Again
Again
Summary: You live in a carefully constructed world with Bucky Barnes, unaware he’s been resetting your memories every time you try to leave him. Each time you begin to remember the truth, he gently erases it, cloaking control in affection. To you, it feels like love. To him, it is. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x reader)
Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes, Memory loss, Gaslighting, Obsessive love, Hints of confinement, Yandere themes, etc.
Word Count: 2.9k+
A/N: Been a while since I’ve written something dark. Can you tell I love stories that have something to do with memories yet? 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 weren’t really the kind of person who got involved with superheroes.
You worked quietly at a small publishing office in Brooklyn, mostly handling edits and scheduling for midlist fantasy writers. Your days were filled with manuscript notes, cheap coffee, and chasing deadlines. It was all comfortably mundane.
You weren’t the kind to chase chaos. You didn’t attend Stark-sponsored gala events or run towards falling buildings with a camera. The Avengers were just another headline, another source of distant awe that didn’t belong in your world.
Until him.
You met Bucky Barnes on a Tuesday morning in the rain. Your umbrella had fallen apart five minutes into your walk to work, and you’d ducked into a tiny, half-hidden café. He had held the door open for you; tall, quiet, gloved hands, and hood up.
You nodded your thanks. He nodded back. That was it.
The second time you saw him was two days later at the same café. He was at the same seat near the back window. You ordered your tea, and he was already nursing his coffee. You’d never seen him speak to the barista, but his drink always arrived without question. You wondered if he’d once lived in this neighborhood, before the metal arm, before the wars.
Weeks passed before you spoke again. It started small with quick glances, polite smiles, and silent nods that eventually turned into one-word greetings. Then one afternoon, as you sat reading a worn paperback in your usual seat, he asked what book it was.
You looked up, startled. His voice was gravel and velvet all at once. You told him the title, and he tilted his head, thoughtful.
“Used to read a lot,” He said. “Stopped for a while.”
You asked why to which he smiled faintly. “Memories. Some of ’em don’t belong to me.”
You didn’t comment on it considering his past.
After that, he started waiting for you.
Or maybe you started going there hoping he’d be there. You couldn’t tell when it changed. Your work days blurred together, but those moments with him became sharp, vivid pieces of color. You learned that he liked his coffee bitter and preferred home-cooked meals over fast food. He told you small things about himself: that he didn’t sleep well, that he liked jazz, that he used to have a sister. Never much more.
You never asked about the arm. You never needed to.
He started walking you home when it got dark. Just in case, he’d say, glancing at the sidewalk like it was dangerous. At first, he’d leave you at the corner of your street. Then at your building’s door. Then one evening, he followed you up.
Nothing happened that night. He didn’t even kiss you. But he looked around your apartment with that solemn, haunted stare, like he’d stepped into a dream he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have.
When you made him tea that night, he sat on your couch like he was afraid it would vanish if he blinked.
That was the beginning.
You didn’t fall for him in a rush of heat or fire. It was something quieter like water slipping under a door. He was gentle with you, more gentle than you'd imagined a man like him could be. He handled you like a secret. In some way, you liked that. It made you feel chosen.
He memorized you.
Your favorite foods, the way you liked your windows cracked just an inch at night, how your nose scrunched when you were skeptical. He’d brush your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, kiss your temple when you frowned at your laptop, run his thumb across your knuckles while you rambled about work.
When you finally asked if you were together, he simply nodded. “You’re mine,” he said, not possessively. Just… firmly. As if it had always been true.
You smiled. It felt warm and real after all.
As weeks passed, you didn’t realize how much of yourself was already unraveling.
You didn't notice that he always picked your meals before you had a chance. That when you asked about his past, his face turned to stone. That when you mentioned taking a weekend trip with friends, he flinched. Then the next day, every one of those friends mysteriously canceled.
You didn’t realize how often he said “You don’t need to remember that.”
Or that your own memories like how you met or how long you’d been dating started to feel soft, blurry, like a watercolor left out in the rain.
You didn’t question it then though because when you were with Bucky, you felt safe. And safety can be addicting, especially when you don’t know what’s missing.
But the truth was already whispering beneath your skin. And you were about to hear it for the first time.
Again.
You never noticed the changes at first.
They crept in like dust on a windowsill so subtle and quiet, you didn’t realize how much had shifted until it was far too late.
It began with a contact missing from your phone. You were trying to text your friend about a shared memory from childhood, a stupid inside joke involving a haunted amusement park, but her name was just… gone. Not grayed out. Not blocked. Gone. You assumed it was a glitch. You’d call her later.
But you didn’t. You couldn’t seem to remember the number. You opened your gallery to find the picture of the two of you at the beach with your arms around each other, her tongue out at the camera, wind in your hair yet the photo wasn’t there. Not in albums. Not in cloud storage. Not even in your deleted folder.
You frowned and chalked it up to a syncing error. You’d been so tired lately after all. Work had been relentless, your sleep scattered. It was probably your fault.
Besides, Bucky said you’d been overwhelmed.
“You’ve been stressed, doll,” He murmured that night, when he found you staring blankly at your phone. He slid into bed behind you, arms curling around your waist like a shield. “You’ve been forgetting things, yeah? That’s okay. I’m here now.”
His lips pressed to the back of your neck, soft and warm and grounding. “I’ve got you.”
And you believed him. Because Bucky didn’t lie. Because love was supposed to feel safe. Because it was easier than the other option: that something was wrong.
Then the dreams began.
Not nightmares in the traditional sense. They weren’t filled with monsters or screams. They didn’t leave you sobbing or breathless. They just felt wrong… familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.
In the dreams, you were in a room with white walls, too white. The sterile scent of alcohol and metal stung your nose. Your wrists were strapped to a gurney, a chill biting at your skin through the thin hospital gown. Machines beeped in the distance. Shadows moved behind frosted glass.
And you were crying.
Not screaming. Not pleading.
Just… crying. Quietly and exhausted like this had happened before.
Then a voice; male, calm, and clinical: “She’s starting to remember.”
Static buzzed through the dream, warping your hearing like water rushing through your ears.
And then, him.
Bucky.
But not your Bucky, not the gentle hands and tired smile that whispered “I’ve got you.” This Bucky stood behind the glass, unmoving, and half-shrouded in shadow. His face was unreadable and cold, tight-jawed with his blue eyes sharp with calculation. And something else beneath that: Guilt. Desire. Possession.
You always woke with your chest heaving, heart racing like a prey being hunted.
The dreams clung to your skin like fog. You couldn’t shake them, couldn’t forget the way your own voice had cracked in the dream: “Please, don’t do it again.”
You told Bucky about them one morning, curled on the couch with a blanket over your shoulders and your head pounding.
“They felt too real,” You explained, knuckles white around the mug he’d just handed you. “I… I don’t know. I was in some lab, or hospital maybe, and I was tied down, and someone said-“
You paused, trying to remember the exact words. They slipped through your mind like sand.
“‘She’s starting to remember.’”
Bucky froze. Just for a moment to the degree where you barely caught it. The tension in his jaw before it was gone, smoothed over by the version of him you trusted. He stepped closer, cupping your cheek in one calloused hand. His thumb brushed your temple, slow and steady.
“They’re just dreams,” He whispered. “You’re okay. I’m right here, remember? Nothing bad’s ever going to happen to you again.”
The pressure of his fingers lingered, gentle but firm. You leaned into it.
And you didn’t see the flicker of fear in his eyes. You didn’t notice how his hand trembled for just a second before he pulled it away.
Didn’t follow his gaze to the mirror where, behind the glass, a soft blue light blinked silently. A small device tucked into the frame, some HYDRA tech masked by a smear of dust. Unnoticeable unless you remembered it was there.
It hummed with quiet intent, its function cruel and simple: To monitor. To smooth the cracks. To start over.
Again.
-
The turning point finally came on the day you found the journal.
It was supposed to be a cleaning day.
Rain tapped gently against the windows. Bucky had gone out for groceries. He never let you go alone anymore, said it wasn’t safe. So you’d decided to reorganize the closet in your bedroom. It was cluttered, and you needed a distraction. Something to silence the weight of those dreams that had begun to come more often, vivid and fractured. Something to quiet the silence.
You were pulling out an old shoe box when your foot caught on the corner of the floorboard. It shifted under your weight with a soft, unnatural creak. Curious, you crouched and ran your fingers over the edge, pushing until the plank lifted just slightly enough to wedge your hand underneath.
There was something hidden beneath the wood. Wrapped in worn fabric, almost carefully. You pulled it free as your breath caught in your throat.
It was a journal. Black leather with no name on the cover. You didn’t remember buying it. You didn’t remember writing in it. But it was yours.
The handwriting was unmistakable. Slanted letters. Loopy e’s. The way you crossed your t’s too high. And inside…
Inside was your words: Unfiltered, unedited, and terrified.
He’s done something to me. Every time I leave, I wake up back in his bed. I think it’s him. I think it’s always been him. He smiles and tells me, “This is better. This is love.” Do not trust him. Do not trust him. You’ve done this before.
Your hands shook as you turned the pages. There were days recorded in scribbled fragments. Warnings. Notes written like you were trying to reach yourself across some invisible line.
You remembered none of them.
Not the time you described trying to run: “He caught me before I reached the door. Said he’d fix it. He always fixes it.”
Not the drawing of the device in the mirror. “It hums when I remember too much, blares out if I touch it.”
Not the shaky, final note: If you’re reading this, you still have a chance. Don’t let him see this. Don’t let him see you panic.
But it was too late.
Your breath hitched as you looked up. The walls of your apartment, the space you’d painted and decorated and thought you’d built with love, suddenly felt wrong. It was all too neat. Staged. The color schemes, the framed photos, the scent of lavender in the air, it was all… curated.
Like a set. Like a memory someone else had chosen for you.
And then you felt it. That presence. You turned, heart already racing.
Bucky stood in the doorway, grocery bag in one hand. His other hand was empty, fingers flexing once. Twice. His eyes weren’t on you.
They were on the open journal.
His expression didn’t twist in shock or confusion. He didn’t ask what it was. He didn’t even look surprised. He just stared at you for a moment, quiet, as if waiting to see which version of you he’d come home to.
And then, slowly, he set the bag down.
He stepped forward in a manner that wasn’t hurried, not frantic, just controlled. Measured, like a man who’d done this before.
“Doll,” He spoke softly, as if you were spooked. As if you’d simply read something silly. “That’s not what you think it is.”
Your mouth was dry as you stepped back, clutching the book.
“I wrote this,” You whispered. “I… I’ve done this before. Haven’t I?”
His jaw tightened. “You weren’t well. You didn’t understand what you needed.”
“I tried to leave.”
“And I couldn’t let you,” He said, eyes burning now but not with anger, rather something worse. Devotion. “You don’t remember how bad it was out there. You begged me to make it stop. You asked me to take it away.”
You backed into the wall.
“I don’t remember any of that.”
“I know,” He murmured. “That’s the point.”
He stepped closer. The air thickened.
“You were scared, and I saved you. Over and over again. I keep you safe, I give you peace. Isn’t that what you said you wanted?”
You shook your head. “No. I didn’t-“
“You did,” Bucky interrupted, “And even if you forgot, it doesn’t matter. I remember for both of us.”
Your chest was heaving as you took a step back. The journal slipped from your fingers and hit the floor between you. He picked it up carefully, smoothing the pages like an old wound.
Bucky watched you for a long moment, the journal still in his hands, the weight of your realization hovering between you both like smoke. You didn’t run, you couldn’t. Your body felt frozen in place, as if your mind already knew what was coming. Like it had before.
He approached slowly with no malice nor violence, just intention.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” He said gently. “You know that. I never have.”
Your breath hitched as he reached up. Not to strike, not to grab, but to brush your hair behind your ear. The gesture was intimate.
“But you always panic when it comes back. Always think you want out. And then you cry, and I have to watch you fall apart all over again.”
He moved slightly, lips brushing your temple.
“This is love, sweetheart. It’s just… not the kind you remember.”
That’s when he reached behind the mirror.
You didn’t struggle. Maybe part of you didn’t want to know the truth. Maybe part of you had been here before again and again, and each time ended in the same outcome: surrender wrapped in warmth and silence.
You heard the hum before you felt it. That low, soft frequency, like a lullaby trapped beneath your skin. Your vision blurred. The room warped slightly, as if you were seeing through water. Your knees gave out, and Bucky caught you easily, cradling your head to his chest.
“Sshhh. Just sleep,” He whispered into your hair. “I’ll keep you safe. I always do.”
-
The next morning, sunlight spilled across the room in pale golden stripes. The curtains swayed lazily with the breeze, and the air smelled like maple syrup and cinnamon. Somewhere in the distance, a record crackled softly with a melody playing something smooth and familiar.
You blinked up at the ceiling, your head foggy and strangely heavy. A dull ache pulsed just behind your eyes.
But your heart was quiet.
No fear. No dread. Just a lingering melancholy you couldn’t name, like missing a song you forgot you loved.
You sat up slowly, fingers curling into the sheets. The bed was warm and the room was tidy. On the nightstand sat a single framed photo of you and Bucky wrapped in a shared scarf, cheeks pink from the cold.
Something fluttered in your chest. You didn’t know why, but the sight made your throat tighten.
Then came his soft voice, full of that low, soothing rasp that always made your shoulders ease.
“Morning, doll.”
You looked up to find him standing in the doorway, wearing gray sweatpants and a soft black shirt with a spatula held in one hand and a dishtowel that rested over his shoulder. He smiled at you with such warmth, such relief, that it made your eyes sting.
“Smells good,” You mumbled, voice thick.
“Thought you could use something sweet.” He tilted his head. “You okay?”
You blinked at him, your eyes burning for some reason.
“Yeah. I think so. Just… a weird dream.”
His smile deepened, that tender practiced smile.
“Don’t worry,” He said. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
He always did.
And you’d never know how many times before: Never know about the journal that was burned in the fire pit. Never know how your phone only held five contacts, four of them fake. Never know how your reality was trimmed, polished, and maintained like a greenhouse.
Each morning reborn in the life Bucky made for you. Each memory rewritten not out of cruelty but love. Twisted, obsessive, relentless love.
And for now, this time, you were his again. Just as you were meant to be.
More Posts from Orellazalonia and Others
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.
⛧⋆༺Caged in Comfort Masterlist༻⋆⛧
Pairing: Dark Stucky x little!reader Summary: Though your life was not perfect growing up in a lab, it was familiar. There was routine. A system in place with clear expectations. Therefore, when two super soldiers take you away from it all to mold you into their little girl, how do they expect a lab experiment to react? You’ve simply moved from one cage to another. Disclaimer/Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Forced age regression. Kidnapping . References to Labs. Stockholm Syndrome, Drugging, and more in the future likely. Read at your own risk. You are responsible for the media you consume.
Main Masterlist
⪼----➢ Chapter 1.
⪼----➢ Chapter 2.
⪼----➢ Chapter 3.
⪼----➢ Chapter 4.
⪼----➢ Chapter 5.
WIP. More to come.
Hello, my lovelies! Just wanted to pop in and say thank you for 2500+ likes and 100+ followers!!! I’m so thankful to each and every one of you who has enjoyed my work so far. Thank you for every like, comment, reblog, and any other forms of engagement! I have so much fun interacting with you all and hope you look forward to more coming soon!!! Happy reading! ♡
Wherever You Are, I’ll Stay
Summary: You are a stealth-based Avenger with the ability to teleport, often the one pulling teammates out of danger. However, when you’re injured on a mission one day, you’re found by Bucky, panicking as he tells you that you could’ve escaped. You admit you stayed because you couldn’t leave him behind. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the ability to teleport.
Word Count: 1.6k+
A/N: We are so back with a super powered reader! Ignore that it’s been a day or two. It feels like forever to me lol. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
You were the teleporting specialist on the team. A living escape route, as Tony once put it, even though you hated the way it made you sound like a tool instead of a person. Your powers weren’t eye-catching like Wanda’s or devastating like Thor’s, but they were precise, fast, and life-saving. You could vanish in the blink of an eye and reappear on the other side of a locked compound without so much as triggering a motion sensor.
What made your ability rare wasn’t just that you could teleport. In fact, plenty of enhanced individuals could, in theory. But the level of control you had was what made you stand out. You could take others with you. You could land in tight quarters without crashing into walls. You could sense coordinates by memory, not just by sight. And most importantly, you could stay calm under pressure, until recently.
Lately, your powers had started to falter under stress. It didn’t happen all the time, but it was enough to plant a seed of doubt in your mind that stayed long enough to hesitate.
You hadn’t told Bucky.
You weren’t exactly sure why. Maybe because he looked at you like you were the one person on the team he didn’t have to worry about. You were competent, quiet, and observant. When missions went to hell, you were the person he looked to and the one he trusted to get everyone out. You didn’t want to shatter that image. You didn’t want him to look at you differently.
Especially not when things between you had started to… shift.
It hadn’t happened in an instant. It was in the small things, the slow things. Like the way he stood a little closer when debriefings dragged too long. The way he always offered an extra water bottle during training without asking if you needed it. Or maybe it was the way his fingers brushed your shoulder when passing behind you, like he couldn’t help needing a point of contact.
You hadn’t talked about it and you didn’t need to. It was present in the silence, in the weight of his glances, and in the softness of his voice when he said your name. A voice so different from the clipped tone he used with everyone else.
You’d die for Bucky Barnes.
But more than that, you’d stay alive for him too.
One mission you were given was intel extraction from a dormant Hydra site outside Budapest. It was expected to have low resistance and a swift completion. You’d done dozens of missions like this, but something had felt off the moment you landed. It was too quiet, too clean. Bucky had gone to secure the east corridor while you took the west.
Then the ambush hit.
You’d fought back, ducking and teleporting rapidly, as you disabled guards as they came. But there were more of them than you had anticipated, and one of them managed to clip you. A messy shot to the side. It wasn’t fatal, but it was deep. And worse, it shook your focus.
The pain bloomed like fire in your ribs, radiating outward. You tried to port, but your vision blurred, your body trembled, and your power slipped from your grasp like sand through your fingers. You blinked out but not far enough. Just into another corner of a nearby room, a couple feet away, where you collapsed behind a half-toppled server bank.
You could’ve tried again. You could’ve forced it. But something in you wouldn’t let go of one thought:
Bucky’s still in the building.
You didn’t know where. You didn’t know if he was safe or had been ambushed too. You didn’t care that your side was soaked with blood, or that your head throbbed from slamming against the wall when you landed wrong.
You weren’t leaving without him, even if it killed you.
Your breathing had grown shallow by the time Bucky found you. You weren’t sure how long you’d been lying there, staring up at the flickering ceiling lights, but the moment the door slammed open with a crash of metal and rage, you knew it was him. You always knew.
“Hey- hey!” His voice was rough with panic, feet pounding across the broken floor until he dropped to his knees beside you. “You're alive-! Thank god, you're alive.”
You opened your eyes, barely. “I said I’d be,” You rasped, the words sticking to your tongue.
Bucky’s hands hovered over you, uncertain and frustrated. He was scanning for wounds, piecing together what had happened. “You're hit.” His voice dropped, the softness undercut by fury. “Why didn’t you teleport out of here?”
You winced, not from the pain, but from the question. “Tried,” You whispered. “Wasn’t focused, too much adrenaline… too much noise.”
“Still,” He snapped. “Still… you could’ve gotten out. That’s what you’re supposed to do. That’s what you always do.”
You looked at him, gaze resting onto his worried expression. And for a moment, he didn’t see the blood or the wound or the mission. He saw you. Pale, exhausted, stubborn, and still here.
“I didn’t want to leave you behind,” You admitted. The truth tasted heavier than blood.
Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. He shook his head with a shaky breath. “You’re out of your mind,” He muttered.
You smiled weakly. “You’re one to talk.”
His hands finally stopped trembling enough to press against your wound in a gentle but firm way. “You could’ve died,” He reminded you again, his voice cracking. “I could’ve walked into this room and found your body. You ever think about that?”
You let your eyes fall shut for a moment. “I thought about how I’d rather die with you than live not knowing what happened to you.”
The silence was thick. Bucky didn’t speak for a moment, but when he did, his voice was low and nearly broken.
“You really are out of your mind,” He repeated, but softer now. “And I don’t think I’ve ever loved someone more because of it.”
Your eyes fluttered open. “That a confession, Barnes?”
He exhaled a laugh, but it was tight, like it hurt. “Damn right it is.”
Carefully, he pulled you into his arms, supporting your weight like it was nothing, like it was everything. You felt the metal of his arm against your back, cold and reassuring. The other arm was warm where it cradled your legs. You didn’t protest to either.
“You’re going to the med bay,” He said. “Then we’re having a long talk about you not being a damn martyr.”
You rested your head against his shoulder, eyes heavy. “I’m not a martyr.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
There was a pause before you murmured, “You would’ve done the same for me.”
“Doesn’t mean I want you doing it for me.”
Outside, the quinjet engines roared to life. The rest of the team was waiting.
But for now, in the middle of that wrecked Hydra facility, with dust still hanging in the air and blood soaking into Bucky’s shirt, it was just the two of you.
And you were both alive. Together.
-
The med bay was silent, dimmed for your recovery. The overhead lights were off, replaced by a single low lamp that cast long shadows across the room. The hum of machinery filled the silence with monitor beeps, IV drips, and the occasional hiss of an oxygen line. Stark tech kept everything sterile and efficient.
You hated it.
Not because of the pain, that had dulled into something manageable, but because you hated stillness. When you were still, you had time to think. And now that the mission was over, you couldn’t stop replaying it. The moment you failed to teleport. The cold bloom of panic. The blood. The look on Bucky’s face when he found you like the world had nearly ended.
You stared at the ceiling trying not to think about it, when the door hissed open quietly. You didn’t have to look to know it was him.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Bucky said, voice low, teasing in a way that didn’t quite mask the worry.
“I was. For a while,” You murmured. “You still pacing outside?”
He huffed. “How’d you know?”
“You always pace when you’re trying not to panic.”
Bucky stepped closer, the soft tread of his boots grounding. When he reached your bedside, he didn’t sit right away. Just stood there, arms crossed, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be here even though he’d barely left your side since you got back.
“I’m fine, Buck,” You reassured him softly.
“You’re not,” He finally lowered himself into the chair next to you. “You were bleeding out and couldn’t get out. That’s not fine.”
You hesitated. “It’s not the first time my powers have… flickered.”
His jaw tightened. “How long?”
“Couple months but only under stress. Usually I push through it.”
He was quiet for a long time before finally speaking, “You should’ve told me.”
“I didn’t want to be seen as a liability.”
His hand moved, not quickly but with intent. His fingers brushed your wrist, grounding you. “You’re not a liability. You’re you. And if something’s wrong, we fix it together.”
You blinked, throat tightening unexpectedly. “I didn’t want to lose your trust in me.”
“You didn’t,” He said. “You scared the hell out of me, but you didn’t lose anything.”
You let that sit between you for a moment before you whispered, “You said you loved me.”
He didn’t flinch and he didn’t deflect.
“I meant it.” He stated.
You turned your head to meet his eyes. “I love you too, you know.”
Bucky leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against yours. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“I know. I’ve known.”
You reached up, fingers threading through his as you held each other’s hands like none of you ever wanted to let go. “Stay?”
He nodded once. “Always.”
Aww, thank you so much!!! The way they show their care and love for each other is so sweet. I loved writing this one-shot. Thank you for reading! ♡
The Price of Saving Until You Care
Summary: You have the power to heal others by transferring their injuries onto you. After healing Bucky from a serious wound, he confronts you about constantly sacrificing your own well-being for him and you confront him about his recklessness in throwing his life away. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to transfer injuries onto herself. You and Bucky get injured in this. ANGST. References and/or talk of death & suicide. (It doesn’t happen here.) Bucky’s self-worth issues. You are responsible for the media you consume
Word Count: 1.5k+
A/N: Here’s that other version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. I also had another thought while writing this. Same concept, but she can’t feel the pain she transfers. But this version had more depth to it.
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
Pain was a strange thing.
Most people avoided it, feared it, or resented it. You? You made peace with it, letting it in like a familiar guest.
Your hands could heal, not with any glowing light, magical song, or celestial warmth, but with quiet, invisible sacrifice. Every wound you closed on someone else opened in your own body. A broken bone, a stab wound, a punctured lung, you could mend them all. But the damage had to go somewhere, and it always chose you.
At first, it felt noble. Heroic, even. Like you were doing something pure in a world full of compromise. Over time, though, that feeling didn’t last. Not after your body started to break faster than it could rebuild. Not after people began expecting it of you. And not after he started looking at you with that hollow-eyed grief every time you touched him.
Bucky Barnes was the only one who never asked.
That’s why you kept doing it for him.
He never demanded your gift, never leaned on it. If anything, he flinched when you reached for him. He stitched his own wounds in silence, like penance, like punishment. But he bled so often and so deeply, and there was only so much you could watch before stepping in.
So you made the choice he never would.
You took the pain he refused to burden anyone else with and carried it like a secret.
The first time you healed him, it was a gunshot to the thigh. He’d collapsed behind cover, gritting his teeth, trying to keep firing with one hand pressed hard over the bleeding wound. You crawled to him, pressed your palm against his jeans, and told him to breathe.
He didn’t understand right away. Not until later, when he saw you limping and pieced it together.
“What did you do?” He had asked, panic breaking through the walls he always wore.
You lied then and said it was a stray bullet. Said you were fine. You weren’t, of course. But the look on his face, that was worse than any pain. So you kept the truth buried.
Now, you’d done it too many times to count.
You didn't talk about your ability much. People either praised it or pitied it, and you didn’t need either. To you, it was like… math. You had a body that could endure pain and a world that couldn’t survive without help. It wasn’t heroism. It was simple. It was balance.
But even balance breaks when it leans too hard in one direction. And lately, Bucky had been leaning too hard and the rest of the team noticed it too. He became too reckless, too self-destructive, too tired of being saved.
That’s why you stood in the medbay now, chest already aching from a gash you took earlier, watching him sit bloodied and bruised and already trying to push you away.
The medbay lights buzzed faintly above, casting a harsh white sheen across the steel counters and bloodied gauze. Bucky sat shirtless on the edge of the gurney, one hand clamped over a ragged tear in his side. Blood still leaked between his fingers. His metal arm hung loose by his side, stained red.
You stepped forward quietly and approached slowly.
He heard you though. Evident in how his gaze flicked up, icy blue and already narrowing. “Don’t.”
You didn’t answer as you just moved to stand in front of him, reaching into the tray for a cloth. His blood had soaked deep into the fabric around the wound. Too deep for bandages.
“I mean it,” He growled, more force behind it this time. “You’re not doing that thing again.”
Your hand hesitated in the air before dropping. “It’s not a thing, Bucky. It’s me.”
He flinched. Just slightly. A beat of hesitation long enough for you to press your palm against his ribs.
Heat bloomed between your fingers. Your power worked silently, no fanfare, no shimmer of light, just the subtle pull, the invisible trade. His flesh knit together, the muscle reforming under your touch, sealing like it had never been torn.
Then came the pain as your breath hitched, feeling it bloom sharply through your ribs, mirroring the exact placement of his injury. The gash tore itself into you now; hot, wet, and burning deep. You exhaled through gritted teeth, willing yourself to stay upright.
Bucky grabbed your wrist.
“Stop. Please.” His voice was hoarse now. “Stop.”
“It’s already done,” You whispered.
He stood up too fast, panic flashing in his eyes. His hand hovered just short of touching you again. “Why would you do that? You said… You said you wouldn’t anymore.”
“I didn’t say that,” You leaned against the gurney now slightly, murmuring your defense. “You asked. I didn’t answer.”
“You’re bleeding.” His voice cracked. “You’re always bleeding for me.”
You looked down to see blood was spreading across your shirt now, warm and slow, the price of one man’s survival. You’d felt worse. Your pain tolerance was higher than others' after all, but that didn’t make this easy.
“You don’t get to die just because you’re tired,” You let out before you could think of the consequences, staring at anything else but him. “You don’t get to throw yourself at death like it’s the only thing you deserve.”
“And you don’t get to keep hurting yourself just to prove that I matter!” He shouted, voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You can’t keep doing this. You’ll…. disappear.”
He couldn’t bring himself to say the correct word. You finally met his gaze, taking a trembling step closer.
“I will. If you keep doing this. If you don’t stop treating yourself like you’re expendable.”
His expression twisted, a painful, broken thing. “Why?”
“Because you won’t save yourself,” You whispered. “So I will. Until you start caring about your life… or until you realize I gave you mine.”
A long silence stretched between you. Then, quietly, like a thread unraveling:
“I care.”
You blinked.
“I care,” He repeated. “I just… didn’t know how to show it. I didn’t think I was allowed to.”
Your breath caught.
He reached for you slowly, fingers brushing the edge of your shirt where the blood had bloomed red. “Let me try,” he said. “Let me start now.”
He stared at the blood staining your shirt, the way your breath hitched with every movement. His hands hovered like he didn’t know how to touch you gently, like anything he did would break you more. So, you helped him out by sitting down first. The gurney was cold under you, the pain a dull, pulsing throb in your side. It would last a few hours, maybe a few days, like most of them did. But you didn’t regret it. Not when he was alive. Not when he was here.
Bucky slowly stepped in front of you. He moved like he was approaching something sacred. Or fragile. He unzipped one of the emergency medkits and grabbed clean gauze, then glanced up to meet your eyes as if to ask for permission. You gave a small nod.
His fingers trembled just slightly as he lifted your shirt, revealing the angry gash blooming across your side.
He hissed through his teeth. “It should’ve been me.”
You smiled at him, dry and tired. “It was you.”
“No,” He muttered. “I meant… it should’ve stayed on me. I could’ve taken it.”
You cupped the back of his metal hand, pressing it gently against your knee. “You already take too much.”
This time, he didn’t answer. Instead, he focused on cleaning the wound, his hands methodical, precise. You watched the way his brow furrowed, the way he avoided your eyes like he couldn’t bear to look at the pain he’d caused. A similar look to the guilt people wore when they found out how your power worked.
“You don’t have to punish yourself every day,” You sighed.
“I’m not trying to.”
“Then stop flinching every time I help you.”
Bucky let out a low breath. “I flinch because you matter. Because every time you do this, I remember what it feels like to watch someone choose my life over theirs. And… I’m scared one day, you’ll make that choice for the last time.”
He finished dressing the wound in silence before he rose slowly and sat beside you.
For a moment, the room was quiet, the soft hum of overhead lights still present, and the echo of shared breath.
“You said something earlier,” He began finally, voice low. “That I wouldn’t save myself. That I don’t care if I die.”
You looked at him, quiet.
He nodded to himself. “You’re right. I didn’t. Not for a long time. But watching you hurt for me? Watching you bleed and not even hesitate? That scares the hell out of me.”
You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Then let it change you.”
Bucky was still for a beat. Then he shifted, slowly wrapping an arm around you, careful of your wound, careful of everything. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just real. Warm. Grounded.
“I don’t know how to start,” He admitted.
“You just did,” Your eyes slipping closed.
And in that quiet room, beneath too-bright lights and the weight of too many regrets, he held you like someone trying, finally, to be worth saving.
That photo made me laugh ngl, I’m so happy you liked it!
Thank you for reading! <3
Mischief Meets Alpine
Summary: Bucky introduces Alpine to you and Mischief one afternoon. An intense, one-sided, stare off ensues with an interesting truce that practically leaves you speechless when they start influencing each other for better or worse. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.
Word Count: 2.3k+
A/N: To be honest, I wrote this one based on the idea given by @kissingkillercriminals in their reblog of the prequel. Hope it turns out to be a fun read for you and everyone else. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist | Prequel
It was a slow afternoon in the Tower. Clouds had gathered thickly in the sky, casting a grayish hue through the windows. Rain pattered gently against the glass, the soft drumming filling the silence in the common room.
You were curled up on the armchair with a book in your lap and Mischief lounging across your legs like the possessive feline empress she was. Her tail twitched lazily every few seconds, ears flicking to the rhythm of the raindrops. Her eyes were half-lidded, content.
That is, until the elevator dinged. Her ears perked immediately. You looked up as footsteps echoed down the hallway. Familiar ones.
“Hey,” Bucky greeted from the doorway, a little damp from the drizzle. But he wasn’t alone.
Nestled comfortably in his arms, perched like a queen surveying her domain, was a stunning white cat. Blue-eyed, snowy-soft, and eerily calm, almost regal in the way she looked around the room.
Mischief went still.
Your eyes widened. “Is that… Alpine?” You had heard of Bucky’s cat before, but never seemed to have the chance to meet her until now.
Bucky nodded, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips as he stepped in. “She was pacing by the window when I left the room this morning. Figured she might want a change of scenery.”
Mischief lifted her head. Her pupils narrowed sharply as she fixed her gaze on the uninvited guest. A low growl began to bubble in her throat, barely audible to anyone but you.
You gently placed your hand on her back. ‘Easy’, You thought, not even needing to speak it aloud. She didn’t seem to pick up on your message because her entire body was locked, tense, and offended.
Bucky moved slowly, like he knew he was treading on sacred ground. “Didn’t mean to start a turf war. Just figured maybe it was time.”
You stood slowly, Mischief reluctantly hopping off your lap. Her tail whipped once in warning.
Alpine was unfazed. Her blue eyes landed on Mischief with mild interest. She gave a soft, courteous mrrrow, as if greeting a fellow royal.
Mischief’s eyes narrowed. She sat, but her body language screamed intruder.
“She’s beautiful,” You said gently, watching Alpine with cautious awe. “I didn’t know she was so calm around new places.”
“She’s used to traveling,” Bucky replied, setting Alpine down slowly onto the floor. “Doesn’t like being cooped up. Kinda like me.”
You watched with a held breath as Alpine took a few exploratory steps forward. Mischief didn’t move, but her eyes tracked every inch like a sniper zeroing in. When Alpine got within a few feet, she paused. Then, with the unbothered grace of someone who feared nothing, she laid down.
Mischief hissed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even aggressive. But it was unmistakably territorial.
“Mischief,” You warned softly, crouching next to her. “She’s not a threat.”
Bucky crouched too, beside Alpine, who had begun grooming her paw without a care in the world.
“Look at them,” He said, his voice hushed like it was a secret. “It’s like they’re trying to decide who owns the building.”
You laughed under your breath. “Mischief thinks she owns it.”
“Alpine knows she doesn’t need to prove it.”
As the two cats stared each other down, you caught it, soft and calm, threaded right beneath the silence.
She’s dramatic.
You blinked. Wait… That voice, sleek, composed, feminine, was Alpine’s. Not a meow, not a growl. Words.
You glanced at Bucky, but he was oblivious. Still watching the feline standoff like it was a chess game. Mischief’s growl rose slightly. Alpine remained still.
She likes you. That’s why she hasn’t lunged yet.
Alpine added, her voice as silky as her fur.
But I don’t back down either. So this should be interesting.
You noticed Mischief didn’t seem to hear your telepathic conversation with the newcomer. So you didn’t respond aloud, instead responding in your mind. ’You’re really not bothered, are you?’
He smells like snow and blood, but his hands are gentle. She’s possessive, not of the tower. Of you.
You felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rain. ‘I can see why.’
Mischief hissed quietly, and you caught a flicker of Alpine’s tail.
She wants me to leave.
’Will you?’ You thought, unsure if you were asking out of hope or curiosity.
No. But I’ll wait. I’m patient. She’s not the only one who’s bonded.
The two cats remained still, locked in a silent standoff. Well, more like a one-sided standoff. A slow, deliberate blink passed from Alpine to Mischief.
To your utter shock, Mischief paused for a moment before blinking back. A beat passed before she turned her head and sat down with a huff. Not surrender. But perhaps a reluctant acknowledgment.
Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Was that…?”
You blinked. “I think that was the feline equivalent of a handshake.”
He grinned, proud. “Progress.”
You looked down at both of them, one lounging and one sulking. You rose to your feet now, and as you did, Mischief brushed your leg with her tail, circling your feet like she was claiming you. Alpine simply hopped onto the rug and began inspecting a string toy left forgotten from Tony’s latest failed bribery attempt.
“So,” Bucky said after a moment, straightening. “What are the chances our girls end up tolerating each other?”
You glanced down at Mischief, who gave you a look that seemed to say, I allow this only because you do.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” You murmured. “But… It’s a start.”
Bucky stepped a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “They’re like us,” He said quietly. “Cautious. But… maybe not beyond letting someone in.”
You turned your head toward him slowly, heart skipping.
“Maybe,” You said. “If they’re lucky enough to find the right person.”
And beneath the steady sound of rain, the two of you watched the loved cats learning the quiet language of trust across the room.
-
Though, you didn’t know what that trust would actually entail. The first incident began with silence, which, in your experience with Mischief, was never a good sign.
The Tower was unusually quiet that morning. You were sipping tea in the kitchen, reading reports while waiting for the coffee machine to finish sputtering its way through Bucky’s drink order. Mischief had been suspiciously absent since breakfast. Alpine had vanished not long after.
You glanced toward the hallway only to find nothing out of the ordinary.
Then, a crash, coming from the direction of Tony’s lab.
Not a small bump or a gentle thud. No, this was a metallic, shattering, the Tony-will-not-be-pleased sort of crash.
You bolted upright, nearly spilling your tea, and sprinted toward the noise. Bucky was already there, jogging in from the elevator, sweatpants loose, hair damp from his time at the gym.
“You heard that too?” He asked, eyes narrowing.
Another sound followed. A high-pitched zip-zip-zip noise, like drones activating. Followed by… pawsteps?
You and Bucky skidded to a stop at the entrance to Tony’s lab. It looked like a bomb had gone off.
Three of Tony’s prototype micro-drones were hovering erratically midair, one of them twirling in panicked circles. The rest lay in pieces scattered across the floor, wires tangled like a crime scene. And in the middle of the chaos sat Alpine, tail curled delicately around her paws, completely unbothered.
On the counter nearby, Mischief crouched with a gleam in her eye that could only be described as unrepentant. She looked directly at you, then at Bucky, and gave a soft meow as if to assert her innocence.
“I think we just missed the heist,” You said breathlessly.
Bucky muttered, “Alpine was supposed to be the calm one.”
“I never said Mischief was a good influence.”
You both stepped forward carefully, surveying the disaster. Mischief had clearly pried open one of the drawers, Tony’s "Do Not Touch" ones. Wires were dragged out like spaghetti noodles. A spilled jar of who knows what rolled lazily across the floor.
“Is that my cloaking device?” Came a voice from the hallway.
You winced as Tony rounded the corner before stopping dead at the sight.
Alpine jumped gracefully down and walked over to Bucky’s feet, brushing against him as if she hadn’t just helped dismantle a small fortune in tech.
Tony's eye twitched. “Why are your cats smarter than my interns?”
“I ask myself that every day,” Bucky said, scooping up Alpine. “You didn’t leave any exploding gadgets out, right?”
“Not this week,” Tony snapped, waving a tablet like a club. “Do you even understand what they’ve broken? That drone was programmed to help defuse bombs.”
“I’m sure they had a good reason,” You offered, not that it helped, gently lifting Mischief off the counter. She purred, content and absolutely smug.
“Ask her what the hell kind of reason that would be,” Tony snapped at you.
You looked at Mischief, questioning in a flat tone. “Why?”
Mischief stretched lazily, flicked her tail, and in a nonchalant, mental whisper, said:
It blinked first.
You groaned at the excuse, hesitating before giving the answer. “She says it blinked at her.”
Tony blinked. “It blinked? That’s your defense?”
“She’s a cat, Tony.”
“Whatever.” He pointed at Bucky. “And your cat?”
Bucky looked down at Alpine, who yawned wide and graceful. She murmured to you with eerie composure,
I wanted to know if it could fly backward. It couldn’t.
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
“What?” Tony demanded, head snapping towards you.
You waved him off. “You… don’t want to know.”
Later that evening, after Tony had barricaded the lab and implemented new retinal scans to keep out the feline menaces (his words, not yours). You found Bucky in the living room with Alpine lying beside him with a toy and Mischief perched on the back of the couch.
“They’re lucky they’re cute,” You muttered, flopping down beside him.
Bucky glanced sideways. “I think they’re bonding.”
“They broke a drone.”
“Exactly.”
You looked at the two cats now comfortably sharing the space, Alpine nibbling at the feather toy, Mischief eyeing the object like it had wronged her.
You shook your head. “It’s like watching spies team up.”
“They are spies,” Bucky corrected, definitely not taking this seriously, evident by the grin he wore. “Tiny, furry, manipulative spies.”
Mischief flicked her tail in agreement as Alpine blinked slowly. And for a brief moment, peace, albeit temporary, settled over the Tower.
-
However, while the first incident was annoying for Tony, the second was catered more toward you and Bucky.
It started small to the point where you didn’t notice it at first. Mischief, your eternally territorial shadow, began to behave… differently. She still took up her usual place on your lap, still growled at anyone who got too close, and still owned the Tower like she paid the bills. But she started following you and Bucky when you left rooms. Lingering in the halls, appearing on counters and ledges when the two of you happened to be in the same space.
Alpine, meanwhile, watched everything from a perch of regal detachment, or so it seemed. But you knew better since you heard her.
Don’t hiss this time. Just watch. Let him sit next to her first.
You had paused when you heard it the first time, over breakfast. Mischief was on the table (illegally), staring daggers at Bucky as he walked in. Alpine, curled on the windowsill, barely flicked her tail, but her voice unintentionally slipped into your thoughts again as she directed the ‘secret’ information to Mischief:
She likes it when he brings her things and when he calls her 'trouble.' You should let her admit that.
You almost choked on your toast, but didn’t say anything when Bucky looked over at you with a questioning, concerned gaze.
That was the first clue.
The second clue came two days later, when Bucky was helping you patch up a cut you'd gotten during training. It was nothing, barely a nick, but he'd insisted. Kneeling in front of you, his gloved hand cradled your wrist while the other applied antiseptic.
Mischief watched from the armrest, her ears twitching. It was clear she was tense, jealous… until Alpine hopped up beside her and gently nudged her with her head.
Now. Purr. So she relaxes.
Mischief blinked slowly, tail twitching. Then, shockingly, she purred. Loudly and deeply. You actually laughed, easing into the moment, and Bucky glanced up at you with that rare, boyish half-smile that made your chest ache.
You knew that had been Alpine's doing. And Mischief, traitor that she was, seemed fine with it.
The third clue? Bucky confessed it.
You were sitting together in the lounge late one night, watching the rain tap softly at the windows, each of you nursing mugs of tea. Mischief dozed between you on the couch. Alpine had curled beside her, touching, no less. A miracle in itself.
Bucky tilted his head toward the sleeping cats. “You know, Alpine's been… weird.”
“Weird how?”
He hesitated. “She… keeps pushing me toward you.”
Your heart did a very stupid, very hopeful thing. “She told you that?”
He gave you a sheepish look. “She doesn’t talk to me like she talks to you, of course. But she’ll nudge me when I move away too soon. Block seats unless I sit beside you. Once she knocked my phone out of my hand when I was trying to leave the room.”
You could feel your heart beat faster, but tried to cover up your nervousness with a laugh, joking a little. “She’s matchmaking.”
“I think Mischief’s in on it, too. Last night, she dragged your hoodie into my room.”
Your eyebrows shot up. So that’s where your hoodie went, of all places.
“And then Alpine slept on it like it was a peace offering.”
You looked down at the two curled balls of fur, now subtly pressed together. Mischief’s tail lay loosely draped over Alpine’s back.
“Is this what a truce looks like?” You whispered.
Bucky’s fingers brushed yours, and you didn’t pull away.
“Looks like,” He murmured.
You didn’t answer this time, but your fingers curled around Bucky’s gently as Alpine purred softly and Mischief, even in sleep, didn’t object.
That was enough of an answer until either of you could act on the same thing both of your hearts wanted.
Tiny Winged Trouble
Summary: You’re only a few inches tall, full of sparkle and mischief. When SHIELD accidentally captures you in a jar, Steve and Bucky are tasked with figuring out what you are. You refuse to speak at first, until Steve gives you a cookie. Now they’re stuck with a clingy, stubborn fairy who calls them “Tree” and “Shadow.” (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes)
Word Count: 1.1k+
A/N: It was either mermaid reader or fairy reader. Fairy was easier to write soooo… Enjoy! Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
You were caught in a jar.
A pickle jar, to be specific. It still smelled faintly of vinegar and dill, which you found personally offensive and not just because fairies are very sensitive to smell.
You were fluttering peacefully through the trees near the outskirts of New York when a group of shouting humans in dark armor leapt out from behind a bush and trapped you in what they called a “containment unit.” You didn’t know what SHIELD was, but their agents were very loud and very rough, and they didn’t even ask your name.
You sat cross-legged at the bottom of the jar, wings tucked in, arms folded across your chest, trying your best to look unimpressed.
And then he walked in. Tall, golden-haired, broad-shouldered, a man who practically radiated kindness and confusion in equal measure. Steve Rogers.
He approached the table with another man behind him, darker, quieter, haunted-eyed but alert watching everything. Bucky Barnes.
“I thought you said there was an artifact,” Steve said slowly, looking at the jar.
“It is,” The agent replied. “It talks.”
You gave the man your most dramatic eye roll.
Steve crouched beside the table, eyes soft, voice careful. “Hi there. What’s your name?”
You turned your head away and said nothing.
Bucky stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. “Do fairies sulk?”
You didn’t like his tone not cruel, just skeptical. So you stuck your tongue out at him and turned invisible.
Bucky jumped slightly. “Okay. That answers that.”
“Hey, hey,” Steve murmured, holding his hands up gently. “We’re not gonna hurt you, promise. You just surprised everyone, that’s all. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Still, you said nothing.
It wasn’t until someone walked by with a coffee and a chocolate chip cookie that you broke your silence. You reappeared instantly, pressed against the glass, eyes wide.
Steve blinked, then laughed softly. “You want one of those?”
You nodded furiously.
Five minutes later, the jar was opened and you bolted straight onto Steve’s shoulder, snatched the cookie chunk he offered, and curled into the crook of his neck like you’d always lived there.
You stayed close after that. Not that they had much of a choice.
You built a tiny hammock out of tissues on their bookshelf. Braided thread into their laces. Tried to “fix” Bucky’s grumpy face with flower petals and got scolded, very softly, for it. You called Steve “Tree” because he was tall and smelled like sap. You called Bucky “Shadow” because he followed you around pretending he wasn’t trying to protect you.
You refused to be studied, refused to go back in any jars, and made it very clear you’d chosen your new home: right between two super soldiers who didn’t know how much they needed something as strange and sweet as you.
Sometimes, you’d land on Bucky’s shoulder when he couldn’t sleep, singing soft, wordless melodies that reminded him of something in the past. Sometimes, you’d perch on Steve’s chest as he read, snuggled into the fabric of his henley like a kitten with wings.
You were tiny, fragile, ridiculous, and completely, utterly theirs.
Even if you still left cookie crumbs everywhere.
-
Steve and Bucky discovered quickly how particular fairies could be. Or maybe it was just you.
See, they realized you were much more stubborn than they had anticipated which caused another one of your sulking moods. It started because you weren’t allowed to use the microwave. Which, in your defense, made no sense.
You weren’t trying to start another fire, that was an accident. And yes, maybe the leftover spaghetti had exploded the last time, but how were you supposed to know that foil was banned? You’d never had a microwave before. You grew up in moss and tree hollows and warm sunlight. Your diet was dew, nectar, and whatever you could barter from passing squirrels.
Now, you wanted popcorn, but Bucky had said no. He had looked down at you with his arms crossed and that stupid I care about you and you’re being ridiculous face, stating, “You almost fried the tower’s circuits last time. Find something from the fruit bowl if you’re hungry.”
You responded with the most dramatic gasp you could manage and fluttered up to the top of the cabinets, crossing your arms with a huff.
Steve tried to step in, intervening gently. “He’s not trying to upset you. He just doesn’t want you to get hurt.”
You didn’t answer. You turned your back with your wings flaring slightly in righteous fairy fury, you refused to acknowledge either of them. Not even when Steve sighed and offered you a piece of shortbread. Not even when Bucky muttered something like “She’s sulking again, isn’t she?”
You remained a furious little sparkle, curled into a puffball of wings and pouting.
Hours passed. You still refused to come down.
They tried tempting you with cookies, with your favorite mug of rose petal tea, with one of Steve’s socks (which you always stole to use as a blanket).
Nothing. You were mad. And fairies, though small, are very good at holding grudges.
By the time night fell, you were still wedged behind a cereal box, curled into a mopey heap. And then… you heard a sound. Thump. It was a soft knock on the cabinet.
You peeked over the edge to find Bucky standing there, holding a tiny plate.
“I made popcorn. Not with the microwave. Just the pan.”
You stared at him.
“I didn’t put salt on it. Figured you’d want to do that yourself.”
He set the plate down gently on the counter, then leaned against it, arms folded.
“…You gonna stay up there forever?” He asked after a pause, tone mild.
You turned invisible.
He smirked. “Cute.”
Moments later, you reappeared beside the popcorn and began nibbling, still silent, still frowning.
Steve walked in just then and paused. “Is that a peace offering or a trap?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Bucky replied.
You muttered something under your breath.
Steve blinked. “Did she just call you a ‘grumpy tin soldier’?”
“I think so,” Bucky said, raising an eyebrow.
You stuffed a piece of popcorn in your mouth and glared at them both, cheeks puffed out like a hamster.
Steve crouched beside the counter, eyes warm. “Hey, no one’s mad at you, sweetheart. We just don’t want you getting hurt.”
You looked away before mumbling, “I wanted to make it myself.”
And that was the truth of it. You wanted to prove you could. That you weren’t just tiny and delicate and fluttery. That you could be useful, capable. That you weren’t always the one needing help.
Bucky leaned closer, voice quieter now. “Next time… I’ll show you how.”
You peeked up at him, suspicious.
“You can hold the lid,” He said, tone serious. “That’s an important job.”
“…Fine,” You muttered.
Steve smiled gently, brushing your wing with one careful finger. “We’re proud of you, y’know.”
You huffed, still pretending you weren’t moved before climbing into Bucky’s hand, wings drooping slightly from exhaustion and popcorn forgotten. You curled into his palm with a sigh, tiny fingers gripping the edge of his sleeve.
Still sulking but not as much. And this time, you weren’t alone.
What We Fight For
Summary: Thrown into a tense alliance, you and Bucky Barnes clash into a rivalry with cold stares and harsh words. But when a rooftop fall, a late-night patch-up, and a brutal argument strip away both of your defenses, the truth hits harder than any mission ever could. (Bucky Barnes x Super soldier!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has a similar serum as a super soldier.
Word Count: 3k+
A/N: Apologies if this seems messy. It’s not really a power that gives me much to work with, but it turned out alright in the end. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
You weren’t recruited. You were assigned.
Born from a black-ops experiment the government quietly buried once the serum stabilized, you were a living weapon they kept in their back pocket. A contingency plan. When word came that the Avengers might need more muscle in the field, they didn’t ask. They deployed.
You didn’t come to make friends. You came to fulfill orders and win.
And yet, here you were, staring across the mat at Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier himself, while Sam smirked from the sidelines and Steve muttered something about “team bonding.” You were here to train, but Bucky had that look again that said you’re not welcome here.
“Again,” You say flatly, shrugging out your jacket and stepping onto the mat.
Bucky’s jaw ticks. “Thought you’d had enough yesterday when I put you on your ass.”
Your lip twitches. “I slipped.”
“Sure you did.”
He circles you slowly, assessing. His arms are relaxed at his sides but you’re not fooled. He’s reading your stance, waiting for your weight to shift, for your hips to square. You’d be insulted if you weren’t doing the exact same thing. You lunge first, test him. He blocks it easily, metal arm catching your strike mid-air. You twist, pivoting into a sweep that nearly clips his ankle, but he hops back with a grunt.
“Getting slower, Barnes,” You mutter.
“You talk a lot for someone who hasn’t landed a hit all week.”
The sparring sessions had started as training. Then they became contests. Now, it was just war. He didn’t like the way you fought. It was too sharp, too efficient. You didn’t like the way he looked at you, like he recognized something he hated in himself.
You fake going left and land a solid elbow to his ribs on the right. The air leaves him in a hiss. He recovers fast, but not fast enough to stop the cocky grin that pulls at your mouth.
“Gotcha.”
He narrows his eyes. “Beginner’s luck.”
He rushes you, sudden and aggressive. For a moment, you're toe-to-toe, exchanging blows with brutal precision. Metal arm meets gloved knuckles. You both move like predators. Mirrored, practiced, and too much history in your blood to fight sloppy. Eventually, you end up on your back, panting, his knee pinning your chest, breath hot against your cheek.
“Yield,” He growls.
Your fingers flex against the mat. “Not a chance.”
He hesitates for a beat too long and that’s when you slam your forehead into his nose. He yelps, a very undignified sound you wish you had recorded, and rolls off with a curse, cradling his face.
You scramble to your feet, wincing slightly from the impact. “You get distracted too easily.”
He looks up, eyes narrowed, blood trailing from his nose. “You’re insane.”
You toss him a towel. “Takes one to know one.”
For a moment, the room goes quiet, both of you catching your breath. Then he says, “They trained you like me, didn’t they?”
You don’t answer. You don’t have to.
“I can tell,” He continues, voice lower now. “You fight like you’re not allowed to lose. Like you don’t know what it means to stop.”
Your jaw tightens. “Then stop underestimating me.”
“I don’t,” He says quietly. “That’s the problem.”
The air shifts. Charged and uneasy as you both stand there, bruised and sweaty. Too close and too silent. Then Steve’s voice cuts in from the hallway.
“Good session, you two.”
You step back. Bucky wipes his nose. Neither of you says another word. But the next day, he’s already waiting on the mat before you get there. And he doesn’t hold back anymore.
-
The compound is quiet at midnight. The kind of stillness that wraps around you and presses into your bones. You slip into the kitchen in your sweats, body sore from training, head still buzzing from the adrenaline you never quite know how to shake. You don’t bother turning the lights on.
The fridge hums in the background. The tile is cold beneath your feet as you reach for the kettle. Then-
“You always drink tea like you're in a British spy movie, or is this just your midnight ritual?”
Your spine stiffens. You recognize the voice behind you, of course you do. But you don’t turn around, acknowledging him in a flat tone. “Barnes.”
“Didn't peg you for the insomnia type.”
You glance over your shoulder. He’s leaning in the doorway like he owns the room. Loose black t-shirt. Arms crossed. Shadows catch the angles of his face just enough to make his scowl look carved.
You gesture at the kettle. “Some of us have things on our mind.”
He steps into the kitchen, walking past you to open the cabinet above your head. You don’t move from your spot. He reaches over you, brushing against your shoulder on purpose, you’re sure. His body heat trails behind him like a warning.
“Stealing my tea now?” You ask flatly.
“You took my towel earlier.”
“You were bleeding on it.”
“I was using it.”
You roll your eyes and pour the hot water into two mismatched mugs. He raises an eyebrow when you slide one over.
“Poisoned?”
“Not yet.”
You both sip in silence as the fluorescent light over the sink flickers. He leans against the counter across from you, sipping slowly as he watches you. He always watches like he’s looking for something, maybe cracks in your walls.
“You always like this?” He asks.
You tilt your head. “Like what?”
“Walled off and sharp edges. Acting like you don’t need anyone.”
Your jaw tightens, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Better than acting like you used to be someone else.”
His expression darkens. The silence stretches. You should apologize, but don’t.
“Right,” He mutters, setting the mug down. “Guess we’re both good at pretending.”
You don’t look at him, but your voice comes quieter than intended. “Maybe we don’t know how to stop.”
He hesitates, and you notice something shift in his tone.
“You hit hard,” He says.
“You go easy on me.”
He scoffs. “I don’t go easy on anyone.”
You glance up at him. “Then maybe I hit harder than you expected.”
His lips twitch, just slightly. “Maybe.”
You stand there for a moment, two supersoldiers in the dead of night, staring at each other over mugs of tea like it’s some kind of game neither of you knows the rules to.
Then he says, voice lower now, “You’re not like them.”
You blink. “Them?”
“Soldiers. The ones they send. You’re colder, smarter. Meaner.”
You smirk. “Flatter me some more, Barnes.”
“I’m saying I know what it feels like to be made for war and expected to act like a person afterward.”
Something sinks in your chest. Deeper than you want it to.
“You think I’m not a person?” You ask.
He looks straight at you. “I think you’re trying real hard not to be.”
That lands too accurately. Way too close to the bone. You grip the mug a little tighter. He notices, but doesn’t push.
“I’m going to bed,” You mutter, setting the mug down.
As you pass him, his voice follows.
“Don’t forget tomorrow. Training at seven.”
You pause in your tracks, glancing back at him with narrowed eyes.
“You trying to kill me?”
“No,” He says with a ghost of a grin. “If I was, you’d already be dead.”
You smirk just a little. “Maybe you’re getting slow.”
His smile fades, but something warm lingers in his eyes.
“You wish.”
And for the first time, your heartbeat feels less like a threat, and more like a dare you don’t know whether to act upon.
-
The comms crackle in your ear as the wind howls around the rooftop. Rain slicks the concrete beneath your boots. Below, the city lights blur and flicker, distorted by smoke, shadows, and chaos.
The mission was to apprehend the target then turn them in. A simple in and out. Something you should have been able to complete with ease.
But you had been ambushed.
You skid across the rooftop, breathe ragged, blood sticky under your ribs. Something’s broken, probably more than one thing, but you don’t stop. You can’t.
Bucky’s voice cuts through the storm as he calls your name, sharp and commanding, “You’re heading for the west corner. That fire escape’s blown out. Stop moving.”
You ignore him. Every second wasted is another second the target might vanish. You need to cut them off. You need to move.
“Damn it—”
The roof crumbles under your weight. You drop.
It’s not far, three stories, maybe, but pain flares bright as you hit a ledge hard, the edge of it catching your side with a crunch. You roll, barely catching yourself before you slide off completely.
And then he’s there. Hands on your arms. Dragging you up, fast, rough, and angry.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Bucky’s face is too close, eyes wide, rain streaking through his hair. “You were told to pull back!”
“I had them!” You wheeze, swallowing the metallic taste of blood. “We can’t let them run-“
“You can’t breathe.”
You try to shake him off. He doesn’t let go.
You hiss, teeth gritting, “I didn’t need your help.”
“That’s not what it looked like when you were halfway to death’s door.”
His grip tightens on your arms, but it’s not pain he’s trying to inflict. It’s panic he’s trying to hide. His metal hand is cold from the rain and trembling just slightly. You hate that you notice.
You turn your face away. “I’ve survived worse.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is it?”
“That I care, damn it!”
The words slip out hot and ragged, louder than the rain.
You freeze and so does he.
The only sound for a moment is the wind, and your breath, shallow and uneven between you. His hands drop away from your arms slowly, like he’s just realizing he touched you at all.
He backs up a step. “Forget it.”
You stare at him, stunned. Blood is still soaking through your shirt, but your heart is thudding hard behind your ribs and not from the pain.
“You care,” You echo quietly, almost like a question.
He exhales, clearly frustrated and embarrassed. “Forget I said anything.”
“I didn’t think you did.”
“I didn’t want to.”
You look at him. Really look. There’s a flicker of something soft beneath all that steel. Vulnerability edged with guilt. It’s the one of the first times he’s looked at you without his guard up. It’s one of the first times you’ve looked at him without wanting to hit him.
“You should’ve let me fall,” You whisper.
He shakes his head. “No. I shouldn’t have.”
He pauses for a moment before adding:
“And I wouldn’t have.”
You say nothing as he steps closer. He doesn’t touch you this time. Doesn’t need to. But his voice drops to a murmur only you can hear, “You don’t have to keep proving you don’t need anyone. I already know you don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere.”
You hate how much it rattles you. You hate that you believe him. You lower your gaze to your hand, still bloodied, still shaking slightly from adrenaline.
When you speak again, your voice is barely audible.
“Help me back up.”
He does.
This time, his hand stays in yours longer than necessary. And neither of you lets go first.
-
You hate medical bays. Always have. Sterile light. Quiet beeping. That faint scent of alcohol and regret. You had shooed away the staff, saying you could do it yourself and would call if you needed anything.
You sit on the edge of the bed, shirt peeled halfway off, bruises blooming violet-black across your ribs, blood crusted at your temple. You’ve already tried to patch yourself up, but your hands won’t stop shaking and the gauze keeps slipping.
Bucky walks in without knocking.
You glare up at him. “Ever heard of privacy?”
He tosses a med kit onto the table and takes off his jacket. “You lost that privilege when you almost threw yourself off a roof.”
You scoff, but don't argue.
He opens the kit, pulling out antiseptic and gauze, and stands between your knees without asking. You don’t stop him even though you should, his admission earlier still echoing in your mind.
He dips the cotton in alcohol. “This is going to hurt.”
“I’m not new.”
He raises a brow. “Then stop flinching.”
You open your mouth to snap something back but he presses the soaked cotton against the gash on your side before you can, and pain sparks like electricity up your spine. Your hand shoots out instinctively and grips his arm. You feel the muscles tense under your fingers.
“Still not flinching?” He murmurs.
You grit your teeth. “Screw you.”
His lips twitch, barely.
The silence that follows is tight and thick, like something fragile stretched to the edge of breaking. His hand moves gently now, slower, wiping away blood. His touch is careful in a way that makes your chest ache more than your ribs.
You glance up at him. He’s too close. And he’s not looking at the wound anymore, he’s looking at you.
You could lean in. Just a little. You could close that impossible space and finally… you don’t. He doesn’t either.
Instead, he murmurs, “You don’t take care of yourself.”
You look away. “Don’t need to.”
“Bullshit.” His voice is low. Angry. Not at you, at whatever taught you to think like that. “You treat your body like it’s disposable.”
“Maybe it is.”
The silence that falls after that isn’t the kind you fill. It’s the kind that hurts.
He gently presses a bandage against your ribs, then tapes it in place. His fingers linger on your skin for a moment longer than necessary.
“You’re not disposable,” He says quietly. “Not to me.”
You freeze. There he goes again.
The air shifts. Then you do something you didn’t expect, you reach out and touch his jaw. Just two fingers, gently as if to test the weight of your own choice.
He doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t move closer, either. You draw your hand back like the moment never happened. But it did.
“I’ll change the dressing tomorrow,” He says, voice rough.
“I’ll be fine,” You reply, just as quiet.
He turns to leave before stopping in the doorway.
“You don’t have to keep doing things alone,” He says without turning around, and then he’s gone.
You sit there for a long time after. Holding your breath like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling.
-
As time passes and you’re assigned to go on more missions, the tension between you and him builds for better or worse.
You had recently returned from a solo mission. The compound is quiet, but the air inside the training room crackles with something volatile. You slam the door behind you, furious.
And he’s already there. Bucky’s pacing with his gloves off and shirt clinging to his back. His jaw is tight and his hands are fisted like he’s been holding back from punching something or someone.
“I told you,” He growls, not even looking at you, “Not to go in alone.”
“I handled it.”
“You were shot.”
“I’ve been shot before.”
He spins on you, blue eyes wild. “That doesn’t mean it’s fine!”
You throw your bag down, with a frustrated sigh. “Why do you even care, Barnes?”
He’s on you in seconds; closer than he should be, breathe sharp with adrenaline and frustration.
“Because I’m tired of watching you bleed for people who wouldn’t do the same for you!”
“You think I don’t know that?” You snap. “You think I don’t feel that, every time I’m stitched up in some cold-ass medical bay while everyone else celebrates the win?”
His face is stone, but his eyes… God, his eyes are raw.
“Then why?” He demands. “Why keep doing it? Why keep throwing yourself at the fire when you know no one’s coming to pull you out?”
You try to shove him hard, but doesn’t move. You hate that he cares. You hate that he can’t just ignore you and view you as a tool like everyone else. When you go to answer, your voice is loud and it cracks:
“Because I don’t know how to stop!”
There it is. The silence after that is explosive. You’re both breathing hard, staring at each other. Daring the other to say something that will break the last barrier you’ve both kept between yourselves. That fragile, stupid boundary you’ve both pretended exists.
He takes a step forward and you match him.
His voice drops, dangerous. “You think I don’t see it? How you act like you hate me, just to keep from admitting you don’t?”
Your heart kicks into your ribs. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know you fight me harder than you fight anyone else.”
“Maybe because you deserve it.”
His jaw flexes. “Or maybe because you’re scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of wanting something real.”
You watches you flinch like he hit you, but he doesn’t back down. “You act like I’m the enemy, like pushing me away makes you stronger, but every time you fall, you look for me. Don’t lie.”
You swallow hard. “Don’t act like you don’t do the same.”
You’re chest to chest now. The air is boiling. You can feel the heat coming off his skin. Your hand is still curled in the fabric of his shirt from when you shoved him, but you haven’t let go.
He looks at your mouth and you look at his. The moment stretches before it breaks.
“You want to hate me?” He breathes. “Then say it.”
You stare at him, trembling now.
Say it, You tell yourself. End it. Push him away for good.
But the words won’t come. Instead, you whisper, too soft, too vulnerable:
“I don’t.”
That’s all it takes.
His mouth crashes into yours like a dam breaking. Like something starved, angry, desperate. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers in his hair. His hands grips your waist, then your back, then your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold all of you at once.
It’s not gentle. It’s not clean. It’s everything you’ve both tried not to feel. But it’s real.
When you finally pull back, barely, his forehead rests against yours. No words are shared. Just slow shaky breathing and the terrifying, undeniable truth:
You don’t hate each other. You never did.
Ahhh! Thank you so much!!! I’m glad you liked it. This was one of the more creative powers, so I’m so happy that this seemed to turn out well. Thank you for reading!!! ♡
The Weight of the Truth
Summary: You form an unlikely bond with Bucky Barnes during your time with the Avengers. What begins as mutual trust and quiet companionship slowly deepens into something more. However, when Bucky begins pulling away without explanation, it leaves you hurt and confused. Tension builds until a raw, emotional confrontation forces the truth out of both of you. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to compel people to tell the truth against their will. Light angst. Hurt/Comfort.
Word Count: 3k+
A/N: Based on the poll I ran, the majority voted Truth Compulsion and Telepathy. I chose the first for now and will do telepathy next, maybe something lighter or fun for the latter. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
You weren’t born with the power to pull truth from people’s mouths. It came later in life one rainy afternoon, so suddenly, like a curse wrapped in silk. It didn’t matter how much someone wanted to lie; if you asked the question and truly wanted the answer, they had to speak it. Every word dragged from their chest like it weighed a hundred pounds. You didn’t need to raise your voice, threaten, or coax. No. Your voice simply made the truth impossible to hold in.
Some people thought it was a gift. However, you never saw it that way, knowing what people really felt, what they really meant, and what they were too afraid to say. You were too young back then when you failed to realize most people didn’t want honesty. And some truths, once spoken, couldn’t be unsaid.
Therefore, you weren’t used to people staying. Not when they learned what you could do.
Your presence alone made people uneasy, not because you were loud or threatening, but because you listened. People were afraid of what you might ask, afraid that even an innocent question like “Are you okay?” might unravel something carefully buried. Over time, you learned how to walk lightly, how to speak softly, and how to exist without pressing.
When the Avengers found you, you were a wild card to them. Useful indeed, but dangerous. You could end a fight with one question or tear a team apart with one sentence. As a result, most of them kept their distance. Not out of fear, exactly but more out of caution. As if being near you meant something deep inside them might be accidentally pulled to the surface.
Natasha was polite. Steve was kind but wary. Wanda, empathetic but unreadable. But Bucky? He didn’t avoid you. He didn’t tiptoe. That’s what made Bucky Barnes different.
He didn’t fill the space around you with noise. He didn’t dance around your power. He never stared, never fidgeted, never waited for you to break the silence with something intrusive or painful. He just… sat beside you. Quietly, like he had nothing more that could possibly be confessed considering the world knew most of his past by now.
You noticed him long before he noticed you. You picked up on how he scanned every room like someone would pop out and attack him. How he clenched his jaw every time someone brushed against him without warning. How he kept his left arm always at an angle, like he was guarding something, himself. It was like he didn’t know if he was allowed to be comfortable in his own skin.
Regardless, you never asked questions. Not even once. You gave him something rare: Space.
And in return, he gave you something rarer: Presence.
It started with him sitting near you in the common room during team meetings, even if it meant skipping an open seat to get there. Then came the training sessions, where you sparred silently, never needing to speak but always aware of each other’s limits. You matched each other’s pace like you’d done this for years. Then came the early mornings. You’d enter the kitchen with your favorite mug in hand and find him already there, black coffee in one hand, gaze out the window. The first time, he only nodded. By the third week, he was pouring you a cup before you even spoke.
You noticed the way he remembered things no one else did. That you hated synthetic fabrics, that the buzzing of certain lights gave you migraines, or that your favorite tea had to steep exactly three minutes. He didn’t say anything, he just did things. Adjusted the lighting, quietly requested your sheets be swapped for cotton, left your tea on the table with a timer set. It warmed your heart in some way. You never thanked him aloud, but you knew he felt your gratitude anyways.
In return for his kindness, you learned to read his silences.
There was a difference between when he was tired and when he was haunted. A difference between when he wanted company and when he couldn’t stand to be alone but didn’t know how to ask. On those nights, when the ghosts were louder than his thoughts, he’d find you. Sometimes just to sit beside you on the couch, sometimes to walk the perimeter of the compound in wordless patrol, and sometimes… to talk. Little things and often one sentence at a time. A memory or a sarcastic comment. Sometimes a moment of truth disguised as a joke.
You fell for him slowly. Hopelessly.
In the way his voice softened when he said your name. In the way he watched you like he was memorizing every move, not to predict it, but to understand it. In the way he spoke of nightmares but never had them when you’d fall asleep on his couch for movie nights. In the way you never had to use your power, but he always told you the truth anyway.
You told yourself it wasn’t love. Not yet. Just admiration or connection. It was just the beginning of something you’d never be brave enough to touch.
And still, you saw the way his eyes lingered a second too long when you laughed at one of Sam’s jokes. How he stiffened whenever someone else stood too close to you. How his voice dropped an octave when he asked “You okay?” like the answer would define the rest of his night.
There was always something unfinished between you. Something neither of you dared name. So when your moments of silence became distant and suffocating, it chipped away at your sanity and heart each time.
You had always thought that silence was something you could share. Something safe. But over the last few weeks, the quiet between you and Bucky had begun to feel like an unwelcome gap, a widening chasm neither of you wanted to cross.
It started slowly. You started to notice a coldness in his gaze when he used to look at you with an unreadable warmth. Distance in his movements that used to feel comfortable, like two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together, now felt like two pieces of glass, edges sharp and unyielding.
It was subtle too, little things you thought you could brush off. Like when you’d walk into the common room after a long day and find him sitting there, but when you sat next to him, his shoulders would stiffen. He’d give a tight smile, then turn his attention back to the mission reports without saying much. Or when you found yourself at the training mats together, and he’d deliberately avoid your eye contact when he used to be the first one to look at you after a move. You wondered if he was just tired, or if it was something else but it didn’t feel like tiredness.
Then came the mission.
It was a routine operation. It was a simple extraction clean and precise. You and Bucky worked seamlessly together, as always. He covered your back while you disabled the security system. You moved in tandem, a perfect machine. But when you completed the mission, something shifted in the air. It was like he was pulling away, retreating into himself again. He didn’t speak much during the debriefing, and when you caught him glancing at you, there was something unfamiliar in his expression. Something distant. Something… closed off.
That night, when you returned to the compound, you thought it was just the usual exhaustion from a mission. But Bucky didn’t act like himself. He didn’t come by the kitchen for the usual quiet company. He hadn’t sat next to you during team discussions. He didn’t even bother to make small talk as he passed you in the hall. You caught him avoiding your gaze, his face a mask of calm, but his posture rigid.
It confused you. And it hurt more than you cared to admit.
Had you said something wrong? Done something wrong?
You spent the next few days wondering if you were the cause of it. Maybe he’d gotten too comfortable around you, and now he needed space. Maybe he just didn’t want to deal with whatever had started between you. He was still Bucky, still the same guy who’d saved your life more times than you could count. But now, everything felt like an impenetrable wall.
You didn’t want to push him. You never wanted to be that person. You never wanted to be the one who pried, the one who pushed when someone needed time to process. After all, your powers had long pried out the secrets and words of too many people to count. But Bucky was never like this before. His silences were always comfortable. The absence of his presence now felt like it was hollow, like it was filled with unsaid words and unexplored tension.
You tried to get his attention, at first, with small gestures. A shared look during a team briefing. A subtle joke meant to make him laugh. A fleeting touch of your hand on his arm when you walked by. But each time, he stiffened or pulled away. It wasn’t like him.
The hardest part was not knowing what you’d done. Maybe you had said something wrong, maybe you’d done something that made him close off. It wasn’t like you had any experience in relationships, not any real honest connections. You weren’t even sure what you and Bucky had, but you had thought it was something good and worth holding onto.
Days turned into weeks, and the distance between you both only seemed to grow. There were moments when he was still around, when he still spoke to you in clipped sentences, still walked beside you when the missions called for it. But there was no warmth behind it. No understanding or connection like before. And every time you tried to talk to him to try and ask what was wrong, he’d pull back. His responses were short, almost guarded. Every time you tried to bridge the gap, he’d distance himself further.
-
Finally, one night, after yet another cold interaction, you couldn’t take it anymore. You cornered him in the hallway. His steps faltered when he saw you, but you weren’t going to let him walk away this time.
"Bucky," You called out, your voice a mix of frustration and hurt. "What’s going on? You’re avoiding me."
He stiffened, eyes darting to the floor. His lips pressed into a thin line, like he was fighting a battle inside himself. “I’m not avoiding you," He muttered, but you could hear the lie in his voice. It wasn’t convincing and you knew it wasn’t the truth.
"Then why is it like this? What did I do?" You couldn’t keep the edge of desperation out of your voice. “You’ve been pulling away from me for weeks now and I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s wrong, but you’re driving me crazy, Bucky.”
His jaw clenched as he stood there for a moment in silence before he finally looked at you. His eyes were wide, vulnerable in a way that scared you. This wasn’t Bucky Barnes, the man who always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and kept his emotions under lock and key. This man, standing in front of you, was someone broken, someone you couldn’t fix with a touch or a kind word.
"Is it because of the mission?" You pushed gently, your voice softer. "Did I mess up somehow? If I did, just tell me. I’ll fix it."
Bucky shook his head slowly, his hand running through his hair in frustration. "No. It’s not the mission. It’s…" He looked away, and for the first time in a long while, you saw the weight of everything he’d been hiding in his eyes. "It’s me."
You were silent for a moment, the realization creeping up slowly. Your heart beat in your chest as you tried to keep your voice steady. "Bucky, you’re scaring me. You’re shutting me out, and I don’t know why."
“Just… nevermind. Forget it. Goodnight.” He said tightly, moving to depart with his gaze incapable of facing you directly.
It was then that something inside you snapped. The years of silence and loneliness, of holding back, and of not letting your power show when it was the only thing that might break through. You had to know the truth. You had to hear him say it. You had no other choice. You couldn’t just keep waiting for him to open up not after you’ve tried relentlessly and hopelessly the past couple of weeks.
You focused. You’d never used your ability on him before, not because you were afraid of the power, but because you never wanted him to experience another situation where he had no control. You were afraid of what you might find if you pushed him too hard; but tonight, you weren’t going to let him walk away.
You took a deep breath, your voice steadier than you felt, mentally asking for his forgiveness as you spoke firmly. “Bucky, I need you to answer me. Why are you really pushing me away?”
His body stiffened. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the way he fought against your words, as if he could physically resist them. But it was futile. The pull of your power was subtle, like an invisible tether pulling at him, a force beyond his control.
His mouth opened, and for a moment, it was as if he tried to choke back the words. It was like he tried to shove them down into the depths of his mind where he thought they’d stay buried forever. But they spilled out anyway, raw and jagged, his voice betraying him in a way you hadn’t expected.
”Because if I let myself love you,” Bucky whispered, his eyes flickering with the weight of the confession, ”I don’t know if I could survive losing you too.”
The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the cracks in the armor that he’d built around himself. The fear, the raw terror, that if he let himself love again, he wouldn’t be able to bear the inevitable heartbreak. Because Lord knows how much he’s lost and had to grieve in his life.
You didn’t know what to say. For a moment, everything felt like it was frozen in time. You’d never seen him so exposed, so raw and it made your heart ache for him.
His breath hitched, like he was waiting for you to run, waiting for you to take his confession as an excuse to push him away, just as he had done to you.
"What do you mean?" You were barely breathing, every word feeling too heavy to bear.
"I’m not good for you," He spoke softly. "You deserve someone who doesn’t drag you down with their demons." He took a step back, shaking his head. "I can’t give you what you want. What you need."
And there it was. The wall he’d been building between you had a name: fear. Fear of opening up or of what you might see. Fear of the man he used to be and the damage he’d done.
But you weren’t afraid. You never were, not of him.
"I don’t need you to be perfect,” You stepped closer, heart hammering, and placed your hand on his chest. "I just need you to be here."
His breath hitched at your words. For a moment, you thought he might step back again. That he might raise those walls so high you’d never reach him. But he didn’t move. Instead, he just stood there, chest rising beneath your hand, heart pounding steadily under your touch.
“I’m not going anywhere,” You repeated softly, like a promise. “Even if you try to push me away.”
He closed his eyes, and something in him cracked, right there in front of you. Not loudly or with any dramatics. But it was like watching winter thaw, slow and quiet and inevitable.
“I tried to stay away,” Bucky admitted, his voice low, rough, like it hurt to speak. “I thought if I could put some space between us, it’d fade. That maybe I could stop wanting you.”
The confession landed like a lightning bolt. Your lips parted, a thousand emotions flooding you at once: relief, confusion, heartbreak, hope.
“You tried to stop wanting me?” Your voice echoed, barely above a whisper.
His eyes opened then, meeting yours, and you saw it, everything he’d been holding back. All the pain, fear, and longing. “I’ve wanted you for months,” He said. “Maybe longer. But I thought if I kept my distance, you’d find someone better. Someone who doesn’t wake up screaming. Someone who hasn’t done what I’ve done.”
Your fingers twitched against his chest. “But I don’t want someone better,” You said quietly. “I want you.”
Bucky stared at you like he didn’t quite believe it. “Even after everything?”
You nodded slowly, fiercely. “Especially after everything. Because I’ve seen you, Bucky. Not just the soldier. Not an assassin. You. The man who watches bad movies with me in silence. The one who always notices when I’m tired or hurting and doesn’t say a word, just sits a little closer. The one who remembers how I take my coffee. Who makes me feel safe, even when everything else falls apart.”
He looked away for a heartbeat, jaw tight, like he was trying to keep himself together.
You moved forward, stepping a little closer. Your heart racing as you added in a firmer voice. “And you don’t get to decide that you’re unworthy of being wanted. Not for me. Not when I’ve been falling for you this whole damn time.”
And that, broke something in him. He exhaled sharply, like the weight he’d been carrying finally tipped over. His hand came up hesitantly before it settled over yours on his chest, warm and shaking.
“I don’t know how to do this,” He admitted. “I’m not good at… feeling.”
“That’s okay,” You whispered. “You don’t have to be. I’m not asking you to be perfect. Just to let me in.”
He looked at you like you were sunlight cracking through a storm cloud, his thumb brushing gently against the back of your hand. “You already are.”
And then, slowly, carefully, he leaned in. It wasn’t rushed nor desperate. Just real. When his lips met yours, it was tentative, like a question. But when you kissed him back, it became an answer. One you’d both been waiting for.
Love Letters in the Smoke
Summary: During his rehabilitation, Bucky writes anonymous letters to process his thoughts. One night, he drops one at your circus campfire by mistake. You write back as a pen-pal romance begins. (Bucky Barnes x aerialist!reader)
Word Count: 1.6k+
A/N: I wanted to write something circus themed and thought this was a cute story. I hope the indents for the letters doesn’t look weird. Regardless, Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
The circus smelled of smoke, greasepaint, and a hint of nostalgia. The kind of place that looked like it had time-traveled from another century. Its canvas tents patched with care, and string lights casting soft golden halos in the dusk. You called it home.
Every night, after the crowd dispersed and the last child had been tugged away from the caramel stands, you’d sit by the communal fire pit with a notebook and your own thoughts. The crackle of flames soothed your nerves after a long evening performing. Tonight was no different until you found the letter.
Folded neatly in half, it was tucked beneath a rock near the fire. No name. No address. Just worn, thick paper, like it had been clutched tightly before being left behind. The handwriting was rigid, practiced, like someone who didn’t write often.
"I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe to make sense of the noise. I’m not used to silence. When I have it, the ghosts scream louder. I think I was someone good once, but I don’t know if that matters anymore. So I keep walking, city to city, place to place, hoping I can outrun myself."
Your fingers tightened around the paper, heart stirring with something strange. You didn’t know the writer, but you knew the feeling. So you wrote back.
Your first response was clumsy. You weren’t used to being vulnerable. But you scribbled on the back of a circus flyer:
“Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder if the reflection is mine or someone else’s memory. If you were good once, maybe that piece is still inside you. If it hurts, it means it mattered.”
You left your letter the same way by the fire, under the same rock. You didn’t expect anything to come of it. But the next night, there was another one waiting.
"Didn’t expect a reply. It’s strange. Your words feel like a calm I haven’t earned. But thank you. I needed them more than I thought."
The letters became a ritual.
While the rest of the troupe celebrated, drank, or collapsed into their trailers, you and your ghost wrote to each other. You told him about your performances, your nerves before every show, how the roar of the crowd always seemed distant. He told you about dreams he didn’t understand, faces he couldn't name but could never forget.
"Sometimes I see their eyes. Just eyes. Hundreds of them. People I’ve hurt. People I lost. I wish I could believe I was still worth saving."
Your response was always gentle, honest.
“Pain doesn’t cancel out worth. I don’t know what you’ve done. But if you’re trying now, if you’re writing to a stranger in the dark just to stay afloat… then yes. You’re worth it."
He never signed his letters. You didn’t, either. But a bond was forming. Raw and quiet. The kind of intimacy that only comes when truth is stripped bare, and nothing is expected in return.
A week later, a new stranger joined the circus.
He didn’t give much away, just said his name was James, and he was helping fix up the rigging for the aerial performers. He was tall with broad shoulders. Dark hair pulled into a low bun. Quiet, watchful, like a man used to danger. You noticed the glove on his hands, the way he flinched when touched, and the haunted glint in his eyes.
He didn’t say much, but when he watched you during your act, a graceful ribbon aerialist twisting in midair, there was something almost reverent in his gaze.
He started lingering by the fire after hours, sitting a few feet away. You’d nod. He’d nod back. Neither of you spoke much. But his presence was… comforting.
The letters continued.
"There’s a performer here. I don’t know her name yet. She climbs like she wants to touch the stars. When she’s up there, it’s like she’s weightless. Untouchable. I think she feels more at home in the air than on the ground. I envy that."
You read that one twice, your stomach fluttering. Could it be?
You looked at James differently after that. You caught him watching you once, a rare smile twitching at his mouth before he quickly looked away. He never asked personal questions, but he always listened when you spoke. Even the small things. What you had for dinner. What color ribbon you liked the best.
And still, each night, the letters came.
Until the day it stopped.
You came to the fire, letter in hand, heart pounding. You had written it that afternoon, deciding finally to sign it with your real name.
But there was no letter waiting. Not that night. Not the next.
And James was gone.
You asked around only to find out that he had packed up quietly, said goodbye to no one, and left like a ghost.
-
Weeks passed. The circus moved on, as it always did.
You still checked the firepit sometimes. Just in case. A hope inside your heart that would be chipped away each time you found no letter.
Then, one night, as the stars blanketed the sky and your arms ached from rehearsal, you found it. A single letter. Folded tight.
Your name was on the front.
"I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. I was afraid. You knew me before you knew who I was. And that scared me more than anything. I’ve done things, things I can’t ask forgiveness for. But when I read your words, I believed for a moment that maybe I wasn’t just a weapon. That maybe I could be more. You called me worth saving. No one ever said that to the Winter Soldier. But you said it to James."
Your hands trembled as you read the last part.
"I want to see you again. If you'll let me. There’s a train station just outside the next town. I’ll be waiting. – Bucky"
You folded the letter to your chest and smiled through your tears.
Finally, a name.
And maybe, just maybe, a beginning.
The next town was a blur of winding back roads and wind-chilled mornings. The circus was set up at the edge of a sun-dried field, the ground cracked from lack of rain. But you barely noticed any of it. Your mind was somewhere else, back at the firepit, at the letter pressed to your chest, at the name that made everything real.
Bucky.
It suited him somehow. Solid and sincere. A little old-fashioned like the man himself.
You folded the letter so carefully that it felt like folding a prayer. You didn’t show it to anyone. Some part of you was still terrified it might vanish if you spoke it aloud. But you couldn’t ignore it.
He said he’d be at the train station. So you went.
You left after rehearsal dressed in simple clothes, your hair braided back, and palms sweating in your coat pockets. The station was small and mostly empty. Just one old bench, a vending machine that wheezed when it tried to light up, and a single streetlamp buzzing like a nervous heart.
He was there.
Bucky stood near the tracks, hands in his pockets, back tense like he wasn’t sure he should stay. A battered duffel sat by his boots. His eyes were distant, tracking the horizon. Like he was still prepared to run.
You almost called out to him, but he turned first. When your eyes met, it hit you like a second heartbeat.
You'd read this man’s pain. Held his words in your hands like they were fragile glass. You had whispered encouragement to him under stars he couldn’t see. And now he was here. Real. Vulnerable. Waiting.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” He said, voice rough with nerves.
“I wasn’t sure you would wait,” You answered, stepping closer.
He let out a low quiet laugh, more exhale than sound. “I almost didn’t.”
“I’m glad you did.”
There was a long pause, but it wasn’t awkward. It was full. Thick with every letter, every word, every emotion neither of you had dared speak aloud.
“I’m sorry for disappearing,” Bucky began as his gaze dropped. “I… panicked. Thought it was safer if I left before I messed it up. But the truth is… I missed you.”
Your throat tightened. “You didn’t mess anything up. I… I missed you too. Every night I checked that fire.”
He stepped closer, the soft scrape of gravel under his boots. “I didn’t know how to do this. I still don’t.”
“Me neither,” You whispered. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest.
His gloved hand lifted, like he wanted to reach for you but was waiting for permission. So you met him halfway, pressing your hand gently to his chest. Through his shirt, you could feel the heavy rhythm of his heart, strong and steady, like it had finally found a beat worth chasing.
“I wasn’t falling for a stranger,” You said softly. “I was falling for the man in the letters. For the one who writes like he’s fighting for every word. That was you. It was always you.”
Bucky closed his eyes. Then, slowly, carefully, he leaned his forehead against yours.
And in that moment, there were no ghosts. No stages. No performances. Just the hush of the night air, the scent of iron and oil and smoke, and two people who had found each other in the most unexpected of ways.
“I want to try,” He murmured. “With you. If you’ll have me.”
You smiled. “Only if you write to me sometimes, even if we’re just a tent away.”
He chuckled, and it was the most alive you’d ever heard him. “Deal.”
-
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She/Her | 18+ | Marvel WriterAsks/Requests are welcomed!
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