Girl We Need More Of Chaotic Reader It Was Literally So Funny How Does One Even Come Up With This😭

Tiny Caretaker

Summary: Steve returns from a mission injured and emotionally drained. You wordlessly comfort him using small, nature-based gifts. Later, Bucky arrives, sees what you've done, and is deeply moved. Both men sit in reverent silence, realizing just how much your small, silent love means to them. (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 1.1k+

A/N: Thank you to @cherryblossomfairyy for the request/suggestion. Enjoy and Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Original Fic

The door clicked open just past midnight.

You were already awake. You had been for hours, sitting curled in the tiny hammock you’d woven between two books on the shelf. The wind had felt strange tonight, sharp at the edges. A whispering kind of sharp. You’d known something was wrong before you heard the heavy steps in the hallway, slower than usual.

When Steve stepped inside, you didn’t rush to him.

You just watched. Observed.

He dropped his shield near the couch with a soft clatter. He was still in the dark navy suit, but it was torn in places. There was a long gash across the side and bruises blooming along his jaw. His shoulders were slumped in that way they only were when something had gone wrong. Not physically wrong, emotionally wrong.

He sighed as he lowered himself to the couch, hand pressed against his side. You saw red, dull and drying, on his gloves. You fluttered down silently, your wings barely whispering in the dim light.

He didn’t notice you right away. He had his eyes closed, breathing through the pain and focusing inward, as humans often did when they didn’t want to feel anything at all.

You stood on the coffee table in front of him, arms folded, brow creased. You didn’t like this. He was your Tree. And trees weren’t supposed to fall.

You disappeared for a moment, darting across the shelves, climbing inside the drawer where you kept your special collection. By the time you returned, Steve had opened his eyes.

He didn’t say anything though. He didn’t need to. Because there you were, wings fluttering tiredly, arms full of your treasures for him.

You placed a smooth, round stone beside his knee. The one you’d kept for three seasons because it felt like sunshine when you touched it. You set down your best leaf, soft and silvery on one side. Good for calming dreams. You also had a tiny pot they had given to you before, filled halfway with real honey. The kind you only used for injuries. You unscrewed the top with some effort and nudged it toward his hand.

Then finally… your favorite button.

It was a pale blue one, the color of the sky on warm days. You’d once told Bucky it was “lucky” with a proud little tap and a wide grin. It had always stayed in your drawer, wrapped in a bit of thread like a tiny treasure.

Now it sat beside Steve, on the curve of his palm. His fingers closed around it slowly.

“Is this for me?” He asked, voice rough and tired.

You nodded then sat cross-legged on his knee, your glow dim but steady. You didn’t speak much. You didn’t need to. Your wings brushed his arm gently, a small touch acting as a reminder that you were here, that he wasn’t alone.

Steve exhaled softly and leaned his head back against the couch, hand still curled around the button, the honey pot beside him.

“…Thank you,” He whispered.

You didn’t answer, but you stayed. And your silent company said the rest.

The sun hadn’t risen yet when Bucky pushed open the door.

The team was back, the worst was over, and he’d spent the last few hours finishing debriefs, patching his own wounds, and pacing. He hadn’t seen Steve since the quinjet landed.

So when he opened the door, he froze in the doorway.

Steve was half-asleep on the couch, sprawled awkwardly with one hand clutched loosely over his ribs and the other cupped around a single, small, pale blue button.

His eyes flickered open at the sound. “Hey.”

“You look like hell,” Bucky said, walking in, voice softer than his words.

Steve cracked a tired smile. “Felt worse.”

That’s when Bucky spotted you curled on Steve’s shoulder like a fallen petal, wings tucked tightly around yourself, and your arms holding a bit of thread that had come loose from your pouch. Your cheek was pressed to the fabric of his torn uniform, your tiny form rising and falling with his every breath.

Bucky stopped in his tracks.

There was a leaf on the armrest, a smooth stone by Steve’s knee, and a small pot of honey with the lid off, just barely untouched. And that button… your button.

Bucky knew that one. You’d once protected it from the vacuum like it was sacred. He had joked about it being your “dragon hoard,” and you had hissed at him like an angry kitten, then patted the button gently and flown off in a huff. You’d even growled at Sam once for trying to borrow it.

He stepped closer, crouching beside the couch, eyes flicking between the little offerings and the soft expression on Steve’s face.

“She left them for me,” Steve murmured. “Didn’t say anything. Just… stayed.”

Bucky stared at you for a long moment as his features softened. He reached out, and with one gloved finger, gently fixed the corner of the blanket that had fallen from Steve’s chest, then carefully draped a second piece over your tiny form, shielding you from the draft.

“She always knows,” He muttered, more to himself than Steve.

Steve let out a breath. “She gave me the button.”

Bucky blinked. “The button?”

Steve nodded, voice quiet. “Think I was supposed to hold it till I felt better.”

Bucky huffed, half-sigh, half-laugh. “She gave me a sunflower petal when I had a panic attack last month.”

“She didn’t say much, but… it worked,” Steve said, looking down at you again. “I feel better.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you curled up. You were so still, wings trembling slightly in your sleep. “You think she knows we’d burn the world down for her?”

Steve chuckled weakly. “She probably does.”

They both sat in silence for a while, watching the way your wings fluttered in your dreams. Then Bucky, very gently, reached into his pocket. He pulled out a dried dandelion puff, impossibly intact, and set it beside the button in Steve’s palm.

“She gave me this,” He spoke softly. “When you went dark on a mission last month. Said it was for… wishing.”

Steve looked at him.

“You keep it,” Bucky added. “Until she asks for it back.”

Steve nodded. His fingers curled around the puff and the button, chest rising with something deep and quiet. You shifted, still asleep, and leaned closer into the warmth of Steve’s neck.

Bucky turned to go fetch the Medkit before pausing at the door.

“Get some rest, Stevie,” He said over his shoulder. “She’s got you.”

Steve looked down at the little fairy asleep against his collarbone, then back at Bucky.

“So do you.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, just dipped his head in a small nod before slipping into the hallway, the door shutting quietly behind him.

Steve leaned back, hand still cradling the button and the wish, and let his eyes fall closed again. This time, he slept without pain because you were there.

And somehow… that made all the difference.

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.

Glad to hear it! (Lol) I love writing angst. Thank you for reading!!! ♡

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.

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.

What We Fight For

Summary: Thrown into a tense alliance, you and Bucky Barnes clash into a rivalry with cold stares and harsh words. But when a rooftop fall, a late-night patch-up, and a brutal argument strip away both of your defenses, the truth hits harder than any mission ever could. (Bucky Barnes x Super soldier!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has a similar serum as a super soldier.

Word Count: 3k+

A/N: Apologies if this seems messy. It’s not really a power that gives me much to work with, but it turned out alright in the end. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You weren’t recruited. You were assigned.

Born from a black-ops experiment the government quietly buried once the serum stabilized, you were a living weapon they kept in their back pocket. A contingency plan. When word came that the Avengers might need more muscle in the field, they didn’t ask. They deployed.

You didn’t come to make friends. You came to fulfill orders and win.

And yet, here you were, staring across the mat at Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier himself, while Sam smirked from the sidelines and Steve muttered something about “team bonding.” You were here to train, but Bucky had that look again that said you’re not welcome here.

“Again,” You say flatly, shrugging out your jacket and stepping onto the mat.

Bucky’s jaw ticks. “Thought you’d had enough yesterday when I put you on your ass.”

Your lip twitches. “I slipped.”

“Sure you did.”

He circles you slowly, assessing. His arms are relaxed at his sides but you’re not fooled. He’s reading your stance, waiting for your weight to shift, for your hips to square. You’d be insulted if you weren’t doing the exact same thing. You lunge first, test him. He blocks it easily, metal arm catching your strike mid-air. You twist, pivoting into a sweep that nearly clips his ankle, but he hops back with a grunt.

“Getting slower, Barnes,” You mutter.

“You talk a lot for someone who hasn’t landed a hit all week.”

The sparring sessions had started as training. Then they became contests. Now, it was just war. He didn’t like the way you fought. It was too sharp, too efficient. You didn’t like the way he looked at you, like he recognized something he hated in himself.

You fake going left and land a solid elbow to his ribs on the right. The air leaves him in a hiss. He recovers fast, but not fast enough to stop the cocky grin that pulls at your mouth.

“Gotcha.”

He narrows his eyes. “Beginner’s luck.”

He rushes you, sudden and aggressive. For a moment, you're toe-to-toe, exchanging blows with brutal precision. Metal arm meets gloved knuckles. You both move like predators. Mirrored, practiced, and too much history in your blood to fight sloppy. Eventually, you end up on your back, panting, his knee pinning your chest, breath hot against your cheek.

“Yield,” He growls.

Your fingers flex against the mat. “Not a chance.”

He hesitates for a beat too long and that’s when you slam your forehead into his nose. He yelps, a very undignified sound you wish you had recorded, and rolls off with a curse, cradling his face.

You scramble to your feet, wincing slightly from the impact. “You get distracted too easily.”

He looks up, eyes narrowed, blood trailing from his nose. “You’re insane.”

You toss him a towel. “Takes one to know one.”

For a moment, the room goes quiet, both of you catching your breath. Then he says, “They trained you like me, didn’t they?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

“I can tell,” He continues, voice lower now. “You fight like you’re not allowed to lose. Like you don’t know what it means to stop.”

Your jaw tightens. “Then stop underestimating me.”

“I don’t,” He says quietly. “That’s the problem.”

The air shifts. Charged and uneasy as you both stand there, bruised and sweaty. Too close and too silent. Then Steve’s voice cuts in from the hallway.

“Good session, you two.”

You step back. Bucky wipes his nose. Neither of you says another word. But the next day, he’s already waiting on the mat before you get there. And he doesn’t hold back anymore.

-

The compound is quiet at midnight. The kind of stillness that wraps around you and presses into your bones. You slip into the kitchen in your sweats, body sore from training, head still buzzing from the adrenaline you never quite know how to shake. You don’t bother turning the lights on.

The fridge hums in the background. The tile is cold beneath your feet as you reach for the kettle. Then-

“You always drink tea like you're in a British spy movie, or is this just your midnight ritual?”

Your spine stiffens. You recognize the voice behind you, of course you do. But you don’t turn around, acknowledging him in a flat tone. “Barnes.”

“Didn't peg you for the insomnia type.”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s leaning in the doorway like he owns the room. Loose black t-shirt. Arms crossed. Shadows catch the angles of his face just enough to make his scowl look carved.

You gesture at the kettle. “Some of us have things on our mind.”

He steps into the kitchen, walking past you to open the cabinet above your head. You don’t move from your spot. He reaches over you, brushing against your shoulder on purpose, you’re sure. His body heat trails behind him like a warning.

“Stealing my tea now?” You ask flatly.

“You took my towel earlier.”

“You were bleeding on it.”

“I was using it.”

You roll your eyes and pour the hot water into two mismatched mugs. He raises an eyebrow when you slide one over.

“Poisoned?”

“Not yet.”

You both sip in silence as the fluorescent light over the sink flickers. He leans against the counter across from you, sipping slowly as he watches you. He always watches like he’s looking for something, maybe cracks in your walls.

“You always like this?” He asks.

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

“Walled off and sharp edges. Acting like you don’t need anyone.”

Your jaw tightens, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Better than acting like you used to be someone else.”

His expression darkens. The silence stretches. You should apologize, but don’t.

“Right,” He mutters, setting the mug down. “Guess we’re both good at pretending.”

You don’t look at him, but your voice comes quieter than intended. “Maybe we don’t know how to stop.”

He hesitates, and you notice something shift in his tone.

“You hit hard,” He says.

“You go easy on me.”

He scoffs. “I don’t go easy on anyone.”

You glance up at him. “Then maybe I hit harder than you expected.”

His lips twitch, just slightly. “Maybe.”

You stand there for a moment, two supersoldiers in the dead of night, staring at each other over mugs of tea like it’s some kind of game neither of you knows the rules to.

Then he says, voice lower now, “You’re not like them.”

You blink. “Them?”

“Soldiers. The ones they send. You’re colder, smarter. Meaner.”

You smirk. “Flatter me some more, Barnes.”

“I’m saying I know what it feels like to be made for war and expected to act like a person afterward.”

Something sinks in your chest. Deeper than you want it to.

“You think I’m not a person?” You ask.

He looks straight at you. “I think you’re trying real hard not to be.”

That lands too accurately. Way too close to the bone. You grip the mug a little tighter. He notices, but doesn’t push.

“I’m going to bed,” You mutter, setting the mug down.

As you pass him, his voice follows.

“Don’t forget tomorrow. Training at seven.”

You pause in your tracks, glancing back at him with narrowed eyes.

“You trying to kill me?”

“No,” He says with a ghost of a grin. “If I was, you’d already be dead.”

You smirk just a little. “Maybe you’re getting slow.”

His smile fades, but something warm lingers in his eyes.

“You wish.”

And for the first time, your heartbeat feels less like a threat, and more like a dare you don’t know whether to act upon.

-

The comms crackle in your ear as the wind howls around the rooftop. Rain slicks the concrete beneath your boots. Below, the city lights blur and flicker, distorted by smoke, shadows, and chaos.

The mission was to apprehend the target then turn them in. A simple in and out. Something you should have been able to complete with ease.

But you had been ambushed.

You skid across the rooftop, breathe ragged, blood sticky under your ribs. Something’s broken, probably more than one thing, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Bucky’s voice cuts through the storm as he calls your name, sharp and commanding, “You’re heading for the west corner. That fire escape’s blown out. Stop moving.”

You ignore him. Every second wasted is another second the target might vanish. You need to cut them off. You need to move.

“Damn it—”

The roof crumbles under your weight. You drop.

It’s not far, three stories, maybe, but pain flares bright as you hit a ledge hard, the edge of it catching your side with a crunch. You roll, barely catching yourself before you slide off completely.

And then he’s there. Hands on your arms. Dragging you up, fast, rough, and angry.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Bucky’s face is too close, eyes wide, rain streaking through his hair. “You were told to pull back!”

“I had them!” You wheeze, swallowing the metallic taste of blood. “We can’t let them run-“

“You can’t breathe.”

You try to shake him off. He doesn’t let go.

You hiss, teeth gritting, “I didn’t need your help.”

“That’s not what it looked like when you were halfway to death’s door.”

His grip tightens on your arms, but it’s not pain he’s trying to inflict. It’s panic he’s trying to hide. His metal hand is cold from the rain and trembling just slightly. You hate that you notice.

You turn your face away. “I’ve survived worse.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is it?”

“That I care, damn it!”

The words slip out hot and ragged, louder than the rain.

You freeze and so does he.

The only sound for a moment is the wind, and your breath, shallow and uneven between you. His hands drop away from your arms slowly, like he’s just realizing he touched you at all.

He backs up a step. “Forget it.”

You stare at him, stunned. Blood is still soaking through your shirt, but your heart is thudding hard behind your ribs and not from the pain.

“You care,” You echo quietly, almost like a question.

He exhales, clearly frustrated and embarrassed. “Forget I said anything.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“I didn’t want to.”

You look at him. Really look. There’s a flicker of something soft beneath all that steel. Vulnerability edged with guilt. It’s the one of the first times he’s looked at you without his guard up. It’s one of the first times you’ve looked at him without wanting to hit him.

“You should’ve let me fall,” You whisper.

He shakes his head. “No. I shouldn’t have.”

He pauses for a moment before adding:

“And I wouldn’t have.”

You say nothing as he steps closer. He doesn’t touch you this time. Doesn’t need to. But his voice drops to a murmur only you can hear, “You don’t have to keep proving you don’t need anyone. I already know you don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere.”

You hate how much it rattles you. You hate that you believe him. You lower your gaze to your hand, still bloodied, still shaking slightly from adrenaline.

When you speak again, your voice is barely audible.

“Help me back up.”

He does.

This time, his hand stays in yours longer than necessary. And neither of you lets go first.

-

You hate medical bays. Always have. Sterile light. Quiet beeping. That faint scent of alcohol and regret. You had shooed away the staff, saying you could do it yourself and would call if you needed anything.

You sit on the edge of the bed, shirt peeled halfway off, bruises blooming violet-black across your ribs, blood crusted at your temple. You’ve already tried to patch yourself up, but your hands won’t stop shaking and the gauze keeps slipping.

Bucky walks in without knocking.

You glare up at him. “Ever heard of privacy?”

He tosses a med kit onto the table and takes off his jacket. “You lost that privilege when you almost threw yourself off a roof.”

You scoff, but don't argue.

He opens the kit, pulling out antiseptic and gauze, and stands between your knees without asking. You don’t stop him even though you should, his admission earlier still echoing in your mind.

He dips the cotton in alcohol. “This is going to hurt.”

“I’m not new.”

He raises a brow. “Then stop flinching.”

You open your mouth to snap something back but he presses the soaked cotton against the gash on your side before you can, and pain sparks like electricity up your spine. Your hand shoots out instinctively and grips his arm. You feel the muscles tense under your fingers.

“Still not flinching?” He murmurs.

You grit your teeth. “Screw you.”

His lips twitch, barely.

The silence that follows is tight and thick, like something fragile stretched to the edge of breaking. His hand moves gently now, slower, wiping away blood. His touch is careful in a way that makes your chest ache more than your ribs.

You glance up at him. He’s too close. And he’s not looking at the wound anymore, he’s looking at you.

You could lean in. Just a little. You could close that impossible space and finally… you don’t. He doesn’t either.

Instead, he murmurs, “You don’t take care of yourself.”

You look away. “Don’t need to.”

“Bullshit.” His voice is low. Angry. Not at you, at whatever taught you to think like that. “You treat your body like it’s disposable.”

“Maybe it is.”

The silence that falls after that isn’t the kind you fill. It’s the kind that hurts.

He gently presses a bandage against your ribs, then tapes it in place. His fingers linger on your skin for a moment longer than necessary.

“You’re not disposable,” He says quietly. “Not to me.”

You freeze. There he goes again.

The air shifts. Then you do something you didn’t expect, you reach out and touch his jaw. Just two fingers, gently as if to test the weight of your own choice.

He doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t move closer, either. You draw your hand back like the moment never happened. But it did.

“I’ll change the dressing tomorrow,” He says, voice rough.

“I’ll be fine,” You reply, just as quiet.

He turns to leave before stopping in the doorway.

“You don’t have to keep doing things alone,” He says without turning around, and then he’s gone.

You sit there for a long time after. Holding your breath like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling.

-

As time passes and you’re assigned to go on more missions, the tension between you and him builds for better or worse.

You had recently returned from a solo mission. The compound is quiet, but the air inside the training room crackles with something volatile. You slam the door behind you, furious.

And he’s already there. Bucky’s pacing with his gloves off and shirt clinging to his back. His jaw is tight and his hands are fisted like he’s been holding back from punching something or someone.

“I told you,” He growls, not even looking at you, “Not to go in alone.”

“I handled it.”

“You were shot.”

“I’ve been shot before.”

He spins on you, blue eyes wild. “That doesn’t mean it’s fine!”

You throw your bag down, with a frustrated sigh. “Why do you even care, Barnes?”

He’s on you in seconds; closer than he should be, breathe sharp with adrenaline and frustration.

“Because I’m tired of watching you bleed for people who wouldn’t do the same for you!”

“You think I don’t know that?” You snap. “You think I don’t feel that, every time I’m stitched up in some cold-ass medical bay while everyone else celebrates the win?”

His face is stone, but his eyes… God, his eyes are raw.

“Then why?” He demands. “Why keep doing it? Why keep throwing yourself at the fire when you know no one’s coming to pull you out?”

You try to shove him hard, but doesn’t move. You hate that he cares. You hate that he can’t just ignore you and view you as a tool like everyone else. When you go to answer, your voice is loud and it cracks:

“Because I don’t know how to stop!”

There it is. The silence after that is explosive. You’re both breathing hard, staring at each other. Daring the other to say something that will break the last barrier you’ve both kept between yourselves. That fragile, stupid boundary you’ve both pretended exists.

He takes a step forward and you match him.

His voice drops, dangerous. “You think I don’t see it? How you act like you hate me, just to keep from admitting you don’t?”

Your heart kicks into your ribs. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know you fight me harder than you fight anyone else.”

“Maybe because you deserve it.”

His jaw flexes. “Or maybe because you’re scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of wanting something real.”

You watches you flinch like he hit you, but he doesn’t back down. “You act like I’m the enemy, like pushing me away makes you stronger, but every time you fall, you look for me. Don’t lie.”

You swallow hard. “Don’t act like you don’t do the same.”

You’re chest to chest now. The air is boiling. You can feel the heat coming off his skin. Your hand is still curled in the fabric of his shirt from when you shoved him, but you haven’t let go.

He looks at your mouth and you look at his. The moment stretches before it breaks.

“You want to hate me?” He breathes. “Then say it.”

You stare at him, trembling now.

Say it, You tell yourself. End it. Push him away for good.

But the words won’t come. Instead, you whisper, too soft, too vulnerable:

“I don’t.”

That’s all it takes.

His mouth crashes into yours like a dam breaking. Like something starved, angry, desperate. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers in his hair. His hands grips your waist, then your back, then your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold all of you at once.

It’s not gentle. It’s not clean. It’s everything you’ve both tried not to feel. But it’s real.

When you finally pull back, barely, his forehead rests against yours. No words are shared. Just slow shaky breathing and the terrifying, undeniable truth:

You don’t hate each other. You never did.

I wanna post this Yandere!Bucky Barnes x Yandere!reader fic that has a part two if enough people like it, but I’m noticing I haven’t posted much age regression today. Caged in Comfort doesn’t count… (* ｡ • ᴖ • ｡)

Time to dig through my notes. I’m probably gonna do hurt/comfort cause people really liked Difficult Morning and forcing myself to write fluff doesn’t seem to go well

Hey, guys! Wanted to say thank you for 1,000 likes, almost to 1.1k actually. I appreciate all the love, interest, followers, and engagement from you all the past few days!! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂)⸝♡

I would love to partake in a writing challenge someday when my blog grows a bit more. As a reminder, my requests/asks are open if y’all would like to see a specific prompt come to life! Would also love to get to know you guys more. Happy reading!

The Price of Saving Until You Care

Summary: You have the power to heal others by transferring their injuries onto you. After healing Bucky from a serious wound, he confronts you about constantly sacrificing your own well-being for him and you confront him about his recklessness in throwing his life away. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to transfer injuries onto herself. You and Bucky get injured in this. ANGST. References and/or talk of death & suicide. (It doesn’t happen here.) Bucky’s self-worth issues. You are responsible for the media you consume

Word Count: 1.5k+

A/N: Here’s that other version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. I also had another thought while writing this. Same concept, but she can’t feel the pain she transfers. But this version had more depth to it.

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

Pain was a strange thing.

Most people avoided it, feared it, or resented it. You? You made peace with it, letting it in like a familiar guest.

Your hands could heal, not with any glowing light, magical song, or celestial warmth, but with quiet, invisible sacrifice. Every wound you closed on someone else opened in your own body. A broken bone, a stab wound, a punctured lung, you could mend them all. But the damage had to go somewhere, and it always chose you.

At first, it felt noble. Heroic, even. Like you were doing something pure in a world full of compromise. Over time, though, that feeling didn’t last. Not after your body started to break faster than it could rebuild. Not after people began expecting it of you. And not after he started looking at you with that hollow-eyed grief every time you touched him.

Bucky Barnes was the only one who never asked.

That’s why you kept doing it for him.

He never demanded your gift, never leaned on it. If anything, he flinched when you reached for him. He stitched his own wounds in silence, like penance, like punishment. But he bled so often and so deeply, and there was only so much you could watch before stepping in.

So you made the choice he never would.

You took the pain he refused to burden anyone else with and carried it like a secret.

The first time you healed him, it was a gunshot to the thigh. He’d collapsed behind cover, gritting his teeth, trying to keep firing with one hand pressed hard over the bleeding wound. You crawled to him, pressed your palm against his jeans, and told him to breathe.

He didn’t understand right away. Not until later, when he saw you limping and pieced it together.

“What did you do?” He had asked, panic breaking through the walls he always wore.

You lied then and said it was a stray bullet. Said you were fine. You weren’t, of course. But the look on his face, that was worse than any pain. So you kept the truth buried.

Now, you’d done it too many times to count.

You didn't talk about your ability much. People either praised it or pitied it, and you didn’t need either. To you, it was like… math. You had a body that could endure pain and a world that couldn’t survive without help. It wasn’t heroism. It was simple. It was balance.

But even balance breaks when it leans too hard in one direction. And lately, Bucky had been leaning too hard and the rest of the team noticed it too. He became too reckless, too self-destructive, too tired of being saved.

That’s why you stood in the medbay now, chest already aching from a gash you took earlier, watching him sit bloodied and bruised and already trying to push you away.

The medbay lights buzzed faintly above, casting a harsh white sheen across the steel counters and bloodied gauze. Bucky sat shirtless on the edge of the gurney, one hand clamped over a ragged tear in his side. Blood still leaked between his fingers. His metal arm hung loose by his side, stained red.

You stepped forward quietly and approached slowly.

He heard you though. Evident in how his gaze flicked up, icy blue and already narrowing. “Don’t.”

You didn’t answer as you just moved to stand in front of him, reaching into the tray for a cloth. His blood had soaked deep into the fabric around the wound. Too deep for bandages.

“I mean it,” He growled, more force behind it this time. “You’re not doing that thing again.”

Your hand hesitated in the air before dropping. “It’s not a thing, Bucky. It’s me.”

He flinched. Just slightly. A beat of hesitation long enough for you to press your palm against his ribs.

Heat bloomed between your fingers. Your power worked silently, no fanfare, no shimmer of light, just the subtle pull, the invisible trade. His flesh knit together, the muscle reforming under your touch, sealing like it had never been torn.

Then came the pain as your breath hitched, feeling it bloom sharply through your ribs, mirroring the exact placement of his injury. The gash tore itself into you now; hot, wet, and burning deep. You exhaled through gritted teeth, willing yourself to stay upright.

Bucky grabbed your wrist.

“Stop. Please.” His voice was hoarse now. “Stop.”

“It’s already done,” You whispered.

He stood up too fast, panic flashing in his eyes. His hand hovered just short of touching you again. “Why would you do that? You said… You said you wouldn’t anymore.”

“I didn’t say that,” You leaned against the gurney now slightly, murmuring your defense. “You asked. I didn’t answer.”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice cracked. “You’re always bleeding for me.”

You looked down to see blood was spreading across your shirt now, warm and slow, the price of one man’s survival. You’d felt worse. Your pain tolerance was higher than others' after all, but that didn’t make this easy.

“You don’t get to die just because you’re tired,” You let out before you could think of the consequences, staring at anything else but him. “You don’t get to throw yourself at death like it’s the only thing you deserve.”

“And you don’t get to keep hurting yourself just to prove that I matter!” He shouted, voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You can’t keep doing this. You’ll…. disappear.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the correct word. You finally met his gaze, taking a trembling step closer.

“I will. If you keep doing this. If you don’t stop treating yourself like you’re expendable.”

His expression twisted, a painful, broken thing. “Why?”

“Because you won’t save yourself,” You whispered. “So I will. Until you start caring about your life… or until you realize I gave you mine.”

A long silence stretched between you. Then, quietly, like a thread unraveling:

“I care.”

You blinked.

“I care,” He repeated. “I just… didn’t know how to show it. I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

Your breath caught.

He reached for you slowly, fingers brushing the edge of your shirt where the blood had bloomed red. “Let me try,” he said. “Let me start now.”

He stared at the blood staining your shirt, the way your breath hitched with every movement. His hands hovered like he didn’t know how to touch you gently, like anything he did would break you more. So, you helped him out by sitting down first. The gurney was cold under you, the pain a dull, pulsing throb in your side. It would last a few hours, maybe a few days, like most of them did. But you didn’t regret it. Not when he was alive. Not when he was here.

Bucky slowly stepped in front of you. He moved like he was approaching something sacred. Or fragile. He unzipped one of the emergency medkits and grabbed clean gauze, then glanced up to meet your eyes as if to ask for permission. You gave a small nod.

His fingers trembled just slightly as he lifted your shirt, revealing the angry gash blooming across your side.

He hissed through his teeth. “It should’ve been me.”

You smiled at him, dry and tired. “It was you.”

“No,” He muttered. “I meant… it should’ve stayed on me. I could’ve taken it.”

You cupped the back of his metal hand, pressing it gently against your knee. “You already take too much.”

This time, he didn’t answer. Instead, he focused on cleaning the wound, his hands methodical, precise. You watched the way his brow furrowed, the way he avoided your eyes like he couldn’t bear to look at the pain he’d caused. A similar look to the guilt people wore when they found out how your power worked.

“You don’t have to punish yourself every day,” You sighed.

“I’m not trying to.”

“Then stop flinching every time I help you.”

Bucky let out a low breath. “I flinch because you matter. Because every time you do this, I remember what it feels like to watch someone choose my life over theirs. And… I’m scared one day, you’ll make that choice for the last time.”

He finished dressing the wound in silence before he rose slowly and sat beside you.

For a moment, the room was quiet, the soft hum of overhead lights still present, and the echo of shared breath.

“You said something earlier,” He began finally, voice low. “That I wouldn’t save myself. That I don’t care if I die.”

You looked at him, quiet.

He nodded to himself. “You’re right. I didn’t. Not for a long time. But watching you hurt for me? Watching you bleed and not even hesitate? That scares the hell out of me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Then let it change you.”

Bucky was still for a beat. Then he shifted, slowly wrapping an arm around you, careful of your wound, careful of everything. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just real. Warm. Grounded.

“I don’t know how to start,” He admitted.

“You just did,” Your eyes slipping closed.

And in that quiet room, beneath too-bright lights and the weight of too many regrets, he held you like someone trying, finally, to be worth saving.

Found some footage of unhinged!reader training rookies:

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMS8vnswe/

(Hi! I love your works, you're amazing!!)

I’M DYING LOL AND IT WORKS SOMEHOW. So, that got me thinking how would she train them…. Now we turn it into a Drabble/blurb [Confession: I don’t know the difference between those two yet LOL] Happy reading! Also greetings! Thank you so much, always so nice seeing you around. Thanks for following along!!! :D

Unqualified, Unhinged, and Unforgettable

Summary: A bunch of excited, hopeful rookies have the absolute displeasure honor of being trained under you.

Word Count: 700+

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

The rookies were excited. Nervous, but excited.

After all, they’d been assigned to training with one of the Avengers. A respected, battle-hardened legend. Probably someone like Steve Rogers. Or maybe Natasha Romanoff! God, even Sam Wilson would be incredible.

“Wait,” One of them whispered. “Who’s that?”

You walked onto the training mat holding a stick of string cheese like a cigarette, wearing mismatched socks and aviators. You pointed the cheese at them.

“Morning, nerds.”

The recruits glanced at each other.

“…Are you the trainer?” One asked hesitantly.

You bit the cheese, chewed, and nodded. “Absolutely. Avengers’ top strategic mind. Fun fact, I have never successfully used a revolving door. You’ll respect me soon enough though.”

One recruit hesitantly raised their hand. “Why are you barefoot?”

“I fight better when grounded to the earth’s vibrations,” You replied. “Also I couldn’t find my shoes.”

And so began the most absurd training session in S.H.I.E.L.D. history.

-

Hour 1:

You paired them off. “First, pick a partner. Then pretend they just betrayed you in a high-stakes casino heist.”

They hesitated, looking around at each other as they tried to process the instruction. You shouted, “Feel the betrayal! Feel the drama! Slap them if you need to!”

One poor recruit started sobbing. Another screamed, “I LOVED YOU, TYLER,” and tackled their partner into a fountain.

You applauded. “Amazing. Raw and painful. That’s real combat.”

-

Hour 2:

You rolled a blender onto the mat with duct tape, Christmas lights, and three timers.

“This,” You announced dramatically, “is your bomb.”

“That’s a blender,” Someone whispered slowly.

You leaned in, deadly serious. “That’s what they want you to think.”

The rookies huddled, genuinely trying to figure it out. One made the mistake of cutting the red wire (which was actually a Twizzler). The blender turned on and shot glitter everywhere.

“That was a decoy,” You told them solemnly. “Now you’re covered in regret and sequins.”

-

Hour 3:

You took them on a “field simulation” which turned out to be a surprise shopping trip to IKEA.

“Navigate this labyrinth. Assemble a chair. Use only hex keys and trauma.”

Two recruits got lost in the kitchen model displays. One called you from inside a wardrobe. You refused to help.

“If you can’t escape IKEA,” You said, eating a meatball with your bare hands, “How will you escape Hydra?”

-

Aftermath

When the rookies returned to HQ, some crying, some covered in glitter, and one holding an emotional support fern; they were never the same.

But they were better, somehow. Sharper and unpredictable. Capable of disarming actual bombs and Swedish furniture with nothing but rage and a plastic fork.

Bucky found you later in the common room, sitting on the couch, eating marshmallows with chopsticks and watching a documentary on nuclear fission at max volume. You were also wearing his hoodie, which meant you were either thriving or about to cause an international incident.

He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “You turned those rookies into emotionally unstable weaponized gremlins.”

You didn't look away from the TV. “I prefer the term ‘innovative prodigies.’”

“They challenged Sam to a duel using plungers and grief metaphors.”

“They need to learn how to weaponize emotion. That’s day three material.”

“They built a working trebuchet and launched my motorcycle onto the roof.”

You finally turned to look at him. “And did it not work?”

Bucky stared at you. “You trained them for one day.”

You gave him a slow blink, then gently offered him a marshmallow with the chopsticks. “You love me.”

“I love you,” He said flatly, taking the marshmallow. “I also think you might be a war crime in human form.”

You grinned. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He walked over and dropped his head into your lap with a tired sigh, arm slinging around your waist. “Next time you train anyone, I’m sedating you first.”

“Won’t happen but that’s fair,” You said, petting his hair with one chopstick. “But you have to admit… they’re kind of unstoppable now.”

From down the hallway came a loud bang, a screech of victory, and someone yelling, “FOR SCIENCE AND THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP!”

You sipped juice from your “World’s Best Trainer” mug and said softly, “My legacy begins.”

Bucky just groaned. “God help us all.”

After the Noise

Summary: During a meeting, everything becomes too much for you. Your fathers notice instantly, bringing you to a quieter space and reassuring you that you don’t always have to be big. (Stucky x little!reader) [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]

Word Count: 1k+

Main Masterlist

You hadn’t expected it to be this loud. The conference room at the compound is packed. Agents, teammates, unfamiliar faces. And everyone’s talking over one another. The sound is a rising tide, voices blending into a thick, dizzying fog. You try to focus on Steve’s voice across the table, but his words get swallowed in the noise. Your chest tightens. The lights seem too bright. Everything feels too big.

You shift in your seat and grip the edge of your chair. The room starts to close in. You know you’re supposed to be “big” right now, supposed to sit still, be quiet, and listen. But your hands are shaking. Your breathing gets shallow. Your skin prickles like it’s not your own.

Across the room, Bucky sees it before anyone else does. He watches the way your shoulders curl inward, the way you glance toward the door, your eyes wide and glassy. He doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he just stands, quiet and steady as he crosses the room.

“Hey,” He murmurs, leaning down beside you, his voice cutting through the chaos like a lifeline. “Come with me.”

You nod quickly, not trusting your voice. Your fingers twitch as he gently guides you out of your chair, one hand warm on your back. No one stops you. You keep your head down as Bucky leads you out of the room and down a quiet hallway. Steve is swift to finish his part, excusing himself from the meeting to follow the both of you to the elevator. His brow creased with quiet worry.

“Too much?” Steve asks softly.

You nod again, clutching your sleeves.

Steve opens his arms. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

You don’t hesitate. You fold yourself into his chest, breathing in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He wraps you up without a word, one hand moving gently over your back. Bucky stands beside you both, a silent guard keeping the world at bay.

“You’re okay,” Steve says into your hair. “You’re not in trouble. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It was just a lot,” Bucky adds, his voice low and calm. “Happens to all of us.”

Your fingers fist in the front of Steve’s shirt. It’s quieter here. Safe. You still feel small and shaken, but their presence helps ground you, like anchors when everything else is spinning.

“We’re gonna go upstairs,” Steve murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “Someplace quiet. Somewhere just for us.”

Bucky offers you a reassuring look, and you manage the smallest nod. Between the two of them, you’re brought to the elevator and out of the noise. No questions. No judgment. Just warmth and comfort and calm. And for the first time all morning, you feel like you can finally breathe again.

As Bucky presses the button to their floor, the elevator hums softly as it rises, the gentle motion lulling you into a calmer rhythm. You stay tucked against Steve’s chest, your cheek resting against the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t shift or speak, just holds you close with the quiet patience he always has when you’re in this kind of space. The small, overwhelmed version of yourself you rarely show anyone else.

When the doors slide open, the light is different. Softer. Warmer. Bucky steps out first, leading the way down the familiar hall to one of your favorite quiet rooms. Not particularly a bedroom, not an office either. Just a little tucked-away space with soft blankets, shelves of books, and no expectations. It's a place meant for slowing down and today, that’s just what you need.

Steve gently sets you down on your feet but doesn’t let go of your hand. “We’re here,” He says softly. “You did good.”

Bucky’s already over by the low couch, pulling down your weighted blanket from the shelf and setting out your favorite comfort item. A soft, floppy stuffed dog you’d once found in Steve’s old storage trunk and quietly claimed as yours. He lays it down like it belongs in your hands.

You cross the room slowly, not quite ready to speak yet. The buzzing in your head is starting to fade, but your body still feels too big and too small at once. You curl up on the couch as Bucky drapes the blanket over you. It smells like the laundry soap Steve uses. Like safety.

Steve kneels in front of you. “Do you want us close?” He asks gently, “Or some space for a bit?”

You pause, then mutter out the former. He understands instantly. He always does. Within seconds, both of them are settled nearby. Bucky sitting at the foot of the couch, his arm resting along the cushion behind your legs, and Steve sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, one hand resting where your knee peeks out from under the blanket. They don’t ask you to talk. They don’t ask you to explain. They’re just there. The chaos of the meeting long forgotten.

You clutch the stuffed dog in your hands, the weight of the blanket pulling you back into your body, little by little. You can hear Steve hum softly, a melody you can’t place. Something old and calming as you feel Bucky’s thumb draws quiet circles against the side of your calf.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. Eventually, you whisper, “Sorry.”

Steve looks up at you, soft and warm. “For what?”

“For… needing to leave.”

Bucky’s voice is gentle but firm. “You don’t have to be sorry for listening to your body. You told us without even using words. That’s brave, doll.”

You blink, eyes stinging again, but not from fear this time. From relief.

“You don’t have to be big all the time,” Steve reassures as always, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “Not with us.”

You nod slowly, the tension finally slipping out of your shoulders. You’re not sure you’re ready to go back downstairs. Maybe not for a while but right now, here, wrapped in their quiet protection, you feel safe and that’s enough.