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orellazalonia · 14 hours ago

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Hii, i have a request. I recently just started reading the shatter me series again - idk if you know it - but the main character has a lethal touch, every person she touches - but one man - dies if she touches them, and I was wondering if you could hse that concept but the only person reader can touch is Bucky Barnes. So like, the avengers find her at hydra, and she's settling in at the tower, and gets close with bucky, and then she accidentally touches him, but nothing happens. Idk if you understand this but i hope you do!<3

Hello there! I absolutely loved this idea, has so much potential for angst to be honest. It fits well into the Whispers of the Gifted series as well. So, thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!

Safe in His Hands

Summary: After being rescued from Hydra, you struggle to adjust to life at the Avengers Tower, haunted by your lethal touch that kills anyone you make skin contact with until Bucky Barnes catches you, and nothing happens. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to end the life of anyone she touches. Mentions of death & labs/experimentation. Angst. Hurt/Comfort.

Word Count: 2.4k+

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You were seven years old when you first killed someone.

It wasn’t on purpose. You were just a kid. Scared, hungry, and cold. They’d come into your holding room. One of the guards, you didn’t recognize him. He was probably new. He knelt in front of you and told you to stand. You didn’t, so he grabbed your arm.

He didn’t even scream. He just dropped, went limp, and his life was gone.

They ran so many tests after that. Hooked you to wires, sliced open skin, injected chemicals, brought in more test subjects. They wanted to understand you. Your blood. Your skin. Your curse.

Because all it took was one touch, skin to skin. A brush of fingers, a hand on a wrist, a graze of your palm against someone’s cheek all resulted in instant death. There were no explanations. No control. You were death in the shape of a human. And Hydra thought that made you useful.

So they kept you, caged you. Covered you in thick gloves, containment suits, and glass walls. “For your own safety,” They always said. But you knew better. It wasn’t about protecting you. It was about protecting everyone else from you.

You stopped speaking eventually. What was the point? Words couldn’t undo what your hands did.

But then, one night, everything exploded.

You didn’t know who they were at first. The power cut out and all you heard were screams and gunshots that echoed through the halls. You stayed in your corner, knees pulled to your chest, not daring to move. You knew better than to open the door anyways.

But someone else did.

Blinding light flooded your cell, and a figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by sparks and smoke, a shield strapped to his back. Others moved behind him. You thought you saw a red glow and a flash of metal.

Then his eyes landed on you. You couldn’t move, didn’t breathe, just waited for the orders, the fear, the recoil.

But none came.

“Hey,” He said gently, crouching just enough to be eye-level. “You okay?”

You stared back, not answering.

Another stepped beside him. A man with brown hair and a metal arm, tense but watchful. “She’s not chained,” He murmured. “But look at the gloves. She’s not here by choice.”

“She’s scared,” A third voice said. Female, distant, but knowing. You felt her inside your head like a whisper. “But not of us.”

They didn’t grab you, didn’t drag you. Just offered a hand and waited. You didn’t take it, of course. But you stood slowly and followed.

You didn’t know who they were yet. But you did know one thing: They weren’t Hydra.

Days passed in a blur after that. You were moved to a new facility, high in the sky, full of windows and white light. They called it the Avengers Tower. They gave you a room, food, and clothes that didn’t itch. There were no cells and no experiments.

But still… no touch.

You kept the gloves on and never sat too close to anyone. You didn’t speak at first and they didn’t push. But you could feel the caution in the air, the curiosity. They didn’t know. No one did. And you didn’t want them to.

Because you knew what would happen. They’d lock you up again. Maybe not in a lab, but in some new kind of prison. For their safety and for yours.

So you kept your head down. Ate your meals in silence. Avoided the common room when too many people were there. You stayed quiet and small.

But he kept showing up. The one with the metal arm. Bucky.

He never asked questions. Never pried. Just… existed near you. Sat with you across the room. Passed you a glass of water. Nodded when you acknowledged him. Said goodnight sometimes, soft and gruff. You didn’t know why, but it didn’t scare you.

In fact, he was the only one who didn’t make you feel like glass. Like a threat. And soon, you weren’t avoiding him. You began waiting for him.

As time passed, you had just started feeling like a person again.

You still kept your gloves on, still flinched when someone got too close. But you were sleeping more. Eating with the others, sometimes. Sitting in the common room without being asked. And you were talking to Bucky. Really talking.

He had this quiet way of making you feel seen without shining a spotlight. He didn’t ask invasive questions or try to dig up your trauma like it was some kind of prize. He let you sit beside him in silence, let you borrow his books, or let you eat the cherry from his drink when you thought no one saw.

You’d started laughing again. Just a little, especially with him. Which is why it hurt when everything shifted again.

It happened on a late Tuesday morning. You’d just made tea, still in one of those oversized sweatshirts Pepper had given you, trailing quietly into the common room with your gloves on.

The team was already there. And the air felt thick. It was too quiet. No jokes. No arguing. No music playing in the background.

You paused near the doorway and noticed everyone’s behavior and body language. Steve was sitting stiffly. Natasha leaned against the wall with her arms crossed. Sam looked like he was trying not to look at you. Wanda and Bruce wouldn’t meet your gaze at all.

And then there was Tony. Standing in front of a projection screen, a file hovering behind him in holographic light.

Your file. Hydra’s file. You didn’t need to see the text to recognize the red lettering. The Hydra seal with your photo and warnings stamped across every page.

“Subject shows consistent and immediate lethality through direct epidermal contact.” “High fatality rate confirmed through controlled experimentation.” “Extreme caution advised. Gloves required at all times.”

The word “Thanatos” was printed in bold near the top. Your old title, the one they gave you, and the one you hated.

“Right,” Tony said, exhaling as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “So. Now that everyone’s caught up, I figured we should have the ‘Don’t-Touch-the-New-Girl-or-You’ll-Die’ talk.”

Your heart stopped. No one looked at you.

“Well, technically, she’ll still be the last one standing,” He added, more to himself. “Silver lining.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t know what to say as you just stood there. The tea cooling in the cup still in your hands. The weight of the scene before you sinking in your chest.

Natasha was the first to say anything, sighing. “Tony, seriously?”

“What? Did I lie?” He snapped. “You all needed to know.”

“Not like that,” Steve said, his jaw clenched. “She has a right to her privacy–“

“She has a death-touch!” Tony said, throwing a hand toward the screen. “If any of you brushed her arm on the way to the coffee machine, you'd be dead, Rogers! I’m not saying kick her out, I’m saying awareness matters!”

They argued. You didn’t hear most of it.

You turned around before anyone could stop you. Walked straight back down the hall, the sound of their voices fading behind you. You didn’t cry. You just felt cold. Like your skin didn’t belong to you anymore. Like you were back in that white room at Hydra, gloves stapled to your wrists.

You didn’t see Bucky in the room. But hours later, he found you sitting on the floor of your room, knees pulled up to your chest.

He knocked once before entering and sat down slowly across from you.

“They know,” You said flatly, not looking at him.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’m not safe.” You swallowed. “Not for any of you.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then: “You’ve been safe the entire time I’ve known you.”

You looked at him then, really looked. “You didn’t read the file, did you?”

“No,” He said honestly. “I didn’t need to.”

You blinked. “Why not?”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes calm, and voice even. “Because I’ve seen the way you move through a room. I’ve seen how careful you are, how you never slip or let your guard down, not even by accident. You think I haven’t been watching? You think I don’t get it?”

He lifted his metal hand slowly, carefully.

“I’ve lived with hands that kill, too.”

Your throat closed.

“And for what it’s worth,” He said, his voice quieter now, “I want to be the one you trust to take that risk to be around.”

You couldn’t speak. Not yet.

But later that night, after everyone had gone quiet, you stepped into the kitchen and found him waiting. You sat beside him in silence.

Your gloved hand rested on the counter beside his. And even after everything… you didn’t pull away.

But then it happened three nights later.

You weren’t reckless. Not intentionally. You never were, but the compound was darker than usual. Backup generators hummed, and flickering lights made every corner look unfamiliar. You were alone in the library’s upper balcony, reaching for a book too far up. You thought you were alone and with the AC not working well, you had pushed your sleeves up for once.

You didn’t mean to fall. Because you never let yourself be careless. Never let yourself slip. Because you knew what happened when you did. Every part of your body was a loaded gun. Every uncovered inch of skin was a threat.

But you had reached too far and your footing gave way. You didn’t even scream. You just reached out, an instinct burned into your body since before you could remember, and then–

Hands caught you. Strong. Steady. One metal but one flesh. And you felt it, the bare skin on yours.

You froze. Air jammed in your lungs as panic rose fast.

“No–” You choked. “No no no no no– let go!”

You shoved him back hard. Harder than you meant to. You hit the floor on your side, gloves scattering across the room as your eyes went wild trying to find him.

But Bucky didn’t collapse.

He stumbled, yes. But he caught himself, and looked at you. Hands still open in the air where they’d caught your arms. Still alive.

Your vision tunneled. Breath stuttering, chest too tight to expand.

“You–” Your voice broke like glass. “I touched you–“

“I know.”

He said it too calmly. Like he didn’t understand the weight of what just happened. Like he hadn’t just died.

“I didn’t mean to–I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking, I wasn’t–“ You curled in on yourself, dragging your sleeves back down over your hands, trying to find air in a room that had too much of it. “I don’t want you to die–I always kill them–“

��Hey.” His voice was closer, lower and solid. “You didn’t kill me.”

You shook your head violently, barely hearing him. Your hands were trembling so hard it hurt. Your whole body buzzed with panic. Your mind raced ahead to things that hadn’t happened. Memories of bodies falling, the smell of burned skin, the lifeless weight of people you'd only brushed.

“Look at me,” Bucky said again, firm this time. “Look at me.”

You did.

He was knelt in front of you, not touching you now, but not afraid either. Still breathing. Still alive.

“Nothing happened,” He said, slower this time. “You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t even make me dizzy.”

“I’ve never…” You voice cracked. “No one ever survives it.”

“I did.”

You stared at him, unable to believe it. Skin still crawling like you were seconds away from watching his eyes go blank, his heart stutter and stop.

But he stayed there, breathing evenly, watching you with calm in his storm-blue eyes.

“I don’t know why,” He said, not trying to sugarcoat it. “But you can touch me.”

And somehow, that was the thing that finally broke you. Not the fear. Not the guilt. Not the flashbacks.

Hope.

Because if there was one person in the world you could touch… then maybe you weren’t a monster after all. And that was almost harder to believe.

You didn’t move for a long time and neither did Bucky. He stayed close but not too close. Never crossed the line, never reached out. He just waited. Like he knew you were still one breath away from bolting down the hall.

But he did shift just slightly. “You don’t have to talk,” He said quietly. “Not yet, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Your voice was raw when you answered: “It’s not supposed to be possible.”

He said nothing.

“I’ve killed people for less,” You whispered. “Brushed their wrist, bumped a shoulder. They all…”

The words fractured. Your breath hitched too hard to finish. And still, he didn’t speak. Not in that moment.

But then he exhaled slowly. “They did that to me, too, you know,” He said. “Hydra. Taught me my hands could only cause hurt. That I wasn’t allowed to have anything good, not without ruining it.”

Your gaze flicked toward him, blurry and sharp at once. He looked tired. Not pitiful, not fragile–just… weathered. Like he understood.

“I got used to keeping distance,” He went on, gaze softening. “Figured I didn’t deserve closeness anymore.”

Something tight pulled in your heart.

“I never thought I’d be the one someone like you was scared to hurt.”

Your throat tightened. “That’s not what this is.”

He tilted his head. “No?”

You looked away, unable to meet the weight in his eyes. “I wasn’t scared of hurting you,” You admitted, voice quieter now. “I knew I would.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t judgment. It was understanding. The kind you’d only felt a few times in your life, and never like this.

Eventually, you managed to crawl forward, slowly, moving with the hesitance of someone reaching across a minefield. Bucky stayed perfectly still, not guiding, not pushing.

You reached for his hand. Skin to skin. And still… nothing.

No death. No pain. Just warmth.

You let out a shaky breath.

“I’ve never touched anyone like this,” You admitted, more to yourself than him. “Without hurting them.”

Bucky’s fingers curled gently around yours.

“You’re not hurting me,” He said. “You never have.”

The sob built in your throat before you could stop it. Ugly, sudden, and sharp. Bucky didn’t flinch. Just waited, fingers still gently holding yours. Like it wasn’t dangerous. Like it was normal.

Like maybe, for once, you were allowed to be human. And for the first time since the day Hydra named you a weapon, you believed that might be true.

#Whispers of the Gifted #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #marvel fic #bucky barnes fic #marvel x reader #bucky x you #hurt/comfort

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orellazalonia · 16 hours ago

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Thank you so much!!! I’m so glad you and a lot of other folks seemed to enjoy it! If I can create a driving plot, I could make it into a continuous story with chapters. But if not, it might just be them used in different one-shot scenarios. Either works for me lol. Thank you for reading!!! ♡

His Soft Spot

Summary: You’re a sunshine-hearted barista in a dangerous city, all smiles and soft edges. Unaware that the quiet, brooding man at your café table is the most feared name in the local mafia. But when Bucky Barnes starts carving gentle moments into his brutal world just to be near you, even he begins to wonder if someone like you could ever love someone like him. (Mob Boss!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: Been wanting to do a mob AU with this pair for a while now. I finally got to it, and they’re so cute! (Imo lol.) Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

The corner coffee shop was nothing special. Chipped counters, secondhand mugs, and a bell above the door that only worked when it wanted to. But you loved it. The soft clink of ceramic, the low hum of conversation, the smell of roasted beans.

You’d worked there for a little over a year now, always opening at 6 a.m. sharp, rain or shine. Most of your regulars were kind, or at least kind enough. Grumpy people in suits needing caffeine, half-asleep artists sketching in the window, moms with strollers and tired eyes. And then… there was him.

He wasn’t a regular in the traditional sense. He never came at the same time, never stayed too long. But you noticed him. Of course you did. Broad shoulders under expensive coats, a deep-set frown carved onto his face, and stormy blue eyes that rarely met anyone else’s. He always sat in the corner booth, never used his name, and always ordered a plain black coffee with two sugars.

You’d started calling him Quiet Guy in your head.

And he was. Quiet. Still. Intense. He didn’t smile, not once. But he tipped well, never complained, and never forgot to say thank you even if it came out in a low, quiet murmur that barely reached above the hiss of the espresso machine.

You didn’t think he noticed you much, not really. Especially not the way you always added a little extra whipped cream to his coffee, even if he didn’t ask for it. Not the way you smiled at him even when he didn’t smile back.

To you, he was like one of those paintings you stare at in a museum. Sharp, beautiful, and just a little sad.

Meanwhile, you were just the girl behind the counter. Apron stained with chocolate syrup, hair tied in a messy bun, a bandaid on your knuckle from an unfortunate knife-vs-avocado incident. Too smiley, too soft, too… naive, according to your friends.

But Quiet Guy never looked at you like you were silly. Never talked down to you and never flinched when you ended up rambling about your new cookie recipe or your dream of maybe, someday, opening a bakery with pastel tiles and big sunny windows.

If anything, he listened.

Really listened.

But it wasn’t until the third week of October that he spoke more than a sentence.

Rain was pouring that day. It was real ugly rain that soaked your shoes and stuck your hair to your face. You were closing up, locking the front door and tugging your jacket tight, when you saw him outside. No umbrella. No coat. Just standing there, rain dripping down his face, his shoulders hunched like a man carrying something heavier than water.

You hesitated. Then, without thinking, you held out your umbrella. “You’ll catch your death out here,” You said, half-joking, half-worried.

He looked down at it, then at you. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he spoke, voice gravelly, “You always this kind to strangers?”

You smiled, sheepish and soft. “Only the ones who don’t complain about the coffee.”

A ghost of something flickered at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile as he took the umbrella, his fingers brushing yours.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” He said, eyes lingering for just a second longer than they should have.

You watched him walk away, the umbrella bright yellow against the gray street.

You didn’t know you’d just handed protection to the most dangerous man in Brooklyn. And he didn’t know he’d just started falling for someone who wore bandaids with cartoon fruit on them.

You didn’t see him for a week after the umbrella incident.

The streets were rougher than usual that week. There were more police on the corner, more closed signs on family-owned businesses, and more whispered rumors behind half-lowered blinds. You heard someone mention the O’Rourke deal and someone else murmur about a warehouse fire that wasn’t an accident. A few people joked nervously about the mob running wild lately– Who’s in charge now, anyway?

You didn’t pay too much attention to that kind of talk honestly. Not because you weren’t curious, you were. But you’d grown up in this city. Danger was background noise like sirens or subway screeches. You learned to stay in your lane, smile when it was smart to, and never ask too many questions.

Besides, you had your own problems: the espresso machine started leaking, your paycheck bounced for the second time this month, and you accidentally burned your fingers on a pan of fresh croissants.

You were wiping the counter, cursing under your breath and cradling your wrapped-up hand, when the bell above the door jingled.

He was back.

And this time, he looked different. More tired like he hadn’t slept. His coat was darker than usual, collar turned up high. There was also something stiff in the way he moved, like something hurt under the surface.

“Hey,” You said, immediately smiling despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. “Rough week?”

He looked at your bandaged fingers first.

“What happened to you?”

You blinked. “Oh. Just being clumsy again, it was the pastry tray versus my hand. The tray won.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, like he didn’t find that answer as harmless or humorous as you did. He stepped forward, slow and quiet, placing a twenty on the counter.

“Black. Two sugars.”

“Same old?”

“Some things don’t need changing.”

You bit your lip to hide the smile that tugged at your mouth. He was… oddly comforting, even with the way he made your stomach flutter and your thoughts skip.

You turned to prep the coffee, carefully working around your bandaged hand, when he spoke again.

“This neighborhood isn’t safe lately.”

Your back stiffened slightly. “I mean… it’s never really been safe, has it?”

“Worse now,” He huffed. “Too many people trying to prove they belong at the top. They’re reckless.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “You sound like you know something.”

He didn’t answer that. Instead, he said, “You always walk home alone?”

“Sometimes,” You admitted. “I usually take the back route past the laundromat. It’s better lit.”

He looked genuinely displeased by that. “Don’t.”

You blinked. “Don’t… what? Walk home?”

“Don’t go through that alley again.” His voice was low and serious, like it wasn’t a suggestion. Like it was law.

You nodded slowly. “Okay. I won’t.”

You set his cup in front of him. He didn’t take it right away. He simply looked at you and for the first time, it didn’t seem as guarded as usual.

“You ever wonder why no one messes with this place?” He asked.

Your brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, two blocks down, there’s a diner with bullet holes in the glass. There’s a liquor store that got torched. But your little coffee shop? Untouched.”

You looked around like you were noticing it for the first time and he wasn’t wrong.

“I guess we’re lucky,” You said, quieter this time.

He finally took the cup.

“Not luck,” He murmured. “Some places are off-limits.”

Your stomach did a slow flip. Before you could ask what he meant, he slid a small piece of paper across the counter. His handwriting was sharp and deliberate. There lied a number.

“If you ever feel unsafe,” He said, “Call. Don’t hesitate, just call.”

You looked up at him. “What should I save it under?”

He met your eyes, and for the first time, he smiled. Small, crooked, but real.

“James,” He said. “But you can keep calling me ‘Quiet Guy’ if you want.”

And then he was gone, the door jingling behind him, a gust of cold air in his wake.

You flushed, knowing he must’ve overheard you talking about him to your colleague. You stared down at the paper in your hand now and thought, James. Huh.

You didn’t know that name came with weight. You didn’t know that in certain circles, that name made grown men flinch. And you definitely didn’t know you’d just become the softest secret in James Buchanan Barnes’s world of blood, power, and control.

You never really called the number.

Not that day, not the next. You stared at it for a while. Once during your lunch break, once before bed, but you never dialed. You didn’t need to since nothing had happened. The streets were loud, the rumors kept circling, but your world stayed small, safe, and ordinary.

But something changed after that.

The Quiet Guy – James – started coming in more often.

Sometimes in the early morning, when the city was just beginning. Sometimes in the quiet lull between lunch and dinner. He never stayed long though, but he started talking more. Asking questions and not the kind people ask just to be polite; it was the kind that meant he was actually listening.

He’d ask about your recipes, about the books you liked, whether you preferred cats or dogs. One time he even noticed the way you hummed to yourself one of your favorite songs when you were focused, and he asked what the song was.

You told him it was nothing.

But the next day, he left a little radio on the counter when he left. It was old, scratched, but with the exact song loaded onto a USB inside.

You didn’t ask how he got it. And he didn’t ask what you thought of it. But you smiled a little bigger the next time he walked in, and that was enough.

Then, one afternoon, he came in without a coat. No shadows under his eyes. Just him. Solid, real, and standing in front of you with a calm you hadn’t seen before.

“Are you free Friday night?” He asked, like it wasn’t a question that made your heart trip over itself.

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah. You.”

You smiled. “I mean– yes. Yeah, I’m free.”

He nodded, like he’d already planned everything. “Wear something warm.”

You didn’t know what to expect.

He picked you up just after dark in a sleek black car you didn’t recognize the brand of. His jacket was pressed. His shirt was ironed. And when he offered his hand to help you inside, you hesitated just long enough for your cheeks to flush.

He noticed but he didn’t tease.

Instead, he said, “You look beautiful,” like it was the only truth he knew how to say.

You didn’t know that three hours earlier, he’d been standing in a warehouse near the docks, quietly threatening a man with a broken nose not to let a whisper of trouble near your neighborhood tonight. You didn’t know that Bucky had postponed a weapons shipment and moved a backroom poker game three blocks east just to clear the air around you.

All you knew was that the rooftop he brought you to had a string of soft, glowing lights, a space heater, a tiny table with mismatched chairs, and two steaming paper bowls of your favorite takeout.

You gasped when you saw it. “Is this…?”

“I remembered you said you liked the dumplings from Ling’s.”

“I didn’t think you were listening.”

“I’m always listening.”

You sat, half-nervous and half-stunned, watching as he poured you a cup of tea from a little thermos he brought himself. It was clumsy, imperfect, but somehow… it made the gesture sweeter.

“Why up here?” You asked curiously.

He shrugged. “I don’t like crowds and it’s quiet.”

“Do you always go to this much trouble for dinner?”

He hesitated. “No.”

You looked up at him and found he was already looking back.

There was something different in his eyes now though. It wasn’t cold or guarded. It was more like a storm had passed and left something warm in its wake.

You ate slowly, talking about everything and nothing: your favorite cartoons as a kid, the weirdest thing you’ve ever baked, your theory that the city pigeons are evolving to become smarter than humans.

He laughed at that one. Actually laughed. It was rough and low, a rare sound that made your chest ache in a good way.

Later, when the wind picked up, he moved closer. His arm barely brushed yours.

“Cold?” He asked.

“A little.”

He draped his jacket over your shoulders like it was instinct and maybe it was.

You glanced down at your tea, heart pounding, and asked softly, “James?”

“Yeah?”

“Why me?”

He didn’t answer right away. You thought maybe he wouldn’t but you’d asked anyways.

But then he said in voice low and almost vulnerable, “Because you're the only good thing I don’t want to ruin.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you reached for his hand and to your surprise, he let you hold it like he didn’t want to let go. It all felt like the beginning of something neither of you could name just yet.

#thank you for the reblog

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orellazalonia · 16 hours ago

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Haha, that’s good to hear! I hope I executed it well then. Thank you for reading!!! ♡

Can you write a Bucky x reader fic that has the red string of fate/invisible string soulmates theory? I haven’t seen anyone write these and I think it could be kinda angsty and fluffy

Hello there, dear! I loved this idea, very unique. I think this turned out more angst than fluff, but I can definitely write additional follow ups to include more fluff later on! Hope you enjoy it and thank you for the request! Happy reading!!!

Tangled Threads

Summary: You’ve always felt the red string of fate for better or worse, but when it finally leads you to Bucky Barnes; both of you avoid each other, too afraid of ruining the other. Over time, the unspoken tension wears you both down until a forced confrontation finally brings the truth out. (Soulmate AU! | Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 3.4k+

Main Masterlist

You’d never believed in soulmates.

Not really. Not the way some people did, anyway. Like the ones who walked around with hearts in their eyes and poetry in their throats. The ones who would obsess over the faint, red threads that sometimes coiled around their pinkies like destiny’s leash. Or those who made dating decisions based on whether the string tingled or tugged, like a compass spinning toward fate.

You didn’t have the luxury of romantic idealism. Not when your string had spent the better part of a decade ruining your life.

Every time you tried to date someone or every time you flirted with a guy in a bar, went out for drinks, or even let someone kiss you, the string would pull. Tug. Burn. Like it was punishing you. And worse than the pain, worse than the guilt that bloomed inexplicably in your chest, was how it always ended the same way.

Knots. Tangles. Snaps.

The relationship would basically implode. The person would leave, or you would. One guy had even blamed you for making him feel “haunted.” He said he felt like there was always someone watching him when he was with you. Another girl you tried to date had burst into tears during dinner and said she couldn’t stop thinking about someone else, someone she’d never even met.

You didn’t know who your soulmate was and honestly, you didn’t want to. It wasn’t romantic, this invisible leash tied around your soul. It was exhausting. Unrelenting. And frankly? It made you bitter.

So you stopped dating. You stopped looking entirely and threw yourself into work.

As fate would have it, that’s when you were recruited to work logistics for the Avengers.

It was supposed to be your fresh start. You handled team schedules, mission support, resource allocation, and emergency routing. You kept your head down, did your job, and ignored the fact that the red string on your finger never stopped humming faintly.

But then came James Buchanan Barnes, arriving late on a Thursday, trailing quiet steps and old guilt. You watched his arrival from the corner of the control room, fingers curled around a lukewarm coffee mug. He didn’t smile and he barely spoke. He was all shadow and silence, hunched shoulders and downcast eyes. You tried not to look. Tried not to care.

But the moment he entered the building, your string flared. It was like someone had grabbed it from the other end and yanked.

You had gasped as the mug fell from your hand and shattered on the tile.

Everyone turned toward the sound, but you didn’t see them. Your vision had narrowed to the throb in your finger, to the ache in your chest, to the man who hadn’t even looked your way. A stranger. A storm in a suit. You turned and fled the room before anyone could stop you.

That night, you stared at your ceiling, wide-eyed, red string pulsing faintly under your skin. You knew what it meant. Knew it in your gut. Knew it the way birds know where to fly in winter.

Your soulmate had arrived. However, you told yourself it was just a coincidence.

The red string pulsing against your finger? It was reacting to stress. Nothing more. You’d been tired lately, maybe spent too many long nights in the compound and dealing with too many high-stakes missions on the board. That had to be it.

But that lie didn’t hold when Bucky walked by you for the third time that week in the hallway, his steps heavy, his eyes fixed straight ahead; and still, the string pulled.

And it wasn’t subtle. Not the kind of whispering ache you were used to. No, this was worse. The thread practically yanked toward him like it knew him, like it had been waiting years to be close again. Every time he got near, your body reacted before your brain could stop it. Your heart would race. Your lungs would freeze. And that thread would burn under your skin like fate was trying to dig itself out.

So you kept your distance.

You shifted your schedule. You took your lunch breaks earlier. You stopped using the gym after hours and switched to morning training, even though you hated mornings. You turned the other way when you heard his boots in the hallway, and when you had to be in the same room whether it be for briefings, tech updates, or field intel, you sat at the opposite end of the table. Silent and still.

You didn’t speak to him. You didn’t even look at him. Not that he noticed anyways. Or so you thought.

What you didn’t realize and what you couldn’t see, was that Bucky was avoiding you too.

He had noticed you the moment he arrived, even if he hadn’t looked. Not directly. Not openly. But he’d seen you. You were the one in the back of the room with the broken mug, eyes too wide, mouth set in a line too tight for a casual expression.

And then you’d vanished like a ghost.

He felt… off after that. There was a sensation in his chest he couldn’t name. A quiet wrongness. Something half-forgotten and buried deep.

So he started walking different routes through the compound. Skipping meals he didn’t want just to stay out of the kitchen when you were there. Ducking out of gym sessions early. He didn’t speak to you either. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. He didn’t know why he felt so tense around you, so hyperaware, but it made him feel cornered.

And afraid.

He’d spent years under control, under programming, under orders. Soulmates were a fairytale. A luxury. Not something made for someone like him, someone HYDRA had hollowed out and filled with blood.

And still… the red string that had dulled during his Winter Soldier days now hummed faintly every time you passed. He refused to look at his hand, refused to follow the string. And maybe you mistook that for indifference. Maybe he mistook your silence for hatred.

So the two of you danced around each other like gravity and defiance, orbiting but never colliding.

But the string? The string never gave up. It tangled tighter. It pulled harder. And it waited for one of you to give in first.

When you weren’t avoiding Bucky, you did get to meet a lot of the people you worked with and for. Of course, you weren’t close to many people at the compound.

But Sam?

Sam Wilson had a way of sneaking into your life like sunlight through blinds. He didn’t try to crack you open or ask too many questions. He just showed up.

You bonded over coffee at first. Both of you were early risers, though for very different reasons: you, out of anxious insomnia; Sam, out of habit built in warzones and battles. Eventually, those quiet mornings became more than just caffeine. They became small check-ins. Casual jokes. Breakfasts shared across mission briefings. Banter that made you feel less like background noise and more like a person.

He never pushed. But he noticed. Especially when it came to Bucky.

At first, Sam chalked it up to coincidence.

The way you’d leave a room the moment Bucky entered. The way Bucky’s shoulders would tense whenever he sensed you nearby. How neither of you ever looked at each other, even when seated at the same table. At first, Sam thought maybe something had happened between you like an argument, a disagreement, or maybe even a past mission gone bad.

But then he started noticing the timing.

The way Bucky took the long route to the gym. The way you checked the corridors before turning into them. The way your fingers would twitch toward your covered hand like something itched beneath the skin. The way Bucky kept glancing at his hand when he thought no one was watching.

That was when Sam’s brow started furrowing.

Because he’d seen the red string of fate work before. He’d seen it between two agents back in his SHIELD days, an unspoken bond visible only under certain lights, but always felt. He remembered the tension, the ache, the gravitational pull people fought even as it dragged them closer.

And he saw that same tension between you and Bucky, but worse.

Because you weren’t just soulmates avoiding each other. You were ghosts haunting each other. Two people pretending not to bleed from the same wound.

Even Steve noticed too.

The Captain didn’t say anything outright, he rarely did honestly, but he lingered longer in rooms where you both occupied opposite ends. His gaze flicking subtly between you. He frowned when Bucky avoided eye contact. He narrowed his eyes when you left too quickly, your knuckles white around your clipboard.

Natasha, on the other hand, didn’t bother pretending.

“You’re not subtle,” She told you one evening, arms crossed as you reviewed intel in the common room.

You blinked at her. “About what?”

She raised an eyebrow. “About him.”

You flushed. “I’m not… there’s nothing-“

Nat cut you off with a shrug. “You can lie to yourself. Just don’t expect it to fool anyone else.”

And then she walked off, leaving you burning with the realization that the others weren’t just noticing, they were waiting. Waiting for the moment the string snapped or finally pulled taut enough to bring you both crashing into each other.

However, it was Sam who decided he was done waiting.

You hadn’t noticed how often he brought Bucky into conversations with you. It started off casual at first, asking your opinion on mission tech when Bucky was in the room, suggesting both of you work on the same security drill. You kept dodging it. Sidestepping the awkwardness. Swallowing your discomfort. But Sam wasn’t blind.

One morning over coffee, he finally leaned in across the table and said, “You know… you can’t outrun a red string.”

You stiffened before slowly looking up.

Sam didn’t smile. He just looked at you in a calm and unbothered way, but his expression was knowing.

“Is that what this is?” You asked quietly. “You think he’s…?”

“I don’t think,” Sam said. “I see.”

You looked down at your hand, hidden under your sleeve.

“It’s been burning since the day he arrived,” You whispered.

Sam’s voice gentled. “Then maybe it’s time to stop pretending it’s not there.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

So Sam just nodded once and added, “If you won’t say something, I will.”

You thought he was bluffing so you changed the conversation and let it go.

Meanwhile, Bucky was having a considerably hard time as well. He didn’t mean to notice, but he did.

He noticed everything, really. Supersoldier senses, it was a curse he couldn’t shake, a leftover from too many years being trained to sense threats before they moved. But you? You weren’t a threat. Not to anyone but maybe him.

You were the one person he hadn’t been able to read. Not because you were guarded, though you were, but because being near you made something in him short-circuit. Your presence wasn’t like anyone else’s. It was too still. Too loud in a way that had no sound. Like something had been missing in him for years, and you were the reminder of it.

So he continued to avoid you, but he didn’t stop watching.

He noticed how often you sat with Sam in the mornings, how the two of you laughed over quiet jokes and mismatched mugs. He noticed the way you let your shoulders relax around Wilson. Like relax, in a way you never did around Bucky. Not when you saw him. Not when you passed each other in the hall and he kept his eyes on the floor.

You looked safe with Sam.

And it twisted something in Bucky’s chest that he didn’t like to name.

He told himself it was good. Better, even. That you should be around someone like Sam who was someone stable, someone warm. Someone who hadn’t been forged into a deadly weapon like him. You deserved easy mornings and easy friendships. You deserved a soulmate who didn’t have a kill list longer than your entire history. You deserved someone who wasn’t haunted.

He told himself the ache in his ribs every time you laughed with Sam was just guilt. That it wasn’t jealousy. But the thread on his finger tightened every time.

And when he caught the way Sam looked at the space between you and Bucky; the unspoken one, the thread-pulled one, he knew.

Sam knew.

But Bucky still wouldn't do anything about it. Because if he acknowledged it, if he gave in, what then?

What if you hated him for it? What if the string only existed to remind you both that fate was cruel? That the universe thought it was funny to pair a bruised heart like yours with someone who'd broken a hundred others with his bare hands?

So he didn’t speak, didn’t reach out, nor explain why he left every room you were in like it was on fire.

But the rest of the team saw it all. And Bucky could feel the confrontation coming. Like thunder in the distance.

It was Sam who finally shattered the stalemate.

You were in the tech wing, running diagnostics on the quinjet for tomorrow’s mission. The lab was quiet, humming with low light and LED glow, and you were just beginning to enjoy the silence when the door hissed open and you heard his voice.

“I thought this hangar was clear.”

Bucky’s voice. Dry, flat, and instinctually distant.

Your head snapped up and there he was. Standing in the doorway, a tablet in one hand, brow furrowed in that perpetually tired way of his. His eyes met yours for half a second before you looked away.

“Sorry,” You muttered. “I’ll finish later.”

You started to pack your tools, but Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t walk in but he didn’t walk out either.

Then, suddenly:

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

Both of you turned, just as Sam Wilson stormed through the opposite door.

He looked between you like a fed-up parent catching two stubborn kids refusing to apologize.

“I knew it,” He muttered, pointing a gloved finger between you both. “You two. You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” You asked sharply, far too quickly.

Sam gave you the flattest look imaginable. “That ‘I’m avoiding him but also vibrating like a tuning fork every time he enters the damn room’ thing. You’ve been doing it for weeks.”

“I haven’t-“

“Yes, you have.”

He turned to Bucky. “And you. Man, you’ve been walking the long way around the building just to dodge someone you haven’t even spoken to.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “I didn’t-“

“Don’t.” Sam cut him off. “You two are tied together like moths to a flame and it’s getting real uncomfortable to watch. Just talk. Ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Sam was already stepping out the door. The door closed behind him like a gavel.

Silence followed, thick and immovable. You didn’t dare move as you were still gripping the edge of the diagnostics console like it could anchor you, but it couldn’t stop the sting behind your eyes.

You could feel him.

Even with your back turned, you knew Bucky hadn’t left. You could sense him, feel him, just like always. That subtle magnetic pull low in your gut, the electric hum at the edge of your skin. The red string wasn’t just glowing now.

It was buzzing.

You didn’t need to look to know it arced across the space between you like a live wire. Still, you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because you weren’t ready to hear what he might say. That this wasn’t real. That he didn’t want it. That you weren’t enough.

“…I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” He said, voice rough.

The sound of it broke something open in you.

Your throat tightened. “You didn’t. I just…” You swallowed, still not turning around. “I figured you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “That’s not it.”

You turned slowly.

He was standing near the wall, not quite meeting your eyes. His shoulders were tense, jaw set like he was bracing for a punch. Your voice came out in a whisper.

“…You feel it too?”

God, your voice. It hit him like a bomb shell.

He nodded slowly. “Since the moment I saw you.”

You flinched, like that was worse. Like it made things harder, not easier.

“I didn’t think I’d ever feel it again,” He said quietly. “HYDRA… what they did to me, whatever magic’s in this string, it… it went silent for a long time. I thought it broke. I thought I broke it.”

You stepped closer, the red between you pulsing brighter. Bucky’s chest ached with the way your eyes held sorrow instead of hope.

“It came back when I showed up,” You stated, not a question. A fact.

He nodded again. “And I ran from it. From you.”

“Why?”

He looked away.

Because I don’t deserve a soulmate, he thought. Because I’ve hurt too many people to believe someone could be mine. Because if I touched you and you pulled away, I think it would kill me.

“I thought…” He exhaled shakily. “I thought the universe was playing a joke. Giving me something good just to watch me ruin it.”

Your gaze softened. That pain in your eyes, that was familiar. Too familiar. He saw himself in it. All the years of pretending you didn’t need the thread. All the little heartbreaks you must’ve carried in silence.

“I thought the same thing,” You said quietly.

You stood inches from him now. The string was glowing full-force, twisting gently between you like it had been waiting years for this moment. You could both feel it pulsing like your hearts hammering in your chests.

You lifted your hand. So did he. And then, finally, you both touched.

It wasn’t magic. Not really. There were no sparks or flashes of light. But the moment your fingers brushed in that slow, hesitant, gentle way, everything settled. The ache. The noise. The burning uncertainty.

It went quiet.

The thread between you pulsed once, deeply, and then simply rested as though it had been holding its breath this entire time.

You exhaled. So did he.

“Hi,” You said softly.

His voice broke around the answer. “Hi.”

Neither of you moved at first. Your fingers were gently wrapped around Bucky’s, his calloused palm tentative against yours, like he wasn’t sure if holding you would make the thread vanish or knot tighter. You half-expected to feel overwhelmed. But instead… everything in your chest finally stopped clenching.

Even though you felt peace, still, you hesitated.

“Just because we’re connected…” You began quietly, eyes flickering to the thread that now glowed with an even, steady rhythm between your hands, “…doesn’t mean we have to do anything. We don’t owe it anything… or each other.”

Bucky’s eyes lifted slowly to meet yours. You expected resistance, or maybe guilt. But instead, he gave you the smallest nod.

“I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

His jaw worked for a moment like he was chewing on the words before speaking them aloud.

“I’ve had enough of people making decisions for me. I’m not gonna do that to you.” He swallowed. “If you want to take it slow—or walk away, I won’t stop you.”

You could see it, feel it in him. That deep, worn-in belief that letting go was the only good thing he had to offer. The way he held your hand like he expected you to pull away at any second.

But you didn’t.

“I don’t want to walk away,” You said. “I just… want to breathe for once. And not feel like I’m ruining something just by existing.”

That caught him off guard. He flinched, not from your words, but from the echo of them.

“Yeah,” He whispered. “Me too.”

And the thread didn’t demand anything. It didn’t pull you closer or tighten like a leash. It just existed as a steady tether, a presence, like the quiet hum of a heart still beating after the worst of it has passed. Still glowing. But content, now. Patient.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” You admitted quietly.

“Me neither.”

You hesitated. “But I’d like to figure it out.”

Bucky didn’t say anything at first. But after a long moment, he held your hand a little tighter almost as a confirmation. You gave him a small smile, finally feeling like you didn’t have to rush toward something. You could just… sit in it. Let the connection exist without a name. Without pressure. Without promises you weren’t ready to make.

The string between you flickered once. Steady and. Not binding. Not demanding. Just waiting. And for the first time, you weren’t afraid to wait with it.

#thank you for the reblog

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orellazalonia · 1 day ago

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His Soft Spot

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: Been wanting to do a mob AU with this pair for a while now. I finally got to it, and they’re so cute! (Imo lol.) Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | His Sweetheart Masterlist