Laptop Warfare

What You Can’t Heal

Summary: You would think being a healer made you careful, more cautious of getting hurt. However, it made you the opposite, more willing to throw yourself head first into danger. And your mission partner does not like that one bit. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to heal. You and Bucky get hurt in this.

Word Count: 1.7k+

A/N: To be honest, I want to write another version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. But I thought it’d be fun to explore the recklessness that having healing powers can bring.

The compound gym was almost empty when you slipped in, quiet as breath. Just the sound of gloves striking a punching bag. Slow, rhythmic, and methodical. The kind of pace that didn’t burn energy but burned thoughts. You stopped just inside the doorway, watching the man in front of it all.

Bucky Barnes.

His black t-shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat, muscles rippling beneath ink and scars. His metal arm glinted in the low light, the sound of knuckles against canvas falling into a pattern like a heartbeat. You hadn’t known he’d be here. Or maybe you had. Subconsciously.

He didn't look at you. Not right away.

“You gonna stand there all day or join in?” He asked, voice low, still facing the bag.

You blinked, then stepped in. “Didn’t want to interrupt. You looked like you were winning the argument.”

“Wasn’t an argument,” He muttered, grabbing a towel and rubbing the sweat from the back of his neck. “Just… quiet.”

He finally turned, eyes landing on you. Not unkind, but guarded, always guarded. Like he expected you to flinch at something he hadn’t said yet.

“You’re not on the rotation today,” He pointed out.

You shrugged, tapping the inside of your wrist where a faint mark from yesterday’s spar still lingered. “Figured I could use the practice.”

He scoffed softly. “You mean more bruises to fix.”

You smirked. “Lucky for me, I’m the easiest medic to find.”

He didn’t smile, not really , but something in his jaw relaxed.

“…You’re too comfortable with pain,” He said after a moment, picking up a pair of training pads.

“You’re too afraid of it,” You countered, stepping onto the mat.

He paused. That sharp glance again, not angry and not insulted. Just watching. Assessing. Like you’d said something truer than he wanted to admit.

“Alright, healer,” He said, tossing you a pair of gloves. “Let’s see if you’re as tough as you act.”

You caught them easily, grinning.

You didn’t notice the faint flicker in his expression, the one that wasn’t annoyance or frustration. It was worry. Care, maybe. Hidden so deep, not even he knew where it lived anymore.

The training room echoed with the dull thud of fists against pads and the occasional grunt of effort. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a sterile glow over the gym's scarred walls. Bucky Barnes stood in the center of the mat, arms crossed, the faintest trace of a frown pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"You’re not supposed to let them hit you just to prove you can heal," He said, voice sharp but quiet, like thunder muffled by snow.

You shrugged, rolling your bruised shoulder. The bone was already snapping back into place beneath your skin, just a faint crunch and a soft hiss of pain. “I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point.” His eyes narrowed. “You don’t need to take every hit. Healing doesn’t make you invincible.”

You hated how his gaze pinned you. The ex-soldier still wore that half-haunted, half-suspicious expression like a second skin. But you knew he meant it. Not just the words. The worry behind them.

“You’re treating this like a game,” Bucky continued. “Out there, if you rely on your powers like a crutch, someone’s going to find a way to break you faster than you can fix yourself.”

“I don’t use it as a crutch,” You tried to keep your tone even. “It’s a tool. Just like your arm. Or your training.”

He stepped closer, close enough that the steel of his vibranium arm caught the overhead light. “Difference is, my arm doesn’t stop me from bleeding out if I get cocky.”

You looked away, jaw tight.

That was always the line, wasn’t it? The part they didn’t say out loud, the assumption that your powers made you reckless. Untouchable. Like pain didn’t matter to you.

But it did. You just didn’t show it.

“I’m not afraid of getting hurt,” You said finally, sighing in the process.

Bucky’s voice softened, but the weight in it didn’t lift. “Then maybe you should be.”

You met his eyes again. Blue-gray, storm-worn, and so damn tired. He looked at you the way someone looks at a puzzle they’ve tried to solve too many times. His frustration wasn’t just with you. It was with himself too, but you didn’t know that.

“…We’ll start again tomorrow,” He turned away now. “Don’t show up unless you’re ready to stop playing superhero.”

Then he left you standing on the mat. Your shoulder was fully healed, but your chest aching in a way no power could fix.

Two days later, the mission came.

A Hydra splinter cell operating out of an abandoned medical research facility on the outskirts of Munich. Stark had muttered something about leftover tech, too unstable to be ignored. You and Bucky were assigned to go in quiet, extract the data, and disable any weapons they were cooking up.

Bucky didn’t speak to you much on the quinjet. Just the usual mission prep. Tactical. Tense. You sat across from him, checking your gear in silence, biting down the bitter aftertaste of his last words.

”Don’t show up unless you’re ready to stop throwing yourself into danger.”

You showed up anyway.

The facility was dark, corridors lit only by flickering emergency lights. It smelled of antiseptic and rust, of blood dried long ago. Bucky moved ahead of you, every step measured, gun raised, breathing steady. You were right behind him, senses stretched taut. It wasn’t fear of getting hurt, not really. It was the quiet between you, heavier than the air, more suffocating than the mission itself.

Then came the ambush.

The first explosion sent you both to the floor. Ears ringing, you scrambled behind a lab table, catching a glimpse of Bucky. He was bleeding from a small gash near his temple, dazed but moving.

Three Hydra operatives advanced from the left.

Bucky cursed, firing off a few shots, but they kept coming. One tackled him, knocking the gun from his hands, the two others circling like wolves. You bolted forward without thinking, slamming into one with your shoulder and catching a knife through your side in return.

Pain flared. Warm blood soaked your shirt.

You welcomed it.

Bucky’s voice cracked through the haze as he shouted your name.

He was on his feet in an instant, grabbing the soldier by the throat and slamming him into the wall with a growl. The second Hydra agent went for you, but your powers were already at work. The tissue knitting, nerves sparking back into place, the blade sliding out of you with a slick noise.

You stood, bloody but calm, and delivered a solid punch that sent him sprawling.

By the time it was over, Bucky was breathing hard, hands shaking. Not from the fight, but from seeing you go down.

“Are you insane?” He shouted, storming toward you. “You ran into a knife! You could’ve-“

“I healed.”

“That’s not the damn point!”

His eyes burned. Your heart pounded. Not from adrenaline, but from the sharp edges in his voice, the way they cut deeper than any wound.

“You said I wasn’t ready,” You defended, quietly. “I proved I was.”

“No,” He said, stepping closer, voice dropping. “You proved you’re still willing to throw yourself away.”

You didn’t have a response to that.

He reached for you suddenly; gloved fingers brushing your side, feeling the warm blood that was already drying. His touch hovered, unsure.

“Stop doing that,” He spoke softer now. “Stop making me watch you get hurt just because you can.”

There it was. Raw, bare, unguarded. Not anger. Not frustration. Fear.

“I’m not afraid…” The rebuttal came out, barely above a whisper.

“I am.”

His voice barely made a sound, but it hit you like a punch to the ribs. Not the Winter Soldier voice, cold and precise. Not the soldier tone that was tactical, measured, and distant. No, this was Bucky. Just Bucky. Human. Frayed around the edges. Afraid.

Of losing you.

You stood frozen, not from pain, that was already gone, but because of the crack in his walls. The thing no one else ever got to see.

“You’re afraid for me,” You corrected, voice steadier than you expected.

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, Bucky dragged a hand down his face, leaving a smear of blood on his cheekbone, yours or his, you didn’t know. He looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the mission.

“Every time you go down, even for a second…” He exhaled hard, shaking his head. “I forget you’ll get back up. My body still reacts like I’m watching someone die. Like I’m helpless again.”

Your breath caught. He didn’t mean to say that last part. Helpless.

The word hung between you like smoke in a locked room. Bucky Barnes, who’d had his mind torn apart, his hands used for things he didn’t choose. Of course he feared helplessness. And now you understood why watching you get hurt, even if you healed, chipped away at whatever fragile peace he’d built. Your voice came next.

“I didn’t think it scared you like that.”

“I know,” He replied. “That’s the part that scares me more.”

You stepped closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, to see the small tremor in his metal hand. Close enough that the scent of his sweat and blood mixed with yours.

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” You explained yourself softly. “I just don’t know how else to help. I can’t punch like you. I can’t take down ten guys with one arm.”

“No,” He said firmly, meeting your gaze, “But you run toward pain like it’s your job to carry it.”

Silence filled the air once again. Then, gently, like he thought he might scare you; Bucky reached out, his hand brushing the side of your jaw, just enough pressure to ground you.

“I don’t want to watch someone I care about get used up trying to make up for everything they can’t fix.”

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until those words.

Care about.

You leaned into his touch, just barely. Enough to let him know you weren’t running. Not from this. Not from him.

“I’m trying to learn,” You whispered. “Maybe… you could help me.”

Bucky’s thumb grazed your cheekbone, just once, before he let his hand fall. But something had shifted, something deeper than bone and scar tissue. His walls weren’t down, not completely, but they weren’t steel anymore. He nodded once.

“I’ll teach you how to fight smart,” He said, voice low. “And in exchange, you stop putting yourself in harm’s way every time.”

And just like that, the truce between you wasn't just tactical anymore.

It was personal.

Just Like Dad

Summary: On Father’s Day morning, Bucky’s energetic twins surprise him with breakfast and heartfelt gifts, proudly emulating their dad’s cool, soldier-like demeanor. Later, you all head to the park where Bucky trains the twins in a playful “spy mission,” strengthening their bond and reminding him that building a family is his greatest mission yet. (Dad!Bucky Barnes x mom!reader)

Word Count: 1.6k+

A/N: In honor of Father’s Day, something quick and sweet. Happy Father’s Day! Also this is not connected or in the same universe as the other fic of their daughter from the future. (Out of time, Into Our Lives). Regardless, Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

Father’s Day morning began with stifled giggles and the unmistakable scrape of a chair being dragged across the kitchen tiles, definitely not as quiet as your children thought they were.

In your cozy Brooklyn apartment, light from the early sun poured through the windows, pooling in golden patches on the hardwood floors. The aroma of toast still clung to the air from breakfast preparations, though it was now being overtaken by the uncertain blend of peanut butter, jelly, orange juice, and something suspiciously sticky.

Two small figures were orchestrating the chaos with a focused seriousness only six-year-olds attempting a “mission” could have.

Your twins: Grant and Becca.

Grant was all limbs and boundless energy, hair sticking up from the effort of whatever plan he was currently hatching. He was your fearless talker, a blur of movement and ideas that never stopped. Today, he wore his black hoodie zipped up to his chin, a belt slung diagonally over his shoulder to mimic Bucky’s gear strap. His socks skidded across the tile as he tried, barely, to balance a wobbly tray of orange juice, a peanut butter-covered slice of toast, and one folded napkin.

Becca, his twin by only a few minutes but his total opposite in temperament, trailed close behind. She was quieter, softer, and more deliberate. Her voice rarely rose above a whisper unless she was laughing. Today, she’d dressed in a little all-black outfit with leggings and a black shirt, and on her left arm was a carefully wrapped layer of aluminum foil. Her version of her dad’s metal arm courtesy of your help earlier. She’d even combed her dark hair back, trying to copy his style, though a few gentle curls had already sprung loose.

In her small hands, she carried a handmade card that read: “You’re The Coolest, Dad.”

It was written in glitter-glue with a sparkly silver star beneath it.

“Okay, okay,” Grant whispered like he was leading a covert op, “We walk in super quiet, say HAPPY FATHER’S DAY really loud, and then! Becca, you do the speech.”

“I didn’t write a speech…” She whispered back, nervous. “It’s just the card.”

“You can say something cool. Like, ‘You are our hero,’ or, ‘Permission to hug, sir.’ That sounds like a soldier, right?”

You stood just down the hall, sipping coffee and watching with amused fondness as they prepared to burst in. Bucky was still in bed, at least pretending to be asleep, and you had a sneaking suspicion he’d been awake the whole time, listening to their not-so-secret plan.

Becca and Grant reached the door of your bedroom, armed with breakfast and love. Grant gave a dramatic nod, kicked the door open with more flair than necessary, and shouted at the top of his lungs:

“HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!!”

Bucky blinked slowly, dragging a hand across his face like a man being awakened after years on ice. He looked at the tray, the glitter card, and the foil-arm twins with a mix of shock, pride, and restrained laughter.

“Well,” He said in his mock-serious voice, “Are you two here to capture me, or is this a peace offering?”

Grant leapt onto the bed with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning. “Both!” He declared proudly, dropping the tray with only minor juice spillage.

Becca climbed up more carefully, settling beside Bucky with her card still clutched tightly in both hands. She lifted her foil-covered arm like a solemn badge and said shyly, “I wanted to be like you today. ‘Cause you’re cool.”

Bucky’s expression softened immediately. He took her tiny wrist in his hand, examining the foil like it was made of vibranium, like it was priceless.

“You’re more than cool,” He said gently, pressing a kiss to her hair. “You’re my brave Becca.”

She beamed quietly, cheeks flushing pink.

Grant flopped onto Bucky’s chest next, laughing. “I’ve got stealth moves now. Watch this!”

He rolled off the bed dramatically, crawled across the floor, then popped back up beside Bucky’s head with a whisper-shout: “I’m invisible!”

You finally stepped into the room, laughing. “I think they’re trying to replace you, Buck. You better keep up.”

Bucky’s arm reached out to pull you onto the bed beside them. “Let them try,” He said with a tired smile, reaching out and wrapping one arm around you and the other around the twins.

In that moment, your world was warm. Messy, chaotic, glittery, but full of love.

Father’s Day hadn’t even officially started, and it was already perfect.

-

After breakfast (which involved only one spilled drink, one emergency toast replacement, and a glitter explosion from Becca’s card that no vacuum would ever fully clean), Bucky stretched his arms behind his head and let out a slow, content sigh.

You’d expected him to kick back for a slow, lazy morning, you even had his favorite coffee made and a plan to coax him into staying horizontal for another hour. But your twins had other ideas.

Grant stood on the bed like a general addressing his troops. “Dad. We request training.”

Becca nodded solemnly from where she was still curled at Bucky’s side, the foil on her arm slightly crinkled now but still intact. “We want to learn how to be cool like you.”

Bucky’s brows lifted slightly, but his mouth twitched with a smirk. “Cool like me, huh?”

“Super cool!” Grant corrected. “You have the metal arm. And spy eyes. And you know how to do ninja moves.”

“Ninja moves?” Bucky echoed, glancing at you with mock pride. “Did you hear that? I’m a ninja now.”

You chuckled, already guessing where this was going. “Be careful. If you agree, you’re going to have to run ‘training missions’ all day.”

“I don’t negotiate with mini-operatives,” Bucky said dramatically, sitting up and cracking his knuckles. “Let’s suit up.”

Twenty minutes later, the four of you were out in the small community park a few blocks from your apartment.

It was still early, so the park was quiet with just a few joggers and a sleepy dog-walker or two. Grant had turned a small stick into a “tactical baton” and was practicing forward rolls across the grass, only occasionally yelling “ow” when his shirt rode up and grass scraped his belly. Becca walked behind Bucky in perfect step, mimicking him as best she could, right down to the way he looked over his shoulder now and then.

“She’s watching your every move,” You whispered, catching up beside him as you walked the path circling the playground.

Bucky smiled softly, glancing down at Becca. “She’s quiet about it, but yeah. I see it.”

“She even asked me to put gel in her hair this morning,” You smiled. “Wanted it to stay back like yours.”

“She did good,” He murmured, then nudged your elbow. “You know, I think she walks quieter than I did at that age.”

You laughed. “Did you walk quietly at that age?”

He shrugged. “Probably not. But she’s serious. That’s how you know she’s dangerous.”

“Hey!” Grant shouted from a distance, now hanging upside down from the monkey bars. “Come watch! I’m training my grip strength like Dad!”

Bucky saluted him with two fingers. “Nice form, soldier.”

Becca stopped walking. “Can we do a mission now?”

Bucky crouched down so he was eye-level with her. “What kind of mission?”

She glanced at the playground, then leaned in close to whisper with all the intensity of a top-level SHIELD agent. “We could sneak past the swing area without anyone seeing us.”

Bucky nodded, equally serious. “Covert stealth ops. Code name: Operation Sneaky Slide.”

Becca’s eyes lit up.

“Grant!” Bucky called. “You in?”

“I was born in!” Grant shouted, landing with a dramatic thud that made you wince. He ran over, panting. “What’s the mission?”

Becca took over, voice stronger now with purpose. “We sneak across the grass. No noise. No being seen. If we get caught, we lose.”

Grant nodded, eyes wide. “Got it. No losing.”

You stood back as Bucky took a knee beside them both. “Rule one: stay low. Rule two: stick together. Rule three: don’t giggle.”

Grant already giggled. Becca elbowed him.

“Let’s go,” Bucky whispered, and the three of them dropped into crouches like a little team of spies.

You watched from the bench as they shuffled, crawled, and tumbled across the grass. Grant whispered updates into a walkie-talkie which was really just a large rock he’d found. Meanwhile, Becca did the hand gestures she’d seen people do in her cartoons. And Bucky? He looked more at peace than you’d seen him in weeks. Knees in the dirt, stealth-walking beside his kids like this was the most important assignment of his life.

And maybe it was.

When they reached the far side of the playground without being “caught,” they threw their arms in the air like true champions.

Becca leaned against her father, flushed and smiling. “We did it.”

“You sure did,” Bucky said, sweeping both kids up in his arms, his enhanced strength making the act seem effortless. “Best team I’ve ever had.”

You jogged over, laughing as Grant tried to salute while being carried. “So, Sergeant Barnes, what’s the post-mission protocol?”

Bucky looked at you, then back at the twins. “Snack time and cartoons.”

“Hurray!” The kids shouted in unison.

He set them down, and as they raced around the playground before it was time to go back. Bucky lingered a moment beside you.

“They really think I’m cool,” He spoke quietly, almost amazed.

You reached out and laced your fingers with his. “That’s because you are.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

“You came home,” You whispered, “And built a family.”

Bucky looked out at the twins; Grant chasing butterflies now, Becca adjusting her foil arm with quiet pride, and his eyes softened.

“Best mission I’ve ever been on.”

Caged in Comfort (Pt. 4)

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

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

Word Count: 3.8k+

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

Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Previous | Next

You wake up slow.

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

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

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

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

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

A pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t touch me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now.”

Your body moves to obey, slowly. Cautious almost.

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

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

Your hands stay in your lap.

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

Your fingers twitch, but you don’t act.

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

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

You pick up the spoon.

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

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

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

You chew slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze for half a breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl.”

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

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

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

“Play?” You echo, startled despite yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve crouches beside you, his hand still holding yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Behind you, your two captors watch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…I like this one.”

Steve smiles like you’ve handed him the sun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky blinks.

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

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

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

“Coloring, huh?” He mutters.

You nod again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Great Bed Heist

Summary: After a rough mission, Bucky returns to his room only to find you, in cat form, perfectly loafed in the center of his bed and entirely unwilling to move. (Bucky Barnes x shapeshifter!reader)

Word Count: 500+

Main Masterlist | Original Fic

It started out innocent enough.

One evening, after a particularly grueling mission involving a collapsing HYDRA base, malfunctioning comms, and at least two near-death experiences (one of which involved you dangling upside down over a vat of electrified water), Bucky was ready for sleep. Not food, not a shower, just a bed and six hours of unconsciousness.

He dragged himself to his room, still half in tactical gear, kicked off his boots, and opened the door to find…

You. In cat form.

Curled up dead center on his bed.

A perfect little loaf with paws tucked under, tail wrapped around, and eyes squinted in smug feline bliss. You didn’t even lift your head. You just blinked slowly at him, like you were doing him a favor by allowing him into his own room.

He stared. “No.”

You blinked again. Yes.

“I need to sleep.”

You stretched one paw lazily and yawned in an exaggerated, almost theatrical way.

Bucky sighed the way only a man who’s fought in multiple wars and still lost a bed to an eight-pound shifter-cat could. He approached the bed. “Come on. Off.”

You flopped to your side, showing your belly in a deceptively adorable display of innocence.

He frowned. “You’re not gonna move, are you?”

You chirped. A soft, high-pitched little meow that sounded for all the world like a definitive “nope.”

With the patience of a saint and the expression of a man seconds from swearing in every known language, Bucky gingerly scooped you up and held you like a slightly cursed loaf of bread.

Therefore, you responded by executing your best defense measures. You immediately went limp. Full ragdoll. Zero bones. Pure, spiteful jellycat mode.

He tried to place you at the foot of the bed.

You squirmed and climbed up his arm, momentarily perching on his shoulder like a little parrot-cat before backflipping right back into your previous loaf position. You curled up as if the interaction hadn’t even happened.

Bucky stared at you in pure betrayal. “Seriously?”

You tucked your head down.

He sat on the edge of the mattress. It was a big bed. King-sized. There was room.

So, fine. He figured he’d just lie down and ignore you.

Ten minutes later: you were slowly, imperceptibly inching closer.

He felt it. Like a cat-shaped glacier scooting toward his ribs.

When he cracked one eye open, you were three inches from his chest, staring directly at his face.

He exhaled sharply. “You planning to smother me in my sleep?”

You gently reached out one paw and touched his cheek.

He muttered something that was half curse, half exhausted laugh, and rolled to his side.

You followed. Instantly.

Eventually, Bucky gave up and just curled around you. One arm draped over your fluffball body, like some reluctant pet owner who did not ask for this, but also didn’t really want to move you anymore either.

“I swear, if you start snoring-“

PrrrRRRRrrrrr.

He groaned into the pillow. You purred louder. The bed was officially yours.

-

The next morning, Sam passed by Bucky’s room, paused at the door, and snapped a picture.

You were stretched across Bucky’s chest, limbs sprawled in all directions. His metal arm was dangling off the edge of the bed while he was unconscious, mouth slightly open, and looking like a man who hadn’t gotten a single inch of his side.

The photo was uploaded to the team group chat with the caption: “Cat: 1. Terminator: 0.”

You still use it as your phone wallpaper.

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.

Sticker Salon

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

Summary: You wake up in little space and decide to run a "Sticker Salon," decorating Steve and Bucky with sparkly stickers while they play along lovingly. Later, they save some of the stickers as keepsakes, reminding you just how loved and treasured you are.

Word Count: 600+

A/N: Haven’t written much of this kind of content in a while. So, here’s something small and fluffy. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

The morning had been slow, one of those rare days where the sunlight spilled through the windows just right to make everything feel cozy and golden.

You’d woken up regressed, clingy and soft around the edges. You were still in your onesie and fuzzy socks when Steve scooped you out of bed and carried you into the living room like you weighed nothing.

Bucky was already there, sprawled on the couch in sweats, flipping through channels with one hand and holding a coffee mug in the other. He looked over and smiled as you were set down onto the big pile of throw blankets between them.

“You’re lookin’ extra cuddly today, sweetheart,” He said, setting the remote aside to make room for you in his lap.

You mumbled around your paci and gave him a sleepy nod, tucking yourself against his chest like a small, clingy kitten. But it didn’t take long before your morning daze wore off and your wiggles started. Fidgety hands, swinging feet, a curious little noise here and there as you began poking around in the bin of toys by the couch.

That’s when you found it: a brand-new sticker book.

Butterflies, stars, silly animals, glittery shapes. Over 500 stickers in shiny, pastel colors all unopened, untouched, and waiting.

You gasped dramatically, holding up the sticker book excitedly. “Can I? Please, please, please?”

Steve looked up from the book he was reading and grinned. “What’re you thinking, bug?”

“Sticker salon,” You said, with the kind of importance usually reserved for royalty.

“Oh boy,” Bucky chuckled. “Are we the customers?”

You nodded seriously, flipping the book open and already peeling off a big sparkly star. “Uh-huh. You gotsa sit still. No movin’. No talkin’. Jus’ be pwetty.”

Steve laughed softly, setting his book down. “Guess we’re in good hands, Buck.”

Bucky shot him a mock-nervous glance as you climbed into his lap again and pressed the sparkly star right in the middle of his forehead. “There,” you said proudly. “You’re a space prince now.”

“Oh am I?”

“Shhh. Prince can’t talk. It’s the rules.”

You worked with deep concentration, occasionally furrowing your brow or humming around your pacifier as you pressed heart stickers on his cheeks and tiny flowers on the metal of his arm. Then you moved to Steve, sitting on his lap and patting his cheeks like a canvas. He raised his eyebrows obediently, still grinning as you stuck a unicorn sticker to the tip of his nose and several rainbow dots above his brows.

“There,” You whispered when you finished, radiating pure satisfaction. “Now you both fancy.”

Steve touched the unicorn on his nose and gave a mock-serious nod. “Very official.”

Bucky was already pulling out his phone to take a selfie of the three of you. “This better go on the fridge.”

You giggled, wriggling happily between them as they both leaned in for a picture. You wore a smile with your hands resting on their sticker-covered faces, as two of the most powerful men in the world wore your stickers like crowns.

The rest of the day passed with them still wearing your artwork. Steve even left his unicorn sticker on during a video call with Sam, who choked on his water laughing.

And when bedtime came, and your stickers were gently peeled off one by one, Bucky saved the star from his forehead and Steve placed the unicorn sticker on his sketchbook near his nightstand.

“Best salon in town,” Steve murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair as he tucked you into bed.

“Yeah,” Bucky added with a smile, “But next time I want glitter butterflies too.”

You nodded drowsily, proud and full of joy, already dreaming up the next makeover.

Because He Always Knows

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

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

Word Count: 1.2k+

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe,” You shrugged. “We’ll see.”

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

“Hey. You okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love Letters in the Smoke

Summary: During his rehabilitation, Bucky writes anonymous letters to process his thoughts. One night, he drops one at your circus campfire by mistake. You write back as a pen-pal romance begins. (Bucky Barnes x aerialist!reader)

Word Count: 1.6k+

A/N: I wanted to write something circus themed and thought this was a cute story. I hope the indents for the letters doesn’t look weird. Regardless, Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

The circus smelled of smoke, greasepaint, and a hint of nostalgia. The kind of place that looked like it had time-traveled from another century. Its canvas tents patched with care, and string lights casting soft golden halos in the dusk. You called it home.

Every night, after the crowd dispersed and the last child had been tugged away from the caramel stands, you’d sit by the communal fire pit with a notebook and your own thoughts. The crackle of flames soothed your nerves after a long evening performing. Tonight was no different until you found the letter.

Folded neatly in half, it was tucked beneath a rock near the fire. No name. No address. Just worn, thick paper, like it had been clutched tightly before being left behind. The handwriting was rigid, practiced, like someone who didn’t write often.

"I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe to make sense of the noise. I’m not used to silence. When I have it, the ghosts scream louder. I think I was someone good once, but I don’t know if that matters anymore. So I keep walking, city to city, place to place, hoping I can outrun myself."

Your fingers tightened around the paper, heart stirring with something strange. You didn’t know the writer, but you knew the feeling. So you wrote back.

Your first response was clumsy. You weren’t used to being vulnerable. But you scribbled on the back of a circus flyer:

“Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder if the reflection is mine or someone else’s memory. If you were good once, maybe that piece is still inside you. If it hurts, it means it mattered.”

You left your letter the same way by the fire, under the same rock. You didn’t expect anything to come of it. But the next night, there was another one waiting.

"Didn’t expect a reply. It’s strange. Your words feel like a calm I haven’t earned. But thank you. I needed them more than I thought."

The letters became a ritual.

While the rest of the troupe celebrated, drank, or collapsed into their trailers, you and your ghost wrote to each other. You told him about your performances, your nerves before every show, how the roar of the crowd always seemed distant. He told you about dreams he didn’t understand, faces he couldn't name but could never forget.

"Sometimes I see their eyes. Just eyes. Hundreds of them. People I’ve hurt. People I lost. I wish I could believe I was still worth saving."

Your response was always gentle, honest.

“Pain doesn’t cancel out worth. I don’t know what you’ve done. But if you’re trying now, if you’re writing to a stranger in the dark just to stay afloat… then yes. You’re worth it."

He never signed his letters. You didn’t, either. But a bond was forming. Raw and quiet. The kind of intimacy that only comes when truth is stripped bare, and nothing is expected in return.

A week later, a new stranger joined the circus.

He didn’t give much away, just said his name was James, and he was helping fix up the rigging for the aerial performers. He was tall with broad shoulders. Dark hair pulled into a low bun. Quiet, watchful, like a man used to danger. You noticed the glove on his hands, the way he flinched when touched, and the haunted glint in his eyes.

He didn’t say much, but when he watched you during your act, a graceful ribbon aerialist twisting in midair, there was something almost reverent in his gaze.

He started lingering by the fire after hours, sitting a few feet away. You’d nod. He’d nod back. Neither of you spoke much. But his presence was… comforting.

The letters continued.

"There’s a performer here. I don’t know her name yet. She climbs like she wants to touch the stars. When she’s up there, it’s like she’s weightless. Untouchable. I think she feels more at home in the air than on the ground. I envy that."

You read that one twice, your stomach fluttering. Could it be?

You looked at James differently after that. You caught him watching you once, a rare smile twitching at his mouth before he quickly looked away. He never asked personal questions, but he always listened when you spoke. Even the small things. What you had for dinner. What color ribbon you liked the best.

And still, each night, the letters came.

Until the day it stopped.

You came to the fire, letter in hand, heart pounding. You had written it that afternoon, deciding finally to sign it with your real name.

But there was no letter waiting. Not that night. Not the next.

And James was gone.

You asked around only to find out that he had packed up quietly, said goodbye to no one, and left like a ghost.

-

Weeks passed. The circus moved on, as it always did.

You still checked the firepit sometimes. Just in case. A hope inside your heart that would be chipped away each time you found no letter.

Then, one night, as the stars blanketed the sky and your arms ached from rehearsal, you found it. A single letter. Folded tight.

Your name was on the front.

"I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. I was afraid. You knew me before you knew who I was. And that scared me more than anything. I’ve done things, things I can’t ask forgiveness for. But when I read your words, I believed for a moment that maybe I wasn’t just a weapon. That maybe I could be more. You called me worth saving. No one ever said that to the Winter Soldier. But you said it to James."

Your hands trembled as you read the last part.

"I want to see you again. If you'll let me. There’s a train station just outside the next town. I’ll be waiting. – Bucky"

You folded the letter to your chest and smiled through your tears.

Finally, a name.

And maybe, just maybe, a beginning.

The next town was a blur of winding back roads and wind-chilled mornings. The circus was set up at the edge of a sun-dried field, the ground cracked from lack of rain. But you barely noticed any of it. Your mind was somewhere else, back at the firepit, at the letter pressed to your chest, at the name that made everything real.

Bucky.

It suited him somehow. Solid and sincere. A little old-fashioned like the man himself.

You folded the letter so carefully that it felt like folding a prayer. You didn’t show it to anyone. Some part of you was still terrified it might vanish if you spoke it aloud. But you couldn’t ignore it.

He said he’d be at the train station. So you went.

You left after rehearsal dressed in simple clothes, your hair braided back, and palms sweating in your coat pockets. The station was small and mostly empty. Just one old bench, a vending machine that wheezed when it tried to light up, and a single streetlamp buzzing like a nervous heart.

He was there.

Bucky stood near the tracks, hands in his pockets, back tense like he wasn’t sure he should stay. A battered duffel sat by his boots. His eyes were distant, tracking the horizon. Like he was still prepared to run.

You almost called out to him, but he turned first. When your eyes met, it hit you like a second heartbeat.

You'd read this man’s pain. Held his words in your hands like they were fragile glass. You had whispered encouragement to him under stars he couldn’t see. And now he was here. Real. Vulnerable. Waiting.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” He said, voice rough with nerves.

“I wasn’t sure you would wait,” You answered, stepping closer.

He let out a low quiet laugh, more exhale than sound. “I almost didn’t.”

“I’m glad you did.”

There was a long pause, but it wasn’t awkward. It was full. Thick with every letter, every word, every emotion neither of you had dared speak aloud.

“I’m sorry for disappearing,” Bucky began as his gaze dropped. “I… panicked. Thought it was safer if I left before I messed it up. But the truth is… I missed you.”

Your throat tightened. “You didn’t mess anything up. I… I missed you too. Every night I checked that fire.”

He stepped closer, the soft scrape of gravel under his boots. “I didn’t know how to do this. I still don’t.”

“Me neither,” You whispered. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest.

His gloved hand lifted, like he wanted to reach for you but was waiting for permission. So you met him halfway, pressing your hand gently to his chest. Through his shirt, you could feel the heavy rhythm of his heart, strong and steady, like it had finally found a beat worth chasing.

“I wasn’t falling for a stranger,” You said softly. “I was falling for the man in the letters. For the one who writes like he’s fighting for every word. That was you. It was always you.”

Bucky closed his eyes. Then, slowly, carefully, he leaned his forehead against yours.

And in that moment, there were no ghosts. No stages. No performances. Just the hush of the night air, the scent of iron and oil and smoke, and two people who had found each other in the most unexpected of ways.

“I want to try,” He murmured. “With you. If you’ll have me.”

You smiled. “Only if you write to me sometimes, even if we’re just a tent away.”

He chuckled, and it was the most alive you’d ever heard him. “Deal.”

Borrowed Gifts, Steadfast Love

Summary: You accidentally trigger a moment of amnesia in Bucky after giving him precognition during training. In the aftermath, Bucky, gentle and vulnerable in his confusion, asks if you’re someone important to him. When his memory returns, the two of you gradually confess what you’ve both been holding back. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the ability to temporarily bestow powers to other people.

Word Count: 3.5k+

A/N: It has been a while since I’ve had something for this series. Though, I’ve mostly covered my favorites so far, so I’ll need to brainstorm ideas for other abilities lol. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You had a rare and unnerving gift. One that terrified some of the Avengers more than it reassured them. With a touch, you could grant powers to others. Temporarily. Specific abilities, curated like items on a menu but always with a cost. The more potent the power, the more unpredictable the side effects. Some people got migraines. Others felt emotionally drained. And a few… well, a few forgot their names for an hour or two.

That last one had landed Tony flat on his back once, insisting he was a ballet dancer named Cheryl.

You hadn’t been born with powers yourself. You were experimented on briefly, in your early teens by a defunct program obsessed with replicating the abilities of others. Their tests failed to give you any power of your own. Instead, your body became a kind of channel, like a living transmitter. You couldn’t fly, lift tanks, or shoot lasers but you could let someone else do it. For a while. Ten minutes, fifteen if you really focused. Maybe twenty, but that always came with a nosebleed or worse.

SHIELD picked you up after the facility fell, though you never quite belonged in the field the same way the others did. You weren’t a soldier. You were a tool they deployed when someone needed an extra edge.

Bucky Barnes was one of the few who treated you like more than that.

You met him a year after he rejoined the Avengers, still finding his footing in a world that changed too fast. At first, he was quiet and standoffish, not unlike you. People like Steve and Sam tried to loop you in with group dinners, training sessions, or "team bonding" game nights that only made you feel more like a guest in someone else’s home. But Bucky? He never pressured you. He saw your silences and matched them. Sat next to you on the sidelines without needing to fill the air. Slowly, like frost melting under careful sun, you two grew close.

You trained together sometimes. Your power fascinated him in a way you didn’t expect. He’d ask questions no one else thought to: Did it hurt you? Did the powers you gave others come from somewhere, or from you? Could you give him one and take it back before it fully formed?

He was the first one to ask if you liked using your powers.

Most people just expected you were fine with it, already having some idea of what you were supposed to like, do, or be. But you never felt that pressure nor those expectations with him.

Therefore, you spent more time together after that. Coffee in the kitchen before morning briefings. Patrolling side by side, because he said he liked your “measured pace.” Evenings where you’d sit outside on the Tower balcony and he’d talk about Brooklyn before the war, or ask you what it felt like to see someone else use what wasn’t truly theirs. Sometimes you didn’t answer. Sometimes you did. Regardless, he never pushed.

Even with these shared moments, you didn’t dare name whatever was forming between you. Not yet. There was comfort in the undefined, in the quiet understanding between two people still trying to trust themselves again. You weren’t healed, but neither was he. However, you were there and that mattered.

The only time he ever raised an eyebrow was the day he caught you sketching in the rec room. It was an old habit you formed from before the facility, something you rarely indulged in. You tried to hide the notepad, but he saw it before you could. You were fully prepared to defend yourself.

Until he saw the page. A portrait of him. Focused. Sharp lines. Gentle shading.

He didn’t tease you.

He just said, “You made me look like someone worth drawing.”

You had to look away.

“I draw things I don’t want to forget,” You whispered.

That moment hung between you like an unspoken truth. One neither of you were ready to face. Not yet. Not until later. Not until the day you gave Bucky the ability to see a few seconds into the future and he forgot the past. Including you.

It started with a sparring match.

You weren’t planning to use your powers. You rarely did in training, unless asked. But Bucky was frustrated and off his rhythm. He was distracted and getting increasingly impatient with himself. You’d watched from the edge of the mat as he shook out his shoulders, jaw tight, and muttering curses under his breath.

“Want to cheat?” You asked, casually tossing him a water bottle. “I’m offering a limited-time preview of danger-dodging.”

He arched a brow. “What, like Spider-sense?”

“Closer to precognition. A few seconds ahead.” You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “Enough to give you an edge.”

He hesitated. You could see the thought wheels grinding behind his eyes, then he stepped forward and extended his hand. “Hit me with it.”

You reached up and pressed two fingers gently to the side of his neck, just under his jawline. A safer place than the wrist, less prone to backlash. A flicker of gold shimmered under your skin, then transferred into his.

“There. Ten minutes. You’ll feel it kick in.”

He blinked, eyes fluttering slightly, then his pupils dilated. His stance changed instantly into something more grounded. Lighter and alert. You backed up and watched as Sam moved in to spar with him, a little too eager to knock Bucky off his game.

But Bucky didn’t miss a beat.

He dodged Sam’s attacks before they landed, twisting just out of reach, predicting moves before they were even made. You saw Sam frown. Then grin. “Okay, okay, cheating is kind of cool.”

“Don’t get used to it,” You warned, arms crossed, already feeling the beginnings of a tension headache.

Everything was going fine until the timer ran out.

You didn’t notice right away. Bucky had stepped back, grabbing a towel and breathing a little hard. But then you saw him frown, glance around the gym like something was wrong. Like the lights were too bright. Or the air too thin.

“Bucky?” You asked cautiously.

He turned to you and blinked, staring at you like you were a stranger. Not the kind he feared, not someone threatening, just someone whose shape should’ve meant something. His brow furrowed like your presence itched at the back of his brain, like a song he almost remembered.

“Sorry,” He said again, voice quiet. “You look… familiar.”

You gave a tight smile, hiding the panic behind your eyes. “It’s okay. You’ve had a bit of a power hangover.”

“Power?” He looked down at his hands, then flexed his vibranium fingers. “Did I… hurt someone?”

“No. You were training. You asked me to give you a temporary ability.” You moved in front of him, trying to keep your voice steady. “Precognition. It lets you sense movements a few seconds ahead. You handled it like a pro.”

“Guess I didn’t handle it that well,” He said with a weak, lopsided smirk. Then his smile faded. “I really don’t remember.”

He sounded more concerned now. Not panicked yet, just… vulnerable. That was rare for him, especially in front of others. But now, it was like something raw had surfaced under his skin. The carefully constructed guard he wore every day had holes punched through it, and he didn’t know why.

You glanced to the training room door, where Sam was now standing uncertainly with a towel slung around his neck, unsure whether to intervene. You gave him a small shake of your head. This wasn’t something that needed a team.

“Come sit,” You murmured, gently taking Bucky’s arm and guiding him to a bench in the corner. He followed without resistance, like you were the only thing anchoring him.

Once seated, he studied your face for a long moment. His eyes were softer than usual, curious and searching. Like he wanted to remember you but didn’t know how.

“So we… know each other?” He asked carefully.

You nodded. “We work together. Trained together. Talked… a lot.”

He tilted his head. “Are we… close?”

Your throat tightened. “Yes.”

There was a long beat, and then, completely sincere, he asked, “Are we dating?”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“I’m just asking,” He said, sheepish but oddly confident in a way the real Bucky never was. “You seem like someone I’d… want to be close to.”

Your heart jumped into your throat. He doesn’t remember you, You reminded yourself. He’s just reaching for familiarity. Don’t fall for the illusion.

Still, you answered, “No. We’re not.”

Bucky looked disappointed, genuinely. “Are you sure?”

You gave him a half-hearted glare. “Even amnesiac, you’re a flirt.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t feel like me. It’s like I’m dreaming with my eyes open.” He looked down at his hands again. “I hate this.”

“I know. And it’ll wear off. Soon.”

He turned back to you, brow knitting. “You said you gave me a power? You… can do that?”

“I can lend them out. For a short time. Sometimes there are… side effects.” You hesitated. “You usually remember everything just fine.”

“Usually,” He echoed. “Lucky me.”

“I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His eyes lifted back to yours again. “You said my name.”

You smiled softly. “Yeah.”

He blinked slowly, taking that in. “And yours is…?”

You gave him your name and he repeated it quietly. The way he said it nearly undid you. It was gentle in the way as if he wanted to commit it to memory now, before it slipped through his fingers again.

“I don’t want to forget you,” He whispered, without thinking.

Your breath caught. You reached out then, almost instinctively, placed your hand over his.

“I won’t let you. I’m going to fix it,” You promised quietly. “Just… give me a minute.”

It took concentration, channeling the right counterbalance of power, guiding a mild recall ability through touch. When your hand met his again, you saw flickers of your face, training sessions, shared coffee. The sketch. His smile when he saw it. His voice, gentle and real: “You made me look like someone worth drawing.”

And then, the power flickered back before either of you were ready.

One moment, Bucky was holding your gaze like he was memorizing every detail of your eyes, your name, and the warmth of your hand covering his. Then the next, his fingers twitched beneath yours and his breath caught.

You saw it in his expression immediately.

Like a floodgate creaking open too fast, memory rushed back into his mind. You watched him blink once, twice, his face flickering through confusion, realization, then… guilt.

“It’s you,” He said softly.

You nodded slowly, afraid to speak first.

He sat up straighter, pulled his hand from under yours. Not harshly, but more so like he was grounding himself. His brows furrowed as his eyes darted around the training room, checking every shadow, and every sound. You could see his instincts coming back online.

“I remember,” He said.

Your shoulders slumped slightly. Relief mixed with… something sharper. A part of you had cherished that fragile, disarmed version of him. It felt wrong to miss it, but you did.

“I’m sorry,” You said. “I should’ve stopped the transfer sooner or done something-“

“No,” He interrupted quickly, looking at you again. “Don’t. Don’t blame yourself. I asked for it. You warned me. And besides, I’ve had worse side effects from coffee.”

You huffed a breath of dry amusement, though you didn’t quite smile.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you. “What… did I say?”

Your eyes dropped to the mat. “Nothing terrible. Just…” You fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve. “You forgot me. Asked who I was and if we worked together.”

“And?”

“And then you asked if we were dating.”

He stiffened slightly. “Did I?”

“Mm-hm.” You tried to play it off lightly. “You also asked if you hurt anyone, so clearly your priorities were intact.”

He didn’t laugh. He was still watching you too carefully. “And what did you say?”

“That we weren’t.”

He tilted his head. “And was I disappointed?”

You hesitated, wondering why he would ask that. “You said… I seemed like someone you’d want to be close to.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. Then: “I wasn’t wrong.”

Your eyes lifted to his, startled. There was something cautious in his voice, yes, but it was also honest. Maybe that amnesiac version of him didn’t just say things out of confusion. Maybe it said things he usually didn’t let himself say.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” You murmured, voice quieter now, rawer. “But… I didn’t hate it. Sitting with you. Talking without all the walls.”

His jaw tensed, eyes flicking down for a beat. “I don’t always know how to be soft on purpose,” He admitted. “But I want to, with you.”

A long silence stretched between you. And then, slowly, he offered you his hand. Not out of confusion. Not because of borrowed power. Just his hand. Open, steady, and inviting.

You took it.

“I may not remember everything at times,” He said quietly. “But I won’t forget that part.”

You gave a small nod, sitting in silence with him for a moment. Reality slowly began to creep back in like a fog settling over warm ground. The gym lights felt too bright. The air too still. Sam had already quietly slipped out, leaving the two of you alone to untangle the strange, fragile thread left behind by the power’s fading echo.

So, you made the decision to stand slowly, brushing your palms on your pants as Bucky followed suit.

Neither of you quite knew what to say. The rawness of the moment still lingered between you like something unspoken, and neither of you dared break it yet.

“I should… probably check in with Bruce,” You muttered. “Make sure there aren’t any lingering neurological disruptions. It’s been a while since I gave someone that particular ability.”

Bucky nodded. “Right, yeah. I’ll shower. Try to not stare into space too long.”

You huffed softly. “Good plan.”

Then came that moment, the moment. The one where your eyes met just before you both turned away. You caught a flicker in his gaze, something he wanted to say but didn’t. Something you wanted to hear, but couldn’t ask for. So instead, you both retreated to your corners of the compound.

-

In your room, you sat cross-legged on your bed with a cold compress on your forehead, scrolling through your tablet with one hand and letting the other rest uselessly in your lap. You weren’t reading anything. Not really.

Your mind was stuck in the echo chamber of You seem like someone I’d want to be close to and Maybe you should’ve said not yet.

You told yourself not to read into it. It was just scrambled-brain honesty. He wasn’t thinking straight. People say things when they forget their walls.

Still… he remembered now. And he hadn’t pulled away.

You ran a hand through your hair and dropped your tablet on the bed, then stared out the window. The sky had shifted from orange to deep navy. The tower was quiet. Too quiet.

Meanwhile in Bucky’s quarters, he had showered and dried off. Now sitting on the edge of his bed in sweats and a black T-shirt, staring at the cup of water he hadn’t touched.

His mind replayed the way your hand had felt in his. The nervous quirk of your mouth. The devastation in your eyes when he didn’t remember your name. The tenderness when he did.

He knew what he wanted to say. He had known it for a while. But now it felt like the air was thinner around you. Charged. He wasn’t sure if that was because of the power or because it exposed something deeper between you. Something neither of you had dared voice before.

He stood, opened his door, and walked down the quiet hall. Looking to end up in the one place he hoped you’d be.

-

Later that night, you were sitting alone on one of your favorite balconies, legs pulled up to your chest, and the air cool against your skin.

A quiet shuffle of boots sounded behind you.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Bucky settled down beside you, offering a second cup of tea. You took it without question.

“I keep thinking,” He said, “About how easily I forgot you. Like one wrong spark and poof.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

He nodded slowly. “Still… I don’t like that. I’ve worked so hard to build this life. The idea that someone could take a piece of it and I wouldn’t even know what was missing?”

Your fingers curled around your cup.

“I’ve spent years being forgettable,” You said. “By choice or by design. It’s safer that way, less… risky.”

Bucky turned his head to look at you. “You’re not forgettable to me.”

You finally met his eyes.

“I don’t care what kind of power tries to take that away. You’re not something I’d lose easily.”

And just like that, you didn’t feel like a tool anymore. You felt like someone worth remembering.

The night was hushed between the two of you, save for the faint hum of the city far below and the way Bucky’s thumb lightly tapped against his tea cup. Nervous energy. Not from fear, just hesitation. Like he was weighing each word before he let it out.

“I don’t want to forget you again,” He added quietly.

You watched him, and something in your expression whether it be gentle, surprised, or open, made him go still.

“Not from power backlash, not from time, not from fear. And if I’m being honest…” He trailed off, then exhaled. “I don’t want to waste time pretending you’re just a teammate. Or just someone who gives me an advantage in combat. You’re not that to me.”

You set your cup down slowly, the heat of it fading from your hands, replaced by the thrum of something warmer beneath your skin. “Then what am I?”

He looked at you fully and deliberately.

“You’re the person I look for in every room,” He said, voice low and sure. “The one I feel calm with. The one I trust when everything else gets loud in my head. You matter to me more than I’ve let myself admit.”

The words hit softly, like the first snow, but carried weight. Real and steady. You blinked, unsure if your heart had always beat this fast or if he’d just jump-started it.

“I thought maybe…” Your voice came out smaller than you expected. “If I let myself believe you might feel the same way, I’d mess everything up. That you’d need someone steadier. Someone who wouldn’t make you forget your own name when they touch you.”

His lips twitched into a quiet smile at that, but he didn’t joke. He didn’t downplay it. Instead, he leaned in slightly. His shoulders brushing yours.

“I won’t do anything unless you want me to. You’ve always given everyone else power. Maybe it’s time someone gave you the choice.”

There was no pressure in his tone, no coaxing. Just offering.

And something in you, long hidden and cautious, stirred.

You turned toward him fully, the dim light casting soft shadows across his features. You could see the tired but hopeful gleam in his eyes. You lifted one hand slowly, tracing your fingers along the line of his jaw, anchoring yourself in this moment.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” You admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then I’m all yours,” He replied, breath catching slightly as he leaned in.

You closed the gap.

The kiss was gentle at first. Something that could be described as cautious, exploratory, or like a question answered in a language both of you had forgotten how to speak. But then his hand came to rest at the side of your neck, warm and steady, and yours slid over his chest, feeling the weight of everything he wasn’t saying but always meant.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was better. It was safe, solid, and real.

When you both pulled back, neither of you spoke right away. But then Bucky’s voice broke the silence, low and steady:

“I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

Your lips quirked into the faintest smile. “Me too.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, almost reverent. “I don’t know what happens next,” He admitted, eyes meeting yours, vulnerable and unguarded. “But I know I want it with you.”

You nodded, fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt like you weren’t ready to let go. “Then stay. That’s all I need right now.”

A breeze stirred your hair, and he leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to your temple this time. Gentler, more certain.

“I’m not going anywhere,” He whispered.

And under the quiet sky, for the first time in a long while, you believed it.

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.