Echoes Of A Nobody

Heart First, Sanity Later

Summary: You, a dangerously chaotic genius with the common sense of a soggy spoon, somehow captures the heart of Bucky Barnes. Despite the constant emotional whiplash, raccoon-related injuries, and deeply cursed inventions, Bucky finds himself falling hard… somewhere between a Capri Sun intervention robot and a vent-related rescue. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: This was based on this post I came across from @ghouljams earlier. Please let me know if you want me to remove any of the information you listed here.

Word Count: 3.4k+

A/N: I had a blast writing this and I am begging on my hands and knees that other people like this as well so I can write more of unhinged reader. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Bucky didn’t mean to get attached. In fact, he very specifically meant not to get attached to you.

You, with your wide smile and increasingly concerning decision-making skills. You, who walked into a briefing ten minutes late with a Slurpee, claimed you got “time-displaced,” and then flawlessly identified the year, model, and VIN of a car from a blurry photo Tony handed out. “That’s a 1972 Chevelle SS,” You’d said casually. “But the rims are from a later model. 1976, I think.”

He stared at you. Everyone did.

You slurped. “What?”

Later, Bucky watched you put your phone in the fridge, forget about it, then ask him if he’d “seen a text from 7-Eleven recently.” You didn’t even seem high. That was the worst part. You just… existed like that. All the time.

A living contradiction. A walking cosmic joke. The human version of a browser with 72 tabs open, one playing music, none labeled, and all of them about wildly different topics ranging from “theoretical wormhole stability” to “can ducks feel shame.”

And the worst part? You were insanely good at your job.

When it came to the field, you moved like you’d choreographed every punch in advance. Like your brain hit a switch and rerouted all the loose marbles into sheer precision.

But outside of that? Absolute chaos.

One time you asked if the word “colonel” was a typo because you’d only ever read it.

"Why is it spelled like 'colon-el'?” You’d asked Bucky, eating popcorn with a throwing knife for apparently no reason. “Like. You’re telling me we all just agreed to ignore the 'L'?”

He blinked slowly. “Yes.”

“Sounds fake but okay.”

He wanted to strangle you. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to wrap you in a blanket and take you to a doctor because no one should eat four bananas and not know why their stomach hurts. (“I thought they were like… nature’s snack bars!” You’d wailed from the floor. “Why does nature lie?”)

Still, there was something undeniably magnetic about you. Something that made Bucky keep finding excuses to be around you. Something that made him bite back a smile when you declared, with utter confidence, that “Citizen Kane” was a man’s full name and you “felt bad for him growing up with that.”

Sam had to leave the room. Steve looked like he aged five years. Bucky? He just leaned back in his chair and muttered, “You’re so lucky you’re pretty.”

You beamed. “I know, right?”

And that was just the beginning.

-

Bucky knew it the moment you turned to him in the middle of a high-stakes infiltration and whispered:

“Hey. Do you think raccoons ever get embarrassed?”

He froze mid-step, crouched beside you behind a cluster of storage crates, both of you watching a Hydra compound patrol pace along the wall ahead. Guns primed. Comms live. Two minutes to breach.

You blinked at him, eyes wide and totally serious about the question in the entirely inappropriate setting.

“What?” He hissed.

You frowned thoughtfully, like he was the weird one. “They have those little hands, right? Like… what if one drops its snack in front of another raccoon. Is that, like, raccoon shame? Do they feel judged?”

Bucky stared. He wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating. It had been a long week after all.

Then you added, “Anyway, two guards approaching. They’ll pass each other in about four seconds. I can take the left. You want the one with the scar?”

You didn’t even wait for an answer. Your body vanished into the shadows, clean and calculated. Three seconds later, both guards were unconscious and being gently rolled into the bushes like unwanted pizza boxes.

Bucky just stood there, breathing. You terrified him but not in the way enemies did. No, that would be too simple. Because he could fight Hydra, take a bullet, disarm a bomb, but you?

You were something else. A walking contradiction.

You once tripped over your own shoelaces while explaining quantum theory, then beat four highly trained operatives unconscious with a clipboard. You called a Glock a “grippy lil’ pew stick” but recited the Geneva Convention word-for-word because you “liked bedtime reading.”

And tonight was no different.

By the time the mission was done, the intel recovered, and the building cleared, Bucky was sore, bruised, and fully convinced that he was doomed. Because somewhere between the absurd commentary, the flawless fighting, and the way you wiped blood from your brow and grinned at him like you weren’t covered in chaos, he felt it.

That thing. The awful, nauseating, heart-clutching feeling.

Affection.

It hit him in the middle of your post-mission debrief, which mostly consisted of you sitting on the quinjet floor, drinking chocolate milk out of a thermos and recounting the entire op like it was a cute story you were telling children.

“And then I was like, Bam! right to the neck, and he just went down like a sack of sad potatoes. Did you see that? You saw that, right, Buck? I did the thing with the kick!”

He didn’t answer. He was looking at you like you’d grown a second head or like how you were the only thing stuck in his head these days. God, you were awful.

You had two blood on your elbow and half your gear undone. You were sprawled out on the floor like a sleep-deprived gremlin, and when you looked up at him and smiled, like he was the only person in the world who mattered… He was done. Gone.

“You okay there, Grumpypants?” You asked.

“I think I might hate you,” He muttered, sitting down beside you.

You grinned, bumping his shoulder with yours. “That’s fair. I’m an acquired taste. Like oysters. Or war crimes.”

He barked a laugh before he could stop it. You looked so proud.

“I’m serious,” He said, sobering. “You’re gonna get yourself killed one day. You don’t take anything seriously.”

You just stared at him for a moment, and then, quietly, you said, “I take you seriously.”

The jet went quiet.

And Bucky sat very, very still because somehow, that hit harder than any mission ever had.

You weren’t just funny. Or weird. Or brilliant in a way that made his head hurt.

You were kind. Kind in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Like you saw through the Winter Soldier and the scowl and the kill count, and you still chose to sit beside him, sipping chocolate milk and talking about raccoon shame.

And Bucky Barnes, world-weary assassin, trauma-laden super-soldier, turned to you and realized:

He was fucked.

In love with a person who once confidently said “quinoa” was pronounced “kin-oh-ah” and didn’t believe him when he corrected you.

You looked up from your thermos. “You’re doing the staring thing again. Am I bleeding from the ear?”

“No,” Bucky said, voice low. “You’re just…”

“Sexy?” You offered helpfully.

“…Terrifying.”

You winked. “Same difference.”

And Bucky Barnes, against all logic, reason, and survival instinct, knew he was already in too deep.

-

The next mission had gone off without a hitch… at least, for everyone except Bucky.

A few cuts here, a couple of bruises there, but nothing too serious. At least, that’s what he told himself as he sat on the edge of the quinjet, feeling the burn in his shoulder from a bullet graze. But the moment you walked into the medbay with a roll of bandages in your hand, it was like everything inside him twisted in a way he couldn’t explain.

“Okay, Bucky. Time to let the master do her magic,” you said, flashing that grin of yours, the one that always made his heart do weird, involuntary things.

Bucky blinked, trying to shake the disoriented feeling. “You’re the one who got shot today. Why am I the one getting patched up?”

“Because I’m immortal,” You said matter-of-factly. “Also, I’m not bleeding anywhere you can see, so that’s a bonus.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You’re immortal?”

You sat down beside him, rolling your sleeves up. “No, but I like to pretend I am. You know, like a cooler superhero.”

He winced slightly as you poked at his side. “That’s what I’m dealing with, huh?”

“You love it,” You teased, squeezing out some antiseptic onto a cotton pad.

“You’re lucky I haven’t thrown you out of a plane for this,” Bucky muttered, though he couldn’t stop the faint grin from tugging at his lips.

“Not gonna lie, I’d be mad if you did,” You admitted, gently dabbing at his side. “Also, I’d haunt you. I know how to haunt people. I’ve read a lot of books about ghosts.”

He chuckled, despite himself. “Of course you have.”

“Oh, absolutely. I even have a theory about why the Titanic sank, and it’s completely different from the official one. But I’m telling you right now, it’s not what they say.”

Bucky glanced over at you, eyebrow raised. “This I gotta hear.”

You leaned closer, lowering your voice dramatically as if revealing state secrets. “Okay, so. It wasn’t an iceberg that caused the sinking. It was actually the government trying to erase all evidence of the giant squid they were experimenting on, and they blamed it on the iceberg to cover up the real cause.”

Bucky blinked, unsure whether you were serious or not. “Wait, what?” He asked slowly.

You looked at him deadpan. “You didn’t hear the rumors? They found footage, you know. The squid was huge. It even had tentacles.”

He stared at you, speechless.

"Anyway," You continued, as if you hadn’t just suggested the world’s greatest conspiracy, "What we do know is that my bandage technique is flawless. See this?" You lifted a corner of the bandage to show him a perfect wrap around his side.

Bucky blinked. "Did you just distract me with a giant squid theory while you patched me up?"

“Absolutely.” You beamed at him. “Works every time. Just don’t tell anyone you’re in love with me because I’m not responsible for any heart attacks.”

Bucky froze, his heartbeat suddenly in his throat.

You were still so nonchalant. Still so you, so damn confident and so sure of yourself. It took everything in him not to lean in and kiss you right there.

But then, you looked up at him, and for the briefest moment, that smile of yours softened. “You’re good, Bucky,” You said quietly. “You’ve been through more shit than any of us. But you’re still here. That’s something, you know?”

His chest tightened.

“And you know what?” You continued, your voice so much softer now, like a quiet reassurance. “You don’t have to be a soldier all the time. Sometimes, you can just be Bucky.”

He swallowed, looking at you. “And what about you?”

“Oh, me? I’m a mess,” You shrugged, finally looking away, as if it was no big deal. “I’m just here to make the chaos look cute.”

Your eyes flicked back to him, that familiar teasing glint in them. “That’s my secret. You like it.”

Bucky chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He wanted to say something, wanted to admit something. That little voice in his head kept screaming at him to just say it already, but he was scared. He was scared of how deep you had burrowed under his skin, of how easy it was to forget everything else when you were around.

Instead, he just leaned forward and cupped your face, his thumb gently brushing your cheek. “You’re… something else, you know that?”

You blinked at him in surprise, your lips parted, as if trying to process the sudden shift in the air. For a moment, there was a palpable tension between the two of you, like the universe was holding its breath, waiting for one of you to do something.

But then, in your usual way, you broke it, shrugging with a grin. “I know. You’re welcome.”

Bucky’s heart did a weird flip, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to truly relax, just a little. He didn’t want to admit it. Not yet. Not even to himself.

But as you leaned in to finish wrapping his side, your hand brushing his skin lightly, he knew he was already in way too deep.

-

The next incident started with a toaster. Not even a cool toaster. Just a boring, silver Stark-issued kitchen appliance that you were suspiciously proud of. I You’d taken it apart and rebuilt it but “better.” No one asked you to. No one gave you permission. You just did it.

“Now it sings the SpongeBob theme when your toast is done,” You explained, beaming as you held up a slice of whole wheat like it was a golden ticket.

Bucky stared at you. “You tampered with government property.”

“Enhanced.” You corrected. “And before you ask, no, I will not apologize. This is the future.”

Then it sang. “Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?” BWEEEEEP - Toast done.

Bucky looked like he was praying for divine intervention. “You’re gonna get us all court-martialed over this.”

Two hours later, you were banned from the kitchen, which didn’t stop you from relocating to the common area with your newest project: building what you claimed was a “mousetrap but for anxiety.”

It was made of pipe cleaners, glow sticks, and what might’ve been a dismantled Roomba.

“I call her Deborah,” You said, gently stroking it. “She senses emotional instability and gives you a juice box.”

As if on cue, it whirred over to Bucky, bumped into his leg, and slowly offered him a Capri Sun.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I’m not drinking that.”

“Then she thinks you’re too far gone. She’s very wise.”

Steve walked in, surveyed the scene, and simply turned around without speaking. He didn’t even ask anymore.

Later that night, Bucky caught you in the hallway attempting to climb into the ceiling with a flashlight between your teeth and a jar of pickles under your arm.

“Do I want to know?” He asked, exhausted.

You paused halfway into a vent, dropping the flashlight briefly. “Depends. Do you believe in ceiling gremlins?”

“No.”

“Then I’m doing taxes.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Please. I’m begging you. Come down.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then slowly slid back out like a raccoon emerging from a trash can. “Okay. But only because you asked nicely and not because I got stuck.”

You had absolutely gotten stuck. And the worst part? He was smitten.

Every time you did something completely absurd, which was always, he found himself watching you a little too long, smiling a little too much, wondering what the hell you were going to do next and why it made his chest ache in a weirdly pleasant way.

Even now, covered in ceiling dust and holding a pickle jar, you looked up at him with that infuriatingly endearing grin.

“You’re in love with me,” You stated confidently.

Bucky blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” You popped a pickle in your mouth. “You’ve got that look. Like a grumpy cat who accidentally cuddled someone and doesn’t want to admit it.”

“I do not look like-“

“It's okay. You don’t have to say it.” You patted his chest affectionately. “Your body language screams ‘emotionally unavailable man finds chaotic cryptid and feels things.’”

“I am not emotionally unavailable.”

“You have a go bag, Bucky.”

“…That’s standard protocol.”

“Your toothbrush is still in the packaging.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. You’d won. Again.

“You’re gonna kiss me one day,” You said as you walked past him, pickle jar under one arm, flashlight in your other hand. “And when you do, I’m gonna be so smug you’ll try to throw yourself off the building.”

Bucky stood there in the hall, alone, heart doing its dumb little thudding thing. He hated you. He adored you. And he was never getting that toothbrush insult out of his head.

-

When the big moment happened, It wasn’t a big mission. It wasn’t even a real mission. It was just supposed to be recon.

And yet somehow, you were sitting on the floor of a dusty, abandoned warehouse with a concussion, holding a broken walkie-talkie like it personally betrayed you.

“Okay, but in my defense,” You slurred slightly, “I didn’t know the raccoon had a knife.”

Bucky stared at you, expression unreadable, as blood dripped slowly from your temple.

“You ran into an unmarked building alone, set off three alarms, fell through a skylight, and got jumped by wildlife.”

You held up a finger. “Armed wildlife.”

He ran a hand down his face.

“I swear to God, you are one poorly timed pun away from getting locked in a broom closet until the end of time.”

You blinked up at him. “Kinky.”

He turned away so fast you could almost hear his brain blue-screen. “Jesus Christ.”

But when he looked back at you: your lip bloodied, eyes dazed, hair full of insulation from where you’d crashed through the ceiling like a chaotic Christmas angel, something in his chest snapped.

You were always like this. Impossible. Endearing. Brilliant in the most horrifying ways. A human Wikipedia article with a death wish and a spark in your eyes that made him forget, just for a second, that the world was awful.

And that spark was flickering. Just a little. And he hated it.

“You can’t keep doing this,” He began, voice tight. “You can’t keep treating your life like it’s expendable.”

You blinked slowly. “That sounds fake. I’m clearly immortal.”

“I’m serious.” He crouched in front of you, fists clenched. “You run into every situation like you’re bulletproof, and you’re not. One day, I’m not gonna be there to drag your dumbass out of a flaming building or disarm a guy who has a bazooka made of forks or- or whatever the hell today was!”

“It was a raccoon with a grudge.”

“That’s not a thing!”

You stared at him in silence for a beat, then said, very softly, “You’re worried about me.”

He froze.

“I’m always worried about you,” He said, almost too quiet to hear. “You think I wake up every day wondering what country I’ll have to fly to because you thought jumping off a roof would ‘probably be fine’ if you landed in a bush?!”

You tilted your head. “It was a very fluffy bush.”

”I love you, you absolute menace!”

Silence. You blinked. Then he blinked. Somewhere in the warehouse, a raccoon chittered menacingly.

“…You love me?” You echoed, like he’d just said he wanted to marry a zucchini.

Bucky looked like he might actually combust. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“Say it like what?”

“Like I love you. Which I do. But I was gonna do it after, like… dinner. Or when you weren’t bleeding.”

“Is this why you made me tea every time I electrocuted myself?”

“Yes!”

“And why you punched that guy who called me a liability?”

“Also yes!”

“And why you didn’t kill me when I installed motion sensors in the hallway and forgot to tell anyone?”

“I almost killed you.”

You were quiet for a long moment. Then: “Okay.”

He blinked. “Okay?”

You nodded, still loopy but smiling now. “Okay. I love you too.”

He stared. “You do?”

“Yeah. I mean, why else would I let you eat the last cookie that one time? Or give Deborah full permission to follow you around and scan your emotional damage like a clingy Roomba?”

He laughed, just once, short and stunned.

You leaned forward and poked his chest with one finger. “Also, I have a very deep fondness for emotionally repressed war criminals. It’s kind of my thing.”

Bucky groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet. You’re in love with me.”

“I’m regretting it deeply.”

“No you’re not.” You smiled that crooked, chaotic smile that had ruined his life in the best way.

And despite everything, the dust, the blood, the deeply traumatized raccoon now watching you both from the shadows, he leaned in and kissed you.

It was gentle. Just for a second. As if to say, Yes. You’re chaos incarnate. But you’re mine.

When he pulled back, it was silent for a moment. Both of you looking in each other’s eyes before you whispered, “Did you just kiss me in front of a knife raccoon?”

Bucky exhaled slowly, already regretting all his life choices. “God help me. I did.”

Hey :)

I love your writing!!! It comforts me and I often find myself re reading your stories, they're so frickin good <3 (Clementine made me almost cry; if you could write more for that au that would be so awesome of you because I really wanna hear more about Bucky and the reader as well as their daughter and Clementine. I haven't been able to find any other bull rider au!)

I have a fanfic request for a Bucky Barnes x reader fic for a reader with SA! PTSD who either has a flashback and helps comfort the reader through it

or who sees her/his/their (your choice of pronouns) attacker in public and protects them when their attacker tries to talk to them???

Thank you, you're beautiful and one of the best writers ever, and better than most authors of books you see on the shelves at ya local barnes n noble.

Hello there, dear. I’m afraid you’ve sent the ask to the wrong author as I’ve never written anything described in your side note there. However, do be sure to send your love to the person you intended this for!

I did like the request though and ended up fulfilling it. Have a lovely day and Happy reading!

Quiet in the Storm

Summary: After experiencing a sudden flashback, you spiral into panic. However, Bucky stays calm and gently grounds you, reminding you that you're safe. He offers comfort without pressure, reassuring you that you're not broken and never have to face things alone. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Alludes to SA and PTSD, Panic Attack, Angst, Hurt/Comfort. You are responsible for the media you consume. Do take care of yourselves.

Word Count: 1.5k+

Main Masterlist

You didn’t talk about it, not directly, not often. It hung in the air sometimes, between the clatter of dishes or the silence of late-night TV. It showed itself in the way your shoulders tensed when a man’s voice rose too loud or how your eyes darted around a crowded street. But mostly, you kept it tucked away like something broken on a high shelf. If you didn’t touch it, maybe it wouldn’t fall.

Bucky never asked for more than you were ready to give. He never pried. He never pushed. But he saw the little things. How you sat with your back to the wall in restaurants, how you flinched when someone walked too close behind you. The first time you told him, it wasn’t with words. It was in a look. A quiet panic behind your eyes one night when he reached for your wrist too quickly. He’d stopped immediately, palms up, and soft as rain.

“I’m here. I won’t ever hurt you.”

And you believed him. Most of the time. But trauma doesn’t follow a schedule. It doesn’t wait for safe spaces or daylight. And tonight, it came when you least expected it.

The movie was some harmless rom-com. You weren’t even paying attention to it. You were curled up on the couch beside Bucky, his arm around your shoulder, the other hand gently stroking your thigh through the blanket. You trusted that touch. You knew it. But something shifted when a scene came on. Some stupid, throwaway moment with a drunk character and a joke that hit too close to the bone.

You didn’t realize you were slipping until Bucky said your name.

“Hey. Hey, sweetheart.”

You blinked, breath caught in your chest. The blanket suddenly felt too tight. His hand, warm and grounding, was on your thigh, but now it felt like a chain. You were underwater. Sinking. The room had changed, morphed, turned into something else. Somewhere else.

His voice called your name, his tone calm and steady. “Look at me. You’re safe.”

But your body didn’t believe him.

You flinched hard, pushing yourself away from him and curling into the corner of the couch, heart pounding like it would break through your ribs. The panic was everywhere, sinking underneath your skin. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop shaking.

Bucky didn’t come closer. He stayed exactly where he was. That was a first mercy.

“I’m not touching you,” He said softly, his voice barely more than a breath. “You’re okay. You’re here, with me. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The flashback had you caught like a snare around your throat. Your hands were clenched into fists in your lap, nails digging into your palms.

“Can you hear my voice?” He asked. “Can you nod for me?”

It took effort, like dragging yourself through quicksand, but you nodded once.

“That’s good. That’s so good, doll. You’re doing great.”

Tears ran hot down your cheeks, and you weren’t even sure when they’d started. Your throat hurt from how tightly you were holding everything in. But still, he didn’t come closer. He waited.

“You’re not there anymore,” Bucky said gently. “You’re safe. You’re not alone.”

He slowly shifted onto the floor closer to you, sitting cross-legged near the couch but not touching it. Not crowding you. Just… there.

“Can I tell you where you are?” He asked. “Just so you can hold onto it?”

You nodded again.

“You’re in our apartment. Brooklyn. Your favorite blanket’s on the couch. The one with the little blue stars. There’s a candle burning, lavender scented. You made me light it earlier ‘cause I forgot to do laundry.” He smiled softly. “You’re with me. Just me. I’ve got you.”

His voice was steady. Not too soft, not too firm. Just right like a tether in the dark.

You started breathing again. Taking shaky, shallow breaths at first, then a little deeper. Your fists unclenched as the room slowly came back into focus, one detail at a time. The glow of the TV. The warmth of the blanket. The safe weight of Bucky’s presence just a few feet away.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t mean-“

“No.” His voice was quiet but firm. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

You looked at him then. His blue eyes were steady, kind. Yet fierce in the way someone could be when they cared too much and didn’t know how to fix what hurt.

“It’s not your fault,” He said. “None of it.”

You nodded again, even though your throat ached.

“Can I come closer?” He asked gently. “Only if you want me to.”

It took a long moment before you whispered, “Please.”

He moved slowly, carefully. Not reaching out until you did first. And when you did, your fingers brushing against his, he wrapped your hand in both of his like it was the most precious thing in the world. He kissed your knuckles, one by one, and rested his forehead lightly against yours.

“I’m proud of you,” He murmured. “For staying. For letting me in.”

The flashback was over, but the ache lingered. It always did. But with Bucky there, his arms wrapped gently around you, his heartbeat steady against your back, it felt a little easier to bear.

And for now, that was enough.

Later that night, he stayed up with you. The TV was on but muted, casting a soft flicker over both of you. Your head rested against his chest, and his hand ran through your hair in slow, rhythmic motions, grounding you with every pass. Every time you closed your eyes, some phantom image tried to drag you back but his voice was there, low and constant, murmuring things like, “You’re here with me. You’re safe.”

At some point, you fell asleep against him, your fingers twisted in his shirt like you were afraid he’d vanish if you let go.

-

The morning came slow and strange.

You felt heavy. Not physically, but inwardly. In the way that made you feel like you were made of soaked cloth. But the room was filled with sunlight creating a warm atmosphere. Bucky was already in the kitchen, moving with that careful quiet of someone who knew what it meant to be haunted.

He didn’t look at you with pity. He looked at you like you were brave.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” He said gently, when you padded barefoot into the room. “Didn’t want to wake you, so I made you tea. It’s that kind you like, the fancy one with the rose petals you keep calling ‘expensive leaf water.’”

You almost smiled. He placed the mug on the counter without handing it to you. You’d told him, once, that sometimes you didn’t like being handed things first thing in the morning. And he remembered, like always.

You took the mug in both hands and stared at the steam.

“I had a flashback yesterday,” You murmured. Your voice was soft, but not shaking this time. “You probably figured that out.”

Bucky nodded once. “Yeah.”

You looked up. “Did I scare you?”

His eyes softened, brows pulling together like the question pained him. “No. You didn’t scare me. I was scared for you, but not of you. Never of you.”

You took a breath. “I hate that it still happens. It’s been… years.”

He came to lean beside you on the counter, keeping just a little distance between you in case you needed space. “I know. But it doesn’t mean you’re weak. Having flashblacks doesn’t mean you’re broken. They mean you survived something you weren’t supposed to. It’s just… your brain’s still learning how to feel safe again.”

His words hit something raw in you.

You looked down at the tea, at your fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic, and whispered, “Sometimes I think I’m too much. Too damaged. Like… I’m always going to be that scared girl again, no matter how much time passes.”

Bucky didn’t interrupt. He waited until the silence had run its course before saying, “You’re not too much. And you’re not that girl anymore. You’re someone who went through hell and still wakes up every day and tries to live. That’s not damage, that’s strength.”

He paused, watching your fingers twitch against the mug. Then added, softer, “You don’t have to carry it alone, not anymore.”

Your eyes burned again but this time, the tears weren’t panic. They weren’t terror clawing at the walls of your mind. They were grief, yes. But also relief. And maybe even hope. You set the mug down and stepped toward him, slow and steady, until you were close enough to bury your face in his chest. He didn’t hesitate. His arms wrapped around you instantly, secure and careful all at once.

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

You swallowed. “Thank you… for being so patient.”

He leaned in, forehead pressed gently to yours. “There’s no clock on healing, doll. I’m in this with you. However long it takes.”

And you knew, right then, that maybe healing wasn’t about forgetting. Maybe it was about having someone who stayed when it was hard. Someone who didn’t try to fix you, but just loved you no matter what.

Even when the storm came. Especially when the storm came.

A Shot of Something More

Summary: You’re the closing barista at a campus café. Steve comes in to study, Bucky shows up to tease him, and you. They start staying late, helping you close, or walking you home. Over time, flirting turns into banter, and late nights turn into something deeper. (College AU! | Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 3.7k+

A/N: Really hoping other folks like this too. It’s a college AU/setting by the way. I thought it was cute and I quite like flirty Bucky lol. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

The espresso machine hissed as you wiped down the counter for what felt like the hundredth time that night. It was nearing 9:00 p.m., and the usual lull had settled over the campus café. Half the lights were dimmed, soft jazz hummed through the speakers, and the scent of coffee clung to your oversized hoodie like a second skin. You were alone behind the counter, as usual, your co-worker having ditched early with a vague excuse and a flirty grin you ignored out of habit.

It had been a long day with two lectures, lab work, and your phone buzzing every twenty minutes with group project drama. This place was your tiny sanctuary tucked between the English building and the art studios. It was the only space that ever felt quiet, even when it was loud.

You were just about to flip the “Closing Soon” sign to close early for the night when the bell above the door chimed.

You glanced up, already expecting some last-minute caffeine addict who’d argue for one more shot of espresso, but your fingers paused mid-reach.

He was back.

Steve Rogers stepped inside, eyes scanning the room like he always did as if expecting danger even in a sleepy café with free Wi-Fi and discount muffins. He gave you a small smile, polite and familiar. His blond hair was slightly tousled from the wind, and his flannel sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms that did dangerous things to your focus.

“Hey,” He said, voice low and warm. “Didn’t realize it was this late.”

You tilted your head. “You always realize it’s this late.”

A chuckle escaped him as he made his way to his usual table in the corner, setting down a textbook the size of a brick. Philosophy, or maybe ethics… you weren’t sure anymore. He had this routine down to an art: order a plain black coffee, sit for one or two hours, read maybe five pages, and somehow leave you flustered even when he barely looked your way.

You grabbed a clean mug. “Let me guess. Caffeine to fight existential dread?”

Steve looked up, smiling wider now. “You read my mind.”

You started the brew, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “That’s not impressive. You’re a walking finals-week poster boy.”

And then, just as you were pouring the coffee, the bell above the door rang again.

This time, the energy shifted.

“Rogers, you’re such a nerd,” came a familiar voice all smooth, teasing, and louder than necessary.

Bucky Barnes strolled in like he owned the place, wearing a black hoodie, ripped jeans, and a look that could melt steel. His eyes flicked over to you then back to Steve, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Tell me you’re not actually studying again,” Bucky said, sliding into the seat across from his best friend without asking.

“I was,” Steve muttered.

You stood there, holding a mug in each hand, heart suddenly beating faster.

Bucky looked up at you, and something about his gaze, lazy and sharp all at once, made your fingers twitch.

“Well hey there, doll. Don’t suppose you’ve got something strong for a guy who had to suffer through group critique today?”

Steve rolled his eyes. You went behind the counter and made Bucky’s usual order, double shot with vanilla and just a touch of cream, before he even asked. He smirked.

You didn’t say it out loud, but they were both regulars now. And you were starting to wonder if they really came for the coffee… or if something else kept bringing them back, night after night.

-

As silence settled comfortably among you three, rain started somewhere between Bucky’s first sip and Steve’s third sigh.

It began as a soft patter, barely audible over the music, but soon grew into a steady drumbeat against the windows. Outside, the streetlights blurred into glowing halos through the glass, casting warm shadows over the near-empty café.

You glanced at the clock. 9:47. Almost fifteen minutes until closing time.

Most nights, you’d be starting your last round of cleaning out the espresso portafilters, wiping down the milk steamer, stacking the chairs. But tonight, you hesitated. You weren’t sure if it was the weather or the way Bucky had stretched out in the booth, legs spread, and his eyes watching you from under thick lashes. Or maybe it was the way Steve hadn’t looked at his book in twenty minutes, choosing instead to glance at you whenever he thought you weren’t paying attention.

They didn’t seem in any rush to leave. And truthfully… neither were you.

“You’re closing up soon, right?” Steve finally asked, his voice low as he reached for his mug again.

You nodded, wiping your damp hands on a towel. “Yeah. I usually start around now, but…” You gestured toward the rain. “Didn’t want to kick anyone out into that.”

Steve smiled faintly. “You’re always this nice to your customers?”

“Only the ones who don’t make a mess,” You answered, raising a brow. “So one of you.”

Bucky laughed, his head falling back against the booth. “Guilty. I do spill a lot. But I also tip well.”

You tried not to stare too hard at the way his neck looked when he stretched like that. “That’s true. I guess you can stay.”

“Generous,” He said with a wink.

There was a long pause. The café was nearly silent now with just the low hum of the fridge, the soft rain, and the clink of Steve’s spoon against his mug.

Then Bucky spoke up to ask in a casual tone, “You always close alone?”

You hesitated for a moment. “Usually. My coworker bails. Most nights.”

Steve frowned slightly. “That doesn’t seem safe.”

You shrugged, not used to concern like that. “It’s a college café, not a crime scene.”

Bucky made a face like he wasn’t satisfied with the answer. “Still… maybe we stay until you lock up. Walk you out.”

You blinked. The offer shouldn’t have made your stomach flip the way it did. But it wasn’t just the offer, it was the way they both looked at you when Bucky said it. Like it wasn’t just about safety. Like maybe they wanted to linger.

“…You’d wait around just to walk me to the bus stop?” Your voice was more curious than skeptical.

Steve shrugged. “We’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Bucky leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Unless you wanna kick us out. We could be very offended. Might leave a bad Yelp review.”

You laughed, too surprised to stop yourself. “Fine. But if you’re staying, you’re helping.”

“Oh?” Steve looked amused. “Helping how?”

You tossed a towel at him with a smirk. “You, Captain Neat, are wiping tables. Bucky, you’re mopping. Try not to make it worse.”

“Hey,” Bucky protested, catching the mop you handed him with mock offense. “I’ll have you know I was almost a janitor once.”

“Was that before or after your brief career as a barista at that goth café downtown?” You teased.

His eyes narrowed. “You stalked me?”

“You told me.”

“I did?”

You nodded. “You said you got fired for stealing scones.”

Steve laughed; really laughed, eyes crinkling and shoulders shaking. “You would get fired for stealing scones.”

“Allegedly.”

You rolled your eyes, heart full in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. There was something comfortable about this. Domestic, even. The three of you cleaning up the café together like it was some weekly tradition. Like you weren’t just the barista and they weren’t just two regulars with unread books and flirtatious smiles.

Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it was the beginning of something.

Either way, the rain hadn’t let up by the time you three got finished.

If anything, it had gotten heavier with each droplet sounding like a soft drumbeat against the awning as you turned off the café lights and locked the front door behind you. The three of you stood just outside, huddled under the narrow cover as the neon “Closed” sign flickered quietly in the window.

Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets and looked up at the sky. “I take back everything I ever said about romantic rain scenes in movies. This is miserable.”

Steve pulled a small, very very sad-looking umbrella from his backpack. “I brought this. But it’s… yeah.”

You looked at it. “That’s a two-person umbrella, Steve.”

“Three, if we’re friendly,” He offered, holding it up between you all.

Bucky snorted. “I don’t mind getting a little wet.” Then, with a wink your way, “Unless someone wants to get friendly.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt warm. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

“I’ll survive,” He grinned. “But I’ll complain the entire time.”

You glanced from him to Steve, then sighed. “Fine. Scoot over.”

Somehow, you ended up in the middle with Steve on your right and Bucky on your left. Your shoulders bumping as the three of you navigated the narrow sidewalk beneath the umbrella’s barely-there coverage. Rain still splashed across your boots, soaked the edge of their sleeves, but you didn’t really mind.

Not when Bucky kept cracking terrible jokes about how this was definitely the origin story for a very wet, very tragic indie film. Not when Steve kept leaning just a little closer to keep the umbrella steady over you. Not even when your hands brushed once, then twice, then lingered.

Your dorm wasn’t far. Just past the library and through the row of tall sycamore trees that lined the main walkway. It should’ve taken five minutes.

It took twenty.

Not because you were walking slowly (though you were), or because Bucky got distracted by every glowing window (which he did), but because none of you seemed in any rush to get to the end.

Steve was the first to break the silence as you neared the edge of campus.

“So… do you always do closing shifts?”

You tilted your head. “Most nights.”

“Kind of late to be walking back alone, don’t you think?” He asked carefully.

“Kind of late to be hanging around the café every night,” Your voice was light as you shot back playfully.

He smiled. “Touché.”

Bucky smirked. “We like the vibe.”

“Oh? The coffee?”

He looked at you, serious for a moment. “No. Just the vibe.”

You held his gaze longer than you meant to, heartbeat quickening. Steve’s fingers brushed yours again, deliberate this time, and you swore your breath caught.

The trees overhead rustled with wind. The rain, gentler now, tapped softly on the umbrella like it, too, was listening in.

You cleared your throat as your dorm came into view, its warm yellow lights glowing through the fog.

“Well. This is my stop,” You said quietly, turning to face them beneath the umbrella.

Steve nodded, but didn’t step back. “Thanks for letting us help tonight.”

“Thanks for staying.”

There was a pause.

Bucky looked like he wanted to say something more, but didn’t. Instead, he stepped forward and brushed a raindrop off your cheek with the back of his finger gently, like it was an accident, even though it wasn’t.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” He asked.

You nodded. “Same time?”

Steve smiled. “We’ll be there.”

And then, because it was easier than saying anything else, you turned and walked up the steps to your building, only glancing back once.

They were still standing there, shoulder to shoulder under that tiny umbrella. Making sure you got in safe before heading to their own dorm, teasing each other the whole way back.

-

Sleep didn’t come easily.

You laid in bed long after midnight staring at the ceiling. Your pillow was cool against your cheek as your thoughts were tangled in the warmth of the moments earlier that day and the quiet laughter you shared.

It wasn’t just that they walked you home. Or that Steve looked at you like you were worth protecting. Or that Bucky had touched your face so softly you could still feel it hours later.

It was everything. The quiet between you. The way they filled the silence without crowding it. The way you felt seen, not just as a barista or a student or some tired person behind a register, but as you.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

So you didn’t do anything. You showed up for your shift the next afternoon like always. Your hair was still damp from your rushed shower as you wore an apron that was only half-tied. Caffeine already whispered promises of survival.

The café was slower today. The sky was gray but unthreatening. The air smelled like rain that might come back, if only to keep you on your toes.

Steve and Bucky didn’t show up right away. A small part of you worried they wouldn’t. Maybe last night had meant more to you than it did to them.

But then you heard the bell above the door chimed.

You didn’t have to look up to know it was them.

Steve entered first, holding the door for Bucky, who strolled in like he owned the place (which, to be fair, wasn’t far from the truth with how many drinks he ordered a week). They were dressed down wearing hoodies and jeans, student backpacks slung casually over shoulders, but their presence still shifted the room like sunlight through a window.

You met them at the counter, hands already reaching for their usual orders.

“Afternoon,” Steve greeted, a little smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re late,” You said, teasing. “I was about to give your booth to someone else.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You’d betray us like that?”

“Rent isn’t free. Loyalty has limits.”

He smirked. “Guess we’ll have to earn it back.”

You turned to start their drinks, only to find a folded piece of paper under your cup they had slipped when you reached for the cups to fulfill their order moments prior. Your brows pulled together.

Steve gave you a look, mischief and nerves tucked behind his smile. “It’s nothing. Just… open it.”

You wiped your fingers on a towel and unfolded the note.

Movie night. Our place at 6 on Friday. Pizza, bad commentary, and a couch big enough for three. Say yes. – Bucky (and Steve, but I’m the cooler one)

Your fingers paused on the paper, glancing at the address scribbled at the bottom. You looked up at them slowly.

Steve shrugged, just a little. “Only if you want.”

Bucky leaned on the counter, chin in his hand. “No pressure. Just… thought you might want a night off.”

You stared at them. These two men both bright and ridiculous, kind and impossible were standing there like they hadn’t just turned your whole week upside down with a handwritten note.

You tried to play it cool.

“Depends,” You said lightly. “What movie?”

Steve looked at Bucky. Bucky looked at you.

Bucky grinned. “You’ll just have to see.”

-

You spent most of Friday pretending it was just any other night.

You didn’t put extra effort into your outfit. (Except for the third shirt you changed into before leaving but that didn’t count.) You didn’t check your phone every ten minutes. (Except you absolutely did.) And you definitely didn’t spend a full fifteen minutes debating whether to bring snacks or let them handle it. (You settled on bringing cookies. Homemade. But again, not a big deal.)

Their apartment wasn’t far. A short walk off campus, tucked above an old bookstore with ivy growing along the brick walls and a buzzer that didn’t work unless you pressed it just right.

Bucky answered the door. He was barefoot, wearing soft joggers and a t-shirt that looked like it had been washed a hundred times. His hair was a little messy, eyes bright.

“You made it,” He smiled, stepping back to let you in.

Steve was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, pulling a pizza from the oven. “Hey!” He called out, grinning when he saw you. “Perfect timing.”

The place was cozy with bookshelves lining the living room wall, posters of vintage comics and cheesy movie prints framed above a massive couch that had clearly seen better days. A blanket was already tossed over one end, and two mugs of something warm steamed on the coffee table.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” You set your cookies down on the table.

Steve waved you off. “You work too much. You deserve a night off.”

“And,” Bucky added, flopping onto the couch, “You deserve to know how terrible Steve is at picking movies.”

“Bold talk for someone who suggested Sharknado 3,” Steve shot back.

“Exactly. It’s a masterpiece.”

You laughed, already feeling the tension in your chest ease.

Eventually, the pizza was sliced, drinks were topped off, and the three of you settled onto the couch. Steve sat on your right, Bucky on your left, and it didn’t take long for knees to brush, for shoulders to touch, for the space between you to shrink until it barely existed at all.

The movie played, albeit half-forgotten, while the room was filled with lazy commentary and sleepy warmth. Bucky stretched out with his feet on the table, arm draped casually along the back of the couch, his fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. Steve leaned forward now and then to refill your drink or offer another slice, always gentle, always looking at you like he meant it.

You were full, warm, and softened in a way you hadn’t expected.

Halfway through the second movie (something terrible with robots and space cowboys), you shifted to get more comfortable. Steve moved with you, letting you lean just slightly into his side.

And then Bucky did the same. His fingers found yours on the blanket all tentative and light, and for one moment, no one moved.

Not a word was said.

But your fingers curled around his. And Steve’s hand settled on your knee, thumb brushing slowly. And it felt like something unspoken had finally been understood. You didn’t know what this was, this tangle of limbs and comfort or the way your chest ached in the best possible way, but you weren’t afraid of it.

Not here. Not with them.

Even as the movie kept playing and the leftover pizza grew cold, none of you moved.

-

You weren’t sure when you fell asleep. You hadn’t mean to and neither did they. You woke up not in your own bed and not alone. But you weren’t in a rush to change any of that.

The living room was quiet, filled with the pale blue light of early morning seeping through half-closed curtains. The TV had long since gone dark, the screen reflecting only faint movement from the rain streaking the windows.

Your head rested on Steve’s chest, steady and warm. One of his arms was wrapped around you, loose but certain, holding you there like he never wanted you to move.

On your other side, Bucky sat slumped at an angle, legs draped half off the couch, mouth parted slightly as he snored, quiet and completely unbothered by how awkwardly he was folded. His fingers were still tangled loosely with yours.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t, maybe. Your body was tucked into theirs like a puzzle piece, your heart beating too loud in a space that had become too quiet. It should’ve been awkward. Too intimate, too vulnerable, or too much. But it wasn’t.

Because it was safe. It was warm too.

Steve stirred beneath you. His thumb began to stroke slowly up and down your arm, just enough to let you know he was awake.

“Morning,” He murmured. His voice was rough from sleep, a little quiet.

“Hi,” You whispered.

You both glanced toward Bucky. He was still out cold, lips slightly parted, hair tousled like a storm. You smiled without meaning to.

Steve caught it. His voice was softer now, barely a breath: “He really likes you.”

Your gaze flicked to him. “You say that like it’s a secret.”

“It’s not,” He said. “Not to me.”

“And you?” You asked carefully, heart skipping.

He didn’t look away. “Me too.”

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. “You both… talked about this?”

Steve nodded, slow and honest. “We weren’t sure how you felt. We didn’t want to push.”

You looked between them. Steve, awake and steady. Bucky, still asleep but even then, he felt familiar and safe. You thought about the nights at the café, the walks, the note, the night before, the way neither of them ever really asked for more than you were ready to give.

And the way you’d wanted more anyway.

“I don’t know how this works,” You said softly.

Steve smiled. “We figure it out together.”

It was Bucky who shifted then groggy and blinking, mumbling something unintelligible as he stretched and then promptly smacked Steve in the face with his arm.

“Watch it,” Steve said with a quiet laugh.

“Wha…? What time-” Bucky rubbed his face, squinting at the light. “God, why am I on a couch. Who let me fall asleep like this?”

You raised a brow. “You literally said, ‘I’m not moving. This couch is my home now.’”

Bucky blinked at you. Then at Steve. Then at your very obvious shared position on the couch.

A slow, sleepy smirk spread across his face. “Did we finally say it?”

Steve gave him a dry look that clearly implied he did all the work. “You didn’t say anything. You drooled a little though.”

Bucky reached over and flicked Steve’s shoulder. “Shut up.” Then he turned to you. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Better than okay.”

He leaned in a little. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His grin softened, almost turning shy for a moment before it shifted bold and certain. He leaned in the rest of the way and kissed you. It wasn’t rushed nor was it loud.

It was soft, like the first word in a language none of you had dared to speak before.

And when Steve kissed you after, slow and reverent like he’d been waiting forever, you realized something else:

You weren’t falling for them. You already did long before you realized it. And they fell just as hard for you too.

Chaotic Cat Curse

Summary: You were accidentally cursed and turned into a cat, causing all kinds of fun chaos for Bucky: destroying things, attacking his shoelaces, and generally making his life impossible. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 1.4k+

A/N: Will be writing another fic with reader having the power to shapeshift into animals, but for now; I’m testing the waters with cat and chaos. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

You didn’t mean to touch the glowing, ominous-looking artifact in Strange’s Sanctum. Really, you were just trying to dust it off and maybe get a better look. It was dusty! And pulsing with weird red light! How were you supposed to know it was cursed?

The moment your fingers grazed it, there was a loud pop, a blinding flash, and then… paws. Fur. Whiskers. And an overwhelming urge to knock things off shelves.

Bucky was not impressed when he found you ten minutes later, sitting smugly atop a bookcase, licking your paw and knocking down an ancient scroll with a flick of your tail.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," He muttered, staring at your tiny, floofy form. You blinked slowly at him, then meowed very dramatically. It didn’t help that Wong started laughing the second he walked in. "They touched the Soul of Bastet? Oh, that’s rich."

Strange said the spell would wear off in a few days. Until then, you were stuck as a cat. A small, fluffy, highly expressive cat who unfortunately still had all your chaotic human instincts. Just… furrier.

Two days into your feline vacation, Bucky had to bring you along to Sam’s apartment while waiting for Strange to “align the right moon phase” or whatever nonsense he was mumbling about. You were restless, bored, and determined to explore every inch of Sam’s place. Which led you to the kitchen.

And the catnip.

To be fair, Sam did foster animals sometimes. So technically, the bag of catnip wasn’t for you. But Bucky had looked away for two seconds, and you were already rolling on the floor. Eyes wide, pupils dilated, and tail puffed up. The sounds you made could only be described as a mix between a war cry and screech.

Bucky walked into the kitchen to find you mid-roll, rabbit-kicking the air like a tiny lunatic. “What the hell?” He muttered, only to freeze as you bolted toward him and latched onto his boot like it owed you money.

“Seriously?” He tried to shake you off gently. “You’re high off your tiny furry face.”

You yowled in mock betrayal, then darted under the couch only to return five seconds later to attack his laces with renewed fury. Bucky was trying to have a perfectly normal conversation with Steve over speakerphone while you turned his shoelaces into your mortal enemy.

“I swear, this is just temporary,” He said, ignoring your furious little growls as you pounced on his foot. “Strange said they’ll be back to normal soon.”

“Are you being mauled?” Steve asked, deadpan.

“No. It’s fine.”

You flipped onto your back at that exact moment, paws curled and pupils blown wide. You stared at Bucky upside down like a possessed Furby.

“…Okay maybe a little.”

Eventually, you flopped in the middle of the floor, panting softly and staring at the ceiling like it just insulted your mother. Bucky sighed, grabbing a blanket and gently wrapping you like a tiny burrito.

“You better appreciate this when you’re human again,” He carried your limp, purring body to the couch. You immediately drooled on his shirt and let out a happy little meow.

Bucky looked down at you with the flattest expression imaginable. “Never telling Sam about this.”

By day three, Bucky had accepted begrudgingly that life with you as a cat meant no peace. He couldn't eat, sleep, or walk around barefoot without risking a stealth attack from a small feline assassin with a personal vendetta.

This morning, he woke up to find you perched on his chest like a judgmental gargoyle. Your face was three inches from his, your tail flicking with menace.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” He asked groggily.

You didn’t blink. Instead, you yawned. A very slow, dramatic, fang-filled yawn, then delicately slapped him across the nose with your paw.

He stared at you.

You stared back.

Then you jumped off the bed like nothing happened, leaving him to question every decision he’d made.

Later that day, you discovered a mirror. Not a small mirror. A full-length one leaning against the wall. And you were not okay with the strange, fluffy imposter staring back at you. You puffed up like a Halloween decoration, back arched, tail three times its normal size. You hissed, swatted the glass, then bolted out of the room like it owed you money.

From the kitchen, Bucky heard the thump, the screech, and then the sound of something shattering.

He found you on top of the fridge, tail flicking furiously, glaring at the now-cracked mirror like it insulted your ancestors.

“Did… did you fight yourself?”

You blinked at him with absolutely zero shame.

“Right. Of course.”

Another time, you had discovered it completely by accident. Bucky had taken off his vibranium arm to clean the joint, and you’d been fascinated. It gleamed, it was shiny, it made noise.

So obviously, it had to be your new toy.

The moment he left the room, you pounced.

He returned to find you curled around it, swatting at the fingers occasionally. When he tried to take it back, you hissed like a tiny demon and chomped down on the thumb with impressive commitment for a creature with no actual fangs.

“I can’t believe I’m being held hostage by my own arm,” Bucky muttered.

You growled in reply and flopped dramatically over it, like a dragon hoarding treasure.

That evening, Steve even brought over a laser pointer as a joke. Bucky thought it was stupid. You thought it was the greatest thing ever created by humankind.

The first time the red dot skittered across the floor, you chased it like your life depended on it. You bounced off furniture. You slid across the floor. At one point, you ran headfirst into Bucky’s shin so hard he dropped his coffee.

You immediately launched into a somersault, landed on your feet, and meowed at the laser dot like it had insulted your honor.

Steve was in tears. Bucky was unamused.

“Stop encouraging them,” He grumbled as you launched into another full-speed chase across the living room, knocking over a lamp.

“They’re going to break everything.”

Steve was still laughing, holding the laser pointer “Worth it.”

-

You’d been a cat for what felt like forever, and while the novelty was fun (mostly for you), you were more than ready to be yourself again. Bucky had been surprisingly patient even though he was tempted to cage you in an upside down laundry basket a few times and tape it to the ground.

Today, you were curled up in Bucky’s lap, purring softly as he absently ran his fingers through your fur. For a cat, you’d definitely picked the best spot in the whole compound: warm, safe, and right where you could hear his steady breathing.

Bucky was surprisingly calm, almost… fond of having you like this, despite the chaos you'd caused. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” He muttered, his voice low and rough.

You blinked up at him, half-asleep, when suddenly a strange warmth spread through your body. It started at your paws and traveled fast, like someone was flipping a switch from fuzzy to flesh. Your fur melted away, your legs stretched, and your claws shrank into fingers. Before either of you could blink, you were sitting there fully human again, only much bigger, and very, very confused.

Bucky froze. His eyes went wide, mouth hanging open like he’d just seen a ghost. “You’re-“ He started, then cut himself off, because honestly? No words could describe the moment.

You looked down at yourself, touched your face, then looked back up at Bucky with wide eyes. “I’m… me again?” You whispered.

He reached out carefully, almost afraid you’d disappear again. “Yeah. You’re you. Took you long enough.”

You stretched, flexing your fingers like you hadn’t used them in ages. “Yeah, being a cat is fun and all, but I kinda missed this.”

Bucky chuckled and shook his head. “Glad to have my partner back. Though I have to admit, I’m gonna miss the little fur ball who kept me on my toes.”

You grinned. “Don’t get used to it. No more letting me near cursed objects, okay?”

He nudged you gently. “Deal. But next time you turn into a cat, at least warn me so I can get some popcorn.”

You laughed, and for the first time in days, the apartment felt exactly like home again.

Tiny Wings, Gentle Things

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

Word Count: 700+

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

Main Masterlist | Original Fic

No one really knew what to do with you.

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

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

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

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

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

Steve started with books.

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

Then came buttons.

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

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

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

He didn’t laugh. Just waited.

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

Bucky, on the other hand, was… different.

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

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

You blinked slowly, sitting on his shoulder.

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

“Swapped with salt. Classic.”

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

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

From then on, it became a game.

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

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

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

And sometimes Bucky caught you smirking behind your hand.

You didn’t talk much. But you listened.

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

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

A petal in Natasha’s drawer.

A marble in Peter’s hoodie.

A single, silver button beside Steve’s bed.

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

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

Infected by the Chaos

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

Word Count: 1.2k+

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

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky got there first.

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

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

The room went silent.

Sam slowly turned his head. “What.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I resent that,” You said.

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

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

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

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

“Unfortunately,” Sam muttered.

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

“No,” Steve and Sam said in unison.

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

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

He smirked. “It just came out.”

“And the fire controls you?”

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

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

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

You gasped. “You’re perfect.”

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

-

As time passed, Bucky was the problem now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”

“I wasn’t complimenting you.”

“Still taking it that way.”

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

“Oh no,” Bucky muttered.

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

-

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

You broke the rule in 6 minutes.

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

“Did you know octopuses have nine brains?”

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

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

Sam left with his soul cracked in half.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The team officially gave up trying to fix Bucky Barnes.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

The Way He Comforts

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

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

Word Count: 2.2k+

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You hadn’t meant to overhear.

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

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

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

That’s when the conversation started.

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

Your spine stiffened. They were talking about you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kind of sounds like a trauma response.”

And it was, wasn’t it?

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

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

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

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

You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

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

-

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

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

And no one said a word.

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

No one but Bucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They think you’re a liability.

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

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

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

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

Natasha texted once. “You good?”

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

A soft knock came hours later.

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

And a sticky note.

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

After a while, he spoke.

“You stopped laughing.”

You blinked, looking over.

His head turned just slightly toward you.

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

You gave a small, almost-invisible shrug.

“I miss that sound,” He said.

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

You swallowed hard.

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

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

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

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

No more words.

Just that.

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

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

“I wasn’t supposed to hear it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would’ve said something.”

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

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

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

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

You blinked hard.

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

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

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

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

And you did.

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