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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.

Thank you!!! Fairy reader is so adorable when they aren’t sulking lol. Thank you for reading! ♡

Tiny Wings, Gentle Things

Summary: Steve gently teaches you human things like books, buttons, and manners, while Bucky encourages mischief, showing you how to pull harmless pranks around the tower. The others react with a mix of confusion, amusement, and affection. (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 700+

A/N: Little day in the life as I work on something else for them. Thank you to @lexi-anastasia-astra-luna for some of the ideas here. Enjoy! Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Original Fic

No one really knew what to do with you.

You were small, winged, usually perched somewhere high, and spoke only when you really had something to say. And even then, it was usually short answers or a half-muttered grumble. But Steve and Bucky understood your silences, the way you blinked slowly to show you were listening, or how you folded your wings just slightly when you were shy.

Tony tried, for about five minutes. He offered you a nanobot containment suit that looked like a miniature Iron Man armor. You stared at it, picked it up, and immediately used it as a bowl to hold berries.

Clint once tried to feed you a gummy worm. You were offended he gellied a worm, threw it back at his face, and disappeared in a sparkle.

Natasha never tried. She just nodded at you once, quietly, like she saw you in the way only someone used to silence really could. You nodded back. A silent truce.

But it was Steve and Bucky who brought you into their strange human world piece by piece.

Steve started with books.

Children’s stories at first, Grimm’s fairy tales (which you found rude), then picture books, then little poems he read aloud to you in the warm morning sun. You’d perch on the windowsill, legs swinging, wings drowsy and half-spread out, as he explained what a “library” was. You didn’t say much, just blinked slowly, then nodded once.

Then came buttons.

You were obsessed with them, often hoarding them after being given some as rewards for your lessons with Steve. The man would sit you on the table and give you different things one at a time. Sometimes it was light switches, other times old radio dials or clicky pens, and he would explain each time what they did.

“Elevator,” Steve said once, pointing to the big silver doors. “You press that button, and it takes you to another floor.”

You looked at him then at the button before pressing it. When the doors opened, you flew inside and hovered in the corner like a suspicious bee.

He didn’t laugh. Just waited.

You ended up going up four floors by yourself and refused to speak for two hours afterward.

Bucky, on the other hand, was… different.

He saw your silences as permission. Permission to teach you everything you weren’t supposed to know.

“Okay,” He whispered one evening, crouched beside the kitchen island like he was about to spill government secrets. “This is a prank. It’s not bad. It’s mischief. And Sam deserves it.”

You blinked slowly, sitting on his shoulder.

He held up a spoon and nodded toward the sugar bowl.

“Swapped with salt. Classic.”

You didn’t say anything, but when he looked away, you fluttered over and swapped every single label in the spice rack.

Bucky stared, then smirked. “Okay. Overachiever.”

From then on, it became a game.

You’d turn invisible and move Sam’s phone two inches to the left every day until he questioned reality.

You filled Peter’s web-shooter with glitter. You unzipped Tony’s backpack halfway so it spilled post-its everywhere. No one ever suspected you except maybe Nat, who watched you a little too knowingly.

You never laughed out loud. But sometimes, when no one was looking, your wings would pulse in little ripples like soft, silent giggles.

And sometimes Bucky caught you smirking behind your hand.

You didn’t talk much. But you listened.

You remembered that Steve said “please” and “thank you” even to vending machines. That Bucky never let anyone touch his dog tags but didn’t mind when you rested on them. That Sam talked too loudly but always smelled like clean laundry and summer air. That Wanda could feel emotions like a river and once gifted you a leaf shaped like a heart.

You never spoke of it, but sometimes you left little gifts.

A petal in Natasha’s drawer.

A marble in Peter’s hoodie.

A single, silver button beside Steve’s bed.

You were quiet, mysterious, and easily mistaken for decoration sometimes. But the tower shifted around you, softened. They grew used to the way coffee mugs were suddenly left out around the place or how the microwave would beep and no one was there.

And every morning, without fail, Steve would say, “Good morning, sweetheart,” to the windowsill just in case you were there, curled in a sock, pretending not to care.

Remember that one fic with the original character I made that got 2 notes. No? Good…. I’m tempted to just write whatever I want from it in the present day and let everyone else figure out the lore later even if it doesn’t make sense at first. Like a mother bird kicking the baby birds out to see if they fly or not lol

Caged in Comfort (Pt. 1)

Summary: Though your life was not perfect, it was familiar. There was routine. A system in place. You practically grew up there all your life. So, when two super soldiers take you away from it all, how do they expect a lab experiment to react?

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Not forced age regression yet, but heavily implied. Kidnapping . References to Labs. Lots of dialogue. Reader cries/panics. Stockholm Syndrome in the future likely.

Word Count: 1400+

A/N: As I say, if I can’t find a fic like it, I’ll just write it. Maybe you’ll like it too. Please read the warnings though. You are responsible for the media you consume. Also, let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.

Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Next

You wake with a jolt.

The air feels too still. Too clean. There’s something wrong. Your body’s stiff, your wrists ache, though they’re no longer bound. The sheets smell like detergent and lavender, not the cold metal and chemicals you were used to. You’re not in the lab. But this doesn’t seem like freedom.

You don’t move at first. You listen.

There are voices. Male. Muffled.

“She’s still sleeping?” One asks, firm yet laced with a hint of concern. It unsettles something deep in your gut.

“She’s just tired,” Says another. This voice is lower, rougher, but not unkind. “She’s been through a lot.”

You bolt upright.

The room is soft, painfully soft. Pastel walls, gentle lighting, plush toys sitting on shelves like they belong to someone half your age. There’s a rocking chair in the corner. The window is shut. There are no locks on the door, but that doesn’t mean you’re free.

You scramble back against the headboard, heart slamming in your chest.

Footsteps approach.

The door opens slowly, and you see them.

Steve Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes.

You know them. Not personally, you would have never imagined ever encountering them, not like this, but you know. They’re supposed to be heroes. But the way they’re looking at you now, like they already own you. It sends panic twisting in your stomach.

“Hey, hey,” Steve says quickly, raising his hands like you’re a frightened animal. “Easy, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

“No,” You breathe, barely audible. Your form is shaking now. “No, I don’t—this isn’t—where am I?”

Bucky takes a step closer, voice calm. Almost too calm. Like he has rehearsed this. "You’re home now. This is your room. We brought you here because the people who had you before? They didn’t take care of you. But we will.”

You stare at him. Then at Steve. “You kidnapped me.”

Steve frowns, as if the word offends him. “We rescued you.”

Your hands clutch the edge of the blanket like it’s the only thing grounding you. “I don’t know you. I want to leave.” Your words came out in a hurried manner as your eyes darted around the room, desperately searching for something. A way out? An exit? Anything will do at this point.

“You don’t need to leave,” Bucky says, slowly kneeling beside the bed like you’re a scared child. “You’re safe now. We’re gonna take care of you. Feed you. Keep you warm. No more experiments. No more pain.”

You shake your head, the pressure building behind your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“But we have decided,” Steve replies, still gentle. “You’re our little girl now. You just don’t remember what that feels like yet. But you will.”

“I’m not yours!” You shout, whether it be the conditioning or the fear breaking through. Your voice is sharp, almost shrill. “Let me go!”

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t flinch. Neither of them do. They probably expected this. They simply look at you with something terrifying in their eyes. Not anger, not cruelty. But love. Warped, dangerous love.

“You’re scared. And that’s okay,” Steve says softly, stepping toward you. “New littles always are at first. But we’ll teach you. You don’t have to be strong anymore. You can let go.”

“I don’t want to let go,” You whisper. You don’t even know what that truly means. If you even know how to.

“But you need to,” Bucky says. “And it’s okay now. That’s why we’re here. To love you when you can’t love yourself. To hold you when it’s too much.”

You try to run.

You throw the blanket off and jump from the bed, but your legs are weak, your body too drained. Steve catches you instantly with ease before your body can hit the ground. He doesn’t hurt you. That almost makes it worse. He just holds you, firm and warm, like you’re something fragile. Like a child.

“Shhh,” He soothes into your hair. “You’re okay. You’re okay, baby girl.”

“No, no, no—” You fight, your voice breaking. “Don’t call me that. I’m not—!”

“You’re tired,” Bucky says firmly, yet still moves closer to stroke your back. “That’s all. Sleep a little. You’ll feel better. It gets easier.” The order comes out easy for him.

You sob once, harsh and sudden.

Because some part of you, the smallest part, wants to believe them. And that’s the most terrifying thing of all.

You can’t stop the tears now.

They come fast, hot, humiliating. Your body shakes as you struggle in Steve’s hold, but he doesn’t let you go. He just sinks to the carpet with you in his lap, sitting back against the edge of the bed as if this is routine. As if this is normal.

“I want to go,” You choke out, the words ragged against the lump in your throat. You know you didn’t have many things before, but at least it wasn’t as confusing and disorientating as this. “I want to go home. Please…”

“This is your home now,” Bucky rises with a sigh. His arms now folded across his chest. His metal fingers twitch, not with aggression, but with restraint, like he’s holding himself back. “You’re not going anywhere. You weren’t safe there nor would you be safe out there. You know that.”

“I don’t know anything!” Your voice comes out sharply, snapping at him as you try to pull away from Steve again. However, he holds you tighter. Not hurting you, never hurting, just keeping. Containing. “You drugged me…Took me—”

Steve’s voice comes quiet against your ear. “You were shaking when we first saw you. Do you remember that? Curled up in the corner of that place? That wasn’t living. That was surviving. Barely.”

He rocks you a little as he speaks, a gentle back and forth that makes your stomach twist.

You didn’t remember. You didn’t know they were even there, watching you. How long were they watching you?

“You didn’t ask,” You whimper softly, trying to find any rebuttal you could.

“We didn’t need to,” Bucky says, crouching now, eye-level. His eyes are hard, but not cold. Just…sure. Certain of himself, of what they’ve done. “You belong here. Whether you’re ready to admit it or not.”

“I don’t!” You cry out again, your voice cracking. “I’m not your little girl, I’m not—!”

“Sweetheart,” Steve soothes, rubbing slow circles into your back. “Shhh…I know it’s scary. I know your head’s telling you to fight. But you don’t have to anymore. Not here, not with us.”

You shake your head furiously, pressing your forehead into his chest to hide the tears, even though you hate how your body leans into the warmth. You don’t want to. You really don’t. But your resolve is starting to crack.

“I’m not little,” You mumble. “I’m not your baby.” Maybe if you repeat it enough times, it will come true. You know, deep down, it won’t.

“You are now,” Bucky says, simple and final.

You stiffen at his words, but Steve just hugs you closer, resting his chin gently atop your head like you’re something sacred. “He’s a bit blunt,” He murmurs. “But he loves you. We both do. So much already, baby.”

You start to tremble.

Because no one’s said that to you before. Not like this. Not without conditions or expectations or pain behind it.

You want to scream. You want to hit something. You want to run, even if your legs won’t carry you far.

But all you can do is sit there. Curled in the lap of a super soldier, a stranger, in a room that’s already been built for you like this was always going to happen.

Bucky rises again, slow, looming.

“I’ll bring her something to eat,” He says, turning toward the door. “Maybe that’ll help her accept us better when her stomach’s not empty.”

Steve hums in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Buck.”

Bucky pauses at the doorway. He looks back at you, one last time. His eyes narrow, jaw tight. “You’re not a prisoner. But don’t try anything,” He warns. “We’ll be kind. But if you think we’ll let you bolt out into the night and end up back in some lab’s basement? Think again.”

Then he’s gone.

The door shuts behind him with a soft click.

You stay frozen in Steve’s arms, your breath shaking in your chest. He’s warm. He smells like soap and leather and safety you don’t trust. You feel so small, despite your rage. Despite your fear and confusion.

Steve hums again, that same soothing sound, like a lullaby without words. “You’ll get used to it,” He says gently, brushing a tear from your cheek. “The softness. The quiet. The being wanted.”

You don’t reply.

Because part of you doesn’t believe it. And the rest is afraid that you might start to.

But no matter how pleasant these two strangers try to spin it, you’ve simply moved from one cage to another.

Chaotic Cat Curse

Summary: You were accidentally cursed and turned into a cat, causing all kinds of fun chaos for Bucky: destroying things, attacking his shoelaces, and generally making his life impossible. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 1.4k+

A/N: Will be writing another fic with reader having the power to shapeshift into animals, but for now; I’m testing the waters with cat and chaos. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Sequel

You didn’t mean to touch the glowing, ominous-looking artifact in Strange’s Sanctum. Really, you were just trying to dust it off and maybe get a better look. It was dusty! And pulsing with weird red light! How were you supposed to know it was cursed?

The moment your fingers grazed it, there was a loud pop, a blinding flash, and then… paws. Fur. Whiskers. And an overwhelming urge to knock things off shelves.

Bucky was not impressed when he found you ten minutes later, sitting smugly atop a bookcase, licking your paw and knocking down an ancient scroll with a flick of your tail.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," He muttered, staring at your tiny, floofy form. You blinked slowly at him, then meowed very dramatically. It didn’t help that Wong started laughing the second he walked in. "They touched the Soul of Bastet? Oh, that’s rich."

Strange said the spell would wear off in a few days. Until then, you were stuck as a cat. A small, fluffy, highly expressive cat who unfortunately still had all your chaotic human instincts. Just… furrier.

Two days into your feline vacation, Bucky had to bring you along to Sam’s apartment while waiting for Strange to “align the right moon phase” or whatever nonsense he was mumbling about. You were restless, bored, and determined to explore every inch of Sam’s place. Which led you to the kitchen.

And the catnip.

To be fair, Sam did foster animals sometimes. So technically, the bag of catnip wasn’t for you. But Bucky had looked away for two seconds, and you were already rolling on the floor. Eyes wide, pupils dilated, and tail puffed up. The sounds you made could only be described as a mix between a war cry and screech.

Bucky walked into the kitchen to find you mid-roll, rabbit-kicking the air like a tiny lunatic. “What the hell?” He muttered, only to freeze as you bolted toward him and latched onto his boot like it owed you money.

“Seriously?” He tried to shake you off gently. “You’re high off your tiny furry face.”

You yowled in mock betrayal, then darted under the couch only to return five seconds later to attack his laces with renewed fury. Bucky was trying to have a perfectly normal conversation with Steve over speakerphone while you turned his shoelaces into your mortal enemy.

“I swear, this is just temporary,” He said, ignoring your furious little growls as you pounced on his foot. “Strange said they’ll be back to normal soon.”

“Are you being mauled?” Steve asked, deadpan.

“No. It’s fine.”

You flipped onto your back at that exact moment, paws curled and pupils blown wide. You stared at Bucky upside down like a possessed Furby.

“…Okay maybe a little.”

Eventually, you flopped in the middle of the floor, panting softly and staring at the ceiling like it just insulted your mother. Bucky sighed, grabbing a blanket and gently wrapping you like a tiny burrito.

“You better appreciate this when you’re human again,” He carried your limp, purring body to the couch. You immediately drooled on his shirt and let out a happy little meow.

Bucky looked down at you with the flattest expression imaginable. “Never telling Sam about this.”

By day three, Bucky had accepted begrudgingly that life with you as a cat meant no peace. He couldn't eat, sleep, or walk around barefoot without risking a stealth attack from a small feline assassin with a personal vendetta.

This morning, he woke up to find you perched on his chest like a judgmental gargoyle. Your face was three inches from his, your tail flicking with menace.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” He asked groggily.

You didn’t blink. Instead, you yawned. A very slow, dramatic, fang-filled yawn, then delicately slapped him across the nose with your paw.

He stared at you.

You stared back.

Then you jumped off the bed like nothing happened, leaving him to question every decision he’d made.

Later that day, you discovered a mirror. Not a small mirror. A full-length one leaning against the wall. And you were not okay with the strange, fluffy imposter staring back at you. You puffed up like a Halloween decoration, back arched, tail three times its normal size. You hissed, swatted the glass, then bolted out of the room like it owed you money.

From the kitchen, Bucky heard the thump, the screech, and then the sound of something shattering.

He found you on top of the fridge, tail flicking furiously, glaring at the now-cracked mirror like it insulted your ancestors.

“Did… did you fight yourself?”

You blinked at him with absolutely zero shame.

“Right. Of course.”

Another time, you had discovered it completely by accident. Bucky had taken off his vibranium arm to clean the joint, and you’d been fascinated. It gleamed, it was shiny, it made noise.

So obviously, it had to be your new toy.

The moment he left the room, you pounced.

He returned to find you curled around it, swatting at the fingers occasionally. When he tried to take it back, you hissed like a tiny demon and chomped down on the thumb with impressive commitment for a creature with no actual fangs.

“I can’t believe I’m being held hostage by my own arm,” Bucky muttered.

You growled in reply and flopped dramatically over it, like a dragon hoarding treasure.

That evening, Steve even brought over a laser pointer as a joke. Bucky thought it was stupid. You thought it was the greatest thing ever created by humankind.

The first time the red dot skittered across the floor, you chased it like your life depended on it. You bounced off furniture. You slid across the floor. At one point, you ran headfirst into Bucky’s shin so hard he dropped his coffee.

You immediately launched into a somersault, landed on your feet, and meowed at the laser dot like it had insulted your honor.

Steve was in tears. Bucky was unamused.

“Stop encouraging them,” He grumbled as you launched into another full-speed chase across the living room, knocking over a lamp.

“They’re going to break everything.”

Steve was still laughing, holding the laser pointer “Worth it.”

-

You’d been a cat for what felt like forever, and while the novelty was fun (mostly for you), you were more than ready to be yourself again. Bucky had been surprisingly patient even though he was tempted to cage you in an upside down laundry basket a few times and tape it to the ground.

Today, you were curled up in Bucky’s lap, purring softly as he absently ran his fingers through your fur. For a cat, you’d definitely picked the best spot in the whole compound: warm, safe, and right where you could hear his steady breathing.

Bucky was surprisingly calm, almost… fond of having you like this, despite the chaos you'd caused. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” He muttered, his voice low and rough.

You blinked up at him, half-asleep, when suddenly a strange warmth spread through your body. It started at your paws and traveled fast, like someone was flipping a switch from fuzzy to flesh. Your fur melted away, your legs stretched, and your claws shrank into fingers. Before either of you could blink, you were sitting there fully human again, only much bigger, and very, very confused.

Bucky froze. His eyes went wide, mouth hanging open like he’d just seen a ghost. “You’re-“ He started, then cut himself off, because honestly? No words could describe the moment.

You looked down at yourself, touched your face, then looked back up at Bucky with wide eyes. “I’m… me again?” You whispered.

He reached out carefully, almost afraid you’d disappear again. “Yeah. You’re you. Took you long enough.”

You stretched, flexing your fingers like you hadn’t used them in ages. “Yeah, being a cat is fun and all, but I kinda missed this.”

Bucky chuckled and shook his head. “Glad to have my partner back. Though I have to admit, I’m gonna miss the little fur ball who kept me on my toes.”

You grinned. “Don’t get used to it. No more letting me near cursed objects, okay?”

He nudged you gently. “Deal. But next time you turn into a cat, at least warn me so I can get some popcorn.”

You laughed, and for the first time in days, the apartment felt exactly like home again.

Operation: Lover’s Retreat (You Think)

Summary: Sent on a recon mission in the Carpathian Mountains, you treat it like a romantic getaway including but not limited to bath bombs, a sparkly kazoo, and one shared bed. Bucky remains constantly torn between exasperation and deep affection. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: More fun stuff while I think of other stuff. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

To be fair, no one explicitly said it wasn’t a romantic vacation. Which is why, when Fury assigned you and Bucky to a “low profile surveillance op” in the Carpathians, your brain heard:

Secluded mountain lodge. Cozy fires. Spy sex.

So naturally, you packed accordingly.

Bucky blinked at the rolling heart-shaped suitcase you proudly hauled to the Quinjet, emblazoned in bold pink letters: “His & Hers”.

“What is that?” He asked flatly.

You grinned. “Our mission supplies, James.”

“I said pack light.”

“I did! This is vacation-light. I only brought four books, one board game, two full sets of bath bombs, a crockpot for ambience and a grappling hook.”

He opened the suitcase, found the glow-in-the-dark stars you planned to stick on the ceiling of the safehouse, and muttered, “We’re supposed to be covert.”

“And what’s more covert than a deeply-in-love couple on a sensual nature retreat where someone might accidentally dismantle a black market weapons trade?” You batted your lashes. “Besides, you love when I do the ‘danger honeymoon’ bit.”

He exhaled slowly. “I never said I loved it.”

“You didn’t have to,” You whispered dramatically, wrapping your arms around his neck and swaying like you were dancing to a song only you could hear. “Your eyes said it. Remember when I threw that flaming fondue pot at that one Hydra guy last time? There were hearts in your eyes.”

“There were burn injuries, sweetheart.”

“Burns of passion.”

He tried, really tried hard to look annoyed, but you saw it. The tiniest twitch of his lips. He kissed the top of your head like he was apologizing to himself for encouraging you.

“You’re lucky I love you,” He said.

“I am lucky. And hot. And very well packed.”

He peeked into the duffel again. “You brought a kazoo.”

“For distraction purposes.”

“You labeled it ‘Sexy Danger Kazoo.’”

You nodded proudly. “It has sparkles.”

-

The Quinjet touched down just as twilight was bleeding over the dense Carpathian forest, a soft purple washing the sky. You hopped off with all the energy of a kid who just found out naps were optional as Bucky followed, grim-faced but patient, lugging a backpack that looked suspiciously heavier than your luggage.

The safehouse was an old cabin, camouflaged perfectly by thick vines and the shadows of tall pines. From the outside, it looked like it hadn’t been touched since the Cold War, but inside? Well… that was a different story. Stark had apparently outfitted the place with every modern convenience a couple on a "low-profile mission" might need. You immediately spotted the sleek coffee maker and made a beeline for it.

“Why do you think Fury left us here?” Bucky muttered, peeling off his jacket.

“Because this is the perfect place for a romantic getaway disguised as espionage,” You answered, pulling a ridiculous “MISSION: COZY” banner from your bag and hanging it over the cracked fireplace mantel.

Bucky froze, then rubbed his temples. “You are unbelievable.”

“I’m also in love with you,” You added, flashing a grin that was half apology, half challenge.

He sighed, shaking his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Fine. But this is recon. Keep it professional.”

“Professional as in,” You plopped down on the one and only large bed, arms stretched wide, “Professional cuddles?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, and then his lips curved into something like a smile. “You know there’s only one bed, right?”

“Oh, I know. It’s your fault for not bringing a sleeping bag.”

“You knew that,” He said, sitting down heavily next to you.

“Details, details.” You leaned your head on his shoulder and pulled the blanket over both of you. “This is perfect.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was comfortable. Bucky’s hand found yours, fingers lacing together like they fit perfectly. After a moment, you whispered, “So, what’s the actual mission?”

“Observe and gather intel. Don’t get caught. Probably freeze our asses off.” He let out a dry chuckle. “And babysit you.”

You smirked. “Babysitting, huh?”

“Yeah. Someone’s got to keep you from setting off the alarm with your kazoo.”

You pouted but laughed anyway. “Hey, I’m a tactical genius with a flair for drama.”

“And a flair for eating four bananas in one sitting,” He reminded you, eyes softening.

You groaned. “Don’t remind me. My stomach is still plotting revenge.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The soft crackle of the fireplace was the perfect soundtrack to your “romantic” evening. Bucky, finally starting to relax after a long day of surveillance and your relentless banter, had just pulled the blanket tighter around you when you produced your “Sexy Danger Kazoo” from your jacket pocket. You gave him a mischievous grin.

“Want to hear my latest war tactic?” You whispered, raising the glittery instrument like a weapon.

Bucky’s eyes widened. “No.”

But of course, you played it anyway. A bizarre, off-key rendition of the Avengers theme that sounded more like a dying duck than a call to arms.

His sigh was so long it almost became a sound effect. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly in love,” You corrected, settling back down with a triumphant smirk.

Then, just as you were about to doze off, because even chaotic geniuses need sleep, the quiet night shattered.

CLANK.

The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed through the cabin.

Bucky shot up, pulling you with him. “Hydra.”

You blinked. “Already?”

He didn’t wait for you to grab your grappling hook or glitter gel pens. He was moving, fast and silent. You tried to follow, but your pajama pants tangled on the bedframe, and you stumbled, barely catching yourself on the wooden floor.

“Smooth,” Bucky muttered from the shadows.

The door to the cabin burst open, and two Hydra agents stepped inside, rifles raised. But before they could fully process their surroundings, a sudden blaring kazoo shattered the silence. Yours, of course.

“Surprise!” You yelled, charging like a glitter-wielding warrior.

Bucky facepalmed.

Before the Hydra agents could react, you whipped out a handful of glowsticks and started flinging them like grenades, the room suddenly glowing in psychedelic neon colors that were suspiciously brighter than any he had ever seen.

“What the hell is going on?!” One Hydra operative shouted, squinting at the glowing chaos.

Bucky took the opportunity to disable one with a swift punch, then ducked behind the counter to cover you.

“You did say you had distraction expertise,” He hissed.

You grinned wildly, still buzzing with adrenaline. “I’m a tactical genius. Trust me.”

The fight was brief but chaotic, involving a lot of slipping on stray bananas you’d left in the kitchen (don’t ask), glitter explosions from one of your surprise bombs, and a kazoo solo that was definitely more disorienting than tactical.

When it was finally over, Bucky turned to you, exasperated but undeniably impressed.

“You’re the worst mission partner I’ve ever had.”

“And the best,” You said, grabbing his hand and pulling him close. “But hey, if you wanted a boring recon op, maybe you should’ve asked Sam.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Next time, I’m bringing the actual weapons and leaving the kazoo at home.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

Outside, the Carpathian night resumed its quiet, the stars blinking down on a cabin that was very much not low profile. But inside, you and Bucky knew something important:

Chaos was one of the only things you did well and somehow, it was working perfectly.

The Silence Between Us

Summary: When a mission goes wrong and you resort to bad habits, one of the last teammates you expected finds you. (Bucky Barnes x Avenger!reader)

Trigger Warnings: Descriptions and acts of SELF-HARM. Failed mission. Mentions of civilians death. Minors DNI. Angst. Sort of comfort at the end.

Word Count: 2k+

A/N: I wanted angst and have had this idea for a bit. Reader & Bucky are not in a relationship in this. As always, please read the warnings. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.

Main Masterlist

You hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt. It was supposed to be a routine mission: intel, extract, and get out. But something went wrong. Of course it did. The detonation happened too early and the blast wave swallowed a civilian transport before you could shield it. You watched the fire bloom, bright and furious, as the screams rung loud. Then the silence that followed.

You stood numbly while the team regrouped. They didn’t say anything, not really. Steve gave you a tight nod. Clint didn’t meet your eyes. Natasha’s mouth pressed into a thin line, the kind that said everything and nothing all at once. You could still feel the warmth of the explosion near your face, even hours later. You couldn’t stop seeing their faces.

So you slipped away.

The Tower was quiet, save for the hum of the lights and the occasional sound of Friday responding to someone else. You knew no one would come looking, not tonight. Not after what you did and what you failed to do. You made it to your room, but didn’t stay there. Instead, you found yourself in the bathroom with trembling hands and blurry vision. The guilt was like tar in your lungs, thick and suffocating. You tried breathing through it, tried telling yourself you didn’t mean to, but your voice cracked before you got past the first word.

And then you saw the blade.

It was instinct, not thought. You weren’t even sure why your fingers wrapped around it, why you sat down on the cold tile floor and rolled up your sleeve like it was some rehearsed choreography. You just needed something. Something sharp, something real, something that hurt more than your head and your heart. The sting was almost welcome. It focused the pain. Made it tangible and controlled.

You didn’t notice the blood until it had already patterned the grout like inkblots.

You didn’t move from the floor as the blade slipped from your fingers. It clattered against the tile, but the sound was too soft, too far away. You were somewhere else now, drifting in that space where everything is slowed down and sound becomes distant, muffled, like your ears were underwater. Your breath hitched and your chest tightened, but the tears still refused to fall. Part of you had already shut down.

You stared at your arm. At the red lines, thin but vivid, like cracks in porcelain. They weren’t deep enough, not fatal. You hadn’t meant to go that far. Or maybe you had, you didn’t know. You couldn’t tell what was intentional anymore. Everything felt heavy and hollow at the same time, resembling the feeling of a black hole that had opened inside you, pulling everything inward. Every ounce of guilt, every mistake, every scream you couldn’t stop echoing in your mind.

You didn’t want to think how you looked like.

You had caught your reflection earlier by accident. Your face was pale, jaw tight, eyes…empty. You certainly didn’t look like yourself. You wanted to punch the glass, to shatter it, to make the outside match the inside. But your body had been too tired. Too numb. The only thing you could feel now was the warm, sticky drag of blood as it crept down your skin.

You curled in on yourself, knees pulled tight to your chest, one arm wrapped around your ribs, the other held away like something foreign, something broken. You wished the floor would crack open and swallow you whole. You wished you could disappear.

The thoughts came in waves. You should have died instead of them. They didn’t sign up for this. You did. You promised to protect people. The words felt like knives. And you took them all, again and again, let them bury themselves in your spine until there was nothing left to do but breathe shallowly and wait. Wait for the blood to dry, for the guilt to rot you from the inside out.

Not caring how long you sat there with your head down, eyes closed. You didn’t even hear the door open.

Maybe it was unlocked. Maybe you’d forgotten to lock it in your haze. Or maybe he just picked it, quiet as death, like he’d been trained to be. You barely flinched when the soft creak of the hinges gave him away. But your eyes didn’t lift. You stayed there, folded up like paper, still bleeding, still silent. You didn’t have the energy to care or do anything else.

There was a pause. A breath.

“…Shit.”

His voice wasn’t loud. It was low, rough, somewhere between a curse and a sigh. You knew that voice though. It was the one that rarely spoke to you. Not out of cruelty. Just…distance. He was always at the edge of the group, a little like you. Watching more than participating. Following orders, fighting hard, and saying little. You never expected him to be the one standing in your bathroom doorway, taking in the sight of you broken on the floor.

But there he was.

Bucky didn’t rush. He didn’t bark your name or kneel with some dramatic flare. Instead, he stepped in slowly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The kind of silence that settles before a storm. You heard the faint clink of metal fingers curling into a fist, then loosening.

“You’re bleeding,” He said.

You let out a weak, joyless sound. It might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a sob. “Yeah. Noticed.”

You didn’t look up, knowing his eyes flickered to the bloody blade beside your broken form.

There was more silence. But it wasn’t empty this time, it was tense. A wire pulled too tight. Then the sound of fabric shifting. Movement. You felt the air change as he knelt beside you, just barely close enough to be felt but not touched.

“I saw what happened today,” Bucky murmured. “You think I don’t know what that does to someone?”

You turned your face away, more toward the tile. “I killed them.”

“No,” He said. “You didn’t.”

Your laugh came again, sharper this time. Bitter. “That’s not how it looked.”

Bucky didn’t argue. He didn’t feed you platitudes or repeat what Steve might’ve said. Instead, he shifted again, setting something down beside him. A towel? Maybe his jacket? You didn’t look. You couldn’t. But his voice stayed low, grounded.

“You freeze up when it happens,” He said, like he was talking to himself more than you. “The explosion. The screaming. It’s like your body remembers too much. You forget how to move. How to breathe.”

You said nothing.

“I’ve had days like that,” Bucky continued. “Too many. Days where I couldn’t even look at my hands without seeing the blood that wasn’t mine. That’s not something you can just… walk off.”

You blinked hard. Your vision blurred with tears that finally, finally started to fall. “I just wanted to save them.”

“I know,” He said, almost a whisper.

There was a long pause before you felt the faintest touch, metal fingers brushing yours. Not grabbing. Not pulling. Just… being there. Present. Steady. You didn’t pull away. Not this time.

You still hadn’t looked at him, but it didn’t matter.

“I’m not good at this,” He exhaled. “But I know what it’s like to be drowning in your own head. So don’t sit in it alone.”

Your voice cracked when you asked, “Why are you here?”

Bucky was quiet for a moment. Then he said something so quiet it nearly disappeared:

“Because I saw myself in you.”

He didn’t wait for your answer. Instead, he stood, the scrape of his boots on the tile echoing softly, and walked toward the small cabinet in the corner. You could hear the rustling of supplies: bandages, antiseptic, gauze, who knows what else. The faint sound of a drawer sliding open. He moved like someone who had done this before, not hurried, not hesitant, just deliberate.

You stayed still, frozen against the cold bathroom floor, not knowing what to do with the sudden tenderness in his actions. There was something surreal about it. The way he was treating you with a care that no one had given you for so long, maybe ever. The coldness of the tiles beneath your legs was starting to seep into your bones, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

When he returned, it was with the first aid kit in his hands, but his expression was a bit softer, unguarded. He didn’t try to force you to look at him. Didn’t demand anything of you. He simply sat beside you again, pulling a disinfectant wipe from the kit and placing it in his lap.

He didn’t rush, didn’t say a word, as he took your arm gently, the metal of his prosthetic cool against your skin. His touch was careful, as if you were fragile in a way that didn’t show, like something beneath the surface was breaking, even though you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel it yet. His thumb brushed lightly over the cuts: too small, too shallow, but enough to leave marks.

"Let me clean them," He looked at you, his voice calm but firm.

You didn’t pull away. Not because you trusted him completely, but because you felt like you were too far gone to care about anything else.

He started with the first cut, swabbing at the wound with the antiseptic wipe, the sting of it sharp and biting. You flinched, but he was there, steady. His eyes were fixed on your arm, on the task at hand. You could feel his focus: no judgment, just intent to heal, to make the pain go away, if only for a moment.

You know you should have fought harder. Made sure to lock the door. Pushed him away. The man who had been through hell and back didn’t need to deal with this. But for some reason, he was. You didn’t know what it meant either and that scares you. Your thoughts were interrupted once more.

"You don’t have to talk," Bucky murmured after a beat, his voice low, just for you. "I know you’re not ready for that. But, know you don’t have to carry this alone. We all carry our own ghosts.”

You didn't say anything. His fingers worked efficiently, bandaging your wounds with gentle precision. The silence stretched on, but it wasn’t tense or suffocating this time. It was comforting in its quietness, like two people who didn’t need words to understand the weight of everything that had happened today. The first aid kit was closed, the sound of it calming, rhythmic.

When he finished, he looked at you, his metal hand hovering near your shoulder, as though waiting for permission. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t ask him to leave. You were still, lost in the feeling of someone caring for you in a way you hadn’t expected. Bucky didn’t press for anything. He simply let his hand rest on your shoulder.

“You’re not what happened today,” He stated quietly, his thumb brushing across the fabric of your sleeve, the touch almost tender. “You’re not what you think you are. You don’t need to punish yourself for the things out of your control.”

You didn’t know how to answer him, so you didn’t. The quietness in the room felt like a balm, the silence enveloping you like a weighted blanket. His presence was like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat, strong and unwavering. You didn’t feel the need to hide, not with him sitting beside you, patient and understanding.

Finally, he spoke again. “You need rest.” His voice was softer, quieter now, as though he knew it wasn’t just physical healing you needed. “Let me help you to your bed. Rest a little. I’ll stay if you want me to.”

You still didn’t respond or move. But this time, when his hand gently urged you to your feet, you let yourself follow his lead. You took another breath, closing your eyes just for a moment. For in that quiet space, you weren’t alone.

Caged in Comfort (Pt. 2)

Summary: While Bucky gets you something to eat, you have a discussion with Steve and formulate a plan to bide your time. However, that eventually cracks when Bucky returns with some soup and milk. (Dark Stucky x little!reader)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Forced Age Regression. (Feeding.) Kidnapping. References to Labs. Lots of dialogue. Drugged food and Stockholm Syndrome in the future likely.

Word Count: 1.6k+

A/N: I haven’t actually decided if I want the food to be drugged or not. I’m also not sure if this series would be interesting enough to read either. Regardless, please read the warnings. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.

Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Previous | Next

You stay still long after the door closes.

Steve doesn’t move either. He just holds you, one arm secure around your middle, the other gently combing his fingers through your hair. It’s too much; the tenderness. It scratches at something raw inside you. You’ve had scientists touch your skin with gloves, handlers yank your arms into place. This isn’t clinical. It’s worse.

“You know who we are, don’t you?” He says softly, not trying to force an answer.

You nod against his shoulder. You know exactly who they are. You’d heard of the guards talk of them. The scientist who tried to replicate what they were. You’ve heard your handlers speak about their DNA, about what made them tick. The serum of particular interest. You know what they are capable of. You never could have imagined this though.

“They called you super soldiers,” You murmur. “Potential weapons. Not people.”

Steve flinches at that, just slightly. “And what did they call you?”

You swallow, hating the memories that flicker through your mind briefly.

“They…didn’t call me anything. Just a number.”

He exhales slowly, holding you tighter. “Well, they were wrong.”

“No,” You whisper. “They weren’t.”

He doesn’t argue. That’s almost worse than if he had. You shift a little, just enough to glance toward the door. Calculating and observant. Steve notices though. Of course he does.

“He locked it,” He says gently. “Not because we don’t trust you. But because you’re scared. Scared people do reckless things.”

“I’m not scared,” You lie.

“You’re shaking.”

You hate that he’s right. It wasn’t enough that your life had been spent controlled by someone else’s wishes. At your first opportunity of being free from that place, you’re still trapped. Ownership now simply being transferred to whom should’ve been your saviors. Heroes who could’ve helped you adapt to a new life, not force you into one of their fantasies. A beat of silence passes. Then:

“I know what regression is,” You mutter, almost like it’s a curse.

Steve blinks. “You do?”

You nod slowly. “The others… the ones before me. Some of them couldn’t take it. Some snapped. Others regressed and went all soft. The scientists liked it, made them easier to control.”

Something tightens in his jaw. That’s not what he wanted to hear. It doesn’t match his image of how things would go: this warm, soft fantasy of what he thinks he’s offering you. But it seems you’re not going to let them paint over your trauma with pastel colors and lullabies.

“So if that’s what this is,” You snap, twisting in his hold just enough to look him in the eye, “If you think I’m going to curl up and call you Papa because you put me in a pink room and comfort me, you’re wrong.”

Steve’s expression doesn’t change much. But something behind his eyes shifts. He leans in just a little, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I don’t want to force you,” He says. “I want you to choose this. To feel safe enough to fall. Because you deserve softness. You deserve comfort.”

“No one deserves anything,” You say, the words bitter. The truth you’ve come to accept long ago. “Not in this world.”

“That’s what they taught you,” He murmurs. “That’s not the truth.”

You go quiet. But your brain doesn’t stop working. It never stops. You watch the way he looks at you. How he talks to you like you’re already his. That same warped gentleness Bucky wore earlier, albeit softer and more visible. You’re not dealing with captors. Not exactly. You’re dealing with men who believe, truly believe, they’re saving you.

And that’s when an idea strikes you. If they believe it? Then, you can use it.

“Fine,” You whisper eventually, your voice cracking in just the right place. You let your head rest against his chest again, limbs going limp. “I’ll try.”

Steve exhales a soft breath, full of relief. You feel it in his chest. You wonder why he doesn’t suspect you. Maybe he does. Maybe he truly believes he can mold you into their perfect little girl, waiting for who knows how long for this. But truthfully, your words are hollow. You don’t mean it. Not really. You’re going to play their game. You’re going to smile. Take their kindness. Let them think you’re softening. Let them hold you and wrap you in blankets and stroke your hair.

And the second that door is unlocked; You’ll run.

Your train of thought gets interrupted when the door opens again with a click. You don’t flinch this time. You remain curled in Steve’s lap, just like he left you, even though your muscles ache with tension under the calm exterior you’re forcing. You keep your eyes half-lidded, mouth set in a dazed sort of frown. You’ve seen the others wear this look. You can fake it too. At least, you hope you can.

Bucky walks in holding a tray. Soup, you think, and something warm in a bottle. Your stomach clenches at the scent before you can stop it.

“Good,” He says, shutting the door behind him. “She hasn’t moved.”

“I told you,” Steve says, brushing his fingers down your back. “She’s trying.”

Trying. That word sits in your mouth like rust. It makes you feel like you’re being graded, watched through one-way glass. You glance at Bucky. He’s watching you with that same hard edge in his eyes. Not cruel nor unkind, but… territorial. Protective. Like a wolf guarding something he’s decided belongs to him.

Bucky sets the tray on the bedside table, then kneels in front of you. Your first instinct is to pull away, but you fight it. You keep your face blank. Small. Helpless.

“This one’s chicken and rice,” He says, holding up the bowl. “Easy on your stomach. Warm. And you’re going to eat the whole thing.”

You blink at him slowly, not answering. Partly for the act but half from the sheer audacity and sureness this man holds. The way they both act so certain is frightening. However, you don’t let it show.

Steve presses a kiss to your temple. “Sweetheart? Can you sit up for Buck? Just a little?”

You shift slightly, only because Steve is guiding you. Not because you want to. You still feel like your bones are made of ice. Bucky lifts the spoon, not handing it to you. Holding it like he’s going to do it.

Your mouth twitches. “I can feed myself.” While you never had five course meals before, you were still allowed to feed yourself whatever mush or food your previous handlers would serve. You had a choice. You still had that fleeting sense of autonomy.

“No,” Bucky says, blunt. “You can’t. You’re too little. Not right now.”

Your hands curl into fists, a flicker of resistance present; but Steve rubs your back again and murmurs, “Just let us take care of you.”

You know what this is. You know it’s not about food. It’s about power. Control disguised as nurture. Infantilization disguised as affection. But still, your stomach growls. And the smell makes your head spin. So, you open your mouth.

Bucky feeds you the first spoonful with slow, deliberate care. It’s warm. It tastes like nothing you ever got in the lab. You hate how good it is.

“There you go,” Steve murmurs as he watches you obediently take bite after bite. “Just like that. Good girl.”

You tense.

You don’t want to like it. The praise. The warmth. But something in your brain flinches every time he says “good girl,” like it’s wired to respond. You push that part down. Deep away while Bucky offers another spoonful. By the fourth, he pauses to unscrew the top of the bottle. The milk inside is frothed and warm. Familiar almost, in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“I don’t need that,” You say hoarsely.

“You do,” Bucky replies. “It’s calming.”

“It’s a bottle.” Like the statement would change anything. Your exasperation and insistence do nothing to persuade either of them.

“You’ll drink it,” He says. “Or I’ll hold you in my lap and do it for you.”

That stops you cold in your protests. You glance at Steve, silently pleading. He was a bit more understanding in some twisted way. But he just gives you that same calm look, fingers combing through your hair again. “We’re trying to help you down,” He explains soothingly. “To feel safe. Cared for.”

“I’m not little,” You hiss, momentarily forgetting your initial plan.

“You are,” Bucky says again, with finality. “You just forgot how to feel it.”

You want to scream. You want to claw the bottle out of his hands and hurl it across the room. You know it won’t do you any good though if you’re trying to win their favor. So, instead, you reach for it. Bucky pulls it away from your grasp before pressing it to your lips, clearly intent on feeding you. With no where to go and nothing more you can say, you start to drink slowly, burning with shame. The milk is sweet. Too sweet. It fills your mouth with warmth that you almost hate yourself for liking.

Steve adjusts his hold, cradling you while you drink. Bucky wipes a smear of milk from your chin with a napkin like you’re two years old.

You don’t resist. Because that’s the only power you have left, to choose not to fight. To pretend. To outlast. They want a little? They’ll get one. And though it may be hell, you remind yourself it will be worth it when you get that chance to run and chase after that true freedom. Until that can happen, you hope you won’t succumb before then.

Toy Store Visit

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

Summary: You go to a toy store with a budget and pick out one new stuffie. Your caregivers gently guide you and remain patient as you carefully choose which stuffed animal or toy to bring home.

Word Count: 1.2k+

Main Masterlist

The car ride felt like forever even though in reality, it was maybe fifteen minutes, but your legs were already bouncing with excitement by the time Steve pulled into the parking lot. You were pressed up against the window, nose leaving a faint smudge on the glass, eyes wide as the bright, colorful sign of the toy store came into view. You gasped, your hands grabbing at the straps of your seatbelt.

“We there we there we there!” You chanted, voice high and bouncy in your little headspace.

Bucky chuckled from beside you, already unbuckling himself. “Yeah, peanut, we’re here. But don’t forget the rules, okay?”

Steve turned in the driver’s seat to look back at you, his tone gentle. “One toy, just one. Doesn’t matter what it is. It can be big or small but we’re sticking to one, alright, sweetheart?”

You nodded fast. “Uh-huh! One! Jus’ one. Promise!”

“Alright then,” Steve said with a smile. “Let’s go.”

You practically wiggled out of your car seat as Bucky helped undo the buckle, and you reached up for his hand without thinking. His metal fingers curled softly around yours as you stepped out onto the sidewalk, sticking close between your two caregivers. Your eyes lit up the moment the automatic doors whooshed open, rows and rows of colors, boxes, plush, and puzzles stretched out in front of you like magic.

You didn’t know where to start.

Steve leaned down and whispered in your ear, “Take your time, honey. No rush.”

So you did. You wandered down every aisle, with Bucky patiently walking beside you and Steve keeping an eye out from a few feet behind. Every so often, you’d stop and gasp while you pointed at something shiny, squeaky, or soft. You picked up a few things to study them carefully before putting them back with a quiet, “Not the one…”

Steve and Bucky never rushed you. Even when you doubled back to the same aisle three times, debating between a pink dinosaur plushie that roared when squeezed and a sensory pop-it shaped like a turtle.

“Dino roars,” You mumbled to Bucky, your bottom lip pushed out in a thinking pout. “But turtle’s got bubbles.”

He knelt beside you, his metal hand brushing your hair out of your face. “What does your heart say? Which one makes it feel warm?”

You placed both toys down carefully and looked between them, then slowly reached for something you hadn’t noticed before: a soft little stuffed jellyfish that was pale blue with velvety tentacles and sleepy embroidered eyes. You held it to your chest instantly. “This one,” You whispered, voice low and in awe. “She’s soft an’ shy like me.”

Bucky smiled gently. “Then I think she’s perfect.”

You beamed, holding her tighter. “Her name’s Bubbles,” You informed them proudly, skipping just a little as you made your way to the front register. Steve gave you a wink as he took her to scan, slipping her right back into your arms after the purchase. “Welcome to the family, Bubbles,” He teased as you giggled, cradling her like something fragile and precious.

Back in the car, snuggled in the back seat with your seatbelt carefully fastened, you stared out the window, petting Bubbles’ soft head. Bucky passed you your juice box, and Steve glanced back briefly.

“You did really good, sweetheart,” Steve said softly.

“Waited your turn, made a thoughtful choice, and you didn’t get overwhelmed,” Bucky added, a proud smile on his expression.

You looked up at them, eyes wide with sleepy pride. “Thank you f’r takin’ me.”

Steve smiled. “Always. You’re our little, this stuff matters.”

You curled into your seat, jellyfish in one arm, juice in the cup holder next to you, and a heart full and warm.

-

Back at home, the apartment had the faint scent of dinner leftovers still lingering in the air, and soft music playing in the background belonging to one of Steve’s old vinyl records humming low from the living room speaker.

You kicked your shoes off clumsily at the door, still cradling Bubbles in your arms like a fragile baby. Bucky was right behind you, taking your shoes and putting them by the door neatly, while Steve carried in your empty juice box and tossed it in the recycling with a soft chuckle.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Steve said, ruffling your hair. “Show Bubbles around. Bet she’s curious.”

You nodded seriously. “Uh-huh. She don’ know where nothin’ is.”

Bucky smiled, settling on the couch to watch you. “Well then, she’s lucky to have the best tour guide in the whole house.”

You led Bubbles around the space starting with the living room, holding her up so she could “see” the couch, the blanket basket, and your bin of toys tucked in the corner. You pressed her soft jelly legs against each thing, whispering things like, “This the squishy blankie, but sometimes I share… sometimes…” or “That’s the remote. Not ‘llowed to touch it. Papa says so.”

Then you padded down the hall to your room where a soft nightlight was already glowing along the baseboards. Your room smelled like lavender and lotion, felt like home and safety. You climbed up on the bed and sat cross-legged, settling Bubbles in your lap.

“This is home,” You whispered to her, brushing her soft fabric head. “S’our room now.”

Steve leaned in the doorway, arms crossed gently. He was watching with that patient, warm expression he always got when you were especially little. Bucky peeked in behind him with your favorite sippy cup. He walked over and handed you yours with a quiet, “Hydrate, little fish.”

You giggled at the nickname and took a careful sip before setting your drink down on the nightstand. Then you picked up your favorite blankie and tucked Bubbles under it, right beside your pillow. “She’s sleepy,” you whispered to Steve. “She gots all tired in the car.”

Steve came in and crouched down beside the bed. “Think she needs help falling asleep?”

You nodded. “Need lull’by. She scared.”

Bucky climbed in beside you, pulling you into his lap so you could watch while Steve tucked Bubbles in properly by adjusting the blanket and fluffing a little pillow under her round jelly head. Then he began to hum a soft, comforting slow rhythm that you’d heard a dozen times, usually when you were dozing against his chest or curled in bed half-asleep.

You sighed content and leaned into Bucky, thumb in your mouth now, eyelids fluttering as Steve continued.

By the time he finished, you were barely awake, still holding Bucky’s hand while your body melted into the calmness of the atmosphere. Steve kissed your forehead gently, then Bubbles’, then helped you lay down beside her.

“She’s okay now,” You mumbled, already halfway gone. “She gots us…”

“She sure does,” Bucky whispered, brushing hair back from your cheek. “Just like we got you.”

Steve flicked off the bedside lamp, and both men stayed until your breathing slowed and softened. You were wrapped in blankets and love, Bubbles tucked close, and your tiny fingers resting gently on her soft head as sleep took over.

Just like your new plush friend, you were home, safe, and loved.

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 | Earth’s Mightiest Headache 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 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.”