The Weight Of The Truth

Exactly As You Are

Summary: You slowly form a tender, deeply emotional relationship with Bucky Barnes supports you through the bad days and gently breaks down the walls you’ve built from past abandonment. Despite fears of being a burden, Bucky stays, proving with quiet strength and unwavering presence that love doesn’t need to be perfect to be real. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Reader is chronically ill. Mentions/Depictions of symptoms of said illness. Angst. Hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 2.3k+

A/N: This is sort self-indulgent but still an enjoyable read regardless. I left the type of illness ambiguous. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

The first time Bucky saw you, he thought you were just tired.

You were sitting on a bench outside a small, independent bookstore in Brooklyn, a reusable water bottle half-empty beside you, a paperback open in your lap. It was cold out, the kind of sharp October chill that cuts through jackets and settles in bones. But you sat completely still with your shoulders slumped, hands trembling slightly, and breath shallow.

He might not have noticed if not for the way your fingers struggled to hold the book steady.

He didn’t stop. Not at first. He just glanced, like a thousand other people passing by, and kept walking. But two blocks later, something tugged at him soft and persistent, like a memory he couldn’t place. He turned around.

You hadn’t moved from your spot.

By the time he walked back and crouched in front of you, your lips were pale, and your skin had that waxy undertone he recognized from war hospitals and med units. His instincts kicked in, but not the soldier kind, rather the man who’d learned how to read distress in the quietest forms.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low but steady.

You blinked up at him slowly, as if hearing him from underwater. Then you offered a weak, breathless smile and said, “Yeah, just… my body does this sometimes.”

“Does what?”

“Stops.”

He didn’t fully understand what that meant then. But it wasn’t pity that made him sit beside you, not fear or heroism either. It was something else. Familiarity. A kind of haunted recognition.

“Can I call someone for you?” He asked. “Friend? Partner? Family?”

You shook your head. “No one close by. It’ll pass. I just need a minute.”

But your hand was still shaking as you reached for the water. He watched silently, then gently reached over and held the bottle steady so you could drink.

“Thanks,” You murmured.

He nodded. He didn’t press. He simply sat there, beside a stranger who looked like their body was betraying them one breath at a time.

After a long stretch of silence, you spoke again. “You don’t have to wait.”

“Don’t want you to pass out on a sidewalk.”

You huffed a dry laugh. “Romantic.”

He smirked. “I’ve heard worse.”

You turned to look at him then, and something in your expression shifted.

“You’ve had bad days too,” You said.

His breath caught. You weren’t asking. You knew.

He gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

Your eyes softened. Not out of pity, but out of understanding. “Then you get it.”

He didn't reply out loud, but the way his hand hovered hesitant, then steady, offered the only answer you needed.

Eventually, you regained enough energy to stand. He offered his arm, and you took it without flinching at the metal. That surprised him. Most people still tensed.

Inside the bookstore, he bought a copy of the same book you'd been reading before slipping you his number. You noticed, and raised a brow.

“Trying to impress me?”

He shrugged. “Trying to have an excuse to see you again.”

You laughed then. Still tired, still aching, but real. “Well. It worked.”

-

You didn’t start dating right away. There were slow texts. A few coffee shop visits where he learned which chairs were softest for you to sit in for long periods, which days your hands couldn’t hold a cup, and how sometimes you’d go quiet mid-sentence but not from disinterest, just exhaustion.

But Bucky never minded. He’d lived too many years rushing through the world. With you, everything slowed down. And for once, that felt like healing.

On your first date, he had planned it carefully.

Not because he thought you needed to be impressed but because he wanted to show you he was paying attention. That he’d been listening, clocking every tiny detail you never made a big deal about.

So when he asked, “Dinner with me?” and you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because your body was in one of its quiet warning phases, he didn’t try to convince you. He simply offered an alternative.

“I know a rooftop,” He said. “It’s a quiet and private place with a good view. I’ll bring the food.”

You smiled, that same tired-but-warm curve of the lips he was learning to read better each time. “What kind of food?”

“Soft stuff,” He smiled before teasing. “Things that won’t piss off your stomach.”

You laughed, which he counted as a win.

The night of the date, he showed up at your door with a reusable picnic bag over one shoulder and that awkward, lopsided grin of his. You were in your softest clothes, sweatpants and a knit sweater two sizes too big, and your hair wasn’t doing what you wanted it to.

But he looked at you like you were wearing a red carpet gown.

“I like this,” He said simply, and gestured to your entire self. “It’s very you.”

“Exhausted?”

“Real.”

The trip to the rooftop was just a short elevator ride and half a flight of stairs, but halfway up, your legs started to tremble.

You tried to play it off, pausing to “check the sky,” you said. But Bucky had already seen the shift in your breathing, the tremor in your hand as you gripped the railing.

Without a word, he stepped behind you and wrapped an arm gently around your waist, the cool metal of his left hand bracing your spine.

“You okay with help?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded once. He didn’t rush you. Just matched your pace, supporting you the whole way to the roof.

By the time you sat down on the old couch someone had dragged up there years ago, your body was already crashing. You tried to hide it like you always did. But your hands were limp in your lap, your eyes glassy, and your shoulders had that slight slump Bucky was learning to hate.

He knelt beside you.

“Tell me what you need,” He said gently. “No pressure. Just… tell me.”

You wanted to smile. To tell him he didn’t have to stay, or fuss, or worry. But the words stuck somewhere behind your ribs.

“…I don’t want to ruin this.”

His eyes softened. “You’re not.”

“It’s not fair. You finally ask me out and I’m… this.”

“You were always this,” He countered. “And I asked you anyway.”

That made you blink.

He took the blanket from the bag, yes he’d brought one, and wrapped it around your shoulders. Then he pulled out a thermos of broth and a soft rice dish you’d once mentioned in passing. No wine. Just herbal tea. No candles. Just the city lights. No pressure to be anything but what you were.

You looked at him and he didn’t flinch from the fog in your eyes or the weakness in your voice. He didn’t reach for the version of you from the good days. He reached for you.

“I don’t need the perfect night,” He told you gently, watching you carefully. “I just need you.”

You let out a slow, aching breath. “What if I never get better?”

He brushed a knuckle down your cheek. “Then I’ll learn every version of ‘bad’ until I can walk you through it with my eyes closed.”

You felt something in your chest unravel.

And when he curled up beside you, careful not to jostle your fragile form and content to just sit in silence; you knew, with absolute certainty, that this wasn’t the beginning of something fragile.

It was the beginning of something real.

-

There were days that weren’t as pleasant. Yet time and time again, Bucky insisted on staying. Comforting and reassuring you every step of the way.

One afternoon, the apartment was quiet but not the peaceful kind. The kind of silence that pressed against the walls, thick and tense. The kind that settled in your chest and made it hard to breathe.

You sat on the couch with your knees pulled up, a blanket draped around your shoulders even though it was midafternoon. You should’ve taken your meds earlier, should’ve eaten something by now, should’ve answered the texts piling up on your phone. But your joints ached like they were full of broken glass, your head pounded from hours of tension, and every sound, every thought, felt like it might shatter you.

You didn’t hear Bucky come in. Not at first.

He always moved quietly, even when he wasn’t trying to. It was a habit that never left him. A ghost of another life. He didn’t say anything right away, just took in the picture in front of him. The faraway look in your eyes. The way your hand gripped the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering you to the room. The way your body curled in, like it was trying to disappear.

He crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, not touching you yet, but remaining close.

“Hey,” He greeted gently. “Rough day?”

You nodded, barely. Your throat felt too tight to speak.

Bucky waited. He was good at that, waiting. Letting you come to him on your own time with no pressure or pity. Just quiet, patient presence.

But then the words came tumbling out before you could stop them.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracked. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this all the time. With me.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, not in confusion, but in a kind of slow heartbreak. Like he’d heard this before because he had, and every time it hurt more.

He reached slowly, brushing your hand with his gloved fingers before gently taking it in his.

“Don’t say that,” He spoke quietly.

You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “But it’s true. You didn’t sign up for this. For all the canceled plans, and the bad days, and the… God, the way I feel like a burden.”

He exhaled, long and steady, and then stood, just enough to sit beside you. His arm curled around your shoulders, pulling you in with a kind of care that felt deliberate. Solid and unshakeable.

“I know what it feels like to think you’re too much,” He began slowly. “To think you’re broken, that people will get tired, or that you’ll wear them down until they leave.”

You swallowed hard.

“I spent years feeling like that,” He continued. “Even when Steve stayed. Even when Sam stuck by me. It never went away easy. But then I met you.”

His hand found yours again. Held it tighter.

“You taught me that people aren’t burdens. That pain doesn’t make someone less worthy of love. That needing help isn’t weakness.”

You shook your head, voice hoarse. “That’s different. You went through hell. You didn’t choose it.”

“And neither did you.” His voice was low but firm now. “You didn’t ask for this. You fight through more pain in a day than most people even imagine. And you still smile. You still care. You still show up.”

“But this isn’t fair,” Your voice was shaky. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this. You could… you could have anyone.”

Bucky went very still.

You turned your head away. “I don’t want you to stay because you feel obligated. I don’t want to trap you in something broken.”

His voice was low, firm as he asked. “You think I stay out of pity?”

“No. I think you’re kind. And maybe you don’t realize yet how permanent this is. How much this takes. I can’t go on missions with you, I can’t run, I can’t even cook without getting dizzy. Some days I can’t even-“

You broke off. Voice cracking.

“I can’t give you a normal life, Bucky. I’m tired all the time. And someday you’re going to wake up and realize I’m more burden than person and I can’t survive that again-“

Your breath caught. You hadn’t meant to say again. But it was out there now.

He didn’t try to shush you. He didn’t give you empty words or say you’re not broken, or you’re still beautiful, or it’s not that bad. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead gently against yours. His voice was raw and honest.

“You think I want a normal life?”

You blinked at him.

“I spent years being turned into someone else’s weapon,” He whispered. “I wake up some nights not knowing what year it is. I have blood on my hands I can’t wash off, and a mind that doesn’t always feel like mine. You think I came here for normal?”

He exhaled shakily. “No, sweetheart. I came here for you. Just you.”

Your chest caved with a soft, helpless sob.

“I don’t want perfect,” He said. “I don’t want easy. I want real. And you… this pain, this fight, all of it; it’s real. You’re still here. You keep going. And if you think for one second I’m walking away because your body’s at war with you…”

His hand slid into yours, careful and steady.

“…then you don’t know me yet. I choose to be here,” He said. “Not out of obligation. Not because I feel sorry for you. But because I love you. All of you. Even on the bad days. Especially on the bad days.”

Tears welled up before you could stop them. You hated crying in front of people but with Bucky, it never felt like weakness. It just felt honest, safe.

He pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin, wrapping both arms around you like a fortress. “You are not a burden,” He murmured. “You are my home.”

And in the stillness, something inside you began to loosen. Not the pain, no, that stayed. But the guilt, the weight of it all began to lift just a little as you let yourself be held.

For once, it felt okay to just exist. To be loved, even when you didn’t feel lovable.

And Bucky held you like he’d never let you forget it again.

Because he didn’t try to fix you.

He just loved you.

Exactly as you are.

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.

You Didn’t See That Coming, Did You?

Summary: You and Bucky Barnes turn your precognition into a playful, flirtatious game. What starts as harmless teasing evolves into a deeper connection as Bucky challenges your abilities in creative ways, from sparring matches to leaving cryptic notes and pulling mischievous stunts. Eventually, the game becomes your shared language and you have the quiet realization that even when you see things coming, some moments are worth letting surprise you. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power of precognition.

Word Count: 1.4k+

A/N: Honestly, I was worried how I’d create a good story with this power. However, it turned out so fun. I definitely have a second part in the works if y’all like it too. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You weren’t exactly a spy. Or a soldier. Not even an Avenger. You were just… useful. That’s what Natasha had called you the first time she brought you in. “This one sees things. Makes life easier.”

Your gift, if you could call it that, was simple in concept and chaotic in execution: you could see short flashes of the future. Usually just a few seconds ahead. Sometimes minutes. Rarely, a day. It wasn’t flashy like Wanda’s magic or Steve’s shield throws. It was quiet, subtle, and often annoying. Like déjà vu that never stopped happening.

That’s how Bucky Barnes became your daily torment.

The man had the audacity to be interesting. A mystery wrapped in a grumpy, tactical jacket with eyes that were always watching. He didn’t trust easily. Neither did you. But trust was a little easier to fake when you already knew what someone was about to say.

At first, he hated it. You’d finish his sentences before he even opened his mouth:

“You're going to say we should sweep left instead of right.” “What the hell-“ “I know. You hate that.”

He scowled at you for a solid two weeks straight. But then came the mission in Prague, when a bullet meant for his temple missed by a fraction because you shoved him sideways exactly one second before it hit. After that, his scowl softened into something else. Something wary. Something curious.

"How did you know?" He’d asked that night in the safehouse, a whisper between the click of his metal fingers unbuckling his gear.

You looked him straight in the eye. “I always know.”

You didn’t mean to flirt. That was the problem with precognition. Sometimes you said things you hadn’t decided to say yet.

Bucky started testing you after that. He’d toss questions at you when your back was turned. “What am I thinking right now?” “What number am I holding up?” “What color shirt is Steve going to wear tomorrow?” You were right every single time.

Eventually, he stopped testing and started playing.

He’d make dramatic predictions just to throw you off. "I bet I’m going to trip over that table."

“Nope, you’re going to stub your toe on the leg and then swear under your breath like a cartoon villain.”

Which he did. Twice. You caught him smiling after the second time.

Somewhere between missions and late-night kitchen raids, you began orbiting each other like clockwork. He’d brew two mugs of coffee without asking if you wanted one. You’d hand him his forgotten gloves before he remembered them. He’d mutter, “You already knew I’d forget, didn’t you?” and you’d just shrug, sipping your drink like you weren’t smug about it.

The Avengers noticed. Steve raised an eyebrow at your synchronized movements. Sam teased Bucky mercilessly. Natasha didn’t say anything, just gave you a knowing smirk that said she’d been right all along.

The thing about seeing the future is, you never get surprised. Not really.

But Bucky managed it.

It happened on a Tuesday. You were both holed up in a quiet corner of the compound, a storm pelting the windows. You were curled up with a book pretending to read, and Bucky was tinkering with his knife. You saw the future as easily as breathing. The next page. His next move. The way he’d stretch, then ask if you were cold. You prepared to tell him you were fine before he said anything.

But he didn’t follow the script.

Instead, he reached into his pocket and held something out. A crumpled slip of paper. It was a fortune cookie message, the cheap kind from the takeout place a few blocks away.

“Surprises are the universe’s way of making sure you’re paying attention.”

You blinked.

“You didn’t see that coming, did you?” He asked, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. For once, your foresight had gone quiet. No flashes. No hints.

Bucky chuckled. “Finally caught you off guard.”

And you realized, he’d been trying to surprise you this whole time. To prove he could. Not to annoy you. But to know you, in a way you couldn’t predict.

You looked at him then, really looked. The way his hair fell into his eyes. The tension in his shoulders as he waited for your reaction. The hope he was trying not to show.

You smiled, slow and genuine.

“I didn’t see that coming,” You admitted.

He grinned back. “Good. Maybe I’ll keep you guessing.”

And for the first time in a long, long while, you hoped he would.

After that night, Bucky made it a thing. A challenge. A game neither of you officially acknowledged but one you both played with increasing intensity.

“I bet you think I’m going to grab the left mug,” He’d say the next morning, hand hovering indecisively between two identical coffee cups.

“You already decided on the right one three seconds ago,” You’d reply, not even looking up.

“Damn.”

The rules were simple: he tried to surprise you. You tried to stay unshaken. It was fun and harmless. At first. But then came the curveballs. You walked into the training room one afternoon and found the lights dimmed, the floor cleared, and Bucky standing dead center with a smug expression.

“What’s this?” You asked.

He tossed something underhand at you. A soft, rolled-up T-shirt. Your T-shirt. “Figured you’d want to change before I beat your ass in hand-to-hand.”

You caught the shirt easily. “You really think I didn’t see this ambush coming?”

He grinned. “Oh, I knew you saw it. Doesn’t mean I won’t win.”

You sparred for half an hour, laughter echoing off the walls. You dodged every feint, every fake-out but there were moments when he moved unpredictably. Sloppy on purpose. Lazy where he should’ve been sharp. You were reading him, but he was adapting.

By the end of it, you were both breathless, flushed, your back against the mat with his weight braced above you, metal arm warm against your ribs. He was close enough to kiss. Close enough that the future went blurry.

You expected him to pull away but he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in and whispered, “Didn’t see that one, did you?”

Your heart stuttered. “No, not this time.”

But he didn’t kiss you, not yet. That bastard just smirked, rolled off, and offered a hand to pull you up.

The game? Still on. And it only escalated from there.

Sticky notes started appearing around your room: “Bet you can’t guess what I’ll cook tonight.” “Wrong sock color. Check again.” “Don’t look in the third drawer unless you want to scream.” (You did. It was a glitter bomb. He laughed for ten minutes.)

He started carrying around coins, flipping them when you least expected it. “Heads or tails?” He’d ask, already knowing you’d call it right. But then he’d switch coins on you mid-flip. Or not flip at all. Or throw it across the room and say, “Plot twist.”

He lived to frustrate you and he loved when you slipped.

The game became your language. Your dance.

You pretended not to know when he would brush your hand in the hallway. You pretended not to see the moment he’d glance at your lips and look away. And eventually, you started bending the truth. Saying you “weren’t sure” even when you were. Letting him win.

Because sometimes, it was nice not knowing.

One night, you found a note slipped under your door: “Meet me on the roof. No peeking ahead.”

The stars were out when you arrived, cold air kissing your skin. Bucky was already there, leaning against the railing, arms crossed, watching the city lights twinkle below.

You stood beside him in silence.

“I had a vision,” You said softly after a moment. “About tonight.”

He looked sideways at you, wary but amused. “Oh yeah? How’s it end?”

You smiled. “That depends.”

He leaned a little closer. “On what?”

“On whether you finally kiss me, or if you chicken out again.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “I thought I was supposed to surprise you.”

You shrugged. “You still can.”

He hesitated but not for long. The kiss was unhurried. Intentional. Less about passion, more about proving something. That even if you saw every move, every possible path, this choice was still his. And he was choosing you.

When he pulled back, he searched your eyes.

“Did I get you?” He whispered.

You nodded, breath catching. “Yeah. You got me.”

“Good,” He smiled. “Because I’ve got at least ten more moves planned and I bet you won’t see half of them coming.”

You laughed, head against his chest, and let the future fade for once just enough to stay in this moment.

Game on.

Crimson Waters, Stolen Hearts (Pt. 2)

Summary: Things start to shift as Captain Bucky Barnes begins offering quiet comforts, protecting you more than necessary, and ignoring chances to trade you for riches. As time progresses, he slowly begins to reveal the possessive intensity growing beneath his calm exterior, insisting he won’t give up something he now considers his. (Pirate AU! | Soft!Dark!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.6k+

Main Masterlist | Part 1

Four days passed.

Four sunrises since they’d taken you. Four sunsets since the Captain handed your letter off to a quiet courier ship that slipped away before dawn. You'd watched it from your cabin window, how quickly freedom could vanish over the horizon.

You didn’t beg, didn’t plead. You stayed sharp. Quiet. Unshaken.

You were worth more that way anyways.

Bucky didn’t speak to you every day, but you always felt him. Heard his voice outside. Saw him at a distance on the deck, barking orders, speaking low with Natasha or Steve. Always in motion. Never laughing. Never smiling.

He didn’t treat you like a prisoner, but he didn’t treat you like a guest either.

You weren’t chained, but you weren’t free either.

Instead, your days began to take on a strange routine. Natasha brought you food. Sam taught you how to climb to the crow’s nest, “in case of emergency,” he said dryly. Clint started tossing you small knives like a game, and after catching one, you earned a surprised look and a rare grin.

But it was Bucky who lingered in your thoughts, even when he wasn’t near.

Because when he was, when he did appear at your door, or pass you at the railing, or glance over during a storm briefing, something inside you tightened. Not in fear.

In something… else. And that scared you more than the pirates ever had.

It was the fifth night when the storm came.

Not the kind you could plan for. The kind that crept up and swallowed everything.

The sea rose in black walls. Rain fell sideways. Sails groaned and snapped. The deck became a blur of boots and ropes and shouted orders.

You were in your cabin until a hard knock nearly broke the door open.

“Move!” Steve Rogers barked as he shoved it wide, soaked and scowling. “Below deck’s flooding. Captain wants you up top!”

You didn’t hesitate.

Water slammed against the ship as you emerged. Wind tore at your hair. Salt stung your eyes. You tried to move, but the deck was chaos. Voices screamed. Ropes whipped past.

And then, suddenly, you slipped.

Your foot went out from under you and your body slammed hard against the slick wood. You skidded dangerously close to the railing, heart in your throat.

A flash of silver.

Then, arms. Solid and unyielding. A metal hand grabbed your wrist, hauling you upright.

Bucky.

“You alright!?” He barked over the storm.

You could barely hear him, but you nodded, coughing.

“Stay by me!” He ordered, pulling you toward the center of the deck. His grip was strong, possessive. Protective. “Don’t go near the railings again.”

“I can handle myself!” You shouted.

Lightning flashed. He yanked you closer, face inches from yours.

“Not out here, you can’t.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Because in that moment, between the thunder and the crashing waves, you saw something raw flicker across his face.

Panic.

Not rage. Not annoyance.

Real panic.

For you.

But then it was gone. Buried beneath that cold command again. His hand stayed tight on your arm until the sails were secured and the wind began to calm.

By the time dawn broke, the storm had passed. Half the crew collapsed where they stood. And you? You were back in your cabin. Drenched, bruised, exhausted, and alive.

And not alone.

Because Captain Barnes was still there.

He sat at your desk, staring out the tiny window in silence. Rain trickled down the glass. His coat was soaked through, his hair curling at the edges.

You were the one who broke the silence.

“You didn’t have to pull me back.”

He didn’t look at you. “Yes, I did.”

You hesitated. “Why?”

His jaw ticked. And then, finally, he said it:

“Because I need you alive.”

For the ransom. You told yourself that. You repeated it. Over and over.

But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something in his voice had cracked just a little.

Like maybe the ransom… wasn’t the only reason anymore.

The aftermath of the storm was worse than expected.

Sails had torn straight through like paper. The main mast groaned each time the ship tilted, splintered deep at its base. The lower deck reeked of damp wood and blood. Two crewmen were injured, one hobbling with a splint, the other stitched along the thigh by Bruce’s shaking hands. Everything was heavy, slow, and weighed down by exhaustion.

Everyone looked to the Captain for rest.

But he never took it.

Bucky Barnes hadn’t stopped moving since the storm broke. He bled from a shallow cut above his eyebrow, his shirt clinging to him with seawater and sweat, his left arm glinting faintly beneath the torn sleeve where metal met flesh. He worked beside the others without pause, pulling down ruined rigging, knotting new lines, and securing down crates that had nearly gone overboard.

He snapped orders, yes, but took the brunt of the labor himself. Anyone who tried to help him too long was pushed away. He only let Steve in briefly. Sam was told to “get some goddamn sleep before you fall.” Even Clint got barked at. Twice. Loud enough for the whole ship to hear.

You watched it from the shadows of the main deck. No one told you to stay inside this time, but it didn’t matter.

No one approached you because no one dared.

Because wherever Bucky was on the ship, his eyes found you. Every time. A flick of his gaze across the chaos, checking to make sure you were still there. Still standing. Still breathing.

You weren’t stupid though. You knew you weren’t here by invitation, but the way his attention lingered like he was measuring every step you took, every glance someone else gave you, it felt like more than caution.

It felt like possession.

By the time the sun began to sink beneath the horizon, bleeding gold across the sea, most of the crew had slumped into hammocks or curled up against the railing. Their strength was spent. Their hands were blistered. Natasha was sat cross-legged by the stern, boots off, and sharpening a blade. Steve had a rag over his shoulder and blood on his knuckles.

But Bucky?

Still moving, walking, and silent. And still looking at you.

You didn’t expect him to stop and you certainly didn’t expect him to approach.

But he did.

He didn’t speak at first, just reached into his long coat and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. He held it out to you like it was nothing. Like it was just another piece of rigging. No ceremony. No explanation.

Your brow furrowed as you took it, and paused. It was a bundle of tea leaves. Expensive. Familiar. Yours.

The very same kind you’d rationed in private aboard the merchant vessel. The one your father had specially imported from the southern ports. You hadn’t seen it since your capture.

Your breath caught. “What is this?”

Bucky met your eyes, his voice calm and low. “It’s what you drank. Every night. You had a tin in the third drawer under your bunk.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the cloth. “You went through my things?”

His expression didn’t change. “No.”

There was a heavy pause.

“I watched.”

He said it without shame. Without even a flicker of hesitation. Not as an apology, but a statement of fact. Like it was perfectly acceptable for him to have memorized your nightly rituals, your favorite comforts, your private moments. Like remembering your tea preference was as natural as remembering your name.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you said nothing and took the tea.

That night, while the crew slept on soggy hammocks and patched sails above deck, you returned to your small cabin and hesitated at the door.

Something had changed.

You stepped in slowly. The air was warmer, more lived in. A single candle flickered on your writing desk, its wax halfway down. Someone had been here. Not long ago.

Your cot had a new blanket, thick, woolen, and dark red. The kind only traded in coldwater ports, expensive. There was a tray on your desk: warm food, not salted rations. A bowl of soup, still steaming faintly. Someone had left a small pile of books beside the basin of clean water, all untouched. All clearly brought for you.

You moved through the room like someone sleepwalking, fingertips brushing over the thick material of the blanket. The stitching was tight. Professional. Not stolen, but commissioned.

Your gaze went back to the tea in your hand. This wasn’t care. This was curation. A room transformed not for comfort, but for keeping.

The next afternoon, Clint dropped beside you on the steps of the upper deck without asking. His bow was slung lazily over one shoulder, and he had a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“He’s gone full beast-of-burden over you, y’know,” Clint muttered, cracking his neck.

You gave him a sidelong glance. “Over me?”

He jerked his head toward the main area. “Split his side open on a broken hook this morning. Refused stitches. Nat tried and got yelled at. Steve tried, got decked.”

“I didn’t ask him to–”

“You didn’t have to,” Clint cut in, low and dry. “He doesn’t do this. Not for anyone.”

You looked down at your hands, then back toward the bow of the ship, where Bucky stood in the light with his coat snapping in the wind, shirt sticking to his back, and movements deliberate. He was tired, controlled, and still working. Always working.

Clint watched your silence for a long beat, then added, “By the way, the courier returned.”

Your stomach turned.

“What courier?”

“The one from your ransom letter. It came back yesterday morning, just before dawn. You were asleep.”

You froze. “And?”

Clint scratched at his stubble. “Your father agreed. Said he’d pay double if we delivered you before sundown. Yesterday.”

Your heart stopped cold.

“…And Bucky?”

Clint gave a single, humorless chuckle. “We’re still sailing.”

You sat very still, fingers clenching in your lap.

It wasn’t about ransom anymore.

It hadn’t been since the night he pulled you from the storm. Since he started bleeding just to keep your world warm. Since he began rearranging his entire ship not for profit, but for you.

He was still calling you a prisoner. Still keeping his voice calm and his gaze cool. Still pretending this was about leverage.

But deep down, somewhere twisted and raw, you knew.

You weren’t being held. You were being claimed.

And Captain James Barnes was going to ruin himself to make sure the sea never got close enough to take you away again.

The silence between you and the Captain had changed. It wasn’t the kind that came from two strangers occupying different corners of the same ship. It wasn’t even the kind that hung between captor and captive, like smoke refusing to clear. This silence had weight now. An edge. A sharpness that pricked at your skin the longer it stretched on.

You hadn't spoken to him since Clint told you the truth. That your ransom had been accepted, that your father had offered to pay double for your return, and yet… you were still here. Still breathing sea air, still wrapped in expensive blankets, still sipping the tea he brought you with hands still bleeding from work he refused to delegate.

It wasn’t about money anymore.

It was about you.

And now, as the stars blinked into view and the crew fell into the hush of exhaustion, you found yourself climbing the steps to the quarterdeck where Captain James Barnes stood alone, silhouetted against the darkening sky.

He didn’t turn to acknowledge you. His posture was rigid, boots planted wide at the helm, coat rippling faintly in the breeze. You saw the faint shimmer of sweat clinging to the back of his neck. He hadn’t rested. Not since the storm. Not since you.

“Captain,” You called out, voice steady despite the tightness in your chest.

He didn’t turn.

“You’re not supposed to be up here,” He replied coolly, eyes fixed on the horizon.

You took another step closer. “We need to talk.”

“I’m busy.”

“No.” You exhaled slowly, letting the truth gather at your tongue. “You’re stalling.”

He stilled, if possible, even more. The tension in his frame told you he knew what was coming and that he’d hoped to avoid it.

“The courier came back,” You said, watching him.

He didn’t respond. The ocean moved rhythmically against the hull in the stillness.

“My father,” You continued, “He offered the ransom. You got your price and could’ve handed me over. Sailed away, bought a new ship, and paid your crew for months. But you didn’t.”

Still nothing.

You stepped closer, until only a foot of space separated you, and the smell of salt, leather, and blood clung to the air between you. “Why?”

A long, heavy beat passed.

Then he said quietly, voice so low you nearly missed it: “Because I don’t take payment for something I’m not giving up.”

The world slowed.

Your breath caught in your chest, stuck between a heartbeat and something more dangerous.

You stared at him. “I’m not a thing.”

At last, he turned to you. The moonlight caught his eyes, blue-gray and unreadable. There was no smile on his lips, no mockery or cruelty. Just something deeper. Something darker. A quiet, burning want that he didn’t even bother trying to hide anymore.

“I know,” He murmured.

You felt your heart thrum faster, uncomfortably loud in your chest. “Then what am I to you?”

His gaze dragged over you slowly, like he was memorizing every line of your face. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before. More raw. “You were leverage. Then you were a risk. Now…”

He paused, jaw twitching as if the words cost him something.

“Now you’re the only thing on this ship I give a damn about.”

It landed in your stomach like the drop of an anchor. You could barely breathe around it.

You backed up half a step. “I’m not yours.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes, regret maybe. Pain. But it vanished just as quickly, replaced by something steadier. More resolved.

“No,” He said, softly. “Not yet.”

The quiet between you stretched taut, like the edge of a blade held between steady hands.

He wasn’t threatening you. Not physically. But there was no mistaking it. This man who killed for coin and bled for reputation was unraveling all of it at the altar of you. Quietly and willingly, with the same discipline he commanded his crew with. He was turning that need inward, carving out space in his world that only you could fill.

You tried to look away, but you couldn’t. Not when he looked at you like this. Like he already belonged to you and was just waiting for you to realize it.

That night, your cabin was still warm from the candle someone had lit. The blanket still soft beneath your hand. The tea already steeped, left in silence. But it felt different now.

Not like comfort, like a gift. Like a man who didn’t know how to love gently, but was trying anyway.

You moved to the window of your door and pulled back the curtain.

And there he was. Outside your door, seated on a barrel with his sword laid across his lap, the shadows swallowing the lines of exhaustion in his face. He wasn’t guarding the ship anymore.

He was guarding you.

And as the wind picked up, tugging gently at his coat, he looked up, eyes catching yours through the window, steady and unblinking.

He didn’t nod, didn’t speak.

But in that stillness, you understood.

This wasn’t about gold. It wasn’t about power, pride, or war. It was about you.

And if someone came to take you now, even if they offered kingdoms in return, he’d burn every last one of them to the sea to keep you.

Raccoon Negotiations

Summary: You finally get to meet a talking raccoon whom tries multiple times to bargain for your boyfriend’s metal arm. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.3k+

A/N: Requested by @daystarpoet and @michaelfuckinglangdon which was super fun to fulfill and imagine. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

You were mid-bite of a bagel (untoasted, cold, probably two days old, yet still incredible) when a voice said, “You gonna eat that, or are you just giving it mouth-to-mouth?”

You froze.

Your eyes scanned the room. Empty except for Bucky, still in the hallway arguing with Stark about defensive systems. And then, sitting on the counter next to the coffee pot like he’d always belonged there, was…

A raccoon.

A small, vaguely pissed-off raccoon standing on two legs, holding what looked like a plasma rifle, wearing a jumpsuit, and staring at your bagel like it owed him rent.

You blinked.

He blinked back.

Then, with the certainty of someone who’d clearly never interacted with you before, he added: “You alright there, human? Or did you have a stroke while chewing?”

You stood up slowly, eyes wide. “You can talk.”

Rocket snorted. “Wow. You must be the brainy one around here.”

“Okay, no like- I knew there was a raccoon on the ship. Bucky told me. I just thought he was exaggerating. Or having another weird Winter Soldier-flashback dream thing.”

“Ex-cuse you,” Rocket said, leaping off the counter and stalking toward you. “I’m not just some Earth-trash mammal with a vocabulary. I’m Rocket. I’ve broken into more heavily-armed fortresses than you’ve had dumb thoughts.”

“That’s a bold claim,” You said. “Because I believe the moon is just Earth’s emotional support rock and thunder is just the sky clapping for itself.”

Rocket squinted at you. “…okay, yeah, maybe I underestimated you.”

You leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowing in awe. “You’re so small. And yet, the homicidal energy is enormous. You’re like if Bucky had fur and worse impulse control.”

“Hey-“

You turned to where Bucky had finally entered the room and was already sighing. He didn’t even look surprised. “Yeah, that’s Rocket. Rocket, this is the disaster I’m dating.”

You beamed. “He talks! He walks! He’s a death machine in a jumpsuit! I love him. This is so validating.”

Bucky rubbed his temples. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Rocket perked up immediately. “Wait… you’re dating the arm guy?”

You paused. Looked at Bucky. Then back at Rocket.

“…Yeah?”

A slow, terrifying grin spread across Rocket’s face.

“You got any plans for the arm?” He asked casually. “Like… long term?”

You tilted your head. “Other than excessive touching and probably biting it during arguments? No.”

Rocket rubbed his furry little hands together. “Because I have a few ideas. Think we could reach a business agreement? Little trade? You get, say… a box of Kree tech I may or may not have stolen, and I get to borrow the arm.”

“Borrow?” You asked. “Like, while Bucky’s still wearing it?”

“Oh no,” Rocket said gleefully. “I mean borrow in the very permanent, kind of dismember-y sense.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “You touch the arm, you lose yours.”

Rocket scoffed. “Killjoy.”

You grinned, still watching the two of them bicker like this was the most normal day of your life. Honestly, it was close. You had once gotten into an argument with Sam about the physics of penguin knees for forty-five minutes. This? This was pretty average.

Rocket narrowed his eyes. “You sure you’re not a Guardian? You’ve got the same mix of brilliant and brainless I usually work with.”

You put your hands on your hips. “You think I’d survive five minutes on your ship? Clint holds it against me that I once put a Pop-Tart in the microwave in the wrapper. I’m a walking OSHA violation.”

Rocket smirked. “I like you.”

You beamed. “I like you too, murder rat.”

“Raccoon.”

“Tomato, to-mah-to.”

Bucky, in the background, stared into the middle distance like he was reliving every bad decision that led to this exact moment.

-

While the two of you clicked in some strange way, it became increasingly exhausting when you realized Rocket was not a quitter. Not when it came to schematics, explosions, or black-market tech auctions. And certainly not when it came to Bucky Barnes’ vibranium arm.

The first time he brought it up again, you were eating spaghetti with a fork that bent mid-twirl because you'd put it in the dishwasher with an experimental metal compound. You stared at the spiraled noodle carnage with mild offense.

Rocket, perched on the back of the couch, cleared his throat. “So. Hypothetically. If someone were to give you a fully operational piece of alien tech that projects holograms and can play music through bone conduction-“

“No,” You said without looking up.

Rocket scowled. “You didn’t even let me finish!”

“You said ‘hypothetically.’ That’s code for ‘I want to take Bucky’s arm again.’”

He grumbled something in what might’ve been space-raccoon swear words.

You smiled faintly. “Also, holograms and music? Tempting, but I already built something that projects TikToks onto the wall when I whistle the opening to Phantom of the Opera.”

Rocket blinked. “…You need to be studied.”

You stuffed more spaghetti in your mouth and spoke through it, “I have been. Briefly. They sent me home with a helmet and a fidget cube. 2/10. Never again.”

The second time was more of a performance. Rocket had dragged you into a secure SHIELD hangar with a tarp over something massive.

“This,” He said dramatically, yanking the cover back, “is a rebuilt Sakaarian battle drone. She sings, flies, and makes waffles. Trade you for the arm.”

You took one look, gasped, and immediately sprinted past him.

“Oh my god! She has a toaster slot!?”

Rocket beamed. “So we have a deal?”

You turned, clutching the side of the drone with wide, reverent eyes.

“No,” You said, “but I will name her Beepie.”

Rocket’s face fell. “You’re not even gonna run this by him?”

You gave him a look. “Rocket. I love you. You’re the first talking raccoon I’ve met that wasn’t a hallucination and validated my belief that half the raccoon species are murderous. But if you think I’m trading even one bolt of Bucky’s arm, which, by the way, I have kissed more than I care to admit, then you don’t understand the depth of my insanity.”

There was a long pause. Then:

“I’ll throw in a jetpack,” Rocket muttered.

You gasped. “With adjustable altitude?”

“Yep.”

“Still no,” You said even though your answer sounded like it physically hurt you.

The third time, he got sneaky.

You were tinkering in the lab late at night, hunched over a circuit board, tongue sticking out in deep concentration, when Rocket skittered in and dropped a sleek metal glove onto your desk.

“Custom-made,” He said nonchalantly. “Enhanced dexterity. Built-in taser. Perfect for a girl with too many ideas and not enough restraint.”

You barely glanced at it.

“Rocket.”

He leaned in. “You could build anything with this. A gravity-flipping belt. Portable wormholes. A coffee maker that actually respects you. All I need is-“

“Bucky’s arm. I know. I’m not stupid.”

“Debatable.”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile and leaned in conspiratorially. “Here’s the thing, furball. That arm? Not mine to give. I didn’t build it. I didn’t earn it. I just kiss it sometimes and occasionally let it hold snacks. I love him. I’m not trading a part of him. Even for cool stuff. Even for toaster robots.”

Rocket looked genuinely surprised. “You’d really pass up a Sakaarian war-toaster… for him?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Even when he leaves wet towels on the bed. Even when he sighs like an old man every time I rewire the TV to play Jeopardy in reverse.”

There was a beat.

Rocket groaned, flopping onto the table in defeat. “You’re the worst. The absolute worst.”

You grinned and patted his head. “Thanks, murder rat.”

“Raccoon.”

Bucky appeared in the doorway then, raising a brow as he took in the scene: Rocket sulking, you cradling a vibro-glove like it was a puppy, and your very serious expression of moral superiority.

“I don’t wanna know,” He said dryly.

You beamed. “Good. Because if you did, you’d probably start sleeping with your arm chained to your chest.”

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.

Beach Day

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

Summary: You and your caregivers go on a trip to the beach where you have an action-packed day of building sand castles, splashing in the water, and spending time with your daddies.

Word Count: 3.1k+

A/N: I tried to make reader actually speak more this time, more excited in little space. I’m also going to the beach this week, so maybe I’ll find some inspiration to write more beach-related scenarios. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Sunlight peeks through your curtains, warm and golden. Before you’re even fully awake, you feel it, that fluttery kind of excitement deep in your belly. Today is the day you take a trip with your daddies to the beach.

You practically tumble out of bed, your stuffie clutched in one hand and your blanket trailing behind you like a cape. Your feet patter down the hall to the kitchen where Steve is already pouring coffee and Bucky’s at the table packing snacks and food into a cooler bag.

As soon as they see you, both of their faces light up.

“Well, good morning, sunshine,” Steve says with a grin, crouching down as you barrel into him for a hug.

“‘S beach day!” You declare, bouncing on your toes and giggling. “Gon’ swim, an’ eat sammiches, anddd… maybe find a crab!”

Steve chuckles and ruffles your bedhead. “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

Bucky comes over and lifts you into his arms with a dramatic motion. “You sound ready to explode with excitement, doll.”

“Boom!” You shout happily, flopping into his shoulder with a squeal.

“Alright, tiny firecracker,” Bucky says with a smirk, kissing your temple, “Let’s pick out that swimsuit, huh? I laid out a few.”

He carries you back to your room, setting you down in front of the bed where three different swimsuits are folded: one with little sharks, one with rainbows and glitter, and one with ducks wearing sunglasses.

You gasp. “Ducks!! ‘M wearin’ the ducky one!”

“Excellent choice,” Steve says from the doorway, holding up a tiny bottle of sunscreen like it’s a secret weapon. “Operation Sunshield begins after we’re dressed.”

You squeal again and squirm excitedly while Bucky helps you into the ducky swimsuit, gently tugging the fabric into place and letting you spin in front of the mirror.

“Look at you,” He teases. “The duck commander herself.”

You pose with your hands on your hips. “Quack,” You say seriously before breaking into giggles.

Steve brings over your favorite sunhat, the one with little cat ears sewn on top. He crouches down to tie the strings carefully under your chin. “There. Our beach baby is ready.”

You nod with a wide smile, pointing to yourself. “Beach baby. Dat’s me.”

Bucky hands you your beach bag, shaped like a strawberry, already packed with your floatie, water bottle, a towel, and your favorite shell-collecting bucket. You peek inside and spot your teddy tucked in there too, wearing his own little sunglasses.

“Brownie comin’ tooooo!” You squeal, hugging the bag tight.

Steve chuckles and kisses your forehead. “Of course. He’s our co-pilot.”

You skip toward the door, flip-flops smacking the floor, bag bouncing against your side, already humming a made-up beach song.

And behind you, Steve and Bucky exchange a soft look, all warm smiles and quiet love, before following you out the door.

It doesn’t take long until you’re all buckled into your seat in the back of Steve’s big SUV, your strawberry beach bag beside you and Brownie resting in your lap. Your feet are swinging back and forth and you’ve got a sippy cup of cold apple juice in one hand.

Bucky’s driving, sunglasses on and arm relaxed out the window, while Steve twists in the front seat to check on you again.

“Got everything, sweetheart?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Mhm! Brownie, got snacks, got juice… oh! Forgot da crayons- wait, no I didn’t! They in the bag!” You unzip it and proudly show off your zip-up pouch full of stubby, broken crayons and coloring pages.

Steve gives you a dramatic sigh of relief. “Phew. Beach emergency averted.”

Bucky grins at the road. “Can’t survive a beach trip without crayons. Everyone knows that.”

You lean back and hum a little song to yourself while kicking your feet. Then, suddenly, “Papa?”

Steve turns again, his expression soft. “Yeah, bug?”

“How many waves do ya fink there gonna be? A gazillion?”

He hums in thought before answering, “Maybe a gazillion and one.”

You giggle and wiggle in your seat. “I’mma jump in alla them! Gonna splash ev’rywhere!”

Bucky snorts, joking. “Better not splash me, unless you wanna get launched into orbit.”

You gasp, wide-eyed. “Like a rocket?!”

“Yup. Straight to the moon, kiddo.”

Steve leans over and smacks Bucky’s arm playfully. “No launching beach babies today, sergeant.”

“Awwww,” You whine with a little pout, “But I wanna go moon swimmin’…”

They both laugh, and Bucky says, “Okay, okay. We’ll settle for ocean splashing. But you are gonna need to hold our hands in the water if you don’t have your floatie with you.”

You cross your arms with a dramatic sigh. “Cuz waves big?”

Steve nods. “And ‘cause we love you. Wanna keep you close.”

That makes you go quiet for a second before you agree with a nod, “Okay. I hold your hands forever!”

The car is quiet after that for a few minutes, filled only with the sound of tires on pavement and the music playing softly through the speakers, one of your favorite silly beach songs.

Eventually, your eyes start to feel a little heavy from the sun and excitement, and your voice gets small. “Tell me when we’re there?”

Steve turns slightly in his seat, watching you snuggle up with your teddy bear. “Of course, baby. You rest. We’ll get you there safe.”

And with Bucky humming along to the song and Steve’s assurance warm and steady, you drift off to sleep, dreaming of ducks in sunglasses and waves that reach the stars.

-

The car slows down into a parking lot full of stray sand, and you awaken instinctively.

“We here?” You mumble, still a little sleepy, rubbing your eyes.

“We’re here, baby,” Steve says, twisting to smile at you. “And there’s the shore.”

You sit up fast, blinking at the blue sky, the seagulls flying overhead, and the endless stretch of sparkling ocean beyond the dunes. Your mouth opens in a soft gasp. “Iss sooooo biiiiig!”

Bucky chuckles as he parks the car. “Told ya the ocean was a giant bathtub.”

“Bath tub don’t got birds,” You correct him seriously.

Steve laughs and gets out, opening the back door and unbuckling your seatbelt and helping you out. “You’re right, smarty-pants. No seagulls allowed in bathtubs.”

Bucky lifts the beach bag and tosses a towel over his shoulder. Your floatie, shaped like a giant donut with pink frosting, is tucked under his arm. “Alright, sunshine, grab a hand.”

You immediately reach for both of them, one hand in each of theirs, swinging between them as the three of you walk toward the beach. You can feel the sand seep onto the surface of your flip-flops and the ocean breeze tugs playfully at your hat, but you don’t mind one bit. You’re too busy bouncing in excitement.

“Papa! Daddy! Look, look, a doggie!” You shout, pointing to a golden retriever with a stick in its mouth.

“I see him,” Bucky says. “Reckon he’s here for the waves too.”

“Bet he surfs,” You whisper, awed.

The beach opens up in front of you, wide and bright, with the tide glittering under the sun. Steve lays down a big blanket while Bucky sets up the umbrella and cooler. You spin in place, arms out, squealing, “So big!! So blue!! So sandyyyy!!”

“You’re gonna be so sticky by the end of the day,” Steve teases, “Sticky and sandy and tired.”

You beam. “Dat’s the best kinda day.”

He chuckles, holding out the donut floatie. “Want it on now or wait till we go in?”

You tap your chin like you’re thinking real hard, then answer, “Gon’ wait. ‘Mma build da castle first.”

Bucky sets the floatie down, securing it to make sure it doesn’t blow away in the wind. “Then let’s build the biggest castle in the whole world. Fit for a beach princess.”

“I’m a queen,” You say matter-of-factly, plopping down and grabbing your bucket.

“Apologies, your majesty,” Bucky replies with a bow, handing you your shovel.

You take it gratefully. Now sitting criss-cross in the sand, shovel in hand, and your tongue poking out the side of your mouth in deep, serious concentration. “Dis side gonna be da dungeon,” You declare, patting down a lopsided tower with a wet slap.

“Uh-oh,” Steve says, leaning over with a raised brow. “Who’s getting sent to the dungeon?”

You look up at him dramatically. “Any bad guys. Like… da people who steal snacks. Or take my floatie wifout askin’.”

Bucky smirks. “That first one’s harsh, kiddo. Even I snuck a bite of your granola bar last week.”

You gasp, eyes wide. “DADDY!”

He holds up both hands. “I surrender to the queen.”

You scramble up and point your shovel at him. “To the dungeon!!”

Steve is already half-laughing as he scoops up a little wet sand with his palm and begins forming a jail cell beside your crooked tower. “There. You can lock him up right next to the crab moat.”

“Crab moat?” You squeak, spinning to look and sure enough, Steve has drawn a little wavy trench in the sand around your castle.

“Yup. To keep the villains out. Filled with tiny crab soldiers.”

You light up. “Can I name ‘em?!”

Bucky grins from where he’s now digging a tunnel. “They need names if they’re gonna work for you.”

You begin listing in a sing-song voice as you place little seashells at intervals around the moat. “Dis one’s Sir Pincie. Dat one’s Lady Clawdia. Ooooh! And King Crunch!”

“You’re a natural monarch,” Steve says, brushing sand off your nose gently.

The three of you work for a long while like that. Steve shapes towers and walls with his big, careful hands, while Bucky digs tunnels and hides treasure shells underneath the sand (“For adventurers later,” He says with a wink). Meanwhile, you are darting between them, giving orders, adding stick flags, and occasionally squashing the sand with your knees when things get too exciting.

At one point, you tug Steve’s hand and whisper, “Papa, look! I made a tiny throne!” and point to a lumpy mound near your castle.

He crouches beside you, looking at your creation with a warm smile. “That’s perfect, baby. Just your size.”

You plop onto it,sticking your legs out and puffing up proudly. “Now I’m da queen of da whole beach.”

Bucky bows low. “Queen of Shelltown.”

“Queen of Snacksville,” Steve adds with a smile.

You nod seriously. “I rule wif kindness… and naps.”

Sand coats your legs and arms, your cheeks are flushed pink from the sun and all the giggles, and there’s a little grain of sand stuck to your bottom lip, but you’re glowing from all the fun.

And when the tide starts creeping closer, Steve leans over and murmurs, “Wanna defend the castle, or let the waves have it?”

You consider that deeply, then whisper, “They can have it. I’ll build a new one. Wif you an’ Daddy.”

Steve kisses your temple. “Always, sweetheart.”

-

The castle’s been claimed by the tide, you had waved goodbye to Sir Pincie and Lady Clawdia, and now it’s ocean time.

Bucky crouches down beside you, holding your floatie. “Alright, sunshine. Arms up.”

You giggle and shoot both arms skyward. “Up, up, up!!”

He gently slides the floatie down over your head and around your tummy, adjusting the back. “There ya go. You’re officially donut-fied.”

Steve steps up beside you, brushing hair out of your face and slipping your goggles down over your eyes. “Ready to swim, baby?”

You nod furiously, bouncing in place. “Ready!! Wanna splash! Wanna gooooo!”

“Okay, okay,” Bucky chuckles, scooping you up into his arms. “Let’s get those little feet wet.”

As he carries you toward the water, your legs kick excitedly in the air. The waves rush up to greet you and Bucky sets you down in the shallows, keeping a hand on your floatie. “Whoa there, jellybean. Don’t go zoomin’ off just yet.”

The water laps at your knees and you squeal. When Bucky helps you a bit further to where you can float in the water, you exclaim with glee. “I’m floatin’! I’m a boat!! Papa, look!! I’m a boat!!”

Steve walks in beside you, letting the waves wash over his ankles as he chuckles. “Best boat I’ve ever seen. Might need to name you ‘Captain Giggles.’”

You dramatically turn the wheel of your imaginary ship. “Aye-aye, Captain Papa!”

Bucky lets you drift out a little more, still holding on. The floatie bobs up and down with the swell, and you squeal every time the water splashes up. “The ocean’s ticklin’ me!!”

“You’re lucky it likes you,” Bucky teases.

Another wave comes, bigger this time, and it lifts you gently, your floatie catching it just right. “WHOOOOA!!” You twist in the floatie and throw your arms up. “DO IT ‘GAIN!”

Steve laughs and nudges the float gently from behind so you rock back into Bucky’s waiting hands. “You’re fearless today, huh?”

You beam up at them through your goggles. “M’brave. ‘Cause I gots you two.”

Something about the way you say it makes both men soften instantly.

“That’s right, baby,” Steve murmurs. “You always got us.”

Forever, even when the tide rolls in.

-

After some more fun in the ocean, your floatie squeaks faintly as Bucky lifts you out of the water, droplets running down your legs and arms. “Okay, okay, little sea monster,” He says with a soft smile. “Time for snacks before you turn into a prune.”

You giggle, leaning your wet cheek against his shoulder. “I’m not a monster… I’m a…. mermaid now!”

“Even mermaids need snacks,” Steve calls from where he’s already crouched by the umbrella, unfolding a soft towel with cartoon sea creatures on it, the one you picked out at the store yourself and insisted “smells like sunshine.”

Bucky lowers you onto it, and Steve helps remove your floatie then immediately starts rubbing you down gently with another dry towel, working from your toes up with patient, warm hands. “You did a lot of splashing out there,” He says as he dries your hair with a little tousle. “You hungry, sweetheart?”

You nod dramatically. “M’really hungwy. Like…” You pause to think, then spread your arms wide, “…like this much hungry.”

Bucky chuckles as he pops open the cooler. “Well lucky for you, I packed the royal picnic. Your Majesty’s favorites.”

You scoot onto your knees and peek eagerly as he starts unpacking it all. Slices of juicy watermelon cut into stars, a crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut into triangles just the way you like, a little container of goldfish crackers, and a juice box with a tiny superhero on it. Your mouth already waters just looking at the watermelon.

Steve sits cross-legged beside you, passing you the juice box with the straw already poked in. “Start with some sips, okay? You got lots of sun.”

You sip happily, legs folded under you. “Dis tastes like blue.”

“That’s ‘cause it is blue,” Bucky teases, handing you one of the watermelon stars on a tiny plastic fork. “Eat that before your sandwich. Hydration first.”

You crunch into it and immediately let out a content hum. “Mmmmmm. Cold!”

Both men smile as they eat alongside you, not rushing, not talking much. It’s just quiet, sun-warmed company. Seagulls squawk in the distance. Waves roll in soft and lazy now, like the ocean’s getting sleepy too. There’s sand on your knees, salt on your cheeks, and watermelon juice running down your chin.

Steve reaches over with a napkin and dabs your face gently. “You’re makin’ a mess, aren’t you?”

You look up at him, grinning. “I’m da mess queen.”

Bucky leans over and plants a kiss to your temple. “Then we must be the mess kings.”

You end up snuggled between them, leaning back against Bucky’s chest with your legs draped across Steve’s lap, half a sandwich in hand. The sun peeks out from behind a cloud, warming your face. You let out a little yawn around a bite.

Steve notices and brushes your damp hair back. “Sleepy?”

You shake your head slowly, though your body sags against Bucky. “Noooo. Jus’… comfy.”

Bucky pulls a second towel over your legs, letting you burrow in like a little cocoon. “That’s okay, sweetheart. You just rest. We’ve got you.”

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, eyes fluttering closed. “You always do.”

And they always will.

-

The sun is dipping low now, casting long golden streaks across the parking lot as Steve loads up the trunk. The beach towels are a little sandy, the cooler is mostly empty, and your floatie sits squished between the seats like a deflated donut. Everything smells like salt and sunscreen.

Bucky lifts you gently from where you were half-dozing under the umbrella, your cheeks warm and your limbs floppy with that worn-out, sun-drenched tiredness that only little ones know.

“C’mon, peanut,” He murmurs, cradling you close against his chest. “Time to go home.”

You mumble something into his shirt, mostly vowels and half-syllables, nothing real, but your arms curl around his neck automatically. He smiles, brushing a kiss into your damp hair.

The backseat’s already set up, your soft blanket with the stars and moons, Brownie resting nearby, and a small travel pillow that smells like home. Bucky settles you in carefully, buckling you up while keeping the blanket snug around your legs before shutting the door carefully and moving into the passenger’s seat.

Steve climbs into the driver’s seat and glances back at you in the rearview mirror. “All set, sweetheart?”

You blink slowly, eyes heavy. “Goin’ home?”

“That’s right,” He says, starting the engine. “You did so good today. Brave in the water, kind to the sand crabs, full of giggles. I’m proud of you.”

You smile sleepily, turning your head toward the window as the car pulls away from the beach. The world passes by in a blur of fading light, palm trees, street signs, the occasional swoop of a bird overhead. Your eyelids flutter, heavier with every mile.

Bucky twists in his seat, watching you for a moment. His voice is softer now. “Get some rest, babydoll. We’ll be home soon.”

You hum softly, barely awake, your fingers curling in the corner of your blanket. “You stay wif me?”

“Always,” He whispers. “Not going anywhere.”

The car hums along the road, the sound of tires and the occasional song from the radio blending into the perfect lullaby. Steve drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting quietly on Bucky’s thigh, and the two of them share a look, the kind that says everything without words.

And in the back seat, warm and all out of energy from the big day… you drift off to sleepy, safe and loved as ever.

Echoes of a Nobody

Summary: The Avengers discover you may now be working with a hostile organization, sparking confusion, guilt, and questions about whether you were taken or left by choice.

Word Count: 2.1k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

The Tower still functioned. The lights still came on at sunrise, the coffee still brewed automatically, and the world, predictably, still needed saving.

But it wasn’t the same. Not really. They didn’t talk about you anymore. Not in meetings. Not in the break room. Not even in the way people usually mention someone who left like “I wonder how they’re doing,” or “Remember how they used to do this?”

Your name hadn’t been spoken in weeks and no one looked at the desk the same way. Even with the new intern, no one admitted they noticed the difference in the reports. The missing efficiency. The absence of quiet competence. You’d made things easy for them, too easy. Because you hadn’t needed praise. You hadn’t asked questions when the assignments piled too high. You never made a scene when someone else took credit.

You were just… reliable. Invisible.

And now, you were gone. Not fallen in battle. Not reassigned. You left on your own terms. And somehow, that made it worse. Because the truth was, they’d all gotten used to you being around without ever really seeing you.

Sam noticed first. He didn’t say anything out loud, but every time he found an old file tagged with your formatting or caught a smart line of code the intern didn’t recognize, his jaw would clench just a little.

Clint complained more. “Why is everything in the wrong place?” He muttered once, staring at a disorganized gear locker that used to run like clockwork under your watch.

Bruce rubbed his temples during mission debriefs now. Things were falling through. Small details, easily fixable mistakes, but they stacked up. Quietly. Subtly.

As for Bucky, he still didn’t say anything either. He still trained. Still showed up. Still leaned into quiet corners with that girl he was so drawn to, the one with the bright laugh and easy smile. They were exactly what they were meant to be: Happy. Whole. Seen.

Yet still, something in Bucky’s expression occasionally flickered. Like when he asked the intern for last quarter’s field logs, the kind you used to prepare without being asked. The intern blinked had. “Wait, were we supposed to keep those updated?”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t scold. Just nodded tightly and walked away.

He hadn’t really known you. Not the way he knew her. But maybe he knew enough now to feel the edges of your absence even if he didn’t understand it. Because no one really understood what you did until you weren’t there to do it anymore.

And now, the Tower moved on like it always does. Your desk still sat there, empty. No one had claimed it really. And when the lights dimmed and the late night silence crept in, the air around your space felt heavier. Like the room knew something had been lost.

Not loudly. Just quietly. Like everything you ever did.

Therefore, what came next was a surprise to them all. It was Bruce who discovered it first, he didn’t mean to find it.

It was late that day, late enough that the Tower was more shadows than light, more quiet hums of distant servers than footsteps in the halls. His coffee had gone cold an hour ago and he wasn’t even sure why he was still at his desk. The mission reports were dull, mostly cleanup work from intel they’d intercepted last week from an anti-shield faction operating out of the Balkans.

He was skimming out of obligation, not curiosity until he opened the fifth folder.

The file tree wasn’t remarkable at first. Standard formatting. But the subfolders were ordered a little too neatly. The names weren’t generic; they were contextual, smart. Predictive.

Then came the layouts. His eyes narrowed.

Line after line of data filtered across the screen, and his breath caught, not because of the content, but because of the structure.

The headers. The symbols. The little quirks in spacing that most people wouldn’t notice.

But Bruce did. Because he remembered seeing it for years. Quietly, reliably, every week formatted the exact same way. You used to send summaries with this layout. It wasn’t a style. It wasn’t even a system. It was… you. Distinct. Efficient. Invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking for it.

Bruce sat up straighter, heart tapping a little faster. He clicked deeper. Opened a timestamped diagnostic from a surveillance relay taken offline days before an attack. Whoever wrote the analysis had restructured the data logs to show energy signatures layered over civilian heat maps. It was clean. Elegant.

Too elegant.

“Wait,” He muttered, leaning closer.

There were redundancies in the formula. Little backups, hidden verification lines built into the metadata. He’d seen them before. He remembered once asking about them, years ago, why you'd included them when no one else did.

You had shrugged. “Because systems fail. People forget. I don’t.”

Bruce’s fingers paused over the keyboard. He sat back slowly, eyes still fixed on the screen. The quiet hum of the tower seemed suddenly louder, more isolating.

He didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Didn’t want to assume something that wasn’t possible. Except… it was. And no matter how much he told himself it couldn’t be you, that this was probably just someone who used your old files, or mimicked your workflow, he felt the truth in his gut.

This wasn’t mimicry. This was your work. Your habits. Your voice, written in lines of code like a ghost.

He didn’t say anything to the others at first. Not yet. Because if he was right… It meant you weren’t just gone. You were working for them now. And there was a high chance, you weren’t coming back.

-

Bruce spent most of the night reviewing the files again, hoping he’d find something, anything that would disprove his gut.

He didn’t.

So when the team gathered for the morning briefing, he stood silently near the edge of the table, clutching his tablet like a lifeline. Steve was mid-sentence about a possible weapons facility when Bruce finally spoke.

“I think she’s working with them.”

The room shifted. It was subtle, but sharp. Natasha looked up. Clint stopped halfway through unwrapping a protein bar. Sam’s brows dipped in confusion. Steve frowned.

“What?” Steve asked.

Bruce tapped his tablet and cast the projection into the center of the room and said your name. The file structure lit up in pale blue: neat, layered, and efficient.

“She designed this,” Bruce said. “The data formatting, the way it parses real-time risk indicators, and the multi-tier flagging structure. This isn’t like hers. This is hers.”

Bucky, who’d been leaning against the wall near the back, arms folded, finally looked over.

“You’re saying she’s helping them now?” He asked, voice low. More like a statement than a question.

“I’m saying I don’t know,” Bruce admitted. “But this level of detail? It’s not someone copying her style. It’s her work. I’d bet everything on it.”

Sam squinted at the file, then crossed his arms. “So, what? She was a mole this whole time? Just embedded with us, waiting?”

“No.” Bruce’s tone sharpened. “No way. She didn’t have access to anything sensitive until the last year, and even then she didn’t take advantage of it. This is recent.”

“So she was taken?” Natasha asked. “Maybe they’re forcing her to work for them.”

“Could be,” Steve said quietly. “We’ve seen that happen before.”

Bruce hesitated, his thumb brushing over the edge of his tablet. “If that’s true, then why does this read like she cares? There’s attention to detail in this. Clean backups. This isn't bare minimum compliance. It’s-“

“Deliberate,” Bucky finished.

Everyone turned to him. He didn’t look at anyone. Just kept his arms folded, eyes fixed on the holoscreen, jaw tight.

“She used to keep my files color-coded,” He said after a pause. “Even though I never asked her to. Wouldn’t even have thought to.”

“She did that for you?” Clint muttered. “She never even looked me in the eye.”

“She barely talked,” Sam added.

“Because none of us ever really gave her a reason to,” Natasha said, voice quiet.

Steve’s mouth tightened. “She was reliable. Smart. I just thought she preferred to be behind the scenes.”

Bruce looked down. “Well, if they’re treating her better… if she’s found a place where she feels like she belongs…”

“…Then maybe she didn’t need to be forced,” Natasha finished.

There was a long silence that sank into the walls like fog.

Sam glanced at Steve. “So what do we do?”

No one answered. Because deep down, they were all wondering the same thing: If you chose to leave, if you found people who valued you in ways they never did…

Do they even have the right to go after you? And worse, would you even want to come back?

The holoscreen was still glowing when she walked in, heels soft against the floor, a cup of something warm in her hand.

She smiled easily, the kind of smile that made people look up even when they didn’t mean to. Bucky did. His posture eased just slightly, eyes flicking toward her like muscle memory. The one he loved brushed his arm with the back of her hand as she passed him and made her way to the table.

“Hey,” She said with a curious tilt of her head. “What’s all this?”

Steve didn’t answer immediately. Neither did Bruce. The tension still hung from earlier like humidity in the air.

“We think one of our old administrators might be working with the group we’re tracking,” Steve finally said, tone careful.

She blinked. “Oh?” Her eyes flicked to the display, then back. “Who?”

Bruce hesitated. “She left a few months ago. Used to run most of our comm scrubs and data threads.”

A small pause before her mouth curved. “Ohhh. You mean the quiet one? I think I remember her.”

She said it gently, like trying to recall the name of someone she might’ve sat next to in a lecture hall years ago.

“She didn’t talk much, did she?” She continued, sipping her drink. “I always thought she seemed sweet, but kind of… you know. Overwhelmed?”

Bucky didn’t respond. Natasha’s expression sharpened subtly, but the woman either didn’t notice or didn’t mind.

“She left,” Bruce said, steady but not unkind, “Because we made her feel invisible.”

Her brow rose slightly, as if surprised by the weight of the statement. “Oh. I didn’t realize she felt that way.”

“She might’ve been taken,” Steve said. “Or maybe she joined them willingly. We’re still piecing it together.”

The woman tilted her head. “And you think she’s helping those guys now?”

“We have signs of her system work embedded in their infrastructure,” Bruce confirmed. “The designs match her exactly.”

A thoughtful hum. She leaned lightly against the table. “That’s kind of impressive, actually. I mean… good for her?”

There was a pause.

She blinked. “I just mean, it sounds like she found a place where she fits, you know? I always thought she looked like she didn’t want to be here most of the time.”

“She probably wanted to be useful,” Natasha added.

“Sure, but maybe she is now,” The woman replied, light and certain. “I mean, I don’t want to sound harsh or anything, but if she didn’t have much clearance, how dangerous can it really be?”

Bruce stiffened. “She knew more than anyone realized. She was just never loud about it.”

“Right.” A gentle nod, like she understood. “Still… maybe it’s not worth making this a whole mission. I mean, do we really want to drag her back into this if she’s finally found her place?”

No one answered, not right away.

“She might be compromised,” Steve said firmly. “Or being manipulated.”

“Of course. But if she’s doing it by choice?” She gave a soft, almost sympathetic smile. “It just doesn’t seem worth disrupting everything over someone who didn’t even seem to like being here.”

“Maybe she didn’t like how she was treated,” Bucky muttered.

She blinked again, this time with a little laugh. “Oh… well, we were all busy. I’m sure nobody meant anything by it.”

Sam and Natasha exchanged a look.

She gave Bucky’s arm a soft squeeze. “I just think you all have bigger things to worry about than chasing down someone who’s probably better off without us. But… I know you’ll do what you think is right.”

She offered them all one last sweet smile and drifted out the way she came, calm and weightless as a breeze. Only when she was gone did anyone breathe again.

Bucky’s gaze turned back to holoscreen.

He didn’t know what unsettled him more: her gentle way of brushing it all aside, or the fact that he’d once agreed with her without even thinking twice.

He wasn’t sure what was right anymore.

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal

The Loop You Won’t Let Die

Summary: Bucky is fatally wounded on a mission. You rewind time again, again, and again, hundreds of times. Each loop, you lose a little more of yourself. Finally, Bucky realizes what you’ve done. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to manipulate time to a limited degree. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Death. Memory Loss. Emotional Deterioration.

Word Count: 3.5k+

A/N: I am hoping y’all will like this because I sure did. Happy reading!!! ♡

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You’ve never been good at accepting the things you can't control. It’s a trait that’s followed you for as long as you can remember. From the moment you first realized your power to manipulate time, to rewind, reset, undo, you were thrilled. However, you came to realize that you held something dangerous in your hands and that it came at a cost. You were never able to rewind it all away. Not the pain, not the guilt, not the consequences.

It was supposed to be simple at first to test your power. No one expected you to use it on something so… delicate. You didn’t understand the gravity of it, not when you first rewound time to save a child who wandered too far into the street. The child's life was saved, and everything went back to normal. At least, it felt that way. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been lost in the process, your ability to forget.

And then came Bucky.

The first time you met him, it was on a mission. Some joint operation between S.H.I.E.L.D. and a few of the Avengers. You’d been part of the team tasked with gathering intel from a Hydra facility that was holding someone important who had crucial information on a new weapon. The mission wasn’t supposed to be complicated. But that’s how things always go, isn't it? You weren’t prepared for the chaos.

The explosion rocked the compound, sending you flying across the ground. You were dazed, but before you could register the pain, you saw him. Bucky was already moving to shield you, taking the brunt of another blast, the force knocking him down. You'd heard the stories, seen the flashes of the Winter Soldier’s past. But this was real. This was human, a man who had been broken, rebuilt, and forgotten.

You reached him instinctively, adrenaline spiking. You felt the sharpness of his blood in the air. The metal arm, the familiar, haunted expression in his eyes; the man you had read about in the files was here, right in front of you, struggling to get up.

He looked at you, and something passed between you then. Not recognition, not understanding, but something else. An acknowledgment of something lost. A silent kind of empathy.

"Stay down," You said quickly, hands already at his side, pressing against the blood that began to spill. "I can help. Let me help."

His expression didn’t change, but he nodded, as if he knew you could. As if he knew you wouldn’t let him die here. You didn't realize how true that would become.

It wasn’t long before you began to notice things about him. It was small things at first like how he seemed to stay on the perimeter of conversations, never quite fully engaging. How he always looked like he was on the edge of a nightmare, his eyes haunted even in the quietest moments. How he never quite trusted himself, not really, not after everything Hydra had put him through.

You, too, understood that weight, though you didn’t wear it the same way. Your power, the ability to manipulate time, had long since been a burden. But you didn’t carry it in silence the way Bucky did with his past. You didn’t need to ask him why he closed off. You understood it in ways most people wouldn’t. You understood what it was like to feel broken, to have the world try to take away something fundamental from you. So, you never pushed. You stayed in the background, offering quiet support during missions, sharing small conversations where he could let his guard down a little.

But it was when you first showed him your power that things began to change.

It was during another mission that went wrong, a hostage situation where things got messy, and you were forced to make a choice. There was no way to save everyone. But you saw Bucky, standing there, his arm pinned under rubble, the enemy advancing. You felt the panic of the moment, his life slipping away in real-time. So, without thinking, you rewound it. You manipulated the timeline, reset the scene, and in an instant, the world around you shifted.

When you opened your eyes, you were back before the blast, before the rubble, before the threat. But this time, you acted. You moved faster, knew the exact sequence of events that would unfold. You saved him.

It was the first time you showed Bucky the extent of your power.

“Did you…” He was breathless, looking at you like he couldn’t quite comprehend what had just happened. His hand that had once bled from where the rubble had crushed him moments ago was normal, it was as though it had never happened. You felt him staring at you, processing the truth.

“I can rewind time,” You explained quietly, meeting his gaze. “Change things. Undo them.”

There was a beat of silence before he spoke again, voice rough and raw. “What does that mean for you?”

You had to think about it. Your ability was both a gift and a curse. You couldn’t rewind everything. Not the pain, not the way time bled into your mind. Every reset took something from you: memories, emotions, the strength to keep going. But you kept doing it. For all of them.

You were unable to provide an answer, but he didn’t need words to understand.

The relationship between you and Bucky grew slowly after that. He began to understand you in ways you didn’t even know how to explain. You never talked about the toll your power took on you, but somehow, he always seemed to know. He’d ask you about it with a careful quietness, never pushing too hard, but always aware.

It was a delicate balance. You both walked around each other’s fragility, never forcing things, but always aware that there was something unspoken between you, an understanding that transcended words. You both had scars. But he was the kind of man who never let you carry the weight alone. And you, in turn, made sure that when his nightmares got too loud, when his mind fractured from all the things Hydra had done to him, you were there.

And one day, it all fell apart.

This mission was supposed to be straightforward.

Bucky and you, side by side, infiltrating a Hydra base to disable a weapons system. Nothing the two of you couldn’t handle. He’d been in worse situations and so had you.

But there’s always that one variable, always that one thing you can’t account for. The moment when the mission goes wrong, and everything unravels in the blink of an eye.

Bucky takes the first hit.

You’re there, just a step behind, but it’s too late. The bullet hits him right in the shoulder, spinning him off balance. You hear him grunt, feel the tug of his body as he collapses to the ground. Blood, dark and heavy, stains the concrete below him, it wasn’t any ordinary bullet. His metal arm is a blur of motion as he tries to pull himself up, but it’s no use. His movements slow. His breath becomes ragged.

You don’t even think. Your heart pounds in your chest, and your mind screams. You don’t want to lose him. Not like this. Not when there’s so much more you need to say. To do. To live for.

Rewind.

The world shudders around you, pulling you back to the beginning. The mission resets. You find yourself in the same place with everything the same, but you know what’s coming. You know what you have to do.

This time, you’re faster. More prepared. You have to be.

You move ahead of Bucky, keeping your focus sharp, anticipating the angle the sniper will shoot from. The plan is simple. You’ll get to the control room first, disable the weapons system, and clear the path for him. He won’t get hurt this time.

But something goes wrong. A twist, a misstep. The shot rings out from a different angle, and Bucky is hit again, this time in the chest. He crumples to the floor with a choked gasp, blood pooling around him. His eyes lock with yours, wide with shock and pain.

“Not again,” You mutter under your breath. "Please."

Rewind.

The third time is no different. No matter how many angles you try to cover, no matter how many ways you attempt to divert the sniper’s aim, Bucky always falls. Every time, it’s the same. Every time, you lose him. And every time, you’re forced to go back. Your mind becomes a haze of timelines, of trying to change the same sequence of events that always ends the same way.

By the tenth loop, the crushing weight of the failure begins to take its toll. You can feel it in your bones, the exhaustion of it all. The tension in your muscles, the faint tremor in your hands. It doesn’t matter how many times you reset. The result is always the same.

The bullet. The blood. His body crumpling. His eyes losing their light.

Rewind.

By the thirtieth loop, you're no longer just running through the motions. You’re starting to lose yourself. Every time you reset, something is chipped away. Maybe it’s your clarity, your sanity, your sense of time, or maybe all three. You can’t remember if you’ve already tried this particular strategy or if it’s the first time. You’ve forgotten the feeling of his hands in yours when you weren’t on a mission. Forgotten the sound of his laugh.

And yet, you keep doing it. For him.

But no matter how you try, no matter how you fight, he dies again. And again. And again.

Rewind.

The fiftieth time is when you break.

You’ve tried every strategy, every variation, every distraction. You’ve shot the sniper first, thrown grenades to create chaos, tried to fight through the whole base alone, but nothing works. Every loop, the result is the same.

Bucky dies, and you’re the one who has to watch it. Over and over.

You find him in the same position again. The same injury. The same wound. His hand, trembling, reaching for you in his final moments. His voice, strained and broken as he mutters your name. The world spins, distorting in the corners of your vision. It’s too much.

“Stay with me,” You beg hopelessly, tears burning your cheeks once again.

His eyes flicker. He’s fading. You can see it in the way his chest rises more slowly. His lips barely form a smile, and it breaks your heart. "I’m sorry," He whispers. "I’m so sorry."

Rewind.

When you wake again, you’re in the same place. The mission has started over, but it feels like you’ve been doing this for a lifetime. You know exactly where you are, what you need to do. But it doesn’t matter. You’re exhausted. Broken. Every reset feels like a piece of you is being torn away.

You barely register his presence next to you. The way his arm brushes yours as you move through the base. He’s always there, always close, but you don’t look at him. Not anymore. You can’t.

This time, he dies again.

And it’s then that you finally realize something: it’s not just the mission that’s killing him. It’s you. Your power. Your need to save him, to do whatever it takes, even if it means losing yourself.

Bucky’s last breath is quieter than the others. This time, he doesn’t even speak your name. When the world shifts back again, the weight of everything crashes down on you. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep losing him. You’re falling apart.

He’s alive in like normal at the start of your next loop, but you can’t meet his gaze. You can’t pretend anymore. His presence is suffocating now, and you can’t stop the dread from creeping up your spine.

“Hey,” He says softly, his voice full of concern. “You good?”

No. You’re not good. You’re shattered, and the weight of his repeated death is too much to bear. You give him a short lie that you’re fine only to watch him die again later.

-

By the hundredth loop, you stop trying to fix things. You stop trying to make the perfect plan, to save him. Because each time, you lose a little more of yourself. A little more of who you were before this madness.

You’re no longer sure if you’re even human anymore. You don’t recognize the face in the mirror. The loops have become your reality. And the more you rewind, the more you forget. What’s real? What’s memory? What’s a life worth saving when you’re already so broken?

The next time Bucky dies, you don’t even speak. You just let the world crumble, knowing that you’ll try again. And again. And again.

During one of your next loops, Bucky can feel something’s wrong. He’s always been able to read people, even before everything that happened. You’re different now in the sense of being much more distant and quieter than you were a few hours ago. You still move with precision, and you still have the same sharp focus on every mission. But your eyes, those once bright eyes that shone with warmth, now carry a depth of sorrow he can’t quite place.

It’s subtle at first. The way you recoil when he touches your arm. How you don’t meet his gaze for too long. How your voice, when you do speak, trembles just enough for him to notice. He watches you. He’s seen this before. But this time, it’s different. There’s something more. Something deeper.

-

It happens after the hundred and thirtieth loop. You’ve grown so tired, so worn down that you can barely keep track of the details. It’s becoming harder to find the motivation, the drive, to reset. But you push yourself, as always, because he needs you to.

Once again, you’ve failed. Bucky is dead. Again. The blood pools around him, his breath fading into silence. His final words are a shadow in your mind, repeated over and over: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

You reset the timeline, but this time, it feels different. The world doesn’t reset as quickly. It lingers. You’re slow to stand, slow to move. The pressure in your chest is suffocating. You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve done this. But then you feel a hand on your shoulder, warm and firm. You know it’s him without looking. The touch is a relief in its familiarity, but it also makes your heart ache more than it should. You don’t want him to feel this. Not like this.

“Stop,” Bucky says quietly. His voice is low, but the command is there. It cuts through the fog in your mind.

You don’t respond. You can’t. You’re terrified of him seeing you, seeing what you’ve become, what you’re willing to do to save him. You’re terrified of the way you’re slowly losing yourself in this, and the last thing you want is for him to understand.

But he does.

“I know what you’re doing,” Bucky continues, his hand tightening on your shoulder, forcing you to face him. His gaze is sharp, the deep blue of his eyes searching yours with a depth of understanding that makes you want to collapse.

“No, you don’t,” You whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Yeah,” He says quietly, his voice breaking just a little. “I do.”

You shake your head, turning away. "You don’t get it. I… I can't lose you, Bucky. I can't-“

“Stop,” He interrupts, his voice firmer now. “Stop trying to save me.”

Your body tenses. “I have to. I can’t lose you.”

“You’re killing yourself to save me,” His voice is full of raw emotion. “You’re breaking, and you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep doing this for me.”

“I’d rather lose myself than lose you,” You say quickly, too quickly. The words come out of you without thought, without any real sense of control. It’s all you’ve been trying to do, isn’t it? Save him at all costs. You’d sacrifice everything for him, even if it means losing yourself in the process.

But Bucky, he doesn’t want that.

“No,” He says firmly as his hand cups your cheek gently, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I won’t let you destroy yourself like this. You can’t keep trying to save me like this.”

For a long moment, you stand there, frozen. His touch grounds you, even as the weight of his words presses down on your chest. It feels like the world is spinning too fast, like everything you’ve done, everything you’ve sacrificed, is suddenly meaningless.

“Bucky,” You breathe, the tears finally coming. “I don’t know how to stop anymore. I can’t… I can’t let you go. I can’t-“

He pulls you into him, wrapping his arms around you tightly. “You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to do this by yourself. I’m here. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. Please… stop doing this to yourself.”

You close your eyes, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek, the steady rhythm grounding you. “I can’t… I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried to fix it. I don’t know how to stop it.”

“You don’t have to,” Bucky whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. “Let me help. You’re not alone in this. I’m not going to die again, not if I can help it. But you have to trust me. Trust us.”

The weight of his words crashes over you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself breathe. You let yourself believe, just for a moment, that there’s another way. Another chance.

“You won’t die,” You murmur, as though testing the words on your tongue.

“I won’t die,” He affirms, his voice soft but firm. “But only if you let go of this loop. Let go of the pain. Let me be here with you.”

The silence between you two is heavy with the unspoken promise. The possibility that, maybe, there’s a way forward that doesn’t involve sacrifice, doesn’t involve losing yourself. That maybe, just maybe, you can live without having to rewind the world every time something goes wrong.

“Together?” You ask quietly.

“Together,” Bucky answers, holding you close.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to believe that it’s true….

Until you don’t. Because he lied. He dies again. It was futile.

You stop counting.

Somewhere between the hundredth and thousandth reset, numbers stop meaning anything. You've tried ambushes, distractions, extraction before contact, calling in the others earlier, shielding him, shielding yourself, leaving. You've tried pretending you were never there. Tried running. Tried fighting harder. Stronger. Smarter. He always dies.

And now he knows. Bucky sees it in your eyes even before you reset. You don’t have to say it anymore. The moment things go wrong, he just looks at you, and there’s this helpless, aching resignation in his voice when he mutters, “Don’t.”

But you always do.

The loop consumes you like erosion that’s slow and invisible. You forget details. You forget whole days. You forget what smiling used to feel like. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. As long as he lives.

Rewind.

-

This time, you're quiet when the bullet rips toward him. You don't scream his name. You don't even blink. You step in front of him.

The impact knocks the air from your lungs. Your body hits the ground before the pain registers. Heat blooms across your ribs like fire. And for some reason, Bucky manages to take out the sniper this time, the threat gone. He drops down beside you instantly.

His hands pressing into the wound, voice shaking. “No. No, no, no. Stay with me. Stay with me!”

Your mouth tastes like iron. Your fingers twitch, reaching weakly for his cheek.

“I did it,” You whisper.

His hands are covered in your blood.

“What are you talking about?” He breathes. “You’re gonna be fine. We’ll get help. You’ll be-“

“I broke the loop.” You manage a smile, cracked and fleeting. “You’re alive.”

His breath catches. He knows. Of course he knows. “You can still rewind,” He begs. “Please. One more. Just one more.”

You shake your head faintly. “No. This is the only way I could win.”

Tears slip down his face as he holds you closer, his voice growing frantic. “You can’t leave me. I don’t want this. Not like this. I’d rather die than lose you.”

You reach up, your blood-streaked hand brushing his jaw. “I’d rather lose myself than lose you.”

“You already did,” He chokes, voice breaking. “You already have, look what this did to you.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out as a wheeze. “Then let me rest now.”

“No. No-“ His arms shake as his shoulders crumble. “I love you. You don’t get to leave.”

Your fading eyes search his, and for once, they're not haunted.

“I know. That’s why I did this,” You whisper. “I love you too.”

Your hand falls and your breath stops.

And for the first time in hundreds of timelines, Bucky lives.

But in this one… You don’t.

✩˚ ｡ Masterlist ｡ ˚✩

Here is where you can find all the works I’ve written. All of this currently involves Steve and/or Bucky unless specified otherwise. I may branch to other characters later on.

Last Updated: 05/12/25

Keys| Fluff ✿ | Angst ⛆ | Dark 𓉸 | Agere ʚɞ | Hurt/Comfort ❦

Series:

ʚɞ 𓉸 ⛆ Caged in Comfort

✿⛆❦ Whispers of the Gifted - A collection of different one-shots with reader having different powers or abilities, each in their own universe.

Fics:

ʚɞ ❦ Difficult Morning - You’re having a harder time waking up this morning. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are patient and comforting throughout. (Stucky x little!reader)

ʚɞ ❦ After the Noise - 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)

✿ ʚɞ Fort Kingdom - You spend a rainy evening with your caregivers, Bucky and Steve, building the ultimate blanket fort. (Stucky x little!reader)

⛆❦ The Silence Between Us - When a mission goes wrong and you resort to bad habits, one of the last teammates you expected finds you. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

✿ ʚɞ A Little Mess Won’t Hurt - Your caregivers help you try finger painting, noticing your reluctance to create any kind of mess despite your love for art. (Stucky x little!reader)

𓉸 Because He Always Knows - 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. And he’ll do anything to keep you safe, close, and his. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x reader)

✿ ʚɞ ❦ Learning to Ask - When you muster the courage to ask for something, Bucky responds with quiet warmth, holding you close as Steve gently joins in, reminding you that it’s safe to ask for things and even safer to be held. (Stucky x little!reader)

𓉸 Obsessive Love - 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. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x Yandere!reader)

𓉸 Devoted Possession - Part 2 to Obsessive Love where Steve Rogers begins to suspect something is wrong. When confronted, you and Bucky, still cloaked in innocence, continue playing the part. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x Yandere!reader)

⛆ The Solstitial Truce - You met him at the border between realms every solstice, simply watching the stars together. Two entities out of place, bound by quiet conversation and the kind of silence that speaks more than words ever could. (Demon!Bucky Barnes x Angel!reader)

⛆ ʚɞ ❦ Not a Burden - Lately, you’ve been feeling like a burden to your caregivers. It doesn’t take long for Steve and Bucky to notice and reassure you that you’re never a burden to them and you never will be. (Stucky x little!reader)

✿ ʚɞ Beach Day - You and your caregivers go on a trip to the beach where you have an action-packed day of building sand castles, splashing in the water, and spending time with your daddies.

✿ DIY Project - You and your competitive boyfriends attempt to build a bookshelf one day. You have to refrain from laughing as they keep trying to one-up each other.

⛆ 𓉸 Rewritten - You wake up in a cozy home with no memory of anything. You find your alleged lovers reassuring you that you’ve always lived there and that they’ll stay by your side through this difficult time. However, you can’t seem to shake the feeling that something is wrong. (Dark!Stucky x reader)

Blurbs/Drabbles:

ʚɞ ❦ Sick Day - You’re sick and your fathers take care of you. (Stucky x little!reader)

✿ Lazy Morning - Snuggled up between your loving boyfriends, you listen quietly as they argue over who is the better cook. (Stucky x reader)