I’ll Still Love You
I’ll Still Love You
Summary: After a mission gone wrong, you lose all memory of your relationship with Bucky. Even though it pains him to the core with grief, he stays by your side and quietly swears he’ll always love you no matter what happens. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Word Count: 2.8k+
A/N: This has ANGST!!! I hope you cry /j. I love this version more than the other to be honest, maybe you all will like it too! You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Your Version
There were things Bucky didn’t think he’d ever have again.
Peace. Sleep. A future. And you.
You came into his life like silence after gunfire. Still and steady, almost unnoticeable at first. You didn’t push or prod. You didn’t flinch at the name Winter Soldier or look at his arm like it was a loaded weapon. You just existed in that calm, present, and kind way.
Many times you would ask how his day was, not his past. You told him what you dreamt about instead of asking what woke him screaming. You made him feel like a person, not a project nor a burden. And that was enough to terrify him.
But he kept coming back.
The first time he held your hand, it was hesitant. He was half-expecting you to pull away, but you didn’t. The first time he kissed you, it was desperate. Like he was drowning in memories and you were the only air left. And you kissed him back like you already knew how many pieces he was in, and didn’t mind picking them up one at a time.
He didn’t say I love you for a long time, not until it slipped out during a fight that he couldn’t remember why it happened to begin with. The words had always felt too big, too fragile. But he knew it the night you fell asleep on his chest, your breathing slow and your fingers resting over the surface of his metal arm. Like you cherished even the parts of him that brought so much destruction. He watched you sleep for hours, just holding you, trying to remember what it felt like to want to stay alive.
Sixteen months with you, and he still couldn’t believe it was real.
The little apartment above the bookstore wasn’t much, but it was yours. The heater barely worked. The neighbors were loud. But there were books in every corner, and a photo of you both pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a cat. You called it “home.” And for once in his life, Bucky did too.
Every morning, he woke up with you tangled in the blankets beside him. Your head tucked beneath his chin, one arm slung over his waist. You always woke up first, but you never moved until he stirred. You said you liked to watch him even though he never knew why.
He always figured you saw something in him he couldn’t. And maybe that was what scared him most. That somehow, one day, you'd wake up and see him for what he really was. Not a man. Not a boyfriend. Just a weapon with blood on his hands.
But that day hadn’t come. Not yet.
-
When the mission briefing came through, it was supposed to be simple and low risk. An abandoned Hydra lab flagged for cleanup. Just intel recovery and demolition. No fights, no enemies. He didn’t want you going in. Something about the location sat wrong in his chest. But you insisted. Said you’d handled worse.
And maybe that was the problem. You always handled everything for him. For others. Even when you shouldn’t have had to.
He watched as you went down another hall to split up and cover more ground. He wished he had never left your side. Because then came the moment of static on the comms, then the flicker of power loss, and lastly the sudden radio silence.
He ran. It took six minutes to find you.
You were in a containment room, collapsed near a machine that looked like something between a scanner and a torture device. Your body was curled on the ground, breathing shallow, hands twitching.
He dropped to his knees beside you. “Hey. Hey… C’mon, Doll, open your eyes.”
You blinked and looked up at him. You stared at him like he was a stranger. When you spoke up, your voice was hoarse. “Who are you?”
The question didn’t register at first. He thought maybe it was the shock. Or a concussion. Maybe you were disoriented. But then you pushed yourself away from him and crawled back, visibly panicked. Your eyes were wide and your throat was working hard to swallow a scream.
“Please… don’t touch me.”
And just like that, the air left his lungs. He tried to stay calm. He tried saying your name, gently. Over and over. You flinched every time like it was a threat. Like he was. It was the look in your eyes that gutted him the most. Not fear of what had happened. Not confusion. But the absence of everything.
Everything you’d shared. The way you looked at him every morning. The jokes you made in the kitchen. The way you once whispered you’d never been safer than in his arms. It was all gone.
You didn’t know who he was. You didn’t know you loved him. And in that moment, he’d never felt more like the ghost they said he was.
-
You didn’t come home right away.
When he managed to coax you back to the tower, the Medics cleared you, of course. Physically, you were fine. Not a scratch on you. But the memory loss was real. The device had done something. Wiped neural pathways, scrambled connections, stripped entire years like peeling wallpaper.
You remembered your name. Your training. How to handle a weapon. How to take apart a gun and stitch a wound. But not him. Not the man who held you every night like you were the only thing tethering him to this century. Not Bucky.
At first, you stayed in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility while they ran scans and tests. Bucky barely left your side. He hovered in corners, not too close, watching you try to relearn yourself in pieces. You were calm, quiet, and even polite.
You just didn’t know him.
He heard it in your voice every time you said his name: Barnes, not Bucky. Cold and distant like a fellow agent rather than the man who once made you laugh so hard you cried over a burnt grilled cheese sandwich in the middle of a power outage.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” You told him once, hands folded in your lap, and voice so gentle it cut him clean. “But… I don’t feel anything when I look at you. I’m sorry.”
He nodded and didn’t say anything more. What could he say?
He didn’t cry in front of you. But later, in the hallway, he braced his metal hand against the wall and exhaled like it hurt just to breathe. They had given you the option not to work for S.H.I.E.L.D anymore, to never see him again. To transfer and reset your life wherever you wanted.
But you didn’t. You looked at him and said, “Maybe… if I spend time with you, it might come back.”
So you came home.
You sat in the apartment like it was a museum. You traced the spines of your own books with unfamiliar fingertips. You opened drawers and stared at the little things like the shared grocery lists, photos of the two of you at Coney Island, a half-finished mug you’d made in a pottery class Bucky had hated but gone to anyway, just because you asked.
None of it sparked anything. But you wanted to remember and that mattered.
He made dinner the first night. Pasta, simple. You smiled faintly and said it tasted good. But you had always used to make fun of him for using too much garlic. He waited for you to say it, but you didn’t.
Later, you sat on opposite sides of the couch while a movie played in the background. You asked questions about yourself: what kind of music you liked, what books you used to read, or if you ever learned to play the old keyboard tucked beside the bookshelf.
Bucky answered every one like he was handling glass.
“You hated horror movies,” He said softly. “Used to bury your face in my shoulder even during the trailers. But you’d watch them anyway, just to laugh at me jumping.”
You tilted your head. “You get scared at horror movies?”
He cracked a faint smile. “Terrified.”
You laughed, really laughed, and for a second, just one fragile moment, it felt like you. He clung to that.
He didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you. Didn’t call you doll or lean against you the way he used to. You weren’t his anymore. Not yet. Maybe not ever again. But every time you laughed or asked about a memory, he let himself hope.
Hope that somewhere, buried deep inside your mind, you were still his.
When he wasn’t spending time around you, he could tell how the rest of the team practically tiptoes around him now.
Some aren’t subtle. Natasha gives him long looks across briefing tables, equal parts pity and protectiveness. She doesn’t speak unless spoken to and whenever she does, her voice is softer than usual. Controlled.
Sam tries, bless him. He cracks a joke or two, light and quick, as if humor could stitch something this deep. He claps Bucky on the shoulder once in the gym and says, “You’re still in there. She’ll find you.” But he doesn’t say anything back, simply giving a tight nod before walking off.
Tony doesn’t gloat much anymore. He doesn’t joke either. He just sends a file to Bucky’s secure inbox about neural-recovery tech, theories, names of people who’ve studied memory wipe reversal. No subject line. No message. But Bucky understands it for what it is: support in Stark language.
Even Clint says it plain. “You’re not giving up.” And Bucky says it back. “I’m not.”
But none of them really know how to be there for him.
Because they saw the way you used to look at him, like he wasn’t a weapon or a man with blood on his hands, but simply yours. And now… you don’t even flinch when you stand near him, because you don’t remember what there is to be afraid of or to love.
So they give him space. But not Steve.
It’s late when Steve knocks. He doesn’t bother answering, but Steve comes in anyway. He finds Bucky in the kitchen, t-shirt and sweatpants, staring at a chipped mug on the counter like it just insulted him.
Steve doesn’t say anything at first, just leans back against the counter, crossing his arms and waiting.
Bucky exhales, but doesn’t look up. “She used to use that one,” He murmurs. “Every morning. Even when the handle cracked.”
His best friend glances at the mug to see the tiny sunflowers on it, slightly faded from too many washes. He remembers seeing it in the sink a hundred times. He remembers seeing you curled against Bucky on the couch, sipping from it with both hands while Bucky tucked a blanket around you like you were something breakable.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Bucky says. His voice is low, shaky even now. “She’s here. She’s here, Stevie. But it’s like watching her ghost walk around our apartment.”
Steve swallows as his chest aches, but he doesn’t show it.
“She’s not gone, Buck.”
“She doesn’t remember me.”
“But she’s trying.”
That lands hard. Bucky finally looks up, eyes bloodshot but dry.
Steve pushes off the counter and takes a slow step forward. “You’re angry. You’re grieving her, even though she’s right in front of you. That’s hell. But Bucky…” He sighs. “You know what it’s like to lose everything and still survive. You’ve done it before.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches. “It’s not the same.”
“No. It’s not. Because this time, she’s trying to come back to you. You just have to be patient.”
Bucky looks down at the mug again. He breathes slowly, his tone more vulnerable now. “What if she never remembers? What if she falls in love with someone else, and I’m just some… ghost in a photo?”
Steve’s expression cracks for a moment but his voice remains gentle. “Then you’ll still love her. You’ll still be there, however she needs. Because that’s what you do when someone’s your home.”
Silence fills the air before Bucky finally nods. It’s a slow, pained motion done only once.
Steve steps closer to his friend and grips his shoulder, firm and steady. “You’re not alone in this. You never were.”
And with that, Bucky stays. He stays by your side at a comfortable distance, offering a steady presence and patient answers to any questions you have.
Even though it hurts him to see you this way, makes him sick to his stomach with grief and anguish at the loss of your love; Bucky never let it show around you, not even once.
Because if there was one thing he remembered and understood better than anyone, it was what it meant to lose pieces of yourself. He couldn’t be angry with you for forgetting, not when he’d spent decades trying to remember who he used to be.
So he doesn’t beg. Doesn’t plead. He doesn’t guilt you into trying harder either. He just stays.
Sometimes, you asked him questions.
“Did I… love you?”
He never lied. Never told you stories to manipulate your heart into remembering. He just answered, gently and honestly.
“Yeah,” He’d say. “You did. And I loved you too.”
And when you looked down or away or offered a polite smile instead of a knowing one, he’d excuse himself for a few minutes to the hallway where he could breathe through the ache in his chest. But Bucky wasn’t a man who gave up. Not on you. Not now.
Because the truth was, he’d wait as long as it took. Even if you never remembered. Even if he had to fall in love with you all over again from scratch and let you fall for him at your own pace, in your own way.
-
On some days, something sparked enough to give him hope.
One morning, it started small. Not with a kiss. Not with some dramatic tearful moment or sudden flood of recognition. Just… a hum.
You’re making tea, quiet and slow, the way you always did. The kettle hisses and clicks, and you’re standing in Bucky’s- your kitchen, waiting.
And you hum. A stupid little melody. Out of tune and familiar.
Bucky freezes in the doorway, his breath caught like a hook in his throat.
Because you always used to hum that song. A dumb old jazz piece he played on vinyl one night just to tease you, and you rolled your eyes and said it sounded like elevator music. Then you got it stuck in your head for weeks to the point where he’d find you humming it while brushing your teeth or waiting for the microwave. Once he heard it while you were patching up a bullet graze.
And now you’re doing it again, without realizing. He doesn’t say anything. He’s afraid if he moves too fast, the moment will vanish like mist.
You pour the tea then turn enough to notice him, tilting your head slightly in concern. “You okay?”
He swallows. “Yeah. Just… you always used to hum that.”
You blink. “Did I?”
He nods and you don’t say anything else. But you look thoughtful. Like maybe, for a flicker of a second, something stirred inside.
Later, it happens again.
You’re sitting on the couch. He’s a few feet away. Respectful as always. You yawn, curl your legs up under you, and reach for the blanket on the back of the couch. Without thinking, you toss one corner toward him.
He stares. Because you always used to share it like that. The dumb little blanket-sharing ritual, a habit you never talked about. Just muscle memory. A routine born of hundreds of nights side-by-side.
And now… now your body remembers what your mind doesn’t.
You notice the way he’s looking at the blanket. “Is this something I used to do?”
He nods again, slower this time. “Yeah.”
“…Do you want it?”
“No,” He says quickly, quietly. “I’m good.”
You study him a moment longer, then gently drape it across both your laps anyway. You don’t say anything. Neither does he. But he doesn’t move for a long time.
That night, when you go to bed, Bucky stays on the couch like he always does now. It’s separate and distant, yet safe. But his heart is full of knives. Because every second you’re here, every time you smile or laugh or hum that dumb melody, he remembers how it used to feel. The ease and the intimacy. The way you’d tuck your face into his chest and call him “Buck” in that soft, sleepy voice like you’d never say it for anyone else.
And he wonders if he’ll ever have that again. But even if he doesn’t, even if you never remember, and even if you move on someday and love someone else…
He knows one thing like gospel truth:
He will still love you. Always. Even if it breaks him.
Because it was never a choice. Not with you. You were the first thing that made him believe he could have a future. And he’ll keep loving you even if all you ever give him now are flickers of hope.
And now, even with your memory scattered like ash in the wind, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever lost.
More Posts from Orellazalonia and Others
Thank you so much!! I love writing for unhinged/chaotic reader. It’s so wild lol
Thank you for reading!!! ♡
Found some footage of unhinged!reader training rookies:
https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMS8vnswe/
(Hi! I love your works, you're amazing!!)
I’M DYING LOL AND IT WORKS SOMEHOW. So, that got me thinking how would she train them…. Now we turn it into a Drabble/blurb [Confession: I don’t know the difference between those two yet LOL] Happy reading! Also greetings! Thank you so much, always so nice seeing you around. Thanks for following along!!! :D
Unqualified, Unhinged, and Unforgettable
Summary: A bunch of excited, hopeful rookies have the absolute displeasure honor of being trained under you.
Word Count: 700+
Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist
The rookies were excited. Nervous, but excited.
After all, they’d been assigned to training with one of the Avengers. A respected, battle-hardened legend. Probably someone like Steve Rogers. Or maybe Natasha Romanoff! God, even Sam Wilson would be incredible.
“Wait,” One of them whispered. “Who’s that?”
You walked onto the training mat holding a stick of string cheese like a cigarette, wearing mismatched socks and aviators. You pointed the cheese at them.
“Morning, nerds.”
The recruits glanced at each other.
“…Are you the trainer?” One asked hesitantly.
You bit the cheese, chewed, and nodded. “Absolutely. Avengers’ top strategic mind. Fun fact, I have never successfully used a revolving door. You’ll respect me soon enough though.”
One recruit hesitantly raised their hand. “Why are you barefoot?”
“I fight better when grounded to the earth’s vibrations,” You replied. “Also I couldn’t find my shoes.”
And so began the most absurd training session in S.H.I.E.L.D. history.
-
Hour 1:
You paired them off. “First, pick a partner. Then pretend they just betrayed you in a high-stakes casino heist.”
They hesitated, looking around at each other as they tried to process the instruction. You shouted, “Feel the betrayal! Feel the drama! Slap them if you need to!”
One poor recruit started sobbing. Another screamed, “I LOVED YOU, TYLER,” and tackled their partner into a fountain.
You applauded. “Amazing. Raw and painful. That’s real combat.”
-
Hour 2:
You rolled a blender onto the mat with duct tape, Christmas lights, and three timers.
“This,” You announced dramatically, “is your bomb.”
“That’s a blender,” Someone whispered slowly.
You leaned in, deadly serious. “That’s what they want you to think.”
The rookies huddled, genuinely trying to figure it out. One made the mistake of cutting the red wire (which was actually a Twizzler). The blender turned on and shot glitter everywhere.
“That was a decoy,” You told them solemnly. “Now you’re covered in regret and sequins.”
-
Hour 3:
You took them on a “field simulation” which turned out to be a surprise shopping trip to IKEA.
“Navigate this labyrinth. Assemble a chair. Use only hex keys and trauma.”
Two recruits got lost in the kitchen model displays. One called you from inside a wardrobe. You refused to help.
“If you can’t escape IKEA,” You said, eating a meatball with your bare hands, “How will you escape Hydra?”
-
Aftermath
When the rookies returned to HQ, some crying, some covered in glitter, and one holding an emotional support fern; they were never the same.
But they were better, somehow. Sharper and unpredictable. Capable of disarming actual bombs and Swedish furniture with nothing but rage and a plastic fork.
Bucky found you later in the common room, sitting on the couch, eating marshmallows with chopsticks and watching a documentary on nuclear fission at max volume. You were also wearing his hoodie, which meant you were either thriving or about to cause an international incident.
He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “You turned those rookies into emotionally unstable weaponized gremlins.”
You didn't look away from the TV. “I prefer the term ‘innovative prodigies.’”
“They challenged Sam to a duel using plungers and grief metaphors.”
“They need to learn how to weaponize emotion. That’s day three material.”
“They built a working trebuchet and launched my motorcycle onto the roof.”
You finally turned to look at him. “And did it not work?”
Bucky stared at you. “You trained them for one day.”
You gave him a slow blink, then gently offered him a marshmallow with the chopsticks. “You love me.”
“I love you,” He said flatly, taking the marshmallow. “I also think you might be a war crime in human form.”
You grinned. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”
He walked over and dropped his head into your lap with a tired sigh, arm slinging around your waist. “Next time you train anyone, I’m sedating you first.”
“Won’t happen but that’s fair,” You said, petting his hair with one chopstick. “But you have to admit… they’re kind of unstoppable now.”
From down the hallway came a loud bang, a screech of victory, and someone yelling, “FOR SCIENCE AND THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP!”
You sipped juice from your “World’s Best Trainer” mug and said softly, “My legacy begins.”
Bucky just groaned. “God help us all.”
Oops, I Joined a Cult Again
Summary: You joined a cult. That’s it. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)
Word Count: 900+
A/N: Same as the unhinged/chaotic reader series, supposed to be shorter but then I added more group chat shenanigans. I wanted something quick while I work on other stuff. Sorry if it’s messy. Happy reading!!!
Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist
Bucky Barnes had one job: watch your back on the infiltration mission.
He didn’t know that meant literally watching you disappear into a torchlit temple deep in the mountains and emerge forty-eight hours later in robes, glowing, smiling cheerfully, and being worshiped as the reincarnation of a snake god.
“They call me The Hissening,” You whispered, eyes far too wide, far too smug.
“I told you not to touch the statue,” Bucky muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as the robed people behind you chanted in perfect sync: “HISSSSSSS.”
-
48 HOURS EARLIER
The briefing was simple. Infiltrate and investigate a rising cult rumored to be a Hydra front. No weapons. No overt powers. In and out.
Naturally, Tony turned to you and said, “You’re on distraction duty. Just… go be yourself.”
You took it as a compliment. It was not.
You and Bucky parachuted into the outskirts of the mountains under cover of night, both in tactical gear. Silent and focused… until you turned to him mid-descent and yelled, “DO YOU THINK CULTS HAVE SNACKS?”
“…What?”
“LIKE HOLY GRAHAM CRACKERS OR- wait, no, Blessed Chex Mix!”
He didn’t respond. He just stared straight ahead, wondering for the millionth time what cosmic punishment he was paying for to be partnered with you on this particular mission.
The problem was never that you were bad at missions. In fact, in combat, you were terrifying. Strategic. Surgical.
But in deep cover? You were yourself, which is how exactly five minutes after entering the temple courtyard, you said:
“Nice snake statue. Can I boop it?”
And when the head priest responded, “Only the Chosen One may lay a finger upon the sacred Fang of Enlightenment,” You touched it immediately, whispered “boop,” and passed out.
When you woke up, glowing faintly with what may have been divine energy (or some type of poisoning), the cult declared you their prophesied leader.
You didn’t correct them.
-
BACK TO PRESENT
Bucky had finally gotten inside. Posing as a new recruit, hood up, mouth shut, inner turmoil vibrating at a ten. He spotted you instantly. You were standing on a golden platform, arms open, and being fanned with palm leaves.
“Hey,” He hissed when he reached you. “Mission. Hydra. Ringing any bells?”
You waved vaguely. “They have really good soup here.”
“This is not the time for soup.”
You nodded solemnly. “There is always time for soup.”
Someone handed you a ceremonial staff. You took it. It was sparkly.
You then whispered to Bucky, “So here’s the thing… I might’ve said we should cleanse our enemies in a fire of spiritual rebirth. Which they interpreted as actual fire. So, like… maybe be cool about that.”
He blinked at you.
“You started a holy war, didn’t you.”
You smiled brightly. “Only a small one.”
That night, under cover of darkness, the two of you escaped; you still in full ceremonial garb, Bucky dragging you by the elbow while you shouted goodbye to your “disciples.”
One of them threw a snake at you in farewell. You caught it. You named it Gary.
Steve, upon your return, asked what happened.
You saluted and said, “I was a god for three days and it changed me. Also I have this soup recipe now.” You handed him a scroll. When he opened it, it was blank.
Bucky looked at you, exhausted, covered in ash, a little bruised, holding a snake in one hand and your glitter-covered robes in the other.
“…You are the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me,” He said.
You winked. “But I’m your weirdo.”
“Yeah, you are.”
-
Bonus Debriefing.
Group Chat:
Tony: Okay, so. Roll call. Who let them start a religion??
Clint: AGAIN?!?
Sam: Are we seriously ignoring the snake?? Why does she still have the snake?
You: his name is Gary, he chose me
Bucky: The snake did not choose you. You caught him and said “I am your mother now.”
You: and he accepted me
Wanda: Did you eat something weird again? The last time you said a goat “chose you” we had to evacuate a whole town.
Steve: Back up. How did we go from “infiltrate Hydra cult” to “being crowned a divine prophet of the hiss age”?
Bucky: Because she touched the sacred artifact. While they were giving a warning not to.
You: i wanted to boop it 🐍✨
Bruce: [Image attached: Security cam still of you dramatically booping a snake statue and passing out like a Victorian child seeing ankles.]
Tony: Okay but why are you glowing in this?
You: i think I absorbed a minor god
Sam: Define “minor.”
You: likeee a demi-snake. A snack god
Bucky: You said, quote: “Let the hiss of salvation whisper in your soul or something.”
Tony: You started preaching???
You: they gave me a podium! what else was I supposed to do? NOT use it!?
Natasha: …Yes?
Clint: wait, so did we ever find out if the cult was a Hydra front or…
Steve: Nope. She gave a sermon and declared Bucky her “divine enforcer.”
Bucky: Yeah. Still mad about that.
You: srry Prophet Punchy
Tony: We are never letting you go on recon again.
Bruce: I still want to know how you pulled off a glowing aura with no tech or magic.
You: I ate three glowsticks on accident.
Wanda: …
Steve: …
Bucky: This is not a joke. I watched it happen.
You: I thought they were minty tubes.
Sam: Was anyone else weirdly inspired by her speech though?
Steve: Sam.
Sam: I’m just saying I felt something 🐍
Bucky: I felt betrayal and secondhand shame.
You: don’t worry guys, the cult disbanded peacefully. i left them a doctrine :)
Tony: A what.
You: [Image attached: Crayon drawing of a snake with sunglasses saying “BE NICE. EAT SOUP. HISS IF THREATENED.”]
Bruce: This is shockingly coherent.
Clint: I hate how effective it is.
Thor: I would like to join this religion. It seems wise. HISS.
[Thor has been muted again.]
Because He Always Knows
Summary: You're close friends with Bucky Barnes, trusting his quiet, protective nature. What you don’t know is that Bucky is secretly obsessed with you. Watching you, tracking your every move, and quietly eliminating anyone who gets too close. And he’ll do anything to keep you safe, close…and his. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x reader)
Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes. Stalking. Tracking reader (location, cameras, etc.) Some implied violence toward others. Yandere themes.
Word Count: 1.2k+
A/N: Not going to lie, I have not seen many Yandere Bucky fics. Maybe I’m not looking hard enough. I think it’d be cool to turn this into a series though, depends if other people like it or not. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.
Main Masterlist
You’d known Bucky Barnes for a while now. Ever since you joined the Avengers on the intel and support side, he’d somehow gravitated toward you. Quiet and subtle. He never talked much unless spoken to, and whenever he did, it was always calm and short. But around you, he softened a little. He offered small, quiet smiles, sat beside you even when there were empty seats elsewhere. And he always seemed to know when you needed help. It was comforting. Familiar. You thought of him as a good friend, someone who didn’t push or pry.
What you didn’t know was that Bucky knew your schedule better than you did. He knew what time you got your coffee, which café down the block you preferred, and even which music you played in your room when you were winding down.
He never broke your trust. At least, not in any obvious way. But he was always watching. From rooftops. From darkened hallways. Even from shadows in the compound when you thought you were alone. He wasn’t trying to be creepy, not in his mind. He just needed to make sure you were safe. That no one got too close. That you didn’t drift away from him.
When you talked about a new friend one afternoon, some guy from the tech department who made you laugh, Bucky’s smile faltered for only a second. You didn’t notice it, but it was there, a flicker of cold calculation beneath the warmth. He nodded, asked a few harmless questions about him, and then let the topic drop. Later that day, the tech guy mysteriously fell down a flight of stairs. Nothing serious, but just enough to keep him out of work for a few weeks. Bucky never said anything. He simply showed up at your door like any other day with soup this time and a quiet, “Need company?”
You welcomed him in. Why wouldn’t you? He was always so gentle with you, always so present. His gloved hands carried your groceries, fixed your lock when it jammed, even installed extra security on your windows “just in case.” You never questioned how he knew you’d been anxious after that strange man on the subway followed you home. You never told anyone about it, but Bucky acted before you even had to.
Sometimes, you’d catch him watching you a second too long. His gaze intense, unreadable. He’d look away quickly, but the feeling would linger. You chalked it up to Bucky just being… Bucky. A little odd, a little broken, but ultimately good.
You didn’t see the way his jaw tensed when someone touched your arm. You didn’t notice the thin notebooks he kept tucked away, filled with observations about you. What you wore, what you said, who you talked to. Every page was a soft obsession written in ink, filled with the belief that you were his. Not in a romantic, normal way. In a quiet, inevitable, belonging sort of way. You were his peace, his reason, and he would burn the world down before letting someone else take you.
To you, he was just a friend. A good one. Steady. Loyal. Maybe a little protective.
To Bucky, you were everything. And he was never more than a few feet behind you; watching, guarding, and waiting. Always waiting.
One evening, you stayed late in the compound’s tech lab. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Just a backlog of reports and an excuse to avoid your empty apartment, then you heard the door open. Bucky stopped by with two coffees, one black, one exactly the way you liked yours. He didn’t ask if you wanted one. Come to think of it, he never did. Somehow, he just knew.
You smiled and thanked him as he sat nearby, silent as ever, occasionally glancing at your screen. It was quiet, comfortable even, until you laughed at something on your phone.
“Who’s that?” Bucky asked, and you glanced up. His tone was calm, but you noticed the way his shoulders tightened.
“Just a guy I matched with,” You said, smiling without much thought. You didn’t think he would know or understand what dating apps are in the modern day. “We’ve been texting a little. He’s funny.”
You missed it, but Bucky’s knuckles whitened around his cup. “You gonna meet him?”
“Maybe,” You shrugged. “We’ll see.”
He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the floor for a beat too long. You assumed it was one of his quiet spells again: those moments where the past clawed at him and left him speechless. You reached over and gently squeezed his arm.
“Hey. You okay?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
You didn’t ask what about. You’d learned not to push him. You knew he would talk if he needed to. But behind his still eyes, something shifted.
That night, he followed you home like he always did. He was quiet as a shadow, footsteps masked by the hum of the city and his experience as the Winter Soldier. You made it home safely, texted him a “thank you for the coffee,” and turned in for the night. Bucky stayed outside your building for hours, hidden across the street. He didn’t move for a while, didn’t blink. Just waited.
The next day, your date canceled. No explanation. Just a sudden, awkward message and a block. You frowned at your phone, confused and disappointed.
“He didn’t deserve your time anyway,” Bucky tried to comfort you later when you vented about it. The way he looked at you, soft smile and worried eyes, you found yourself agreeing. Though, you weren’t sure why.
Days passed. The missed connections started to pile up. Plans you made with others were mysteriously interrupted. It was always something: car issues, sudden emergencies, sick coworkers. Yet Bucky was always around, always the one to stay and offer, “Want to grab food instead?” or say “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.” You welcomed the company. He was stable, kind and he cared.
But something started to gnaw at you. The feeling of being watched never quite left. Doors you were sure you locked felt slightly ajar. Items shifted. Your phone sometimes buzzed with strange glitches. You mentioned it in passing to Bucky. But he reassured you softly like he always did, “You’re safe. I promise.” His voice was low, almost reverent.
And you believed him, because no one protected you like Bucky did. No one was as constant, as present. Besides, you were probably overthinking it anyways.
What you didn’t see were the cameras tucked in the corners of your ceiling, hidden well behind the smoke detector and air vents. You didn’t know some tracking program had been installed on your phone nor the way Bucky’s fingers traced your location like a map he’d memorized.
To you, he was just Bucky. A little rough around the edges. A quiet and stead friend who was always there for you.
To him, you were the reason he hadn’t fallen apart completely. You were everything. His home. His anchor. And if you ever tried to leave him, if you ever even thought of running, he’d know. But he knows you wouldn’t do such a thing, you don’t even suspect a thing. Perhaps you never will. It’s better for you this way. But if you did, he would catch on immediately. Because he always knows.
A Little Mess Won’t Hurt
Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]
Summary: Despite your love for the arts, you’ve always been hesitant to use your paint kits, watercolors, or anything that could make a mess. Your caregivers notice and help you try finger painting for the first time.
Word Count: 1.9k+
A/N: This is purely a self-indulgent kind of fic. More on the fluffier side, hopefully.
Main Masterlist
You sit quietly on the couch, legs crossed beneath you, as you watch Steve work on his sketchbook. The pencil moves fluidly across the page, creating beautiful shapes, faces, and scenes. You’re mesmerized by how easily his hand moves, as if the paper were an extension of himself. His concentration makes him look so calm, so relaxed, and you wish you could do that too. Create something beautiful.
You reach over and grab your coloring book, your favorite one with intricate patterns of flowers and animals, and open it to the next unfinished page. You’ve always loved coloring, the neat lines and precise strokes, careful to stay inside the borders. But when you think about what Steve is doing and what Bucky sometimes does when he’s working with paints and clay, it makes your chest feel tight. You’ve never touched the paint kits or watercolor sets that Steve bought for you. It always feels like a line you’re afraid to cross.
Your fingers itch to try it. You know it’s fun. You’ve seen Bucky with his hands covered in clay and Steve covered in paint, laughing and smiling, their faces bright with joy. But the mess… the mess always brings memories you don’t like. The sharp words. The scolding. The fear of ruining something precious.
"Hey, kiddo, you done with your drawing?" Steve’s voice cuts through your thoughts. You blink, looking up at him. He’s watching you with soft eyes, a half-smile on his face. "You’re awfully quiet today."
You fidget with your coloring book, picking at the edges. "I’m just… coloring," You mumble, offering him a small smile.
Steve notices the way your gaze flicks back to his sketchbook, your eyes lingering on his pencil as it moves. He sets his book aside gently and leans closer, his voice tender but curious.
"You know," He starts, "I’ve got a new sketchbook in the other room. But it’s not the only way to make art."
Your heart skips a beat. You’ve heard them talk about painting before. About how messy it gets and how much fun it is. They thought you would like it. Bucky has even shown you his pottery and tried to convince you to join him in the studio once, but you always hesitated. The idea of making a mess, of getting dirty? It just felt wrong.
"I—" You pause, unsure how to explain. You tug at the hem of your shirt, a nervous habit. "I like… watching. But I don’t know if I could… do it."
Steve’s eyes soften as he tilts his head. "Do what, sweetheart?"
"Make a mess," You murmur, almost embarrassed.
The room falls into a quiet moment, Steve’s gaze turning understanding. He’s seen the way you’ve avoided the paints, the watercolors, the clay. He knows how much you love the idea of creating, anything to do with art. He can see it in your eyes every time you sit with your coloring book, every time you watch him draw. But he also knows there’s something holding you back. Something deeply rooted.
"You don’t have to be afraid of making a mess with us," Steve says gently. "You’re safe here. We’re not going to scold you for it. You don’t have to be perfect."
You glance up at him, your cheeks flushing. The words feel foreign, like they shouldn’t be said to you. But… they are. And the warmth in Steve’s voice makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could try.
"You sure?" You whisper.
Bucky, who has been quietly listening from the armchair, smiles softly and walks over to where you’re sitting. He crouches down to your level, his expression warm and inviting.
"I’ll even help you clean up after," He promises. "We can have a little messy play time, just the three of us. No judgment, no worries. Just fun."
Your heart flutters in your chest. The idea of it sounds fun. So much fun, in fact, that you can feel your fingers twitch with excitement. But the fear still clings to you. You don’t want to disappoint them too. You don’t want to make a mess at all.
Steve catches the look in your eyes and gives you a soft smile. "It’s okay if you don’t want to yet," He reassures calmly, "But I think you’ll enjoy it. Sometimes, making a little mess is how we make the best memories."
Bucky holds out his hand, "What do you say, kiddo? Wanna try it with us? You can start small. Just dip your fingers in a little bit of paint. We’ll take it slow."
You hesitate. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt as you think, battling with the urge to try something new and the fear of failure. But then Steve places a gentle hand on your shoulder, the warmth of his touch calming you. "No pressure. If you don’t like it, we can always stop. But if you want to, we can make something really special."
You glance at Bucky, who’s still waiting patiently. He doesn’t look rushed or frustrated. He’s simply… waiting for you to decide. To trust them and that’s the push you need.
Taking a deep breath, you nod, just a little.
"I’ll try," Your voice barely audible.
Bucky’s smile grows, and he gently takes your hand, as he brings you to the dining table. Steve grabs some of the finger painting supplies and sets them down near you. The tray of paints now sits before you with a blank sheet of paper. The colors are so bright, so inviting, and for the first time, you feel a small wave of excitement wash over you. You slowly reach over, still hesitant but brave. Bucky’s voice remains light and reassuring.
"That’s it. Now, just a little dab," He encourages.
You dip your fingers into the paint, the cool sensation making your breath catch in your throat. And then, with a deep breath, you press your fingers to the paper.
It’s messy. It’s a little wild. But it’s also… freeing.
Steve watches you with pride, his gaze soft as you begin to explore the colors with more confidence. Bucky’s chuckles ring in the air as he joins you on another page, painting alongside you. The mess doesn’t seem so bad now. In fact, it’s kind of fun. And with Steve and Bucky by your side, it’s safe. There’s no judgment, no scolding. Just a loving space where you can make something beautiful, even if it’s a little messy.
The paint feels warmer now, smoother against your fingertips as you move your hand across the page. You make a bold swirl of yellow and green, your face lighting up with a quiet smile as you experiment with the colors. It’s not perfect, but that’s the best part. The colors bleed into one another in playful patterns, as if the paper itself is dancing with you.
Bucky glances, grinning as you explore. "That’s it, kiddo. Let it flow," He says, his voice filled with encouragement. He’s got a bit of red paint smeared on his cheek from his own work, but he doesn’t mind. "No rules. Just fun."
You glance at him, then at Steve, who’s already made a few broad strokes on his paper with a brush. The whole room feels lighter, almost fizzing with energy as the three of you work in a little creative chaos together.
Steve watches you with a fond smile, leaning in to dip his own brush into a deep purple. "There you go," He adds. "Look at that swirl. Looks like a rainbow already."
You tilt your head and glance at your page, and sure enough, the yellow and green you've painted already do look like the beginnings of a rainbow, the colors blending like the hues of a sunset.
The idea of a perfect painting slowly fades from your mind, and you start adding more colors, simply having fun with it. Maybe blue here, a touch of red there. Bucky and Steve occasionally encourage you, their voices soft but full of praise. The weight of your old anxieties begins to melt away. They never push you to do anything more than you’re ready for, and you find yourself taking more risks, adding blobs of color that you wouldn’t have dared to make a few minutes ago.
The first few smudges on your fingers did feel odd at first, but then you realize they aren’t that bad. You laugh when a bit of orange accidentally splatters onto the side of your cheek. Bucky chuckles too, and reaches over with a napkin to wipe it away. "Guess you’re really getting into it now."
You can’t help but laugh back, the sound light and airy, filling the room with the pure joy of finally letting go.
It’s so much fun—more than you thought it could be. You notice that the fear you had about messing up seems so small now. There’s a comforting warmth in knowing that Steve and Bucky are right there with you, sharing in the mess, the fun, and the art. No one’s looking to judge or critique, just to enjoy the moment together.
The hours pass quickly, the three of you laughing and creating. Before you know it, your page is a beautiful, colorful mess. It’s nothing like the neat, careful drawings you used to make. Instead, it’s a chaotic explosion of colors, shapes, and patterns that make your heart flutter. You didn’t have to hold back. You didn’t have to be perfect. And that’s exactly what made it perfect.
"Look at you," Steve’s voice is full of pride as he leans in to admire your work. "I think we’ve got ourselves an artist in the making."
Bucky grins, nudging you lightly with his shoulder; his tone full of love and approval. "You’ve got a real eye for this, you know."
You smile, a warm, contented feeling filling your chest. Your hands are a little sticky with paint, and your shirt has a few splatters too, but you don’t mind. You look over at Bucky and Steve, seeing their faces beaming with pride. You realize that it wasn’t just about making art. It was about trusting them enough to let go, to not be afraid of what could happen if things got messy.
As you finish the last few touches on your page, you feel a sense of accomplishment. Your masterpiece isn’t about following the rules or being perfect. It’s a reflection of you: creative, brave, and free.
Steve and Bucky glance over at each other and share a look, one of shared pride and understanding. They’re proud of you for stepping out of your comfort zone, for trusting them, and for making something beautiful in the process.
When the paintings are finally dry, Steve gathers them up carefully. "We’ll hang these on the fridge," He smiles when your face lights up. "We’ll put yours right at the top, where everyone can see."
Bucky nods, pulling you into a soft, affectionate hug. "You did so good, sweetheart. You made a mess, and you made art. That’s what it’s all about."
You snuggle into his arms, still grinning from ear to ear. It feels good. It feels right.
And for the first time, you don’t worry about what happens if things get a little messy. Because, in this moment, you realize that a little mess is part of the magic. Part of the fun. And no matter what mess happens, you’re safe enough to make it with the people who love you.
Toy Store Visit
Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]
Summary: You go to a toy store with a budget and pick out one new stuffie. Your caregivers gently guide you and remain patient as you carefully choose which stuffed animal or toy to bring home.
Word Count: 1.2k+
Main Masterlist
The car ride felt like forever even though in reality, it was maybe fifteen minutes, but your legs were already bouncing with excitement by the time Steve pulled into the parking lot. You were pressed up against the window, nose leaving a faint smudge on the glass, eyes wide as the bright, colorful sign of the toy store came into view. You gasped, your hands grabbing at the straps of your seatbelt.
“We there we there we there!” You chanted, voice high and bouncy in your little headspace.
Bucky chuckled from beside you, already unbuckling himself. “Yeah, peanut, we’re here. But don’t forget the rules, okay?”
Steve turned in the driver’s seat to look back at you, his tone gentle. “One toy, just one. Doesn’t matter what it is. It can be big or small but we’re sticking to one, alright, sweetheart?”
You nodded fast. “Uh-huh! One! Jus’ one. Promise!”
“Alright then,” Steve said with a smile. “Let’s go.”
You practically wiggled out of your car seat as Bucky helped undo the buckle, and you reached up for his hand without thinking. His metal fingers curled softly around yours as you stepped out onto the sidewalk, sticking close between your two caregivers. Your eyes lit up the moment the automatic doors whooshed open, rows and rows of colors, boxes, plush, and puzzles stretched out in front of you like magic.
You didn’t know where to start.
Steve leaned down and whispered in your ear, “Take your time, honey. No rush.”
So you did. You wandered down every aisle, with Bucky patiently walking beside you and Steve keeping an eye out from a few feet behind. Every so often, you’d stop and gasp while you pointed at something shiny, squeaky, or soft. You picked up a few things to study them carefully before putting them back with a quiet, “Not the one…”
Steve and Bucky never rushed you. Even when you doubled back to the same aisle three times, debating between a pink dinosaur plushie that roared when squeezed and a sensory pop-it shaped like a turtle.
“Dino roars,” You mumbled to Bucky, your bottom lip pushed out in a thinking pout. “But turtle’s got bubbles.”
He knelt beside you, his metal hand brushing your hair out of your face. “What does your heart say? Which one makes it feel warm?”
You placed both toys down carefully and looked between them, then slowly reached for something you hadn’t noticed before: a soft little stuffed jellyfish that was pale blue with velvety tentacles and sleepy embroidered eyes. You held it to your chest instantly. “This one,” You whispered, voice low and in awe. “She’s soft an’ shy like me.”
Bucky smiled gently. “Then I think she’s perfect.”
You beamed, holding her tighter. “Her name’s Bubbles,” You informed them proudly, skipping just a little as you made your way to the front register. Steve gave you a wink as he took her to scan, slipping her right back into your arms after the purchase. “Welcome to the family, Bubbles,” He teased as you giggled, cradling her like something fragile and precious.
Back in the car, snuggled in the back seat with your seatbelt carefully fastened, you stared out the window, petting Bubbles’ soft head. Bucky passed you your juice box, and Steve glanced back briefly.
“You did really good, sweetheart,” Steve said softly.
“Waited your turn, made a thoughtful choice, and you didn’t get overwhelmed,” Bucky added, a proud smile on his expression.
You looked up at them, eyes wide with sleepy pride. “Thank you f’r takin’ me.”
Steve smiled. “Always. You’re our little, this stuff matters.”
You curled into your seat, jellyfish in one arm, juice in the cup holder next to you, and a heart full and warm.
-
Back at home, the apartment had the faint scent of dinner leftovers still lingering in the air, and soft music playing in the background belonging to one of Steve’s old vinyl records humming low from the living room speaker.
You kicked your shoes off clumsily at the door, still cradling Bubbles in your arms like a fragile baby. Bucky was right behind you, taking your shoes and putting them by the door neatly, while Steve carried in your empty juice box and tossed it in the recycling with a soft chuckle.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Steve said, ruffling your hair. “Show Bubbles around. Bet she’s curious.”
You nodded seriously. “Uh-huh. She don’ know where nothin’ is.”
Bucky smiled, settling on the couch to watch you. “Well then, she’s lucky to have the best tour guide in the whole house.”
You led Bubbles around the space starting with the living room, holding her up so she could “see” the couch, the blanket basket, and your bin of toys tucked in the corner. You pressed her soft jelly legs against each thing, whispering things like, “This the squishy blankie, but sometimes I share… sometimes…” or “That’s the remote. Not ‘llowed to touch it. Papa says so.”
Then you padded down the hall to your room where a soft nightlight was already glowing along the baseboards. Your room smelled like lavender and lotion, felt like home and safety. You climbed up on the bed and sat cross-legged, settling Bubbles in your lap.
“This is home,” You whispered to her, brushing her soft fabric head. “S’our room now.”
Steve leaned in the doorway, arms crossed gently. He was watching with that patient, warm expression he always got when you were especially little. Bucky peeked in behind him with your favorite sippy cup. He walked over and handed you yours with a quiet, “Hydrate, little fish.”
You giggled at the nickname and took a careful sip before setting your drink down on the nightstand. Then you picked up your favorite blankie and tucked Bubbles under it, right beside your pillow. “She’s sleepy,” you whispered to Steve. “She gots all tired in the car.”
Steve came in and crouched down beside the bed. “Think she needs help falling asleep?”
You nodded. “Need lull’by. She scared.”
Bucky climbed in beside you, pulling you into his lap so you could watch while Steve tucked Bubbles in properly by adjusting the blanket and fluffing a little pillow under her round jelly head. Then he began to hum a soft, comforting slow rhythm that you’d heard a dozen times, usually when you were dozing against his chest or curled in bed half-asleep.
You sighed content and leaned into Bucky, thumb in your mouth now, eyelids fluttering as Steve continued.
By the time he finished, you were barely awake, still holding Bucky’s hand while your body melted into the calmness of the atmosphere. Steve kissed your forehead gently, then Bubbles’, then helped you lay down beside her.
“She’s okay now,” You mumbled, already halfway gone. “She gots us…”
“She sure does,” Bucky whispered, brushing hair back from your cheek. “Just like we got you.”
Steve flicked off the bedside lamp, and both men stayed until your breathing slowed and softened. You were wrapped in blankets and love, Bubbles tucked close, and your tiny fingers resting gently on her soft head as sleep took over.
Just like your new plush friend, you were home, safe, and loved.
Love Letters in the Smoke
Summary: During his rehabilitation, Bucky writes anonymous letters to process his thoughts. One night, he drops one at your circus campfire by mistake. You write back as a pen-pal romance begins. (Bucky Barnes x aerialist!reader)
Word Count: 1.6k+
A/N: I wanted to write something circus themed and thought this was a cute story. I hope the indents for the letters doesn’t look weird. Regardless, Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
The circus smelled of smoke, greasepaint, and a hint of nostalgia. The kind of place that looked like it had time-traveled from another century. Its canvas tents patched with care, and string lights casting soft golden halos in the dusk. You called it home.
Every night, after the crowd dispersed and the last child had been tugged away from the caramel stands, you’d sit by the communal fire pit with a notebook and your own thoughts. The crackle of flames soothed your nerves after a long evening performing. Tonight was no different until you found the letter.
Folded neatly in half, it was tucked beneath a rock near the fire. No name. No address. Just worn, thick paper, like it had been clutched tightly before being left behind. The handwriting was rigid, practiced, like someone who didn’t write often.
"I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe to make sense of the noise. I’m not used to silence. When I have it, the ghosts scream louder. I think I was someone good once, but I don’t know if that matters anymore. So I keep walking, city to city, place to place, hoping I can outrun myself."
Your fingers tightened around the paper, heart stirring with something strange. You didn’t know the writer, but you knew the feeling. So you wrote back.
Your first response was clumsy. You weren’t used to being vulnerable. But you scribbled on the back of a circus flyer:
“Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder if the reflection is mine or someone else’s memory. If you were good once, maybe that piece is still inside you. If it hurts, it means it mattered.”
You left your letter the same way by the fire, under the same rock. You didn’t expect anything to come of it. But the next night, there was another one waiting.
"Didn’t expect a reply. It’s strange. Your words feel like a calm I haven’t earned. But thank you. I needed them more than I thought."
The letters became a ritual.
While the rest of the troupe celebrated, drank, or collapsed into their trailers, you and your ghost wrote to each other. You told him about your performances, your nerves before every show, how the roar of the crowd always seemed distant. He told you about dreams he didn’t understand, faces he couldn't name but could never forget.
"Sometimes I see their eyes. Just eyes. Hundreds of them. People I’ve hurt. People I lost. I wish I could believe I was still worth saving."
Your response was always gentle, honest.
“Pain doesn’t cancel out worth. I don’t know what you’ve done. But if you’re trying now, if you’re writing to a stranger in the dark just to stay afloat… then yes. You’re worth it."
He never signed his letters. You didn’t, either. But a bond was forming. Raw and quiet. The kind of intimacy that only comes when truth is stripped bare, and nothing is expected in return.
A week later, a new stranger joined the circus.
He didn’t give much away, just said his name was James, and he was helping fix up the rigging for the aerial performers. He was tall with broad shoulders. Dark hair pulled into a low bun. Quiet, watchful, like a man used to danger. You noticed the glove on his hands, the way he flinched when touched, and the haunted glint in his eyes.
He didn’t say much, but when he watched you during your act, a graceful ribbon aerialist twisting in midair, there was something almost reverent in his gaze.
He started lingering by the fire after hours, sitting a few feet away. You’d nod. He’d nod back. Neither of you spoke much. But his presence was… comforting.
The letters continued.
"There’s a performer here. I don’t know her name yet. She climbs like she wants to touch the stars. When she’s up there, it’s like she’s weightless. Untouchable. I think she feels more at home in the air than on the ground. I envy that."
You read that one twice, your stomach fluttering. Could it be?
You looked at James differently after that. You caught him watching you once, a rare smile twitching at his mouth before he quickly looked away. He never asked personal questions, but he always listened when you spoke. Even the small things. What you had for dinner. What color ribbon you liked the best.
And still, each night, the letters came.
Until the day it stopped.
You came to the fire, letter in hand, heart pounding. You had written it that afternoon, deciding finally to sign it with your real name.
But there was no letter waiting. Not that night. Not the next.
And James was gone.
You asked around only to find out that he had packed up quietly, said goodbye to no one, and left like a ghost.
-
Weeks passed. The circus moved on, as it always did.
You still checked the firepit sometimes. Just in case. A hope inside your heart that would be chipped away each time you found no letter.
Then, one night, as the stars blanketed the sky and your arms ached from rehearsal, you found it. A single letter. Folded tight.
Your name was on the front.
"I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. I was afraid. You knew me before you knew who I was. And that scared me more than anything. I’ve done things, things I can’t ask forgiveness for. But when I read your words, I believed for a moment that maybe I wasn’t just a weapon. That maybe I could be more. You called me worth saving. No one ever said that to the Winter Soldier. But you said it to James."
Your hands trembled as you read the last part.
"I want to see you again. If you'll let me. There’s a train station just outside the next town. I’ll be waiting. – Bucky"
You folded the letter to your chest and smiled through your tears.
Finally, a name.
And maybe, just maybe, a beginning.
The next town was a blur of winding back roads and wind-chilled mornings. The circus was set up at the edge of a sun-dried field, the ground cracked from lack of rain. But you barely noticed any of it. Your mind was somewhere else, back at the firepit, at the letter pressed to your chest, at the name that made everything real.
Bucky.
It suited him somehow. Solid and sincere. A little old-fashioned like the man himself.
You folded the letter so carefully that it felt like folding a prayer. You didn’t show it to anyone. Some part of you was still terrified it might vanish if you spoke it aloud. But you couldn’t ignore it.
He said he’d be at the train station. So you went.
You left after rehearsal dressed in simple clothes, your hair braided back, and palms sweating in your coat pockets. The station was small and mostly empty. Just one old bench, a vending machine that wheezed when it tried to light up, and a single streetlamp buzzing like a nervous heart.
He was there.
Bucky stood near the tracks, hands in his pockets, back tense like he wasn’t sure he should stay. A battered duffel sat by his boots. His eyes were distant, tracking the horizon. Like he was still prepared to run.
You almost called out to him, but he turned first. When your eyes met, it hit you like a second heartbeat.
You'd read this man’s pain. Held his words in your hands like they were fragile glass. You had whispered encouragement to him under stars he couldn’t see. And now he was here. Real. Vulnerable. Waiting.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” He said, voice rough with nerves.
“I wasn’t sure you would wait,” You answered, stepping closer.
He let out a low quiet laugh, more exhale than sound. “I almost didn’t.”
“I’m glad you did.”
There was a long pause, but it wasn’t awkward. It was full. Thick with every letter, every word, every emotion neither of you had dared speak aloud.
“I’m sorry for disappearing,” Bucky began as his gaze dropped. “I… panicked. Thought it was safer if I left before I messed it up. But the truth is… I missed you.”
Your throat tightened. “You didn’t mess anything up. I… I missed you too. Every night I checked that fire.”
He stepped closer, the soft scrape of gravel under his boots. “I didn’t know how to do this. I still don’t.”
“Me neither,” You whispered. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest.
His gloved hand lifted, like he wanted to reach for you but was waiting for permission. So you met him halfway, pressing your hand gently to his chest. Through his shirt, you could feel the heavy rhythm of his heart, strong and steady, like it had finally found a beat worth chasing.
“I wasn’t falling for a stranger,” You said softly. “I was falling for the man in the letters. For the one who writes like he’s fighting for every word. That was you. It was always you.”
Bucky closed his eyes. Then, slowly, carefully, he leaned his forehead against yours.
And in that moment, there were no ghosts. No stages. No performances. Just the hush of the night air, the scent of iron and oil and smoke, and two people who had found each other in the most unexpected of ways.
“I want to try,” He murmured. “With you. If you’ll have me.”
You smiled. “Only if you write to me sometimes, even if we’re just a tent away.”
He chuckled, and it was the most alive you’d ever heard him. “Deal.”
It was such a tragic idea, I’m so happy I was able to write a good story for it. Thank you so much for reading!!! ♡
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.
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 | Sequel | Earth’s Mightiest Headache 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 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.”
In Every Form, You Still Saw Me
Summary: As a shapeshifter, you often shift into someone else for missions, laughs, or what others want. However, you start shifting to make one man who sees you for you, smile. You learn how he yearns for the true you no matter how scary it feels to be yourself. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to shapeshift. Sort of pining for each other.
Word Count: 3.8k+
A/N: It’s so fun writing for Readers with different abilities. I wonder which power I could try next. Also, I think this is the longest work I’ve done yet. If you liked “The Way He Notices”, you might like this!
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
You weren’t born with your powers. You woke up with them after a freak accident during your childhood. It had left you comatose for three days and with no control over your own face when you came to.
You could shapeshift, but it wasn’t pretty at first. Reflexive transformations, triggered by emotion or proximity. Someone made you laugh? You morphed into them. Someone yelled at you? You wore their angry face. It was chaos until you finally got a hold of them.
When you first joined the team, Tony Stark dubbed you "Copycat" until you threatened to turn into Pepper and start signing contracts in her name. The nickname didn’t stick after that.
But Bucky? He always called you by your name. Even when you shifted. Even when your skin wasn’t yours and your voice belonged to someone else. He never flinched, never made a joke, never looked away in discomfort like the others sometimes did.
Maybe that’s what started it.
That quiet, steady way he treated you like you were solid. Real. Like you weren’t just some flickering mirage of other people’s identities.
Over time, you and Bucky fell into a rhythm. He was blunt; you were sarcastic. He grunted; you rolled your eyes. He brooded in corners; you shapeshifted into Steve just to annoy him. At some point, it stopped being just teasing. Or maybe it didn’t, but the way he started looking at you changed.
Or maybe you changed. Maybe you stopped shifting just to play around. You were careful though, of course. Always careful. He didn’t like surprises, didn’t like people messing with his head, and you knew how close your powers came to crossing that line. But you started shifting because you wanted to know what might make him smile.
There was something different about Bucky’s smile. It wasn’t the wide, toothy grin you saw from Sam or the sarcastic half-smirk you got from Tony. No, Bucky’s smile was the kind that crept up on you. A slight tug of his lips, something quiet, almost like a secret. It was the smile of a man who didn’t trust easily, who didn’t share his joy unless he was sure it was real. But when it came, when you made him laugh, genuinely, there was something almost intoxicating about it.
You didn’t understand why at first. Maybe it was the way he’d become so guarded, so emotionally distant after all that had happened to him. You saw him in ways the others didn’t: the small furrows in his brow when his mind wandered to the past, the way his eyes would harden when people mentioned Hydra, or how his posture would stiffen when someone still called him "The Winter Soldier" behind his back. Because, he’d become more than just a soldier, more than the guy with the metal arm. He was a man who was constantly carrying the weight of the past on his shoulders.
But when you made him smile… it was like the weight lifted, even just for a second. It was a flicker of hope, an acknowledgment that underneath it all, Bucky Barnes still had the ability to feel something real.
And you didn’t mind being the one who brought that out.
It started as harmless fun. A playful game. You’d shift into Sam, mock his attempts at being a "serious" soldier, exaggerating his speech, his hand gestures. You’d throw in the occasional “You good, Buck?” just to hear Bucky’s exasperated sigh. The first time it worked, Bucky had grunted, shaking his head in mock annoyance, but then that little smile crept across his face.
“Alright, alright, I get it. You think you’re funny,” He had muttered, crossing his arms over his chest, but the tension in his shoulders had loosened.
It was enough. It was always enough for you to want to do it again, to see that smile once more, to know that maybe, just maybe, you were the one who could make him feel light, even if it was for just a moment.
Then there was another day you shifted into Natasha, just to show off a little during sparring. You were better than you gave yourself credit for, and Bucky never failed to push you to improve. But this time, you took it up a notch. You copied her form, her speed, the way she moved with deadly precision, and you could see it in Bucky’s eyes as he watched. It was a sense of admiration mixed with surprise. And if you were being honest with yourself, a hint of something deeper.
"You're really trying to piss her off, huh?" He had joked as you took a jab at him, mirroring Natasha’s infamous fighting style.
You paused, lowering your stance, your eyes shifting back to yourself for a just second. The rush of power you felt from the change, the way you could tap into anyone’s skill, anyone’s identity, it was like you were borrowing their strengths. But when Bucky’s eyes softened, when he gave that little chuckle, you felt something else, something that wasn’t about power at all.
Quite frankly, you never really thought about your powers in the same way the others did. To most of the team, shapeshifting was just another tool in the arsenal. It was useful for infiltration, misdirection, and the occasional prank. But to you, it was something far more personal. More fragile. Every time you morphed into someone, deep down, you felt a part of yourself slip away. A mask over your real face, a shield to hide behind, a way to slip through the cracks unnoticed. You'd never been sure of who you were without the transformation, until you realized how real it felt to see Bucky’s reactions when you did.
You realized over time there was something in his eyes when you morphed back to your own face briefly, something that you couldn’t quite place. You were used to being invisible or someone else, used to people ignoring you or pretending you weren’t there when you didn’t fit their expectations. But Bucky didn’t do that. He just… watched. Like he was studying you, trying to figure out the hidden parts of you that you kept locked away.
It felt almost safe in a strange way. Some would say creepy, but you knew him better than that. It was an odd realization. With Bucky, you didn’t feel like you were performing. Because truly, when you shapeshifted into someone else, it was no longer about escaping yourself or following orders. It was about finding a way to connect with him.
You didn’t mind looking silly in front of him. Actually, you kind of liked it. There was something about making him laugh that made your chest flutter, like you were finally being seen for something more than your powers, more than a stranger in someone else’s skin. You weren’t playing a role, you were just… you. And Bucky smiled.
But there were times when it hit you hard. When you realized you were holding on to those smiles like they were the only thing that kept you grounded. And it terrified you. Because making Bucky smile felt like your own fragile version of normal. But what if you lost that? What if one day, he saw through you? Would you be able to stand, knowing you weren’t just the shapeshifter who made him laugh, but the person behind the masks?
You tried to focus on the feelings, the lightness you got when you saw Bucky react. You used your powers to make him smile, forget about his troubles, because in those moments, you could forget about hiding. And maybe that was enough for now.
The trouble was, you knew it couldn’t stay like this. Sooner or later, you'd have to show him the real you, all of you, without a mask, without someone else’s form to hide behind. And when that day came, you weren’t sure whether he’d still smile.
But for now, you'd keep shifting. Keep playing the game. Because as long as Bucky looked at you with those eyes so curious, attentive, and just a little bit warmer than usual; it felt like you were finally getting a glimpse of the real you too.
Until then, he’ll continue to think this is just a game. And you will continue to pretend that it didn’t hurt to hide behind other people’s faces.
—
The lounge was quiet, the way it always became after midnight. Most of the team had long gone to their quarters, the lights dimmed to a soft amber. Outside the tower windows, New York glittered in silence. Alive, but far away.
Bucky sat on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, the other cradling a glass of water. He looked tired, in that way he always did after missions where too many things exploded and too many people screamed. He wasn’t injured, at least not on the outside, but he hadn’t said much since coming back.
You had a habit of finding him during moments like these. You padded in barefoot, wearing the appearance of someone else. You’d slipped into it earlier out of habit, mostly to annoy Sam in the elevator. But when Bucky’s tired eyes met yours across the room, the faint lift of his brow said he wasn’t in the mood.
“You gonna sit, or keep pretending to be someone else?” He asked, voice low and dry.
You sighed, letting whoever’s frame, it didn’t matter, melt away. Muscles shifted, bones cracked softly beneath your skin as you returned to your natural form. One you rarely wore when anyone else was around. You always thought of it as your “in-between” face. Not as striking as Wanda, not as symmetrical as Steve. Just… you.
Bucky’s eyes stayed on you for a moment longer than usual.
You walked over, dropping onto the cushion beside him and pulling your legs up beneath you.
He didn’t say anything. Just handed you an extra water bottle from the coffee table. You took it, your fingers brushing his metal ones briefly.
“Rough mission?” You asked, softly.
He gave a faint nod. “Yeah. But I’m used to it.”
You looked at him sidelong. “Still. I get it. I had to shift into some sleazy arms dealer in front of a bunch of actual criminals. I swear one of them winked at me.”
He huffed a short laugh, the sound sharp and unexpected. “Bet he regretted that.”
“I may have broken his nose with a champagne bottle. In heels.”
He gave you a look. “You’re way too comfortable wearing other people’s faces.”
“Comes with the job.” You gave a weak smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Besides… nobody wants to see mine anyway.”
The words slipped out too fast, too quiet. You hadn’t meant to say them.
Bucky went still.
You immediately tried to cover it up. To deflect, twist, joke, anything at all. So, you shifted again.
But this time… it wasn’t Natasha, Steve, Sam, or anyone else on the team.
It was you. The true you.
The version of yourself that was curled up in bed at 2 a.m. The version that existed without expectation. The one who watched Bucky when he wasn’t looking and imagined what it would feel like to hold his hand, just once.
And with that form came your voice, your real voice.
“You know…I care for you, Bucky,” It said, trembling, unsure. “More than I should. I like you.”
There was a pause. Too long. Too exposed. You started to shift again, panic rising, ready to bury the moment beneath another borrowed face, another safe joke.
But his hand caught yours.
“You always do that,” He said quietly.
Your breath caught. “Do what?”
“Hide when it’s really you.”
The world slowed. Your skin flickered, unstable for a second, but he squeezed your hand gently, grounding you.
“I don’t want Natasha. Or Steve. Or anybody else,” He said. “I want you. The real you. Even if you’re scared, because I like you too.”
Your breath hitched, you couldn’t look at him at first. Could barely breathe. But when you did, really looked, you didn’t see pity. Or regret. Or fear.
You saw recognition. Love. Unexpected and unconditional warmth as he smiled.
“Besides,” Bucky added, softer now, “If I have to keep watching you flirt with me using Sam’s face, I might actually throw myself off the roof.”
You laughed, startled, and leaned into him without thinking.
This time, you didn’t shift. The room was quieter now, save for the soft hum of the city below. You sat close to Bucky on the couch, the space between you barely noticeable. His warmth radiated against your side, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a grounding presence in the stillness of the night. You hadn’t noticed how tense you’d been until the tension was gone.
His hand was still wrapped around yours, loosely, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he held on too tightly. You couldn’t blame him; you’d spent so long hiding behind someone else, never fully revealing all of yourself to anyone.
“I’ve been waiting for you to do that for a while you know,” Bucky said, his voice low and casual, as if he was talking about the weather. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and the simple gesture made your heart stutter in your chest.
You raised an eyebrow, trying to play it cool despite the warmth flooding your face. “Waiting for me to… what?”
“To stop pretending. To stop hiding behind someone else’s face.”
A small, uncomfortable laugh slipped from you, but you didn’t pull away. “Guess I’m not good at being me.”
Bucky’s eyes softened as he turned to face you more fully. There was no teasing in his gaze now, no sharp edge to his words. “You’re not the only one, you know,” He said quietly, as if sharing a secret. “I’ve spent more than half my life pretending to be something I’m not. Something I hate. But I’m not that guy anymore.” His voice dropped an octave, almost a whisper. “And you don’t have to be anyone else around me, either.”
You blinked at him, your breath catching in your throat. There was something so raw, so real in his voice. The same kind of vulnerability you had been hiding for so long. You found yourself leaning a little closer, drawn in by the strength of his words, the sincerity of his presence.
“Then… why’d you wait for me?” You had to ask, voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, I—" You hesitated, unsure how to express what had been swirling in your chest for so long. "I’ve never exactly made it easy for you to see the real me.”
Bucky’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. “Maybe I’m stubborn, maybe I looked forward to your jokes,” He said, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path over your hand. “Or maybe I saw the real you long before you did.”
You let out a shaky breath, feeling a surge of warmth in your chest. “I…” You stop yourself, swallowing the lump in your throat. You didn’t know how to say the words you’d been bottling up for so long. How do you tell someone that, for the first time in your life, you were willing to be seen? That you weren’t afraid of him looking too closely?
Bucky squeezed your hand gently, as if he understood the inner turmoil you were going through. He could probably see it on your expression, your face. “You don’t have to explain. Not to me.”
He leaned forward just slightly, his face a little too close for comfort, but you didn’t pull back. Instead, you held your breath, waiting for the next moment. Wondering if you were about to fall into some quiet oblivion or if you’d be able to navigate this fragile space between you and him.
His gaze dropped to your lips for a split second, then back to your eyes. “Can I kiss you?” He asked with a sense of nervousness that could be seen as cute; his voice barely more than a murmur.
You nodded, heart pounding in your chest. “Please.”
And then, for the first time in your life, you accepted the idea of letting yourself be seen. Not as anyone else nor what others want of you, but as you. Just you.
Bucky’s lips brushed against yours softly, hesitantly, as if testing the waters. But the kiss deepened almost immediately, the tension between you melting away. His hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you in closer, and you didn’t fight it. You didn’t want to fight it.
It was just the two of you now. The past, the masks, the fears—all of it felt so far away. It was just Bucky, and it was just you.
When the kiss finally broke, your foreheads rested together, both of you breathless, sharing the same space in a way that felt simple and true.
“I’ve been waiting for you too,” You admitted, your voice shaky with the emotions flooding you.
Bucky’s chuckle was low and soft. “I figured as much.” He gave your hand another gentle squeeze before pulling you into his side, his arm wrapped around you like he’d been doing it for years.
“You know,” He said after a beat, voice muffled as his chin rested on your head, “I think you’ll get used to being yourself more often. It just takes time.”
You nodded, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart against yours. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel the need to hide.
And in that quiet, peaceful moment, you realized that maybe being seen wasn’t so scary after all.
Bonus:
It was a typical debriefing in the common area, probably weeks later. You and Bucky were sitting side by side on one of the couches, trying to maintain the illusion of a professional team meeting. The problem? You couldn’t stop smiling.
You were sitting closer than usual, your legs brushing under the table. A soft, knowing look passed between you and Bucky whenever your eyes met. Neither of you were saying anything out loud, but there was a certain… tension in the air.
Steve, who was in the middle of explaining the next mission’s details, glanced over at you and Bucky. Something was off, and Steve had a knack for noticing subtle changes.
“You two okay?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re acting… weird.”
Bucky looked up, his usual serious expression never faltering. “What do you mean ‘weird’?” He replied, though his tone was a little too defensive.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Steve’s eyes narrowed, a mischievous glint appearing. “You two seem… a little too comfortable.” He leaned forward. “You’re not…” he motioned vaguely with his hands, “…you know, getting close or anything?”
You felt a flush creeping up your neck and quickly busied yourself with your water bottle. But Bucky, ever the stoic, didn’t flinch.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cap,” Bucky said, shrugging nonchalantly. “We’re just here for the mission.”
You, however, were a little less composed. You cleared your throat. “Yeah, we’re just… listening.” You floundered for words.
Steve raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, and then his eyes flicked to Clint, who had been watching the exchange with far too much interest.
Clint, ever the instigator, grinned widely. “Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever you say.” He turned to Sam, who was pretending to be absorbed in his phone but was clearly eavesdropping. “Hey, Sam, did you notice how Bucky's been looking at her lately?” He clearly gestured to you.
Sam smirked, lowering his phone just enough to catch your eye. “Oh, I’ve noticed. Definitely noticed.”
"Whoa, whoa," You said quickly, leaning back in your seat, but Clint wasn’t letting up.
“Nope, nope. I definitely saw that look. The one where he actually smiles when no one else is looking. Bucky smiling. We’re all witnesses to this. He’s gone soft,” Clint teased, turning to Steve with an exaggerated gasp. “This wasn't what I expected from the brooding sergeant. A romantic at heart? Who knew?”
You buried your face in your hands, trying not to laugh despite the embarrassment spreading across your face.
“Clint, shut up,” Bucky muttered, but he couldn’t help the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Does that mean we should start calling you ‘Casanova’ from now on?” Sam quipped, leaning back with a satisfied smirk.
“Guys, stop,” You blurted, though your voice cracked, betraying the calm act. “We’re not-“
“Well, it sounds like you two are,” Clint interrupted. “You’re over there being all cute and whispering to each other like you’re plotting to steal all of Tony’s suits.” He turned to Bucky with a grin. “Bucky, are you sure she’s not just in it for the tech? You know, she could get into the suits and—”
“Clint,” Bucky growled, his face flushed. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to keep his cool. You knew this was far from over, and you weren’t sure whether to laugh or hide in a closet.
“Well, this is awkward,” Tony’s voice rang out suddenly, cutting through the banter. He had appeared in the doorway, completely unaware of what had been happening. “What did I miss?”
“We were just talking about Bucky’s secret love life,” Clint said with a gleam in his eye. “I have all the details, Tony. Want the rundown?”
Tony raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking to you and Bucky, then back to Clint. “Oh, so this is happening now, huh?”
You groaned and stood up quickly, holding your hands out in surrender. “Okay, okay. You got us. We’re together. Happy?”
Bucky just leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, trying to look unfazed but failing miserably as the team erupted in teasing applause.
“Finally,” Steve said with a relieved sigh. “I was starting to think I’d have to play matchmaker.”
Sam slapped Bucky on the back. “About time you stopped brooding and did something about it.”
You shot Bucky a look, and he smirked, shrugging helplessly. “I guess I couldn’t keep it a secret forever.”
Tony clapped his hands together, a playful glint in his eye. “Alright, now that we’ve got the romantic drama out of the way, anyone want to help me with this new project? I need someone who doesn't spend their time making out in the common room.”
You felt your face heat up, but Bucky just chuckled, leaning back against the couch, looking much more at ease than he had in weeks.
And you? You might have been embarrassed, but you couldn’t help but smile. There was something oddly comforting or satisfying about the team finding out. Maybe it was because you knew you didn’t have to hide anymore. You didn’t have to hide your love for the man who loves you more than anything or anyone you could become. And that, in itself, was worth all the teasing.
Caged in Comfort (Pt. 3)
Summary: Your first escape attempt! It doesn’t go as you planned. (Dark Stucky x little!reader)
Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Forced Age Regression. (Feeding again. Drugged milk.) Kidnapping. References to Labs. Restraints/Restraining. Lots of dialogue. Stockholm Syndrome in the future likely. You are responsible for the media you consume.
Word Count: 2k+
Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Previous | Next
Later, after they’ve fed you, after Steve has coaxed you into bed and Bucky tucked a soft stuffie beside you on the bed like some mockery of care, they finally leave you alone. The bedroom door closes with a soft click. You lie there eerily still and silent, waiting. You count the seconds in your head, ten seconds. Then thirty. Then a minute. Nothing moves. All you can hear is silence.
You sit up slowly and peel back the blanket. Easing your way off the mattress and careful not to shift the bed too much, your feet hit the floor. You move like a shadow across the room, scanning the space more precisely now for any escape route. The window’s is nailed shut. No use. You don’t know how many floors you are from the ground anyways.
Moving across the room carefully, you listen through the door. There comes the sound of muffled voices, but they’re far, maybe closer the kitchen? Another bedroom? You don’t know. Your fingers tremble, but your heart stays steady. This is the only chance you’ll get. And you take it.
The door is shut, but you still twist the handle gently. Click. It’s unlocked.
Your breath catches. They forgot to lock it. You slip out with practiced certainty, heart pounding, and creep down the hall. Everything smells like cedar and laundry detergent and something sweet. Lots of things you don’t really recognize. All the colors and different shapes are unfamiliar to you. It’s all wrong. Too normal. Too different.
Then: voices. Closer than you initially thought.
“…she’s adjusting,” You can hear Steve saying.
“She’s pretending,” Bucky replies, voice low and sharp. “She’s watching everything.”
“She drank from the bottle, Buck.”
“She was starving. Doesn’t mean she’s trusting us.”
You duck behind the edge of the hallway, flattening against the wall.
“Then, let her pretend,” Steve sighs softly. “She’ll see soon enough she’s safer with us than she’s ever been.”
Their footsteps move away again. You don’t hesitate to bolt. Silent, barefoot, and down the opposite hall. Whatever floor you are on seem impressively large. You find a door that you can only hope leads out. You lunge for it only to find it locked. Not only just locked, there lies a code panel next to it, clearly some form of high-tech.
Of course it is.
You stare, scanning for patterns, wires, anything that could be tampered with or help you. You know how to hotwire a panel. You’ve done it in the lab during simulations. But you need time and the right tools. Currently? You have none of those things nor do you know where you could get them. Then you hear it.
“Sweetheart?” Steve’s voice calls out gently, sounding a bit further away like it had been outside your “room”.
You spin, slipping into the nearest room you see, a coat closet. You close it behind you in a hurried yet silent fashion, quiet as breath, crouching under a shelf. Coats brush your cheek. You press your hand over your mouth.
Footsteps can be heard more clearly now. They’re coming closer to the door. You curl into yourself, eyes sharp, breathe silent.
“She’s not in bed,” Steve sounds heartbroken.
“I told you. She’s pretending.” Bucky growls. “We rushed it.”
Silence fills the air for a minute. You keep your breathing as quiet as you can, trying to remain still as a statue.
Then Steve says, quietly, “She’s scared.”
“I’ll check the kitchen,” Bucky’s footsteps depart.
You stay still. So still your knees ache. You count each second in your head. You’ve got maybe two minutes. Then you see it, hanging from one of the coat hooks. A keyring. Maybe the door can be unlocked manually. The previous high-tech panel having captured your focus entirely, maybe there was a key hole. You grab the keys, barely daring to hope. It jingles a little too loud and you let out a small curse under your breath.
Then a voice right outside the door.
“Sweetheart?” Steve. “Are you hiding?”
You freeze in place as the doorknob turns. The door creaks open with light spilling in the enclosed space, soft and golden.
Steve stands in the doorway, still in his sleep shirt. His eyes land on you, seeing you curled under the coats like a frightened deer, key ring in your hand. You can see his expression shifting. Not angry. Worse. Disappointed.
“Oh, honey,” He breathes, kneeling down. “Why’d you do that?”
You lurch back against the wall instinctively. “Don’t—“
“I’m not mad,” He interjects gently. “But this wasn’t safe. What if you’d made it out? Barefoot? Alone?” He reaches for you slowly, like you’re some skittish animal.
You slap his hand away out of instinct, not even bothering with innocent pretense anymore.
He flinches but doesn’t stop. “You promised you were trying.”
“I never promised anything,” You correct, standing suddenly. “You locked me in here like I’m a—”
“Bucky. She’s safe.”
Full of relief yet pained words escape from Steve as he calls out to his partner in crime. And then you hear him.
Much heavier steps with the intention of being heard. Cold air rushes in from behind Steve as Bucky appears. His face is like stone. He takes one look at you, the key in your hand, the defiance in your eyes, and grabs you.
You jerk back as he reaches for you, but his hand is suddenly there. He’s much rougher, faster, and stronger. Never enough to hurt you, but he grabs you around the waist and hauls you out like you weigh nothing. You scream once, purely out of instinct, kicking as your bare heels hit the wall. “Let me go!”
“Not a chance,” Bucky states, gripping you like a sack under his arm.
You thrash, twisting violently, but his metal arm clamps across your back and stills every movement. He carries you like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly how to hold a squirming little girl who thinks she’s grown.
Steve trails behind, quieter, eyes sad. “You’re not in trouble, okay?” He murmurs. “You’re just overwhelmed. You’ll feel better after some rest.”
You snap your head toward him. “You’re insane! Both of you!”
But neither of them respond. Once you’ve all arrived back in your room, Bucky kicks the door shut behind him and sits on one of the rocking chairs in the room with you still wriggling under his arm.
“You want to act big?” He says flatly. “You get treated like a brat.”
“I’m not your anything,” You hiss.
“Not yet. But you will be.”
He shifts you in his lap and pins your arms tightly against your sides. It’s humiliating; being held like a toddler, legs dangling, chest heaving with frustration. Meanwhile, Steve walks in holding another warmed bottle in one hand, having took a short detour earlier. You stare at it, letting out an adamant:
“No.”
“It’s just milk,” Steve says softly. “You need something more in your system. You barely ate earlier.”
“I’m not drinking from that again.”
“Then you’ll be held until you do,” Bucky says. “Your choice, kid.”
He pins your jaw with one strong hand. Not rough, but impossible to move. Firm. Steve kneels in front of you, moving the bottle closer. You can faintly smell it now. Similar to before, it smelled sweet and warm. Maybe with some vanilla this time. And something else. Something wrong. Your gut twists.
“I said—!”
But the bottle is pressed against your lips, and your mouth is forced open just enough. The first taste hits your tongue, thick and cloying, and you try to spit it out this time.
“You fight everything,” Bucky mutters. “Even when your body needs help.”
You try to turn your head, but his hand follows you. The milk keeps coming, slow and steady, coaxed down your throat by pressure and patience. You gag once. Than you swallow. It doesn’t take long. Your vision blurs a little. Limbs going fuzzy at the edges, no longer squirming. You’re still there, conscious, but it’s harder to hold on. Your thoughts begin to drift, like static under water. You blink slowly, the fight draining from your muscles without your permission.
“There she is,” Steve whispers, brushing a hand through your hair. “You’re okay now. Just rest.”
You don’t answer. Well, you can’t. You slump forward against Bucky’s chest, heart still hammering with resistance, but your body limp like a puppet with its strings cut. The bottle is pulled away. You don’t know where nor do you care.
The world fades in and out, like a flickering lightbulb behind your eyelids.
Warmth surrounds you, lights dimmed, the dull ache of your limbs refusing to move. You’re distantly aware of motion… a shift… your body being cradled and lifted again. Everything slows, like time itself has thickened.
“She’s out,” Steve murmurs somewhere above you. His voice sounds far away. Gentle. “Poor thing fought so hard.”
You want to respond with some sort of protest. Screaming. Kicking. Running. But your mouth doesn’t obey. Neither do your eyes. Nor does your body. You can’t even lift your hand.
Bucky’s arms tighten slightly, a subtle adjustment as he carries you across the room again. You feel the texture change beneath you as you're lowered onto the mattress, your head meeting the soft, already-warmed pillow with practiced care. You can feel a blanket being pulled up as you’re tucked in with such care and tenderness once again. It should feel nice, but with your situation, it’s only sickening.
“She’s gonna try again,” Bucky says lowly, almost to himself. “Next chance she gets.”
“I know,” Steve replies, sighing. “She’s still scared. Still stuck in that survival mode. It’s not her fault.”
“She’s got too much fire,” Bucky mutters, brushing a stray piece of hair from your cheek with the back of his knuckle. “Reminds me of you.”
Steve huffs a small laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Then you know you can’t scare it out of her. That’s not how she’s gonna trust us.”
“I’m not trying to scare her,” Bucky retorts, quietly defensive. “I’m trying to keep her. You know how easy it’d be for someone else to get to her if she ran? She doesn’t understand that. She’s still thinking like a weapon.”
Your chest rises and falls steadily. Too slow for comfort. Too heavy. They think you’re gone. But you’re still there. Just locked behind your body, helpless, your lashes fluttering slightly as their voices move around you.
“We’ll start smaller tomorrow,” Steve says softly. “Routine. Breakfast together. A story, maybe. You can show her the playroom.”
“She’s not gonna want to go anywhere with me after tonight.”
“She will. Just have to ease her into it, help her realize there’s a softer side.”
You feel the blanket tugged up higher, snug around your chin. Fingers adjust the pillow beneath your head, just so. It’s too much. Too close. You want to scream and cry and claw at your skin, but all you can do is lie there.
Then you hear it. A rustling sound. Then you feel something soft brushing your ankle. You try to move, barely, but your body doesn’t respond.
Just the faint sensation of leather or fabric being pulled snug around your ankle. Not tight. Not rough. But definite. Present. A physical reminder that you’re not free.
“She’ll hurt herself less this way,” Bucky murmurs, voice near your ear now. “Until she remembers she’s ours.”
You can hear Steve start to speak before holding back. The hesitation clear even if you can’t see it on him. The sound of a click can be heard next, a soft one. Probably coming from a buckle or clasp. You can’t tell in this state.
Your breathing must have hitched, because Steve whispers, “Shhh… just sleep, sweetheart. You’re home. You’re okay now.” A kiss lands on your temple, Steve, feather-light.
A hand brushes across your forehead. Then the soft click of a lamp being switched off. The nightlight in your room automatically illuminating and breaking through some of the darkness. Not like you could see it this time though.
You’re too deep in your drugged sleep to hear the final words between them, but there’s a sense of finality in the air. A feeling that you’ve crossed a threshold. Whatever you were, however you fought, it doesn’t matter anymore.
They’ve secured you.
You’ll sleep, and they’ll wait for you to wake, soft restraints in place, ready to keep you under their control.
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She/Her | 18+ | Marvel WriterAsks/Requests are welcomed!
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