Rewritten
Rewritten
Summary: You wake up in a cozy home with no memory of anything. You find your alleged lovers reassuring you that you’ve always lived there and that they’ll stay by your side through this difficult time. However, you can’t seem to shake the feeling that something is wrong. (Dark!Bucky Barnes x reader x Dark!Steve Rogers)
Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes. Dark Steve Rogers. Psychological & emotional manipulation. Memory loss. Gaslighting. Alludes to Kidnapping.
Word Count: 4.9k+
A/N: To be honest, I had the idea for this one but struggled to write it. I hope it turned out decent enough. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.
Main Masterlist
You wake to the soft warmth of sunlight spilling through sheer curtains, casting an ethereal glow over the room. The faint scent of pancakes lingers in the air, drifting through your senses like an old, forgotten memory.
The bed is plush beneath you and too soft, almost as if it were made to cocoon you, to hold you in a place of perfect comfort. The sheets are smooth, cool, but they don't belong. They're foreign, unfamiliar. You blink, disoriented. Something about the room seems… off. There’s a quiet stillness to it, a sense of being watched, though the air is unthreatening. A low hum of something distant, like a heart beating just a little too fast.
The room is small, but cozy. Elegant, even. The soft glow of the morning sun is reflected in the delicate furniture such as a nightstand with a polished wood surface or the dresser with a few scattered items on top. Your eyes, still unfocused, drift to a framed picture on the nightstand. You reach out automatically, though your hand trembles slightly as you grasp the edge of the frame.
The photo inside is a strange sight.
It’s a picture of you. You’re smiling, laughing, in fact. Your arms are wrapped around two men, standing close to each other with their own hands resting on your shoulders. You look happy, relaxed. Safe.
But you don’t recognize them. Not at all.
The taller man has blond hair, a strong jawline, and eyes that should be comforting, but they don’t reach you. He’s smiling down at you as if you were someone he cared about, but you can’t remember ever knowing him. The other man has dark, disheveled hair, a shadow of stubble along his jaw, and eyes that seem… more distant. Cold. But even as you stare, your heart feels like it’s trying to remember something buried, something lost.
You drop the frame back onto the nightstand with a soft thud, and for a moment, the silence is deafening.
“Hey.”
The voice comes from the doorway, low and warm, though the words hold an edge you can’t place.
You snap your head up, your breath quickening as you sit up on the bed. A man stands there tall, broad-shouldered, with a metal arm hanging at his side. His eyes, dark and full of something unreadable, watch you carefully. You can feel his gaze weighing on you, measuring you.
“You’re awake,” His voice is soft but firm. He looks oddly… relieved. But there's something about the way he watches you, something that doesn’t feel quite right.
“Who… who are you?” Your voice is hoarse, trembling, and you immediately feel a sense of panic clawing at your chest.
The man takes a step forward, his expression unreadable. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. You don’t remember us again, but that’s okay.” His voice dips a little, softer. “It happens.”
“Remember? I don’t remember anything.”
A sharp, sudden shift in the air. You don’t realize it until the second man enters the room. He’s around the same height, though leaner. Blond. His gaze falls on you immediately, and you feel an odd wave of something unfamiliar crash over you, a strange mixture of comfort and something darker.
The first man, the one who spoke, stands a little straighter at the sight of him. The second man, Steve, doesn’t seem phased at all. If anything, he’s relieved to see you awake.
But something is wrong. You can’t place it. There’s an unease in the pit of your stomach, like the weight of their presence is too heavy for you to bear.
“You’ve been through a lot,” Steve says, his voice gentle but steady. “Hydra did things to you… erased your memories. But we’re here now. We’ll help you remember.”
Your hands grip the edge of the blanket, knuckles white. Your head feels thick, heavy, as if there’s a fog clouding your thoughts. “I don’t… know you. I don’t remember this place. I don’t know who you are.”
“You’ve been here before,” Steve continues, taking a slow step closer to you. “This isn’t the first time, but don’t worry. It will get easier. We’ll help you through it.” His hand reaches toward you, a tentative gesture, but there’s something possessive in the way he moves, something that makes you shudder.
“You always forget,” The man with the metal arm, Bucky, adds quietly. He doesn’t step closer, but his eyes are locked onto you, searching. “But it’s okay. We’ll remind you.”
“Don’t lie to me,” You say, your voice trembling. There’s an instinct in you, a pull to trust what they’re saying, but your gut screams that something isn’t right. “Who are you? What have you done to me?”
Steve’s hand lingers in the air, just a breath from your cheek, before he withdraws it slowly. “You were lost. You didn’t remember us the first time, either.” His words are soft, almost too soft. “But you will. You always do.”
Bucky stands silent behind Steve, his eyes fixed on you with something too intense to describe. His posture is stiff, controlled, as if he’s afraid of moving too suddenly. But there’s something cold in his gaze, something calculating, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll break.
A memory flickers in your mind, so brief it might have been imagined: a faint moment of laughter, of warmth. You and these men together, somewhere you can’t quite place. But it vanishes before you can hold onto it.
“Just… tell me the truth,” You whisper, your breath shallow. “Tell me what’s happening.”
“You’re safe,” Steve assures, kneeling beside the bed, his hand brushing the side of your face with the gentleness of a lover. “You’re always safe with us.”
Bucky steps forward then, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he watches you. His voice is low. “We’ve kept you safe every time, haven’t we?”
Something heavy fills the air between you. They’re speaking like you’re a child they’ve been caring for, but you know, something inside you knows, that’s not all of it. This isn’t just care. This feels like control.
“You belong with us after all,” Bucky murmurs, almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear.
You flinch back as the words reverberate in your chest.
The door locks behind them with a quiet click, and you feel it reverberate in your chest like the closing of a cage. The room suddenly seems smaller, suffocating. You try to stand, to make sense of your surroundings, but your legs feel unsteady beneath you, as if they’ve forgotten how to hold your weight.
Steve remains kneeling beside the bed, his hand still hovering near your face, his touch a strange mixture of warmth and weight. His eyes are searching your face with a tenderness that should be comforting. But it isn’t.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” Steve says, his voice almost too smooth, too comforting. “You’re home now.“
“But I… don’t know you,” You whisper, the words breaking against the thick tension in the air.
You don’t know how to feel. There’s a pull in your chest, an undeniable ache to trust him, but every fiber of your being tells you to run, to escape this unfamiliar warmth. But where would you go? There are no windows in this room, only soft, almost hypnotic light and the oppressive presence of two men who insist they’ve known you for far longer than you can remember.
Bucky watches from across the room, his metal arm resting against the doorframe, his eyes dark and calculating. It’s hard to tell if he’s waiting for you to calm down, or if he’s simply studying you, waiting for the exact moment your resistance breaks.
“We’ve been through this before,” Bucky says, his voice low, but it carries an edge of something dark. "Every time, you don’t remember, but you get it back. We’re here for you.”
Your eyes flicker to him, his posture so tense, it’s like he’s bracing for something, waiting for a signal you can’t see. You don’t know him. You don’t know any of this, and yet… The flicker of a memory dances in the back of your mind again. You see yourself in his arms held close, like you belong. But it’s all too foggy, too distant. The image fades before you can grasp it fully.
Bucky shifts, his gaze flicking between you and Steve. His body language speaks of restraint, like he’s holding something back, fighting a temptation to move closer. His hand flexes by his side, the metallic fingers of his left hand clenching in a subtle but telling motion.
“You don’t remember the last time we had breakfast together, do you?” Steve asks gently, as if testing a boundary. “You laughed so hard when I tried to cook the eggs. You called me an idiot, and then we ate on the couch, watching that romance show you love.”
You search his eyes for any hint of deception, but they’re so earnest, so soft. The words tug at something inside you, a small thread of something familiar, but your mind stubbornly holds its ground. You’re not sure if you want to trust him or if you’re simply desperate to feel like you’re home.
“I don’t remember,” You whisper, your voice catching. You want to believe him, but the words don’t feel right. “I… I don’t know, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Steve says, smiling as though this is just another part of the process, as if it’s routine. As if the confusion is natural, and it should be expected. “We’ll remind you, just like we always do.”
Bucky steps forward, his voice colder now, more insistent. “You always say that, Steve.” His eyes never leave you. “We’ve done this before. She’ll get it back, eventually.”
There’s something unsettling in the way he speaks, as if he’s not entirely sure himself that you are the same person who walked in here before. You look at Bucky, trying to make sense of him. There’s an intensity to his gaze, a hardness in his features that doesn’t soften, not even when he speaks. The way he stands, so still and poised, makes you feel like a mouse trapped in a predator’s gaze.
“Every time,” He murmurs, a strange satisfaction in his voice. “We’ll remind you. You’ll come back.”
Come back.
It feels like a command, like a foregone conclusion, and something inside you rebels against it. You want to ask him what he means, ask them both what they mean, but the words stick in your throat. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Steve reaches up, cupping your chin gently with his hand. His touch is soft, but there’s an undercurrent of something darker beneath it. “We’re not going to leave you. You’ll remember. It’ll be like it always was. Like it should be.”
A flicker of discomfort sharpens your senses. There’s a strange, hollow weight behind his words, as though they don’t just want you to remember—they need you to.
“What… what if I don’t remember?” You ask, the words coming out quieter than you intended.
Steve leans in closer, his voice lower now, coaxing. “You will. You always do.”
Bucky steps forward, his eyes cold, unreadable. His lips barely twitch into something resembling a smile, but it’s fleeting, like it doesn’t quite belong. “We’ll help you. We always do.”
Something dark unfurls in your chest, a quiet, nagging suspicion that they’ve been here before. They’ve watched you forget, watched you become someone else. Someone who depends on them, who trusts them. And every time, you come back.
You come back.
The weight of the realization presses into your lungs, making it hard to breathe. You don’t know why you keep forgetting, but surely that must mean something is wrong. However, you haven’t figured out yet if it’s you or them.
-
The days blur together. Each one feels like a repetition of the last, a loop that tightens around you with every passing moment. You never quite know if what you're experiencing is real or another fragment of the memory that Steve and Bucky insist belongs to you.
Today is no different.
The room you’re confined to feels like it’s been designed for you to forget where you end and the walls begin. It’s soft, sterile, but just close enough to warm for you to feel like you should be at peace. But there’s no peace in your chest. There’s only an aching tension that never seems to let up.
Steve enters first, his footsteps silent on the floor as he walks toward you. He doesn’t speak immediately, just watches, as if waiting for something to happen. His eyes lock on yours, and for a second, you feel as though he’s peeling you open, reading you like a book.
"You’re quiet today," He says, his voice low, almost coaxing. "Not feeling well? You know I’m always here to help."
It’s a familiar line, one that’s said so many times it sounds like a chant, a mantra. Each word meant to soothe, to ease you into a false sense of security. But it doesn’t work. Not anymore.
"I'm fine," You reply, the words tasting bitter as they leave your mouth. Your throat feels dry, constricted. You’ve said this before, but it’s always the same. The moment the words leave your lips, you realize you don’t mean them.
Steve tilts his head, his gaze narrowing slightly. "You know that’s not true. You’ve been pushing us away, but that’s okay. We can fix this. We always do."
You want to protest, to argue that you don’t need fixing, but the words get tangled up in your mind. Something about his certainty, the way he speaks, makes it feel like you’ve always been broken. Maybe you are broken. Maybe you’ve always been.
Before you can respond, Bucky steps into the room, his presence an undeniable weight. His eyes flicker over to you, a hint of something unreadable in his gaze. There's a moment where neither of them says anything, just letting the silence stretch and press down on you. It feels like an eternity.
"I told you not to rush it," Bucky says quietly, but there’s no malice in his voice, just an edge of impatience, like he's waiting for something more. "She’s still trying to adjust."
Steve glances at Bucky and then back to you, his smile softening. "I know. But we need you to start remembering, sweetheart." His voice takes on a subtle urgency, like this is the moment he’s been waiting for.
You feel a cold shiver run through your body at the word "remember." It’s always been the same, always the same pressure—remember who you are, remember what you’ve lost, remember them.
But what if you can’t remember? What if you never will?
"I don’t know how to," You say, your voice barely above a whisper. It’s the truth, and it feels like the most vulnerable thing you could admit. But it’s a risk. A dangerous one.
Steve doesn’t respond with anger or frustration, he simply steps closer to you. The movement is slow, deliberate. His fingers brush lightly against your wrist, sending a jolt through your body that feels almost too intimate. Like he's trying to ground you to him, to make you realize how close you are to him.
"That’s why we’re here," Steve says, his voice soft, but there's a weight behind it now, an undeniable intensity. "We’re not going to let you suffer through this alone.”
You try to pull back, but there’s nowhere to go. The bed, the walls, they close in around you. Steve’s hand is warm on your wrist, steady, unwavering. He’s not letting you escape. And even if you wanted to, even if you tried to run*, where would you go?
Bucky watches from the doorway, his eyes tracing the movement between you and Steve, his expression unreadable. There's something calculating about the way he stands there, like he’s waiting for a signal, for you to break, for you to return to him.
“You should let her breathe, Steve,” Bucky says, his voice like gravel. It’s a command wrapped in the semblance of care, but you hear the warning in it.
Steve nods, his hand slipping away from your wrist reluctantly. “You’re right,” He mutters, his voice distant as if lost in thought. He steps back, but only just. His presence still looms over you, like a shadow you can’t escape.
You don’t know how to breathe without him close, without Bucky just in the corner of your vision. They’ve become your everything and nothing. They’re all you know and all you can remember.
“What if I never remember?” You ask again, the question hanging in the air between the three of you.
Bucky’s lips curl into something that could almost be a comforting smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You will. You always do.” His words are like a broken record, but there’s something in the way he says them that makes your heart sink.
Steve leans in, placing his hands on either side of your face, his touch gentle but firm. “You don’t need to worry about that,” He says, his voice so soothing, so tender. “We’ll help you find it. Every time you forget, we’ll remind you. It’s what we do.”
You want to protest, want to scream that you don’t need them to remind you of anything. But the words choke you. You’re too scared to speak, too frightened to resist, because something in you knows, they won’t let you.
"You belong here with us," Steve murmurs, his lips brushing against your forehead in a soft, intimate gesture that makes your skin crawl, even as your body betrays you and relaxes into it. "You always will."
And when he pulls away, it’s with the unsettling certainty that, even if you can’t remember it now, you will. You’ll always come back to them. You always do.
-
The days have begun to bleed into one another with a strange consistency, each one more difficult to tell apart than the last. The constant pull of Steve’s calm assurance, of Bucky’s quiet intensity, is starting to unravel something deep inside you.
It’s not that you don’t resist. You do. You fight against the tug in your chest, the strange sense of familiarity that lingers in every word they say, every look they share. But it’s getting harder to find the strength to push back.
Tonight, the room feels different. Softer, maybe. The lights are dimmed lower than usual, the shadows casting a calming blanket over everything. It should be unsettling, the dark corners and the tightness in your chest, but it isn’t. Not tonight.
Steve is sitting on the edge of the bed, his usual spot. He’s not forcing closeness, but you can still feel him there, a steady presence in your peripheral. Bucky stands near the door, leaning casually against the frame, his arms folded across his chest. They’re watching you, waiting.
You know what they want. They’ve made it clear in countless ways. Your memory. Your trust. Your acceptance.
And you don’t want to give it to them. But every time they speak, every time they’re close, it’s like the walls around you start to crumble. You don’t want to let go of what little resistance you have left, but the pull… it’s relentless.
“Do you feel it, too?” Steve asks, his voice low, as if the question is a secret shared only between the two of you. His eyes hold something tender, an almost imperceptible plea, hidden beneath the surface.
You know it’s a question you’re supposed to answer. You know that whatever response you give will shape what comes next. And for the first time in days, you feel the weight of that choice, heavy in your chest.
You swallow, your throat dry. “Feel what?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper. You’re stalling, buying yourself time, but it’s pointless. You already know what he’s asking.
Steve’s lips curl into a small, patient smile. “That we’re closer now. You and I. Bucky too. We’re… we’re getting you back. Piece by piece.”
A wave of something washes over you, something so familiar it almost hurts. You don’t know if it’s relief or fear, but it feels like the beginning of something you can’t stop. Something you’ve been slowly inching toward since the moment you arrived.
“I don’t…” You want to protest, want to say you don’t need them, but the words die on your lips. I don’t need them, You try to think, but the thought has no weight anymore. It’s hollow, empty.
Bucky’s voice cuts through the air, low and almost soothing, though there’s a bite to it that feels like it’s meant just for you. “It’s okay to accept it, you know. You don’t need to fight anymore.”
You look at him, his dark eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. His gaze isn’t soft, but it’s not cruel, either. It’s knowing. He’s been waiting for this. Waiting for you to break.
“I’m not…” You try to force the words out, but they don’t sound like your own anymore. You don’t know who you’re trying to convince. Them, or yourself.
Steve’s hand rests on your shoulder, his touch warm and gentle, but there’s an undeniable pressure in it. “It’s okay to stop fighting,” he repeats, softer now. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re the ones who care for you.”
And then, just as his words settle in, Bucky steps forward, his boots heavy on the floor, his presence overwhelming. He kneels beside you, his fingers brushing against your cheek in an oddly tender gesture.
“Let go,” He murmurs, his voice rough, like he’s almost pleading. “Let us take care of you. Let us remind you what it’s like. Let us remind you of who we are to you.”
His words are a poison you can’t resist. Something inside you stirs, a flicker of something you can’t place, but it’s undeniable. It’s like a missing puzzle piece clicking into place. You’ve always known them, haven’t you? You’ve always belonged to them. You don’t fight the tears that begin to well up in your eyes. Not because you’re afraid, but because it feels like something you’ve needed to release for so long. A truth you’ve buried deep, but they’ve pulled to the surface.
You don’t speak for a long moment, not sure what to say. You can’t say the words you need to. You’re afraid of the acceptance that’s threatening to bubble up.
But when Steve kisses the top of your head, when Bucky’s hand slides into yours, you feel the faintest hint of peace settle inside you. It’s quiet, like a lullaby you’ve heard before, long ago. Something you’ve always known. The tension in your chest begins to release, and your body leans into them.
“I… I remember,” You whisper, the words sounding fragile as they leave your lips. They’re barely a confession, more of an acceptance.
Steve’s smile widens, something dark and knowing in it. “Good. You always do.”
And as Bucky pulls you into his arms, the last remnants of your resistance fade away, leaving only the comforting weight of their control. You’ve stopped fighting. You’ve stopped trying to remember a life that’s no longer yours.
And now, it feels like you’ve come home.
As you lean into them, your body relaxed against theirs, Steve and Bucky exchange a quiet glance. To anyone else, it might seem like a moment of victorious tenderness, a sign that their carefully woven web of lies and control had finally worked. But for them, it’s the culmination of something far more sinister.
The truth, hidden behind layers of manipulation, slowly rises in the silence between them.
Bucky’s fingers curl tighter around the back of your neck, his touch deceptively soft. The dark gleam in his eyes says everything that words can’t. You’re finally theirs. The power, the rush of having you in their control, it’s almost intoxicating. But even now, when the most delicate part of their plan is complete, he can’t help but remember the meticulous preparations that had gone into this moment.
Steve is still close to you, his arm draped around your waist, his fingers moving gently up and down your arm in a soothing, possessive gesture. His smile is warm, patient, and reassuring, remaining on his face. It’s always been about the long game for Steve. They needed to win your trust first, break you down piece by piece. And it’s been slow. Too slow, maybe. But in the end, they always knew they’d have you.
What you don’t know, what you’ll never know, are the dark truths that have led them to this point.
-
Steve’s eyes glint with something darker, something sharper as he watches you, the one they’ve spent so long breaking down. You lean into him, hair brushing his shoulder. He could almost feel the weight of the years they’ve spent hiding their true intentions, every step of the plan coming to fruition. But in this moment, the only thing that matters is that you’re finally his.
Ours.
He thinks of the syringe hidden away in the drawer, tucked beneath a pile of medical equipment. The tranquilizer, strong enough to put even the most stubborn of minds to sleep, had been a backup. A backup they’d needed far too many times in the past. Every time you’d resisted. Every time you’d tried to break free from them. The memories you couldn’t keep, erased and rewritten. It had taken months to break you down. The endless resets, the subtle manipulation of your memories, it had all been worth it.
He thinks of the old HYDRA tech they’d found buried in the basement of the abandoned facility. They’d salvaged it, repurposed it for their own needs. It was the ultimate insurance policy. A device that would wipe your memories clean, start over again, give them the chance to erase everything and make you theirs all over again. They’d already used it once when you’d tried to escape. It had worked, just as they’d known it would.
And the faked photos. Oh, all the faked things they’d planted around the house and in your mind, subtle distortions of the past. You had thought they were real memories, but they were simply moments they’d manufactured from nothing. Childhood photos, moments that never happened. But you didn’t know. You never would. And now, as you lean into him, trusting him as if he’s the one person who truly cares about you, Steve can’t help but savor the sweetness of your submission.
Meanwhile, Bucky watches you, his fingers gently stroking the side of your face. He’s careful, almost tender, as if he’s not the one who had quietly orchestrated the destruction of everything you once knew. His eyes drift to the scarred corner of the room where they’d had their first confrontation, the first moment of resistance. He can still see the look in your eyes, the defiance, the unwillingness to bend. That’s when he’d first known they’d need to go further than they had before.
Bucky has always been the one to deal with the physical side of things. He’s the one who uses the needles when necessary, the one who watches as memories are erased and rewritten. He doesn’t mind. He never has. His past is just as twisted, just as broken, and he knows that the only way to keep someone is to make them forget everything they thought they knew. Make them bend to his will. Make them need him.
And so he did. The needles, the tech. He’d been the one to use the memory-wiping tech when you tried to break away, your mind racing with escape plans and a hope you hadn’t even known you were capable of. They couldn’t have you escaping again. No. You belonged to them. You would be made to understand that with time.
You don’t remember the screams, the pain. You don’t remember when they had locked you in that cold room and kept you there for days, only feeding you enough to keep you alive. You never remember the real consequences of those escapes. It’s for the best you didn’t.
Together, they had faked everything. The photos, the false memories, the false story, all crafted a perfect illusion of the past. Bucky had been the one to suggest it, to suggest that they give you a history. Let you believe in something. You were fragile after all, even with all the strength you had in you, and you needed the comfort of false hope to hold on to. It had been easy to implant those photos, to whisper lies of childhood friends and tender moments, and you had accepted them, like a child accepts the world their parents give them. You believed.
Now, you’re looking at them, unaware of the depths of their lies. Of how they’ve woven a prison out of every word, every touch. They’re building something permanent within you, and you can’t see it yet.
But you will. Eventually, you’ll understand. And when you do, you’ll want it. You’ll want them. They’ve worked too hard for you to slip away. You’ve already lost. And the more you lose yourself in them, the more you forget, the more they can control you.
That’s the way it always goes.
Bucky glances at Steve, catching the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. They’re in this together. Always have been. You’re theirs now.
And neither of them is letting go.
More Posts from Orellazalonia and Others
What You Can’t Heal
Summary: You would think being a healer made you careful, more cautious of getting hurt. However, it made you the opposite, more willing to throw yourself head first into danger. And your mission partner does not like that one bit. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to heal. You and Bucky get hurt in this.
Word Count: 1.7k+
A/N: To be honest, I want to write another version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. But I thought it’d be fun to explore the recklessness that having healing powers can bring.
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
The compound gym was almost empty when you slipped in, quiet as breath. Just the sound of gloves striking a punching bag. Slow, rhythmic, and methodical. The kind of pace that didn’t burn energy but burned thoughts. You stopped just inside the doorway, watching the man in front of it all.
Bucky Barnes.
His black t-shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat, muscles rippling beneath ink and scars. His metal arm glinted in the low light, the sound of knuckles against canvas falling into a pattern like a heartbeat. You hadn’t known he’d be here. Or maybe you had. Subconsciously.
He didn't look at you. Not right away.
“You gonna stand there all day or join in?” He asked, voice low, still facing the bag.
You blinked, then stepped in. “Didn’t want to interrupt. You looked like you were winning the argument.”
“Wasn’t an argument,” He muttered, grabbing a towel and rubbing the sweat from the back of his neck. “Just… quiet.”
He finally turned, eyes landing on you. Not unkind, but guarded, always guarded. Like he expected you to flinch at something he hadn’t said yet.
“You’re not on the rotation today,” He pointed out.
You shrugged, tapping the inside of your wrist where a faint mark from yesterday’s spar still lingered. “Figured I could use the practice.”
He scoffed softly. “You mean more bruises to fix.”
You smirked. “Lucky for me, I’m the easiest medic to find.”
He didn’t smile, not really , but something in his jaw relaxed.
“…You’re too comfortable with pain,” He said after a moment, picking up a pair of training pads.
“You’re too afraid of it,” You countered, stepping onto the mat.
He paused. That sharp glance again, not angry and not insulted. Just watching. Assessing. Like you’d said something truer than he wanted to admit.
“Alright, healer,” He said, tossing you a pair of gloves. “Let’s see if you’re as tough as you act.”
You caught them easily, grinning.
You didn’t notice the faint flicker in his expression, the one that wasn’t annoyance or frustration. It was worry. Care, maybe. Hidden so deep, not even he knew where it lived anymore.
The training room echoed with the dull thud of fists against pads and the occasional grunt of effort. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a sterile glow over the gym's scarred walls. Bucky Barnes stood in the center of the mat, arms crossed, the faintest trace of a frown pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"You’re not supposed to let them hit you just to prove you can heal," He said, voice sharp but quiet, like thunder muffled by snow.
You shrugged, rolling your bruised shoulder. The bone was already snapping back into place beneath your skin, just a faint crunch and a soft hiss of pain. “I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not the point.” His eyes narrowed. “You don’t need to take every hit. Healing doesn’t make you invincible.”
You hated how his gaze pinned you. The ex-soldier still wore that half-haunted, half-suspicious expression like a second skin. But you knew he meant it. Not just the words. The worry behind them.
“You’re treating this like a game,” Bucky continued. “Out there, if you rely on your powers like a crutch, someone’s going to find a way to break you faster than you can fix yourself.”
“I don’t use it as a crutch,” You tried to keep your tone even. “It’s a tool. Just like your arm. Or your training.”
He stepped closer, close enough that the steel of his vibranium arm caught the overhead light. “Difference is, my arm doesn’t stop me from bleeding out if I get cocky.”
You looked away, jaw tight.
That was always the line, wasn’t it? The part they didn’t say out loud, the assumption that your powers made you reckless. Untouchable. Like pain didn’t matter to you.
But it did. You just didn’t show it.
“I’m not afraid of getting hurt,” You said finally, sighing in the process.
Bucky’s voice softened, but the weight in it didn’t lift. “Then maybe you should be.”
You met his eyes again. Blue-gray, storm-worn, and so damn tired. He looked at you the way someone looks at a puzzle they’ve tried to solve too many times. His frustration wasn’t just with you. It was with himself too, but you didn’t know that.
“…We’ll start again tomorrow,” He turned away now. “Don’t show up unless you’re ready to stop playing superhero.”
Then he left you standing on the mat. Your shoulder was fully healed, but your chest aching in a way no power could fix.
Two days later, the mission came.
A Hydra splinter cell operating out of an abandoned medical research facility on the outskirts of Munich. Stark had muttered something about leftover tech, too unstable to be ignored. You and Bucky were assigned to go in quiet, extract the data, and disable any weapons they were cooking up.
Bucky didn’t speak to you much on the quinjet. Just the usual mission prep. Tactical. Tense. You sat across from him, checking your gear in silence, biting down the bitter aftertaste of his last words.
”Don’t show up unless you’re ready to stop throwing yourself into danger.”
You showed up anyway.
The facility was dark, corridors lit only by flickering emergency lights. It smelled of antiseptic and rust, of blood dried long ago. Bucky moved ahead of you, every step measured, gun raised, breathing steady. You were right behind him, senses stretched taut. It wasn’t fear of getting hurt, not really. It was the quiet between you, heavier than the air, more suffocating than the mission itself.
Then came the ambush.
The first explosion sent you both to the floor. Ears ringing, you scrambled behind a lab table, catching a glimpse of Bucky. He was bleeding from a small gash near his temple, dazed but moving.
Three Hydra operatives advanced from the left.
Bucky cursed, firing off a few shots, but they kept coming. One tackled him, knocking the gun from his hands, the two others circling like wolves. You bolted forward without thinking, slamming into one with your shoulder and catching a knife through your side in return.
Pain flared. Warm blood soaked your shirt.
You welcomed it.
Bucky’s voice cracked through the haze as he shouted your name.
He was on his feet in an instant, grabbing the soldier by the throat and slamming him into the wall with a growl. The second Hydra agent went for you, but your powers were already at work. The tissue knitting, nerves sparking back into place, the blade sliding out of you with a slick noise.
You stood, bloody but calm, and delivered a solid punch that sent him sprawling.
By the time it was over, Bucky was breathing hard, hands shaking. Not from the fight, but from seeing you go down.
“Are you insane?” He shouted, storming toward you. “You ran into a knife! You could’ve-“
“I healed.”
“That’s not the damn point!”
His eyes burned. Your heart pounded. Not from adrenaline, but from the sharp edges in his voice, the way they cut deeper than any wound.
“You said I wasn’t ready,” You defended, quietly. “I proved I was.”
“No,” He said, stepping closer, voice dropping. “You proved you’re still willing to throw yourself away.”
You didn’t have a response to that.
He reached for you suddenly; gloved fingers brushing your side, feeling the warm blood that was already drying. His touch hovered, unsure.
“Stop doing that,” He spoke softer now. “Stop making me watch you get hurt just because you can.”
There it was. Raw, bare, unguarded. Not anger. Not frustration. Fear.
“I’m not afraid…” The rebuttal came out, barely above a whisper.
“I am.”
His voice barely made a sound, but it hit you like a punch to the ribs. Not the Winter Soldier voice, cold and precise. Not the soldier tone that was tactical, measured, and distant. No, this was Bucky. Just Bucky. Human. Frayed around the edges. Afraid.
Of losing you.
You stood frozen, not from pain, that was already gone, but because of the crack in his walls. The thing no one else ever got to see.
“You’re afraid for me,” You corrected, voice steadier than you expected.
He didn’t deny it.
Instead, Bucky dragged a hand down his face, leaving a smear of blood on his cheekbone, yours or his, you didn’t know. He looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the mission.
“Every time you go down, even for a second…” He exhaled hard, shaking his head. “I forget you’ll get back up. My body still reacts like I’m watching someone die. Like I’m helpless again.”
Your breath caught. He didn’t mean to say that last part. Helpless.
The word hung between you like smoke in a locked room. Bucky Barnes, who’d had his mind torn apart, his hands used for things he didn’t choose. Of course he feared helplessness. And now you understood why watching you get hurt, even if you healed, chipped away at whatever fragile peace he’d built. Your voice came next.
“I didn’t think it scared you like that.”
“I know,” He replied. “That’s the part that scares me more.”
You stepped closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, to see the small tremor in his metal hand. Close enough that the scent of his sweat and blood mixed with yours.
“I’m not trying to prove anything,” You explained yourself softly. “I just don’t know how else to help. I can’t punch like you. I can’t take down ten guys with one arm.”
“No,” He said firmly, meeting your gaze, “But you run toward pain like it’s your job to carry it.”
Silence filled the air once again. Then, gently, like he thought he might scare you; Bucky reached out, his hand brushing the side of your jaw, just enough pressure to ground you.
“I don’t want to watch someone I care about get used up trying to make up for everything they can’t fix.”
You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until those words.
Care about.
You leaned into his touch, just barely. Enough to let him know you weren’t running. Not from this. Not from him.
“I’m trying to learn,” You whispered. “Maybe… you could help me.”
Bucky’s thumb grazed your cheekbone, just once, before he let his hand fall. But something had shifted, something deeper than bone and scar tissue. His walls weren’t down, not completely, but they weren’t steel anymore. He nodded once.
“I’ll teach you how to fight smart,” He said, voice low. “And in exchange, you stop putting yourself in harm’s way every time.”
And just like that, the truce between you wasn't just tactical anymore.
It was personal.
Caged in Comfort (Pt. 5)
Summary: You’re slowly starting to slip into exactly what they want. While you aren’t their bright little girl yet, they’re patient and present as your inner turmoil and outward resistance gradually fades. How long it will last is unknown to both you and them. (Dark Stucky x little!reader)
Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Forced Age Regression (Implied drugging). Kidnapping. References to Labs. Stockholm Syndrome in the future likely. You are responsible for the media you consume.
Word Count: 2.3k+
A/N: Would love to do a timeskip next chapter so I can explore interactions with the other Avengers. Maybe some of the others are in similar dynamics.
Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Previous | Next
You don’t know how much time passes. Minutes stretch long inside the room, dulled by soft lights and the gentle hum of something mechanical just out of sight. It’s too quiet. No voices outside. No footsteps. Just Steve and Bucky and you.
You keep your hands busy with the coloring book, eyes low. You can feel Bucky’s stare less now. He’s sitting in the corner, arms no longer crossed, just resting, watching. Steve’s still near, perched on the edge of the armchair like he’s about to tell a story. And maybe he is.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Steve says gently. “You’ve done really well today. And we’re proud of you for being so brave.”
You don’t respond, but you tilt your head slightly toward him. That’s enough to make him smile.
“We think it’s time we start going over the rules now,” He continues, voice warm like he’s saying something kind. “Just so things stay nice and easy here. You want things to be easy, don’t you?”
Your heart gives a dull thud, but you nod once.
“We’re gonna keep things simple for now,” He seems pleased, folding his hands together. “Rule number one: No wandering off. Ever. Not without one of us holding your hand. If you leave your room, it’s because one of us is with you. At least for now.”
You swallow as Bucky speaks next. His tone is low and gravelly, less gentle, more grounding.
“Number two: No lying. Not about how you’re feelin’, not about what you want, and definitely not about tryin’ to leave.”
Your shoulders tense, but you don’t move.
Steve gives him a quick look. Then softens his own voice again, like it’s meant to balance the weight of Bucky’s.
“We’ll always keep you safe. But we can only do that if you’re honest with us, okay? If something’s wrong, you tell us. Littles don’t need to worry about anything grown-up. That’s our job.”
You glance up at him. “What if I don’t wanna be… little?”
It comes out smaller than you mean it to. Careful. Testing.
Steve’s smile doesn’t falter. “That’s just the scared part of you talking, honey. You are little. You’ve just forgotten how to feel safe.”
Bucky stands now, slow and steady, and walks over. You hold your breath as he kneels beside you again. His eyes don’t soften, but his voice drops to something quieter.
“You’re ours now. You get to stop running.”
You turn your gaze away as Steve continues.
“Rule number three: Big girls don’t make the rules here. Littles follow the routine. You’ll get up when we say, eat what we give you, and nap when it’s time. And if you’re good, sweetheart…” His tone drops to a purr. “You’ll get certain rewards. Books. Toys. Maybe outings if you’ve been extra good.”
“And… if I’m not good?” You ask, voice barely a whisper, already suspecting the answer.
Bucky speaks first.
“Then we teach you.”
It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.
Steve gives a lighter version. “We help you remember what’s best. That’s all.”
There’s a silence after that, thick and expectant. Then Steve brightens a little, clapping his hands softly once.
“But you’ve been very good today, haven’t you? I think someone’s earned a little reward.”
You sit frozen, the rules echoing in your head. No wandering. No lying. No questioning the routine. You’re sure there’s more they aren’t mentioning yet.
You’re still holding the crayon in your hand, the colors blended together on the page. Steve’s footsteps are soft as he walks to the small counter on the other side of the room, but you don’t pay any attention to him. The world feels strange, like the edges are becoming blurry. You can’t focus on the drawings anymore. The crayon feels wrong in your fingers, too heavy. Everything’s shifting, like the walls are closing in.
Bucky’s voice breaks through the fog. It’s firm, steady, like it’s always been, but now there’s something gentler behind it. Like he’s trying to make you feel something you can’t put into words.
“Time for your snack, little one.”
You flinch. The words hang in the air, just as oppressive as they were earlier, but now, they feel different. Heavy. You swallow hard and feel a knot form in your throat. It’s like your brain can’t decide whether to resist or to just let it happen. Your fingers tremble as they grip the crayon tighter.
Steve’s voice is next, and it’s gentler, almost coaxing. “You’ve been a good girl. Now, it’s time to get your treat. You deserve it, sweetheart.”
The word girl makes something tighten in your chest. You want to argue. Want to snap that you’re not a child. That you can take care of yourself. But the resistance feels… heavy. It’s like a pull inside your chest, urging you to listen, to do what they say.
Bucky returns with a bottle given to him by Steve. The milk inside is warm and thick, the smell faintly sweet, like it’s supposed to be comforting. Your stomach churns. It smells like safety, something your body is telling you it’s supposed to trust, even though your mind rebels.
You try to pull away, but Bucky’s already there, crouching beside you again. His eyes flick over your face, calculating. For a moment, it feels like he’s waiting for you to make the next move, but you don’t. Your head dips a little. A silent surrender. You feel the smallest twinge of guilt, like something inside of you’s letting go. The last thread of resistance. Your mouth parts instinctively as Bucky raises the bottle to your lips.
“It’s good for you,” Steve says softly, standing close behind him. “Nice and warm. Makes you feel better.”
The bottle feels too big in your mouth. You sip it slowly, unsure, but the warmth settles in your stomach, spreading outwards. It feels… safe. A little too safe. You don’t want to admit it, but it’s there. You almost want to sink into it, but you can’t.
You drink, slow and hesitant, until the bottle’s empty. Bucky takes it away without a word, and you blink up at him, trying to hold onto some fragment of yourself, some edge of defiance. But the fog is thicker now. You can feel your eyelids heavy, the weight of everything pressing down on you. Still, you fight to keep your eyes open, not wanting to give in.
Steve’s voice cuts through the haze.
“Good girl.”
His words are soft, but they settle in your chest like something warm. You don’t know why, but it’s enough to make your body sink a little deeper into the softness of the cushions, like your muscles are finally giving up the fight.
“You’re doing so well,” Steve continues, his fingers brushing through your hair gently. “We’re proud of you.”
A part of you wants to pull away, to refuse the soft touches, the kind words that feel too familiar now. But another part of you is weak, and it feels nice. Your breath catches in your throat, and you feel the pressure build up behind your eyes.
But Bucky’s voice cuts through before you can retreat any further.
“You’ll learn to trust us,” He mutters, like a promise. “You’ll see that we’re here to take care of you.”
You feel yourself shrinking inward, like the words are pushing you back into a corner. Your face heats, your stomach tightens. The bottle and the warmth from it make your body want to give in, even if your mind still screams to fight.
You want to escape. You want to run, but there’s nowhere to go. Your body’s too heavy, too compliant now. And your mind is so small, so young. You can’t focus on anything other than the weight of their presence, their hands, their soft, soothing words. They surround you like a cocoon, and part of you feels like you could disappear into it. It’s almost easier.
But it’s not right. You know that. You want to scream, but instead, the words come out weak, almost childlike.
“Don’ wanna be here… wanna go home…”
It’s barely a whisper, and before you can even think about it, tears prick at your eyes. Your chest tightens painfully, longing for a home that never existed.
Steve’s eyes soften immediately. His hand moves to your cheek, warm and comforting, like the moment your vulnerability slips free, he’s there to catch it.
“You are home,” Steve reminds you, voice quiet but firm. “This is where you’re safe now.”
And that’s when you realize, no matter how hard you fight, no matter how much you wish it weren’t true, their version of safety has started to settle into your bones. You blink back the tears, but they come anyway, soft and silent, like a child finally giving in to the feeling of being held. Steve is there to hold you gently as your body melts into his arms even if your mind rebels, comforting you softly.
Steve and Bucky exchange a quiet look. There’s something different now in the air, something that shifts the dynamic between them, like they’re waiting for something to happen. But they’re patient, and that patience settles over you, pushing your shoulders to relax just a little bit more.
Steve’s voice comes first, low and soothing.
“You’re feeling little now, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
You nod slowly, your head still heavy, your body sluggish, but warm. Comfortable. It’s a strange sensation. It’s like something that feels a little too good to resist, even though you know, deep down, it’s wrong. You swallow, trying to fight it, but your body betrays you. You feel small, too small to push away their words, to hold onto the edges of yourself.
Bucky’s gaze flickers over to Steve for a moment before he turns back to you. His voice is softer than it has been all day.
“Alright, little one. Wanna get back to your playtime?”
Your heart skips a beat at the question. It sends a ripple of discomfort through you, but it’s too late to pull back now. The milk and the warmth have dulled everything down, leaving you tired and vulnerable. You look up at them, uncertain, like a child unsure of what’s coming next.
Steve looks down at you, his expression patient but expectant. “We got you some other toys to play with. Do you want to see them?”
Your eyes flicker between them, making a small movement of your head, nodding. Like you’ve given in without realizing it.
Bucky moves across the room, gathering a few plush toys, blocks, and a soft blanket from a nearby shelf. He arranges them in front of you, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s setting up a space for you to feel safe.
“There you go,” He mutters, settling on the floor beside you. “All for you.”
You stare at the plush toys and blocks, unsure of what to do with them. The toys look soft, inviting, like something that should belong to a little girl. A little you. Something in you pulls at the thought, and your fingers twitch as if reaching for them, but your mind is still cloudy. It’s hard to make decisions now, hard to decide whether you want to push away or lean in.
Steve’s voice is gentle when it comes again, pulling you back into the moment. It’s like he can see you struggling as he encourages you, “You can do whatever you want, honey. Just relax and have fun. No need to think about anything else.”
You hate the way they make you feel, like you have to be small. But there’s an undeniable pull in his tone, something comforting that makes it hard to resist. And so, your hands move almost automatically toward the plush toys. They’re soft, almost too soft, and they feel like a childhood that you never got to have.
You turn your attention to a stuffed bear, picking it up and running your fingers over its fuzzy ears. Your face softens without meaning to as you curl the bear into your lap. Something inside you lets go.
Bucky watches you from his place on the floor, his gaze is less guarded now. There’s a small shift in his posture, like he’s watching a part of you unfold that he’s been waiting for. Both of them are being careful in their movements as they watch you regress.
“That’s a great friend you have there, kiddo,” He speaks, his voice lower now, less sharp.
Steve sits beside you, his hand resting gently on your back, providing an anchor. His touch is comforting in a way that feels almost too real.
“You’re safe, sweetheart. Just play with your bear, okay? No one’s going to hurt you here.”
The words sound so simple. So easy. But they strike deep. Your fingers move to tuck the bear into the crook of your arm, holding it close. You feel small. Like a child. And even though part of you tries to pull away, tries to scream no, another part of you is so tired, so tired of resisting. You bury your face against the soft fur, closing your eyes for just a moment.
A soft sigh escapes you, and you feel Steve’s hand rub your back gently. His thumb makes little circles, just enough to ground you. Just enough to make it easier to slip deeper into this state.
And you become a little more pliable in that moment. The situation settles in like a balm to a wound. Your body feels heavy, lethargic, and in the same breath, there’s a part of you that’s letting go. Fully leaning into the care they’re offering. You don’t have the strength to fight anymore. Not now, at least.
You curl the bear tighter, pulling it to your chest as if to keep the tiny shreds of your older self intact. The way you play is slow, hesitant, and yet… you start to feel like it’s not that bad. Not if you let it wash over you like this. Let yourself be small.
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.
Mischief Managed
Summary: With the power to talk to animals, your feline companion, Mischief, hates everyone at the tower except you. Therefore, when you start getting closer to Bucky, you watch as she slowly starts to trust the super soldier. However, with all things, it doesn’t go well at first. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.
Word Count: 3k+
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist | Sequel | Finale
You never expected your strange bond with animals to shape your life so completely. From the time you were little, the voices of birds, dogs, squirrels, even ants, were a constant hum in your mind. You couldn’t explain how or why, but you understood them, and they understood you. You didn’t just hear noises or read body language. You heard words. Emotions. Stories. And most importantly, you could talk back.
At first, it was a secret. A party trick for only the most trusted friends, who usually assumed you were joking. But now, it’s just part of you. You’ve learned to filter out the constant chatter.
You’ve learned to help animals when they’re in trouble and, occasionally, when SHIELD needs it, use them for information. Sometimes, rats knew more about hidden Hydra facilities than satellites ever could.
But for all your strange gifts, you lived a relatively quiet life in the Avengers Tower. Most of the others accepted your ability with curiosity or amusement. Tony had tried to run tests on your brain, and Clint still jokingly called you “Dr. Dolittle.” You didn’t mind. Your companions whether they be feathered, furred, or scaled had always had your back. And one in particular? She guarded you like a dragon guards treasure.
Her name was Mischief. A sleek, coal-black cat with amber eyes and a resting glare that could curdle milk. You’d found her three years ago, injured and starving in an alley, snarling at rats and pigeons for scraps. She hadn’t trusted you at first, but the moment you spoke to her, really spoke, her entire posture changed. It took a few trips bringing food to her, taking things slow. And slowly, you began to realize you hadn’t just earned her trust, you’d earned her devotion.
Since then, she rarely left your side. Mischief judged everyone you interacted with, and she never hid her opinions. She Tolerated Steve. Hated Tony’s cologne. And she absolutely loathed anyone who flirted with you.
That became a problem the day Bucky Barnes moved into the Tower.
He was quiet, scarred, and carried the weight of too many ghosts behind stormy blue eyes. He barely spoke to anyone, kept to himself, and moved like someone always waiting to be attacked. You saw it the first day in how he looked at everyone sideways, how he didn’t sit with his back to a door, how he flinched when someone approached too fast.
And Mischief? She was watching him like he’d brought a knife to your front door.
She sat on the windowsill in your room, tail twitching, eyes narrowed like tiny slits of fire. He’s hiding something, Her voice was flat, echoing in your mind like dry leaves scraping across pavement. He smells like ghosts. Like regret mixed with metal and blood. I don’t like him.
You sighed, brushing a hand over her silky back. “He’s been through a lot. Be nice.”
Nice? You want nice? Find a golden retriever. I’m watching him.
You didn’t know it then, but Mischief’s “watching” would escalate. She wasn’t just wary of Bucky Barnes. She was preparing for war. And you? You were caught in the middle of a cold war between an ex-assassin with a tragic past… and your jealous cat.
It started small at first.
Bucky would pass you in the hallway, nod a quiet hello, and Mischief would hiss from your shoulder like a kettle set to boil.
You tried to explain it away as best as you could. "She’s just like that at first," You said once when Bucky raised a brow at the low growl coming from your tote bag. Mischief liked to crawl inside and travel with you unnoticed. “She doesn’t warm up easily.”
He gave a short, humorless chuckle. “Neither do I.”
You weren’t sure what drew you toward him. Maybe it was the way he always seemed almost comfortable in silence, the way he sat on the common room couch like it didn’t quite belong to him, or how he listened to conversations without ever trying to steer them. Maybe it was how he never asked you questions unless he thought the answer would matter. He was calm. Still. A rare kind of quiet you’d only ever felt around animals.
But Mischief noticed.
One night, you caught her sitting in the kitchen sink like a gargoyle, glaring at the hallway. When you asked what she was doing, she said, Waiting for the metal-armed brooder. If he comes in here again, I’ll gut the loaf of bread he likes.
Sure enough, Bucky wandered in a minute later, offered you a soft smile, and went for the exact loaf.
The next morning, it was shredded. You sighed at the sight as you went out to get a replacement.
Still, you didn’t stop spending time with him.
You started joining him in the gym after hours. The excuse given was wanting to stretch, but really, you just liked the way he relaxed when no one else was around. Sometimes you brought a dog or two in from the compound’s training fields, let them rest while you and Bucky talked. Or didn’t talk. You didn’t need to.
“I think animals like you,” You told him one evening, watching a scruffy mutt rest his head on Bucky’s knee.
He blinked down at the dog like it had just spoken fluent Russian. “That’s a first.”
He’s got soft hands, The dog murmured. I like him.
You smiled to yourself. “I think they know.”
“Know what?”
“That you’ve got a good heart.”
He looked away quickly, jaw tight. You didn’t say anything more, letting it go.
Later that night, Mischief perched on your chest like a stone weight and narrowed her eyes. You’re getting attached.
“I’m not.”
You are.
“You scratched a loaf of bread.”
It deserved it.
You sighed, having not expected that response, but then again, it was typical of her. Mischief wasn’t one to be easily appeased, and her possessiveness was notorious. But this time, she didn’t go on about it. Instead, she flicked her tail, an uncomfortable tension hanging in the air. Her voice softened, almost like a reluctant admission. You’re… different with him.
“Different?” You tilted your head, trying to understand her point.
You relax around him. You listen more. I don’t like it.
It struck a chord in you. You weren’t blind to the shift in your own behavior. With Bucky, things felt easier. Calmer. He had this way of being present and patient in a way that drew you in, as if there was a shared understanding of pain that made silences less heavy. Sure, there were times where the past still haunted him. But his company was always one you found yourself subconsciously seeking.
He didn’t demand things from you. He didn’t ask for anything you weren’t ready to give. And when you were with him, the world felt… simpler.
But Mischief’s words stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated.
“I’m not going to stop seeing him just because you don’t like it,” You murmured, feeling the weight of her gaze.
I know you won’t, She responded in a quieter tone now. But if he hurts you, I’ll bite his face off.
You chuckled softly at the absurdity of the threat. “I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who would hurt anyone… but thanks for the warning.”
Mischief gave a long, almost disappointed sigh, as if she realized there was nothing she could do to change your mind. You’ve always been good at ignoring my advice. I’ll be here, though. Watching.
And just like that, she padded off your chest and curled up on the windowsill, turning her back to you in a huff.
You didn’t feel the usual pang of guilt for not heeding her advice. Instead, you lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Bucky’s quiet demeanor, his unspoken trust, and how, somehow, he made you feel less like an outsider.
But the cat was right about one thing: you were getting attached. And that was something even Mischief couldn’t stop.
Over the next few weeks, Bucky Barnes became a quiet fixture in your life. He wasn’t the kind to join in on group outings or large training sessions. He mostly kept to himself, which, in a way, you could relate to. The weight of his past was something you recognized in yourself. A type of emotional burden carried alone, pushing people away without ever intending to.
Mischief, however, now had different ideas about Bucky. She followed him around like a shadow, watching his every move, her eyes always narrowing suspiciously whenever he so much as looked in your direction.
And then came the first moment that Bucky spoke to her directly.
You were sitting in the common room, legs tucked underneath you, reading a book when Bucky entered, his usual silent demeanor drifting through the door like a storm cloud. You barely looked up, but Mischief did. She jumped down from the windowsill with a graceful thud, making her way slowly toward Bucky. He froze, eyes narrowing as she circled his feet.
"You've got a problem with me, huh?" He asked, voice low, as if speaking to a wild animal.
Mischief didn’t answer. Instead, she sat down and stared at him, her eyes unblinking, before giving a loud, unmistakable hiss.
Bucky took a slow, measured step back, unsure whether to laugh or be alarmed. “Right… definitely got a problem with me.”
You looked up from your book, feigning innocence. “She’s just… protective.” You tried not to laugh, but the cat’s blatant territorial behavior was almost too much.
“Protective?” Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Of you?”
You nodded, setting your book aside. “She doesn’t like anyone getting too close to me. Especially not new people.” You gave him a playful smile, though there was an undercurrent of caution. You had no idea what he might say next. Yeah, he’s graciously ignored her behavior the past couple of encounters. But you know that not everyone reacted well to Mischief’s… directness.
Bucky looked at Mischief, who was now sitting on the arm of the couch, staring at him with intense focus but a bit more relaxed. Like she was really assessing him now. He couldn’t seem to hide the slight tension in his shoulders, though his eyes softened just a fraction. “I’ll take her behavior as simply me being new then?” He asked with a wry grin.
You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Like I said before, she warms up to people eventually.”
“Eventually?” He turned to you, crossing his arms. “How long does that usually take?”
“A few months,” You answered, fully serious, but Mischief’s sudden purring interrupted the tension in the air. You blinked in surprise. Mischief didn’t purr for just anyone, certainly not for someone she didn’t trust who she had threatened previously.
You try not to make it a big deal, knowing maybe something changed her mind and she’s likely trying to give Bucky a chance for you. Or she’s trying to spite you. Either works.
Bucky let out a short, amused huff. “I guess I’m getting there.”
As time passed with your relationship with Bucky slowly becoming more comfortable, he started showing up more too. Helping you with groceries, joining you on the Tower’s rooftop garden, even sitting beside you when you fed a flock of sparrows that landed whenever you called. The birds adored you. One bold little sparrow even landed on Bucky’s knee once, chirped at him twice, and fluttered away.
“She says you look sad but safe,” You told him.
He stared at the spot where the bird had been. “…I’ll take it.”
You didn’t realize it back then, but Mischief had stopped watching Bucky like a threat. She still narrowed her eyes when he got too close, but the claws stayed retracted. And one morning, after Bucky fell asleep on your couch with a book resting on his chest, you walked into the room and found Mischief curled on the back of the couch above his head, keeping watch.
Don’t make this a habit, She warned, but you saw the way she rested her tail across Bucky’s shoulder like a soft little truce flag.
He didn’t wake up. But when he did, and she didn’t move, you didn’t miss the quiet surprise and the ghost of a smile on his face.
Bonus:
The Avengers had long accepted that Mischief was… a little difficult. And by “difficult,” they meant that she was impossible.
Steve tried to be friendly and charming, his warm smile and gentle hands never working when it came to earning her trust. He once tried to bribe her with tuna, only for her to leap onto the counter, knock the can on the floor, and give him a look that suggested he was the most pitiful creature to ever walk the Earth.
Tony, of course, had tried his usual route. Gifts. Expensive toys, cat condos, custom-made collars with diamond studs. Mischief had only hissed at him, her tail twitching with disdain, and turned her back on him every time he walked past. Tony had even tried to sneak in some extra treats with a drone, but Mischief had launched herself at it like a panther on a hunt, sending the drone crashing to the ground in a flurry of sparks and broken components.
Clint and Wanda were no better. Clint had tried talking to her like they were two old friends. He’d even imitated her meows, thinking he could “speak her language.” His reward was a sharp swipe to the face that left him sporting a red scratch for a week. Wanda had tried charm, offering the cat quiet moments and gentle pats. But Mischief simply stared, unblinking, until Wanda gave up, shaking her head and muttering, “She’s something else.”
A couple of the others had tried too, but failed just like the rest. They had all made their peace with it. Mischief was your cat, your problem. None of them expected to get closer to her.
So, when they found out Bucky managed to break some of her walls, it certainly drew some attention.
It wasn’t even anything spectacular at first. At first, it was just him sitting in the common room with his coffee, his book, his quiet presence that always seemed to put you at ease. You, in your usual spot, with Mischief curled at your feet.
But slowly, Bucky had started talking to her. Not in any particular way, just gentle words, a little teasing, soft hums that she might respond to. At first, they were just passing exchanges.
“You’re looking smug today,” Bucky had said, watching Mischief stretch out on the windowsill, her tail swishing slowly.
To his surprise, she’d looked at him, unimpressed, and flicked her tail toward the floor like she was dismissing him entirely. Bucky chuckled softly.
“That’s fine. I’m used to being ignored,” He’d muttered, before turning back to his book.
No one had thought much of it. Until it happened again. And again.
One afternoon, you came into the living room to find Bucky sitting cross-legged on the floor, Mischief lying across his lap. She’d never done that with anyone else. She was curled up, purring softly, and Bucky’s hand was resting just behind her ears, stroking her fur gently.
The other Avengers were lounging around, preparing for the evening’s mission debrief. Steve and Clint had been discussing logistics while Tony fiddled with a gadget, but all of them froze when they saw the scene unfolding in front of them.
Mischief, the aloof, temperamental queen of the Tower, was utterly content in Bucky’s lap.
Tony’s jaw dropped first. “Wait a minute,” He pointed at the scene. “Is that… Mischief?”
“Yeah…” Clint said, his voice a mixture of disbelief and awe. “Is she… purring?”
“I’ve never seen her so… calm,” Bruce added quietly, watching the scene. “She always runs away from us. We can’t even get close without her hissing or hiding.”
“I don’t understand,” Steve said, furrowing his brow. “What is he doing differently?”
Bucky glanced up, catching their stares. He shrugged with an easy grin. “I don’t know, she just… likes me, I guess.”
Everyone stared at him. Even Tony, who never really lacked for confidence, looked a little thrown off.
“How?” Wanda asked, her tone hesitant. “She’s never… let anyone get that close. Not even me, and I’ve tried for weeks.”
Bucky just chuckled, his hand continuing to stroke Mischief’s back. “I don’t know. Maybe she sees something in me. Or maybe I just smell like someone who doesn’t mind the silence.”
The others exchanged baffled glances. It was true. Bucky was quiet, reserved. He never pushed, never pried. Perhaps that had something to do with it. But no one could quite figure out how he’d managed to break through the barrier that had kept them all at arm’s length.
“I don’t think it’s just that,” Clint said thoughtfully, his eyes still on the cat, his fingers twitching like he was about to reach for her. “I’ve been here longer than you, man. And she’s never let anyone get that close.”
Bucky’s smile faltered for a moment, as if he was considering something deeper. “Maybe she just needed someone who didn’t expect anything from her.”
The team was silent, still watching Mischief as she stretched lazily on Bucky’s lap, a low purr vibrating the air around them. It was the first time anyone had seen her so relaxed in front of someone who wasn’t you.
Steve shook his head in disbelief. “I think we’ve just witnessed a miracle.”
Tony was already pulling out his phone. “I’m gonna start a betting pool. Bucky Barnes: Cat Whisperer. Who knew?”
Wanda chuckled softly, still a little stunned. “What did you do, Bucky? Did you offer her a deal?”
“I think she’s just decided I’m not worth the trouble,” He said, finally giving Mischief’s ears a gentle scratch that made her eyes flutter shut in contentment. “Sometimes, that’s all it takes.”
And just like that, the Avengers knew. There was something about Bucky Barnes, something quiet, something patient, that had finally cracked through the walls of the grumpy black cat that no one else had been able to breach.
Mischief had chosen him. And the rest of them? They were just going to have to deal with it.
Did I write a fic full of fluff just to have some variety to my masterlist? Maybe… I did not know I had a preference for writing hurt/comfort or whump. Still open to requests though or exploring certain scenarios you may have in mind! Until then, hope you enjoy reading and have a good night! ❄️
So happy you like it. Thank you so much!!! ♡
⋆༺Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist༻⋆
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
Summary: A collection of different one-shots with an unhinged reader as a chaotic whirlwind of misplaced confidence, untraceable knowledge, and genuine good intentions. People find you to be both a genius and an idiot, and no one can determine which side wins more often.
Main Masterlist
Keys | Fluff ✿ | Angst ⛆ | Dark 𓉸 | Hurt/Comfort ❦
✿ Heart First, Sanity Later - 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.
✿ Disastrous Dates - Bucky wanted to take you on an actual date. It was meant to be sweet. Normal. Quiet. Unfortunately, you were involved. So naturally, it was none of those things.
✿ Certified Genius, Unlicensed Moron - Exploring more of your relationship and dynamics with the rest of the Avengers, they are well-acquainted with how much whiplash and how many headaches you give them on a daily.
✿ Oops, I Joined a Cult Again - You joined a cult. That’s it.
✿ Operation: Lover’s Retreat (You Think) - Sent on a recon mission in the Carpathian Mountains, you treat it like a romantic getaway including but not limited to bath bombs, a sparkly kazoo, and one shared bed. Bucky remains constantly torn between exasperation and deep affection.
✿ Unqualified, Unhinged, and Unforgettable - A bunch of excited, hopeful rookies have the absolute displeasure honor of being trained under you.
✿ Chaos Counseling - You accidentally becomes the Avengers' unofficial therapist, delivering unhinged wisdom that changes lives whether they like it or not.
Hiiii, would you ever write a part 2 to The Way He Notices or go back and write more to any previous fics?
Greetings, friend! Congrats on first ask. I could probably write something additional in that universe with the reader who can turn invisible. Maybe when they do confess or something. Regarding the second half of your question, it would depend if anyone would want to see more of whichever work I’ve written! Thanks for reading!! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)
Mischief and Alpine, Matchmaker Extraordinaires
Summary: One quiet morning between you and Bucky, the matchmaking schemes of your cats finally pay off. The smugness and victory of their successes evident almost each time you and Bucky are together now. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.
Word Count: 2.9k+
A/N: And here lies the Finale so to speak. It was more so to wrap up the story of the second part. However, I don’t mind writing smaller fics or updates of our favorite feline matchmakers. Thank you to @kissingkillercriminals and @mysweetbucky and everyone else who has read this mini series so far! Happy reading!!! ♡
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist | Prequel | Sequel
The plot was thickening. Mischief had started to show up at the most inconvenient moments, trying to nudge you closer to Bucky just when there was a hint of quiet tension in the air. Alpine had taken to sitting at the foot of your bed on some nights, watching over you with an oddly protective gaze that seemed more deliberate than before.
It was only when you woke up from a movie marathon on the couch one morning with Bucky beside you that their matchmaking days might finally be over. Mischief jumped into your lap and Alpine quietly walked over to his side.
“Alright, you two…” You muttered, rubbing your eyes. Mischief purred smugly. Alpine, with her quiet wisdom, gave you a single, slow blink.
Bucky sat up, rubbing his face. “I think they’re getting impatient.”
“Impatient.” You echoed before asking carefully, “Impatient about…?”
Bucky shifted, his hand brushing yours for a moment before he drew it back. “We’ve been dancing around this for a while now. I mean… you know what I’m talking about, right?”
Your heart thudded loudly in your chest, but you didn’t have the chance to respond before Mischief leaped off your lap and sauntered to the window, eyes sharp, tail flicking in time with her calculated movements.
You glanced at Alpine. She was staring at you, piercing eyes that seemed to say, This is the moment. Do it.
You looked back at Bucky. He was already watching you, that soft vulnerability in his eyes that always seemed to come out when the world wasn’t trying to tear him apart. But this… this was different. You weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the steady rhythm of the rain outside, or the fact that Mischief was sprawled on the windowsill like a queen, watching her hard work finally pay off.
And Alpine? She was sitting directly between you and Bucky, tail curled neatly around her paws, like she was guarding some invisible line that neither of you could cross unless you finally admitted it.
“I’ve been waiting for this, you know,” Bucky murmured, breaking the silence. His voice had a quiet rasp, but there was a warmth in it, like he was giving you space to speak or not speak, depending on how you wanted to handle it.
“I…” You took a breath. Your palms felt a little sweaty. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
You’d meant to sound casual, but the words came out soft, unsure. Mischief gave a low, disapproving meow from the windowsill, like she was scolding you for not being more forward.
Bucky’s lips curled into a gentle smile. “You know exactly what I mean.”
For a long beat, you stared at each other. Mischief’s tail twitched, as if encouraging Bucky to take that last step. Alpine was silent, but her intense gaze never wavered. She wasn’t going to let either of you back out of this.
“Bucky…Are you sure-” You began, but before you could continue, Mischief jumped back into your lap, purring loudly and dramatically, her head nudging against your chin in that way she did when she was trying to make you act. You weren’t sure if she was pushing you or just enjoying the chaos. Either way, she was going to make sure this moment didn’t pass.
“Alright, alright,” Bucky said, laughing softly as Mischief settled against you, almost as if she were physically forcing you to confront him. He moved closer, gently brushing your hair from your face.
“I don’t know how much more I can take of these two trying to play Cupid for us,” He admitted, his voice a little rougher than before.
“I don’t know how much longer I can pretend I don’t notice it either,” You said, your heart racing.
You know all the quiet tenderness between you two that had been building for weeks. The soft touches, the shared silences, the way Mischief and Alpine always seemed to be around whenever there was a moment of uncertainty.
“I care about you,” Bucky said, his voice low, steady. “More than I thought I would. I just… didn’t know how to say it.”
You swallowed, meeting his gaze. The rain outside intensified, but inside, the world felt quieter, like all the noise of the outside world had vanished, leaving only the two of you finally on the same page.
“I’ve just been scared. I didn’t want to lose what we had. I think I’ve been waiting for you to say it,” You admitted quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips.
And just like that, the moment shifted. Mischief purred louder, now with what almost felt like approval, while Alpine gave a single, soft, contented meow.
“Guess we owe them one,” You murmured, glancing down at the two cats, who seemed to share some silent victory.
“Maybe,” Bucky agreed, his smile spreading. “But you know… I’m not sure they’ll let us have much of a private moment after this.”
Alpine tilted her head, as if agreeing with Bucky’s prediction. Mischief hopped into Bucky’s lap with the most satisfied expression, as if to claim her victory.
“Well,” You said with a half-laugh, your fingers tracing the outline of Bucky’s hand. “Maybe it won’t be such a bad thing as long as you’re here.”
“Always,” Bucky said, his voice soft, before gently leaning in and brushing his lips against yours.
And as the rain drummed against the windows, Mischief and Alpine curled up together, as though they’d known all along how this would end and they were content, their work here done. For now.
Later that day, after the soft glow of the moment had faded, you found yourself alone in your room, the hum of the Tower around you. Mischief was curled up on the windowsill, her tail twitching ever so slightly, while Alpine lounged at the foot of your bed, looking almost smug in her perfect little furball form. You could feel their eyes on you, and despite everything, the quiet weight of their gaze made you feel like they knew something you didn’t.
You sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at them for a moment, trying to fight the overwhelming urge to laugh at the situation. You knew what they had done. You knew exactly what they had been up to.
And now, it was time to talk about it.
“You two,” You began, your voice teasing but filled with an underlying sense of gentle disbelief. Mischief flicked an ear, but didn’t budge. Alpine, of course, kept her eyes closed like the queen she was, but you could feel the amusement radiating off her like a warmth in the room.
The silence stretched for a moment before you sighed and crossed your arms. “So. This whole ‘matchmaking’ thing. You’re really proud of yourselves, aren’t you?”
Mischief’s ears twitched, but she didn’t flinch. Alpine opened one eye, her head raising just enough to show she was paying attention.
“Come on,” You repeated, shaking your head. “You’re not exactly that subtle. You’ve been pushing us together all along.”
A purring sound emanated from Mischief, low and rumbling. Alpine’s tail flicked, and she gave a single, satisfied meow.
You blinked, the words you had been thinking all day finally clicking into place. “You knew the whole time, didn’t you?”
The answer was a soft, almost imperceptible meow from Alpine. Mischief stretched out lazily, rolling onto her back as though she didn’t have a care in the world. She already knew you were hopelessly in love with Bucky. You disregarded her advice before after all.
“Well, that’s just great,” You muttered, letting out a short laugh. “You’re both as bad as each other. I don’t know whether to thank you, or-“ You paused, realizing what you had just walked into. “Wait, are you pleased with yourselves?”
Alpine gave a low, almost triumphant purr. Mischief, for once, seemed unbothered by your tone. The two of them exchanged a glance before Mischief padded closer, her purr deepening as she nuzzled your leg. Alpine hopped up to sit beside her, looking at you with those wise, knowing eyes.
You really think we were just helping you?
Alpine’s voice echoed clearly in your mind, steady and gentle, like a quiet whisper.
We’ve seen you two dance around it long enough. Someone had to give you a little nudge.
Mischief’s voice came next, sounding smug but affectionate. Someone had to push things along. You two were taking too long to figure it out, and…
She stretched out in a luxurious way, ‘speaking’ in one of the most haughty tones you’ve ever heard from her, We don’t have time for slow burns.
You shook your head, half in disbelief and half in gratitude. “So, this was really was some grand scheme of yours? I’m not sure whether to be impressed or insulted.”
Alpine blinked slowly, her gaze unwavering.
There is no harm in helping destiny along.
She licked her paw lazily, as if nothing had happened.
The two of you were already meant to be. We just sped things up a bit.
Mischief, as usual, seemed to be more direct. It's simple. You like each other. He’s a good guy. You’re surprisingly good together. You just needed encouragement.
You stared at them for a long moment, your heart still racing with the unexpected shift of events. A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. “You two are unbelievable.”
There was a pause, and then Mischief nuzzled her head into your hand, looking up at you with eyes that were almost… too proud.
It’s not just about you, She said with a flick of her tail. We look out for our people. And we think… you're good for each other.
Alpine added with a soft meow, We’ve been waiting for you both to catch up.
You let out a soft, affectionate sigh. There was no denying it. Mischief and Alpine had orchestrated it all, played their roles, and had succeeded where no one else had, helping you and Bucky find your way to each other.
“Well,” You said, crouching down to pet both of them. “I guess you two aren’t so bad.” You paused, eyes narrowing playfully. “But don’t ever pull that stunt again, alright?”
Both cats tilted their heads as though they didn’t quite understand the question, but the gleam in their eyes told you everything you needed to know. Mischief purred softly, and Alpine blinked slowly, as if to say, Of course we will. But only if you need it.
“Alright,” You muttered, leaning back against the bed. “I guess I owe you both. But you’d better not make a habit of this.”
Mischief’s tail flicked in amusement, and Alpine simply curled up beside her, content. You could feel their satisfaction radiating off them. They were pleased. More than pleased, in fact. They had done what they set out to do and they had done it perfectly. (Or so they liked to think.)
As the evening unfolded, you could hear Mischief’s soft purring and Alpine’s contented meows in your mind as a comforting background to your thoughts.
But no matter how ridiculous or obvious their methods were, it was official: Mischief and Alpine had succeeded in their little operation. And somehow, you were glad they had.
-
The Tower had felt different for the past few weeks. The moments between you and Bucky were no longer filled with lingering tension. Instead, there was an easy comfort, like two puzzle pieces that had finally clicked into place.
You found yourselves seeking each other out more often. Sometimes it was just for small moments like when you’d bump into him in the hallway and catch the familiar glint of warmth in his eyes. Or when you’d sit next to him on the couch after a long day, the silence between you not uncomfortable, but companionable. Mischief and Alpine’s matchmaking had worked, and now, you both were navigating the early stages of this new territory with a mix of cautious hope and nervous excitement.
And the cats, oh the cats continued to observe, as if they were silently proud of themselves. Mischief still had that knowing, almost smug look every time she’d saunter past you and Bucky, like she knew exactly how much closer the two of you had gotten.
But it wasn’t just the cats noticing. The rest of the Avengers were starting to pick up on the change, too.
It was Steve who first pointed it out, his usual lightheartedness tinged with amusement. “You two are… different. More together lately.” He smiled, glancing between you and Bucky. “It’s a good thing, though. You’re both happier.”
You and Bucky exchanged a look. It had been an unspoken agreement, the way your relationship had blossomed slowly, carefully, but surely. There was no rush, and no one else had been more patient than Bucky, often waiting for you to make the first moves. It was always the little things with him, like him checking in on you after a mission, his hand finding yours in quiet moments, or the way his gaze softened every time your eyes met.
“Guess we are,” You murmured, your voice a little more relaxed than it used to be. You couldn’t deny that something had shifted. You could feel it in the way he smiled at you when he caught you looking at him. How he’d wrap an arm around you when the team gathered for briefings or dinners, holding you close in a way that felt both natural and necessary.
Bucky chuckled, his hand brushing against yours. “Yeah. I’ve… uh, I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.” His voice was a little quieter now, more vulnerable. “I guess… I wasn’t sure how to take the next step. But now, with you here… I think we’re both past all the hesitations.”
And just like that, everything fell into place. The weight of all the past struggles, the doubts, and fears that had kept you both in limbo, melted away. With each passing day, you saw Bucky for who he truly was: the soldier who had fought countless battles, yes, but also the man who had learned to love and heal, someone who had found a home in you.
Later that evening, as the team gathered for a late dinner in the common area, it felt as though the world around you had slowed down, the noise fading into the background. There was something undeniably special in the way Bucky looked at you, how his gaze lingered a little longer than before.
When he reached for your hand under the table, you didn’t hesitate. Your fingers intertwined, and the simple touch was a quiet affirmation of everything that had shifted between you two.
Mischief, ever the observer, hopped up on the table in front of you, her fur sleek and pristine. Alpine, now regularly spending time with both of you, sat beside her, her eyes flicking from you to Bucky as though in approval.
“Alright, alright,” Tony said, raising an eyebrow and leaning back in his chair with a mischievous grin. “We all see it. The cat’s out of the bag, no pun intended.” He nodded toward Mischief, who was now watching Bucky with a level of interest that could only mean she was approving. “You two are… a thing, aren’t you?”
You felt a slight blush rise to your cheeks, but Bucky just chuckled softly, squeezing your hand. “Yeah. Guess so.” He gave you a small smile, one that had become second nature, but it still made your heart skip a beat.
Wanda raised an eyebrow, her eyes flicking between the two of you. “About time,” she teased, but there was a warmth in her voice. “It’s nice to see you two so happy.”
It wasn’t just the team noticing. It was everyone who saw you and Bucky together, there was an undeniable sense of calm and happiness that seemed to radiate off you both. You had learned to open up to him, and in turn, he’d let you in. And now, there was nothing to hide between you anymore.
That night, when the Tower was quiet again and the rest of the team retired to their rooms, you found yourself with Bucky on the balcony, gazing at the city lights below. The air was cool, the soft hum of the city in the distance adding a peaceful rhythm to the moment.
Bucky leaned against the railing, his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. “You know,” He murmured, “I never thought I’d get here.”
“Here?” You asked, your voice soft.
“Yeah,” His voice quieter now, his breath warm against your ear. “With someone who… makes me feel like it’s okay to be me. Not the soldier. Not a monster. Just me.”
You turned toward him, your heart swelling. “You are you, Bucky. The person who’s been through hell and back, and you’ve still got the strength to love.”
He smiled, his hand gently caressing your cheek. “And you’re the one who helped me realize that. You make me better, you know that?”
You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch. For the first time in a long time, you felt whole. With him. With Bucky. And with the unexpected help of two very clever, very determined cats.
“You make me better too,” You whispered.
And when you kissed him softly at first, then with a growing intensity, you knew that the road ahead was uncertain, but as long as you walked it together, everything would be alright.
Disastrous Dates
Summary: Bucky wanted to take you on an actual date. It was meant to be sweet. Normal. Quiet. Unfortunately, you were involved. So naturally, it was none of those things. He tried two more times only to have them go as successfully and normal as the first. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Word Count: 2.9k+
A/N: Not going to lie, I had just written the first date to be a blurb or super short one-shot; but I wondered what the other dates would look like and thought it’d be fun to explore more of reader’s chaotic side. I’ll explore more of the dumb mixed with genius side in later works. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Prequel | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist
The night started with promise.
You wore pants that didn’t have a hole in them, Bucky wore a real shirt with buttons, and neither of you were bleeding. Progress. He even opened the car door for you, all old-fashioned charm and tight-lipped grumbling, and for a brief, shimmering second, it felt like something resembling normal.
Dinner had… potential.
You sat across from him at a tiny Italian place, candlelight flickering between you, and for maybe two full minutes, it was peaceful. He was smiling, barely, but it counted and you weren’t doing anything weird yet. You even managed a sincere, almost romantic sentence:
“You’ve got great hands,” You said, eyes on his fingers wrapped around a wine glass. “Very stabby. I like that in a man.”
He blinked at you. “You’re so lucky I love you.”
Then came the moment. The Moment. The part of the evening where fate, or physics, or your godforsaken inability to just exist normally kicked in.
You were halfway through telling Bucky about the time you mistook a street magician for a real sorcerer and tried to recruit him for the Avengers when you leaned a little too far back in your chair to demonstrate his “mystical flair.”
And promptly tipped the entire thing to the ground. You hit the floor with the grace of a brick dropped from a tenth-story window, one leg in the air, one hand somehow still holding your water glass like a trophy.
Bucky didn’t move. He just stared down at you.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” You wheezed. “Just checking the integrity of the floor.” Still upside down, you added, “Feels solid.”
The waiter cautiously stepped over your foot to refill Bucky’s wine.
You climbed back into your chair with all the dignity of a feral goose being escorted out of a five-star hotel, hair sticking up on one side, eyes bright with chaos. Bucky was covering his mouth with one hand. You weren’t sure if he was horrified or trying not to laugh. Possibly both.
“So,” You said, stabbing your pasta like it had wronged you. “You still in love with me or did I kill it?”
Bucky chuckled, actually chuckled, which most would say was rarer than a solar eclipse.
“I think I love you more, honestly. It’s like dating a walking concussion.”
You grinned and twirled spaghetti around your fork with entirely too much enthusiasm. Some of it hit the wall.
“You’re the one who kissed me, barnacle boy.”
“I regret nothing.”
He reached across the table to brush a strand of sauce-streaked hair from your face. It was a soft moment. A brief oasis of genuine affection in a night otherwise ruled by chaos and misfortune.
Then the power in the restaurant flickered. Then it went out. Then the fire alarm shrieked.
And suddenly you were outside in the cold with thirty other strangers, still holding your plate of pasta like a newborn, as a kitchen fire was swiftly extinguished by firemen who looked way too calm about the situation.
You turned to Bucky. “So. Wanna make out in front of the fire truck?”
He looked at you, wind ruffling his hair, eyes full of baffled affection and suppressed concern. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Romantic, huh?”
“No,” He wrapped his arm around you and tugged you into his side. “But you’re mine.”
And as the fire alarm was silenced and the restaurant staff handed out apology coupons, you stood there in the dark, your hair full of marinara, your date fully ruined, and your chest aching with the quiet joy of being adored exactly as you are.
You leaned up, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Next time, we’re going mini golfing.”
Bucky looked down at you like you’d just promised war. “God, help me.”
-
It was supposed to be the perfect redemption for your extremely chaotic dinner date.
Mini-golf was nothing too fancy. No exploding kitchens or fire trucks. Just a tiny course, soft pastel colors, and some hole-in-one shenanigans. Simple and relaxing. No wildlife to ruin everything.
Except of course, that would have been far too easy.
Bucky had already placed a sensible hat on his head, the kind of hat that gave off “I am mature, responsible, and don’t run into the street to tackle strangers” vibes. You, on the other hand, were rocking a neon pink visor and an obnoxiously bright ‘#1’ foam finger. You’d already declared yourself the reigning champion of the entire course, much to Bucky’s dismay.
“You realize we’re just here to have fun, right?” Bucky said, trying to ignore how you were methodically measuring the first hole as if it were the final stage of some Olympic event.
“Fun?” You asked, like he’d asked you to consider doing a jigsaw puzzle without a single corner piece. “We’re here to dominate, Barnes.”
He sighed, adjusting his grip on the golf club. “Just don’t do anything weird, okay?”
You flashed him a grin, all teeth and wild energy. “No promises.”
It was truly fine at first. You took your shot with the same calculated chaos you approached everything in life. The ball rolled and then… bounced off the tiny windmill. It ricocheted off the back of the frog statue, hit the clown’s nose, and shot straight into the hole.
“Hole in one!” You stood there, arms wide, as if you had just accomplished some great feat of athleticism.
Bucky, standing next to the hole, stared in stunned silence. “How…?”
“I’m just that good,” You said smugly, doing a weird celebratory dance that probably looked more like an epileptic seizure than a victory jig.
He was still staring in disbelief. “You… you’re not allowed to do that again.”
“Watch me.”
“You’re impossible,” He muttered, walking over and adjusting the grip on his own club near the ball. His shot was much more controlled. The ball landed neatly in the hole.
You blinked, slowly clapping. “Wow. Look at you. Mr. Mature.”
Bucky tossed you a mock glare, but he was still smiling. He wasn’t mad. He was just in constant disbelief at the fact that you could turn something so simple into a disaster zone.
You made your way to the next hole, where you decided this time, you were really going to focus. No distractions. No wild swings. No ricocheting frogs. You lined up the ball in a perfect stance. You took a deep breath. And then… you flipped the club completely by accident, sending the ball soaring across the green and directly into another windmill.
There was a pause before it stopped right at the entrance. It was as if the windmill itself had considered eating it, but ultimately rejected the offer.
You blinked, stunned by your own ineptitude for a moment. Bucky was staring at the windmill, then at you.
You turned to him, grinning widely. “See? It’s all part of my highly developed strategy. Confuse the course, confuse the ball. Keep ‘em guessing.”
He just sighed. “I swear to God, I don’t know why I’m here.”
“You’re here because you love me,” You replied, smirking. “It’s either that or a deep-seated addiction to chaos.”
“And because you wouldn’t let me leave,” Bucky added with a smirk. He took his next turn with more care, carefully positioning the ball and then knocking it straight into the hole.
“Okay, showoff,” You teased, trying to focus for real this time. “Let me get one in before you start your victory lap.”
-
But this date wasn’t all pure chaos.
For a brief moment, when you finally reached the last hole which, mercifully, had no ramps, moving windmills, or surprise rock slides, you did manage a solid shot. The ball rolled smoothly, looking like it had gone into the hole, a perfect arc. For just a second, there was a quiet calm between you two, and Bucky even gave you a small, approving smile.
“Okay, that was impressive,” He admitted, tossing his club aside and walking over to you.
You grinned, still overly proud of yourself. “Told you. You’re welcome for being this good at things.”
Then you turned, just as he reached out to lightly ruffle your hair, and noticed you’d overshot your ball earlier. It had not gone into the hole like it seemed. Instead, it had rolled right into a tiny water hazard at the very edge of the course, and now, a small flock of actual ducks had claimed it as their own.
“No.” You pointed dramatically. “I did not lose to ducks.”
“I’m pretty sure you lost to ducks,” Bucky said, trying to stifle his laughter.
“No, no,” You muttered, brushing off some dirt from your jeans before walking toward the water hazard and began negotiating with the ducks. “I’m gonna need you to give that ball back. I earned it. Respect me.”
Bucky was now watching you with an expression that could only be described as fascinated horror.
“I cannot believe I’m dating someone who’s talking to ducks right now.”
“Well,” YOU called over your shoulder, “I’d just like to point out that you are the one who dragged me here, Barnes. I could be at home with my plants and not having a mental breakdown in front of an audience of feathered assholes.”
One of the ducks made a threatening honk. You took a step back, eyes narrowing. “I’m not scared of you.”
Before Bucky could respond, you had the brilliant idea to “negotiate” by offering them some of your snack chips, which you had brought for “emergency rations.”
It worked. Kind of. The ducks did not care for the chips. Instead, they went on to aggressively peck the bag out of your hands and run off with it.
You stood, defeated. “They betrayed me.”
Bucky walked up, placing his hand on your shoulder in a rare moment of sympathy. “I’ll buy you a new bag of chips, if it makes you feel better.”
“I want a refund,” You said solemnly. “Those ducks will pay for this.”
He chuckled. “You know, I never thought I’d have a moment like this in my life.”
“Where you’re physically ashamed to be seen with me?” You asked innocently.
“You mean where I’m emotionally invested in your safety and happiness? Yeah, that’s the one.”
You smiled at him, your face lighting up, “Well, Barnes,” You winked dramatically, “Consider yourself lucky. I’ll never get this good at mini-golf again. This is a one-time offer.”
“Thank God for that.”
Then, you reached up and kissed him on the cheek, “Don’t think you’re off the hook yet though. I still need my ball back. It was my emotional support ball.”
Bucky’s hand slid down his face. “You’re unbelievable.”
And despite the whole, epic mess, the chaotic and dare he say hazardous golf shots, and the birds you swore were plotting your demise, you both ended up sitting in a grassy patch next to the mini-golf course. Bucky pulled out a blanket and the two of you looked up at the stars.
You leaned against him, grinning.
“Next time, we’re going bowling.”
“You’re on.”
-
Bowling was supposed to be a safe option.
No moving windmills. No ducks. No water hazards or miscalculated shots. Just a ball, a lane, and the dream of seeing Bucky try to put spin on his shots, right?
Except nothing is ever that simple with you two.
It started when you walked in, strutting up to the counter like it was the red carpet. You pointed to the most ridiculous neon bowling ball you could find, the one that looked like it had been painted with every color of the rainbow and had no real grip.
Bucky didn’t even question you at first. He just grabbed a more sensible ball and followed you to the lane. He should’ve questioned you.
The first roll was just… spectacular. You swung the ball back and released it with the same dramatic flair you gave everything else. It slid down the lane, wobbling like it was trying to make a run for the emergency exit. The pins saw it coming, too like the inanimate objects were clearly preparing to make their escape. And yet…
Crash.
All of them, knocked down for your first strike.
You threw your hands up, struck a victory pose, and immediately jammed your knee into the ball return mechanism. Bucky watched as you colorfully lectured the machine for getting in the way. He just stared at you for a solid ten seconds before muttering, “Oh no.”
You just grinned at him. “You have to admit, that was impressive.”
“You’re going to cause a bowling alley-wide catastrophe or end in up in the ER.”
“No, no,” You waved him off before giving him finger guns. “It’s fine. We just… need to keep the ball rolling.”
Bucky’s gaze was all kinds of incredulous, but you were already preparing for your next turn, oblivious to the chaos trailing behind you.
The next round was where things really got out of hand.
You decided that the best way to improve your game was to introduce some… unorthodox techniques. Bucky, in a moment of bravery or maybe just a genuine desire to watch you fail, agreed to bowl with a two-handed technique.
“I’ve seen pro bowlers do it,” You said with utmost seriousness. “It’s the future of bowling.”
“What’s the point of using two hands?” He asked, clearly trying to keep a straight face. “To get extra power?”
“Exactly,” You said, giving him a look that said, What are you, a bowling amateur? “You don’t get it, Barnes. It’s like… the bowling ball can feel my power.”
Bucky was about to comment when you stood up, placed the neon ball between your hands, and threw it, not down the lane, but sideways. The ball flew directly to the adjacent lane, bounced off the guard rail, and landed in the gutter of the lane next to yours.
“Oh my God,” Bucky gasped, “What in the hell was that?”
“Finesse,” You said smugly, “Bam. Power.”
He let out a strangled laugh. “That was a disaster. We’re gonna get kicked out.”
You paused. “Nah. I’m pretty sure they’ll respect my skill once they see how good I am at… doing whatever the hell that was.”
It only got worse from there.
Every time you tried to bowl, you somehow either a) hit yourself with the ball, b) attempted to bowl in an entirely new direction, or c) made a series of weird noises and gestures like you were conducting some kind of elaborate ritual to the gods of bowling.
At one point, you even tried to bowl with your eyes closed, saying it would make you “feel the energy of the pins.”
Bucky just stood there in the back, arms crossed, watching the trainwreck unfold before his eyes. It was like a slow-motion disaster he couldn’t stop, but he couldn’t look away either. The worst part? He was kind of enjoying it. No matter how ridiculous it got, you never once stopped being enthusiastic. Even when your ball rolled straight into the gutter of someone else’s lane for the third time in a row.
“Alright,” He said finally, after suggesting sliding down the lane to knock the pins down like an illegal slip and slide. “Let’s just finish up the game, okay? For both of our sanity.”
“You’re right,” You said, dramatically wiping your forehead. “You know what? I’m gonna let you win this one. As a gift.”
“Uh-huh,” Bucky said skeptically. “Sure.”
The game continued, and somehow, miraculously, you managed to finally make a decent shot, this time by doing absolutely nothing except rolling the ball in a straight line. It gently knocked down two pins. Bucky was almost speechless.
“Is this… the start of a new era?” He asked, still trying to process the sudden miracle of a swing that didn’t involve total destruction.
You pumped your fist into the air, shouting with all the drama you could muster. “YES! The power of mediocrity has blessed me!”
Bucky couldn’t hold it in anymore. He burst out laughing, completely disarmed by your inability to take anything seriously, especially bowling. “You’re a mess,” He said, shaking his head as you set up for another shot.
“And you love me for it,” You shot back with a grin, letting the ball go with a dramatic, reckless swing that sent it straight into the neighbor’s lane again.
“Well, I’m pretty sure they hate us,” Bucky noted, but the smile on his face said it all.
There was no doubt now. You two might have just broken a local bowling record for how many throws led to the ball landing in a different lane, but it was the kind of record no one ever wanted to repeat. And yet, Bucky couldn’t imagine it any other way.
At the end of the game, he stared at your final score: 15. And his? A solid 105. Somehow, you had still won in your mind cause “fifteen is closer to first place than a hundred and five”. You handed him your bowling shoes with a cheeky grin.
“I think I need a better challenge.”
Bucky shook his head, trying to stifle a grin of his own. “Okay, next time, we’re staying home. Maybe a home cooked meal or something. Something that can’t completely descend into chaos.”
“Deal,” You said, offering your hand, as if you hadn’t just bowled worse than anything anyone has ever seen before.
As you both walked out of the building, arm in arm, you both were definitely banned from that bowling alley. However, you didn’t care because you were with him.
And even though nothing ever went according to plan, it was perfectly your kind of chaos and the kind of chaos that Bucky wouldn’t trade for anything else.
Just got the notification today, thank you all for 100 likes! I know it’s spread out among posts and might be too small a milestone to be proud of. However, I’m grateful nonetheless! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
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She/Her | 18+ | Marvel WriterAsks/Requests are welcomed!
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