⋆༺Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist༻⋆

The Price of Saving Until You Care

Summary: You have the power to heal others by transferring their injuries onto you. After healing Bucky from a serious wound, he confronts you about constantly sacrificing your own well-being for him and you confront him about his recklessness in throwing his life away. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to transfer injuries onto herself. You and Bucky get injured in this. ANGST. References and/or talk of death & suicide. (It doesn’t happen here.) Bucky’s self-worth issues. You are responsible for the media you consume

Word Count: 1.5k+

A/N: Here’s that other version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. I also had another thought while writing this. Same concept, but she can’t feel the pain she transfers. But this version had more depth to it.

Main Masterlist

Pain was a strange thing.

Most people avoided it, feared it, or resented it. You? You made peace with it, letting it in like a familiar guest.

Your hands could heal, not with any glowing light, magical song, or celestial warmth, but with quiet, invisible sacrifice. Every wound you closed on someone else opened in your own body. A broken bone, a stab wound, a punctured lung, you could mend them all. But the damage had to go somewhere, and it always chose you.

At first, it felt noble. Heroic, even. Like you were doing something pure in a world full of compromise. Over time, though, that feeling didn’t last. Not after your body started to break faster than it could rebuild. Not after people began expecting it of you. And not after he started looking at you with that hollow-eyed grief every time you touched him.

Bucky Barnes was the only one who never asked.

That’s why you kept doing it for him.

He never demanded your gift, never leaned on it. If anything, he flinched when you reached for him. He stitched his own wounds in silence, like penance, like punishment. But he bled so often and so deeply, and there was only so much you could watch before stepping in.

So you made the choice he never would.

You took the pain he refused to burden anyone else with and carried it like a secret.

The first time you healed him, it was a gunshot to the thigh. He’d collapsed behind cover, gritting his teeth, trying to keep firing with one hand pressed hard over the bleeding wound. You crawled to him, pressed your palm against his jeans, and told him to breathe.

He didn’t understand right away. Not until later, when he saw you limping and pieced it together.

“What did you do?” He had asked, panic breaking through the walls he always wore.

You lied then and said it was a stray bullet. Said you were fine. You weren’t, of course. But the look on his face, that was worse than any pain. So you kept the truth buried.

Now, you’d done it too many times to count.

You didn't talk about your ability much. People either praised it or pitied it, and you didn’t need either. To you, it was like… math. You had a body that could endure pain and a world that couldn’t survive without help. It wasn’t heroism. It was simple. It was balance.

But even balance breaks when it leans too hard in one direction. And lately, Bucky had been leaning too hard and the rest of the team noticed it too. He became too reckless, too self-destructive, too tired of being saved.

That’s why you stood in the medbay now, chest already aching from a gash you took earlier, watching him sit bloodied and bruised and already trying to push you away.

The medbay lights buzzed faintly above, casting a harsh white sheen across the steel counters and bloodied gauze. Bucky sat shirtless on the edge of the gurney, one hand clamped over a ragged tear in his side. Blood still leaked between his fingers. His metal arm hung loose by his side, stained red.

You stepped forward quietly and approached slowly.

He heard you though. Evident in how his gaze flicked up, icy blue and already narrowing. “Don’t.”

You didn’t answer as you just moved to stand in front of him, reaching into the tray for a cloth. His blood had soaked deep into the fabric around the wound. Too deep for bandages.

“I mean it,” He growled, more force behind it this time. “You’re not doing that thing again.”

Your hand hesitated in the air before dropping. “It’s not a thing, Bucky. It’s me.”

He flinched. Just slightly. A beat of hesitation long enough for you to press your palm against his ribs.

Heat bloomed between your fingers. Your power worked silently, no fanfare, no shimmer of light, just the subtle pull, the invisible trade. His flesh knit together, the muscle reforming under your touch, sealing like it had never been torn.

Then came the pain as your breath hitched, feeling it bloom sharply through your ribs, mirroring the exact placement of his injury. The gash tore itself into you now; hot, wet, and burning deep. You exhaled through gritted teeth, willing yourself to stay upright.

Bucky grabbed your wrist.

“Stop. Please.” His voice was hoarse now. “Stop.”

“It’s already done,” You whispered.

He stood up too fast, panic flashing in his eyes. His hand hovered just short of touching you again. “Why would you do that? You said… You said you wouldn’t anymore.”

“I didn’t say that,” You leaned against the gurney now slightly, murmuring your defense. “You asked. I didn’t answer.”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice cracked. “You’re always bleeding for me.”

You looked down to see blood was spreading across your shirt now, warm and slow, the price of one man’s survival. You’d felt worse. Your pain tolerance was higher than others' after all, but that didn’t make this easy.

“You don’t get to die just because you’re tired,” You let out before you could think of the consequences, staring at anything else but him. “You don’t get to throw yourself at death like it’s the only thing you deserve.”

“And you don’t get to keep hurting yourself just to prove that I matter!” He shouted, voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You can’t keep doing this. You’ll…. disappear.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the correct word. You finally met his gaze, taking a trembling step closer.

“I will. If you keep doing this. If you don’t stop treating yourself like you’re expendable.”

His expression twisted, a painful, broken thing. “Why?”

“Because you won’t save yourself,” You whispered. “So I will. Until you start caring about your life… or until you realize I gave you mine.”

A long silence stretched between you. Then, quietly, like a thread unraveling:

“I care.”

You blinked.

“I care,” He repeated. “I just… didn’t know how to show it. I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

Your breath caught.

He reached for you slowly, fingers brushing the edge of your shirt where the blood had bloomed red. “Let me try,” he said. “Let me start now.”

He stared at the blood staining your shirt, the way your breath hitched with every movement. His hands hovered like he didn’t know how to touch you gently, like anything he did would break you more. So, you helped him out by sitting down first. The gurney was cold under you, the pain a dull, pulsing throb in your side. It would last a few hours, maybe a few days, like most of them did. But you didn’t regret it. Not when he was alive. Not when he was here.

Bucky slowly stepped in front of you. He moved like he was approaching something sacred. Or fragile. He unzipped one of the emergency medkits and grabbed clean gauze, then glanced up to meet your eyes as if to ask for permission. You gave a small nod.

His fingers trembled just slightly as he lifted your shirt, revealing the angry gash blooming across your side.

He hissed through his teeth. “It should’ve been me.”

You smiled at him, dry and tired. “It was you.”

“No,” He muttered. “I meant… it should’ve stayed on me. I could’ve taken it.”

You cupped the back of his metal hand, pressing it gently against your knee. “You already take too much.”

This time, he didn’t answer. Instead, he focused on cleaning the wound, his hands methodical, precise. You watched the way his brow furrowed, the way he avoided your eyes like he couldn’t bear to look at the pain he’d caused. A similar look to the guilt people wore when they found out how your power worked.

“You don’t have to punish yourself every day,” You sighed.

“I’m not trying to.”

“Then stop flinching every time I help you.”

Bucky let out a low breath. “I flinch because you matter. Because every time you do this, I remember what it feels like to watch someone choose my life over theirs. And… I’m scared one day, you’ll make that choice for the last time.”

He finished dressing the wound in silence before he rose slowly and sat beside you.

For a moment, the room was quiet, the soft hum of overhead lights still present, and the echo of shared breath.

“You said something earlier,” He began finally, voice low. “That I wouldn’t save myself. That I don’t care if I die.”

You looked at him, quiet.

He nodded to himself. “You’re right. I didn’t. Not for a long time. But watching you hurt for me? Watching you bleed and not even hesitate? That scares the hell out of me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Then let it change you.”

Bucky was still for a beat. Then he shifted, slowly wrapping an arm around you, careful of your wound, careful of everything. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just real. Warm. Grounded.

“I don’t know how to start,” He admitted.

“You just did,” Your eyes slipping closed.

And in that quiet room, beneath too-bright lights and the weight of too many regrets, he held you like someone trying, finally, to be worth saving.

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.

In Every Form, You Still Saw Me

Summary: As a shapeshifter, you often shift into someone else for missions, laughs, or what others want. However, you start shifting to make one man who sees you for you, smile. You learn how he yearns for the true you no matter how scary it feels to be yourself. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to shapeshift. Sort of pining for each other.

Word Count: 3.8k+

A/N: It’s so fun writing for Readers with different abilities. I wonder which power I could try next. Also, I think this is the longest work I’ve done yet. If you liked “The Way He Notices”, you might like this!

You weren’t born with your powers. You woke up with them after a freak accident during your childhood. It had left you comatose for three days and with no control over your own face when you came to.

You could shapeshift, but it wasn’t pretty at first. Reflexive transformations, triggered by emotion or proximity. Someone made you laugh? You morphed into them. Someone yelled at you? You wore their angry face. It was chaos until you finally got a hold of them.

When you first joined the team, Tony Stark dubbed you "Copycat" until you threatened to turn into Pepper and start signing contracts in her name. The nickname didn’t stick after that.

But Bucky? He always called you by your name. Even when you shifted. Even when your skin wasn’t yours and your voice belonged to someone else. He never flinched, never made a joke, never looked away in discomfort like the others sometimes did.

Maybe that’s what started it.

That quiet, steady way he treated you like you were solid. Real. Like you weren’t just some flickering mirage of other people’s identities.

Over time, you and Bucky fell into a rhythm. He was blunt; you were sarcastic. He grunted; you rolled your eyes. He brooded in corners; you shapeshifted into Steve just to annoy him. At some point, it stopped being just teasing. Or maybe it didn’t, but the way he started looking at you changed.

Or maybe you changed. Maybe you stopped shifting just to play around. You were careful though, of course. Always careful. He didn’t like surprises, didn’t like people messing with his head, and you knew how close your powers came to crossing that line. But you started shifting because you wanted to know what might make him smile.

There was something different about Bucky’s smile. It wasn’t the wide, toothy grin you saw from Sam or the sarcastic half-smirk you got from Tony. No, Bucky’s smile was the kind that crept up on you. A slight tug of his lips, something quiet, almost like a secret. It was the smile of a man who didn’t trust easily, who didn’t share his joy unless he was sure it was real. But when it came, when you made him laugh, genuinely, there was something almost intoxicating about it.

You didn’t understand why at first. Maybe it was the way he’d become so guarded, so emotionally distant after all that had happened to him. You saw him in ways the others didn’t: the small furrows in his brow when his mind wandered to the past, the way his eyes would harden when people mentioned Hydra, or how his posture would stiffen when someone still called him "The Winter Soldier" behind his back. Because, he’d become more than just a soldier, more than the guy with the metal arm. He was a man who was constantly carrying the weight of the past on his shoulders.

But when you made him smile… it was like the weight lifted, even just for a second. It was a flicker of hope, an acknowledgment that underneath it all, Bucky Barnes still had the ability to feel something real.

And you didn’t mind being the one who brought that out.

It started as harmless fun. A playful game. You’d shift into Sam, mock his attempts at being a "serious" soldier, exaggerating his speech, his hand gestures. You’d throw in the occasional “You good, Buck?” just to hear Bucky’s exasperated sigh. The first time it worked, Bucky had grunted, shaking his head in mock annoyance, but then that little smile crept across his face.

“Alright, alright, I get it. You think you’re funny,” He had muttered, crossing his arms over his chest, but the tension in his shoulders had loosened.

It was enough. It was always enough for you to want to do it again, to see that smile once more, to know that maybe, just maybe, you were the one who could make him feel light, even if it was for just a moment.

Then there was another day you shifted into Natasha, just to show off a little during sparring. You were better than you gave yourself credit for, and Bucky never failed to push you to improve. But this time, you took it up a notch. You copied her form, her speed, the way she moved with deadly precision, and you could see it in Bucky’s eyes as he watched. It was a sense of admiration mixed with surprise. And if you were being honest with yourself, a hint of something deeper.

"You're really trying to piss her off, huh?" He had joked as you took a jab at him, mirroring Natasha’s infamous fighting style.

You paused, lowering your stance, your eyes shifting back to yourself for a just second. The rush of power you felt from the change, the way you could tap into anyone’s skill, anyone’s identity, it was like you were borrowing their strengths. But when Bucky’s eyes softened, when he gave that little chuckle, you felt something else, something that wasn’t about power at all.

Quite frankly, you never really thought about your powers in the same way the others did. To most of the team, shapeshifting was just another tool in the arsenal. It was useful for infiltration, misdirection, and the occasional prank. But to you, it was something far more personal. More fragile. Every time you morphed into someone, deep down, you felt a part of yourself slip away. A mask over your real face, a shield to hide behind, a way to slip through the cracks unnoticed. You'd never been sure of who you were without the transformation, until you realized how real it felt to see Bucky’s reactions when you did.

You realized over time there was something in his eyes when you morphed back to your own face briefly, something that you couldn’t quite place. You were used to being invisible or someone else, used to people ignoring you or pretending you weren’t there when you didn’t fit their expectations. But Bucky didn’t do that. He just… watched. Like he was studying you, trying to figure out the hidden parts of you that you kept locked away.

It felt almost safe in a strange way. Some would say creepy, but you knew him better than that. It was an odd realization. With Bucky, you didn’t feel like you were performing. Because truly, when you shapeshifted into someone else, it was no longer about escaping yourself or following orders. It was about finding a way to connect with him.

You didn’t mind looking silly in front of him. Actually, you kind of liked it. There was something about making him laugh that made your chest flutter, like you were finally being seen for something more than your powers, more than a stranger in someone else’s skin. You weren’t playing a role, you were just… you. And Bucky smiled.

But there were times when it hit you hard. When you realized you were holding on to those smiles like they were the only thing that kept you grounded. And it terrified you. Because making Bucky smile felt like your own fragile version of normal. But what if you lost that? What if one day, he saw through you? Would you be able to stand, knowing you weren’t just the shapeshifter who made him laugh, but the person behind the masks?

You tried to focus on the feelings, the lightness you got when you saw Bucky react. You used your powers to make him smile, forget about his troubles, because in those moments, you could forget about hiding. And maybe that was enough for now.

The trouble was, you knew it couldn’t stay like this. Sooner or later, you'd have to show him the real you, all of you, without a mask, without someone else’s form to hide behind. And when that day came, you weren’t sure whether he’d still smile.

But for now, you'd keep shifting. Keep playing the game. Because as long as Bucky looked at you with those eyes so curious, attentive, and just a little bit warmer than usual; it felt like you were finally getting a glimpse of the real you too.

Until then, he’ll continue to think this is just a game. And you will continue to pretend that it didn’t hurt to hide behind other people’s faces.

—

The lounge was quiet, the way it always became after midnight. Most of the team had long gone to their quarters, the lights dimmed to a soft amber. Outside the tower windows, New York glittered in silence. Alive, but far away.

Bucky sat on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, the other cradling a glass of water. He looked tired, in that way he always did after missions where too many things exploded and too many people screamed. He wasn’t injured, at least not on the outside, but he hadn’t said much since coming back.

You had a habit of finding him during moments like these. You padded in barefoot, wearing the appearance of someone else. You’d slipped into it earlier out of habit, mostly to annoy Sam in the elevator. But when Bucky’s tired eyes met yours across the room, the faint lift of his brow said he wasn’t in the mood.

“You gonna sit, or keep pretending to be someone else?” He asked, voice low and dry.

You sighed, letting whoever’s frame, it didn’t matter, melt away. Muscles shifted, bones cracked softly beneath your skin as you returned to your natural form. One you rarely wore when anyone else was around. You always thought of it as your “in-between” face. Not as striking as Wanda, not as symmetrical as Steve. Just… you.

Bucky’s eyes stayed on you for a moment longer than usual.

You walked over, dropping onto the cushion beside him and pulling your legs up beneath you.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed you an extra water bottle from the coffee table. You took it, your fingers brushing his metal ones briefly.

“Rough mission?” You asked, softly.

He gave a faint nod. “Yeah. But I’m used to it.”

You looked at him sidelong. “Still. I get it. I had to shift into some sleazy arms dealer in front of a bunch of actual criminals. I swear one of them winked at me.”

He huffed a short laugh, the sound sharp and unexpected. “Bet he regretted that.”

“I may have broken his nose with a champagne bottle. In heels.”

He gave you a look. “You’re way too comfortable wearing other people’s faces.”

“Comes with the job.” You gave a weak smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Besides… nobody wants to see mine anyway.”

The words slipped out too fast, too quiet. You hadn’t meant to say them.

Bucky went still.

You immediately tried to cover it up. To deflect, twist, joke, anything at all. So, you shifted again.

But this time… it wasn’t Natasha, Steve, Sam, or anyone else on the team.

It was you. The true you.

The version of yourself that was curled up in bed at 2 a.m. The version that existed without expectation. The one who watched Bucky when he wasn’t looking and imagined what it would feel like to hold his hand, just once.

And with that form came your voice, your real voice.

“You know…I care for you, Bucky,” It said, trembling, unsure. “More than I should. I like you.”

There was a pause. Too long. Too exposed. You started to shift again, panic rising, ready to bury the moment beneath another borrowed face, another safe joke.

But his hand caught yours.

“You always do that,” He said quietly.

Your breath caught. “Do what?”

“Hide when it’s really you.”

The world slowed. Your skin flickered, unstable for a second, but he squeezed your hand gently, grounding you.

“I don’t want Natasha. Or Steve. Or anybody else,” He said. “I want you. The real you. Even if you’re scared, because I like you too.”

Your breath hitched, you couldn’t look at him at first. Could barely breathe. But when you did, really looked, you didn’t see pity. Or regret. Or fear.

You saw recognition. Love. Unexpected and unconditional warmth as he smiled.

“Besides,” Bucky added, softer now, “If I have to keep watching you flirt with me using Sam’s face, I might actually throw myself off the roof.”

You laughed, startled, and leaned into him without thinking.

This time, you didn’t shift. The room was quieter now, save for the soft hum of the city below. You sat close to Bucky on the couch, the space between you barely noticeable. His warmth radiated against your side, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a grounding presence in the stillness of the night. You hadn’t noticed how tense you’d been until the tension was gone.

His hand was still wrapped around yours, loosely, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he held on too tightly. You couldn’t blame him; you’d spent so long hiding behind someone else, never fully revealing all of yourself to anyone.

“I’ve been waiting for you to do that for a while you know,” Bucky said, his voice low and casual, as if he was talking about the weather. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and the simple gesture made your heart stutter in your chest.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to play it cool despite the warmth flooding your face. “Waiting for me to… what?”

“To stop pretending. To stop hiding behind someone else’s face.”

A small, uncomfortable laugh slipped from you, but you didn’t pull away. “Guess I’m not good at being me.”

Bucky’s eyes softened as he turned to face you more fully. There was no teasing in his gaze now, no sharp edge to his words. “You’re not the only one, you know,” He said quietly, as if sharing a secret. “I’ve spent more than half my life pretending to be something I’m not. Something I hate. But I’m not that guy anymore.” His voice dropped an octave, almost a whisper. “And you don’t have to be anyone else around me, either.”

You blinked at him, your breath catching in your throat. There was something so raw, so real in his voice. The same kind of vulnerability you had been hiding for so long. You found yourself leaning a little closer, drawn in by the strength of his words, the sincerity of his presence.

“Then… why’d you wait for me?” You had to ask, voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, I—" You hesitated, unsure how to express what had been swirling in your chest for so long. "I’ve never exactly made it easy for you to see the real me.”

Bucky’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. “Maybe I’m stubborn, maybe I looked forward to your jokes,” He said, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path over your hand. “Or maybe I saw the real you long before you did.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling a surge of warmth in your chest. “I…” You stop yourself, swallowing the lump in your throat. You didn’t know how to say the words you’d been bottling up for so long. How do you tell someone that, for the first time in your life, you were willing to be seen? That you weren’t afraid of him looking too closely?

Bucky squeezed your hand gently, as if he understood the inner turmoil you were going through. He could probably see it on your expression, your face. “You don’t have to explain. Not to me.”

He leaned forward just slightly, his face a little too close for comfort, but you didn’t pull back. Instead, you held your breath, waiting for the next moment. Wondering if you were about to fall into some quiet oblivion or if you’d be able to navigate this fragile space between you and him.

His gaze dropped to your lips for a split second, then back to your eyes. “Can I kiss you?” He asked with a sense of nervousness that could be seen as cute; his voice barely more than a murmur.

You nodded, heart pounding in your chest. “Please.”

And then, for the first time in your life, you accepted the idea of letting yourself be seen. Not as anyone else nor what others want of you, but as you. Just you.

Bucky’s lips brushed against yours softly, hesitantly, as if testing the waters. But the kiss deepened almost immediately, the tension between you melting away. His hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you in closer, and you didn’t fight it. You didn’t want to fight it.

It was just the two of you now. The past, the masks, the fears—all of it felt so far away. It was just Bucky, and it was just you.

When the kiss finally broke, your foreheads rested together, both of you breathless, sharing the same space in a way that felt simple and true.

“I’ve been waiting for you too,” You admitted, your voice shaky with the emotions flooding you.

Bucky’s chuckle was low and soft. “I figured as much.” He gave your hand another gentle squeeze before pulling you into his side, his arm wrapped around you like he’d been doing it for years.

“You know,” He said after a beat, voice muffled as his chin rested on your head, “I think you’ll get used to being yourself more often. It just takes time.”

You nodded, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart against yours. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel the need to hide.

And in that quiet, peaceful moment, you realized that maybe being seen wasn’t so scary after all.

Bonus:

It was a typical debriefing in the common area, probably weeks later. You and Bucky were sitting side by side on one of the couches, trying to maintain the illusion of a professional team meeting. The problem? You couldn’t stop smiling.

You were sitting closer than usual, your legs brushing under the table. A soft, knowing look passed between you and Bucky whenever your eyes met. Neither of you were saying anything out loud, but there was a certain… tension in the air.

Steve, who was in the middle of explaining the next mission’s details, glanced over at you and Bucky. Something was off, and Steve had a knack for noticing subtle changes.

“You two okay?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re acting… weird.”

Bucky looked up, his usual serious expression never faltering. “What do you mean ‘weird’?” He replied, though his tone was a little too defensive.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Steve’s eyes narrowed, a mischievous glint appearing. “You two seem… a little too comfortable.” He leaned forward. “You’re not…” he motioned vaguely with his hands, “…you know, getting close or anything?”

You felt a flush creeping up your neck and quickly busied yourself with your water bottle. But Bucky, ever the stoic, didn’t flinch.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cap,” Bucky said, shrugging nonchalantly. “We’re just here for the mission.”

You, however, were a little less composed. You cleared your throat. “Yeah, we’re just… listening.” You floundered for words.

Steve raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, and then his eyes flicked to Clint, who had been watching the exchange with far too much interest.

Clint, ever the instigator, grinned widely. “Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever you say.” He turned to Sam, who was pretending to be absorbed in his phone but was clearly eavesdropping. “Hey, Sam, did you notice how Bucky's been looking at her lately?” He clearly gestured to you.

Sam smirked, lowering his phone just enough to catch your eye. “Oh, I’ve noticed. Definitely noticed.”

"Whoa, whoa," You said quickly, leaning back in your seat, but Clint wasn’t letting up.

“Nope, nope. I definitely saw that look. The one where he actually smiles when no one else is looking. Bucky smiling. We’re all witnesses to this. He’s gone soft,” Clint teased, turning to Steve with an exaggerated gasp. “This wasn't what I expected from the brooding sergeant. A romantic at heart? Who knew?”

You buried your face in your hands, trying not to laugh despite the embarrassment spreading across your face.

“Clint, shut up,” Bucky muttered, but he couldn’t help the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Does that mean we should start calling you ‘Casanova’ from now on?” Sam quipped, leaning back with a satisfied smirk.

“Guys, stop,” You blurted, though your voice cracked, betraying the calm act. “We’re not-“

“Well, it sounds like you two are,” Clint interrupted. “You’re over there being all cute and whispering to each other like you’re plotting to steal all of Tony’s suits.” He turned to Bucky with a grin. “Bucky, are you sure she’s not just in it for the tech? You know, she could get into the suits and—”

“Clint,” Bucky growled, his face flushed. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to keep his cool. You knew this was far from over, and you weren’t sure whether to laugh or hide in a closet.

“Well, this is awkward,” Tony’s voice rang out suddenly, cutting through the banter. He had appeared in the doorway, completely unaware of what had been happening. “What did I miss?”

“We were just talking about Bucky’s secret love life,” Clint said with a gleam in his eye. “I have all the details, Tony. Want the rundown?”

Tony raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking to you and Bucky, then back to Clint. “Oh, so this is happening now, huh?”

You groaned and stood up quickly, holding your hands out in surrender. “Okay, okay. You got us. We’re together. Happy?”

Bucky just leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, trying to look unfazed but failing miserably as the team erupted in teasing applause.

“Finally,” Steve said with a relieved sigh. “I was starting to think I’d have to play matchmaker.”

Sam slapped Bucky on the back. “About time you stopped brooding and did something about it.”

You shot Bucky a look, and he smirked, shrugging helplessly. “I guess I couldn’t keep it a secret forever.”

Tony clapped his hands together, a playful glint in his eye. “Alright, now that we’ve got the romantic drama out of the way, anyone want to help me with this new project? I need someone who doesn't spend their time making out in the common room.”

You felt your face heat up, but Bucky just chuckled, leaning back against the couch, looking much more at ease than he had in weeks.

And you? You might have been embarrassed, but you couldn’t help but smile. There was something oddly comforting or satisfying about the team finding out. Maybe it was because you knew you didn’t have to hide anymore. You didn’t have to hide your love for the man who loves you more than anything or anyone you could become. And that, in itself, was worth all the teasing.

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.”

Chaos Counseling

Summary: You accidentally becomes the Avengers' unofficial therapist, delivering unhinged wisdom that changes lives whether they like it or not. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1k+

A/N: As a psychology major, I do not condone the advice or techniques reader uses for a professional setting (lol). It’s all for speculative fun. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

It started because you caught Peter Parker crying in the hallway and handed him a Capri Sun.

Partially because of a real desire to help, but mostly because you just had one in your pocket. Peter took it like it was a lifeline. He sniffled then muttered, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this.”

You blinked, leaned in, and whispered solemnly, “Crying is just eye vomiting. You gotta get it out or your soul gets constipated.”

Peter stopped crying. Not because he felt better, but because he had no idea what to do with that sentence.

He went silent for ten seconds, wiped his eyes, and hesitantly said, “That’s… actually helpful?”

“Yeah,” You stabbed another Capri Sun with aggressive force. “I’m basically Freud if he was raised by raccoons and Disney Channel.”

And just like that, you became the Compound’s Emotional Support Cryptid.

By the time Bucky found out three days later, you’d already “accidentally therapized” Peter, Clint, Sam, and most surprisingly Wanda, who now referred to you as her “mind gremlin of peace.”

He entered the rec room to find Sam staring blankly at the wall, murmuring, “I am not my productivity.”

“…What the hell did you do to him?” Bucky asked.

You were upside down on the couch, feet in the air while eating an apple with a spoon.

“I told him hustle culture is a capitalist trap designed to keep us from achieving true inner joy. Also that pigeons are government spies. One of those hit him real hard.”

Bucky stared. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

You shrugged. “No. But apparently my unmedicated inner monologue is therapeutic.”

The final straw (or blessing, depending who you ask) was Tony Stark’s meltdown. He’d been spiraling in the lab for days now with low sleep, bad attitude, and a full ego. The standard stuff. You wandered in eating popcorn with chopsticks and sat on his table, pushing one of his gadgets aside with your foot.

“You need to feel your feelings, Tony.”

He didn’t even look up. “I built a suit of armor to avoid that exact thing.”

“Cool,” You said, chewing. “But now your trauma is building you a suit of armor. And it’s ugly.”

Tony froze, slowly turning to you. “That… was either the dumbest or most brilliant thing I’ve ever heard.”

You offered him a bag of marshmallows and patted his cheek. “Let’s call it both and have a cry.”

He did.

-

You weren’t trained, of course. And you didn’t plan to become the Avengers’ emotional crutch. But one by one, they came to you.

Natasha sat beside you and confessed she sometimes felt like a ghost. You told her ghosts are just trauma that didn’t pay rent.

Wanda asked how to cope with her past. You said to build a new house out of grief and invite joy over for tea.

Steve admitted once he was tired of being the symbol of hope. You handed him a juice box and told him it’s okay to be a tired little guy sometimes.

Every time, Bucky watched from the sidelines, equal parts baffled and smitten.

“You’re not qualified for this,” He muttered one night, watching Clint sob out of the room from something profoundly dumb you said while you knitted a scarf out of yarn you had found in the vents.

You just smiled at Bucky, eyes soft. “Nope. But neither is life, and I’m still doing that too.”

He pulled you in by the waist, kissed your forehead, and muttered, “God, I love you.”

“Obviously,” You said, already distracted. “Anyway, pass me that bowl. I’m about to emotionally dismantle Loki.”

-

Nick Fury tried to fire you. Twice. He wanted to submit a formal request to “hire an actual mental health professional.” He was denied.

The first time, you responded by sending him a PowerPoint titled “Why I Am Vital to Team Morale: A Threat and a Promise,” which included hand-drawn pie charts, quotes you definitely made up from Plato and Beyoncé, and a photo of a possum in a teacup labeled “Emotional Support Rodent (not metaphorical).”

The second time, he walked into the compound and found all the Avengers crowded in your room. Thor was wrapped in a blanket you made him (“my thunder cocoon”), Wanda asleep against your shoulder, Sam and Clint mid-debate over which Pokémon best represents childhood abandonment, and Bucky sprawled on your bed, fast asleep with your hand in his hair and a peaceful look on his face like he hadn’t had in years.

Fury stood silently in the doorway for a full ten seconds, then turned around and walked out.

No one’s heard from him since.

A few nights later, you and Bucky were curled up on the couch. You were using him as a weighted blanket while reading a quantum physics book upside-down and occasionally arguing with the toaster nearby (which you'd programmed to “vibe check” everyone who used it).

He was half-asleep, running his thumb over your shoulder, when he murmured, “You know they’d fall apart without you, right?”

You snorted. “They’d be fine. Steve can tie a tie and Sam knows how to keep plants alive. That’s practically domestic stability.”

“No,” He said, voice low and eyes steady. “You help them in the best way. You say the things no one expects but everyone needs. You make the weird stuff feel normal. You make me feel normal.”

You blinked, heart flipping slightly sideways in your chest.

Then you smirked. “You just like me because I told Thor his emotional baggage could crush Mjölnir.”

Bucky laughed, the low, warm kind that curled in your ribs and stayed there. “Maybe. And because you somehow gave Loki a complex about not recycling.”

You shifted to give him a quick kiss before whispering, “You love me.”

“I do.”

You rested your head against his chest with a content hum. “Good. Now help me convince Tony to install a therapy ball pit. For, like, emotional regulation purposes.”

He sighed. “God help me, I’ll do it.”

And he would. Because somehow, against all logic, you made chaos feel like home.

Picture Perfect

Summary: You’ve always loved photography but never dared to try until your boyfriends encourage you to pick up a camera and capture the world through your eyes. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 700+

A/N: Another self-indulgent mini fic. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Despite your quiet love for photography, there was always a voice inside you holding you back. A whisper of doubt that never quite went away. It wasn’t just about not having a camera or the technical know-how; it was something deeper, rooted in old fears you rarely admitted aloud.

You’d spent so much time playing it safe, afraid to try because you didn’t want to fail. What if you picked up the camera, clicked the shutter, and nothing came out the way you imagined? What if your photos were just… ordinary? Unremarkable? Worse, what if trying and failing made you feel small and invisible all over again?

There were memories tangled in that fear. Times when you had dared to put yourself out there in other ways by trying new things, opening up emotionally, yet it hadn’t gone well. Moments when your efforts went unnoticed, or worse, were quietly dismissed.

You worried that photography, something so personal and expressive, might expose that part of you you kept locked away; the part that wasn’t sure if you were good enough.

Even more, you feared that your love for it would fade if you faced disappointment early on. The idea of giving up on something you cared about felt like losing a piece of yourself, and that was terrifying.

That changed one Saturday afternoon. You sat curled up on the couch, flicking through an old photo album filled with faded memories containing snapshots of laughter, adventure, and the quiet moments in between. The nostalgia settled warmly over you, like a soft blanket, and for once, you felt a spark. Some sort of urge to capture moments yourself.

Steve noticed the way your eyes lingered on a black-and-white picture of a city street and smiled gently. “You’ve got a good eye for this,” He sat down beside you, presence steady and comforting like an anchor.

Bucky, lounging on the other side with a book, looked up and nodded. “Yeah. You’ve always been the one who sees the little things. The stuff most people walk right past.”

You glanced between them, cheeks warming at the encouragement. It wasn’t often they focused on something so small and personal. Steve reached over and lightly squeezed your hand. “Why don’t you try it? Start small. I bet you’d be amazing.”

The idea was both thrilling and terrifying. But watching Steve and Bucky’s easy confidence in your abilities was like a gentle breeze breaking through your self-imposed storm. They saw you clearly, without judgment. Their encouragement wasn’t just words, it was a promise they believed in you when you couldn’t fully believe in yourself.

Bucky put his book down, his gaze sincere. “We’re here to help. Hell, we’ll even be your models if you want.”

You laughed softly, the weight of hesitation lifting just a bit. “I don’t even have a camera,” You admitted, feeling slightly vulnerable.

Steve’s eyes twinkled with that familiar determination. “We’ll fix that.”

It wasn’t long at all before the next day where Bucky surprised you with a simple but reliable camera. A gift wrapped with a note that said, “For all the moments you’re ready to capture.”

You ran your fingers over the smooth body of the camera, heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves. It wasn’t just a piece of equipment to you; it was a chance.

That evening, the three of you went out for a walk, Steve and Bucky encouraging you every step of the way. Steve pointed out the soft glow of the streetlights, the way shadows played on the walls, while Bucky suggested interesting angles and compositions.

With every click of the shutter, you felt a little more confident. Your breath caught when you caught Steve’s smile in a candid moment or when Bucky’s steady gaze was perfectly framed against the fading light.

“You’re a natural,” Bucky said, ruffling your hair as you reviewed the shots.

Steve nodded, wrapping an arm around you both. “To think this is just the beginning.”

For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were stepping into something that was truly yours. Something that was worth exploring, with the two people you loved cheering you on every step of the way.

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.

Can you write a Bucky x reader fic that has the red string of fate/invisible string soulmates theory? I haven’t seen anyone write these and I think it could be kinda angsty and fluffy

Hello there, dear! I loved this idea, very unique. I think this turned out more angst than fluff, but I can definitely write additional follow ups to include more fluff later on! Hope you enjoy it and thank you for the request! Happy reading!!!

Tangled Threads

Summary: You’ve always felt the red string of fate for better or worse, but when it finally leads you to Bucky Barnes; both of you avoid each other, too afraid of ruining the other. Over time, the unspoken tension wears you both down until a forced confrontation finally brings the truth out. (Soulmate AU! | Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 3.4k+

Main Masterlist

You’d never believed in soulmates.

Not really. Not the way some people did, anyway. Like the ones who walked around with hearts in their eyes and poetry in their throats. The ones who would obsess over the faint, red threads that sometimes coiled around their pinkies like destiny’s leash. Or those who made dating decisions based on whether the string tingled or tugged, like a compass spinning toward fate.

You didn’t have the luxury of romantic idealism. Not when your string had spent the better part of a decade ruining your life.

Every time you tried to date someone or every time you flirted with a guy in a bar, went out for drinks, or even let someone kiss you, the string would pull. Tug. Burn. Like it was punishing you. And worse than the pain, worse than the guilt that bloomed inexplicably in your chest, was how it always ended the same way.

Knots. Tangles. Snaps.

The relationship would basically implode. The person would leave, or you would. One guy had even blamed you for making him feel “haunted.” He said he felt like there was always someone watching him when he was with you. Another girl you tried to date had burst into tears during dinner and said she couldn’t stop thinking about someone else, someone she’d never even met.

You didn’t know who your soulmate was and honestly, you didn’t want to. It wasn’t romantic, this invisible leash tied around your soul. It was exhausting. Unrelenting. And frankly? It made you bitter.

So you stopped dating. You stopped looking entirely and threw yourself into work.

As fate would have it, that’s when you were recruited to work logistics for the Avengers.

It was supposed to be your fresh start. You handled team schedules, mission support, resource allocation, and emergency routing. You kept your head down, did your job, and ignored the fact that the red string on your finger never stopped humming faintly.

But then came James Buchanan Barnes, arriving late on a Thursday, trailing quiet steps and old guilt. You watched his arrival from the corner of the control room, fingers curled around a lukewarm coffee mug. He didn’t smile and he barely spoke. He was all shadow and silence, hunched shoulders and downcast eyes. You tried not to look. Tried not to care.

But the moment he entered the building, your string flared. It was like someone had grabbed it from the other end and yanked.

You had gasped as the mug fell from your hand and shattered on the tile.

Everyone turned toward the sound, but you didn’t see them. Your vision had narrowed to the throb in your finger, to the ache in your chest, to the man who hadn’t even looked your way. A stranger. A storm in a suit. You turned and fled the room before anyone could stop you.

That night, you stared at your ceiling, wide-eyed, red string pulsing faintly under your skin. You knew what it meant. Knew it in your gut. Knew it the way birds know where to fly in winter.

Your soulmate had arrived. However, you told yourself it was just a coincidence.

The red string pulsing against your finger? It was reacting to stress. Nothing more. You’d been tired lately, maybe spent too many long nights in the compound and dealing with too many high-stakes missions on the board. That had to be it.

But that lie didn’t hold when Bucky walked by you for the third time that week in the hallway, his steps heavy, his eyes fixed straight ahead; and still, the string pulled.

And it wasn’t subtle. Not the kind of whispering ache you were used to. No, this was worse. The thread practically yanked toward him like it knew him, like it had been waiting years to be close again. Every time he got near, your body reacted before your brain could stop it. Your heart would race. Your lungs would freeze. And that thread would burn under your skin like fate was trying to dig itself out.

So you kept your distance.

You shifted your schedule. You took your lunch breaks earlier. You stopped using the gym after hours and switched to morning training, even though you hated mornings. You turned the other way when you heard his boots in the hallway, and when you had to be in the same room whether it be for briefings, tech updates, or field intel, you sat at the opposite end of the table. Silent and still.

You didn’t speak to him. You didn’t even look at him. Not that he noticed anyways. Or so you thought.

What you didn’t realize and what you couldn’t see, was that Bucky was avoiding you too.

He had noticed you the moment he arrived, even if he hadn’t looked. Not directly. Not openly. But he’d seen you. You were the one in the back of the room with the broken mug, eyes too wide, mouth set in a line too tight for a casual expression.

And then you’d vanished like a ghost.

He felt… off after that. There was a sensation in his chest he couldn’t name. A quiet wrongness. Something half-forgotten and buried deep.

So he started walking different routes through the compound. Skipping meals he didn’t want just to stay out of the kitchen when you were there. Ducking out of gym sessions early. He didn’t speak to you either. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. He didn’t know why he felt so tense around you, so hyperaware, but it made him feel cornered.

And afraid.

He’d spent years under control, under programming, under orders. Soulmates were a fairytale. A luxury. Not something made for someone like him, someone HYDRA had hollowed out and filled with blood.

And still… the red string that had dulled during his Winter Soldier days now hummed faintly every time you passed. He refused to look at his hand, refused to follow the string. And maybe you mistook that for indifference. Maybe he mistook your silence for hatred.

So the two of you danced around each other like gravity and defiance, orbiting but never colliding.

But the string? The string never gave up. It tangled tighter. It pulled harder. And it waited for one of you to give in first.

-

When you weren’t avoiding Bucky, you did get to meet a lot of the people you worked with and for. Of course, you weren’t close to many people at the compound.

But Sam?

Sam Wilson had a way of sneaking into your life like sunlight through blinds. He didn’t try to crack you open or ask too many questions. He just showed up.

You bonded over coffee at first. Both of you were early risers, though for very different reasons: you, out of anxious insomnia; Sam, out of habit built in warzones and battles. Eventually, those quiet mornings became more than just caffeine. They became small check-ins. Casual jokes. Breakfasts shared across mission briefings. Banter that made you feel less like background noise and more like a person.

He never pushed. But he noticed. Especially when it came to Bucky.

At first, Sam chalked it up to coincidence.

The way you’d leave a room the moment Bucky entered. The way Bucky’s shoulders would tense whenever he sensed you nearby. How neither of you ever looked at each other, even when seated at the same table. At first, Sam thought maybe something had happened between you like an argument, a disagreement, or maybe even a past mission gone bad.

But then he started noticing the timing.

The way Bucky took the long route to the gym. The way you checked the corridors before turning into them. The way your fingers would twitch toward your covered hand like something itched beneath the skin. The way Bucky kept glancing at his hand when he thought no one was watching.

That was when Sam’s brow started furrowing.

Because he’d seen the red string of fate work before. He’d seen it between two agents back in his SHIELD days, an unspoken bond visible only under certain lights, but always felt. He remembered the tension, the ache, the gravitational pull people fought even as it dragged them closer.

And he saw that same tension between you and Bucky, but worse.

Because you weren’t just soulmates avoiding each other. You were ghosts haunting each other. Two people pretending not to bleed from the same wound.

Even Steve noticed too.

The Captain didn’t say anything outright, he rarely did honestly, but he lingered longer in rooms where you both occupied opposite ends. His gaze flicking subtly between you. He frowned when Bucky avoided eye contact. He narrowed his eyes when you left too quickly, your knuckles white around your clipboard.

Natasha, on the other hand, didn’t bother pretending.

“You’re not subtle,” She told you one evening, arms crossed as you reviewed intel in the common room.

You blinked at her. “About what?”

She raised an eyebrow. “About him.”

You flushed. “I’m not… there’s nothing-“

Nat cut you off with a shrug. “You can lie to yourself. Just don’t expect it to fool anyone else.”

And then she walked off, leaving you burning with the realization that the others weren’t just noticing, they were waiting. Waiting for the moment the string snapped or finally pulled taut enough to bring you both crashing into each other.

However, it was Sam who decided he was done waiting.

You hadn’t noticed how often he brought Bucky into conversations with you. It started off casual at first, asking your opinion on mission tech when Bucky was in the room, suggesting both of you work on the same security drill. You kept dodging it. Sidestepping the awkwardness. Swallowing your discomfort. But Sam wasn’t blind.

One morning over coffee, he finally leaned in across the table and said, “You know… you can’t outrun a red string.”

You stiffened before slowly looking up.

Sam didn’t smile. He just looked at you in a calm and unbothered way, but his expression was knowing.

“Is that what this is?” You asked quietly. “You think he’s…?”

“I don’t think,” Sam said. “I see.”

You looked down at your hand, hidden under your sleeve.

“It’s been burning since the day he arrived,” You whispered.

Sam’s voice gentled. “Then maybe it’s time to stop pretending it’s not there.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

So Sam just nodded once and added, “If you won’t say something, I will.”

You thought he was bluffing so you changed the conversation and let it go.

-

Meanwhile, Bucky was having a considerably hard time as well. He didn’t mean to notice, but he did.

He noticed everything, really. Supersoldier senses, it was a curse he couldn’t shake, a leftover from too many years being trained to sense threats before they moved. But you? You weren’t a threat. Not to anyone but maybe him.

You were the one person he hadn’t been able to read. Not because you were guarded, though you were, but because being near you made something in him short-circuit. Your presence wasn’t like anyone else’s. It was too still. Too loud in a way that had no sound. Like something had been missing in him for years, and you were the reminder of it.

So he continued to avoid you, but he didn’t stop watching.

He noticed how often you sat with Sam in the mornings, how the two of you laughed over quiet jokes and mismatched mugs. He noticed the way you let your shoulders relax around Wilson. Like relax, in a way you never did around Bucky. Not when you saw him. Not when you passed each other in the hall and he kept his eyes on the floor.

You looked safe with Sam.

And it twisted something in Bucky’s chest that he didn’t like to name.

He told himself it was good. Better, even. That you should be around someone like Sam who was someone stable, someone warm. Someone who hadn’t been forged into a deadly weapon like him. You deserved easy mornings and easy friendships. You deserved a soulmate who didn’t have a kill list longer than your entire history. You deserved someone who wasn’t haunted.

He told himself the ache in his ribs every time you laughed with Sam was just guilt. That it wasn’t jealousy. But the thread on his finger tightened every time.

And when he caught the way Sam looked at the space between you and Bucky; the unspoken one, the thread-pulled one, he knew.

Sam knew.

But Bucky still wouldn't do anything about it. Because if he acknowledged it, if he gave in, what then?

What if you hated him for it? What if the string only existed to remind you both that fate was cruel? That the universe thought it was funny to pair a bruised heart like yours with someone who'd broken a hundred others with his bare hands?

So he didn’t speak, didn’t reach out, nor explain why he left every room you were in like it was on fire.

But the rest of the team saw it all. And Bucky could feel the confrontation coming. Like thunder in the distance.

-

It was Sam who finally shattered the stalemate.

You were in the tech wing, running diagnostics on the quinjet for tomorrow’s mission. The lab was quiet, humming with low light and LED glow, and you were just beginning to enjoy the silence when the door hissed open and you heard his voice.

“I thought this hangar was clear.”

Bucky’s voice. Dry, flat, and instinctually distant.

Your head snapped up and there he was. Standing in the doorway, a tablet in one hand, brow furrowed in that perpetually tired way of his. His eyes met yours for half a second before you looked away.

“Sorry,” You muttered. “I’ll finish later.”

You started to pack your tools, but Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t walk in but he didn’t walk out either.

Then, suddenly:

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

Both of you turned, just as Sam Wilson stormed through the opposite door.

He looked between you like a fed-up parent catching two stubborn kids refusing to apologize.

“I knew it,” He muttered, pointing a gloved finger between you both. “You two. You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” You asked sharply, far too quickly.

Sam gave you the flattest look imaginable. “That ‘I’m avoiding him but also vibrating like a tuning fork every time he enters the damn room’ thing. You’ve been doing it for weeks.”

“I haven’t-“

“Yes, you have.”

He turned to Bucky. “And you. Man, you’ve been walking the long way around the building just to dodge someone you haven’t even spoken to.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “I didn’t-“

“Don’t.” Sam cut him off. “You two are tied together like moths to a flame and it’s getting real uncomfortable to watch. Just talk. Ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Sam was already stepping out the door. The door closed behind him like a gavel.

Silence followed, thick and immovable. You didn’t dare move as you were still gripping the edge of the diagnostics console like it could anchor you, but it couldn’t stop the sting behind your eyes.

You could feel him.

Even with your back turned, you knew Bucky hadn’t left. You could sense him, feel him, just like always. That subtle magnetic pull low in your gut, the electric hum at the edge of your skin. The red string wasn’t just glowing now.

It was buzzing.

You didn’t need to look to know it arced across the space between you like a live wire. Still, you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because you weren’t ready to hear what he might say. That this wasn’t real. That he didn’t want it. That you weren’t enough.

“…I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” He said, voice rough.

The sound of it broke something open in you.

Your throat tightened. “You didn’t. I just…” You swallowed, still not turning around. “I figured you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “That’s not it.”

You turned slowly.

He was standing near the wall, not quite meeting your eyes. His shoulders were tense, jaw set like he was bracing for a punch. Your voice came out in a whisper.

“…You feel it too?”

God, your voice. It hit him like a bomb shell.

He nodded slowly. “Since the moment I saw you.”

You flinched, like that was worse. Like it made things harder, not easier.

“I didn’t think I’d ever feel it again,” He said quietly. “HYDRA… what they did to me, whatever magic’s in this string, it… it went silent for a long time. I thought it broke. I thought I broke it.”

You stepped closer, the red between you pulsing brighter. Bucky’s chest ached with the way your eyes held sorrow instead of hope.

“It came back when I showed up,” You stated, not a question. A fact.

He nodded again. “And I ran from it. From you.”

“Why?”

He looked away.

Because I don’t deserve a soulmate, he thought. Because I’ve hurt too many people to believe someone could be mine. Because if I touched you and you pulled away, I think it would kill me.

“I thought…” He exhaled shakily. “I thought the universe was playing a joke. Giving me something good just to watch me ruin it.”

Your gaze softened. That pain in your eyes, that was familiar. Too familiar. He saw himself in it. All the years of pretending you didn’t need the thread. All the little heartbreaks you must’ve carried in silence.

“I thought the same thing,” You said quietly.

You stood inches from him now. The string was glowing full-force, twisting gently between you like it had been waiting years for this moment. You could both feel it pulsing like your hearts hammering in your chests.

You lifted your hand. So did he. And then, finally, you both touched.

It wasn’t magic. Not really. There were no sparks or flashes of light. But the moment your fingers brushed in that slow, hesitant, gentle way, everything settled. The ache. The noise. The burning uncertainty.

It went quiet.

The thread between you pulsed once, deeply, and then simply rested as though it had been holding its breath this entire time.

You exhaled. So did he.

“Hi,” You said softly.

His voice broke around the answer. “Hi.”

Neither of you moved at first. Your fingers were gently wrapped around Bucky’s, his calloused palm tentative against yours, like he wasn’t sure if holding you would make the thread vanish or knot tighter. You half-expected to feel overwhelmed. But instead… everything in your chest finally stopped clenching.

Even though you felt peace, still, you hesitated.

“Just because we’re connected…” You began quietly, eyes flickering to the thread that now glowed with an even, steady rhythm between your hands, “…doesn’t mean we have to do anything. We don’t owe it anything… or each other.”

Bucky’s eyes lifted slowly to meet yours. You expected resistance, or maybe guilt. But instead, he gave you the smallest nod.

“I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

His jaw worked for a moment like he was chewing on the words before speaking them aloud.

“I’ve had enough of people making decisions for me. I’m not gonna do that to you.” He swallowed. “If you want to take it slow—or walk away, I won’t stop you.”

You could see it, feel it in him. That deep, worn-in belief that letting go was the only good thing he had to offer. The way he held your hand like he expected you to pull away at any second.

But you didn’t.

“I don’t want to walk away,” You said. “I just… want to breathe for once. And not feel like I’m ruining something just by existing.”

That caught him off guard. He flinched, not from your words, but from the echo of them.

“Yeah,” He whispered. “Me too.”

And the thread didn’t demand anything. It didn’t pull you closer or tighten like a leash. It just existed as a steady tether, a presence, like the quiet hum of a heart still beating after the worst of it has passed. Still glowing. But content, now. Patient.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” You admitted quietly.

“Me neither.”

You hesitated. “But I’d like to figure it out.”

Bucky didn’t say anything at first. But after a long moment, he held your hand a little tighter almost as a confirmation. You gave him a small smile, finally feeling like you didn’t have to rush toward something. You could just… sit in it. Let the connection exist without a name. Without pressure. Without promises you weren’t ready to make.

The string between you flickered once. Steady and. Not binding. Not demanding. Just waiting. And for the first time, you weren’t afraid to wait with it.

Mischief Managed

Summary: With the power to talk to animals, your feline companion, Mischief, hates everyone at the tower except you. Therefore, when you start getting closer to Bucky, you watch as she slowly starts to trust the super soldier. However, with all things, it doesn’t go well at first. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.

Word Count: 3k+

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You never expected your strange bond with animals to shape your life so completely. From the time you were little, the voices of birds, dogs, squirrels, even ants, were a constant hum in your mind. You couldn’t explain how or why, but you understood them, and they understood you. You didn’t just hear noises or read body language. You heard words. Emotions. Stories. And most importantly, you could talk back.

At first, it was a secret. A party trick for only the most trusted friends, who usually assumed you were joking. But now, it’s just part of you. You’ve learned to filter out the constant chatter.

You’ve learned to help animals when they’re in trouble and, occasionally, when SHIELD needs it, use them for information. Sometimes, rats knew more about hidden Hydra facilities than satellites ever could.

But for all your strange gifts, you lived a relatively quiet life in the Avengers Tower. Most of the others accepted your ability with curiosity or amusement. Tony had tried to run tests on your brain, and Clint still jokingly called you “Dr. Dolittle.” You didn’t mind. Your companions whether they be feathered, furred, or scaled had always had your back. And one in particular? She guarded you like a dragon guards treasure.

Her name was Mischief. A sleek, coal-black cat with amber eyes and a resting glare that could curdle milk. You’d found her three years ago, injured and starving in an alley, snarling at rats and pigeons for scraps. She hadn’t trusted you at first, but the moment you spoke to her, really spoke, her entire posture changed. It took a few trips bringing food to her, taking things slow. And slowly, you began to realize you hadn’t just earned her trust, you’d earned her devotion.

Since then, she rarely left your side. Mischief judged everyone you interacted with, and she never hid her opinions. She Tolerated Steve. Hated Tony’s cologne. And she absolutely loathed anyone who flirted with you.

That became a problem the day Bucky Barnes moved into the Tower.

He was quiet, scarred, and carried the weight of too many ghosts behind stormy blue eyes. He barely spoke to anyone, kept to himself, and moved like someone always waiting to be attacked. You saw it the first day in how he looked at everyone sideways, how he didn’t sit with his back to a door, how he flinched when someone approached too fast.

And Mischief? She was watching him like he’d brought a knife to your front door.

She sat on the windowsill in your room, tail twitching, eyes narrowed like tiny slits of fire. He’s hiding something, Her voice was flat, echoing in your mind like dry leaves scraping across pavement. He smells like ghosts. Like regret mixed with metal and blood. I don’t like him.

You sighed, brushing a hand over her silky back. “He’s been through a lot. Be nice.”

Nice? You want nice? Find a golden retriever. I’m watching him.

You didn’t know it then, but Mischief’s “watching” would escalate. She wasn’t just wary of Bucky Barnes. She was preparing for war. And you? You were caught in the middle of a cold war between an ex-assassin with a tragic past… and your jealous cat.

It started small at first.

Bucky would pass you in the hallway, nod a quiet hello, and Mischief would hiss from your shoulder like a kettle set to boil.

You tried to explain it away as best as you could. "She’s just like that at first," You said once when Bucky raised a brow at the low growl coming from your tote bag. Mischief liked to crawl inside and travel with you unnoticed. “She doesn’t warm up easily.”

He gave a short, humorless chuckle. “Neither do I.”

You weren’t sure what drew you toward him. Maybe it was the way he always seemed almost comfortable in silence, the way he sat on the common room couch like it didn’t quite belong to him, or how he listened to conversations without ever trying to steer them. Maybe it was how he never asked you questions unless he thought the answer would matter. He was calm. Still. A rare kind of quiet you’d only ever felt around animals.

But Mischief noticed.

One night, you caught her sitting in the kitchen sink like a gargoyle, glaring at the hallway. When you asked what she was doing, she said, Waiting for the metal-armed brooder. If he comes in here again, I’ll gut the loaf of bread he likes.

Sure enough, Bucky wandered in a minute later, offered you a soft smile, and went for the exact loaf.

The next morning, it was shredded. You sighed at the sight as you went out to get a replacement.

Still, you didn’t stop spending time with him.

You started joining him in the gym after hours. The excuse given was wanting to stretch, but really, you just liked the way he relaxed when no one else was around. Sometimes you brought a dog or two in from the compound’s training fields, let them rest while you and Bucky talked. Or didn’t talk. You didn’t need to.

“I think animals like you,” You told him one evening, watching a scruffy mutt rest his head on Bucky’s knee.

He blinked down at the dog like it had just spoken fluent Russian. “That’s a first.”

He’s got soft hands, The dog murmured. I like him.

You smiled to yourself. “I think they know.”

“Know what?”

“That you’ve got a good heart.”

He looked away quickly, jaw tight. You didn’t say anything more, letting it go.

Later that night, Mischief perched on your chest like a stone weight and narrowed her eyes. You’re getting attached.

“I’m not.”

You are.

“You scratched a loaf of bread.”

It deserved it.

You sighed, having not expected that response, but then again, it was typical of her. Mischief wasn’t one to be easily appeased, and her possessiveness was notorious. But this time, she didn’t go on about it. Instead, she flicked her tail, an uncomfortable tension hanging in the air. Her voice softened, almost like a reluctant admission. You’re… different with him.

“Different?” You tilted your head, trying to understand her point.

You relax around him. You listen more. I don’t like it.

It struck a chord in you. You weren’t blind to the shift in your own behavior. With Bucky, things felt easier. Calmer. He had this way of being present and patient in a way that drew you in, as if there was a shared understanding of pain that made silences less heavy. Sure, there were times where the past still haunted him. But his company was always one you found yourself subconsciously seeking.

He didn’t demand things from you. He didn’t ask for anything you weren’t ready to give. And when you were with him, the world felt… simpler.

But Mischief’s words stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

“I’m not going to stop seeing him just because you don’t like it,” You murmured, feeling the weight of her gaze.

I know you won’t, She responded in a quieter tone now. But if he hurts you, I’ll bite his face off.

You chuckled softly at the absurdity of the threat. “I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who would hurt anyone… but thanks for the warning.”

Mischief gave a long, almost disappointed sigh, as if she realized there was nothing she could do to change your mind. You’ve always been good at ignoring my advice. I’ll be here, though. Watching.

And just like that, she padded off your chest and curled up on the windowsill, turning her back to you in a huff.

You didn’t feel the usual pang of guilt for not heeding her advice. Instead, you lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Bucky’s quiet demeanor, his unspoken trust, and how, somehow, he made you feel less like an outsider.

But the cat was right about one thing: you were getting attached. And that was something even Mischief couldn’t stop.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky Barnes became a quiet fixture in your life. He wasn’t the kind to join in on group outings or large training sessions. He mostly kept to himself, which, in a way, you could relate to. The weight of his past was something you recognized in yourself. A type of emotional burden carried alone, pushing people away without ever intending to.

Mischief, however, now had different ideas about Bucky. She followed him around like a shadow, watching his every move, her eyes always narrowing suspiciously whenever he so much as looked in your direction.

And then came the first moment that Bucky spoke to her directly.

You were sitting in the common room, legs tucked underneath you, reading a book when Bucky entered, his usual silent demeanor drifting through the door like a storm cloud. You barely looked up, but Mischief did. She jumped down from the windowsill with a graceful thud, making her way slowly toward Bucky. He froze, eyes narrowing as she circled his feet.

"You've got a problem with me, huh?" He asked, voice low, as if speaking to a wild animal.

Mischief didn’t answer. Instead, she sat down and stared at him, her eyes unblinking, before giving a loud, unmistakable hiss.

Bucky took a slow, measured step back, unsure whether to laugh or be alarmed. “Right… definitely got a problem with me.”

You looked up from your book, feigning innocence. “She’s just… protective.” You tried not to laugh, but the cat’s blatant territorial behavior was almost too much.

“Protective?” Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Of you?”

You nodded, setting your book aside. “She doesn’t like anyone getting too close to me. Especially not new people.” You gave him a playful smile, though there was an undercurrent of caution. You had no idea what he might say next. Yeah, he’s graciously ignored her behavior the past couple of encounters. But you know that not everyone reacted well to Mischief’s… directness.

Bucky looked at Mischief, who was now sitting on the arm of the couch, staring at him with intense focus but a bit more relaxed. Like she was really assessing him now. He couldn’t seem to hide the slight tension in his shoulders, though his eyes softened just a fraction. “I’ll take her behavior as simply me being new then?” He asked with a wry grin.

You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Like I said before, she warms up to people eventually.”

“Eventually?” He turned to you, crossing his arms. “How long does that usually take?”

“A few months,” You answered, fully serious, but Mischief’s sudden purring interrupted the tension in the air. You blinked in surprise. Mischief didn’t purr for just anyone, certainly not for someone she didn’t trust who she had threatened previously.

You try not to make it a big deal, knowing maybe something changed her mind and she’s likely trying to give Bucky a chance for you. Or she’s trying to spite you. Either works.

Bucky let out a short, amused huff. “I guess I’m getting there.”

As time passed with your relationship with Bucky slowly becoming more comfortable, he started showing up more too. Helping you with groceries, joining you on the Tower’s rooftop garden, even sitting beside you when you fed a flock of sparrows that landed whenever you called. The birds adored you. One bold little sparrow even landed on Bucky’s knee once, chirped at him twice, and fluttered away.

“She says you look sad but safe,” You told him.

He stared at the spot where the bird had been. “…I’ll take it.”

You didn’t realize it back then, but Mischief had stopped watching Bucky like a threat. She still narrowed her eyes when he got too close, but the claws stayed retracted. And one morning, after Bucky fell asleep on your couch with a book resting on his chest, you walked into the room and found Mischief curled on the back of the couch above his head, keeping watch.

Don’t make this a habit, She warned, but you saw the way she rested her tail across Bucky’s shoulder like a soft little truce flag.

He didn’t wake up. But when he did, and she didn’t move, you didn’t miss the quiet surprise and the ghost of a smile on his face.

Bonus:

The Avengers had long accepted that Mischief was… a little difficult. And by “difficult,” they meant that she was impossible.

Steve tried to be friendly and charming, his warm smile and gentle hands never working when it came to earning her trust. He once tried to bribe her with tuna, only for her to leap onto the counter, knock the can on the floor, and give him a look that suggested he was the most pitiful creature to ever walk the Earth.

Tony, of course, had tried his usual route. Gifts. Expensive toys, cat condos, custom-made collars with diamond studs. Mischief had only hissed at him, her tail twitching with disdain, and turned her back on him every time he walked past. Tony had even tried to sneak in some extra treats with a drone, but Mischief had launched herself at it like a panther on a hunt, sending the drone crashing to the ground in a flurry of sparks and broken components.

Clint and Wanda were no better. Clint had tried talking to her like they were two old friends. He’d even imitated her meows, thinking he could “speak her language.” His reward was a sharp swipe to the face that left him sporting a red scratch for a week. Wanda had tried charm, offering the cat quiet moments and gentle pats. But Mischief simply stared, unblinking, until Wanda gave up, shaking her head and muttering, “She’s something else.”

A couple of the others had tried too, but failed just like the rest. They had all made their peace with it. Mischief was your cat, your problem. None of them expected to get closer to her.

So, when they found out Bucky managed to break some of her walls, it certainly drew some attention.

It wasn’t even anything spectacular at first. At first, it was just him sitting in the common room with his coffee, his book, his quiet presence that always seemed to put you at ease. You, in your usual spot, with Mischief curled at your feet.

But slowly, Bucky had started talking to her. Not in any particular way, just gentle words, a little teasing, soft hums that she might respond to. At first, they were just passing exchanges.

“You’re looking smug today,” Bucky had said, watching Mischief stretch out on the windowsill, her tail swishing slowly.

To his surprise, she’d looked at him, unimpressed, and flicked her tail toward the floor like she was dismissing him entirely. Bucky chuckled softly.

“That’s fine. I’m used to being ignored,” He’d muttered, before turning back to his book.

No one had thought much of it. Until it happened again. And again.

One afternoon, you came into the living room to find Bucky sitting cross-legged on the floor, Mischief lying across his lap. She’d never done that with anyone else. She was curled up, purring softly, and Bucky’s hand was resting just behind her ears, stroking her fur gently.

The other Avengers were lounging around, preparing for the evening’s mission debrief. Steve and Clint had been discussing logistics while Tony fiddled with a gadget, but all of them froze when they saw the scene unfolding in front of them.

Mischief, the aloof, temperamental queen of the Tower, was utterly content in Bucky’s lap.

Tony’s jaw dropped first. “Wait a minute,” He pointed at the scene. “Is that… Mischief?”

“Yeah…” Clint said, his voice a mixture of disbelief and awe. “Is she… purring?”

“I’ve never seen her so… calm,” Bruce added quietly, watching the scene. “She always runs away from us. We can’t even get close without her hissing or hiding.”

“I don’t understand,” Steve said, furrowing his brow. “What is he doing differently?”

Bucky glanced up, catching their stares. He shrugged with an easy grin. “I don’t know, she just… likes me, I guess.”

Everyone stared at him. Even Tony, who never really lacked for confidence, looked a little thrown off.

“How?” Wanda asked, her tone hesitant. “She’s never… let anyone get that close. Not even me, and I’ve tried for weeks.”

Bucky just chuckled, his hand continuing to stroke Mischief’s back. “I don’t know. Maybe she sees something in me. Or maybe I just smell like someone who doesn’t mind the silence.”

The others exchanged baffled glances. It was true. Bucky was quiet, reserved. He never pushed, never pried. Perhaps that had something to do with it. But no one could quite figure out how he’d managed to break through the barrier that had kept them all at arm’s length.

“I don’t think it’s just that,” Clint said thoughtfully, his eyes still on the cat, his fingers twitching like he was about to reach for her. “I’ve been here longer than you, man. And she’s never let anyone get that close.”

Bucky’s smile faltered for a moment, as if he was considering something deeper. “Maybe she just needed someone who didn’t expect anything from her.”

The team was silent, still watching Mischief as she stretched lazily on Bucky’s lap, a low purr vibrating the air around them. It was the first time anyone had seen her so relaxed in front of someone who wasn’t you.

Steve shook his head in disbelief. “I think we’ve just witnessed a miracle.”

Tony was already pulling out his phone. “I’m gonna start a betting pool. Bucky Barnes: Cat Whisperer. Who knew?”

Wanda chuckled softly, still a little stunned. “What did you do, Bucky? Did you offer her a deal?”

“I think she’s just decided I’m not worth the trouble,” He said, finally giving Mischief’s ears a gentle scratch that made her eyes flutter shut in contentment. “Sometimes, that’s all it takes.”

And just like that, the Avengers knew. There was something about Bucky Barnes, something quiet, something patient, that had finally cracked through the walls of the grumpy black cat that no one else had been able to breach.

Mischief had chosen him. And the rest of them? They were just going to have to deal with it.

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.