Aww… I Hope Everything Goes Well, Dear. May You Have Or Find Someone In Your Life That Is Just As Comforting

Aww, thank you so much!!! The way they show their care and love for each other is so sweet. I loved writing this one-shot. Thank you for reading! ♡

The Price of Saving Until You Care

Summary: You have the power to heal others by transferring their injuries onto you. After healing Bucky from a serious wound, he confronts you about constantly sacrificing your own well-being for him and you confront him about his recklessness in throwing his life away. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to transfer injuries onto herself. You and Bucky get injured in this. ANGST. References and/or talk of death & suicide. (It doesn’t happen here.) Bucky’s self-worth issues. You are responsible for the media you consume

Word Count: 1.5k+

A/N: Here’s that other version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. I also had another thought while writing this. Same concept, but she can’t feel the pain she transfers. But this version had more depth to it.

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

Pain was a strange thing.

Most people avoided it, feared it, or resented it. You? You made peace with it, letting it in like a familiar guest.

Your hands could heal, not with any glowing light, magical song, or celestial warmth, but with quiet, invisible sacrifice. Every wound you closed on someone else opened in your own body. A broken bone, a stab wound, a punctured lung, you could mend them all. But the damage had to go somewhere, and it always chose you.

At first, it felt noble. Heroic, even. Like you were doing something pure in a world full of compromise. Over time, though, that feeling didn’t last. Not after your body started to break faster than it could rebuild. Not after people began expecting it of you. And not after he started looking at you with that hollow-eyed grief every time you touched him.

Bucky Barnes was the only one who never asked.

That’s why you kept doing it for him.

He never demanded your gift, never leaned on it. If anything, he flinched when you reached for him. He stitched his own wounds in silence, like penance, like punishment. But he bled so often and so deeply, and there was only so much you could watch before stepping in.

So you made the choice he never would.

You took the pain he refused to burden anyone else with and carried it like a secret.

The first time you healed him, it was a gunshot to the thigh. He’d collapsed behind cover, gritting his teeth, trying to keep firing with one hand pressed hard over the bleeding wound. You crawled to him, pressed your palm against his jeans, and told him to breathe.

He didn’t understand right away. Not until later, when he saw you limping and pieced it together.

“What did you do?” He had asked, panic breaking through the walls he always wore.

You lied then and said it was a stray bullet. Said you were fine. You weren’t, of course. But the look on his face, that was worse than any pain. So you kept the truth buried.

Now, you’d done it too many times to count.

You didn't talk about your ability much. People either praised it or pitied it, and you didn’t need either. To you, it was like… math. You had a body that could endure pain and a world that couldn’t survive without help. It wasn’t heroism. It was simple. It was balance.

But even balance breaks when it leans too hard in one direction. And lately, Bucky had been leaning too hard and the rest of the team noticed it too. He became too reckless, too self-destructive, too tired of being saved.

That’s why you stood in the medbay now, chest already aching from a gash you took earlier, watching him sit bloodied and bruised and already trying to push you away.

The medbay lights buzzed faintly above, casting a harsh white sheen across the steel counters and bloodied gauze. Bucky sat shirtless on the edge of the gurney, one hand clamped over a ragged tear in his side. Blood still leaked between his fingers. His metal arm hung loose by his side, stained red.

You stepped forward quietly and approached slowly.

He heard you though. Evident in how his gaze flicked up, icy blue and already narrowing. “Don’t.”

You didn’t answer as you just moved to stand in front of him, reaching into the tray for a cloth. His blood had soaked deep into the fabric around the wound. Too deep for bandages.

“I mean it,” He growled, more force behind it this time. “You’re not doing that thing again.”

Your hand hesitated in the air before dropping. “It’s not a thing, Bucky. It’s me.”

He flinched. Just slightly. A beat of hesitation long enough for you to press your palm against his ribs.

Heat bloomed between your fingers. Your power worked silently, no fanfare, no shimmer of light, just the subtle pull, the invisible trade. His flesh knit together, the muscle reforming under your touch, sealing like it had never been torn.

Then came the pain as your breath hitched, feeling it bloom sharply through your ribs, mirroring the exact placement of his injury. The gash tore itself into you now; hot, wet, and burning deep. You exhaled through gritted teeth, willing yourself to stay upright.

Bucky grabbed your wrist.

“Stop. Please.” His voice was hoarse now. “Stop.”

“It’s already done,” You whispered.

He stood up too fast, panic flashing in his eyes. His hand hovered just short of touching you again. “Why would you do that? You said… You said you wouldn’t anymore.”

“I didn’t say that,” You leaned against the gurney now slightly, murmuring your defense. “You asked. I didn’t answer.”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice cracked. “You’re always bleeding for me.”

You looked down to see blood was spreading across your shirt now, warm and slow, the price of one man’s survival. You’d felt worse. Your pain tolerance was higher than others' after all, but that didn’t make this easy.

“You don’t get to die just because you’re tired,” You let out before you could think of the consequences, staring at anything else but him. “You don’t get to throw yourself at death like it’s the only thing you deserve.”

“And you don’t get to keep hurting yourself just to prove that I matter!” He shouted, voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You can’t keep doing this. You’ll…. disappear.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the correct word. You finally met his gaze, taking a trembling step closer.

“I will. If you keep doing this. If you don’t stop treating yourself like you’re expendable.”

His expression twisted, a painful, broken thing. “Why?”

“Because you won’t save yourself,” You whispered. “So I will. Until you start caring about your life… or until you realize I gave you mine.”

A long silence stretched between you. Then, quietly, like a thread unraveling:

“I care.”

You blinked.

“I care,” He repeated. “I just… didn’t know how to show it. I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

Your breath caught.

He reached for you slowly, fingers brushing the edge of your shirt where the blood had bloomed red. “Let me try,” he said. “Let me start now.”

He stared at the blood staining your shirt, the way your breath hitched with every movement. His hands hovered like he didn’t know how to touch you gently, like anything he did would break you more. So, you helped him out by sitting down first. The gurney was cold under you, the pain a dull, pulsing throb in your side. It would last a few hours, maybe a few days, like most of them did. But you didn’t regret it. Not when he was alive. Not when he was here.

Bucky slowly stepped in front of you. He moved like he was approaching something sacred. Or fragile. He unzipped one of the emergency medkits and grabbed clean gauze, then glanced up to meet your eyes as if to ask for permission. You gave a small nod.

His fingers trembled just slightly as he lifted your shirt, revealing the angry gash blooming across your side.

He hissed through his teeth. “It should’ve been me.”

You smiled at him, dry and tired. “It was you.”

“No,” He muttered. “I meant… it should’ve stayed on me. I could’ve taken it.”

You cupped the back of his metal hand, pressing it gently against your knee. “You already take too much.”

This time, he didn’t answer. Instead, he focused on cleaning the wound, his hands methodical, precise. You watched the way his brow furrowed, the way he avoided your eyes like he couldn’t bear to look at the pain he’d caused. A similar look to the guilt people wore when they found out how your power worked.

“You don’t have to punish yourself every day,” You sighed.

“I’m not trying to.”

“Then stop flinching every time I help you.”

Bucky let out a low breath. “I flinch because you matter. Because every time you do this, I remember what it feels like to watch someone choose my life over theirs. And… I’m scared one day, you’ll make that choice for the last time.”

He finished dressing the wound in silence before he rose slowly and sat beside you.

For a moment, the room was quiet, the soft hum of overhead lights still present, and the echo of shared breath.

“You said something earlier,” He began finally, voice low. “That I wouldn’t save myself. That I don’t care if I die.”

You looked at him, quiet.

He nodded to himself. “You’re right. I didn’t. Not for a long time. But watching you hurt for me? Watching you bleed and not even hesitate? That scares the hell out of me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Then let it change you.”

Bucky was still for a beat. Then he shifted, slowly wrapping an arm around you, careful of your wound, careful of everything. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just real. Warm. Grounded.

“I don’t know how to start,” He admitted.

“You just did,” Your eyes slipping closed.

And in that quiet room, beneath too-bright lights and the weight of too many regrets, he held you like someone trying, finally, to be worth saving.

⋆꙳•⋆❆. About Me! ･*❆ ₊⋆

Greetings and welcome! I’m Orella, but feel free to call me Ella. I’m a writer for the Marvel fandom who usually enjoys writing whatever stories come to mind. However, I love to explore new ideas, characters, and worlds. I’m always open to requests. So, don’t hesitate to reach out!  Do feel free to take a look at my Main Masterlist and Rules while you’re here!

A little about me: I’m new to Tumblr and still understanding the platform, so please be patient as I learn the ropes. Feel free to check out my Carrd! It’s where I have a bit more information about me and another place where my rules are stated. 

While I may be new here, I’m excited to meet you all and to be a part of this community. I'll update this introduction over time, so be sure to check back once in a while as things grow.

Thanks for stopping by and Happy Reading! ❄️

Caged in Comfort (Pt. 4)

Summary: A fresh day, a fresh start. They help you to breakfast and show you to the playroom. Throughout the morning, you become more acquainted with the household, your undignified circumstances, and the new dynamics. No matter how frustrating they may be. (Dark Stucky x little!reader)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Forced Age Regression. Kidnapping. References to Labs. Lots of dialogue. Stockholm Syndrome in the future likely. You are responsible for the media you consume.

Word Count: 3.8k+

A/N: I think the next chapter would have more emphasis on reader being regressed. Such an interesting balance. I wonder what their rules are. Wonder what the second door is. Should you explore it?

Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Previous | Next

You wake up slow.

Not in the comfortable, lazy way people are supposed to, more like your body is a second too late for everything. Your fingers twitch, then your toes. Your head feels like it’s wrapped in cotton, heavy and dazed. There’s a soft hum in your ears, the faintest ache in your stomach. You’re warm, too warm, the blanket cocooned around you so tight it feels deliberate.

You try to remember where you are. And then it all comes back to you.

The panic doesn’t come right away. Instead, it’s buried under the haze of whatever they drugged you with the night before. Milk. You remember the taste of it now, sickly sweet and unnatural. Bucky’s arms. Steve’s soft cooing. You swallowing it down with every intention of pretending, of escaping, of winning. You lost.

Your eyes stay shut, muscles tensing beneath the blanket. You’re not restrained anymore, you don’t think, but you’re too groggy to trust yourself with a sprint. A breath catches in your throat.

“She’s stirring,” Steve’s voice says from somewhere beside the bed. It’s low, careful, like he’s trying not to startle you. “Give her some room, Buck.”

A pause.

Then Bucky, voice gruff and firm from across the room, unmistakably annoyed. “She better not be planning anything again.”

You force yourself to stay still. Small. Controlled. However, you can’t resist cracking your eyes open just slightly.

The room is soft-lit, sunlight bleeding through light blue curtains. The bed is real and clean just like it had been the previous night. The room looked much more welcoming in the light too. The kind of place you’d think was safe if you didn’t know better. Steve is perched on the edge of the mattress, in a plain white T-shirt and sweatpants, like he never left. His face lights up the second he sees you awake.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” He speaks to you softly, like nothing happened. “You slept a long time.”

You blink slowly and try to focus your vision. Your voice comes out dry and cracked, straight to the point today despite the previous night. “Let me go.”

Steve doesn’t flinch. His hand moves gently to your blanket, smoothing a corner. “You must be starving. We made your favorites.”

You swallow hard, mouth sour and cotton-dry as you repeat. “Let me go.”

“No, baby,” Bucky’s voice comes from the doorway. You look toward him and see him leaning there, arms folded tight across his chest, watching you with that narrowed, sharp-eyed look. “That’s not on the table.”

Steve shifts slightly, picking up a hairbrush from the nightstand. His tone stays maddeningly patient. “We’re gonna help you get ready for the day, okay? Quick brush, soft clothes. Then breakfast.”

You push yourself up onto your elbows, the blanket falling away. Your body protests the movement, but you manage. You glare at them both, even as your arms shake.

“New rule,” Bucky says evenly, not missing a beat. “No glaring.”

You let out a breath, jaw tightening. “You can’t just make up rules. I’m not a kid.” You resist the urge to add that it was a stupid rule anyways.

Steve looks at you with quiet sadness, like you just don’t understand something simple. “You’re our little girl,” He says gently. “And little girls behave and have routines.”

You jerk your head away when he tries to smooth your hair.

“Don’t touch me.”

“You’re allowed to be upset,” He murmurs. “This is all new for you. You’ve been through a lot. But that doesn’t change what you need.”

You look back at Bucky, hoping maybe you’ll get something different there. You don’t know why you tried though. He simply meets your eyes without hesitation.

“You think you know how to take care of yourself?” His tone is firm and flat. “That lab didn’t raise a person. It raised a little girl who had to fight to survive and doesn’t know any better. And we’re not gonna let you keep living like that. Not anymore.”

You clench your fists in the sheets, every inch of your body trembling from the effort of staying upright and the indignity of it all.

Steve stands slowly and puts the brush aside for now. Instead, he retrieves and lifts a soft little sweater from the foot of the bed. It’s pale yellow with embroidered bunnies along the bottom hem, deliberately infantilizing. He holds it up, patient as ever.

“Arms up,” He says. “We’ll help with the rest after.”

You don’t move an inch. You can’t. Your brain is screaming at you to fight, to run, to do something, but your body won’t listen. It’s too early, too soon. You’re too tired. You know they’re taking advantage of that fact.

“You don’t have to like the rules,” Steve says gently, folding the sweater over his arm. “But you do have to follow them. You’ll understand soon.”

“She’s just testing limits,” Bucky mutters, pushing off the doorframe and walking over. His footsteps are heavy, deliberate. “She still thinks she’s got a say.”

“I do,” You snap, though your voice cracks. “You don’t own me.”

He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. He just stands at the foot of the bed and says with chilling calm, “You’re ours now and you’re home. And you’re not going anywhere.”

Steve smiles, reassuring and soft and completely out of sync with the nightmare unfolding around you. “Let’s get you dressed, honey. Then we’ll show you your spot at the table.”

You can’t do anything to stop him as he takes his time dressing you, like you’re fragile, like any sudden movement might break you. He doesn’t mention your glare again, doesn’t need to. Bucky already set the tone. Every time you twitch, hesitate, or look like you might refuse, you can catch Bucky’s eyes narrow just enough to remind you: He’s watching. They both are.

You let the sweater be pulled over your head. You don’t resist the leggings or the socks with soft rubber paw prints on the bottoms. You let yourself be moved like a doll, pretending your limbs are too tired to fight. You let Steve hum while he smooths your hair. You let them think they’re winning. Because you need the drugs to wear off, then you need them to stop looking. To turn their backs again.

When they guide you toward the kitchen, the scent of something warm hits first: cinnamon, butter, maybe apples. There’s a plate already set at the table, complete with a plastic cup with handles and a bib draped over the back of the chair.

Bucky pulls out the chair and gestures for you to sit down. “Go on.”

You stare at the scene with hesitation clear enough that it went on for a beat too long, prompting his tone to shift.

“Now.”

Your body moves to obey, slowly. Cautious almost.

Steve slips the bib around your neck, like this is normal, like you haven’t long passed the years when you needed one. “You need food in your belly,” He says softly. “We want you strong. Safe.”

You glance at the plate: a small bowl of oatmeal, sliced fruit, and two animal-shaped pancakes staring up at you. The plastic fork and spoon beside the bowl look like they belong in a toddler’s lunchbox. It’s humiliating on your part and perfectly calculated on their part.

Your hands stay in your lap.

Bucky leans on the back of your chair, watching you attentively. “Pick up the spoon.”

Your fingers twitch, but you don’t act.

He leans down closer, voice low and heavy against your ear. “Don’t make me feed you again.”

The panic returns like a short, sharp spike in your chest. You remember what happened last time when they took you away like you weighed nothing. The way your body betrayed you. How it shut down under the milk. How they tucked you in like nothing had happened.

You pick up the spoon.

“That’s it,” Steve says, sitting beside you with a warm smile like you just passed some important test. “Good girl.”

You don’t respond. You take a spoonful of oatmeal. It’s warm, sweet, and comforting. It’s comforting in a way that sickens you, like they planned it. Like they want your body to respond before your brain can resist. Every bite is loaded with more than food. It’s expectation. Control.

The plastic spoon feels awkward in your hand. Childish, thick-handled, and too large for your mouth yet somehow designed to make you feel smaller. The bib itches against your neck, scratchy where the edge meets your collarbone. You pretend not to notice. You pretend a lot now.

You chew slowly.

Steve watches you with gentle, unwavering attention. His hands rest folded on the table beside his own untouched cup of coffee. He smiles each time your spoon scrapes the side of the bowl.

"That’s it, sweetheart,” He says softly. “Eat up. You need your strength.”

Bucky, on the other hand, stands off to the side now, arms crossed, eyes sharp as glass. He doesn’t praise. He studies. One wrong movement and he’ll pounce. You can feel it in the air, like a storm barely held in check. It’s clear he still held some sort of grudge from your stunt last night.

Your eyes flicker over to the plastic cup full of who knows what.

“Try it,” Steve encourages, nudging it closer. “You’ll like what’s in there.”

Your heart skips at the comment as you eye it suspiciously now. It’s an opaque, thick plastic, definitely impossible to see inside. You know better than to assume it’s safe. However, Steve’s smile doesn’t falter. “It’s just juice, I promise.”

He’s probably not lying. Not today. You really don’t want to comply, but you know they would just force you to if you didn’t do it yourself. At least they’re not so insistent on hand-feeding you this morning.

You take a slow sip and taste…apple juice. Nothing comes after it that you can detect, you can’t taste anything wrong. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t something there.

“See?” Steve speaks in a pleased tone. “Told you it was just juice.”

You don’t give him a response, resisting the urge to make a snarky comment.

Bucky shifts slightly. “Not even a ‘thank you’?”

You freeze for half a breath.

“…Thank you,” You mumble, pushing the words out like something sour.

He raises one brow. “You’re welcome. Now finish.”

You shovel the rest of the oatmeal into your mouth, quicker now. Your actions were not out of hunger, but because you want it done. The fruit goes down next, soft bananas and sliced grapes. Then the pancakes, one shaped like a bear, the other like a cat, syrup already soaked in.

Every bite makes your stomach twist. You couldn’t even enjoy the meal. Because they’re feeding you like you’re five. Talking to you like you’re four. Watching you like you’re a child.

You keep your eyes down as you eat, only glancing up once to see Bucky still watching, his eyes narrowed just slightly. Nothing else is said, but the tension in the air is still present no matter how much Steve tries to ignore it.

When the plate’s empty, you drop the spoon.

Steve is up in an instant, dabbing at your mouth with a cloth napkin before you can stop him. “Messy little thing,” He murmurs fondly.

You jerk your head away a little. Not enough to count as rebellion. Just enough to remind yourself you still exist.

“Such a squirmy girl today,” He remarks, not unkindly.

“She’s testing,” Bucky’s tone is flat, said like it’s a fact.

Steve sighs and crouches to your eye level again. “Are you testing us, honey?”

Your head turns to stare at him. He waits patiently for a response, nothing but gentleness and a hint of disappointment in his gaze. You shake your head.

“That’s good,” He exhales. “Because if you were, we’d have to do more quiet time. And you’ve had enough of that, haven’t you?”

The memory of the milk and the floaty nothingness. The way the world tilted when your limbs stopped working. You can’t bring yourself to reply, so you give him a slow nod.

“Good girl.”

Bucky moves then, walking past and ruffling your hair. Not particularly gentle, but not cruel. Just enough to make it clear, to send a message that you can’t escape his reach. “We’ll clean up. You sit right there. Don’t. Move.”

You stay frozen in your seat, hands still in your lap as the clinking of dishes starts. The bib gets removed, folded. Steve hums under his breath again as he washes the dishes. Something soft. Something wrong.

He turns back to you, drying his hands. “You’ve been so good,” He smiles at you softly. “Would you like some playtime before we go over your rules?”

“Play?” You echo, startled despite yourself.

“Mhm.” He taps your nose with his finger, not pointing out your slight flinch. “Blocks, crayons, picture books. You get choices now, sweetie. That’s what happens when you’re a good little girl.”

Despite the inviting offer, you find yourself hesitating. Even though the choices sound like freedom, a chance to regain your autonomy, it isn’t actually there. Because freedom doesn’t truly exist here, not with them.

Still, you nod, if not to appease them, then to buy some time.

Steve beams. “See, Buck? I told you she’d settle in.”

The man doesn’t return the smile. “She’s pretending to settle in.”

Your body tenses because you know he’s not wrong. Why was he so perceptive? Can’t he see it’s not like they’re giving you much of an option but to comply? You try to calm yourself.

Steve ignores him and holds out a hand. “Come on, lovebug. Let’s go pick something fun.”

You let him lead you, careful and warily. Your legs move on autopilot now, like it’s all part of the act. Steve’s hand is warm as it folds around yours, larger than life, too gentle for someone so strong. You feel the ridges of his palm, the faintest drag of calluses that speak of battlefields and shields, not nurseries and crayons.

Your bare feet make almost no sound against the sleek floors of the Compound. The hall stretches wide and bright, too pristine, like the world outside has been scrubbed away and replaced with a dream you didn’t ask for. The lights above hum softly. You pass windows, high and armored. It takes you a moment to realize they’re fake windows. They show nothing but the city skyline, looping in a projection so perfect it takes a second glance to spot the repetition.

This isn’t a home. It’s a story they’ve built around you.

As you walk, Steve slows his steps to match yours. Every so often, he glances down at you with that infuriating, infallible smile. Like he truly believes this is right. That you belong here, your hand in his.

“This whole floor’s just for us,” He explains as you turn the corner, noting the curiosity in your gaze. “Private access, state of the art security, fully soundproofed rooms.”

You don’t ask why that’s necessary nor what that might mean for you. Because somewhere deep down, you already know.

Bucky trails behind, boots thudding heavier than Steve’s footsteps. You can feel the weight of him even when you’re not looking. Like a shadow carved from iron. He doesn’t speak. There’s no need for him to.

They round a final corner, and Steve stops at a wide, reinforced door. He presses his palm to the panel beside it. A soft chime. The door unlocks with a hiss.

“This’ll be your space during playtime,” Steve says.

The room is deceptively cozy, almost impressive. The space has warm lighting, soft carpet, a wall of shelves holding books, plush toys, puzzles, art supplies, and so much more all arranged with care. There's even a beanbag chair in one corner and a low table with pastel plastic cups and empty tea sets.

As you step into the room, silence fills the air. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Steve crouches beside you, his hand still holding yours.

“You don’t have to talk yet,” He reassures soothingly. “You’re probably still scared. But we’re not gonna hurt you, okay? You’re safe now. You’re ours. And that means we take care of you.”

You look at him, trying not to dwell on the contradictions in his statement. What did he think this was doing to you? The answer must not matter because his eyes hold nothing but kindness. And in some way, that’s what makes it worse.

Behind you, Bucky closes the door with a firm click. The lock slides back into place. You couldn’t figure out why a playroom would need a lock. But here you are, alone in a room full of toys with two super soldiers who believe, truly believe, you belong to them.

Steve stands again and gestures to the shelves. “You can choose. Anything you want.”

You know better than to say "no." So you nod, stepping forward carefully, fingers twitching as you brush the edge of a coloring book. You don’t look at the vents yet. Don’t scan for cameras or any other listening bugs. You just pretend again.

Pretend you’re adjusting, like you’re settling. Pretend you don’t notice the second door across the room. The one that was sealed with no knob, marked only with a small red light above it.

It must be another test put into place by them. Another line they’re wondering if you’ll try to cross. You don’t focus on it and instead swallow down your panic by reaching for a crayon. Because the longer they think you’re behaving, the better your chances when it counts.

You sit cross-legged on the soft carpet, a crayon loose in your hand. It’s a dusky purple, almost the same color as the sky in the fake windows you passed earlier but less blue. The coloring book in front of you is filled with gentle cartoon animals, wide-eyed and smiling, their expressions eerily similar to the ones Steve wears. You press the crayon down, start to color, slow and deliberate strokes.

You’ve never really got to do this before, not often at least. It used to be given as a fleeting reward for good behavior until they deemed you no longer needed or required such comforts.

Behind you, your two captors watch.

Steve settles into a padded armchair across the room, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, like he’s giving you space, but not too much. Bucky stands near the door, arms crossed. He hasn’t said a word since entering the room, but his presence speaks loud enough. You’re not going anywhere.

You shift your weight slightly before Steve breaks the silence first.

“That’s a really pretty color,” He compliments, voice low, meant to soothe as usual. “You always liked purples and blues in the files. We thought that might help. Familiar things.”

You don’t answer, trying not to think what else they read. Trying not to wonder what else they know about you. You keep coloring, slow and steady.

“Don’t gotta be shy,” Bucky adds after a beat, arms still crossed. “This is your place now. No one has to hurt you here.”

It’s not what they say. It’s how they say it.

You nod faintly, pretending to focus on the page. But your eyes flick upward to the shelves. You count six plushies. Three puzzles. Two identical dolls. All too neat. Nothing worn. Nothing loved. Not even the smallest sign of use. Everything here was bought new… for you. As if a new identity could be assembled out of soft fabric and crayons.

After a bit, you finally force your voice out. It sounds quiet, strained, but careful.

“…I like this one.”

Steve smiles like you’ve handed him the sun.

“Yeah?” He rises slowly, moving over to kneel beside you. “You’re doing so well. We’re proud of you.”

You feel it before it happens, his hand smoothing over your hair. Too gentle. Like you're breakable. Like you're small.

You flinch again, but only slightly. And just like before, he doesn't notice or he doesn’t make it a big deal. You don’t know which one.

As time passes, the quiet stretches long in the softly lit room, broken only by the soft scritch of your crayon on the paper. You keep your head down, shoulders relaxed, posture small. Intentional or not, you were starting to enjoy it. The simple act of coloring, but you justified it by saying you were complying. You’ve done that before. In the lab, in holding cells, in other places where survival meant silence and passivity.

You can still feel their eyes on you. Both of them.

Steve hums gently as he’s sat across the room again, reading one of the books in the room as his eyes occasionally flicker over to you. Bucky lingers closer, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes always alert.

But you’ve noticed it, how the tension in Bucky’s jaw eases, just slightly, when you don’t resist. When you obey. When you’re good.

You reach for another crayon, soft pink, and start filling in the petals of a daisy. Your movements are slow, deliberate. Calm. You don’t dare look up, but you feel it: the shift in the room’s energy. The way Bucky’s stance loosens just a fraction, his weight shifting from foot to foot.

“…She’s quieter today,” He mutters, not quite to you, not quite to Steve.

“She’s getting used to it,” Steve says gently. “Told you she would. Just needs routine.”

You glance up, just once, and catch Bucky watching you, brow furrowed. Not angry. Not cold. Just… watching. So you do something risky. You offer a small nod.

Bucky blinks.

He doesn’t smile, you don’t think you’ve seen him smile once actually, but he exhales like something inside him unclenched. He pushes off the wall and crosses the room with slow steps, stopping just beside where you sit.

You tense, your body ready to flinch away if he touches you. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lowers himself into a crouch beside you and rests his arms on his knees. His voice is lower than Steve’s, rough around the edges, but quieter now. Almost careful.

“Coloring, huh?” He mutters.

You nod again.

“Better than scribbling on a wall, I guess.”

You don’t give him an answer. But you slide the coloring book slightly toward him, an invitation. It’s barely noticeable, but his gaze softens.

“…Haven’t done this kind of thing in a long time.”

You risk a glance at his face. His eyes aren’t cold now. They’re watchful, yes. but less like a threat, more like something gentle or protective. He doesn’t reach for a crayon, but he stays there beside you.

“You’re doin’ good,” His voice has that sharp undertone still, but something in it has shifted. He doesn’t sound like a captor. He almost sounds… proud.

You duck your head, hiding the grim twist in your stomach. A part of you hates that you liked the sudden praise. But you’ve seen this before. Attachment through obedience. Trust built on chains. And if it softens the harder one, if it makes him hesitate when the time comes, then you’ll take it. Even if it makes your skin crawl.

What you weren’t realizing though, you were slowly leaning into it all, gradual and slow. The lines between pretend and reality blurring. And they could tell, they just needed to keep it slow, encouraging enough for your walls to fall unconsciously. And if that doesn’t work, there’s always a little something one of them can give you to push you over the edge.

i saw you were asking for requests!!

have you seen thunderbolts? bc if you have id love to read something about bucky helping reader through/finding her in her shame rooms - havent seen anyone write this yet & i think itd be a lovely hurt/comfort

Honestly, I would do this but I haven’t been able to watch the full movie yet or find any good clips/information about those rooms to do it justice (I searched for the past 40 minutes sobbing). I will definitely be writing of it when I get the chance, it sounds right up my alley if I’m being honest; but I just don’t have enough information to properly describe how those even work :’)

The same can be said for any other thunderbolts related content. I appreciate the request and will do my best to fulfill it in the future <3

The Way He Notices

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

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

Word Count: 1.3k+

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

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

The compound was too loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just noticed. And remembered.

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

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

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

Still, you stayed quiet. Hidden. Gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The grip of your hand tightened slightly.

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

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

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

A pause. Then, barely above a whisper:

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

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

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

I just read your Bucky and unhinged reader and I don’t know what kind of drugs you put in there but I’m going to need more of that

LOL, I’m wheezing. I need more of them too, I will certainly be working on that soon. Thank you for reading!!! ♡

Mischief Managed

Summary: With the power to talk to animals, your feline companion, Mischief, hates everyone at the tower except you. Therefore, when you start getting closer to Bucky, you watch as she slowly starts to trust the super soldier. However, with all things, it doesn’t go well at first. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.

Word Count: 3k+

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist | Sequel | Finale

You never expected your strange bond with animals to shape your life so completely. From the time you were little, the voices of birds, dogs, squirrels, even ants, were a constant hum in your mind. You couldn’t explain how or why, but you understood them, and they understood you. You didn’t just hear noises or read body language. You heard words. Emotions. Stories. And most importantly, you could talk back.

At first, it was a secret. A party trick for only the most trusted friends, who usually assumed you were joking. But now, it’s just part of you. You’ve learned to filter out the constant chatter.

You’ve learned to help animals when they’re in trouble and, occasionally, when SHIELD needs it, use them for information. Sometimes, rats knew more about hidden Hydra facilities than satellites ever could.

But for all your strange gifts, you lived a relatively quiet life in the Avengers Tower. Most of the others accepted your ability with curiosity or amusement. Tony had tried to run tests on your brain, and Clint still jokingly called you “Dr. Dolittle.” You didn’t mind. Your companions whether they be feathered, furred, or scaled had always had your back. And one in particular? She guarded you like a dragon guards treasure.

Her name was Mischief. A sleek, coal-black cat with amber eyes and a resting glare that could curdle milk. You’d found her three years ago, injured and starving in an alley, snarling at rats and pigeons for scraps. She hadn’t trusted you at first, but the moment you spoke to her, really spoke, her entire posture changed. It took a few trips bringing food to her, taking things slow. And slowly, you began to realize you hadn’t just earned her trust, you’d earned her devotion.

Since then, she rarely left your side. Mischief judged everyone you interacted with, and she never hid her opinions. She Tolerated Steve. Hated Tony’s cologne. And she absolutely loathed anyone who flirted with you.

That became a problem the day Bucky Barnes moved into the Tower.

He was quiet, scarred, and carried the weight of too many ghosts behind stormy blue eyes. He barely spoke to anyone, kept to himself, and moved like someone always waiting to be attacked. You saw it the first day in how he looked at everyone sideways, how he didn’t sit with his back to a door, how he flinched when someone approached too fast.

And Mischief? She was watching him like he’d brought a knife to your front door.

She sat on the windowsill in your room, tail twitching, eyes narrowed like tiny slits of fire. He’s hiding something, Her voice was flat, echoing in your mind like dry leaves scraping across pavement. He smells like ghosts. Like regret mixed with metal and blood. I don’t like him.

You sighed, brushing a hand over her silky back. “He’s been through a lot. Be nice.”

Nice? You want nice? Find a golden retriever. I’m watching him.

You didn’t know it then, but Mischief’s “watching” would escalate. She wasn’t just wary of Bucky Barnes. She was preparing for war. And you? You were caught in the middle of a cold war between an ex-assassin with a tragic past… and your jealous cat.

It started small at first.

Bucky would pass you in the hallway, nod a quiet hello, and Mischief would hiss from your shoulder like a kettle set to boil.

You tried to explain it away as best as you could. "She’s just like that at first," You said once when Bucky raised a brow at the low growl coming from your tote bag. Mischief liked to crawl inside and travel with you unnoticed. “She doesn’t warm up easily.”

He gave a short, humorless chuckle. “Neither do I.”

You weren’t sure what drew you toward him. Maybe it was the way he always seemed almost comfortable in silence, the way he sat on the common room couch like it didn’t quite belong to him, or how he listened to conversations without ever trying to steer them. Maybe it was how he never asked you questions unless he thought the answer would matter. He was calm. Still. A rare kind of quiet you’d only ever felt around animals.

But Mischief noticed.

One night, you caught her sitting in the kitchen sink like a gargoyle, glaring at the hallway. When you asked what she was doing, she said, Waiting for the metal-armed brooder. If he comes in here again, I’ll gut the loaf of bread he likes.

Sure enough, Bucky wandered in a minute later, offered you a soft smile, and went for the exact loaf.

The next morning, it was shredded. You sighed at the sight as you went out to get a replacement.

Still, you didn’t stop spending time with him.

You started joining him in the gym after hours. The excuse given was wanting to stretch, but really, you just liked the way he relaxed when no one else was around. Sometimes you brought a dog or two in from the compound’s training fields, let them rest while you and Bucky talked. Or didn’t talk. You didn’t need to.

“I think animals like you,” You told him one evening, watching a scruffy mutt rest his head on Bucky’s knee.

He blinked down at the dog like it had just spoken fluent Russian. “That’s a first.”

He’s got soft hands, The dog murmured. I like him.

You smiled to yourself. “I think they know.”

“Know what?”

“That you’ve got a good heart.”

He looked away quickly, jaw tight. You didn’t say anything more, letting it go.

Later that night, Mischief perched on your chest like a stone weight and narrowed her eyes. You’re getting attached.

“I’m not.”

You are.

“You scratched a loaf of bread.”

It deserved it.

You sighed, having not expected that response, but then again, it was typical of her. Mischief wasn’t one to be easily appeased, and her possessiveness was notorious. But this time, she didn’t go on about it. Instead, she flicked her tail, an uncomfortable tension hanging in the air. Her voice softened, almost like a reluctant admission. You’re… different with him.

“Different?” You tilted your head, trying to understand her point.

You relax around him. You listen more. I don’t like it.

It struck a chord in you. You weren’t blind to the shift in your own behavior. With Bucky, things felt easier. Calmer. He had this way of being present and patient in a way that drew you in, as if there was a shared understanding of pain that made silences less heavy. Sure, there were times where the past still haunted him. But his company was always one you found yourself subconsciously seeking.

He didn’t demand things from you. He didn’t ask for anything you weren’t ready to give. And when you were with him, the world felt… simpler.

But Mischief’s words stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

“I’m not going to stop seeing him just because you don’t like it,” You murmured, feeling the weight of her gaze.

I know you won’t, She responded in a quieter tone now. But if he hurts you, I’ll bite his face off.

You chuckled softly at the absurdity of the threat. “I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who would hurt anyone… but thanks for the warning.”

Mischief gave a long, almost disappointed sigh, as if she realized there was nothing she could do to change your mind. You’ve always been good at ignoring my advice. I’ll be here, though. Watching.

And just like that, she padded off your chest and curled up on the windowsill, turning her back to you in a huff.

You didn’t feel the usual pang of guilt for not heeding her advice. Instead, you lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Bucky’s quiet demeanor, his unspoken trust, and how, somehow, he made you feel less like an outsider.

But the cat was right about one thing: you were getting attached. And that was something even Mischief couldn’t stop.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky Barnes became a quiet fixture in your life. He wasn’t the kind to join in on group outings or large training sessions. He mostly kept to himself, which, in a way, you could relate to. The weight of his past was something you recognized in yourself. A type of emotional burden carried alone, pushing people away without ever intending to.

Mischief, however, now had different ideas about Bucky. She followed him around like a shadow, watching his every move, her eyes always narrowing suspiciously whenever he so much as looked in your direction.

And then came the first moment that Bucky spoke to her directly.

You were sitting in the common room, legs tucked underneath you, reading a book when Bucky entered, his usual silent demeanor drifting through the door like a storm cloud. You barely looked up, but Mischief did. She jumped down from the windowsill with a graceful thud, making her way slowly toward Bucky. He froze, eyes narrowing as she circled his feet.

"You've got a problem with me, huh?" He asked, voice low, as if speaking to a wild animal.

Mischief didn’t answer. Instead, she sat down and stared at him, her eyes unblinking, before giving a loud, unmistakable hiss.

Bucky took a slow, measured step back, unsure whether to laugh or be alarmed. “Right… definitely got a problem with me.”

You looked up from your book, feigning innocence. “She’s just… protective.” You tried not to laugh, but the cat’s blatant territorial behavior was almost too much.

“Protective?” Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Of you?”

You nodded, setting your book aside. “She doesn’t like anyone getting too close to me. Especially not new people.” You gave him a playful smile, though there was an undercurrent of caution. You had no idea what he might say next. Yeah, he’s graciously ignored her behavior the past couple of encounters. But you know that not everyone reacted well to Mischief’s… directness.

Bucky looked at Mischief, who was now sitting on the arm of the couch, staring at him with intense focus but a bit more relaxed. Like she was really assessing him now. He couldn’t seem to hide the slight tension in his shoulders, though his eyes softened just a fraction. “I’ll take her behavior as simply me being new then?” He asked with a wry grin.

You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Like I said before, she warms up to people eventually.”

“Eventually?” He turned to you, crossing his arms. “How long does that usually take?”

“A few months,” You answered, fully serious, but Mischief’s sudden purring interrupted the tension in the air. You blinked in surprise. Mischief didn’t purr for just anyone, certainly not for someone she didn’t trust who she had threatened previously.

You try not to make it a big deal, knowing maybe something changed her mind and she’s likely trying to give Bucky a chance for you. Or she’s trying to spite you. Either works.

Bucky let out a short, amused huff. “I guess I’m getting there.”

As time passed with your relationship with Bucky slowly becoming more comfortable, he started showing up more too. Helping you with groceries, joining you on the Tower’s rooftop garden, even sitting beside you when you fed a flock of sparrows that landed whenever you called. The birds adored you. One bold little sparrow even landed on Bucky’s knee once, chirped at him twice, and fluttered away.

“She says you look sad but safe,” You told him.

He stared at the spot where the bird had been. “…I’ll take it.”

You didn’t realize it back then, but Mischief had stopped watching Bucky like a threat. She still narrowed her eyes when he got too close, but the claws stayed retracted. And one morning, after Bucky fell asleep on your couch with a book resting on his chest, you walked into the room and found Mischief curled on the back of the couch above his head, keeping watch.

Don’t make this a habit, She warned, but you saw the way she rested her tail across Bucky’s shoulder like a soft little truce flag.

He didn’t wake up. But when he did, and she didn’t move, you didn’t miss the quiet surprise and the ghost of a smile on his face.

Bonus:

The Avengers had long accepted that Mischief was… a little difficult. And by “difficult,” they meant that she was impossible.

Steve tried to be friendly and charming, his warm smile and gentle hands never working when it came to earning her trust. He once tried to bribe her with tuna, only for her to leap onto the counter, knock the can on the floor, and give him a look that suggested he was the most pitiful creature to ever walk the Earth.

Tony, of course, had tried his usual route. Gifts. Expensive toys, cat condos, custom-made collars with diamond studs. Mischief had only hissed at him, her tail twitching with disdain, and turned her back on him every time he walked past. Tony had even tried to sneak in some extra treats with a drone, but Mischief had launched herself at it like a panther on a hunt, sending the drone crashing to the ground in a flurry of sparks and broken components.

Clint and Wanda were no better. Clint had tried talking to her like they were two old friends. He’d even imitated her meows, thinking he could “speak her language.” His reward was a sharp swipe to the face that left him sporting a red scratch for a week. Wanda had tried charm, offering the cat quiet moments and gentle pats. But Mischief simply stared, unblinking, until Wanda gave up, shaking her head and muttering, “She’s something else.”

A couple of the others had tried too, but failed just like the rest. They had all made their peace with it. Mischief was your cat, your problem. None of them expected to get closer to her.

So, when they found out Bucky managed to break some of her walls, it certainly drew some attention.

It wasn’t even anything spectacular at first. At first, it was just him sitting in the common room with his coffee, his book, his quiet presence that always seemed to put you at ease. You, in your usual spot, with Mischief curled at your feet.

But slowly, Bucky had started talking to her. Not in any particular way, just gentle words, a little teasing, soft hums that she might respond to. At first, they were just passing exchanges.

“You’re looking smug today,” Bucky had said, watching Mischief stretch out on the windowsill, her tail swishing slowly.

To his surprise, she’d looked at him, unimpressed, and flicked her tail toward the floor like she was dismissing him entirely. Bucky chuckled softly.

“That’s fine. I’m used to being ignored,” He’d muttered, before turning back to his book.

No one had thought much of it. Until it happened again. And again.

One afternoon, you came into the living room to find Bucky sitting cross-legged on the floor, Mischief lying across his lap. She’d never done that with anyone else. She was curled up, purring softly, and Bucky’s hand was resting just behind her ears, stroking her fur gently.

The other Avengers were lounging around, preparing for the evening’s mission debrief. Steve and Clint had been discussing logistics while Tony fiddled with a gadget, but all of them froze when they saw the scene unfolding in front of them.

Mischief, the aloof, temperamental queen of the Tower, was utterly content in Bucky’s lap.

Tony’s jaw dropped first. “Wait a minute,” He pointed at the scene. “Is that… Mischief?”

“Yeah…” Clint said, his voice a mixture of disbelief and awe. “Is she… purring?”

“I’ve never seen her so… calm,” Bruce added quietly, watching the scene. “She always runs away from us. We can’t even get close without her hissing or hiding.”

“I don’t understand,” Steve said, furrowing his brow. “What is he doing differently?”

Bucky glanced up, catching their stares. He shrugged with an easy grin. “I don’t know, she just… likes me, I guess.”

Everyone stared at him. Even Tony, who never really lacked for confidence, looked a little thrown off.

“How?” Wanda asked, her tone hesitant. “She’s never… let anyone get that close. Not even me, and I’ve tried for weeks.”

Bucky just chuckled, his hand continuing to stroke Mischief’s back. “I don’t know. Maybe she sees something in me. Or maybe I just smell like someone who doesn’t mind the silence.”

The others exchanged baffled glances. It was true. Bucky was quiet, reserved. He never pushed, never pried. Perhaps that had something to do with it. But no one could quite figure out how he’d managed to break through the barrier that had kept them all at arm’s length.

“I don’t think it’s just that,” Clint said thoughtfully, his eyes still on the cat, his fingers twitching like he was about to reach for her. “I’ve been here longer than you, man. And she’s never let anyone get that close.”

Bucky’s smile faltered for a moment, as if he was considering something deeper. “Maybe she just needed someone who didn’t expect anything from her.”

The team was silent, still watching Mischief as she stretched lazily on Bucky’s lap, a low purr vibrating the air around them. It was the first time anyone had seen her so relaxed in front of someone who wasn’t you.

Steve shook his head in disbelief. “I think we’ve just witnessed a miracle.”

Tony was already pulling out his phone. “I’m gonna start a betting pool. Bucky Barnes: Cat Whisperer. Who knew?”

Wanda chuckled softly, still a little stunned. “What did you do, Bucky? Did you offer her a deal?”

“I think she’s just decided I’m not worth the trouble,” He said, finally giving Mischief’s ears a gentle scratch that made her eyes flutter shut in contentment. “Sometimes, that’s all it takes.”

And just like that, the Avengers knew. There was something about Bucky Barnes, something quiet, something patient, that had finally cracked through the walls of the grumpy black cat that no one else had been able to breach.

Mischief had chosen him. And the rest of them? They were just going to have to deal with it.

THANK YOU SO MUCH!! :D

I loved the moment when she asked Bucky to delete her browsing history. I can only imagine what crazy things she’s tried to ask lol. Thank you for reading!!! ♡

Glitter, Gunfire, and Grape Juice

Summary: You throw yourself between a rookie and an energy blast.  Bucky panics. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Word Count: 1.3k+

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

The mission was going well. Suspiciously well, which should’ve been your first red flag. Another ordinary Hydra facility with minimal guards that was unusually quiet. You were even humming as you strolled through the hallway, twirling a baton and pointing it at doors like a remote.

Behind you, Bucky muttered, “Don’t touch anything.”

You responded, “That’s exactly what someone hiding treasure would say.”

Sam sighed. “Can you at least pretend to take this seriously?”

“I am taking it seriously. That’s why I packed four granola bars and a Capri-Sun.”

Bucky grinned, despite himself. He always did when you were like this, loose-limbed and smiling. Like the world couldn’t possibly touch you, which made what happened next all the more terrifying.

It happened in the blink of an eye.

An explosion of sound coming from the energy shot from a hidden drone. It was too fast to stop, too sudden to predict. One of the rookies on the mission—a wide-eyed kid with barely two field ops under his belt froze, dead in the line of fire.

So you didn’t.

You shoved him out of the way with a grunt and took the hit square in the side. It knocked you off your feet with a sickening crack.

The kid shouted. Bucky screamed your name.

When you hit the floor, you blinked up at the ceiling like it had just betrayed you. “Oh,” You said, dazed. “That’s not ideal.”

You were bleeding, quite a lot. Bright red blooming fast across your suit, staining your hand as you pressed it to your side with a hiss. “Y’know,” You mumbled, “I don’t remember having this many organs.”

“Stay with me- hey, hey, stay with me.” Bucky was suddenly at your side, voice hoarse, pressing his hands over yours to help stem the bleeding. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

You gave him a lazy grin, adrenaline running high. “If I die, delete my browser history and bury me with snacks. No one needs to know how often I google if raccoons can feel love.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Don’t joke.”

“You love me because I joke.”

“I love you because you’re you,” He rasped. “But right now, I need you to fight and stay with me, okay?”

“Already fought,” You slurred. “I did the thing, saved the baby agent. Hero moment. I want a sticker.”

“Doll, if you die on me, I will bring you back just to yell at you.”

You laughed and winced immediately. “Hurts to laugh, write that down and it to the science books.”

The med team arrived then, Sam yelling over his comms, the rookie sobbing apologies, the chaos dimming into a kind of tunnel vision where all you could see was Bucky’s face above you. His eyes were wet and scared.

You lifted a bloody finger and tapped his nose weakly. “Boop.”

“God, you’re infuriating,” He whispered. Then he kissed your forehead with trembling lips. “Don’t leave me, okay? I don’t care how many granola bars you packed. You don’t get to check out early.”

-

A day later in the medbay, you woke up groggy and attached to enough wires to hack a satellite. You blinked blearily at the ceiling.

Bucky was there, instantly. “You’re awake.”

You looked at him then looked around. “Where’s my Capri-Sun?”

He closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. “You almost died, and that’s what you’re asking?”

“I saved a life, I bled dramatically, I deserve juice.”

He let out a shaky breath. Then, quietly, “Don’t ever do that again.”

You turned to get a good look at him. He looked wrecked honestly. Unshaven, sleepless, and red around the eyes. It’s clear he had barely left your side. “Hey,” You said softly, reaching for his hand. “I’m here.”

He held your hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And for the first time, you didn’t joke. Didn’t quip. You just said, quietly, “I’d take the hit again, Buck. Every time.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “Don’t make me live in a world without you, alright?”

You smiled. “Deal. But next time, you bring the juice.”

-

As you had to spend more time in the medbay for recovery, you gradually grew bored. You’d never been a fan of hospital beds. They were too stiff, too white, too… beep-y.

So naturally, the first thing you did the moment you could sit up without passing out was try to climb out of one.

“Sit. Down.”

Bucky’s voice cracked like a whip across the room. He was standing by the medbay door with a takeout container in one hand and the fury of a thousand protective boyfriends in the other.

You blinked up at him. “I’m just stretching-“

“You have stitches, dumbass.”

You squinted. “You still love me though.”

He sighed and walked over, setting the food on your tray. “Unfortunately.”

You poked at the soup. “This doesn’t look like juice.”

“It’s miso. Doctor Cho said no juice until you’re off pain meds.”

You gasped like he’d personally betrayed your bloodline. “What about a popsicle?”

“You were clinically dead for twelve seconds and you want a popsicle?”

“…grape, preferably.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do I love you.”

You leaned back against the pillows, smug. “Because I am an intellectual enigma with the survival instincts of a cat in traffic.”

Before Bucky could respond, there was a knock on the door.

Enter: The Rookie.

He crept in like a kid walking into the principal’s office, holding something behind his back and looking two seconds from crying again. “H-Hey.”

You grinned. “If it isn’t the human shield I saved.”

He flinched. “I’m so sorry-“

“Hey, no. Don’t do that.” You waved your spoon like a wand. “No guilt in my presence. It was my call and I would do again.”

Bucky muttered, “Don’t say that,” but you ignored him.

The rookie stepped forward, visibly shaking, and handed you what looked like… a paper plate necklace. With glitter. It said: “#1 Chaos Hero.”

You stared at it, then at him, then back at it.

“I didn’t know what to get you and I felt awful and I don’t have clearance for flowers and this was the only glitter glue left in the break room,” He rambled. “Also it’s taped because we ran out of string.”

You put it on immediately. Bucky just stared like he was reevaluating every life decision that led him to this moment.

“This is the greatest honor I’ve ever received,” You declared.

“You’re literally wearing a paper plate.”

“From a child soldier,” You corrected.

“I’m nineteen!” The rookie said.

“Exactly,” You said.

Later on, Bucky helped you back to your quarters. The both of you were walking slow with his metal hand on your back like he was afraid you might fall apart again. You let him tuck you in, mostly because you were still high on painkillers and partially because you liked the way he fussed when he was scared.

“I mean it,” He said quietly, sitting beside you. “You can’t keep risking yourself like that. Not for people who won’t do the same.”

“They will someday. Because people pay kindness forward, especially when it costs someone else blood.” You nudged him. “Plus, you did the same for Steve a hundred times.”

“That was different.”

“It wasn’t.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then:

“I almost lost you.”

You took his hand and held it gently.

“But you didn’t.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple. “You’re infuriating.”

“You love me.”

He sighed before whispering into your hair, “I really do.”

-

GROUP CHAT:

Tony: Who tf gave glitter glue to the interns?

Sam: The rookie made her a PAPER PLATE NECKLACE

Steve: She hasn’t taken it off in six hours.

Natasha: She told me it’s a ‘badge of honor’…

Wanda: They also threatened the vending machine for not having grape juice

Bucky: She got shot and she’s more upset about the juice

You: i saved a life AND survived a flesh wound, i earned grape juice

You: also i’m naming the scar after the rookie

Bucky: Please don’t

You: too late, buckaroo. i christen it kevin 2.0

[Bucky has left the group chat.]

Caged in Comfort (Pt. 5)

Summary: You’re slowly starting to slip into exactly what they want. While you aren’t their bright little girl yet, they’re patient and present as your inner turmoil and outward resistance gradually fades. How long it will last is unknown to both you and them. (Dark Stucky x little!reader)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Forced Age Regression (Implied drugging). Kidnapping. References to Labs. Stockholm Syndrome in the future likely. You are responsible for the media you consume.

Word Count: 2.3k+

A/N: Would love to do a timeskip next chapter so I can explore interactions with the other Avengers. Maybe some of the others are in similar dynamics.

Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Previous | Next

You don’t know how much time passes. Minutes stretch long inside the room, dulled by soft lights and the gentle hum of something mechanical just out of sight. It’s too quiet. No voices outside. No footsteps. Just Steve and Bucky and you.

You keep your hands busy with the coloring book, eyes low. You can feel Bucky’s stare less now. He’s sitting in the corner, arms no longer crossed, just resting, watching. Steve’s still near, perched on the edge of the armchair like he’s about to tell a story. And maybe he is.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Steve says gently. “You’ve done really well today. And we’re proud of you for being so brave.”

You don’t respond, but you tilt your head slightly toward him. That’s enough to make him smile.

“We think it’s time we start going over the rules now,” He continues, voice warm like he’s saying something kind. “Just so things stay nice and easy here. You want things to be easy, don’t you?”

Your heart gives a dull thud, but you nod once.

“We’re gonna keep things simple for now,” He seems pleased, folding his hands together. “Rule number one: No wandering off. Ever. Not without one of us holding your hand. If you leave your room, it’s because one of us is with you. At least for now.”

You swallow as Bucky speaks next. His tone is low and gravelly, less gentle, more grounding.

“Number two: No lying. Not about how you’re feelin’, not about what you want, and definitely not about tryin’ to leave.”

Your shoulders tense, but you don’t move.

Steve gives him a quick look. Then softens his own voice again, like it’s meant to balance the weight of Bucky’s.

“We’ll always keep you safe. But we can only do that if you’re honest with us, okay? If something’s wrong, you tell us. Littles don’t need to worry about anything grown-up. That’s our job.”

You glance up at him. “What if I don’t wanna be… little?”

It comes out smaller than you mean it to. Careful. Testing.

Steve’s smile doesn’t falter. “That’s just the scared part of you talking, honey. You are little. You’ve just forgotten how to feel safe.”

Bucky stands now, slow and steady, and walks over. You hold your breath as he kneels beside you again. His eyes don’t soften, but his voice drops to something quieter.

“You’re ours now. You get to stop running.”

You turn your gaze away as Steve continues.

“Rule number three: Big girls don’t make the rules here. Littles follow the routine. You’ll get up when we say, eat what we give you, and nap when it’s time. And if you’re good, sweetheart…” His tone drops to a purr. “You’ll get certain rewards. Books. Toys. Maybe outings if you’ve been extra good.”

“And… if I’m not good?” You ask, voice barely a whisper, already suspecting the answer.

Bucky speaks first.

“Then we teach you.”

It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.

Steve gives a lighter version. “We help you remember what’s best. That’s all.”

There’s a silence after that, thick and expectant. Then Steve brightens a little, clapping his hands softly once.

“But you’ve been very good today, haven’t you? I think someone’s earned a little reward.”

You sit frozen, the rules echoing in your head. No wandering. No lying. No questioning the routine. You’re sure there’s more they aren’t mentioning yet.

You’re still holding the crayon in your hand, the colors blended together on the page. Steve’s footsteps are soft as he walks to the small counter on the other side of the room, but you don’t pay any attention to him. The world feels strange, like the edges are becoming blurry. You can’t focus on the drawings anymore. The crayon feels wrong in your fingers, too heavy. Everything’s shifting, like the walls are closing in.

Bucky’s voice breaks through the fog. It’s firm, steady, like it’s always been, but now there’s something gentler behind it. Like he’s trying to make you feel something you can’t put into words.

“Time for your snack, little one.”

You flinch. The words hang in the air, just as oppressive as they were earlier, but now, they feel different. Heavy. You swallow hard and feel a knot form in your throat. It’s like your brain can’t decide whether to resist or to just let it happen. Your fingers tremble as they grip the crayon tighter.

Steve’s voice is next, and it’s gentler, almost coaxing. “You’ve been a good girl. Now, it’s time to get your treat. You deserve it, sweetheart.”

The word girl makes something tighten in your chest. You want to argue. Want to snap that you’re not a child. That you can take care of yourself. But the resistance feels… heavy. It’s like a pull inside your chest, urging you to listen, to do what they say.

Bucky returns with a bottle given to him by Steve. The milk inside is warm and thick, the smell faintly sweet, like it’s supposed to be comforting. Your stomach churns. It smells like safety, something your body is telling you it’s supposed to trust, even though your mind rebels.

You try to pull away, but Bucky’s already there, crouching beside you again. His eyes flick over your face, calculating. For a moment, it feels like he’s waiting for you to make the next move, but you don’t. Your head dips a little. A silent surrender. You feel the smallest twinge of guilt, like something inside of you’s letting go. The last thread of resistance. Your mouth parts instinctively as Bucky raises the bottle to your lips.

“It’s good for you,” Steve says softly, standing close behind him. “Nice and warm. Makes you feel better.”

The bottle feels too big in your mouth. You sip it slowly, unsure, but the warmth settles in your stomach, spreading outwards. It feels… safe. A little too safe. You don’t want to admit it, but it’s there. You almost want to sink into it, but you can’t.

You drink, slow and hesitant, until the bottle’s empty. Bucky takes it away without a word, and you blink up at him, trying to hold onto some fragment of yourself, some edge of defiance. But the fog is thicker now. You can feel your eyelids heavy, the weight of everything pressing down on you. Still, you fight to keep your eyes open, not wanting to give in.

Steve’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Good girl.”

His words are soft, but they settle in your chest like something warm. You don’t know why, but it’s enough to make your body sink a little deeper into the softness of the cushions, like your muscles are finally giving up the fight.

“You’re doing so well,” Steve continues, his fingers brushing through your hair gently. “We’re proud of you.”

A part of you wants to pull away, to refuse the soft touches, the kind words that feel too familiar now. But another part of you is weak, and it feels nice. Your breath catches in your throat, and you feel the pressure build up behind your eyes.

But Bucky’s voice cuts through before you can retreat any further.

“You’ll learn to trust us,” He mutters, like a promise. “You’ll see that we’re here to take care of you.”

You feel yourself shrinking inward, like the words are pushing you back into a corner. Your face heats, your stomach tightens. The bottle and the warmth from it make your body want to give in, even if your mind still screams to fight.

You want to escape. You want to run, but there’s nowhere to go. Your body’s too heavy, too compliant now. And your mind is so small, so young. You can’t focus on anything other than the weight of their presence, their hands, their soft, soothing words. They surround you like a cocoon, and part of you feels like you could disappear into it. It’s almost easier.

But it’s not right. You know that. You want to scream, but instead, the words come out weak, almost childlike.

“Don’ wanna be here… wanna go home…”

It’s barely a whisper, and before you can even think about it, tears prick at your eyes. Your chest tightens painfully, longing for a home that never existed.

Steve’s eyes soften immediately. His hand moves to your cheek, warm and comforting, like the moment your vulnerability slips free, he’s there to catch it.

“You are home,” Steve reminds you, voice quiet but firm. “This is where you’re safe now.”

And that’s when you realize, no matter how hard you fight, no matter how much you wish it weren’t true, their version of safety has started to settle into your bones. You blink back the tears, but they come anyway, soft and silent, like a child finally giving in to the feeling of being held. Steve is there to hold you gently as your body melts into his arms even if your mind rebels, comforting you softly.

Steve and Bucky exchange a quiet look. There’s something different now in the air, something that shifts the dynamic between them, like they’re waiting for something to happen. But they’re patient, and that patience settles over you, pushing your shoulders to relax just a little bit more.

Steve’s voice comes first, low and soothing.

“You’re feeling little now, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You nod slowly, your head still heavy, your body sluggish, but warm. Comfortable. It’s a strange sensation. It’s like something that feels a little too good to resist, even though you know, deep down, it’s wrong. You swallow, trying to fight it, but your body betrays you. You feel small, too small to push away their words, to hold onto the edges of yourself.

Bucky’s gaze flickers over to Steve for a moment before he turns back to you. His voice is softer than it has been all day.

“Alright, little one. Wanna get back to your playtime?”

Your heart skips a beat at the question. It sends a ripple of discomfort through you, but it’s too late to pull back now. The milk and the warmth have dulled everything down, leaving you tired and vulnerable. You look up at them, uncertain, like a child unsure of what’s coming next.

Steve looks down at you, his expression patient but expectant. “We got you some other toys to play with. Do you want to see them?”

Your eyes flicker between them, making a small movement of your head, nodding. Like you’ve given in without realizing it.

Bucky moves across the room, gathering a few plush toys, blocks, and a soft blanket from a nearby shelf. He arranges them in front of you, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s setting up a space for you to feel safe.

“There you go,” He mutters, settling on the floor beside you. “All for you.”

You stare at the plush toys and blocks, unsure of what to do with them. The toys look soft, inviting, like something that should belong to a little girl. A little you. Something in you pulls at the thought, and your fingers twitch as if reaching for them, but your mind is still cloudy. It’s hard to make decisions now, hard to decide whether you want to push away or lean in.

Steve’s voice is gentle when it comes again, pulling you back into the moment. It’s like he can see you struggling as he encourages you, “You can do whatever you want, honey. Just relax and have fun. No need to think about anything else.”

You hate the way they make you feel, like you have to be small. But there’s an undeniable pull in his tone, something comforting that makes it hard to resist. And so, your hands move almost automatically toward the plush toys. They’re soft, almost too soft, and they feel like a childhood that you never got to have.

You turn your attention to a stuffed bear, picking it up and running your fingers over its fuzzy ears. Your face softens without meaning to as you curl the bear into your lap. Something inside you lets go.

Bucky watches you from his place on the floor, his gaze is less guarded now. There’s a small shift in his posture, like he’s watching a part of you unfold that he’s been waiting for. Both of them are being careful in their movements as they watch you regress.

“That’s a great friend you have there, kiddo,” He speaks, his voice lower now, less sharp.

Steve sits beside you, his hand resting gently on your back, providing an anchor. His touch is comforting in a way that feels almost too real.

“You’re safe, sweetheart. Just play with your bear, okay? No one’s going to hurt you here.”

The words sound so simple. So easy. But they strike deep. Your fingers move to tuck the bear into the crook of your arm, holding it close. You feel small. Like a child. And even though part of you tries to pull away, tries to scream no, another part of you is so tired, so tired of resisting. You bury your face against the soft fur, closing your eyes for just a moment.

A soft sigh escapes you, and you feel Steve’s hand rub your back gently. His thumb makes little circles, just enough to ground you. Just enough to make it easier to slip deeper into this state.

And you become a little more pliable in that moment. The situation settles in like a balm to a wound. Your body feels heavy, lethargic, and in the same breath, there’s a part of you that’s letting go. Fully leaning into the care they’re offering. You don’t have the strength to fight anymore. Not now, at least.

You curl the bear tighter, pulling it to your chest as if to keep the tiny shreds of your older self intact. The way you play is slow, hesitant, and yet… you start to feel like it’s not that bad. Not if you let it wash over you like this. Let yourself be small.

Does anyone have any ideas or requests they wanna see turned into a fic? Any sort of AU, pairing, line, scenario, idea, genre, etc. I want to A. Challenge myself, B. See what you guys like, and C. Find something to overcome this writer’s block I’m facing…

See my masterlist for what I’ve already written <3