch at the corner of Bucky’s mouth, a softening in his eyes. That alone made Steve relax.
At first.
But it didn’t take long before something felt… off.
It wasn’t anything either of you did directly. It was the way Bucky always seemed to be near you, not in an obvious way, but always hovering somewhere just close enough. You could be in the training room, tying your shoes, and there he'd be, watching silently from the other side. You could be in the kitchen pouring tea, and he’d already be there, leaning against the counter, mug untouched.
Steve noticed that you didn’t mind. If anything, you seemed to expect it. Like it was natural. Like Bucky belonged there beside you and only you.
He chalked it up to trauma at first. Bucky had latched onto you for comfort, and you were returning the favor. It made sense. You were both quiet, careful, observant. You matched him in energy: soft tones, gentle steps, secrets tucked behind subtle smiles. But the balance between you was strange and way too in sync. Almost too practiced like you didn’t just understand each other, you anticipated each other.
And then there were the missions.
Steve began to notice how people who flirted with you on assignments, even jokingly, never got a second chance. Not because you rejected them. No, you always smiled in that sweet, calm way of yours, tilting your head like you didn’t even notice the attention.
But Bucky noticed and Steve began to suspect that something was happening after the fact.
A Hydra defector who had been “too handsy” with you during an interrogation mysteriously disappeared between transport stops. No trace. No camera footage. The others brushed it off. “Probably escaped.” But Steve caught the look in Bucky’s eyes that night when he told you, “You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
You had responded sweetly. "I know. I wasn’t worried."
Steve didn’t question it out loud. But he felt a small crack in his chest open. Still, he said nothing. Because love made people protective, right? Bucky had been used, abused, weaponized for decades. If he felt like he had something, someone to protect now, who was Steve to challenge that?
But the more time passed, the stranger it became.
He once walked into a quiet common room, only to find Bucky sitting silently beside you, his metal fingers grazing the side of your wrist while you calmly read a book. You were smiling, a soft, dreamy thing, but what startled Steve was how Bucky’s eyes weren’t on the book. They were locked on your face, unmoving. Like he was memorizing you. Like if he looked away, you might vanish.
Steve coughed to break the tension, but neither of you flinched. So, he brought it up gently that night. “You and Bucky seem close lately.”
You looked up at him with wide, harmless eyes. “He makes me feel safe,” You’d said, sweet as sugar.
Steve nodded slowly. “That’s good. Just make sure it’s… healthy, okay?”
You tilted your head like you didn’t understand. “Healthy?”
Steve smiled tightly. “Yeah. Just… keep looking out for each other. That’s all.”
But behind your eyes, something unreadable flickered, a quiet promise wrapped in silk. You nodded. “Always.”
The word didn’t do much to ease Steve’s concerns. Time continued to pass with strange things coincidences occurring, the love between you two growing even stronger. It all felt off to him when he knew he should have been happy for his best friend. Maybe because Bucky was his best friend that he went to seek out Bucky alone one day, but Steve didn’t know.
He didn’t know that Bucky’s room was now yours too, not officially, not in front of anyone else. But Bucky had long since cleared a drawer, laid out an extra blanket, and memorized the sound of your heartbeat in sleep.
Steve didn’t know about the way Bucky trailed fingers down your back while you whispered in the dark, your voices blending together in quiet, mutual reassurances that no one else mattered. He never heard Bucky’s voice saying no one else deserved you.
He didn’t know about the list Bucky kept in his head. All the names of everyone who ever made you uncomfortable, who looked at you too long, who smiled at you the way only he should.
And he certainly didn’t know that you had your own list too.
Not violent, not confrontational. No, yours was different. You didn’t need to hurt anyone. You just needed to watch. To gather things like passcodes, schedules, weak points, and tuck them away like puzzle pieces. If anyone got too close to Bucky, you knew exactly how to make them leave. An exposed secret. A missing key. A harmless rumor whispered in the right ear.
And you always smiled. You always stayed sweet. That’s why no one ever suspected a thing.
Except, maybe, Steve.
Because was definitely starting to feel it, the way the air shifted when you were together. The way your devotion to each other was too complete. Too consuming.
So, here he was. It was late, the kind of quiet that settled only after everyone else had gone to bed and the Tower seemed to exhale. The hallways were dim, just the soft amber glow of the lights lining the floor. Steve didn’t usually walk this floor after midnight, but something had pulled him from sleep.
A feeling.
He was standing outside of Bucky’s door. It was closed, nothing out of the ordinary. Quiet. Unremarkable. Except your room was dark too. Empty.
Steve stood there a moment longer than he meant to, staring at Bucky’s door, then to your door across the hall, then back again. He hadn’t seen you all day. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen you much at all lately unless you were with Bucky. And that wasn’t unusual, not on the surface, couples got close.
But this wasn’t just close. This was… something.
He lifted his hand and knocked twice. There was silence for a moment then the soft sound of movement. The door opened after a few seconds to reveal Bucky bare-chested, relaxed, and not alarmed. But not surprised either.
Steve’s eyes flicked over his friend’s shoulder, and there you were. Sitting cross-legged on Bucky’s bed, one of his shirts drowning your frame, a book in your lap. You looked up and smiled, warm, gentle, like someone caught in the middle of nothing suspicious at all.
“Steve,” You greeted softly, tilting your head. “Everything okay?”
Bucky didn’t move to block the door, but he didn’t step aside either. “What’s going on?”
Steve swallowed. It was dawning on him that he shouldn’t have come. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. But the pressure in his chest had grown too heavy to ignore.
“I just… wanted to check on you two.”
Your smile widened, so sweet it nearly stung. “We’re fine.”
Steve’s eyes lingered on you, on how comfortable you looked in Bucky’s bed, in his space, like you belonged there. Like you'd always been there.
He turned his attention to Bucky. “You haven’t been on rotation lately. I figured you’d say something.”
Bucky’s expression didn’t shift. “Didn’t have to. Nat swapped with me.”
Steve nodded slowly. “You didn’t tell me.”
In response, he just shrugged. “Didn’t think I had to. She offered.”
Something inside Steve twisted. Not the lie, Nat probably had offered. But it wasn’t the truth either.
You glanced at Bucky, then back at Steve with wide, concerned eyes. “Did we do something wrong?”
“No,” Steve stated quickly. “No, it’s not that. I just…” His jaw clenched. “You two seem… close.”
“We are,” Bucky said before you could. His voice wasn’t defensive, just final. Undeniable.
You leaned forward slightly, resting your cheek on your knee, still watching Steve. “Is that bad?”
Steve exhaled. “Of course not. It’s just…” His gaze drifted around the room again, catching the second mug on the nightstand. The way your boots sat neatly by Bucky’s dresser. How a photo of the three of you, taken months ago, had been moved, slightly askew, like someone couldn’t stand the sight of it being centered on all of you.
Bucky watched him scan the room in silence.
Steve met his eyes again. “I just want to make sure no one’s getting hurt.”
Silence.
Your smile didn’t drop, but it dimmed, just a little. Your tone remained even though, but had a hint of confusion in it. “You mean… like emotionally?”
Steve hesitated. “That, and… otherwise.”
Bucky’s jaw tensed. Just slightly. “No one’s getting hurt.”
It was the first time Steve almost didn’t believe him.
You stood up then, walking slowly to Bucky’s side. Your hand slid up his arm, fingers wrapping around the crook of his elbow. Not clingy. Just natural. Just claiming.
Steve tried not to stare at your actions. “You two would tell me, right? If something felt wrong?”
“Of course,” You whispered, tilting your head again, the innocent confusion in your tone too pure to question, too calm to accuse.
But Steve felt it again building in his chest, that pressure. That wrongness. And he couldn’t identify or say why, but it terrified him more than anything else. You both looked so perfect standing there, close and quiet and composed, like a picture that had never been touched by blood or secrets.
Like you’d never hidden anything at all.
“I just want you to be okay,” He sighed at last.
“We are,” Bucky said firmly.
You nodded, stepping a little closer to Steve. “You don’t have to worry about us, Steve.”
And for a moment, Steve swore something flickered behind your eyes, just a shadow, a shimmer of something deeper. Something that didn’t match the smile on your lips.
He nodded stiffly. “Alright. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Steve,” You both echoed in perfect harmony.
The door closed quietly behind him. And the moment it did, Bucky exhaled. Slowly. Like he’d been holding it the whole time. You remained silent and turned to him, melting into his arms, into your rightful place in his bed, where the rest of the world couldn’t see the possessiveness in your fingers or the way your heartbeat sped when he held you tighter in his arms.
“He’s starting to notice,” You murmured.
“I know.”
“Do you think he’ll do anything?”
“No,” Bucky whispered, brushing your hair back with his metal hand. “Not yet.”
You smiled into his chest, a gentle laugh escaping your lips. A honey-laced weapon.
“He’ll learn eventually,” You whispered. “You’re mine.”
“And you’re mine,” Bucky growled.
And the rest of the world could burn.
You Didn’t See That Coming, Did You?
Summary: You and Bucky Barnes turn your precognition into a playful, flirtatious game. What starts as harmless teasing evolves into a deeper connection as Bucky challenges your abilities in creative ways, from sparring matches to leaving cryptic notes and pulling mischievous stunts. Eventually, the game becomes your shared language and you have the quiet realization that even when you see things coming, some moments are worth letting surprise you. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power of precognition.
Word Count: 1.4k+
A/N: Honestly, I was worried how I’d create a good story with this power. However, it turned out so fun. I definitely have a second part in the works if y’all like it too. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
You weren’t exactly a spy. Or a soldier. Not even an Avenger. You were just… useful. That’s what Natasha had called you the first time she brought you in. “This one sees things. Makes life easier.”
Your gift, if you could call it that, was simple in concept and chaotic in execution: you could see short flashes of the future. Usually just a few seconds ahead. Sometimes minutes. Rarely, a day. It wasn’t flashy like Wanda’s magic or Steve’s shield throws. It was quiet, subtle, and often annoying. Like déjà vu that never stopped happening.
That’s how Bucky Barnes became your daily torment.
The man had the audacity to be interesting. A mystery wrapped in a grumpy, tactical jacket with eyes that were always watching. He didn’t trust easily. Neither did you. But trust was a little easier to fake when you already knew what someone was about to say.
At first, he hated it. You’d finish his sentences before he even opened his mouth:
“You're going to say we should sweep left instead of right.” “What the hell-“ “I know. You hate that.”
He scowled at you for a solid two weeks straight. But then came the mission in Prague, when a bullet meant for his temple missed by a fraction because you shoved him sideways exactly one second before it hit. After that, his scowl softened into something else. Something wary. Something curious.
"How did you know?" He’d asked that night in the safehouse, a whisper between the click of his metal fingers unbuckling his gear.
You looked him straight in the eye. “I always know.”
You didn’t mean to flirt. That was the problem with precognition. Sometimes you said things you hadn’t decided to say yet.
Bucky started testing you after that. He’d toss questions at you when your back was turned. “What am I thinking right now?” “What number am I holding up?” “What color shirt is Steve going to wear tomorrow?” You were right every single time.
Eventually, he stopped testing and started playing.
He’d make dramatic predictions just to throw you off. "I bet I’m going to trip over that table."
“Nope, you’re going to stub your toe on the leg and then swear under your breath like a cartoon villain.”
Which he did. Twice. You caught him smiling after the second time.
Somewhere between missions and late-night kitchen raids, you began orbiting each other like clockwork. He’d brew two mugs of coffee without asking if you wanted one. You’d hand him his forgotten gloves before he remembered them. He’d mutter, “You already knew I’d forget, didn’t you?” and you’d just shrug, sipping your drink like you weren’t smug about it.
The Avengers noticed. Steve raised an eyebrow at your synchronized movements. Sam teased Bucky mercilessly. Natasha didn’t say anything, just gave you a knowing smirk that said she’d been right all along.
The thing about seeing the future is, you never get surprised. Not really.
But Bucky managed it.
It happened on a Tuesday. You were both holed up in a quiet corner of the compound, a storm pelting the windows. You were curled up with a book pretending to read, and Bucky was tinkering with his knife. You saw the future as easily as breathing. The next page. His next move. The way he’d stretch, then ask if you were cold. You prepared to tell him you were fine before he said anything.
But he didn’t follow the script.
Instead, he reached into his pocket and held something out. A crumpled slip of paper. It was a fortune cookie message, the cheap kind from the takeout place a few blocks away.
“Surprises are the universe’s way of making sure you’re paying attention.”
You blinked.
“You didn’t see that coming, did you?” He asked, eyes crinkling at the corners.
Your mouth opened, but no words came out. For once, your foresight had gone quiet. No flashes. No hints.
Bucky chuckled. “Finally caught you off guard.”
And you realized, he’d been trying to surprise you this whole time. To prove he could. Not to annoy you. But to know you, in a way you couldn’t predict.
You looked at him then, really looked. The way his hair fell into his eyes. The tension in his shoulders as he waited for your reaction. The hope he was trying not to show.
You smiled, slow and genuine.
“I didn’t see that coming,” You admitted.
He grinned back. “Good. Maybe I’ll keep you guessing.”
And for the first time in a long, long while, you hoped he would.
After that night, Bucky made it a thing. A challenge. A game neither of you officially acknowledged but one you both played with increasing intensity.
“I bet you think I’m going to grab the left mug,” He’d say the next morning, hand hovering indecisively between two identical coffee cups.
“You already decided on the right one three seconds ago,” You’d reply, not even looking up.
“Damn.”
The rules were simple: he tried to surprise you. You tried to stay unshaken. It was fun and harmless. At first. But then came the curveballs. You walked into the training room one afternoon and found the lights dimmed, the floor cleared, and Bucky standing dead center with a smug expression.
“What’s this?” You asked.
He tossed something underhand at you. A soft, rolled-up T-shirt. Your T-shirt. “Figured you’d want to change before I beat your ass in hand-to-hand.”
You caught the shirt easily. “You really think I didn’t see this ambush coming?”
He grinned. “Oh, I knew you saw it. Doesn’t mean I won’t win.”
You sparred for half an hour, laughter echoing off the walls. You dodged every feint, every fake-out but there were moments when he moved unpredictably. Sloppy on purpose. Lazy where he should’ve been sharp. You were reading him, but he was adapting.
By the end of it, you were both breathless, flushed, your back against the mat with his weight braced above you, metal arm warm against your ribs. He was close enough to kiss. Close enough that the future went blurry.
You expected him to pull away but he didn’t.
Instead, he leaned in and whispered, “Didn’t see that one, did you?”
Your heart stuttered. “No, not this time.”
But he didn’t kiss you, not yet. That bastard just smirked, rolled off, and offered a hand to pull you up.
The game? Still on. And it only escalated from there.
Sticky notes started appearing around your room: “Bet you can’t guess what I’ll cook tonight.” “Wrong sock color. Check again.” “Don’t look in the third drawer unless you want to scream.” (You did. It was a glitter bomb. He laughed for ten minutes.)
He started carrying around coins, flipping them when you least expected it. “Heads or tails?” He’d ask, already knowing you’d call it right. But then he’d switch coins on you mid-flip. Or not flip at all. Or throw it across the room and say, “Plot twist.”
He lived to frustrate you and he loved when you slipped.
The game became your language. Your dance.
You pretended not to know when he would brush your hand in the hallway. You pretended not to see the moment he’d glance at your lips and look away. And eventually, you started bending the truth. Saying you “weren’t sure” even when you were. Letting him win.
Because sometimes, it was nice not knowing.
One night, you found a note slipped under your door: “Meet me on the roof. No peeking ahead.”
The stars were out when you arrived, cold air kissing your skin. Bucky was already there, leaning against the railing, arms crossed, watching the city lights twinkle below.
You stood beside him in silence.
“I had a vision,” You said softly after a moment. “About tonight.”
He looked sideways at you, wary but amused. “Oh yeah? How’s it end?”
You smiled. “That depends.”
He leaned a little closer. “On what?”
“On whether you finally kiss me, or if you chicken out again.”
He chuckled, low and warm. “I thought I was supposed to surprise you.”
You shrugged. “You still can.”
He hesitated but not for long. The kiss was unhurried. Intentional. Less about passion, more about proving something. That even if you saw every move, every possible path, this choice was still his. And he was choosing you.
When he pulled back, he searched your eyes.
“Did I get you?” He whispered.
You nodded, breath catching. “Yeah. You got me.”
“Good,” He smiled. “Because I’ve got at least ten more moves planned and I bet you won’t see half of them coming.”
You laughed, head against his chest, and let the future fade for once just enough to stay in this moment.
Game on.
Mischief Managed
Summary: With the power to talk to animals, your feline companion, Mischief, hates everyone at the tower except you. Therefore, when you start getting closer to Bucky, you watch as she slowly starts to trust the super soldier. However, with all things, it doesn’t go well at first. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.
Word Count: 3k+
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
You never expected your strange bond with animals to shape your life so completely. From the time you were little, the voices of birds, dogs, squirrels, even ants, were a constant hum in your mind. You couldn’t explain how or why, but you understood them, and they understood you. You didn’t just hear noises or read body language. You heard words. Emotions. Stories. And most importantly, you could talk back.
At first, it was a secret. A party trick for only the most trusted friends, who usually assumed you were joking. But now, it’s just part of you. You’ve learned to filter out the constant chatter.
You’ve learned to help animals when they’re in trouble and, occasionally, when SHIELD needs it, use them for information. Sometimes, rats knew more about hidden Hydra facilities than satellites ever could.
But for all your strange gifts, you lived a relatively quiet life in the Avengers Tower. Most of the others accepted your ability with curiosity or amusement. Tony had tried to run tests on your brain, and Clint still jokingly called you “Dr. Dolittle.” You didn’t mind. Your companions whether they be feathered, furred, or scaled had always had your back. And one in particular? She guarded you like a dragon guards treasure.
Her name was Mischief. A sleek, coal-black cat with amber eyes and a resting glare that could curdle milk. You’d found her three years ago, injured and starving in an alley, snarling at rats and pigeons for scraps. She hadn’t trusted you at first, but the moment you spoke to her, really spoke, her entire posture changed. It took a few trips bringing food to her, taking things slow. And slowly, you began to realize you hadn’t just earned her trust, you’d earned her devotion.
Since then, she rarely left your side. Mischief judged everyone you interacted with, and she never hid her opinions. She Tolerated Steve. Hated Tony’s cologne. And she absolutely loathed anyone who flirted with you.
That became a problem the day Bucky Barnes moved into the Tower.
He was quiet, scarred, and carried the weight of too many ghosts behind stormy blue eyes. He barely spoke to anyone, kept to himself, and moved like someone always waiting to be attacked. You saw it the first day in how he looked at everyone sideways, how he didn’t sit with his back to a door, how he flinched when someone approached too fast.
And Mischief? She was watching him like he’d brought a knife to your front door.
She sat on the windowsill in your room, tail twitching, eyes narrowed like tiny slits of fire. He’s hiding something, Her voice was flat, echoing in your mind like dry leaves scraping across pavement. He smells like ghosts. Like regret mixed with metal and blood. I don’t like him.
You sighed, brushing a hand over her silky back. “He’s been through a lot. Be nice.”
Nice? You want nice? Find a golden retriever. I’m watching him.
You didn’t know it then, but Mischief’s “watching” would escalate. She wasn’t just wary of Bucky Barnes. She was preparing for war. And you? You were caught in the middle of a cold war between an ex-assassin with a tragic past… and your jealous cat.
It started small at first.
Bucky would pass you in the hallway, nod a quiet hello, and Mischief would hiss from your shoulder like a kettle set to boil.
You tried to explain it away as best as you could. "She’s just like that at first," You said once when Bucky raised a brow at the low growl coming from your tote bag. Mischief liked to crawl inside and travel with you unnoticed. “She doesn’t warm up easily.”
He gave a short, humorless chuckle. “Neither do I.”
You weren’t sure what drew you toward him. Maybe it was the way he always seemed almost comfortable in silence, the way he sat on the common room couch like it didn’t quite belong to him, or how he listened to conversations without ever trying to steer them. Maybe it was how he never asked you questions unless he thought the answer would matter. He was calm. Still. A rare kind of quiet you’d only ever felt around animals.
But Mischief noticed.
One night, you caught her sitting in the kitchen sink like a gargoyle, glaring at the hallway. When you asked what she was doing, she said, Waiting for the metal-armed brooder. If he comes in here again, I’ll gut the loaf of bread he likes.
Sure enough, Bucky wandered in a minute later, offered you a soft smile, and went for the exact loaf.
The next morning, it was shredded. You sighed at the sight as you went out to get a replacement.
Still, you didn’t stop spending time with him.
You started joining him in the gym after hours. The excuse given was wanting to stretch, but really, you just liked the way he relaxed when no one else was around. Sometimes you brought a dog or two in from the compound’s training fields, let them rest while you and Bucky talked. Or didn’t talk. You didn’t need to.
“I think animals like you,” You told him one evening, watching a scruffy mutt rest his head on Bucky’s knee.
He blinked down at the dog like it had just spoken fluent Russian. “That’s a first.”
He’s got soft hands, The dog murmured. I like him.
You smiled to yourself. “I think they know.”
“Know what?”
“That you’ve got a good heart.”
He looked away quickly, jaw tight. You didn’t say anything more, letting it go.
Later that night, Mischief perched on your chest like a stone weight and narrowed her eyes. You’re getting attached.
“I’m not.”
You are.
“You scratched a loaf of bread.”
It deserved it.
You sighed, having not expected that response, but then again, it was typical of her. Mischief wasn’t one to be easily appeased, and her possessiveness was notorious. But this time, she didn’t go on about it. Instead, she flicked her tail, an uncomfortable tension hanging in the air. Her voice softened, almost like a reluctant admission. You’re… different with him.
“Different?” You tilted your head, trying to understand her point.
You relax around him. You listen more. I don’t like it.
It struck a chord in you. You weren’t blind to the shift in your own behavior. With Bucky, things felt easier. Calmer. He had this way of being present and patient in a way that drew you in, as if there was a shared understanding of pain that made silences less heavy. Sure, there were times where the past still haunted him. But his company was always one you found yourself subconsciously seeking.
He didn’t demand things from you. He didn’t ask for anything you weren’t ready to give. And when you were with him, the world felt… simpler.
But Mischief’s words stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated.
“I’m not going to stop seeing him just because you don’t like it,” You murmured, feeling the weight of her gaze.
I know you won’t, She responded in a quieter tone now. But if he hurts you, I’ll bite his face off.
You chuckled softly at the absurdity of the threat. “I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who would hurt anyone… but thanks for the warning.”
Mischief gave a long, almost disappointed sigh, as if she realized there was nothing she could do to change your mind. You’ve always been good at ignoring my advice. I’ll be here, though. Watching.
And just like that, she padded off your chest and curled up on the windowsill, turning her back to you in a huff.
You didn’t feel the usual pang of guilt for not heeding her advice. Instead, you lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Bucky’s quiet demeanor, his unspoken trust, and how, somehow, he made you feel less like an outsider.
But the cat was right about one thing: you were getting attached. And that was something even Mischief couldn’t stop.
Over the next few weeks, Bucky Barnes became a quiet fixture in your life. He wasn’t the kind to join in on group outings or large training sessions. He mostly kept to himself, which, in a way, you could relate to. The weight of his past was something you recognized in yourself. A type of emotional burden carried alone, pushing people away without ever intending to.
Mischief, however, now had different ideas about Bucky. She followed him around like a shadow, watching his every move, her eyes always narrowing suspiciously whenever he so much as looked in your direction.
And then came the first moment that Bucky spoke to her directly.
You were sitting in the common room, legs tucked underneath you, reading a book when Bucky entered, his usual silent demeanor drifting through the door like a storm cloud. You barely looked up, but Mischief did. She jumped down from the windowsill with a graceful thud, making her way slowly toward Bucky. He froze, eyes narrowing as she circled his feet.
"You've got a problem with me, huh?" He asked, voice low, as if speaking to a wild animal.
Mischief didn’t answer. Instead, she sat down and stared at him, her eyes unblinking, before giving a loud, unmistakable hiss.
Bucky took a slow, measured step back, unsure whether to laugh or be alarmed. “Right… definitely got a problem with me.”
You looked up from your book, feigning innocence. “She’s just… protective.” You tried not to laugh, but the cat’s blatant territorial behavior was almost too much.
“Protective?” Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Of you?”
You nodded, setting your book aside. “She doesn’t like anyone getting too close to me. Especially not new people.” You gave him a playful smile, though there was an undercurrent of caution. You had no idea what he might say next. Yeah, he’s graciously ignored her behavior the past couple of encounters. But you know that not everyone reacted well to Mischief’s… directness.
Bucky looked at Mischief, who was now sitting on the arm of the couch, staring at him with intense focus but a bit more relaxed. Like she was really assessing him now. He couldn’t seem to hide the slight tension in his shoulders, though his eyes softened just a fraction. “I’ll take her behavior as simply me being new then?” He asked with a wry grin.
You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Like I said before, she warms up to people eventually.”
“Eventually?” He turned to you, crossing his arms. “How long does that usually take?”
“A few months,” You answered, fully serious, but Mischief’s sudden purring interrupted the tension in the air. You blinked in surprise. Mischief didn’t purr for just anyone, certainly not for someone she didn’t trust who she had threatened previously.
You try not to make it a big deal, knowing maybe something changed her mind and she’s likely trying to give Bucky a chance for you. Or she’s trying to spite you. Either works.
Bucky let out a short, amused huff. “I guess I’m getting there.”
As time passed with your relationship with Bucky slowly becoming more comfortable, he started showing up more too. Helping you with groceries, joining you on the Tower’s rooftop garden, even sitting beside you when you fed a flock of sparrows that landed whenever you called. The birds adored you. One bold little sparrow even landed on Bucky’s knee once, chirped at him twice, and fluttered away.
“She says you look sad but safe,” You told him.
He stared at the spot where the bird had been. “…I’ll take it.”
You didn’t realize it back then, but Mischief had stopped watching Bucky like a threat. She still narrowed her eyes when he got too close, but the claws stayed retracted. And one morning, after Bucky fell asleep on your couch with a book resting on his chest, you walked into the room and found Mischief curled on the back of the couch above his head, keeping watch.
Don’t make this a habit, She warned, but you saw the way she rested her tail across Bucky’s shoulder like a soft little truce flag.
He didn’t wake up. But when he did, and she didn’t move, you didn’t miss the quiet surprise and the ghost of a smile on his face.
Bonus:
The Avengers had long accepted that Mischief was… a little difficult. And by “difficult,” they meant that she was impossible.
Steve tried to be friendly and charming, his warm smile and gentle hands never working when it came to earning her trust. He once tried to bribe her with tuna, only for her to leap onto the counter, knock the can on the floor, and give him a look that suggested he was the most pitiful creature to ever walk the Earth.
Tony, of course, had tried his usual route. Gifts. Expensive toys, cat condos, custom-made collars with diamond studs. Mischief had only hissed at him, her tail twitching with disdain, and turned her back on him every time he walked past. Tony had even tried to sneak in some extra treats with a drone, but Mischief had launched herself at it like a panther on a hunt, sending the drone crashing to the ground in a flurry of sparks and broken components.
Clint and Wanda were no better. Clint had tried talking to her like they were two old friends. He’d even imitated her meows, thinking he could “speak her language.” His reward was a sharp swipe to the face that left him sporting a red scratch for a week. Wanda had tried charm, offering the cat quiet moments and gentle pats. But Mischief simply stared, unblinking, until Wanda gave up, shaking her head and muttering, “She’s something else.”
A couple of the others had tried too, but failed just like the rest. They had all made their peace with it. Mischief was your cat, your problem. None of them expected to get closer to her.
So, when they found out Bucky managed to break some of her walls, it certainly drew some attention.
It wasn’t even anything spectacular at first. At first, it was just him sitting in the common room with his coffee, his book, his quiet presence that always seemed to put you at ease. You, in your usual spot, with Mischief curled at your feet.
But slowly, Bucky had started talking to her. Not in any particular way, just gentle words, a little teasing, soft hums that she might respond to. At first, they were just passing exchanges.
“You’re looking smug today,” Bucky had said, watching Mischief stretch out on the windowsill, her tail swishing slowly.
To his surprise, she’d looked at him, unimpressed, and flicked her tail toward the floor like she was dismissing him entirely. Bucky chuckled softly.
“That’s fine. I’m used to being ignored,” He’d muttered, before turning back to his book.
No one had thought much of it. Until it happened again. And again.
One afternoon, you came into the living room to find Bucky sitting cross-legged on the floor, Mischief lying across his lap. She’d never done that with anyone else. She was curled up, purring softly, and Bucky’s hand was resting just behind her ears, stroking her fur gently.
The other Avengers were lounging around, preparing for the evening’s mission debrief. Steve and Clint had been discussing logistics while Tony fiddled with a gadget, but all of them froze when they saw the scene unfolding in front of them.
Mischief, the aloof, temperamental queen of the Tower, was utterly content in Bucky’s lap.
Tony’s jaw dropped first. “Wait a minute,” He pointed at the scene. “Is that… Mischief?”
“Yeah…” Clint said, his voice a mixture of disbelief and awe. “Is she… purring?”
“I’ve never seen her so… calm,” Bruce added quietly, watching the scene. “She always runs away from us. We can’t even get close without her hissing or hiding.”
“I don’t understand,” Steve said, furrowing his brow. “What is he doing differently?”
Bucky glanced up, catching their stares. He shrugged with an easy grin. “I don’t know, she just… likes me, I guess.”
Everyone stared at him. Even Tony, who never really lacked for confidence, looked a little thrown off.
“How?” Wanda asked, her tone hesitant. “She’s never… let anyone get that close. Not even me, and I’ve tried for weeks.”
Bucky just chuckled, his hand continuing to stroke Mischief’s back. “I don’t know. Maybe she sees something in me. Or maybe I just smell like someone who doesn’t mind the silence.”
The others exchanged baffled glances. It was true. Bucky was quiet, reserved. He never pushed, never pried. Perhaps that had something to do with it. But no one could quite figure out how he’d managed to break through the barrier that had kept them all at arm’s length.
“I don’t think it’s just that,” Clint said thoughtfully, his eyes still on the cat, his fingers twitching like he was about to reach for her. “I’ve been here longer than you, man. And she’s never let anyone get that close.”
Bucky’s smile faltered for a moment, as if he was considering something deeper. “Maybe she just needed someone who didn’t expect anything from her.”
The team was silent, still watching Mischief as she stretched lazily on Bucky’s lap, a low purr vibrating the air around them. It was the first time anyone had seen her so relaxed in front of someone who wasn’t you.
Steve shook his head in disbelief. “I think we’ve just witnessed a miracle.”
Tony was already pulling out his phone. “I’m gonna start a betting pool. Bucky Barnes: Cat Whisperer. Who knew?”
Wanda chuckled softly, still a little stunned. “What did you do, Bucky? Did you offer her a deal?”
“I think she’s just decided I’m not worth the trouble,” He said, finally giving Mischief’s ears a gentle scratch that made her eyes flutter shut in contentment. “Sometimes, that’s all it takes.”
And just like that, the Avengers knew. There was something about Bucky Barnes, something quiet, something patient, that had finally cracked through the walls of the grumpy black cat that no one else had been able to breach.
Mischief had chosen him. And the rest of them? They were just going to have to deal with it.
Picture Perfect
Summary: You’ve always loved photography but never dared to try until your boyfriends encourage you to pick up a camera and capture the world through your eyes. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)
Word Count: 700+
A/N: Another self-indulgent mini fic. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
Despite your quiet love for photography, there was always a voice inside you holding you back. A whisper of doubt that never quite went away. It wasn’t just about not having a camera or the technical know-how; it was something deeper, rooted in old fears you rarely admitted aloud.
You’d spent so much time playing it safe, afraid to try because you didn’t want to fail. What if you picked up the camera, clicked the shutter, and nothing came out the way you imagined? What if your photos were just… ordinary? Unremarkable? Worse, what if trying and failing made you feel small and invisible all over again?
There were memories tangled in that fear. Times when you had dared to put yourself out there in other ways by trying new things, opening up emotionally, yet it hadn’t gone well. Moments when your efforts went unnoticed, or worse, were quietly dismissed.
You worried that photography, something so personal and expressive, might expose that part of you you kept locked away; the part that wasn’t sure if you were good enough.
Even more, you feared that your love for it would fade if you faced disappointment early on. The idea of giving up on something you cared about felt like losing a piece of yourself, and that was terrifying.
That changed one Saturday afternoon. You sat curled up on the couch, flicking through an old photo album filled with faded memories containing snapshots of laughter, adventure, and the quiet moments in between. The nostalgia settled warmly over you, like a soft blanket, and for once, you felt a spark. Some sort of urge to capture moments yourself.
Steve noticed the way your eyes lingered on a black-and-white picture of a city street and smiled gently. “You’ve got a good eye for this,” He sat down beside you, presence steady and comforting like an anchor.
Bucky, lounging on the other side with a book, looked up and nodded. “Yeah. You’ve always been the one who sees the little things. The stuff most people walk right past.”
You glanced between them, cheeks warming at the encouragement. It wasn’t often they focused on something so small and personal. Steve reached over and lightly squeezed your hand. “Why don’t you try it? Start small. I bet you’d be amazing.”
The idea was both thrilling and terrifying. But watching Steve and Bucky’s easy confidence in your abilities was like a gentle breeze breaking through your self-imposed storm. They saw you clearly, without judgment. Their encouragement wasn’t just words, it was a promise they believed in you when you couldn’t fully believe in yourself.
Bucky put his book down, his gaze sincere. “We’re here to help. Hell, we’ll even be your models if you want.”
You laughed softly, the weight of hesitation lifting just a bit. “I don’t even have a camera,” You admitted, feeling slightly vulnerable.
Steve’s eyes twinkled with that familiar determination. “We’ll fix that.”
It wasn’t long at all before the next day where Bucky surprised you with a simple but reliable camera. A gift wrapped with a note that said, “For all the moments you’re ready to capture.”
You ran your fingers over the smooth body of the camera, heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves. It wasn’t just a piece of equipment to you; it was a chance.
That evening, the three of you went out for a walk, Steve and Bucky encouraging you every step of the way. Steve pointed out the soft glow of the streetlights, the way shadows played on the walls, while Bucky suggested interesting angles and compositions.
With every click of the shutter, you felt a little more confident. Your breath caught when you caught Steve’s smile in a candid moment or when Bucky’s steady gaze was perfectly framed against the fading light.
“You’re a natural,” Bucky said, ruffling your hair as you reviewed the shots.
Steve nodded, wrapping an arm around you both. “To think this is just the beginning.”
For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were stepping into something that was truly yours. Something that was worth exploring, with the two people you loved cheering you on every step of the way.
⋆༺Shapeshifting Shenanigans༻⋆
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
Summary: A collection of different one-shots with a shapeshifter reader causing various mischief, running into precarious situations, and being an absolute menace in feline form. Bucky Barnes has the misfortune of being on the receiving end of your shapeshifting shenanigans.
A/N: I realized I had written a lot of this type of reader. Also, I will try to find a way to branch out to other animals if people like this enough. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
Keys | Fluff ✿ | Angst ⛆ | Dark 𓉸 | Hurt/Comfort ❦
✿ Chaotic Cat Curse - You were accidentally cursed and turned into a cat, causing all kinds of fun chaos for Bucky: destroying things, attacking his shoelaces, and generally making his life impossible.
✿ Stray Magic - After your last incident of being cursed into a cat, you now stumble, quite literally, across the ability to shift into a feline form whenever you want.
✿ Catnapped - A mercenary tries to kidnap “the weird cat that’s always with the Avengers.” They succeed temporarily.
✿ The Great Bed Heist - After a rough mission, Bucky returns to his room only to find you, in cat form, perfectly loafed in the center of his bed and entirely unwilling to move.
✿ Laptop Warfare - In your cat form, you relentlessly sabotage Bucky’s attempts to work by sitting on his laptop. ✿ Cat Politics - (Coming soon.)
The Way He Notices
Summary: As the teammate with invisibility, your powers often result in you disappearing from the Compound when the day becomes too much. However, you’re always seen by one person who has started to sit in silence with you, offering occasional comments and comfort. (Bucky Barnes x invisible!reader)
Disclaimer: Angst (sort of). Hurt/Comfort. Reader has the power of invisibility.
Word Count: 1.3k+
A/N: I had fully intended to just make this a blurb. I like imagining the reader with different powers, but this went over the 500 words I had initially planned lol
The compound was too loud.
Even if no one was yelling, even if no one was fighting, your skin buzzed with the memory of raised voices, flashing lights, hands that weren’t kind. Your breathing had gone shallow the moment the door shut behind you. Your hands trembled. Your pulse raced. Your instincts screamed.
So you disappeared. Literally. One blink, one breath, and maybe the world would forget you were there. Invisibility was your gift. When activated, everything fades. Body, clothes, scent; not even heat sensors can detect you. It remains a power you hold to help people from the shadows. Both your shield and your curse.
And right now, you use it to curl up into the corner of your room, legs pulled tight to your chest. Your breathing was quiet now, nearly silent. You liked it that way. Invisible and silent, unnoticed to the world.
But Bucky noticed. He always did. You never told anyone about what it really meant, to vanish. Not in words. Not out loud. But Bucky figured it out anyway.
He paid attention in a way most people didn’t. Not the loud kind, not the prying kind. Just quiet observation, patterns, and pauses. He noticed the things others dismissed: the way your fingers twitched when a voice got too sharp. The way your leg bounces nervously when the room turns tense. The way your eyes never quite met anyone’s after a hard mission.
And most of all, he noticed when you were suddenly gone.
Not physically. Not entirely. Just… hushed. Faded. The kind of gone where your seat at the table was still warm, your plate barely touched. The kind of gone where you stopped making eye contact, stopped breathing deep, stopped existing in the room even if you were still in it. The kind where your powers were not needed at all to remove your presence from a space.
Then overtime, he learned the different ways you could vanish. And unlike others, he didn’t joke about it. Didn’t push or pull or guilt you back. He just waited. A silent and steady presence to turn to.
The first time it happened, he stood in your doorway for ten full minutes, speaking to the air. Not because he thought it would fix anything. But because he knew what it meant to be terrified, voiceless, and unseen, yet still wanting someone to come find you anyway.
After that, it became a kind of rhythm between you. A quiet understanding. Then, the similarities began to show themselves. You weren’t touchy, and neither was he. Your voice was soft, never one to stand out in a room full of people. He was quiet, selective who he spoke to as he watched more than he engaged. You didn't open up easily. But you know he also struggled to do so as well. And when the world pressed too close and you disappeared into silence, he was the only one who could sit with it without trying to fix you.
It wasn’t romantic, not in the beginning. But it was intimate.
In the moments you let yourself be visible, Bucky saw you in ways no one else did. The slight tilt of your lips when you made a dry joke. The way you tilted your head when you were curious, and the way you flinched when someone raised their voice, even if it wasn’t at you. He never made it a big deal. Never made you feel small, insecure, or unworthy. Not even when you couldn’t quite express how you felt and never for existing.
He just noticed. And remembered.
So when your door clicked shut, and you didn’t speak, didn’t eat, didn’t check in? He knew. Because this man had memorized both your presence and absence like a shadow. It was what led him behind your door now, knocking three times. Three simple, soft taps. The kind that asked for permission, not attention.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
“Doll?” His voice was soft, the edge of gravel worn down into silk. “I know you’re in here.”
Still, you stayed quiet. Hidden. Gone.
The door creaked open. He didn’t turn the lights on. He didn’t need them to know you were there. Sometimes you cursed his super soldier hearing.
“I saw you leave the training room without speaking to anyone. That’s not like you.”
There was no accusation in his voice. Just concern. Measured, careful concern. He stepped in further, and you saw the glint of metal catch the moonlight through your window.
“I know what it’s like,” He said after a long pause. “To want the whole world to stop seeing you. To disappear because it’s safer that way.”
You turned your head slightly, though you weren’t sure why. He still couldn’t see you. No one could.
“I used to hide,” He continued. “Behind orders. Behind missions. Behind… the Soldier.”
The reference hit the air with a dull ache. He sat down on the floor, not too close, but close enough.
“I’m not sure what happened. Maybe I never will. But I know you don’t have to be alone.”
You heard a quiet rustle before spotting his hand reaching out, palm up, resting between you both.
“I won’t touch you. I won’t even look, unless you want me to. Just know I’ll be here.”
Your breath hitched. Not because of the panic, but because of him. He stayed yet again. You still can’t get used to it, like somehow you’ve convinced yourself you’re not worth it.
But minutes passed, maybe an hour or more. Who knows. Bucky had learned the hard way how to sit with silence. How to let it breathe instead of trying to fill it. How sometimes just being there meant more than any words.
But slowly, carefully, you let the invisibility fade. Like dust in sunlight. Your fingers, trembling and pale, reached out and barely brushed his.
His hand didn’t move. Instead, you heard his voice, gentle and soft.
“There you are,” Bucky whispered, a ghost of a smile upon his face.
Something in his chest loosened. Not relief exactly, but… a sense of trust. Pride almost. You trusted him enough to come back, to be seen.
Because for the first time all day, you weren’t afraid. You weren’t alone nor unseen. He had stayed there, grounding you.
Your voice didn’t answer him, not out loud. You didn’t need to. Instead, you leaned just a little closer, the barest shift of weight, but he felt it. You were still trembling, but you weren’t hiding. Not from him.
He turned his palm so his fingers could wrap lightly around yours. Not tight. Just enough to remind you he was there.
“I know the world feels like too much sometimes,” He began quietly. “I don’t blame you for disappearing. I used to want to do it all the time. Hell, I did.”
He gave a short, hollow laugh; no humor, just memory.
“When I first came here, I kept thinking: If I can just vanish, if I can just keep still enough, no one will look at me like I’m broken. Like I’m dangerous. Like I’m one bad memory away from snapping.”
You shifted. Still silent, but listening. He could feel it.
“I saw that same look in your eyes today. Like you were made of glass and someone was swinging a hammer.”
The grip of your hand tightened slightly.
“You don’t have to tell me what happened. Not now. Not ever, if you don’t want. But if you need someone who gets it, you know I’m here.”
He tilted his head toward you, careful to keep his movements soft.
“No pressure,” He said quickly, a beat of hesitation filling the space before he added. “Just… if you ever wanna disappear, let me be the one who waits with you in the silence.”
A pause. Then, barely above a whisper:
“Okay.” You nodded. It was tiny, fragile; but Bucky felt it like a damn earthquake.
You didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t move an inch.
He doesn’t try to fix you. He just stays. Listens. Waits. And somehow, in a world that seems to forget you're there the moment you vanish, you're still seen. Completely, quietly, without question, because of the way he notices.
Raccoon Negotiations
Summary: You finally get to meet a talking raccoon whom tries multiple times to bargain for your boyfriend’s metal arm. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)
Word Count: 1.3k+
A/N: Requested by @daystarpoet and @michaelfuckinglangdon which was super fun to fulfill and imagine. Happy reading!!!
Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist
You were mid-bite of a bagel (untoasted, cold, probably two days old, yet still incredible) when a voice said, “You gonna eat that, or are you just giving it mouth-to-mouth?”
You froze.
Your eyes scanned the room. Empty except for Bucky, still in the hallway arguing with Stark about defensive systems. And then, sitting on the counter next to the coffee pot like he’d always belonged there, was…
A raccoon.
A small, vaguely pissed-off raccoon standing on two legs, holding what looked like a plasma rifle, wearing a jumpsuit, and staring at your bagel like it owed him rent.
You blinked.
He blinked back.
Then, with the certainty of someone who’d clearly never interacted with you before, he added: “You alright there, human? Or did you have a stroke while chewing?”
You stood up slowly, eyes wide. “You can talk.”
Rocket snorted. “Wow. You must be the brainy one around here.”
“Okay, no like- I knew there was a raccoon on the ship. Bucky told me. I just thought he was exaggerating. Or having another weird Winter Soldier-flashback dream thing.”
“Ex-cuse you,” Rocket said, leaping off the counter and stalking toward you. “I’m not just some Earth-trash mammal with a vocabulary. I’m Rocket. I’ve broken into more heavily-armed fortresses than you’ve had dumb thoughts.”
“That’s a bold claim,” You said. “Because I believe the moon is just Earth’s emotional support rock and thunder is just the sky clapping for itself.”
Rocket squinted at you. “…okay, yeah, maybe I underestimated you.”
You leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowing in awe. “You’re so small. And yet, the homicidal energy is enormous. You’re like if Bucky had fur and worse impulse control.”
“Hey-“
You turned to where Bucky had finally entered the room and was already sighing. He didn’t even look surprised. “Yeah, that’s Rocket. Rocket, this is the disaster I’m dating.”
You beamed. “He talks! He walks! He’s a death machine in a jumpsuit! I love him. This is so validating.”
Bucky rubbed his temples. “Please don’t encourage him.”
Rocket perked up immediately. “Wait… you’re dating the arm guy?”
You paused. Looked at Bucky. Then back at Rocket.
“…Yeah?”
A slow, terrifying grin spread across Rocket’s face.
“You got any plans for the arm?” He asked casually. “Like… long term?”
You tilted your head. “Other than excessive touching and probably biting it during arguments? No.”
Rocket rubbed his furry little hands together. “Because I have a few ideas. Think we could reach a business agreement? Little trade? You get, say… a box of Kree tech I may or may not have stolen, and I get to borrow the arm.”
“Borrow?” You asked. “Like, while Bucky’s still wearing it?”
“Oh no,” Rocket said gleefully. “I mean borrow in the very permanent, kind of dismember-y sense.”
Bucky crossed his arms. “You touch the arm, you lose yours.”
Rocket scoffed. “Killjoy.”
You grinned, still watching the two of them bicker like this was the most normal day of your life. Honestly, it was close. You had once gotten into an argument with Sam about the physics of penguin knees for forty-five minutes. This? This was pretty average.
Rocket narrowed his eyes. “You sure you’re not a Guardian? You’ve got the same mix of brilliant and brainless I usually work with.”
You put your hands on your hips. “You think I’d survive five minutes on your ship? Clint holds it against me that I once put a Pop-Tart in the microwave in the wrapper. I’m a walking OSHA violation.”
Rocket smirked. “I like you.”
You beamed. “I like you too, murder rat.”
“Raccoon.”
“Tomato, to-mah-to.”
Bucky, in the background, stared into the middle distance like he was reliving every bad decision that led to this exact moment.
-
While the two of you clicked in some strange way, it became increasingly exhausting when you realized Rocket was not a quitter. Not when it came to schematics, explosions, or black-market tech auctions. And certainly not when it came to Bucky Barnes’ vibranium arm.
The first time he brought it up again, you were eating spaghetti with a fork that bent mid-twirl because you'd put it in the dishwasher with an experimental metal compound. You stared at the spiraled noodle carnage with mild offense.
Rocket, perched on the back of the couch, cleared his throat. “So. Hypothetically. If someone were to give you a fully operational piece of alien tech that projects holograms and can play music through bone conduction-“
“No,” You said without looking up.
Rocket scowled. “You didn’t even let me finish!”
“You said ‘hypothetically.’ That’s code for ‘I want to take Bucky’s arm again.’”
He grumbled something in what might’ve been space-raccoon swear words.
You smiled faintly. “Also, holograms and music? Tempting, but I already built something that projects TikToks onto the wall when I whistle the opening to Phantom of the Opera.”
Rocket blinked. “…You need to be studied.”
You stuffed more spaghetti in your mouth and spoke through it, “I have been. Briefly. They sent me home with a helmet and a fidget cube. 2/10. Never again.”
The second time was more of a performance. Rocket had dragged you into a secure SHIELD hangar with a tarp over something massive.
“This,” He said dramatically, yanking the cover back, “is a rebuilt Sakaarian battle drone. She sings, flies, and makes waffles. Trade you for the arm.”
You took one look, gasped, and immediately sprinted past him.
“Oh my god! She has a toaster slot!?”
Rocket beamed. “So we have a deal?”
You turned, clutching the side of the drone with wide, reverent eyes.
“No,” You said, “but I will name her Beepie.”
Rocket’s face fell. “You’re not even gonna run this by him?”
You gave him a look. “Rocket. I love you. You’re the first talking raccoon I’ve met that wasn’t a hallucination and validated my belief that half the raccoon species are murderous. But if you think I’m trading even one bolt of Bucky’s arm, which, by the way, I have kissed more than I care to admit, then you don’t understand the depth of my insanity.”
There was a long pause. Then:
“I’ll throw in a jetpack,” Rocket muttered.
You gasped. “With adjustable altitude?”
“Yep.”
“Still no,” You said even though your answer sounded like it physically hurt you.
The third time, he got sneaky.
You were tinkering in the lab late at night, hunched over a circuit board, tongue sticking out in deep concentration, when Rocket skittered in and dropped a sleek metal glove onto your desk.
“Custom-made,” He said nonchalantly. “Enhanced dexterity. Built-in taser. Perfect for a girl with too many ideas and not enough restraint.”
You barely glanced at it.
“Rocket.”
He leaned in. “You could build anything with this. A gravity-flipping belt. Portable wormholes. A coffee maker that actually respects you. All I need is-“
“Bucky’s arm. I know. I’m not stupid.”
“Debatable.”
You gave him a tight-lipped smile and leaned in conspiratorially. “Here’s the thing, furball. That arm? Not mine to give. I didn’t build it. I didn’t earn it. I just kiss it sometimes and occasionally let it hold snacks. I love him. I’m not trading a part of him. Even for cool stuff. Even for toaster robots.”
Rocket looked genuinely surprised. “You’d really pass up a Sakaarian war-toaster… for him?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Even when he leaves wet towels on the bed. Even when he sighs like an old man every time I rewire the TV to play Jeopardy in reverse.”
There was a beat.
Rocket groaned, flopping onto the table in defeat. “You’re the worst. The absolute worst.”
You grinned and patted his head. “Thanks, murder rat.”
“Raccoon.”
Bucky appeared in the doorway then, raising a brow as he took in the scene: Rocket sulking, you cradling a vibro-glove like it was a puppy, and your very serious expression of moral superiority.
“I don’t wanna know,” He said dryly.
You beamed. “Good. Because if you did, you’d probably start sleeping with your arm chained to your chest.”
-
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