What You Can’t Heal

When They Need You

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

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

Word Count: 1k+

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

Main Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hiiii, would you ever write a part 2 to The Way He Notices or go back and write more to any previous fics?

Greetings, friend! Congrats on first ask. I could probably write something additional in that universe with the reader who can turn invisible. Maybe when they do confess or something. Regarding the second half of your question, it would depend if anyone would want to see more of whichever work I’ve written! Thanks for reading!! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

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.”

The Silence Between Us

Summary: When a mission goes wrong and you resort to bad habits, one of the last teammates you expected finds you. (Bucky Barnes x Avenger!reader)

Trigger Warnings: Descriptions and acts of SELF-HARM. Failed mission. Mentions of civilians death. Minors DNI. Angst. Sort of comfort at the end.

Word Count: 2k+

A/N: I wanted angst and have had this idea for a bit. Reader & Bucky are not in a relationship in this. As always, please read the warnings. 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 hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt. It was supposed to be a routine mission: intel, extract, and get out. But something went wrong. Of course it did. The detonation happened too early and the blast wave swallowed a civilian transport before you could shield it. You watched the fire bloom, bright and furious, as the screams rung loud. Then the silence that followed.

You stood numbly while the team regrouped. They didn’t say anything, not really. Steve gave you a tight nod. Clint didn’t meet your eyes. Natasha’s mouth pressed into a thin line, the kind that said everything and nothing all at once. You could still feel the warmth of the explosion near your face, even hours later. You couldn’t stop seeing their faces.

So you slipped away.

The Tower was quiet, save for the hum of the lights and the occasional sound of Friday responding to someone else. You knew no one would come looking, not tonight. Not after what you did and what you failed to do. You made it to your room, but didn’t stay there. Instead, you found yourself in the bathroom with trembling hands and blurry vision. The guilt was like tar in your lungs, thick and suffocating. You tried breathing through it, tried telling yourself you didn’t mean to, but your voice cracked before you got past the first word.

And then you saw the blade.

It was instinct, not thought. You weren’t even sure why your fingers wrapped around it, why you sat down on the cold tile floor and rolled up your sleeve like it was some rehearsed choreography. You just needed something. Something sharp, something real, something that hurt more than your head and your heart. The sting was almost welcome. It focused the pain. Made it tangible and controlled.

You didn’t notice the blood until it had already patterned the grout like inkblots.

You didn’t move from the floor as the blade slipped from your fingers. It clattered against the tile, but the sound was too soft, too far away. You were somewhere else now, drifting in that space where everything is slowed down and sound becomes distant, muffled, like your ears were underwater. Your breath hitched and your chest tightened, but the tears still refused to fall. Part of you had already shut down.

You stared at your arm. At the red lines, thin but vivid, like cracks in porcelain. They weren’t deep enough, not fatal. You hadn’t meant to go that far. Or maybe you had, you didn’t know. You couldn’t tell what was intentional anymore. Everything felt heavy and hollow at the same time, resembling the feeling of a black hole that had opened inside you, pulling everything inward. Every ounce of guilt, every mistake, every scream you couldn’t stop echoing in your mind.

You didn’t want to think how you looked like.

You had caught your reflection earlier by accident. Your face was pale, jaw tight, eyes…empty. You certainly didn’t look like yourself. You wanted to punch the glass, to shatter it, to make the outside match the inside. But your body had been too tired. Too numb. The only thing you could feel now was the warm, sticky drag of blood as it crept down your skin.

You curled in on yourself, knees pulled tight to your chest, one arm wrapped around your ribs, the other held away like something foreign, something broken. You wished the floor would crack open and swallow you whole. You wished you could disappear.

The thoughts came in waves. You should have died instead of them. They didn’t sign up for this. You did. You promised to protect people. The words felt like knives. And you took them all, again and again, let them bury themselves in your spine until there was nothing left to do but breathe shallowly and wait. Wait for the blood to dry, for the guilt to rot you from the inside out.

Not caring how long you sat there with your head down, eyes closed. You didn’t even hear the door open.

Maybe it was unlocked. Maybe you’d forgotten to lock it in your haze. Or maybe he just picked it, quiet as death, like he’d been trained to be. You barely flinched when the soft creak of the hinges gave him away. But your eyes didn’t lift. You stayed there, folded up like paper, still bleeding, still silent. You didn’t have the energy to care or do anything else.

There was a pause. A breath.

“…Shit.”

His voice wasn’t loud. It was low, rough, somewhere between a curse and a sigh. You knew that voice though. It was the one that rarely spoke to you. Not out of cruelty. Just…distance. He was always at the edge of the group, a little like you. Watching more than participating. Following orders, fighting hard, and saying little. You never expected him to be the one standing in your bathroom doorway, taking in the sight of you broken on the floor.

But there he was.

Bucky didn’t rush. He didn’t bark your name or kneel with some dramatic flare. Instead, he stepped in slowly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The kind of silence that settles before a storm. You heard the faint clink of metal fingers curling into a fist, then loosening.

“You’re bleeding,” He said.

You let out a weak, joyless sound. It might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a sob. “Yeah. Noticed.”

You didn’t look up, knowing his eyes flickered to the bloody blade beside your broken form.

There was more silence. But it wasn’t empty this time, it was tense. A wire pulled too tight. Then the sound of fabric shifting. Movement. You felt the air change as he knelt beside you, just barely close enough to be felt but not touched.

“I saw what happened today,” Bucky murmured. “You think I don’t know what that does to someone?”

You turned your face away, more toward the tile. “I killed them.”

“No,” He said. “You didn’t.”

Your laugh came again, sharper this time. Bitter. “That’s not how it looked.”

Bucky didn’t argue. He didn’t feed you platitudes or repeat what Steve might’ve said. Instead, he shifted again, setting something down beside him. A towel? Maybe his jacket? You didn’t look. You couldn’t. But his voice stayed low, grounded.

“You freeze up when it happens,” He said, like he was talking to himself more than you. “The explosion. The screaming. It’s like your body remembers too much. You forget how to move. How to breathe.”

You said nothing.

“I’ve had days like that,” Bucky continued. “Too many. Days where I couldn’t even look at my hands without seeing the blood that wasn’t mine. That’s not something you can just… walk off.”

You blinked hard. Your vision blurred with tears that finally, finally started to fall. “I just wanted to save them.”

“I know,” He said, almost a whisper.

There was a long pause before you felt the faintest touch, metal fingers brushing yours. Not grabbing. Not pulling. Just… being there. Present. Steady. You didn’t pull away. Not this time.

You still hadn’t looked at him, but it didn’t matter.

“I’m not good at this,” He exhaled. “But I know what it’s like to be drowning in your own head. So don’t sit in it alone.”

Your voice cracked when you asked, “Why are you here?”

Bucky was quiet for a moment. Then he said something so quiet it nearly disappeared:

“Because I saw myself in you.”

He didn’t wait for your answer. Instead, he stood, the scrape of his boots on the tile echoing softly, and walked toward the small cabinet in the corner. You could hear the rustling of supplies: bandages, antiseptic, gauze, who knows what else. The faint sound of a drawer sliding open. He moved like someone who had done this before, not hurried, not hesitant, just deliberate.

You stayed still, frozen against the cold bathroom floor, not knowing what to do with the sudden tenderness in his actions. There was something surreal about it. The way he was treating you with a care that no one had given you for so long, maybe ever. The coldness of the tiles beneath your legs was starting to seep into your bones, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

When he returned, it was with the first aid kit in his hands, but his expression was a bit softer, unguarded. He didn’t try to force you to look at him. Didn’t demand anything of you. He simply sat beside you again, pulling a disinfectant wipe from the kit and placing it in his lap.

He didn’t rush, didn’t say a word, as he took your arm gently, the metal of his prosthetic cool against your skin. His touch was careful, as if you were fragile in a way that didn’t show, like something beneath the surface was breaking, even though you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel it yet. His thumb brushed lightly over the cuts: too small, too shallow, but enough to leave marks.

"Let me clean them," He looked at you, his voice calm but firm.

You didn’t pull away. Not because you trusted him completely, but because you felt like you were too far gone to care about anything else.

He started with the first cut, swabbing at the wound with the antiseptic wipe, the sting of it sharp and biting. You flinched, but he was there, steady. His eyes were fixed on your arm, on the task at hand. You could feel his focus: no judgment, just intent to heal, to make the pain go away, if only for a moment.

You know you should have fought harder. Made sure to lock the door. Pushed him away. The man who had been through hell and back didn’t need to deal with this. But for some reason, he was. You didn’t know what it meant either and that scares you. Your thoughts were interrupted once more.

"You don’t have to talk," Bucky murmured after a beat, his voice low, just for you. "I know you’re not ready for that. But, know you don’t have to carry this alone. We all carry our own ghosts.”

You didn't say anything. His fingers worked efficiently, bandaging your wounds with gentle precision. The silence stretched on, but it wasn’t tense or suffocating this time. It was comforting in its quietness, like two people who didn’t need words to understand the weight of everything that had happened today. The first aid kit was closed, the sound of it calming, rhythmic.

When he finished, he looked at you, his metal hand hovering near your shoulder, as though waiting for permission. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t ask him to leave. You were still, lost in the feeling of someone caring for you in a way you hadn’t expected. Bucky didn’t press for anything. He simply let his hand rest on your shoulder.

“You’re not what happened today,” He stated quietly, his thumb brushing across the fabric of your sleeve, the touch almost tender. “You’re not what you think you are. You don’t need to punish yourself for the things out of your control.”

You didn’t know how to answer him, so you didn’t. The quietness in the room felt like a balm, the silence enveloping you like a weighted blanket. His presence was like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat, strong and unwavering. You didn’t feel the need to hide, not with him sitting beside you, patient and understanding.

Finally, he spoke again. “You need rest.” His voice was softer, quieter now, as though he knew it wasn’t just physical healing you needed. “Let me help you to your bed. Rest a little. I’ll stay if you want me to.”

You still didn’t respond or move. But this time, when his hand gently urged you to your feet, you let yourself follow his lead. You took another breath, closing your eyes just for a moment. For in that quiet space, you weren’t alone.

Mischief Managed

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

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.

Word Count: 3k+

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist | Sequel | Finale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It started small at first.

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

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

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

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

But Mischief noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Know what?”

“That you’ve got a good heart.”

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

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

“I’m not.”

You are.

“You scratched a loaf of bread.”

It deserved it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bonus:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cryyy??? Oh dear, reader has made some of the Avengers cry over the sheer absurdity of their actions (ᵕ•_•)

Thank you for reading!!! ♡

Certified Genius, Unlicensed Moron

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

Word Count: 1.2k+

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

Main Masterlist | Original Fic

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

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

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

But nothing broke the team more than the group chat.

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

-

GROUP CHAT: “Earth’s Mightiest Dumbasses”

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

You: what’s 9 AM in frog time

Natasha: What does that mean?

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

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

You: normal is a strong word

-

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

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

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

-

GROUP CHAT:

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

You: idk man maybe someone wants you to be cultured

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

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

-

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

And a lot of times, that haunts him.

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

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

And then walked away.

He’s been thinking about it for months.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky blinked.

“…I brought you pizza.”

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

-

GROUP CHAT:

Steve: Can someone explain what this is?

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

You: surveillance

Steve: Why…

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

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

-

Despite it all, you were deadly in the field.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone went dead silent.

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

Nobody could figure you out.

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

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

-

GROUP CHAT:

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

You: what if I am a security risk

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

You: then I win

Natasha: What did you win?

You: You’ll see 😈

Tony: I have forgotten what peace feels like anymore.

-

You called yourself “The Distractinator” in combat.

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

Yes. To all of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t work.

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

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.”

Rest for the Restless

Summary: You and Bucky Barnes slowly build a bond through shared understanding, periodic teasing, and finding comfort in each other’s company. In a world full of uncertainty and chaos, you become each other's calm. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power of telepathy.

Word Count: 2.9k+

A/N: Telepathy was next from the poll. I started it out fun (hopefully) but then had to throw in the classic heartfelt stuff. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

The dim light of the room cast long shadows across the space. Bucky Barnes was pacing slowly, his brows furrowed in deep thought. His metal arm clinked faintly with each step, but he didn’t seem to notice. You, on the other hand, were sitting on the couch, trying to focus on what he was saying.

You weren’t just anyone. You had a unique ability that set you apart. Telepathy. It was a power you hadn’t exactly asked for, but it had made you useful to the team. You could hear people’s thoughts, even feel their emotions, often before they spoke.

It wasn’t always easy to control, especially in situations like this, when your mind wandered. It was a double-edged sword, one that Bucky had learned to live with over time, though it wasn’t always smooth sailing.

Your relationship with Bucky had been complicated at first. He was a man with a past as turbulent as your own, a shared sense of struggle and understanding that had drawn you closer. You had both found comfort in silence, in the understanding that sometimes words weren’t necessary. He was patient with you, mostly. After all, he’d dealt with enough chaos in his own mind to know what it was like to be overwhelmed by your own thoughts.

But right now, it seemed like your mind had a mind of its own. Bucky was talking about the mission strategy, his voice low and serious, but your focus was slipping. You could hear his thoughts faintly in the background, always steady and calculating, but your own mind… well, it was a different story.

“…and we need to be careful about how we move in and out, making sure we don’t attract-“ Bucky paused mid-sentence, his sharp blue eyes narrowing at you.

You blinked, suddenly aware of how distant you’d become. Your thoughts had drifted. But before you could even register what you were thinking, the thought slipped out, clear as day in Bucky’s mind:

I wonder what’s for dinner tonight…

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Bucky stood still. His eyes narrowed further, the faintest shift in his expression signaling that he’d caught the thought. You could almost feel him trying to process it, but he didn’t miss a beat.

“What?” He asked slowly, his voice a little too calm, like he was trying to control a laugh. “Are we talking about dinner now?”

You felt your face flush, immediately regretting it. No, no, no… You cursed inwardly, trying to pull your attention back to the conversation, but Bucky wasn’t letting it go.

He folded his arms, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re really thinking about food while we’re planning a mission?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could say anything, your mind had already started to wander again. What do you think? I haven’t eaten all day… You cursed again, hoping he wouldn’t pick up on it.

But of course, he did.

Bucky’s smirk grew, his eyes lighting up with amusement. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He shook his head as if in disbelief, but his grin was widening. “What is it? Pizza? Burgers? Oh, wait, you were probably thinking about pasta, huh?”

You sighed in exasperation. “I’m… trying to concentrate, Bucky,” You muttered, desperately trying to focus. But your thoughts refused to comply.

Do I even have any leftovers in the fridge?

Bucky raised an eyebrow, obviously entertained by your mental chaos. “Seriously? We’re literally talking about life-or-death stuff, and you’re over here planning dinner.” He leaned in a little closer, his voice dripping with teasing affection. “Do you think I’d be a good cook? Because I could totally whip up something after this mission, if you can stop thinking about carbs for two seconds.”

You could feel your face growing warmer by the second, but you refused to back down. “I’m trying to stay focused,” You said, though the words didn’t come out with quite as much conviction as you hoped.

But your thoughts were betraying you again.

Wait, do we have any garlic bread left? I hope not. It tasted stale.

Bucky shook his head, the smirk never leaving his face. “Seriously, garlic bread? You're impossible.”

“I'm sorry!” You protested, a little louder than you meant. “I’m really trying to focus! It's just… it’s been a long day!”

Bucky softened a little at your frustration, but his teasing didn’t stop. “It’s fine, I get it. You’re hungry. But I’m not planning to raid any kitchens while we’re in the middle of a mission, alright?”

You sighed, rubbing your temples in frustration. “I know, I know,” You muttered, trying to refocus. “I’ll try to focus.”

Bucky gave you a reassuring smile, but there was still that mischievous glint in his eyes. “Good. And hey,” He added, his voice quieter now, “I’ll let you decide what we eat after we save the day. No garlic bread involved.”

You gave him a small, embarrassed smile, feeling both flustered and oddly comforted by his easygoing nature. But as your thoughts slowly returned to the mission, you couldn’t help but think: What if we get Chinese takeout?

Bucky’s eyebrow quirked up instantly. He caught it in an instant. “Chinese takeout?” He leaned forward, his grin widening. “You can’t be serious.”

You fought back the smile threatening to break through. “I didn’t say anything,” You muttered, trying to sound serious, but failing miserably.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Fine, after the mission, we’ll do Chinese.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no hiding the warmth that spread through you. Despite your wandering thoughts, Bucky was right there, patient, teasing, and always ready to catch you both mentally and emotionally when you needed it.

-

While the lighthearted moments came here and there, often you two enjoyed each other’s company in silence with a sort of calmness in the air.

Today, the sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving a soft orange glow in the sky. The safe house was quiet, almost too quiet, the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen the only sound breaking the stillness. You were sitting on the couch, your legs tucked under you as you stared at the TV. It wasn’t even on; you were just lost in thought, trying to unwind from the mission earlier that day. It had been a long one, but nothing too intense. Still, you felt mentally drained.

You knew Bucky was nearby, probably in the kitchen, making sure you both had something to eat. In all honesty, he was a quiet guy, but his presence was always enough. The two of you had settled into a comfortable routine, one where you didn’t have to say much to understand each other. His past was full of silence and trauma, and so was yours, in different ways. Over time, you'd found solace in the space between the fun moments, a shared understanding that didn’t require constant chatter.

You heard Bucky’s footsteps approach before the smell of something warm hit your nose, something savory. You didn’t look up, though, knowing he was there. He wasn’t one to disturb you unless he had to. And when he did speak, it was always in that low, steady voice, like he was trying to make up for the years he’d lost, years he often seemed to spend in quiet contemplation. It was part of what made him… Bucky.

He leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed, observing you with that same watchful gaze he always had. His eyes were soft, but you could tell he was assessing you, sensing that something was on your mind.

“Food’s ready,” He said simply, the words not holding any pressure, but an invitation to join him nonetheless. His tone wasn’t demanding, just offering. That was Bucky. He’d been through so much in his life, but he never imposed his feelings on anyone, not even when you knew he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

You nodded, but didn’t move right away. Instead, you rubbed your temples, sighing softly.

“Hey,” Bucky said, his voice just a touch gentler now, as though he knew what was going on in your head even though you hadn’t said anything. “You okay?”

You glanced up at him briefly, then dropped your gaze to the floor. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… tired. It's nothing.”

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me,” He teased, but there was a hint of concern hidden behind it. “If you’re not fine, you don’t have to pretend.”

You bit your lip, a small part of you still trying to keep up that wall you’d built, the one you both knew was always there, even if unspoken. “It’s just… everything. The mission, the noise in my head, all of it,” You admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “Sometimes it feels like it’s too much, you know? And I can’t shut it off.”

Bucky stood silently for a moment, his gaze softening as he processed your words. He couldn’t hear your thoughts this time. It seems like you were controlling your power to prevent him from doing so. But he didn’t push, didn’t try to fix anything. That was the thing about Bucky. He knew better than anyone that not everything needed to be fixed right away. Sometimes, the most comforting thing was just knowing someone understood.

He finally walked over to where you sat, leaning down so he could rest one hand on the back of the couch. There wasn’t a rush to it, no sense of urgency. He was just there, present, allowing you the space to breathe.

“You know,” He said quietly, “You don’t have to go through this alone. Not anymore.”

You didn’t answer right away, just letting his words hang in the air, mixing with the silence. It felt nice, though, nice to hear it out loud, even if it wasn’t something you’d said yourself.

Bucky reached out, placing a hand on your shoulder, his touch warm and solid, like a grounding force. “I get it,” He added softly. “The thoughts, the noise. I can’t always shut mine off, either. But… we’ve got each other. I’m not going anywhere.”

His words weren’t dramatic or heavy, just matter-of-fact, the kind of comfort only someone who had lived through darkness could offer. You leaned into his touch for a brief moment, allowing yourself the quiet comfort of his presence.

“Thanks,” You murmured, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Bucky gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Probably survive just fine,” He said, the humor in his voice lightening the moment, “But I’m glad I’m here anyway.”

You chuckled softly at that, feeling the tension in your shoulders loosen just a little. “You’re impossible.”

“Yup,” He agreed with a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But you love me anyway.”

You couldn’t help but smile, the warmth of the moment creeping in. “I don’t know about that…”

“Sure you do,” Bucky teased, standing up straight again. “Now, come eat before I eat all the food myself.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the weight of the day slowly lifting. There was something comforting about these quiet moments with Bucky, just two people finding solace in each other’s company. No words necessary, just the simple act of being there.

As you walked into the kitchen behind Bucky, the soft clink of plates being set down on the counter pulled you from your thoughts. He’d already set out two bowls of whatever he'd made, the smell of savory spices filling the air. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a simple homemade dish but somehow, it felt like it was exactly what you needed.

You sat down at the table, taking the bowl he handed you. You didn’t speak right away. Your mind kept flicking back to how you and Bucky had even gotten to this point in your relationship, this place of quiet understanding. You both hadn’t expected things to evolve this way, but here you were, comfortable, without needing much more than each other’s company.

Your relationship had started off slowly, cautiously. When you’d first met, you had both been wary of forming any kind of connection. You were part of the team, but you kept mostly to yourself, not exactly trusting anyone too easily. After all, you had your own demons to deal with, and opening up meant letting people see parts of you you weren’t sure you wanted anyone to see.

Bucky had been no different. At first, he’d kept his distance. He used to be the Winter Soldier, after all, even if he was trying to leave that behind. His past was complicated, full of violence and control, and the last thing he wanted was to drag anyone else into it. Especially someone like you who could hear everything he thought, feel everything he felt. It terrified him to think you might be able to read all of that pain in his mind.

But then, slowly, the walls between you had started to come down. It wasn’t anything grand. No big gestures. Just quiet moments where you were forced to share the same space. Things like missions that pushed you both together, nights in the compound where you sat next to each other without needing to say much.

Bucky, in his own way, started to understand your telepathy. He’d been so used to keeping things locked away, the idea that someone could hear his thoughts was strange at first. But after a while, he became more comfortable with it, even appreciated it. You weren’t like everyone else; you didn’t push for him to talk, didn’t force him to relive his past. Instead, you just knew. It was comforting in a way that words couldn’t always express.

And then there was the day it all clicked. You’d been on a mission together, just the two of you, a covert op to track down a rogue HYDRA agent. It had been a tense, exhausting day. You’d gotten separated during the mission, and the panic in your head had nearly overwhelmed you when you couldn’t find Bucky for a few minutes. The only thing that had kept you calm was knowing that you could reach him, that somehow, you could always feel his presence. When you finally found him, his own relief mirrored yours, though neither of you said anything about it.

That night, back at the compound, you’d been sitting on the couch together. The quiet stretched out between you, and for the first time, Bucky had asked you a question he hadn’t before.

“Do you ever just… feel like you’re too much?” He had asked, his voice low. “Like your head’s just full of everyone else’s thoughts, and you can’t escape it?”

You had looked at him then, meeting his eyes for the first time with the raw understanding of someone who had the same kind of burden. Yes. You had said that word in your mind to him, even if you didn’t speak it aloud. You could see the way his posture softened. His tense expression gave way to something quieter, something more vulnerable.

“I don’t know how to stop it,” You had admitted quietly, your gaze falling to the floor. “Sometimes it feels like I’m drowning in everyone else’s feelings.”

“I get it,” He had said softly, leaning in a little closer. “You’re not alone in that.”

And then, without another word, he had reached over and taken your hand. It was a small gesture, but it meant everything in that moment. It was the first time you felt like you didn’t have to hide the mess in your mind because he already understood it. He was right there with you.

From that moment on, things had shifted between you. There had been no grand confession, no dramatic realization. It had just happened, two people finding comfort in each other’s chaos.

When Bucky had kissed you for the first time a few weeks later, it wasn’t anything extravagant or over the top. It was simple. Just a soft press of his lips to yours after a long day, both of you knowing without words that this was where you were supposed to be. You didn’t need to read each other’s thoughts to understand that.

Now, sitting together at the table, you glanced over at him again. He was eating in that quiet way he always did, not rushing through it, just savoring the moment. You hadn’t needed any of the usual pretenses or forced conversations to make this work. There was an ease between you now; one built on shared understanding, occasional teasing, and the kind of companionship that didn’t need to be explained.

Bucky looked up from his bowl and caught your gaze. There was a quiet warmth in his eyes, a tenderness that made you feel like you were exactly where you were meant to be. And for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to believe it.

“Thank you,” You said quietly, the words more meaningful than they appeared.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “For what?”

“For being here,” You spoke a little more softer. “For making me never having to hide what’s in my head.”

Bucky’s gaze softened, and he reached across the table, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to hide anything with me,” His voice firm yet kind. “I’m not going anywhere, remember?”

You nodded, feeling a sense of peace settle over you. This was more than just a relationship. It was a partnership, built on understanding, comfort, and the freedom to be your truest self. And in that quiet moment, with the weight of the world outside and the noise of your mind finally quieting, you knew that you had exactly what you needed.

And you were ready to hold on to it, no matter what came next.

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.

Escape Room Chaos

Summary: You take Steve and Bucky to an escape room for a fun, relaxing evening, but things quickly spiral into chaos. Both somehow ignore the obvious clues in favor of dramatic theories and property damage. You’re just trying to survive until you can successfully escape without a lawsuit. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 1.6k+

Main Masterlist

You really should’ve known better.

The moment Bucky rolled up his sleeves and said “This’ll be easy,” you felt the first ripple of doom. You’d booked the escape room as a fun, harmless activity. Something like a little post-mission team bonding that didn’t involve hand-to-hand combat or collapsing buildings. You even picked a cheesy detective theme, thinking they’d enjoy something grounded and puzzle-y. Maybe even quiet.

You were wrong.

The three of you stood in the lobby of “The Great Escape,” surrounded by plastic magnifying glasses, dusty fedoras, and a suspiciously chipper staff member in suspenders and a fake mustache. She gave you the usual speech: 60 minutes to escape, no real danger, don’t break the props, yada yada.

Steve nodded solemnly like he was being briefed before an intense mission. Bucky? He crossed his arms and smirked. You could already tell his competitive switch had flipped.

The room itself was dimly lit and lined with fake wood panels. A ticking clock glowed red above the door while there were clues scattered everywhere ranging from files, books, old telephones, and even a fake fireplace. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, Steve took a deep breath like he was about to deliver a speech at a press conference.

“We should split up to cover more ground. Look for patterns, numbers, keys. And be sure to keep a level head.”

You blinked. “It’s not a hostage situation, Cap.”

But Steve was already kneeling to inspect a lockbox with the intensity of a man deciphering enemy codes. Meanwhile, Bucky was tapping along the walls with the knuckles of his metal hand.

“Could be a hidden panel,” He muttered.

“Could be drywall,” You replied, dragging your palm down your face.

Ten minutes in, you had two clues solved and one increasingly serious argument about whether the bookshelf was a red herring or not. Bucky was now trying to climb it.

“James Buchanan Barnes, get down before you collapse the whole set!” You hissed.

He looked down, half-smirking. “It’s not real, doll. Look.” He gave it a little shove, just enough for it to creak ominously. You glared.

Steve, across the room, had located a cipher wheel and was mumbling to himself. “It’s gotta be a Caesar shift. Or maybe Morse code…”

“Steve, it’s literally a riddle that says ‘Look in the desk drawer,’” You pointed out, pulling it open and revealing a key taped inside.

He looked genuinely offended. “They’re dumbing it down.”

You exhaled through your nose. “Yes, they’re dumbing it down for people who aren’t 100-year-old super soldiers who do escape rooms like they’re battle strategy.”

By minute twenty, you were regretting everything. Steve had taken charge like a squad commander and Bucky had declared himself the “wildcard” of the team, which essentially meant “loose cannon with a metal arm and no patience.”

You were the only one actually reading the instructions on the wall.

By minute thirty, you’d reached the room’s second stage which was a secret chamber revealed when Bucky yanked on a wall sconce you definitely weren’t supposed to touch.

You all froze when the wall creaked and groaned like a bad horror movie. Then, with the slow drama of a B-grade haunted house, the panel slid open.

Steve actually clapped, cheering.

“I knew there was a hidden passage!”

“No, you didn’t,” You said, stepping cautiously inside. “You were still trying to decode that cipher wheel that said, ‘The butler did it.’”

The new room was darker with a desk, some faux-blood splatter, and a very questionable plastic skeleton slumped over a chair. Its skull was tilted sideways with a bowler hat perched on top of its head. There was also a magnifying glass clutched in one bony hand, and a suspicious envelope glued to its chest with “CLUE #6” scrawled across it in marker.

Steve stared at it. “I think we’re meant to… talk to him?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Interrogate the corpse.”

You opened your mouth to say something, then thought better of it. You just took out your phone and started recording. For science… and for future blackmail.

Steve crouched beside the skeleton, folding his hands like he was addressing a witness. “We’re here to help. If you can tell us who killed you, we’ll bring them to justice.”

You bit your lip so hard trying not to laugh, you swore you tasted blood.

Bucky leaned over the desk and yanked the envelope from the skeleton’s chest.

Steve’s jaw tightened. “You’re contaminating the scene.”

“It’s a twenty dollar prop, Steve. I don’t think it’s going to trial.”

Then Bucky poked the skeleton’s head, making it fall off and clatter dramatically to the floor.

Everyone stared at it. Steve looked personally offended.

You raised an eyebrow. “Did you just decapitate our only lead?”

“It… it was barely hanging on anyway,” Bucky muttered, setting the skull back with exaggerated care. “These things happen.”

Steve knelt beside the fallen plastic remains, eyes full of regret. “He served his purpose. We thank him for his sacrifice.”

You threw your hands in the air. “It’s a skeleton, not a fallen comrade!”

The intercom crackled. “Hey guys,” The perky staff member’s voice rang out, “Just a reminder: Please don’t disassemble the props. Sir with the metal arm? Yes, you. Please don’t interrogate the decor.”

Bucky gave a small chuckle. Steve immediately stood at attention. “Sorry, ma’am.”

You looked between your two supersoldier boyfriends and the half-decapitated skeleton, then turned toward the camera in the corner and gave it a deadpan stare. “I just wanted a nice evening. That’s all. Just puzzles and maybe a little fun but no. Instead I get a dramatized cold case and two very intense golden retrievers with trauma.”

“Hey,” Bucky said with a shrug. “You’re the one who invited us.”

You squinted at him. “…You know what? That one’s on me.”

By minute forty-five, you were starting to suspect the real puzzle wasn’t the escape room. It was figuring out how you were going to survive this without needing a drink afterward. Bucky had taken it upon himself to test “structural weaknesses” in the fake brick walls. His version of “testing” was punching one lightly. With his metal arm.

The wall cracked and the room went silent.

From the intercom: “Please do not damage the set. Also, we are not responsible for injuries caused by over enthusiastic participation. Thank you!”

You turned on him like a storm. “What happened to ‘this’ll be easy’?”

“It is easy. The wall just looked suspicious,” Bucky replied, wiping fake cobwebs from his sleeve like a man with no regrets.

“It’s foam!” You yelled. “It’s suspicious because it’s clearly styrofoam!”

Steve, meanwhile, had discovered a locked chest with an old rotary phone on top. He was pacing in front of it like he was expecting it to ring with instructions from headquarters.

“I think it’s a code,” He murmured. “We dial something, and it opens. Maybe if we spell out a word using the numbers-”

“Steve,” You interrupted, pinching the bridge of your nose, “The clue literally says: ‘Dial 911 to unlock the final key.’ That’s not a code. That’s just instructions.”

Steve blinked. “Oh.”

He dialed 911 on the dusty phone. The chest popped open with a ding and a dramatic puff of dry ice that startled all three of you.

Inside was a black keycard and a note that said “Final door: 5 minutes remain.”

Bucky snatched the keycard. “Let’s finish this thing. I’ve got a hot date with a milkshake and a nap.”

Steve furrowed his brow. “We should think this carefully and plan. There could be traps in the last room.”

You looked between them and snorted. “What, like the staff’s gonna throw in a booby trap just to spice it up?”

“…They could,” Steve muttered. “It’d be unexpected, that’s good design.”

You made a mental note to ban both of them from anything resembling a mystery game for the rest of your natural life.

Then came The Moment.

You all stepped into the final room that was all dark with eerie music playing from a hidden speaker, and a blinking red countdown above the last door. Dramatic fog rolled out across the floor.

There was a button on the wall.

Just a red, glowing button with a sign above it that said:

“EMERGENCY ESCAPE – DO NOT PRESS UNLESS YOU GIVE UP.”

You hadn’t even opened your mouth to say “don’t” before Bucky pressed it. The room lights blared on and the music stopped. The countdown froze at 00:03 as you all stood in stunned silence.

The intercom crackled again.

“…So, you technically escaped, but also forfeited. That’s… a first.”

Bucky blinked. “What? It said emergency. I figured it’d blow something up. Or, like… open a trapdoor. Something dramatic.”

Steve looked personally betrayed. “We were three seconds away from winning with full completion.”

“You were still looking for tripwires,” You snapped. “I was reading the last clue. He just wanted to blow something up!”

Bucky looked sheepish. “You can’t give me a glowing red button and not expect me to press it. That’s on them.”

You stared at the ceiling like it might offer you divine intervention. “I invited two enhanced soldiers into a puzzle-themed children’s attraction. This is my fault. I accept that.”

As the final door clicked open and the staff came in to escort you out, one of them gave you a pitying smile.

“Hey,” She said brightly, “At least no one tried to climb into the air vents this time!”

You blinked. “Wait. That’s an option?”

Steve immediately looked intrigued.

You grabbed both their arms. “Nope. Out now. I’m buying you both ice cream so you don’t break anything else.”