Devoted Possession

Exactly As You Are

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

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

Word Count: 2.3k+

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

Main Masterlist

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

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

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

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

You hadn’t moved from your spot.

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

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

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

“Does what?”

“Stops.”

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” You murmured.

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

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

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

You huffed a dry laugh. “Romantic.”

He smirked. “I’ve heard worse.”

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

“You’ve had bad days too,” You said.

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

He gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

“Trying to impress me?”

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

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

-

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

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

On your first date, he had planned it carefully.

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

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

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

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

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

You laughed, which he counted as a win.

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

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

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

“Exhausted?”

“Real.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knelt beside you.

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

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

“…I don’t want to ruin this.”

His eyes softened. “You’re not.”

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

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

That made you blink.

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

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

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

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

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

You felt something in your chest unravel.

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

It was the beginning of something real.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t say that,” He spoke quietly.

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

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

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

You swallowed hard.

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

His hand found yours again. Held it tighter.

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

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

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

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

Bucky went very still.

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

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

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

You broke off. Voice cracking.

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

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

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

“You think I want a normal life?”

You blinked at him.

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

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

Your chest caved with a soft, helpless sob.

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

His hand slid into yours, careful and steady.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because he didn’t try to fix you.

He just loved you.

Exactly as you are.

Caged in Comfort (Pt. 3)

Summary: Your first escape attempt! It doesn’t go as you planned. (Dark Stucky x little!reader)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Forced Age Regression. (Feeding again. Drugged milk.) Kidnapping. References to Labs. Restraints/Restraining. Lots of dialogue. Stockholm Syndrome in the future likely. You are responsible for the media you consume.

Word Count: 2k+

Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Previous | Next

Later, after they’ve fed you, after Steve has coaxed you into bed and Bucky tucked a soft stuffie beside you on the bed like some mockery of care, they finally leave you alone. The bedroom door closes with a soft click. You lie there eerily still and silent, waiting. You count the seconds in your head, ten seconds. Then thirty. Then a minute. Nothing moves. All you can hear is silence.

You sit up slowly and peel back the blanket. Easing your way off the mattress and careful not to shift the bed too much, your feet hit the floor. You move like a shadow across the room, scanning the space more precisely now for any escape route. The window’s is nailed shut. No use. You don’t know how many floors you are from the ground anyways.

Moving across the room carefully, you listen through the door. There comes the sound of muffled voices, but they’re far, maybe closer the kitchen? Another bedroom? You don’t know. Your fingers tremble, but your heart stays steady. This is the only chance you’ll get. And you take it.

The door is shut, but you still twist the handle gently. Click. It’s unlocked.

Your breath catches. They forgot to lock it. You slip out with practiced certainty, heart pounding, and creep down the hall. Everything smells like cedar and laundry detergent and something sweet. Lots of things you don’t really recognize. All the colors and different shapes are unfamiliar to you. It’s all wrong. Too normal. Too different.

Then: voices. Closer than you initially thought.

“…she’s adjusting,” You can hear Steve saying.

“She’s pretending,” Bucky replies, voice low and sharp. “She’s watching everything.”

“She drank from the bottle, Buck.”

“She was starving. Doesn’t mean she’s trusting us.”

You duck behind the edge of the hallway, flattening against the wall.

“Then, let her pretend,” Steve sighs softly. “She’ll see soon enough she’s safer with us than she’s ever been.”

Their footsteps move away again. You don’t hesitate to bolt. Silent, barefoot, and down the opposite hall. Whatever floor you are on seem impressively large. You find a door that you can only hope leads out. You lunge for it only to find it locked. Not only just locked, there lies a code panel next to it, clearly some form of high-tech.

Of course it is.

You stare, scanning for patterns, wires, anything that could be tampered with or help you. You know how to hotwire a panel. You’ve done it in the lab during simulations. But you need time and the right tools. Currently? You have none of those things nor do you know where you could get them. Then you hear it.

“Sweetheart?” Steve’s voice calls out gently, sounding a bit further away like it had been outside your “room”.

You spin, slipping into the nearest room you see, a coat closet. You close it behind you in a hurried yet silent fashion, quiet as breath, crouching under a shelf. Coats brush your cheek. You press your hand over your mouth.

Footsteps can be heard more clearly now. They’re coming closer to the door. You curl into yourself, eyes sharp, breathe silent.

“She’s not in bed,” Steve sounds heartbroken.

“I told you. She’s pretending.” Bucky growls. “We rushed it.”

Silence fills the air for a minute. You keep your breathing as quiet as you can, trying to remain still as a statue.

Then Steve says, quietly, “She’s scared.”

“I’ll check the kitchen,” Bucky’s footsteps depart.

You stay still. So still your knees ache. You count each second in your head. You’ve got maybe two minutes. Then you see it, hanging from one of the coat hooks. A keyring. Maybe the door can be unlocked manually. The previous high-tech panel having captured your focus entirely, maybe there was a key hole. You grab the keys, barely daring to hope. It jingles a little too loud and you let out a small curse under your breath.

Then a voice right outside the door.

“Sweetheart?” Steve. “Are you hiding?”

You freeze in place as the doorknob turns. The door creaks open with light spilling in the enclosed space, soft and golden.

Steve stands in the doorway, still in his sleep shirt. His eyes land on you, seeing you curled under the coats like a frightened deer, key ring in your hand. You can see his expression shifting. Not angry. Worse. Disappointed.

“Oh, honey,” He breathes, kneeling down. “Why’d you do that?”

You lurch back against the wall instinctively. “Don’t—“

“I’m not mad,” He interjects gently. “But this wasn’t safe. What if you’d made it out? Barefoot? Alone?” He reaches for you slowly, like you’re some skittish animal.

You slap his hand away out of instinct, not even bothering with innocent pretense anymore.

He flinches but doesn’t stop. “You promised you were trying.”

“I never promised anything,” You correct, standing suddenly. “You locked me in here like I’m a—”

“Bucky. She’s safe.”

Full of relief yet pained words escape from Steve as he calls out to his partner in crime. And then you hear him.

Much heavier steps with the intention of being heard. Cold air rushes in from behind Steve as Bucky appears. His face is like stone. He takes one look at you, the key in your hand, the defiance in your eyes, and grabs you.

You jerk back as he reaches for you, but his hand is suddenly there. He’s much rougher, faster, and stronger. Never enough to hurt you, but he grabs you around the waist and hauls you out like you weigh nothing. You scream once, purely out of instinct, kicking as your bare heels hit the wall. “Let me go!”

“Not a chance,” Bucky states, gripping you like a sack under his arm.

You thrash, twisting violently, but his metal arm clamps across your back and stills every movement. He carries you like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly how to hold a squirming little girl who thinks she’s grown.

Steve trails behind, quieter, eyes sad. “You’re not in trouble, okay?” He murmurs. “You’re just overwhelmed. You’ll feel better after some rest.”

You snap your head toward him. “You’re insane! Both of you!”

But neither of them respond. Once you’ve all arrived back in your room, Bucky kicks the door shut behind him and sits on one of the rocking chairs in the room with you still wriggling under his arm.

“You want to act big?” He says flatly. “You get treated like a brat.”

“I’m not your anything,” You hiss.

“Not yet. But you will be.”

He shifts you in his lap and pins your arms tightly against your sides. It’s humiliating; being held like a toddler, legs dangling, chest heaving with frustration. Meanwhile, Steve walks in holding another warmed bottle in one hand, having took a short detour earlier. You stare at it, letting out an adamant:

“No.”

“It’s just milk,” Steve says softly. “You need something more in your system. You barely ate earlier.”

“I’m not drinking from that again.”

“Then you’ll be held until you do,” Bucky says. “Your choice, kid.”

He pins your jaw with one strong hand. Not rough, but impossible to move. Firm. Steve kneels in front of you, moving the bottle closer. You can faintly smell it now. Similar to before, it smelled sweet and warm. Maybe with some vanilla this time. And something else. Something wrong. Your gut twists.

“I said—!”

But the bottle is pressed against your lips, and your mouth is forced open just enough. The first taste hits your tongue, thick and cloying, and you try to spit it out this time.

“You fight everything,” Bucky mutters. “Even when your body needs help.”

You try to turn your head, but his hand follows you. The milk keeps coming, slow and steady, coaxed down your throat by pressure and patience. You gag once. Than you swallow. It doesn’t take long. Your vision blurs a little. Limbs going fuzzy at the edges, no longer squirming. You’re still there, conscious, but it’s harder to hold on. Your thoughts begin to drift, like static under water. You blink slowly, the fight draining from your muscles without your permission.

“There she is,” Steve whispers, brushing a hand through your hair. “You’re okay now. Just rest.”

You don’t answer. Well, you can’t. You slump forward against Bucky’s chest, heart still hammering with resistance, but your body limp like a puppet with its strings cut. The bottle is pulled away. You don’t know where nor do you care.

The world fades in and out, like a flickering lightbulb behind your eyelids.

Warmth surrounds you, lights dimmed, the dull ache of your limbs refusing to move. You’re distantly aware of motion… a shift… your body being cradled and lifted again. Everything slows, like time itself has thickened.

“She’s out,” Steve murmurs somewhere above you. His voice sounds far away. Gentle. “Poor thing fought so hard.”

You want to respond with some sort of protest. Screaming. Kicking. Running. But your mouth doesn’t obey. Neither do your eyes. Nor does your body. You can’t even lift your hand.

Bucky’s arms tighten slightly, a subtle adjustment as he carries you across the room again. You feel the texture change beneath you as you're lowered onto the mattress, your head meeting the soft, already-warmed pillow with practiced care. You can feel a blanket being pulled up as you’re tucked in with such care and tenderness once again. It should feel nice, but with your situation, it’s only sickening.

“She’s gonna try again,” Bucky says lowly, almost to himself. “Next chance she gets.”

“I know,” Steve replies, sighing. “She’s still scared. Still stuck in that survival mode. It’s not her fault.”

“She’s got too much fire,” Bucky mutters, brushing a stray piece of hair from your cheek with the back of his knuckle. “Reminds me of you.”

Steve huffs a small laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Then you know you can’t scare it out of her. That’s not how she’s gonna trust us.”

“I’m not trying to scare her,” Bucky retorts, quietly defensive. “I’m trying to keep her. You know how easy it’d be for someone else to get to her if she ran? She doesn’t understand that. She’s still thinking like a weapon.”

Your chest rises and falls steadily. Too slow for comfort. Too heavy. They think you’re gone. But you’re still there. Just locked behind your body, helpless, your lashes fluttering slightly as their voices move around you.

“We’ll start smaller tomorrow,” Steve says softly. “Routine. Breakfast together. A story, maybe. You can show her the playroom.”

“She’s not gonna want to go anywhere with me after tonight.”

“She will. Just have to ease her into it, help her realize there’s a softer side.”

You feel the blanket tugged up higher, snug around your chin. Fingers adjust the pillow beneath your head, just so. It’s too much. Too close. You want to scream and cry and claw at your skin, but all you can do is lie there.

Then you hear it. A rustling sound. Then you feel something soft brushing your ankle. You try to move, barely, but your body doesn’t respond.

Just the faint sensation of leather or fabric being pulled snug around your ankle. Not tight. Not rough. But definite. Present. A physical reminder that you’re not free.

“She’ll hurt herself less this way,” Bucky murmurs, voice near your ear now. “Until she remembers she’s ours.”

You can hear Steve start to speak before holding back. The hesitation clear even if you can’t see it on him. The sound of a click can be heard next, a soft one. Probably coming from a buckle or clasp. You can’t tell in this state.

Your breathing must have hitched, because Steve whispers, “Shhh… just sleep, sweetheart. You’re home. You’re okay now.” A kiss lands on your temple, Steve, feather-light.

A hand brushes across your forehead. Then the soft click of a lamp being switched off. The nightlight in your room automatically illuminating and breaking through some of the darkness. Not like you could see it this time though.

You’re too deep in your drugged sleep to hear the final words between them, but there’s a sense of finality in the air. A feeling that you’ve crossed a threshold. Whatever you were, however you fought, it doesn’t matter anymore.

They’ve secured you.

You’ll sleep, and they’ll wait for you to wake, soft restraints in place, ready to keep you under their control.

Beach Day

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

Summary: You and your caregivers go on a trip to the beach where you have an action-packed day of building sand castles, splashing in the water, and spending time with your daddies.

Word Count: 3.1k+

A/N: I tried to make reader actually speak more this time, more excited in little space. I’m also going to the beach this week, so maybe I’ll find some inspiration to write more beach-related scenarios. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Sunlight peeks through your curtains, warm and golden. Before you’re even fully awake, you feel it, that fluttery kind of excitement deep in your belly. Today is the day you take a trip with your daddies to the beach.

You practically tumble out of bed, your stuffie clutched in one hand and your blanket trailing behind you like a cape. Your feet patter down the hall to the kitchen where Steve is already pouring coffee and Bucky’s at the table packing snacks and food into a cooler bag.

As soon as they see you, both of their faces light up.

“Well, good morning, sunshine,” Steve says with a grin, crouching down as you barrel into him for a hug.

“‘S beach day!” You declare, bouncing on your toes and giggling. “Gon’ swim, an’ eat sammiches, anddd… maybe find a crab!”

Steve chuckles and ruffles your bedhead. “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

Bucky comes over and lifts you into his arms with a dramatic motion. “You sound ready to explode with excitement, doll.”

“Boom!” You shout happily, flopping into his shoulder with a squeal.

“Alright, tiny firecracker,” Bucky says with a smirk, kissing your temple, “Let’s pick out that swimsuit, huh? I laid out a few.”

He carries you back to your room, setting you down in front of the bed where three different swimsuits are folded: one with little sharks, one with rainbows and glitter, and one with ducks wearing sunglasses.

You gasp. “Ducks!! ‘M wearin’ the ducky one!”

“Excellent choice,” Steve says from the doorway, holding up a tiny bottle of sunscreen like it’s a secret weapon. “Operation Sunshield begins after we’re dressed.”

You squeal again and squirm excitedly while Bucky helps you into the ducky swimsuit, gently tugging the fabric into place and letting you spin in front of the mirror.

“Look at you,” He teases. “The duck commander herself.”

You pose with your hands on your hips. “Quack,” You say seriously before breaking into giggles.

Steve brings over your favorite sunhat, the one with little cat ears sewn on top. He crouches down to tie the strings carefully under your chin. “There. Our beach baby is ready.”

You nod with a wide smile, pointing to yourself. “Beach baby. Dat’s me.”

Bucky hands you your beach bag, shaped like a strawberry, already packed with your floatie, water bottle, a towel, and your favorite shell-collecting bucket. You peek inside and spot your teddy tucked in there too, wearing his own little sunglasses.

“Brownie comin’ tooooo!” You squeal, hugging the bag tight.

Steve chuckles and kisses your forehead. “Of course. He’s our co-pilot.”

You skip toward the door, flip-flops smacking the floor, bag bouncing against your side, already humming a made-up beach song.

And behind you, Steve and Bucky exchange a soft look, all warm smiles and quiet love, before following you out the door.

It doesn’t take long until you’re all buckled into your seat in the back of Steve’s big SUV, your strawberry beach bag beside you and Brownie resting in your lap. Your feet are swinging back and forth and you’ve got a sippy cup of cold apple juice in one hand.

Bucky’s driving, sunglasses on and arm relaxed out the window, while Steve twists in the front seat to check on you again.

“Got everything, sweetheart?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Mhm! Brownie, got snacks, got juice… oh! Forgot da crayons- wait, no I didn’t! They in the bag!” You unzip it and proudly show off your zip-up pouch full of stubby, broken crayons and coloring pages.

Steve gives you a dramatic sigh of relief. “Phew. Beach emergency averted.”

Bucky grins at the road. “Can’t survive a beach trip without crayons. Everyone knows that.”

You lean back and hum a little song to yourself while kicking your feet. Then, suddenly, “Papa?”

Steve turns again, his expression soft. “Yeah, bug?”

“How many waves do ya fink there gonna be? A gazillion?”

He hums in thought before answering, “Maybe a gazillion and one.”

You giggle and wiggle in your seat. “I’mma jump in alla them! Gonna splash ev’rywhere!”

Bucky snorts, joking. “Better not splash me, unless you wanna get launched into orbit.”

You gasp, wide-eyed. “Like a rocket?!”

“Yup. Straight to the moon, kiddo.”

Steve leans over and smacks Bucky’s arm playfully. “No launching beach babies today, sergeant.”

“Awwww,” You whine with a little pout, “But I wanna go moon swimmin’…”

They both laugh, and Bucky says, “Okay, okay. We’ll settle for ocean splashing. But you are gonna need to hold our hands in the water if you don’t have your floatie with you.”

You cross your arms with a dramatic sigh. “Cuz waves big?”

Steve nods. “And ‘cause we love you. Wanna keep you close.”

That makes you go quiet for a second before you agree with a nod, “Okay. I hold your hands forever!”

The car is quiet after that for a few minutes, filled only with the sound of tires on pavement and the music playing softly through the speakers, one of your favorite silly beach songs.

Eventually, your eyes start to feel a little heavy from the sun and excitement, and your voice gets small. “Tell me when we’re there?”

Steve turns slightly in his seat, watching you snuggle up with your teddy bear. “Of course, baby. You rest. We’ll get you there safe.”

And with Bucky humming along to the song and Steve’s assurance warm and steady, you drift off to sleep, dreaming of ducks in sunglasses and waves that reach the stars.

-

The car slows down into a parking lot full of stray sand, and you awaken instinctively.

“We here?” You mumble, still a little sleepy, rubbing your eyes.

“We’re here, baby,” Steve says, twisting to smile at you. “And there’s the shore.”

You sit up fast, blinking at the blue sky, the seagulls flying overhead, and the endless stretch of sparkling ocean beyond the dunes. Your mouth opens in a soft gasp. “Iss sooooo biiiiig!”

Bucky chuckles as he parks the car. “Told ya the ocean was a giant bathtub.”

“Bath tub don’t got birds,” You correct him seriously.

Steve laughs and gets out, opening the back door and unbuckling your seatbelt and helping you out. “You’re right, smarty-pants. No seagulls allowed in bathtubs.”

Bucky lifts the beach bag and tosses a towel over his shoulder. Your floatie, shaped like a giant donut with pink frosting, is tucked under his arm. “Alright, sunshine, grab a hand.”

You immediately reach for both of them, one hand in each of theirs, swinging between them as the three of you walk toward the beach. You can feel the sand seep onto the surface of your flip-flops and the ocean breeze tugs playfully at your hat, but you don’t mind one bit. You’re too busy bouncing in excitement.

“Papa! Daddy! Look, look, a doggie!” You shout, pointing to a golden retriever with a stick in its mouth.

“I see him,” Bucky says. “Reckon he’s here for the waves too.”

“Bet he surfs,” You whisper, awed.

The beach opens up in front of you, wide and bright, with the tide glittering under the sun. Steve lays down a big blanket while Bucky sets up the umbrella and cooler. You spin in place, arms out, squealing, “So big!! So blue!! So sandyyyy!!”

“You’re gonna be so sticky by the end of the day,” Steve teases, “Sticky and sandy and tired.”

You beam. “Dat’s the best kinda day.”

He chuckles, holding out the donut floatie. “Want it on now or wait till we go in?”

You tap your chin like you’re thinking real hard, then answer, “Gon’ wait. ‘Mma build da castle first.”

Bucky sets the floatie down, securing it to make sure it doesn’t blow away in the wind. “Then let’s build the biggest castle in the whole world. Fit for a beach princess.”

“I’m a queen,” You say matter-of-factly, plopping down and grabbing your bucket.

“Apologies, your majesty,” Bucky replies with a bow, handing you your shovel.

You take it gratefully. Now sitting criss-cross in the sand, shovel in hand, and your tongue poking out the side of your mouth in deep, serious concentration. “Dis side gonna be da dungeon,” You declare, patting down a lopsided tower with a wet slap.

“Uh-oh,” Steve says, leaning over with a raised brow. “Who’s getting sent to the dungeon?”

You look up at him dramatically. “Any bad guys. Like… da people who steal snacks. Or take my floatie wifout askin’.”

Bucky smirks. “That first one’s harsh, kiddo. Even I snuck a bite of your granola bar last week.”

You gasp, eyes wide. “DADDY!”

He holds up both hands. “I surrender to the queen.”

You scramble up and point your shovel at him. “To the dungeon!!”

Steve is already half-laughing as he scoops up a little wet sand with his palm and begins forming a jail cell beside your crooked tower. “There. You can lock him up right next to the crab moat.”

“Crab moat?” You squeak, spinning to look and sure enough, Steve has drawn a little wavy trench in the sand around your castle.

“Yup. To keep the villains out. Filled with tiny crab soldiers.”

You light up. “Can I name ‘em?!”

Bucky grins from where he’s now digging a tunnel. “They need names if they’re gonna work for you.”

You begin listing in a sing-song voice as you place little seashells at intervals around the moat. “Dis one’s Sir Pincie. Dat one’s Lady Clawdia. Ooooh! And King Crunch!”

“You’re a natural monarch,” Steve says, brushing sand off your nose gently.

The three of you work for a long while like that. Steve shapes towers and walls with his big, careful hands, while Bucky digs tunnels and hides treasure shells underneath the sand (“For adventurers later,” He says with a wink). Meanwhile, you are darting between them, giving orders, adding stick flags, and occasionally squashing the sand with your knees when things get too exciting.

At one point, you tug Steve’s hand and whisper, “Papa, look! I made a tiny throne!” and point to a lumpy mound near your castle.

He crouches beside you, looking at your creation with a warm smile. “That’s perfect, baby. Just your size.”

You plop onto it,sticking your legs out and puffing up proudly. “Now I’m da queen of da whole beach.”

Bucky bows low. “Queen of Shelltown.”

“Queen of Snacksville,” Steve adds with a smile.

You nod seriously. “I rule wif kindness… and naps.”

Sand coats your legs and arms, your cheeks are flushed pink from the sun and all the giggles, and there’s a little grain of sand stuck to your bottom lip, but you’re glowing from all the fun.

And when the tide starts creeping closer, Steve leans over and murmurs, “Wanna defend the castle, or let the waves have it?”

You consider that deeply, then whisper, “They can have it. I’ll build a new one. Wif you an’ Daddy.”

Steve kisses your temple. “Always, sweetheart.”

-

The castle’s been claimed by the tide, you had waved goodbye to Sir Pincie and Lady Clawdia, and now it’s ocean time.

Bucky crouches down beside you, holding your floatie. “Alright, sunshine. Arms up.”

You giggle and shoot both arms skyward. “Up, up, up!!”

He gently slides the floatie down over your head and around your tummy, adjusting the back. “There ya go. You’re officially donut-fied.”

Steve steps up beside you, brushing hair out of your face and slipping your goggles down over your eyes. “Ready to swim, baby?”

You nod furiously, bouncing in place. “Ready!! Wanna splash! Wanna gooooo!”

“Okay, okay,” Bucky chuckles, scooping you up into his arms. “Let’s get those little feet wet.”

As he carries you toward the water, your legs kick excitedly in the air. The waves rush up to greet you and Bucky sets you down in the shallows, keeping a hand on your floatie. “Whoa there, jellybean. Don’t go zoomin’ off just yet.”

The water laps at your knees and you squeal. When Bucky helps you a bit further to where you can float in the water, you exclaim with glee. “I’m floatin’! I’m a boat!! Papa, look!! I’m a boat!!”

Steve walks in beside you, letting the waves wash over his ankles as he chuckles. “Best boat I’ve ever seen. Might need to name you ‘Captain Giggles.’”

You dramatically turn the wheel of your imaginary ship. “Aye-aye, Captain Papa!”

Bucky lets you drift out a little more, still holding on. The floatie bobs up and down with the swell, and you squeal every time the water splashes up. “The ocean’s ticklin’ me!!”

“You’re lucky it likes you,” Bucky teases.

Another wave comes, bigger this time, and it lifts you gently, your floatie catching it just right. “WHOOOOA!!” You twist in the floatie and throw your arms up. “DO IT ‘GAIN!”

Steve laughs and nudges the float gently from behind so you rock back into Bucky’s waiting hands. “You’re fearless today, huh?”

You beam up at them through your goggles. “M’brave. ‘Cause I gots you two.”

Something about the way you say it makes both men soften instantly.

“That’s right, baby,” Steve murmurs. “You always got us.”

Forever, even when the tide rolls in.

-

After some more fun in the ocean, your floatie squeaks faintly as Bucky lifts you out of the water, droplets running down your legs and arms. “Okay, okay, little sea monster,” He says with a soft smile. “Time for snacks before you turn into a prune.”

You giggle, leaning your wet cheek against his shoulder. “I’m not a monster… I’m a…. mermaid now!”

“Even mermaids need snacks,” Steve calls from where he’s already crouched by the umbrella, unfolding a soft towel with cartoon sea creatures on it, the one you picked out at the store yourself and insisted “smells like sunshine.”

Bucky lowers you onto it, and Steve helps remove your floatie then immediately starts rubbing you down gently with another dry towel, working from your toes up with patient, warm hands. “You did a lot of splashing out there,” He says as he dries your hair with a little tousle. “You hungry, sweetheart?”

You nod dramatically. “M’really hungwy. Like…” You pause to think, then spread your arms wide, “…like this much hungry.”

Bucky chuckles as he pops open the cooler. “Well lucky for you, I packed the royal picnic. Your Majesty’s favorites.”

You scoot onto your knees and peek eagerly as he starts unpacking it all. Slices of juicy watermelon cut into stars, a crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut into triangles just the way you like, a little container of goldfish crackers, and a juice box with a tiny superhero on it. Your mouth already waters just looking at the watermelon.

Steve sits cross-legged beside you, passing you the juice box with the straw already poked in. “Start with some sips, okay? You got lots of sun.”

You sip happily, legs folded under you. “Dis tastes like blue.”

“That’s ‘cause it is blue,” Bucky teases, handing you one of the watermelon stars on a tiny plastic fork. “Eat that before your sandwich. Hydration first.”

You crunch into it and immediately let out a content hum. “Mmmmmm. Cold!”

Both men smile as they eat alongside you, not rushing, not talking much. It’s just quiet, sun-warmed company. Seagulls squawk in the distance. Waves roll in soft and lazy now, like the ocean’s getting sleepy too. There’s sand on your knees, salt on your cheeks, and watermelon juice running down your chin.

Steve reaches over with a napkin and dabs your face gently. “You’re makin’ a mess, aren’t you?”

You look up at him, grinning. “I’m da mess queen.”

Bucky leans over and plants a kiss to your temple. “Then we must be the mess kings.”

You end up snuggled between them, leaning back against Bucky’s chest with your legs draped across Steve’s lap, half a sandwich in hand. The sun peeks out from behind a cloud, warming your face. You let out a little yawn around a bite.

Steve notices and brushes your damp hair back. “Sleepy?”

You shake your head slowly, though your body sags against Bucky. “Noooo. Jus’… comfy.”

Bucky pulls a second towel over your legs, letting you burrow in like a little cocoon. “That’s okay, sweetheart. You just rest. We’ve got you.”

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, eyes fluttering closed. “You always do.”

And they always will.

-

The sun is dipping low now, casting long golden streaks across the parking lot as Steve loads up the trunk. The beach towels are a little sandy, the cooler is mostly empty, and your floatie sits squished between the seats like a deflated donut. Everything smells like salt and sunscreen.

Bucky lifts you gently from where you were half-dozing under the umbrella, your cheeks warm and your limbs floppy with that worn-out, sun-drenched tiredness that only little ones know.

“C’mon, peanut,” He murmurs, cradling you close against his chest. “Time to go home.”

You mumble something into his shirt, mostly vowels and half-syllables, nothing real, but your arms curl around his neck automatically. He smiles, brushing a kiss into your damp hair.

The backseat’s already set up, your soft blanket with the stars and moons, Brownie resting nearby, and a small travel pillow that smells like home. Bucky settles you in carefully, buckling you up while keeping the blanket snug around your legs before shutting the door carefully and moving into the passenger’s seat.

Steve climbs into the driver’s seat and glances back at you in the rearview mirror. “All set, sweetheart?”

You blink slowly, eyes heavy. “Goin’ home?”

“That’s right,” He says, starting the engine. “You did so good today. Brave in the water, kind to the sand crabs, full of giggles. I’m proud of you.”

You smile sleepily, turning your head toward the window as the car pulls away from the beach. The world passes by in a blur of fading light, palm trees, street signs, the occasional swoop of a bird overhead. Your eyelids flutter, heavier with every mile.

Bucky twists in his seat, watching you for a moment. His voice is softer now. “Get some rest, babydoll. We’ll be home soon.”

You hum softly, barely awake, your fingers curling in the corner of your blanket. “You stay wif me?”

“Always,” He whispers. “Not going anywhere.”

The car hums along the road, the sound of tires and the occasional song from the radio blending into the perfect lullaby. Steve drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting quietly on Bucky’s thigh, and the two of them share a look, the kind that says everything without words.

And in the back seat, warm and all out of energy from the big day… you drift off to sleepy, safe and loved as ever.

The Solstitial Truce

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Angel!reader

Summary: You met him at the border between realms every solstice. Neither of you spoke of the war or how many souls were claimed. You simply watched the stars together, two entities out of place, bound by quiet conversation and the kind of silence that speaks more than words ever could.

Word Count: 2.5k+

A/N: This takes place in the winter solstice by the way! I had this idea earlier and hope you like it as much as I did. I tried to do more descriptive language/scenes. This has ANGST and is left on a cliffhanger by the way. References to a war too, but not explored. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

The sky was a tapestry of frozen silence.

Stars flickered like dying embers, scattered across the heavens above the boundary. The solstice wind stirred the trees into brittle whispers, and the snow under your feet crunched with every tentative step. You shouldn’t have been there. Angels weren’t meant to wander so close to the borderland, not without orders, not without reason.

But tonight, something had drawn you in. A pull like a thread around your ribs, subtle but unyielding. You followed it, quiet, unsure, your wings folded close to your back like a secret you weren't ready to share.

And then, you saw him.

At first, you thought it was a shadow. A patch of darkness that refused to yield to the moonlight. But no. He moved. Slowly, with the weariness of someone who had lived through too many endings.

He knelt in the snow near a half-dead tree, one hand buried in the frozen soil, fingers clenched like he could still hold onto something that had long since slipped through. Smoke curled faintly around him, not from fire, but from him. It coiled at his shoulders like a protective beast, breathing in rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest.

You froze when you realized who he was. A demon.

Not just any demon, him. The Winter Demon. The one they spoke of in the higher halls. The one who fell long ago but never quite burned out. You recognized him from the whispers. A former soldier. A shattered soul. A blade that had once been wielded by hell itself.

Your hand moved instinctively toward the hilt of your blade, but you didn’t draw it. Something in you held back.

He didn’t move or flinch. Didn’t seem surprised by your presence either.

“I thought angels didn’t walk this far down,” He spoke in a voice low and rough, like it had been dragged through gravel and time. “Unless they’re looking for a fight.”

You hesitated. “I’m not here to fight.”

He chuckled, but it was a hollow sound. “That’s what the last one said.”

You stayed silent, watching him closely. He didn’t turn. Didn’t rise. Just kept his hand in the dirt, like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

The wind stirred again, ruffling the edges of your robes. Your wings shifted restlessly, feathers rustling with unease.

“I’m not here on Heaven’s orders,” You finally answered, your voice barely audible over the wind. “I came because… I felt something. A pull.”

“Funny,” He muttered. “So did I.”

That made you blink.

He finally looked up, just enough for you to see his face, half-shadowed, but unmistakable. There was no cruelty there. No hunger for sin or conquest. Just exhaustion. Blue eyes that had seen centuries of death, hands that had done terrible things, and yet, beneath it all, still remembered mercy.

“I should leave,” You said quietly, unsure whether it was directed to him or to yourself.

“Then why haven’t you?”

The question hung in the cold air between you like an open wound. You didn’t give him an answer because truthfully, you didn’t have one. So you stayed.

Not close and not far. Just within sight. The two of you sat there, separated by ruthlessness and faith, by war and fire, peace and light. You didn’t speak again that night. You just watched the stars together.

And for a brief moment, the world felt like it had paused. As if Heaven and Hell had looked the other way, just long enough for two things that should never coexist to breathe in the same silence.

When you finally rose to leave, he didn’t stop you. But he didn’t look away either. And somehow, you knew you’d see him again. And you did.

You never ask his name.

He never asks yours.

There’s no point, not here, not in this place where names don’t hold power, where they melt into the snow like forgotten prayers. You know what he is and he knows what you are. That remains enough for now.

Solstice after solstice, you come back to the edge of the world, to the boundary where no song from Heaven reaches and no scream from Hell echoes. The silence here is sacred in its own way. Unclaimed. Unwatched. It belongs only to you and to him.

This time, you arrive before he does. The frost has crept higher since last year, lacing the dead branches in silver threads that catch the moonlight like cobwebs made of glass. You sit on a stone half-buried in snow, your wings draped around your shoulders like a cloak.

You don't wait long before you feel him.

Not see. Feel.

The temperature shifts subtly. The wind thickens. The smell of ash and old iron fills the air.

He walks through the trees as though they part for him, his breath visible in the cold. The same worn coat, the same heavy boots. The metal of his left arm catches the moonlight like ice. And as always, the smoke follows him, not malicious, just… present. Like a memory he can't shake off.

He sits beside you without a word, the way he always does.

You don’t look at each other at first. There’s no need. You both understand the rules of this fragile ritual: no questions, no fights, and no judgment.

You sit in the cold, close enough to feel the soft heat of him. His unnatural warmth, something Hell must have carved into his bones to keep him burning in all the wrong ways. You stay far enough that the stars won’t take notice, won’t whisper of betrayal.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The frost creeps slowly over the fallen branches, delicate and determined. You both watch it, as if it matters. As if the way it grows, inch by inch, might teach you something about stillness. About survival.

Like usual, sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't.

Tonight, he breaks the silence first.

“I used to be human,” He confesses, almost absently. His eyes stay fixed on the sky, where clouds drift like smoke across the moon. “A long time ago.”

You glance at him, not surprised. You had suspected it. There was always something in the way he spoke, the way he moved, like he hadn’t quite forgotten what it meant to bleed in the ways that mattered.

He continues before you can answer. “Can’t remember much. Just flashes. Pain. Screaming. Cold water. And someone-“ He cuts himself off with a bitter breath. “I think I had a name before… Bucky. Maybe that was it or maybe not.”

You don't speak immediately. The words settle like snow, quiet and heavy.

Then, ever so softly, you speak: “You remember enough to mourn it.”

He turns his head a fraction, just enough to meet your eyes. He doesn’t refuse your comment, doesn’t try to argue. And that, somehow, feels more painful than anything else.

You both return to silence as he leans back against a frost-bitten tree, metal fingers twitching restlessly in his lap. You can feel something aching inside him, coiled too deep for words. Guilt? Regret? Or maybe just the echo of what once was.

You don’t try to fix it. You just stay. Because that’s the unspoken promise of the truce. Not salvation. Not forgiveness. Just presence.

And somehow, in a world that burned the both of you down into what you are now… maybe that’s enough.

-

During your next meeting, the snow falls heavier this time.

It comes in thick, whispering sheets, softening the world until even your footsteps are silenced. The sky is overcast, swallowing the stars, and yet you walk the old path by memory. Your wings are hidden this time beneath a dark cloak. Your halo, long dimmed near the boundary, pulses faintly, a reminder of the place you still belong to, even if you don't feel like you do.

He's already there when you arrive, perched on a broken stone wall, hood drawn low, and smoke curling lazily around his shoulders. He doesn’t look at you when you approach, but his metal fingers tap once against the stone, a quiet acknowledgment. A habit, maybe. Or a signal meant just for you.

You sit beside him, brushing snow off the ledge. Neither of you says anything for a long time. The snowfall thickens. It clings to your lashes, melts slowly against the heat of his shoulder when it drifts close. You almost lean toward him. Almost. But you don’t. Because this… this thing between you isn’t named or defined. It’s a careful, wordless balance, like walking a tightrope strung between Heaven and Hell. And you don’t know what happens if one of you leans too far.

So you speak instead.

“They’re starting to wonder where I go,” You murmur. “The others.”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “Same.”

You glance at him, startled. You didn’t think demons would care.

“I shouldn’t be here. They don’t trust me much,” He says. “Never did. I’m not… obedient enough. Still got too many memories, I think.”

You study the side of his face, how the flickering light catches the scar near his jaw, how snow gathers in the folds of his coat, how his eyes stay fixed on the horizon like he’s waiting for something that never arrives.

You whisper, “Why do you keep coming back here?”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares into the white blur of the trees.

Then: “Because this is the only place I don’t feel like I’m supposed to be anything.”

The words hit harder than they should as you can feel your throat tighten. Because you understand. Because that’s the reason you come too. Not for salvation. Not for curiosity. But because here, on this forgotten ledge at the edge of war, you get to just exist.

Not as a Weapon or a Symbol. Not a Messenger, Servant, or Slave either. Just… as yourself. And maybe that’s why it almost happens.

The shift.

It begins as silence, broken only by the snowfall and the distant cry of something too old for naming. Your knees are nearly touching. His arm is barely a breath from your shoulder. And then, he turns to you. Really turns to you. The snow on his lashes. The flicker in his eyes. The pain he doesn’t speak about and the comfort he doesn’t ask for.

You don’t breathe.

His hand lifts slightly, hesitating between you, as if asking without asking. As if unsure whether reaching out will ruin everything you’ve built from the silence and distance.

Your breath fogs between you and you don’t move as that moment hangs like crystal in the air. Fragile. Shimmering. Dangerous.

But then he blinks and withdraws, looking away. The space between you swells again with all the things you didn’t say. All the things you didn’t do.

He clears his throat. “Should go. They’ll notice.”

You nod, but don’t stand.

He hesitates, then turns, walking back through the trees. The smoke follows him. Softer now. Calmer.

You stay until the snowfall covers where he sat. You don’t cry. Angels don’t cry. But something in you bends. And maybe next solstice… maybe it will break.

-

The snow is late this year.

The sky is too clear, too wide, the moon too full, as if the heavens are watching, waiting. You sit on the same broken stone wall, cloak wrapped tight, wings folded beneath layers of quiet. You haven’t spoken aloud since your last meeting. No words seem right unless they’re for him.

He’s late this time. You don’t pace. Angels don’t pace. But your fingers twitch and your breath stutters. The frost gathers along your lashes, and still, he does not come.

Then… you hear movement. The trees stir. Smoke curls through the air, faint at first, then thick, clinging to the wind like a memory refusing to be forgotten. And then he’s there. Shoulders hunched. Jaw tight. There’s a limp in his step you’ve never seen before. Something about the way he moves, it’s quieter. Smaller. Like he’s folding in on himself.

You don’t speak yet. Not yet. You watch as he stops before reaching the wall. He doesn’t move to sit. He stands there, hood shadowing his face, and one hand clenched tight inside his coat pocket. The other twitches at his side, fingers curling and uncurling like he’s trying to hold onto something too fragile.

You wait, watching him in silence for a minute. Two. Ten.

Finally, he speaks.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

Your voice is steady, even if your heart stumbles. “You say that every year.”

His eyes lift to yours. Something in them flickers resembling pain maybe, or guilt.

“No.” The word is thick. Real and raw. “I mean it this time.”

You don’t ask why. You could. You could demand the answer, peel it from his throat if you wanted. But some truths aren’t meant to be touched. Some are better left where they lie, between silence and suspicion.

Instead, you ask quietly, “Then why come?”

He looks down, taking a slow breath before moving closer to you. Slowly and Carefully, like it costs him something. From inside his coat, his gloved hand emerges, clenched around something small and heavy. When he opens it, the object catches the moonlight and your breath.

A coin. Worn. Misshapen. Half-melted, like it passed through fire and never forgot. Its edges are jagged, dangerous, like the lives it's touched. Like his life. You know what it truly is though.

A soul coin.

You’ve only seen one before, only once a long time ago. It served as proof of salvation. The kind no demon carries unless they’ve done the unthinkable, not damn a soul, but save it. It is a mark of rebellion, of change. Of loss.

He holds it for a moment more, then steps closer before holding it out to you. You hesitate, but only for a heartbeat. Your fingers close around it gently, reverently. It’s warm. Alive, almost. You can feel its weight and the cost of it.

And then, his voice, quieter now.

“Proof,” He states. “That I’m not all gone.”

Your eyes search his face, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way he’s trembling, but only slightly, like a man who’s fought too long and finally let himself feel it.

“Why give this to me?” You ask, barely above a whisper.

You watch as his gaze drops and hear the silence swell between you. Then, he says it. The thing that breaks you.

“Because next solstice…” He stops. His throat works around a word he doesn’t speak. His eyes close, “I might not be here.”

And that’s when it hurts. Because demons don’t lie. Not like this. Not with this kind of sorrow. You reach for him, but he steps back. Not in fear or nervousness this time. In resolution.

Like if you touched him now, he’d stay. And he’s already chosen to leave. When he vanishes, it isn’t with fire. It’s with smoke swirling softly and quietly. Like the ghost of a memory that never settled right.

He leaves behind nothing more than the coin in your hand, still warm, and a silence that feels too alive to be empty. A terrible ache in your chest builds, because angels don’t hope.

But tonight, you do. You hope to see him again.

Those two are always ready to help them through both the fun and hard times, such a comforting pair. Thank you for reading! ♡

A Little Mess Won’t Hurt

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

Summary: Despite your love for the arts, you’ve always been hesitant to use your paint kits, watercolors, or anything that could make a mess. Your caregivers notice and help you try finger painting for the first time.

Word Count: 1.9k+

A/N: This is purely a self-indulgent kind of fic. More on the fluffier side, hopefully.

Main Masterlist

You sit quietly on the couch, legs crossed beneath you, as you watch Steve work on his sketchbook. The pencil moves fluidly across the page, creating beautiful shapes, faces, and scenes. You’re mesmerized by how easily his hand moves, as if the paper were an extension of himself. His concentration makes him look so calm, so relaxed, and you wish you could do that too. Create something beautiful.

You reach over and grab your coloring book, your favorite one with intricate patterns of flowers and animals, and open it to the next unfinished page. You’ve always loved coloring, the neat lines and precise strokes, careful to stay inside the borders. But when you think about what Steve is doing and what Bucky sometimes does when he’s working with paints and clay, it makes your chest feel tight. You’ve never touched the paint kits or watercolor sets that Steve bought for you. It always feels like a line you’re afraid to cross.

Your fingers itch to try it. You know it’s fun. You’ve seen Bucky with his hands covered in clay and Steve covered in paint, laughing and smiling, their faces bright with joy. But the mess… the mess always brings memories you don’t like. The sharp words. The scolding. The fear of ruining something precious.

"Hey, kiddo, you done with your drawing?" Steve’s voice cuts through your thoughts. You blink, looking up at him. He’s watching you with soft eyes, a half-smile on his face. "You’re awfully quiet today."

You fidget with your coloring book, picking at the edges. "I’m just… coloring," You mumble, offering him a small smile.

Steve notices the way your gaze flicks back to his sketchbook, your eyes lingering on his pencil as it moves. He sets his book aside gently and leans closer, his voice tender but curious.

"You know," He starts, "I’ve got a new sketchbook in the other room. But it’s not the only way to make art."

Your heart skips a beat. You’ve heard them talk about painting before. About how messy it gets and how much fun it is. They thought you would like it. Bucky has even shown you his pottery and tried to convince you to join him in the studio once, but you always hesitated. The idea of making a mess, of getting dirty? It just felt wrong.

"I—" You pause, unsure how to explain. You tug at the hem of your shirt, a nervous habit. "I like… watching. But I don’t know if I could… do it."

Steve’s eyes soften as he tilts his head. "Do what, sweetheart?"

"Make a mess," You murmur, almost embarrassed.

The room falls into a quiet moment, Steve’s gaze turning understanding. He’s seen the way you’ve avoided the paints, the watercolors, the clay. He knows how much you love the idea of creating, anything to do with art. He can see it in your eyes every time you sit with your coloring book, every time you watch him draw. But he also knows there’s something holding you back. Something deeply rooted.

"You don’t have to be afraid of making a mess with us," Steve says gently. "You’re safe here. We’re not going to scold you for it. You don’t have to be perfect."

You glance up at him, your cheeks flushing. The words feel foreign, like they shouldn’t be said to you. But… they are. And the warmth in Steve’s voice makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could try.

"You sure?" You whisper.

Bucky, who has been quietly listening from the armchair, smiles softly and walks over to where you’re sitting. He crouches down to your level, his expression warm and inviting.

"I’ll even help you clean up after," He promises. "We can have a little messy play time, just the three of us. No judgment, no worries. Just fun."

Your heart flutters in your chest. The idea of it sounds fun. So much fun, in fact, that you can feel your fingers twitch with excitement. But the fear still clings to you. You don’t want to disappoint them too. You don’t want to make a mess at all.

Steve catches the look in your eyes and gives you a soft smile. "It’s okay if you don’t want to yet," He reassures calmly, "But I think you’ll enjoy it. Sometimes, making a little mess is how we make the best memories."

Bucky holds out his hand, "What do you say, kiddo? Wanna try it with us? You can start small. Just dip your fingers in a little bit of paint. We’ll take it slow."

You hesitate. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt as you think, battling with the urge to try something new and the fear of failure. But then Steve places a gentle hand on your shoulder, the warmth of his touch calming you. "No pressure. If you don’t like it, we can always stop. But if you want to, we can make something really special."

You glance at Bucky, who’s still waiting patiently. He doesn’t look rushed or frustrated. He’s simply… waiting for you to decide. To trust them and that’s the push you need.

Taking a deep breath, you nod, just a little.

"I’ll try," Your voice barely audible.

Bucky’s smile grows, and he gently takes your hand, as he brings you to the dining table. Steve grabs some of the finger painting supplies and sets them down near you. The tray of paints now sits before you with a blank sheet of paper. The colors are so bright, so inviting, and for the first time, you feel a small wave of excitement wash over you. You slowly reach over, still hesitant but brave. Bucky’s voice remains light and reassuring.

"That’s it. Now, just a little dab," He encourages.

You dip your fingers into the paint, the cool sensation making your breath catch in your throat. And then, with a deep breath, you press your fingers to the paper.

It’s messy. It’s a little wild. But it’s also… freeing.

Steve watches you with pride, his gaze soft as you begin to explore the colors with more confidence. Bucky’s chuckles ring in the air as he joins you on another page, painting alongside you. The mess doesn’t seem so bad now. In fact, it’s kind of fun. And with Steve and Bucky by your side, it’s safe. There’s no judgment, no scolding. Just a loving space where you can make something beautiful, even if it’s a little messy.

The paint feels warmer now, smoother against your fingertips as you move your hand across the page. You make a bold swirl of yellow and green, your face lighting up with a quiet smile as you experiment with the colors. It’s not perfect, but that’s the best part. The colors bleed into one another in playful patterns, as if the paper itself is dancing with you.

Bucky glances, grinning as you explore. "That’s it, kiddo. Let it flow," He says, his voice filled with encouragement. He’s got a bit of red paint smeared on his cheek from his own work, but he doesn’t mind. "No rules. Just fun."

You glance at him, then at Steve, who’s already made a few broad strokes on his paper with a brush. The whole room feels lighter, almost fizzing with energy as the three of you work in a little creative chaos together.

Steve watches you with a fond smile, leaning in to dip his own brush into a deep purple. "There you go," He adds. "Look at that swirl. Looks like a rainbow already."

You tilt your head and glance at your page, and sure enough, the yellow and green you've painted already do look like the beginnings of a rainbow, the colors blending like the hues of a sunset.

The idea of a perfect painting slowly fades from your mind, and you start adding more colors, simply having fun with it. Maybe blue here, a touch of red there. Bucky and Steve occasionally encourage you, their voices soft but full of praise. The weight of your old anxieties begins to melt away. They never push you to do anything more than you’re ready for, and you find yourself taking more risks, adding blobs of color that you wouldn’t have dared to make a few minutes ago.

The first few smudges on your fingers did feel odd at first, but then you realize they aren’t that bad. You laugh when a bit of orange accidentally splatters onto the side of your cheek. Bucky chuckles too, and reaches over with a napkin to wipe it away. "Guess you’re really getting into it now."

You can’t help but laugh back, the sound light and airy, filling the room with the pure joy of finally letting go.

It’s so much fun—more than you thought it could be. You notice that the fear you had about messing up seems so small now. There’s a comforting warmth in knowing that Steve and Bucky are right there with you, sharing in the mess, the fun, and the art. No one’s looking to judge or critique, just to enjoy the moment together.

The hours pass quickly, the three of you laughing and creating. Before you know it, your page is a beautiful, colorful mess. It’s nothing like the neat, careful drawings you used to make. Instead, it’s a chaotic explosion of colors, shapes, and patterns that make your heart flutter. You didn’t have to hold back. You didn’t have to be perfect. And that’s exactly what made it perfect.

"Look at you," Steve’s voice is full of pride as he leans in to admire your work. "I think we’ve got ourselves an artist in the making."

Bucky grins, nudging you lightly with his shoulder; his tone full of love and approval. "You’ve got a real eye for this, you know."

You smile, a warm, contented feeling filling your chest. Your hands are a little sticky with paint, and your shirt has a few splatters too, but you don’t mind. You look over at Bucky and Steve, seeing their faces beaming with pride. You realize that it wasn’t just about making art. It was about trusting them enough to let go, to not be afraid of what could happen if things got messy.

As you finish the last few touches on your page, you feel a sense of accomplishment. Your masterpiece isn’t about following the rules or being perfect. It’s a reflection of you: creative, brave, and free.

Steve and Bucky glance over at each other and share a look, one of shared pride and understanding. They’re proud of you for stepping out of your comfort zone, for trusting them, and for making something beautiful in the process.

When the paintings are finally dry, Steve gathers them up carefully. "We’ll hang these on the fridge," He smiles when your face lights up. "We’ll put yours right at the top, where everyone can see."

Bucky nods, pulling you into a soft, affectionate hug. "You did so good, sweetheart. You made a mess, and you made art. That’s what it’s all about."

You snuggle into his arms, still grinning from ear to ear. It feels good. It feels right.

And for the first time, you don’t worry about what happens if things get a little messy. Because, in this moment, you realize that a little mess is part of the magic. Part of the fun. And no matter what mess happens, you’re safe enough to make it with the people who love you.

Same! They’re so whimsical and outrageous, it’s so entertaining. Thank you for reading!!! ♡

Heart First, Sanity Later

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

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

Word Count: 3.4k+

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

Main Masterlist

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

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

He stared at you. Everyone did.

You slurped. “What?”

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

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

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

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

But outside of that? Absolute chaos.

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

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

He blinked slowly. “Yes.”

“Sounds fake but okay.”

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

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

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

You beamed. “I know, right?”

And that was just the beginning.

-

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

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

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

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

“What?” He hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

You were something else. A walking contradiction.

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

And tonight was no different.

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

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

Affection.

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

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

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

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

“You okay there, Grumpypants?” You asked.

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

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

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

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

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

The jet went quiet.

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

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

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

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

He was fucked.

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

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

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

“Sexy?” You offered helpfully.

“…Terrifying.”

You winked. “Same difference.”

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stared at you, speechless.

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

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

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

Bucky froze, his heartbeat suddenly in his throat.

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

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

His chest tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Then I’m doing taxes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky blinked. “Excuse me?”

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

“I do not look like-“

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

“I am not emotionally unavailable.”

“You have a go bag, Bucky.”

“…That’s standard protocol.”

“Your toothbrush is still in the packaging.”

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

You held up a finger. “Armed wildlife.”

He ran a hand down his face.

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

You blinked up at him. “Kinky.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was a raccoon with a grudge.”

“That’s not a thing!”

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

He froze.

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

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

”I love you, you absolute menace!”

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

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

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

“Say it like what?”

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

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

“Yes!”

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

“Also yes!”

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

“I almost killed you.”

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

He blinked. “Okay?”

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

He stared. “You do?”

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

He laughed, just once, short and stunned.

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

Bucky groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet. You’re in love with me.”

“I’m regretting it deeply.”

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

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

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

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

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

The Way He Notices

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

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

Word Count: 1.3k+

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

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

The compound was too loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just noticed. And remembered.

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

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

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

Still, you stayed quiet. Hidden. Gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The grip of your hand tightened slightly.

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

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

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

A pause. Then, barely above a whisper:

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

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

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

Poll for Next Post

Feel free to suggest something else that isn’t listed here! Refer to my Main Masterlist if needed.

Aww, thank you so much!!! The way they show their care and love for each other is so sweet. I loved writing this one-shot. Thank you for reading! ♡

The Price of Saving Until You Care

Summary: You have the power to heal others by transferring their injuries onto you. After healing Bucky from a serious wound, he confronts you about constantly sacrificing your own well-being for him and you confront him about his recklessness in throwing his life away. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to transfer injuries onto herself. You and Bucky get injured in this. ANGST. References and/or talk of death & suicide. (It doesn’t happen here.) Bucky’s self-worth issues. You are responsible for the media you consume

Word Count: 1.5k+

A/N: Here’s that other version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. I also had another thought while writing this. Same concept, but she can’t feel the pain she transfers. But this version had more depth to it.

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

Pain was a strange thing.

Most people avoided it, feared it, or resented it. You? You made peace with it, letting it in like a familiar guest.

Your hands could heal, not with any glowing light, magical song, or celestial warmth, but with quiet, invisible sacrifice. Every wound you closed on someone else opened in your own body. A broken bone, a stab wound, a punctured lung, you could mend them all. But the damage had to go somewhere, and it always chose you.

At first, it felt noble. Heroic, even. Like you were doing something pure in a world full of compromise. Over time, though, that feeling didn’t last. Not after your body started to break faster than it could rebuild. Not after people began expecting it of you. And not after he started looking at you with that hollow-eyed grief every time you touched him.

Bucky Barnes was the only one who never asked.

That’s why you kept doing it for him.

He never demanded your gift, never leaned on it. If anything, he flinched when you reached for him. He stitched his own wounds in silence, like penance, like punishment. But he bled so often and so deeply, and there was only so much you could watch before stepping in.

So you made the choice he never would.

You took the pain he refused to burden anyone else with and carried it like a secret.

The first time you healed him, it was a gunshot to the thigh. He’d collapsed behind cover, gritting his teeth, trying to keep firing with one hand pressed hard over the bleeding wound. You crawled to him, pressed your palm against his jeans, and told him to breathe.

He didn’t understand right away. Not until later, when he saw you limping and pieced it together.

“What did you do?” He had asked, panic breaking through the walls he always wore.

You lied then and said it was a stray bullet. Said you were fine. You weren’t, of course. But the look on his face, that was worse than any pain. So you kept the truth buried.

Now, you’d done it too many times to count.

You didn't talk about your ability much. People either praised it or pitied it, and you didn’t need either. To you, it was like… math. You had a body that could endure pain and a world that couldn’t survive without help. It wasn’t heroism. It was simple. It was balance.

But even balance breaks when it leans too hard in one direction. And lately, Bucky had been leaning too hard and the rest of the team noticed it too. He became too reckless, too self-destructive, too tired of being saved.

That’s why you stood in the medbay now, chest already aching from a gash you took earlier, watching him sit bloodied and bruised and already trying to push you away.

The medbay lights buzzed faintly above, casting a harsh white sheen across the steel counters and bloodied gauze. Bucky sat shirtless on the edge of the gurney, one hand clamped over a ragged tear in his side. Blood still leaked between his fingers. His metal arm hung loose by his side, stained red.

You stepped forward quietly and approached slowly.

He heard you though. Evident in how his gaze flicked up, icy blue and already narrowing. “Don’t.”

You didn’t answer as you just moved to stand in front of him, reaching into the tray for a cloth. His blood had soaked deep into the fabric around the wound. Too deep for bandages.

“I mean it,” He growled, more force behind it this time. “You’re not doing that thing again.”

Your hand hesitated in the air before dropping. “It’s not a thing, Bucky. It’s me.”

He flinched. Just slightly. A beat of hesitation long enough for you to press your palm against his ribs.

Heat bloomed between your fingers. Your power worked silently, no fanfare, no shimmer of light, just the subtle pull, the invisible trade. His flesh knit together, the muscle reforming under your touch, sealing like it had never been torn.

Then came the pain as your breath hitched, feeling it bloom sharply through your ribs, mirroring the exact placement of his injury. The gash tore itself into you now; hot, wet, and burning deep. You exhaled through gritted teeth, willing yourself to stay upright.

Bucky grabbed your wrist.

“Stop. Please.” His voice was hoarse now. “Stop.”

“It’s already done,” You whispered.

He stood up too fast, panic flashing in his eyes. His hand hovered just short of touching you again. “Why would you do that? You said… You said you wouldn’t anymore.”

“I didn’t say that,” You leaned against the gurney now slightly, murmuring your defense. “You asked. I didn’t answer.”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice cracked. “You’re always bleeding for me.”

You looked down to see blood was spreading across your shirt now, warm and slow, the price of one man’s survival. You’d felt worse. Your pain tolerance was higher than others' after all, but that didn’t make this easy.

“You don’t get to die just because you’re tired,” You let out before you could think of the consequences, staring at anything else but him. “You don’t get to throw yourself at death like it’s the only thing you deserve.”

“And you don’t get to keep hurting yourself just to prove that I matter!” He shouted, voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You can’t keep doing this. You’ll…. disappear.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the correct word. You finally met his gaze, taking a trembling step closer.

“I will. If you keep doing this. If you don’t stop treating yourself like you’re expendable.”

His expression twisted, a painful, broken thing. “Why?”

“Because you won’t save yourself,” You whispered. “So I will. Until you start caring about your life… or until you realize I gave you mine.”

A long silence stretched between you. Then, quietly, like a thread unraveling:

“I care.”

You blinked.

“I care,” He repeated. “I just… didn’t know how to show it. I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

Your breath caught.

He reached for you slowly, fingers brushing the edge of your shirt where the blood had bloomed red. “Let me try,” he said. “Let me start now.”

He stared at the blood staining your shirt, the way your breath hitched with every movement. His hands hovered like he didn’t know how to touch you gently, like anything he did would break you more. So, you helped him out by sitting down first. The gurney was cold under you, the pain a dull, pulsing throb in your side. It would last a few hours, maybe a few days, like most of them did. But you didn’t regret it. Not when he was alive. Not when he was here.

Bucky slowly stepped in front of you. He moved like he was approaching something sacred. Or fragile. He unzipped one of the emergency medkits and grabbed clean gauze, then glanced up to meet your eyes as if to ask for permission. You gave a small nod.

His fingers trembled just slightly as he lifted your shirt, revealing the angry gash blooming across your side.

He hissed through his teeth. “It should’ve been me.”

You smiled at him, dry and tired. “It was you.”

“No,” He muttered. “I meant… it should’ve stayed on me. I could’ve taken it.”

You cupped the back of his metal hand, pressing it gently against your knee. “You already take too much.”

This time, he didn’t answer. Instead, he focused on cleaning the wound, his hands methodical, precise. You watched the way his brow furrowed, the way he avoided your eyes like he couldn’t bear to look at the pain he’d caused. A similar look to the guilt people wore when they found out how your power worked.

“You don’t have to punish yourself every day,” You sighed.

“I’m not trying to.”

“Then stop flinching every time I help you.”

Bucky let out a low breath. “I flinch because you matter. Because every time you do this, I remember what it feels like to watch someone choose my life over theirs. And… I’m scared one day, you’ll make that choice for the last time.”

He finished dressing the wound in silence before he rose slowly and sat beside you.

For a moment, the room was quiet, the soft hum of overhead lights still present, and the echo of shared breath.

“You said something earlier,” He began finally, voice low. “That I wouldn’t save myself. That I don’t care if I die.”

You looked at him, quiet.

He nodded to himself. “You’re right. I didn’t. Not for a long time. But watching you hurt for me? Watching you bleed and not even hesitate? That scares the hell out of me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Then let it change you.”

Bucky was still for a beat. Then he shifted, slowly wrapping an arm around you, careful of your wound, careful of everything. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just real. Warm. Grounded.

“I don’t know how to start,” He admitted.

“You just did,” Your eyes slipping closed.

And in that quiet room, beneath too-bright lights and the weight of too many regrets, he held you like someone trying, finally, to be worth saving.

She definitely doesn’t hide her opinions 😭

Thank you for reading! <3

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

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.