You Didn’t See That Coming, Did You?

Laptop Warfare

Summary: In your cat form, you relentlessly sabotage Bucky’s attempts to work by sitting on his laptop, messing with his reports, and opening multiple tabs; forcing him to revert to handwriting like it’s the 1940s. (Bucky Barnes x shapeshifter!reader)

Word Count: 1k+

A/N: I want to create a mini-series similar to this but have reader shift into different kinds of animals. Anyways, enjoy more cat shenanigans. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

Bucky Barnes was not what you'd call a tech-savvy man, but he’d gotten used to the basics.

He could handle mission logs, internal reports, and the occasional strongly-worded email to Stark with minimal suffering. That morning, he even made coffee without breaking anything. Things were going well.

Then you, in your most annoying form: soft, smug, and four-legged, jumped onto the table with a thud. See, you started this infuriating habit of annoying your metal-armed teammate. After all, his reactions were too priceless to resist.

He didn’t even have to look up to know you were planning something.

“Don’t.”

You let out a soft meow, too innocent to trust.

He kept typing while you sat beside the laptop. Tail curled neatly around your feet. Just watching.

He narrowed his eyes.

“I mean it.”

Another soft, purring mewl. You blinked up at him. All wide-eyed, pure, and completely harmless.

Then plop.

You landed directly on the keyboard, your entire floofy body sprawled across the keys like a warm, vibrating puddle.

The screen flickered as you mashed four separate function commands at once. The report on infiltration routes vanished.

“No- hey! I didn’t save that!”

Bucky leaned over, trying to gently lift you off.

You melted into the keyboard like wet spaghetti.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

He tried again. You stretched dramatically, rolling onto your back and extending your claws in every direction like a lazy sun god. The screen beeped and a random browser opened. Then another. And another. Somehow you had 17 tabs open and a YouTube video about “How To Boil Water” playing in the background.

Bucky stared at the screen then at you. You yawned innocently, completely unbothered.

“That’s it.”

He picked you up like a toddler with attitude under the armpits, your fuzzy arms outstretched. You could see the betrayal in his eyes. You dangled in the air, tail twitching for a moment before he set you on the floor. You stared up at him and waited three seconds.

Then leapt back up and planted yourself exactly in the same spot. This time with a little extra tail flick into his coffee.

The sip he was halfway to taking halted midair.

“Are you serious?”

You purred and licked your paw.

He exhaled slowly. You could almost see him counting to ten. “Okay. Fine. You win.” He reached behind the couch, pulled out a dusty old notebook, and a pen.

You blinked. Slowly. Smug.

“Happy now?” He muttered, beginning to handwrite his mission log like it was the 1940s.

You curled up, content, purring over the keyboard while the laptop screen faded.

He muttered something about “goddamn cats” and “Stark’s fault” but didn’t move you again.

Ten minutes later, Steve walked in, saw the whole scene, and paused.

“…You writing reports by hand now?”

“She won’t let me type.”

Steve squinted. “Can’t you just move her?”

“I’ve tried. She becomes heavier. It’s unnatural.”

You blinked up at Steve, completely motionless. Your mind already planning something else to get back at Bucky for calling you fat.

He started laughing. Loudly. “She’s your problem now, Buck.”

Bucky sighed and kept writing. You didn’t even bother looking up. You’d already won.

By the next morning, you were still a cat.

Still smug. Still fuzzy. Still very much in control, but you had graciously moved spots sometime within the night.

Bucky looked like he hadn’t slept. His hair was a little messy, his now untouched coffee was colder than it should be, and his posture screamed a man defeated by pounds of fur and spite.

You were currently draped across the back of a couch, tail flicking slowly. Watching. Waiting.

When he sat down at the table and opened his laptop again, now freshly charged with a report half-written, you stretched. You then jumped down with a soft thump, and padded over, silent as a whisper.

He saw the shadow of you moving in the reflection on the screen.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You meowed sweetly and hopped onto the table with your most innocent blink. Then, without breaking eye contact, you sat squarely on the keyboard again.

Bucky sighed and dropped his forehead onto the table.

You purred.

“I swear to God,” He muttered, “I’ve fought HYDRA agents less persistent than you.”

You just made yourself more comfortable, curling into a neat loaf. The screen dimmed again. The report? Gone. Replaced with articles about cat behavior, one open Amazon cart containing 30 cat toys, and somehow, a dating site page.

Bucky looked up, absolutely done. “Are you trying to ruin my life?”

You chirped and flopped onto your side. A clear victory pose.

That’s when Tony walked in, sipping his drink and eyeing the scene.

“…Still refusing to shift back, huh?”

“She’s gone full gremlin mode,” Bucky muttered. “She won’t let me work. She sleeps on my face. She bit my sock yesterday.”

Tony smirked. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“I tried to out-stubborn her.”

Tony laughed. “You tried to out-stubborn a shapeshifter in cat mode. That’s on you, Barnes.”

Bucky glared as Tony took out a small device. “What is that?”

Tony tapped a button. A little laser dot appeared on the floor. You lifted your head immediately, ears perking.

“Oh no,” Bucky groaned.

Tony moved the dot slowly across the floor.

You stared. You stalked.

Tony flicked it once.

Pounce. You slid across the hardwood like a tiny panther.

“NO!” Bucky shouted. “Don’t reward her! That’s like giving Loki the Tesseract when he’s bored!”

But you were already chasing the dot like your life depended on it, slamming into a chair, knocking over a throw pillow, then skidding into a bookshelf as you pounced again with feral energy.

Tony was dying laughing. “Oh, this is so going on the security feed.”

Bucky just dropped his face into his hands. “I can’t live like this.”

You leapt up onto the table again and batted at the laser on the laptop screen.

It closed his report.

Again.

Bucky looked up slowly, jaw clenched.

You flopped over and licked your paw, grooming like none of this had anything to do with you.

He stared for a long, long second.

Then leaned back and muttered, “That’s it. Stark, make me a second laptop. A decoy one. Covered in catnip and self-destructs when sat on.”

You meowed.

Tony grinned. “I’m so glad I installed cameras in this room.”

Operation: Lover’s Retreat (You Think)

Summary: Sent on a recon mission in the Carpathian Mountains, you treat it like a romantic getaway including but not limited to bath bombs, a sparkly kazoo, and one shared bed. Bucky remains constantly torn between exasperation and deep affection. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: More fun stuff while I think of other stuff. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

To be fair, no one explicitly said it wasn’t a romantic vacation. Which is why, when Fury assigned you and Bucky to a “low profile surveillance op” in the Carpathians, your brain heard:

Secluded mountain lodge. Cozy fires. Spy sex.

So naturally, you packed accordingly.

Bucky blinked at the rolling heart-shaped suitcase you proudly hauled to the Quinjet, emblazoned in bold pink letters: “His & Hers”.

“What is that?” He asked flatly.

You grinned. “Our mission supplies, James.”

“I said pack light.”

“I did! This is vacation-light. I only brought four books, one board game, two full sets of bath bombs, a crockpot for ambience and a grappling hook.”

He opened the suitcase, found the glow-in-the-dark stars you planned to stick on the ceiling of the safehouse, and muttered, “We’re supposed to be covert.”

“And what’s more covert than a deeply-in-love couple on a sensual nature retreat where someone might accidentally dismantle a black market weapons trade?” You batted your lashes. “Besides, you love when I do the ‘danger honeymoon’ bit.”

He exhaled slowly. “I never said I loved it.”

“You didn’t have to,” You whispered dramatically, wrapping your arms around his neck and swaying like you were dancing to a song only you could hear. “Your eyes said it. Remember when I threw that flaming fondue pot at that one Hydra guy last time? There were hearts in your eyes.”

“There were burn injuries, sweetheart.”

“Burns of passion.”

He tried, really tried hard to look annoyed, but you saw it. The tiniest twitch of his lips. He kissed the top of your head like he was apologizing to himself for encouraging you.

“You’re lucky I love you,” He said.

“I am lucky. And hot. And very well packed.”

He peeked into the duffel again. “You brought a kazoo.”

“For distraction purposes.”

“You labeled it ‘Sexy Danger Kazoo.’”

You nodded proudly. “It has sparkles.”

-

The Quinjet touched down just as twilight was bleeding over the dense Carpathian forest, a soft purple washing the sky. You hopped off with all the energy of a kid who just found out naps were optional as Bucky followed, grim-faced but patient, lugging a backpack that looked suspiciously heavier than your luggage.

The safehouse was an old cabin, camouflaged perfectly by thick vines and the shadows of tall pines. From the outside, it looked like it hadn’t been touched since the Cold War, but inside? Well… that was a different story. Stark had apparently outfitted the place with every modern convenience a couple on a "low-profile mission" might need. You immediately spotted the sleek coffee maker and made a beeline for it.

“Why do you think Fury left us here?” Bucky muttered, peeling off his jacket.

“Because this is the perfect place for a romantic getaway disguised as espionage,” You answered, pulling a ridiculous “MISSION: COZY” banner from your bag and hanging it over the cracked fireplace mantel.

Bucky froze, then rubbed his temples. “You are unbelievable.”

“I’m also in love with you,” You added, flashing a grin that was half apology, half challenge.

He sighed, shaking his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Fine. But this is recon. Keep it professional.”

“Professional as in,” You plopped down on the one and only large bed, arms stretched wide, “Professional cuddles?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, and then his lips curved into something like a smile. “You know there’s only one bed, right?”

“Oh, I know. It’s your fault for not bringing a sleeping bag.”

“You knew that,” He said, sitting down heavily next to you.

“Details, details.” You leaned your head on his shoulder and pulled the blanket over both of you. “This is perfect.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was comfortable. Bucky’s hand found yours, fingers lacing together like they fit perfectly. After a moment, you whispered, “So, what’s the actual mission?”

“Observe and gather intel. Don’t get caught. Probably freeze our asses off.” He let out a dry chuckle. “And babysit you.”

You smirked. “Babysitting, huh?”

“Yeah. Someone’s got to keep you from setting off the alarm with your kazoo.”

You pouted but laughed anyway. “Hey, I’m a tactical genius with a flair for drama.”

“And a flair for eating four bananas in one sitting,” He reminded you, eyes softening.

You groaned. “Don’t remind me. My stomach is still plotting revenge.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The soft crackle of the fireplace was the perfect soundtrack to your “romantic” evening. Bucky, finally starting to relax after a long day of surveillance and your relentless banter, had just pulled the blanket tighter around you when you produced your “Sexy Danger Kazoo” from your jacket pocket. You gave him a mischievous grin.

“Want to hear my latest war tactic?” You whispered, raising the glittery instrument like a weapon.

Bucky’s eyes widened. “No.”

But of course, you played it anyway. A bizarre, off-key rendition of the Avengers theme that sounded more like a dying duck than a call to arms.

His sigh was so long it almost became a sound effect. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly in love,” You corrected, settling back down with a triumphant smirk.

Then, just as you were about to doze off, because even chaotic geniuses need sleep, the quiet night shattered.

CLANK.

The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed through the cabin.

Bucky shot up, pulling you with him. “Hydra.”

You blinked. “Already?”

He didn’t wait for you to grab your grappling hook or glitter gel pens. He was moving, fast and silent. You tried to follow, but your pajama pants tangled on the bedframe, and you stumbled, barely catching yourself on the wooden floor.

“Smooth,” Bucky muttered from the shadows.

The door to the cabin burst open, and two Hydra agents stepped inside, rifles raised. But before they could fully process their surroundings, a sudden blaring kazoo shattered the silence. Yours, of course.

“Surprise!” You yelled, charging like a glitter-wielding warrior.

Bucky facepalmed.

Before the Hydra agents could react, you whipped out a handful of glowsticks and started flinging them like grenades, the room suddenly glowing in psychedelic neon colors that were suspiciously brighter than any he had ever seen.

“What the hell is going on?!” One Hydra operative shouted, squinting at the glowing chaos.

Bucky took the opportunity to disable one with a swift punch, then ducked behind the counter to cover you.

“You did say you had distraction expertise,” He hissed.

You grinned wildly, still buzzing with adrenaline. “I’m a tactical genius. Trust me.”

The fight was brief but chaotic, involving a lot of slipping on stray bananas you’d left in the kitchen (don’t ask), glitter explosions from one of your surprise bombs, and a kazoo solo that was definitely more disorienting than tactical.

When it was finally over, Bucky turned to you, exasperated but undeniably impressed.

“You’re the worst mission partner I’ve ever had.”

“And the best,” You said, grabbing his hand and pulling him close. “But hey, if you wanted a boring recon op, maybe you should’ve asked Sam.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Next time, I’m bringing the actual weapons and leaving the kazoo at home.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

Outside, the Carpathian night resumed its quiet, the stars blinking down on a cabin that was very much not low profile. But inside, you and Bucky knew something important:

Chaos was one of the only things you did well and somehow, it was working perfectly.

Infected by the Chaos

Summary: Overtime, your questionable tendencies and unpredictable phrases have rubbed off onto your boyfriend. The team reacts by trying their best to un-corrupt the supersoldier. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: Thank you to @ozwriterchick for the idea. Enjoy and Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

There was a debriefing. The usual boring, long, and necessary meeting. Everyone sat around the conference table looking various degrees of irritated.

You were leaning back in your chair, chewing gum, spinning a pen between your fingers, and mentally ranking everyone’s haircuts from “tragic” to “god-tier.” (Sam had climbed two spots today.)

Steve was talking, bless him, but honestly, your brain had already turned into a screensaver.

“-and next time, we need tighter communication. Nat, cover the north entrance. Sam, recon from above. And you two,” He gestured at you and Bucky. “Try not to burn the entire building down next time.”

You opened your mouth, probably to say something deeply unhelpful and not at all relevant but then it happened.

Bucky got there first.

Deadpan, casual, and not even glancing up from his notepad, he muttered:

“I don’t control the fire. The fire controls me.”

The room went silent.

Sam slowly turned his head. “What.”

Nat blinked. “I’m sorry- Did Barnes just say that?”

Steve dropped his tablet. You were staring at him like he’d just told you he was pregnant with a spider-dog hybrid.

Bucky glanced up with a shrug. “What? It’s true.”

“No, no, no, back up.” You stood, pointing at him. “That’s my level of chaos. You don’t get to say things like that with a straight face. That’s my thing.”

“Pretty sure I’ve earned chaos privileges by now,” He said in an even tone, biting into an apple.

Nat coughed. “What else have you been saying lately?”

You whirled on Bucky. “You didn’t even flinch. You said it like a man who has absolutely Googled whether rats can legally vote.”

Bucky smirked. “I have due to our last date. They can’t yet.”

Sam slid down in his chair. “Oh god, there’s two of them now.”

Tony, who had joined the meeting late with a coffee and zero patience, looked between you and Bucky. “I always knew one of you was a bad influence. I just didn’t expect it to be her.”

“I resent that,” You said.

“I expected more from you, Barnes,” Tony replied.

Steve looked like he was having a mild stroke. “I spent a decade dragging him out of assassin mode and you…you-“ He pointed at you with all the drama of a soap opera actor. “You corrupted him.”

You crossed your arms. “Excuse me, I elevated him. You think he’d even know what a possum rave is without me?”

“Wait,” Bucky said, serious again. “That’s real?”

“Unfortunately,” Sam muttered.

Bucky turned to you. “Do you think we could-“

“No,” Steve and Sam said in unison.

Later that night, you and Bucky were sitting on the roof, feet dangling over the ledge, and watching the stars while splitting a packet of strawberry Pop-Tarts.

You nudged him with your shoulder. “You really said it, huh?”

He smirked. “It just came out.”

“And the fire controls you?”

He looked at you with something soft and proud in his eyes. “Maybe I’ve just been spending too much time with my favorite disaster.”

You grinned and leaned into his side. “Next step: getting you to name a pigeon.”

“Already done. His name’s Charles. He watched us fight three agents yesterday.”

You gasped. “You’re perfect.”

“I know,” Bucky said. “You trained me well.”

-

As time passed, Bucky was the problem now.

At first, the team found it endearing. The grumpy super soldier smiling at dumb jokes, randomly throwing out facts about duck mating rituals, or muttering “vibe check failed” after knocking someone out. In some strange way, it was charming. Odd, but charming.

But then he named a second pigeon. And that was the last straw.

“We need to intervene,” Natasha said, deadly serious with her arms folded as she stood at the head of the war room table.

“Why?” Bucky asked, mid-bite of a toaster strudel. “Charles Junior likes me.”

“Exactly,” Tony said, pointing dramatically. “The fact that you’re calling it Charles Junior is the problem.”

“I don’t see the issue,” You said from your seat next to Bucky, proudly wearing your ‘#1 Chaos Hero’ necklace again. “It’s genetic. Charles Prime had strong leader energy.”

Steve looked between you both like he was watching two people fall off a moral cliff in slow motion. “You used to be a soldier.”

“He is a soldier,” You said. “He just also knows five ways to make banana bread ”

Bucky nodded solemnly. “Just don’t over-mix the batter.”

Tony facepalmed. “Nope. This is a brain rot virus, and you’re patient zero.”

You smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”

“I wasn’t complimenting you.”

“Still taking it that way.”

Natasha, still painfully calm, pulled out a folder labeled “OPERATION: WINTER DETOX.”

“Oh no,” Bucky muttered.

“Yes,” She said. “We're deprogramming the chaos out of you. We're doing it for the safety of the building, and also the pigeons.”

-

During phase one, you were banned from interacting with Bucky for 48 hours. No comms. No breakfast together. No late-night feral cuddling where you told him shark facts until he passed out.

You broke the rule in 6 minutes.

Literally. You broke into the vent system and dropped into his room from the ceiling like some kind of gremlin god.

“Did you know octopuses have nine brains?”

Bucky looked up from his book, deadpan. “I do now.”

When Sam burst in to yell at you, he found Bucky trying to braid your hair while you explained the 36 reasons flamingos are both cursed and divine.

Sam left with his soul cracked in half.

Phase two didn’t end much better either. They tried re-soldiering him. Military documentaries. Physical training drills. A six-hour silent stare-off with Steve.

You showed up with a whiteboard that said “Today’s Mission: Turn Bucky Into a Lizard.”

Steve had to lock you out of the room and block your contact from Bucky’s phone for two hours.

By phase three, the team tried pairing Bucky with other Avengers. Nat. Rhodey. Bruce.

Each one ended up slightly more unhinged than when they started.

Bruce now exclusively drinks out of a cup shaped like a frog. Nat started saying “mood” unironically. Rhodey got a ferret and named it “Mini War Machine.”

“Do you see what you’ve done?” Steve begged one night as you and Bucky made soup in the communal kitchen while retelling an episode of River Monsters using only metaphors and curse words.

“I made the team fun,” You said, stabbing a ladle toward him.

Bucky beamed. “They laugh more now. And I haven’t threatened to murder anyone in two weeks.”

Tony nodded slowly. “He’s not wrong. Still terrifying, but now it’s… unpredictable terrifying.”

The breaking point came the next morning. Bucky walked into the briefing room wearing a shirt that said: “Emotionally Stable is a Strong Word”

You wore one that said: “I Know the Assignment. I Am Choosing to Ignore It.”

Steve stood then walked out muttering something about moving to Wakanda.

The team officially gave up trying to fix Bucky Barnes.

-

Later that night, Bucky was lying beside you, watching the stars again as the city hummed below.

“They really think I’m broken now,” He said.

You shrugged, twirling a glow stick between your fingers. “They just don’t know how to handle dual-wielding emotional repression and chaotic brilliance.”

He turned to you, smiling. “You really think it’s brilliance?”

You kissed his cheek. “Obviously. I don’t waste my time on mediocrity. Now help me build a pigeon obstacle course on the balcony.”

He nodded. “It’s what Charles Prime would’ve wanted.”

Wherever You Are, I’ll Stay

Summary: You are a stealth-based Avenger with the ability to teleport, often the one pulling teammates out of danger. However, when you’re injured on a mission one day, you’re found by Bucky, panicking as he tells you that you could’ve escaped. You admit you stayed because you couldn’t leave him behind. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the ability to teleport.

Word Count: 1.6k+

A/N: We are so back with a super powered reader! Ignore that it’s been a day or two. It feels like forever to me lol. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You were the teleporting specialist on the team. A living escape route, as Tony once put it, even though you hated the way it made you sound like a tool instead of a person. Your powers weren’t eye-catching like Wanda’s or devastating like Thor’s, but they were precise, fast, and life-saving. You could vanish in the blink of an eye and reappear on the other side of a locked compound without so much as triggering a motion sensor.

What made your ability rare wasn’t just that you could teleport. In fact, plenty of enhanced individuals could, in theory. But the level of control you had was what made you stand out. You could take others with you. You could land in tight quarters without crashing into walls. You could sense coordinates by memory, not just by sight. And most importantly, you could stay calm under pressure, until recently.

Lately, your powers had started to falter under stress. It didn’t happen all the time, but it was enough to plant a seed of doubt in your mind that stayed long enough to hesitate.

You hadn’t told Bucky.

You weren’t exactly sure why. Maybe because he looked at you like you were the one person on the team he didn’t have to worry about. You were competent, quiet, and observant. When missions went to hell, you were the person he looked to and the one he trusted to get everyone out. You didn’t want to shatter that image. You didn’t want him to look at you differently.

Especially not when things between you had started to… shift.

It hadn’t happened in an instant. It was in the small things, the slow things. Like the way he stood a little closer when debriefings dragged too long. The way he always offered an extra water bottle during training without asking if you needed it. Or maybe it was the way his fingers brushed your shoulder when passing behind you, like he couldn’t help needing a point of contact.

You hadn’t talked about it and you didn’t need to. It was present in the silence, in the weight of his glances, and in the softness of his voice when he said your name. A voice so different from the clipped tone he used with everyone else.

You’d die for Bucky Barnes.

But more than that, you’d stay alive for him too.

One mission you were given was intel extraction from a dormant Hydra site outside Budapest. It was expected to have low resistance and a swift completion. You’d done dozens of missions like this, but something had felt off the moment you landed. It was too quiet, too clean. Bucky had gone to secure the east corridor while you took the west.

Then the ambush hit.

You’d fought back, ducking and teleporting rapidly, as you disabled guards as they came. But there were more of them than you had anticipated, and one of them managed to clip you. A messy shot to the side. It wasn’t fatal, but it was deep. And worse, it shook your focus.

The pain bloomed like fire in your ribs, radiating outward. You tried to port, but your vision blurred, your body trembled, and your power slipped from your grasp like sand through your fingers. You blinked out but not far enough. Just into another corner of a nearby room, a couple feet away, where you collapsed behind a half-toppled server bank.

You could’ve tried again. You could’ve forced it. But something in you wouldn’t let go of one thought:

Bucky’s still in the building.

You didn’t know where. You didn’t know if he was safe or had been ambushed too. You didn’t care that your side was soaked with blood, or that your head throbbed from slamming against the wall when you landed wrong.

You weren’t leaving without him, even if it killed you.

Your breathing had grown shallow by the time Bucky found you. You weren’t sure how long you’d been lying there, staring up at the flickering ceiling lights, but the moment the door slammed open with a crash of metal and rage, you knew it was him. You always knew.

“Hey- hey!” His voice was rough with panic, feet pounding across the broken floor until he dropped to his knees beside you. “You're alive-! Thank god, you're alive.”

You opened your eyes, barely. “I said I’d be,” You rasped, the words sticking to your tongue.

Bucky’s hands hovered over you, uncertain and frustrated. He was scanning for wounds, piecing together what had happened. “You're hit.” His voice dropped, the softness undercut by fury. “Why didn’t you teleport out of here?”

You winced, not from the pain, but from the question. “Tried,” You whispered. “Wasn’t focused, too much adrenaline… too much noise.”

“Still,” He snapped. “Still… you could’ve gotten out. That’s what you’re supposed to do. That’s what you always do.”

You looked at him, gaze resting onto his worried expression. And for a moment, he didn’t see the blood or the wound or the mission. He saw you. Pale, exhausted, stubborn, and still here.

“I didn’t want to leave you behind,” You admitted. The truth tasted heavier than blood.

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. He shook his head with a shaky breath. “You’re out of your mind,” He muttered.

You smiled weakly. “You’re one to talk.”

His hands finally stopped trembling enough to press against your wound in a gentle but firm way. “You could’ve died,” He reminded you again, his voice cracking. “I could’ve walked into this room and found your body. You ever think about that?”

You let your eyes fall shut for a moment. “I thought about how I’d rather die with you than live not knowing what happened to you.”

The silence was thick. Bucky didn’t speak for a moment, but when he did, his voice was low and nearly broken.

“You really are out of your mind,” He repeated, but softer now. “And I don’t think I’ve ever loved someone more because of it.”

Your eyes fluttered open. “That a confession, Barnes?”

He exhaled a laugh, but it was tight, like it hurt. “Damn right it is.”

Carefully, he pulled you into his arms, supporting your weight like it was nothing, like it was everything. You felt the metal of his arm against your back, cold and reassuring. The other arm was warm where it cradled your legs. You didn’t protest to either.

“You’re going to the med bay,” He said. “Then we’re having a long talk about you not being a damn martyr.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, eyes heavy. “I’m not a martyr.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

There was a pause before you murmured, “You would’ve done the same for me.”

“Doesn’t mean I want you doing it for me.”

Outside, the quinjet engines roared to life. The rest of the team was waiting.

But for now, in the middle of that wrecked Hydra facility, with dust still hanging in the air and blood soaking into Bucky’s shirt, it was just the two of you.

And you were both alive. Together.

-

The med bay was silent, dimmed for your recovery. The overhead lights were off, replaced by a single low lamp that cast long shadows across the room. The hum of machinery filled the silence with monitor beeps, IV drips, and the occasional hiss of an oxygen line. Stark tech kept everything sterile and efficient.

You hated it.

Not because of the pain, that had dulled into something manageable, but because you hated stillness. When you were still, you had time to think. And now that the mission was over, you couldn’t stop replaying it. The moment you failed to teleport. The cold bloom of panic. The blood. The look on Bucky’s face when he found you like the world had nearly ended.

You stared at the ceiling trying not to think about it, when the door hissed open quietly. You didn’t have to look to know it was him.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Bucky said, voice low, teasing in a way that didn’t quite mask the worry.

“I was. For a while,” You murmured. “You still pacing outside?”

He huffed. “How’d you know?”

“You always pace when you’re trying not to panic.”

Bucky stepped closer, the soft tread of his boots grounding. When he reached your bedside, he didn’t sit right away. Just stood there, arms crossed, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be here even though he’d barely left your side since you got back.

“I’m fine, Buck,” You reassured him softly.

“You’re not,” He finally lowered himself into the chair next to you. “You were bleeding out and couldn’t get out. That’s not fine.”

You hesitated. “It’s not the first time my powers have… flickered.”

His jaw tightened. “How long?”

“Couple months but only under stress. Usually I push through it.”

He was quiet for a long time before finally speaking, “You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want to be seen as a liability.”

His hand moved, not quickly but with intent. His fingers brushed your wrist, grounding you. “You’re not a liability. You’re you. And if something’s wrong, we fix it together.”

You blinked, throat tightening unexpectedly. “I didn’t want to lose your trust in me.”

“You didn’t,” He said. “You scared the hell out of me, but you didn’t lose anything.”

You let that sit between you for a moment before you whispered, “You said you loved me.”

He didn’t flinch and he didn’t deflect.

“I meant it.” He stated.

You turned your head to meet his eyes. “I love you too, you know.”

Bucky leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against yours. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“I know. I’ve known.”

You reached up, fingers threading through his as you held each other’s hands like none of you ever wanted to let go. “Stay?”

He nodded once. “Always.”

Tiny Wings, Gentle Things

Summary: Steve gently teaches you human things like books, buttons, and manners, while Bucky encourages mischief, showing you how to pull harmless pranks around the tower. The others react with a mix of confusion, amusement, and affection. (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 700+

A/N: Little day in the life as I work on something else for them. Thank you to @lexi-anastasia-astra-luna for some of the ideas here. Enjoy! Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Original Fic

No one really knew what to do with you.

You were small, winged, usually perched somewhere high, and spoke only when you really had something to say. And even then, it was usually short answers or a half-muttered grumble. But Steve and Bucky understood your silences, the way you blinked slowly to show you were listening, or how you folded your wings just slightly when you were shy.

Tony tried, for about five minutes. He offered you a nanobot containment suit that looked like a miniature Iron Man armor. You stared at it, picked it up, and immediately used it as a bowl to hold berries.

Clint once tried to feed you a gummy worm. You were offended he gellied a worm, threw it back at his face, and disappeared in a sparkle.

Natasha never tried. She just nodded at you once, quietly, like she saw you in the way only someone used to silence really could. You nodded back. A silent truce.

But it was Steve and Bucky who brought you into their strange human world piece by piece.

Steve started with books.

Children’s stories at first, Grimm’s fairy tales (which you found rude), then picture books, then little poems he read aloud to you in the warm morning sun. You’d perch on the windowsill, legs swinging, wings drowsy and half-spread out, as he explained what a “library” was. You didn’t say much, just blinked slowly, then nodded once.

Then came buttons.

You were obsessed with them, often hoarding them after being given some as rewards for your lessons with Steve. The man would sit you on the table and give you different things one at a time. Sometimes it was light switches, other times old radio dials or clicky pens, and he would explain each time what they did.

“Elevator,” Steve said once, pointing to the big silver doors. “You press that button, and it takes you to another floor.”

You looked at him then at the button before pressing it. When the doors opened, you flew inside and hovered in the corner like a suspicious bee.

He didn’t laugh. Just waited.

You ended up going up four floors by yourself and refused to speak for two hours afterward.

Bucky, on the other hand, was… different.

He saw your silences as permission. Permission to teach you everything you weren’t supposed to know.

“Okay,” He whispered one evening, crouched beside the kitchen island like he was about to spill government secrets. “This is a prank. It’s not bad. It’s mischief. And Sam deserves it.”

You blinked slowly, sitting on his shoulder.

He held up a spoon and nodded toward the sugar bowl.

“Swapped with salt. Classic.”

You didn’t say anything, but when he looked away, you fluttered over and swapped every single label in the spice rack.

Bucky stared, then smirked. “Okay. Overachiever.”

From then on, it became a game.

You’d turn invisible and move Sam’s phone two inches to the left every day until he questioned reality.

You filled Peter’s web-shooter with glitter. You unzipped Tony’s backpack halfway so it spilled post-its everywhere. No one ever suspected you except maybe Nat, who watched you a little too knowingly.

You never laughed out loud. But sometimes, when no one was looking, your wings would pulse in little ripples like soft, silent giggles.

And sometimes Bucky caught you smirking behind your hand.

You didn’t talk much. But you listened.

You remembered that Steve said “please” and “thank you” even to vending machines. That Bucky never let anyone touch his dog tags but didn’t mind when you rested on them. That Sam talked too loudly but always smelled like clean laundry and summer air. That Wanda could feel emotions like a river and once gifted you a leaf shaped like a heart.

You never spoke of it, but sometimes you left little gifts.

A petal in Natasha’s drawer.

A marble in Peter’s hoodie.

A single, silver button beside Steve’s bed.

You were quiet, mysterious, and easily mistaken for decoration sometimes. But the tower shifted around you, softened. They grew used to the way coffee mugs were suddenly left out around the place or how the microwave would beep and no one was there.

And every morning, without fail, Steve would say, “Good morning, sweetheart,” to the windowsill just in case you were there, curled in a sock, pretending not to care.

The Solstitial Truce

Summary: You met him at the border between realms every solstice. Neither of you spoke of the war or how many souls were claimed. You simply watched 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)

Word Count: 2.5k+

A/N: This takes place in the winter solstice by the way! I had this idea earlier and hope you like it as much as I did. I tried to do more descriptive language/scenes. This has ANGST by the way. References to a war too, but not explored. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

The sky was a tapestry of frozen silence.

Stars flickered like dying embers, scattered across the heavens above the boundary. The solstice wind stirred the trees into brittle whispers, and the snow under your feet crunched with every tentative step. You shouldn’t have been there. Angels weren’t meant to wander so close to the borderland, not without orders, not without reason.

But tonight, something had drawn you in. A pull like a thread around your ribs, subtle but unyielding. You followed it, quiet, unsure, your wings folded close to your back like a secret you weren't ready to share.

And then, you saw him.

At first, you thought it was a shadow. A patch of darkness that refused to yield to the moonlight. But no. He moved. Slowly, with the weariness of someone who had lived through too many endings.

He knelt in the snow near a half-dead tree, one hand buried in the frozen soil, fingers clenched like he could still hold onto something that had long since slipped through. Smoke curled faintly around him, not from fire, but from him. It coiled at his shoulders like a protective beast, breathing in rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest.

You froze when you realized who he was. A demon.

Not just any demon, him. The Winter Demon. The one they spoke of in the higher halls. The one who fell long ago but never quite burned out. You recognized him from the whispers. A former soldier. A shattered soul. A blade that had once been wielded by hell itself.

Your hand moved instinctively toward the hilt of your blade, but you didn’t draw it. Something in you held back.

He didn’t move or flinch. Didn’t seem surprised by your presence either.

“I thought angels didn’t walk this far down,” He spoke in a voice low and rough, like it had been dragged through gravel and time. “Unless they’re looking for a fight.”

You hesitated. “I’m not here to fight.”

He chuckled, but it was a hollow sound. “That’s what the last one said.”

You stayed silent, watching him closely. He didn’t turn. Didn’t rise. Just kept his hand in the dirt, like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

The wind stirred again, ruffling the edges of your robes. Your wings shifted restlessly, feathers rustling with unease.

“I’m not here on Heaven’s orders,” You finally answered, your voice barely audible over the wind. “I came because… I felt something. A pull.”

“Funny,” He muttered. “So did I.”

That made you blink.

He finally looked up, just enough for you to see his face, half-shadowed, but unmistakable. There was no cruelty there. No hunger for sin or conquest. Just exhaustion. Blue eyes that had seen centuries of death, hands that had done terrible things, and yet, beneath it all, still remembered mercy.

“I should leave,” You said quietly, unsure whether it was directed to him or to yourself.

“Then why haven’t you?”

The question hung in the cold air between you like an open wound. You didn’t give him an answer because truthfully, you didn’t have one. So you stayed.

Not close and not far. Just within sight. The two of you sat there, separated by ruthlessness and faith, by war and fire, peace and light. You didn’t speak again that night. You just watched the stars together.

And for a brief moment, the world felt like it had paused. As if Heaven and Hell had looked the other way, just long enough for two things that should never coexist to breathe in the same silence.

When you finally rose to leave, he didn’t stop you. But he didn’t look away either. And somehow, you knew you’d see him again. And you did.

You never ask his name.

He never asks yours.

There’s no point, not here, not in this place where names don’t hold power, where they melt into the snow like forgotten prayers. You know what he is and he knows what you are. That remains enough for now.

Solstice after solstice, you come back to the edge of the world, to the boundary where no song from Heaven reaches and no scream from Hell echoes. The silence here is sacred in its own way. Unclaimed. Unwatched. It belongs only to you and to him.

This time, you arrive before he does. The frost has crept higher since last year, lacing the dead branches in silver threads that catch the moonlight like cobwebs made of glass. You sit on a stone half-buried in snow, your wings draped around your shoulders like a cloak.

You don't wait long before you feel him.

Not see. Feel.

The temperature shifts subtly. The wind thickens. The smell of ash and old iron fills the air.

He walks through the trees as though they part for him, his breath visible in the cold. The same worn coat, the same heavy boots. The metal of his left arm catches the moonlight like ice. And as always, the smoke follows him, not malicious, just… present. Like a memory he can't shake off.

He sits beside you without a word, the way he always does.

You don’t look at each other at first. There’s no need. You both understand the rules of this fragile ritual: no questions, no fights, and no judgment.

You sit in the cold, close enough to feel the soft heat of him. His unnatural warmth, something Hell must have carved into his bones to keep him burning in all the wrong ways. You stay far enough that the stars won’t take notice, won’t whisper of betrayal.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The frost creeps slowly over the fallen branches, delicate and determined. You both watch it, as if it matters. As if the way it grows, inch by inch, might teach you something about stillness. About survival.

Like usual, sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't.

Tonight, he breaks the silence first.

“I used to be human,” He confesses, almost absently. His eyes stay fixed on the sky, where clouds drift like smoke across the moon. “A long time ago.”

You glance at him, not surprised. You had suspected it. There was always something in the way he spoke, the way he moved, like he hadn’t quite forgotten what it meant to bleed in the ways that mattered.

He continues before you can answer. “Can’t remember much. Just flashes. Pain. Screaming. Cold water. And someone-“ He cuts himself off with a bitter breath. “I think I had a name before… Bucky. Maybe that was it or maybe not.”

You don't speak immediately. The words settle like snow, quiet and heavy.

Then, ever so softly, you speak: “You remember enough to mourn it.”

He turns his head a fraction, just enough to meet your eyes. He doesn’t refuse your comment, doesn’t try to argue. And that, somehow, feels more painful than anything else.

You both return to silence as he leans back against a frost-bitten tree, metal fingers twitching restlessly in his lap. You can feel something aching inside him, coiled too deep for words. Guilt? Regret? Or maybe just the echo of what once was.

You don’t try to fix it. You just stay. Because that’s the unspoken promise of the truce. Not salvation. Not forgiveness. Just presence.

And somehow, in a world that burned the both of you down into what you are now… maybe that’s enough.

-

During your next meeting, the snow falls heavier this time.

It comes in thick, whispering sheets, softening the world until even your footsteps are silenced. The sky is overcast, swallowing the stars, and yet you walk the old path by memory. Your wings are hidden this time beneath a dark cloak. Your halo, long dimmed near the boundary, pulses faintly, a reminder of the place you still belong to, even if you don't feel like you do.

He's already there when you arrive, perched on a broken stone wall, hood drawn low, and smoke curling lazily around his shoulders. He doesn’t look at you when you approach, but his metal fingers tap once against the stone, a quiet acknowledgment. A habit, maybe. Or a signal meant just for you.

You sit beside him, brushing snow off the ledge. Neither of you says anything for a long time. The snowfall thickens. It clings to your lashes, melts slowly against the heat of his shoulder when it drifts close. You almost lean toward him. Almost. But you don’t. Because this… this thing between you isn’t named or defined. It’s a careful, wordless balance, like walking a tightrope strung between Heaven and Hell. And you don’t know what happens if one of you leans too far.

So you speak instead.

“They’re starting to wonder where I go,” You murmur. “The others.”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “Same.”

You glance at him, startled. You didn’t think demons would care.

“I shouldn’t be here. They don’t trust me much,” He says. “Never did. I’m not… obedient enough. Still got too many memories, I think.”

You study the side of his face, how the flickering light catches the scar near his jaw, how snow gathers in the folds of his coat, how his eyes stay fixed on the horizon like he’s waiting for something that never arrives.

You whisper, “Why do you keep coming back here?”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares into the white blur of the trees.

Then: “Because this is the only place I don’t feel like I’m supposed to be anything.”

The words hit harder than they should as you can feel your throat tighten. Because you understand. Because that’s the reason you come too. Not for salvation. Not for curiosity. But because here, on this forgotten ledge at the edge of war, you get to just exist.

Not as a Weapon or a Symbol. Not a Messenger, Servant, or Slave either. Just… as yourself. And maybe that’s why it almost happens.

The shift.

It begins as silence, broken only by the snowfall and the distant cry of something too old for naming. Your knees are nearly touching. His arm is barely a breath from your shoulder. And then, he turns to you. Really turns to you. The snow on his lashes. The flicker in his eyes. The pain he doesn’t speak about and the comfort he doesn’t ask for.

You don’t breathe.

His hand lifts slightly, hesitating between you, as if asking without asking. As if unsure whether reaching out will ruin everything you’ve built from the silence and distance.

Your breath fogs between you and you don’t move as that moment hangs like crystal in the air. Fragile. Shimmering. Dangerous.

But then he blinks and withdraws, looking away. The space between you swells again with all the things you didn’t say. All the things you didn’t do.

He clears his throat. “Should go. They’ll notice.”

You nod, but don’t stand.

He hesitates, then turns, walking back through the trees. The smoke follows him. Softer now. Calmer.

You stay until the snowfall covers where he sat. You don’t cry. Angels don’t cry. But something in you bends. And maybe next solstice… maybe it will break.

-

The snow is late this year.

The sky is too clear, too wide, the moon too full, as if the heavens are watching, waiting. You sit on the same broken stone wall, cloak wrapped tight, wings folded beneath layers of quiet. You haven’t spoken aloud since your last meeting. No words seem right unless they’re for him.

He’s late this time. You don’t pace. Angels don’t pace. But your fingers twitch and your breath stutters. The frost gathers along your lashes, and still, he does not come.

Then… you hear movement. The trees stir. Smoke curls through the air, faint at first, then thick, clinging to the wind like a memory refusing to be forgotten. And then he’s there. Shoulders hunched. Jaw tight. There’s a limp in his step you’ve never seen before. Something about the way he moves, it’s quieter. Smaller. Like he’s folding in on himself.

You don’t speak yet. Not yet. You watch as he stops before reaching the wall. He doesn’t move to sit. He stands there, hood shadowing his face, and one hand clenched tight inside his coat pocket. The other twitches at his side, fingers curling and uncurling like he’s trying to hold onto something too fragile.

You wait, watching him in silence for a minute. Two. Ten.

Finally, he speaks.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

Your voice is steady, even if your heart stumbles. “You say that every year.”

His eyes lift to yours. Something in them flickers resembling pain maybe, or guilt.

“No.” The word is thick. Real and raw. “I mean it this time.”

You don’t ask why. You could. You could demand the answer, peel it from his throat if you wanted. But some truths aren’t meant to be touched. Some are better left where they lie, between silence and suspicion.

Instead, you ask quietly, “Then why come?”

He looks down, taking a slow breath before moving closer to you. Slowly and Carefully, like it costs him something. From inside his coat, his gloved hand emerges, clenched around something small and heavy. When he opens it, the object catches the moonlight and your breath.

A coin. Worn. Misshapen. Half-melted, like it passed through fire and never forgot. Its edges are jagged, dangerous, like the lives it's touched. Like his life. You know what it truly is though.

A soul coin.

You’ve only seen one before, only once a long time ago. It served as proof of salvation. The kind no demon carries unless they’ve done the unthinkable, not damn a soul, but save it. It is a mark of rebellion, of change. Of loss.

He holds it for a moment more, then steps closer before holding it out to you. You hesitate, but only for a heartbeat. Your fingers close around it gently, reverently. It’s warm. Alive, almost. You can feel its weight and the cost of it.

And then, his voice, quieter now.

“Proof,” He states. “That I’m not all gone.”

Your eyes search his face, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way he’s trembling, but only slightly, like a man who’s fought too long and finally let himself feel it.

“Why give this to me?” You ask, barely above a whisper.

You watch as his gaze drops and hear the silence swell between you. Then, he says it. The thing that breaks you.

“Because next solstice…” He stops. His throat works around a word he doesn’t speak. His eyes close, “I might not be here.”

And that’s when it hurts. Because demons don’t lie. Not like this. Not with this kind of sorrow. You reach for him, but he steps back. Not in fear or nervousness this time. In resolution.

Like if you touched him now, he’d stay. And he’s already chosen to leave. When he vanishes, it isn’t with fire. It’s with smoke swirling softly and quietly. Like the ghost of a memory that never settled right.

He leaves behind nothing more than the coin in your hand, still warm, and a silence that feels too alive to be empty. A terrible ache in your chest builds, because angels don’t hope.

But tonight, you do. You hope to see him again.

⋆༺Shapeshifting Shenanigans༻⋆

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: A collection of different one-shots with a shapeshifter reader causing various mischief, running into precarious situations, and being an absolute menace in feline form. Bucky Barnes has the misfortune of being on the receiving end of your shapeshifting shenanigans.

A/N: I realized I had written a lot of this type of reader. Also, I will try to find a way to branch out to other animals if people like this enough. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

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

✿ Chaotic Cat Curse - You were accidentally cursed and turned into a cat, causing all kinds of fun chaos for Bucky: destroying things, attacking his shoelaces, and generally making his life impossible.

✿ Stray Magic - After your last incident of being cursed into a cat, you now stumble, quite literally, across the ability to shift into a feline form whenever you want.

✿ Catnapped - A mercenary tries to kidnap “the weird cat that’s always with the Avengers.” They succeed temporarily.

✿ The Great Bed Heist - After a rough mission, Bucky returns to his room only to find you, in cat form, perfectly loafed in the center of his bed and entirely unwilling to move.

✿ Laptop Warfare - In your cat form, you relentlessly sabotage Bucky’s attempts to work by sitting on his laptop. ✿ Cat Politics - (Coming soon.)

Rewritten

Summary: 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!Bucky Barnes x reader x Dark!Steve Rogers)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes. Dark Steve Rogers. Psychological & emotional manipulation. Memory loss. Gaslighting. Alludes to Kidnapping.

Word Count: 4.9k+

A/N: To be honest, I had the idea for this one but struggled to write it. I hope it turned out decent enough. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.

Main Masterlist

You wake to the soft warmth of sunlight spilling through sheer curtains, casting an ethereal glow over the room. The faint scent of pancakes lingers in the air, drifting through your senses like an old, forgotten memory.

The bed is plush beneath you and too soft, almost as if it were made to cocoon you, to hold you in a place of perfect comfort. The sheets are smooth, cool, but they don't belong. They're foreign, unfamiliar. You blink, disoriented. Something about the room seems… off. There’s a quiet stillness to it, a sense of being watched, though the air is unthreatening. A low hum of something distant, like a heart beating just a little too fast.

The room is small, but cozy. Elegant, even. The soft glow of the morning sun is reflected in the delicate furniture such as a nightstand with a polished wood surface or the dresser with a few scattered items on top. Your eyes, still unfocused, drift to a framed picture on the nightstand. You reach out automatically, though your hand trembles slightly as you grasp the edge of the frame.

The photo inside is a strange sight.

It’s a picture of you. You’re smiling, laughing, in fact. Your arms are wrapped around two men, standing close to each other with their own hands resting on your shoulders. You look happy, relaxed. Safe.

But you don’t recognize them. Not at all.

The taller man has blond hair, a strong jawline, and eyes that should be comforting, but they don’t reach you. He’s smiling down at you as if you were someone he cared about, but you can’t remember ever knowing him. The other man has dark, disheveled hair, a shadow of stubble along his jaw, and eyes that seem… more distant. Cold. But even as you stare, your heart feels like it’s trying to remember something buried, something lost.

You drop the frame back onto the nightstand with a soft thud, and for a moment, the silence is deafening.

“Hey.”

The voice comes from the doorway, low and warm, though the words hold an edge you can’t place.

You snap your head up, your breath quickening as you sit up on the bed. A man stands there tall, broad-shouldered, with a metal arm hanging at his side. His eyes, dark and full of something unreadable, watch you carefully. You can feel his gaze weighing on you, measuring you.

“You’re awake,” His voice is soft but firm. He looks oddly… relieved. But there's something about the way he watches you, something that doesn’t feel quite right.

“Who… who are you?” Your voice is hoarse, trembling, and you immediately feel a sense of panic clawing at your chest.

The man takes a step forward, his expression unreadable. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. You don’t remember us again, but that’s okay.” His voice dips a little, softer. “It happens.”

“Remember? I don’t remember anything.”

A sharp, sudden shift in the air. You don’t realize it until the second man enters the room. He’s around the same height, though leaner. Blond. His gaze falls on you immediately, and you feel an odd wave of something unfamiliar crash over you, a strange mixture of comfort and something darker.

The first man, the one who spoke, stands a little straighter at the sight of him. The second man, Steve, doesn’t seem phased at all. If anything, he’s relieved to see you awake.

But something is wrong. You can’t place it. There’s an unease in the pit of your stomach, like the weight of their presence is too heavy for you to bear.

“You’ve been through a lot,” Steve says, his voice gentle but steady. “Hydra did things to you… erased your memories. But we’re here now. We’ll help you remember.”

Your hands grip the edge of the blanket, knuckles white. Your head feels thick, heavy, as if there’s a fog clouding your thoughts. “I don’t… know you. I don’t remember this place. I don’t know who you are.”

“You’ve been here before,” Steve continues, taking a slow step closer to you. “This isn’t the first time, but don’t worry. It will get easier. We’ll help you through it.” His hand reaches toward you, a tentative gesture, but there’s something possessive in the way he moves, something that makes you shudder.

“You always forget,” The man with the metal arm, Bucky, adds quietly. He doesn’t step closer, but his eyes are locked onto you, searching. “But it’s okay. We’ll remind you.”

“Don’t lie to me,” You say, your voice trembling. There’s an instinct in you, a pull to trust what they’re saying, but your gut screams that something isn’t right. “Who are you? What have you done to me?”

Steve’s hand lingers in the air, just a breath from your cheek, before he withdraws it slowly. “You were lost. You didn’t remember us the first time, either.” His words are soft, almost too soft. “But you will. You always do.”

Bucky stands silent behind Steve, his eyes fixed on you with something too intense to describe. His posture is stiff, controlled, as if he’s afraid of moving too suddenly. But there’s something cold in his gaze, something calculating, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll break.

A memory flickers in your mind, so brief it might have been imagined: a faint moment of laughter, of warmth. You and these men together, somewhere you can’t quite place. But it vanishes before you can hold onto it.

“Just… tell me the truth,” You whisper, your breath shallow. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“You’re safe,” Steve assures, kneeling beside the bed, his hand brushing the side of your face with the gentleness of a lover. “You’re always safe with us.”

Bucky steps forward then, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he watches you. His voice is low. “We’ve kept you safe every time, haven’t we?”

Something heavy fills the air between you. They’re speaking like you’re a child they’ve been caring for, but you know, something inside you knows, that’s not all of it. This isn’t just care. This feels like control.

“You belong with us after all,” Bucky murmurs, almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear.

You flinch back as the words reverberate in your chest.

The door locks behind them with a quiet click, and you feel it reverberate in your chest like the closing of a cage. The room suddenly seems smaller, suffocating. You try to stand, to make sense of your surroundings, but your legs feel unsteady beneath you, as if they’ve forgotten how to hold your weight.

Steve remains kneeling beside the bed, his hand still hovering near your face, his touch a strange mixture of warmth and weight. His eyes are searching your face with a tenderness that should be comforting. But it isn’t.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” Steve says, his voice almost too smooth, too comforting. “You’re home now.“

“But I… don’t know you,” You whisper, the words breaking against the thick tension in the air.

You don’t know how to feel. There’s a pull in your chest, an undeniable ache to trust him, but every fiber of your being tells you to run, to escape this unfamiliar warmth. But where would you go? There are no windows in this room, only soft, almost hypnotic light and the oppressive presence of two men who insist they’ve known you for far longer than you can remember.

Bucky watches from across the room, his metal arm resting against the doorframe, his eyes dark and calculating. It’s hard to tell if he’s waiting for you to calm down, or if he’s simply studying you, waiting for the exact moment your resistance breaks.

“We’ve been through this before,” Bucky says, his voice low, but it carries an edge of something dark. "Every time, you don’t remember, but you get it back. We’re here for you.”

Your eyes flicker to him, his posture so tense, it’s like he’s bracing for something, waiting for a signal you can’t see. You don’t know him. You don’t know any of this, and yet… The flicker of a memory dances in the back of your mind again. You see yourself in his arms held close, like you belong. But it’s all too foggy, too distant. The image fades before you can grasp it fully.

Bucky shifts, his gaze flicking between you and Steve. His body language speaks of restraint, like he’s holding something back, fighting a temptation to move closer. His hand flexes by his side, the metallic fingers of his left hand clenching in a subtle but telling motion.

“You don’t remember the last time we had breakfast together, do you?” Steve asks gently, as if testing a boundary. “You laughed so hard when I tried to cook the eggs. You called me an idiot, and then we ate on the couch, watching that romance show you love.”

You search his eyes for any hint of deception, but they’re so earnest, so soft. The words tug at something inside you, a small thread of something familiar, but your mind stubbornly holds its ground. You’re not sure if you want to trust him or if you’re simply desperate to feel like you’re home.

“I don’t remember,” You whisper, your voice catching. You want to believe him, but the words don’t feel right. “I… I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Steve says, smiling as though this is just another part of the process, as if it’s routine. As if the confusion is natural, and it should be expected. “We’ll remind you, just like we always do.”

Bucky steps forward, his voice colder now, more insistent. “You always say that, Steve.” His eyes never leave you. “We’ve done this before. She’ll get it back, eventually.”

There’s something unsettling in the way he speaks, as if he’s not entirely sure himself that you are the same person who walked in here before. You look at Bucky, trying to make sense of him. There’s an intensity to his gaze, a hardness in his features that doesn’t soften, not even when he speaks. The way he stands, so still and poised, makes you feel like a mouse trapped in a predator’s gaze.

“Every time,” He murmurs, a strange satisfaction in his voice. “We’ll remind you. You’ll come back.”

Come back.

It feels like a command, like a foregone conclusion, and something inside you rebels against it. You want to ask him what he means, ask them both what they mean, but the words stick in your throat. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Steve reaches up, cupping your chin gently with his hand. His touch is soft, but there’s an undercurrent of something darker beneath it. “We’re not going to leave you. You’ll remember. It’ll be like it always was. Like it should be.”

A flicker of discomfort sharpens your senses. There’s a strange, hollow weight behind his words, as though they don’t just want you to remember—they need you to.

“What… what if I don’t remember?” You ask, the words coming out quieter than you intended.

Steve leans in closer, his voice lower now, coaxing. “You will. You always do.”

Bucky steps forward, his eyes cold, unreadable. His lips barely twitch into something resembling a smile, but it’s fleeting, like it doesn’t quite belong. “We’ll help you. We always do.”

Something dark unfurls in your chest, a quiet, nagging suspicion that they’ve been here before. They’ve watched you forget, watched you become someone else. Someone who depends on them, who trusts them. And every time, you come back.

You come back.

The weight of the realization presses into your lungs, making it hard to breathe. You don’t know why you keep forgetting, but surely that must mean something is wrong. However, you haven’t figured out yet if it’s you or them.

-

The days blur together. Each one feels like a repetition of the last, a loop that tightens around you with every passing moment. You never quite know if what you're experiencing is real or another fragment of the memory that Steve and Bucky insist belongs to you.

Today is no different.

The room you’re confined to feels like it’s been designed for you to forget where you end and the walls begin. It’s soft, sterile, but just close enough to warm for you to feel like you should be at peace. But there’s no peace in your chest. There’s only an aching tension that never seems to let up.

Steve enters first, his footsteps silent on the floor as he walks toward you. He doesn’t speak immediately, just watches, as if waiting for something to happen. His eyes lock on yours, and for a second, you feel as though he’s peeling you open, reading you like a book.

"You’re quiet today," He says, his voice low, almost coaxing. "Not feeling well? You know I’m always here to help."

It’s a familiar line, one that’s said so many times it sounds like a chant, a mantra. Each word meant to soothe, to ease you into a false sense of security. But it doesn’t work. Not anymore.

"I'm fine," You reply, the words tasting bitter as they leave your mouth. Your throat feels dry, constricted. You’ve said this before, but it’s always the same. The moment the words leave your lips, you realize you don’t mean them.

Steve tilts his head, his gaze narrowing slightly. "You know that’s not true. You’ve been pushing us away, but that’s okay. We can fix this. We always do."

You want to protest, to argue that you don’t need fixing, but the words get tangled up in your mind. Something about his certainty, the way he speaks, makes it feel like you’ve always been broken. Maybe you are broken. Maybe you’ve always been.

Before you can respond, Bucky steps into the room, his presence an undeniable weight. His eyes flicker over to you, a hint of something unreadable in his gaze. There's a moment where neither of them says anything, just letting the silence stretch and press down on you. It feels like an eternity.

"I told you not to rush it," Bucky says quietly, but there’s no malice in his voice, just an edge of impatience, like he's waiting for something more. "She’s still trying to adjust."

Steve glances at Bucky and then back to you, his smile softening. "I know. But we need you to start remembering, sweetheart." His voice takes on a subtle urgency, like this is the moment he’s been waiting for.

You feel a cold shiver run through your body at the word "remember." It’s always been the same, always the same pressure—remember who you are, remember what you’ve lost, remember them.

But what if you can’t remember? What if you never will?

"I don’t know how to," You say, your voice barely above a whisper. It’s the truth, and it feels like the most vulnerable thing you could admit. But it’s a risk. A dangerous one.

Steve doesn’t respond with anger or frustration, he simply steps closer to you. The movement is slow, deliberate. His fingers brush lightly against your wrist, sending a jolt through your body that feels almost too intimate. Like he's trying to ground you to him, to make you realize how close you are to him.

"That’s why we’re here," Steve says, his voice soft, but there's a weight behind it now, an undeniable intensity. "We’re not going to let you suffer through this alone.”

You try to pull back, but there’s nowhere to go. The bed, the walls, they close in around you. Steve’s hand is warm on your wrist, steady, unwavering. He’s not letting you escape. And even if you wanted to, even if you tried to run*, where would you go?

Bucky watches from the doorway, his eyes tracing the movement between you and Steve, his expression unreadable. There's something calculating about the way he stands there, like he’s waiting for a signal, for you to break, for you to return to him.

“You should let her breathe, Steve,” Bucky says, his voice like gravel. It’s a command wrapped in the semblance of care, but you hear the warning in it.

Steve nods, his hand slipping away from your wrist reluctantly. “You’re right,” He mutters, his voice distant as if lost in thought. He steps back, but only just. His presence still looms over you, like a shadow you can’t escape.

You don’t know how to breathe without him close, without Bucky just in the corner of your vision. They’ve become your everything and nothing. They’re all you know and all you can remember.

“What if I never remember?” You ask again, the question hanging in the air between the three of you.

Bucky’s lips curl into something that could almost be a comforting smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You will. You always do.” His words are like a broken record, but there’s something in the way he says them that makes your heart sink.

Steve leans in, placing his hands on either side of your face, his touch gentle but firm. “You don’t need to worry about that,” He says, his voice so soothing, so tender. “We’ll help you find it. Every time you forget, we’ll remind you. It’s what we do.”

You want to protest, want to scream that you don’t need them to remind you of anything. But the words choke you. You’re too scared to speak, too frightened to resist, because something in you knows, they won’t let you.

"You belong here with us," Steve murmurs, his lips brushing against your forehead in a soft, intimate gesture that makes your skin crawl, even as your body betrays you and relaxes into it. "You always will."

And when he pulls away, it’s with the unsettling certainty that, even if you can’t remember it now, you will. You’ll always come back to them. You always do.

-

The days have begun to bleed into one another with a strange consistency, each one more difficult to tell apart than the last. The constant pull of Steve’s calm assurance, of Bucky’s quiet intensity, is starting to unravel something deep inside you.

It’s not that you don’t resist. You do. You fight against the tug in your chest, the strange sense of familiarity that lingers in every word they say, every look they share. But it’s getting harder to find the strength to push back.

Tonight, the room feels different. Softer, maybe. The lights are dimmed lower than usual, the shadows casting a calming blanket over everything. It should be unsettling, the dark corners and the tightness in your chest, but it isn’t. Not tonight.

Steve is sitting on the edge of the bed, his usual spot. He’s not forcing closeness, but you can still feel him there, a steady presence in your peripheral. Bucky stands near the door, leaning casually against the frame, his arms folded across his chest. They’re watching you, waiting.

You know what they want. They’ve made it clear in countless ways. Your memory. Your trust. Your acceptance.

And you don’t want to give it to them. But every time they speak, every time they’re close, it’s like the walls around you start to crumble. You don’t want to let go of what little resistance you have left, but the pull… it’s relentless.

“Do you feel it, too?” Steve asks, his voice low, as if the question is a secret shared only between the two of you. His eyes hold something tender, an almost imperceptible plea, hidden beneath the surface.

You know it’s a question you’re supposed to answer. You know that whatever response you give will shape what comes next. And for the first time in days, you feel the weight of that choice, heavy in your chest.

You swallow, your throat dry. “Feel what?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper. You’re stalling, buying yourself time, but it’s pointless. You already know what he’s asking.

Steve’s lips curl into a small, patient smile. “That we’re closer now. You and I. Bucky too. We’re… we’re getting you back. Piece by piece.”

A wave of something washes over you, something so familiar it almost hurts. You don’t know if it’s relief or fear, but it feels like the beginning of something you can’t stop. Something you’ve been slowly inching toward since the moment you arrived.

“I don’t…” You want to protest, want to say you don’t need them, but the words die on your lips. I don’t need them, You try to think, but the thought has no weight anymore. It’s hollow, empty.

Bucky’s voice cuts through the air, low and almost soothing, though there’s a bite to it that feels like it’s meant just for you. “It’s okay to accept it, you know. You don’t need to fight anymore.”

You look at him, his dark eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. His gaze isn’t soft, but it’s not cruel, either. It’s knowing. He’s been waiting for this. Waiting for you to break.

“I’m not…” You try to force the words out, but they don’t sound like your own anymore. You don’t know who you’re trying to convince. Them, or yourself.

Steve’s hand rests on your shoulder, his touch warm and gentle, but there’s an undeniable pressure in it. “It’s okay to stop fighting,” he repeats, softer now. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re the ones who care for you.”

And then, just as his words settle in, Bucky steps forward, his boots heavy on the floor, his presence overwhelming. He kneels beside you, his fingers brushing against your cheek in an oddly tender gesture.

“Let go,” He murmurs, his voice rough, like he’s almost pleading. “Let us take care of you. Let us remind you what it’s like. Let us remind you of who we are to you.”

His words are a poison you can’t resist. Something inside you stirs, a flicker of something you can’t place, but it’s undeniable. It’s like a missing puzzle piece clicking into place. You’ve always known them, haven’t you? You’ve always belonged to them. You don’t fight the tears that begin to well up in your eyes. Not because you’re afraid, but because it feels like something you’ve needed to release for so long. A truth you’ve buried deep, but they’ve pulled to the surface.

You don’t speak for a long moment, not sure what to say. You can’t say the words you need to. You’re afraid of the acceptance that’s threatening to bubble up.

But when Steve kisses the top of your head, when Bucky’s hand slides into yours, you feel the faintest hint of peace settle inside you. It’s quiet, like a lullaby you’ve heard before, long ago. Something you’ve always known. The tension in your chest begins to release, and your body leans into them.

“I… I remember,” You whisper, the words sounding fragile as they leave your lips. They’re barely a confession, more of an acceptance.

Steve’s smile widens, something dark and knowing in it. “Good. You always do.”

And as Bucky pulls you into his arms, the last remnants of your resistance fade away, leaving only the comforting weight of their control. You’ve stopped fighting. You’ve stopped trying to remember a life that’s no longer yours.

And now, it feels like you’ve come home.

As you lean into them, your body relaxed against theirs, Steve and Bucky exchange a quiet glance. To anyone else, it might seem like a moment of victorious tenderness, a sign that their carefully woven web of lies and control had finally worked. But for them, it’s the culmination of something far more sinister.

The truth, hidden behind layers of manipulation, slowly rises in the silence between them.

Bucky’s fingers curl tighter around the back of your neck, his touch deceptively soft. The dark gleam in his eyes says everything that words can’t. You’re finally theirs. The power, the rush of having you in their control, it’s almost intoxicating. But even now, when the most delicate part of their plan is complete, he can’t help but remember the meticulous preparations that had gone into this moment.

Steve is still close to you, his arm draped around your waist, his fingers moving gently up and down your arm in a soothing, possessive gesture. His smile is warm, patient, and reassuring, remaining on his face. It’s always been about the long game for Steve. They needed to win your trust first, break you down piece by piece. And it’s been slow. Too slow, maybe. But in the end, they always knew they’d have you.

What you don’t know, what you’ll never know, are the dark truths that have led them to this point.

-

Steve’s eyes glint with something darker, something sharper as he watches you, the one they’ve spent so long breaking down. You lean into him, hair brushing his shoulder. He could almost feel the weight of the years they’ve spent hiding their true intentions, every step of the plan coming to fruition. But in this moment, the only thing that matters is that you’re finally his.

Ours.

He thinks of the syringe hidden away in the drawer, tucked beneath a pile of medical equipment. The tranquilizer, strong enough to put even the most stubborn of minds to sleep, had been a backup. A backup they’d needed far too many times in the past. Every time you’d resisted. Every time you’d tried to break free from them. The memories you couldn’t keep, erased and rewritten. It had taken months to break you down. The endless resets, the subtle manipulation of your memories, it had all been worth it.

He thinks of the old HYDRA tech they’d found buried in the basement of the abandoned facility. They’d salvaged it, repurposed it for their own needs. It was the ultimate insurance policy. A device that would wipe your memories clean, start over again, give them the chance to erase everything and make you theirs all over again. They’d already used it once when you’d tried to escape. It had worked, just as they’d known it would.

And the faked photos. Oh, all the faked things they’d planted around the house and in your mind, subtle distortions of the past. You had thought they were real memories, but they were simply moments they’d manufactured from nothing. Childhood photos, moments that never happened. But you didn’t know. You never would. And now, as you lean into him, trusting him as if he’s the one person who truly cares about you, Steve can’t help but savor the sweetness of your submission.

Meanwhile, Bucky watches you, his fingers gently stroking the side of your face. He’s careful, almost tender, as if he’s not the one who had quietly orchestrated the destruction of everything you once knew. His eyes drift to the scarred corner of the room where they’d had their first confrontation, the first moment of resistance. He can still see the look in your eyes, the defiance, the unwillingness to bend. That’s when he’d first known they’d need to go further than they had before.

Bucky has always been the one to deal with the physical side of things. He’s the one who uses the needles when necessary, the one who watches as memories are erased and rewritten. He doesn’t mind. He never has. His past is just as twisted, just as broken, and he knows that the only way to keep someone is to make them forget everything they thought they knew. Make them bend to his will. Make them need him.

And so he did. The needles, the tech. He’d been the one to use the memory-wiping tech when you tried to break away, your mind racing with escape plans and a hope you hadn’t even known you were capable of. They couldn’t have you escaping again. No. You belonged to them. You would be made to understand that with time.

You don’t remember the screams, the pain. You don’t remember when they had locked you in that cold room and kept you there for days, only feeding you enough to keep you alive. You never remember the real consequences of those escapes. It’s for the best you didn’t.

Together, they had faked everything. The photos, the false memories, the false story, all crafted a perfect illusion of the past. Bucky had been the one to suggest it, to suggest that they give you a history. Let you believe in something. You were fragile after all, even with all the strength you had in you, and you needed the comfort of false hope to hold on to. It had been easy to implant those photos, to whisper lies of childhood friends and tender moments, and you had accepted them, like a child accepts the world their parents give them. You believed.

Now, you’re looking at them, unaware of the depths of their lies. Of how they’ve woven a prison out of every word, every touch. They’re building something permanent within you, and you can’t see it yet.

But you will. Eventually, you’ll understand. And when you do, you’ll want it. You’ll want them. They’ve worked too hard for you to slip away. You’ve already lost. And the more you lose yourself in them, the more you forget, the more they can control you.

That’s the way it always goes.

Bucky glances at Steve, catching the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. They’re in this together. Always have been. You’re theirs now.

And neither of them is letting go.

Mischief Meets Alpine

Summary: Bucky introduces Alpine to you and Mischief one afternoon. An intense, one-sided, stare off ensues with an interesting truce that practically leaves you speechless when they start influencing each other for better or worse. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.

Word Count: 2.3k+

A/N: To be honest, I wrote this one based on the idea given by @kissingkillercriminals in their reblog of the prequel. Hope it turns out to be a fun read for you and everyone else. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist | Prequel

It was a slow afternoon in the Tower. Clouds had gathered thickly in the sky, casting a grayish hue through the windows. Rain pattered gently against the glass, the soft drumming filling the silence in the common room.

You were curled up on the armchair with a book in your lap and Mischief lounging across your legs like the possessive feline empress she was. Her tail twitched lazily every few seconds, ears flicking to the rhythm of the raindrops. Her eyes were half-lidded, content.

That is, until the elevator dinged. Her ears perked immediately. You looked up as footsteps echoed down the hallway. Familiar ones.

“Hey,” Bucky greeted from the doorway, a little damp from the drizzle. But he wasn’t alone.

Nestled comfortably in his arms, perched like a queen surveying her domain, was a stunning white cat. Blue-eyed, snowy-soft, and eerily calm, almost regal in the way she looked around the room.

Mischief went still.

Your eyes widened. “Is that… Alpine?” You had heard of Bucky’s cat before, but never seemed to have the chance to meet her until now.

Bucky nodded, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips as he stepped in. “She was pacing by the window when I left the room this morning. Figured she might want a change of scenery.”

Mischief lifted her head. Her pupils narrowed sharply as she fixed her gaze on the uninvited guest. A low growl began to bubble in her throat, barely audible to anyone but you.

You gently placed your hand on her back. ‘Easy’, You thought, not even needing to speak it aloud. She didn’t seem to pick up on your message because her entire body was locked, tense, and offended.

Bucky moved slowly, like he knew he was treading on sacred ground. “Didn’t mean to start a turf war. Just figured maybe it was time.”

You stood slowly, Mischief reluctantly hopping off your lap. Her tail whipped once in warning.

Alpine was unfazed. Her blue eyes landed on Mischief with mild interest. She gave a soft, courteous mrrrow, as if greeting a fellow royal.

Mischief’s eyes narrowed. She sat, but her body language screamed intruder.

“She’s beautiful,” You said gently, watching Alpine with cautious awe. “I didn’t know she was so calm around new places.”

“She’s used to traveling,” Bucky replied, setting Alpine down slowly onto the floor. “Doesn’t like being cooped up. Kinda like me.”

You watched with a held breath as Alpine took a few exploratory steps forward. Mischief didn’t move, but her eyes tracked every inch like a sniper zeroing in. When Alpine got within a few feet, she paused. Then, with the unbothered grace of someone who feared nothing, she laid down.

Mischief hissed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even aggressive. But it was unmistakably territorial.

“Mischief,” You warned softly, crouching next to her. “She’s not a threat.”

Bucky crouched too, beside Alpine, who had begun grooming her paw without a care in the world.

“Look at them,” He said, his voice hushed like it was a secret. “It’s like they’re trying to decide who owns the building.”

You laughed under your breath. “Mischief thinks she owns it.”

“Alpine knows she doesn’t need to prove it.”

As the two cats stared each other down, you caught it, soft and calm, threaded right beneath the silence.

She’s dramatic.

You blinked. Wait… That voice, sleek, composed, feminine, was Alpine’s. Not a meow, not a growl. Words.

You glanced at Bucky, but he was oblivious. Still watching the feline standoff like it was a chess game. Mischief’s growl rose slightly. Alpine remained still.

She likes you. That’s why she hasn’t lunged yet.

Alpine added, her voice as silky as her fur.

But I don’t back down either. So this should be interesting.

You noticed Mischief didn’t seem to hear your telepathic conversation with the newcomer. So you didn’t respond aloud, instead responding in your mind. ’You’re really not bothered, are you?’

He smells like snow and blood, but his hands are gentle. She’s possessive, not of the tower. Of you.

You felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rain. ‘I can see why.’

Mischief hissed quietly, and you caught a flicker of Alpine’s tail.

She wants me to leave.

’Will you?’ You thought, unsure if you were asking out of hope or curiosity.

No. But I’ll wait. I’m patient. She’s not the only one who’s bonded.

The two cats remained still, locked in a silent standoff. Well, more like a one-sided standoff. A slow, deliberate blink passed from Alpine to Mischief.

To your utter shock, Mischief paused for a moment before blinking back. A beat passed before she turned her head and sat down with a huff. Not surrender. But perhaps a reluctant acknowledgment.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Was that…?”

You blinked. “I think that was the feline equivalent of a handshake.”

He grinned, proud. “Progress.”

You looked down at both of them, one lounging and one sulking. You rose to your feet now, and as you did, Mischief brushed your leg with her tail, circling your feet like she was claiming you. Alpine simply hopped onto the rug and began inspecting a string toy left forgotten from Tony’s latest failed bribery attempt.

“So,” Bucky said after a moment, straightening. “What are the chances our girls end up tolerating each other?”

You glanced down at Mischief, who gave you a look that seemed to say, I allow this only because you do.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” You murmured. “But… It’s a start.”

Bucky stepped a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “They’re like us,” He said quietly. “Cautious. But… maybe not beyond letting someone in.”

You turned your head toward him slowly, heart skipping.

“Maybe,” You said. “If they’re lucky enough to find the right person.”

And beneath the steady sound of rain, the two of you watched the loved cats learning the quiet language of trust across the room.

-

Though, you didn’t know what that trust would actually entail. The first incident began with silence, which, in your experience with Mischief, was never a good sign.

The Tower was unusually quiet that morning. You were sipping tea in the kitchen, reading reports while waiting for the coffee machine to finish sputtering its way through Bucky’s drink order. Mischief had been suspiciously absent since breakfast. Alpine had vanished not long after.

You glanced toward the hallway only to find nothing out of the ordinary.

Then, a crash, coming from the direction of Tony’s lab.

Not a small bump or a gentle thud. No, this was a metallic, shattering, the Tony-will-not-be-pleased sort of crash.

You bolted upright, nearly spilling your tea, and sprinted toward the noise. Bucky was already there, jogging in from the elevator, sweatpants loose, hair damp from his time at the gym.

“You heard that too?” He asked, eyes narrowing.

Another sound followed. A high-pitched zip-zip-zip noise, like drones activating. Followed by… pawsteps?

You and Bucky skidded to a stop at the entrance to Tony’s lab. It looked like a bomb had gone off.

Three of Tony’s prototype micro-drones were hovering erratically midair, one of them twirling in panicked circles. The rest lay in pieces scattered across the floor, wires tangled like a crime scene. And in the middle of the chaos sat Alpine, tail curled delicately around her paws, completely unbothered.

On the counter nearby, Mischief crouched with a gleam in her eye that could only be described as unrepentant. She looked directly at you, then at Bucky, and gave a soft meow as if to assert her innocence.

“I think we just missed the heist,” You said breathlessly.

Bucky muttered, “Alpine was supposed to be the calm one.”

“I never said Mischief was a good influence.”

You both stepped forward carefully, surveying the disaster. Mischief had clearly pried open one of the drawers, Tony’s "Do Not Touch" ones. Wires were dragged out like spaghetti noodles. A spilled jar of who knows what rolled lazily across the floor.

“Is that my cloaking device?” Came a voice from the hallway.

You winced as Tony rounded the corner before stopping dead at the sight.

Alpine jumped gracefully down and walked over to Bucky’s feet, brushing against him as if she hadn’t just helped dismantle a small fortune in tech.

Tony's eye twitched. “Why are your cats smarter than my interns?”

“I ask myself that every day,” Bucky said, scooping up Alpine. “You didn’t leave any exploding gadgets out, right?”

“Not this week,” Tony snapped, waving a tablet like a club. “Do you even understand what they’ve broken? That drone was programmed to help defuse bombs.”

“I’m sure they had a good reason,” You offered, not that it helped, gently lifting Mischief off the counter. She purred, content and absolutely smug.

“Ask her what the hell kind of reason that would be,” Tony snapped at you.

You looked at Mischief, questioning in a flat tone. “Why?”

Mischief stretched lazily, flicked her tail, and in a nonchalant, mental whisper, said:

It blinked first.

You groaned at the excuse, hesitating before giving the answer. “She says it blinked at her.”

Tony blinked. “It blinked? That’s your defense?”

“She’s a cat, Tony.”

“Whatever.” He pointed at Bucky. “And your cat?”

Bucky looked down at Alpine, who yawned wide and graceful. She murmured to you with eerie composure,

I wanted to know if it could fly backward. It couldn’t.

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

“What?” Tony demanded, head snapping towards you.

You waved him off. “You… don’t want to know.”

Later that evening, after Tony had barricaded the lab and implemented new retinal scans to keep out the feline menaces (his words, not yours). You found Bucky in the living room with Alpine lying beside him with a toy and Mischief perched on the back of the couch.

“They’re lucky they’re cute,” You muttered, flopping down beside him.

Bucky glanced sideways. “I think they’re bonding.”

“They broke a drone.”

“Exactly.”

You looked at the two cats now comfortably sharing the space, Alpine nibbling at the feather toy, Mischief eyeing the object like it had wronged her.

You shook your head. “It’s like watching spies team up.”

“They are spies,” Bucky corrected, definitely not taking this seriously, evident by the grin he wore. “Tiny, furry, manipulative spies.”

Mischief flicked her tail in agreement as Alpine blinked slowly. And for a brief moment, peace, albeit temporary, settled over the Tower.

-

However, while the first incident was annoying for Tony, the second was catered more toward you and Bucky.

It started small to the point where you didn’t notice it at first. Mischief, your eternally territorial shadow, began to behave… differently. She still took up her usual place on your lap, still growled at anyone who got too close, and still owned the Tower like she paid the bills. But she started following you and Bucky when you left rooms. Lingering in the halls, appearing on counters and ledges when the two of you happened to be in the same space.

Alpine, meanwhile, watched everything from a perch of regal detachment, or so it seemed. But you knew better since you heard her.

Don’t hiss this time. Just watch. Let him sit next to her first.

You had paused when you heard it the first time, over breakfast. Mischief was on the table (illegally), staring daggers at Bucky as he walked in. Alpine, curled on the windowsill, barely flicked her tail, but her voice unintentionally slipped into your thoughts again as she directed the ‘secret’ information to Mischief:

She likes it when he brings her things and when he calls her 'trouble.' You should let her admit that.

You almost choked on your toast, but didn’t say anything when Bucky looked over at you with a questioning, concerned gaze.

That was the first clue.

The second clue came two days later, when Bucky was helping you patch up a cut you'd gotten during training. It was nothing, barely a nick, but he'd insisted. Kneeling in front of you, his gloved hand cradled your wrist while the other applied antiseptic.

Mischief watched from the armrest, her ears twitching. It was clear she was tense, jealous… until Alpine hopped up beside her and gently nudged her with her head.

Now. Purr. So she relaxes.

Mischief blinked slowly, tail twitching. Then, shockingly, she purred. Loudly and deeply. You actually laughed, easing into the moment, and Bucky glanced up at you with that rare, boyish half-smile that made your chest ache.

You knew that had been Alpine's doing. And Mischief, traitor that she was, seemed fine with it.

The third clue? Bucky confessed it.

You were sitting together in the lounge late one night, watching the rain tap softly at the windows, each of you nursing mugs of tea. Mischief dozed between you on the couch. Alpine had curled beside her, touching, no less. A miracle in itself.

Bucky tilted his head toward the sleeping cats. “You know, Alpine's been… weird.”

“Weird how?”

He hesitated. “She… keeps pushing me toward you.”

Your heart did a very stupid, very hopeful thing. “She told you that?”

He gave you a sheepish look. “She doesn’t talk to me like she talks to you, of course. But she’ll nudge me when I move away too soon. Block seats unless I sit beside you. Once she knocked my phone out of my hand when I was trying to leave the room.”

You could feel your heart beat faster, but tried to cover up your nervousness with a laugh, joking a little. “She’s matchmaking.”

“I think Mischief’s in on it, too. Last night, she dragged your hoodie into my room.”

Your eyebrows shot up. So that’s where your hoodie went, of all places.

“And then Alpine slept on it like it was a peace offering.”

You looked down at the two curled balls of fur, now subtly pressed together. Mischief’s tail lay loosely draped over Alpine’s back.

“Is this what a truce looks like?” You whispered.

Bucky’s fingers brushed yours, and you didn’t pull away.

“Looks like,” He murmured.

You didn’t answer this time, but your fingers curled around Bucky’s gently as Alpine purred softly and Mischief, even in sleep, didn’t object.

That was enough of an answer until either of you could act on the same thing both of your hearts wanted.

Again

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

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

Word Count: 2.9k+

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

Main Masterlist

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

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

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

Until him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t comment on it considering his past.

After that, he started waiting for you.

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

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

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

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

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

That was the beginning.

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

He memorized you.

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

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

You smiled. It felt warm and real after all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again.

You never noticed the changes at first.

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

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

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

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

Besides, Bucky said you’d been overwhelmed.

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

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

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

Then the dreams began.

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

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

And you were crying.

Not screaming. Not pleading.

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

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

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

And then, him.

Bucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘She’s starting to remember.’”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again.

-

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

It was supposed to be a cleaning day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remembered none of them.

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

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

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

But it was too late.

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

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

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

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

They were on the open journal.

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

And then, slowly, he set the bag down.

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

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

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

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

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

“I tried to leave.”

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

You backed into the wall.

“I don’t remember any of that.”

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

He stepped closer. The air thickened.

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

You shook your head. “No. I didn’t-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He moved slightly, lips brushing your temple.

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

That’s when he reached behind the mirror.

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

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

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

-

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

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

But your heart was quiet.

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

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

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

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

“Morning, doll.”

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

“Smells good,” You mumbled, voice thick.

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

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

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

His smile deepened, that tender practiced smile.

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

He always did.

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

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

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