A Place They Call Home

Summary: You, a regular person with no powers, become a quiet, comforting presence in Steve’s and Bucky’s lives. They slowly form a deep, romantic bond with you built on quiet moments, mutual care, and unspoken understanding. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 700+

Main Masterlist

You weren’t part of their world, not really. Not in the way most people defined it. No powers, no enhanced serum in your blood, no combat training etched into your muscles. You didn’t fly, or punch through walls, or wear a suit of armor. But somehow, you’d become just as necessary as any shield or weapon.

You met Steve first years ago, back when everything still felt a little raw after one of his missions. You were a barista then, tucked into a cozy corner café just off one of the quieter streets of the city. He came in looking like the ghost of a time long gone, polite to a fault, his smile more habit than warmth. You served him chamomile the first time he walked in and a honeyed espresso the second. By the third visit, he remembered your name. By the fifth, he asked if he could sit near the back, away from the windows. He said it was for the quiet. You didn’t press.

Then came Bucky.

Rough edges and distant eyes. The first time he walked into the café, Steve stood up instinctively like a soldier ready to meet a comrade in arms. You noticed the way Bucky’s eyes flicked over every exit, every reflective surface. The way his hands, always gloved, never truly relaxed. You didn’t say much that day, just placed his coffee on the table with a gentle, “No charge. First one’s always free.” You caught the twitch of his lips. Almost a smile. Almost.

They started coming together after that. Sometimes they’d stay until closing, long after the last customer left, helping you clean tables or fix the flickering light in the storeroom. You never asked them for anything. Maybe that was why they kept coming back.

You didn’t mean to become their safe place.

It started in little moments. Steve would bring you books he thought you’d like. Bucky would fix your broken sink without asking. You’d find yourself cooking too much food and pretending you hadn’t expected them to show up. When the nights grew long and cold, they stayed longer. When the world felt too loud, too harsh, too damn fast, they found themselves in your apartment above the café, Bucky curled into the corner of your couch like he was hiding from the world, Steve softly reading aloud from whatever book he could find on your shelves. You never minded.

You became a routine. A quiet rhythm. The world outside buzzed with chaos, but here, in your apartment lit by mismatched lamps and warmed by the scent of cinnamon and dust, everything stilled. There were nights when neither of them said a word, and yet none of you wanted to leave. Just the soft click of a record player, your hand brushing against Steve’s when you passed him a cup of tea, the way Bucky’s posture would finally relax when he fell asleep on the couch.

You didn’t know when it changed.

Maybe it was the night you found Bucky asleep in your bed, not because he’d planned to be there, but because you’d offered, gently, when he couldn’t stop shaking. Maybe it was the way Steve held your hand after you fell asleep watching an old film, fingers laced like he’d been waiting a lifetime to touch you. Or maybe it was the morning you woke up wedged between both of them on your too-small couch, their heartbeats steady, anchoring you to something real and lasting.

One night, you found yourself dancing in the kitchen. No music, no occasion. Just soft light, leftover pasta cooling on the stove, and Steve’s hand in yours. Bucky leaned against the counter, watching with a fondness he didn’t bother to hide. When he stepped in to join, Steve only smiled, and you felt something shift in the air, like all three of you had silently agreed on something unspoken. Something fragile and deeply needed.

“I never thought peace would look like this,” Steve whispered, forehead resting against yours.

“I didn’t think I deserved it,” Bucky added, his voice quiet from behind you as his arm slid around your waist.

But he did. All three of you did.

And in that tiny kitchen, warm with heart and memory, you realized something simple but powerful: they didn’t come to you because they needed saving.

They came to you because, with you, they were already home.

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.”

140 notes View Post

eviannadoll

3 weeks ago

Crimson Waters, Stolen Hearts (Pt. 2)

Summary: Things start to shift as Captain Bucky Barnes begins offering quiet comforts, protecting you more than necessary, and ignoring chances to trade you for riches. As time progresses, he slowly begins to reveal the possessive intensity growing beneath his calm exterior, insisting he won’t give up something he now considers his. (Pirate AU! | Soft!Dark!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.6k+

Main Masterlist | Part 1

Four days passed.

Four sunrises since they’d taken you. Four sunsets since the Captain handed your letter off to a quiet courier ship that slipped away before dawn. You'd watched it from your cabin window, how quickly freedom could vanish over the horizon.

You didn’t beg, didn’t plead. You stayed sharp. Quiet. Unshaken.

You were worth more that way anyways.

Bucky didn’t speak to you every day, but you always felt him. Heard his voice outside. Saw him at a distance on the deck, barking orders, speaking low with Natasha or Steve. Always in motion. Never laughing. Never smiling.

He didn’t treat you like a prisoner, but he didn’t treat you like a guest either.

You weren’t chained, but you weren’t free either.

Instead, your days began to take on a strange routine. Natasha brought you food. Sam taught you how to climb to the crow’s nest, “in case of emergency,” he said dryly. Clint started tossing you small knives like a game, and after catching one, you earned a surprised look and a rare grin.

But it was Bucky who lingered in your thoughts, even when he wasn’t near.

Because when he was, when he did appear at your door, or pass you at the railing, or glance over during a storm briefing, something inside you tightened. Not in fear.

In something… else. And that scared you more than the pirates ever had.

It was the fifth night when the storm came.

Not the kind you could plan for. The kind that crept up and swallowed everything.

The sea rose in black walls. Rain fell sideways. Sails groaned and snapped. The deck became a blur of boots and ropes and shouted orders.

You were in your cabin until a hard knock nearly broke the door open.

“Move!” Steve Rogers barked as he shoved it wide, soaked and scowling. “Below deck’s flooding. Captain wants you up top!”

You didn’t hesitate.

Water slammed against the ship as you emerged. Wind tore at your hair. Salt stung your eyes. You tried to move, but the deck was chaos. Voices screamed. Ropes whipped past.

And then, suddenly, you slipped.

Your foot went out from under you and your body slammed hard against the slick wood. You skidded dangerously close to the railing, heart in your throat.

A flash of silver.

Then, arms. Solid and unyielding. A metal hand grabbed your wrist, hauling you upright.

Bucky.

“You alright!?” He barked over the storm.

You could barely hear him, but you nodded, coughing.

“Stay by me!” He ordered, pulling you toward the center of the deck. His grip was strong, possessive. Protective. “Don’t go near the railings again.”

“I can handle myself!” You shouted.

Lightning flashed. He yanked you closer, face inches from yours.

“Not out here, you can’t.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Because in that moment, between the thunder and the crashing waves, you saw something raw flicker across his face.

Panic.

Not rage. Not annoyance.

Real panic.

For you.

But then it was gone. Buried beneath that cold command again. His hand stayed tight on your arm until the sails were secured and the wind began to calm.

By the time dawn broke, the storm had passed. Half the crew collapsed where they stood. And you? You were back in your cabin. Drenched, bruised, exhausted, and alive.

And not alone.

Because Captain Barnes was still there.

He sat at your desk, staring out the tiny window in silence. Rain trickled down the glass. His coat was soaked through, his hair curling at the edges.

You were the one who broke the silence.

“You didn’t have to pull me back.”

He didn’t look at you. “Yes, I did.”

You hesitated. “Why?”

His jaw ticked. And then, finally, he said it:

“Because I need you alive.”

For the ransom. You told yourself that. You repeated it. Over and over.

But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something in his voice had cracked just a little.

Like maybe the ransom… wasn’t the only reason anymore.

The aftermath of the storm was worse than expected.

Sails had torn straight through like paper. The main mast groaned each time the ship tilted, splintered deep at its base. The lower deck reeked of damp wood and blood. Two crewmen were injured, one hobbling with a splint, the other stitched along the thigh by Bruce’s shaking hands. Everything was heavy, slow, and weighed down by exhaustion.

Everyone looked to the Captain for rest.

But he never took it.

Bucky Barnes hadn’t stopped moving since the storm broke. He bled from a shallow cut above his eyebrow, his shirt clinging to him with seawater and sweat, his left arm glinting faintly beneath the torn sleeve where metal met flesh. He worked beside the others without pause, pulling down ruined rigging, knotting new lines, and securing down crates that had nearly gone overboard.

He snapped orders, yes, but took the brunt of the labor himself. Anyone who tried to help him too long was pushed away. He only let Steve in briefly. Sam was told to “get some goddamn sleep before you fall.” Even Clint got barked at. Twice. Loud enough for the whole ship to hear.

You watched it from the shadows of the main deck. No one told you to stay inside this time, but it didn’t matter.

No one approached you because no one dared.

Because wherever Bucky was on the ship, his eyes found you. Every time. A flick of his gaze across the chaos, checking to make sure you were still there. Still standing. Still breathing.

You weren’t stupid though. You knew you weren’t here by invitation, but the way his attention lingered like he was measuring every step you took, every glance someone else gave you, it felt like more than caution.

It felt like possession.

By the time the sun began to sink beneath the horizon, bleeding gold across the sea, most of the crew had slumped into hammocks or curled up against the railing. Their strength was spent. Their hands were blistered. Natasha was sat cross-legged by the stern, boots off, and sharpening a blade. Steve had a rag over his shoulder and blood on his knuckles.

But Bucky?

Still moving, walking, and silent. And still looking at you.

You didn’t expect him to stop and you certainly didn’t expect him to approach.

But he did.

He didn’t speak at first, just reached into his long coat and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. He held it out to you like it was nothing. Like it was just another piece of rigging. No ceremony. No explanation.

Your brow furrowed as you took it, and paused. It was a bundle of tea leaves. Expensive. Familiar. Yours.

The very same kind you’d rationed in private aboard the merchant vessel. The one your father had specially imported from the southern ports. You hadn’t seen it since your capture.

Your breath caught. “What is this?”

Bucky met your eyes, his voice calm and low. “It’s what you drank. Every night. You had a tin in the third drawer under your bunk.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the cloth. “You went through my things?”

His expression didn’t change. “No.”

There was a heavy pause.

“I watched.”

He said it without shame. Without even a flicker of hesitation. Not as an apology, but a statement of fact. Like it was perfectly acceptable for him to have memorized your nightly rituals, your favorite comforts, your private moments. Like remembering your tea preference was as natural as remembering your name.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you said nothing and took the tea.

That night, while the crew slept on soggy hammocks and patched sails above deck, you returned to your small cabin and hesitated at the door.

Something had changed.

You stepped in slowly. The air was warmer, more lived in. A single candle flickered on your writing desk, its wax halfway down. Someone had been here. Not long ago.

Your cot had a new blanket, thick, woolen, and dark red. The kind only traded in coldwater ports, expensive. There was a tray on your desk: warm food, not salted rations. A bowl of soup, still steaming faintly. Someone had left a small pile of books beside the basin of clean water, all untouched. All clearly brought for you.

You moved through the room like someone sleepwalking, fingertips brushing over the thick material of the blanket. The stitching was tight. Professional. Not stolen, but commissioned.

Your gaze went back to the tea in your hand. This wasn’t care. This was curation. A room transformed not for comfort, but for keeping.

The next afternoon, Clint dropped beside you on the steps of the upper deck without asking. His bow was slung lazily over one shoulder, and he had a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“He’s gone full beast-of-burden over you, y’know,” Clint muttered, cracking his neck.

You gave him a sidelong glance. “Over me?”

He jerked his head toward the main area. “Split his side open on a broken hook this morning. Refused stitches. Nat tried and got yelled at. Steve tried, got decked.”

“I didn’t ask him to–”

“You didn’t have to,” Clint cut in, low and dry. “He doesn’t do this. Not for anyone.”

You looked down at your hands, then back toward the bow of the ship, where Bucky stood in the light with his coat snapping in the wind, shirt sticking to his back, and movements deliberate. He was tired, controlled, and still working. Always working.

Clint watched your silence for a long beat, then added, “By the way, the courier returned.”

Your stomach turned.

“What courier?”

“The one from your ransom letter. It came back yesterday morning, just before dawn. You were asleep.”

You froze. “And?”

Clint scratched at his stubble. “Your father agreed. Said he’d pay double if we delivered you before sundown. Yesterday.”

Your heart stopped cold.

“…And Bucky?”

Clint gave a single, humorless chuckle. “We’re still sailing.”

You sat very still, fingers clenching in your lap.

It wasn’t about ransom anymore.

It hadn’t been since the night he pulled you from the storm. Since he started bleeding just to keep your world warm. Since he began rearranging his entire ship not for profit, but for you.

He was still calling you a prisoner. Still keeping his voice calm and his gaze cool. Still pretending this was about leverage.

But deep down, somewhere twisted and raw, you knew.

You weren’t being held. You were being claimed.

And Captain James Barnes was going to ruin himself to make sure the sea never got close enough to take you away again.

The silence between you and the Captain had changed. It wasn’t the kind that came from two strangers occupying different corners of the same ship. It wasn’t even the kind that hung between captor and captive, like smoke refusing to clear. This silence had weight now. An edge. A sharpness that pricked at your skin the longer it stretched on.

You hadn't spoken to him since Clint told you the truth. That your ransom had been accepted, that your father had offered to pay double for your return, and yet… you were still here. Still breathing sea air, still wrapped in expensive blankets, still sipping the tea he brought you with hands still bleeding from work he refused to delegate.

It wasn’t about money anymore.

It was about you.

And now, as the stars blinked into view and the crew fell into the hush of exhaustion, you found yourself climbing the steps to the quarterdeck where Captain James Barnes stood alone, silhouetted against the darkening sky.

He didn’t turn to acknowledge you. His posture was rigid, boots planted wide at the helm, coat rippling faintly in the breeze. You saw the faint shimmer of sweat clinging to the back of his neck. He hadn’t rested. Not since the storm. Not since you.

“Captain,” You called out, voice steady despite the tightness in your chest.

He didn’t turn.

“You’re not supposed to be up here,” He replied coolly, eyes fixed on the horizon.

You took another step closer. “We need to talk.”

“I’m busy.”

“No.” You exhaled slowly, letting the truth gather at your tongue. “You’re stalling.”

He stilled, if possible, even more. The tension in his frame told you he knew what was coming and that he’d hoped to avoid it.

“The courier came back,” You said, watching him.

He didn’t respond. The ocean moved rhythmically against the hull in the stillness.

“My father,” You continued, “He offered the ransom. You got your price and could’ve handed me over. Sailed away, bought a new ship, and paid your crew for months. But you didn’t.”

Still nothing.

You stepped closer, until only a foot of space separated you, and the smell of salt, leather, and blood clung to the air between you. “Why?”

A long, heavy beat passed.

Then he said quietly, voice so low you nearly missed it: “Because I don’t take payment for something I’m not giving up.”

The world slowed.

Your breath caught in your chest, stuck between a heartbeat and something more dangerous.

You stared at him. “I’m not a thing.”

At last, he turned to you. The moonlight caught his eyes, blue-gray and unreadable. There was no smile on his lips, no mockery or cruelty. Just something deeper. Something darker. A quiet, burning want that he didn’t even bother trying to hide anymore.

“I know,” He murmured.

You felt your heart thrum faster, uncomfortably loud in your chest. “Then what am I to you?”

His gaze dragged over you slowly, like he was memorizing every line of your face. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before. More raw. “You were leverage. Then you were a risk. Now…”

He paused, jaw twitching as if the words cost him something.

“Now you’re the only thing on this ship I give a damn about.”

It landed in your stomach like the drop of an anchor. You could barely breathe around it.

You backed up half a step. “I’m not yours.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes, regret maybe. Pain. But it vanished just as quickly, replaced by something steadier. More resolved.

“No,” He said, softly. “Not yet.”

The quiet between you stretched taut, like the edge of a blade held between steady hands.

He wasn’t threatening you. Not physically. But there was no mistaking it. This man who killed for coin and bled for reputation was unraveling all of it at the altar of you. Quietly and willingly, with the same discipline he commanded his crew with. He was turning that need inward, carving out space in his world that only you could fill.

You tried to look away, but you couldn’t. Not when he looked at you like this. Like he already belonged to you and was just waiting for you to realize it.

That night, your cabin was still warm from the candle someone had lit. The blanket still soft beneath your hand. The tea already steeped, left in silence. But it felt different now.

Not like comfort, like a gift. Like a man who didn’t know how to love gently, but was trying anyway.

You moved to the window of your door and pulled back the curtain.

And there he was. Outside your door, seated on a barrel with his sword laid across his lap, the shadows swallowing the lines of exhaustion in his face. He wasn’t guarding the ship anymore.

He was guarding you.

And as the wind picked up, tugging gently at his coat, he looked up, eyes catching yours through the window, steady and unblinking.

He didn’t nod, didn’t speak.

But in that stillness, you understood.

This wasn’t about gold. It wasn’t about power, pride, or war. It was about you.

And if someone came to take you now, even if they offered kingdoms in return, he’d burn every last one of them to the sea to keep you.

52 notes View Post

eviannadoll

1 month ago

Cookie Baked Disasters

Summary: You somehow manage to bake poisonous cookies which prompts Bucky to supervise all your baking endeavors from now on. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.1k+

A/N: Loosely based on some audio I heard on tiktok the other day. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

There were many things the Avengers had come to expect when you walked into a room: chaos, genius, caffeine jitters, trivia no one asked for, and the occasional accidental fire. But no one, absolutely no one expected you to show up to the kitchen with a tray of suspiciously perfect cookies and the most serious expression you’d ever worn.

“Those cookies are poisonous,” You said, setting the tray down on the counter with dramatic flair, “So no one eat them.”

Everyone stared.

Then Sam burst out laughing. “Ha! Duh. That’s obviously a bit.”

You blinked slowly. “Sam.”

“What?”

“…Go throw up.”

A pause. Confusion.

“I didn’t eat any-“

“Go. Throw. Up.”

Panic.

Sam bolted for the sink.

Bucky, sitting across the room cleaning a knife, froze mid-motion. “Wait, what the hell do you mean poisonous?”

You sighed, already pulling out your tablet. “Okay, so, technically they’re not poisonous to me, because I built up a tolerance over the past three weeks—don’t look at me like that—but it turns out the sugar substitute I used breaks down into a compound that causes moderate to severe liver distress in most mammals.”

Natasha put her coffee down with slow, measured dread. “You’re not most mammals.”

“Exactly,” You chirped, clearly missing the point. “Also, I was testing if I could make a biodegradable, calorie-free sugar using mold spores and hydrogen combined with cactus oil. Spoiler alert: I can. But apparently only I can eat it. Which is fine, more for me.”

Bucky was already on his feet, striding over, and staring at you like you’d grown a second head. “Why didn’t you just… make normal cookies?”

You blinked up at him, tilting your head. “Because that’s boring.”

“Because that’s safe,” He snapped.

“But boring.”

From the sink, Sam gagged dramatically. “I didn’t even eat one, but I feel like I did. I’m throwing up for safety.”

Tony wandered in, glanced at the tray, and immediately turned back around. “Nope. Not again.”

You rolled your eyes. “God, that was one time, and technically the lasagna incident was Steve’s fault for telling me to ‘eyeball it.’ I don’t have normal eyes.”

Steve walked in a beat later, took one look at Sam hurling into the sink, and another at the tray. “I don’t even wanna know.”

Bucky rounded on you, hands on his hips. If he had a sass meter, it would be through the roof. “You cannot just leave deadly baked goods in a communal kitchen.”

“I labeled them,” You said, pointing to the tiny sticky note that read “NOT FOR MOUTHS.”

“That’s not a label!” Bucky barked. “That’s a suggestion written like a dare!”

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it when you realized he had a point.

“I’ll lock them up,” You offered brightly. “Put them in my danger fridge.”

“You have a danger fridge?!”

“Where do you think the uranium cupcakes went?”

Bucky closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” He muttered.

You grinned. “Yeah, but I’d do it creatively.”

Despite himself, his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. Then he sighed and pulled you away from the tray and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You’re banned from baking unsupervised.”

You beamed. “So, supervised poison baking is still on the table?”

He groaned.

You took that as a yes.

Therefore, exactly two days later, you dragged your poor boyfriend into the kitchen who was surveying the area like it was a crime scene.

“You said supervised baking was allowed,” You pointed out cheerfully, tying your apron with the kind of confidence usually reserved for villains and reality TV chefs.

Bucky, arms crossed, eye slightly twitching like he already regretted everything, gave you the look.

“That was before I knew you considered ‘supervised’ to mean ‘talking me through your thought process while I physically stop you from poisoning everyone.’”

“Exactly,” You said, pulling out ingredients with absolutely no regard for organization. “Teamwork.”

“Why is there a car battery on the counter?”

“That’s for the frosting.”

He didn't respond. He just slowly picked it up and placed it out of reach like it was a loaded weapon.

You hummed a little song as you poured something vaguely flour-colored into a bowl. The bag just said ‘experimental starch, not food safe.’ You’d crossed it out and written “maybe food safe??” in Sharpie.

Bucky gently turned you away from it.

“No.”

“Rude,” You muttered.

“We’re making normal cookies. Flour, sugar, butter, and eggs.”

“Got it.” You nodded. “So I’ll substitute the eggs with carbonated eggplant foam, and the butter with an algae-based salve I’ve been developing-“

“NO!” Bucky all but shouted, grabbing both your wrists like he was wrangling a particularly enthusiastic octopus before he sighed deeply. “You’re gonna follow the recipe, step by step, and if at any point I see you reach for something glowing, humming, or labeled ‘unknown,’ I’m locking you out of the kitchen permanently.”

You blinked. “You’re kinda hot when you’re bossy.”

He looked skyward. “God help me.”

You finally, finally, started putting real, safe ingredients in the bowl. Bucky hovered nearby like a sleep-deprived babysitter watching a toddler use a chainsaw. However, you made it known how miserable you were. You cracked the eggs like they’d insulted your mother, accidentally got shells in the batter, and when he tried to help, you threatened to scientifically improve him.

“I swear to God,” He muttered, digging the shards out with a spoon, “This is worse than combat.”

“You say that like cookies aren’t a battlefield,” You said, dumping the sugar in aggressively and vaguely guessing the right amount needed. “We’re fighting for joy, Barnes.”

“We’re fighting for survival,” He corrected. “Mine.”

Half an hour and seventeen emotional breakdowns later (six of them his), the cookies were baking in the oven and the kitchen wasn’t on fire. This was a historic win.

You leaned against the counter, beaming like a kid who’d just presented macaroni art to their teacher. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Domesticity suits me.”

Bucky looked around: flour everywhere, butter smears on the ceiling, a suspiciously missing spatula (likely melted somewhere), and a bowl labeled “cookie prototype v2” quietly vibrating under the sink.

He sighed.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Lucky and dangerous. Like an endangered bird with a knife.”

He blinked. “You’re never baking again.”

“But I followed the rules!”

“You tried to carbonate the dough halfway through!”

“I succeeded, actually-“

He kissed you then, mostly to shut you up. You grinned against his mouth, and he could taste sugar and disaster and whatever it was that made you so you.

And yeah, the cookies would probably be slightly radioactive.

But at least no one was throwing up this time. Yet.

79 notes View Post

eviannadoll

2 months ago

The Way He Notices

Summary: As the teammate with invisibility, your powers often result in you disappearing from the Compound when the day becomes too much. However, you’re always seen by one person who has started to sit in silence with you, offering occasional comments and comfort. (Bucky Barnes x invisible!reader)

Disclaimer: Angst (sort of). Hurt/Comfort. Reader has the power of invisibility.

Word Count: 1.3k+

A/N: I had fully intended to just make this a blurb. I like imagining the reader with different powers, but this went over the 500 words I had initially planned lol

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

The compound was too loud.

Even if no one was yelling, even if no one was fighting, your skin buzzed with the memory of raised voices, flashing lights, hands that weren’t kind. Your breathing had gone shallow the moment the door shut behind you. Your hands trembled. Your pulse raced. Your instincts screamed.

So you disappeared. Literally. One blink, one breath, and maybe the world would forget you were there. Invisibility was your gift. When activated, everything fades. Body, clothes, scent; not even heat sensors can detect you. It remains a power you hold to help people from the shadows. Both your shield and your curse.

And right now, you use it to curl up into the corner of your room, legs pulled tight to your chest. Your breathing was quiet now, nearly silent. You liked it that way. Invisible and silent, unnoticed to the world.

But Bucky noticed. He always did. You never told anyone about what it really meant, to vanish. Not in words. Not out loud. But Bucky figured it out anyway.

He paid attention in a way most people didn’t. Not the loud kind, not the prying kind. Just quiet observation, patterns, and pauses. He noticed the things others dismissed: the way your fingers twitched when a voice got too sharp. The way your leg bounces nervously when the room turns tense. The way your eyes never quite met anyone’s after a hard mission.

And most of all, he noticed when you were suddenly gone.

Not physically. Not entirely. Just… hushed. Faded. The kind of gone where your seat at the table was still warm, your plate barely touched. The kind of gone where you stopped making eye contact, stopped breathing deep, stopped existing in the room even if you were still in it. The kind where your powers were not needed at all to remove your presence from a space.

Then overtime, he learned the different ways you could vanish. And unlike others, he didn’t joke about it. Didn’t push or pull or guilt you back. He just waited. A silent and steady presence to turn to.

The first time it happened, he stood in your doorway for ten full minutes, speaking to the air. Not because he thought it would fix anything. But because he knew what it meant to be terrified, voiceless, and unseen, yet still wanting someone to come find you anyway.

After that, it became a kind of rhythm between you. A quiet understanding. Then, the similarities began to show themselves. You weren’t touchy, and neither was he. Your voice was soft, never one to stand out in a room full of people. He was quiet, selective who he spoke to as he watched more than he engaged. You didn't open up easily. But you know he also struggled to do so as well. And when the world pressed too close and you disappeared into silence, he was the only one who could sit with it without trying to fix you.

It wasn’t romantic, not in the beginning. But it was intimate.

In the moments you let yourself be visible, Bucky saw you in ways no one else did. The slight tilt of your lips when you made a dry joke. The way you tilted your head when you were curious, and the way you flinched when someone raised their voice, even if it wasn’t at you. He never made it a big deal. Never made you feel small, insecure, or unworthy. Not even when you couldn’t quite express how you felt and never for existing.

He just noticed. And remembered.

So when your door clicked shut, and you didn’t speak, didn’t eat, didn’t check in? He knew. Because this man had memorized both your presence and absence like a shadow. It was what led him behind your door now, knocking three times. Three simple, soft taps. The kind that asked for permission, not attention.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“Doll?” His voice was soft, the edge of gravel worn down into silk. “I know you’re in here.”

Still, you stayed quiet. Hidden. Gone.

The door creaked open. He didn’t turn the lights on. He didn’t need them to know you were there. Sometimes you cursed his super soldier hearing.

“I saw you leave the training room without speaking to anyone. That’s not like you.”

There was no accusation in his voice. Just concern. Measured, careful concern. He stepped in further, and you saw the glint of metal catch the moonlight through your window.

“I know what it’s like,” He said after a long pause. “To want the whole world to stop seeing you. To disappear because it’s safer that way.”

You turned your head slightly, though you weren’t sure why. He still couldn’t see you. No one could.

“I used to hide,” He continued. “Behind orders. Behind missions. Behind… the Soldier.”

The reference hit the air with a dull ache. He sat down on the floor, not too close, but close enough.

“I’m not sure what happened. Maybe I never will. But I know you don’t have to be alone.”

You heard a quiet rustle before spotting his hand reaching out, palm up, resting between you both.

“I won’t touch you. I won’t even look, unless you want me to. Just know I’ll be here.”

Your breath hitched. Not because of the panic, but because of him. He stayed yet again. You still can’t get used to it, like somehow you’ve convinced yourself you’re not worth it.

But minutes passed, maybe an hour or more. Who knows. Bucky had learned the hard way how to sit with silence. How to let it breathe instead of trying to fill it. How sometimes just being there meant more than any words.

But slowly, carefully, you let the invisibility fade. Like dust in sunlight. Your fingers, trembling and pale, reached out and barely brushed his.

His hand didn’t move. Instead, you heard his voice, gentle and soft.

“There you are,” Bucky whispered, a ghost of a smile upon his face.

Something in his chest loosened. Not relief exactly, but… a sense of trust. Pride almost. You trusted him enough to come back, to be seen.

Because for the first time all day, you weren’t afraid. You weren’t alone nor unseen. He had stayed there, grounding you.

Your voice didn’t answer him, not out loud. You didn’t need to. Instead, you leaned just a little closer, the barest shift of weight, but he felt it. You were still trembling, but you weren’t hiding. Not from him.

He turned his palm so his fingers could wrap lightly around yours. Not tight. Just enough to remind you he was there.

“I know the world feels like too much sometimes,” He began quietly. “I don’t blame you for disappearing. I used to want to do it all the time. Hell, I did.”

He gave a short, hollow laugh; no humor, just memory.

“When I first came here, I kept thinking: If I can just vanish, if I can just keep still enough, no one will look at me like I’m broken. Like I’m dangerous. Like I’m one bad memory away from snapping.”

You shifted. Still silent, but listening. He could feel it.

“I saw that same look in your eyes today. Like you were made of glass and someone was swinging a hammer.”

The grip of your hand tightened slightly.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened. Not now. Not ever, if you don’t want. But if you need someone who gets it, you know I’m here.”

He tilted his head toward you, careful to keep his movements soft.

“No pressure,” He said quickly, a beat of hesitation filling the space before he added. “Just… if you ever wanna disappear, let me be the one who waits with you in the silence.”

A pause. Then, barely above a whisper:

“Okay.” You nodded. It was tiny, fragile; but Bucky felt it like a damn earthquake.

You didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t move an inch.

He doesn’t try to fix you. He just stays. Listens. Waits. And somehow, in a world that seems to forget you're there the moment you vanish, you're still seen. Completely, quietly, without question, because of the way he notices.

359 notes View Post

eviannadoll

1 month ago

I’ll Still Love You

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

Word Count: 2.8k+

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

Main Masterlist | Your Version

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

Peace. Sleep. A future. And you.

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

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

But he kept coming back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that day hadn’t come. Not yet.

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

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

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

He ran. It took six minutes to find you.

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

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

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

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

“Please… don’t touch me.”

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

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

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

You didn’t come home right away.

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

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

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

You just didn’t know him.

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

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

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

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

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

So you came home.

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

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

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

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

Bucky answered every one like he was handling glass.

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

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

He cracked a faint smile. “Terrified.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So they give him space. But not Steve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not gone, Buck.”

“She doesn’t remember me.”

“But she’s trying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes, you asked him questions.

“Did I… love you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Did I?”

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

Later, it happens again.

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

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

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

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

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

“…Do you want it?”

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

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

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

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

He knows one thing like gospel truth:

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

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

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

250 notes View Post

eviannadoll

1 month ago

Left Alone with the Air Fryer

Summary: You leave him home alone with a new air fryer and strict instructions not to use it. He does it anyways. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 400+

A/N: Hi, I’m sick. So, enjoy Bucky being a slight menace. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

You were only gone for a couple of hours.

That’s it. Two hours. You had a simple errand: pick up your dry cleaning and stop by the store. You even made sure to leave Bucky with very clear instructions, a sticky note that read: “Do not touch the air fryer. Just eat the leftovers.” It was short, straight to the point, and should have been foolproof.

Except you apparently forgot who you were dealing with.

When you walk through the door, the first thing you notice is the smell. It’s not bad. It’s… actually kind of amazing. A mix of melted cheese, garlic, and something slightly suspicious, like someone tried to recreate fair food from memory. The second thing you notice is the mess. Not a disaster, exactly but Bucky Barnes, ex-assassin and super soldier, is hunched over the kitchen counter, squinting at the air fryer like it just gave him attitude.

“Hey,” He says, without looking up. “Quick question. Is it supposed to smoke like that?”

You drop your bags and rush over. Your heart is skipping a beat, but the smoke is minimal, more of a dramatic wisp. Still, there are three bowls on the counter, each filled with what appears to be a different kind of fried cheese. One has mozzarella sticks (burnt on one side), another has some kind of pizza roll Frankenstein hybrids, and the last looks like he tried to batter and fry actual slices of provolone.

You blink. “Bucky. What… happened?”

He finally looks up, face too serious for the situation. “Okay so, I was hungry. You said not to touch the air fryer, but it was… calling to me.” He gestures vaguely, like the machine whispered forbidden secrets. “And I remembered you said something about preheating it, but then I forgot what button that was, so I just hit all of them. Twice.”

“You what?!”

“Look, I fixed it! I googled a YouTube guy who said air frying was an ‘art form’ and I think I may have found my calling.” He walks over to the counter and presents a Tupperware container with a proud flourish. Inside? Perfectly golden, crispy mozzarella sticks. Like… dangerously good.

He grins, immensely proud over his perfect appetizer. “I even plated them or contained them.”

You narrow your eyes. “You did all this in two hours?”

“Oh, no, this took like… twenty minutes. I spent the rest of the time organizing the spices alphabetically. Also, your cinnamon expired in 2019. I’ve buried it in the trash can.”

Despite yourself, you start laughing and he looks entirely too smug about it. Bucky leans back against the counter, arms folded, saying with mock seriousness, “I’m not saying I’m that Gordon fellow for air fryers, but I am taking name suggestions for my cooking channel.”

You walk over, take one of the mozzarella sticks, and bite into it. It’s amazing, annoyingly amazing.

“I hate you.”

He beams. “That’s fair. But… want to try the pizza bites next?”

141 notes View Post

eviannadoll

2 months ago

Lazy Morning

Summary: Snuggled up between your loving boyfriends, you listen quietly as they argue over who is the better cook. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 300+

A/N: I am basically using this as an introductory to more Stucky content without the age regression. I’ve done many with just Bucky x reader, so I am honestly not sure why I haven’t thought of this sooner. Steve would accuse me of playing favorites… (ᵕ•_•)

Main Masterlist

You woke up slowly, the soft warmth of Steve and Bucky's bodies pressed on either side of you. Their steady breathing and the sound of their murmurs wrapped you in a cocoon of safety and comfort. The morning sunlight peeked through the blinds, casting a gentle glow on the room, but you were content just being there, between them. No missions. No battles to be fought. Just them.

Bucky shifted first, stretching lazily and groaning. "I’m tellin' ya, Stevie, I make way better pancakes than you."

Steve, already awake, chuckled softly. "You really want to start this again? You burn them every time."

"I do not!" Bucky shot back, his voice filled with playful offense. "They’re crispy, not burnt. There's a difference."

You suppressed a smile, keeping your eyes closed as you snuggled deeper into the blankets, enjoying the familiar rhythm of their playful banter. They had been doing this for months now, arguing over the most trivial things, and yet it always ended in laughter.

Steve let out an exaggerated sigh, clearly amused. "Sure, sure, Buck. Crispy like charcoal. You know, the kind you can’t even put syrup on without it crumbling."

“Better than your soggy mess,” Bucky retorted. “The secret is in the flip.”

You couldn’t help it anymore. A tiny giggle escaped from your lips, betraying the fact that you were awake. Steve turned his head slightly, smiling down at you.

“See? Told you they’re awake.” His voice was soft, warm, full of affection.

Bucky, ever the tease, leaned closer, his lips brushing the top of your head. “Oh, so you’re just gonna let me and him fight over breakfast, huh? Come on, you gotta choose. Who’s the better cook?”

You turned your head slightly to meet his mischievous gaze, then looked at Steve, who was giving you that calm, almost too innocent smile.

"I don’t know," You said playfully, your voice still thick with sleep. "But whoever makes breakfast better today gets the first kiss."

Both men froze. Bucky blinked, a grin slowly forming. "Oh, I see how it is. I can work with that."

Steve’s eyes sparkled with competitive fire. “Challenge accepted."

You laughed softly, content and grateful to have both of them by your side, even as they bickered over something as simple as breakfast. There was no place you’d rather be than sandwiched between them on a lazy morning.

196 notes View Post