Mischief Managed

I’ll Still Love You

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

Word Count: 2.8k+

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

Main Masterlist | Your Version

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

Peace. Sleep. A future. And you.

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

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

But he kept coming back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that day hadn’t come. Not yet.

-

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

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

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

He ran. It took six minutes to find you.

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

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

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

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

“Please… don’t touch me.”

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

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

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

-

You didn’t come home right away.

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

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

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

You just didn’t know him.

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

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

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

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

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

So you came home.

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

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

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

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

Bucky answered every one like he was handling glass.

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

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

He cracked a faint smile. “Terrified.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So they give him space. But not Steve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not gone, Buck.”

“She doesn’t remember me.”

“But she’s trying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes, you asked him questions.

“Did I… love you?”

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Did I?”

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

Later, it happens again.

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

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

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

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

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

“…Do you want it?”

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

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

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

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

He knows one thing like gospel truth:

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

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

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

hii!

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

thanks alot💕

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

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

Yearning Warmth

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

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

Word Count: 1.5k+

Main Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But something was different lately.

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

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

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

“You always need sleep more than me.”

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

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

“Comes with being human,” You teased gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked up. “I’m proud of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wounded Pride

Summary: When Bucky overhears you referring to him as not exactly being a badass, he over dramatically makes sure you don’t forget what was said. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 1.3k+

A/N: Based on that one behind the scenes clip. If you know, you know…. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

The Tower’s elevators were notorious for having a mind of their own. Sometimes they opened without warning, sometimes they took an eternity to arrive, and sometimes, just sometimes, they timed their arrival with the cruel precision of a sitcom writer.

You were mid-conversation with Sam, leaning against the wall across from him in the hallway, arms crossed, foot tapping. He was lazily scrolling through something on his phone while the two of you traded jabs to pass the time.

It had started innocently. A stupid debate about who on the team would fall apart first during a zombie apocalypse, which then derailed into who would be the least useful in a survival situation. You didn’t think much when your lips curved into a smirk and the words fell out of your mouth, quick and flippant:

“Bucky? Please. He’s more dramatic than cool.”

Sam’s head snapped up, eyebrows raised. “You sure you wanna say that out loud? Man’s got enhanced hearing and a long memory.”

You waved it off with a shrug and a grin. “Oh come on. He broods, wears all black and leans against walls like he’s posing for a noir poster. He’s not exactly a badass.”

The elevator dinged.

And you turned too late.

There stood Bucky Barnes, holding a paper cup of coffee, one brow already arched as if he’d caught the sentence at just the perfect moment. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared at you with that unreadable, piercing expression.

Then his face crumpled into the saddest mock expression of betrayal you had ever seen.

“…What?” He said, softly. So softly.

It was the kind of “what” that sounded like he’d just walked in on his birthday party being canceled. Or found out the puppy he’d been promised as a child was a lie. His eyes widened ever so slightly, lips parting, and he clutched his coffee like it was all he had left in the world.

Sam choked on a laugh and turned to the wall, hiding his face in his elbow as he made strange wheezing noises.

Your mouth opened, trying to find the right words. “I—I didn’t mean it like that.”

But Bucky’s expression was now carved from theatrical devastation. He didn’t even glance your way, just stared ahead, stiff as a statue as you and Sam entered the elevator.

“It’s fine,” He said with the grave seriousness of someone announcing their own funeral. “I’m not a badass. I’ll just go take knitting classes. Maybe open a flower shop. Maybe I am soft.”

“Bucky.”

He sipped his coffee. Slowly. Painfully. “Guess all those years of being a deadly ghost assassin mean nothing now.”

You blinked. “Okay, first of all-“

“I mean, I’ve only jumped out of moving vehicles, disarmed bombs, and taken on half a HYDRA base solo, but clearly, clearly, I should’ve worn sunglasses and played electric guitar instead. That’s what real badasses do, right?”

The elevator doors began to slide closed behind you, trapping you in his theater of sorrow. Sam was practically doubled over now, shoulders shaking violently.

“Jesus Christ,” You muttered, smacking your palm to your forehead. “You’re worse than Clint when someone eats his snacks.”

Still, Bucky didn’t let up. He turned slightly now, just enough to glance at his own metal arm, as if questioning its very existence. “Might trade this in. Get one of those foam Hulk hands instead. They squeak.”

You stared at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

He finally met your gaze, lip jutting out in the most exaggerated pout you’d ever seen on a fully grown man. “You wounded me.”

And then, there it was, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You squinted at him. “You’re faking it.”

“Am I?” He asked, sipping his coffee with unbothered elegance. “Or is this just how it feels when someone you care about betrays you so publicly?”

Your mouth opened to argue, but no words came. You just pointed at him in silent outrage as Sam completely lost it behind you.

And Bucky? He leaned against the elevator wall, lifting his cup with a quiet, smug sip.

You didn’t speak the rest of the elevator ride. Neither did Sam because he had been too busy nearly hyperventilating with laughter. Bucky stayed committed to the bit the entire way down, arms crossed now, coffee now forgotten in one hand as he stared up at the ceiling like a Shakespearean ghost, pondering his tragic fate.

The second the elevator doors opened, you bolted.

“I take it back!” You called behind you. “You're totally a badass! King of brooding! Master of knives! Alpha of angsty wolves or whatever!”

But Bucky’s voice floated after you like a sigh in a funeral parlor. “Too little, too late.”

You groaned and turned the corner, only to hear Sam laugh again behind you.

The next few hours passed in relative peace. You figured he’d drop it. Bucky had a sense of humor. Dry as the Sahara, sure, but a sense of humor nonetheless. And you had apologized. Well. Kind of.

But when you stepped into the training room later, towel slung over your shoulder and water bottle in hand, you stopped short.

There he was.

Bucky Barnes.

Perched dramatically on a bench in the center of the mat, head bowed, posture slouched in such a carefully performed display of melancholy you almost applauded. His dog tags were visible today, glinting beneath his dark shirt. A single training knife spun in his hand like it had betrayed him, too.

You hesitated at the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Reflecting,” He answered without looking at you.

You frowned. “On…?”

“My failures. My illusions. The lie I lived under, thinking I was intimidating.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Oh, you are so full of shit.”

He looked up, expression completely deadpan. “Am I, though?”

You walked in slowly, water bottle dangling from your fingers. “You were never this dramatic back when we fought those mercs in Berlin.”

“I was trying to impress you back then,” He said in a pouty, exasperated tone. .

You nearly choked. “Excuse me-”

He stood slowly, rising with the look of a man preparing to duel at dawn. “No need to pretend now. I know what you really think of me. Just a washed-up ex-assassin who can't even scare a field agent.”

“I never said that!”

“Oh?” He said, pointing the training knife at you. “Then what did you mean by ‘not exactly a badass’? Hm? Let’s hear it. Please enlighten me.”

Your mouth flopped open, then shut. You walked closer and poked his chest with a finger. “I meant you're a different kind of badass! The slow-burn kind! The guy who doesn’t need to puff his chest and scream at the sky!”

Bucky tilted his head. “You think I scream at the sky?”

“That’s Thor, Barnes!”

He blinked. “…Fair.”

You turned, throwing your hands up. “God, why am I explaining myself to a man who eats plums and sulks like it’s a sport-“

Suddenly, a strong arm wrapped around your waist and spun you fast and easy, like you weighed nothing at all, and you found yourself pressed up against him, back to his chest, your wrist caught gently in his hand.

His mouth was next to your ear.

“Still not a badass?”

Your heart stuttered. Your brain short-circuited. You hated how smug he sounded.

“…Okay,” You muttered. “Maybe a little.”

He grinned against your cheek. “Mm. Thought so.”

You shoved him off with a scowl, ignoring how warm your face felt. He didn’t resist, just stepped back with that same cocky smile spreading across his lips.

“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?” You asked, grabbing a practice baton.

“Nope,” He said cheerfully. “But don’t worry.”

He spun his knife again with a wink.

“You can always make it up to me.”

Hii! I absolutely love your fics, and I wanted to send in a request, could be thunderbolts or og avengers, i don't mind, but where reader is like, insecure about her body and she's the only one of the women who isn't wearing fitting clothes, and Bucky showing her how pretty she is - no smut, just him like, kissing the places she's insecure about.

<3

Greetings, dear! Thank you for the kind words and the request. What a lovely idea, it was a joy fulfilling it! Just the type of comfort I love writing actually.

I chose OG Avengers since I have yet to watch Thunderbolts to get a good grasp on those characters. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this! Happy reading!!!

Soft Kisses, Loud Truths

Summary: You, always hiding beneath oversized clothes, finds quiet, affirming comfort in Bucky Barnes. A man who shows you love not just through words but through gentle presence and reverent kisses to every place you hide. Without pressure or expectation, he stays by your side, reminding you that you don’t need to change or be perfect to be worthy of love.

Word Count: 2.1k+

Main Masterlist

You weren’t one for tight clothes. Not because they didn’t fit, though you always insisted they didn’t, but because they fit too well. Too much. They hugged in the wrong places, outlined dips and curves you’d rather keep secret.

And in a room full of confident women, all in sleek dresses or jeans that clung like they were made just for them, you stuck out in your oversized sweater like a kid playing dress-up in her older sister’s closet.

The compound was lively tonight. Some low-stakes celebration Tony had insisted on throwing, complete with music, snacks, and beer someone had spiked with something “better.” Everyone was relaxed, loose, and glowing under the low warm light. Meanwhile, you felt like a smudge on the painting.

You hovered near the edge of it all, picking at your sleeve and tugging it over your hands. The fabric was safe. Baggy. It kept attention off your chest, your arms, your stomach. It helped you feel invisible or, at least it used to.

Because Bucky Barnes had a habit of looking at you like you were the only person in the room.

Your relationship with him was slow. Not fragile, but… careful. Bucky never pushed. He always waited for you to lead, even when he clearly wanted more. Even when your fingers brushed, and he didn’t let go. Even when his eyes flicked to your lips mid-conversation. Even when he held you too long after nightmares you didn’t mean to share.

You weren’t together-together, not officially. But it was obvious there was something between you two. There were many things that didn’t need labels to be real.

Like how he always gravitated toward you, no matter who was talking to him. Or how he’d lean down and murmur some sarcastic comment into your ear that made your lips twitch into a smile, even when you were trying not to be seen.

Tonight was no different.

You felt him before you saw him. His presence, a low hum in the back of your head, like the way you can feel the pressure shift before a storm. Then there he was, easing beside you without a word, his drink in one hand while his other rested lazily at his side like it was waiting for yours.

You glanced up. He wore black, like always, but fitted in a way that made you stare. He looked relaxed and breathtaking. Everything you weren’t.

“Why are you hiding over here?” He asked, voice low and soft.

You shrugged, eyes flicking back to the crowd. “Not really a fan of parties.”

He studied you. “You wore that sweater again.”

“I like it.”

“I know you do.” He paused before carefully adding. “But it’s hot in here.”

You tensed slightly. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t argue. Bucky never argued about your boundaries. But his eyes drifted over your hunched shoulders, the way your arms were crossed protectively, and how you kept adjusting your hemline like it might magically shift your shape.

He leaned closer, a hint of cologne catching in your breath. “You always hide when you don’t think you belong.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know how.

Bucky’s fingers brushed your elbow, light and careful. “You do belong,” He murmured, not as words of reassurance but as truth.

You didn’t know how to believe it. Not when you’d seen the others like Natasha, Wanda, or Sharon who were all stunning, confident, and comfortable in the bodies they moved in like second skin. You saw the way people admired them or stared at them for a beat too long, effortlessly magnetic.

But Bucky, he wasn’t looking at them.

He was looking at you. And he wasn’t looking away.

-

Later, after the party had thinned and laughter faded into distant murmurs, Bucky found you again. However, this time you were in the quiet space of your own room, curled on your side with that same sweater still swallowing you whole. You hadn’t meant to leave without saying goodbye, but you also hadn’t known how much longer you could stand to pretend.

The knock was soft. Two simple, familiar beats.

You opened the door halfway.

He didn’t smile like earlier, just looked at you with those gentle, storm-colored eyes. His hair was pulled back and his voice nearly a whisper.

“Can I come in?”

You gave a small nod and stepped aside. The door clicked shut behind him. He didn’t ask questions right away as he looked around your room like he’d never seen it, then back at you. His eyes landed on your sleeves, the way you clutched them.

“You disappeared.”

“I just got tired.”

“You always get tired when you start comparing yourself to everyone else.”

That made your throat tighten.

Bucky stepped closer. “You looked beautiful tonight. I wish you saw what I did.”

You shook your head before you meant to, bitter at how fast the insecurity rose.

“No one looks at me like that,” You said quietly. “Not like they look at them.”

“They don’t,” He agreed. “Because they don’t see what I see.”

You looked away. He didn’t try to force you to meet his gaze. Instead, his metal hand reached out slowly, silently asking.

So, you let him touch the end of your sleeve.

“Can I?” He asked, voice gentler than before.

You nodded, barely. He pushed the sleeve up, past your wrist, and up your arm.

Then he leaned in and kissed it. Right where your arm softened in ways you hated, where you’d always tried to hide the way it curved and dipped.

Your breath caught.

He continued, lips brushing the skin like it deserved tenderness. Reverence. As if this wasn’t a place to be ashamed of, but one to be adored.

“Here,” He murmured between kisses, “is soft and warm. You try to shrink it, but I want to hold it.”

He kissed your shoulder next, after gently tugging the collar of your sweater to the side. The metal fingers of his left hand ghosted over your back, not pushing, just feeling.

You said nothing, but you didn’t stop him either.

“And here,” He said, pressing a slow kiss just below your collarbone, “is where you carry all your tension. I feel it every time you pull away.”

He moved next to your stomach, after you hesitated, then slowly let him lift the hem of your sweater. You almost stopped him, almost apologized for the stretch marks, for the softness, for not being the version of beautiful the world seemed to want.

But Bucky went to his knees in front of you, on his knees for you, and kissed every line.

Every dip. Every place you’d avoided mirrors for.

“Don’t hide from me,” He whispered into your skin. “Not this. Not you.”

Your eyes stung. You couldn’t look down at him without your throat closing.

His hands were steady, one flesh, one metal. His palms warm and patient as they held your hips like they weren’t something to be ashamed of.

“I don’t need you to be thin, small, or perfect,” He said. “I just need you to be here, with me.”

And when he stood, and you finally looked into his eyes again, you saw no pity. No discomfort nor disgust. Just awe. Like you were something rare, worth worshiping, worth loving.

You trembled, and for the first time, not from shame.

“…You really think I’m beautiful?” You whispered.

His thumb brushed your cheek.

“No,” He said, voice low, steady. “I know you are.”

And then he kissed you. Slow and deep, like he was answering every unasked question you’d ever buried in the mirror.

The kiss itself was like a held breath finally released, full of the tenderness you never knew how to ask for. Bucky didn’t kiss like a man chasing lust. He kissed like someone memorizing or like he was making up for every time you’d stared at your reflection and flinched.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. You could feel his breath on your lips, the slight tremble in his chest like your closeness was almost too much and not enough all at once.

“We don’t have to do anything more,” He murmured, his hands still resting gently on your waist, not pushing or pulling, just holding. “You set the pace. Always.”

You swallowed hard. Your sweater hung halfway off your shoulder, the bottom still pushed up slightly. However, you didn’t feel fully exposed. Not in the way you feared at least. Because somehow with Bucky, it felt more like being seen than being looked at.

You nodded, just a little. “Stay?”

That one word, barely above a whisper, broke something in him. Not in a painful way but in the way something softens when it’s finally allowed to feel. He kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then both your cheeks like he was stitching something invisible back together.

“I’ll stay as long as you want me to,” He said.

And true to his word, he did. Later that night, you ended up curled in your bed, sweater discarded, and wrapped in an old soft T-shirt of his he’d left in your room weeks ago. He said it looked better on you, and this time, you almost believed him.

The lights were off, save for the low glow of your lamp. Bucky was laying beside you on his side, propped up slightly and tracing the back of your hand with his thumb. Your legs tangled loosely beneath the blanket. Nothing rushed. Nothing heavy. Just the comfort of bare skin and deep breathing.

His voice was low, like he didn’t want to startle the peace.

“You know what I noticed about you?”

You looked at him, curious.

“You always say ‘sorry’ when you mean ‘I’m afraid I’m too much.’ Or ‘not enough.’”

Your throat tightened.

“I never want you to be sorry for existing exactly how you are,” He said, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “You don’t have to earn space or softness. Or love.”

A tear slipped down before you could stop it. He kissed it away like it was sacred.

Then, slowly, his hand settled on your stomach again, warm and grounding. “This is yours,” He said softly. “You don’t have to suck it in or apologize for it. It’s beautiful.”

His hand moved to the side of your thigh where the stretch marks you hated resided. “This too.”

Then his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist. “And this. So strong.”

His hand shifted once more and now hovered over your chest, over your heart. “And this,” He said, voice slightly rough, “is what I want to protect.”

By the time he finally settled back beside you, your hands had found his. Your body had stopped resisting his touch. For the first time in a long time, your skin didn’t feel like something that needed to be hidden.

You leaned closer into him, voice small but steady. “You make me feel… safe.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss into your hair. “That’s all I ever wanted to do.”

You didn’t mean to cry, but the tears came anyway. Quiet and slow, as if your body had finally decided it was allowed to feel. Bucky didn’t flinch. He just reached up, cupped your face, and brushed each tear away with the back of his hand like he had all the time in the world.

He didn’t try to hush you. He didn’t ask you to smile. He just let you be.

You both lied there together, not tangled in passion, but wrapped in stillness. He didn’t undress you. He didn’t ask for more. He simply rested beside you, his hand cradling yours between them like something precious.

He looked at you like he saw you. Not a version of you. Not a comparison. Just… you.

And maybe that was enough.

He shifted closer, his voice just a whisper against the dark.

“You don’t have to fight your reflection anymore.”

You didn’t respond with words, just the smallest squeeze of his hand.

Bucky pulled your joined hands to his chest, let you feel the slow, steady beat beneath your palm. “This is yours. With every beat, I’ve always got you.”

His thumb brushed your knuckles until your breathing slowed, until the last tear had dried, until your eyes finally slipped closed.

And long after you fell asleep, he stayed awake, watching the quiet way your chest rose and fell, holding your hand like a vow whispered into the night.

He didn’t need you to love yourself all at once.

He just needed you to know: You were already loved.

And even if you couldn’t see it yet, he would keep showing you until the day you finally did.

Heart First, Sanity Later

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

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

Word Count: 3.4k+

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

Main Masterlist

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

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

He stared at you. Everyone did.

You slurped. “What?”

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

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

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

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

But outside of that? Absolute chaos.

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

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

He blinked slowly. “Yes.”

“Sounds fake but okay.”

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

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

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

You beamed. “I know, right?”

And that was just the beginning.

-

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

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

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

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

“What?” He hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

You were something else. A walking contradiction.

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

And tonight was no different.

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

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

Affection.

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

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

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

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

“You okay there, Grumpypants?” You asked.

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

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

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

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

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

The jet went quiet.

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

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

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

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

He was fucked.

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

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

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

“Sexy?” You offered helpfully.

“…Terrifying.”

You winked. “Same difference.”

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stared at you, speechless.

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

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

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

Bucky froze, his heartbeat suddenly in his throat.

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

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

His chest tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Then I’m doing taxes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky blinked. “Excuse me?”

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

“I do not look like-“

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

“I am not emotionally unavailable.”

“You have a go bag, Bucky.”

“…That’s standard protocol.”

“Your toothbrush is still in the packaging.”

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

You held up a finger. “Armed wildlife.”

He ran a hand down his face.

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

You blinked up at him. “Kinky.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was a raccoon with a grudge.”

“That’s not a thing!”

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

He froze.

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

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

”I love you, you absolute menace!”

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

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

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

“Say it like what?”

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

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

“Yes!”

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

“Also yes!”

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

“I almost killed you.”

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

He blinked. “Okay?”

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

He stared. “You do?”

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

He laughed, just once, short and stunned.

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

Bucky groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet. You’re in love with me.”

“I’m regretting it deeply.”

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

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

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

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

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

Oops, I Joined a Cult Again

Summary: You joined a cult. That’s it. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 900+

A/N: Same as the unhinged/chaotic reader series, supposed to be shorter but then I added more group chat shenanigans. I wanted something quick while I work on other stuff. Sorry if it’s messy. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

Bucky Barnes had one job: watch your back on the infiltration mission.

He didn’t know that meant literally watching you disappear into a torchlit temple deep in the mountains and emerge forty-eight hours later in robes, glowing, smiling cheerfully, and being worshiped as the reincarnation of a snake god.

“They call me The Hissening,” You whispered, eyes far too wide, far too smug.

“I told you not to touch the statue,” Bucky muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as the robed people behind you chanted in perfect sync: “HISSSSSSS.”

-

48 HOURS EARLIER

The briefing was simple. Infiltrate and investigate a rising cult rumored to be a Hydra front. No weapons. No overt powers. In and out.

Naturally, Tony turned to you and said, “You’re on distraction duty. Just… go be yourself.”

You took it as a compliment. It was not.

You and Bucky parachuted into the outskirts of the mountains under cover of night, both in tactical gear. Silent and focused… until you turned to him mid-descent and yelled, “DO YOU THINK CULTS HAVE SNACKS?”

“…What?”

“LIKE HOLY GRAHAM CRACKERS OR- wait, no, Blessed Chex Mix!”

He didn’t respond. He just stared straight ahead, wondering for the millionth time what cosmic punishment he was paying for to be partnered with you on this particular mission.

The problem was never that you were bad at missions. In fact, in combat, you were terrifying. Strategic. Surgical.

But in deep cover? You were yourself, which is how exactly five minutes after entering the temple courtyard, you said:

“Nice snake statue. Can I boop it?”

And when the head priest responded, “Only the Chosen One may lay a finger upon the sacred Fang of Enlightenment,” You touched it immediately, whispered “boop,” and passed out.

When you woke up, glowing faintly with what may have been divine energy (or some type of poisoning), the cult declared you their prophesied leader.

You didn’t correct them.

-

BACK TO PRESENT

Bucky had finally gotten inside. Posing as a new recruit, hood up, mouth shut, inner turmoil vibrating at a ten. He spotted you instantly. You were standing on a golden platform, arms open, and being fanned with palm leaves.

“Hey,” He hissed when he reached you. “Mission. Hydra. Ringing any bells?”

You waved vaguely. “They have really good soup here.”

“This is not the time for soup.”

You nodded solemnly. “There is always time for soup.”

Someone handed you a ceremonial staff. You took it. It was sparkly.

You then whispered to Bucky, “So here’s the thing… I might’ve said we should cleanse our enemies in a fire of spiritual rebirth. Which they interpreted as actual fire. So, like… maybe be cool about that.”

He blinked at you.

“You started a holy war, didn’t you.”

You smiled brightly. “Only a small one.”

That night, under cover of darkness, the two of you escaped; you still in full ceremonial garb, Bucky dragging you by the elbow while you shouted goodbye to your “disciples.”

One of them threw a snake at you in farewell. You caught it. You named it Gary.

Steve, upon your return, asked what happened.

You saluted and said, “I was a god for three days and it changed me. Also I have this soup recipe now.” You handed him a scroll. When he opened it, it was blank.

Bucky looked at you, exhausted, covered in ash, a little bruised, holding a snake in one hand and your glitter-covered robes in the other.

“…You are the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me,” He said.

You winked. “But I’m your weirdo.”

“Yeah, you are.”

-

Bonus Debriefing.

Group Chat:

Tony: Okay, so. Roll call. Who let them start a religion??

Clint: AGAIN?!?

Sam: Are we seriously ignoring the snake?? Why does she still have the snake?

You: his name is Gary, he chose me

Bucky: The snake did not choose you. You caught him and said “I am your mother now.”

You: and he accepted me

Wanda: Did you eat something weird again? The last time you said a goat “chose you” we had to evacuate a whole town.

Steve: Back up. How did we go from “infiltrate Hydra cult” to “being crowned a divine prophet of the hiss age”?

Bucky: Because she touched the sacred artifact. While they were giving a warning not to.

You: i wanted to boop it 🐍✨

Bruce: [Image attached: Security cam still of you dramatically booping a snake statue and passing out like a Victorian child seeing ankles.]

Tony: Okay but why are you glowing in this?

You: i think I absorbed a minor god

Sam: Define “minor.”

You: likeee a demi-snake. A snack god

Bucky: You said, quote: “Let the hiss of salvation whisper in your soul or something.”

Tony: You started preaching???

You: they gave me a podium! what else was I supposed to do? NOT use it!?

Natasha: …Yes?

Clint: wait, so did we ever find out if the cult was a Hydra front or…

Steve: Nope. She gave a sermon and declared Bucky her “divine enforcer.”

Bucky: Yeah. Still mad about that.

You: srry Prophet Punchy

Tony: We are never letting you go on recon again.

Bruce: I still want to know how you pulled off a glowing aura with no tech or magic.

You: I ate three glowsticks on accident.

Wanda: …

Steve: …

Bucky: This is not a joke. I watched it happen.

You: I thought they were minty tubes.

Sam: Was anyone else weirdly inspired by her speech though?

Steve: Sam.

Sam: I’m just saying I felt something 🐍

Bucky: I felt betrayal and secondhand shame.

You: don’t worry guys, the cult disbanded peacefully. i left them a doctrine :)

Tony: A what.

You: [Image attached: Crayon drawing of a snake with sunglasses saying “BE NICE. EAT SOUP. HISS IF THREATENED.”]

Bruce: This is shockingly coherent.

Clint: I hate how effective it is.

Thor: I would like to join this religion. It seems wise. HISS.

[Thor has been muted again.]

✩˚ ｡ Masterlist ｡ ˚✩

Here is where you can find all the works I’ve written. All of this currently involves Steve and/or Bucky unless specified otherwise. I may branch to other characters later on.

Last Updated: 05/12/25

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

Series:

ʚɞ 𓉸 ⛆ Caged in Comfort

✿⛆❦ Whispers of the Gifted - A collection of different one-shots with reader having different powers or abilities, each in their own universe.

Fics:

ʚɞ ❦ Difficult Morning - You’re having a harder time waking up this morning. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are patient and comforting throughout. (Stucky x little!reader)

ʚɞ ❦ After the Noise - During a meeting, everything becomes too much for you. Your fathers notice instantly, bringing you to a quieter space and reassuring you that you don’t always have to be big. (Stucky x little!reader)

✿ ʚɞ Fort Kingdom - You spend a rainy evening with your caregivers, Bucky and Steve, building the ultimate blanket fort. (Stucky x little!reader)

⛆❦ The Silence Between Us - When a mission goes wrong and you resort to bad habits, one of the last teammates you expected finds you. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

✿ ʚɞ A Little Mess Won’t Hurt - Your caregivers help you try finger painting, noticing your reluctance to create any kind of mess despite your love for art. (Stucky x little!reader)

𓉸 Because He Always Knows - You're close friends with Bucky Barnes, trusting his quiet, protective nature. What you don’t know is that Bucky is secretly obsessed with you. And he’ll do anything to keep you safe, close, and his. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x reader)

✿ ʚɞ ❦ Learning to Ask - When you muster the courage to ask for something, Bucky responds with quiet warmth, holding you close as Steve gently joins in, reminding you that it’s safe to ask for things and even safer to be held. (Stucky x little!reader)

𓉸 Obsessive Love - You and Bucky Barnes fall into a quiet but intense obsession with each other. While your love is sweet, watchful, and clingy beneath a gentle surface, Bucky’s affection turns darker and more possessive. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x Yandere!reader)

𓉸 Devoted Possession - Part 2 to Obsessive Love where Steve Rogers begins to suspect something is wrong. When confronted, you and Bucky, still cloaked in innocence, continue playing the part. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x Yandere!reader)

⛆ The Solstitial Truce - You met him at the border between realms every solstice, simply watching the stars together. Two entities out of place, bound by quiet conversation and the kind of silence that speaks more than words ever could. (Demon!Bucky Barnes x Angel!reader)

⛆ ʚɞ ❦ Not a Burden - Lately, you’ve been feeling like a burden to your caregivers. It doesn’t take long for Steve and Bucky to notice and reassure you that you’re never a burden to them and you never will be. (Stucky x little!reader)

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

✿ DIY Project - You and your competitive boyfriends attempt to build a bookshelf one day. You have to refrain from laughing as they keep trying to one-up each other.

⛆ 𓉸 Rewritten - You wake up in a cozy home with no memory of anything. You find your alleged lovers reassuring you that you’ve always lived there and that they’ll stay by your side through this difficult time. However, you can’t seem to shake the feeling that something is wrong. (Dark!Stucky x reader)

Blurbs/Drabbles:

ʚɞ ❦ Sick Day - You’re sick and your fathers take care of you. (Stucky x little!reader)

✿ Lazy Morning - Snuggled up between your loving boyfriends, you listen quietly as they argue over who is the better cook. (Stucky x reader)

Where Were You Then?

Summary: You and a bunch of other people are moved to a new base due to the Avenger’s meddling. There, you bond more with one of your colleagues who warns you one night about what the Avengers may be up to; leaving you to sit with the weight of knowing they’re only now interested for reasons unknown.

Word Count: 2.9k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

You were just finishing up the day’s work when the knock came.

Not sharp, not urgent. Just a brief, polite tap on the metal frame of your open door. When you glanced up, a man in dark gray stood there. Clean uniform with no insignia you recognized, but the kind of posture that said he didn’t waste time unless it mattered.

“Can I speak with you?” He asked.

You gave a short nod and pushed your chair back. “Now’s fine.”

He stepped inside, calm but brisk, like someone used to planning six steps ahead. “We’re relocating you.”

You blinked. “Relocating?”

“It’s not disciplinary,” He clarified quickly. “Your record’s clean, your contributions are beyond solid. This is a matter of preemptive caution, for everyone.”

You straightened. “Meaning what, exactly?”

He hesitated, just a second too long.

“Details are on a need-to-know basis,” He spoke carefully. “But your transfer has been cleared. Secure transport will arrive within the next forty-eight hours. You’ll be reassigned to a secondary site more isolated and protected. Same role, just… farther from high-traffic areas.”

There was a weight to his words, one he wasn’t allowed to unpack.

Your mind jumped too easily. The Avengers? Could they have found a trail? No one here had ever said it outright, but this organization didn’t recruit former personnel from that world without reason. You didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer. But something in his tone softened when you stayed silent for too long.

“You’ve done good work here,” He said. “There are people who’ve noticed. This isn’t a punishment. It’s just… insurance.”

You nodded slowly. “Understood.”

He gave a short nod back. “You’ll receive the full transfer package in the morning. Pack light, essentials only. We’ll handle the rest.”

Then he left. Just like that. No apologies. No threats. Just… consideration. Like your presence actually meant something here, like moving you was part of protecting an asset, not brushing aside a liability.

It was strange, being treated like you mattered. Unsettling, almost.

You stared at your desk for a long time after, thoughts circling like vultures. You weren’t sure what was coming, or who was coming for that matter but this time, someone had moved you before the storm hit.

And somehow… that made all the difference.

They moved everyone at dawn.

For you, there was no drama. No armed escort. Just two people in a quiet transport vehicle, neither of whom spoke unless you did. The silence wasn’t cold, it was purposeful. Measured. Like even the air between words had been screened for unnecessary noise.

You watched the base disappear through a small, reinforced window. The trees beyond it blurred into gray-green smears. You didn’t ask where you were going. If you were meant to know, someone would’ve told you.

The transport itself took most of the day.

Surprisingly, there were no trackers, handcuffs, or weapons secured on your back. Just a sealed case of your belongings at your feet, and the weight of knowing this wasn’t just a job shift, it was a severing. A quiet severing from the last version of your life.

When you finally arrived, it wasn’t to a bunker or a prison. It was… clean. Remote, yes. Nestled in the shadow of a cold, low mountain range and shielded by layers of climate camouflage but still functional. It had a sharp-edged, efficient charm to it. Made of glass and steel, but no gloss.

Someone met you at the gate. Middle-aged, sun-weathered, and the kind of face that belonged more to ranches than espionage.

“Welcome.” He greeted, eyes kind but searching. “We’ve been expecting you.”

He didn’t offer his name, just a handshake. Firm, not too long. Genuine. You nodded once in return and stepped inside.

The interior was no different; quiet hallways, soft lighting, nothing flashy. Your new quarters were modest but well-prepared. A real bed. A desk with working equipment already logged in under your name. A few small touches that made it feel not temporary. There was also a chair pulled out. A folded set of fresh clothes. A cup and kettle beside sealed packs of tea.

Someone had gone out of their way to prepare for you.

That was new.

You didn’t unpack right away, just stood in the center of the room and let the silence fill in all the gaps the Avengers used to ignore.

Nobody here looked at you like you were an afterthought. They didn’t praise you either, but somehow that felt more honest. More grounded. You still weren’t anyone special, but you weren’t invisible.

Later, someone would bring you a meal without being asked. Even later, someone else would knock softly to ask if you needed help setting up your gear.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected when they said you were being relocated. Isolation? Containment? But not this. Not quiet competence. Not care in the form of practical support.

Still, the question lingered at the edges of your mind like a bruise that hadn’t healed right.

Why now? Why move you before anything happened?

What were they protecting you from?

Or more hauntingly, what were they protecting from you?

Regardless, you couldn’t dwell on it too much, you still had work. A job. You were still needed, wanted. Speaking of such, it was sometime past midnight when the knock came.

Two soft gentle taps, just enough to make sure you were awake, not enough to demand your attention if you weren’t. It was considerate.

You were awake, of course.

Sleep didn’t come easy anymore though. So you sat up, brushing the throw blanket from your legs, and moved to open the door.

Maren stood on the other side, still in her boots, curls pulled back in that effortless way that made her look always in motion. She had a folder tucked under one arm and a mug in the other, something warm and lightly spiced, if the smell was anything to go by.

“Sorry,” She apologized sheepishly. “I know it’s late. You can throw something at me if you want.”

You didn’t. You stepped aside.

She entered and settled into the chair near the desk with a soft sigh, setting the mug down in front of your chair. Cinnamon, you realized.

“I figured you were up,” She added, flipping open the folder on her lap. “Also figured if I stared at this mess any longer without asking someone smarter than me, I’d end up walking into a wall tomorrow.”

You arched a brow. “That happen often?”

“Oh, sure,” She replied easily, glancing at you with a lazy grin. “But this time I’d have deserved it.”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t leave either. You sat down slowly, fingers curling around the mug. It was warm. Too warm to pretend you weren’t grateful.

Maren didn’t talk for a moment, just flipped through the schematics, frowning and murmuring something under her breath. Then:

“You ever miss it?” She asked. “The Tower. The mission boards. The forty-five emails from Stark at 2 a.m. because he was convinced everyone else had forgotten how to sleep?”

You didn’t answer right away.

She glanced up. “Sorry. I said I wouldn’t bring it up. I’m just–… curious.”

You stared into the steam curling from your mug. “I don’t miss being invisible.”

She didn’t smile at that, didn’t say “of course” or “you weren’t invisible.” Just nodded like someone who believed you.

“I used to work under people who never remembered my name,” She confessed after a moment. “I learned to smile fast, be useful, be quiet. Eventually someone told me I had a ‘pleasantly neutral presence.’” She snorted. “Didn’t know whether to thank them or cry.”

Your lips twitched, just a little. That was the thing with Maren. She didn’t really dig. She didn’t poke either. She just… dropped little stories beside you like breadcrumbs and let you decide if you wanted to follow.

You didn’t know what her role was here, not exactly. She wasn’t one of the shadowed higher-ups who briefed you through glass. She wasn’t part of security, or intel. But she had access. She came and went freely. Her badge could open more doors than yours.

And she kept coming back.

Every day, she brought something. Not always files. Sometimes it was a snack. A joke. A book she thought you’d like. Once, a scarf. “It’s ugly,” She warned you with a smirk. “But it’s warm. Don’t get sentimental.”

You’d kept it anyway.

Now, she leaned back in the chair and tapped a page in the folder. “This code, they’ve been using it to mask movement through the lower grid. I think it’s one of the Avengers’ old cloaking patterns. But I can’t break it alone. Thought maybe you’d enjoy the irony.”

You took the folder without replying and that was enough of an answer for her.

She pushed herself up a second later, stretching slightly, then moved toward the door, but paused before she left.

“…Hey,” She called softly, hand still on the frame. “If you ever get the urge to leave… walk out, disappear, whatever, I won’t stop you.”

You blinked. She turned slightly, looking at you over her shoulder. Her voice was quieter now. “I just hope someone finally deserves you enough to give you a reason to stay.”

The door closed gently behind her.

You stared at the folder in your lap. At the mug. At the silence she left behind, warm for once, not cold. And you didn’t know what scared you more:

That you were starting to truly care. Or that maybe… she already did.

In the new base, your days started earlier now.

Not because anyone made you. There were no mandatory check-ins, no shouting instructors or looming supervisors. But people noticed when you showed up early, and unlike the Tower, they actually said something about it.

Noticed you, that is.

The job was… well, it wasn’t so different, really. Coordination, data analysis, and communication relays between cells. You monitored activity across networks the Avengers didn’t know how to see, flagged inconsistencies, tracked patterns. Only this time, when you submitted a report, someone actually read it.

Once, someone even scribbled:

Brilliant work. You saved us three days. - E

On the margin of your printout in ink, as if it mattered.

It felt strange, at first. Being thanked and being seen. Even stranger was how the others treated you. They weren’t perfect. Some were gruff, standoffish, or slow to trust. But it wasn’t personal. It was how they were with everyone. You weren’t an outsider, they just weren’t the warm and fuzzy type.

Still, you found your rhythm.

There was Janek from logistics, who swore too much and brought you coffee and stale biscotti when he was grateful. There was Yara, who ran fieldwork planning and somehow always knew when you needed five minutes of silence and a desk light turned away just so to help your headaches.

And of course, there was Maren.

Her visits were less daily now, but they lingered longer. She’d still drop files or jokes or awful candy bars she pretended to love, but some days she just sat across from you, legs propped up on a nearby chair, flipping through a book or doodling in a notebook while you worked.

She never hovered, never demanded, never asked what you were thinking. But she always seemed to know when something was off.

One afternoon, when your hands had been trembling under the desk for half an hour, she passed you a pen you didn’t need and said, “You don’t have to break yourself to be useful here. That’s not the deal.”

You didn’t reply. But you held the pen a little tighter, just for the weight.

You weren’t in a cell. You weren’t being coerced. You hadn’t signed your name in blood. But somewhere between the cracked teacups, the high-security reports, the nods of appreciation, and Maren’s steady quiet, the lines had blurred.

This place, they made you feel like you mattered. And no one had ever done that before.

Still, there were nights you stared at the ceiling, palms clammy, and wondering if it was all too easy.

Too good. Too tailored. But when you thought about leaving, really leaving, your heart didn’t race with freedom. It knotted with fear. Not just fear of what they’d do, but of what it would feel like to go back to being invisible again.

The Avengers never saw you. But here, people did. Maybe that was manipulation. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you didn’t care.

However, you would have to figure it out sooner or later. The fact becoming more evident in your recent visit with Maren.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Most nights, you kept to your quiet rhythm. Work, rest, repeat. The corridors outside your quarters stayed empty this late, and that was how you liked it. Silence had become more of a comfort than people ever had.

So when the knock came with soft, deliberate, two even taps, you knew exactly who it was.

You didn’t speak. Just opened the door.

Maren stood there with her hands in the pockets of her jacket, shoulders relaxed but eyes too focused for this to be casual. She didn’t smile.

That alone made your chest tighten.

“Can I come in?” She asked softly.

You stepped back to let her through.

She hovered by the desk instead of sitting, gaze sweeping briefly over the files you’d abandoned and the mug still half-full beside them. It looked like any other night but she wasn’t treating it like one.

“You don’t usually stop by this late without something to drop off,” You said finally.

“I know.” She glanced at you. “Didn’t want to wait.”

That answer made something cold settle at the base of your spine.

You crossed your arms loosely, leaning back against the wall. “So don’t make me guess.”

Maren let out a breath, slow and tired. “They’re moving. The Avengers.”

You didn’t react outwardly, but your fingers curled just slightly against your sleeves.

“How close?”

“Not at the gates or anything. But they’ve started poking around. Someone pulled old records; training logs, field reports, tech inventories with your name half-scratched out of them.”

You looked away, jaw tight.

“You knew this might happen,” She said. “Didn’t you?”

You gave a soft shrug. “Eventually. I just thought they wouldn’t care enough to follow through.”

Maren didn’t deny it. “They didn’t… until now.”

She finally stepped closer, but not enough to crowd you. She wasn’t here to push. Just to deliver something real.

“I wanted you to hear it from me,” She said. “Before it’s sirens or breach codes or worse.”

You searched her expression. “Why warn me at all?”

She gave a small, tired smile. Nothing like the smirks or smiled she used when teasing you about snacks or work stuff.

“Because you’ve been more honest with me by saying nothing than most people ever are running their mouths,” She said. “Because you help, you’re there. And because even if you never told me what really happened with them, I can see it. In how careful you are, quiet, like you learned the hard way not to expect anyone to come back.”

You looked down. That last part hurt in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“And you’re not trying to stop me,” You murmured.

“No,” She said. “I’m just making sure you don’t get caught waiting for a rescue that may not happen.”

The silence stretched. Then, just as she turned to go, she paused and glanced back.

“Remember what I said… If you want to disappear, I won’t stop you. I’ll help. If you want to stay and fight, I’ll cover you. But whatever you choose, do it because you decided, not because you’re still trying to be something for people who never saw you.”

Your throat felt tight, but you nodded.

Maren didn’t say goodbye. She just touched the edge of the desk as she passed it again, a quiet habit she’d picked up, and slipped out into the hallway like she’d never been there at all.

You didn’t move for a long time once she was out of sight. Her words echoed, low and slow, like ripples spreading through still water. You sat down at your desk, fingers brushing the edge where she’d touched it last. An absent gesture, meaningless to most, but it reminded you that she saw you. Had, maybe, for longer than you wanted to admit.

But that didn’t make this choice any easier.

You’d walked away from the Avengers quietly, with barely a notice. Not because you wanted to disappear, but because they never looked hard enough to remember you were there in the first place. And yet, somehow, you weren’t gone. You were just… on the other side now.

Funny how that worked.

They’d start a war to fix a system, but not a conversation to fix a person.

You stared at the half-drunk coffee on your desk. The files a colleague had brought earlier, harmless recon work. Nothing personal, but it all now felt like a test. A choice dressed in paperwork. Stay or run. Fight or vanish.

Or wait for someone who never looked back.

You couldn’t decide tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow.

But you knew this: If the Avengers showed up, you wouldn’t be caught off guard. Not scrambling, not pleading, not waiting. You weren’t that girl anymore.

And if they asked you why?

…You still didn’t know what you’d say.

Maybe nothing at all. Maybe just:

"Where were you when I needed someone?"

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Tiny Winged Trouble

Summary: You’re only a few inches tall, full of sparkle and mischief. When SHIELD accidentally captures you in a jar, Steve and Bucky are tasked with figuring out what you are. You refuse to speak at first, until Steve gives you a cookie. Now they’re stuck with a clingy, stubborn fairy who calls them “Tree” and “Shadow.” (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 1.1k+

A/N: It was either mermaid reader or fairy reader. Fairy was easier to write soooo… Enjoy! Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

You were caught in a jar.

A pickle jar, to be specific. It still smelled faintly of vinegar and dill, which you found personally offensive and not just because fairies are very sensitive to smell.

You were fluttering peacefully through the trees near the outskirts of New York when a group of shouting humans in dark armor leapt out from behind a bush and trapped you in what they called a “containment unit.” You didn’t know what SHIELD was, but their agents were very loud and very rough, and they didn’t even ask your name.

You sat cross-legged at the bottom of the jar, wings tucked in, arms folded across your chest, trying your best to look unimpressed.

And then he walked in. Tall, golden-haired, broad-shouldered, a man who practically radiated kindness and confusion in equal measure. Steve Rogers.

He approached the table with another man behind him, darker, quieter, haunted-eyed but alert watching everything. Bucky Barnes.

“I thought you said there was an artifact,” Steve said slowly, looking at the jar.

“It is,” The agent replied. “It talks.”

You gave the man your most dramatic eye roll.

Steve crouched beside the table, eyes soft, voice careful. “Hi there. What’s your name?”

You turned your head away and said nothing.

Bucky stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. “Do fairies sulk?”

You didn’t like his tone not cruel, just skeptical. So you stuck your tongue out at him and turned invisible.

Bucky jumped slightly. “Okay. That answers that.”

“Hey, hey,” Steve murmured, holding his hands up gently. “We’re not gonna hurt you, promise. You just surprised everyone, that’s all. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Still, you said nothing.

It wasn’t until someone walked by with a coffee and a chocolate chip cookie that you broke your silence. You reappeared instantly, pressed against the glass, eyes wide.

Steve blinked, then laughed softly. “You want one of those?”

You nodded furiously.

Five minutes later, the jar was opened and you bolted straight onto Steve’s shoulder, snatched the cookie chunk he offered, and curled into the crook of his neck like you’d always lived there.

You stayed close after that. Not that they had much of a choice.

You built a tiny hammock out of tissues on their bookshelf. Braided thread into their laces. Tried to “fix” Bucky’s grumpy face with flower petals and got scolded, very softly, for it. You called Steve “Tree” because he was tall and smelled like sap. You called Bucky “Shadow” because he followed you around pretending he wasn’t trying to protect you.

You refused to be studied, refused to go back in any jars, and made it very clear you’d chosen your new home: right between two super soldiers who didn’t know how much they needed something as strange and sweet as you.

Sometimes, you’d land on Bucky’s shoulder when he couldn’t sleep, singing soft, wordless melodies that reminded him of something in the past. Sometimes, you’d perch on Steve’s chest as he read, snuggled into the fabric of his henley like a kitten with wings.

You were tiny, fragile, ridiculous, and completely, utterly theirs.

Even if you still left cookie crumbs everywhere.

-

Steve and Bucky discovered quickly how particular fairies could be. Or maybe it was just you.

See, they realized you were much more stubborn than they had anticipated which caused another one of your sulking moods. It started because you weren’t allowed to use the microwave. Which, in your defense, made no sense.

You weren’t trying to start another fire, that was an accident. And yes, maybe the leftover spaghetti had exploded the last time, but how were you supposed to know that foil was banned? You’d never had a microwave before. You grew up in moss and tree hollows and warm sunlight. Your diet was dew, nectar, and whatever you could barter from passing squirrels.

Now, you wanted popcorn, but Bucky had said no. He had looked down at you with his arms crossed and that stupid I care about you and you’re being ridiculous face, stating, “You almost fried the tower’s circuits last time. Find something from the fruit bowl if you’re hungry.”

You responded with the most dramatic gasp you could manage and fluttered up to the top of the cabinets, crossing your arms with a huff.

Steve tried to step in, intervening gently. “He’s not trying to upset you. He just doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

You didn’t answer. You turned your back with your wings flaring slightly in righteous fairy fury, you refused to acknowledge either of them. Not even when Steve sighed and offered you a piece of shortbread. Not even when Bucky muttered something like “She’s sulking again, isn’t she?”

You remained a furious little sparkle, curled into a puffball of wings and pouting.

Hours passed. You still refused to come down.

They tried tempting you with cookies, with your favorite mug of rose petal tea, with one of Steve’s socks (which you always stole to use as a blanket).

Nothing. You were mad. And fairies, though small, are very good at holding grudges.

By the time night fell, you were still wedged behind a cereal box, curled into a mopey heap. And then… you heard a sound. Thump. It was a soft knock on the cabinet.

You peeked over the edge to find Bucky standing there, holding a tiny plate.

“I made popcorn. Not with the microwave. Just the pan.”

You stared at him.

“I didn’t put salt on it. Figured you’d want to do that yourself.”

He set the plate down gently on the counter, then leaned against it, arms folded.

“…You gonna stay up there forever?” He asked after a pause, tone mild.

You turned invisible.

He smirked. “Cute.”

Moments later, you reappeared beside the popcorn and began nibbling, still silent, still frowning.

Steve walked in just then and paused. “Is that a peace offering or a trap?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Bucky replied.

You muttered something under your breath.

Steve blinked. “Did she just call you a ‘grumpy tin soldier’?”

“I think so,” Bucky said, raising an eyebrow.

You stuffed a piece of popcorn in your mouth and glared at them both, cheeks puffed out like a hamster.

Steve crouched beside the counter, eyes warm. “Hey, no one’s mad at you, sweetheart. We just don’t want you getting hurt.”

You looked away before mumbling, “I wanted to make it myself.”

And that was the truth of it. You wanted to prove you could. That you weren’t just tiny and delicate and fluttery. That you could be useful, capable. That you weren’t always the one needing help.

Bucky leaned closer, voice quieter now. “Next time… I’ll show you how.”

You peeked up at him, suspicious.

“You can hold the lid,” He said, tone serious. “That’s an important job.”

“…Fine,” You muttered.

Steve smiled gently, brushing your wing with one careful finger. “We’re proud of you, y’know.”

You huffed, still pretending you weren’t moved before climbing into Bucky’s hand, wings drooping slightly from exhaustion and popcorn forgotten. You curled into his palm with a sigh, tiny fingers gripping the edge of his sleeve.

Still sulking but not as much. And this time, you weren’t alone.

Group Therapy

Summary: Tony forces you, Bucky, and Sam into a mandatory group therapy session meant to improve communication, but it quickly devolves into passive-aggressive chaos, exaggerated breathing, and glitter-based threats. (Bucky Barnes x reader x Sam Wilson)

Word Count: 1.3k+

A/N: Lots of dialogue. Loosely inspired by the boy’s bickering during that one therapy session. Also lowkey nervous to post a different ship than stucky or just Bucky. Anyways, Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

You should’ve known something was off the second you saw Tony Stark’s name on the file labeled “Avengers Personnel Wellness Initiative.” It was slipped into your inbox with a cheery little note scribbled in red ink:

“Mandatory. I’d make it optional, but let’s be honest. Some of you are one more sarcastic quip away from homicide. See you Thursday, - T”

You’d barely finished reading when Sam popped his head in your room, looking smug and holding up the same file. “You get the invite to Avengers Couple Counseling Hour too?”

You narrowed your eyes. “It’s not couples counseling.”

“It is if you’re dating us,” Bucky added flatly from the hallway, already walking away like this wasn’t his problem to solve.

You groaned.

And that’s how you ended up here, sitting in a perfectly neutral gray room with soothing paintings of trees and lakes, heading the stiff chair that squeaked every time Sam shifted his weight. The therapist, Dr. Halliday, looked terrified but determined. Her notebook was already open, pen ready to scribble down trauma and ego in neat bullet points. Bucky had already made a comment under his breath about the notebook.

She smiled too wide and greeted the room like it didn’t hold two supersoldiers and someone who once watched one of them chase the other with a hot pan for drinking the last of the coffee.

“So, I understand you’re here for emotional synchronization and group cohesion?”

Bucky blinked. “We’re here because Tony wants to bully us.” Sam scoffed. “He’s just mad because he had to fill out a feelings worksheet.” “I didn’t fill it out.” “You drew a middle finger on it.”

Meanwhile, you slowly leaned back in your chair, already regretting every life decision that led you to this moment.

The therapist cleared her throat. “How about we start with a simple question. What’s one thing you admire about each other?”

There was a long silence. Bucky folded his arms. Sam raised an eyebrow. You offered a small shrug.

“I mean… Bucky’s good with knives,” You offered.

Dr. Halliday smiled, a hint of nervousness seeping through. “That’s… specific. And Sam?”

You hesitated. “He has a great smile.”

Sam immediately grinned and nudged Bucky. “Did you hear that? Great smile. Can your war journals do that?”

Bucky glared. “Say smile one more time and I’m throwing yours into orbit.”

You sighed.

Then it was Bucky’s turn. The therapist asked him to share something positive about you and Sam. He stared at the ceiling like he was begging the universe to open up and consume him whole. Finally, he muttered, “You both talk too much, but you make the world less awful. Sometimes.”

“That was almost sweet,” You said.

Sam leaned back with a smug smirk. “Bet that hurt to say, huh?”

“I hated every syllable.”

“Okay!” The therapist said, chipper but clearly dying inside. “Let’s shift to—uh—conflict resolution styles! What do you usually do when you’re upset with each other?”

“I jump out the window,” Bucky said flatly. “I put hot sauce in his coffee,” Sam added with zero shame. You blinked. “You what—”

“I know,” Bucky said, gesturing toward you. “She takes deep breaths and then threatens us in passive-aggressive Post-It notes. It’s terrifying.”

“I only do that when you two make me the middle spoon and fall asleep on me.”

“It's called protection,” Bucky muttered.

“It's called heat stroke,” You shot back.

The therapist’s pen hovered, unsure whether to write or cry.

You’d made it thirty minutes in.

Dr. Halliday put down her pen. “Let’s…try a grounding exercise.”

Bucky leaned toward Sam. “That sounds fake.”

Sam whispered back, “Bet it involves breathing.”

Dr. Halliday reached under her desk, pulled out a small glass jar labeled “lavender-mint serenity,” and lit it with the kind of intensity usually reserved for summoning spirits.

“This is a grounding exercise,” She said, placing the candle on the coffee table like it was the solution to world peace. “Focus on your breathing. In for four seconds… hold for four… out for four…”

You tried. You really tried. But next to you, Sam was making exaggerated whooshing sounds with every exhale.

“Innnnn… oooouuuuut… like that, right?”

Dr. Halliday gave him a pained smile while Bucky wasn’t even pretending. He stared at the candle like he wanted to throw it at someone.

You peeked at him through the corner of your eye. “Just breathe, Buck.”

“I don’t need a candle to inhale oxygen,” He hissed.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “He gets like this when you take away his combat knife. It’s part of his routine.”

“It’s grounding,” Bucky shot back. “My way just involves punching something.”

“I can print out a photo of Tony for you to hit later,” You offered. Bucky actually looked tempted.

Dr. Halliday scribbled something down. Probably: Patient shows aggression toward candles, sarcasm, and emotional openness.

She then looked up and smiled, tightly. “Let’s try something else. A communication-building exercise.”

“Define communication,” Sam muttered.

“Each of you will take turns expressing a frustration using I feel statements,” She explained gently. “Without blame.”

You, Sam, and Bucky exchanged a slow, dreadful look.

“I’ll start,” Dr. Halliday said, either to model the behavior or remind herself she was still in control. “I feel overwhelmed when sessions go off-track, because I want to help, but I need everyone’s cooperation.”

You nodded. “Fair.”

Sam crossed his arms, clearly enjoying this more than he should. “Okay, my turn. I feel deeply annoyed when Bucky eats the last protein bar and then blames it on gravity.”

You turned to Bucky. “You blamed gravity?” “The box fell over. They rolled. I didn’t plan it.”

Sam leaned forward. “You looked me in the eye and said, ‘Fate chose me.’”

“Okay,” Dr. Halliday cut in quickly, “Remember, no blame-“

“I feel,” Bucky interrupted flatly, “That Sam is a smug, winged menace who chews with his mouth open and makes my eye twitch.”

“That’s not a feeling,” The therapist said weakly.

“I feel violated when I find feathers in the dryer.”

Sam gasped. “That’s just racist.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay. I feel like I’m babysitting two adult toddlers who also happen to be capable of mass destruction.”

“That’s fair,” Dr. Halliday muttered under her breath, then cleared her throat. “Let’s shift to nonverbal communication.”

“Oh boy,” Sam whispered.

She handed you each a blank piece of paper and a marker. “I want you to draw how you see your dynamic. No words. Just visuals.”

Sam immediately started sketching a stick figure version of himself with a halo, Bucky with angry eyebrows, and you in the middle with a giant coffee cup and stress lines. Bucky took a full minute before drawing a broken clock, a knife, and a cartoon bird exploding. You just drew a couch… sinking into lava.

You all held up your art like traumatized third-graders at a very intense PTA meeting. Dr. Halliday stared at them in silence. Then she gently folded her notebook closed.

“Well,” She said after a long pause. “That was… illuminating.”

“Can we go?” Bucky asked.

“Is there a points system for good behavior?” Sam added.

You just raised your hand and said, “Do I get a sticker or something for not screaming?”

Dr. Halliday let out a tired sigh. “You get a gold star and a recommendation for individual therapy.”

Sam and Bucky both turned to you.

“Oh look,” Sam grinned, “You’re finally the favorite.”

“Better be laminated,” You mumbled.

You all filed out of the room in silence, the scent of lavender and mint clinging to your clothes like shame.

Outside the door, Bucky turned to Sam. “Next time you put hot sauce in my coffee, I’m putting glitter in your wings.”

Sam snorted. “Joke’s on you, I like glitter.”

You walked ahead of them and muttered, “I will duct tape your mouths shut next week.”

And somehow, that was the most productive session you’d ever had.