It Was Such A Tragic Idea, I’m So Happy I Was Able To Write A Good Story For It. Thank You So Much
It was such a tragic idea, I’m so happy I was able to write a good story for it. Thank you so much for reading!!! ♡
Falling For You, Again and Again
Summary: Each time you "die" and return, you fall in love with Bucky all over again in different ways. Bucky sees a new version of you every time, but he’s always his same self. Each time, you both always find your ways back to each other, but you never know it's happened before. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power of immortality. However, each death erases your memory of what you knew and who you were before. ANGST.
Word Count: 2.6k+
A/N: I wasn’t even sure if I could classify this under this series. However, it’s still an enhanced ability. Also, I’m hoping y’all like this. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
The first time you came back to life, it took three days. You woke in a hospital morgue, shivering under a white sheet, the taste of salt and ash on your tongue. You had no memory of your name, no recollection of what had killed you, and no sense of identity.
The only thing you possessed was a quiet panic and the sharp, cold awareness that you should not be here. You stumbled out into the world with no guidance, no answers, and one inexplicable truth: you couldn’t die.
You learned the pattern eventually. Every time you died whether by accident or violence, sickness or sacrifice, you returned. The process was inconsistent though. Sometimes, it took hours. Other times, days or weeks. Each time, you emerged in your body just as it was before death, seemingly untouched… but your memories, every one of them, were stripped away.
You couldn’t remember the name of the man who’d died holding your hand on a battlefield. Or the child you once saved from drowning. Or the language you’d spoken fluently last time you were alive. Every death reset your soul like a blank canvas, and the world became something you had to re-learn.
Sometimes people told you things about who you were, where you’d been, but they felt like borrowed stories. You smiled politely. Pretended. Sometimes even fell in love with the past versions of yourself they described. But you never felt like her.
The only exception was him.
The first time you saw Bucky Barnes, it was in a coffee shop in D.C. You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know yours, either. He was sitting alone reading something dense and battered yet you were inexplicably drawn to him, like an invisible thread pulled you into his orbit. You stood in line behind him without realizing, your fingers twitching as if remembering a touch you’d never felt. He glanced back. His eyes locked on yours.
He stared like he’d seen a ghost.
You didn’t speak,not then but you sat across from him twenty minutes later because you felt you should. Because your heart beat faster when he smiled, and it shouldn’t have. Because he seemed to know you, and you… you wanted to know why.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” He asked, softly, one hand wrapped around a warm mug.
You shook your head. “I don’t even remember me.”
He swallowed hard, staring at the steam between you. “I think you’ve died again.”
You didn’t ask how he knew. You just believed him.
It was like that every time.
You’d die. Come back. Then forget.
And somehow, Bucky would find you. Or you’d find him. A different place. A different life. But the same pull. You might meet him at a bookstore, brushing fingertips over the same worn copy of Catch-22. Or in a combat zone, both fighting for someone else’s cause. Or on a rainy street corner where he offered you a shared umbrella without knowing if you’d remember him this time. Sometimes you’d fall in love quickly. Sometimes slowly. But always, deeply.
He tried not to hold on too tightly. He never told you too much too fast. He let you find your own path, even if it meant losing you all over again.
But every version of you looked at him like you’d known him forever. Every version of you fell in love with him, as if your soul remembered even when your mind couldn’t.
And that was the tragedy of it. For him, it was always a reunion. For you, it was always the beginning.
-
Rain fell in soft curtains over the city, blurring the glass of the bookstore window and washing the world into dull, dreamlike greys. Inside, the scent of old paper, dust, and aging wood filled the quiet. Bucky sat in the far corner, a thick book open in his lap, though he wasn’t really reading. His fingers had gone still on the page twenty minutes ago.
He’d spent the past eleven months scouring D.C. by checking shelters, hospitals, cafés, the Metro; anywhere someone who had nothing might go. Most of the time, you always seemed to come back near where you died, and though he didn’t know exactly where that had been this time, instinct had guided him here.
The bookstore had become his checkpoint. A place of stillness where he could let the anxiety press against his ribs without showing on his face. He came every Sunday, pretending to read, waiting for a flicker of something to pull the world back into motion.
Then the door opened.
The bell jingled, and cold air swept in, heavy with rain and city smoke. A figure stepped inside, hunched slightly with hair damp and clinging to their cheeks. You looked up, blinking against the light, eyes wide and searching.
Bucky went still.
You’d returned.
Even before you saw him, even before you reached for the books on the nearest shelf, he knew. It wasn’t just the way you looked even though your face never changed. It was something else. A tension in your posture. A flicker of familiarity in your eyes that didn’t belong to this version of you, not yet.
You drifted further into the store, trailing fingers over spines as though pulled by instinct. He stood slowly, book forgotten on the chair behind him, as his heart hammered in his chest.
Then, like fate nudging you into place, your hand stopped on a copy of Catch-22.
It was always that book.
You ran your hand over the cover like it meant something you couldn’t name before your gaze flickered over to his. “Have we met?” You asked in a soft and uncertain tone. “I’m sorry… I feel like I should know you.”
God, it hit him like a punch every time.
Bucky’s voice caught in his throat before he forced a quiet, “Yeah. We’ve met before.”
You smiled politely, a little nervous. But your eyes lingered on his face like they were trying to etch something into memory that didn’t exist yet. “Do you… do you know who I am?”
He nodded. “I do.”
And he wouldn’t say more, not yet. He never did. You needed to come to it in your own time. So he took a step back, gestured to the armchair in the reading corner. “Do you want to sit for a while?”
You blinked at him, then at the chair, as if the idea of resting had never occurred to you. Slowly, you nodded.
“I’d like that.”
You stayed for two hours. Browsing, reading, or asking cautious gentle questions that Bucky answered with care. You didn’t remember dying. You never did. But you’d woken up in a hospital two weeks ago, no ID, no fingerprints on file. A social worker had told you your memory loss might be trauma-induced. You didn’t tell them about the dreams, about the way your hands shook when you tried to sleep. Or how you sometimes stared at your reflection and didn’t feel like it belonged to you.
Bucky listened quietly, never once pressing. He never once was asking you to be someone you weren’t ready to become again.
And just before you left, you turned to him. “I know this sounds strange, but… I feel safe with you. Like I’ve known you before.”
He swallowed hard, nodding. “You have.”
You opened your mouth like you wanted to ask more but didn’t.
Instead, you said, “I think I’d like to see you again.”
He smiled. “I’ll be here.”
You hesitated one more moment, then added, “Maybe I’ll come back next week… and you can tell me a story.”
He watched you go, heart aching.
He had hundreds. All of them about you.
You came back the next Sunday, just like you said you would. Same bookstore with the same faint, hesitant smile. This time, your coat was dry and your hair was pulled back. There was a small bandage on your knuckle from some accident you wouldn’t remember. You hadn’t told Bucky that, but he noticed. He always noticed the small things.
The two of you sat in the corner by the fogged-up window, and Bucky brought you tea from the shop next door without asking what kind you liked. He already knew. You took it with a grateful murmur, sipping slowly before your eyes flickered up to him.
“You said last week that you knew me,” You spoke cautiously but curious. “How? Did we work together or…?”
He studied you for a moment, then looked down at the teacup in his hands. “Not work. We were close, for a long time.”
You tilted your head, watching him. “Were we… lovers?”
There it was. The question that always came eventually. He looked back up. Your expression wasn’t flirtatious, it was vulnerable. Searching.
“Yes,” He answered quietly. “Many times.”
Your breath hitched just a fraction. And then, “You say that like we’ve done this before.”
He hesitated. “Because we have.”
You stared, frowning. “Have what? Met?”
“Fallen in love.”
You didn’t speak for a moment. Then you looked down at your hands. “Is that why I feel… strange around you? Like I should be afraid to get too close, but also like I want to?”
“Probably,” He laughed softly. “Most versions of you have that same feeling. You never remember me, but something in you always recognizes me. I don’t know if it’s instinct, or your soul remembering, or just… whatever’s left behind.”
You were silent, absorbing that. Then, in a quiet voice, “How many times?”
Bucky met your eyes. “Forty-eight.”
You looked away sharply. “Forty-eight deaths.”
“That I know of.”
“And I don’t remember any of them?”
“No.”
You stared out the window, your fingers tightening around the mug. “Then how can you… how do you not hate me for forgetting?”
He leaned forward, voice steady. “Because I remember you. All of you, and because every version of you is worth meeting again.”
Tears welled up in your eyes without control as you wiped them quickly, embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t know why that made me-“
“It happens sometimes,” He reassured gently. “Your body remembers things your mind doesn’t. Emotions bleed through.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him and something in your chest ached. Something deep and familiar.
“Tell me a story,” You whispered. “Tell me something about her- about me. A version you knew.”
Bucky nodded.
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small, battered notebook. The leather was fraying at the edges, the pages slightly warped from time and tears. He set it on the table, his hand resting on the cover.
“You used to hum in your sleep,” He said quietly. “Sometimes it was a lullaby, sometimes it was nothing at all. But it was always soft. And when you had nightmares or when the dreams got too heavy, you’d say my name before you woke up.”
You stared at the journal, transfixed.
Bucky’s voice didn’t tremble, but there was a break in it now. “That version of you was terrified of losing herself. You left notes, voice recordings, instructions. But every time you came back, you were still a stranger to yourself.”
You reached for the journal before you could stop yourself.
“Can I… read them?”
His hand remained on the cover for a moment longer, then he slowly slid it toward you.
“You can.”
You took it carefully. Reverently. Like it was something sacred.
Every time you left his world, he added another entry in that journal and kept it close with him. It was as if to keep a piece of you nearby when he couldn’t find you right away. The journal was heavier than it looked.
Not in weight, but in presence. It felt lived in, full of love and plagued with grief. You held it in your lap like something precious and terrifying, afraid that turning the page would tear a hole in your chest you didn’t know how to close.
You glanced up at Bucky. He hadn’t moved as he watched you with the quiet patience of someone who had waited through storms you couldn’t remember. You looked down again as your fingers brushed over the leather cover. There were marks, faint indents from a pen pressed too hard. Some pages were dog-eared. One corner had a smear of dried paint. Or maybe blood.
“I don’t understand,” You whispered. “Why would you keep doing this? Why would you…wait for me? For this?”
Bucky exhaled slowly. “Because even when it breaks me, you’re still worth every second I get.”
Your mouth opened slightly. No sound came out. Instead, you opened the journal.
The first page held a drawing. A sketch in faded pencil, your face, or someone who looked like you. The features were careful, practiced. You were looking down in the image, eyes shadowed, but peaceful. Beneath it, in neat handwriting:
11th time: She liked to paint near windows in sunlight. Said it made her feel alive. She told me to keep going, even when she was gone. I didn’t know how. Still don’t, but I’m trying.
Your heart pounded.
You turned the page.
31st time: She left me a voicemail before she died. Said if I ever found her again and she didn’t remember me, to tell her it was okay. That she was stronger than her forgetting. That love wasn’t something the body forgot, it was something that echoed in the soul and bones.
And the next:
42nd: She came back scared. She didn’t trust anyone, not even herself. But the second I said her name, she cried. She didn’t know why, just said it felt like home.
Your hand shook as you flipped further.
Tiny mementos were tucked inside throughout the journal. A movie ticket. A torn page from a crossword puzzle. A faded photo of the two of you, you laughing with your arms around him, eyes bright with a love you didn’t remember but suddenly longed for like oxygen.
And then… your voice.
Not now. Not this version. But one of you from before. It was a clipped audio, barely two minutes long, the file embedded into a tiny recorder taped to a page.
You pressed play.
“Hi. I know you’re me. Or some part of me. Or… maybe you’re someone entirely different now. That’s okay. You don’t have to remember everything. I just want you to know he’s safe. His voice is safe. His hands are safe. If you don’t remember anything else, remember that.”
You felt the sob before you heard it. Your hand flew to your mouth as your chest crumpled in on itself. You had said this. You had known you’d forget. And you’d wanted to leave yourself something, some thread to hold on to.
Across from you, Bucky didn’t speak. His eyes were glassy, but he didn’t interrupt. He never did. He let you come to him, always.
The journal was shaking in your hands. “I don’t know how to live like this,” You said, broken. “How can I be me if I’m always being rewritten?”
He leaned forward, voice low and certain. “Because no matter how many times the world erases you… you always find your way back.”
You looked at him again and something in you moved. A thread, a spark. Not a memory but an emotion. A warmth like sunlight through your body. It didn’t bring images, names, or facts. But it brought trust. Safety. The echo of something lost but not gone.
“Stay with me,” You pleaded in a whisper.
“I always do,” He said, steady.
And for the first time, in this lifetime, you reached for his hand. Not out of obligation. Not from the ghost of some former self. But because your heart, untouched by memory, still knew him.
And Bucky held on like he had every time before.
More Posts from Orellazalonia and Others
Oops, I Joined a Cult Again
Summary: You joined a cult. That’s it. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)
Word Count: 900+
A/N: Same as the unhinged/chaotic reader series, supposed to be shorter but then I added more group chat shenanigans. I wanted something quick while I work on other stuff. Sorry if it’s messy. Happy reading!!!
Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist
Bucky Barnes had one job: watch your back on the infiltration mission.
He didn’t know that meant literally watching you disappear into a torchlit temple deep in the mountains and emerge forty-eight hours later in robes, glowing, smiling cheerfully, and being worshiped as the reincarnation of a snake god.
“They call me The Hissening,” You whispered, eyes far too wide, far too smug.
“I told you not to touch the statue,” Bucky muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as the robed people behind you chanted in perfect sync: “HISSSSSSS.”
-
48 HOURS EARLIER
The briefing was simple. Infiltrate and investigate a rising cult rumored to be a Hydra front. No weapons. No overt powers. In and out.
Naturally, Tony turned to you and said, “You’re on distraction duty. Just… go be yourself.”
You took it as a compliment. It was not.
You and Bucky parachuted into the outskirts of the mountains under cover of night, both in tactical gear. Silent and focused… until you turned to him mid-descent and yelled, “DO YOU THINK CULTS HAVE SNACKS?”
“…What?”
“LIKE HOLY GRAHAM CRACKERS OR- wait, no, Blessed Chex Mix!”
He didn’t respond. He just stared straight ahead, wondering for the millionth time what cosmic punishment he was paying for to be partnered with you on this particular mission.
The problem was never that you were bad at missions. In fact, in combat, you were terrifying. Strategic. Surgical.
But in deep cover? You were yourself, which is how exactly five minutes after entering the temple courtyard, you said:
“Nice snake statue. Can I boop it?”
And when the head priest responded, “Only the Chosen One may lay a finger upon the sacred Fang of Enlightenment,” You touched it immediately, whispered “boop,” and passed out.
When you woke up, glowing faintly with what may have been divine energy (or some type of poisoning), the cult declared you their prophesied leader.
You didn’t correct them.
-
BACK TO PRESENT
Bucky had finally gotten inside. Posing as a new recruit, hood up, mouth shut, inner turmoil vibrating at a ten. He spotted you instantly. You were standing on a golden platform, arms open, and being fanned with palm leaves.
“Hey,” He hissed when he reached you. “Mission. Hydra. Ringing any bells?”
You waved vaguely. “They have really good soup here.”
“This is not the time for soup.”
You nodded solemnly. “There is always time for soup.”
Someone handed you a ceremonial staff. You took it. It was sparkly.
You then whispered to Bucky, “So here’s the thing… I might’ve said we should cleanse our enemies in a fire of spiritual rebirth. Which they interpreted as actual fire. So, like… maybe be cool about that.”
He blinked at you.
“You started a holy war, didn’t you.”
You smiled brightly. “Only a small one.”
That night, under cover of darkness, the two of you escaped; you still in full ceremonial garb, Bucky dragging you by the elbow while you shouted goodbye to your “disciples.”
One of them threw a snake at you in farewell. You caught it. You named it Gary.
Steve, upon your return, asked what happened.
You saluted and said, “I was a god for three days and it changed me. Also I have this soup recipe now.” You handed him a scroll. When he opened it, it was blank.
Bucky looked at you, exhausted, covered in ash, a little bruised, holding a snake in one hand and your glitter-covered robes in the other.
“…You are the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me,” He said.
You winked. “But I’m your weirdo.”
“Yeah, you are.”
-
Bonus Debriefing.
Group Chat:
Tony: Okay, so. Roll call. Who let them start a religion??
Clint: AGAIN?!?
Sam: Are we seriously ignoring the snake?? Why does she still have the snake?
You: his name is Gary, he chose me
Bucky: The snake did not choose you. You caught him and said “I am your mother now.”
You: and he accepted me
Wanda: Did you eat something weird again? The last time you said a goat “chose you” we had to evacuate a whole town.
Steve: Back up. How did we go from “infiltrate Hydra cult” to “being crowned a divine prophet of the hiss age”?
Bucky: Because she touched the sacred artifact. While they were giving a warning not to.
You: i wanted to boop it 🐍✨
Bruce: [Image attached: Security cam still of you dramatically booping a snake statue and passing out like a Victorian child seeing ankles.]
Tony: Okay but why are you glowing in this?
You: i think I absorbed a minor god
Sam: Define “minor.”
You: likeee a demi-snake. A snack god
Bucky: You said, quote: “Let the hiss of salvation whisper in your soul or something.”
Tony: You started preaching???
You: they gave me a podium! what else was I supposed to do? NOT use it!?
Natasha: …Yes?
Clint: wait, so did we ever find out if the cult was a Hydra front or…
Steve: Nope. She gave a sermon and declared Bucky her “divine enforcer.”
Bucky: Yeah. Still mad about that.
You: srry Prophet Punchy
Tony: We are never letting you go on recon again.
Bruce: I still want to know how you pulled off a glowing aura with no tech or magic.
You: I ate three glowsticks on accident.
Wanda: …
Steve: …
Bucky: This is not a joke. I watched it happen.
You: I thought they were minty tubes.
Sam: Was anyone else weirdly inspired by her speech though?
Steve: Sam.
Sam: I’m just saying I felt something 🐍
Bucky: I felt betrayal and secondhand shame.
You: don’t worry guys, the cult disbanded peacefully. i left them a doctrine :)
Tony: A what.
You: [Image attached: Crayon drawing of a snake with sunglasses saying “BE NICE. EAT SOUP. HISS IF THREATENED.”]
Bruce: This is shockingly coherent.
Clint: I hate how effective it is.
Thor: I would like to join this religion. It seems wise. HISS.
[Thor has been muted again.]
Exactly!! For real. Thank you for reading!!! ♡
Tiny Winged Trouble
Summary: You’re only a few inches tall, full of sparkle and mischief. When SHIELD accidentally captures you in a jar, Steve and Bucky are tasked with figuring out what you are. You refuse to speak at first, until Steve gives you a cookie. Now they’re stuck with a clingy, stubborn fairy who calls them “Tree” and “Shadow.” (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes)
Word Count: 1.1k+
A/N: It was either mermaid reader or fairy reader. Fairy was easier to write soooo… Enjoy! Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
You were caught in a jar.
A pickle jar, to be specific. It still smelled faintly of vinegar and dill, which you found personally offensive and not just because fairies are very sensitive to smell.
You were fluttering peacefully through the trees near the outskirts of New York when a group of shouting humans in dark armor leapt out from behind a bush and trapped you in what they called a “containment unit.” You didn’t know what SHIELD was, but their agents were very loud and very rough, and they didn’t even ask your name.
You sat cross-legged at the bottom of the jar, wings tucked in, arms folded across your chest, trying your best to look unimpressed.
And then he walked in. Tall, golden-haired, broad-shouldered, a man who practically radiated kindness and confusion in equal measure. Steve Rogers.
He approached the table with another man behind him, darker, quieter, haunted-eyed but alert watching everything. Bucky Barnes.
“I thought you said there was an artifact,” Steve said slowly, looking at the jar.
“It is,” The agent replied. “It talks.”
You gave the man your most dramatic eye roll.
Steve crouched beside the table, eyes soft, voice careful. “Hi there. What’s your name?”
You turned your head away and said nothing.
Bucky stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. “Do fairies sulk?”
You didn’t like his tone not cruel, just skeptical. So you stuck your tongue out at him and turned invisible.
Bucky jumped slightly. “Okay. That answers that.”
“Hey, hey,” Steve murmured, holding his hands up gently. “We’re not gonna hurt you, promise. You just surprised everyone, that’s all. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Still, you said nothing.
It wasn’t until someone walked by with a coffee and a chocolate chip cookie that you broke your silence. You reappeared instantly, pressed against the glass, eyes wide.
Steve blinked, then laughed softly. “You want one of those?”
You nodded furiously.
Five minutes later, the jar was opened and you bolted straight onto Steve’s shoulder, snatched the cookie chunk he offered, and curled into the crook of his neck like you’d always lived there.
You stayed close after that. Not that they had much of a choice.
You built a tiny hammock out of tissues on their bookshelf. Braided thread into their laces. Tried to “fix” Bucky’s grumpy face with flower petals and got scolded, very softly, for it. You called Steve “Tree” because he was tall and smelled like sap. You called Bucky “Shadow” because he followed you around pretending he wasn’t trying to protect you.
You refused to be studied, refused to go back in any jars, and made it very clear you’d chosen your new home: right between two super soldiers who didn’t know how much they needed something as strange and sweet as you.
Sometimes, you’d land on Bucky’s shoulder when he couldn’t sleep, singing soft, wordless melodies that reminded him of something in the past. Sometimes, you’d perch on Steve’s chest as he read, snuggled into the fabric of his henley like a kitten with wings.
You were tiny, fragile, ridiculous, and completely, utterly theirs.
Even if you still left cookie crumbs everywhere.
-
Steve and Bucky discovered quickly how particular fairies could be. Or maybe it was just you.
See, they realized you were much more stubborn than they had anticipated which caused another one of your sulking moods. It started because you weren’t allowed to use the microwave. Which, in your defense, made no sense.
You weren’t trying to start another fire, that was an accident. And yes, maybe the leftover spaghetti had exploded the last time, but how were you supposed to know that foil was banned? You’d never had a microwave before. You grew up in moss and tree hollows and warm sunlight. Your diet was dew, nectar, and whatever you could barter from passing squirrels.
Now, you wanted popcorn, but Bucky had said no. He had looked down at you with his arms crossed and that stupid I care about you and you’re being ridiculous face, stating, “You almost fried the tower’s circuits last time. Find something from the fruit bowl if you’re hungry.”
You responded with the most dramatic gasp you could manage and fluttered up to the top of the cabinets, crossing your arms with a huff.
Steve tried to step in, intervening gently. “He’s not trying to upset you. He just doesn’t want you to get hurt.”
You didn’t answer. You turned your back with your wings flaring slightly in righteous fairy fury, you refused to acknowledge either of them. Not even when Steve sighed and offered you a piece of shortbread. Not even when Bucky muttered something like “She’s sulking again, isn’t she?”
You remained a furious little sparkle, curled into a puffball of wings and pouting.
Hours passed. You still refused to come down.
They tried tempting you with cookies, with your favorite mug of rose petal tea, with one of Steve’s socks (which you always stole to use as a blanket).
Nothing. You were mad. And fairies, though small, are very good at holding grudges.
By the time night fell, you were still wedged behind a cereal box, curled into a mopey heap. And then… you heard a sound. Thump. It was a soft knock on the cabinet.
You peeked over the edge to find Bucky standing there, holding a tiny plate.
“I made popcorn. Not with the microwave. Just the pan.”
You stared at him.
“I didn’t put salt on it. Figured you’d want to do that yourself.”
He set the plate down gently on the counter, then leaned against it, arms folded.
“…You gonna stay up there forever?” He asked after a pause, tone mild.
You turned invisible.
He smirked. “Cute.”
Moments later, you reappeared beside the popcorn and began nibbling, still silent, still frowning.
Steve walked in just then and paused. “Is that a peace offering or a trap?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Bucky replied.
You muttered something under your breath.
Steve blinked. “Did she just call you a ‘grumpy tin soldier’?”
“I think so,” Bucky said, raising an eyebrow.
You stuffed a piece of popcorn in your mouth and glared at them both, cheeks puffed out like a hamster.
Steve crouched beside the counter, eyes warm. “Hey, no one’s mad at you, sweetheart. We just don’t want you getting hurt.”
You looked away before mumbling, “I wanted to make it myself.”
And that was the truth of it. You wanted to prove you could. That you weren’t just tiny and delicate and fluttery. That you could be useful, capable. That you weren’t always the one needing help.
Bucky leaned closer, voice quieter now. “Next time… I’ll show you how.”
You peeked up at him, suspicious.
“You can hold the lid,” He said, tone serious. “That’s an important job.”
“…Fine,” You muttered.
Steve smiled gently, brushing your wing with one careful finger. “We’re proud of you, y’know.”
You huffed, still pretending you weren’t moved before climbing into Bucky’s hand, wings drooping slightly from exhaustion and popcorn forgotten. You curled into his palm with a sigh, tiny fingers gripping the edge of his sleeve.
Still sulking but not as much. And this time, you weren’t alone.
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.
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.
It’s starting to hit me that my recent hyperfixation of writing and posting more than one work/fic a day is not normal. So, I wanted to provide a bunch of options to ask how often I should start updating from now on or how often I should actually be posting a new fic.
Mischief Meets Alpine
Summary: Bucky introduces Alpine to you and Mischief one afternoon. An intense, one-sided, stare off ensues with an interesting truce that practically leaves you speechless when they start influencing each other for better or worse. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.
Word Count: 2.3k+
A/N: To be honest, I wrote this one based on the idea given by @kissingkillercriminals in their reblog of the prequel. Hope it turns out to be a fun read for you and everyone else. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist | Prequel | Finale
It was a slow afternoon in the Tower. Clouds had gathered thickly in the sky, casting a grayish hue through the windows. Rain pattered gently against the glass, the soft drumming filling the silence in the common room.
You were curled up on the armchair with a book in your lap and Mischief lounging across your legs like the possessive feline empress she was. Her tail twitched lazily every few seconds, ears flicking to the rhythm of the raindrops. Her eyes were half-lidded, content.
That is, until the elevator dinged. Her ears perked immediately. You looked up as footsteps echoed down the hallway. Familiar ones.
“Hey,” Bucky greeted from the doorway, a little damp from the drizzle. But he wasn’t alone.
Nestled comfortably in his arms, perched like a queen surveying her domain, was a stunning white cat. Blue-eyed, snowy-soft, and eerily calm, almost regal in the way she looked around the room.
Mischief went still.
Your eyes widened. “Is that… Alpine?” You had heard of Bucky’s cat before, but never seemed to have the chance to meet her until now.
Bucky nodded, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips as he stepped in. “She was pacing by the window when I left the room this morning. Figured she might want a change of scenery.”
Mischief lifted her head. Her pupils narrowed sharply as she fixed her gaze on the uninvited guest. A low growl began to bubble in her throat, barely audible to anyone but you.
You gently placed your hand on her back. ‘Easy’, You thought, not even needing to speak it aloud. She didn’t seem to pick up on your message because her entire body was locked, tense, and offended.
Bucky moved slowly, like he knew he was treading on sacred ground. “Didn’t mean to start a turf war. Just figured maybe it was time.”
You stood slowly, Mischief reluctantly hopping off your lap. Her tail whipped once in warning.
Alpine was unfazed. Her blue eyes landed on Mischief with mild interest. She gave a soft, courteous mrrrow, as if greeting a fellow royal.
Mischief’s eyes narrowed. She sat, but her body language screamed intruder.
“She’s beautiful,” You said gently, watching Alpine with cautious awe. “I didn’t know she was so calm around new places.”
“She’s used to traveling,” Bucky replied, setting Alpine down slowly onto the floor. “Doesn’t like being cooped up. Kinda like me.”
You watched with a held breath as Alpine took a few exploratory steps forward. Mischief didn’t move, but her eyes tracked every inch like a sniper zeroing in. When Alpine got within a few feet, she paused. Then, with the unbothered grace of someone who feared nothing, she laid down.
Mischief hissed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even aggressive. But it was unmistakably territorial.
“Mischief,” You warned softly, crouching next to her. “She’s not a threat.”
Bucky crouched too, beside Alpine, who had begun grooming her paw without a care in the world.
“Look at them,” He said, his voice hushed like it was a secret. “It’s like they’re trying to decide who owns the building.”
You laughed under your breath. “Mischief thinks she owns it.”
“Alpine knows she doesn’t need to prove it.”
As the two cats stared each other down, you caught it, soft and calm, threaded right beneath the silence.
She’s dramatic.
You blinked. Wait… That voice, sleek, composed, feminine, was Alpine’s. Not a meow, not a growl. Words.
You glanced at Bucky, but he was oblivious. Still watching the feline standoff like it was a chess game. Mischief’s growl rose slightly. Alpine remained still.
She likes you. That’s why she hasn’t lunged yet.
Alpine added, her voice as silky as her fur.
But I don’t back down either. So this should be interesting.
You noticed Mischief didn’t seem to hear your telepathic conversation with the newcomer. So you didn’t respond aloud, instead responding in your mind. ’You’re really not bothered, are you?’
He smells like snow and blood, but his hands are gentle. She’s possessive, not of the tower. Of you.
You felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rain. ‘I can see why.’
Mischief hissed quietly, and you caught a flicker of Alpine’s tail.
She wants me to leave.
’Will you?’ You thought, unsure if you were asking out of hope or curiosity.
No. But I’ll wait. I’m patient. She’s not the only one who’s bonded.
The two cats remained still, locked in a silent standoff. Well, more like a one-sided standoff. A slow, deliberate blink passed from Alpine to Mischief.
To your utter shock, Mischief paused for a moment before blinking back. A beat passed before she turned her head and sat down with a huff. Not surrender. But perhaps a reluctant acknowledgment.
Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Was that…?”
You blinked. “I think that was the feline equivalent of a handshake.”
He grinned, proud. “Progress.”
You looked down at both of them, one lounging and one sulking. You rose to your feet now, and as you did, Mischief brushed your leg with her tail, circling your feet like she was claiming you. Alpine simply hopped onto the rug and began inspecting a string toy left forgotten from Tony’s latest failed bribery attempt.
“So,” Bucky said after a moment, straightening. “What are the chances our girls end up tolerating each other?”
You glanced down at Mischief, who gave you a look that seemed to say, I allow this only because you do.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” You murmured. “But… It’s a start.”
Bucky stepped a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “They’re like us,” He said quietly. “Cautious. But… maybe not beyond letting someone in.”
You turned your head toward him slowly, heart skipping.
“Maybe,” You said. “If they’re lucky enough to find the right person.”
And beneath the steady sound of rain, the two of you watched the loved cats learning the quiet language of trust across the room.
-
Though, you didn’t know what that trust would actually entail. The first incident began with silence, which, in your experience with Mischief, was never a good sign.
The Tower was unusually quiet that morning. You were sipping tea in the kitchen, reading reports while waiting for the coffee machine to finish sputtering its way through Bucky’s drink order. Mischief had been suspiciously absent since breakfast. Alpine had vanished not long after.
You glanced toward the hallway only to find nothing out of the ordinary.
Then, a crash, coming from the direction of Tony’s lab.
Not a small bump or a gentle thud. No, this was a metallic, shattering, the Tony-will-not-be-pleased sort of crash.
You bolted upright, nearly spilling your tea, and sprinted toward the noise. Bucky was already there, jogging in from the elevator, sweatpants loose, hair damp from his time at the gym.
“You heard that too?” He asked, eyes narrowing.
Another sound followed. A high-pitched zip-zip-zip noise, like drones activating. Followed by… pawsteps?
You and Bucky skidded to a stop at the entrance to Tony’s lab. It looked like a bomb had gone off.
Three of Tony’s prototype micro-drones were hovering erratically midair, one of them twirling in panicked circles. The rest lay in pieces scattered across the floor, wires tangled like a crime scene. And in the middle of the chaos sat Alpine, tail curled delicately around her paws, completely unbothered.
On the counter nearby, Mischief crouched with a gleam in her eye that could only be described as unrepentant. She looked directly at you, then at Bucky, and gave a soft meow as if to assert her innocence.
“I think we just missed the heist,” You said breathlessly.
Bucky muttered, “Alpine was supposed to be the calm one.”
“I never said Mischief was a good influence.”
You both stepped forward carefully, surveying the disaster. Mischief had clearly pried open one of the drawers, Tony’s "Do Not Touch" ones. Wires were dragged out like spaghetti noodles. A spilled jar of who knows what rolled lazily across the floor.
“Is that my cloaking device?” Came a voice from the hallway.
You winced as Tony rounded the corner before stopping dead at the sight.
Alpine jumped gracefully down and walked over to Bucky’s feet, brushing against him as if she hadn’t just helped dismantle a small fortune in tech.
Tony's eye twitched. “Why are your cats smarter than my interns?”
“I ask myself that every day,” Bucky said, scooping up Alpine. “You didn’t leave any exploding gadgets out, right?”
“Not this week,” Tony snapped, waving a tablet like a club. “Do you even understand what they’ve broken? That drone was programmed to help defuse bombs.”
“I’m sure they had a good reason,” You offered, not that it helped, gently lifting Mischief off the counter. She purred, content and absolutely smug.
“Ask her what the hell kind of reason that would be,” Tony snapped at you.
You looked at Mischief, questioning in a flat tone. “Why?”
Mischief stretched lazily, flicked her tail, and in a nonchalant, mental whisper, said:
It blinked first.
You groaned at the excuse, hesitating before giving the answer. “She says it blinked at her.”
Tony blinked. “It blinked? That’s your defense?”
“She’s a cat, Tony.”
“Whatever.” He pointed at Bucky. “And your cat?”
Bucky looked down at Alpine, who yawned wide and graceful. She murmured to you with eerie composure,
I wanted to know if it could fly backward. It couldn’t.
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
“What?” Tony demanded, head snapping towards you.
You waved him off. “You… don’t want to know.”
Later that evening, after Tony had barricaded the lab and implemented new retinal scans to keep out the feline menaces (his words, not yours). You found Bucky in the living room with Alpine lying beside him with a toy and Mischief perched on the back of the couch.
“They’re lucky they’re cute,” You muttered, flopping down beside him.
Bucky glanced sideways. “I think they’re bonding.”
“They broke a drone.”
“Exactly.”
You looked at the two cats now comfortably sharing the space, Alpine nibbling at the feather toy, Mischief eyeing the object like it had wronged her.
You shook your head. “It’s like watching spies team up.”
“They are spies,” Bucky corrected, definitely not taking this seriously, evident by the grin he wore. “Tiny, furry, manipulative spies.”
Mischief flicked her tail in agreement as Alpine blinked slowly. And for a brief moment, peace, albeit temporary, settled over the Tower.
-
However, while the first incident was annoying for Tony, the second was catered more toward you and Bucky.
It started small to the point where you didn’t notice it at first. Mischief, your eternally territorial shadow, began to behave… differently. She still took up her usual place on your lap, still growled at anyone who got too close, and still owned the Tower like she paid the bills. But she started following you and Bucky when you left rooms. Lingering in the halls, appearing on counters and ledges when the two of you happened to be in the same space.
Alpine, meanwhile, watched everything from a perch of regal detachment, or so it seemed. But you knew better since you heard her.
Don’t hiss this time. Just watch. Let him sit next to her first.
You had paused when you heard it the first time, over breakfast. Mischief was on the table (illegally), staring daggers at Bucky as he walked in. Alpine, curled on the windowsill, barely flicked her tail, but her voice unintentionally slipped into your thoughts again as she directed the ‘secret’ information to Mischief:
She likes it when he brings her things and when he calls her 'trouble.' You should let her admit that.
You almost choked on your toast, but didn’t say anything when Bucky looked over at you with a questioning, concerned gaze.
That was the first clue.
The second clue came two days later, when Bucky was helping you patch up a cut you'd gotten during training. It was nothing, barely a nick, but he'd insisted. Kneeling in front of you, his gloved hand cradled your wrist while the other applied antiseptic.
Mischief watched from the armrest, her ears twitching. It was clear she was tense, jealous… until Alpine hopped up beside her and gently nudged her with her head.
Now. Purr. So she relaxes.
Mischief blinked slowly, tail twitching. Then, shockingly, she purred. Loudly and deeply. You actually laughed, easing into the moment, and Bucky glanced up at you with that rare, boyish half-smile that made your chest ache.
You knew that had been Alpine's doing. And Mischief, traitor that she was, seemed fine with it.
The third clue? Bucky confessed it.
You were sitting together in the lounge late one night, watching the rain tap softly at the windows, each of you nursing mugs of tea. Mischief dozed between you on the couch. Alpine had curled beside her, touching, no less. A miracle in itself.
Bucky tilted his head toward the sleeping cats. “You know, Alpine's been… weird.”
“Weird how?”
He hesitated. “She… keeps pushing me toward you.”
Your heart did a very stupid, very hopeful thing. “She told you that?”
He gave you a sheepish look. “She doesn’t talk to me like she talks to you, of course. But she’ll nudge me when I move away too soon. Block seats unless I sit beside you. Once she knocked my phone out of my hand when I was trying to leave the room.”
You could feel your heart beat faster, but tried to cover up your nervousness with a laugh, joking a little. “She’s matchmaking.”
“I think Mischief’s in on it, too. Last night, she dragged your hoodie into my room.”
Your eyebrows shot up. So that’s where your hoodie went, of all places.
“And then Alpine slept on it like it was a peace offering.”
You looked down at the two curled balls of fur, now subtly pressed together. Mischief’s tail lay loosely draped over Alpine’s back.
“Is this what a truce looks like?” You whispered.
Bucky’s fingers brushed yours, and you didn’t pull away.
“Looks like,” He murmured.
You didn’t answer this time, but your fingers curled around Bucky’s gently as Alpine purred softly and Mischief, even in sleep, didn’t object.
That was enough of an answer until either of you could act on the same thing both of your hearts wanted.
Poll for Next Post
Feel free to suggest something else that isn’t listed here! Refer to my Main Masterlist if needed.
DIY Project
Summary: You and your competitive boyfriends attempt to build a bookshelf one day. You have to refrain from laughing as they keep trying to one-up each other. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)
Word Count: 800+
Main Masterlist
It started innocently enough, just a quick trip to the hardware store to pick up supplies for a simple project: a new bookshelf for your shared space. What you didn’t expect was for Steve and Bucky to turn this into something resembling a full-on competition once you all returned home.
“You sure you know how to use this?” Bucky smirked, eyeing the power drill Steve was holding. His arms were crossed, looking very much like someone who'd been working on DIY projects for decades, despite his years spent in ice rather than carpentry.
Steve just shot him a reassuring smile, looking impossibly calm with the tool in hand. “I’ve read the manual, Buck. It’s just like… using the shield, only smaller.”
“Yeah, but less likely to save your life when you mess up,” Bucky teased, clearly trying to get under Steve’s skin, but Steve was unphased.
You chuckled, setting down the lumber on the floor and carefully unrolling the instructions. “I think we all know who’s gonna win this one,” You said, looking at them both with a grin. “Just make sure the bookshelf doesn’t end up as a pile of firewood.”
“Oh, please,” Steve raised an eyebrow, stepping forward. “It’ll be perfect.”
Bucky scoffed, already picking up a hammer with one hand and measuring tape with the other. “I’ll just do it the old-fashioned way. Real men use hammers.”
You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. The two of them were like kids with toys, bickering over who was the more competent handyman. The tools were all scattered around, and they hadn’t even started properly, but the energy was high as both men tried to one-up each other.
After a few minutes of half-joking, half-serious banter, you were the one who had to step in, offering your assistance.
"Alright, alright, let’s just… let’s follow the instructions." You pulled the instructions closer and gave them both a look. "Bucky, you hold the boards steady, Steve, you drill. No more arguments, okay?"
For a moment, both men looked at you, and it was clear neither one was about to back down without their own little victory. But they both nodded, maybe out of sheer respect for your calm demeanor.
The project itself wasn’t complicated, but it became a comedy of errors. Every few minutes, Bucky would make a comment, something along the lines of “You’re doing it wrong,” only to have Steve correct him with a smile. Meanwhile, Bucky’s measurements were hilariously off, leading to the boards not quite lining up as they should.
You found yourself stepping in a lot, guiding them back on track and trying not to laugh too much at their competitive antics. Every time you made a suggestion, Bucky would give Steve a side-eye, pretending to begrudgingly take your advice, while Steve was acting like the calm, collected team leader he was.
But when it finally came to assembling the shelves, the moment of truth, you realized they were working in sync. Their chemistry, despite the teasing and arguing, made the job easier. The bookshelf, while a little crooked at a few spots, was still functional, and after all the joking and laughter, it was a perfect testament to the teamwork they didn't even realize they had.
When it was finally done, you stood back, admiring the result. “Not bad, guys,” You complimented with a playful grin. “I think it’s perfect.”
Steve wiped his hands on his jeans and gave you a proud smile. “Told you. I knew we could do it.”
Bucky, though, just leaned against the wall, crossing his arms with a look of mock indifference. “Yeah, yeah. But it was definitely my expertise that pulled it all together.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you gave them both a playful nudge. “I don’t know, I think I’m the one who made it all happen.”
Bucky and Steve exchanged a glance and a brief smirk before Steve stepped forward, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “You’re right. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
Bucky nodded, tapping you on the nose. “Guess you’re the real MVP.”
You laughed, feeling a warmth in your chest as the three of you stood back and admired your handiwork. Even though it was just a bookshelf, the day had turned into a reminder that the best moments were often the simplest and the most fun.
“Next time,” Bucky said, breaking the silence, “We’re building a chair. I’m picking the materials.”
Steve raised an eyebrow, smirking as he looked over. “You know what? I’ll be in charge of the instructions for that one.”
“Oh, no,” You groaned with mock horror. “Not again. Please.”
The sound of their laughter filled the room, and you couldn't help but think that, despite the chaos, today had been perfect.
What You Can’t Heal
Summary: You would think being a healer made you careful, more cautious of getting hurt. However, it made you the opposite, more willing to throw yourself head first into danger. And your mission partner does not like that one bit. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to heal. You and Bucky get hurt in this.
Word Count: 1.7k+
A/N: To be honest, I want to write another version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. But I thought it’d be fun to explore the recklessness that having healing powers can bring.
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
The compound gym was almost empty when you slipped in, quiet as breath. Just the sound of gloves striking a punching bag. Slow, rhythmic, and methodical. The kind of pace that didn’t burn energy but burned thoughts. You stopped just inside the doorway, watching the man in front of it all.
Bucky Barnes.
His black t-shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat, muscles rippling beneath ink and scars. His metal arm glinted in the low light, the sound of knuckles against canvas falling into a pattern like a heartbeat. You hadn’t known he’d be here. Or maybe you had. Subconsciously.
He didn't look at you. Not right away.
“You gonna stand there all day or join in?” He asked, voice low, still facing the bag.
You blinked, then stepped in. “Didn’t want to interrupt. You looked like you were winning the argument.”
“Wasn’t an argument,” He muttered, grabbing a towel and rubbing the sweat from the back of his neck. “Just… quiet.”
He finally turned, eyes landing on you. Not unkind, but guarded, always guarded. Like he expected you to flinch at something he hadn’t said yet.
“You’re not on the rotation today,” He pointed out.
You shrugged, tapping the inside of your wrist where a faint mark from yesterday’s spar still lingered. “Figured I could use the practice.”
He scoffed softly. “You mean more bruises to fix.”
You smirked. “Lucky for me, I’m the easiest medic to find.”
He didn’t smile, not really , but something in his jaw relaxed.
“…You’re too comfortable with pain,” He said after a moment, picking up a pair of training pads.
“You’re too afraid of it,” You countered, stepping onto the mat.
He paused. That sharp glance again, not angry and not insulted. Just watching. Assessing. Like you’d said something truer than he wanted to admit.
“Alright, healer,” He said, tossing you a pair of gloves. “Let’s see if you’re as tough as you act.”
You caught them easily, grinning.
You didn’t notice the faint flicker in his expression, the one that wasn’t annoyance or frustration. It was worry. Care, maybe. Hidden so deep, not even he knew where it lived anymore.
The training room echoed with the dull thud of fists against pads and the occasional grunt of effort. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a sterile glow over the gym's scarred walls. Bucky Barnes stood in the center of the mat, arms crossed, the faintest trace of a frown pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"You’re not supposed to let them hit you just to prove you can heal," He said, voice sharp but quiet, like thunder muffled by snow.
You shrugged, rolling your bruised shoulder. The bone was already snapping back into place beneath your skin, just a faint crunch and a soft hiss of pain. “I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not the point.” His eyes narrowed. “You don’t need to take every hit. Healing doesn’t make you invincible.”
You hated how his gaze pinned you. The ex-soldier still wore that half-haunted, half-suspicious expression like a second skin. But you knew he meant it. Not just the words. The worry behind them.
“You’re treating this like a game,” Bucky continued. “Out there, if you rely on your powers like a crutch, someone’s going to find a way to break you faster than you can fix yourself.”
“I don’t use it as a crutch,” You tried to keep your tone even. “It’s a tool. Just like your arm. Or your training.”
He stepped closer, close enough that the steel of his vibranium arm caught the overhead light. “Difference is, my arm doesn’t stop me from bleeding out if I get cocky.”
You looked away, jaw tight.
That was always the line, wasn’t it? The part they didn’t say out loud, the assumption that your powers made you reckless. Untouchable. Like pain didn’t matter to you.
But it did. You just didn’t show it.
“I’m not afraid of getting hurt,” You said finally, sighing in the process.
Bucky’s voice softened, but the weight in it didn’t lift. “Then maybe you should be.”
You met his eyes again. Blue-gray, storm-worn, and so damn tired. He looked at you the way someone looks at a puzzle they’ve tried to solve too many times. His frustration wasn’t just with you. It was with himself too, but you didn’t know that.
“…We’ll start again tomorrow,” He turned away now. “Don’t show up unless you’re ready to stop playing superhero.”
Then he left you standing on the mat. Your shoulder was fully healed, but your chest aching in a way no power could fix.
Two days later, the mission came.
A Hydra splinter cell operating out of an abandoned medical research facility on the outskirts of Munich. Stark had muttered something about leftover tech, too unstable to be ignored. You and Bucky were assigned to go in quiet, extract the data, and disable any weapons they were cooking up.
Bucky didn’t speak to you much on the quinjet. Just the usual mission prep. Tactical. Tense. You sat across from him, checking your gear in silence, biting down the bitter aftertaste of his last words.
”Don’t show up unless you’re ready to stop throwing yourself into danger.”
You showed up anyway.
The facility was dark, corridors lit only by flickering emergency lights. It smelled of antiseptic and rust, of blood dried long ago. Bucky moved ahead of you, every step measured, gun raised, breathing steady. You were right behind him, senses stretched taut. It wasn’t fear of getting hurt, not really. It was the quiet between you, heavier than the air, more suffocating than the mission itself.
Then came the ambush.
The first explosion sent you both to the floor. Ears ringing, you scrambled behind a lab table, catching a glimpse of Bucky. He was bleeding from a small gash near his temple, dazed but moving.
Three Hydra operatives advanced from the left.
Bucky cursed, firing off a few shots, but they kept coming. One tackled him, knocking the gun from his hands, the two others circling like wolves. You bolted forward without thinking, slamming into one with your shoulder and catching a knife through your side in return.
Pain flared. Warm blood soaked your shirt.
You welcomed it.
Bucky’s voice cracked through the haze as he shouted your name.
He was on his feet in an instant, grabbing the soldier by the throat and slamming him into the wall with a growl. The second Hydra agent went for you, but your powers were already at work. The tissue knitting, nerves sparking back into place, the blade sliding out of you with a slick noise.
You stood, bloody but calm, and delivered a solid punch that sent him sprawling.
By the time it was over, Bucky was breathing hard, hands shaking. Not from the fight, but from seeing you go down.
“Are you insane?” He shouted, storming toward you. “You ran into a knife! You could’ve-“
“I healed.”
“That’s not the damn point!”
His eyes burned. Your heart pounded. Not from adrenaline, but from the sharp edges in his voice, the way they cut deeper than any wound.
“You said I wasn’t ready,” You defended, quietly. “I proved I was.”
“No,” He said, stepping closer, voice dropping. “You proved you’re still willing to throw yourself away.”
You didn’t have a response to that.
He reached for you suddenly; gloved fingers brushing your side, feeling the warm blood that was already drying. His touch hovered, unsure.
“Stop doing that,” He spoke softer now. “Stop making me watch you get hurt just because you can.”
There it was. Raw, bare, unguarded. Not anger. Not frustration. Fear.
“I’m not afraid…” The rebuttal came out, barely above a whisper.
“I am.”
His voice barely made a sound, but it hit you like a punch to the ribs. Not the Winter Soldier voice, cold and precise. Not the soldier tone that was tactical, measured, and distant. No, this was Bucky. Just Bucky. Human. Frayed around the edges. Afraid.
Of losing you.
You stood frozen, not from pain, that was already gone, but because of the crack in his walls. The thing no one else ever got to see.
“You’re afraid for me,” You corrected, voice steadier than you expected.
He didn’t deny it.
Instead, Bucky dragged a hand down his face, leaving a smear of blood on his cheekbone, yours or his, you didn’t know. He looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the mission.
“Every time you go down, even for a second…” He exhaled hard, shaking his head. “I forget you’ll get back up. My body still reacts like I’m watching someone die. Like I’m helpless again.”
Your breath caught. He didn’t mean to say that last part. Helpless.
The word hung between you like smoke in a locked room. Bucky Barnes, who’d had his mind torn apart, his hands used for things he didn’t choose. Of course he feared helplessness. And now you understood why watching you get hurt, even if you healed, chipped away at whatever fragile peace he’d built. Your voice came next.
“I didn’t think it scared you like that.”
“I know,” He replied. “That’s the part that scares me more.”
You stepped closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, to see the small tremor in his metal hand. Close enough that the scent of his sweat and blood mixed with yours.
“I’m not trying to prove anything,” You explained yourself softly. “I just don’t know how else to help. I can’t punch like you. I can’t take down ten guys with one arm.”
“No,” He said firmly, meeting your gaze, “But you run toward pain like it’s your job to carry it.”
Silence filled the air once again. Then, gently, like he thought he might scare you; Bucky reached out, his hand brushing the side of your jaw, just enough pressure to ground you.
“I don’t want to watch someone I care about get used up trying to make up for everything they can’t fix.”
You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until those words.
Care about.
You leaned into his touch, just barely. Enough to let him know you weren’t running. Not from this. Not from him.
“I’m trying to learn,” You whispered. “Maybe… you could help me.”
Bucky’s thumb grazed your cheekbone, just once, before he let his hand fall. But something had shifted, something deeper than bone and scar tissue. His walls weren’t down, not completely, but they weren’t steel anymore. He nodded once.
“I’ll teach you how to fight smart,” He said, voice low. “And in exchange, you stop putting yourself in harm’s way every time.”
And just like that, the truce between you wasn't just tactical anymore.
It was personal.
Fort Kingdom
Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]
Summary: To cheer you up from a change of plans, you spend a rainy evening with your caregivers, Bucky and Steve, building the ultimate blanket fort. With cozy lights, stuffed animals, snacks, and more, the night becomes a warm, magical escape filled with laughter, cuddles, and comfort.
Word Count: 900+
Main Masterlist
It starts in the late afternoon, when the rain outside is soft and steady, tapping against the windows like a lullaby. The clouds hang low and gray, and everything feels quieter than usual. Your daddies had initially planned a picnic that day to go to one of your favorite playgrounds. You had been looking forward to it too for quite a few days. However, the weather, unexpectedly, seemed to have other plans.
Steve had been the first to notice the way your energy has shifted today, the way you’re curled up under your blanket with your thumb in your mouth and your favorite stuffie tucked against your chest. He kneels beside you with that gentle smile he saves just for moments like this.
He brushes a hand through your hair as he asks softly, “How about a fort tonight, sweetheart?”
You shot up so fast the blanket fell off your shoulders, your previous disappointment forgotten almost instantly. "YES! Fort! Fortfortfort!" You changed as your words tumbled out in excited little bounces as you scrambled to your feet, eyes already scanning the room for the best blanket candidates. “We can make the big kind, right? With the sparkly lights and the snack zone and the snuggle nest and the tiny reading corner?!”
Bucky looked up from his book, sitting in the chair nearby smirking. "Sounds like we’re going full deluxe mode tonight."
Steve gave you a wink. “Deluxe mode it is. Go pick your best fort-building blankets, tiny architect. We’ve got a kingdom to raise.”
You squealed and took off like a rocket down the hallway, only vaguely hearing Steve’s voice remind you not to run as you slow down just a bit. Trailing happy little noises and slippered feet as you gathered every soft, fluffy thing you could find. You came back with arms overflowing: the cloud blanket, the soft pink quilt, even that one fuzzy one that always smells like comfort and cocoa. You dragged them into the living room like a victorious knight returning from battle, disregarding how you had to make a second trip to get the giant Avengers throw.
Meanwhile, Bucky was already deconstructing the couch with practiced precision, lining up pillows like fortress walls and stacking cushions like throne seats. Steve brought over dining chairs and helped drape sheets from their tops, creating a tall, cave-like space that grew more magical with every layer.
“This is gonna be so cozy,” You chirped as you helped tuck a blanket corner beneath a lamp. “It's gonna be the best fort ever in the history of all forts ever!”
Steve laughed, hanging up the battery-powered fairy lights carefully. “That’s a pretty high bar, sweetheart.”
“It’ll be the Fort Kingdom,” You declared proudly. “With dragons. And snacks. And a stuffed animal army!”
Bucky grinned. “Sounds like my kind of kingdom.”
Once everything was perfect; the lights glowing like tiny stars, the blankets sagging just right to make the air feel secret and soft, you crawled inside with a huge smile on your face. “Come in! Come in!” You called, waving them in dramatically. “Welcome to my Fort Kingdom! You may enter the Royal Cuddle Fort!”
Bucky entered first, ducking his head and flopping onto the pillows with a content sigh. “Comfy rating: 12 out of 10.”
Steve followed soon after, now with a tray of snacks containing sliced apples, little crackers, mini marshmallows in a dish, and your favorite: a purple sippy cup full of warm cocoa. You gasped and clapped. “You brought the special cocoa!”
He handed it to you with a gentle smile. “Just for tonight, sweetheart. And look, extra marshmallows. Just for you.”
You grabbed it happily, already taking a sip as Steve found a spot to rest as well. Setting it back down on the tray, you now found a place curled up between them. Both your daddies warm on either side. Bucky tucked the blanket around your legs, and Steve offered one of your other favorite plushies, the floppy bunny with the stitched ear. You took it with a bright smile, snuggling it close as the rain tapped gently from the windows.
Steve picked up a picture book and began reading in a soft, warm voice, filling the space with quiet wonder. Bucky added his own sound effects at times; dramatic gasps, silly growls, tiny meows for the kitten characters. You giggled so hard you nearly spilled your cocoa.
Soon, though, the excitement melted into something softer. You felt yourself sinking down deeper into the warmth, into the safety. Your body relaxed, all your energy replaced by heavy eyes and a floaty feeling. You leaned against Steve’s side, letting your head rest on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat matching the rhythm of the rain.
Bucky brushed his fingers gently through your hair, slow and steady. “Getting sleepy, bug?”
You gave a tiny nod, eyes blinking slow. “Mhm… but wanna stay here forever…”
“Don’t worry,” Steve whispered, kissing the top of your head. “We’re not going anywhere.”
Bucky leaned in close too. “This fort’s got rules. Rule one: Littles stay warm. Rule two: Littles stay cuddled. Rule three…” He smiled. “…Littles always wake up knowing they’re loved.”
You hummed softly, the sound barely a breath, and clutched your bunny tighter as your eyes finally slid closed. Outside the fort, the world could be big and complicated and overwhelming. But inside, it was just the three of you, wrapped in soft light and even softer love.
You fell asleep between them, their arms holding you safe as the fairy lights twinkled above and the storm outside passed by unnoticed.
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She/Her | 18+ | Marvel WriterAsks/Requests are welcomed!
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