The Solstitial Truce
The Solstitial Truce
Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Angel!reader
Summary: You met him at the border between realms every solstice. Neither of you spoke of the war or how many souls were claimed. You simply watched the stars together, two entities out of place, bound by quiet conversation and the kind of silence that speaks more than words ever could.
Word Count: 2.5k+
A/N: This takes place in the winter solstice by the way! I had this idea earlier and hope you like it as much as I did. I tried to do more descriptive language/scenes. This has ANGST and is left on a cliffhanger by the way. References to a war too, but not explored. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
The sky was a tapestry of frozen silence.
Stars flickered like dying embers, scattered across the heavens above the boundary. The solstice wind stirred the trees into brittle whispers, and the snow under your feet crunched with every tentative step. You shouldn’t have been there. Angels weren’t meant to wander so close to the borderland, not without orders, not without reason.
But tonight, something had drawn you in. A pull like a thread around your ribs, subtle but unyielding. You followed it, quiet, unsure, your wings folded close to your back like a secret you weren't ready to share.
And then, you saw him.
At first, you thought it was a shadow. A patch of darkness that refused to yield to the moonlight. But no. He moved. Slowly, with the weariness of someone who had lived through too many endings.
He knelt in the snow near a half-dead tree, one hand buried in the frozen soil, fingers clenched like he could still hold onto something that had long since slipped through. Smoke curled faintly around him, not from fire, but from him. It coiled at his shoulders like a protective beast, breathing in rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest.
You froze when you realized who he was. A demon.
Not just any demon, him. The Winter Demon. The one they spoke of in the higher halls. The one who fell long ago but never quite burned out. You recognized him from the whispers. A former soldier. A shattered soul. A blade that had once been wielded by hell itself.
Your hand moved instinctively toward the hilt of your blade, but you didn’t draw it. Something in you held back.
He didn’t move or flinch. Didn’t seem surprised by your presence either.
“I thought angels didn’t walk this far down,” He spoke in a voice low and rough, like it had been dragged through gravel and time. “Unless they’re looking for a fight.”
You hesitated. “I’m not here to fight.”
He chuckled, but it was a hollow sound. “That’s what the last one said.”
You stayed silent, watching him closely. He didn’t turn. Didn’t rise. Just kept his hand in the dirt, like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.
The wind stirred again, ruffling the edges of your robes. Your wings shifted restlessly, feathers rustling with unease.
“I’m not here on Heaven’s orders,” You finally answered, your voice barely audible over the wind. “I came because… I felt something. A pull.”
“Funny,” He muttered. “So did I.”
That made you blink.
He finally looked up, just enough for you to see his face, half-shadowed, but unmistakable. There was no cruelty there. No hunger for sin or conquest. Just exhaustion. Blue eyes that had seen centuries of death, hands that had done terrible things, and yet, beneath it all, still remembered mercy.
“I should leave,” You said quietly, unsure whether it was directed to him or to yourself.
“Then why haven’t you?”
The question hung in the cold air between you like an open wound. You didn’t give him an answer because truthfully, you didn’t have one. So you stayed.
Not close and not far. Just within sight. The two of you sat there, separated by ruthlessness and faith, by war and fire, peace and light. You didn’t speak again that night. You just watched the stars together.
And for a brief moment, the world felt like it had paused. As if Heaven and Hell had looked the other way, just long enough for two things that should never coexist to breathe in the same silence.
When you finally rose to leave, he didn’t stop you. But he didn’t look away either. And somehow, you knew you’d see him again. And you did.
You never ask his name.
He never asks yours.
There’s no point, not here, not in this place where names don’t hold power, where they melt into the snow like forgotten prayers. You know what he is and he knows what you are. That remains enough for now.
Solstice after solstice, you come back to the edge of the world, to the boundary where no song from Heaven reaches and no scream from Hell echoes. The silence here is sacred in its own way. Unclaimed. Unwatched. It belongs only to you and to him.
This time, you arrive before he does. The frost has crept higher since last year, lacing the dead branches in silver threads that catch the moonlight like cobwebs made of glass. You sit on a stone half-buried in snow, your wings draped around your shoulders like a cloak.
You don't wait long before you feel him.
Not see. Feel.
The temperature shifts subtly. The wind thickens. The smell of ash and old iron fills the air.
He walks through the trees as though they part for him, his breath visible in the cold. The same worn coat, the same heavy boots. The metal of his left arm catches the moonlight like ice. And as always, the smoke follows him, not malicious, just… present. Like a memory he can't shake off.
He sits beside you without a word, the way he always does.
You don’t look at each other at first. There’s no need. You both understand the rules of this fragile ritual: no questions, no fights, and no judgment.
You sit in the cold, close enough to feel the soft heat of him. His unnatural warmth, something Hell must have carved into his bones to keep him burning in all the wrong ways. You stay far enough that the stars won’t take notice, won’t whisper of betrayal.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The frost creeps slowly over the fallen branches, delicate and determined. You both watch it, as if it matters. As if the way it grows, inch by inch, might teach you something about stillness. About survival.
Like usual, sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't.
Tonight, he breaks the silence first.
“I used to be human,” He confesses, almost absently. His eyes stay fixed on the sky, where clouds drift like smoke across the moon. “A long time ago.”
You glance at him, not surprised. You had suspected it. There was always something in the way he spoke, the way he moved, like he hadn’t quite forgotten what it meant to bleed in the ways that mattered.
He continues before you can answer. “Can’t remember much. Just flashes. Pain. Screaming. Cold water. And someone-“ He cuts himself off with a bitter breath. “I think I had a name before… Bucky. Maybe that was it or maybe not.”
You don't speak immediately. The words settle like snow, quiet and heavy.
Then, ever so softly, you speak: “You remember enough to mourn it.”
He turns his head a fraction, just enough to meet your eyes. He doesn’t refuse your comment, doesn’t try to argue. And that, somehow, feels more painful than anything else.
You both return to silence as he leans back against a frost-bitten tree, metal fingers twitching restlessly in his lap. You can feel something aching inside him, coiled too deep for words. Guilt? Regret? Or maybe just the echo of what once was.
You don’t try to fix it. You just stay. Because that’s the unspoken promise of the truce. Not salvation. Not forgiveness. Just presence.
And somehow, in a world that burned the both of you down into what you are now… maybe that’s enough.
-
During your next meeting, the snow falls heavier this time.
It comes in thick, whispering sheets, softening the world until even your footsteps are silenced. The sky is overcast, swallowing the stars, and yet you walk the old path by memory. Your wings are hidden this time beneath a dark cloak. Your halo, long dimmed near the boundary, pulses faintly, a reminder of the place you still belong to, even if you don't feel like you do.
He's already there when you arrive, perched on a broken stone wall, hood drawn low, and smoke curling lazily around his shoulders. He doesn’t look at you when you approach, but his metal fingers tap once against the stone, a quiet acknowledgment. A habit, maybe. Or a signal meant just for you.
You sit beside him, brushing snow off the ledge. Neither of you says anything for a long time. The snowfall thickens. It clings to your lashes, melts slowly against the heat of his shoulder when it drifts close. You almost lean toward him. Almost. But you don’t. Because this… this thing between you isn’t named or defined. It’s a careful, wordless balance, like walking a tightrope strung between Heaven and Hell. And you don’t know what happens if one of you leans too far.
So you speak instead.
“They’re starting to wonder where I go,” You murmur. “The others.”
He huffs a breath through his nose. “Same.”
You glance at him, startled. You didn’t think demons would care.
“I shouldn’t be here. They don’t trust me much,” He says. “Never did. I’m not… obedient enough. Still got too many memories, I think.”
You study the side of his face, how the flickering light catches the scar near his jaw, how snow gathers in the folds of his coat, how his eyes stay fixed on the horizon like he’s waiting for something that never arrives.
You whisper, “Why do you keep coming back here?”
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares into the white blur of the trees.
Then: “Because this is the only place I don’t feel like I’m supposed to be anything.”
The words hit harder than they should as you can feel your throat tighten. Because you understand. Because that’s the reason you come too. Not for salvation. Not for curiosity. But because here, on this forgotten ledge at the edge of war, you get to just exist.
Not as a Weapon or a Symbol. Not a Messenger, Servant, or Slave either. Just… as yourself. And maybe that’s why it almost happens.
The shift.
It begins as silence, broken only by the snowfall and the distant cry of something too old for naming. Your knees are nearly touching. His arm is barely a breath from your shoulder. And then, he turns to you. Really turns to you. The snow on his lashes. The flicker in his eyes. The pain he doesn’t speak about and the comfort he doesn’t ask for.
You don’t breathe.
His hand lifts slightly, hesitating between you, as if asking without asking. As if unsure whether reaching out will ruin everything you’ve built from the silence and distance.
Your breath fogs between you and you don’t move as that moment hangs like crystal in the air. Fragile. Shimmering. Dangerous.
But then he blinks and withdraws, looking away. The space between you swells again with all the things you didn’t say. All the things you didn’t do.
He clears his throat. “Should go. They’ll notice.”
You nod, but don’t stand.
He hesitates, then turns, walking back through the trees. The smoke follows him. Softer now. Calmer.
You stay until the snowfall covers where he sat. You don’t cry. Angels don’t cry. But something in you bends. And maybe next solstice… maybe it will break.
-
The snow is late this year.
The sky is too clear, too wide, the moon too full, as if the heavens are watching, waiting. You sit on the same broken stone wall, cloak wrapped tight, wings folded beneath layers of quiet. You haven’t spoken aloud since your last meeting. No words seem right unless they’re for him.
He’s late this time. You don’t pace. Angels don’t pace. But your fingers twitch and your breath stutters. The frost gathers along your lashes, and still, he does not come.
Then… you hear movement. The trees stir. Smoke curls through the air, faint at first, then thick, clinging to the wind like a memory refusing to be forgotten. And then he’s there. Shoulders hunched. Jaw tight. There’s a limp in his step you’ve never seen before. Something about the way he moves, it’s quieter. Smaller. Like he’s folding in on himself.
You don’t speak yet. Not yet. You watch as he stops before reaching the wall. He doesn’t move to sit. He stands there, hood shadowing his face, and one hand clenched tight inside his coat pocket. The other twitches at his side, fingers curling and uncurling like he’s trying to hold onto something too fragile.
You wait, watching him in silence for a minute. Two. Ten.
Finally, he speaks.
“I shouldn’t be here.”
Your voice is steady, even if your heart stumbles. “You say that every year.”
His eyes lift to yours. Something in them flickers resembling pain maybe, or guilt.
“No.” The word is thick. Real and raw. “I mean it this time.”
You don’t ask why. You could. You could demand the answer, peel it from his throat if you wanted. But some truths aren’t meant to be touched. Some are better left where they lie, between silence and suspicion.
Instead, you ask quietly, “Then why come?”
He looks down, taking a slow breath before moving closer to you. Slowly and Carefully, like it costs him something. From inside his coat, his gloved hand emerges, clenched around something small and heavy. When he opens it, the object catches the moonlight and your breath.
A coin. Worn. Misshapen. Half-melted, like it passed through fire and never forgot. Its edges are jagged, dangerous, like the lives it's touched. Like his life. You know what it truly is though.
A soul coin.
You’ve only seen one before, only once a long time ago. It served as proof of salvation. The kind no demon carries unless they’ve done the unthinkable, not damn a soul, but save it. It is a mark of rebellion, of change. Of loss.
He holds it for a moment more, then steps closer before holding it out to you. You hesitate, but only for a heartbeat. Your fingers close around it gently, reverently. It’s warm. Alive, almost. You can feel its weight and the cost of it.
And then, his voice, quieter now.
“Proof,” He states. “That I’m not all gone.”
Your eyes search his face, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way he’s trembling, but only slightly, like a man who’s fought too long and finally let himself feel it.
“Why give this to me?” You ask, barely above a whisper.
You watch as his gaze drops and hear the silence swell between you. Then, he says it. The thing that breaks you.
“Because next solstice…” He stops. His throat works around a word he doesn’t speak. His eyes close, “I might not be here.”
And that’s when it hurts. Because demons don’t lie. Not like this. Not with this kind of sorrow. You reach for him, but he steps back. Not in fear or nervousness this time. In resolution.
Like if you touched him now, he’d stay. And he’s already chosen to leave. When he vanishes, it isn’t with fire. It’s with smoke swirling softly and quietly. Like the ghost of a memory that never settled right.
He leaves behind nothing more than the coin in your hand, still warm, and a silence that feels too alive to be empty. A terrible ache in your chest builds, because angels don’t hope.
But tonight, you do. You hope to see him again.
More Posts from Orellazalonia and Others
Ooooo, Bucky being influenced by reader. Interesting idea, he’s already fallen hard for her anyways. Sounds like something I will definitely explore in the near future! Thank you for reading!!! ♡
Glitter, Gunfire, and Grape Juice
Summary: You throw yourself between a rookie and an energy blast. Bucky panics. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Word Count: 1.3k+
Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist
The mission was going well. Suspiciously well, which should’ve been your first red flag. Another ordinary Hydra facility with minimal guards that was unusually quiet. You were even humming as you strolled through the hallway, twirling a baton and pointing it at doors like a remote.
Behind you, Bucky muttered, “Don’t touch anything.”
You responded, “That’s exactly what someone hiding treasure would say.”
Sam sighed. “Can you at least pretend to take this seriously?”
“I am taking it seriously. That’s why I packed four granola bars and a Capri-Sun.”
Bucky grinned, despite himself. He always did when you were like this, loose-limbed and smiling. Like the world couldn’t possibly touch you, which made what happened next all the more terrifying.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
An explosion of sound coming from the energy shot from a hidden drone. It was too fast to stop, too sudden to predict. One of the rookies on the mission—a wide-eyed kid with barely two field ops under his belt froze, dead in the line of fire.
So you didn’t.
You shoved him out of the way with a grunt and took the hit square in the side. It knocked you off your feet with a sickening crack.
The kid shouted. Bucky screamed your name.
When you hit the floor, you blinked up at the ceiling like it had just betrayed you. “Oh,” You said, dazed. “That’s not ideal.”
You were bleeding, quite a lot. Bright red blooming fast across your suit, staining your hand as you pressed it to your side with a hiss. “Y’know,” You mumbled, “I don’t remember having this many organs.”
“Stay with me- hey, hey, stay with me.” Bucky was suddenly at your side, voice hoarse, pressing his hands over yours to help stem the bleeding. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
You gave him a lazy grin, adrenaline running high. “If I die, delete my browser history and bury me with snacks. No one needs to know how often I google if raccoons can feel love.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Don’t joke.”
“You love me because I joke.”
“I love you because you’re you,” He rasped. “But right now, I need you to fight and stay with me, okay?”
“Already fought,” You slurred. “I did the thing, saved the baby agent. Hero moment. I want a sticker.”
“Doll, if you die on me, I will bring you back just to yell at you.”
You laughed and winced immediately. “Hurts to laugh, write that down and it to the science books.”
The med team arrived then, Sam yelling over his comms, the rookie sobbing apologies, the chaos dimming into a kind of tunnel vision where all you could see was Bucky’s face above you. His eyes were wet and scared.
You lifted a bloody finger and tapped his nose weakly. “Boop.”
“God, you’re infuriating,” He whispered. Then he kissed your forehead with trembling lips. “Don’t leave me, okay? I don’t care how many granola bars you packed. You don’t get to check out early.”
-
A day later in the medbay, you woke up groggy and attached to enough wires to hack a satellite. You blinked blearily at the ceiling.
Bucky was there, instantly. “You’re awake.”
You looked at him then looked around. “Where’s my Capri-Sun?”
He closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. “You almost died, and that’s what you’re asking?”
“I saved a life, I bled dramatically, I deserve juice.”
He let out a shaky breath. Then, quietly, “Don’t ever do that again.”
You turned to get a good look at him. He looked wrecked honestly. Unshaven, sleepless, and red around the eyes. It’s clear he had barely left your side. “Hey,” You said softly, reaching for his hand. “I’m here.”
He held your hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
And for the first time, you didn’t joke. Didn’t quip. You just said, quietly, “I’d take the hit again, Buck. Every time.”
He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “Don’t make me live in a world without you, alright?”
You smiled. “Deal. But next time, you bring the juice.”
-
As you had to spend more time in the medbay for recovery, you gradually grew bored. You’d never been a fan of hospital beds. They were too stiff, too white, too… beep-y.
So naturally, the first thing you did the moment you could sit up without passing out was try to climb out of one.
“Sit. Down.”
Bucky’s voice cracked like a whip across the room. He was standing by the medbay door with a takeout container in one hand and the fury of a thousand protective boyfriends in the other.
You blinked up at him. “I’m just stretching-“
“You have stitches, dumbass.”
You squinted. “You still love me though.”
He sighed and walked over, setting the food on your tray. “Unfortunately.”
You poked at the soup. “This doesn’t look like juice.”
“It’s miso. Doctor Cho said no juice until you’re off pain meds.”
You gasped like he’d personally betrayed your bloodline. “What about a popsicle?”
“You were clinically dead for twelve seconds and you want a popsicle?”
“…grape, preferably.”
Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do I love you.”
You leaned back against the pillows, smug. “Because I am an intellectual enigma with the survival instincts of a cat in traffic.”
Before Bucky could respond, there was a knock on the door.
Enter: The Rookie.
He crept in like a kid walking into the principal’s office, holding something behind his back and looking two seconds from crying again. “H-Hey.”
You grinned. “If it isn’t the human shield I saved.”
He flinched. “I’m so sorry-“
“Hey, no. Don’t do that.” You waved your spoon like a wand. “No guilt in my presence. It was my call and I would do again.”
Bucky muttered, “Don’t say that,” but you ignored him.
The rookie stepped forward, visibly shaking, and handed you what looked like… a paper plate necklace. With glitter. It said: “#1 Chaos Hero.”
You stared at it, then at him, then back at it.
“I didn’t know what to get you and I felt awful and I don’t have clearance for flowers and this was the only glitter glue left in the break room,” He rambled. “Also it’s taped because we ran out of string.”
You put it on immediately. Bucky just stared like he was reevaluating every life decision that led him to this moment.
“This is the greatest honor I’ve ever received,” You declared.
“You’re literally wearing a paper plate.”
“From a child soldier,” You corrected.
“I’m nineteen!” The rookie said.
“Exactly,” You said.
Later on, Bucky helped you back to your quarters. The both of you were walking slow with his metal hand on your back like he was afraid you might fall apart again. You let him tuck you in, mostly because you were still high on painkillers and partially because you liked the way he fussed when he was scared.
“I mean it,” He said quietly, sitting beside you. “You can’t keep risking yourself like that. Not for people who won’t do the same.”
“They will someday. Because people pay kindness forward, especially when it costs someone else blood.” You nudged him. “Plus, you did the same for Steve a hundred times.”
“That was different.”
“It wasn’t.”
He was quiet for a long time. Then:
“I almost lost you.”
You took his hand and held it gently.
“But you didn’t.”
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple. “You’re infuriating.”
“You love me.”
He sighed before whispering into your hair, “I really do.”
-
GROUP CHAT:
Tony: Who tf gave glitter glue to the interns?
Sam: The rookie made her a PAPER PLATE NECKLACE
Steve: She hasn’t taken it off in six hours.
Natasha: She told me it’s a ‘badge of honor’…
Wanda: They also threatened the vending machine for not having grape juice
Bucky: She got shot and she’s more upset about the juice
You: i saved a life AND survived a flesh wound, i earned grape juice
You: also i’m naming the scar after the rookie
Bucky: Please don’t
You: too late, buckaroo. i christen it kevin 2.0
[Bucky has left the group chat.]
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.
Main Masterlist
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.
I love soft Bucky too, he’s so attentive and caring!! Thank you for reading! ♡
The Way He Notices
Summary: As the teammate with invisibility, your powers often result in you disappearing from the Compound when the day becomes too much. However, you’re always seen by one person who has started to sit in silence with you, offering occasional comments and comfort. (Bucky Barnes x invisible!reader)
Disclaimer: Angst (sort of). Hurt/Comfort. Reader has the power of invisibility.
Word Count: 1.3k+
A/N: I had fully intended to just make this a blurb. I like imagining the reader with different powers, but this went over the 500 words I had initially planned lol
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
The compound was too loud.
Even if no one was yelling, even if no one was fighting, your skin buzzed with the memory of raised voices, flashing lights, hands that weren’t kind. Your breathing had gone shallow the moment the door shut behind you. Your hands trembled. Your pulse raced. Your instincts screamed.
So you disappeared. Literally. One blink, one breath, and maybe the world would forget you were there. Invisibility was your gift. When activated, everything fades. Body, clothes, scent; not even heat sensors can detect you. It remains a power you hold to help people from the shadows. Both your shield and your curse.
And right now, you use it to curl up into the corner of your room, legs pulled tight to your chest. Your breathing was quiet now, nearly silent. You liked it that way. Invisible and silent, unnoticed to the world.
But Bucky noticed. He always did. You never told anyone about what it really meant, to vanish. Not in words. Not out loud. But Bucky figured it out anyway.
He paid attention in a way most people didn’t. Not the loud kind, not the prying kind. Just quiet observation, patterns, and pauses. He noticed the things others dismissed: the way your fingers twitched when a voice got too sharp. The way your leg bounces nervously when the room turns tense. The way your eyes never quite met anyone’s after a hard mission.
And most of all, he noticed when you were suddenly gone.
Not physically. Not entirely. Just… hushed. Faded. The kind of gone where your seat at the table was still warm, your plate barely touched. The kind of gone where you stopped making eye contact, stopped breathing deep, stopped existing in the room even if you were still in it. The kind where your powers were not needed at all to remove your presence from a space.
Then overtime, he learned the different ways you could vanish. And unlike others, he didn’t joke about it. Didn’t push or pull or guilt you back. He just waited. A silent and steady presence to turn to.
The first time it happened, he stood in your doorway for ten full minutes, speaking to the air. Not because he thought it would fix anything. But because he knew what it meant to be terrified, voiceless, and unseen, yet still wanting someone to come find you anyway.
After that, it became a kind of rhythm between you. A quiet understanding. Then, the similarities began to show themselves. You weren’t touchy, and neither was he. Your voice was soft, never one to stand out in a room full of people. He was quiet, selective who he spoke to as he watched more than he engaged. You didn't open up easily. But you know he also struggled to do so as well. And when the world pressed too close and you disappeared into silence, he was the only one who could sit with it without trying to fix you.
It wasn’t romantic, not in the beginning. But it was intimate.
In the moments you let yourself be visible, Bucky saw you in ways no one else did. The slight tilt of your lips when you made a dry joke. The way you tilted your head when you were curious, and the way you flinched when someone raised their voice, even if it wasn’t at you. He never made it a big deal. Never made you feel small, insecure, or unworthy. Not even when you couldn’t quite express how you felt and never for existing.
He just noticed. And remembered.
So when your door clicked shut, and you didn’t speak, didn’t eat, didn’t check in? He knew. Because this man had memorized both your presence and absence like a shadow. It was what led him behind your door now, knocking three times. Three simple, soft taps. The kind that asked for permission, not attention.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
“Doll?” His voice was soft, the edge of gravel worn down into silk. “I know you’re in here.”
Still, you stayed quiet. Hidden. Gone.
The door creaked open. He didn’t turn the lights on. He didn’t need them to know you were there. Sometimes you cursed his super soldier hearing.
“I saw you leave the training room without speaking to anyone. That’s not like you.”
There was no accusation in his voice. Just concern. Measured, careful concern. He stepped in further, and you saw the glint of metal catch the moonlight through your window.
“I know what it’s like,” He said after a long pause. “To want the whole world to stop seeing you. To disappear because it’s safer that way.”
You turned your head slightly, though you weren’t sure why. He still couldn’t see you. No one could.
“I used to hide,” He continued. “Behind orders. Behind missions. Behind… the Soldier.”
The reference hit the air with a dull ache. He sat down on the floor, not too close, but close enough.
“I’m not sure what happened. Maybe I never will. But I know you don’t have to be alone.”
You heard a quiet rustle before spotting his hand reaching out, palm up, resting between you both.
“I won’t touch you. I won’t even look, unless you want me to. Just know I’ll be here.”
Your breath hitched. Not because of the panic, but because of him. He stayed yet again. You still can’t get used to it, like somehow you’ve convinced yourself you’re not worth it.
But minutes passed, maybe an hour or more. Who knows. Bucky had learned the hard way how to sit with silence. How to let it breathe instead of trying to fill it. How sometimes just being there meant more than any words.
But slowly, carefully, you let the invisibility fade. Like dust in sunlight. Your fingers, trembling and pale, reached out and barely brushed his.
His hand didn’t move. Instead, you heard his voice, gentle and soft.
“There you are,” Bucky whispered, a ghost of a smile upon his face.
Something in his chest loosened. Not relief exactly, but… a sense of trust. Pride almost. You trusted him enough to come back, to be seen.
Because for the first time all day, you weren’t afraid. You weren’t alone nor unseen. He had stayed there, grounding you.
Your voice didn’t answer him, not out loud. You didn’t need to. Instead, you leaned just a little closer, the barest shift of weight, but he felt it. You were still trembling, but you weren’t hiding. Not from him.
He turned his palm so his fingers could wrap lightly around yours. Not tight. Just enough to remind you he was there.
“I know the world feels like too much sometimes,” He began quietly. “I don’t blame you for disappearing. I used to want to do it all the time. Hell, I did.”
He gave a short, hollow laugh; no humor, just memory.
“When I first came here, I kept thinking: If I can just vanish, if I can just keep still enough, no one will look at me like I’m broken. Like I’m dangerous. Like I’m one bad memory away from snapping.”
You shifted. Still silent, but listening. He could feel it.
“I saw that same look in your eyes today. Like you were made of glass and someone was swinging a hammer.”
The grip of your hand tightened slightly.
“You don’t have to tell me what happened. Not now. Not ever, if you don’t want. But if you need someone who gets it, you know I’m here.”
He tilted his head toward you, careful to keep his movements soft.
“No pressure,” He said quickly, a beat of hesitation filling the space before he added. “Just… if you ever wanna disappear, let me be the one who waits with you in the silence.”
A pause. Then, barely above a whisper:
“Okay.” You nodded. It was tiny, fragile; but Bucky felt it like a damn earthquake.
You didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t move an inch.
He doesn’t try to fix you. He just stays. Listens. Waits. And somehow, in a world that seems to forget you're there the moment you vanish, you're still seen. Completely, quietly, without question, because of the way he notices.
Awww, thank you so much! I’ve always loved fairies honestly, so it’s nice to see so many other people enjoying this idea as well. Thank you for reading!!! ♡
Tiny Winged Trouble
Summary: You’re only a few inches tall, full of sparkle and mischief. When SHIELD accidentally captures you in a jar, Steve and Bucky are tasked with figuring out what you are. You refuse to speak at first, until Steve gives you a cookie. Now they’re stuck with a clingy, stubborn fairy who calls them “Tree” and “Shadow.” (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes)
Word Count: 1.1k+
A/N: It was either mermaid reader or fairy reader. Fairy was easier to write soooo… Enjoy! Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
You were caught in a jar.
A pickle jar, to be specific. It still smelled faintly of vinegar and dill, which you found personally offensive and not just because fairies are very sensitive to smell.
You were fluttering peacefully through the trees near the outskirts of New York when a group of shouting humans in dark armor leapt out from behind a bush and trapped you in what they called a “containment unit.” You didn’t know what SHIELD was, but their agents were very loud and very rough, and they didn’t even ask your name.
You sat cross-legged at the bottom of the jar, wings tucked in, arms folded across your chest, trying your best to look unimpressed.
And then he walked in. Tall, golden-haired, broad-shouldered, a man who practically radiated kindness and confusion in equal measure. Steve Rogers.
He approached the table with another man behind him, darker, quieter, haunted-eyed but alert watching everything. Bucky Barnes.
“I thought you said there was an artifact,” Steve said slowly, looking at the jar.
“It is,” The agent replied. “It talks.”
You gave the man your most dramatic eye roll.
Steve crouched beside the table, eyes soft, voice careful. “Hi there. What’s your name?”
You turned your head away and said nothing.
Bucky stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. “Do fairies sulk?”
You didn’t like his tone not cruel, just skeptical. So you stuck your tongue out at him and turned invisible.
Bucky jumped slightly. “Okay. That answers that.”
“Hey, hey,” Steve murmured, holding his hands up gently. “We’re not gonna hurt you, promise. You just surprised everyone, that’s all. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Still, you said nothing.
It wasn’t until someone walked by with a coffee and a chocolate chip cookie that you broke your silence. You reappeared instantly, pressed against the glass, eyes wide.
Steve blinked, then laughed softly. “You want one of those?”
You nodded furiously.
Five minutes later, the jar was opened and you bolted straight onto Steve’s shoulder, snatched the cookie chunk he offered, and curled into the crook of his neck like you’d always lived there.
You stayed close after that. Not that they had much of a choice.
You built a tiny hammock out of tissues on their bookshelf. Braided thread into their laces. Tried to “fix” Bucky’s grumpy face with flower petals and got scolded, very softly, for it. You called Steve “Tree” because he was tall and smelled like sap. You called Bucky “Shadow” because he followed you around pretending he wasn’t trying to protect you.
You refused to be studied, refused to go back in any jars, and made it very clear you’d chosen your new home: right between two super soldiers who didn’t know how much they needed something as strange and sweet as you.
Sometimes, you’d land on Bucky’s shoulder when he couldn’t sleep, singing soft, wordless melodies that reminded him of something in the past. Sometimes, you’d perch on Steve’s chest as he read, snuggled into the fabric of his henley like a kitten with wings.
You were tiny, fragile, ridiculous, and completely, utterly theirs.
Even if you still left cookie crumbs everywhere.
-
Steve and Bucky discovered quickly how particular fairies could be. Or maybe it was just you.
See, they realized you were much more stubborn than they had anticipated which caused another one of your sulking moods. It started because you weren’t allowed to use the microwave. Which, in your defense, made no sense.
You weren’t trying to start another fire, that was an accident. And yes, maybe the leftover spaghetti had exploded the last time, but how were you supposed to know that foil was banned? You’d never had a microwave before. You grew up in moss and tree hollows and warm sunlight. Your diet was dew, nectar, and whatever you could barter from passing squirrels.
Now, you wanted popcorn, but Bucky had said no. He had looked down at you with his arms crossed and that stupid I care about you and you’re being ridiculous face, stating, “You almost fried the tower’s circuits last time. Find something from the fruit bowl if you’re hungry.”
You responded with the most dramatic gasp you could manage and fluttered up to the top of the cabinets, crossing your arms with a huff.
Steve tried to step in, intervening gently. “He’s not trying to upset you. He just doesn’t want you to get hurt.”
You didn’t answer. You turned your back with your wings flaring slightly in righteous fairy fury, you refused to acknowledge either of them. Not even when Steve sighed and offered you a piece of shortbread. Not even when Bucky muttered something like “She’s sulking again, isn’t she?”
You remained a furious little sparkle, curled into a puffball of wings and pouting.
Hours passed. You still refused to come down.
They tried tempting you with cookies, with your favorite mug of rose petal tea, with one of Steve’s socks (which you always stole to use as a blanket).
Nothing. You were mad. And fairies, though small, are very good at holding grudges.
By the time night fell, you were still wedged behind a cereal box, curled into a mopey heap. And then… you heard a sound. Thump. It was a soft knock on the cabinet.
You peeked over the edge to find Bucky standing there, holding a tiny plate.
“I made popcorn. Not with the microwave. Just the pan.”
You stared at him.
“I didn’t put salt on it. Figured you’d want to do that yourself.”
He set the plate down gently on the counter, then leaned against it, arms folded.
“…You gonna stay up there forever?” He asked after a pause, tone mild.
You turned invisible.
He smirked. “Cute.”
Moments later, you reappeared beside the popcorn and began nibbling, still silent, still frowning.
Steve walked in just then and paused. “Is that a peace offering or a trap?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Bucky replied.
You muttered something under your breath.
Steve blinked. “Did she just call you a ‘grumpy tin soldier’?”
“I think so,” Bucky said, raising an eyebrow.
You stuffed a piece of popcorn in your mouth and glared at them both, cheeks puffed out like a hamster.
Steve crouched beside the counter, eyes warm. “Hey, no one’s mad at you, sweetheart. We just don’t want you getting hurt.”
You looked away before mumbling, “I wanted to make it myself.”
And that was the truth of it. You wanted to prove you could. That you weren’t just tiny and delicate and fluttery. That you could be useful, capable. That you weren’t always the one needing help.
Bucky leaned closer, voice quieter now. “Next time… I’ll show you how.”
You peeked up at him, suspicious.
“You can hold the lid,” He said, tone serious. “That’s an important job.”
“…Fine,” You muttered.
Steve smiled gently, brushing your wing with one careful finger. “We’re proud of you, y’know.”
You huffed, still pretending you weren’t moved before climbing into Bucky’s hand, wings drooping slightly from exhaustion and popcorn forgotten. You curled into his palm with a sigh, tiny fingers gripping the edge of his sleeve.
Still sulking but not as much. And this time, you weren’t alone.
Devoted Possession
Summary: To the outside world, including Steve Rogers, you're just a close couple. But as Steve begins to notice subtle shifts: distance, lies, unease, he starts suspecting something is wrong. In the moments he tries to confront you both about it, you and Bucky, still cloaked in innocence, continue playing the part. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x Yandere!reader)
Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes. Dark reader. Yandere themes. Implied stalking/watching immensely. Implied death. (Hydra agent)
Word Count: 1.8k+
A/N: I could definitely continue this, but I wanted to focus on an outsider’s perspective for this one. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.
Main Masterlist | Obsessive Love (Part 1.)
Steve Rogers wasn’t the kind of man to jump to conclusions. He believed in giving people the benefit of the doubt, in second chances and quiet patience, especially when it came to Bucky.
So when he noticed that you and Bucky had grown closer, he smiled. It was good, he thought. Bucky deserved someone kind. Someone who made him laugh again, even if it was that small, fleeting kind of laugh Bucky rarely let out. Steve had seen it once or twice when you were around; a twitch at the corner of Bucky’s mouth, a softening in his eyes. That alone made Steve relax.
At first.
But it didn’t take long before something felt… off.
It wasn’t anything either of you did directly. It was the way Bucky always seemed to be near you, not in an obvious way, but always hovering somewhere just close enough. You could be in the training room, tying your shoes, and there he'd be, watching silently from the other side. You could be in the kitchen pouring tea, and he’d already be there, leaning against the counter, mug untouched.
Steve noticed that you didn’t mind. If anything, you seemed to expect it. Like it was natural. Like Bucky belonged there beside you and only you.
He chalked it up to trauma at first. Bucky had latched onto you for comfort, and you were returning the favor. It made sense. You were both quiet, careful, observant. You matched him in energy: soft tones, gentle steps, secrets tucked behind subtle smiles. But the balance between you was strange and way too in sync. Almost too practiced like you didn’t just understand each other, you anticipated each other.
And then there were the missions.
Steve began to notice how people who flirted with you on assignments, even jokingly, never got a second chance. Not because you rejected them. No, you always smiled in that sweet, calm way of yours, tilting your head like you didn’t even notice the attention.
But Bucky noticed and Steve began to suspect that something was happening after the fact.
A Hydra defector who had been “too handsy” with you during an interrogation mysteriously disappeared between transport stops. No trace. No camera footage. The others brushed it off. “Probably escaped.” But Steve caught the look in Bucky’s eyes that night when he told you, “You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
You had responded sweetly. "I know. I wasn’t worried."
Steve didn’t question it out loud. But he felt a small crack in his chest open. Still, he said nothing. Because love made people protective, right? Bucky had been used, abused, weaponized for decades. If he felt like he had something, someone to protect now, who was Steve to challenge that?
But the more time passed, the stranger it became.
He once walked into a quiet common room, only to find Bucky sitting silently beside you, his metal fingers grazing the side of your wrist while you calmly read a book. You were smiling, a soft, dreamy thing, but what startled Steve was how Bucky’s eyes weren’t on the book. They were locked on your face, unmoving. Like he was memorizing you. Like if he looked away, you might vanish.
Steve coughed to break the tension, but neither of you flinched. So, he brought it up gently that night. “You and Bucky seem close lately.”
You looked up at him with wide, harmless eyes. “He makes me feel safe,” You’d said, sweet as sugar.
Steve nodded slowly. “That’s good. Just make sure it’s… healthy, okay?”
You tilted your head like you didn’t understand. “Healthy?”
Steve smiled tightly. “Yeah. Just… keep looking out for each other. That’s all.”
But behind your eyes, something unreadable flickered, a quiet promise wrapped in silk. You nodded. “Always.”
The word didn’t do much to ease Steve’s concerns. Time continued to pass with strange things coincidences occurring, the love between you two growing even stronger. It all felt off to him when he knew he should have been happy for his best friend. Maybe because Bucky was his best friend that he went to seek out Bucky alone one day, but Steve didn’t know.
He didn’t know that Bucky’s room was now yours too, not officially, not in front of anyone else. But Bucky had long since cleared a drawer, laid out an extra blanket, and memorized the sound of your heartbeat in sleep.
Steve didn’t know about the way Bucky trailed fingers down your back while you whispered in the dark, your voices blending together in quiet, mutual reassurances that no one else mattered. He never heard Bucky’s voice saying no one else deserved you.
He didn’t know about the list Bucky kept in his head. All the names of everyone who ever made you uncomfortable, who looked at you too long, who smiled at you the way only he should.
And he certainly didn’t know that you had your own list too.
Not violent, not confrontational. No, yours was different. You didn’t need to hurt anyone. You just needed to watch. To gather things like passcodes, schedules, weak points, and tuck them away like puzzle pieces. If anyone got too close to Bucky, you knew exactly how to make them leave. An exposed secret. A missing key. A harmless rumor whispered in the right ear.
And you always smiled. You always stayed sweet. That’s why no one ever suspected a thing.
Except, maybe, Steve.
Because was definitely starting to feel it, the way the air shifted when you were together. The way your devotion to each other was too complete. Too consuming.
So, here he was. It was late, the kind of quiet that settled only after everyone else had gone to bed and the Tower seemed to exhale. The hallways were dim, just the soft amber glow of the lights lining the floor. Steve didn’t usually walk this floor after midnight, but something had pulled him from sleep.
A feeling.
He was standing outside of Bucky’s door. It was closed, nothing out of the ordinary. Quiet. Unremarkable. Except your room was dark too. Empty.
Steve stood there a moment longer than he meant to, staring at Bucky’s door, then to your door across the hall, then back again. He hadn’t seen you all day. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen you much at all lately unless you were with Bucky. And that wasn’t unusual, not on the surface, couples got close.
But this wasn’t just close. This was… something.
He lifted his hand and knocked twice. There was silence for a moment then the soft sound of movement. The door opened after a few seconds to reveal Bucky bare-chested, relaxed, and not alarmed. But not surprised either.
Steve’s eyes flicked over his friend’s shoulder, and there you were. Sitting cross-legged on Bucky’s bed, one of his shirts drowning your frame, a book in your lap. You looked up and smiled, warm, gentle, like someone caught in the middle of nothing suspicious at all.
“Steve,” You greeted softly, tilting your head. “Everything okay?”
Bucky didn’t move to block the door, but he didn’t step aside either. “What’s going on?”
Steve swallowed. It was dawning on him that he shouldn’t have come. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. But the pressure in his chest had grown too heavy to ignore.
“I just… wanted to check on you two.”
Your smile widened, so sweet it nearly stung. “We’re fine.”
Steve’s eyes lingered on you, on how comfortable you looked in Bucky’s bed, in his space, like you belonged there. Like you'd always been there.
He turned his attention to Bucky. “You haven’t been on rotation lately. I figured you’d say something.”
Bucky’s expression didn’t shift. “Didn’t have to. Nat swapped with me.”
Steve nodded slowly. “You didn’t tell me.”
In response, he just shrugged. “Didn’t think I had to. She offered.”
Something inside Steve twisted. Not the lie, Nat probably had offered. But it wasn’t the truth either.
You glanced at Bucky, then back at Steve with wide, concerned eyes. “Did we do something wrong?”
“No,” Steve stated quickly. “No, it’s not that. I just…” His jaw clenched. “You two seem… close.”
“We are,” Bucky said before you could. His voice wasn’t defensive, just final. Undeniable.
You leaned forward slightly, resting your cheek on your knee, still watching Steve. “Is that bad?”
Steve exhaled. “Of course not. It’s just…” His gaze drifted around the room again, catching the second mug on the nightstand. The way your boots sat neatly by Bucky’s dresser. How a photo of the three of you, taken months ago, had been moved, slightly askew, like someone couldn’t stand the sight of it being centered on all of you.
Bucky watched him scan the room in silence.
Steve met his eyes again. “I just want to make sure no one’s getting hurt.”
Silence.
Your smile didn’t drop, but it dimmed, just a little. Your tone remained even though, but had a hint of confusion in it. “You mean… like emotionally?”
Steve hesitated. “That, and… otherwise.”
Bucky’s jaw tensed. Just slightly. “No one’s getting hurt.”
It was the first time Steve almost didn’t believe him.
You stood up then, walking slowly to Bucky’s side. Your hand slid up his arm, fingers wrapping around the crook of his elbow. Not clingy. Just natural. Just claiming.
Steve tried not to stare at your actions. “You two would tell me, right? If something felt wrong?”
“Of course,” You whispered, tilting your head again, the innocent confusion in your tone too pure to question, too calm to accuse.
But Steve felt it again building in his chest, that pressure. That wrongness. And he couldn’t identify or say why, but it terrified him more than anything else. You both looked so perfect standing there, close and quiet and composed, like a picture that had never been touched by blood or secrets.
Like you’d never hidden anything at all.
“I just want you to be okay,” He sighed at last.
“We are,” Bucky said firmly.
You nodded, stepping a little closer to Steve. “You don’t have to worry about us, Steve.”
And for a moment, Steve swore something flickered behind your eyes, just a shadow, a shimmer of something deeper. Something that didn’t match the smile on your lips.
He nodded stiffly. “Alright. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Steve,” You both echoed in perfect harmony.
The door closed quietly behind him. And the moment it did, Bucky exhaled. Slowly. Like he’d been holding it the whole time. You remained silent and turned to him, melting into his arms, into your rightful place in his bed, where the rest of the world couldn’t see the possessiveness in your fingers or the way your heartbeat sped when he held you tighter in his arms.
“He’s starting to notice,” You murmured.
“I know.”
“Do you think he’ll do anything?”
“No,” Bucky whispered, brushing your hair back with his metal hand. “Not yet.”
You smiled into his chest, a gentle laugh escaping your lips. A honey-laced weapon.
“He’ll learn eventually,” You whispered. “You’re mine.”
“And you’re mine,” Bucky growled.
And the rest of the world could burn.
Difficult Morning
Summary: You’re having a harder time waking up this morning. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are patient and comforting throughout. [Disclaimer: Age Regression!] Word Count: 700+
A/N: What better way to start the blog than to start the day.
Main Masterlist
The morning light is softer than usual, and the room feels like it’s spinning just a little. You can’t quite remember how you got here, but you’re already clinging to the blankets like it’s your only anchor.
Your head hurts. It’s that sort of ache that makes your eyes sting, and everything feels fuzzy and distant.
You want to stay tucked under the covers, but there’s a feeling in your chest that’s hard to ignore. Something’s wrong. You don’t know what it is, but you’re not okay.
Your breathing comes in small, uneven gasps as you curl up tighter, pressing your face into the pillow. The bed feels too big for you today.
You hear a door creak open, followed by soft footsteps. Then Bucky’s voice, gentle, “Hey, kiddo. You up?”
You want to answer, but your throat feels tight. You don’t want to talk. You don’t know how to talk. You just want to stay where it’s safe.
Steve appears, and his expression softens when he sees you, curled up with your face hidden, your hands clutching at the blanket.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” He asks quietly. His tone is light, but you can hear the concern in it.
You can’t speak.
Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, his voice steady. “It’s okay, doll. We’re here. You just need a minute?”
You nod, but even the simple motion feels like too much. You feel so tired, like your body’s made of lead, like your thoughts are swirling too fast to catch. It all feels so overwhelming to you.
Bucky reaches out, his metal hand brushing gently against your arm. “You wanna talk about it?”
The words stick in your throat. You can’t explain why it’s so hard. You want to, but everything’s stuck inside, and it’s too much.
Steve kneels beside the bed, his hand soft on your back. “How about we get you up for some breakfast? Just pancakes, yeah? You like those, right?”
You don’t answer, but Steve’s hand stays on your back, rubbing slow circles that help ground you just a little. He doesn’t push. He just waits. You can feel Bucky’s presence beside you, steady and calm.
After a long moment, Bucky adds in softly, “We’ll take it slow, okay? No rush. You just let us know when you’re ready to move, and we’ll help you.”
You don’t know how much time passes, but eventually, your fingers uncurl from the blanket, and you feel Steve’s gentle touch on your arm, helping you sit up. It feels like your whole body is heavy, like you can’t quite hold yourself together.
“Come on, we’re gonna get you to the kitchen,” Steve says, his voice soft but firm, like a quiet promise. “Bucky, you wanna help her up while I grab the pancakes?”
Bucky gives a quiet hum of agreement, his hand reaching out to help lift you gently from the bed. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t make it feel like something’s expected of you. His arm is around your waist, his other hand steady on your back. Steve already departing the room toward the kitchen, preparing your breakfast.
You cling to him instinctively, your eyes still closed as you let him guide you through the apartment, already feeling safe against his chest.
When you get to the table, Bucky moves to set you down in your chair. However, a soft whine escapes your lips as you hold on a little tighter. He doesn’t mind though, taking a seat instead and placing you in his lap. He adjusts his hold, his voice soft as he assures you, “We’re not going anywhere, baby. We’ve got you.”
Steve places the pancakes in front of you, but you don’t feel like eating. You poke at the whipped cream, your hand unsteady, and then push a tiny piece into your mouth.
“You’re doing great,” Steve says quietly, sitting beside you. “One step at a time, okay? No pressure.”
You try to smile, but it’s small. It feels like too much. You want to speak, to say that you’re sorry or thank them, but the words just don’t come. Instead, you curl closer into Bucky’s chest, burying your face in his shirt.
“It’s okay to just be here with us, Doll,” Bucky says, kissing the top of your head. “No need to talk. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
Steve reaches over and rests a hand on your back, steady and reassuring. “We’re right here, kid. You don’t have to be big today. You’re safe with us.”
And as you sit there between them, slowly easing into their warmth and comforting words, you realize that it’s enough. You don’t need to explain. You don’t need to be big right now. You don’t need to push through it all on your own. They’re here, and that’s what matters.
I wanna post this Yandere!Bucky Barnes x Yandere!reader fic that has a part two if enough people like it, but I’m noticing I haven’t posted much age regression today. Caged in Comfort doesn’t count… (* ｡ • ᴖ • ｡)
Time to dig through my notes. I’m probably gonna do hurt/comfort cause people really liked Difficult Morning and forcing myself to write fluff doesn’t seem to go well
LOL, I KNOW RIGHT? Such a fun story to write for, I love it. Thank you for reading!!! ♡
Certified Genius, Unlicensed Moron
Summary: Exploring more of your relationship and dynamics with the rest of the Avengers, they are well-acquainted with how much whiplash and how many headaches you give them on a daily. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Word Count: 1.2k+
A/N: The other going on dates fic didn’t have enough unhinged questionable reader for me. And to be honest….I didn’t like it as much as the prequel. So! I wrote this to cheer me up and feed my need for dumb & genius reader. Purely self-indulgent but hopefully you like it too. Happy reading!!!
Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist
Being an Avenger came with certain expectations. Tactical prowess. Cool one-liners. Teamwork. A mild-to-moderate understanding of physics.
You had exactly none of that. And yet, you were thriving.
You had taken on aliens, mercenaries, HYDRA agents, and that one time, an actual raccoon with a vendetta. You once guessed the password to a SHIELD vault on the first try by inputting “boob69.” It worked. Nobody ever explained why. You were untouchable.
But nothing broke the team more than the group chat.
It had been a standard team communication channel at first: briefings, updates, emergency alerts. Then you joined and everything fell apart.
-
GROUP CHAT: “Earth’s Mightiest Dumbasses”
Tony: Meeting in the conference room at 9 A.M. sharp.
You: what’s 9 AM in frog time
Natasha: What does that mean?
You: like if a frog wears a watch is the time upside down
Tony: Please, I’m begging you to just answer the question like a normal person.
You: normal is a strong word
-
You once sent a photo of a pigeon wearing a hat with the caption “me when I infiltrate enemy lines.” No one questioned it. Mostly because they couldn’t.
After all, you’re the same person who confidently gave a TED Talk about the strategic history of medieval siege warfare mid-mission while wearing Crocs. The same person who once said, “Vibranium tastes like disappointment,” and then refused to elaborate. You somehow manage to both ace every debrief but also once asked if Wi-Fi is just helpful air soup.
Thor called you “small thunder” after you electrocuted yourself trying to microwave aluminum “as a science experiment.” You did not have lightning powers. It was just dumb luck. And you’d do it again.
-
GROUP CHAT:
Clint: who the hell labeled all the fridge items in latin?
You: idk man maybe someone wants you to be cultured
Bucky: You labeled the eggs, “Future ankle peckers, do not anger them”
You: ...and have you been attacked? no? you’re welcome.
-
Bucky still doesn't understand you. Not even a little.
And a lot of times, that haunts him.
He watches you eat hot sauce straight from the bottle like it's a health tonic, quote Shakespeare when you’re tired, and wear mismatched crocs into certain battles because "they're my war shoes." One has a tiny sword glued to it.
You once looked him dead in the eye and said, “I wasn’t born. I was assembled in a Target parking lot during a thunderstorm.”
And then walked away.
He’s been thinking about it for months.
Another time you brought him a bag of gummy worms, patted his head, and said, “For when the depression demons attack.”
Despite all your nonsense, he can’t stop looking at you like you hung the moon with glitter glue and then ate half of it because that brand “smelled like frosting.”
He had tried to pretend you’re a nuisance at first, shaking his head and sighing at some of your antics. But it’s all morphed to reluctant acceptance of the fact that he’ll have to live with so many unanswered questions. That doesn’t stop him from taking care of you though.
He brings you hot chocolate after missions. He makes sure you’re behind him when it gets dangerous. He drags you out of fountains you jump into because you wanted to know what the regals birds like about it. He even downloaded TikTok just to understand your references.
One time you disappeared in the Tower. For five hours.
He found you in the broom closet, sitting cross-legged with three Roombas, wearing a crown made of forks.
“They know secrets,” You whispered. “I’m learning their ways.”
Bucky blinked.
“…I brought you pizza.”
You gasped. “I knew the prophecy would come true.”
-
GROUP CHAT:
Steve: Can someone explain what this is?
Image attached: You in a vent near the ceiling wearing a bad ghost outfit like a cursed Halloween decoration, eating Cheez-Its.
You: surveillance
Steve: Why…
You: i wanted to know what Bucky does when I’m not looking
Bucky: They’ve been up there for 6 hours. I offered help. They hissed at me.
-
Despite it all, you were deadly in the field.
You’d spout off the periodic table in the middle of a fistfight, pull off gravity-defying stunts “because I saw it in a cartoon once,” and solve encrypted Hydra codes in 30 seconds, all while questioning if Mickey Mouse and his friends ever had to pay rent to live in the Mickey Mouse clubhouse.
Bucky, your begrudgingly loving boyfriend, no longer reacts when you do things like wear medieval armor to a stealth op for morale reasons or quote Shrek during hostage negotiations. He just quietly takes your hand and steers you away before you lick anything radioactive.
Steve once asked why you were on a mission wearing roller skates. You said, “Speed and style, Cap,” then crashed directly into a vending machine and pulled out a single uncrushed Twix with solemn reverence.
Tony called you “the human embodiment of a broken Google search.” Wanda called you “a mystery I’ve chosen not to solve.” Natasha just called you “terrifying.”
Because for every baffling thing you did, like calling her “Mom” during a sniper stakeout because “you give off stern PTA energy”, you turned around and cracked encrypted intel before Bruce finished making coffee.
Once, in a mission briefing, Rhodey asked, “Wait, wasn’t the Hindenburg caused by a gas explosion?” and you, dead serious, replied, “Who’s the Hindenburg? That sounds like a guy who collects teeth.”
Everyone went dead silent.
Sam just nodded slowly and said, “Right, okay. Yeah, cool. This is the part where I stop paying attention.”
Nobody could figure you out.
Bruce once ran 14 psychological profiles on you. None of them matched. One came back as possibly a goat in human form.
Clint swears you once explained string theory using sock puppets and a waffle. And it made sense.
-
GROUP CHAT:
Tony: I’m updating the security protocol. Everyone needs to re-register their biosignatures.
You: what if I am a security risk
Tony: You are. Absolutely. Every day. In every way.
You: then I win
Natasha: What did you win?
You: You’ll see 😈
Tony: I have forgotten what peace feels like anymore.
-
You called yourself “The Distractinator” in combat.
Enemies didn’t know what to do with you. Were you a genius? Crazy? Feral? Was that a printer you just threw at their face while quoting Pride and Prejudice?
Yes. To all of it.
And somehow, impossibly, you were everyone’s favorite. Because while you were a chaos gremlin of untold magnitude, you cared.
You noticed when Clint seemed tired and unorthodoxically left snacks in his quiver.
You taught Steve how to use TikTok but made sure to curate only dog videos and motivational frog memes.
You convinced Bucky he could wear purple and look amazing. He does now. Regularly.
You helped Tony fix a faulty AI loop by accident while trying to build “a blender that screams.”
You’re not just a part of the team. You’re the emotional support cryptid.
And no matter how many explosions you cause with your “experiments,” or how many philosophical debates you start about whether lasagna is a cake, the Avengers wouldn’t trade you for the world.
…Though Tony did try to sell you to the X-Men once.
It didn’t work.
They sent you back with a fruit basket and a strongly worded letter.
Exactly As You Are
Summary: You slowly form a tender, deeply emotional relationship with Bucky Barnes supports you through the bad days and gently breaks down the walls you’ve built from past abandonment. Despite fears of being a burden, Bucky stays, proving with quiet strength and unwavering presence that love doesn’t need to be perfect to be real. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Disclaimer: Reader is chronically ill. Mentions/Depictions of symptoms of said illness. Angst. Hurt/comfort.
Word Count: 2.3k+
A/N: This is sort self-indulgent but still an enjoyable read regardless. I left the type of illness ambiguous. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
The first time Bucky saw you, he thought you were just tired.
You were sitting on a bench outside a small, independent bookstore in Brooklyn, a reusable water bottle half-empty beside you, a paperback open in your lap. It was cold out, the kind of sharp October chill that cuts through jackets and settles in bones. But you sat completely still with your shoulders slumped, hands trembling slightly, and breath shallow.
He might not have noticed if not for the way your fingers struggled to hold the book steady.
He didn’t stop. Not at first. He just glanced, like a thousand other people passing by, and kept walking. But two blocks later, something tugged at him soft and persistent, like a memory he couldn’t place. He turned around.
You hadn’t moved from your spot.
By the time he walked back and crouched in front of you, your lips were pale, and your skin had that waxy undertone he recognized from war hospitals and med units. His instincts kicked in, but not the soldier kind, rather the man who’d learned how to read distress in the quietest forms.
“You okay?” He asked, voice low but steady.
You blinked up at him slowly, as if hearing him from underwater. Then you offered a weak, breathless smile and said, “Yeah, just… my body does this sometimes.”
“Does what?”
“Stops.”
He didn’t fully understand what that meant then. But it wasn’t pity that made him sit beside you, not fear or heroism either. It was something else. Familiarity. A kind of haunted recognition.
“Can I call someone for you?” He asked. “Friend? Partner? Family?”
You shook your head. “No one close by. It’ll pass. I just need a minute.”
But your hand was still shaking as you reached for the water. He watched silently, then gently reached over and held the bottle steady so you could drink.
“Thanks,” You murmured.
He nodded. He didn’t press. He simply sat there, beside a stranger who looked like their body was betraying them one breath at a time.
After a long stretch of silence, you spoke again. “You don’t have to wait.”
“Don’t want you to pass out on a sidewalk.”
You huffed a dry laugh. “Romantic.”
He smirked. “I’ve heard worse.”
You turned to look at him then, and something in your expression shifted.
“You’ve had bad days too,” You said.
His breath caught. You weren’t asking. You knew.
He gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”
Your eyes softened. Not out of pity, but out of understanding. “Then you get it.”
He didn't reply out loud, but the way his hand hovered hesitant, then steady, offered the only answer you needed.
Eventually, you regained enough energy to stand. He offered his arm, and you took it without flinching at the metal. That surprised him. Most people still tensed.
Inside the bookstore, he bought a copy of the same book you'd been reading before slipping you his number. You noticed, and raised a brow.
“Trying to impress me?”
He shrugged. “Trying to have an excuse to see you again.”
You laughed then. Still tired, still aching, but real. “Well. It worked.”
-
You didn’t start dating right away. There were slow texts. A few coffee shop visits where he learned which chairs were softest for you to sit in for long periods, which days your hands couldn’t hold a cup, and how sometimes you’d go quiet mid-sentence but not from disinterest, just exhaustion.
But Bucky never minded. He’d lived too many years rushing through the world. With you, everything slowed down. And for once, that felt like healing.
On your first date, he had planned it carefully.
Not because he thought you needed to be impressed but because he wanted to show you he was paying attention. That he’d been listening, clocking every tiny detail you never made a big deal about.
So when he asked, “Dinner with me?” and you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because your body was in one of its quiet warning phases, he didn’t try to convince you. He simply offered an alternative.
“I know a rooftop,” He said. “It’s a quiet and private place with a good view. I’ll bring the food.”
You smiled, that same tired-but-warm curve of the lips he was learning to read better each time. “What kind of food?”
“Soft stuff,” He smiled before teasing. “Things that won’t piss off your stomach.”
You laughed, which he counted as a win.
The night of the date, he showed up at your door with a reusable picnic bag over one shoulder and that awkward, lopsided grin of his. You were in your softest clothes, sweatpants and a knit sweater two sizes too big, and your hair wasn’t doing what you wanted it to.
But he looked at you like you were wearing a red carpet gown.
“I like this,” He said simply, and gestured to your entire self. “It’s very you.”
“Exhausted?”
“Real.”
The trip to the rooftop was just a short elevator ride and half a flight of stairs, but halfway up, your legs started to tremble.
You tried to play it off, pausing to “check the sky,” you said. But Bucky had already seen the shift in your breathing, the tremor in your hand as you gripped the railing.
Without a word, he stepped behind you and wrapped an arm gently around your waist, the cool metal of his left hand bracing your spine.
“You okay with help?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.
You nodded once. He didn’t rush you. Just matched your pace, supporting you the whole way to the roof.
By the time you sat down on the old couch someone had dragged up there years ago, your body was already crashing. You tried to hide it like you always did. But your hands were limp in your lap, your eyes glassy, and your shoulders had that slight slump Bucky was learning to hate.
He knelt beside you.
“Tell me what you need,” He said gently. “No pressure. Just… tell me.”
You wanted to smile. To tell him he didn’t have to stay, or fuss, or worry. But the words stuck somewhere behind your ribs.
“…I don’t want to ruin this.”
His eyes softened. “You’re not.”
“It’s not fair. You finally ask me out and I’m… this.”
“You were always this,” He countered. “And I asked you anyway.”
That made you blink.
He took the blanket from the bag, yes he’d brought one, and wrapped it around your shoulders. Then he pulled out a thermos of broth and a soft rice dish you’d once mentioned in passing. No wine. Just herbal tea. No candles. Just the city lights. No pressure to be anything but what you were.
You looked at him and he didn’t flinch from the fog in your eyes or the weakness in your voice. He didn’t reach for the version of you from the good days. He reached for you.
“I don’t need the perfect night,” He told you gently, watching you carefully. “I just need you.”
You let out a slow, aching breath. “What if I never get better?”
He brushed a knuckle down your cheek. “Then I’ll learn every version of ‘bad’ until I can walk you through it with my eyes closed.”
You felt something in your chest unravel.
And when he curled up beside you, careful not to jostle your fragile form and content to just sit in silence; you knew, with absolute certainty, that this wasn’t the beginning of something fragile.
It was the beginning of something real.
-
There were days that weren’t as pleasant. Yet time and time again, Bucky insisted on staying. Comforting and reassuring you every step of the way.
One afternoon, the apartment was quiet but not the peaceful kind. The kind of silence that pressed against the walls, thick and tense. The kind that settled in your chest and made it hard to breathe.
You sat on the couch with your knees pulled up, a blanket draped around your shoulders even though it was midafternoon. You should’ve taken your meds earlier, should’ve eaten something by now, should’ve answered the texts piling up on your phone. But your joints ached like they were full of broken glass, your head pounded from hours of tension, and every sound, every thought, felt like it might shatter you.
You didn’t hear Bucky come in. Not at first.
He always moved quietly, even when he wasn’t trying to. It was a habit that never left him. A ghost of another life. He didn’t say anything right away, just took in the picture in front of him. The faraway look in your eyes. The way your hand gripped the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering you to the room. The way your body curled in, like it was trying to disappear.
He crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, not touching you yet, but remaining close.
“Hey,” He greeted gently. “Rough day?”
You nodded, barely. Your throat felt too tight to speak.
Bucky waited. He was good at that, waiting. Letting you come to him on your own time with no pressure or pity. Just quiet, patient presence.
But then the words came tumbling out before you could stop them.
“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracked. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this all the time. With me.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed, not in confusion, but in a kind of slow heartbreak. Like he’d heard this before because he had, and every time it hurt more.
He reached slowly, brushing your hand with his gloved fingers before gently taking it in his.
“Don’t say that,” He spoke quietly.
You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “But it’s true. You didn’t sign up for this. For all the canceled plans, and the bad days, and the… God, the way I feel like a burden.”
He exhaled, long and steady, and then stood, just enough to sit beside you. His arm curled around your shoulders, pulling you in with a kind of care that felt deliberate. Solid and unshakeable.
“I know what it feels like to think you’re too much,” He began slowly. “To think you’re broken, that people will get tired, or that you’ll wear them down until they leave.”
You swallowed hard.
“I spent years feeling like that,” He continued. “Even when Steve stayed. Even when Sam stuck by me. It never went away easy. But then I met you.”
His hand found yours again. Held it tighter.
“You taught me that people aren’t burdens. That pain doesn’t make someone less worthy of love. That needing help isn’t weakness.”
You shook your head, voice hoarse. “That’s different. You went through hell. You didn’t choose it.”
“And neither did you.” His voice was low but firm now. “You didn’t ask for this. You fight through more pain in a day than most people even imagine. And you still smile. You still care. You still show up.”
“But this isn’t fair,” Your voice was shaky. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this. You could… you could have anyone.”
Bucky went very still.
You turned your head away. “I don’t want you to stay because you feel obligated. I don’t want to trap you in something broken.”
His voice was low, firm as he asked. “You think I stay out of pity?”
“No. I think you’re kind. And maybe you don’t realize yet how permanent this is. How much this takes. I can’t go on missions with you, I can’t run, I can’t even cook without getting dizzy. Some days I can’t even-“
You broke off. Voice cracking.
“I can’t give you a normal life, Bucky. I’m tired all the time. And someday you’re going to wake up and realize I’m more burden than person and I can’t survive that again-“
Your breath caught. You hadn’t meant to say again. But it was out there now.
He didn’t try to shush you. He didn’t give you empty words or say you’re not broken, or you’re still beautiful, or it’s not that bad. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead gently against yours. His voice was raw and honest.
“You think I want a normal life?”
You blinked at him.
“I spent years being turned into someone else’s weapon,” He whispered. “I wake up some nights not knowing what year it is. I have blood on my hands I can’t wash off, and a mind that doesn’t always feel like mine. You think I came here for normal?”
He exhaled shakily. “No, sweetheart. I came here for you. Just you.”
Your chest caved with a soft, helpless sob.
“I don’t want perfect,” He said. “I don’t want easy. I want real. And you… this pain, this fight, all of it; it’s real. You’re still here. You keep going. And if you think for one second I’m walking away because your body’s at war with you…”
His hand slid into yours, careful and steady.
“…then you don’t know me yet. I choose to be here,” He said. “Not out of obligation. Not because I feel sorry for you. But because I love you. All of you. Even on the bad days. Especially on the bad days.”
Tears welled up before you could stop them. You hated crying in front of people but with Bucky, it never felt like weakness. It just felt honest, safe.
He pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin, wrapping both arms around you like a fortress. “You are not a burden,” He murmured. “You are my home.”
And in the stillness, something inside you began to loosen. Not the pain, no, that stayed. But the guilt, the weight of it all began to lift just a little as you let yourself be held.
For once, it felt okay to just exist. To be loved, even when you didn’t feel lovable.
And Bucky held you like he’d never let you forget it again.
Because he didn’t try to fix you.
He just loved you.
Exactly as you are.
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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She/Her | 18+ | Marvel WriterAsks/Requests are welcomed!
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