Unexpected Outlook

⛧⋆༺Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist༻⋆⛧

Pairing: Avengers x reader. (Mostly Bucky x reader unless requested otherwise.)

Summary: A collection of different one-shots with reader having different powers or abilities, each in their own universe.

Main Masterlist

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

✿⛆❦ The Way He Notices - Reader with the ability to turn invisible. (Bucky Barnes x invisible!reader)

✿ In Every Form, You Still Saw Me - Reader with the ability to shapeshift. (Bucky Barnes x shapeshifter!reader)

❦ What You Can’t Heal - Reader with the power to heal. (Bucky Barnes x healer!reader)

⛆❦ The Price of Saving Until You Care - Reader has the power to transfer people’s injuries onto herself. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

✿ Mischief Managed - Reader with the ability to talk to animals. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

✿ Mischief Meets Alpine - Sequel to Mischief Managed. Reader with the ability to talk to animals. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

What We Fight For

Summary: Thrown into a tense alliance, you and Bucky Barnes clash into a rivalry with cold stares and harsh words. But when a rooftop fall, a late-night patch-up, and a brutal argument strip away both of your defenses, the truth hits harder than any mission ever could. (Bucky Barnes x Super soldier!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has a similar serum as a super soldier.

Word Count: 3k+

A/N: Apologies if this seems messy. It’s not really a power that gives me much to work with, but it turned out alright in the end. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You weren’t recruited. You were assigned.

Born from a black-ops experiment the government quietly buried once the serum stabilized, you were a living weapon they kept in their back pocket. A contingency plan. When word came that the Avengers might need more muscle in the field, they didn’t ask. They deployed.

You didn’t come to make friends. You came to fulfill orders and win.

And yet, here you were, staring across the mat at Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier himself, while Sam smirked from the sidelines and Steve muttered something about “team bonding.” You were here to train, but Bucky had that look again that said you’re not welcome here.

“Again,” You say flatly, shrugging out your jacket and stepping onto the mat.

Bucky’s jaw ticks. “Thought you’d had enough yesterday when I put you on your ass.”

Your lip twitches. “I slipped.”

“Sure you did.”

He circles you slowly, assessing. His arms are relaxed at his sides but you’re not fooled. He’s reading your stance, waiting for your weight to shift, for your hips to square. You’d be insulted if you weren’t doing the exact same thing. You lunge first, test him. He blocks it easily, metal arm catching your strike mid-air. You twist, pivoting into a sweep that nearly clips his ankle, but he hops back with a grunt.

“Getting slower, Barnes,” You mutter.

“You talk a lot for someone who hasn’t landed a hit all week.”

The sparring sessions had started as training. Then they became contests. Now, it was just war. He didn’t like the way you fought. It was too sharp, too efficient. You didn’t like the way he looked at you, like he recognized something he hated in himself.

You fake going left and land a solid elbow to his ribs on the right. The air leaves him in a hiss. He recovers fast, but not fast enough to stop the cocky grin that pulls at your mouth.

“Gotcha.”

He narrows his eyes. “Beginner’s luck.”

He rushes you, sudden and aggressive. For a moment, you're toe-to-toe, exchanging blows with brutal precision. Metal arm meets gloved knuckles. You both move like predators. Mirrored, practiced, and too much history in your blood to fight sloppy. Eventually, you end up on your back, panting, his knee pinning your chest, breath hot against your cheek.

“Yield,” He growls.

Your fingers flex against the mat. “Not a chance.”

He hesitates for a beat too long and that’s when you slam your forehead into his nose. He yelps, a very undignified sound you wish you had recorded, and rolls off with a curse, cradling his face.

You scramble to your feet, wincing slightly from the impact. “You get distracted too easily.”

He looks up, eyes narrowed, blood trailing from his nose. “You’re insane.”

You toss him a towel. “Takes one to know one.”

For a moment, the room goes quiet, both of you catching your breath. Then he says, “They trained you like me, didn’t they?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

“I can tell,” He continues, voice lower now. “You fight like you’re not allowed to lose. Like you don’t know what it means to stop.”

Your jaw tightens. “Then stop underestimating me.”

“I don’t,” He says quietly. “That’s the problem.”

The air shifts. Charged and uneasy as you both stand there, bruised and sweaty. Too close and too silent. Then Steve’s voice cuts in from the hallway.

“Good session, you two.”

You step back. Bucky wipes his nose. Neither of you says another word. But the next day, he’s already waiting on the mat before you get there. And he doesn’t hold back anymore.

-

The compound is quiet at midnight. The kind of stillness that wraps around you and presses into your bones. You slip into the kitchen in your sweats, body sore from training, head still buzzing from the adrenaline you never quite know how to shake. You don’t bother turning the lights on.

The fridge hums in the background. The tile is cold beneath your feet as you reach for the kettle. Then-

“You always drink tea like you're in a British spy movie, or is this just your midnight ritual?”

Your spine stiffens. You recognize the voice behind you, of course you do. But you don’t turn around, acknowledging him in a flat tone. “Barnes.”

“Didn't peg you for the insomnia type.”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s leaning in the doorway like he owns the room. Loose black t-shirt. Arms crossed. Shadows catch the angles of his face just enough to make his scowl look carved.

You gesture at the kettle. “Some of us have things on our mind.”

He steps into the kitchen, walking past you to open the cabinet above your head. You don’t move from your spot. He reaches over you, brushing against your shoulder on purpose, you’re sure. His body heat trails behind him like a warning.

“Stealing my tea now?” You ask flatly.

“You took my towel earlier.”

“You were bleeding on it.”

“I was using it.”

You roll your eyes and pour the hot water into two mismatched mugs. He raises an eyebrow when you slide one over.

“Poisoned?”

“Not yet.”

You both sip in silence as the fluorescent light over the sink flickers. He leans against the counter across from you, sipping slowly as he watches you. He always watches like he’s looking for something, maybe cracks in your walls.

“You always like this?” He asks.

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

“Walled off and sharp edges. Acting like you don’t need anyone.”

Your jaw tightens, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Better than acting like you used to be someone else.”

His expression darkens. The silence stretches. You should apologize, but don’t.

“Right,” He mutters, setting the mug down. “Guess we’re both good at pretending.”

You don’t look at him, but your voice comes quieter than intended. “Maybe we don’t know how to stop.”

He hesitates, and you notice something shift in his tone.

“You hit hard,” He says.

“You go easy on me.”

He scoffs. “I don’t go easy on anyone.”

You glance up at him. “Then maybe I hit harder than you expected.”

His lips twitch, just slightly. “Maybe.”

You stand there for a moment, two supersoldiers in the dead of night, staring at each other over mugs of tea like it’s some kind of game neither of you knows the rules to.

Then he says, voice lower now, “You’re not like them.”

You blink. “Them?”

“Soldiers. The ones they send. You’re colder, smarter. Meaner.”

You smirk. “Flatter me some more, Barnes.”

“I’m saying I know what it feels like to be made for war and expected to act like a person afterward.”

Something sinks in your chest. Deeper than you want it to.

“You think I’m not a person?” You ask.

He looks straight at you. “I think you’re trying real hard not to be.”

That lands too accurately. Way too close to the bone. You grip the mug a little tighter. He notices, but doesn’t push.

“I’m going to bed,” You mutter, setting the mug down.

As you pass him, his voice follows.

“Don’t forget tomorrow. Training at seven.”

You pause in your tracks, glancing back at him with narrowed eyes.

“You trying to kill me?”

“No,” He says with a ghost of a grin. “If I was, you’d already be dead.”

You smirk just a little. “Maybe you’re getting slow.”

His smile fades, but something warm lingers in his eyes.

“You wish.”

And for the first time, your heartbeat feels less like a threat, and more like a dare you don’t know whether to act upon.

-

The comms crackle in your ear as the wind howls around the rooftop. Rain slicks the concrete beneath your boots. Below, the city lights blur and flicker, distorted by smoke, shadows, and chaos.

The mission was to apprehend the target then turn them in. A simple in and out. Something you should have been able to complete with ease.

But you had been ambushed.

You skid across the rooftop, breathe ragged, blood sticky under your ribs. Something’s broken, probably more than one thing, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Bucky’s voice cuts through the storm as he calls your name, sharp and commanding, “You’re heading for the west corner. That fire escape’s blown out. Stop moving.”

You ignore him. Every second wasted is another second the target might vanish. You need to cut them off. You need to move.

“Damn it—”

The roof crumbles under your weight. You drop.

It’s not far, three stories, maybe, but pain flares bright as you hit a ledge hard, the edge of it catching your side with a crunch. You roll, barely catching yourself before you slide off completely.

And then he’s there. Hands on your arms. Dragging you up, fast, rough, and angry.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Bucky’s face is too close, eyes wide, rain streaking through his hair. “You were told to pull back!”

“I had them!” You wheeze, swallowing the metallic taste of blood. “We can’t let them run-“

“You can’t breathe.”

You try to shake him off. He doesn’t let go.

You hiss, teeth gritting, “I didn’t need your help.”

“That’s not what it looked like when you were halfway to death’s door.”

His grip tightens on your arms, but it’s not pain he’s trying to inflict. It’s panic he’s trying to hide. His metal hand is cold from the rain and trembling just slightly. You hate that you notice.

You turn your face away. “I’ve survived worse.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is it?”

“That I care, damn it!”

The words slip out hot and ragged, louder than the rain.

You freeze and so does he.

The only sound for a moment is the wind, and your breath, shallow and uneven between you. His hands drop away from your arms slowly, like he’s just realizing he touched you at all.

He backs up a step. “Forget it.”

You stare at him, stunned. Blood is still soaking through your shirt, but your heart is thudding hard behind your ribs and not from the pain.

“You care,” You echo quietly, almost like a question.

He exhales, clearly frustrated and embarrassed. “Forget I said anything.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“I didn’t want to.”

You look at him. Really look. There’s a flicker of something soft beneath all that steel. Vulnerability edged with guilt. It’s the one of the first times he’s looked at you without his guard up. It’s one of the first times you’ve looked at him without wanting to hit him.

“You should’ve let me fall,” You whisper.

He shakes his head. “No. I shouldn’t have.”

He pauses for a moment before adding:

“And I wouldn’t have.”

You say nothing as he steps closer. He doesn’t touch you this time. Doesn’t need to. But his voice drops to a murmur only you can hear, “You don’t have to keep proving you don’t need anyone. I already know you don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere.”

You hate how much it rattles you. You hate that you believe him. You lower your gaze to your hand, still bloodied, still shaking slightly from adrenaline.

When you speak again, your voice is barely audible.

“Help me back up.”

He does.

This time, his hand stays in yours longer than necessary. And neither of you lets go first.

-

You hate medical bays. Always have. Sterile light. Quiet beeping. That faint scent of alcohol and regret. You had shooed away the staff, saying you could do it yourself and would call if you needed anything.

You sit on the edge of the bed, shirt peeled halfway off, bruises blooming violet-black across your ribs, blood crusted at your temple. You’ve already tried to patch yourself up, but your hands won’t stop shaking and the gauze keeps slipping.

Bucky walks in without knocking.

You glare up at him. “Ever heard of privacy?”

He tosses a med kit onto the table and takes off his jacket. “You lost that privilege when you almost threw yourself off a roof.”

You scoff, but don't argue.

He opens the kit, pulling out antiseptic and gauze, and stands between your knees without asking. You don’t stop him even though you should, his admission earlier still echoing in your mind.

He dips the cotton in alcohol. “This is going to hurt.”

“I’m not new.”

He raises a brow. “Then stop flinching.”

You open your mouth to snap something back but he presses the soaked cotton against the gash on your side before you can, and pain sparks like electricity up your spine. Your hand shoots out instinctively and grips his arm. You feel the muscles tense under your fingers.

“Still not flinching?” He murmurs.

You grit your teeth. “Screw you.”

His lips twitch, barely.

The silence that follows is tight and thick, like something fragile stretched to the edge of breaking. His hand moves gently now, slower, wiping away blood. His touch is careful in a way that makes your chest ache more than your ribs.

You glance up at him. He’s too close. And he’s not looking at the wound anymore, he’s looking at you.

You could lean in. Just a little. You could close that impossible space and finally… you don’t. He doesn’t either.

Instead, he murmurs, “You don’t take care of yourself.”

You look away. “Don’t need to.”

“Bullshit.” His voice is low. Angry. Not at you, at whatever taught you to think like that. “You treat your body like it’s disposable.”

“Maybe it is.”

The silence that falls after that isn’t the kind you fill. It’s the kind that hurts.

He gently presses a bandage against your ribs, then tapes it in place. His fingers linger on your skin for a moment longer than necessary.

“You’re not disposable,” He says quietly. “Not to me.”

You freeze. There he goes again.

The air shifts. Then you do something you didn’t expect, you reach out and touch his jaw. Just two fingers, gently as if to test the weight of your own choice.

He doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t move closer, either. You draw your hand back like the moment never happened. But it did.

“I’ll change the dressing tomorrow,” He says, voice rough.

“I’ll be fine,” You reply, just as quiet.

He turns to leave before stopping in the doorway.

“You don’t have to keep doing things alone,” He says without turning around, and then he’s gone.

You sit there for a long time after. Holding your breath like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling.

-

As time passes and you’re assigned to go on more missions, the tension between you and him builds for better or worse.

You had recently returned from a solo mission. The compound is quiet, but the air inside the training room crackles with something volatile. You slam the door behind you, furious.

And he’s already there. Bucky’s pacing with his gloves off and shirt clinging to his back. His jaw is tight and his hands are fisted like he’s been holding back from punching something or someone.

“I told you,” He growls, not even looking at you, “Not to go in alone.”

“I handled it.”

“You were shot.”

“I’ve been shot before.”

He spins on you, blue eyes wild. “That doesn’t mean it’s fine!”

You throw your bag down, with a frustrated sigh. “Why do you even care, Barnes?”

He’s on you in seconds; closer than he should be, breathe sharp with adrenaline and frustration.

“Because I’m tired of watching you bleed for people who wouldn’t do the same for you!”

“You think I don’t know that?” You snap. “You think I don’t feel that, every time I’m stitched up in some cold-ass medical bay while everyone else celebrates the win?”

His face is stone, but his eyes… God, his eyes are raw.

“Then why?” He demands. “Why keep doing it? Why keep throwing yourself at the fire when you know no one’s coming to pull you out?”

You try to shove him hard, but doesn’t move. You hate that he cares. You hate that he can’t just ignore you and view you as a tool like everyone else. When you go to answer, your voice is loud and it cracks:

“Because I don’t know how to stop!”

There it is. The silence after that is explosive. You’re both breathing hard, staring at each other. Daring the other to say something that will break the last barrier you’ve both kept between yourselves. That fragile, stupid boundary you’ve both pretended exists.

He takes a step forward and you match him.

His voice drops, dangerous. “You think I don’t see it? How you act like you hate me, just to keep from admitting you don’t?”

Your heart kicks into your ribs. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know you fight me harder than you fight anyone else.”

“Maybe because you deserve it.”

His jaw flexes. “Or maybe because you’re scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of wanting something real.”

You watches you flinch like he hit you, but he doesn’t back down. “You act like I’m the enemy, like pushing me away makes you stronger, but every time you fall, you look for me. Don’t lie.”

You swallow hard. “Don’t act like you don’t do the same.”

You’re chest to chest now. The air is boiling. You can feel the heat coming off his skin. Your hand is still curled in the fabric of his shirt from when you shoved him, but you haven’t let go.

He looks at your mouth and you look at his. The moment stretches before it breaks.

“You want to hate me?” He breathes. “Then say it.”

You stare at him, trembling now.

Say it, You tell yourself. End it. Push him away for good.

But the words won’t come. Instead, you whisper, too soft, too vulnerable:

“I don’t.”

That’s all it takes.

His mouth crashes into yours like a dam breaking. Like something starved, angry, desperate. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers in his hair. His hands grips your waist, then your back, then your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold all of you at once.

It’s not gentle. It’s not clean. It’s everything you’ve both tried not to feel. But it’s real.

When you finally pull back, barely, his forehead rests against yours. No words are shared. Just slow shaky breathing and the terrifying, undeniable truth:

You don’t hate each other. You never did.

⋆༺The One You Don’t See༻⋆

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: An ongoing story following you, the quiet presence who keeps everything running, always helping but never truly seen or included. Not by Bucky, not by the rest of the Avengers, not even by your own coworkers. You’re simply the quiet, unseen support: diligent, unnoticed, and ultimately forgotten.  Disclaimer & A/N: This little series is still WIP, so the summary is left relatively vague as to not give out spoilers. There may also be more than four parts.

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi

Main Masterlist

⪼----➢ Chapter 1: Always There, Never Seen

⪼----➢ Chapter 2: The Weight of Being Forgettable

⪼----➢ Chapter 3: The Side That Noticed

⪼----➢ Chapter 4

WIP.

Laptop Warfare

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

Word Count: 1k+

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

Main Masterlist

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

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

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

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

“Don’t.”

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

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

He narrowed his eyes.

“I mean it.”

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

Then plop.

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

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

“No- hey! I didn’t save that!”

Bucky leaned over, trying to gently lift you off.

You melted into the keyboard like wet spaghetti.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

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

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

“That’s it.”

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

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

The sip he was halfway to taking halted midair.

“Are you serious?”

You purred and licked your paw.

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

You blinked. Slowly. Smug.

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

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

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

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

“…You writing reports by hand now?”

“She won’t let me type.”

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

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

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

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

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

By the next morning, you were still a cat.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t even think about it.”

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

Bucky sighed and dropped his forehead onto the table.

You purred.

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

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

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

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

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

“…Still refusing to shift back, huh?”

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

Tony smirked. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“I tried to out-stubborn her.”

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

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

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

“Oh no,” Bucky groaned.

Tony moved the dot slowly across the floor.

You stared. You stalked.

Tony flicked it once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It closed his report.

Again.

Bucky looked up slowly, jaw clenched.

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

He stared for a long, long second.

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

You meowed.

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

hii!

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

thanks alot💕

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

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

Yearning Warmth

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

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

Word Count: 1.5k+

Main Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But something was different lately.

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

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

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

“You always need sleep more than me.”

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

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

“Comes with being human,” You teased gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked up. “I’m proud of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When They Need You

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

Summary: Steve has been having a rough day, trying to hide his exhaustion from Bucky and you, but you can tell something’s off. In your little headspace, you take it upon yourself to comfort him, offering him a stuffed bear, sharing your favorite snack, and gently inviting him for cuddles. 

Word Count: 1k+

A/N: I also realized I’ve been writing too much fluff, too much happiness. Needed some variety to balance it out lol. Remember! You are responsible for the media you consume.

Main Masterlist

It was a quiet evening, the kind that stretched longer than usual as the golden hues of sunset slowly faded into dusk. You sat cross-legged on the couch, a blanket thrown over your legs, surrounded by your stuffed animals, a cup of juice resting beside you. The soft hum of the TV played in the background, but your attention was elsewhere. Steve had been unusually quiet all day. He’d been frowning when you saw him, his voice a little lower, his steps a little heavier. It wasn’t like him at all.

You hadn’t asked, but you could tell something was wrong.

Bucky had noticed, too, though he’d been the one keeping his distance, busy with his own tasks in the living room. He’d been giving Steve space, just like Steve liked when he had a bad day, but that didn’t stop Bucky from throwing occasional glances at his partner. His eyes filled with worry and concern made it clear he, too, was picking up on it.

The silence finally broke when Steve settled on the couch beside you. He let out a deep sigh, trying to hide the exhaustion on his face with a forced smile. “Hey, kiddo,” he said softly, his voice strained. “How’s my favorite little star?”

You didn’t buy it. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, and the way his shoulders slumped was something you’d seen in the past when he was trying to hide something from you. He was good at it, but not good enough to fool you.

You scooted closer to him, sensing his discomfort. “You okay…?” You asked, tilting your head, not fully regressed but definitely in a tender little space. You didn’t speak much when you were in these moments, but you were always in tune with their moods.

He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Bucky before giving you a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah, sweetheart. Just… tired, I guess.”

Bucky, who’d been standing nearby, noticed the exchange. He stepped closer, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “He’s been a little off all day,” Bucky explained quietly, trying to keep it light. “You think you could cheer him up, princess?”

You looked between Steve and Bucky for a moment, then nodded. They were your family, your safe place. You always wanted to make sure they were happy and taken care of, just like they did for you. There was no question about it. You knew you could help, in your own little way.

Moving off the couch and going over to your pile of stuffed animals, you pulled out one of your favorite bears, the one with the soft, patchy fur and the little bowtie that was starting to fray at the edges. You walked back to the couch and held it out to Steve with both hands, your eyes wide and full of affection. “Patches is here, Papa,” You said, your voice sweet and comforting. “He makes people feel better.”

Steve chuckled quietly, his eyes softening as he took the bear from you. He squeezed it slightly, a little sigh of relief escaping him. “Thanks, kiddo,” He muttered. The bear was a small gesture, but it seemed to soothe him more than he let on.

You weren’t done, though. You noticed the faint bags under his eyes, the way his fingers fidgeted with the bear’s ears. That was your cue. You reached over to the coffee table, where one of your caregivers had set out a small bowl of goldfish crackers earlier, and grabbed the edge of the bowl. You gently nudged the bowl towards him, offering the snack like it was the most important thing in the world.

“Want some?” You asked with a little smile, your voice hopeful. “Goldfish make you smile.”

Steve’s lips twitched at the corner, a faint smile tugging at them. He reached forward slowly, taking a few of the crackers, his fingers brushing against yours. You watched him with a hopeful gaze, waiting for his reaction. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just chewed thoughtfully, but when he looked at you again, the weight in his eyes seemed to lift slightly.

“They do, huh?” He said with a soft laugh, as if it was the first real laugh he'd had all day.

You nodded seriously, making sure he understood the importance of snacks in lifting a mood. “Uh-huh. And cuddles too.”

At your words, Bucky chuckled softly and sat down on the couch and pulled you close to him with one arm. You felt his steady heartbeat next to you, the way his chest rose and fell in that reassuring, comforting rhythm.

With a gentle hand, you reached out for Steve’s hand, tugging it lightly. “You come cuddle too?” You asked quietly, not demanding but gently offering. You’d seen how Steve and Bucky needed affection in their own way, and sometimes, just being close was enough.

Steve’s smile grew a little wider as he glanced at Bucky, who just nodded, a silent encouragement. Slowly, Steve shifted, inching toward the two of you. He sat with his back against the couch, pulling you between him and Bucky, your head resting on his chest and your legs tangled with theirs.

Bucky wrapped his arm around you tighter while Steve found his place to cuddle you closer. For a long moment, the three of you just sat there in quiet comfort. You felt their tension start to melt away, slowly but surely, the weight of the day lifting in the warmth of each other’s presence.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Steve whispered after a while, his voice softer than before. “I feel better just being with you two.”

You smiled sleepily, your eyes drifting half-closed as the peaceful feeling of being surrounded by love made your own worries fade. “We always take care of each other,” You murmured, your voice drowsy now.

Bucky kissed the top of your head, his voice low and steady. “That’s right. And we’ve got you, always.”

And as you rested there, between Steve’s comforting warmth and Bucky’s steady presence, you realized you didn’t need to do much more than just be there. Because sometimes just being there is enough to lift up anyone’s day.

Borrowed Gifts, Steadfast Love

Summary: You accidentally trigger a moment of amnesia in Bucky after giving him precognition during training. In the aftermath, Bucky, gentle and vulnerable in his confusion, asks if you’re someone important to him. When his memory returns, the two of you gradually confess what you’ve both been holding back. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the ability to temporarily bestow powers to other people.

Word Count: 3.5k+

A/N: It has been a while since I’ve had something for this series. Though, I’ve mostly covered my favorites so far, so I’ll need to brainstorm ideas for other abilities lol. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You had a rare and unnerving gift. One that terrified some of the Avengers more than it reassured them. With a touch, you could grant powers to others. Temporarily. Specific abilities, curated like items on a menu but always with a cost. The more potent the power, the more unpredictable the side effects. Some people got migraines. Others felt emotionally drained. And a few… well, a few forgot their names for an hour or two.

That last one had landed Tony flat on his back once, insisting he was a ballet dancer named Cheryl.

You hadn’t been born with powers yourself. You were experimented on briefly, in your early teens by a defunct program obsessed with replicating the abilities of others. Their tests failed to give you any power of your own. Instead, your body became a kind of channel, like a living transmitter. You couldn’t fly, lift tanks, or shoot lasers but you could let someone else do it. For a while. Ten minutes, fifteen if you really focused. Maybe twenty, but that always came with a nosebleed or worse.

SHIELD picked you up after the facility fell, though you never quite belonged in the field the same way the others did. You weren’t a soldier. You were a tool they deployed when someone needed an extra edge.

Bucky Barnes was one of the few who treated you like more than that.

You met him a year after he rejoined the Avengers, still finding his footing in a world that changed too fast. At first, he was quiet and standoffish, not unlike you. People like Steve and Sam tried to loop you in with group dinners, training sessions, or "team bonding" game nights that only made you feel more like a guest in someone else’s home. But Bucky? He never pressured you. He saw your silences and matched them. Sat next to you on the sidelines without needing to fill the air. Slowly, like frost melting under careful sun, you two grew close.

You trained together sometimes. Your power fascinated him in a way you didn’t expect. He’d ask questions no one else thought to: Did it hurt you? Did the powers you gave others come from somewhere, or from you? Could you give him one and take it back before it fully formed?

He was the first one to ask if you liked using your powers.

Most people just expected you were fine with it, already having some idea of what you were supposed to like, do, or be. But you never felt that pressure nor those expectations with him.

Therefore, you spent more time together after that. Coffee in the kitchen before morning briefings. Patrolling side by side, because he said he liked your “measured pace.” Evenings where you’d sit outside on the Tower balcony and he’d talk about Brooklyn before the war, or ask you what it felt like to see someone else use what wasn’t truly theirs. Sometimes you didn’t answer. Sometimes you did. Regardless, he never pushed.

Even with these shared moments, you didn’t dare name whatever was forming between you. Not yet. There was comfort in the undefined, in the quiet understanding between two people still trying to trust themselves again. You weren’t healed, but neither was he. However, you were there and that mattered.

The only time he ever raised an eyebrow was the day he caught you sketching in the rec room. It was an old habit you formed from before the facility, something you rarely indulged in. You tried to hide the notepad, but he saw it before you could. You were fully prepared to defend yourself.

Until he saw the page. A portrait of him. Focused. Sharp lines. Gentle shading.

He didn’t tease you.

He just said, “You made me look like someone worth drawing.”

You had to look away.

“I draw things I don’t want to forget,” You whispered.

That moment hung between you like an unspoken truth. One neither of you were ready to face. Not yet. Not until later. Not until the day you gave Bucky the ability to see a few seconds into the future and he forgot the past. Including you.

It started with a sparring match.

You weren’t planning to use your powers. You rarely did in training, unless asked. But Bucky was frustrated and off his rhythm. He was distracted and getting increasingly impatient with himself. You’d watched from the edge of the mat as he shook out his shoulders, jaw tight, and muttering curses under his breath.

“Want to cheat?” You asked, casually tossing him a water bottle. “I’m offering a limited-time preview of danger-dodging.”

He arched a brow. “What, like Spider-sense?”

“Closer to precognition. A few seconds ahead.” You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “Enough to give you an edge.”

He hesitated. You could see the thought wheels grinding behind his eyes, then he stepped forward and extended his hand. “Hit me with it.”

You reached up and pressed two fingers gently to the side of his neck, just under his jawline. A safer place than the wrist, less prone to backlash. A flicker of gold shimmered under your skin, then transferred into his.

“There. Ten minutes. You’ll feel it kick in.”

He blinked, eyes fluttering slightly, then his pupils dilated. His stance changed instantly into something more grounded. Lighter and alert. You backed up and watched as Sam moved in to spar with him, a little too eager to knock Bucky off his game.

But Bucky didn’t miss a beat.

He dodged Sam’s attacks before they landed, twisting just out of reach, predicting moves before they were even made. You saw Sam frown. Then grin. “Okay, okay, cheating is kind of cool.”

“Don’t get used to it,” You warned, arms crossed, already feeling the beginnings of a tension headache.

Everything was going fine until the timer ran out.

You didn’t notice right away. Bucky had stepped back, grabbing a towel and breathing a little hard. But then you saw him frown, glance around the gym like something was wrong. Like the lights were too bright. Or the air too thin.

“Bucky?” You asked cautiously.

He turned to you and blinked, staring at you like you were a stranger. Not the kind he feared, not someone threatening, just someone whose shape should’ve meant something. His brow furrowed like your presence itched at the back of his brain, like a song he almost remembered.

“Sorry,” He said again, voice quiet. “You look… familiar.”

You gave a tight smile, hiding the panic behind your eyes. “It’s okay. You’ve had a bit of a power hangover.”

“Power?” He looked down at his hands, then flexed his vibranium fingers. “Did I… hurt someone?”

“No. You were training. You asked me to give you a temporary ability.” You moved in front of him, trying to keep your voice steady. “Precognition. It lets you sense movements a few seconds ahead. You handled it like a pro.”

“Guess I didn’t handle it that well,” He said with a weak, lopsided smirk. Then his smile faded. “I really don’t remember.”

He sounded more concerned now. Not panicked yet, just… vulnerable. That was rare for him, especially in front of others. But now, it was like something raw had surfaced under his skin. The carefully constructed guard he wore every day had holes punched through it, and he didn’t know why.

You glanced to the training room door, where Sam was now standing uncertainly with a towel slung around his neck, unsure whether to intervene. You gave him a small shake of your head. This wasn’t something that needed a team.

“Come sit,” You murmured, gently taking Bucky’s arm and guiding him to a bench in the corner. He followed without resistance, like you were the only thing anchoring him.

Once seated, he studied your face for a long moment. His eyes were softer than usual, curious and searching. Like he wanted to remember you but didn’t know how.

“So we… know each other?” He asked carefully.

You nodded. “We work together. Trained together. Talked… a lot.”

He tilted his head. “Are we… close?”

Your throat tightened. “Yes.”

There was a long beat, and then, completely sincere, he asked, “Are we dating?”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“I’m just asking,” He said, sheepish but oddly confident in a way the real Bucky never was. “You seem like someone I’d… want to be close to.”

Your heart jumped into your throat. He doesn’t remember you, You reminded yourself. He’s just reaching for familiarity. Don’t fall for the illusion.

Still, you answered, “No. We’re not.”

Bucky looked disappointed, genuinely. “Are you sure?”

You gave him a half-hearted glare. “Even amnesiac, you’re a flirt.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t feel like me. It’s like I’m dreaming with my eyes open.” He looked down at his hands again. “I hate this.”

“I know. And it’ll wear off. Soon.”

He turned back to you, brow knitting. “You said you gave me a power? You… can do that?”

“I can lend them out. For a short time. Sometimes there are… side effects.” You hesitated. “You usually remember everything just fine.”

“Usually,” He echoed. “Lucky me.”

“I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His eyes lifted back to yours again. “You said my name.”

You smiled softly. “Yeah.”

He blinked slowly, taking that in. “And yours is…?”

You gave him your name and he repeated it quietly. The way he said it nearly undid you. It was gentle in the way as if he wanted to commit it to memory now, before it slipped through his fingers again.

“I don’t want to forget you,” He whispered, without thinking.

Your breath caught. You reached out then, almost instinctively, placed your hand over his.

“I won’t let you. I’m going to fix it,” You promised quietly. “Just… give me a minute.”

It took concentration, channeling the right counterbalance of power, guiding a mild recall ability through touch. When your hand met his again, you saw flickers of your face, training sessions, shared coffee. The sketch. His smile when he saw it. His voice, gentle and real: “You made me look like someone worth drawing.”

And then, the power flickered back before either of you were ready.

One moment, Bucky was holding your gaze like he was memorizing every detail of your eyes, your name, and the warmth of your hand covering his. Then the next, his fingers twitched beneath yours and his breath caught.

You saw it in his expression immediately.

Like a floodgate creaking open too fast, memory rushed back into his mind. You watched him blink once, twice, his face flickering through confusion, realization, then… guilt.

“It’s you,” He said softly.

You nodded slowly, afraid to speak first.

He sat up straighter, pulled his hand from under yours. Not harshly, but more so like he was grounding himself. His brows furrowed as his eyes darted around the training room, checking every shadow, and every sound. You could see his instincts coming back online.

“I remember,” He said.

Your shoulders slumped slightly. Relief mixed with… something sharper. A part of you had cherished that fragile, disarmed version of him. It felt wrong to miss it, but you did.

“I’m sorry,” You said. “I should’ve stopped the transfer sooner or done something-“

“No,” He interrupted quickly, looking at you again. “Don’t. Don’t blame yourself. I asked for it. You warned me. And besides, I’ve had worse side effects from coffee.”

You huffed a breath of dry amusement, though you didn’t quite smile.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you. “What… did I say?”

Your eyes dropped to the mat. “Nothing terrible. Just…” You fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve. “You forgot me. Asked who I was and if we worked together.”

“And?”

“And then you asked if we were dating.”

He stiffened slightly. “Did I?”

“Mm-hm.” You tried to play it off lightly. “You also asked if you hurt anyone, so clearly your priorities were intact.”

He didn’t laugh. He was still watching you too carefully. “And what did you say?”

“That we weren’t.”

He tilted his head. “And was I disappointed?”

You hesitated, wondering why he would ask that. “You said… I seemed like someone you’d want to be close to.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. Then: “I wasn’t wrong.”

Your eyes lifted to his, startled. There was something cautious in his voice, yes, but it was also honest. Maybe that amnesiac version of him didn’t just say things out of confusion. Maybe it said things he usually didn’t let himself say.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” You murmured, voice quieter now, rawer. “But… I didn’t hate it. Sitting with you. Talking without all the walls.”

His jaw tensed, eyes flicking down for a beat. “I don’t always know how to be soft on purpose,” He admitted. “But I want to, with you.”

A long silence stretched between you. And then, slowly, he offered you his hand. Not out of confusion. Not because of borrowed power. Just his hand. Open, steady, and inviting.

You took it.

“I may not remember everything at times,” He said quietly. “But I won’t forget that part.”

You gave a small nod, sitting in silence with him for a moment. Reality slowly began to creep back in like a fog settling over warm ground. The gym lights felt too bright. The air too still. Sam had already quietly slipped out, leaving the two of you alone to untangle the strange, fragile thread left behind by the power’s fading echo.

So, you made the decision to stand slowly, brushing your palms on your pants as Bucky followed suit.

Neither of you quite knew what to say. The rawness of the moment still lingered between you like something unspoken, and neither of you dared break it yet.

“I should… probably check in with Bruce,” You muttered. “Make sure there aren’t any lingering neurological disruptions. It’s been a while since I gave someone that particular ability.”

Bucky nodded. “Right, yeah. I’ll shower. Try to not stare into space too long.”

You huffed softly. “Good plan.”

Then came that moment, the moment. The one where your eyes met just before you both turned away. You caught a flicker in his gaze, something he wanted to say but didn’t. Something you wanted to hear, but couldn’t ask for. So instead, you both retreated to your corners of the compound.

-

In your room, you sat cross-legged on your bed with a cold compress on your forehead, scrolling through your tablet with one hand and letting the other rest uselessly in your lap. You weren’t reading anything. Not really.

Your mind was stuck in the echo chamber of You seem like someone I’d want to be close to and Maybe you should’ve said not yet.

You told yourself not to read into it. It was just scrambled-brain honesty. He wasn’t thinking straight. People say things when they forget their walls.

Still… he remembered now. And he hadn’t pulled away.

You ran a hand through your hair and dropped your tablet on the bed, then stared out the window. The sky had shifted from orange to deep navy. The tower was quiet. Too quiet.

Meanwhile in Bucky’s quarters, he had showered and dried off. Now sitting on the edge of his bed in sweats and a black T-shirt, staring at the cup of water he hadn’t touched.

His mind replayed the way your hand had felt in his. The nervous quirk of your mouth. The devastation in your eyes when he didn’t remember your name. The tenderness when he did.

He knew what he wanted to say. He had known it for a while. But now it felt like the air was thinner around you. Charged. He wasn’t sure if that was because of the power or because it exposed something deeper between you. Something neither of you had dared voice before.

He stood, opened his door, and walked down the quiet hall. Looking to end up in the one place he hoped you’d be.

-

Later that night, you were sitting alone on one of your favorite balconies, legs pulled up to your chest, and the air cool against your skin.

A quiet shuffle of boots sounded behind you.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Bucky settled down beside you, offering a second cup of tea. You took it without question.

“I keep thinking,” He said, “About how easily I forgot you. Like one wrong spark and poof.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

He nodded slowly. “Still… I don’t like that. I’ve worked so hard to build this life. The idea that someone could take a piece of it and I wouldn’t even know what was missing?”

Your fingers curled around your cup.

“I’ve spent years being forgettable,” You said. “By choice or by design. It’s safer that way, less… risky.”

Bucky turned his head to look at you. “You’re not forgettable to me.”

You finally met his eyes.

“I don’t care what kind of power tries to take that away. You’re not something I’d lose easily.”

And just like that, you didn’t feel like a tool anymore. You felt like someone worth remembering.

The night was hushed between the two of you, save for the faint hum of the city far below and the way Bucky’s thumb lightly tapped against his tea cup. Nervous energy. Not from fear, just hesitation. Like he was weighing each word before he let it out.

“I don’t want to forget you again,” He added quietly.

You watched him, and something in your expression whether it be gentle, surprised, or open, made him go still.

“Not from power backlash, not from time, not from fear. And if I’m being honest…” He trailed off, then exhaled. “I don’t want to waste time pretending you’re just a teammate. Or just someone who gives me an advantage in combat. You’re not that to me.”

You set your cup down slowly, the heat of it fading from your hands, replaced by the thrum of something warmer beneath your skin. “Then what am I?”

He looked at you fully and deliberately.

“You’re the person I look for in every room,” He said, voice low and sure. “The one I feel calm with. The one I trust when everything else gets loud in my head. You matter to me more than I’ve let myself admit.”

The words hit softly, like the first snow, but carried weight. Real and steady. You blinked, unsure if your heart had always beat this fast or if he’d just jump-started it.

“I thought maybe…” Your voice came out smaller than you expected. “If I let myself believe you might feel the same way, I’d mess everything up. That you’d need someone steadier. Someone who wouldn’t make you forget your own name when they touch you.”

His lips twitched into a quiet smile at that, but he didn’t joke. He didn’t downplay it. Instead, he leaned in slightly. His shoulders brushing yours.

“I won’t do anything unless you want me to. You’ve always given everyone else power. Maybe it’s time someone gave you the choice.”

There was no pressure in his tone, no coaxing. Just offering.

And something in you, long hidden and cautious, stirred.

You turned toward him fully, the dim light casting soft shadows across his features. You could see the tired but hopeful gleam in his eyes. You lifted one hand slowly, tracing your fingers along the line of his jaw, anchoring yourself in this moment.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” You admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then I’m all yours,” He replied, breath catching slightly as he leaned in.

You closed the gap.

The kiss was gentle at first. Something that could be described as cautious, exploratory, or like a question answered in a language both of you had forgotten how to speak. But then his hand came to rest at the side of your neck, warm and steady, and yours slid over his chest, feeling the weight of everything he wasn’t saying but always meant.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was better. It was safe, solid, and real.

When you both pulled back, neither of you spoke right away. But then Bucky’s voice broke the silence, low and steady:

“I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

Your lips quirked into the faintest smile. “Me too.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, almost reverent. “I don’t know what happens next,” He admitted, eyes meeting yours, vulnerable and unguarded. “But I know I want it with you.”

You nodded, fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt like you weren’t ready to let go. “Then stay. That’s all I need right now.”

A breeze stirred your hair, and he leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to your temple this time. Gentler, more certain.

“I’m not going anywhere,” He whispered.

And under the quiet sky, for the first time in a long while, you believed it.

The Way He Notices

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

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

Word Count: 1.3k+

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

The compound was too loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just noticed. And remembered.

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

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

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

Still, you stayed quiet. Hidden. Gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The grip of your hand tightened slightly.

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

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

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

A pause. Then, barely above a whisper:

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

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

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

Mischief Managed

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

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.

Word Count: 3k+

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It started small at first.

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

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

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

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

But Mischief noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Know what?”

“That you’ve got a good heart.”

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

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

“I’m not.”

You are.

“You scratched a loaf of bread.”

It deserved it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bonus:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Falling For You, Again and Again

Summary: Each time you "die" and return, you fall in love with Bucky all over again in different ways. Bucky sees a new version of you every time, but he’s always his same self. Each time, you both always find your ways back to each other, but you never know it's happened before. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power of immortality. However, each death erases your memory of what you knew and who you were before. ANGST.

Word Count: 2.6k+

A/N: I wasn’t even sure if I could classify this under this series. However, it’s still an enhanced ability. Also, I’m hoping y’all like this. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

The first time you came back to life, it took three days. You woke in a hospital morgue, shivering under a white sheet, the taste of salt and ash on your tongue. You had no memory of your name, no recollection of what had killed you, and no sense of identity.

The only thing you possessed was a quiet panic and the sharp, cold awareness that you should not be here. You stumbled out into the world with no guidance, no answers, and one inexplicable truth: you couldn’t die.

You learned the pattern eventually. Every time you died whether by accident or violence, sickness or sacrifice, you returned. The process was inconsistent though. Sometimes, it took hours. Other times, days or weeks. Each time, you emerged in your body just as it was before death, seemingly untouched… but your memories, every one of them, were stripped away.

You couldn’t remember the name of the man who’d died holding your hand on a battlefield. Or the child you once saved from drowning. Or the language you’d spoken fluently last time you were alive. Every death reset your soul like a blank canvas, and the world became something you had to re-learn.

Sometimes people told you things about who you were, where you’d been, but they felt like borrowed stories. You smiled politely. Pretended. Sometimes even fell in love with the past versions of yourself they described. But you never felt like her.

The only exception was him.

The first time you saw Bucky Barnes, it was in a coffee shop in D.C. You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know yours, either. He was sitting alone reading something dense and battered yet you were inexplicably drawn to him, like an invisible thread pulled you into his orbit. You stood in line behind him without realizing, your fingers twitching as if remembering a touch you’d never felt. He glanced back. His eyes locked on yours.

He stared like he’d seen a ghost.

You didn’t speak,not then but you sat across from him twenty minutes later because you felt you should. Because your heart beat faster when he smiled, and it shouldn’t have. Because he seemed to know you, and you… you wanted to know why.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” He asked, softly, one hand wrapped around a warm mug.

You shook your head. “I don’t even remember me.”

He swallowed hard, staring at the steam between you. “I think you’ve died again.”

You didn’t ask how he knew. You just believed him.

It was like that every time.

You’d die. Come back. Then forget.

And somehow, Bucky would find you. Or you’d find him. A different place. A different life. But the same pull. You might meet him at a bookstore, brushing fingertips over the same worn copy of Catch-22. Or in a combat zone, both fighting for someone else’s cause. Or on a rainy street corner where he offered you a shared umbrella without knowing if you’d remember him this time. Sometimes you’d fall in love quickly. Sometimes slowly. But always, deeply.

He tried not to hold on too tightly. He never told you too much too fast. He let you find your own path, even if it meant losing you all over again.

But every version of you looked at him like you’d known him forever. Every version of you fell in love with him, as if your soul remembered even when your mind couldn’t.

And that was the tragedy of it. For him, it was always a reunion. For you, it was always the beginning.

-

Rain fell in soft curtains over the city, blurring the glass of the bookstore window and washing the world into dull, dreamlike greys. Inside, the scent of old paper, dust, and aging wood filled the quiet. Bucky sat in the far corner, a thick book open in his lap, though he wasn’t really reading. His fingers had gone still on the page twenty minutes ago.

He’d spent the past eleven months scouring D.C. by checking shelters, hospitals, cafés, the Metro; anywhere someone who had nothing might go. Most of the time, you always seemed to come back near where you died, and though he didn’t know exactly where that had been this time, instinct had guided him here.

The bookstore had become his checkpoint. A place of stillness where he could let the anxiety press against his ribs without showing on his face. He came every Sunday, pretending to read, waiting for a flicker of something to pull the world back into motion.

Then the door opened.

The bell jingled, and cold air swept in, heavy with rain and city smoke. A figure stepped inside, hunched slightly with hair damp and clinging to their cheeks. You looked up, blinking against the light, eyes wide and searching.

Bucky went still.

You’d returned.

Even before you saw him, even before you reached for the books on the nearest shelf, he knew. It wasn’t just the way you looked even though your face never changed. It was something else. A tension in your posture. A flicker of familiarity in your eyes that didn’t belong to this version of you, not yet.

You drifted further into the store, trailing fingers over spines as though pulled by instinct. He stood slowly, book forgotten on the chair behind him, as his heart hammered in his chest.

Then, like fate nudging you into place, your hand stopped on a copy of Catch-22.

It was always that book.

You ran your hand over the cover like it meant something you couldn’t name before your gaze flickered over to his. “Have we met?” You asked in a soft and uncertain tone. “I’m sorry… I feel like I should know you.”

God, it hit him like a punch every time.

Bucky’s voice caught in his throat before he forced a quiet, “Yeah. We’ve met before.”

You smiled politely, a little nervous. But your eyes lingered on his face like they were trying to etch something into memory that didn’t exist yet. “Do you… do you know who I am?”

He nodded. “I do.”

And he wouldn’t say more, not yet. He never did. You needed to come to it in your own time. So he took a step back, gestured to the armchair in the reading corner. “Do you want to sit for a while?”

You blinked at him, then at the chair, as if the idea of resting had never occurred to you. Slowly, you nodded.

“I’d like that.”

You stayed for two hours. Browsing, reading, or asking cautious gentle questions that Bucky answered with care. You didn’t remember dying. You never did. But you’d woken up in a hospital two weeks ago, no ID, no fingerprints on file. A social worker had told you your memory loss might be trauma-induced. You didn’t tell them about the dreams, about the way your hands shook when you tried to sleep. Or how you sometimes stared at your reflection and didn’t feel like it belonged to you.

Bucky listened quietly, never once pressing. He never once was asking you to be someone you weren’t ready to become again.

And just before you left, you turned to him. “I know this sounds strange, but… I feel safe with you. Like I’ve known you before.”

He swallowed hard, nodding. “You have.”

You opened your mouth like you wanted to ask more but didn’t.

Instead, you said, “I think I’d like to see you again.”

He smiled. “I’ll be here.”

You hesitated one more moment, then added, “Maybe I’ll come back next week… and you can tell me a story.”

He watched you go, heart aching.

He had hundreds. All of them about you.

You came back the next Sunday, just like you said you would. Same bookstore with the same faint, hesitant smile. This time, your coat was dry and your hair was pulled back. There was a small bandage on your knuckle from some accident you wouldn’t remember. You hadn’t told Bucky that, but he noticed. He always noticed the small things.

The two of you sat in the corner by the fogged-up window, and Bucky brought you tea from the shop next door without asking what kind you liked. He already knew. You took it with a grateful murmur, sipping slowly before your eyes flickered up to him.

“You said last week that you knew me,” You spoke cautiously but curious. “How? Did we work together or…?”

He studied you for a moment, then looked down at the teacup in his hands. “Not work. We were close, for a long time.”

You tilted your head, watching him. “Were we… lovers?”

There it was. The question that always came eventually. He looked back up. Your expression wasn’t flirtatious, it was vulnerable. Searching.

“Yes,” He answered quietly. “Many times.”

Your breath hitched just a fraction. And then, “You say that like we’ve done this before.”

He hesitated. “Because we have.”

You stared, frowning. “Have what? Met?”

“Fallen in love.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. Then you looked down at your hands. “Is that why I feel… strange around you? Like I should be afraid to get too close, but also like I want to?”

“Probably,” He laughed softly. “Most versions of you have that same feeling. You never remember me, but something in you always recognizes me. I don’t know if it’s instinct, or your soul remembering, or just… whatever’s left behind.”

You were silent, absorbing that. Then, in a quiet voice, “How many times?”

Bucky met your eyes. “Forty-eight.”

You looked away sharply. “Forty-eight deaths.”

“That I know of.”

“And I don’t remember any of them?”

“No.”

You stared out the window, your fingers tightening around the mug. “Then how can you… how do you not hate me for forgetting?”

He leaned forward, voice steady. “Because I remember you. All of you, and because every version of you is worth meeting again.”

Tears welled up in your eyes without control as you wiped them quickly, embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t know why that made me-“

“It happens sometimes,” He reassured gently. “Your body remembers things your mind doesn’t. Emotions bleed through.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him and something in your chest ached. Something deep and familiar.

“Tell me a story,” You whispered. “Tell me something about her- about me. A version you knew.”

Bucky nodded.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small, battered notebook. The leather was fraying at the edges, the pages slightly warped from time and tears. He set it on the table, his hand resting on the cover.

“You used to hum in your sleep,” He said quietly. “Sometimes it was a lullaby, sometimes it was nothing at all. But it was always soft. And when you had nightmares or when the dreams got too heavy, you’d say my name before you woke up.”

You stared at the journal, transfixed.

Bucky’s voice didn’t tremble, but there was a break in it now. “That version of you was terrified of losing herself. You left notes, voice recordings, instructions. But every time you came back, you were still a stranger to yourself.”

You reached for the journal before you could stop yourself.

“Can I… read them?”

His hand remained on the cover for a moment longer, then he slowly slid it toward you.

“You can.”

You took it carefully. Reverently. Like it was something sacred.

Every time you left his world, he added another entry in that journal and kept it close with him. It was as if to keep a piece of you nearby when he couldn’t find you right away. The journal was heavier than it looked.

Not in weight, but in presence. It felt lived in, full of love and plagued with grief. You held it in your lap like something precious and terrifying, afraid that turning the page would tear a hole in your chest you didn’t know how to close.

You glanced up at Bucky. He hadn’t moved as he watched you with the quiet patience of someone who had waited through storms you couldn’t remember. You looked down again as your fingers brushed over the leather cover. There were marks, faint indents from a pen pressed too hard. Some pages were dog-eared. One corner had a smear of dried paint. Or maybe blood.

“I don’t understand,” You whispered. “Why would you keep doing this? Why would you…wait for me? For this?”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “Because even when it breaks me, you’re still worth every second I get.”

Your mouth opened slightly. No sound came out. Instead, you opened the journal.

The first page held a drawing. A sketch in faded pencil, your face, or someone who looked like you. The features were careful, practiced. You were looking down in the image, eyes shadowed, but peaceful. Beneath it, in neat handwriting:

11th time: She liked to paint near windows in sunlight. Said it made her feel alive. She told me to keep going, even when she was gone. I didn’t know how. Still don’t, but I’m trying.

Your heart pounded.

You turned the page.

31st time: She left me a voicemail before she died. Said if I ever found her again and she didn’t remember me, to tell her it was okay. That she was stronger than her forgetting. That love wasn’t something the body forgot, it was something that echoed in the soul and bones.

And the next:

42nd: She came back scared. She didn’t trust anyone, not even herself. But the second I said her name, she cried. She didn’t know why, just said it felt like home.

Your hand shook as you flipped further.

Tiny mementos were tucked inside throughout the journal. A movie ticket. A torn page from a crossword puzzle. A faded photo of the two of you, you laughing with your arms around him, eyes bright with a love you didn’t remember but suddenly longed for like oxygen.

And then… your voice.

Not now. Not this version. But one of you from before. It was a clipped audio, barely two minutes long, the file embedded into a tiny recorder taped to a page.

You pressed play.

“Hi. I know you’re me. Or some part of me. Or… maybe you’re someone entirely different now. That’s okay. You don’t have to remember everything. I just want you to know he’s safe. His voice is safe. His hands are safe. If you don’t remember anything else, remember that.”

You felt the sob before you heard it. Your hand flew to your mouth as your chest crumpled in on itself. You had said this. You had known you’d forget. And you’d wanted to leave yourself something, some thread to hold on to.

Across from you, Bucky didn’t speak. His eyes were glassy, but he didn’t interrupt. He never did. He let you come to him, always.

The journal was shaking in your hands. “I don’t know how to live like this,” You said, broken. “How can I be me if I’m always being rewritten?”

He leaned forward, voice low and certain. “Because no matter how many times the world erases you… you always find your way back.”

You looked at him again and something in you moved. A thread, a spark. Not a memory but an emotion. A warmth like sunlight through your body. It didn’t bring images, names, or facts. But it brought trust. Safety. The echo of something lost but not gone.

“Stay with me,” You pleaded in a whisper.

“I always do,” He said, steady.

And for the first time, in this lifetime, you reached for his hand. Not out of obligation. Not from the ghost of some former self. But because your heart, untouched by memory, still knew him.

And Bucky held on like he had every time before.