Agreed. Thank You So Much For Reading!!! ♡
Agreed. Thank you so much for reading!!! ♡
Falling For You, Again and Again
Summary: Each time you "die" and return, you fall in love with Bucky all over again in different ways. Bucky sees a new version of you every time, but he’s always his same self. Each time, you both always find your ways back to each other, but you never know it's happened before. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power of immortality. However, each death erases your memory of what you knew and who you were before. ANGST.
Word Count: 2.6k+
A/N: I wasn’t even sure if I could classify this under this series. However, it’s still an enhanced ability. Also, I’m hoping y’all like this. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
The first time you came back to life, it took three days. You woke in a hospital morgue, shivering under a white sheet, the taste of salt and ash on your tongue. You had no memory of your name, no recollection of what had killed you, and no sense of identity.
The only thing you possessed was a quiet panic and the sharp, cold awareness that you should not be here. You stumbled out into the world with no guidance, no answers, and one inexplicable truth: you couldn’t die.
You learned the pattern eventually. Every time you died whether by accident or violence, sickness or sacrifice, you returned. The process was inconsistent though. Sometimes, it took hours. Other times, days or weeks. Each time, you emerged in your body just as it was before death, seemingly untouched… but your memories, every one of them, were stripped away.
You couldn’t remember the name of the man who’d died holding your hand on a battlefield. Or the child you once saved from drowning. Or the language you’d spoken fluently last time you were alive. Every death reset your soul like a blank canvas, and the world became something you had to re-learn.
Sometimes people told you things about who you were, where you’d been, but they felt like borrowed stories. You smiled politely. Pretended. Sometimes even fell in love with the past versions of yourself they described. But you never felt like her.
The only exception was him.
The first time you saw Bucky Barnes, it was in a coffee shop in D.C. You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know yours, either. He was sitting alone reading something dense and battered yet you were inexplicably drawn to him, like an invisible thread pulled you into his orbit. You stood in line behind him without realizing, your fingers twitching as if remembering a touch you’d never felt. He glanced back. His eyes locked on yours.
He stared like he’d seen a ghost.
You didn’t speak,not then but you sat across from him twenty minutes later because you felt you should. Because your heart beat faster when he smiled, and it shouldn’t have. Because he seemed to know you, and you… you wanted to know why.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” He asked, softly, one hand wrapped around a warm mug.
You shook your head. “I don’t even remember me.”
He swallowed hard, staring at the steam between you. “I think you’ve died again.”
You didn’t ask how he knew. You just believed him.
It was like that every time.
You’d die. Come back. Then forget.
And somehow, Bucky would find you. Or you’d find him. A different place. A different life. But the same pull. You might meet him at a bookstore, brushing fingertips over the same worn copy of Catch-22. Or in a combat zone, both fighting for someone else’s cause. Or on a rainy street corner where he offered you a shared umbrella without knowing if you’d remember him this time. Sometimes you’d fall in love quickly. Sometimes slowly. But always, deeply.
He tried not to hold on too tightly. He never told you too much too fast. He let you find your own path, even if it meant losing you all over again.
But every version of you looked at him like you’d known him forever. Every version of you fell in love with him, as if your soul remembered even when your mind couldn’t.
And that was the tragedy of it. For him, it was always a reunion. For you, it was always the beginning.
-
Rain fell in soft curtains over the city, blurring the glass of the bookstore window and washing the world into dull, dreamlike greys. Inside, the scent of old paper, dust, and aging wood filled the quiet. Bucky sat in the far corner, a thick book open in his lap, though he wasn’t really reading. His fingers had gone still on the page twenty minutes ago.
He’d spent the past eleven months scouring D.C. by checking shelters, hospitals, cafés, the Metro; anywhere someone who had nothing might go. Most of the time, you always seemed to come back near where you died, and though he didn’t know exactly where that had been this time, instinct had guided him here.
The bookstore had become his checkpoint. A place of stillness where he could let the anxiety press against his ribs without showing on his face. He came every Sunday, pretending to read, waiting for a flicker of something to pull the world back into motion.
Then the door opened.
The bell jingled, and cold air swept in, heavy with rain and city smoke. A figure stepped inside, hunched slightly with hair damp and clinging to their cheeks. You looked up, blinking against the light, eyes wide and searching.
Bucky went still.
You’d returned.
Even before you saw him, even before you reached for the books on the nearest shelf, he knew. It wasn’t just the way you looked even though your face never changed. It was something else. A tension in your posture. A flicker of familiarity in your eyes that didn’t belong to this version of you, not yet.
You drifted further into the store, trailing fingers over spines as though pulled by instinct. He stood slowly, book forgotten on the chair behind him, as his heart hammered in his chest.
Then, like fate nudging you into place, your hand stopped on a copy of Catch-22.
It was always that book.
You ran your hand over the cover like it meant something you couldn’t name before your gaze flickered over to his. “Have we met?” You asked in a soft and uncertain tone. “I’m sorry… I feel like I should know you.”
God, it hit him like a punch every time.
Bucky’s voice caught in his throat before he forced a quiet, “Yeah. We’ve met before.”
You smiled politely, a little nervous. But your eyes lingered on his face like they were trying to etch something into memory that didn’t exist yet. “Do you… do you know who I am?”
He nodded. “I do.”
And he wouldn’t say more, not yet. He never did. You needed to come to it in your own time. So he took a step back, gestured to the armchair in the reading corner. “Do you want to sit for a while?”
You blinked at him, then at the chair, as if the idea of resting had never occurred to you. Slowly, you nodded.
“I’d like that.”
You stayed for two hours. Browsing, reading, or asking cautious gentle questions that Bucky answered with care. You didn’t remember dying. You never did. But you’d woken up in a hospital two weeks ago, no ID, no fingerprints on file. A social worker had told you your memory loss might be trauma-induced. You didn’t tell them about the dreams, about the way your hands shook when you tried to sleep. Or how you sometimes stared at your reflection and didn’t feel like it belonged to you.
Bucky listened quietly, never once pressing. He never once was asking you to be someone you weren’t ready to become again.
And just before you left, you turned to him. “I know this sounds strange, but… I feel safe with you. Like I’ve known you before.”
He swallowed hard, nodding. “You have.”
You opened your mouth like you wanted to ask more but didn’t.
Instead, you said, “I think I’d like to see you again.”
He smiled. “I’ll be here.”
You hesitated one more moment, then added, “Maybe I’ll come back next week… and you can tell me a story.”
He watched you go, heart aching.
He had hundreds. All of them about you.
You came back the next Sunday, just like you said you would. Same bookstore with the same faint, hesitant smile. This time, your coat was dry and your hair was pulled back. There was a small bandage on your knuckle from some accident you wouldn’t remember. You hadn’t told Bucky that, but he noticed. He always noticed the small things.
The two of you sat in the corner by the fogged-up window, and Bucky brought you tea from the shop next door without asking what kind you liked. He already knew. You took it with a grateful murmur, sipping slowly before your eyes flickered up to him.
“You said last week that you knew me,” You spoke cautiously but curious. “How? Did we work together or…?”
He studied you for a moment, then looked down at the teacup in his hands. “Not work. We were close, for a long time.”
You tilted your head, watching him. “Were we… lovers?”
There it was. The question that always came eventually. He looked back up. Your expression wasn’t flirtatious, it was vulnerable. Searching.
“Yes,” He answered quietly. “Many times.”
Your breath hitched just a fraction. And then, “You say that like we’ve done this before.”
He hesitated. “Because we have.”
You stared, frowning. “Have what? Met?”
“Fallen in love.”
You didn’t speak for a moment. Then you looked down at your hands. “Is that why I feel… strange around you? Like I should be afraid to get too close, but also like I want to?”
“Probably,” He laughed softly. “Most versions of you have that same feeling. You never remember me, but something in you always recognizes me. I don’t know if it’s instinct, or your soul remembering, or just… whatever’s left behind.”
You were silent, absorbing that. Then, in a quiet voice, “How many times?”
Bucky met your eyes. “Forty-eight.”
You looked away sharply. “Forty-eight deaths.”
“That I know of.”
“And I don’t remember any of them?”
“No.”
You stared out the window, your fingers tightening around the mug. “Then how can you… how do you not hate me for forgetting?”
He leaned forward, voice steady. “Because I remember you. All of you, and because every version of you is worth meeting again.”
Tears welled up in your eyes without control as you wiped them quickly, embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t know why that made me-“
“It happens sometimes,” He reassured gently. “Your body remembers things your mind doesn’t. Emotions bleed through.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him and something in your chest ached. Something deep and familiar.
“Tell me a story,” You whispered. “Tell me something about her- about me. A version you knew.”
Bucky nodded.
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small, battered notebook. The leather was fraying at the edges, the pages slightly warped from time and tears. He set it on the table, his hand resting on the cover.
“You used to hum in your sleep,” He said quietly. “Sometimes it was a lullaby, sometimes it was nothing at all. But it was always soft. And when you had nightmares or when the dreams got too heavy, you’d say my name before you woke up.”
You stared at the journal, transfixed.
Bucky’s voice didn’t tremble, but there was a break in it now. “That version of you was terrified of losing herself. You left notes, voice recordings, instructions. But every time you came back, you were still a stranger to yourself.”
You reached for the journal before you could stop yourself.
“Can I… read them?”
His hand remained on the cover for a moment longer, then he slowly slid it toward you.
“You can.”
You took it carefully. Reverently. Like it was something sacred.
Every time you left his world, he added another entry in that journal and kept it close with him. It was as if to keep a piece of you nearby when he couldn’t find you right away. The journal was heavier than it looked.
Not in weight, but in presence. It felt lived in, full of love and plagued with grief. You held it in your lap like something precious and terrifying, afraid that turning the page would tear a hole in your chest you didn’t know how to close.
You glanced up at Bucky. He hadn’t moved as he watched you with the quiet patience of someone who had waited through storms you couldn’t remember. You looked down again as your fingers brushed over the leather cover. There were marks, faint indents from a pen pressed too hard. Some pages were dog-eared. One corner had a smear of dried paint. Or maybe blood.
“I don’t understand,” You whispered. “Why would you keep doing this? Why would you…wait for me? For this?”
Bucky exhaled slowly. “Because even when it breaks me, you’re still worth every second I get.”
Your mouth opened slightly. No sound came out. Instead, you opened the journal.
The first page held a drawing. A sketch in faded pencil, your face, or someone who looked like you. The features were careful, practiced. You were looking down in the image, eyes shadowed, but peaceful. Beneath it, in neat handwriting:
11th time: She liked to paint near windows in sunlight. Said it made her feel alive. She told me to keep going, even when she was gone. I didn’t know how. Still don’t, but I’m trying.
Your heart pounded.
You turned the page.
31st time: She left me a voicemail before she died. Said if I ever found her again and she didn’t remember me, to tell her it was okay. That she was stronger than her forgetting. That love wasn’t something the body forgot, it was something that echoed in the soul and bones.
And the next:
42nd: She came back scared. She didn’t trust anyone, not even herself. But the second I said her name, she cried. She didn’t know why, just said it felt like home.
Your hand shook as you flipped further.
Tiny mementos were tucked inside throughout the journal. A movie ticket. A torn page from a crossword puzzle. A faded photo of the two of you, you laughing with your arms around him, eyes bright with a love you didn’t remember but suddenly longed for like oxygen.
And then… your voice.
Not now. Not this version. But one of you from before. It was a clipped audio, barely two minutes long, the file embedded into a tiny recorder taped to a page.
You pressed play.
“Hi. I know you’re me. Or some part of me. Or… maybe you’re someone entirely different now. That’s okay. You don’t have to remember everything. I just want you to know he’s safe. His voice is safe. His hands are safe. If you don’t remember anything else, remember that.”
You felt the sob before you heard it. Your hand flew to your mouth as your chest crumpled in on itself. You had said this. You had known you’d forget. And you’d wanted to leave yourself something, some thread to hold on to.
Across from you, Bucky didn’t speak. His eyes were glassy, but he didn’t interrupt. He never did. He let you come to him, always.
The journal was shaking in your hands. “I don’t know how to live like this,” You said, broken. “How can I be me if I’m always being rewritten?”
He leaned forward, voice low and certain. “Because no matter how many times the world erases you… you always find your way back.”
You looked at him again and something in you moved. A thread, a spark. Not a memory but an emotion. A warmth like sunlight through your body. It didn’t bring images, names, or facts. But it brought trust. Safety. The echo of something lost but not gone.
“Stay with me,” You pleaded in a whisper.
“I always do,” He said, steady.
And for the first time, in this lifetime, you reached for his hand. Not out of obligation. Not from the ghost of some former self. But because your heart, untouched by memory, still knew him.
And Bucky held on like he had every time before.
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A Little Mess Won’t Hurt
Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]
Summary: Despite your love for the arts, you’ve always been hesitant to use your paint kits, watercolors, or anything that could make a mess. Your caregivers notice and help you try finger painting for the first time.
Word Count: 1.9k+
A/N: This is purely a self-indulgent kind of fic. More on the fluffier side, hopefully.
Main Masterlist
You sit quietly on the couch, legs crossed beneath you, as you watch Steve work on his sketchbook. The pencil moves fluidly across the page, creating beautiful shapes, faces, and scenes. You’re mesmerized by how easily his hand moves, as if the paper were an extension of himself. His concentration makes him look so calm, so relaxed, and you wish you could do that too. Create something beautiful.
You reach over and grab your coloring book, your favorite one with intricate patterns of flowers and animals, and open it to the next unfinished page. You’ve always loved coloring, the neat lines and precise strokes, careful to stay inside the borders. But when you think about what Steve is doing and what Bucky sometimes does when he’s working with paints and clay, it makes your chest feel tight. You’ve never touched the paint kits or watercolor sets that Steve bought for you. It always feels like a line you’re afraid to cross.
Your fingers itch to try it. You know it’s fun. You’ve seen Bucky with his hands covered in clay and Steve covered in paint, laughing and smiling, their faces bright with joy. But the mess… the mess always brings memories you don’t like. The sharp words. The scolding. The fear of ruining something precious.
"Hey, kiddo, you done with your drawing?" Steve’s voice cuts through your thoughts. You blink, looking up at him. He’s watching you with soft eyes, a half-smile on his face. "You’re awfully quiet today."
You fidget with your coloring book, picking at the edges. "I’m just… coloring," You mumble, offering him a small smile.
Steve notices the way your gaze flicks back to his sketchbook, your eyes lingering on his pencil as it moves. He sets his book aside gently and leans closer, his voice tender but curious.
"You know," He starts, "I’ve got a new sketchbook in the other room. But it’s not the only way to make art."
Your heart skips a beat. You’ve heard them talk about painting before. About how messy it gets and how much fun it is. They thought you would like it. Bucky has even shown you his pottery and tried to convince you to join him in the studio once, but you always hesitated. The idea of making a mess, of getting dirty? It just felt wrong.
"I—" You pause, unsure how to explain. You tug at the hem of your shirt, a nervous habit. "I like… watching. But I don’t know if I could… do it."
Steve’s eyes soften as he tilts his head. "Do what, sweetheart?"
"Make a mess," You murmur, almost embarrassed.
The room falls into a quiet moment, Steve’s gaze turning understanding. He’s seen the way you’ve avoided the paints, the watercolors, the clay. He knows how much you love the idea of creating, anything to do with art. He can see it in your eyes every time you sit with your coloring book, every time you watch him draw. But he also knows there’s something holding you back. Something deeply rooted.
"You don’t have to be afraid of making a mess with us," Steve says gently. "You’re safe here. We’re not going to scold you for it. You don’t have to be perfect."
You glance up at him, your cheeks flushing. The words feel foreign, like they shouldn’t be said to you. But… they are. And the warmth in Steve’s voice makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could try.
"You sure?" You whisper.
Bucky, who has been quietly listening from the armchair, smiles softly and walks over to where you’re sitting. He crouches down to your level, his expression warm and inviting.
"I’ll even help you clean up after," He promises. "We can have a little messy play time, just the three of us. No judgment, no worries. Just fun."
Your heart flutters in your chest. The idea of it sounds fun. So much fun, in fact, that you can feel your fingers twitch with excitement. But the fear still clings to you. You don’t want to disappoint them too. You don’t want to make a mess at all.
Steve catches the look in your eyes and gives you a soft smile. "It’s okay if you don’t want to yet," He reassures calmly, "But I think you’ll enjoy it. Sometimes, making a little mess is how we make the best memories."
Bucky holds out his hand, "What do you say, kiddo? Wanna try it with us? You can start small. Just dip your fingers in a little bit of paint. We’ll take it slow."
You hesitate. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt as you think, battling with the urge to try something new and the fear of failure. But then Steve places a gentle hand on your shoulder, the warmth of his touch calming you. "No pressure. If you don’t like it, we can always stop. But if you want to, we can make something really special."
You glance at Bucky, who’s still waiting patiently. He doesn’t look rushed or frustrated. He’s simply… waiting for you to decide. To trust them and that’s the push you need.
Taking a deep breath, you nod, just a little.
"I’ll try," Your voice barely audible.
Bucky’s smile grows, and he gently takes your hand, as he brings you to the dining table. Steve grabs some of the finger painting supplies and sets them down near you. The tray of paints now sits before you with a blank sheet of paper. The colors are so bright, so inviting, and for the first time, you feel a small wave of excitement wash over you. You slowly reach over, still hesitant but brave. Bucky’s voice remains light and reassuring.
"That’s it. Now, just a little dab," He encourages.
You dip your fingers into the paint, the cool sensation making your breath catch in your throat. And then, with a deep breath, you press your fingers to the paper.
It’s messy. It’s a little wild. But it’s also… freeing.
Steve watches you with pride, his gaze soft as you begin to explore the colors with more confidence. Bucky’s chuckles ring in the air as he joins you on another page, painting alongside you. The mess doesn’t seem so bad now. In fact, it’s kind of fun. And with Steve and Bucky by your side, it’s safe. There’s no judgment, no scolding. Just a loving space where you can make something beautiful, even if it’s a little messy.
The paint feels warmer now, smoother against your fingertips as you move your hand across the page. You make a bold swirl of yellow and green, your face lighting up with a quiet smile as you experiment with the colors. It’s not perfect, but that’s the best part. The colors bleed into one another in playful patterns, as if the paper itself is dancing with you.
Bucky glances, grinning as you explore. "That’s it, kiddo. Let it flow," He says, his voice filled with encouragement. He’s got a bit of red paint smeared on his cheek from his own work, but he doesn’t mind. "No rules. Just fun."
You glance at him, then at Steve, who’s already made a few broad strokes on his paper with a brush. The whole room feels lighter, almost fizzing with energy as the three of you work in a little creative chaos together.
Steve watches you with a fond smile, leaning in to dip his own brush into a deep purple. "There you go," He adds. "Look at that swirl. Looks like a rainbow already."
You tilt your head and glance at your page, and sure enough, the yellow and green you've painted already do look like the beginnings of a rainbow, the colors blending like the hues of a sunset.
The idea of a perfect painting slowly fades from your mind, and you start adding more colors, simply having fun with it. Maybe blue here, a touch of red there. Bucky and Steve occasionally encourage you, their voices soft but full of praise. The weight of your old anxieties begins to melt away. They never push you to do anything more than you’re ready for, and you find yourself taking more risks, adding blobs of color that you wouldn’t have dared to make a few minutes ago.
The first few smudges on your fingers did feel odd at first, but then you realize they aren’t that bad. You laugh when a bit of orange accidentally splatters onto the side of your cheek. Bucky chuckles too, and reaches over with a napkin to wipe it away. "Guess you’re really getting into it now."
You can’t help but laugh back, the sound light and airy, filling the room with the pure joy of finally letting go.
It’s so much fun—more than you thought it could be. You notice that the fear you had about messing up seems so small now. There’s a comforting warmth in knowing that Steve and Bucky are right there with you, sharing in the mess, the fun, and the art. No one’s looking to judge or critique, just to enjoy the moment together.
The hours pass quickly, the three of you laughing and creating. Before you know it, your page is a beautiful, colorful mess. It’s nothing like the neat, careful drawings you used to make. Instead, it’s a chaotic explosion of colors, shapes, and patterns that make your heart flutter. You didn’t have to hold back. You didn’t have to be perfect. And that’s exactly what made it perfect.
"Look at you," Steve’s voice is full of pride as he leans in to admire your work. "I think we’ve got ourselves an artist in the making."
Bucky grins, nudging you lightly with his shoulder; his tone full of love and approval. "You’ve got a real eye for this, you know."
You smile, a warm, contented feeling filling your chest. Your hands are a little sticky with paint, and your shirt has a few splatters too, but you don’t mind. You look over at Bucky and Steve, seeing their faces beaming with pride. You realize that it wasn’t just about making art. It was about trusting them enough to let go, to not be afraid of what could happen if things got messy.
As you finish the last few touches on your page, you feel a sense of accomplishment. Your masterpiece isn’t about following the rules or being perfect. It’s a reflection of you: creative, brave, and free.
Steve and Bucky glance over at each other and share a look, one of shared pride and understanding. They’re proud of you for stepping out of your comfort zone, for trusting them, and for making something beautiful in the process.
When the paintings are finally dry, Steve gathers them up carefully. "We’ll hang these on the fridge," He smiles when your face lights up. "We’ll put yours right at the top, where everyone can see."
Bucky nods, pulling you into a soft, affectionate hug. "You did so good, sweetheart. You made a mess, and you made art. That’s what it’s all about."
You snuggle into his arms, still grinning from ear to ear. It feels good. It feels right.
And for the first time, you don’t worry about what happens if things get a little messy. Because, in this moment, you realize that a little mess is part of the magic. Part of the fun. And no matter what mess happens, you’re safe enough to make it with the people who love you.
Picture Perfect
Summary: You’ve always loved photography but never dared to try until your boyfriends encourage you to pick up a camera and capture the world through your eyes. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)
Word Count: 700+
A/N: Another self-indulgent mini fic. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
Despite your quiet love for photography, there was always a voice inside you holding you back. A whisper of doubt that never quite went away. It wasn’t just about not having a camera or the technical know-how; it was something deeper, rooted in old fears you rarely admitted aloud.
You’d spent so much time playing it safe, afraid to try because you didn’t want to fail. What if you picked up the camera, clicked the shutter, and nothing came out the way you imagined? What if your photos were just… ordinary? Unremarkable? Worse, what if trying and failing made you feel small and invisible all over again?
There were memories tangled in that fear. Times when you had dared to put yourself out there in other ways by trying new things, opening up emotionally, yet it hadn’t gone well. Moments when your efforts went unnoticed, or worse, were quietly dismissed.
You worried that photography, something so personal and expressive, might expose that part of you you kept locked away; the part that wasn’t sure if you were good enough.
Even more, you feared that your love for it would fade if you faced disappointment early on. The idea of giving up on something you cared about felt like losing a piece of yourself, and that was terrifying.
That changed one Saturday afternoon. You sat curled up on the couch, flicking through an old photo album filled with faded memories containing snapshots of laughter, adventure, and the quiet moments in between. The nostalgia settled warmly over you, like a soft blanket, and for once, you felt a spark. Some sort of urge to capture moments yourself.
Steve noticed the way your eyes lingered on a black-and-white picture of a city street and smiled gently. “You’ve got a good eye for this,” He sat down beside you, presence steady and comforting like an anchor.
Bucky, lounging on the other side with a book, looked up and nodded. “Yeah. You’ve always been the one who sees the little things. The stuff most people walk right past.”
You glanced between them, cheeks warming at the encouragement. It wasn’t often they focused on something so small and personal. Steve reached over and lightly squeezed your hand. “Why don’t you try it? Start small. I bet you’d be amazing.”
The idea was both thrilling and terrifying. But watching Steve and Bucky’s easy confidence in your abilities was like a gentle breeze breaking through your self-imposed storm. They saw you clearly, without judgment. Their encouragement wasn’t just words, it was a promise they believed in you when you couldn’t fully believe in yourself.
Bucky put his book down, his gaze sincere. “We’re here to help. Hell, we’ll even be your models if you want.”
You laughed softly, the weight of hesitation lifting just a bit. “I don’t even have a camera,” You admitted, feeling slightly vulnerable.
Steve’s eyes twinkled with that familiar determination. “We’ll fix that.”
It wasn’t long at all before the next day where Bucky surprised you with a simple but reliable camera. A gift wrapped with a note that said, “For all the moments you’re ready to capture.”
You ran your fingers over the smooth body of the camera, heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves. It wasn’t just a piece of equipment to you; it was a chance.
That evening, the three of you went out for a walk, Steve and Bucky encouraging you every step of the way. Steve pointed out the soft glow of the streetlights, the way shadows played on the walls, while Bucky suggested interesting angles and compositions.
With every click of the shutter, you felt a little more confident. Your breath caught when you caught Steve’s smile in a candid moment or when Bucky’s steady gaze was perfectly framed against the fading light.
“You’re a natural,” Bucky said, ruffling your hair as you reviewed the shots.
Steve nodded, wrapping an arm around you both. “To think this is just the beginning.”
For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were stepping into something that was truly yours. Something that was worth exploring, with the two people you loved cheering you on every step of the way.
Even If You Forget
Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Bucky loses all memory of his relationship with you. Though heartbroken, you patiently stay by his side, offering gentle support and quiet company. Despite the emotional distance, you hold onto the hope that someday he’ll find his way back. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Word Count: 2.1k+
A/N: This has ANGST by the way. I absolutely adore anything to do with memories, so much potential. I might write another version of this where the reader loses her memories instead. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist | His Version
The mornings with Bucky were always slow, quiet, and warm.
His arm was usually draped over your waist by the time the sun started to creep through the blinds. He breathed a little heavier in the mornings, caught between dreams and the weight of his history. However, he never seemed to stir until you moved.
You liked it that way. It gave you time to look at him, at the faint worry lines that softened in sleep, at the longer strands of brown hair you liked to brush behind his ear, at the mouth that rarely smiled in public but had no trouble curving up for you when the world was far away.
You loved him deeply. In the way people loved after surviving something. There were scars on both of you and silences that stretched longer than they should’ve, but you understood him, and he had never once looked at you like he regretted being understood.
Your relationship had started quietly, like most things with Bucky did. It wasn’t love at first sight. It wasn’t loud declarations or stolen kisses in the rain. It was simpler. He’d sit near you during debriefings and glance over to make sure you understood the mission. He’d knock on your door late at night when he couldn’t sleep and leave a book outside if you didn’t answer. He remembered how you liked your coffee and never asked why you kept a light on when you slept.
Eventually, he started sitting a little closer. Touching your hand a little longer. Smiling a little easier. It wasn’t fast, but it was safe and real. You both needed that.
Sixteen months into the relationship, you'd moved in together into a tiny apartment, tucked above an old bookstore with creaky floors and a heater that only worked when Bucky kicked it. You painted the walls together. He helped pick out the furniture. You made him tea when his nightmares left him shaking, and he kissed your forehead when your hands trembled after bad missions.
He was never one to say I love you right away and especially not out loud. But he showed it, every single day.
And when he finally did say it, it was late at night, in the middle of an argument about laundry or groceries or something equally domestic and ridiculous when you both froze. He looked horrified that it slipped out. You looked stunned for barely a second before smiling and leaning closer to him, saying it back like it was the easiest thing in the world.
You thought nothing could take that from you.
But you were wrong.
You and Bucky had been paired up for another mission like normal to infiltrate an abandoned Hydra facility. Retrieve what remained of their stolen technology and data, destroy the rest. Bucky didn’t want you going in at first, but you reminded him that you were a trained operative, not a civilian. Besides, you worked better together anyways.
You were halfway through the facility when the alarms went off. Not an intruder alert but something else. Something that triggered deeper in the system. You split up briefly to cover more ground, and that was the last time Bucky looked at you like he knew who you were.
When you found him again twenty minutes later, he was hunched over and clutching his head near a strange, flickering device. When he raised his head, all you could see was cold, calculating eyes staring back.
Like a stranger.
And when you called his name, your voice shaking, and your hands reaching out to steady him; he backed away like you were poison.
“Who the hell are you?”
You froze in your spot. His voice wasn’t like Bucky’s. It was lower, flatter. Measured. It lacked the hesitant warmth that usually colored his words when he spoke to you. It was the voice of someone evaluating a threat.
Your hand, half-raised, trembled in the air between you.
“Bucky,” You whispered, like maybe the sound of it would crack something open. “It’s me.”
He stood slowly, the whir of his metal arm slicing through the silence. His eyes didn’t flicker with recognition. No softness. No guilt. Just analysis and caution.
You’d seen that expression before. Once. Years ago, when the Winter Soldier was still a ghost wandering about without a strip of autonomy. You definitely didn’t see this expression on the man who crawled into your bed at night and tucked a blanket around your shoulders.
But, here he was. You could feel how painfully your heart pounded in your chest.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” He said, almost to himself. He looked around, scanning the shadows like he expected enemies to crawl out of the dark. His hand hovered near the side holster at his thigh. “Who sent you?”
“No one sent me,” You said, stepping forward. “You’re-… Bucky, you’re not well. That machine, something happened. Let me help-“
“Stop,” He snapped. Your name was unfamiliar to him now. It didn’t make him pause. It didn’t register. “You’re not cleared to speak to me. I don’t know you.”
The words landed with brutal precision. You stepped back like you’d been struck. Because in a way, you had. He didn’t remember you.
The realization settled over you slowly, like frost creeping across glass. You felt your lungs tighten, your throat close. You could still see the outline of the relationship you'd built, months of laughter and late nights and slow healing, but he stood on the other side of it now, locked out.
You reached for your comm, fingers clumsy and stiff with dread as you called for backup and reported the situation.
When the team arrived, faster than you had expected, they didn’t ask many questions. You let them take over while you stood to the side, arms wrapped tightly around your chest, eyes fixed on the man who no longer knew your name.
Steve had been brought with the other agents. Miraculously, Bucky still remembered him and trusted his words to lead him to safety. He had followed Steve back to the Quinjet without hesitation. There was a time when he would have trusted you without a second thought too, but now you were just another stranger.
You sat in the back of the jet, silent and numb, your eyes never leaving his tense form. One hand was curled loosely near his chest. You remembered how he used to hold your hand that way when he slept. Like he needed to know you were real.
Now he didn’t know you at all.
Back at HQ, medical scans confirmed your worst fear. The machine had been some kind of neural disruptor, a crude prototype designed to extract and overwrite memory. Hydra tech, of course. The data was incomplete, scrambled, but the damage wasn’t.
He remembered Steve. Missions. Pieces of his past. It didn’t bring back the Winter Soldier thanks to his time in Wakanda. However, anything recent or anything soft, was gone.
You. Erased just like that.
You spent three days outside the glass of the room he stayed in, watching him rebuild his reality in pieces. He spoke little. Ate less. The team tried reintroducing him to other faces, but he flinched away from most of them. He was polite, distant, cautious. Like a soldier unsure of his orders.
Every time you entered the room, his eyes would land on you and linger. But they never softened. He never said your name, not even once.
And every night, you’d sit alone in your apartment above the bookstore, staring at the spot on the couch where he used to fall asleep during movie nights, wondering how you could miss someone who was technically still alive, just out of reach.
You never forced him to remember. You didn’t even try. Because you knew memory wasn’t something you could demand back. It wasn’t a switch you could flip or a locked door you could break down with frustration or anger. It was delicate. Fragile. Like glass edges that could cut him deeper if handled carelessly.
So instead, you became quiet. You became gentle even though visiting him wasn’t easy. Each time you entered the room, you reminded yourself to soften your eyes, to keep your voice low, calm. To be someone who he might feel safe with, even if he didn’t remember why.
“Hey,” You’d say, just like that. Simple. No pressure. No demands.
You’d bring small things like his favorite book, a picture from your last trip, or a worn jacket he’d left behind. You hoped these would speak to something buried inside him, a spark.
Some days, he’d look at you with confusion. Others, with suspicion. Sometimes, his eyes would flicker like he was searching for a ghost behind your face.
You hated that, but you never showed it. You never let him see it because you couldn’t. You remembered how lost he felt the first time you met him, before all the pieces of you and him fit together. And you knew patience was the only thread strong enough to hold you both together now.
Because you could tell he was afraid. Of you. Of himself. Of what he’d lost. And you were afraid, too. Afraid you’d never get him back. Afraid he’d forget the moments you shared, the trust you built. All the moments you shared together.
But you stayed. Every passing day, every painful visit, you stayed. Even when it hurt to see the distance in his eyes or the way his hand no longer found yours in the dark or the way his voice no longer softened when he spoke your name.
Because love wasn’t about forcing recognition or surfacing memories of what used to be. It was about waiting. Waiting until he could find you again, on his own terms.
-
In the halls of the Avengers compound, you often caught the looks of the team. Quiet glances that lingered too long before they quickly looked away. Soft expressions shadowed with pity. Sometimes, it was Tony shaking his head slightly when he thought you weren’t looking. Sometimes, Natasha’s eyes would meet yours briefly, sympathy buried beneath her usual stoic mask. Steve especially, steady as ever, gave you a small nod of understanding whenever your paths crossed.
They all knew. They knew what you were going through. They knew exactly what you had lost, but no one said it aloud. They didn’t need to after all.
You felt the weight of it, like invisible hands pressing down on your chest when you thought you were alone. The way they looked at you said, She’s holding onto someone who’s slipping away. She’s pretending to be okay, but she’s breaking.
You never asked for their pity. You never wanted it. It felt like another reminder that things were broken beyond repair. So you kept forcing yourself to keep your head high and to keep moving forward.
You showed up for briefings. You trained with the others. You made sure your smiles were steady, your voice calm. But deep within you, every step was heavy. Every breath felt borrowed. Because the truth everyone was coming to realize, no one could fix this but Bucky. And Bucky couldn’t remember you.
And as days bled into weeks, your visits with him continued. Still quiet, steady, and unyielding. But no breakthroughs. No magic moments where Bucky suddenly remembered your name or the warmth of your touch.
But slowly, you learned to be okay with that. Because sometimes, healing wasn’t about the big gestures. It was about the small ones.
A flicker of recognition in his eyes when you laughed at a joke you’d shared long ago. A twitch of hesitation before he pulled back when you offered your hand. A breath held a moment longer when you read aloud from his favorite book.
Those tiny cracks in the wall gave you hope.
One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the compound, you found yourself sitting beside him on the couch. No words were spoken, there was no need.
His hand, tentative and unsure, brushed against yours. You paused for a moment and didn’t dare pull away. Instead, you let your fingers intertwine slowly, grounding both of you in that fragile moment of connection.
It wasn’t the past rushing back. It wasn’t a promise of what would come. But it was something. A beginning. A chance. And sometimes, that was enough.
Because you knew this story wasn’t finished. Not yet.
And as long as you both were willing to try, maybe one day, he’d find his way back to you.
I’m not going to lie, I live for reblogs/feedback like this. Cause YES, he’s so delusional. I LOVE the subtle implications of him knowing and watching everything cause he’s gotta be an observant fellow from his time as the Winter Soldier after all… I need to write more of him soon, it’s been a hot minute lol
So happy to hear you enjoyed it! Thank you for reading!!! ♡
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.
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.
So happy you like it. Thank you so much!!! ♡
⋆༺Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist༻⋆
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
Summary: A collection of different one-shots with an unhinged reader as a chaotic whirlwind of misplaced confidence, untraceable knowledge, and genuine good intentions. People find you to be both a genius and an idiot, and no one can determine which side wins more often.
Main Masterlist
Keys | Fluff ✿ | Angst ⛆ | Dark 𓉸 | Hurt/Comfort ❦
✿ Heart First, Sanity Later - You, a dangerously chaotic genius with the common sense of a soggy spoon, somehow captures the heart of Bucky Barnes. Despite the constant emotional whiplash, raccoon-related injuries, and deeply cursed inventions, Bucky finds himself falling hard.
✿ Disastrous Dates - Bucky wanted to take you on an actual date. It was meant to be sweet. Normal. Quiet. Unfortunately, you were involved. So naturally, it was none of those things.
✿ Certified Genius, Unlicensed Moron - 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.
✿ Oops, I Joined a Cult Again - You joined a cult. That’s it.
✿ Operation: Lover’s Retreat (You Think) - Sent on a recon mission in the Carpathian Mountains, you treat it like a romantic getaway including but not limited to bath bombs, a sparkly kazoo, and one shared bed. Bucky remains constantly torn between exasperation and deep affection.
✿ Unqualified, Unhinged, and Unforgettable - A bunch of excited, hopeful rookies have the absolute displeasure honor of being trained under you.
✿ Chaos Counseling - You accidentally becomes the Avengers' unofficial therapist, delivering unhinged wisdom that changes lives whether they like it or not.
The Loop You Won’t Let Die
Summary: Bucky is fatally wounded on a mission. You rewind time again, again, and again, hundreds of times. Each loop, you lose a little more of yourself. Finally, Bucky realizes what you’ve done. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)
Disclaimer: Reader has the power to manipulate time to a limited degree. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Death. Memory Loss. Emotional Deterioration.
Word Count: 3.5k+
A/N: I am hoping y’all will like this because I sure did. Happy reading!!! ♡
Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist
You’ve never been good at accepting the things you can't control. It’s a trait that’s followed you for as long as you can remember. From the moment you first realized your power to manipulate time, to rewind, reset, undo, you were thrilled. However, you came to realize that you held something dangerous in your hands and that it came at a cost. You were never able to rewind it all away. Not the pain, not the guilt, not the consequences.
It was supposed to be simple at first to test your power. No one expected you to use it on something so… delicate. You didn’t understand the gravity of it, not when you first rewound time to save a child who wandered too far into the street. The child's life was saved, and everything went back to normal. At least, it felt that way. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been lost in the process, your ability to forget.
And then came Bucky.
The first time you met him, it was on a mission. Some joint operation between S.H.I.E.L.D. and a few of the Avengers. You’d been part of the team tasked with gathering intel from a Hydra facility that was holding someone important who had crucial information on a new weapon. The mission wasn’t supposed to be complicated. But that’s how things always go, isn't it? You weren’t prepared for the chaos.
The explosion rocked the compound, sending you flying across the ground. You were dazed, but before you could register the pain, you saw him. Bucky was already moving to shield you, taking the brunt of another blast, the force knocking him down. You'd heard the stories, seen the flashes of the Winter Soldier’s past. But this was real. This was human, a man who had been broken, rebuilt, and forgotten.
You reached him instinctively, adrenaline spiking. You felt the sharpness of his blood in the air. The metal arm, the familiar, haunted expression in his eyes; the man you had read about in the files was here, right in front of you, struggling to get up.
He looked at you, and something passed between you then. Not recognition, not understanding, but something else. An acknowledgment of something lost. A silent kind of empathy.
"Stay down," You said quickly, hands already at his side, pressing against the blood that began to spill. "I can help. Let me help."
His expression didn’t change, but he nodded, as if he knew you could. As if he knew you wouldn’t let him die here. You didn't realize how true that would become.
It wasn’t long before you began to notice things about him. It was small things at first like how he seemed to stay on the perimeter of conversations, never quite fully engaging. How he always looked like he was on the edge of a nightmare, his eyes haunted even in the quietest moments. How he never quite trusted himself, not really, not after everything Hydra had put him through.
You, too, understood that weight, though you didn’t wear it the same way. Your power, the ability to manipulate time, had long since been a burden. But you didn’t carry it in silence the way Bucky did with his past. You didn’t need to ask him why he closed off. You understood it in ways most people wouldn’t. You understood what it was like to feel broken, to have the world try to take away something fundamental from you. So, you never pushed. You stayed in the background, offering quiet support during missions, sharing small conversations where he could let his guard down a little.
But it was when you first showed him your power that things began to change.
It was during another mission that went wrong, a hostage situation where things got messy, and you were forced to make a choice. There was no way to save everyone. But you saw Bucky, standing there, his arm pinned under rubble, the enemy advancing. You felt the panic of the moment, his life slipping away in real-time. So, without thinking, you rewound it. You manipulated the timeline, reset the scene, and in an instant, the world around you shifted.
When you opened your eyes, you were back before the blast, before the rubble, before the threat. But this time, you acted. You moved faster, knew the exact sequence of events that would unfold. You saved him.
It was the first time you showed Bucky the extent of your power.
“Did you…” He was breathless, looking at you like he couldn’t quite comprehend what had just happened. His hand that had once bled from where the rubble had crushed him moments ago was normal, it was as though it had never happened. You felt him staring at you, processing the truth.
“I can rewind time,” You explained quietly, meeting his gaze. “Change things. Undo them.”
There was a beat of silence before he spoke again, voice rough and raw. “What does that mean for you?”
You had to think about it. Your ability was both a gift and a curse. You couldn’t rewind everything. Not the pain, not the way time bled into your mind. Every reset took something from you: memories, emotions, the strength to keep going. But you kept doing it. For all of them.
You were unable to provide an answer, but he didn’t need words to understand.
The relationship between you and Bucky grew slowly after that. He began to understand you in ways you didn’t even know how to explain. You never talked about the toll your power took on you, but somehow, he always seemed to know. He’d ask you about it with a careful quietness, never pushing too hard, but always aware.
It was a delicate balance. You both walked around each other’s fragility, never forcing things, but always aware that there was something unspoken between you, an understanding that transcended words. You both had scars. But he was the kind of man who never let you carry the weight alone. And you, in turn, made sure that when his nightmares got too loud, when his mind fractured from all the things Hydra had done to him, you were there.
And one day, it all fell apart.
This mission was supposed to be straightforward.
Bucky and you, side by side, infiltrating a Hydra base to disable a weapons system. Nothing the two of you couldn’t handle. He’d been in worse situations and so had you.
But there’s always that one variable, always that one thing you can’t account for. The moment when the mission goes wrong, and everything unravels in the blink of an eye.
Bucky takes the first hit.
You’re there, just a step behind, but it’s too late. The bullet hits him right in the shoulder, spinning him off balance. You hear him grunt, feel the tug of his body as he collapses to the ground. Blood, dark and heavy, stains the concrete below him, it wasn’t any ordinary bullet. His metal arm is a blur of motion as he tries to pull himself up, but it’s no use. His movements slow. His breath becomes ragged.
You don’t even think. Your heart pounds in your chest, and your mind screams. You don’t want to lose him. Not like this. Not when there’s so much more you need to say. To do. To live for.
Rewind.
The world shudders around you, pulling you back to the beginning. The mission resets. You find yourself in the same place with everything the same, but you know what’s coming. You know what you have to do.
This time, you’re faster. More prepared. You have to be.
You move ahead of Bucky, keeping your focus sharp, anticipating the angle the sniper will shoot from. The plan is simple. You’ll get to the control room first, disable the weapons system, and clear the path for him. He won’t get hurt this time.
But something goes wrong. A twist, a misstep. The shot rings out from a different angle, and Bucky is hit again, this time in the chest. He crumples to the floor with a choked gasp, blood pooling around him. His eyes lock with yours, wide with shock and pain.
“Not again,” You mutter under your breath. "Please."
Rewind.
The third time is no different. No matter how many angles you try to cover, no matter how many ways you attempt to divert the sniper’s aim, Bucky always falls. Every time, it’s the same. Every time, you lose him. And every time, you’re forced to go back. Your mind becomes a haze of timelines, of trying to change the same sequence of events that always ends the same way.
By the tenth loop, the crushing weight of the failure begins to take its toll. You can feel it in your bones, the exhaustion of it all. The tension in your muscles, the faint tremor in your hands. It doesn’t matter how many times you reset. The result is always the same.
The bullet. The blood. His body crumpling. His eyes losing their light.
Rewind.
By the thirtieth loop, you're no longer just running through the motions. You’re starting to lose yourself. Every time you reset, something is chipped away. Maybe it’s your clarity, your sanity, your sense of time, or maybe all three. You can’t remember if you’ve already tried this particular strategy or if it’s the first time. You’ve forgotten the feeling of his hands in yours when you weren’t on a mission. Forgotten the sound of his laugh.
And yet, you keep doing it. For him.
But no matter how you try, no matter how you fight, he dies again. And again. And again.
Rewind.
The fiftieth time is when you break.
You’ve tried every strategy, every variation, every distraction. You’ve shot the sniper first, thrown grenades to create chaos, tried to fight through the whole base alone, but nothing works. Every loop, the result is the same.
Bucky dies, and you’re the one who has to watch it. Over and over.
You find him in the same position again. The same injury. The same wound. His hand, trembling, reaching for you in his final moments. His voice, strained and broken as he mutters your name. The world spins, distorting in the corners of your vision. It’s too much.
“Stay with me,” You beg hopelessly, tears burning your cheeks once again.
His eyes flicker. He’s fading. You can see it in the way his chest rises more slowly. His lips barely form a smile, and it breaks your heart. "I’m sorry," He whispers. "I’m so sorry."
Rewind.
When you wake again, you’re in the same place. The mission has started over, but it feels like you’ve been doing this for a lifetime. You know exactly where you are, what you need to do. But it doesn’t matter. You’re exhausted. Broken. Every reset feels like a piece of you is being torn away.
You barely register his presence next to you. The way his arm brushes yours as you move through the base. He’s always there, always close, but you don’t look at him. Not anymore. You can’t.
This time, he dies again.
And it’s then that you finally realize something: it’s not just the mission that’s killing him. It’s you. Your power. Your need to save him, to do whatever it takes, even if it means losing yourself.
Bucky’s last breath is quieter than the others. This time, he doesn’t even speak your name. When the world shifts back again, the weight of everything crashes down on you. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep losing him. You’re falling apart.
He’s alive in like normal at the start of your next loop, but you can’t meet his gaze. You can’t pretend anymore. His presence is suffocating now, and you can’t stop the dread from creeping up your spine.
“Hey,” He says softly, his voice full of concern. “You good?”
No. You’re not good. You’re shattered, and the weight of his repeated death is too much to bear. You give him a short lie that you’re fine only to watch him die again later.
-
By the hundredth loop, you stop trying to fix things. You stop trying to make the perfect plan, to save him. Because each time, you lose a little more of yourself. A little more of who you were before this madness.
You’re no longer sure if you’re even human anymore. You don’t recognize the face in the mirror. The loops have become your reality. And the more you rewind, the more you forget. What’s real? What’s memory? What’s a life worth saving when you’re already so broken?
The next time Bucky dies, you don’t even speak. You just let the world crumble, knowing that you’ll try again. And again. And again.
During one of your next loops, Bucky can feel something’s wrong. He’s always been able to read people, even before everything that happened. You’re different now in the sense of being much more distant and quieter than you were a few hours ago. You still move with precision, and you still have the same sharp focus on every mission. But your eyes, those once bright eyes that shone with warmth, now carry a depth of sorrow he can’t quite place.
It’s subtle at first. The way you recoil when he touches your arm. How you don’t meet his gaze for too long. How your voice, when you do speak, trembles just enough for him to notice. He watches you. He’s seen this before. But this time, it’s different. There’s something more. Something deeper.
-
It happens after the hundred and thirtieth loop. You’ve grown so tired, so worn down that you can barely keep track of the details. It’s becoming harder to find the motivation, the drive, to reset. But you push yourself, as always, because he needs you to.
Once again, you’ve failed. Bucky is dead. Again. The blood pools around him, his breath fading into silence. His final words are a shadow in your mind, repeated over and over: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”
You reset the timeline, but this time, it feels different. The world doesn’t reset as quickly. It lingers. You’re slow to stand, slow to move. The pressure in your chest is suffocating. You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve done this. But then you feel a hand on your shoulder, warm and firm. You know it’s him without looking. The touch is a relief in its familiarity, but it also makes your heart ache more than it should. You don’t want him to feel this. Not like this.
“Stop,” Bucky says quietly. His voice is low, but the command is there. It cuts through the fog in your mind.
You don’t respond. You can’t. You’re terrified of him seeing you, seeing what you’ve become, what you’re willing to do to save him. You’re terrified of the way you’re slowly losing yourself in this, and the last thing you want is for him to understand.
But he does.
“I know what you’re doing,” Bucky continues, his hand tightening on your shoulder, forcing you to face him. His gaze is sharp, the deep blue of his eyes searching yours with a depth of understanding that makes you want to collapse.
“No, you don’t,” You whisper, your voice barely audible.
“Yeah,” He says quietly, his voice breaking just a little. “I do.”
You shake your head, turning away. "You don’t get it. I… I can't lose you, Bucky. I can't-“
“Stop,” He interrupts, his voice firmer now. “Stop trying to save me.”
Your body tenses. “I have to. I can’t lose you.”
“You’re killing yourself to save me,” His voice is full of raw emotion. “You’re breaking, and you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep doing this for me.”
“I’d rather lose myself than lose you,” You say quickly, too quickly. The words come out of you without thought, without any real sense of control. It’s all you’ve been trying to do, isn’t it? Save him at all costs. You’d sacrifice everything for him, even if it means losing yourself in the process.
But Bucky, he doesn’t want that.
“No,” He says firmly as his hand cups your cheek gently, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I won’t let you destroy yourself like this. You can’t keep trying to save me like this.”
For a long moment, you stand there, frozen. His touch grounds you, even as the weight of his words presses down on your chest. It feels like the world is spinning too fast, like everything you’ve done, everything you’ve sacrificed, is suddenly meaningless.
“Bucky,” You breathe, the tears finally coming. “I don’t know how to stop anymore. I can’t… I can’t let you go. I can’t-“
He pulls you into him, wrapping his arms around you tightly. “You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to do this by yourself. I’m here. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. Please… stop doing this to yourself.”
You close your eyes, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek, the steady rhythm grounding you. “I can’t… I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried to fix it. I don’t know how to stop it.”
“You don’t have to,” Bucky whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. “Let me help. You’re not alone in this. I’m not going to die again, not if I can help it. But you have to trust me. Trust us.”
The weight of his words crashes over you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself breathe. You let yourself believe, just for a moment, that there’s another way. Another chance.
“You won’t die,” You murmur, as though testing the words on your tongue.
“I won’t die,” He affirms, his voice soft but firm. “But only if you let go of this loop. Let go of the pain. Let me be here with you.”
The silence between you two is heavy with the unspoken promise. The possibility that, maybe, there’s a way forward that doesn’t involve sacrifice, doesn’t involve losing yourself. That maybe, just maybe, you can live without having to rewind the world every time something goes wrong.
“Together?” You ask quietly.
“Together,” Bucky answers, holding you close.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to believe that it’s true….
Until you don’t. Because he lied. He dies again. It was futile.
You stop counting.
Somewhere between the hundredth and thousandth reset, numbers stop meaning anything. You've tried ambushes, distractions, extraction before contact, calling in the others earlier, shielding him, shielding yourself, leaving. You've tried pretending you were never there. Tried running. Tried fighting harder. Stronger. Smarter. He always dies.
And now he knows. Bucky sees it in your eyes even before you reset. You don’t have to say it anymore. The moment things go wrong, he just looks at you, and there’s this helpless, aching resignation in his voice when he mutters, “Don’t.”
But you always do.
The loop consumes you like erosion that’s slow and invisible. You forget details. You forget whole days. You forget what smiling used to feel like. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. As long as he lives.
Rewind.
-
This time, you're quiet when the bullet rips toward him. You don't scream his name. You don't even blink. You step in front of him.
The impact knocks the air from your lungs. Your body hits the ground before the pain registers. Heat blooms across your ribs like fire. And for some reason, Bucky manages to take out the sniper this time, the threat gone. He drops down beside you instantly.
His hands pressing into the wound, voice shaking. “No. No, no, no. Stay with me. Stay with me!”
Your mouth tastes like iron. Your fingers twitch, reaching weakly for his cheek.
“I did it,” You whisper.
His hands are covered in your blood.
“What are you talking about?” He breathes. “You’re gonna be fine. We’ll get help. You’ll be-“
“I broke the loop.” You manage a smile, cracked and fleeting. “You’re alive.”
His breath catches. He knows. Of course he knows. “You can still rewind,” He begs. “Please. One more. Just one more.”
You shake your head faintly. “No. This is the only way I could win.”
Tears slip down his face as he holds you closer, his voice growing frantic. “You can’t leave me. I don’t want this. Not like this. I’d rather die than lose you.”
You reach up, your blood-streaked hand brushing his jaw. “I’d rather lose myself than lose you.”
“You already did,” He chokes, voice breaking. “You already have, look what this did to you.”
You try to laugh, but it comes out as a wheeze. “Then let me rest now.”
“No. No-“ His arms shake as his shoulders crumble. “I love you. You don’t get to leave.”
Your fading eyes search his, and for once, they're not haunted.
“I know. That’s why I did this,” You whisper. “I love you too.”
Your hand falls and your breath stops.
And for the first time in hundreds of timelines, Bucky lives.
But in this one… You don’t.
Again
Summary: You live in a carefully constructed world with Bucky Barnes, unaware he’s been resetting your memories every time you try to leave him. Each time you begin to remember the truth, he gently erases it, cloaking control in affection. To you, it feels like love. To him, it is. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x reader)
Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Bucky Barnes, Memory loss, Gaslighting, Obsessive love, Hints of confinement, Yandere themes, etc.
Word Count: 2.9k+
A/N: Been a while since I’ve written something dark. Can you tell I love stories that have something to do with memories yet? 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 weren’t really the kind of person who got involved with superheroes.
You worked quietly at a small publishing office in Brooklyn, mostly handling edits and scheduling for midlist fantasy writers. Your days were filled with manuscript notes, cheap coffee, and chasing deadlines. It was all comfortably mundane.
You weren’t the kind to chase chaos. You didn’t attend Stark-sponsored gala events or run towards falling buildings with a camera. The Avengers were just another headline, another source of distant awe that didn’t belong in your world.
Until him.
You met Bucky Barnes on a Tuesday morning in the rain. Your umbrella had fallen apart five minutes into your walk to work, and you’d ducked into a tiny, half-hidden café. He had held the door open for you; tall, quiet, gloved hands, and hood up.
You nodded your thanks. He nodded back. That was it.
The second time you saw him was two days later at the same café. He was at the same seat near the back window. You ordered your tea, and he was already nursing his coffee. You’d never seen him speak to the barista, but his drink always arrived without question. You wondered if he’d once lived in this neighborhood, before the metal arm, before the wars.
Weeks passed before you spoke again. It started small with quick glances, polite smiles, and silent nods that eventually turned into one-word greetings. Then one afternoon, as you sat reading a worn paperback in your usual seat, he asked what book it was.
You looked up, startled. His voice was gravel and velvet all at once. You told him the title, and he tilted his head, thoughtful.
“Used to read a lot,” He said. “Stopped for a while.”
You asked why to which he smiled faintly. “Memories. Some of ’em don’t belong to me.”
You didn’t comment on it considering his past.
After that, he started waiting for you.
Or maybe you started going there hoping he’d be there. You couldn’t tell when it changed. Your work days blurred together, but those moments with him became sharp, vivid pieces of color. You learned that he liked his coffee bitter and preferred home-cooked meals over fast food. He told you small things about himself: that he didn’t sleep well, that he liked jazz, that he used to have a sister. Never much more.
You never asked about the arm. You never needed to.
He started walking you home when it got dark. Just in case, he’d say, glancing at the sidewalk like it was dangerous. At first, he’d leave you at the corner of your street. Then at your building’s door. Then one evening, he followed you up.
Nothing happened that night. He didn’t even kiss you. But he looked around your apartment with that solemn, haunted stare, like he’d stepped into a dream he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have.
When you made him tea that night, he sat on your couch like he was afraid it would vanish if he blinked.
That was the beginning.
You didn’t fall for him in a rush of heat or fire. It was something quieter like water slipping under a door. He was gentle with you, more gentle than you'd imagined a man like him could be. He handled you like a secret. In some way, you liked that. It made you feel chosen.
He memorized you.
Your favorite foods, the way you liked your windows cracked just an inch at night, how your nose scrunched when you were skeptical. He’d brush your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, kiss your temple when you frowned at your laptop, run his thumb across your knuckles while you rambled about work.
When you finally asked if you were together, he simply nodded. “You’re mine,” he said, not possessively. Just… firmly. As if it had always been true.
You smiled. It felt warm and real after all.
As weeks passed, you didn’t realize how much of yourself was already unraveling.
You didn't notice that he always picked your meals before you had a chance. That when you asked about his past, his face turned to stone. That when you mentioned taking a weekend trip with friends, he flinched. Then the next day, every one of those friends mysteriously canceled.
You didn’t realize how often he said “You don’t need to remember that.”
Or that your own memories like how you met or how long you’d been dating started to feel soft, blurry, like a watercolor left out in the rain.
You didn’t question it then though because when you were with Bucky, you felt safe. And safety can be addicting, especially when you don’t know what’s missing.
But the truth was already whispering beneath your skin. And you were about to hear it for the first time.
Again.
You never noticed the changes at first.
They crept in like dust on a windowsill so subtle and quiet, you didn’t realize how much had shifted until it was far too late.
It began with a contact missing from your phone. You were trying to text your friend about a shared memory from childhood, a stupid inside joke involving a haunted amusement park, but her name was just… gone. Not grayed out. Not blocked. Gone. You assumed it was a glitch. You’d call her later.
But you didn’t. You couldn’t seem to remember the number. You opened your gallery to find the picture of the two of you at the beach with your arms around each other, her tongue out at the camera, wind in your hair yet the photo wasn’t there. Not in albums. Not in cloud storage. Not even in your deleted folder.
You frowned and chalked it up to a syncing error. You’d been so tired lately after all. Work had been relentless, your sleep scattered. It was probably your fault.
Besides, Bucky said you’d been overwhelmed.
“You’ve been stressed, doll,” He murmured that night, when he found you staring blankly at your phone. He slid into bed behind you, arms curling around your waist like a shield. “You’ve been forgetting things, yeah? That’s okay. I’m here now.”
His lips pressed to the back of your neck, soft and warm and grounding. “I’ve got you.”
And you believed him. Because Bucky didn’t lie. Because love was supposed to feel safe. Because it was easier than the other option: that something was wrong.
Then the dreams began.
Not nightmares in the traditional sense. They weren’t filled with monsters or screams. They didn’t leave you sobbing or breathless. They just felt wrong… familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.
In the dreams, you were in a room with white walls, too white. The sterile scent of alcohol and metal stung your nose. Your wrists were strapped to a gurney, a chill biting at your skin through the thin hospital gown. Machines beeped in the distance. Shadows moved behind frosted glass.
And you were crying.
Not screaming. Not pleading.
Just… crying. Quietly and exhausted like this had happened before.
Then a voice; male, calm, and clinical: “She’s starting to remember.”
Static buzzed through the dream, warping your hearing like water rushing through your ears.
And then, him.
Bucky.
But not your Bucky, not the gentle hands and tired smile that whispered “I’ve got you.” This Bucky stood behind the glass, unmoving, and half-shrouded in shadow. His face was unreadable and cold, tight-jawed with his blue eyes sharp with calculation. And something else beneath that: Guilt. Desire. Possession.
You always woke with your chest heaving, heart racing like a prey being hunted.
The dreams clung to your skin like fog. You couldn’t shake them, couldn’t forget the way your own voice had cracked in the dream: “Please, don’t do it again.”
You told Bucky about them one morning, curled on the couch with a blanket over your shoulders and your head pounding.
“They felt too real,” You explained, knuckles white around the mug he’d just handed you. “I… I don’t know. I was in some lab, or hospital maybe, and I was tied down, and someone said-“
You paused, trying to remember the exact words. They slipped through your mind like sand.
“‘She’s starting to remember.’”
Bucky froze. Just for a moment to the degree where you barely caught it. The tension in his jaw before it was gone, smoothed over by the version of him you trusted. He stepped closer, cupping your cheek in one calloused hand. His thumb brushed your temple, slow and steady.
“They’re just dreams,” He whispered. “You’re okay. I’m right here, remember? Nothing bad’s ever going to happen to you again.”
The pressure of his fingers lingered, gentle but firm. You leaned into it.
And you didn’t see the flicker of fear in his eyes. You didn’t notice how his hand trembled for just a second before he pulled it away.
Didn’t follow his gaze to the mirror where, behind the glass, a soft blue light blinked silently. A small device tucked into the frame, some HYDRA tech masked by a smear of dust. Unnoticeable unless you remembered it was there.
It hummed with quiet intent, its function cruel and simple: To monitor. To smooth the cracks. To start over.
Again.
-
The turning point finally came on the day you found the journal.
It was supposed to be a cleaning day.
Rain tapped gently against the windows. Bucky had gone out for groceries. He never let you go alone anymore, said it wasn’t safe. So you’d decided to reorganize the closet in your bedroom. It was cluttered, and you needed a distraction. Something to silence the weight of those dreams that had begun to come more often, vivid and fractured. Something to quiet the silence.
You were pulling out an old shoe box when your foot caught on the corner of the floorboard. It shifted under your weight with a soft, unnatural creak. Curious, you crouched and ran your fingers over the edge, pushing until the plank lifted just slightly enough to wedge your hand underneath.
There was something hidden beneath the wood. Wrapped in worn fabric, almost carefully. You pulled it free as your breath caught in your throat.
It was a journal. Black leather with no name on the cover. You didn’t remember buying it. You didn’t remember writing in it. But it was yours.
The handwriting was unmistakable. Slanted letters. Loopy e’s. The way you crossed your t’s too high. And inside…
Inside was your words: Unfiltered, unedited, and terrified.
He’s done something to me. Every time I leave, I wake up back in his bed. I think it’s him. I think it’s always been him. He smiles and tells me, “This is better. This is love.” Do not trust him. Do not trust him. You’ve done this before.
Your hands shook as you turned the pages. There were days recorded in scribbled fragments. Warnings. Notes written like you were trying to reach yourself across some invisible line.
You remembered none of them.
Not the time you described trying to run: “He caught me before I reached the door. Said he’d fix it. He always fixes it.”
Not the drawing of the device in the mirror. “It hums when I remember too much, blares out if I touch it.”
Not the shaky, final note: If you’re reading this, you still have a chance. Don’t let him see this. Don’t let him see you panic.
But it was too late.
Your breath hitched as you looked up. The walls of your apartment, the space you’d painted and decorated and thought you’d built with love, suddenly felt wrong. It was all too neat. Staged. The color schemes, the framed photos, the scent of lavender in the air, it was all… curated.
Like a set. Like a memory someone else had chosen for you.
And then you felt it. That presence. You turned, heart already racing.
Bucky stood in the doorway, grocery bag in one hand. His other hand was empty, fingers flexing once. Twice. His eyes weren’t on you.
They were on the open journal.
His expression didn’t twist in shock or confusion. He didn’t ask what it was. He didn’t even look surprised. He just stared at you for a moment, quiet, as if waiting to see which version of you he’d come home to.
And then, slowly, he set the bag down.
He stepped forward in a manner that wasn’t hurried, not frantic, just controlled. Measured, like a man who’d done this before.
“Doll,” He spoke softly, as if you were spooked. As if you’d simply read something silly. “That’s not what you think it is.”
Your mouth was dry as you stepped back, clutching the book.
“I wrote this,” You whispered. “I… I’ve done this before. Haven’t I?”
His jaw tightened. “You weren’t well. You didn’t understand what you needed.”
“I tried to leave.”
“And I couldn’t let you,” He said, eyes burning now but not with anger, rather something worse. Devotion. “You don’t remember how bad it was out there. You begged me to make it stop. You asked me to take it away.”
You backed into the wall.
“I don’t remember any of that.”
“I know,” He murmured. “That’s the point.”
He stepped closer. The air thickened.
“You were scared, and I saved you. Over and over again. I keep you safe, I give you peace. Isn’t that what you said you wanted?”
You shook your head. “No. I didn’t-“
“You did,” Bucky interrupted, “And even if you forgot, it doesn’t matter. I remember for both of us.”
Your chest was heaving as you took a step back. The journal slipped from your fingers and hit the floor between you. He picked it up carefully, smoothing the pages like an old wound.
Bucky watched you for a long moment, the journal still in his hands, the weight of your realization hovering between you both like smoke. You didn’t run, you couldn’t. Your body felt frozen in place, as if your mind already knew what was coming. Like it had before.
He approached slowly with no malice nor violence, just intention.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” He said gently. “You know that. I never have.”
Your breath hitched as he reached up. Not to strike, not to grab, but to brush your hair behind your ear. The gesture was intimate.
“But you always panic when it comes back. Always think you want out. And then you cry, and I have to watch you fall apart all over again.”
He moved slightly, lips brushing your temple.
“This is love, sweetheart. It’s just… not the kind you remember.”
That’s when he reached behind the mirror.
You didn’t struggle. Maybe part of you didn’t want to know the truth. Maybe part of you had been here before again and again, and each time ended in the same outcome: surrender wrapped in warmth and silence.
You heard the hum before you felt it. That low, soft frequency, like a lullaby trapped beneath your skin. Your vision blurred. The room warped slightly, as if you were seeing through water. Your knees gave out, and Bucky caught you easily, cradling your head to his chest.
“Sshhh. Just sleep,” He whispered into your hair. “I’ll keep you safe. I always do.”
-
The next morning, sunlight spilled across the room in pale golden stripes. The curtains swayed lazily with the breeze, and the air smelled like maple syrup and cinnamon. Somewhere in the distance, a record crackled softly with a melody playing something smooth and familiar.
You blinked up at the ceiling, your head foggy and strangely heavy. A dull ache pulsed just behind your eyes.
But your heart was quiet.
No fear. No dread. Just a lingering melancholy you couldn’t name, like missing a song you forgot you loved.
You sat up slowly, fingers curling into the sheets. The bed was warm and the room was tidy. On the nightstand sat a single framed photo of you and Bucky wrapped in a shared scarf, cheeks pink from the cold.
Something fluttered in your chest. You didn’t know why, but the sight made your throat tighten.
Then came his soft voice, full of that low, soothing rasp that always made your shoulders ease.
“Morning, doll.”
You looked up to find him standing in the doorway, wearing gray sweatpants and a soft black shirt with a spatula held in one hand and a dishtowel that rested over his shoulder. He smiled at you with such warmth, such relief, that it made your eyes sting.
“Smells good,” You mumbled, voice thick.
“Thought you could use something sweet.” He tilted his head. “You okay?”
You blinked at him, your eyes burning for some reason.
“Yeah. I think so. Just… a weird dream.”
His smile deepened, that tender practiced smile.
“Don’t worry,” He said. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
He always did.
And you’d never know how many times before: Never know about the journal that was burned in the fire pit. Never know how your phone only held five contacts, four of them fake. Never know how your reality was trimmed, polished, and maintained like a greenhouse.
Each morning reborn in the life Bucky made for you. Each memory rewritten not out of cruelty but love. Twisted, obsessive, relentless love.
And for now, this time, you were his again. Just as you were meant to be.
Escape Room Chaos
Summary: You take Steve and Bucky to an escape room for a fun, relaxing evening, but things quickly spiral into chaos. Both somehow ignore the obvious clues in favor of dramatic theories and property damage. You’re just trying to survive until you can successfully escape without a lawsuit. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)
Word Count: 1.6k+
Main Masterlist
You really should’ve known better.
The moment Bucky rolled up his sleeves and said “This’ll be easy,” you felt the first ripple of doom. You’d booked the escape room as a fun, harmless activity. Something like a little post-mission team bonding that didn’t involve hand-to-hand combat or collapsing buildings. You even picked a cheesy detective theme, thinking they’d enjoy something grounded and puzzle-y. Maybe even quiet.
You were wrong.
The three of you stood in the lobby of “The Great Escape,” surrounded by plastic magnifying glasses, dusty fedoras, and a suspiciously chipper staff member in suspenders and a fake mustache. She gave you the usual speech: 60 minutes to escape, no real danger, don’t break the props, yada yada.
Steve nodded solemnly like he was being briefed before an intense mission. Bucky? He crossed his arms and smirked. You could already tell his competitive switch had flipped.
The room itself was dimly lit and lined with fake wood panels. A ticking clock glowed red above the door while there were clues scattered everywhere ranging from files, books, old telephones, and even a fake fireplace. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, Steve took a deep breath like he was about to deliver a speech at a press conference.
“We should split up to cover more ground. Look for patterns, numbers, keys. And be sure to keep a level head.”
You blinked. “It’s not a hostage situation, Cap.”
But Steve was already kneeling to inspect a lockbox with the intensity of a man deciphering enemy codes. Meanwhile, Bucky was tapping along the walls with the knuckles of his metal hand.
“Could be a hidden panel,” He muttered.
“Could be drywall,” You replied, dragging your palm down your face.
Ten minutes in, you had two clues solved and one increasingly serious argument about whether the bookshelf was a red herring or not. Bucky was now trying to climb it.
“James Buchanan Barnes, get down before you collapse the whole set!” You hissed.
He looked down, half-smirking. “It’s not real, doll. Look.” He gave it a little shove, just enough for it to creak ominously. You glared.
Steve, across the room, had located a cipher wheel and was mumbling to himself. “It’s gotta be a Caesar shift. Or maybe Morse code…”
“Steve, it’s literally a riddle that says ‘Look in the desk drawer,’” You pointed out, pulling it open and revealing a key taped inside.
He looked genuinely offended. “They’re dumbing it down.”
You exhaled through your nose. “Yes, they’re dumbing it down for people who aren’t 100-year-old super soldiers who do escape rooms like they’re battle strategy.”
By minute twenty, you were regretting everything. Steve had taken charge like a squad commander and Bucky had declared himself the “wildcard” of the team, which essentially meant “loose cannon with a metal arm and no patience.”
You were the only one actually reading the instructions on the wall.
By minute thirty, you’d reached the room’s second stage which was a secret chamber revealed when Bucky yanked on a wall sconce you definitely weren’t supposed to touch.
You all froze when the wall creaked and groaned like a bad horror movie. Then, with the slow drama of a B-grade haunted house, the panel slid open.
Steve actually clapped, cheering.
“I knew there was a hidden passage!”
“No, you didn’t,” You said, stepping cautiously inside. “You were still trying to decode that cipher wheel that said, ‘The butler did it.’”
The new room was darker with a desk, some faux-blood splatter, and a very questionable plastic skeleton slumped over a chair. Its skull was tilted sideways with a bowler hat perched on top of its head. There was also a magnifying glass clutched in one bony hand, and a suspicious envelope glued to its chest with “CLUE #6” scrawled across it in marker.
Steve stared at it. “I think we’re meant to… talk to him?”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Interrogate the corpse.”
You opened your mouth to say something, then thought better of it. You just took out your phone and started recording. For science… and for future blackmail.
Steve crouched beside the skeleton, folding his hands like he was addressing a witness. “We’re here to help. If you can tell us who killed you, we’ll bring them to justice.”
You bit your lip so hard trying not to laugh, you swore you tasted blood.
Bucky leaned over the desk and yanked the envelope from the skeleton’s chest.
Steve’s jaw tightened. “You’re contaminating the scene.”
“It’s a twenty dollar prop, Steve. I don’t think it’s going to trial.”
Then Bucky poked the skeleton’s head, making it fall off and clatter dramatically to the floor.
Everyone stared at it. Steve looked personally offended.
You raised an eyebrow. “Did you just decapitate our only lead?”
“It… it was barely hanging on anyway,” Bucky muttered, setting the skull back with exaggerated care. “These things happen.”
Steve knelt beside the fallen plastic remains, eyes full of regret. “He served his purpose. We thank him for his sacrifice.”
You threw your hands in the air. “It’s a skeleton, not a fallen comrade!”
The intercom crackled. “Hey guys,” The perky staff member’s voice rang out, “Just a reminder: Please don’t disassemble the props. Sir with the metal arm? Yes, you. Please don’t interrogate the decor.”
Bucky gave a small chuckle. Steve immediately stood at attention. “Sorry, ma’am.”
You looked between your two supersoldier boyfriends and the half-decapitated skeleton, then turned toward the camera in the corner and gave it a deadpan stare. “I just wanted a nice evening. That’s all. Just puzzles and maybe a little fun but no. Instead I get a dramatized cold case and two very intense golden retrievers with trauma.”
“Hey,” Bucky said with a shrug. “You’re the one who invited us.”
You squinted at him. “…You know what? That one’s on me.”
By minute forty-five, you were starting to suspect the real puzzle wasn’t the escape room. It was figuring out how you were going to survive this without needing a drink afterward. Bucky had taken it upon himself to test “structural weaknesses” in the fake brick walls. His version of “testing” was punching one lightly. With his metal arm.
The wall cracked and the room went silent.
From the intercom: “Please do not damage the set. Also, we are not responsible for injuries caused by over enthusiastic participation. Thank you!”
You turned on him like a storm. “What happened to ‘this’ll be easy’?”
“It is easy. The wall just looked suspicious,” Bucky replied, wiping fake cobwebs from his sleeve like a man with no regrets.
“It’s foam!” You yelled. “It’s suspicious because it’s clearly styrofoam!”
Steve, meanwhile, had discovered a locked chest with an old rotary phone on top. He was pacing in front of it like he was expecting it to ring with instructions from headquarters.
“I think it’s a code,” He murmured. “We dial something, and it opens. Maybe if we spell out a word using the numbers-”
“Steve,” You interrupted, pinching the bridge of your nose, “The clue literally says: ‘Dial 911 to unlock the final key.’ That’s not a code. That’s just instructions.”
Steve blinked. “Oh.”
He dialed 911 on the dusty phone. The chest popped open with a ding and a dramatic puff of dry ice that startled all three of you.
Inside was a black keycard and a note that said “Final door: 5 minutes remain.”
Bucky snatched the keycard. “Let’s finish this thing. I’ve got a hot date with a milkshake and a nap.”
Steve furrowed his brow. “We should think this carefully and plan. There could be traps in the last room.”
You looked between them and snorted. “What, like the staff’s gonna throw in a booby trap just to spice it up?”
“…They could,” Steve muttered. “It’d be unexpected, that’s good design.”
You made a mental note to ban both of them from anything resembling a mystery game for the rest of your natural life.
Then came The Moment.
You all stepped into the final room that was all dark with eerie music playing from a hidden speaker, and a blinking red countdown above the last door. Dramatic fog rolled out across the floor.
There was a button on the wall.
Just a red, glowing button with a sign above it that said:
“EMERGENCY ESCAPE – DO NOT PRESS UNLESS YOU GIVE UP.”
You hadn’t even opened your mouth to say “don’t” before Bucky pressed it. The room lights blared on and the music stopped. The countdown froze at 00:03 as you all stood in stunned silence.
The intercom crackled again.
“…So, you technically escaped, but also forfeited. That’s… a first.”
Bucky blinked. “What? It said emergency. I figured it’d blow something up. Or, like… open a trapdoor. Something dramatic.”
Steve looked personally betrayed. “We were three seconds away from winning with full completion.”
“You were still looking for tripwires,” You snapped. “I was reading the last clue. He just wanted to blow something up!”
Bucky looked sheepish. “You can’t give me a glowing red button and not expect me to press it. That’s on them.”
You stared at the ceiling like it might offer you divine intervention. “I invited two enhanced soldiers into a puzzle-themed children’s attraction. This is my fault. I accept that.”
As the final door clicked open and the staff came in to escort you out, one of them gave you a pitying smile.
“Hey,” She said brightly, “At least no one tried to climb into the air vents this time!”
You blinked. “Wait. That’s an option?”
Steve immediately looked intrigued.
You grabbed both their arms. “Nope. Out now. I’m buying you both ice cream so you don’t break anything else.”
Those two are always ready to help them through both the fun and hard times, such a comforting pair. Thank you for reading! ♡
A Little Mess Won’t Hurt
Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]
Summary: Despite your love for the arts, you’ve always been hesitant to use your paint kits, watercolors, or anything that could make a mess. Your caregivers notice and help you try finger painting for the first time.
Word Count: 1.9k+
A/N: This is purely a self-indulgent kind of fic. More on the fluffier side, hopefully.
Main Masterlist
You sit quietly on the couch, legs crossed beneath you, as you watch Steve work on his sketchbook. The pencil moves fluidly across the page, creating beautiful shapes, faces, and scenes. You’re mesmerized by how easily his hand moves, as if the paper were an extension of himself. His concentration makes him look so calm, so relaxed, and you wish you could do that too. Create something beautiful.
You reach over and grab your coloring book, your favorite one with intricate patterns of flowers and animals, and open it to the next unfinished page. You’ve always loved coloring, the neat lines and precise strokes, careful to stay inside the borders. But when you think about what Steve is doing and what Bucky sometimes does when he’s working with paints and clay, it makes your chest feel tight. You’ve never touched the paint kits or watercolor sets that Steve bought for you. It always feels like a line you’re afraid to cross.
Your fingers itch to try it. You know it’s fun. You’ve seen Bucky with his hands covered in clay and Steve covered in paint, laughing and smiling, their faces bright with joy. But the mess… the mess always brings memories you don’t like. The sharp words. The scolding. The fear of ruining something precious.
"Hey, kiddo, you done with your drawing?" Steve’s voice cuts through your thoughts. You blink, looking up at him. He’s watching you with soft eyes, a half-smile on his face. "You’re awfully quiet today."
You fidget with your coloring book, picking at the edges. "I’m just… coloring," You mumble, offering him a small smile.
Steve notices the way your gaze flicks back to his sketchbook, your eyes lingering on his pencil as it moves. He sets his book aside gently and leans closer, his voice tender but curious.
"You know," He starts, "I’ve got a new sketchbook in the other room. But it’s not the only way to make art."
Your heart skips a beat. You’ve heard them talk about painting before. About how messy it gets and how much fun it is. They thought you would like it. Bucky has even shown you his pottery and tried to convince you to join him in the studio once, but you always hesitated. The idea of making a mess, of getting dirty? It just felt wrong.
"I—" You pause, unsure how to explain. You tug at the hem of your shirt, a nervous habit. "I like… watching. But I don’t know if I could… do it."
Steve’s eyes soften as he tilts his head. "Do what, sweetheart?"
"Make a mess," You murmur, almost embarrassed.
The room falls into a quiet moment, Steve’s gaze turning understanding. He’s seen the way you’ve avoided the paints, the watercolors, the clay. He knows how much you love the idea of creating, anything to do with art. He can see it in your eyes every time you sit with your coloring book, every time you watch him draw. But he also knows there’s something holding you back. Something deeply rooted.
"You don’t have to be afraid of making a mess with us," Steve says gently. "You’re safe here. We’re not going to scold you for it. You don’t have to be perfect."
You glance up at him, your cheeks flushing. The words feel foreign, like they shouldn’t be said to you. But… they are. And the warmth in Steve’s voice makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could try.
"You sure?" You whisper.
Bucky, who has been quietly listening from the armchair, smiles softly and walks over to where you’re sitting. He crouches down to your level, his expression warm and inviting.
"I’ll even help you clean up after," He promises. "We can have a little messy play time, just the three of us. No judgment, no worries. Just fun."
Your heart flutters in your chest. The idea of it sounds fun. So much fun, in fact, that you can feel your fingers twitch with excitement. But the fear still clings to you. You don’t want to disappoint them too. You don’t want to make a mess at all.
Steve catches the look in your eyes and gives you a soft smile. "It’s okay if you don’t want to yet," He reassures calmly, "But I think you’ll enjoy it. Sometimes, making a little mess is how we make the best memories."
Bucky holds out his hand, "What do you say, kiddo? Wanna try it with us? You can start small. Just dip your fingers in a little bit of paint. We’ll take it slow."
You hesitate. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt as you think, battling with the urge to try something new and the fear of failure. But then Steve places a gentle hand on your shoulder, the warmth of his touch calming you. "No pressure. If you don’t like it, we can always stop. But if you want to, we can make something really special."
You glance at Bucky, who’s still waiting patiently. He doesn’t look rushed or frustrated. He’s simply… waiting for you to decide. To trust them and that’s the push you need.
Taking a deep breath, you nod, just a little.
"I’ll try," Your voice barely audible.
Bucky’s smile grows, and he gently takes your hand, as he brings you to the dining table. Steve grabs some of the finger painting supplies and sets them down near you. The tray of paints now sits before you with a blank sheet of paper. The colors are so bright, so inviting, and for the first time, you feel a small wave of excitement wash over you. You slowly reach over, still hesitant but brave. Bucky’s voice remains light and reassuring.
"That’s it. Now, just a little dab," He encourages.
You dip your fingers into the paint, the cool sensation making your breath catch in your throat. And then, with a deep breath, you press your fingers to the paper.
It’s messy. It’s a little wild. But it’s also… freeing.
Steve watches you with pride, his gaze soft as you begin to explore the colors with more confidence. Bucky’s chuckles ring in the air as he joins you on another page, painting alongside you. The mess doesn’t seem so bad now. In fact, it’s kind of fun. And with Steve and Bucky by your side, it’s safe. There’s no judgment, no scolding. Just a loving space where you can make something beautiful, even if it’s a little messy.
The paint feels warmer now, smoother against your fingertips as you move your hand across the page. You make a bold swirl of yellow and green, your face lighting up with a quiet smile as you experiment with the colors. It’s not perfect, but that’s the best part. The colors bleed into one another in playful patterns, as if the paper itself is dancing with you.
Bucky glances, grinning as you explore. "That’s it, kiddo. Let it flow," He says, his voice filled with encouragement. He’s got a bit of red paint smeared on his cheek from his own work, but he doesn’t mind. "No rules. Just fun."
You glance at him, then at Steve, who’s already made a few broad strokes on his paper with a brush. The whole room feels lighter, almost fizzing with energy as the three of you work in a little creative chaos together.
Steve watches you with a fond smile, leaning in to dip his own brush into a deep purple. "There you go," He adds. "Look at that swirl. Looks like a rainbow already."
You tilt your head and glance at your page, and sure enough, the yellow and green you've painted already do look like the beginnings of a rainbow, the colors blending like the hues of a sunset.
The idea of a perfect painting slowly fades from your mind, and you start adding more colors, simply having fun with it. Maybe blue here, a touch of red there. Bucky and Steve occasionally encourage you, their voices soft but full of praise. The weight of your old anxieties begins to melt away. They never push you to do anything more than you’re ready for, and you find yourself taking more risks, adding blobs of color that you wouldn’t have dared to make a few minutes ago.
The first few smudges on your fingers did feel odd at first, but then you realize they aren’t that bad. You laugh when a bit of orange accidentally splatters onto the side of your cheek. Bucky chuckles too, and reaches over with a napkin to wipe it away. "Guess you’re really getting into it now."
You can’t help but laugh back, the sound light and airy, filling the room with the pure joy of finally letting go.
It’s so much fun—more than you thought it could be. You notice that the fear you had about messing up seems so small now. There’s a comforting warmth in knowing that Steve and Bucky are right there with you, sharing in the mess, the fun, and the art. No one’s looking to judge or critique, just to enjoy the moment together.
The hours pass quickly, the three of you laughing and creating. Before you know it, your page is a beautiful, colorful mess. It’s nothing like the neat, careful drawings you used to make. Instead, it’s a chaotic explosion of colors, shapes, and patterns that make your heart flutter. You didn’t have to hold back. You didn’t have to be perfect. And that’s exactly what made it perfect.
"Look at you," Steve’s voice is full of pride as he leans in to admire your work. "I think we’ve got ourselves an artist in the making."
Bucky grins, nudging you lightly with his shoulder; his tone full of love and approval. "You’ve got a real eye for this, you know."
You smile, a warm, contented feeling filling your chest. Your hands are a little sticky with paint, and your shirt has a few splatters too, but you don’t mind. You look over at Bucky and Steve, seeing their faces beaming with pride. You realize that it wasn’t just about making art. It was about trusting them enough to let go, to not be afraid of what could happen if things got messy.
As you finish the last few touches on your page, you feel a sense of accomplishment. Your masterpiece isn’t about following the rules or being perfect. It’s a reflection of you: creative, brave, and free.
Steve and Bucky glance over at each other and share a look, one of shared pride and understanding. They’re proud of you for stepping out of your comfort zone, for trusting them, and for making something beautiful in the process.
When the paintings are finally dry, Steve gathers them up carefully. "We’ll hang these on the fridge," He smiles when your face lights up. "We’ll put yours right at the top, where everyone can see."
Bucky nods, pulling you into a soft, affectionate hug. "You did so good, sweetheart. You made a mess, and you made art. That’s what it’s all about."
You snuggle into his arms, still grinning from ear to ear. It feels good. It feels right.
And for the first time, you don’t worry about what happens if things get a little messy. Because, in this moment, you realize that a little mess is part of the magic. Part of the fun. And no matter what mess happens, you’re safe enough to make it with the people who love you.
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She/Her | 18+ | Marvel WriterAsks/Requests are welcomed!
88 posts