Aww, Thank You So Much!!! The Way They Show Their Care And Love For Each Other Is So Sweet. I Loved Writing
Aww, thank you so much!!! The way they show their care and love for each other is so sweet. I loved writing this one-shot. Thank you for reading! ♡
The Price of Saving Until You Care
Summary: You have the power to heal others by transferring their injuries onto you. After healing Bucky from a serious wound, he confronts you about constantly sacrificing your own well-being for him and you confront him about his recklessness in throwing his life away. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to transfer injuries onto herself. You and Bucky get injured in this. ANGST. References and/or talk of death & suicide. (It doesn’t happen here.) Bucky’s self-worth issues. You are responsible for the media you consume
Word Count: 1.5k+
A/N: Here’s that other version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. I also had another thought while writing this. Same concept, but she can’t feel the pain she transfers. But this version had more depth to it.
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
Pain was a strange thing.
Most people avoided it, feared it, or resented it. You? You made peace with it, letting it in like a familiar guest.
Your hands could heal, not with any glowing light, magical song, or celestial warmth, but with quiet, invisible sacrifice. Every wound you closed on someone else opened in your own body. A broken bone, a stab wound, a punctured lung, you could mend them all. But the damage had to go somewhere, and it always chose you.
At first, it felt noble. Heroic, even. Like you were doing something pure in a world full of compromise. Over time, though, that feeling didn’t last. Not after your body started to break faster than it could rebuild. Not after people began expecting it of you. And not after he started looking at you with that hollow-eyed grief every time you touched him.
Bucky Barnes was the only one who never asked.
That’s why you kept doing it for him.
He never demanded your gift, never leaned on it. If anything, he flinched when you reached for him. He stitched his own wounds in silence, like penance, like punishment. But he bled so often and so deeply, and there was only so much you could watch before stepping in.
So you made the choice he never would.
You took the pain he refused to burden anyone else with and carried it like a secret.
The first time you healed him, it was a gunshot to the thigh. He’d collapsed behind cover, gritting his teeth, trying to keep firing with one hand pressed hard over the bleeding wound. You crawled to him, pressed your palm against his jeans, and told him to breathe.
He didn’t understand right away. Not until later, when he saw you limping and pieced it together.
“What did you do?” He had asked, panic breaking through the walls he always wore.
You lied then and said it was a stray bullet. Said you were fine. You weren’t, of course. But the look on his face, that was worse than any pain. So you kept the truth buried.
Now, you’d done it too many times to count.
You didn't talk about your ability much. People either praised it or pitied it, and you didn’t need either. To you, it was like… math. You had a body that could endure pain and a world that couldn’t survive without help. It wasn’t heroism. It was simple. It was balance.
But even balance breaks when it leans too hard in one direction. And lately, Bucky had been leaning too hard and the rest of the team noticed it too. He became too reckless, too self-destructive, too tired of being saved.
That’s why you stood in the medbay now, chest already aching from a gash you took earlier, watching him sit bloodied and bruised and already trying to push you away.
The medbay lights buzzed faintly above, casting a harsh white sheen across the steel counters and bloodied gauze. Bucky sat shirtless on the edge of the gurney, one hand clamped over a ragged tear in his side. Blood still leaked between his fingers. His metal arm hung loose by his side, stained red.
You stepped forward quietly and approached slowly.
He heard you though. Evident in how his gaze flicked up, icy blue and already narrowing. “Don’t.”
You didn’t answer as you just moved to stand in front of him, reaching into the tray for a cloth. His blood had soaked deep into the fabric around the wound. Too deep for bandages.
“I mean it,” He growled, more force behind it this time. “You’re not doing that thing again.”
Your hand hesitated in the air before dropping. “It’s not a thing, Bucky. It’s me.”
He flinched. Just slightly. A beat of hesitation long enough for you to press your palm against his ribs.
Heat bloomed between your fingers. Your power worked silently, no fanfare, no shimmer of light, just the subtle pull, the invisible trade. His flesh knit together, the muscle reforming under your touch, sealing like it had never been torn.
Then came the pain as your breath hitched, feeling it bloom sharply through your ribs, mirroring the exact placement of his injury. The gash tore itself into you now; hot, wet, and burning deep. You exhaled through gritted teeth, willing yourself to stay upright.
Bucky grabbed your wrist.
“Stop. Please.” His voice was hoarse now. “Stop.”
“It’s already done,” You whispered.
He stood up too fast, panic flashing in his eyes. His hand hovered just short of touching you again. “Why would you do that? You said… You said you wouldn’t anymore.”
“I didn’t say that,” You leaned against the gurney now slightly, murmuring your defense. “You asked. I didn’t answer.”
“You’re bleeding.” His voice cracked. “You’re always bleeding for me.”
You looked down to see blood was spreading across your shirt now, warm and slow, the price of one man’s survival. You’d felt worse. Your pain tolerance was higher than others' after all, but that didn’t make this easy.
“You don’t get to die just because you’re tired,” You let out before you could think of the consequences, staring at anything else but him. “You don’t get to throw yourself at death like it’s the only thing you deserve.”
“And you don’t get to keep hurting yourself just to prove that I matter!” He shouted, voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You can’t keep doing this. You’ll…. disappear.”
He couldn’t bring himself to say the correct word. You finally met his gaze, taking a trembling step closer.
“I will. If you keep doing this. If you don’t stop treating yourself like you’re expendable.”
His expression twisted, a painful, broken thing. “Why?”
“Because you won’t save yourself,” You whispered. “So I will. Until you start caring about your life… or until you realize I gave you mine.”
A long silence stretched between you. Then, quietly, like a thread unraveling:
“I care.”
You blinked.
“I care,” He repeated. “I just… didn’t know how to show it. I didn’t think I was allowed to.”
Your breath caught.
He reached for you slowly, fingers brushing the edge of your shirt where the blood had bloomed red. “Let me try,” he said. “Let me start now.”
He stared at the blood staining your shirt, the way your breath hitched with every movement. His hands hovered like he didn’t know how to touch you gently, like anything he did would break you more. So, you helped him out by sitting down first. The gurney was cold under you, the pain a dull, pulsing throb in your side. It would last a few hours, maybe a few days, like most of them did. But you didn’t regret it. Not when he was alive. Not when he was here.
Bucky slowly stepped in front of you. He moved like he was approaching something sacred. Or fragile. He unzipped one of the emergency medkits and grabbed clean gauze, then glanced up to meet your eyes as if to ask for permission. You gave a small nod.
His fingers trembled just slightly as he lifted your shirt, revealing the angry gash blooming across your side.
He hissed through his teeth. “It should’ve been me.”
You smiled at him, dry and tired. “It was you.”
“No,” He muttered. “I meant… it should’ve stayed on me. I could’ve taken it.”
You cupped the back of his metal hand, pressing it gently against your knee. “You already take too much.”
This time, he didn’t answer. Instead, he focused on cleaning the wound, his hands methodical, precise. You watched the way his brow furrowed, the way he avoided your eyes like he couldn’t bear to look at the pain he’d caused. A similar look to the guilt people wore when they found out how your power worked.
“You don’t have to punish yourself every day,” You sighed.
“I’m not trying to.”
“Then stop flinching every time I help you.”
Bucky let out a low breath. “I flinch because you matter. Because every time you do this, I remember what it feels like to watch someone choose my life over theirs. And… I’m scared one day, you’ll make that choice for the last time.”
He finished dressing the wound in silence before he rose slowly and sat beside you.
For a moment, the room was quiet, the soft hum of overhead lights still present, and the echo of shared breath.
“You said something earlier,” He began finally, voice low. “That I wouldn’t save myself. That I don’t care if I die.”
You looked at him, quiet.
He nodded to himself. “You’re right. I didn’t. Not for a long time. But watching you hurt for me? Watching you bleed and not even hesitate? That scares the hell out of me.”
You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Then let it change you.”
Bucky was still for a beat. Then he shifted, slowly wrapping an arm around you, careful of your wound, careful of everything. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just real. Warm. Grounded.
“I don’t know how to start,” He admitted.
“You just did,” Your eyes slipping closed.
And in that quiet room, beneath too-bright lights and the weight of too many regrets, he held you like someone trying, finally, to be worth saving.
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Tiny Caretaker
Summary: Steve returns from a mission injured and emotionally drained. You wordlessly comfort him using small, nature-based gifts. Later, Bucky arrives, sees what you've done, and is deeply moved. Both men sit in reverent silence, realizing just how much your small, silent love means to them. (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes)
Word Count: 1.1k+
A/N: Thank you to @cherryblossomfairyy for the request/suggestion. Enjoy and Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Original Fic
The door clicked open just past midnight.
You were already awake. You had been for hours, sitting curled in the tiny hammock you’d woven between two books on the shelf. The wind had felt strange tonight, sharp at the edges. A whispering kind of sharp. You’d known something was wrong before you heard the heavy steps in the hallway, slower than usual.
When Steve stepped inside, you didn’t rush to him.
You just watched. Observed.
He dropped his shield near the couch with a soft clatter. He was still in the dark navy suit, but it was torn in places. There was a long gash across the side and bruises blooming along his jaw. His shoulders were slumped in that way they only were when something had gone wrong. Not physically wrong, emotionally wrong.
He sighed as he lowered himself to the couch, hand pressed against his side. You saw red, dull and drying, on his gloves. You fluttered down silently, your wings barely whispering in the dim light.
He didn’t notice you right away. He had his eyes closed, breathing through the pain and focusing inward, as humans often did when they didn’t want to feel anything at all.
You stood on the coffee table in front of him, arms folded, brow creased. You didn’t like this. He was your Tree. And trees weren’t supposed to fall.
You disappeared for a moment, darting across the shelves, climbing inside the drawer where you kept your special collection. By the time you returned, Steve had opened his eyes.
He didn’t say anything though. He didn’t need to. Because there you were, wings fluttering tiredly, arms full of your treasures for him.
You placed a smooth, round stone beside his knee. The one you’d kept for three seasons because it felt like sunshine when you touched it. You set down your best leaf, soft and silvery on one side. Good for calming dreams. You also had a tiny pot they had given to you before, filled halfway with real honey. The kind you only used for injuries. You unscrewed the top with some effort and nudged it toward his hand.
Then finally… your favorite button.
It was a pale blue one, the color of the sky on warm days. You’d once told Bucky it was “lucky” with a proud little tap and a wide grin. It had always stayed in your drawer, wrapped in a bit of thread like a tiny treasure.
Now it sat beside Steve, on the curve of his palm. His fingers closed around it slowly.
“Is this for me?” He asked, voice rough and tired.
You nodded then sat cross-legged on his knee, your glow dim but steady. You didn’t speak much. You didn’t need to. Your wings brushed his arm gently, a small touch acting as a reminder that you were here, that he wasn’t alone.
Steve exhaled softly and leaned his head back against the couch, hand still curled around the button, the honey pot beside him.
“…Thank you,” He whispered.
You didn’t answer, but you stayed. And your silent company said the rest.
The sun hadn’t risen yet when Bucky pushed open the door.
The team was back, the worst was over, and he’d spent the last few hours finishing debriefs, patching his own wounds, and pacing. He hadn’t seen Steve since the quinjet landed.
So when he opened the door, he froze in the doorway.
Steve was half-asleep on the couch, sprawled awkwardly with one hand clutched loosely over his ribs and the other cupped around a single, small, pale blue button.
His eyes flickered open at the sound. “Hey.”
“You look like hell,” Bucky said, walking in, voice softer than his words.
Steve cracked a tired smile. “Felt worse.”
That’s when Bucky spotted you curled on Steve’s shoulder like a fallen petal, wings tucked tightly around yourself, and your arms holding a bit of thread that had come loose from your pouch. Your cheek was pressed to the fabric of his torn uniform, your tiny form rising and falling with his every breath.
Bucky stopped in his tracks.
There was a leaf on the armrest, a smooth stone by Steve’s knee, and a small pot of honey with the lid off, just barely untouched. And that button… your button.
Bucky knew that one. You’d once protected it from the vacuum like it was sacred. He had joked about it being your “dragon hoard,” and you had hissed at him like an angry kitten, then patted the button gently and flown off in a huff. You’d even growled at Sam once for trying to borrow it.
He stepped closer, crouching beside the couch, eyes flicking between the little offerings and the soft expression on Steve’s face.
“She left them for me,” Steve murmured. “Didn’t say anything. Just… stayed.”
Bucky stared at you for a long moment as his features softened. He reached out, and with one gloved finger, gently fixed the corner of the blanket that had fallen from Steve’s chest, then carefully draped a second piece over your tiny form, shielding you from the draft.
“She always knows,” He muttered, more to himself than Steve.
Steve let out a breath. “She gave me the button.”
Bucky blinked. “The button?”
Steve nodded, voice quiet. “Think I was supposed to hold it till I felt better.”
Bucky huffed, half-sigh, half-laugh. “She gave me a sunflower petal when I had a panic attack last month.”
“She didn’t say much, but… it worked,” Steve said, looking down at you again. “I feel better.”
Bucky’s gaze lingered on you curled up. You were so still, wings trembling slightly in your sleep. “You think she knows we’d burn the world down for her?”
Steve chuckled weakly. “She probably does.”
They both sat in silence for a while, watching the way your wings fluttered in your dreams. Then Bucky, very gently, reached into his pocket. He pulled out a dried dandelion puff, impossibly intact, and set it beside the button in Steve’s palm.
“She gave me this,” He spoke softly. “When you went dark on a mission last month. Said it was for… wishing.”
Steve looked at him.
“You keep it,” Bucky added. “Until she asks for it back.”
Steve nodded. His fingers curled around the puff and the button, chest rising with something deep and quiet. You shifted, still asleep, and leaned closer into the warmth of Steve’s neck.
Bucky turned to go fetch the Medkit before pausing at the door.
“Get some rest, Stevie,” He said over his shoulder. “She’s got you.”
Steve looked down at the little fairy asleep against his collarbone, then back at Bucky.
“So do you.”
Bucky didn’t say anything, just dipped his head in a small nod before slipping into the hallway, the door shutting quietly behind him.
Steve leaned back, hand still cradling the button and the wish, and let his eyes fall closed again. This time, he slept without pain because you were there.
And somehow… that made all the difference.
LOL, they are so chaotic for real. Thank you so much for reading!!! ♡
Oops, I Joined a Cult Again
Summary: You joined a cult. That’s it. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)
Word Count: 900+
A/N: Same as the unhinged/chaotic reader series, supposed to be shorter but then I added more group chat shenanigans. I wanted something quick while I work on other stuff. Sorry if it’s messy. Happy reading!!!
Main Masterlist | Original Fic
Bucky Barnes had one job: watch your back on the infiltration mission.
He didn’t know that meant literally watching you disappear into a torchlit temple deep in the mountains and emerge forty-eight hours later in robes, glowing, smiling cheerfully, and being worshiped as the reincarnation of a snake god.
“They call me The Hissening,” You whispered, eyes far too wide, far too smug.
“I told you not to touch the statue,” Bucky muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as the robed people behind you chanted in perfect sync: “HISSSSSSS.”
-
48 HOURS EARLIER
The briefing was simple. Infiltrate and investigate a rising cult rumored to be a Hydra front. No weapons. No overt powers. In and out.
Naturally, Tony turned to you and said, “You’re on distraction duty. Just… go be yourself.”
You took it as a compliment. It was not.
You and Bucky parachuted into the outskirts of the mountains under cover of night, both in tactical gear. Silent and focused… until you turned to him mid-descent and yelled, “DO YOU THINK CULTS HAVE SNACKS?”
“…What?”
“LIKE HOLY GRAHAM CRACKERS OR- wait, no, Blessed Chex Mix!”
He didn’t respond. He just stared straight ahead, wondering for the millionth time what cosmic punishment he was paying for to be partnered with you on this particular mission.
The problem was never that you were bad at missions. In fact, in combat, you were terrifying. Strategic. Surgical.
But in deep cover? You were yourself, which is how exactly five minutes after entering the temple courtyard, you said:
“Nice snake statue. Can I boop it?”
And when the head priest responded, “Only the Chosen One may lay a finger upon the sacred Fang of Enlightenment,” You touched it immediately, whispered “boop,” and passed out.
When you woke up, glowing faintly with what may have been divine energy (or some type of poisoning), the cult declared you their prophesied leader.
You didn’t correct them.
-
BACK TO PRESENT
Bucky had finally gotten inside. Posing as a new recruit, hood up, mouth shut, inner turmoil vibrating at a ten. He spotted you instantly. You were standing on a golden platform, arms open, and being fanned with palm leaves.
“Hey,” He hissed when he reached you. “Mission. Hydra. Ringing any bells?”
You waved vaguely. “They have really good soup here.”
“This is not the time for soup.”
You nodded solemnly. “There is always time for soup.”
Someone handed you a ceremonial staff. You took it. It was sparkly.
You then whispered to Bucky, “So here’s the thing… I might’ve said we should cleanse our enemies in a fire of spiritual rebirth. Which they interpreted as actual fire. So, like… maybe be cool about that.”
He blinked at you.
“You started a holy war, didn’t you.”
You smiled brightly. “Only a small one.”
That night, under cover of darkness, the two of you escaped; you still in full ceremonial garb, Bucky dragging you by the elbow while you shouted goodbye to your “disciples.”
One of them threw a snake at you in farewell. You caught it. You named it Gary.
Steve, upon your return, asked what happened.
You saluted and said, “I was a god for three days and it changed me. Also I have this soup recipe now.” You handed him a scroll. When he opened it, it was blank.
Bucky looked at you, exhausted, covered in ash, a little bruised, holding a snake in one hand and your glitter-covered robes in the other.
“…You are the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me,” He said.
You winked. “But I’m your weirdo.”
“Yeah, you are.”
-
Bonus Debriefing.
Group Chat:
Tony: Okay, so. Roll call. Who let them start a religion??
Clint: AGAIN?!?
Sam: Are we seriously ignoring the snake?? Why does she still have the snake?
You: his name is Gary, he chose me
Bucky: The snake did not choose you. You caught him and said “I am your mother now.”
You: and he accepted me
Wanda: Did you eat something weird again? The last time you said a goat “chose you” we had to evacuate a whole town.
Steve: Back up. How did we go from “infiltrate Hydra cult” to “being crowned a divine prophet of the hiss age”?
Bucky: Because she touched the sacred artifact. While they were giving a warning not to.
You: i wanted to boop it 🐍✨
Bruce: [Image attached: Security cam still of you dramatically booping a snake statue and passing out like a Victorian child seeing ankles.]
Tony: Okay but why are you glowing in this?
You: i think I absorbed a minor god
Sam: Define “minor.”
You: likeee a demi-snake. A snack god
Bucky: You said, quote: “Let the hiss of salvation whisper in your soul or something.”
Tony: You started preaching???
You: they gave me a podium! what else was I supposed to do? NOT use it!?
Natasha: …Yes?
Clint: wait, so did we ever find out if the cult was a Hydra front or…
Steve: Nope. She gave a sermon and declared Bucky her “divine enforcer.”
Bucky: Yeah. Still mad about that.
You: srry Prophet Punchy
Tony: We are never letting you go on recon again.
Bruce: I still want to know how you pulled off a glowing aura with no tech or magic.
You: I ate three glowsticks on accident.
Wanda: …
Steve: …
Bucky: This is not a joke. I watched it happen.
You: I thought they were minty tubes.
Sam: Was anyone else weirdly inspired by her speech though?
Steve: Sam.
Sam: I’m just saying I felt something 🐍
Bucky: I felt betrayal and secondhand shame.
You: don’t worry guys, the cult disbanded peacefully. i left them a doctrine :)
Tony: A what.
You: [Image attached: Crayon drawing of a snake with sunglasses saying “BE NICE. EAT SOUP. HISS IF THREATENED.”]
Bruce: This is shockingly coherent.
Clint: I hate how effective it is.
Thor: I would like to join this religion. It seems wise. HISS.
[Thor has been muted again.]
Hiiii, would you ever write a part 2 to The Way He Notices or go back and write more to any previous fics?
Greetings, friend! Congrats on first ask. I could probably write something additional in that universe with the reader who can turn invisible. Maybe when they do confess or something. Regarding the second half of your question, it would depend if anyone would want to see more of whichever work I’ve written! Thanks for reading!! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)
A Little Mess Won’t Hurt
Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]
Summary: Despite your love for the arts, you’ve always been hesitant to use your paint kits, watercolors, or anything that could make a mess. Your caregivers notice and help you try finger painting for the first time.
Word Count: 1.9k+
A/N: This is purely a self-indulgent kind of fic. More on the fluffier side, hopefully.
Main Masterlist
You sit quietly on the couch, legs crossed beneath you, as you watch Steve work on his sketchbook. The pencil moves fluidly across the page, creating beautiful shapes, faces, and scenes. You’re mesmerized by how easily his hand moves, as if the paper were an extension of himself. His concentration makes him look so calm, so relaxed, and you wish you could do that too. Create something beautiful.
You reach over and grab your coloring book, your favorite one with intricate patterns of flowers and animals, and open it to the next unfinished page. You’ve always loved coloring, the neat lines and precise strokes, careful to stay inside the borders. But when you think about what Steve is doing and what Bucky sometimes does when he’s working with paints and clay, it makes your chest feel tight. You’ve never touched the paint kits or watercolor sets that Steve bought for you. It always feels like a line you’re afraid to cross.
Your fingers itch to try it. You know it’s fun. You’ve seen Bucky with his hands covered in clay and Steve covered in paint, laughing and smiling, their faces bright with joy. But the mess… the mess always brings memories you don’t like. The sharp words. The scolding. The fear of ruining something precious.
"Hey, kiddo, you done with your drawing?" Steve’s voice cuts through your thoughts. You blink, looking up at him. He’s watching you with soft eyes, a half-smile on his face. "You’re awfully quiet today."
You fidget with your coloring book, picking at the edges. "I’m just… coloring," You mumble, offering him a small smile.
Steve notices the way your gaze flicks back to his sketchbook, your eyes lingering on his pencil as it moves. He sets his book aside gently and leans closer, his voice tender but curious.
"You know," He starts, "I’ve got a new sketchbook in the other room. But it’s not the only way to make art."
Your heart skips a beat. You’ve heard them talk about painting before. About how messy it gets and how much fun it is. They thought you would like it. Bucky has even shown you his pottery and tried to convince you to join him in the studio once, but you always hesitated. The idea of making a mess, of getting dirty? It just felt wrong.
"I—" You pause, unsure how to explain. You tug at the hem of your shirt, a nervous habit. "I like… watching. But I don’t know if I could… do it."
Steve’s eyes soften as he tilts his head. "Do what, sweetheart?"
"Make a mess," You murmur, almost embarrassed.
The room falls into a quiet moment, Steve’s gaze turning understanding. He’s seen the way you’ve avoided the paints, the watercolors, the clay. He knows how much you love the idea of creating, anything to do with art. He can see it in your eyes every time you sit with your coloring book, every time you watch him draw. But he also knows there’s something holding you back. Something deeply rooted.
"You don’t have to be afraid of making a mess with us," Steve says gently. "You’re safe here. We’re not going to scold you for it. You don’t have to be perfect."
You glance up at him, your cheeks flushing. The words feel foreign, like they shouldn’t be said to you. But… they are. And the warmth in Steve’s voice makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could try.
"You sure?" You whisper.
Bucky, who has been quietly listening from the armchair, smiles softly and walks over to where you’re sitting. He crouches down to your level, his expression warm and inviting.
"I’ll even help you clean up after," He promises. "We can have a little messy play time, just the three of us. No judgment, no worries. Just fun."
Your heart flutters in your chest. The idea of it sounds fun. So much fun, in fact, that you can feel your fingers twitch with excitement. But the fear still clings to you. You don’t want to disappoint them too. You don’t want to make a mess at all.
Steve catches the look in your eyes and gives you a soft smile. "It’s okay if you don’t want to yet," He reassures calmly, "But I think you’ll enjoy it. Sometimes, making a little mess is how we make the best memories."
Bucky holds out his hand, "What do you say, kiddo? Wanna try it with us? You can start small. Just dip your fingers in a little bit of paint. We’ll take it slow."
You hesitate. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt as you think, battling with the urge to try something new and the fear of failure. But then Steve places a gentle hand on your shoulder, the warmth of his touch calming you. "No pressure. If you don’t like it, we can always stop. But if you want to, we can make something really special."
You glance at Bucky, who’s still waiting patiently. He doesn’t look rushed or frustrated. He’s simply… waiting for you to decide. To trust them and that’s the push you need.
Taking a deep breath, you nod, just a little.
"I’ll try," Your voice barely audible.
Bucky’s smile grows, and he gently takes your hand, as he brings you to the dining table. Steve grabs some of the finger painting supplies and sets them down near you. The tray of paints now sits before you with a blank sheet of paper. The colors are so bright, so inviting, and for the first time, you feel a small wave of excitement wash over you. You slowly reach over, still hesitant but brave. Bucky’s voice remains light and reassuring.
"That’s it. Now, just a little dab," He encourages.
You dip your fingers into the paint, the cool sensation making your breath catch in your throat. And then, with a deep breath, you press your fingers to the paper.
It’s messy. It’s a little wild. But it’s also… freeing.
Steve watches you with pride, his gaze soft as you begin to explore the colors with more confidence. Bucky’s chuckles ring in the air as he joins you on another page, painting alongside you. The mess doesn’t seem so bad now. In fact, it’s kind of fun. And with Steve and Bucky by your side, it’s safe. There’s no judgment, no scolding. Just a loving space where you can make something beautiful, even if it’s a little messy.
The paint feels warmer now, smoother against your fingertips as you move your hand across the page. You make a bold swirl of yellow and green, your face lighting up with a quiet smile as you experiment with the colors. It’s not perfect, but that’s the best part. The colors bleed into one another in playful patterns, as if the paper itself is dancing with you.
Bucky glances, grinning as you explore. "That’s it, kiddo. Let it flow," He says, his voice filled with encouragement. He’s got a bit of red paint smeared on his cheek from his own work, but he doesn’t mind. "No rules. Just fun."
You glance at him, then at Steve, who’s already made a few broad strokes on his paper with a brush. The whole room feels lighter, almost fizzing with energy as the three of you work in a little creative chaos together.
Steve watches you with a fond smile, leaning in to dip his own brush into a deep purple. "There you go," He adds. "Look at that swirl. Looks like a rainbow already."
You tilt your head and glance at your page, and sure enough, the yellow and green you've painted already do look like the beginnings of a rainbow, the colors blending like the hues of a sunset.
The idea of a perfect painting slowly fades from your mind, and you start adding more colors, simply having fun with it. Maybe blue here, a touch of red there. Bucky and Steve occasionally encourage you, their voices soft but full of praise. The weight of your old anxieties begins to melt away. They never push you to do anything more than you’re ready for, and you find yourself taking more risks, adding blobs of color that you wouldn’t have dared to make a few minutes ago.
The first few smudges on your fingers did feel odd at first, but then you realize they aren’t that bad. You laugh when a bit of orange accidentally splatters onto the side of your cheek. Bucky chuckles too, and reaches over with a napkin to wipe it away. "Guess you’re really getting into it now."
You can’t help but laugh back, the sound light and airy, filling the room with the pure joy of finally letting go.
It’s so much fun—more than you thought it could be. You notice that the fear you had about messing up seems so small now. There’s a comforting warmth in knowing that Steve and Bucky are right there with you, sharing in the mess, the fun, and the art. No one’s looking to judge or critique, just to enjoy the moment together.
The hours pass quickly, the three of you laughing and creating. Before you know it, your page is a beautiful, colorful mess. It’s nothing like the neat, careful drawings you used to make. Instead, it’s a chaotic explosion of colors, shapes, and patterns that make your heart flutter. You didn’t have to hold back. You didn’t have to be perfect. And that’s exactly what made it perfect.
"Look at you," Steve’s voice is full of pride as he leans in to admire your work. "I think we’ve got ourselves an artist in the making."
Bucky grins, nudging you lightly with his shoulder; his tone full of love and approval. "You’ve got a real eye for this, you know."
You smile, a warm, contented feeling filling your chest. Your hands are a little sticky with paint, and your shirt has a few splatters too, but you don’t mind. You look over at Bucky and Steve, seeing their faces beaming with pride. You realize that it wasn’t just about making art. It was about trusting them enough to let go, to not be afraid of what could happen if things got messy.
As you finish the last few touches on your page, you feel a sense of accomplishment. Your masterpiece isn’t about following the rules or being perfect. It’s a reflection of you: creative, brave, and free.
Steve and Bucky glance over at each other and share a look, one of shared pride and understanding. They’re proud of you for stepping out of your comfort zone, for trusting them, and for making something beautiful in the process.
When the paintings are finally dry, Steve gathers them up carefully. "We’ll hang these on the fridge," He smiles when your face lights up. "We’ll put yours right at the top, where everyone can see."
Bucky nods, pulling you into a soft, affectionate hug. "You did so good, sweetheart. You made a mess, and you made art. That’s what it’s all about."
You snuggle into his arms, still grinning from ear to ear. It feels good. It feels right.
And for the first time, you don’t worry about what happens if things get a little messy. Because, in this moment, you realize that a little mess is part of the magic. Part of the fun. And no matter what mess happens, you’re safe enough to make it with the people who love you.
Caged in Comfort (Pt. 1)
Summary: Though your life was not perfect, it was familiar. There was routine. A system in place. You practically grew up there all your life. So, when two super soldiers take you away from it all, how do they expect a lab experiment to react?
Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Not forced age regression yet, but heavily implied. Kidnapping . References to Labs. Lots of dialogue. Reader cries/panics. Stockholm Syndrome in the future likely.
Word Count: 1400+
A/N: As I say, if I can’t find a fic like it, I’ll just write it. Maybe you’ll like it too. Please read the warnings though. You are responsible for the media you consume. Also, let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.
Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Next
You wake with a jolt.
The air feels too still. Too clean. There’s something wrong. Your body’s stiff, your wrists ache, though they’re no longer bound. The sheets smell like detergent and lavender, not the cold metal and chemicals you were used to. You’re not in the lab. But this doesn’t seem like freedom.
You don’t move at first. You listen.
There are voices. Male. Muffled.
“She’s still sleeping?” One asks, firm yet laced with a hint of concern. It unsettles something deep in your gut.
“She’s just tired,” Says another. This voice is lower, rougher, but not unkind. “She’s been through a lot.”
You bolt upright.
The room is soft, painfully soft. Pastel walls, gentle lighting, plush toys sitting on shelves like they belong to someone half your age. There’s a rocking chair in the corner. The window is shut. There are no locks on the door, but that doesn’t mean you’re free.
You scramble back against the headboard, heart slamming in your chest.
Footsteps approach.
The door opens slowly, and you see them.
Steve Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes.
You know them. Not personally, you would have never imagined ever encountering them, not like this, but you know. They’re supposed to be heroes. But the way they’re looking at you now, like they already own you. It sends panic twisting in your stomach.
“Hey, hey,” Steve says quickly, raising his hands like you’re a frightened animal. “Easy, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
“No,” You breathe, barely audible. Your form is shaking now. “No, I don’t—this isn’t—where am I?”
Bucky takes a step closer, voice calm. Almost too calm. Like he has rehearsed this. "You’re home now. This is your room. We brought you here because the people who had you before? They didn’t take care of you. But we will.”
You stare at him. Then at Steve. “You kidnapped me.”
Steve frowns, as if the word offends him. “We rescued you.”
Your hands clutch the edge of the blanket like it’s the only thing grounding you. “I don’t know you. I want to leave.” Your words came out in a hurried manner as your eyes darted around the room, desperately searching for something. A way out? An exit? Anything will do at this point.
“You don’t need to leave,” Bucky says, slowly kneeling beside the bed like you’re a scared child. “You’re safe now. We’re gonna take care of you. Feed you. Keep you warm. No more experiments. No more pain.”
You shake your head, the pressure building behind your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“But we have decided,” Steve replies, still gentle. “You’re our little girl now. You just don’t remember what that feels like yet. But you will.”
“I’m not yours!” You shout, whether it be the conditioning or the fear breaking through. Your voice is sharp, almost shrill. “Let me go!”
Bucky’s expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t flinch. Neither of them do. They probably expected this. They simply look at you with something terrifying in their eyes. Not anger, not cruelty. But love. Warped, dangerous love.
“You’re scared. And that’s okay,” Steve says softly, stepping toward you. “New littles always are at first. But we’ll teach you. You don’t have to be strong anymore. You can let go.”
“I don’t want to let go,” You whisper. You don’t even know what that truly means. If you even know how to.
“But you need to,” Bucky says. “And it’s okay now. That’s why we’re here. To love you when you can’t love yourself. To hold you when it’s too much.”
You try to run.
You throw the blanket off and jump from the bed, but your legs are weak, your body too drained. Steve catches you instantly with ease before your body can hit the ground. He doesn’t hurt you. That almost makes it worse. He just holds you, firm and warm, like you’re something fragile. Like a child.
“Shhh,” He soothes into your hair. “You’re okay. You’re okay, baby girl.”
“No, no, no—” You fight, your voice breaking. “Don’t call me that. I’m not—!”
“You’re tired,” Bucky says firmly, yet still moves closer to stroke your back. “That’s all. Sleep a little. You’ll feel better. It gets easier.” The order comes out easy for him.
You sob once, harsh and sudden.
Because some part of you, the smallest part, wants to believe them. And that’s the most terrifying thing of all.
You can’t stop the tears now.
They come fast, hot, humiliating. Your body shakes as you struggle in Steve’s hold, but he doesn’t let you go. He just sinks to the carpet with you in his lap, sitting back against the edge of the bed as if this is routine. As if this is normal.
“I want to go,” You choke out, the words ragged against the lump in your throat. You know you didn’t have many things before, but at least it wasn’t as confusing and disorientating as this. “I want to go home. Please…”
“This is your home now,” Bucky rises with a sigh. His arms now folded across his chest. His metal fingers twitch, not with aggression, but with restraint, like he’s holding himself back. “You’re not going anywhere. You weren’t safe there nor would you be safe out there. You know that.”
“I don’t know anything!” Your voice comes out sharply, snapping at him as you try to pull away from Steve again. However, he holds you tighter. Not hurting you, never hurting, just keeping. Containing. “You drugged me…Took me—”
Steve’s voice comes quiet against your ear. “You were shaking when we first saw you. Do you remember that? Curled up in the corner of that place? That wasn’t living. That was surviving. Barely.”
He rocks you a little as he speaks, a gentle back and forth that makes your stomach twist.
You didn’t remember. You didn’t know they were even there, watching you. How long were they watching you?
“You didn’t ask,” You whimper softly, trying to find any rebuttal you could.
“We didn’t need to,” Bucky says, crouching now, eye-level. His eyes are hard, but not cold. Just…sure. Certain of himself, of what they’ve done. “You belong here. Whether you’re ready to admit it or not.”
“I don’t!” You cry out again, your voice cracking. “I’m not your little girl, I’m not—!”
“Sweetheart,” Steve soothes, rubbing slow circles into your back. “Shhh…I know it’s scary. I know your head’s telling you to fight. But you don’t have to anymore. Not here, not with us.”
You shake your head furiously, pressing your forehead into his chest to hide the tears, even though you hate how your body leans into the warmth. You don’t want to. You really don’t. But your resolve is starting to crack.
“I’m not little,” You mumble. “I’m not your baby.” Maybe if you repeat it enough times, it will come true. You know, deep down, it won’t.
“You are now,” Bucky says, simple and final.
You stiffen at his words, but Steve just hugs you closer, resting his chin gently atop your head like you’re something sacred. “He’s a bit blunt,” He murmurs. “But he loves you. We both do. So much already, baby.”
You start to tremble.
Because no one’s said that to you before. Not like this. Not without conditions or expectations or pain behind it.
You want to scream. You want to hit something. You want to run, even if your legs won’t carry you far.
But all you can do is sit there. Curled in the lap of a super soldier, a stranger, in a room that’s already been built for you like this was always going to happen.
Bucky rises again, slow, looming.
“I’ll bring her something to eat,” He says, turning toward the door. “Maybe that’ll help her accept us better when her stomach’s not empty.”
Steve hums in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Buck.”
Bucky pauses at the doorway. He looks back at you, one last time. His eyes narrow, jaw tight. “You’re not a prisoner. But don’t try anything,” He warns. “We’ll be kind. But if you think we’ll let you bolt out into the night and end up back in some lab’s basement? Think again.”
Then he’s gone.
The door shuts behind him with a soft click.
You stay frozen in Steve’s arms, your breath shaking in your chest. He’s warm. He smells like soap and leather and safety you don’t trust. You feel so small, despite your rage. Despite your fear and confusion.
Steve hums again, that same soothing sound, like a lullaby without words. “You’ll get used to it,” He says gently, brushing a tear from your cheek. “The softness. The quiet. The being wanted.”
You don’t reply.
Because part of you doesn’t believe it. And the rest is afraid that you might start to.
But no matter how pleasant these two strangers try to spin it, you’ve simply moved from one cage to another.
The Price of Saving Until You Care
Summary: You have the power to heal others by transferring their injuries onto you. After healing Bucky from a serious wound, he confronts you about constantly sacrificing your own well-being for him and you confront him about his recklessness in throwing his life away. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to transfer injuries onto herself. You and Bucky get injured in this. ANGST. References and/or talk of death & suicide. (It doesn’t happen here.) Bucky’s self-worth issues. You are responsible for the media you consume
Word Count: 1.5k+
A/N: Here’s that other version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. I also had another thought while writing this. Same concept, but she can’t feel the pain she transfers. But this version had more depth to it.
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
Pain was a strange thing.
Most people avoided it, feared it, or resented it. You? You made peace with it, letting it in like a familiar guest.
Your hands could heal, not with any glowing light, magical song, or celestial warmth, but with quiet, invisible sacrifice. Every wound you closed on someone else opened in your own body. A broken bone, a stab wound, a punctured lung, you could mend them all. But the damage had to go somewhere, and it always chose you.
At first, it felt noble. Heroic, even. Like you were doing something pure in a world full of compromise. Over time, though, that feeling didn’t last. Not after your body started to break faster than it could rebuild. Not after people began expecting it of you. And not after he started looking at you with that hollow-eyed grief every time you touched him.
Bucky Barnes was the only one who never asked.
That’s why you kept doing it for him.
He never demanded your gift, never leaned on it. If anything, he flinched when you reached for him. He stitched his own wounds in silence, like penance, like punishment. But he bled so often and so deeply, and there was only so much you could watch before stepping in.
So you made the choice he never would.
You took the pain he refused to burden anyone else with and carried it like a secret.
The first time you healed him, it was a gunshot to the thigh. He’d collapsed behind cover, gritting his teeth, trying to keep firing with one hand pressed hard over the bleeding wound. You crawled to him, pressed your palm against his jeans, and told him to breathe.
He didn’t understand right away. Not until later, when he saw you limping and pieced it together.
“What did you do?” He had asked, panic breaking through the walls he always wore.
You lied then and said it was a stray bullet. Said you were fine. You weren’t, of course. But the look on his face, that was worse than any pain. So you kept the truth buried.
Now, you’d done it too many times to count.
You didn't talk about your ability much. People either praised it or pitied it, and you didn’t need either. To you, it was like… math. You had a body that could endure pain and a world that couldn’t survive without help. It wasn’t heroism. It was simple. It was balance.
But even balance breaks when it leans too hard in one direction. And lately, Bucky had been leaning too hard and the rest of the team noticed it too. He became too reckless, too self-destructive, too tired of being saved.
That’s why you stood in the medbay now, chest already aching from a gash you took earlier, watching him sit bloodied and bruised and already trying to push you away.
The medbay lights buzzed faintly above, casting a harsh white sheen across the steel counters and bloodied gauze. Bucky sat shirtless on the edge of the gurney, one hand clamped over a ragged tear in his side. Blood still leaked between his fingers. His metal arm hung loose by his side, stained red.
You stepped forward quietly and approached slowly.
He heard you though. Evident in how his gaze flicked up, icy blue and already narrowing. “Don’t.”
You didn’t answer as you just moved to stand in front of him, reaching into the tray for a cloth. His blood had soaked deep into the fabric around the wound. Too deep for bandages.
“I mean it,” He growled, more force behind it this time. “You’re not doing that thing again.”
Your hand hesitated in the air before dropping. “It’s not a thing, Bucky. It’s me.”
He flinched. Just slightly. A beat of hesitation long enough for you to press your palm against his ribs.
Heat bloomed between your fingers. Your power worked silently, no fanfare, no shimmer of light, just the subtle pull, the invisible trade. His flesh knit together, the muscle reforming under your touch, sealing like it had never been torn.
Then came the pain as your breath hitched, feeling it bloom sharply through your ribs, mirroring the exact placement of his injury. The gash tore itself into you now; hot, wet, and burning deep. You exhaled through gritted teeth, willing yourself to stay upright.
Bucky grabbed your wrist.
“Stop. Please.” His voice was hoarse now. “Stop.”
“It’s already done,” You whispered.
He stood up too fast, panic flashing in his eyes. His hand hovered just short of touching you again. “Why would you do that? You said… You said you wouldn’t anymore.”
“I didn’t say that,” You leaned against the gurney now slightly, murmuring your defense. “You asked. I didn’t answer.”
“You’re bleeding.” His voice cracked. “You’re always bleeding for me.”
You looked down to see blood was spreading across your shirt now, warm and slow, the price of one man’s survival. You’d felt worse. Your pain tolerance was higher than others' after all, but that didn’t make this easy.
“You don’t get to die just because you’re tired,” You let out before you could think of the consequences, staring at anything else but him. “You don’t get to throw yourself at death like it’s the only thing you deserve.”
“And you don’t get to keep hurting yourself just to prove that I matter!” He shouted, voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You can’t keep doing this. You’ll…. disappear.”
He couldn’t bring himself to say the correct word. You finally met his gaze, taking a trembling step closer.
“I will. If you keep doing this. If you don’t stop treating yourself like you’re expendable.”
His expression twisted, a painful, broken thing. “Why?”
“Because you won’t save yourself,” You whispered. “So I will. Until you start caring about your life… or until you realize I gave you mine.”
A long silence stretched between you. Then, quietly, like a thread unraveling:
“I care.”
You blinked.
“I care,” He repeated. “I just… didn’t know how to show it. I didn’t think I was allowed to.”
Your breath caught.
He reached for you slowly, fingers brushing the edge of your shirt where the blood had bloomed red. “Let me try,” he said. “Let me start now.”
He stared at the blood staining your shirt, the way your breath hitched with every movement. His hands hovered like he didn’t know how to touch you gently, like anything he did would break you more. So, you helped him out by sitting down first. The gurney was cold under you, the pain a dull, pulsing throb in your side. It would last a few hours, maybe a few days, like most of them did. But you didn’t regret it. Not when he was alive. Not when he was here.
Bucky slowly stepped in front of you. He moved like he was approaching something sacred. Or fragile. He unzipped one of the emergency medkits and grabbed clean gauze, then glanced up to meet your eyes as if to ask for permission. You gave a small nod.
His fingers trembled just slightly as he lifted your shirt, revealing the angry gash blooming across your side.
He hissed through his teeth. “It should’ve been me.”
You smiled at him, dry and tired. “It was you.”
“No,” He muttered. “I meant… it should’ve stayed on me. I could’ve taken it.”
You cupped the back of his metal hand, pressing it gently against your knee. “You already take too much.”
This time, he didn’t answer. Instead, he focused on cleaning the wound, his hands methodical, precise. You watched the way his brow furrowed, the way he avoided your eyes like he couldn’t bear to look at the pain he’d caused. A similar look to the guilt people wore when they found out how your power worked.
“You don’t have to punish yourself every day,” You sighed.
“I’m not trying to.”
“Then stop flinching every time I help you.”
Bucky let out a low breath. “I flinch because you matter. Because every time you do this, I remember what it feels like to watch someone choose my life over theirs. And… I’m scared one day, you’ll make that choice for the last time.”
He finished dressing the wound in silence before he rose slowly and sat beside you.
For a moment, the room was quiet, the soft hum of overhead lights still present, and the echo of shared breath.
“You said something earlier,” He began finally, voice low. “That I wouldn’t save myself. That I don’t care if I die.”
You looked at him, quiet.
He nodded to himself. “You’re right. I didn’t. Not for a long time. But watching you hurt for me? Watching you bleed and not even hesitate? That scares the hell out of me.”
You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Then let it change you.”
Bucky was still for a beat. Then he shifted, slowly wrapping an arm around you, careful of your wound, careful of everything. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just real. Warm. Grounded.
“I don’t know how to start,” He admitted.
“You just did,” Your eyes slipping closed.
And in that quiet room, beneath too-bright lights and the weight of too many regrets, he held you like someone trying, finally, to be worth saving.
Same! They’re so whimsical and outrageous, it’s so entertaining. Thank you for reading!!! ♡
Heart First, Sanity Later
Summary: You, a dangerously chaotic genius with the common sense of a soggy spoon, somehow captures the heart of Bucky Barnes. Despite the constant emotional whiplash, raccoon-related injuries, and deeply cursed inventions, Bucky finds himself falling hard… somewhere between a Capri Sun intervention robot and a vent-related rescue. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: This was based on this post I came across from @ghouljams earlier. Please let me know if you want me to remove any of the information you listed here.
Word Count: 3.4k+
A/N: I had a blast writing this and I am begging on my hands and knees that other people like this as well so I can write more of unhinged reader. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
Bucky didn’t mean to get attached. In fact, he very specifically meant not to get attached to you.
You, with your wide smile and increasingly concerning decision-making skills. You, who walked into a briefing ten minutes late with a Slurpee, claimed you got “time-displaced,” and then flawlessly identified the year, model, and VIN of a car from a blurry photo Tony handed out. “That’s a 1972 Chevelle SS,” You’d said casually. “But the rims are from a later model. 1976, I think.”
He stared at you. Everyone did.
You slurped. “What?”
Later, Bucky watched you put your phone in the fridge, forget about it, then ask him if he’d “seen a text from 7-Eleven recently.” You didn’t even seem high. That was the worst part. You just… existed like that. All the time.
A living contradiction. A walking cosmic joke. The human version of a browser with 72 tabs open, one playing music, none labeled, and all of them about wildly different topics ranging from “theoretical wormhole stability” to “can ducks feel shame.”
And the worst part? You were insanely good at your job.
When it came to the field, you moved like you’d choreographed every punch in advance. Like your brain hit a switch and rerouted all the loose marbles into sheer precision.
But outside of that? Absolute chaos.
One time you asked if the word “colonel” was a typo because you’d only ever read it.
"Why is it spelled like 'colon-el'?” You’d asked Bucky, eating popcorn with a throwing knife for apparently no reason. “Like. You’re telling me we all just agreed to ignore the 'L'?”
He blinked slowly. “Yes.”
“Sounds fake but okay.”
He wanted to strangle you. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to wrap you in a blanket and take you to a doctor because no one should eat four bananas and not know why their stomach hurts. (“I thought they were like… nature’s snack bars!” You’d wailed from the floor. “Why does nature lie?”)
Still, there was something undeniably magnetic about you. Something that made Bucky keep finding excuses to be around you. Something that made him bite back a smile when you declared, with utter confidence, that “Citizen Kane” was a man’s full name and you “felt bad for him growing up with that.”
Sam had to leave the room. Steve looked like he aged five years. Bucky? He just leaned back in his chair and muttered, “You’re so lucky you’re pretty.”
You beamed. “I know, right?”
And that was just the beginning.
-
Bucky knew it the moment you turned to him in the middle of a high-stakes infiltration and whispered:
“Hey. Do you think raccoons ever get embarrassed?”
He froze mid-step, crouched beside you behind a cluster of storage crates, both of you watching a Hydra compound patrol pace along the wall ahead. Guns primed. Comms live. Two minutes to breach.
You blinked at him, eyes wide and totally serious about the question in the entirely inappropriate setting.
“What?” He hissed.
You frowned thoughtfully, like he was the weird one. “They have those little hands, right? Like… what if one drops its snack in front of another raccoon. Is that, like, raccoon shame? Do they feel judged?”
Bucky stared. He wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating. It had been a long week after all.
Then you added, “Anyway, two guards approaching. They’ll pass each other in about four seconds. I can take the left. You want the one with the scar?”
You didn’t even wait for an answer. Your body vanished into the shadows, clean and calculated. Three seconds later, both guards were unconscious and being gently rolled into the bushes like unwanted pizza boxes.
Bucky just stood there, breathing. You terrified him but not in the way enemies did. No, that would be too simple. Because he could fight Hydra, take a bullet, disarm a bomb, but you?
You were something else. A walking contradiction.
You once tripped over your own shoelaces while explaining quantum theory, then beat four highly trained operatives unconscious with a clipboard. You called a Glock a “grippy lil’ pew stick” but recited the Geneva Convention word-for-word because you “liked bedtime reading.”
And tonight was no different.
By the time the mission was done, the intel recovered, and the building cleared, Bucky was sore, bruised, and fully convinced that he was doomed. Because somewhere between the absurd commentary, the flawless fighting, and the way you wiped blood from your brow and grinned at him like you weren’t covered in chaos, he felt it.
That thing. The awful, nauseating, heart-clutching feeling.
Affection.
It hit him in the middle of your post-mission debrief, which mostly consisted of you sitting on the quinjet floor, drinking chocolate milk out of a thermos and recounting the entire op like it was a cute story you were telling children.
“And then I was like, Bam! right to the neck, and he just went down like a sack of sad potatoes. Did you see that? You saw that, right, Buck? I did the thing with the kick!”
He didn’t answer. He was looking at you like you’d grown a second head or like how you were the only thing stuck in his head these days. God, you were awful.
You had two blood on your elbow and half your gear undone. You were sprawled out on the floor like a sleep-deprived gremlin, and when you looked up at him and smiled, like he was the only person in the world who mattered… He was done. Gone.
“You okay there, Grumpypants?” You asked.
“I think I might hate you,” He muttered, sitting down beside you.
You grinned, bumping his shoulder with yours. “That’s fair. I’m an acquired taste. Like oysters. Or war crimes.”
He barked a laugh before he could stop it. You looked so proud.
“I’m serious,” He said, sobering. “You’re gonna get yourself killed one day. You don’t take anything seriously.”
You just stared at him for a moment, and then, quietly, you said, “I take you seriously.”
The jet went quiet.
And Bucky sat very, very still because somehow, that hit harder than any mission ever had.
You weren’t just funny. Or weird. Or brilliant in a way that made his head hurt.
You were kind. Kind in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Like you saw through the Winter Soldier and the scowl and the kill count, and you still chose to sit beside him, sipping chocolate milk and talking about raccoon shame.
And Bucky Barnes, world-weary assassin, trauma-laden super-soldier, turned to you and realized:
He was fucked.
In love with a person who once confidently said “quinoa” was pronounced “kin-oh-ah” and didn’t believe him when he corrected you.
You looked up from your thermos. “You’re doing the staring thing again. Am I bleeding from the ear?”
“No,” Bucky said, voice low. “You’re just…”
“Sexy?” You offered helpfully.
“…Terrifying.”
You winked. “Same difference.”
And Bucky Barnes, against all logic, reason, and survival instinct, knew he was already in too deep.
-
The next mission had gone off without a hitch… at least, for everyone except Bucky.
A few cuts here, a couple of bruises there, but nothing too serious. At least, that’s what he told himself as he sat on the edge of the quinjet, feeling the burn in his shoulder from a bullet graze. But the moment you walked into the medbay with a roll of bandages in your hand, it was like everything inside him twisted in a way he couldn’t explain.
“Okay, Bucky. Time to let the master do her magic,” you said, flashing that grin of yours, the one that always made his heart do weird, involuntary things.
Bucky blinked, trying to shake the disoriented feeling. “You’re the one who got shot today. Why am I the one getting patched up?”
“Because I’m immortal,” You said matter-of-factly. “Also, I’m not bleeding anywhere you can see, so that’s a bonus.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You’re immortal?”
You sat down beside him, rolling your sleeves up. “No, but I like to pretend I am. You know, like a cooler superhero.”
He winced slightly as you poked at his side. “That’s what I’m dealing with, huh?”
“You love it,” You teased, squeezing out some antiseptic onto a cotton pad.
“You’re lucky I haven’t thrown you out of a plane for this,” Bucky muttered, though he couldn’t stop the faint grin from tugging at his lips.
“Not gonna lie, I’d be mad if you did,” You admitted, gently dabbing at his side. “Also, I’d haunt you. I know how to haunt people. I’ve read a lot of books about ghosts.”
He chuckled, despite himself. “Of course you have.”
“Oh, absolutely. I even have a theory about why the Titanic sank, and it’s completely different from the official one. But I’m telling you right now, it’s not what they say.”
Bucky glanced over at you, eyebrow raised. “This I gotta hear.”
You leaned closer, lowering your voice dramatically as if revealing state secrets. “Okay, so. It wasn’t an iceberg that caused the sinking. It was actually the government trying to erase all evidence of the giant squid they were experimenting on, and they blamed it on the iceberg to cover up the real cause.”
Bucky blinked, unsure whether you were serious or not. “Wait, what?” He asked slowly.
You looked at him deadpan. “You didn’t hear the rumors? They found footage, you know. The squid was huge. It even had tentacles.”
He stared at you, speechless.
"Anyway," You continued, as if you hadn’t just suggested the world’s greatest conspiracy, "What we do know is that my bandage technique is flawless. See this?" You lifted a corner of the bandage to show him a perfect wrap around his side.
Bucky blinked. "Did you just distract me with a giant squid theory while you patched me up?"
“Absolutely.” You beamed at him. “Works every time. Just don’t tell anyone you’re in love with me because I’m not responsible for any heart attacks.”
Bucky froze, his heartbeat suddenly in his throat.
You were still so nonchalant. Still so you, so damn confident and so sure of yourself. It took everything in him not to lean in and kiss you right there.
But then, you looked up at him, and for the briefest moment, that smile of yours softened. “You’re good, Bucky,” You said quietly. “You’ve been through more shit than any of us. But you’re still here. That’s something, you know?”
His chest tightened.
“And you know what?” You continued, your voice so much softer now, like a quiet reassurance. “You don’t have to be a soldier all the time. Sometimes, you can just be Bucky.”
He swallowed, looking at you. “And what about you?”
“Oh, me? I’m a mess,” You shrugged, finally looking away, as if it was no big deal. “I’m just here to make the chaos look cute.”
Your eyes flicked back to him, that familiar teasing glint in them. “That’s my secret. You like it.”
Bucky chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He wanted to say something, wanted to admit something. That little voice in his head kept screaming at him to just say it already, but he was scared. He was scared of how deep you had burrowed under his skin, of how easy it was to forget everything else when you were around.
Instead, he just leaned forward and cupped your face, his thumb gently brushing your cheek. “You’re… something else, you know that?”
You blinked at him in surprise, your lips parted, as if trying to process the sudden shift in the air. For a moment, there was a palpable tension between the two of you, like the universe was holding its breath, waiting for one of you to do something.
But then, in your usual way, you broke it, shrugging with a grin. “I know. You’re welcome.”
Bucky’s heart did a weird flip, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to truly relax, just a little. He didn’t want to admit it. Not yet. Not even to himself.
But as you leaned in to finish wrapping his side, your hand brushing his skin lightly, he knew he was already in way too deep.
-
The next incident started with a toaster. Not even a cool toaster. Just a boring, silver Stark-issued kitchen appliance that you were suspiciously proud of. I You’d taken it apart and rebuilt it but “better.” No one asked you to. No one gave you permission. You just did it.
“Now it sings the SpongeBob theme when your toast is done,” You explained, beaming as you held up a slice of whole wheat like it was a golden ticket.
Bucky stared at you. “You tampered with government property.”
“Enhanced.” You corrected. “And before you ask, no, I will not apologize. This is the future.”
Then it sang. “Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?” BWEEEEEP - Toast done.
Bucky looked like he was praying for divine intervention. “You’re gonna get us all court-martialed over this.”
Two hours later, you were banned from the kitchen, which didn’t stop you from relocating to the common area with your newest project: building what you claimed was a “mousetrap but for anxiety.”
It was made of pipe cleaners, glow sticks, and what might’ve been a dismantled Roomba.
“I call her Deborah,” You said, gently stroking it. “She senses emotional instability and gives you a juice box.”
As if on cue, it whirred over to Bucky, bumped into his leg, and slowly offered him a Capri Sun.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I’m not drinking that.”
“Then she thinks you’re too far gone. She’s very wise.”
Steve walked in, surveyed the scene, and simply turned around without speaking. He didn’t even ask anymore.
Later that night, Bucky caught you in the hallway attempting to climb into the ceiling with a flashlight between your teeth and a jar of pickles under your arm.
“Do I want to know?” He asked, exhausted.
You paused halfway into a vent, dropping the flashlight briefly. “Depends. Do you believe in ceiling gremlins?”
“No.”
“Then I’m doing taxes.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Please. I’m begging you. Come down.”
You stared at him for a long moment, then slowly slid back out like a raccoon emerging from a trash can. “Okay. But only because you asked nicely and not because I got stuck.”
You had absolutely gotten stuck. And the worst part? He was smitten.
Every time you did something completely absurd, which was always, he found himself watching you a little too long, smiling a little too much, wondering what the hell you were going to do next and why it made his chest ache in a weirdly pleasant way.
Even now, covered in ceiling dust and holding a pickle jar, you looked up at him with that infuriatingly endearing grin.
“You’re in love with me,” You stated confidently.
Bucky blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” You popped a pickle in your mouth. “You’ve got that look. Like a grumpy cat who accidentally cuddled someone and doesn’t want to admit it.”
“I do not look like-“
“It's okay. You don’t have to say it.” You patted his chest affectionately. “Your body language screams ‘emotionally unavailable man finds chaotic cryptid and feels things.’”
“I am not emotionally unavailable.”
“You have a go bag, Bucky.”
“…That’s standard protocol.”
“Your toothbrush is still in the packaging.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. You’d won. Again.
“You’re gonna kiss me one day,” You said as you walked past him, pickle jar under one arm, flashlight in your other hand. “And when you do, I’m gonna be so smug you’ll try to throw yourself off the building.”
Bucky stood there in the hall, alone, heart doing its dumb little thudding thing. He hated you. He adored you. And he was never getting that toothbrush insult out of his head.
-
When the big moment happened, It wasn’t a big mission. It wasn’t even a real mission. It was just supposed to be recon.
And yet somehow, you were sitting on the floor of a dusty, abandoned warehouse with a concussion, holding a broken walkie-talkie like it personally betrayed you.
“Okay, but in my defense,” You slurred slightly, “I didn’t know the raccoon had a knife.”
Bucky stared at you, expression unreadable, as blood dripped slowly from your temple.
“You ran into an unmarked building alone, set off three alarms, fell through a skylight, and got jumped by wildlife.”
You held up a finger. “Armed wildlife.”
He ran a hand down his face.
“I swear to God, you are one poorly timed pun away from getting locked in a broom closet until the end of time.”
You blinked up at him. “Kinky.”
He turned away so fast you could almost hear his brain blue-screen. “Jesus Christ.”
But when he looked back at you: your lip bloodied, eyes dazed, hair full of insulation from where you’d crashed through the ceiling like a chaotic Christmas angel, something in his chest snapped.
You were always like this. Impossible. Endearing. Brilliant in the most horrifying ways. A human Wikipedia article with a death wish and a spark in your eyes that made him forget, just for a second, that the world was awful.
And that spark was flickering. Just a little. And he hated it.
“You can’t keep doing this,” He began, voice tight. “You can’t keep treating your life like it’s expendable.”
You blinked slowly. “That sounds fake. I’m clearly immortal.”
“I’m serious.” He crouched in front of you, fists clenched. “You run into every situation like you’re bulletproof, and you’re not. One day, I’m not gonna be there to drag your dumbass out of a flaming building or disarm a guy who has a bazooka made of forks or- or whatever the hell today was!”
“It was a raccoon with a grudge.”
“That’s not a thing!”
You stared at him in silence for a beat, then said, very softly, “You’re worried about me.”
He froze.
“I’m always worried about you,” He said, almost too quiet to hear. “You think I wake up every day wondering what country I’ll have to fly to because you thought jumping off a roof would ‘probably be fine’ if you landed in a bush?!”
You tilted your head. “It was a very fluffy bush.”
”I love you, you absolute menace!”
Silence. You blinked. Then he blinked. Somewhere in the warehouse, a raccoon chittered menacingly.
“…You love me?” You echoed, like he’d just said he wanted to marry a zucchini.
Bucky looked like he might actually combust. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”
“Say it like what?”
“Like I love you. Which I do. But I was gonna do it after, like… dinner. Or when you weren’t bleeding.”
“Is this why you made me tea every time I electrocuted myself?”
“Yes!”
“And why you punched that guy who called me a liability?”
“Also yes!”
“And why you didn’t kill me when I installed motion sensors in the hallway and forgot to tell anyone?”
“I almost killed you.”
You were quiet for a long moment. Then: “Okay.”
He blinked. “Okay?”
You nodded, still loopy but smiling now. “Okay. I love you too.”
He stared. “You do?”
“Yeah. I mean, why else would I let you eat the last cookie that one time? Or give Deborah full permission to follow you around and scan your emotional damage like a clingy Roomba?”
He laughed, just once, short and stunned.
You leaned forward and poked his chest with one finger. “Also, I have a very deep fondness for emotionally repressed war criminals. It’s kind of my thing.”
Bucky groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet. You’re in love with me.”
“I’m regretting it deeply.”
“No you’re not.” You smiled that crooked, chaotic smile that had ruined his life in the best way.
And despite everything, the dust, the blood, the deeply traumatized raccoon now watching you both from the shadows, he leaned in and kissed you.
It was gentle. Just for a second. As if to say, Yes. You’re chaos incarnate. But you’re mine.
When he pulled back, it was silent for a moment. Both of you looking in each other’s eyes before you whispered, “Did you just kiss me in front of a knife raccoon?”
Bucky exhaled slowly, already regretting all his life choices. “God help me. I did.”
With all Bucky has had to deal with, he definitely earned chaos privileges and should get his own medal lol. Thank you for reading!!! ♡
Infected by the Chaos
Summary: Overtime, your questionable tendencies and unpredictable phrases have rubbed off onto your boyfriend. The team reacts by trying their best to un-corrupt the supersoldier. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Word Count: 1.2k+
A/N: Thank you to @ozwriterchick for the idea. Enjoy and Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist
There was a debriefing. The usual boring, long, and necessary meeting. Everyone sat around the conference table looking various degrees of irritated.
You were leaning back in your chair, chewing gum, spinning a pen between your fingers, and mentally ranking everyone’s haircuts from “tragic” to “god-tier.” (Sam had climbed two spots today.)
Steve was talking, bless him, but honestly, your brain had already turned into a screensaver.
“-and next time, we need tighter communication. Nat, cover the north entrance. Sam, recon from above. And you two,” He gestured at you and Bucky. “Try not to burn the entire building down next time.”
You opened your mouth, probably to say something deeply unhelpful and not at all relevant but then it happened.
Bucky got there first.
Deadpan, casual, and not even glancing up from his notepad, he muttered:
“I don’t control the fire. The fire controls me.”
The room went silent.
Sam slowly turned his head. “What.”
Nat blinked. “I’m sorry- Did Barnes just say that?”
Steve dropped his tablet. You were staring at him like he’d just told you he was pregnant with a spider-dog hybrid.
Bucky glanced up with a shrug. “What? It’s true.”
“No, no, no, back up.” You stood, pointing at him. “That’s my level of chaos. You don’t get to say things like that with a straight face. That’s my thing.”
“Pretty sure I’ve earned chaos privileges by now,” He said in an even tone, biting into an apple.
Nat coughed. “What else have you been saying lately?”
You whirled on Bucky. “You didn’t even flinch. You said it like a man who has absolutely Googled whether rats can legally vote.”
Bucky smirked. “I have due to our last date. They can’t yet.”
Sam slid down in his chair. “Oh god, there’s two of them now.”
Tony, who had joined the meeting late with a coffee and zero patience, looked between you and Bucky. “I always knew one of you was a bad influence. I just didn’t expect it to be her.”
“I resent that,” You said.
“I expected more from you, Barnes,” Tony replied.
Steve looked like he was having a mild stroke. “I spent a decade dragging him out of assassin mode and you…you-“ He pointed at you with all the drama of a soap opera actor. “You corrupted him.”
You crossed your arms. “Excuse me, I elevated him. You think he’d even know what a possum rave is without me?”
“Wait,” Bucky said, serious again. “That’s real?”
“Unfortunately,” Sam muttered.
Bucky turned to you. “Do you think we could-“
“No,” Steve and Sam said in unison.
Later that night, you and Bucky were sitting on the roof, feet dangling over the ledge, and watching the stars while splitting a packet of strawberry Pop-Tarts.
You nudged him with your shoulder. “You really said it, huh?”
He smirked. “It just came out.”
“And the fire controls you?”
He looked at you with something soft and proud in his eyes. “Maybe I’ve just been spending too much time with my favorite disaster.”
You grinned and leaned into his side. “Next step: getting you to name a pigeon.”
“Already done. His name’s Charles. He watched us fight three agents yesterday.”
You gasped. “You’re perfect.”
“I know,” Bucky said. “You trained me well.”
-
As time passed, Bucky was the problem now.
At first, the team found it endearing. The grumpy super soldier smiling at dumb jokes, randomly throwing out facts about duck mating rituals, or muttering “vibe check failed” after knocking someone out. In some strange way, it was charming. Odd, but charming.
But then he named a second pigeon. And that was the last straw.
“We need to intervene,” Natasha said, deadly serious with her arms folded as she stood at the head of the war room table.
“Why?” Bucky asked, mid-bite of a toaster strudel. “Charles Junior likes me.”
“Exactly,” Tony said, pointing dramatically. “The fact that you’re calling it Charles Junior is the problem.”
“I don’t see the issue,” You said from your seat next to Bucky, proudly wearing your ‘#1 Chaos Hero’ necklace again. “It’s genetic. Charles Prime had strong leader energy.”
Steve looked between you both like he was watching two people fall off a moral cliff in slow motion. “You used to be a soldier.”
“He is a soldier,” You said. “He just also knows five ways to make banana bread ”
Bucky nodded solemnly. “Just don’t over-mix the batter.”
Tony facepalmed. “Nope. This is a brain rot virus, and you’re patient zero.”
You smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”
“I wasn’t complimenting you.”
“Still taking it that way.”
Natasha, still painfully calm, pulled out a folder labeled “OPERATION: WINTER DETOX.”
“Oh no,” Bucky muttered.
“Yes,” She said. “We're deprogramming the chaos out of you. We're doing it for the safety of the building, and also the pigeons.”
-
During phase one, you were banned from interacting with Bucky for 48 hours. No comms. No breakfast together. No late-night feral cuddling where you told him shark facts until he passed out.
You broke the rule in 6 minutes.
Literally. You broke into the vent system and dropped into his room from the ceiling like some kind of gremlin god.
“Did you know octopuses have nine brains?”
Bucky looked up from his book, deadpan. “I do now.”
When Sam burst in to yell at you, he found Bucky trying to braid your hair while you explained the 36 reasons flamingos are both cursed and divine.
Sam left with his soul cracked in half.
Phase two didn’t end much better either. They tried re-soldiering him. Military documentaries. Physical training drills. A six-hour silent stare-off with Steve.
You showed up with a whiteboard that said “Today’s Mission: Turn Bucky Into a Lizard.”
Steve had to lock you out of the room and block your contact from Bucky’s phone for two hours.
By phase three, the team tried pairing Bucky with other Avengers. Nat. Rhodey. Bruce.
Each one ended up slightly more unhinged than when they started.
Bruce now exclusively drinks out of a cup shaped like a frog. Nat started saying “mood” unironically. Rhodey got a ferret and named it “Mini War Machine.”
“Do you see what you’ve done?” Steve begged one night as you and Bucky made soup in the communal kitchen while retelling an episode of River Monsters using only metaphors and curse words.
“I made the team fun,” You said, stabbing a ladle toward him.
Bucky beamed. “They laugh more now. And I haven’t threatened to murder anyone in two weeks.”
Tony nodded slowly. “He’s not wrong. Still terrifying, but now it’s… unpredictable terrifying.”
The breaking point came the next morning. Bucky walked into the briefing room wearing a shirt that said: “Emotionally Stable is a Strong Word”
You wore one that said: “I Know the Assignment. I Am Choosing to Ignore It.”
Steve stood then walked out muttering something about moving to Wakanda.
The team officially gave up trying to fix Bucky Barnes.
-
Later that night, Bucky was lying beside you, watching the stars again as the city hummed below.
“They really think I’m broken now,” He said.
You shrugged, twirling a glow stick between your fingers. “They just don’t know how to handle dual-wielding emotional repression and chaotic brilliance.”
He turned to you, smiling. “You really think it’s brilliance?”
You kissed his cheek. “Obviously. I don’t waste my time on mediocrity. Now help me build a pigeon obstacle course on the balcony.”
He nodded. “It’s what Charles Prime would’ve wanted.”
Not a Burden
Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression! Angst & Hurt/Comfort.]
Summary: Lately, you’ve been feeling like a burden to your caregivers. Like you’re too much, too needy, or a problem, causing you to retreat from your usual comforts. It doesn’t take long for Steve and Bucky to notice and reassure you that you’re not a burden. You never are to them and you never will be.
Word Count: 1.1k+
A/N: I wanted something softer to end the night on. I dunno if angst counts as soft, but this is definitely in the hurt/comfort field. Remember though: You are responsible for the media you consume.
Main Masterlist
You don’t know exactly when the feeling starts.
Maybe it was last night, when you asked Bucky for your nightlight three times in a row and he had to stop cooking dinner to find it. Or maybe this morning, when you spilled juice on the floor and Steve had to mop it up, gently telling you it was okay. But he looked tired, and for some reason, you thought he’d be less tired if you weren’t here. The thoughts are quiet at first. Small things.
“I should’ve gotten it myself.” “They’re always taking care of me.” “I should be big enough to handle this.”
The thoughts aren’t loud, but they sit there weighing heavy on your mind and even heavier on your chest.
You sit curled in the corner of the couch within your bedroom in your softest clothes, hugging your knees with your stuffie squished between your arms. The tower feels too big today. Your limbs feel too small. You want to be held, but also… you’re scared to ask.
Because what if they don’t want to anymore?
They never said that. Not once. In fact, Steve just kissed your forehead that morning. Bucky helped you brush and tie the bow in your hair. But your brain doesn’t care. It just keeps whispering.
“They’d be happier if they didn’t have to tuck you in every night.” “You’re taking up too much space.” “They fought wars, and you cry over broken crayons.”
You hug yourself tighter and your best not to cry. You were fine yesterday. But now, your throat’s all sore from holding everything in, and your body feels too young to explain any of it out loud.
You look toward the hallway, where you can faintly hear the sound of dishes clinking. Steve cleaning up. Bucky’s voice follows, low and tired, saying something about reports.
You shrink smaller in your spot. You don’t want to be more work or the reason they’re tired. Or worried. Or stuck at home instead of doing superhero things.
You love them. And that’s why the thought hurts so much. Because what if loving them means letting go?
You don’t tell them how you feel. Not right away.
Instead, it builds inside of you, resembling a quiet ache behind your ribs. A heaviness you can’t name, not even in your little space. It hums beneath the surface on quiet days, when Steve brings you apple slices cut like stars and Bucky tucks your blanket just right. When they ask how you’re feeling and you just nod, not trusting your voice to hold the truth.
You don't mean to pull away, but you do. You stop asking to be picked up. You hide your stuffies under your bed. You sit stiff and too quiet, like if you're careful enough, they won't notice how heavy you feel inside. You try so hard not to be too much.
You don’t notice how Steve starts watching you a little longer when you say “I’m fine.” How Bucky lingers just a few extra seconds at your door at night.
Until finally, It breaks.
One evening, they make spaghetti and call you for dinner. You don’t answer. You sit curled up in your hoodie on the floor of your room, silent and still, your arms wrapped around your knees. You press your face into your knees, a hot tear sliding down your cheek. You don’t know what to do. You want to disappear. You want someone to notice. You want—
“…Sweetheart?”
Steve’s voice, suddenly close. You hadn’t even noticed him walking in, prompting you to flinch in surprise. He hesitates for a moment before crouching slowly to kneel in front of you.
“Hey,” He says, softly. “You okay?”
You nod too fast, like usual despite everything about you screaming otherwise.
He watches you for a beat. “You sure?”
Another nod. Too big this time. Your eyes are wet, your breath shallow. Another pair of footsteps approach as Bucky enters the room, spotting the two of you. He comes over in an instant, crouching down to meet your eye-level. You expect them to be mad. To ask why you’re being difficult. But it’s just them, crouched low, concern present in their expressions. You try to shrink away, but Steve doesn’t let you.
Instead, he gently touches your knee, asking gently.
"What’s going on in that head of yours?"
That’s it. That’s the sentence that makes everything fall apart. Your bottom lip trembles as your eyes fill. You try to shake your head, but the words stumble out in a whisper that sounds too small, too broken to be yours:
"I don’ wanna be a burden."
Everything freezes. Steve blinks like you hit him in the chest while Bucky exhales sharply, then moves in instantly, gently, and without hesitation. He’s the one who pulls you into his arms first, holding you against his chest like you might disappear.
You can feel Steve’s hand finding your back, warm and steady. You hear his voice reassure you.
"You could never be a burden. Not to us."
You sob quietly into Bucky’s hoodie. He doesn’t rush you either as he rocks you gently in his embrace, questioning lowly. “Where’s that coming from, baby? Who told you that?"
You don’t know how to explain it though. The guilt, the worry, the awful tug that you take up too much space and ask for too much. But you manage a whisper:
“I need too much… lotta times… I don’ wanna be a problem…”
Steve’s heart clenches at your broken words, reaching up to squeeze your shoulder gently. “Needing care doesn’t make you a problem. It makes you human. And you don’t have to earn our love, sweetheart. You already have it."
Bucky’s voice comes in next, his tone low and protective “Who told you that, huh?”
You shrug, face hidden in Bucky’s shirt. “Just… figured.”
“You listen here,” Bucky says, voice steady as he gently lifts your chin up to face him. “You could ask for every ounce of our time and energy and still not be too much.”
Steve nods in agreement. “Being your caregiver means being there when you need us.“
“But… you both tired,” You whisper.
“We’re human,” Steve replies, rubbing your back again in slow, firm circles. “We get tired. That’s not your fault. You didn’t cause that.”
Bucky nods. “The tired from a mission or a bad dream? That’s different. You?” His expression softens noticeably. “You’re the soft part of our day. You're the reason we want to come home.”
Your eyes well up again, but for a different reason.
Steve leans over and kisses your forehead, saying firmly. “You are wanted, honey. Every version of you whether it be little, big, sleepy, silly, sad. Got it?”
You nod, tearfully.
“Say it for me?” Steve asks gently.
You hiccup. “Am wanted…n’ not a burden…”
Bucky smiles, adjusting you in his lap and holding you snug. “That’s right, baby. Not even close.”
You cling to both of them, your heart slowly settling as their warmth surrounds you: steady, grounding, and safe.
And slowly, that ache in your chest begins to ease.
I just woke up to having my recent fic with 90+ notes? I’m almost at 300 notes total on my page? It’s so surreal. I’m glad it interested a lot of y’all. Thank you! ⸜(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)⸝
I plan to make another fic with the reader having a different power and such. I also want to create a new series, but haven’t figured out what it will be about though.
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She/Her | 18+ | Marvel WriterAsks/Requests are welcomed!
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