Infected By The Chaos

Group Therapy

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

Word Count: 1.3k+

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

Main Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

You groaned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitated. “He has a great smile.”

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

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

You sighed.

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

“That was almost sweet,” You said.

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

“I hated every syllable.”

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

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

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

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

“It's called protection,” Bucky muttered.

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

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

You’d made it thirty minutes in.

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

Bucky leaned toward Sam. “That sounds fake.”

Sam whispered back, “Bet it involves breathing.”

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

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

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

“Innnnn… oooouuuuut… like that, right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Define communication,” Sam muttered.

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

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

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

You nodded. “Fair.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam gasped. “That’s just racist.”

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

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

“Oh boy,” Sam whispered.

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

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

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

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

“Can we go?” Bucky asked.

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

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

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

Sam and Bucky both turned to you.

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

“Better be laminated,” You mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

Exactly As You Are

Summary: You slowly form a tender, deeply emotional relationship with Bucky Barnes supports you through the bad days and gently breaks down the walls you’ve built from past abandonment. Despite fears of being a burden, Bucky stays, proving with quiet strength and unwavering presence that love doesn’t need to be perfect to be real. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Reader is chronically ill. Mentions/Depictions of symptoms of said illness. Angst. Hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 2.3k+

A/N: This is sort self-indulgent but still an enjoyable read regardless. I left the type of illness ambiguous. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

The first time Bucky saw you, he thought you were just tired.

You were sitting on a bench outside a small, independent bookstore in Brooklyn, a reusable water bottle half-empty beside you, a paperback open in your lap. It was cold out, the kind of sharp October chill that cuts through jackets and settles in bones. But you sat completely still with your shoulders slumped, hands trembling slightly, and breath shallow.

He might not have noticed if not for the way your fingers struggled to hold the book steady.

He didn’t stop. Not at first. He just glanced, like a thousand other people passing by, and kept walking. But two blocks later, something tugged at him soft and persistent, like a memory he couldn’t place. He turned around.

You hadn’t moved from your spot.

By the time he walked back and crouched in front of you, your lips were pale, and your skin had that waxy undertone he recognized from war hospitals and med units. His instincts kicked in, but not the soldier kind, rather the man who’d learned how to read distress in the quietest forms.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low but steady.

You blinked up at him slowly, as if hearing him from underwater. Then you offered a weak, breathless smile and said, “Yeah, just… my body does this sometimes.”

“Does what?”

“Stops.”

He didn’t fully understand what that meant then. But it wasn’t pity that made him sit beside you, not fear or heroism either. It was something else. Familiarity. A kind of haunted recognition.

“Can I call someone for you?” He asked. “Friend? Partner? Family?”

You shook your head. “No one close by. It’ll pass. I just need a minute.”

But your hand was still shaking as you reached for the water. He watched silently, then gently reached over and held the bottle steady so you could drink.

“Thanks,” You murmured.

He nodded. He didn’t press. He simply sat there, beside a stranger who looked like their body was betraying them one breath at a time.

After a long stretch of silence, you spoke again. “You don’t have to wait.”

“Don’t want you to pass out on a sidewalk.”

You huffed a dry laugh. “Romantic.”

He smirked. “I’ve heard worse.”

You turned to look at him then, and something in your expression shifted.

“You’ve had bad days too,” You said.

His breath caught. You weren’t asking. You knew.

He gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

Your eyes softened. Not out of pity, but out of understanding. “Then you get it.”

He didn't reply out loud, but the way his hand hovered hesitant, then steady, offered the only answer you needed.

Eventually, you regained enough energy to stand. He offered his arm, and you took it without flinching at the metal. That surprised him. Most people still tensed.

Inside the bookstore, he bought a copy of the same book you'd been reading before slipping you his number. You noticed, and raised a brow.

“Trying to impress me?”

He shrugged. “Trying to have an excuse to see you again.”

You laughed then. Still tired, still aching, but real. “Well. It worked.”

-

You didn’t start dating right away. There were slow texts. A few coffee shop visits where he learned which chairs were softest for you to sit in for long periods, which days your hands couldn’t hold a cup, and how sometimes you’d go quiet mid-sentence but not from disinterest, just exhaustion.

But Bucky never minded. He’d lived too many years rushing through the world. With you, everything slowed down. And for once, that felt like healing.

On your first date, he had planned it carefully.

Not because he thought you needed to be impressed but because he wanted to show you he was paying attention. That he’d been listening, clocking every tiny detail you never made a big deal about.

So when he asked, “Dinner with me?” and you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because your body was in one of its quiet warning phases, he didn’t try to convince you. He simply offered an alternative.

“I know a rooftop,” He said. “It’s a quiet and private place with a good view. I’ll bring the food.”

You smiled, that same tired-but-warm curve of the lips he was learning to read better each time. “What kind of food?”

“Soft stuff,” He smiled before teasing. “Things that won’t piss off your stomach.”

You laughed, which he counted as a win.

The night of the date, he showed up at your door with a reusable picnic bag over one shoulder and that awkward, lopsided grin of his. You were in your softest clothes, sweatpants and a knit sweater two sizes too big, and your hair wasn’t doing what you wanted it to.

But he looked at you like you were wearing a red carpet gown.

“I like this,” He said simply, and gestured to your entire self. “It’s very you.”

“Exhausted?”

“Real.”

The trip to the rooftop was just a short elevator ride and half a flight of stairs, but halfway up, your legs started to tremble.

You tried to play it off, pausing to “check the sky,” you said. But Bucky had already seen the shift in your breathing, the tremor in your hand as you gripped the railing.

Without a word, he stepped behind you and wrapped an arm gently around your waist, the cool metal of his left hand bracing your spine.

“You okay with help?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded once. He didn’t rush you. Just matched your pace, supporting you the whole way to the roof.

By the time you sat down on the old couch someone had dragged up there years ago, your body was already crashing. You tried to hide it like you always did. But your hands were limp in your lap, your eyes glassy, and your shoulders had that slight slump Bucky was learning to hate.

He knelt beside you.

“Tell me what you need,” He said gently. “No pressure. Just… tell me.”

You wanted to smile. To tell him he didn’t have to stay, or fuss, or worry. But the words stuck somewhere behind your ribs.

“…I don’t want to ruin this.”

His eyes softened. “You’re not.”

“It’s not fair. You finally ask me out and I’m… this.”

“You were always this,” He countered. “And I asked you anyway.”

That made you blink.

He took the blanket from the bag, yes he’d brought one, and wrapped it around your shoulders. Then he pulled out a thermos of broth and a soft rice dish you’d once mentioned in passing. No wine. Just herbal tea. No candles. Just the city lights. No pressure to be anything but what you were.

You looked at him and he didn’t flinch from the fog in your eyes or the weakness in your voice. He didn’t reach for the version of you from the good days. He reached for you.

“I don’t need the perfect night,” He told you gently, watching you carefully. “I just need you.”

You let out a slow, aching breath. “What if I never get better?”

He brushed a knuckle down your cheek. “Then I’ll learn every version of ‘bad’ until I can walk you through it with my eyes closed.”

You felt something in your chest unravel.

And when he curled up beside you, careful not to jostle your fragile form and content to just sit in silence; you knew, with absolute certainty, that this wasn’t the beginning of something fragile.

It was the beginning of something real.

-

There were days that weren’t as pleasant. Yet time and time again, Bucky insisted on staying. Comforting and reassuring you every step of the way.

One afternoon, the apartment was quiet but not the peaceful kind. The kind of silence that pressed against the walls, thick and tense. The kind that settled in your chest and made it hard to breathe.

You sat on the couch with your knees pulled up, a blanket draped around your shoulders even though it was midafternoon. You should’ve taken your meds earlier, should’ve eaten something by now, should’ve answered the texts piling up on your phone. But your joints ached like they were full of broken glass, your head pounded from hours of tension, and every sound, every thought, felt like it might shatter you.

You didn’t hear Bucky come in. Not at first.

He always moved quietly, even when he wasn’t trying to. It was a habit that never left him. A ghost of another life. He didn’t say anything right away, just took in the picture in front of him. The faraway look in your eyes. The way your hand gripped the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering you to the room. The way your body curled in, like it was trying to disappear.

He crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, not touching you yet, but remaining close.

“Hey,” He greeted gently. “Rough day?”

You nodded, barely. Your throat felt too tight to speak.

Bucky waited. He was good at that, waiting. Letting you come to him on your own time with no pressure or pity. Just quiet, patient presence.

But then the words came tumbling out before you could stop them.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracked. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this all the time. With me.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, not in confusion, but in a kind of slow heartbreak. Like he’d heard this before because he had, and every time it hurt more.

He reached slowly, brushing your hand with his gloved fingers before gently taking it in his.

“Don’t say that,” He spoke quietly.

You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “But it’s true. You didn’t sign up for this. For all the canceled plans, and the bad days, and the… God, the way I feel like a burden.”

He exhaled, long and steady, and then stood, just enough to sit beside you. His arm curled around your shoulders, pulling you in with a kind of care that felt deliberate. Solid and unshakeable.

“I know what it feels like to think you’re too much,” He began slowly. “To think you’re broken, that people will get tired, or that you’ll wear them down until they leave.”

You swallowed hard.

“I spent years feeling like that,” He continued. “Even when Steve stayed. Even when Sam stuck by me. It never went away easy. But then I met you.”

His hand found yours again. Held it tighter.

“You taught me that people aren’t burdens. That pain doesn’t make someone less worthy of love. That needing help isn’t weakness.”

You shook your head, voice hoarse. “That’s different. You went through hell. You didn’t choose it.”

“And neither did you.” His voice was low but firm now. “You didn’t ask for this. You fight through more pain in a day than most people even imagine. And you still smile. You still care. You still show up.”

“But this isn’t fair,” Your voice was shaky. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this. You could… you could have anyone.”

Bucky went very still.

You turned your head away. “I don’t want you to stay because you feel obligated. I don’t want to trap you in something broken.”

His voice was low, firm as he asked. “You think I stay out of pity?”

“No. I think you’re kind. And maybe you don’t realize yet how permanent this is. How much this takes. I can’t go on missions with you, I can’t run, I can’t even cook without getting dizzy. Some days I can’t even-“

You broke off. Voice cracking.

“I can’t give you a normal life, Bucky. I’m tired all the time. And someday you’re going to wake up and realize I’m more burden than person and I can’t survive that again-“

Your breath caught. You hadn’t meant to say again. But it was out there now.

He didn’t try to shush you. He didn’t give you empty words or say you’re not broken, or you’re still beautiful, or it’s not that bad. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead gently against yours. His voice was raw and honest.

“You think I want a normal life?”

You blinked at him.

“I spent years being turned into someone else’s weapon,” He whispered. “I wake up some nights not knowing what year it is. I have blood on my hands I can’t wash off, and a mind that doesn’t always feel like mine. You think I came here for normal?”

He exhaled shakily. “No, sweetheart. I came here for you. Just you.”

Your chest caved with a soft, helpless sob.

“I don’t want perfect,” He said. “I don’t want easy. I want real. And you… this pain, this fight, all of it; it’s real. You’re still here. You keep going. And if you think for one second I’m walking away because your body’s at war with you…”

His hand slid into yours, careful and steady.

“…then you don’t know me yet. I choose to be here,” He said. “Not out of obligation. Not because I feel sorry for you. But because I love you. All of you. Even on the bad days. Especially on the bad days.”

Tears welled up before you could stop them. You hated crying in front of people but with Bucky, it never felt like weakness. It just felt honest, safe.

He pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin, wrapping both arms around you like a fortress. “You are not a burden,” He murmured. “You are my home.”

And in the stillness, something inside you began to loosen. Not the pain, no, that stayed. But the guilt, the weight of it all began to lift just a little as you let yourself be held.

For once, it felt okay to just exist. To be loved, even when you didn’t feel lovable.

And Bucky held you like he’d never let you forget it again.

Because he didn’t try to fix you.

He just loved you.

Exactly as you are.

Certified Genius, Unlicensed Moron

Summary: Exploring more of your relationship and dynamics with the rest of the Avengers, they are well-acquainted with how much whiplash and how many headaches you give them on a daily. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: The other going on dates fic didn’t have enough unhinged questionable reader for me. And to be honest….I didn’t like it as much as the prequel. So! I wrote this to cheer me up and feed my need for dumb & genius reader. Purely self-indulgent but hopefully you like it too. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Original Fic

Being an Avenger came with certain expectations. Tactical prowess. Cool one-liners. Teamwork. A mild-to-moderate understanding of physics.

You had exactly none of that. And yet, you were thriving.

You had taken on aliens, mercenaries, HYDRA agents, and that one time, an actual raccoon with a vendetta. You once guessed the password to a SHIELD vault on the first try by inputting “boob69.” It worked. Nobody ever explained why. You were untouchable.

But nothing broke the team more than the group chat.

It had been a standard team communication channel at first: briefings, updates, emergency alerts. Then you joined and everything fell apart.

-

GROUP CHAT: “Earth’s Mightiest Dumbasses”

Tony: Meeting in the conference room at 9 A.M. sharp.

You: what’s 9 AM in frog time

Natasha: What does that mean?

You: like if a frog wears a watch is the time upside down

Tony: Please, I’m begging you to just answer the question like a normal person.

You: normal is a strong word

-

You once sent a photo of a pigeon wearing a hat with the caption “me when I infiltrate enemy lines.” No one questioned it. Mostly because they couldn’t.

After all, you’re the same person who confidently gave a TED Talk about the strategic history of medieval siege warfare mid-mission while wearing Crocs. The same person who once said, “Vibranium tastes like disappointment,” and then refused to elaborate. You somehow manage to both ace every debrief but also once asked if Wi-Fi is just helpful air soup.

Thor called you “small thunder” after you electrocuted yourself trying to microwave aluminum “as a science experiment.” You did not have lightning powers. It was just dumb luck. And you’d do it again.

-

GROUP CHAT:

Clint: who the hell labeled all the fridge items in latin?

You: idk man maybe someone wants you to be cultured

Bucky: You labeled the eggs, “Future ankle peckers, do not anger them”

You: ...and have you been attacked? no? you’re welcome.

-

Bucky still doesn't understand you. Not even a little.

And a lot of times, that haunts him.

He watches you eat hot sauce straight from the bottle like it's a health tonic, quote Shakespeare when you’re tired, and wear mismatched crocs into certain battles because "they're my war shoes." One has a tiny sword glued to it.

You once looked him dead in the eye and said, “I wasn’t born. I was assembled in a Target parking lot during a thunderstorm.”

And then walked away.

He’s been thinking about it for months.

Another time you brought him a bag of gummy worms, patted his head, and said, “For when the depression demons attack.”

Despite all your nonsense, he can’t stop looking at you like you hung the moon with glitter glue and then ate half of it because that brand “smelled like frosting.”

He had tried to pretend you’re a nuisance at first, shaking his head and sighing at some of your antics. But it’s all morphed to reluctant acceptance of the fact that he’ll have to live with so many unanswered questions. That doesn’t stop him from taking care of you though.

He brings you hot chocolate after missions. He makes sure you’re behind him when it gets dangerous. He drags you out of fountains you jump into because you wanted to know what the regals birds like about it. He even downloaded TikTok just to understand your references.

One time you disappeared in the Tower. For five hours.

He found you in the broom closet, sitting cross-legged with three Roombas, wearing a crown made of forks.

“They know secrets,” You whispered. “I’m learning their ways.”

Bucky blinked.

“…I brought you pizza.”

You gasped. “I knew the prophecy would come true.”

-

GROUP CHAT:

Steve: Can someone explain what this is?

Image attached: You in a vent near the ceiling wearing a bad ghost outfit like a cursed Halloween decoration, eating Cheez-Its.

You: surveillance

Steve: Why…

You: i wanted to know what Bucky does when I’m not looking

Bucky: They’ve been up there for 6 hours. I offered help. They hissed at me.

-

Despite it all, you were deadly in the field.

You’d spout off the periodic table in the middle of a fistfight, pull off gravity-defying stunts “because I saw it in a cartoon once,” and solve encrypted Hydra codes in 30 seconds, all while questioning if Mickey Mouse and his friends ever had to pay rent to live in the Mickey Mouse clubhouse.

Bucky, your begrudgingly loving boyfriend, no longer reacts when you do things like wear medieval armor to a stealth op for morale reasons or quote Shrek during hostage negotiations. He just quietly takes your hand and steers you away before you lick anything radioactive.

Steve once asked why you were on a mission wearing roller skates. You said, “Speed and style, Cap,” then crashed directly into a vending machine and pulled out a single uncrushed Twix with solemn reverence.

Tony called you “the human embodiment of a broken Google search.” Wanda called you “a mystery I’ve chosen not to solve.” Natasha just called you “terrifying.”

Because for every baffling thing you did, like calling her “Mom” during a sniper stakeout because “you give off stern PTA energy”, you turned around and cracked encrypted intel before Bruce finished making coffee.

Once, in a mission briefing, Rhodey asked, “Wait, wasn’t the Hindenburg caused by a gas explosion?” and you, dead serious, replied, “Who’s the Hindenburg? That sounds like a guy who collects teeth.”

Everyone went dead silent.

Sam just nodded slowly and said, “Right, okay. Yeah, cool. This is the part where I stop paying attention.”

Nobody could figure you out.

Bruce once ran 14 psychological profiles on you. None of them matched. One came back as possibly a goat in human form.

Clint swears you once explained string theory using sock puppets and a waffle. And it made sense.

-

GROUP CHAT:

Tony: I’m updating the security protocol. Everyone needs to re-register their biosignatures.

You: what if I am a security risk

Tony: You are. Absolutely. Every day. In every way.

You: then I win

Natasha: What did you win?

You: You’ll see 😈

Tony: I have forgotten what peace feels like anymore.

-

You called yourself “The Distractinator” in combat.

Enemies didn’t know what to do with you. Were you a genius? Crazy? Feral? Was that a printer you just threw at their face while quoting Pride and Prejudice?

Yes. To all of it.

And somehow, impossibly, you were everyone’s favorite. Because while you were a chaos gremlin of untold magnitude, you cared.

You noticed when Clint seemed tired and unorthodoxically left snacks in his quiver.

You taught Steve how to use TikTok but made sure to curate only dog videos and motivational frog memes.

You convinced Bucky he could wear purple and look amazing. He does now. Regularly.

You helped Tony fix a faulty AI loop by accident while trying to build “a blender that screams.”

You’re not just a part of the team. You’re the emotional support cryptid.

And no matter how many explosions you cause with your “experiments,” or how many philosophical debates you start about whether lasagna is a cake, the Avengers wouldn’t trade you for the world.

…Though Tony did try to sell you to the X-Men once.

It didn’t work.

They sent you back with a fruit basket and a strongly worded letter.

Not a Burden

Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression! Angst & Hurt/Comfort.]

Summary: Lately, you’ve been feeling like a burden to your caregivers. Like you’re too much, too needy, or a problem, causing you to retreat from your usual comforts. It doesn’t take long for Steve and Bucky to notice and reassure you that you’re not a burden. You never are to them and you never will be.

Word Count: 1.1k+

A/N: I wanted something softer to end the night on. I dunno if angst counts as soft, but this is definitely in the hurt/comfort field. Remember though: You are responsible for the media you consume.

Main Masterlist

You don’t know exactly when the feeling starts.

Maybe it was last night, when you asked Bucky for your nightlight three times in a row and he had to stop cooking dinner to find it. Or maybe this morning, when you spilled juice on the floor and Steve had to mop it up, gently telling you it was okay. But he looked tired, and for some reason, you thought he’d be less tired if you weren’t here. The thoughts are quiet at first. Small things.

“I should’ve gotten it myself.” “They’re always taking care of me.” “I should be big enough to handle this.”

The thoughts aren’t loud, but they sit there weighing heavy on your mind and even heavier on your chest.

You sit curled in the corner of the couch within your bedroom in your softest clothes, hugging your knees with your stuffie squished between your arms. The tower feels too big today. Your limbs feel too small. You want to be held, but also… you’re scared to ask.

Because what if they don’t want to anymore?

They never said that. Not once. In fact, Steve just kissed your forehead that morning. Bucky helped you brush and tie the bow in your hair. But your brain doesn’t care. It just keeps whispering.

“They’d be happier if they didn’t have to tuck you in every night.” “You’re taking up too much space.” “They fought wars, and you cry over broken crayons.”

You hug yourself tighter and your best not to cry. You were fine yesterday. But now, your throat’s all sore from holding everything in, and your body feels too young to explain any of it out loud.

You look toward the hallway, where you can faintly hear the sound of dishes clinking. Steve cleaning up. Bucky’s voice follows, low and tired, saying something about reports.

You shrink smaller in your spot. You don’t want to be more work or the reason they’re tired. Or worried. Or stuck at home instead of doing superhero things.

You love them. And that’s why the thought hurts so much. Because what if loving them means letting go?

You don’t tell them how you feel. Not right away.

Instead, it builds inside of you, resembling a quiet ache behind your ribs. A heaviness you can’t name, not even in your little space. It hums beneath the surface on quiet days, when Steve brings you apple slices cut like stars and Bucky tucks your blanket just right. When they ask how you’re feeling and you just nod, not trusting your voice to hold the truth.

You don't mean to pull away, but you do. You stop asking to be picked up. You hide your stuffies under your bed. You sit stiff and too quiet, like if you're careful enough, they won't notice how heavy you feel inside. You try so hard not to be too much.

You don’t notice how Steve starts watching you a little longer when you say “I’m fine.” How Bucky lingers just a few extra seconds at your door at night.

Until finally, It breaks.

One evening, they make spaghetti and call you for dinner. You don’t answer. You sit curled up in your hoodie on the floor of your room, silent and still, your arms wrapped around your knees. You press your face into your knees, a hot tear sliding down your cheek. You don’t know what to do. You want to disappear. You want someone to notice. You want—

“…Sweetheart?”

Steve’s voice, suddenly close. You hadn’t even noticed him walking in, prompting you to flinch in surprise. He hesitates for a moment before crouching slowly to kneel in front of you.

“Hey,” He says, softly. “You okay?”

You nod too fast, like usual despite everything about you screaming otherwise.

He watches you for a beat. “You sure?”

Another nod. Too big this time. Your eyes are wet, your breath shallow. Another pair of footsteps approach as Bucky enters the room, spotting the two of you. He comes over in an instant, crouching down to meet your eye-level. You expect them to be mad. To ask why you’re being difficult. But it’s just them, crouched low, concern present in their expressions. You try to shrink away, but Steve doesn’t let you.

Instead, he gently touches your knee, asking gently.

"What’s going on in that head of yours?"

That’s it. That’s the sentence that makes everything fall apart. Your bottom lip trembles as your eyes fill. You try to shake your head, but the words stumble out in a whisper that sounds too small, too broken to be yours:

"I don’ wanna be a burden."

Everything freezes. Steve blinks like you hit him in the chest while Bucky exhales sharply, then moves in instantly, gently, and without hesitation. He’s the one who pulls you into his arms first, holding you against his chest like you might disappear.

You can feel Steve’s hand finding your back, warm and steady. You hear his voice reassure you.

"You could never be a burden. Not to us."

You sob quietly into Bucky’s hoodie. He doesn’t rush you either as he rocks you gently in his embrace, questioning lowly. “Where’s that coming from, baby? Who told you that?"

You don’t know how to explain it though. The guilt, the worry, the awful tug that you take up too much space and ask for too much. But you manage a whisper:

“I need too much… lotta times… I don’ wanna be a problem…”

Steve’s heart clenches at your broken words, reaching up to squeeze your shoulder gently. “Needing care doesn’t make you a problem. It makes you human. And you don’t have to earn our love, sweetheart. You already have it."

Bucky’s voice comes in next, his tone low and protective “Who told you that, huh?”

You shrug, face hidden in Bucky’s shirt. “Just… figured.”

“You listen here,” Bucky says, voice steady as he gently lifts your chin up to face him. “You could ask for every ounce of our time and energy and still not be too much.”

Steve nods in agreement. “Being your caregiver means being there when you need us.“

“But… you both tired,” You whisper.

“We’re human,” Steve replies, rubbing your back again in slow, firm circles. “We get tired. That’s not your fault. You didn’t cause that.”

Bucky nods. “The tired from a mission or a bad dream? That’s different. You?” His expression softens noticeably. “You’re the soft part of our day. You're the reason we want to come home.”

Your eyes well up again, but for a different reason.

Steve leans over and kisses your forehead, saying firmly. “You are wanted, honey. Every version of you whether it be little, big, sleepy, silly, sad. Got it?”

You nod, tearfully.

“Say it for me?” Steve asks gently.

You hiccup. “Am wanted…n’ not a burden…”

Bucky smiles, adjusting you in his lap and holding you snug. “That’s right, baby. Not even close.”

You cling to both of them, your heart slowly settling as their warmth surrounds you: steady, grounding, and safe.

And slowly, that ache in your chest begins to ease.

i would loooooove to see more invisible!reader if you are taking requests🥹love your writing💓💓

Hello, love! Sorry it took a bit, but I loved your request! Invisible!reader was one of the first ones I wrote about that really resonated with me and was a special turning point to what I wanted to write here. So, thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!

The Way He Comforts

Summary: After overhearing teammates question your stability and usefulness during a mission, you silently spiral and retreat deep into the compound and yourself to be alone and unseen. Bucky, noticing your absence and familiar patterns, finds you and gently reassures you that he sees your worth no matter how overlooked you feel. (Bucky Barnes x invisible!reader)

Disclaimer: Hurt/Comfort. ANGST. Reader has the power of invisibility. Part 2 to The Way He Notices.

Word Count: 2.2k+

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You hadn’t meant to overhear.

You were just… staying behind. Letting the others clear out of the control room first. The mission had been a blur of adrenaline, blood, gunfire, and hazes of movement and orders shouted over comms. Your body was back in the compound, but your mind was still locked in the field, replaying every move you made, every step you took or didn’t.

Were you too slow? Did you hold the team back? Did you make the right decisions?

You hovered near the back of the room, invisible out of reflex. Not hiding. Just breathing. Just existing where no one could touch you, or expect you to explain anything.

That’s when the conversation started.

“Look, I’m just saying,” A voice rung out sharply. Male. One of the newer field leads, you couldn’t remember his name, only that he talked too much during ops and liked to fill silences that weren’t his to break. “When we’re in a live-fire zone, I need to see my team. Literally. We can’t afford to have someone going ghost mid-fight.”

Your spine stiffened. They were talking about you.

You stepped back without thinking, foot brushing softly against the wall, mind screaming at your body to stay silent.

“She got the job done,” Natasha said coolly. A defense quick and firm.

You’d thank her later. Maybe. If you could look her in the eye again.

“Barely,” The man replied with a bitter huff. “We don’t even know how her powers work really. What if she’s compromised out there? I mean… they vanished mid-mission. Again. What if one of us had been hit and needed cover?”

Your heartbeat spiked. They thought you hadn’t done your part.

They didn’t see the gun that almost took Steve’s head off, one you disabled while invisible. They didn’t know you redirected a blast meant for Natasha or jammed the comms that would’ve called reinforcements. You did it all unseen. That was the point.

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. Then came a snort from someone else. A laugh, short and mean.

“Kind of sounds like a trauma response.”

And it was, wasn’t it?

You’d spent years trying to make it something more, something useful. A gift. A shield. A way to survive. But here, in the cold buzz of the compound’s overhead lights, they made it sound like a liability. Like a malfunction.

“I’m just saying,” He went on, like he hadn’t just scraped the skin off your insides, “Is she stable? If she freaks out in the field, the rest of us pay the price. Might be time for someone to assess whether she’s really combat-ready. Not just… a ghost with clearance.”

The silence that followed was worse than anything. No arguments. No defenses. Just quiet. Agreement, maybe. Or indifference.

You felt your chest pull tight. Not with anger, but grief. A familiar, heavy kind of grief. The one that told you it didn’t matter how hard you trained. How hard you fought. Some people would only ever see you as a shadow. A risk. An afterthought.

You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

You slipped through the hallway unseen, your footsteps noiseless, even to yourself. You weren’t sure where you were going. You just knew you had to move before your throat gave out, before your body betrayed you, before the tears came and refused to stop.

-

On the days that followed the conversation, you stopped sitting at the table during team meetings.

You still attended, sure. Friday still registered your presence, and Natasha always handed you a second copy of the mission files without comment, but you sat on the edge now. A ghost in the corner. Your chair pushed half out of the circle, body barely visible, sometimes not at all.

And no one said a word.

Not one person asked why you didn’t speak up during the last debrief. Or why your plate went untouched in the kitchen. Or why you left your locker door cracked open now, like you were one second from walking away for good.

No one but Bucky.

He didn’t confront you or press. He just watched.

The first day, he caught your eye as you passed him in the hallway. That alone was unusual, you rarely made eye contact with anyone when you were phased out, drifting. But something about the way his gaze narrowed told you he already knew something wasn’t right.

You disappeared halfway through that morning’s training exercise. You weren’t even trying to be stealthy. You just… didn’t want to be perceived anymore.

And Bucky didn’t call it out. He just tilted his head and quietly adjusted the team formation. Covered the gap like it was part of the plan.

That night, there was a cup of tea outside your room.

No note. Just the kind you liked: strong, a little bitter, and steeped longer than necessary. It was still warm too.

You sat on the other side of the door for a long time, legs drawn to your chest, forehead pressed to your knees. You didn’t drink it. You didn’t throw it away either. You simply it there.

The second day, your invisibility didn’t drop for twelve hours even in the compound, even in your room. You didn’t eat and you barely breathed.

You stood in the hallway outside the gym long after lights-out, just listening to the steady thud of someone working the punching bag inside. You knew it was Bucky. You could tell by the rhythm in how it was sharp, controlled, and a little angry, like he was fighting something he couldn’t say out loud. His grunts were quiet as the chain squeaked with every impact.

You pressed your back to the wall and closed your eyes.

They think you’re a liability.

The words echoed, over and over, like your own heartbeat.

You didn't step inside. You couldn’t. You were afraid of what he’d see on your face, afraid of what you’d see reflected in his.

The third day, you didn’t show up for the briefing.

Not late. Not phased out. Just… not there.

Natasha texted once. “You good?”

You stared at it for a long time, then let your phone drop to the floor.

A soft knock came hours later.

Even though you didn’t answer, you didn’t have to. You already knew who it was.

“…I brought food,” Bucky said after a while. His voice was calm, a little hoarse from a day of not talking much. “Didn’t know what you wanted, so I brought four things.”

Silence.

You sat on the edge of your bed, trying not to shake. You could hear the tray when he set it down outside. The gentle clink of ceramic. He waited a few seconds longer, then added, quieter:

“You don’t have to talk. Just eat something.”

And then he left. You counted the steps. Fifteen down the hall. The soft sound of the elevator. Only then did you move. You opened the door slowly like your body wasn’t sure it was safe to fully exist.

There on the tray was a bowl of soup, crackers, apple slices, and your favorite sandwich. The one you always got when the team stopped for food on the way back from a mission.

And a sticky note.

It only said: “You’re not invisible to me.”

You stood there in the dark, tray in your hands, and blinking fast. Bringing the tray into your room, you sat on the floor, legs crossed, and took your first bite in two days.

It tasted like you might not have to survive alone this time.

-

The breaking point came two days later. It was late.

Too late for most of the compound to be awake, except maybe Bruce overworking in the lab or Tony arguing with the AI. But the gym lights were still on; dimmed and humming low. You stood just outside the weight room, fingertips brushing the edge of the wall, considering whether or not to walk in.

You’d been doing that more lately. Standing near things. Near people. Not fully in or out. Present, but only barely. You weren’t invisible this time though. You didn’t want to be.

Inside, Bucky sat on the floor against the far wall, arms resting on his knees, head tilted back as if he’d been staring at the ceiling for a while. He didn’t react when you entered. Didn’t flinch when your shoes padded softly across the floor. His gaze didn’t shift from the overhead light, but you knew he saw you. He always did.

You lowered yourself to the floor a few feet away, crossing your legs, and remaining silent. The air between you was quiet, restful; not awkward. You appreciated that about him. He never tried to fill your silence. He just made space for it.

After a while, he spoke.

“You stopped laughing.”

You blinked, looking over.

His head turned just slightly toward you.

“Not that you ever laughed much,” He added, voice low. “But you did. Sometimes. At stupid jokes. At Clint falling asleep standing up. At that dog in the documentary that ran into a sliding glass door.”

You gave a small, almost-invisible shrug.

“I miss that sound,” He said.

That was it. No demand. No pressure. Just a quiet observation. A reminder that he noticed you. That your absence, even your emotional one, meant something to someone.

You swallowed hard.

He looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers once.

“I don’t know what happened,” He continued. “I know it was something. You don’t move like that unless something’s broken.”

You didn’t flinch, but your breath caught. Barely. Like a string pulled tightly inside your chest.

“I’m not asking you to tell me,” His voice was gentle as he leaned his head back again. “But if you ever want to… I’ll be here.”

No more words.

Just that.

And it felt like enough. Like the space between you had shifted. No longer something to hide inside, but something you could share. Quietly. At your own pace.

You didn’t mean to speak, but words came out like breath. So soft they didn’t feel real at first, like mist escaping between your lips before you could stop it.

“I wasn’t supposed to hear it.”

Bucky glanced over at you. His expression was morphed in that same ever so patient way, like you could say anything and you would have hung the moon.

You swallowed hard. Your throat ached like something had been lodged there for days which maybe it had.

“It was right after the last mission. I stayed behind in the control room.” You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t mean to listen. I just… hadn’t faded back in yet. And… I heard them talking about me.”

You blinked fast, but the heat behind your eyes didn’t fade. Your voice stayed low, like the words weren’t meant to be heard, but had nowhere else to go.

“They said I was unstable. That I disappear when something goes wrong. That they didn’t know how my powers work. Like I’m a risk. Like I’m just a… ghost with clearance.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. Just slightly. Not in anger at you, of course. Never at you. But at what had been said. The way his shoulders straightened told you he was holding something down. Something sharp.

“I didn’t even know who said most of it,” You added after a beat. “Just… someone new. But the others were quiet. No one really disagreed.”

The last part was the hardest to admit. Bucky moved closer to you slowly, settling in beside you. Not touching. Not crowding. Just there.

“The silence,” You murmured. “It felt like agreement.”

It hung in the air, heavy and uninvited. But then, after a long, thoughtful pause, his voice came, low and certain.

“I would’ve said something.”

You looked at him. His expression wasn’t gentle this time, not exactly. It was solid. Grounded. The kind of gaze that didn’t flinch when you showed the broken parts of yourself.

“Not just because I care about you,” He went on. “But because they were wrong.”

A small breath left your chest, like your lungs had finally been allowed to exhale.

“I know how your powers work,” He said. “Not the science. But I know you. You disappear to stay in control, to protect. Not to fall apart.”

You blinked hard.

“You’re not unstable. You’re surviving.”

That did it. The tears didn’t fall. Not yet. But they burned. Stung hot like they were ready, if you’d only let go. You opened your mouth to speak but Bucky shook his head, just once.

“You don’t have to defend it or say anything,” He said. “You shouldn’t have to defend yourself. Just… know that you do belong.”

His hand moved slowly, deliberately, and came to rest beside yours on the floor. He wasn’t exactly touching yet, simply close enough that if you wanted to reach, you could. A small gesture he always had of letting you reach first.

And you did.

Fingers brushing his, tentative at first. Then curling just slightly. A silent answer. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you felt real again. Not a shadow. Not a ghost. Seen.

Learning to Ask

Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]

Summary: Feeling small and struggling to ask for comfort, you finally find the courage to whisper a simple request, a hug. Bucky responds with quiet warmth, holding you close as Steve gently joins in, reminding you that it’s safe to ask for things and even safer to be held.

Word Count: 1k+

A/N: There’s not a single use of the reader’s specific pronouns here. So, this can be read by anyone. Remember though: You are responsible for the media you consume.

Main Masterlist

You’ve never been good at asking for things.

Not for help. Not for affection. Not even when you’re quietly unraveling inside. As a result, you’d often become non-verbal, outwardly and unintentionally demonstrating your struggle to ask for what you want or need.

And it’s not that Steve and Bucky haven’t been kind. They’ve been patient, gentle. They notice things, the way your shoulders curl in when you feel small, the way you sometimes hesitate before joining them on the couch, or how you chew your sleeve when the words won’t come out.

But you still hold back. Even in the soft glow of safety, something inside you is too scared to reach out.

Tonight is quiet. The apartment is warm, cozy. The lights are dim with a blanket tossed over the back of the couch, something simple playing on the TV. You’re curled in your usual corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, your oversized hoodie swallowing most of your frame. The plushie they gave you sits on your lap, clutched a little tighter than usual.

Steve is in the kitchen making tea. You can hear the clink of the spoon against ceramic. Bucky’s nearby, reading something with his legs stretched out, lounging in one of the living room chairs.

You feel it rising slowly, that aching want. That soft, desperate little part of you whispering, Please just hold me for a second. Please just ask if I’m okay.

But no one can read your mind. So, you stay silent. Your fingers twitch.

Glancing over at Bucky, his expression is relaxed and focused on the book. Not ignoring you, just giving you space, like they always do when they know you’re floating closer to littlespace. You know they'd never push. But that doesn’t make the words any easier.

Your lips part and then close again. It takes you three full minutes. Three whole minutes of your heart thudding and your chest tightening and your mouth going dry, before you finally whisper,

“…Daddy?”

He looks up instantly. Not startled, just alert and present. His eyes soften just as fast.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

Your throat tightens as you quickly look back down at the plush in your lap and squeeze it. You don’t know where to focus on. Your voice barely makes it out.

“…Can I… have a hug?”

There’s silence for just a moment. Not the bad kind. Just the kind that feels like stillness right before something really, really important happens. It still felt like an eternity to you, like maybe your request was too much.

But Bucky sets his book down without hesitation. He doesn’t make a big deal of it. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t pry. He just moves, crossing the space between you in two strides, and sinks down beside you on the couch.

“C’mere,” He says softly, opening his arms.

You don’t hesitate as you lean into him like you’ve been waiting your whole life to. His arms wrap around you tight, not too tight, but just right. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. The other anchors you close. You can feel his heartbeat, practically hear it. It’s slow and steady.

You let out a shaky breath before Steve walks in. He pauses at the doorway, holding two mugs of tea. He takes in the scene of you tucked tightly against Bucky, your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, your cheek pressed close.

“Everything alright?” He asks, voice soft, not wanting to startle you.

Bucky doesn't move. His arms stay wrapped around you, steady as ever. He glances up at Steve and nods, a small, proud smile tugging at his mouth.

“Yeah,” He murmurs, resting his chin lightly atop your head. “They asked this time.”

Steve’s face softens instantly. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he sets the mugs down quietly and crosses the room, crouching beside the two of you.

“That’s a big step,” He smiles at you, his tone gentle, “We’re really proud of you.”

You don’t say anything, but he doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t pull you or crowd you. He just eases onto the couch gently, his thigh pressing against yours, his warmth surrounding you from the other side now.

Steve leans in just a little, brushing your hair away from your face. “You know, you did something really brave just now.”

You squirm a little, face heating up. “Didn’t feel brave…”

Bucky’s arms tighten slightly. “Still was,” He murmurs. “Takes a lot to speak up. Especially when you’re little.”

You nod, but it’s hard to believe. The inside of you feels squishy and small, like any second now the world could get too loud, too fast, and you’d disappear back into yourself.

But you don’t. Because they’re here.

Steve’s hand finds yours where it’s fallen back down to rest on your lap, clutching your plushie. He doesn’t take it away. Just laces his fingers with yours, gentle and warm. “Can I ask you something?”

You nod again, feeling shy.

“When you feel like this,” He asks softly, “What helps the most? Is it cuddles? Gentle words? A blanket? Maybe your paci?”

You blink up at him, eyes wide. No one’s ever asked you that before, not like that. Not like it mattered. You feel the answer bubble up in your chest. Quiet and honest.

“…Warm blankie. This…and… soft voices.”

Steve smiles. “That’s good to know, sweetheart. Thank you for telling me.”

Then he gets up for only a second, returns with the softest, fluffiest blanket you own. The one they keep clean and close by, just for you. He wraps it carefully around your shoulders like you’re the most precious thing in the world. Because you are to them.

“Better?” He settles back beside you.

You nod. Your voice is smaller now. “…Yeah.”

Bucky’s hand rubs slow circles on your back. Steve kisses the top of your head.

In that moment, you feel safe and seen. Like maybe asking for what you need doesn’t make you a burden after all.

“Anytime you want something,” Steve murmurs, “Even if it’s little, even if it’s silly, you can tell us. We want to take care of you, baby.”

You sniffle. “Even if I don’t use big words?”

“Especially then,” Bucky murmurs. “You don’t need big words with us. Just whatever you feel comfortable with in the moment. Just you.”

You melt into both of them. Wrapped in a warm blanket, between the strong, steady arms of two people who don’t need you to be anything but exactly how you are.

Ella,

I have a request if it seems of interest to you: a bucky x reader story pirate au where the reader is kidnapped by Bucky and his crew originally for ransom payment, but then Bucky realizes he's too much in love with the reader to dig himself out and ends up keeping the reader for himself. (Potentially a soft!dark!Bucky maybe???) But he wants to give the reader everything, no matter how battered he and his crew get when trying to get what Bucky wants to give the reader.

I love your writing, thank you and have a good day

Hello, dear! So, I’m afraid I’m going to have to do your request a little differently than the others. It’ll be in two-parts since I want to get this out before I leave as well as not make it ridiculously long. Therefore, do check back for part two later on tonight or tomorrow!

With that being said, this was such a fun and interesting request. I’ll definitely add more of the darker bits in the second part. I like setting the stage lol. Hope you enjoy! Thank you for the request and Happy reading!!!

Crimson Waters, Stolen Hearts

Summary: Captain Bucky Barnes commands a loyal crew who sails under a reputation for precision, power, and taking only what he needs. When he captures you, the beloved daughter of a powerful trading magnate, he claims it’s only for ransom, a means to an end to fund his next conquest. (Pirate AU! | Soft!Dark!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.6k+

Main Masterlist | Part 2

The legend of Captain James Buchanan Barnes drifted on sea winds like smoke. Never seen for long, never caught, but always felt. Sailors spoke of him in hushed voices over cheap rum in dark taverns, describing a man built of iron and vengeance.

They said he was born from the wreck of a warship, that his left arm was forged from cannon shrapnel and blacksmith curses, and that he’d once sunk an entire fleet for touching the wrong woman’s hand.

But those were only stories.

The truth was sharper.

He’d once been a soldier, long ago. Fought in a war that buried too many good men. When the world forgot him, he disappeared into the ocean and never looked back. Now, he was the Captain of the Red Sabre, a war-painted beast of a ship with sails like blood-soaked banners and cannons that struck before warning.

Barnes wasn’t a loud man. He didn’t shout to command respect, he willed it. Eyes like storm clouds, hair always wind-tangled, beard flecked with salt. His voice was low and steady, the kind that curled around your throat before you realized you were being pulled under. He was known to slit throats with the same grace he drank tea. Known to spare a child’s life, only to raze a fortress an hour later.

The kind of man who did what needed to be done, no matter how many screams it took.

Yet, he didn’t kill for fun. That’s what made him dangerous. Barnes didn’t need chaos. He chose it. Carefully. Precisely. Like someone who’d seen peace and found it disappointing.

He had a loyal crew, half of them former prisoners, outlaws, and men broken by the world. But they all followed him. Because he never lost. And because there was still something strangely noble beneath the darkness, like the ghost of honor refusing to die.

And you?

You weren’t just another merchant’s daughter.

You were the keystone in an empire of wealth and diplomacy, the only child of Lord Alric Dorne, a man whose influence reached across oceans and kingdoms. Nobles bowed in his presence, generals owed him favors, and entire ports opened their gates at the mention of his name. Your family didn’t just fund trade, they controlled it. Routes, ships, goods, and even wars had been won or lost by your family’s gold. You were the kind of person pirates avoided, not because of your guards, but because of the retaliation your disappearance would bring.

You were the girl too valuable to touch.

And yet, you were no porcelain doll.

Educated in statecraft and warfare, fluent in multiple tongues, and sharper than most of the men who surrounded you, you were raised to inherit an empire, not simply survive within it. When dignitaries came to negotiate, it was often your voice they feared more than your father’s. And when ships set sail, your signature sealed the fates of cities. You carried the weight of legacy on your shoulders and the fire of rebellion under your skin.

Still, for all your power, you were restless.

The silk walls of high society had grown thin. The rules felt like shackles, the protection like a cage. You had begun traveling more frequently, escorting shipments under the guise of oversight, learning the routes, the ships, the whispers. You stood on deck in storm, eyes set not on the horizon, but what might lie beyond it.

The sea spoke to you, not with songs, but with promises: of danger, of freedom, of something more than obedience and expectation.

You didn’t know that your curiosity would catch the attention of the most dangerous pirate alive. You didn’t know that stepping onto that ship would make you a prize, not just for ransom, but for something far more complicated.

And you certainly didn’t know he’d been watching you from the moment your sails crested the edge of his world.

The sea was too calm that morning.

No gulls. No swell. Just the hollow groan of the current, and the kind of silence that even seasoned sailors didn’t trust. Aboard The Harrowcrest, your father’s prized trade vessel, the men shifted nervously, fingers brushing blades, and glancing over their shoulders as if the ocean itself might bite.

You stood near the quarterdeck, eyes on the map in your hands, unaware that several miles out, danger was watching. Stalking.

Hidden in a pale sheet of fog, The Red Sabre drifted like a predator waiting for the right breath of wind.

On the prow stood its captain, the man feared across every sea charted and uncharted. The Sabre was his monster, his kingdom, and his weapon. But this time, Barnes didn’t want gold. He didn’t want blood.

He wanted you.

The moment he saw you on that deck, focused, steady, and wind in your hair and fire in your eyes, he knew. He lowered the spyglass.

“That’s her,” He stated, quiet but firm.

Behind him, leaning on a cannon like he’d been born beside it, Sam Wilson, his quartermaster, raised a brow. “You sure? That’s the Dorne girl?”

“Positive,” Bucky muttered. “Staring straight down a map like she owns the sea.”

“You know this’ll paint a target on our backs, right?” Natasha, the red-haired helmswoman, spoke dryly from beside the wheel, chewing a sliver of jerky. “You kidnap her, you’re not picking a fight with a fleet. You’re picking a fight with a world.”

“And I’ll burn that world if I have to,” Bucky retorted without blinking.

Standing tall by the armory hatch, Steve Rogers, the captain’s first mate and Bucky’s oldest friend, gave a soft grunt of approval. “If you’re sure she’s worth it.”

“She is,” Bucky said, more to himself. “She’s not guarded like someone who knows her worth.”

“Or like someone who wants to be caught,” Natasha added under her breath.

He didn’t answer. Just stared.

And then:

“Prep the guns,” Bucky ordered, voice commanding and sharp. “Hooks, no cannonballs unless they fire first. Clint, you’re taking the rigging. Steve, you’re on the lead team.”

Clint, up in the crow’s nest already, gave a cocky wave. “Try to keep up.”

Within minutes, the Sabre sprang to life. The black sails unfurled, ropes pulled taut, and every crewmember moving with ruthless grace. Bruce, the quiet ship’s surgeon with hands far too precise for his own good, secured the infirmary. Tony, the surly weapons master below deck, prepped the cannons without being asked, grumbling, “Kidnap a girl, he says. Quietly, he says…”

The trap was set.

Your ship didn’t stand a chance.

The Harrowcrest went down fast and hard. The rudder shattered from a well-placed chain shot. Grappling hooks soared from the fog. Shouts erupted as boots thundered onto your deck. Your guards fought bravely until Steve personally disarmed two of them in seconds and Natasha danced through a trio like a blade wrapped in fire.

You, blade drawn, managed to slash one man across the thigh—Sam, who only winced and gave you a quick nod of respect before pinning your wrist.

You were furious. Fighting. Unbroken. And then he walked in.

Captain Barnes stepped onto the Harrowcrest’s deck like a storm breaking over still waters. Everything slowed. His coat moved with the wind. His metal arm glinted dully in the gray light. You could feel him before you saw him, his presence thick and cold like thunderclouds rolling in.

Two pirates held you fast, but your eyes locked with his the moment he approached. You expected cruelty. Or amusement. Or mockery.

But he only looked at you. His blue eyes sharp, cold. Interested.

“You’re her,” He said quietly, as if confirming something to himself.

“And you’re a dead man,” You hissed back.

His lips curved slightly. Not quite a smile. Something slower. Something darker.

“I like her,” He muttered to no one in particular. Then, louder: “Bring her aboard. Alive and unharmed.”

“What do you want?” You demanded.

He stepped close, too close, and leaned in just enough for you to hear the words against your ear:

“You’ll know soon enough, sweetheart.”

With a snap of his fingers, they dragged you away. And just like that, your fate was rewritten.

Not by politics. Not by power. But by a pirate whose gaze made your spine stiffen… and your heart beat just a little faster.

They didn’t throw you in a cell.

You expected rusted iron bars, chains, filth. Instead, you were brought to a small, private cabin tucked below the quarterdeck. It wasn’t luxurious but it wasn’t cruel. A sturdy cot. A desk bolted to the floor. A basin of fresh water. Even a window with thick glass that let in pale blue light.

The moment the door closed behind you, you turned and tried it. Locked, of course.

The storm of battle had faded into quiet outside. No screams, no clashing steel. Just the slow groan of ropes and sails, and the steady lap of water. The rhythm of a ship that knew what it was doing. A ship that didn’t panic.

Neither did you.

You paced the room like a caged animal, hands clenched. You knew what this was. A ransom. Political leverage. The daughter of Lord Dorne was worth more than most fleets combined. They wouldn’t hurt you… yet. Not if they wanted to see a single coin.

Still, the silence pressed in around you.

An hour passed. Then two.

Then the lock clicked. The door opened, and he walked in.

Captain James Barnes.

His coat was gone. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, showing the glinting metal of his left arm. He didn’t carry a weapon, he didn’t need one. His presence alone was sharp enough.

You straightened immediately, spine rigid, and chin lifted.

“I don’t care who you are,” You said coolly, “My father will never-“

“Refuse to pay for you?” He finished, voice low, even. “I’m counting on that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know what taking me means. You’ve essentially declared war.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I didn’t do anything. You just… vanished. Pirates are unpredictable like that.”

His gaze swept over you. Quick, unreadable. Not lascivious. Not kind. Just… measured.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” He added. “You’ll be fed. Protected. No one touches you.”

“Oh, how noble,” You snapped. “For a man who boards ships and steals people.”

He tilted his head, mildly amused. “I steal cargo. You’re a high-value shipment.”

You didn’t flinch, but you hated how calm he was. How methodical. How professional this all felt.

He took a step forward. “Do you know why I chose your ship?”

You didn’t answer.

“Because for someone so valuable,” He murmured, “You’ve been sailing dangerously far from your father’s reach. Alone. Curious. Maybe even bored.”

You swallowed hard, pulse kicking up.

“I was watching before we even closed in,” He admitted. “You don’t hide well.”

“And you don’t care what happens after this,” You bit out.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “I care about getting what I want.”

“And what is it you want, Captain?”

Bucky’s gaze held yours, steady and cold.

“A letter written in your hand to confirm you’re alive,” He said. “You’ll write it tomorrow.”

You stared.

“And then what?” You asked. “You chain me to the mast? Parade me around like a trophy?”

“No chains,” He spoke evenly. “And no parading.”

He turned to leave, then paused at the door.

“Eat something,” He said. “You’ll need your strength. Your father’s not the only one who’ll be looking for you.”

With that, he left you alone again, your heart pounding harder than it had during the raid.

You were supposed to be afraid. And you were. But more than that… You were intrigued.

Morning crept in slow.

You hadn’t slept, not really. The cot was decent enough, the rocking of the ship surprisingly gentle, but your mind had refused to settle. You lay there in your borrowed clothes (a simple linen tunic and trousers, practical and plain), staring at the wooden ceiling while the sounds of the ship carried on above and below. Boots on the deck. Ropes creaking. Low voices, too far to make out.

You weren’t afraid of them. But you knew better than to trust comfort where it wasn’t earned.

When the door opened just after dawn, it wasn’t the Captain this time.

It was Natasha.

Her braid was pulled over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. She glanced over you like one might check a weapon for cracks, then set a plate on the desk. “Eat,” She said simply. “You’ll walk the deck after.”

You sat up, brushing hair from your face. “And if I refuse?”

She met your eyes. “Then I bring Barnes. You don’t want that.”

You did eat. Not out of obedience, but calculation. You needed your strength. And because the pirate crew of The Red Sabre already seemed like the kind that would offer food and protection not out of kindness, but because they were waiting to see what they’d get in return.

By midmorning, you were led topside.

The light hit you like fire after a day below. You blinked through it, hand shading your face, the sea a glittering sprawl on all sides. There was no land in sight. Just blue, blue, and more blue until the color of the sails around you caught your eye.

Deep crimson.

The Red Sabre lived up to its name.

Men and women moved like clockwork across the deck, efficient and fast. You recognized several faces from the raid: Clint, perched high in the rigging like a bird of prey. Steve, near the helm, speaking low with Natasha. Sam moving crates.

No one spoke to you. They all looked, of course. But no one came close. You weren’t sure if it was respect… or something colder.

“Captain wants you to walk,” Natasha said beside you. “To know your legs work. He doesn’t like weakness.”

You raised a brow. “Does he also like letting his crew see his ransom prize out in the open?”

Natasha gave a barely-there smile. “If anyone tried anything without his say, they wouldn’t have hands left to try again.”

You believed her.

By the time the sun reached its peak, you were back in your cabin, heart pounding from the climb up and down ladders, across ropes and narrow walkways. It wasn’t torture, but it wasn’t freedom either. It was a game. You were being tested.

And then that knock again. Low. Rhythmic.

Captain Barnes stepped in, arms crossed, this time with a sealed letter in one hand.

“Sit,” He ordered. “Write.”

He handed you the parchment and a fountain pen. You glanced down. It was already addressed: To Lord Alric Dorne, from the hand of his daughter.

You looked up at him. “This is extortion.”

“It’s a transaction.”

“He’ll kill you.”

Bucky’s voice was calm. “He’ll try.”

You sat slowly. “And you think I’ll make this easy for you?”

“I think you will,” He said, “Because you know he won’t pay if he doubts it’s real. You’ll write your usual flair. Your tone. Your clever little turns of phrase. You’ll make it sound like you.”

“And if I don’t?” You tested, pen still poised.

His eyes narrowed just slightly.

“Then I stop being polite.”

There it was, that edge beneath the surface. The ice beneath the calm water. He hadn’t shouted. He hadn’t threatened. But it chilled your spine more than any scream ever could.

You wrote.

It wasn’t a long letter. But it was enough. Enough for your father to know you were alive, uninjured. Enough to know the pirates knew exactly who they’d taken.

When you handed it back, Bucky took it without reading.

“Good,” He said.

You stared at him. “What happens now?”

“Now?” He stepped back toward the door. “You stay alive.”

He paused, gaze lingering on you for a breath longer than before.

“And you get used to me.”

Then he was gone again.

Leaving you there with ink still drying on your hands, and a strange flutter in your chest you refused to name.

Arm Dilemma

Summary: Your first time catching Bucky using the dishwasher to wash his metal arm. (Husband!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 600+

A/N: Inspired by that one scene in the thunderbolts trailer of Bucky’s arm in the dishwasher lol. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Bucky Barnes was many things: a former brainwashed assassin, a super soldier, a brooding Avenger, and surprisingly to many, a man with a very strong opinion about dish soap. You learned that about two months into marriage, when you bought off-brand lemon-scented detergent and he stared at the bottle like it had personally betrayed him in a Cold War mission.

But nothing quite compared to what you discovered one quiet Tuesday afternoon.

You had come home early from work, your arms full of groceries and your head full of plans. Nothing wild, just dinner and maybe a movie if Bucky wasn’t in one of his “I’m too emotionally complicated for romantic comedies” moods. As you kicked the door shut behind you, you noticed two things immediately: first, that the apartment was suspiciously silent. Second, that the dishwasher was running.

Bucky? Voluntarily doing chores?

You set the groceries down slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile domestic miracle occurring in your kitchen. You approached the dishwasher with reverence, like you were sneaking up on Bigfoot. You squatted down, peeked through the tiny, cloudy window in the front panel, and your brain short-circuited.

There, nestled between a pasta strainer and a coffee mug with Tony Stark’s face on it, was Bucky’s metal arm.

You blinked, rubbed your eyes, then looked again.

Still there.

You stood in stunned silence for a long moment before you did the only logical thing: you yelled, “BUCKY BARNES, GET YOUR SUPER-SOLDIER ASS IN HERE RIGHT NOW.”

There was a pause. A creak. Then soft, sheepish footsteps.

He appeared in the hallway, shirtless, with only his flesh arm scratching the back of his neck. “Hey, doll.”

“Don’t you ‘hey doll’ me,” You said, gesturing wildly toward the dishwasher. “Why is your vibranium arm in there?!”

He glanced toward the appliance and had the audacity to shrug. “Had peanut butter on it.”

“Peanut-” You choked on your words. “How does a trained assassin get peanut butter on his arm?”

“I was making a sandwich. The jar slipped. It was a high-velocity incident.” He actually looked offended on behalf of his own coordination. “Some of it got into the grooves.”

“You could’ve wiped it down. With a towel.”

He looked at you like you’d just told him to polish a jet engine with toilet paper. “There are micro-particles in the joints. This is precision tech. Do you know what peanut oil does to vibranium?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’m fairly certain it does not cause spontaneous combustion if left on for twenty minutes.”

He crossed his arms. Or rather, arm. “Steve would’ve backed me up.”

“Oh don’t you dare bring Steve into this- Steve washes his shield with dish soap and a sponge like a normal person!”

You stomped to the dishwasher and pointed at it like it had wronged your ancestors. “Do you know how expensive this is? If you break it with your high-tech Marvel Lego piece, I swear to God-“

“It’s on the bottom rack,” Bucky mumbled, sulking now. “Delicate cycle.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and took a deep breath.

“I swear, one day you’re going to wash your soul in the laundry hamper because you got it dirty.”

He gave you a lopsided grin, the one that still made your heart do a traitorous little flutter even after years together. “Would you still love me if I did?”

You tossed the towel at his face. “Only if you remember to use fabric softener.”

It then became a running joke. You’d leave sticky notes on the dishwasher that said “NOT FOR BODY PARTS,” and he’d respond by leaving his own sticky notes over your notes with “WARNING: May Contain Metal Parts. Proceed With Caution!” It was domestic life with Bucky: chaotic, a little ridiculous, and somehow the best kind of normal you never thought you’d have.

And despite his broody past, his spy instincts, and the tendency to sometimes treat modern appliances like alien tech, Bucky Barnes was yours.

Even if he occasionally mistook a dishwasher for a tactical cleaning unit.

Glitter, Gunfire, and Grape Juice

Summary: You throw yourself between a rookie and an energy blast.  Bucky panics. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Word Count: 1.3k+

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

The mission was going well. Suspiciously well, which should’ve been your first red flag. Another ordinary Hydra facility with minimal guards that was unusually quiet. You were even humming as you strolled through the hallway, twirling a baton and pointing it at doors like a remote.

Behind you, Bucky muttered, “Don’t touch anything.”

You responded, “That’s exactly what someone hiding treasure would say.”

Sam sighed. “Can you at least pretend to take this seriously?”

“I am taking it seriously. That’s why I packed four granola bars and a Capri-Sun.”

Bucky grinned, despite himself. He always did when you were like this, loose-limbed and smiling. Like the world couldn’t possibly touch you, which made what happened next all the more terrifying.

It happened in the blink of an eye.

An explosion of sound coming from the energy shot from a hidden drone. It was too fast to stop, too sudden to predict. One of the rookies on the mission—a wide-eyed kid with barely two field ops under his belt froze, dead in the line of fire.

So you didn’t.

You shoved him out of the way with a grunt and took the hit square in the side. It knocked you off your feet with a sickening crack.

The kid shouted. Bucky screamed your name.

When you hit the floor, you blinked up at the ceiling like it had just betrayed you. “Oh,” You said, dazed. “That’s not ideal.”

You were bleeding, quite a lot. Bright red blooming fast across your suit, staining your hand as you pressed it to your side with a hiss. “Y’know,” You mumbled, “I don’t remember having this many organs.”

“Stay with me- hey, hey, stay with me.” Bucky was suddenly at your side, voice hoarse, pressing his hands over yours to help stem the bleeding. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

You gave him a lazy grin, adrenaline running high. “If I die, delete my browser history and bury me with snacks. No one needs to know how often I google if raccoons can feel love.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Don’t joke.”

“You love me because I joke.”

“I love you because you’re you,” He rasped. “But right now, I need you to fight and stay with me, okay?”

“Already fought,” You slurred. “I did the thing, saved the baby agent. Hero moment. I want a sticker.”

“Doll, if you die on me, I will bring you back just to yell at you.”

You laughed and winced immediately. “Hurts to laugh, write that down and it to the science books.”

The med team arrived then, Sam yelling over his comms, the rookie sobbing apologies, the chaos dimming into a kind of tunnel vision where all you could see was Bucky’s face above you. His eyes were wet and scared.

You lifted a bloody finger and tapped his nose weakly. “Boop.”

“God, you’re infuriating,” He whispered. Then he kissed your forehead with trembling lips. “Don’t leave me, okay? I don’t care how many granola bars you packed. You don’t get to check out early.”

-

A day later in the medbay, you woke up groggy and attached to enough wires to hack a satellite. You blinked blearily at the ceiling.

Bucky was there, instantly. “You’re awake.”

You looked at him then looked around. “Where’s my Capri-Sun?”

He closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. “You almost died, and that’s what you’re asking?”

“I saved a life, I bled dramatically, I deserve juice.”

He let out a shaky breath. Then, quietly, “Don’t ever do that again.”

You turned to get a good look at him. He looked wrecked honestly. Unshaven, sleepless, and red around the eyes. It’s clear he had barely left your side. “Hey,” You said softly, reaching for his hand. “I’m here.”

He held your hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And for the first time, you didn’t joke. Didn’t quip. You just said, quietly, “I’d take the hit again, Buck. Every time.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “Don’t make me live in a world without you, alright?”

You smiled. “Deal. But next time, you bring the juice.”

-

As you had to spend more time in the medbay for recovery, you gradually grew bored. You’d never been a fan of hospital beds. They were too stiff, too white, too… beep-y.

So naturally, the first thing you did the moment you could sit up without passing out was try to climb out of one.

“Sit. Down.”

Bucky’s voice cracked like a whip across the room. He was standing by the medbay door with a takeout container in one hand and the fury of a thousand protective boyfriends in the other.

You blinked up at him. “I’m just stretching-“

“You have stitches, dumbass.”

You squinted. “You still love me though.”

He sighed and walked over, setting the food on your tray. “Unfortunately.”

You poked at the soup. “This doesn’t look like juice.”

“It’s miso. Doctor Cho said no juice until you’re off pain meds.”

You gasped like he’d personally betrayed your bloodline. “What about a popsicle?”

“You were clinically dead for twelve seconds and you want a popsicle?”

“…grape, preferably.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do I love you.”

You leaned back against the pillows, smug. “Because I am an intellectual enigma with the survival instincts of a cat in traffic.”

Before Bucky could respond, there was a knock on the door.

Enter: The Rookie.

He crept in like a kid walking into the principal’s office, holding something behind his back and looking two seconds from crying again. “H-Hey.”

You grinned. “If it isn’t the human shield I saved.”

He flinched. “I’m so sorry-“

“Hey, no. Don’t do that.” You waved your spoon like a wand. “No guilt in my presence. It was my call and I would do again.”

Bucky muttered, “Don’t say that,” but you ignored him.

The rookie stepped forward, visibly shaking, and handed you what looked like… a paper plate necklace. With glitter. It said: “#1 Chaos Hero.”

You stared at it, then at him, then back at it.

“I didn’t know what to get you and I felt awful and I don’t have clearance for flowers and this was the only glitter glue left in the break room,” He rambled. “Also it’s taped because we ran out of string.”

You put it on immediately. Bucky just stared like he was reevaluating every life decision that led him to this moment.

“This is the greatest honor I’ve ever received,” You declared.

“You’re literally wearing a paper plate.”

“From a child soldier,” You corrected.

“I’m nineteen!” The rookie said.

“Exactly,” You said.

Later on, Bucky helped you back to your quarters. The both of you were walking slow with his metal hand on your back like he was afraid you might fall apart again. You let him tuck you in, mostly because you were still high on painkillers and partially because you liked the way he fussed when he was scared.

“I mean it,” He said quietly, sitting beside you. “You can’t keep risking yourself like that. Not for people who won’t do the same.”

“They will someday. Because people pay kindness forward, especially when it costs someone else blood.” You nudged him. “Plus, you did the same for Steve a hundred times.”

“That was different.”

“It wasn’t.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then:

“I almost lost you.”

You took his hand and held it gently.

“But you didn’t.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple. “You’re infuriating.”

“You love me.”

He sighed before whispering into your hair, “I really do.”

-

GROUP CHAT:

Tony: Who tf gave glitter glue to the interns?

Sam: The rookie made her a PAPER PLATE NECKLACE

Steve: She hasn’t taken it off in six hours.

Natasha: She told me it’s a ‘badge of honor’…

Wanda: They also threatened the vending machine for not having grape juice

Bucky: She got shot and she’s more upset about the juice

You: i saved a life AND survived a flesh wound, i earned grape juice

You: also i’m naming the scar after the rookie

Bucky: Please don’t

You: too late, buckaroo. i christen it kevin 2.0

[Bucky has left the group chat.]

Rewritten

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

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

Word Count: 4.9k+

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

Main Masterlist

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

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

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

The photo inside is a strange sight.

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

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

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

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

“Hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Remember? I don’t remember anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinch back as the words reverberate in your chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You come back.

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

-

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

Today is no different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Ours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s the way it always goes.

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

And neither of them is letting go.