Caged In Comfort (Pt. 2)

The Way He Notices

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

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

Word Count: 1.3k+

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

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

The compound was too loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just noticed. And remembered.

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

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

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

Still, you stayed quiet. Hidden. Gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The grip of your hand tightened slightly.

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

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

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

A pause. Then, barely above a whisper:

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

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

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

Hey guys! I added a poll, so please answer sometime to help me figure out what to write next for the Whispers of the Gifted series. I’ll be gone most of tomorrow but I have one fluffy stucky x little!reader fic scheduled until I can write more. Thank you and Happy reading!

For the Whispers of the Gifted Series, I’ve already done the main or favorite powers I had initially wanted to explore or thought of, excluding memory manipulation. Is there a specific power, ability, talent, etc. that you would like the reader/you to have next, to see it explored for the next addition of this collection? Or a continuation of an existing one? ♡

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.

LOL, they are so chaotic for real. Thank you so much for reading!!! ♡

Oops, I Joined a Cult Again

Summary: You joined a cult. That’s it. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 900+

A/N: Same as the unhinged/chaotic reader series, supposed to be shorter but then I added more group chat shenanigans. I wanted something quick while I work on other stuff. Sorry if it’s messy. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Original Fic

Bucky Barnes had one job: watch your back on the infiltration mission.

He didn’t know that meant literally watching you disappear into a torchlit temple deep in the mountains and emerge forty-eight hours later in robes, glowing, smiling cheerfully, and being worshiped as the reincarnation of a snake god.

“They call me The Hissening,” You whispered, eyes far too wide, far too smug.

“I told you not to touch the statue,” Bucky muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as the robed people behind you chanted in perfect sync: “HISSSSSSS.”

-

48 HOURS EARLIER

The briefing was simple. Infiltrate and investigate a rising cult rumored to be a Hydra front. No weapons. No overt powers. In and out.

Naturally, Tony turned to you and said, “You’re on distraction duty. Just… go be yourself.”

You took it as a compliment. It was not.

You and Bucky parachuted into the outskirts of the mountains under cover of night, both in tactical gear. Silent and focused… until you turned to him mid-descent and yelled, “DO YOU THINK CULTS HAVE SNACKS?”

“…What?”

“LIKE HOLY GRAHAM CRACKERS OR- wait, no, Blessed Chex Mix!”

He didn’t respond. He just stared straight ahead, wondering for the millionth time what cosmic punishment he was paying for to be partnered with you on this particular mission.

The problem was never that you were bad at missions. In fact, in combat, you were terrifying. Strategic. Surgical.

But in deep cover? You were yourself, which is how exactly five minutes after entering the temple courtyard, you said:

“Nice snake statue. Can I boop it?”

And when the head priest responded, “Only the Chosen One may lay a finger upon the sacred Fang of Enlightenment,” You touched it immediately, whispered “boop,” and passed out.

When you woke up, glowing faintly with what may have been divine energy (or some type of poisoning), the cult declared you their prophesied leader.

You didn’t correct them.

-

BACK TO PRESENT

Bucky had finally gotten inside. Posing as a new recruit, hood up, mouth shut, inner turmoil vibrating at a ten. He spotted you instantly. You were standing on a golden platform, arms open, and being fanned with palm leaves.

“Hey,” He hissed when he reached you. “Mission. Hydra. Ringing any bells?”

You waved vaguely. “They have really good soup here.”

“This is not the time for soup.”

You nodded solemnly. “There is always time for soup.”

Someone handed you a ceremonial staff. You took it. It was sparkly.

You then whispered to Bucky, “So here’s the thing… I might’ve said we should cleanse our enemies in a fire of spiritual rebirth. Which they interpreted as actual fire. So, like… maybe be cool about that.”

He blinked at you.

“You started a holy war, didn’t you.”

You smiled brightly. “Only a small one.”

That night, under cover of darkness, the two of you escaped; you still in full ceremonial garb, Bucky dragging you by the elbow while you shouted goodbye to your “disciples.”

One of them threw a snake at you in farewell. You caught it. You named it Gary.

Steve, upon your return, asked what happened.

You saluted and said, “I was a god for three days and it changed me. Also I have this soup recipe now.” You handed him a scroll. When he opened it, it was blank.

Bucky looked at you, exhausted, covered in ash, a little bruised, holding a snake in one hand and your glitter-covered robes in the other.

“…You are the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me,” He said.

You winked. “But I’m your weirdo.”

“Yeah, you are.”

-

Bonus Debriefing.

Group Chat:

Tony: Okay, so. Roll call. Who let them start a religion??

Clint: AGAIN?!?

Sam: Are we seriously ignoring the snake?? Why does she still have the snake?

You: his name is Gary, he chose me

Bucky: The snake did not choose you. You caught him and said “I am your mother now.”

You: and he accepted me

Wanda: Did you eat something weird again? The last time you said a goat “chose you” we had to evacuate a whole town.

Steve: Back up. How did we go from “infiltrate Hydra cult” to “being crowned a divine prophet of the hiss age”?

Bucky: Because she touched the sacred artifact. While they were giving a warning not to.

You: i wanted to boop it 🐍✨

Bruce: [Image attached: Security cam still of you dramatically booping a snake statue and passing out like a Victorian child seeing ankles.]

Tony: Okay but why are you glowing in this?

You: i think I absorbed a minor god

Sam: Define “minor.”

You: likeee a demi-snake. A snack god

Bucky: You said, quote: “Let the hiss of salvation whisper in your soul or something.”

Tony: You started preaching???

You: they gave me a podium! what else was I supposed to do? NOT use it!?

Natasha: …Yes?

Clint: wait, so did we ever find out if the cult was a Hydra front or…

Steve: Nope. She gave a sermon and declared Bucky her “divine enforcer.”

Bucky: Yeah. Still mad about that.

You: srry Prophet Punchy

Tony: We are never letting you go on recon again.

Bruce: I still want to know how you pulled off a glowing aura with no tech or magic.

You: I ate three glowsticks on accident.

Wanda: …

Steve: …

Bucky: This is not a joke. I watched it happen.

You: I thought they were minty tubes.

Sam: Was anyone else weirdly inspired by her speech though?

Steve: Sam.

Sam: I’m just saying I felt something 🐍

Bucky: I felt betrayal and secondhand shame.

You: don’t worry guys, the cult disbanded peacefully. i left them a doctrine :)

Tony: A what.

You: [Image attached: Crayon drawing of a snake with sunglasses saying “BE NICE. EAT SOUP. HISS IF THREATENED.”]

Bruce: This is shockingly coherent.

Clint: I hate how effective it is.

Thor: I would like to join this religion. It seems wise. HISS.

[Thor has been muted again.]

THANK YOU!!! So happy you liked it. Hopefully I’ll have more out soon, maybe a first date or something. Thank you for reading!!! ♡

Heart First, Sanity Later

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

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

Word Count: 3.4k+

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

Main Masterlist

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

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

He stared at you. Everyone did.

You slurped. “What?”

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

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

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

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

But outside of that? Absolute chaos.

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

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

He blinked slowly. “Yes.”

“Sounds fake but okay.”

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

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

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

You beamed. “I know, right?”

And that was just the beginning.

-

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

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

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

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

“What?” He hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

You were something else. A walking contradiction.

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

And tonight was no different.

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

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

Affection.

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

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

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

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

“You okay there, Grumpypants?” You asked.

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

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

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

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

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

The jet went quiet.

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

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

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

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

He was fucked.

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

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

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

“Sexy?” You offered helpfully.

“…Terrifying.”

You winked. “Same difference.”

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stared at you, speechless.

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

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

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

Bucky froze, his heartbeat suddenly in his throat.

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

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

His chest tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Then I’m doing taxes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky blinked. “Excuse me?”

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

“I do not look like-“

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

“I am not emotionally unavailable.”

“You have a go bag, Bucky.”

“…That’s standard protocol.”

“Your toothbrush is still in the packaging.”

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

You held up a finger. “Armed wildlife.”

He ran a hand down his face.

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

You blinked up at him. “Kinky.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was a raccoon with a grudge.”

“That’s not a thing!”

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

He froze.

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

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

”I love you, you absolute menace!”

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

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

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

“Say it like what?”

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

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

“Yes!”

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

“Also yes!”

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

“I almost killed you.”

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

He blinked. “Okay?”

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

He stared. “You do?”

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

He laughed, just once, short and stunned.

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

Bucky groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet. You’re in love with me.”

“I’m regretting it deeply.”

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

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

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

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

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

She for real is!!! I love her energy and nonsensical reasons for doing things, so much fun to write. Thank you for reading!!!

Heart First, Sanity Later

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

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

Word Count: 3.4k+

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

Main Masterlist | Sequel | Extra

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

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

He stared at you. Everyone did.

You slurped. “What?”

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

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

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

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

But outside of that? Absolute chaos.

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

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

He blinked slowly. “Yes.”

“Sounds fake but okay.”

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

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

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

You beamed. “I know, right?”

And that was just the beginning.

-

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

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

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

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

“What?” He hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

You were something else. A walking contradiction.

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

And tonight was no different.

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

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

Affection.

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

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

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

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

“You okay there, Grumpypants?” You asked.

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

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

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

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

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

The jet went quiet.

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

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

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

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

He was fucked.

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

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

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

“Sexy?” You offered helpfully.

“…Terrifying.”

You winked. “Same difference.”

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stared at you, speechless.

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

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

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

Bucky froze, his heartbeat suddenly in his throat.

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

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

His chest tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Then I’m doing taxes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky blinked. “Excuse me?”

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

“I do not look like-“

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

“I am not emotionally unavailable.”

“You have a go bag, Bucky.”

“…That’s standard protocol.”

“Your toothbrush is still in the packaging.”

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

You held up a finger. “Armed wildlife.”

He ran a hand down his face.

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

You blinked up at him. “Kinky.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was a raccoon with a grudge.”

“That’s not a thing!”

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

He froze.

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

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

”I love you, you absolute menace!”

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

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

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

“Say it like what?”

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

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

“Yes!”

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

“Also yes!”

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

“I almost killed you.”

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

He blinked. “Okay?”

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

He stared. “You do?”

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

He laughed, just once, short and stunned.

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

Bucky groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet. You’re in love with me.”

“I’m regretting it deeply.”

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

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

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

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

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

It’s the angst I bet… Thank you so much for reading!!! ♡

Falling For You, Again and Again

Summary: Each time you "die" and return, you fall in love with Bucky all over again in different ways. Bucky sees a new version of you every time, but he’s always his same self. Each time, you both always find your ways back to each other, but you never know it's happened before. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power of immortality. However, each death erases your memory of what you knew and who you were before. ANGST.

Word Count: 2.6k+

A/N: I wasn’t even sure if I could classify this under this series. However, it’s still an enhanced ability. Also, I’m hoping y’all like this. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

The first time you came back to life, it took three days. You woke in a hospital morgue, shivering under a white sheet, the taste of salt and ash on your tongue. You had no memory of your name, no recollection of what had killed you, and no sense of identity.

The only thing you possessed was a quiet panic and the sharp, cold awareness that you should not be here. You stumbled out into the world with no guidance, no answers, and one inexplicable truth: you couldn’t die.

You learned the pattern eventually. Every time you died whether by accident or violence, sickness or sacrifice, you returned. The process was inconsistent though. Sometimes, it took hours. Other times, days or weeks. Each time, you emerged in your body just as it was before death, seemingly untouched… but your memories, every one of them, were stripped away.

You couldn’t remember the name of the man who’d died holding your hand on a battlefield. Or the child you once saved from drowning. Or the language you’d spoken fluently last time you were alive. Every death reset your soul like a blank canvas, and the world became something you had to re-learn.

Sometimes people told you things about who you were, where you’d been, but they felt like borrowed stories. You smiled politely. Pretended. Sometimes even fell in love with the past versions of yourself they described. But you never felt like her.

The only exception was him.

The first time you saw Bucky Barnes, it was in a coffee shop in D.C. You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know yours, either. He was sitting alone reading something dense and battered yet you were inexplicably drawn to him, like an invisible thread pulled you into his orbit. You stood in line behind him without realizing, your fingers twitching as if remembering a touch you’d never felt. He glanced back. His eyes locked on yours.

He stared like he’d seen a ghost.

You didn’t speak,not then but you sat across from him twenty minutes later because you felt you should. Because your heart beat faster when he smiled, and it shouldn’t have. Because he seemed to know you, and you… you wanted to know why.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” He asked, softly, one hand wrapped around a warm mug.

You shook your head. “I don’t even remember me.”

He swallowed hard, staring at the steam between you. “I think you’ve died again.”

You didn’t ask how he knew. You just believed him.

It was like that every time.

You’d die. Come back. Then forget.

And somehow, Bucky would find you. Or you’d find him. A different place. A different life. But the same pull. You might meet him at a bookstore, brushing fingertips over the same worn copy of Catch-22. Or in a combat zone, both fighting for someone else’s cause. Or on a rainy street corner where he offered you a shared umbrella without knowing if you’d remember him this time. Sometimes you’d fall in love quickly. Sometimes slowly. But always, deeply.

He tried not to hold on too tightly. He never told you too much too fast. He let you find your own path, even if it meant losing you all over again.

But every version of you looked at him like you’d known him forever. Every version of you fell in love with him, as if your soul remembered even when your mind couldn’t.

And that was the tragedy of it. For him, it was always a reunion. For you, it was always the beginning.

-

Rain fell in soft curtains over the city, blurring the glass of the bookstore window and washing the world into dull, dreamlike greys. Inside, the scent of old paper, dust, and aging wood filled the quiet. Bucky sat in the far corner, a thick book open in his lap, though he wasn’t really reading. His fingers had gone still on the page twenty minutes ago.

He’d spent the past eleven months scouring D.C. by checking shelters, hospitals, cafés, the Metro; anywhere someone who had nothing might go. Most of the time, you always seemed to come back near where you died, and though he didn’t know exactly where that had been this time, instinct had guided him here.

The bookstore had become his checkpoint. A place of stillness where he could let the anxiety press against his ribs without showing on his face. He came every Sunday, pretending to read, waiting for a flicker of something to pull the world back into motion.

Then the door opened.

The bell jingled, and cold air swept in, heavy with rain and city smoke. A figure stepped inside, hunched slightly with hair damp and clinging to their cheeks. You looked up, blinking against the light, eyes wide and searching.

Bucky went still.

You’d returned.

Even before you saw him, even before you reached for the books on the nearest shelf, he knew. It wasn’t just the way you looked even though your face never changed. It was something else. A tension in your posture. A flicker of familiarity in your eyes that didn’t belong to this version of you, not yet.

You drifted further into the store, trailing fingers over spines as though pulled by instinct. He stood slowly, book forgotten on the chair behind him, as his heart hammered in his chest.

Then, like fate nudging you into place, your hand stopped on a copy of Catch-22.

It was always that book.

You ran your hand over the cover like it meant something you couldn’t name before your gaze flickered over to his. “Have we met?” You asked in a soft and uncertain tone. “I’m sorry… I feel like I should know you.”

God, it hit him like a punch every time.

Bucky’s voice caught in his throat before he forced a quiet, “Yeah. We’ve met before.”

You smiled politely, a little nervous. But your eyes lingered on his face like they were trying to etch something into memory that didn’t exist yet. “Do you… do you know who I am?”

He nodded. “I do.”

And he wouldn’t say more, not yet. He never did. You needed to come to it in your own time. So he took a step back, gestured to the armchair in the reading corner. “Do you want to sit for a while?”

You blinked at him, then at the chair, as if the idea of resting had never occurred to you. Slowly, you nodded.

“I’d like that.”

You stayed for two hours. Browsing, reading, or asking cautious gentle questions that Bucky answered with care. You didn’t remember dying. You never did. But you’d woken up in a hospital two weeks ago, no ID, no fingerprints on file. A social worker had told you your memory loss might be trauma-induced. You didn’t tell them about the dreams, about the way your hands shook when you tried to sleep. Or how you sometimes stared at your reflection and didn’t feel like it belonged to you.

Bucky listened quietly, never once pressing. He never once was asking you to be someone you weren’t ready to become again.

And just before you left, you turned to him. “I know this sounds strange, but… I feel safe with you. Like I’ve known you before.”

He swallowed hard, nodding. “You have.”

You opened your mouth like you wanted to ask more but didn’t.

Instead, you said, “I think I’d like to see you again.”

He smiled. “I’ll be here.”

You hesitated one more moment, then added, “Maybe I’ll come back next week… and you can tell me a story.”

He watched you go, heart aching.

He had hundreds. All of them about you.

You came back the next Sunday, just like you said you would. Same bookstore with the same faint, hesitant smile. This time, your coat was dry and your hair was pulled back. There was a small bandage on your knuckle from some accident you wouldn’t remember. You hadn’t told Bucky that, but he noticed. He always noticed the small things.

The two of you sat in the corner by the fogged-up window, and Bucky brought you tea from the shop next door without asking what kind you liked. He already knew. You took it with a grateful murmur, sipping slowly before your eyes flickered up to him.

“You said last week that you knew me,” You spoke cautiously but curious. “How? Did we work together or…?”

He studied you for a moment, then looked down at the teacup in his hands. “Not work. We were close, for a long time.”

You tilted your head, watching him. “Were we… lovers?”

There it was. The question that always came eventually. He looked back up. Your expression wasn’t flirtatious, it was vulnerable. Searching.

“Yes,” He answered quietly. “Many times.”

Your breath hitched just a fraction. And then, “You say that like we’ve done this before.”

He hesitated. “Because we have.”

You stared, frowning. “Have what? Met?”

“Fallen in love.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. Then you looked down at your hands. “Is that why I feel… strange around you? Like I should be afraid to get too close, but also like I want to?”

“Probably,” He laughed softly. “Most versions of you have that same feeling. You never remember me, but something in you always recognizes me. I don’t know if it’s instinct, or your soul remembering, or just… whatever’s left behind.”

You were silent, absorbing that. Then, in a quiet voice, “How many times?”

Bucky met your eyes. “Forty-eight.”

You looked away sharply. “Forty-eight deaths.”

“That I know of.”

“And I don’t remember any of them?”

“No.”

You stared out the window, your fingers tightening around the mug. “Then how can you… how do you not hate me for forgetting?”

He leaned forward, voice steady. “Because I remember you. All of you, and because every version of you is worth meeting again.”

Tears welled up in your eyes without control as you wiped them quickly, embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t know why that made me-“

“It happens sometimes,” He reassured gently. “Your body remembers things your mind doesn’t. Emotions bleed through.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him and something in your chest ached. Something deep and familiar.

“Tell me a story,” You whispered. “Tell me something about her- about me. A version you knew.”

Bucky nodded.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small, battered notebook. The leather was fraying at the edges, the pages slightly warped from time and tears. He set it on the table, his hand resting on the cover.

“You used to hum in your sleep,” He said quietly. “Sometimes it was a lullaby, sometimes it was nothing at all. But it was always soft. And when you had nightmares or when the dreams got too heavy, you’d say my name before you woke up.”

You stared at the journal, transfixed.

Bucky’s voice didn’t tremble, but there was a break in it now. “That version of you was terrified of losing herself. You left notes, voice recordings, instructions. But every time you came back, you were still a stranger to yourself.”

You reached for the journal before you could stop yourself.

“Can I… read them?”

His hand remained on the cover for a moment longer, then he slowly slid it toward you.

“You can.”

You took it carefully. Reverently. Like it was something sacred.

Every time you left his world, he added another entry in that journal and kept it close with him. It was as if to keep a piece of you nearby when he couldn’t find you right away. The journal was heavier than it looked.

Not in weight, but in presence. It felt lived in, full of love and plagued with grief. You held it in your lap like something precious and terrifying, afraid that turning the page would tear a hole in your chest you didn’t know how to close.

You glanced up at Bucky. He hadn’t moved as he watched you with the quiet patience of someone who had waited through storms you couldn’t remember. You looked down again as your fingers brushed over the leather cover. There were marks, faint indents from a pen pressed too hard. Some pages were dog-eared. One corner had a smear of dried paint. Or maybe blood.

“I don’t understand,” You whispered. “Why would you keep doing this? Why would you…wait for me? For this?”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “Because even when it breaks me, you’re still worth every second I get.”

Your mouth opened slightly. No sound came out. Instead, you opened the journal.

The first page held a drawing. A sketch in faded pencil, your face, or someone who looked like you. The features were careful, practiced. You were looking down in the image, eyes shadowed, but peaceful. Beneath it, in neat handwriting:

11th time: She liked to paint near windows in sunlight. Said it made her feel alive. She told me to keep going, even when she was gone. I didn’t know how. Still don’t, but I’m trying.

Your heart pounded.

You turned the page.

31st time: She left me a voicemail before she died. Said if I ever found her again and she didn’t remember me, to tell her it was okay. That she was stronger than her forgetting. That love wasn’t something the body forgot, it was something that echoed in the soul and bones.

And the next:

42nd: She came back scared. She didn’t trust anyone, not even herself. But the second I said her name, she cried. She didn’t know why, just said it felt like home.

Your hand shook as you flipped further.

Tiny mementos were tucked inside throughout the journal. A movie ticket. A torn page from a crossword puzzle. A faded photo of the two of you, you laughing with your arms around him, eyes bright with a love you didn’t remember but suddenly longed for like oxygen.

And then… your voice.

Not now. Not this version. But one of you from before. It was a clipped audio, barely two minutes long, the file embedded into a tiny recorder taped to a page.

You pressed play.

“Hi. I know you’re me. Or some part of me. Or… maybe you’re someone entirely different now. That’s okay. You don’t have to remember everything. I just want you to know he’s safe. His voice is safe. His hands are safe. If you don’t remember anything else, remember that.”

You felt the sob before you heard it. Your hand flew to your mouth as your chest crumpled in on itself. You had said this. You had known you’d forget. And you’d wanted to leave yourself something, some thread to hold on to.

Across from you, Bucky didn’t speak. His eyes were glassy, but he didn’t interrupt. He never did. He let you come to him, always.

The journal was shaking in your hands. “I don’t know how to live like this,” You said, broken. “How can I be me if I’m always being rewritten?”

He leaned forward, voice low and certain. “Because no matter how many times the world erases you… you always find your way back.”

You looked at him again and something in you moved. A thread, a spark. Not a memory but an emotion. A warmth like sunlight through your body. It didn’t bring images, names, or facts. But it brought trust. Safety. The echo of something lost but not gone.

“Stay with me,” You pleaded in a whisper.

“I always do,” He said, steady.

And for the first time, in this lifetime, you reached for his hand. Not out of obligation. Not from the ghost of some former self. But because your heart, untouched by memory, still knew him.

And Bucky held on like he had every time before.

Certified Genius, Unlicensed Moron

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

Word Count: 1.2k+

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

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

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

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

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

But nothing broke the team more than the group chat.

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

-

GROUP CHAT: “Earth’s Mightiest Dumbasses”

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

You: what’s 9 AM in frog time

Natasha: What does that mean?

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

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

You: normal is a strong word

-

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

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

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

-

GROUP CHAT:

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

You: idk man maybe someone wants you to be cultured

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

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

-

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

And a lot of times, that haunts him.

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

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

And then walked away.

He’s been thinking about it for months.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky blinked.

“…I brought you pizza.”

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

-

GROUP CHAT:

Steve: Can someone explain what this is?

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

You: surveillance

Steve: Why…

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

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

-

Despite it all, you were deadly in the field.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone went dead silent.

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

Nobody could figure you out.

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

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

-

GROUP CHAT:

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

You: what if I am a security risk

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

You: then I win

Natasha: What did you win?

You: You’ll see 😈

Tony: I have forgotten what peace feels like anymore.

-

You called yourself “The Distractinator” in combat.

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

Yes. To all of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t work.

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

Even If You Forget

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Bucky loses all memory of his relationship with you. Though heartbroken, you patiently stay by his side, offering gentle support and quiet company. Despite the emotional distance, you hold onto the hope that someday he’ll find his way back. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: This has ANGST by the way. I absolutely adore anything to do with memories, so much potential. I might write another version of this where the reader loses her memories instead. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | His Version

The mornings with Bucky were always slow, quiet, and warm.

His arm was usually draped over your waist by the time the sun started to creep through the blinds. He breathed a little heavier in the mornings, caught between dreams and the weight of his history. However, he never seemed to stir until you moved.

You liked it that way. It gave you time to look at him, at the faint worry lines that softened in sleep, at the longer strands of brown hair you liked to brush behind his ear, at the mouth that rarely smiled in public but had no trouble curving up for you when the world was far away.

You loved him deeply. In the way people loved after surviving something. There were scars on both of you and silences that stretched longer than they should’ve, but you understood him, and he had never once looked at you like he regretted being understood.

Your relationship had started quietly, like most things with Bucky did. It wasn’t love at first sight. It wasn’t loud declarations or stolen kisses in the rain. It was simpler. He’d sit near you during debriefings and glance over to make sure you understood the mission. He’d knock on your door late at night when he couldn’t sleep and leave a book outside if you didn’t answer. He remembered how you liked your coffee and never asked why you kept a light on when you slept.

Eventually, he started sitting a little closer. Touching your hand a little longer. Smiling a little easier. It wasn’t fast, but it was safe and real. You both needed that.

Sixteen months into the relationship, you'd moved in together into a tiny apartment, tucked above an old bookstore with creaky floors and a heater that only worked when Bucky kicked it. You painted the walls together. He helped pick out the furniture. You made him tea when his nightmares left him shaking, and he kissed your forehead when your hands trembled after bad missions.

He was never one to say I love you right away and especially not out loud. But he showed it, every single day.

And when he finally did say it, it was late at night, in the middle of an argument about laundry or groceries or something equally domestic and ridiculous when you both froze. He looked horrified that it slipped out. You looked stunned for barely a second before smiling and leaning closer to him, saying it back like it was the easiest thing in the world.

You thought nothing could take that from you.

But you were wrong.

You and Bucky had been paired up for another mission like normal to infiltrate an abandoned Hydra facility. Retrieve what remained of their stolen technology and data, destroy the rest. Bucky didn’t want you going in at first, but you reminded him that you were a trained operative, not a civilian. Besides, you worked better together anyways.

You were halfway through the facility when the alarms went off. Not an intruder alert but something else. Something that triggered deeper in the system. You split up briefly to cover more ground, and that was the last time Bucky looked at you like he knew who you were.

When you found him again twenty minutes later, he was hunched over and clutching his head near a strange, flickering device. When he raised his head, all you could see was cold, calculating eyes staring back.

Like a stranger.

And when you called his name, your voice shaking, and your hands reaching out to steady him; he backed away like you were poison.

“Who the hell are you?”

You froze in your spot. His voice wasn’t like Bucky’s. It was lower, flatter. Measured. It lacked the hesitant warmth that usually colored his words when he spoke to you. It was the voice of someone evaluating a threat.

Your hand, half-raised, trembled in the air between you.

“Bucky,” You whispered, like maybe the sound of it would crack something open. “It’s me.”

He stood slowly, the whir of his metal arm slicing through the silence. His eyes didn’t flicker with recognition. No softness. No guilt. Just analysis and caution.

You’d seen that expression before. Once. Years ago, when the Winter Soldier was still a ghost wandering about without a strip of autonomy. You definitely didn’t see this expression on the man who crawled into your bed at night and tucked a blanket around your shoulders.

But, here he was. You could feel how painfully your heart pounded in your chest.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” He said, almost to himself. He looked around, scanning the shadows like he expected enemies to crawl out of the dark. His hand hovered near the side holster at his thigh. “Who sent you?”

“No one sent me,” You said, stepping forward. “You’re-… Bucky, you’re not well. That machine, something happened. Let me help-“

“Stop,” He snapped. Your name was unfamiliar to him now. It didn’t make him pause. It didn’t register. “You’re not cleared to speak to me. I don’t know you.”

The words landed with brutal precision. You stepped back like you’d been struck. Because in a way, you had. He didn’t remember you.

The realization settled over you slowly, like frost creeping across glass. You felt your lungs tighten, your throat close. You could still see the outline of the relationship you'd built, months of laughter and late nights and slow healing, but he stood on the other side of it now, locked out.

You reached for your comm, fingers clumsy and stiff with dread as you called for backup and reported the situation.

When the team arrived, faster than you had expected, they didn’t ask many questions. You let them take over while you stood to the side, arms wrapped tightly around your chest, eyes fixed on the man who no longer knew your name.

Steve had been brought with the other agents. Miraculously, Bucky still remembered him and trusted his words to lead him to safety. He had followed Steve back to the Quinjet without hesitation. There was a time when he would have trusted you without a second thought too, but now you were just another stranger.

You sat in the back of the jet, silent and numb, your eyes never leaving his tense form. One hand was curled loosely near his chest. You remembered how he used to hold your hand that way when he slept. Like he needed to know you were real.

Now he didn’t know you at all.

Back at HQ, medical scans confirmed your worst fear. The machine had been some kind of neural disruptor, a crude prototype designed to extract and overwrite memory. Hydra tech, of course. The data was incomplete, scrambled, but the damage wasn’t.

He remembered Steve. Missions. Pieces of his past. It didn’t bring back the Winter Soldier thanks to his time in Wakanda. However, anything recent or anything soft, was gone.

You. Erased just like that.

You spent three days outside the glass of the room he stayed in, watching him rebuild his reality in pieces. He spoke little. Ate less. The team tried reintroducing him to other faces, but he flinched away from most of them. He was polite, distant, cautious. Like a soldier unsure of his orders.

Every time you entered the room, his eyes would land on you and linger. But they never softened. He never said your name, not even once.

And every night, you’d sit alone in your apartment above the bookstore, staring at the spot on the couch where he used to fall asleep during movie nights, wondering how you could miss someone who was technically still alive, just out of reach.

You never forced him to remember. You didn’t even try. Because you knew memory wasn’t something you could demand back. It wasn’t a switch you could flip or a locked door you could break down with frustration or anger. It was delicate. Fragile. Like glass edges that could cut him deeper if handled carelessly.

So instead, you became quiet. You became gentle even though visiting him wasn’t easy. Each time you entered the room, you reminded yourself to soften your eyes, to keep your voice low, calm. To be someone who he might feel safe with, even if he didn’t remember why.

“Hey,” You’d say, just like that. Simple. No pressure. No demands.

You’d bring small things like his favorite book, a picture from your last trip, or a worn jacket he’d left behind. You hoped these would speak to something buried inside him, a spark.

Some days, he’d look at you with confusion. Others, with suspicion. Sometimes, his eyes would flicker like he was searching for a ghost behind your face.

You hated that, but you never showed it. You never let him see it because you couldn’t. You remembered how lost he felt the first time you met him, before all the pieces of you and him fit together. And you knew patience was the only thread strong enough to hold you both together now.

Because you could tell he was afraid. Of you. Of himself. Of what he’d lost. And you were afraid, too. Afraid you’d never get him back. Afraid he’d forget the moments you shared, the trust you built. All the moments you shared together.

But you stayed. Every passing day, every painful visit, you stayed. Even when it hurt to see the distance in his eyes or the way his hand no longer found yours in the dark or the way his voice no longer softened when he spoke your name.

Because love wasn’t about forcing recognition or surfacing memories of what used to be. It was about waiting. Waiting until he could find you again, on his own terms.

-

In the halls of the Avengers compound, you often caught the looks of the team. Quiet glances that lingered too long before they quickly looked away. Soft expressions shadowed with pity. Sometimes, it was Tony shaking his head slightly when he thought you weren’t looking. Sometimes, Natasha’s eyes would meet yours briefly, sympathy buried beneath her usual stoic mask. Steve especially, steady as ever, gave you a small nod of understanding whenever your paths crossed.

They all knew. They knew what you were going through. They knew exactly what you had lost, but no one said it aloud. They didn’t need to after all.

You felt the weight of it, like invisible hands pressing down on your chest when you thought you were alone. The way they looked at you said, She’s holding onto someone who’s slipping away. She’s pretending to be okay, but she’s breaking.

You never asked for their pity. You never wanted it. It felt like another reminder that things were broken beyond repair. So you kept forcing yourself to keep your head high and to keep moving forward.

You showed up for briefings. You trained with the others. You made sure your smiles were steady, your voice calm. But deep within you, every step was heavy. Every breath felt borrowed. Because the truth everyone was coming to realize, no one could fix this but Bucky. And Bucky couldn’t remember you.

And as days bled into weeks, your visits with him continued. Still quiet, steady, and unyielding. But no breakthroughs. No magic moments where Bucky suddenly remembered your name or the warmth of your touch.

But slowly, you learned to be okay with that. Because sometimes, healing wasn’t about the big gestures. It was about the small ones.

A flicker of recognition in his eyes when you laughed at a joke you’d shared long ago. A twitch of hesitation before he pulled back when you offered your hand. A breath held a moment longer when you read aloud from his favorite book.

Those tiny cracks in the wall gave you hope.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the compound, you found yourself sitting beside him on the couch. No words were spoken, there was no need.

His hand, tentative and unsure, brushed against yours. You paused for a moment and didn’t dare pull away. Instead, you let your fingers intertwine slowly, grounding both of you in that fragile moment of connection.

It wasn’t the past rushing back. It wasn’t a promise of what would come. But it was something. A beginning. A chance. And sometimes, that was enough.

Because you knew this story wasn’t finished. Not yet.

And as long as you both were willing to try, maybe one day, he’d find his way back to you.

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

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