Awww, Thank You So Much! I’ve Always Loved Fairies Honestly, So It’s Nice To See So Many Other People
Awww, thank you so much! I’ve always loved fairies honestly, so it’s nice to see so many other people enjoying this idea as well. 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.
More Posts from Orellazalonia and Others
Infected by the Chaos
Summary: Overtime, your questionable tendencies and unpredictable phrases have rubbed off onto your boyfriend. The team reacts by trying their best to un-corrupt the supersoldier. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Word Count: 1.2k+
A/N: Thank you to @ozwriterchick for the idea. Enjoy and Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist
There was a debriefing. The usual boring, long, and necessary meeting. Everyone sat around the conference table looking various degrees of irritated.
You were leaning back in your chair, chewing gum, spinning a pen between your fingers, and mentally ranking everyone’s haircuts from “tragic” to “god-tier.” (Sam had climbed two spots today.)
Steve was talking, bless him, but honestly, your brain had already turned into a screensaver.
“-and next time, we need tighter communication. Nat, cover the north entrance. Sam, recon from above. And you two,” He gestured at you and Bucky. “Try not to burn the entire building down next time.”
You opened your mouth, probably to say something deeply unhelpful and not at all relevant but then it happened.
Bucky got there first.
Deadpan, casual, and not even glancing up from his notepad, he muttered:
“I don’t control the fire. The fire controls me.”
The room went silent.
Sam slowly turned his head. “What.”
Nat blinked. “I’m sorry- Did Barnes just say that?”
Steve dropped his tablet. You were staring at him like he’d just told you he was pregnant with a spider-dog hybrid.
Bucky glanced up with a shrug. “What? It’s true.”
“No, no, no, back up.” You stood, pointing at him. “That’s my level of chaos. You don’t get to say things like that with a straight face. That’s my thing.”
“Pretty sure I’ve earned chaos privileges by now,” He said in an even tone, biting into an apple.
Nat coughed. “What else have you been saying lately?”
You whirled on Bucky. “You didn’t even flinch. You said it like a man who has absolutely Googled whether rats can legally vote.”
Bucky smirked. “I have due to our last date. They can’t yet.”
Sam slid down in his chair. “Oh god, there’s two of them now.”
Tony, who had joined the meeting late with a coffee and zero patience, looked between you and Bucky. “I always knew one of you was a bad influence. I just didn’t expect it to be her.”
“I resent that,” You said.
“I expected more from you, Barnes,” Tony replied.
Steve looked like he was having a mild stroke. “I spent a decade dragging him out of assassin mode and you…you-“ He pointed at you with all the drama of a soap opera actor. “You corrupted him.”
You crossed your arms. “Excuse me, I elevated him. You think he’d even know what a possum rave is without me?”
“Wait,” Bucky said, serious again. “That’s real?”
“Unfortunately,” Sam muttered.
Bucky turned to you. “Do you think we could-“
“No,” Steve and Sam said in unison.
Later that night, you and Bucky were sitting on the roof, feet dangling over the ledge, and watching the stars while splitting a packet of strawberry Pop-Tarts.
You nudged him with your shoulder. “You really said it, huh?”
He smirked. “It just came out.”
“And the fire controls you?”
He looked at you with something soft and proud in his eyes. “Maybe I’ve just been spending too much time with my favorite disaster.”
You grinned and leaned into his side. “Next step: getting you to name a pigeon.”
“Already done. His name’s Charles. He watched us fight three agents yesterday.”
You gasped. “You’re perfect.”
“I know,” Bucky said. “You trained me well.”
-
As time passed, Bucky was the problem now.
At first, the team found it endearing. The grumpy super soldier smiling at dumb jokes, randomly throwing out facts about duck mating rituals, or muttering “vibe check failed” after knocking someone out. In some strange way, it was charming. Odd, but charming.
But then he named a second pigeon. And that was the last straw.
“We need to intervene,” Natasha said, deadly serious with her arms folded as she stood at the head of the war room table.
“Why?” Bucky asked, mid-bite of a toaster strudel. “Charles Junior likes me.”
“Exactly,” Tony said, pointing dramatically. “The fact that you’re calling it Charles Junior is the problem.”
“I don’t see the issue,” You said from your seat next to Bucky, proudly wearing your ‘#1 Chaos Hero’ necklace again. “It’s genetic. Charles Prime had strong leader energy.”
Steve looked between you both like he was watching two people fall off a moral cliff in slow motion. “You used to be a soldier.”
“He is a soldier,” You said. “He just also knows five ways to make banana bread ”
Bucky nodded solemnly. “Just don’t over-mix the batter.”
Tony facepalmed. “Nope. This is a brain rot virus, and you’re patient zero.”
You smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”
“I wasn’t complimenting you.”
“Still taking it that way.”
Natasha, still painfully calm, pulled out a folder labeled “OPERATION: WINTER DETOX.”
“Oh no,” Bucky muttered.
“Yes,” She said. “We're deprogramming the chaos out of you. We're doing it for the safety of the building, and also the pigeons.”
-
During phase one, you were banned from interacting with Bucky for 48 hours. No comms. No breakfast together. No late-night feral cuddling where you told him shark facts until he passed out.
You broke the rule in 6 minutes.
Literally. You broke into the vent system and dropped into his room from the ceiling like some kind of gremlin god.
“Did you know octopuses have nine brains?”
Bucky looked up from his book, deadpan. “I do now.”
When Sam burst in to yell at you, he found Bucky trying to braid your hair while you explained the 36 reasons flamingos are both cursed and divine.
Sam left with his soul cracked in half.
Phase two didn’t end much better either. They tried re-soldiering him. Military documentaries. Physical training drills. A six-hour silent stare-off with Steve.
You showed up with a whiteboard that said “Today’s Mission: Turn Bucky Into a Lizard.”
Steve had to lock you out of the room and block your contact from Bucky’s phone for two hours.
By phase three, the team tried pairing Bucky with other Avengers. Nat. Rhodey. Bruce.
Each one ended up slightly more unhinged than when they started.
Bruce now exclusively drinks out of a cup shaped like a frog. Nat started saying “mood” unironically. Rhodey got a ferret and named it “Mini War Machine.”
“Do you see what you’ve done?” Steve begged one night as you and Bucky made soup in the communal kitchen while retelling an episode of River Monsters using only metaphors and curse words.
“I made the team fun,” You said, stabbing a ladle toward him.
Bucky beamed. “They laugh more now. And I haven’t threatened to murder anyone in two weeks.”
Tony nodded slowly. “He’s not wrong. Still terrifying, but now it’s… unpredictable terrifying.”
The breaking point came the next morning. Bucky walked into the briefing room wearing a shirt that said: “Emotionally Stable is a Strong Word”
You wore one that said: “I Know the Assignment. I Am Choosing to Ignore It.”
Steve stood then walked out muttering something about moving to Wakanda.
The team officially gave up trying to fix Bucky Barnes.
-
Later that night, Bucky was lying beside you, watching the stars again as the city hummed below.
“They really think I’m broken now,” He said.
You shrugged, twirling a glow stick between your fingers. “They just don’t know how to handle dual-wielding emotional repression and chaotic brilliance.”
He turned to you, smiling. “You really think it’s brilliance?”
You kissed his cheek. “Obviously. I don’t waste my time on mediocrity. Now help me build a pigeon obstacle course on the balcony.”
He nodded. “It’s what Charles Prime would’ve wanted.”
Chaotic Cat Curse
Summary: You were accidentally cursed and turned into a cat, causing all kinds of fun chaos for Bucky: destroying things, attacking his shoelaces, and generally making his life impossible. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Word Count: 1.4k+
A/N: Will be writing another fic with reader having the power to shapeshift into animals, but for now; I’m testing the waters with cat and chaos. Happy reading!!!
Main Masterlist | Sequel
You didn’t mean to touch the glowing, ominous-looking artifact in Strange’s Sanctum. Really, you were just trying to dust it off and maybe get a better look. It was dusty! And pulsing with weird red light! How were you supposed to know it was cursed?
The moment your fingers grazed it, there was a loud pop, a blinding flash, and then… paws. Fur. Whiskers. And an overwhelming urge to knock things off shelves.
Bucky was not impressed when he found you ten minutes later, sitting smugly atop a bookcase, licking your paw and knocking down an ancient scroll with a flick of your tail.
"You’ve got to be kidding me," He muttered, staring at your tiny, floofy form. You blinked slowly at him, then meowed very dramatically. It didn’t help that Wong started laughing the second he walked in. "They touched the Soul of Bastet? Oh, that’s rich."
Strange said the spell would wear off in a few days. Until then, you were stuck as a cat. A small, fluffy, highly expressive cat who unfortunately still had all your chaotic human instincts. Just… furrier.
Two days into your feline vacation, Bucky had to bring you along to Sam’s apartment while waiting for Strange to “align the right moon phase” or whatever nonsense he was mumbling about. You were restless, bored, and determined to explore every inch of Sam’s place. Which led you to the kitchen.
And the catnip.
To be fair, Sam did foster animals sometimes. So technically, the bag of catnip wasn’t for you. But Bucky had looked away for two seconds, and you were already rolling on the floor. Eyes wide, pupils dilated, and tail puffed up. The sounds you made could only be described as a mix between a war cry and screech.
Bucky walked into the kitchen to find you mid-roll, rabbit-kicking the air like a tiny lunatic. “What the hell?” He muttered, only to freeze as you bolted toward him and latched onto his boot like it owed you money.
“Seriously?” He tried to shake you off gently. “You’re high off your tiny furry face.”
You yowled in mock betrayal, then darted under the couch only to return five seconds later to attack his laces with renewed fury. Bucky was trying to have a perfectly normal conversation with Steve over speakerphone while you turned his shoelaces into your mortal enemy.
“I swear, this is just temporary,” He said, ignoring your furious little growls as you pounced on his foot. “Strange said they’ll be back to normal soon.”
“Are you being mauled?” Steve asked, deadpan.
“No. It’s fine.”
You flipped onto your back at that exact moment, paws curled and pupils blown wide. You stared at Bucky upside down like a possessed Furby.
“…Okay maybe a little.”
Eventually, you flopped in the middle of the floor, panting softly and staring at the ceiling like it just insulted your mother. Bucky sighed, grabbing a blanket and gently wrapping you like a tiny burrito.
“You better appreciate this when you’re human again,” He carried your limp, purring body to the couch. You immediately drooled on his shirt and let out a happy little meow.
Bucky looked down at you with the flattest expression imaginable. “Never telling Sam about this.”
By day three, Bucky had accepted begrudgingly that life with you as a cat meant no peace. He couldn't eat, sleep, or walk around barefoot without risking a stealth attack from a small feline assassin with a personal vendetta.
This morning, he woke up to find you perched on his chest like a judgmental gargoyle. Your face was three inches from his, your tail flicking with menace.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” He asked groggily.
You didn’t blink. Instead, you yawned. A very slow, dramatic, fang-filled yawn, then delicately slapped him across the nose with your paw.
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Then you jumped off the bed like nothing happened, leaving him to question every decision he’d made.
Later that day, you discovered a mirror. Not a small mirror. A full-length one leaning against the wall. And you were not okay with the strange, fluffy imposter staring back at you. You puffed up like a Halloween decoration, back arched, tail three times its normal size. You hissed, swatted the glass, then bolted out of the room like it owed you money.
From the kitchen, Bucky heard the thump, the screech, and then the sound of something shattering.
He found you on top of the fridge, tail flicking furiously, glaring at the now-cracked mirror like it insulted your ancestors.
“Did… did you fight yourself?”
You blinked at him with absolutely zero shame.
“Right. Of course.”
Another time, you had discovered it completely by accident. Bucky had taken off his vibranium arm to clean the joint, and you’d been fascinated. It gleamed, it was shiny, it made noise.
So obviously, it had to be your new toy.
The moment he left the room, you pounced.
He returned to find you curled around it, swatting at the fingers occasionally. When he tried to take it back, you hissed like a tiny demon and chomped down on the thumb with impressive commitment for a creature with no actual fangs.
“I can’t believe I’m being held hostage by my own arm,” Bucky muttered.
You growled in reply and flopped dramatically over it, like a dragon hoarding treasure.
That evening, Steve even brought over a laser pointer as a joke. Bucky thought it was stupid. You thought it was the greatest thing ever created by humankind.
The first time the red dot skittered across the floor, you chased it like your life depended on it. You bounced off furniture. You slid across the floor. At one point, you ran headfirst into Bucky’s shin so hard he dropped his coffee.
You immediately launched into a somersault, landed on your feet, and meowed at the laser dot like it had insulted your honor.
Steve was in tears. Bucky was unamused.
“Stop encouraging them,” He grumbled as you launched into another full-speed chase across the living room, knocking over a lamp.
“They’re going to break everything.”
Steve was still laughing, holding the laser pointer “Worth it.”
-
You’d been a cat for what felt like forever, and while the novelty was fun (mostly for you), you were more than ready to be yourself again. Bucky had been surprisingly patient even though he was tempted to cage you in an upside down laundry basket a few times and tape it to the ground.
Today, you were curled up in Bucky’s lap, purring softly as he absently ran his fingers through your fur. For a cat, you’d definitely picked the best spot in the whole compound: warm, safe, and right where you could hear his steady breathing.
Bucky was surprisingly calm, almost… fond of having you like this, despite the chaos you'd caused. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” He muttered, his voice low and rough.
You blinked up at him, half-asleep, when suddenly a strange warmth spread through your body. It started at your paws and traveled fast, like someone was flipping a switch from fuzzy to flesh. Your fur melted away, your legs stretched, and your claws shrank into fingers. Before either of you could blink, you were sitting there fully human again, only much bigger, and very, very confused.
Bucky froze. His eyes went wide, mouth hanging open like he’d just seen a ghost. “You’re-“ He started, then cut himself off, because honestly? No words could describe the moment.
You looked down at yourself, touched your face, then looked back up at Bucky with wide eyes. “I’m… me again?” You whispered.
He reached out carefully, almost afraid you’d disappear again. “Yeah. You’re you. Took you long enough.”
You stretched, flexing your fingers like you hadn’t used them in ages. “Yeah, being a cat is fun and all, but I kinda missed this.”
Bucky chuckled and shook his head. “Glad to have my partner back. Though I have to admit, I’m gonna miss the little fur ball who kept me on my toes.”
You grinned. “Don’t get used to it. No more letting me near cursed objects, okay?”
He nudged you gently. “Deal. But next time you turn into a cat, at least warn me so I can get some popcorn.”
You laughed, and for the first time in days, the apartment felt exactly like home again.
Hey, guys! Wanted to say thank you for 1,000 likes, almost to 1.1k actually. I appreciate all the love, interest, followers, and engagement from you all the past few days!! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂)⸝♡
I would love to partake in a writing challenge someday when my blog grows a bit more. As a reminder, my requests/asks are open if y’all would like to see a specific prompt come to life! Would also love to get to know you guys more. Happy reading!
They couldn’t even bother with something more refined 😔 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.
Love Letters in the Smoke
Summary: During his rehabilitation, Bucky writes anonymous letters to process his thoughts. One night, he drops one at your circus campfire by mistake. You write back as a pen-pal romance begins. (Bucky Barnes x aerialist!reader)
Word Count: 1.6k+
A/N: I wanted to write something circus themed and thought this was a cute story. I hope the indents for the letters doesn’t look weird. Regardless, Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
The circus smelled of smoke, greasepaint, and a hint of nostalgia. The kind of place that looked like it had time-traveled from another century. Its canvas tents patched with care, and string lights casting soft golden halos in the dusk. You called it home.
Every night, after the crowd dispersed and the last child had been tugged away from the caramel stands, you’d sit by the communal fire pit with a notebook and your own thoughts. The crackle of flames soothed your nerves after a long evening performing. Tonight was no different until you found the letter.
Folded neatly in half, it was tucked beneath a rock near the fire. No name. No address. Just worn, thick paper, like it had been clutched tightly before being left behind. The handwriting was rigid, practiced, like someone who didn’t write often.
"I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe to make sense of the noise. I’m not used to silence. When I have it, the ghosts scream louder. I think I was someone good once, but I don’t know if that matters anymore. So I keep walking, city to city, place to place, hoping I can outrun myself."
Your fingers tightened around the paper, heart stirring with something strange. You didn’t know the writer, but you knew the feeling. So you wrote back.
Your first response was clumsy. You weren’t used to being vulnerable. But you scribbled on the back of a circus flyer:
“Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder if the reflection is mine or someone else’s memory. If you were good once, maybe that piece is still inside you. If it hurts, it means it mattered.”
You left your letter the same way by the fire, under the same rock. You didn’t expect anything to come of it. But the next night, there was another one waiting.
"Didn’t expect a reply. It’s strange. Your words feel like a calm I haven’t earned. But thank you. I needed them more than I thought."
The letters became a ritual.
While the rest of the troupe celebrated, drank, or collapsed into their trailers, you and your ghost wrote to each other. You told him about your performances, your nerves before every show, how the roar of the crowd always seemed distant. He told you about dreams he didn’t understand, faces he couldn't name but could never forget.
"Sometimes I see their eyes. Just eyes. Hundreds of them. People I’ve hurt. People I lost. I wish I could believe I was still worth saving."
Your response was always gentle, honest.
“Pain doesn’t cancel out worth. I don’t know what you’ve done. But if you’re trying now, if you’re writing to a stranger in the dark just to stay afloat… then yes. You’re worth it."
He never signed his letters. You didn’t, either. But a bond was forming. Raw and quiet. The kind of intimacy that only comes when truth is stripped bare, and nothing is expected in return.
A week later, a new stranger joined the circus.
He didn’t give much away, just said his name was James, and he was helping fix up the rigging for the aerial performers. He was tall with broad shoulders. Dark hair pulled into a low bun. Quiet, watchful, like a man used to danger. You noticed the glove on his hands, the way he flinched when touched, and the haunted glint in his eyes.
He didn’t say much, but when he watched you during your act, a graceful ribbon aerialist twisting in midair, there was something almost reverent in his gaze.
He started lingering by the fire after hours, sitting a few feet away. You’d nod. He’d nod back. Neither of you spoke much. But his presence was… comforting.
The letters continued.
"There’s a performer here. I don’t know her name yet. She climbs like she wants to touch the stars. When she’s up there, it’s like she’s weightless. Untouchable. I think she feels more at home in the air than on the ground. I envy that."
You read that one twice, your stomach fluttering. Could it be?
You looked at James differently after that. You caught him watching you once, a rare smile twitching at his mouth before he quickly looked away. He never asked personal questions, but he always listened when you spoke. Even the small things. What you had for dinner. What color ribbon you liked the best.
And still, each night, the letters came.
Until the day it stopped.
You came to the fire, letter in hand, heart pounding. You had written it that afternoon, deciding finally to sign it with your real name.
But there was no letter waiting. Not that night. Not the next.
And James was gone.
You asked around only to find out that he had packed up quietly, said goodbye to no one, and left like a ghost.
-
Weeks passed. The circus moved on, as it always did.
You still checked the firepit sometimes. Just in case. A hope inside your heart that would be chipped away each time you found no letter.
Then, one night, as the stars blanketed the sky and your arms ached from rehearsal, you found it. A single letter. Folded tight.
Your name was on the front.
"I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. I was afraid. You knew me before you knew who I was. And that scared me more than anything. I’ve done things, things I can’t ask forgiveness for. But when I read your words, I believed for a moment that maybe I wasn’t just a weapon. That maybe I could be more. You called me worth saving. No one ever said that to the Winter Soldier. But you said it to James."
Your hands trembled as you read the last part.
"I want to see you again. If you'll let me. There’s a train station just outside the next town. I’ll be waiting. – Bucky"
You folded the letter to your chest and smiled through your tears.
Finally, a name.
And maybe, just maybe, a beginning.
The next town was a blur of winding back roads and wind-chilled mornings. The circus was set up at the edge of a sun-dried field, the ground cracked from lack of rain. But you barely noticed any of it. Your mind was somewhere else, back at the firepit, at the letter pressed to your chest, at the name that made everything real.
Bucky.
It suited him somehow. Solid and sincere. A little old-fashioned like the man himself.
You folded the letter so carefully that it felt like folding a prayer. You didn’t show it to anyone. Some part of you was still terrified it might vanish if you spoke it aloud. But you couldn’t ignore it.
He said he’d be at the train station. So you went.
You left after rehearsal dressed in simple clothes, your hair braided back, and palms sweating in your coat pockets. The station was small and mostly empty. Just one old bench, a vending machine that wheezed when it tried to light up, and a single streetlamp buzzing like a nervous heart.
He was there.
Bucky stood near the tracks, hands in his pockets, back tense like he wasn’t sure he should stay. A battered duffel sat by his boots. His eyes were distant, tracking the horizon. Like he was still prepared to run.
You almost called out to him, but he turned first. When your eyes met, it hit you like a second heartbeat.
You'd read this man’s pain. Held his words in your hands like they were fragile glass. You had whispered encouragement to him under stars he couldn’t see. And now he was here. Real. Vulnerable. Waiting.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” He said, voice rough with nerves.
“I wasn’t sure you would wait,” You answered, stepping closer.
He let out a low quiet laugh, more exhale than sound. “I almost didn’t.”
“I’m glad you did.”
There was a long pause, but it wasn’t awkward. It was full. Thick with every letter, every word, every emotion neither of you had dared speak aloud.
“I’m sorry for disappearing,” Bucky began as his gaze dropped. “I… panicked. Thought it was safer if I left before I messed it up. But the truth is… I missed you.”
Your throat tightened. “You didn’t mess anything up. I… I missed you too. Every night I checked that fire.”
He stepped closer, the soft scrape of gravel under his boots. “I didn’t know how to do this. I still don’t.”
“Me neither,” You whispered. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest.
His gloved hand lifted, like he wanted to reach for you but was waiting for permission. So you met him halfway, pressing your hand gently to his chest. Through his shirt, you could feel the heavy rhythm of his heart, strong and steady, like it had finally found a beat worth chasing.
“I wasn’t falling for a stranger,” You said softly. “I was falling for the man in the letters. For the one who writes like he’s fighting for every word. That was you. It was always you.”
Bucky closed his eyes. Then, slowly, carefully, he leaned his forehead against yours.
And in that moment, there were no ghosts. No stages. No performances. Just the hush of the night air, the scent of iron and oil and smoke, and two people who had found each other in the most unexpected of ways.
“I want to try,” He murmured. “With you. If you’ll have me.”
You smiled. “Only if you write to me sometimes, even if we’re just a tent away.”
He chuckled, and it was the most alive you’d ever heard him. “Deal.”
Obsessive Love
Summary: You and Bucky Barnes fall into a quiet but intense obsession with each other. While your love is sweet, watchful, and clingy beneath a gentle surface, Bucky’s affection turns darker and more possessive. The love you two share was not born out of malice, rather need, devotion, and a love that tightens like a noose. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x Yandere!reader)
Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes. Dark reader. Yandere themes. Implied stalking/watching immensely.
Word Count: 1.9k+
A/N: This was so fun to write. It has a second part to it too. I might post it tomorrow. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.
Main Masterlist | Devoted Possession (Part 2.)
It was never supposed to happen like this.
You never expected to be in the situation you were in now; curled in the arms of Bucky Barnes, eyes barely open as you lay against him. The warmth of his body acts as a shield from the world. At first, you were just part of the team because it was just a job. Just a mission, something you’d done countless times before, working alongside the Avengers to take down the bad guys. But then came Bucky.
It didn’t happen all at once. It was subtle, like the slow spread of a virus, but by the time you realized what had changed, it was already too late.
The beginning was almost innocent. Almost.
When you first met Bucky Barnes, you had no idea that he would become the center of your world. At first, he was just another soldier, another teammate. A broken man struggling to piece himself back together. But there was something about him that intrigued you, something hidden behind the dark intensity of his gaze that drew you in like a magnet.
You didn’t mean to get so close. You honestly didn’t mean for it to happen. But it did.
Because Bucky was different. He wasn’t like the others. His scars, both physical and mental, made him stand out in a way you couldn’t ignore. He didn’t pretend to be perfect. And you didn’t want him to be. The cracks in him made him… real. He wasn’t like the men from your past who had lied, manipulated, and betrayed. He wore his flaws like armor. And, for you, that was everything.
You started off by offering quiet companionship. A kind word here, a soft smile there. You knew that Bucky wasn’t someone who trusted easily. He had been through too much. So, you didn’t force it. You just… waited. Watched him from afar, letting your presence be a steady, comforting thing in the chaos that surrounded him.
It didn’t take long before Bucky began to notice you. It wasn’t obvious though at first. He would give you a nod here and there, maybe a short, clipped sentence when the mission was over. But it was enough. It was enough to make your heart race every time he glanced in your direction, to make you feel like he saw you. Really saw you.
And then, one day, it happened.
You were on a mission together, as usual, when the two of you got separated from the rest of the team. It was a small thing, just a few minutes of being alone in a quiet corner of a dark building, but it was enough for something to shift. Bucky looked at you in a way he hadn’t before. No longer as a teammate, not as someone to protect or be protected by, but as something else entirely. Something you couldn’t quite place but felt deep in your bones.
It was there, in the silence, that you took your first step.
You smiled at him. “Are you okay, Bucky?”
He blinked, but then something softened in his eyes. He looked away briefly, like he was trying to hide his vulnerability. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
But you knew better. You could always tell when someone wasn’t being honest, and Bucky… Bucky was never truly fine. You could see the cracks in his composure. It made you want to protect him. To shield him from whatever haunted him, even if that meant making sure no one else could ever touch him.
It wasn’t malice. It wasn’t some dark desire to hurt others. But it was a need. A need to care for him. To love him in a way that no one else could. To make sure he was only ever yours.
The thought was almost comforting, becoming something you would rely on and remind yourself of often. The world was big, but when you were with Bucky, it felt so small. Just the two of you. No one else mattered.
Your affection grew slowly, like a seed planted in the quiet moments. You would find yourself lingering near him, watching him without his knowledge, memorizing the way his jaw tightened when he was thinking too hard, the way he would instinctively hold things with his normal arm instead of his metal arm and you, being ever so observant, saw the way he flinched when someone made a joke about the metal appendage. You wanted to shield him from those moments. You wanted to be the one he turned to, the one he could rely on, even if you two just sat in silence.
But that was the thing, wasn’t it? You didn’t need to be loud about your affection. You didn’t need to be overt. You were like a shadow, always there, always watching. Just enough to make sure he never strayed too far from you. To ensure that no one else could have him, not when you were so willing to give him everything. Your love was sweet, soft even. But beneath it was something darker, something that always kept a careful eye on the world around you. You’d smile at others, be polite, make them feel comfortable. But you were always watching. Always waiting.
But you weren’t the only one watching. Bucky noticed you, just as keenly. He wasn’t blind to the way you lingered around him, the way your eyes followed his every move, the way you seemed to keep track of his moods as if you could anticipate them before they even formed.
But it didn’t scare him. No, it intrigued him. Because, as much as Bucky was a soldier with a dark past, he craved that connection. He craved someone who saw him, who understood him without him needing to explain.
Bucky’s obsession was different. It wasn’t that he was unaware of his feelings, but they were more visceral. More possessive. The way he looked at you when someone spoke to you for too long, the way his hand would always drift to your back when others tried to get too close. He was marking his territory. He didn’t just want you. He needed you.
And when he needed something, it wasn’t just for a moment. It was forever.
Therefore, one day when it was late in the night with a mission recently finished and the team dispersed to their own things, you weren’t ready to go back to your room. Not yet.
The hallway was empty, lit only by the dim flickering of old lights above. You hadn’t even noticed Bucky following you, your footsteps echoing softly on the cold concrete floor. It was a rare sight to see someone as observant as you being lost in thought. Your mind was still running through everything: the mission, the battle, the faces of the enemies you’d taken down. It was all so mechanical, so numb.
But then, you finally noticed it. The sound of boots on the floor, slow but deliberate, the familiar thump-thump-thump that you’d come to associate with him.
You didn’t have to turn to know it was him.
“Are you okay?” Bucky’s voice was low, soft, but the underlying tension was palpable. As always, he’d been the one to watch you, the one who noticed when you slipped into yourself, when you started retreating into that space where everything felt too overwhelming.
You didn't respond at first. Your chest tightened and your thoughts were spinning. You desperately wanted to reply, use this moment to talk to him. But you couldn’t, not now. Instead, you kept walking, your shoes tapping against the floor in a steady rhythm. You didn’t want to face him. Didn’t want to let him see the cracks forming inside of you. But you knew he wouldn’t let you get away that easily. He never did.
He caught up with you, walking just behind you now, close enough that you were sure he’d run into you if you stopped. The air between you thickened with each step. Then, without warning, his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.
The sudden contact startled you. You whipped around, meeting his gaze to see those piercing blue eyes, full of questions, full of something more.
Bucky didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watching you, his grip on your wrist not letting go, as though he was afraid you might slip away if he loosened it. And maybe he was right.
“You’re not okay,” He said finally, his voice quiet but intense. “I can see it. You’re not okay, and you keep pretending you are.”
You swallowed, your throat tight. You didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know how to let him in. So you looked away, your eyes drifting toward the floor.
But he didn’t let you turn from him. Instead, his other hand found its way to your cheek, lifting your face up to meet his. His touch was soft, tentative, like he was testing the waters, unsure if you’d pull away.
But you didn’t.
It was that moment. That moment where everything changed.
There was a flicker of something in his gaze: something raw, something darker than you’d ever seen. It made your heart race and made your breath catch in your throat. You could feel the heat of his body close to yours, the scent of him, the sound of his heartbeat matching your own. And in that space, it was like time slowed down. Everything faded away, and there was only him. Only Bucky.
And before you could even register what was happening, he closed the distance between you.
His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, like he was waiting for you to pull away. But you didn’t. You leaned into him instead, your hands finding his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you kissed him back.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, frantic. As if you both needed it. Needed the connection and the reassurance that you weren’t alone in this twisted, broken world. His lips pressed harder against yours, and your grip on him tightened, pulling him closer, deeper, until you could feel the thudding of his heart against your chest.
You both stopped thinking. There was no time for reason, no room for hesitation. There was just the moment. The kiss.
When you finally pulled away, your breath was shallow, your face flushed, and your heart raced as though you’d been running for miles. Bucky’s forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed, and he was breathing just as heavily as you were. His hand cupped your face, gently this time, like he was afraid you might shatter in his hands.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Bucky murmured, his voice rough, as though it hurt to hold back for so long.
You blinked, your pulse still racing. “Me too,” You whispered, your voice barely audible, but it was enough.
In that moment, everything made sense. All the confusion, the loneliness, the emptiness you’d both been carrying for so long, it was gone. In its place was something else. Something new. Something unspoken. And you realized then, with chilling clarity, that there was no going back.
You didn’t care about the Avengers anymore. You didn’t care about the missions, the enemies, nor the people you were supposed to protect. The only thing that mattered was Bucky. And now, him and you were tangled so deeply that there was no way out. No way back to who you used to be.
And that’s how it happened. Slowly. Quietly. You became his obsession and he became yours.
Glad to hear it! (Lol) I love writing angst. Thank you for reading!!! ♡
Even If You Forget
Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Bucky loses all memory of his relationship with you. Though heartbroken, you patiently stay by his side, offering gentle support and quiet company. Despite the emotional distance, you hold onto the hope that someday he’ll find his way back. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Word Count: 2.1k+
A/N: This has ANGST by the way. I absolutely adore anything to do with memories, so much potential. I might write another version of this where the reader loses her memories instead. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | His Version
The mornings with Bucky were always slow, quiet, and warm.
His arm was usually draped over your waist by the time the sun started to creep through the blinds. He breathed a little heavier in the mornings, caught between dreams and the weight of his history. However, he never seemed to stir until you moved.
You liked it that way. It gave you time to look at him, at the faint worry lines that softened in sleep, at the longer strands of brown hair you liked to brush behind his ear, at the mouth that rarely smiled in public but had no trouble curving up for you when the world was far away.
You loved him deeply. In the way people loved after surviving something. There were scars on both of you and silences that stretched longer than they should’ve, but you understood him, and he had never once looked at you like he regretted being understood.
Your relationship had started quietly, like most things with Bucky did. It wasn’t love at first sight. It wasn’t loud declarations or stolen kisses in the rain. It was simpler. He’d sit near you during debriefings and glance over to make sure you understood the mission. He’d knock on your door late at night when he couldn’t sleep and leave a book outside if you didn’t answer. He remembered how you liked your coffee and never asked why you kept a light on when you slept.
Eventually, he started sitting a little closer. Touching your hand a little longer. Smiling a little easier. It wasn’t fast, but it was safe and real. You both needed that.
Sixteen months into the relationship, you'd moved in together into a tiny apartment, tucked above an old bookstore with creaky floors and a heater that only worked when Bucky kicked it. You painted the walls together. He helped pick out the furniture. You made him tea when his nightmares left him shaking, and he kissed your forehead when your hands trembled after bad missions.
He was never one to say I love you right away and especially not out loud. But he showed it, every single day.
And when he finally did say it, it was late at night, in the middle of an argument about laundry or groceries or something equally domestic and ridiculous when you both froze. He looked horrified that it slipped out. You looked stunned for barely a second before smiling and leaning closer to him, saying it back like it was the easiest thing in the world.
You thought nothing could take that from you.
But you were wrong.
You and Bucky had been paired up for another mission like normal to infiltrate an abandoned Hydra facility. Retrieve what remained of their stolen technology and data, destroy the rest. Bucky didn’t want you going in at first, but you reminded him that you were a trained operative, not a civilian. Besides, you worked better together anyways.
You were halfway through the facility when the alarms went off. Not an intruder alert but something else. Something that triggered deeper in the system. You split up briefly to cover more ground, and that was the last time Bucky looked at you like he knew who you were.
When you found him again twenty minutes later, he was hunched over and clutching his head near a strange, flickering device. When he raised his head, all you could see was cold, calculating eyes staring back.
Like a stranger.
And when you called his name, your voice shaking, and your hands reaching out to steady him; he backed away like you were poison.
“Who the hell are you?”
You froze in your spot. His voice wasn’t like Bucky’s. It was lower, flatter. Measured. It lacked the hesitant warmth that usually colored his words when he spoke to you. It was the voice of someone evaluating a threat.
Your hand, half-raised, trembled in the air between you.
“Bucky,” You whispered, like maybe the sound of it would crack something open. “It’s me.”
He stood slowly, the whir of his metal arm slicing through the silence. His eyes didn’t flicker with recognition. No softness. No guilt. Just analysis and caution.
You’d seen that expression before. Once. Years ago, when the Winter Soldier was still a ghost wandering about without a strip of autonomy. You definitely didn’t see this expression on the man who crawled into your bed at night and tucked a blanket around your shoulders.
But, here he was. You could feel how painfully your heart pounded in your chest.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” He said, almost to himself. He looked around, scanning the shadows like he expected enemies to crawl out of the dark. His hand hovered near the side holster at his thigh. “Who sent you?”
“No one sent me,” You said, stepping forward. “You’re-… Bucky, you’re not well. That machine, something happened. Let me help-“
“Stop,” He snapped. Your name was unfamiliar to him now. It didn’t make him pause. It didn’t register. “You’re not cleared to speak to me. I don’t know you.”
The words landed with brutal precision. You stepped back like you’d been struck. Because in a way, you had. He didn’t remember you.
The realization settled over you slowly, like frost creeping across glass. You felt your lungs tighten, your throat close. You could still see the outline of the relationship you'd built, months of laughter and late nights and slow healing, but he stood on the other side of it now, locked out.
You reached for your comm, fingers clumsy and stiff with dread as you called for backup and reported the situation.
When the team arrived, faster than you had expected, they didn’t ask many questions. You let them take over while you stood to the side, arms wrapped tightly around your chest, eyes fixed on the man who no longer knew your name.
Steve had been brought with the other agents. Miraculously, Bucky still remembered him and trusted his words to lead him to safety. He had followed Steve back to the Quinjet without hesitation. There was a time when he would have trusted you without a second thought too, but now you were just another stranger.
You sat in the back of the jet, silent and numb, your eyes never leaving his tense form. One hand was curled loosely near his chest. You remembered how he used to hold your hand that way when he slept. Like he needed to know you were real.
Now he didn’t know you at all.
Back at HQ, medical scans confirmed your worst fear. The machine had been some kind of neural disruptor, a crude prototype designed to extract and overwrite memory. Hydra tech, of course. The data was incomplete, scrambled, but the damage wasn’t.
He remembered Steve. Missions. Pieces of his past. It didn’t bring back the Winter Soldier thanks to his time in Wakanda. However, anything recent or anything soft, was gone.
You. Erased just like that.
You spent three days outside the glass of the room he stayed in, watching him rebuild his reality in pieces. He spoke little. Ate less. The team tried reintroducing him to other faces, but he flinched away from most of them. He was polite, distant, cautious. Like a soldier unsure of his orders.
Every time you entered the room, his eyes would land on you and linger. But they never softened. He never said your name, not even once.
And every night, you’d sit alone in your apartment above the bookstore, staring at the spot on the couch where he used to fall asleep during movie nights, wondering how you could miss someone who was technically still alive, just out of reach.
You never forced him to remember. You didn’t even try. Because you knew memory wasn’t something you could demand back. It wasn’t a switch you could flip or a locked door you could break down with frustration or anger. It was delicate. Fragile. Like glass edges that could cut him deeper if handled carelessly.
So instead, you became quiet. You became gentle even though visiting him wasn’t easy. Each time you entered the room, you reminded yourself to soften your eyes, to keep your voice low, calm. To be someone who he might feel safe with, even if he didn’t remember why.
“Hey,” You’d say, just like that. Simple. No pressure. No demands.
You’d bring small things like his favorite book, a picture from your last trip, or a worn jacket he’d left behind. You hoped these would speak to something buried inside him, a spark.
Some days, he’d look at you with confusion. Others, with suspicion. Sometimes, his eyes would flicker like he was searching for a ghost behind your face.
You hated that, but you never showed it. You never let him see it because you couldn’t. You remembered how lost he felt the first time you met him, before all the pieces of you and him fit together. And you knew patience was the only thread strong enough to hold you both together now.
Because you could tell he was afraid. Of you. Of himself. Of what he’d lost. And you were afraid, too. Afraid you’d never get him back. Afraid he’d forget the moments you shared, the trust you built. All the moments you shared together.
But you stayed. Every passing day, every painful visit, you stayed. Even when it hurt to see the distance in his eyes or the way his hand no longer found yours in the dark or the way his voice no longer softened when he spoke your name.
Because love wasn’t about forcing recognition or surfacing memories of what used to be. It was about waiting. Waiting until he could find you again, on his own terms.
-
In the halls of the Avengers compound, you often caught the looks of the team. Quiet glances that lingered too long before they quickly looked away. Soft expressions shadowed with pity. Sometimes, it was Tony shaking his head slightly when he thought you weren’t looking. Sometimes, Natasha’s eyes would meet yours briefly, sympathy buried beneath her usual stoic mask. Steve especially, steady as ever, gave you a small nod of understanding whenever your paths crossed.
They all knew. They knew what you were going through. They knew exactly what you had lost, but no one said it aloud. They didn’t need to after all.
You felt the weight of it, like invisible hands pressing down on your chest when you thought you were alone. The way they looked at you said, She’s holding onto someone who’s slipping away. She’s pretending to be okay, but she’s breaking.
You never asked for their pity. You never wanted it. It felt like another reminder that things were broken beyond repair. So you kept forcing yourself to keep your head high and to keep moving forward.
You showed up for briefings. You trained with the others. You made sure your smiles were steady, your voice calm. But deep within you, every step was heavy. Every breath felt borrowed. Because the truth everyone was coming to realize, no one could fix this but Bucky. And Bucky couldn’t remember you.
And as days bled into weeks, your visits with him continued. Still quiet, steady, and unyielding. But no breakthroughs. No magic moments where Bucky suddenly remembered your name or the warmth of your touch.
But slowly, you learned to be okay with that. Because sometimes, healing wasn’t about the big gestures. It was about the small ones.
A flicker of recognition in his eyes when you laughed at a joke you’d shared long ago. A twitch of hesitation before he pulled back when you offered your hand. A breath held a moment longer when you read aloud from his favorite book.
Those tiny cracks in the wall gave you hope.
One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the compound, you found yourself sitting beside him on the couch. No words were spoken, there was no need.
His hand, tentative and unsure, brushed against yours. You paused for a moment and didn’t dare pull away. Instead, you let your fingers intertwine slowly, grounding both of you in that fragile moment of connection.
It wasn’t the past rushing back. It wasn’t a promise of what would come. But it was something. A beginning. A chance. And sometimes, that was enough.
Because you knew this story wasn’t finished. Not yet.
And as long as you both were willing to try, maybe one day, he’d find his way back to you.
Most definitely! Always up to something much to someone else’s dismay… Thank you for reading!!! ♡
Operation: Lover’s Retreat (You Think)
Summary: Sent on a recon mission in the Carpathian Mountains, you treat it like a romantic getaway including but not limited to bath bombs, a sparkly kazoo, and one shared bed. Bucky remains constantly torn between exasperation and deep affection. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)
Word Count: 1.2k+
A/N: More fun stuff while I think of other stuff. Happy reading!!!
Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist
To be fair, no one explicitly said it wasn’t a romantic vacation. Which is why, when Fury assigned you and Bucky to a “low profile surveillance op” in the Carpathians, your brain heard:
Secluded mountain lodge. Cozy fires. Spy sex.
So naturally, you packed accordingly.
Bucky blinked at the rolling heart-shaped suitcase you proudly hauled to the Quinjet, emblazoned in bold pink letters: “His & Hers”.
“What is that?” He asked flatly.
You grinned. “Our mission supplies, James.”
“I said pack light.”
“I did! This is vacation-light. I only brought four books, one board game, two full sets of bath bombs, a crockpot for ambience and a grappling hook.”
He opened the suitcase, found the glow-in-the-dark stars you planned to stick on the ceiling of the safehouse, and muttered, “We’re supposed to be covert.”
“And what’s more covert than a deeply-in-love couple on a sensual nature retreat where someone might accidentally dismantle a black market weapons trade?” You batted your lashes. “Besides, you love when I do the ‘danger honeymoon’ bit.”
He exhaled slowly. “I never said I loved it.”
“You didn’t have to,” You whispered dramatically, wrapping your arms around his neck and swaying like you were dancing to a song only you could hear. “Your eyes said it. Remember when I threw that flaming fondue pot at that one Hydra guy last time? There were hearts in your eyes.”
“There were burn injuries, sweetheart.”
“Burns of passion.”
He tried, really tried hard to look annoyed, but you saw it. The tiniest twitch of his lips. He kissed the top of your head like he was apologizing to himself for encouraging you.
“You’re lucky I love you,” He said.
“I am lucky. And hot. And very well packed.”
He peeked into the duffel again. “You brought a kazoo.”
“For distraction purposes.”
“You labeled it ‘Sexy Danger Kazoo.’”
You nodded proudly. “It has sparkles.”
-
The Quinjet touched down just as twilight was bleeding over the dense Carpathian forest, a soft purple washing the sky. You hopped off with all the energy of a kid who just found out naps were optional as Bucky followed, grim-faced but patient, lugging a backpack that looked suspiciously heavier than your luggage.
The safehouse was an old cabin, camouflaged perfectly by thick vines and the shadows of tall pines. From the outside, it looked like it hadn’t been touched since the Cold War, but inside? Well… that was a different story. Stark had apparently outfitted the place with every modern convenience a couple on a "low-profile mission" might need. You immediately spotted the sleek coffee maker and made a beeline for it.
“Why do you think Fury left us here?” Bucky muttered, peeling off his jacket.
“Because this is the perfect place for a romantic getaway disguised as espionage,” You answered, pulling a ridiculous “MISSION: COZY” banner from your bag and hanging it over the cracked fireplace mantel.
Bucky froze, then rubbed his temples. “You are unbelievable.”
“I’m also in love with you,” You added, flashing a grin that was half apology, half challenge.
He sighed, shaking his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Fine. But this is recon. Keep it professional.”
“Professional as in,” You plopped down on the one and only large bed, arms stretched wide, “Professional cuddles?”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed, and then his lips curved into something like a smile. “You know there’s only one bed, right?”
“Oh, I know. It’s your fault for not bringing a sleeping bag.”
“You knew that,” He said, sitting down heavily next to you.
“Details, details.” You leaned your head on his shoulder and pulled the blanket over both of you. “This is perfect.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was comfortable. Bucky’s hand found yours, fingers lacing together like they fit perfectly. After a moment, you whispered, “So, what’s the actual mission?”
“Observe and gather intel. Don’t get caught. Probably freeze our asses off.” He let out a dry chuckle. “And babysit you.”
You smirked. “Babysitting, huh?”
“Yeah. Someone’s got to keep you from setting off the alarm with your kazoo.”
You pouted but laughed anyway. “Hey, I’m a tactical genius with a flair for drama.”
“And a flair for eating four bananas in one sitting,” He reminded you, eyes softening.
You groaned. “Don’t remind me. My stomach is still plotting revenge.”
He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The soft crackle of the fireplace was the perfect soundtrack to your “romantic” evening. Bucky, finally starting to relax after a long day of surveillance and your relentless banter, had just pulled the blanket tighter around you when you produced your “Sexy Danger Kazoo” from your jacket pocket. You gave him a mischievous grin.
“Want to hear my latest war tactic?” You whispered, raising the glittery instrument like a weapon.
Bucky’s eyes widened. “No.”
But of course, you played it anyway. A bizarre, off-key rendition of the Avengers theme that sounded more like a dying duck than a call to arms.
His sigh was so long it almost became a sound effect. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly in love,” You corrected, settling back down with a triumphant smirk.
Then, just as you were about to doze off, because even chaotic geniuses need sleep, the quiet night shattered.
CLANK.
The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed through the cabin.
Bucky shot up, pulling you with him. “Hydra.”
You blinked. “Already?”
He didn’t wait for you to grab your grappling hook or glitter gel pens. He was moving, fast and silent. You tried to follow, but your pajama pants tangled on the bedframe, and you stumbled, barely catching yourself on the wooden floor.
“Smooth,” Bucky muttered from the shadows.
The door to the cabin burst open, and two Hydra agents stepped inside, rifles raised. But before they could fully process their surroundings, a sudden blaring kazoo shattered the silence. Yours, of course.
“Surprise!” You yelled, charging like a glitter-wielding warrior.
Bucky facepalmed.
Before the Hydra agents could react, you whipped out a handful of glowsticks and started flinging them like grenades, the room suddenly glowing in psychedelic neon colors that were suspiciously brighter than any he had ever seen.
“What the hell is going on?!” One Hydra operative shouted, squinting at the glowing chaos.
Bucky took the opportunity to disable one with a swift punch, then ducked behind the counter to cover you.
“You did say you had distraction expertise,” He hissed.
You grinned wildly, still buzzing with adrenaline. “I’m a tactical genius. Trust me.”
The fight was brief but chaotic, involving a lot of slipping on stray bananas you’d left in the kitchen (don’t ask), glitter explosions from one of your surprise bombs, and a kazoo solo that was definitely more disorienting than tactical.
When it was finally over, Bucky turned to you, exasperated but undeniably impressed.
“You’re the worst mission partner I’ve ever had.”
“And the best,” You said, grabbing his hand and pulling him close. “But hey, if you wanted a boring recon op, maybe you should’ve asked Sam.”
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Next time, I’m bringing the actual weapons and leaving the kazoo at home.”
You leaned in, brushing your lips against his. “Now where’s the fun in that?”
Outside, the Carpathian night resumed its quiet, the stars blinking down on a cabin that was very much not low profile. But inside, you and Bucky knew something important:
Chaos was one of the only things you did well and somehow, it was working perfectly.
A Little Mess Won’t Hurt
Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]
Summary: Despite your love for the arts, you’ve always been hesitant to use your paint kits, watercolors, or anything that could make a mess. Your caregivers notice and help you try finger painting for the first time.
Word Count: 1.9k+
A/N: This is purely a self-indulgent kind of fic. More on the fluffier side, hopefully.
Main Masterlist
You sit quietly on the couch, legs crossed beneath you, as you watch Steve work on his sketchbook. The pencil moves fluidly across the page, creating beautiful shapes, faces, and scenes. You’re mesmerized by how easily his hand moves, as if the paper were an extension of himself. His concentration makes him look so calm, so relaxed, and you wish you could do that too. Create something beautiful.
You reach over and grab your coloring book, your favorite one with intricate patterns of flowers and animals, and open it to the next unfinished page. You’ve always loved coloring, the neat lines and precise strokes, careful to stay inside the borders. But when you think about what Steve is doing and what Bucky sometimes does when he’s working with paints and clay, it makes your chest feel tight. You’ve never touched the paint kits or watercolor sets that Steve bought for you. It always feels like a line you’re afraid to cross.
Your fingers itch to try it. You know it’s fun. You’ve seen Bucky with his hands covered in clay and Steve covered in paint, laughing and smiling, their faces bright with joy. But the mess… the mess always brings memories you don’t like. The sharp words. The scolding. The fear of ruining something precious.
"Hey, kiddo, you done with your drawing?" Steve’s voice cuts through your thoughts. You blink, looking up at him. He’s watching you with soft eyes, a half-smile on his face. "You’re awfully quiet today."
You fidget with your coloring book, picking at the edges. "I’m just… coloring," You mumble, offering him a small smile.
Steve notices the way your gaze flicks back to his sketchbook, your eyes lingering on his pencil as it moves. He sets his book aside gently and leans closer, his voice tender but curious.
"You know," He starts, "I’ve got a new sketchbook in the other room. But it’s not the only way to make art."
Your heart skips a beat. You’ve heard them talk about painting before. About how messy it gets and how much fun it is. They thought you would like it. Bucky has even shown you his pottery and tried to convince you to join him in the studio once, but you always hesitated. The idea of making a mess, of getting dirty? It just felt wrong.
"I—" You pause, unsure how to explain. You tug at the hem of your shirt, a nervous habit. "I like… watching. But I don’t know if I could… do it."
Steve’s eyes soften as he tilts his head. "Do what, sweetheart?"
"Make a mess," You murmur, almost embarrassed.
The room falls into a quiet moment, Steve’s gaze turning understanding. He’s seen the way you’ve avoided the paints, the watercolors, the clay. He knows how much you love the idea of creating, anything to do with art. He can see it in your eyes every time you sit with your coloring book, every time you watch him draw. But he also knows there’s something holding you back. Something deeply rooted.
"You don’t have to be afraid of making a mess with us," Steve says gently. "You’re safe here. We’re not going to scold you for it. You don’t have to be perfect."
You glance up at him, your cheeks flushing. The words feel foreign, like they shouldn’t be said to you. But… they are. And the warmth in Steve’s voice makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could try.
"You sure?" You whisper.
Bucky, who has been quietly listening from the armchair, smiles softly and walks over to where you’re sitting. He crouches down to your level, his expression warm and inviting.
"I’ll even help you clean up after," He promises. "We can have a little messy play time, just the three of us. No judgment, no worries. Just fun."
Your heart flutters in your chest. The idea of it sounds fun. So much fun, in fact, that you can feel your fingers twitch with excitement. But the fear still clings to you. You don’t want to disappoint them too. You don’t want to make a mess at all.
Steve catches the look in your eyes and gives you a soft smile. "It’s okay if you don’t want to yet," He reassures calmly, "But I think you’ll enjoy it. Sometimes, making a little mess is how we make the best memories."
Bucky holds out his hand, "What do you say, kiddo? Wanna try it with us? You can start small. Just dip your fingers in a little bit of paint. We’ll take it slow."
You hesitate. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt as you think, battling with the urge to try something new and the fear of failure. But then Steve places a gentle hand on your shoulder, the warmth of his touch calming you. "No pressure. If you don’t like it, we can always stop. But if you want to, we can make something really special."
You glance at Bucky, who’s still waiting patiently. He doesn’t look rushed or frustrated. He’s simply… waiting for you to decide. To trust them and that’s the push you need.
Taking a deep breath, you nod, just a little.
"I’ll try," Your voice barely audible.
Bucky’s smile grows, and he gently takes your hand, as he brings you to the dining table. Steve grabs some of the finger painting supplies and sets them down near you. The tray of paints now sits before you with a blank sheet of paper. The colors are so bright, so inviting, and for the first time, you feel a small wave of excitement wash over you. You slowly reach over, still hesitant but brave. Bucky’s voice remains light and reassuring.
"That’s it. Now, just a little dab," He encourages.
You dip your fingers into the paint, the cool sensation making your breath catch in your throat. And then, with a deep breath, you press your fingers to the paper.
It’s messy. It’s a little wild. But it’s also… freeing.
Steve watches you with pride, his gaze soft as you begin to explore the colors with more confidence. Bucky’s chuckles ring in the air as he joins you on another page, painting alongside you. The mess doesn’t seem so bad now. In fact, it’s kind of fun. And with Steve and Bucky by your side, it’s safe. There’s no judgment, no scolding. Just a loving space where you can make something beautiful, even if it’s a little messy.
The paint feels warmer now, smoother against your fingertips as you move your hand across the page. You make a bold swirl of yellow and green, your face lighting up with a quiet smile as you experiment with the colors. It’s not perfect, but that’s the best part. The colors bleed into one another in playful patterns, as if the paper itself is dancing with you.
Bucky glances, grinning as you explore. "That’s it, kiddo. Let it flow," He says, his voice filled with encouragement. He’s got a bit of red paint smeared on his cheek from his own work, but he doesn’t mind. "No rules. Just fun."
You glance at him, then at Steve, who’s already made a few broad strokes on his paper with a brush. The whole room feels lighter, almost fizzing with energy as the three of you work in a little creative chaos together.
Steve watches you with a fond smile, leaning in to dip his own brush into a deep purple. "There you go," He adds. "Look at that swirl. Looks like a rainbow already."
You tilt your head and glance at your page, and sure enough, the yellow and green you've painted already do look like the beginnings of a rainbow, the colors blending like the hues of a sunset.
The idea of a perfect painting slowly fades from your mind, and you start adding more colors, simply having fun with it. Maybe blue here, a touch of red there. Bucky and Steve occasionally encourage you, their voices soft but full of praise. The weight of your old anxieties begins to melt away. They never push you to do anything more than you’re ready for, and you find yourself taking more risks, adding blobs of color that you wouldn’t have dared to make a few minutes ago.
The first few smudges on your fingers did feel odd at first, but then you realize they aren’t that bad. You laugh when a bit of orange accidentally splatters onto the side of your cheek. Bucky chuckles too, and reaches over with a napkin to wipe it away. "Guess you’re really getting into it now."
You can’t help but laugh back, the sound light and airy, filling the room with the pure joy of finally letting go.
It’s so much fun—more than you thought it could be. You notice that the fear you had about messing up seems so small now. There’s a comforting warmth in knowing that Steve and Bucky are right there with you, sharing in the mess, the fun, and the art. No one’s looking to judge or critique, just to enjoy the moment together.
The hours pass quickly, the three of you laughing and creating. Before you know it, your page is a beautiful, colorful mess. It’s nothing like the neat, careful drawings you used to make. Instead, it’s a chaotic explosion of colors, shapes, and patterns that make your heart flutter. You didn’t have to hold back. You didn’t have to be perfect. And that’s exactly what made it perfect.
"Look at you," Steve’s voice is full of pride as he leans in to admire your work. "I think we’ve got ourselves an artist in the making."
Bucky grins, nudging you lightly with his shoulder; his tone full of love and approval. "You’ve got a real eye for this, you know."
You smile, a warm, contented feeling filling your chest. Your hands are a little sticky with paint, and your shirt has a few splatters too, but you don’t mind. You look over at Bucky and Steve, seeing their faces beaming with pride. You realize that it wasn’t just about making art. It was about trusting them enough to let go, to not be afraid of what could happen if things got messy.
As you finish the last few touches on your page, you feel a sense of accomplishment. Your masterpiece isn’t about following the rules or being perfect. It’s a reflection of you: creative, brave, and free.
Steve and Bucky glance over at each other and share a look, one of shared pride and understanding. They’re proud of you for stepping out of your comfort zone, for trusting them, and for making something beautiful in the process.
When the paintings are finally dry, Steve gathers them up carefully. "We’ll hang these on the fridge," He smiles when your face lights up. "We’ll put yours right at the top, where everyone can see."
Bucky nods, pulling you into a soft, affectionate hug. "You did so good, sweetheart. You made a mess, and you made art. That’s what it’s all about."
You snuggle into his arms, still grinning from ear to ear. It feels good. It feels right.
And for the first time, you don’t worry about what happens if things get a little messy. Because, in this moment, you realize that a little mess is part of the magic. Part of the fun. And no matter what mess happens, you’re safe enough to make it with the people who love you.
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.
-
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She/Her | 18+ | Marvel WriterAsks/Requests are welcomed!
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