DIY Project

Toy Store Visit

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

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

Word Count: 1.2k+

Main Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t know where to start.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

Because He Always Knows

Summary: You're close friends with Bucky Barnes, trusting his quiet, protective nature. What you don’t know is that Bucky is secretly obsessed with you. Watching you, tracking your every move, and quietly eliminating anyone who gets too close. And he’ll do anything to keep you safe, close…and his. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x reader)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes. Stalking. Tracking reader (location, cameras, etc.) Some implied violence toward others. Yandere themes.

Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: Not going to lie, I have not seen many Yandere Bucky fics. Maybe I’m not looking hard enough. I think it’d be cool to turn this into a series though, depends if other people like it or not. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.

You’d known Bucky Barnes for a while now. Ever since you joined the Avengers on the intel and support side, he’d somehow gravitated toward you. Quiet and subtle. He never talked much unless spoken to, and whenever he did, it was always calm and short. But around you, he softened a little. He offered small, quiet smiles, sat beside you even when there were empty seats elsewhere. And he always seemed to know when you needed help. It was comforting. Familiar. You thought of him as a good friend, someone who didn’t push or pry.

What you didn’t know was that Bucky knew your schedule better than you did. He knew what time you got your coffee, which café down the block you preferred, and even which music you played in your room when you were winding down.

He never broke your trust. At least, not in any obvious way. But he was always watching. From rooftops. From darkened hallways. Even from shadows in the compound when you thought you were alone. He wasn’t trying to be creepy, not in his mind. He just needed to make sure you were safe. That no one got too close. That you didn’t drift away from him.

When you talked about a new friend one afternoon, some guy from the tech department who made you laugh, Bucky’s smile faltered for only a second. You didn’t notice it, but it was there, a flicker of cold calculation beneath the warmth. He nodded, asked a few harmless questions about him, and then let the topic drop. Later that day, the tech guy mysteriously fell down a flight of stairs. Nothing serious, but just enough to keep him out of work for a few weeks. Bucky never said anything. He simply showed up at your door like any other day with soup this time and a quiet, “Need company?”

You welcomed him in. Why wouldn’t you? He was always so gentle with you, always so present. His gloved hands carried your groceries, fixed your lock when it jammed, even installed extra security on your windows “just in case.” You never questioned how he knew you’d been anxious after that strange man on the subway followed you home. You never told anyone about it, but Bucky acted before you even had to.

Sometimes, you’d catch him watching you a second too long. His gaze intense, unreadable. He’d look away quickly, but the feeling would linger. You chalked it up to Bucky just being… Bucky. A little odd, a little broken, but ultimately good.

You didn’t see the way his jaw tensed when someone touched your arm. You didn’t notice the thin notebooks he kept tucked away, filled with observations about you. What you wore, what you said, who you talked to. Every page was a soft obsession written in ink, filled with the belief that you were his. Not in a romantic, normal way. In a quiet, inevitable, belonging sort of way. You were his peace, his reason, and he would burn the world down before letting someone else take you.

To you, he was just a friend. A good one. Steady. Loyal. Maybe a little protective.

To Bucky, you were everything. And he was never more than a few feet behind you; watching, guarding, and waiting. Always waiting.

One evening, you stayed late in the compound’s tech lab. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Just a backlog of reports and an excuse to avoid your empty apartment, then you heard the door open. Bucky stopped by with two coffees, one black, one exactly the way you liked yours. He didn’t ask if you wanted one. Come to think of it, he never did. Somehow, he just knew.

You smiled and thanked him as he sat nearby, silent as ever, occasionally glancing at your screen. It was quiet, comfortable even, until you laughed at something on your phone.

“Who’s that?” Bucky asked, and you glanced up. His tone was calm, but you noticed the way his shoulders tightened.

“Just a guy I matched with,” You said, smiling without much thought. You didn’t think he would know or understand what dating apps are in the modern day. “We’ve been texting a little. He’s funny.”

You missed it, but Bucky’s knuckles whitened around his cup. “You gonna meet him?”

“Maybe,” You shrugged. “We’ll see.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the floor for a beat too long. You assumed it was one of his quiet spells again: those moments where the past clawed at him and left him speechless. You reached over and gently squeezed his arm.

“Hey. You okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

You didn’t ask what about. You’d learned not to push him. You knew he would talk if he needed to. But behind his still eyes, something shifted.

That night, he followed you home like he always did. He was quiet as a shadow, footsteps masked by the hum of the city and his experience as the Winter Soldier. You made it home safely, texted him a “thank you for the coffee,” and turned in for the night. Bucky stayed outside your building for hours, hidden across the street. He didn’t move for a while, didn’t blink. Just waited.

The next day, your date canceled. No explanation. Just a sudden, awkward message and a block. You frowned at your phone, confused and disappointed.

“He didn’t deserve your time anyway,” Bucky tried to comfort you later when you vented about it. The way he looked at you, soft smile and worried eyes, you found yourself agreeing. Though, you weren’t sure why.

Days passed. The missed connections started to pile up. Plans you made with others were mysteriously interrupted. It was always something: car issues, sudden emergencies, sick coworkers. Yet Bucky was always around, always the one to stay and offer, “Want to grab food instead?” or say “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.” You welcomed the company. He was stable, kind and he cared.

But something started to gnaw at you. The feeling of being watched never quite left. Doors you were sure you locked felt slightly ajar. Items shifted. Your phone sometimes buzzed with strange glitches. You mentioned it in passing to Bucky. But he reassured you softly like he always did, “You’re safe. I promise.” His voice was low, almost reverent.

And you believed him, because no one protected you like Bucky did. No one was as constant, as present. Besides, you were probably overthinking it anyways.

What you didn’t see were the cameras tucked in the corners of your ceiling, hidden well behind the smoke detector and air vents. You didn’t know some tracking program had been installed on your phone nor the way Bucky’s fingers traced your location like a map he’d memorized.

To you, he was just Bucky. A little rough around the edges. A quiet and stead friend who was always there for you.

To him, you were the reason he hadn’t fallen apart completely. You were everything. His home. His anchor. And if you ever tried to leave him, if you ever even thought of running, he’d know. But he knows you wouldn’t do such a thing, you don’t even suspect a thing. Perhaps you never will. It’s better for you this way. But if you did, he would catch on immediately. Because he always knows.

Arm Dilemma

Summary: Your first time catching Bucky using the dishwasher to wash his metal arm. (Husband!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 600+

A/N: Inspired by that one scene in the thunderbolts trailer of Bucky’s arm in the dishwasher lol. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Bucky Barnes was many things: a former brainwashed assassin, a super soldier, a brooding Avenger, and surprisingly to many, a man with a very strong opinion about dish soap. You learned that about two months into marriage, when you bought off-brand lemon-scented detergent and he stared at the bottle like it had personally betrayed him in a Cold War mission.

But nothing quite compared to what you discovered one quiet Tuesday afternoon.

You had come home early from work, your arms full of groceries and your head full of plans. Nothing wild, just dinner and maybe a movie if Bucky wasn’t in one of his “I’m too emotionally complicated for romantic comedies” moods. As you kicked the door shut behind you, you noticed two things immediately: first, that the apartment was suspiciously silent. Second, that the dishwasher was running.

Bucky? Voluntarily doing chores?

You set the groceries down slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile domestic miracle occurring in your kitchen. You approached the dishwasher with reverence, like you were sneaking up on Bigfoot. You squatted down, peeked through the tiny, cloudy window in the front panel, and your brain short-circuited.

There, nestled between a pasta strainer and a coffee mug with Tony Stark’s face on it, was Bucky’s metal arm.

You blinked, rubbed your eyes, then looked again.

Still there.

You stood in stunned silence for a long moment before you did the only logical thing: you yelled, “BUCKY BARNES, GET YOUR SUPER-SOLDIER ASS IN HERE RIGHT NOW.”

There was a pause. A creak. Then soft, sheepish footsteps.

He appeared in the hallway, shirtless, with only his flesh arm scratching the back of his neck. “Hey, doll.”

“Don’t you ‘hey doll’ me,” You said, gesturing wildly toward the dishwasher. “Why is your vibranium arm in there?!”

He glanced toward the appliance and had the audacity to shrug. “Had peanut butter on it.”

“Peanut-” You choked on your words. “How does a trained assassin get peanut butter on his arm?”

“I was making a sandwich. The jar slipped. It was a high-velocity incident.” He actually looked offended on behalf of his own coordination. “Some of it got into the grooves.”

“You could’ve wiped it down. With a towel.”

He looked at you like you’d just told him to polish a jet engine with toilet paper. “There are micro-particles in the joints. This is precision tech. Do you know what peanut oil does to vibranium?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’m fairly certain it does not cause spontaneous combustion if left on for twenty minutes.”

He crossed his arms. Or rather, arm. “Steve would’ve backed me up.”

“Oh don’t you dare bring Steve into this- Steve washes his shield with dish soap and a sponge like a normal person!”

You stomped to the dishwasher and pointed at it like it had wronged your ancestors. “Do you know how expensive this is? If you break it with your high-tech Marvel Lego piece, I swear to God-“

“It’s on the bottom rack,” Bucky mumbled, sulking now. “Delicate cycle.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and took a deep breath.

“I swear, one day you’re going to wash your soul in the laundry hamper because you got it dirty.”

He gave you a lopsided grin, the one that still made your heart do a traitorous little flutter even after years together. “Would you still love me if I did?”

You tossed the towel at his face. “Only if you remember to use fabric softener.”

It then became a running joke. You’d leave sticky notes on the dishwasher that said “NOT FOR BODY PARTS,” and he’d respond by leaving his own sticky notes over your notes with “WARNING: May Contain Metal Parts. Proceed With Caution!” It was domestic life with Bucky: chaotic, a little ridiculous, and somehow the best kind of normal you never thought you’d have.

And despite his broody past, his spy instincts, and the tendency to sometimes treat modern appliances like alien tech, Bucky Barnes was yours.

Even if he occasionally mistook a dishwasher for a tactical cleaning unit.

Group Therapy

Summary: Tony forces you, Bucky, and Sam into a mandatory group therapy session meant to improve communication, but it quickly devolves into passive-aggressive chaos, exaggerated breathing, and glitter-based threats. (Bucky Barnes x reader x Sam Wilson)

Word Count: 1.3k+

A/N: Lots of dialogue. Loosely inspired by the boy’s bickering during that one therapy session. Also lowkey nervous to post a different ship than stucky or just Bucky. Anyways, Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

You should’ve known something was off the second you saw Tony Stark’s name on the file labeled “Avengers Personnel Wellness Initiative.” It was slipped into your inbox with a cheery little note scribbled in red ink:

“Mandatory. I’d make it optional, but let’s be honest. Some of you are one more sarcastic quip away from homicide. See you Thursday, - T”

You’d barely finished reading when Sam popped his head in your room, looking smug and holding up the same file. “You get the invite to Avengers Couple Counseling Hour too?”

You narrowed your eyes. “It’s not couples counseling.”

“It is if you’re dating us,” Bucky added flatly from the hallway, already walking away like this wasn’t his problem to solve.

You groaned.

And that’s how you ended up here, sitting in a perfectly neutral gray room with soothing paintings of trees and lakes, heading the stiff chair that squeaked every time Sam shifted his weight. The therapist, Dr. Halliday, looked terrified but determined. Her notebook was already open, pen ready to scribble down trauma and ego in neat bullet points. Bucky had already made a comment under his breath about the notebook.

She smiled too wide and greeted the room like it didn’t hold two supersoldiers and someone who once watched one of them chase the other with a hot pan for drinking the last of the coffee.

“So, I understand you’re here for emotional synchronization and group cohesion?”

Bucky blinked. “We’re here because Tony wants to bully us.” Sam scoffed. “He’s just mad because he had to fill out a feelings worksheet.” “I didn’t fill it out.” “You drew a middle finger on it.”

Meanwhile, you slowly leaned back in your chair, already regretting every life decision that led you to this moment.

The therapist cleared her throat. “How about we start with a simple question. What’s one thing you admire about each other?”

There was a long silence. Bucky folded his arms. Sam raised an eyebrow. You offered a small shrug.

“I mean… Bucky’s good with knives,” You offered.

Dr. Halliday smiled, a hint of nervousness seeping through. “That’s… specific. And Sam?”

You hesitated. “He has a great smile.”

Sam immediately grinned and nudged Bucky. “Did you hear that? Great smile. Can your war journals do that?”

Bucky glared. “Say smile one more time and I’m throwing yours into orbit.”

You sighed.

Then it was Bucky’s turn. The therapist asked him to share something positive about you and Sam. He stared at the ceiling like he was begging the universe to open up and consume him whole. Finally, he muttered, “You both talk too much, but you make the world less awful. Sometimes.”

“That was almost sweet,” You said.

Sam leaned back with a smug smirk. “Bet that hurt to say, huh?”

“I hated every syllable.”

“Okay!” The therapist said, chipper but clearly dying inside. “Let’s shift to—uh—conflict resolution styles! What do you usually do when you’re upset with each other?”

“I jump out the window,” Bucky said flatly. “I put hot sauce in his coffee,” Sam added with zero shame. You blinked. “You what—”

“I know,” Bucky said, gesturing toward you. “She takes deep breaths and then threatens us in passive-aggressive Post-It notes. It’s terrifying.”

“I only do that when you two make me the middle spoon and fall asleep on me.”

“It's called protection,” Bucky muttered.

“It's called heat stroke,” You shot back.

The therapist’s pen hovered, unsure whether to write or cry.

You’d made it thirty minutes in.

Dr. Halliday put down her pen. “Let’s…try a grounding exercise.”

Bucky leaned toward Sam. “That sounds fake.”

Sam whispered back, “Bet it involves breathing.”

Dr. Halliday reached under her desk, pulled out a small glass jar labeled “lavender-mint serenity,” and lit it with the kind of intensity usually reserved for summoning spirits.

“This is a grounding exercise,” She said, placing the candle on the coffee table like it was the solution to world peace. “Focus on your breathing. In for four seconds… hold for four… out for four…”

You tried. You really tried. But next to you, Sam was making exaggerated whooshing sounds with every exhale.

“Innnnn… oooouuuuut… like that, right?”

Dr. Halliday gave him a pained smile while Bucky wasn’t even pretending. He stared at the candle like he wanted to throw it at someone.

You peeked at him through the corner of your eye. “Just breathe, Buck.”

“I don’t need a candle to inhale oxygen,” He hissed.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “He gets like this when you take away his combat knife. It’s part of his routine.”

“It’s grounding,” Bucky shot back. “My way just involves punching something.”

“I can print out a photo of Tony for you to hit later,” You offered. Bucky actually looked tempted.

Dr. Halliday scribbled something down. Probably: Patient shows aggression toward candles, sarcasm, and emotional openness.

She then looked up and smiled, tightly. “Let’s try something else. A communication-building exercise.”

“Define communication,” Sam muttered.

“Each of you will take turns expressing a frustration using I feel statements,” She explained gently. “Without blame.”

You, Sam, and Bucky exchanged a slow, dreadful look.

“I’ll start,” Dr. Halliday said, either to model the behavior or remind herself she was still in control. “I feel overwhelmed when sessions go off-track, because I want to help, but I need everyone’s cooperation.”

You nodded. “Fair.”

Sam crossed his arms, clearly enjoying this more than he should. “Okay, my turn. I feel deeply annoyed when Bucky eats the last protein bar and then blames it on gravity.”

You turned to Bucky. “You blamed gravity?” “The box fell over. They rolled. I didn’t plan it.”

Sam leaned forward. “You looked me in the eye and said, ‘Fate chose me.’”

“Okay,” Dr. Halliday cut in quickly, “Remember, no blame-“

“I feel,” Bucky interrupted flatly, “That Sam is a smug, winged menace who chews with his mouth open and makes my eye twitch.”

“That’s not a feeling,” The therapist said weakly.

“I feel violated when I find feathers in the dryer.”

Sam gasped. “That’s just racist.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay. I feel like I’m babysitting two adult toddlers who also happen to be capable of mass destruction.”

“That’s fair,” Dr. Halliday muttered under her breath, then cleared her throat. “Let’s shift to nonverbal communication.”

“Oh boy,” Sam whispered.

She handed you each a blank piece of paper and a marker. “I want you to draw how you see your dynamic. No words. Just visuals.”

Sam immediately started sketching a stick figure version of himself with a halo, Bucky with angry eyebrows, and you in the middle with a giant coffee cup and stress lines. Bucky took a full minute before drawing a broken clock, a knife, and a cartoon bird exploding. You just drew a couch… sinking into lava.

You all held up your art like traumatized third-graders at a very intense PTA meeting. Dr. Halliday stared at them in silence. Then she gently folded her notebook closed.

“Well,” She said after a long pause. “That was… illuminating.”

“Can we go?” Bucky asked.

“Is there a points system for good behavior?” Sam added.

You just raised your hand and said, “Do I get a sticker or something for not screaming?”

Dr. Halliday let out a tired sigh. “You get a gold star and a recommendation for individual therapy.”

Sam and Bucky both turned to you.

“Oh look,” Sam grinned, “You’re finally the favorite.”

“Better be laminated,” You mumbled.

You all filed out of the room in silence, the scent of lavender and mint clinging to your clothes like shame.

Outside the door, Bucky turned to Sam. “Next time you put hot sauce in my coffee, I’m putting glitter in your wings.”

Sam snorted. “Joke’s on you, I like glitter.”

You walked ahead of them and muttered, “I will duct tape your mouths shut next week.”

And somehow, that was the most productive session you’d ever had.

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.

hii!

since i saw that you’re taking request, can i request bucky having sex with reader for the first time since he’s free from hydra

thanks alot💕

Hello there, love. I do appreciate the request. However, I must say I’m not the most comfortable (or experienced) in writing hardcore smut or NSFW scenes like that. Therefore, I tried to fulfill your request within the boundaries of what I am capable of and hope you enjoy it!

I did try searching for stories similar to what you wanted. However honestly, if you look up the tag “Bucky Barnes Smut” you’d find a lot of amazing pieces by many wonderful authors. Happy reading!!!

Yearning Warmth

Summary: The first time Bucky initiates something more with you. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: MINORS DNI. Light NSFW, Intimate Scene(s)/Writing. You are responsible for the media you consume.

Word Count: 1.5k+

Main Masterlist

The apartment was quiet in the way only early mornings could be. Still and heavy with sleep, but alive with the promise of healing. You sat cross-legged on the couch with a steaming mug in your hands, wearing a too-big hoodie that didn’t belong to you.

It was his, worn soft at the sleeves, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and something colder, metallic. But it was his. And he’d let you wear it.

You’d met Bucky Barnes six months ago. Not the Winter Soldier, not Sergeant Barnes, but the man just trying to remember how to breathe again in a world that didn’t flinch every time he blinked. You weren’t an Avenger, not some high-ranking agent assigned to keep tabs on him. You were just… you. A friend of a friend. Someone who’d offered him coffee the first day he showed up to Sam’s VA group meeting in silence. Someone who hadn’t looked at him like a ticking bomb.

You’d become something steady in his life, in a time when the ground beneath him never seemed to stop shifting. At first, he didn’t talk much. He just watched, nodded, and occasionally offered a small smile that always seemed to vanish before you could fully register it. But you saw the effort, the cracks in his armor. And you didn’t try to fix him. You just showed up.

Movie nights. Long walks when the city felt too loud. Dinners shared mostly in quiet until he began to speak. Conversations about the 40s. About Steve and Brooklyn. About nightmares that left him staring at the ceiling, heart pounding like gunfire. You never asked for more than he gave. And maybe that was why he gave you everything. Slowly, uncertainly, like a soldier dismantling a bomb he’d once called his own heart.

Now, six months in, he was staying more nights at your apartment than his own. He left a toothbrush here. A pair of socks. A dog-eared paperback he never admitted he liked.

He hadn’t touched you, not really. Not like that. He held your hand sometimes. His kisses were soft, hesitant, like he was still unsure if he was allowed to want something gentle. Sometimes, he’d touch your cheek and linger, gaze so intense it made your breath catch. But when things got too close, when the air thickened between you, he always pulled away. Apologized with his eyes before words even had a chance.

You understood though. He had ghosts, scars beneath the skin that memory could still tear open.

But something was different lately.

He stood in the hallway now, quietly watching you from the doorway. The way he always did when he didn’t want to wake you but couldn’t help himself. His hair was damp from the shower, curling a little at the ends. He wore a black shirt and gray sweats, both clinging to the strength of a body rebuilt for war, but now searching for peace.

“You always get up before me,” He murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

You looked up at him, gave him that soft smile, the one he once told you made his chest feel “too full.”

“You always need sleep more than me.”

He stepped into the room slowly, like he still half-expected something to snap. But it didn’t. It never did. Not with you.

“You’re warm,” He said, sitting beside you, fingers brushing against yours on the mug. “You always are.”

“Comes with being human,” You teased gently.

But he didn’t laugh. Not really. He just looked at you, deeper than usual, his hand now resting fully on yours.

“I think I’m ready,” He said quietly. His voice trembled just slightly, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right to say it out loud. “I want to… with you. If you still want me.”

Your heart beat a little faster. Not with expectation or pressure, but with the weight of the moment. Of everything he had gone through to get here. Of everything he was still fighting to reclaim.

You set your mug down. Reached for his hand. His real one first. Then the cold one, the metal one he always seemed hesitant to offer.

“Only when you’re ready,” You said, voice warm. “Only if it’s what you want.”

He looked down at your hands wrapped around his, one flesh and one forged.

“I want to remember what it feels like,” He whispered. “To want something. And have it… be good.”

You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. Breathing him in. Grounding him.

“It can be good,” You promised. “We’ll make sure of it.”

His breath shuddered softly against your skin, and for the first time since he came back to himself, Bucky Barnes allowed hope to settle in his chest.

He kissed you like it was the first time he’d ever touched something fragile and wanted to keep it whole.

His lips were tentative against yours, unsure. You could feel the restraint in him, like he was holding back a flood he wasn’t sure you were ready for, but you were. You kissed him back gently, steadily. There was no rush, just the rhythm of shared breath and time-earned trust.

Your hand came up to cup his jaw, feeling the faint stubble under your fingertips. His eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned into your palm like he was starving for human contact. Safe, welcomed contact. You could feel the tension in his shoulders, in the careful way he gripped your waist like he thought he’d hurt you if he pressed too hard.

“You’re not going to break me,” You whispered between kisses.

“I’m not worried about breaking you,” He murmured, voice low and cracked. “I’m worried something in me will break.”

You brushed your nose against his. “Then let me help hold you together.”

That seemed to do something to him. A shift. A crack. A breath of relief through old fear.

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Still slow, but with more confidence, more heat that had been buried for too long. Your fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt, and he let you lift it over his head. The room wasn’t cold, but goosebumps rose across his skin anyway.

His body told a story even his silence couldn’t. Scars, some faded, some newer, moved in patterns across his chest and back like a map of wars he hadn’t wanted to fight. Your fingers traced one near his ribs, soft and reverent, never flinching.

“I’m not ashamed,” He said suddenly, quietly, like a confession he’d never dared speak.

You looked up. “I’m proud of you.”

Something in his throat worked at those words. His hands found the hem of your hoodie—his hoodie, and he paused. Waiting. Asking without asking.

You nodded, helping him lift it off you, letting him see you as you were: unpolished, raw, and trusting.

He kissed you again, but this time, his hands explored slowly. He touched like a man trying to memorize, not conquer. There was no rush. Just quiet understanding. Tenderness in the way his metal fingers grazed your shoulder, the way his flesh hand skimmed your spine like he was grounding himself in every inch of you.

When you moved to the bedroom, it wasn’t frantic. There was no tearing of clothes, no hurried gasps. It was soft. Purposeful. Like the world outside had finally gone quiet for both of you.

He took his time with you, worshiped really. Every kiss he pressed to your skin was a thank-you. For your patience. For your kindness. For being the one who hadn’t given up on him when he couldn’t look in the mirror.

He hovered above you at one point, breath ragged, eyes searching yours like he needed to make sure again.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, holding his face in your hands. “I’ve never been more sure.”

And when he finally sank into you, it was with a soft gasp that cracked at the edges. He stilled, completely overwhelmed by the moment, by the intimacy, by you. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him to you, whispering soothing things against his ear until he started to move again, slow and unsure, but growing steadier with every breath.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t choreographed. But it was real. Beautiful in the way only hard-won love could be.

He buried his face in your neck at the end, trembling slightly as the world narrowed to the rise and fall of your chests pressed together.

You stayed like that for a while, tangled in limbs and warmth, and your fingers moving gently through his hair.

Eventually, he whispered, “You make me feel human again.”

You kissed his forehead. “You always were. You just forgot for a while.”

His arms tightened around you, like he never wanted to let go again.

And for the first time in what felt like a century, Bucky Barnes fell asleep not as a weapon, not as a ghost, but as a man in love. Safe in the arms of someone who saw him not for what he’d done… but for who he was becoming.

After the Noise

Summary: During a meeting, everything becomes too much for you. Your fathers notice instantly, bringing you to a quieter space and reassuring you that you don’t always have to be big. (Stucky x little!reader) [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]

Word Count: 1k+

You hadn’t expected it to be this loud. The conference room at the compound is packed. Agents, teammates, unfamiliar faces. And everyone’s talking over one another. The sound is a rising tide, voices blending into a thick, dizzying fog. You try to focus on Steve’s voice across the table, but his words get swallowed in the noise. Your chest tightens. The lights seem too bright. Everything feels too big.

You shift in your seat and grip the edge of your chair. The room starts to close in. You know you’re supposed to be “big” right now, supposed to sit still, be quiet, and listen. But your hands are shaking. Your breathing gets shallow. Your skin prickles like it’s not your own.

Across the room, Bucky sees it before anyone else does. He watches the way your shoulders curl inward, the way you glance toward the door, your eyes wide and glassy. He doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he just stands, quiet and steady as he crosses the room.

“Hey,” He murmurs, leaning down beside you, his voice cutting through the chaos like a lifeline. “Come with me.”

You nod quickly, not trusting your voice. Your fingers twitch as he gently guides you out of your chair, one hand warm on your back. No one stops you. You keep your head down as Bucky leads you out of the room and down a quiet hallway. Steve is swift to finish his part, excusing himself from the meeting to follow the both of you to the elevator. His brow creased with quiet worry.

“Too much?” Steve asks softly.

You nod again, clutching your sleeves.

Steve opens his arms. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

You don’t hesitate. You fold yourself into his chest, breathing in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He wraps you up without a word, one hand moving gently over your back. Bucky stands beside you both, a silent guard keeping the world at bay.

“You’re okay,” Steve says into your hair. “You’re not in trouble. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It was just a lot,” Bucky adds, his voice low and calm. “Happens to all of us.”

Your fingers fist in the front of Steve’s shirt. It’s quieter here. Safe. You still feel small and shaken, but their presence helps ground you, like anchors when everything else is spinning.

“We’re gonna go upstairs,” Steve murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “Someplace quiet. Somewhere just for us.”

Bucky offers you a reassuring look, and you manage the smallest nod. Between the two of them, you’re brought to the elevator and out of the noise. No questions. No judgment. Just warmth and comfort and calm. And for the first time all morning, you feel like you can finally breathe again.

As Bucky presses the button to their floor, the elevator hums softly as it rises, the gentle motion lulling you into a calmer rhythm. You stay tucked against Steve’s chest, your cheek resting against the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t shift or speak, just holds you close with the quiet patience he always has when you’re in this kind of space. The small, overwhelmed version of yourself you rarely show anyone else.

When the doors slide open, the light is different. Softer. Warmer. Bucky steps out first, leading the way down the familiar hall to one of your favorite quiet rooms. Not particularly a bedroom, not an office either. Just a little tucked-away space with soft blankets, shelves of books, and no expectations. It's a place meant for slowing down and today, that’s just what you need.

Steve gently sets you down on your feet but doesn’t let go of your hand. “We’re here,” He says softly. “You did good.”

Bucky’s already over by the low couch, pulling down your weighted blanket from the shelf and setting out your favorite comfort item. A soft, floppy stuffed dog you’d once found in Steve’s old storage trunk and quietly claimed as yours. He lays it down like it belongs in your hands.

You cross the room slowly, not quite ready to speak yet. The buzzing in your head is starting to fade, but your body still feels too big and too small at once. You curl up on the couch as Bucky drapes the blanket over you. It smells like the laundry soap Steve uses. Like safety.

Steve kneels in front of you. “Do you want us close?” He asks gently, “Or some space for a bit?”

You pause, then mutter out the former. He understands instantly. He always does. Within seconds, both of them are settled nearby. Bucky sitting at the foot of the couch, his arm resting along the cushion behind your legs, and Steve sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, one hand resting where your knee peeks out from under the blanket. They don’t ask you to talk. They don’t ask you to explain. They’re just there. The chaos of the meeting long forgotten.

You clutch the stuffed dog in your hands, the weight of the blanket pulling you back into your body, little by little. You can hear Steve hum softly, a melody you can’t place. Something old and calming as you feel Bucky’s thumb draws quiet circles against the side of your calf.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. Eventually, you whisper, “Sorry.”

Steve looks up at you, soft and warm. “For what?”

“For… needing to leave.”

Bucky’s voice is gentle but firm. “You don’t have to be sorry for listening to your body. You told us without even using words. That’s brave, doll.”

You blink, eyes stinging again, but not from fear this time. From relief.

“You don’t have to be big all the time,” Steve reassures as always, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “Not with us.”

You nod slowly, the tension finally slipping out of your shoulders. You’re not sure you’re ready to go back downstairs. Maybe not for a while but right now, here, wrapped in their quiet protection, you feel safe and that’s enough.

I’ll Still Love You

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, you lose all memory of your relationship with Bucky. Even though it pains him to the core with grief, he stays by your side and quietly swears he’ll always love you no matter what happens. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.8k+

A/N: This has ANGST!!! I hope you cry /j. I love this version more than the other to be honest, maybe you all will like it too! You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Your Version

There were things Bucky didn’t think he’d ever have again.

Peace. Sleep. A future. And you.

You came into his life like silence after gunfire. Still and steady, almost unnoticeable at first. You didn’t push or prod. You didn’t flinch at the name Winter Soldier or look at his arm like it was a loaded weapon. You just existed in that calm, present, and kind way.

Many times you would ask how his day was, not his past. You told him what you dreamt about instead of asking what woke him screaming. You made him feel like a person, not a project nor a burden. And that was enough to terrify him.

But he kept coming back.

The first time he held your hand, it was hesitant. He was half-expecting you to pull away, but you didn’t. The first time he kissed you, it was desperate. Like he was drowning in memories and you were the only air left. And you kissed him back like you already knew how many pieces he was in, and didn’t mind picking them up one at a time.

He didn’t say I love you for a long time, not until it slipped out during a fight that he couldn’t remember why it happened to begin with. The words had always felt too big, too fragile. But he knew it the night you fell asleep on his chest, your breathing slow and your fingers resting over the surface of his metal arm. Like you cherished even the parts of him that brought so much destruction. He watched you sleep for hours, just holding you, trying to remember what it felt like to want to stay alive.

Sixteen months with you, and he still couldn’t believe it was real.

The little apartment above the bookstore wasn’t much, but it was yours. The heater barely worked. The neighbors were loud. But there were books in every corner, and a photo of you both pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a cat. You called it “home.” And for once in his life, Bucky did too.

Every morning, he woke up with you tangled in the blankets beside him. Your head tucked beneath his chin, one arm slung over his waist. You always woke up first, but you never moved until he stirred. You said you liked to watch him even though he never knew why.

He always figured you saw something in him he couldn’t. And maybe that was what scared him most. That somehow, one day, you'd wake up and see him for what he really was. Not a man. Not a boyfriend. Just a weapon with blood on his hands.

But that day hadn’t come. Not yet.

-

When the mission briefing came through, it was supposed to be simple and low risk. An abandoned Hydra lab flagged for cleanup. Just intel recovery and demolition. No fights, no enemies. He didn’t want you going in. Something about the location sat wrong in his chest. But you insisted. Said you’d handled worse.

And maybe that was the problem. You always handled everything for him. For others. Even when you shouldn’t have had to.

He watched as you went down another hall to split up and cover more ground. He wished he had never left your side. Because then came the moment of static on the comms, then the flicker of power loss, and lastly the sudden radio silence.

He ran. It took six minutes to find you.

You were in a containment room, collapsed near a machine that looked like something between a scanner and a torture device. Your body was curled on the ground, breathing shallow, hands twitching.

He dropped to his knees beside you. “Hey. Hey… C’mon, Doll, open your eyes.”

You blinked and looked up at him. You stared at him like he was a stranger. When you spoke up, your voice was hoarse. “Who are you?”

The question didn’t register at first. He thought maybe it was the shock. Or a concussion. Maybe you were disoriented. But then you pushed yourself away from him and crawled back, visibly panicked. Your eyes were wide and your throat was working hard to swallow a scream.

“Please… don’t touch me.”

And just like that, the air left his lungs. He tried to stay calm. He tried saying your name, gently. Over and over. You flinched every time like it was a threat. Like he was. It was the look in your eyes that gutted him the most. Not fear of what had happened. Not confusion. But the absence of everything.

Everything you’d shared. The way you looked at him every morning. The jokes you made in the kitchen. The way you once whispered you’d never been safer than in his arms. It was all gone.

You didn’t know who he was. You didn’t know you loved him. And in that moment, he’d never felt more like the ghost they said he was.

-

You didn’t come home right away.

When he managed to coax you back to the tower, the Medics cleared you, of course. Physically, you were fine. Not a scratch on you. But the memory loss was real. The device had done something. Wiped neural pathways, scrambled connections, stripped entire years like peeling wallpaper.

You remembered your name. Your training. How to handle a weapon. How to take apart a gun and stitch a wound. But not him. Not the man who held you every night like you were the only thing tethering him to this century. Not Bucky.

At first, you stayed in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility while they ran scans and tests. Bucky barely left your side. He hovered in corners, not too close, watching you try to relearn yourself in pieces. You were calm, quiet, and even polite.

You just didn’t know him.

He heard it in your voice every time you said his name: Barnes, not Bucky. Cold and distant like a fellow agent rather than the man who once made you laugh so hard you cried over a burnt grilled cheese sandwich in the middle of a power outage.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” You told him once, hands folded in your lap, and voice so gentle it cut him clean. “But… I don’t feel anything when I look at you. I’m sorry.”

He nodded and didn’t say anything more. What could he say?

He didn’t cry in front of you. But later, in the hallway, he braced his metal hand against the wall and exhaled like it hurt just to breathe. They had given you the option not to work for S.H.I.E.L.D anymore, to never see him again. To transfer and reset your life wherever you wanted.

But you didn’t. You looked at him and said, “Maybe… if I spend time with you, it might come back.”

So you came home.

You sat in the apartment like it was a museum. You traced the spines of your own books with unfamiliar fingertips. You opened drawers and stared at the little things like the shared grocery lists, photos of the two of you at Coney Island, a half-finished mug you’d made in a pottery class Bucky had hated but gone to anyway, just because you asked.

None of it sparked anything. But you wanted to remember and that mattered.

He made dinner the first night. Pasta, simple. You smiled faintly and said it tasted good. But you had always used to make fun of him for using too much garlic. He waited for you to say it, but you didn’t.

Later, you sat on opposite sides of the couch while a movie played in the background. You asked questions about yourself: what kind of music you liked, what books you used to read, or if you ever learned to play the old keyboard tucked beside the bookshelf.

Bucky answered every one like he was handling glass.

“You hated horror movies,” He said softly. “Used to bury your face in my shoulder even during the trailers. But you’d watch them anyway, just to laugh at me jumping.”

You tilted your head. “You get scared at horror movies?”

He cracked a faint smile. “Terrified.”

You laughed, really laughed, and for a second, just one fragile moment, it felt like you. He clung to that.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you. Didn’t call you doll or lean against you the way he used to. You weren’t his anymore. Not yet. Maybe not ever again. But every time you laughed or asked about a memory, he let himself hope.

Hope that somewhere, buried deep inside your mind, you were still his.

When he wasn’t spending time around you, he could tell how the rest of the team practically tiptoes around him now.

Some aren’t subtle. Natasha gives him long looks across briefing tables, equal parts pity and protectiveness. She doesn’t speak unless spoken to and whenever she does, her voice is softer than usual. Controlled.

Sam tries, bless him. He cracks a joke or two, light and quick, as if humor could stitch something this deep. He claps Bucky on the shoulder once in the gym and says, “You’re still in there. She’ll find you.” But he doesn’t say anything back, simply giving a tight nod before walking off.

Tony doesn’t gloat much anymore. He doesn’t joke either. He just sends a file to Bucky’s secure inbox about neural-recovery tech, theories, names of people who’ve studied memory wipe reversal. No subject line. No message. But Bucky understands it for what it is: support in Stark language.

Even Clint says it plain. “You’re not giving up.” And Bucky says it back. “I’m not.”

But none of them really know how to be there for him.

Because they saw the way you used to look at him, like he wasn’t a weapon or a man with blood on his hands, but simply yours. And now… you don’t even flinch when you stand near him, because you don’t remember what there is to be afraid of or to love.

So they give him space. But not Steve.

It’s late when Steve knocks. He doesn’t bother answering, but Steve comes in anyway. He finds Bucky in the kitchen, t-shirt and sweatpants, staring at a chipped mug on the counter like it just insulted him.

Steve doesn’t say anything at first, just leans back against the counter, crossing his arms and waiting.

Bucky exhales, but doesn’t look up. “She used to use that one,” He murmurs. “Every morning. Even when the handle cracked.”

His best friend glances at the mug to see the tiny sunflowers on it, slightly faded from too many washes. He remembers seeing it in the sink a hundred times. He remembers seeing you curled against Bucky on the couch, sipping from it with both hands while Bucky tucked a blanket around you like you were something breakable.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Bucky says. His voice is low, shaky even now. “She’s here. She’s here, Stevie. But it’s like watching her ghost walk around our apartment.”

Steve swallows as his chest aches, but he doesn’t show it.

“She’s not gone, Buck.”

“She doesn’t remember me.”

“But she’s trying.”

That lands hard. Bucky finally looks up, eyes bloodshot but dry.

Steve pushes off the counter and takes a slow step forward. “You’re angry. You’re grieving her, even though she’s right in front of you. That’s hell. But Bucky…” He sighs. “You know what it’s like to lose everything and still survive. You’ve done it before.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “It’s not the same.”

“No. It’s not. Because this time, she’s trying to come back to you. You just have to be patient.”

Bucky looks down at the mug again. He breathes slowly, his tone more vulnerable now. “What if she never remembers? What if she falls in love with someone else, and I’m just some… ghost in a photo?”

Steve’s expression cracks for a moment but his voice remains gentle. “Then you’ll still love her. You’ll still be there, however she needs. Because that’s what you do when someone’s your home.”

Silence fills the air before Bucky finally nods. It’s a slow, pained motion done only once.

Steve steps closer to his friend and grips his shoulder, firm and steady. “You’re not alone in this. You never were.”

And with that, Bucky stays. He stays by your side at a comfortable distance, offering a steady presence and patient answers to any questions you have.

Even though it hurts him to see you this way, makes him sick to his stomach with grief and anguish at the loss of your love; Bucky never let it show around you, not even once.

Because if there was one thing he remembered and understood better than anyone, it was what it meant to lose pieces of yourself. He couldn’t be angry with you for forgetting, not when he’d spent decades trying to remember who he used to be.

So he doesn’t beg. Doesn’t plead. He doesn’t guilt you into trying harder either. He just stays.

Sometimes, you asked him questions.

“Did I… love you?”

He never lied. Never told you stories to manipulate your heart into remembering. He just answered, gently and honestly.

“Yeah,” He’d say. “You did. And I loved you too.”

And when you looked down or away or offered a polite smile instead of a knowing one, he’d excuse himself for a few minutes to the hallway where he could breathe through the ache in his chest. But Bucky wasn’t a man who gave up. Not on you. Not now.

Because the truth was, he’d wait as long as it took. Even if you never remembered. Even if he had to fall in love with you all over again from scratch and let you fall for him at your own pace, in your own way.

-

On some days, something sparked enough to give him hope.

One morning, it started small. Not with a kiss. Not with some dramatic tearful moment or sudden flood of recognition. Just… a hum.

You’re making tea, quiet and slow, the way you always did. The kettle hisses and clicks, and you’re standing in Bucky’s- your kitchen, waiting.

And you hum. A stupid little melody. Out of tune and familiar.

Bucky freezes in the doorway, his breath caught like a hook in his throat.

Because you always used to hum that song. A dumb old jazz piece he played on vinyl one night just to tease you, and you rolled your eyes and said it sounded like elevator music. Then you got it stuck in your head for weeks to the point where he’d find you humming it while brushing your teeth or waiting for the microwave. Once he heard it while you were patching up a bullet graze.

And now you’re doing it again, without realizing. He doesn’t say anything. He’s afraid if he moves too fast, the moment will vanish like mist.

You pour the tea then turn enough to notice him, tilting your head slightly in concern. “You okay?”

He swallows. “Yeah. Just… you always used to hum that.”

You blink. “Did I?”

He nods and you don’t say anything else. But you look thoughtful. Like maybe, for a flicker of a second, something stirred inside.

Later, it happens again.

You’re sitting on the couch. He’s a few feet away. Respectful as always. You yawn, curl your legs up under you, and reach for the blanket on the back of the couch. Without thinking, you toss one corner toward him.

He stares. Because you always used to share it like that. The dumb little blanket-sharing ritual, a habit you never talked about. Just muscle memory. A routine born of hundreds of nights side-by-side.

And now… now your body remembers what your mind doesn’t.

You notice the way he’s looking at the blanket. “Is this something I used to do?”

He nods again, slower this time. “Yeah.”

“…Do you want it?”

“No,” He says quickly, quietly. “I’m good.”

You study him a moment longer, then gently drape it across both your laps anyway. You don’t say anything. Neither does he. But he doesn’t move for a long time.

That night, when you go to bed, Bucky stays on the couch like he always does now. It’s separate and distant, yet safe. But his heart is full of knives. Because every second you’re here, every time you smile or laugh or hum that dumb melody, he remembers how it used to feel. The ease and the intimacy. The way you’d tuck your face into his chest and call him “Buck” in that soft, sleepy voice like you’d never say it for anyone else.

And he wonders if he’ll ever have that again. But even if he doesn’t, even if you never remember, and even if you move on someday and love someone else…

He knows one thing like gospel truth:

He will still love you. Always. Even if it breaks him.

Because it was never a choice. Not with you. You were the first thing that made him believe he could have a future. And he’ll keep loving you even if all you ever give him now are flickers of hope.

And now, even with your memory scattered like ash in the wind, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever lost.