Infected By The Chaos

They couldn’t even bother with something more refined 😔 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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.”

Chaos Counseling

Summary: You accidentally becomes the Avengers' unofficial therapist, delivering unhinged wisdom that changes lives whether they like it or not. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1k+

A/N: As a psychology major, I do not condone the advice or techniques reader uses for a professional setting (lol). It’s all for speculative fun. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

It started because you caught Peter Parker crying in the hallway and handed him a Capri Sun.

Partially because of a real desire to help, but mostly because you just had one in your pocket. Peter took it like it was a lifeline. He sniffled then muttered, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this.”

You blinked, leaned in, and whispered solemnly, “Crying is just eye vomiting. You gotta get it out or your soul gets constipated.”

Peter stopped crying. Not because he felt better, but because he had no idea what to do with that sentence.

He went silent for ten seconds, wiped his eyes, and hesitantly said, “That’s… actually helpful?”

“Yeah,” You stabbed another Capri Sun with aggressive force. “I’m basically Freud if he was raised by raccoons and Disney Channel.”

And just like that, you became the Compound’s Emotional Support Cryptid.

By the time Bucky found out three days later, you’d already “accidentally therapized” Peter, Clint, Sam, and most surprisingly Wanda, who now referred to you as her “mind gremlin of peace.”

He entered the rec room to find Sam staring blankly at the wall, murmuring, “I am not my productivity.”

“…What the hell did you do to him?” Bucky asked.

You were upside down on the couch, feet in the air while eating an apple with a spoon.

“I told him hustle culture is a capitalist trap designed to keep us from achieving true inner joy. Also that pigeons are government spies. One of those hit him real hard.”

Bucky stared. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

You shrugged. “No. But apparently my unmedicated inner monologue is therapeutic.”

The final straw (or blessing, depending who you ask) was Tony Stark’s meltdown. He’d been spiraling in the lab for days now with low sleep, bad attitude, and a full ego. The standard stuff. You wandered in eating popcorn with chopsticks and sat on his table, pushing one of his gadgets aside with your foot.

“You need to feel your feelings, Tony.”

He didn’t even look up. “I built a suit of armor to avoid that exact thing.”

“Cool,” You said, chewing. “But now your trauma is building you a suit of armor. And it’s ugly.”

Tony froze, slowly turning to you. “That… was either the dumbest or most brilliant thing I’ve ever heard.”

You offered him a bag of marshmallows and patted his cheek. “Let’s call it both and have a cry.”

He did.

-

You weren’t trained, of course. And you didn’t plan to become the Avengers’ emotional crutch. But one by one, they came to you.

Natasha sat beside you and confessed she sometimes felt like a ghost. You told her ghosts are just trauma that didn’t pay rent.

Wanda asked how to cope with her past. You said to build a new house out of grief and invite joy over for tea.

Steve admitted once he was tired of being the symbol of hope. You handed him a juice box and told him it’s okay to be a tired little guy sometimes.

Every time, Bucky watched from the sidelines, equal parts baffled and smitten.

“You’re not qualified for this,” He muttered one night, watching Clint sob out of the room from something profoundly dumb you said while you knitted a scarf out of yarn you had found in the vents.

You just smiled at Bucky, eyes soft. “Nope. But neither is life, and I’m still doing that too.”

He pulled you in by the waist, kissed your forehead, and muttered, “God, I love you.”

“Obviously,” You said, already distracted. “Anyway, pass me that bowl. I’m about to emotionally dismantle Loki.”

-

Nick Fury tried to fire you. Twice. He wanted to submit a formal request to “hire an actual mental health professional.” He was denied.

The first time, you responded by sending him a PowerPoint titled “Why I Am Vital to Team Morale: A Threat and a Promise,” which included hand-drawn pie charts, quotes you definitely made up from Plato and Beyoncé, and a photo of a possum in a teacup labeled “Emotional Support Rodent (not metaphorical).”

The second time, he walked into the compound and found all the Avengers crowded in your room. Thor was wrapped in a blanket you made him (“my thunder cocoon”), Wanda asleep against your shoulder, Sam and Clint mid-debate over which Pokémon best represents childhood abandonment, and Bucky sprawled on your bed, fast asleep with your hand in his hair and a peaceful look on his face like he hadn’t had in years.

Fury stood silently in the doorway for a full ten seconds, then turned around and walked out.

No one’s heard from him since.

A few nights later, you and Bucky were curled up on the couch. You were using him as a weighted blanket while reading a quantum physics book upside-down and occasionally arguing with the toaster nearby (which you'd programmed to “vibe check” everyone who used it).

He was half-asleep, running his thumb over your shoulder, when he murmured, “You know they’d fall apart without you, right?”

You snorted. “They’d be fine. Steve can tie a tie and Sam knows how to keep plants alive. That’s practically domestic stability.”

“No,” He said, voice low and eyes steady. “You help them in the best way. You say the things no one expects but everyone needs. You make the weird stuff feel normal. You make me feel normal.”

You blinked, heart flipping slightly sideways in your chest.

Then you smirked. “You just like me because I told Thor his emotional baggage could crush Mjölnir.”

Bucky laughed, the low, warm kind that curled in your ribs and stayed there. “Maybe. And because you somehow gave Loki a complex about not recycling.”

You shifted to give him a quick kiss before whispering, “You love me.”

“I do.”

You rested your head against his chest with a content hum. “Good. Now help me convince Tony to install a therapy ball pit. For, like, emotional regulation purposes.”

He sighed. “God help me, I’ll do it.”

And he would. Because somehow, against all logic, you made chaos feel like home.

Caged in Comfort (Pt. 5)

Summary: You’re slowly starting to slip into exactly what they want. While you aren’t their bright little girl yet, they’re patient and present as your inner turmoil and outward resistance gradually fades. How long it will last is unknown to both you and them. (Dark Stucky x little!reader)

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

Word Count: 2.3k+

A/N: Would love to do a timeskip next chapter so I can explore interactions with the other Avengers. Maybe some of the others are in similar dynamics.

Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Previous | Next

You don’t know how much time passes. Minutes stretch long inside the room, dulled by soft lights and the gentle hum of something mechanical just out of sight. It’s too quiet. No voices outside. No footsteps. Just Steve and Bucky and you.

You keep your hands busy with the coloring book, eyes low. You can feel Bucky’s stare less now. He’s sitting in the corner, arms no longer crossed, just resting, watching. Steve’s still near, perched on the edge of the armchair like he’s about to tell a story. And maybe he is.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Steve says gently. “You’ve done really well today. And we’re proud of you for being so brave.”

You don’t respond, but you tilt your head slightly toward him. That’s enough to make him smile.

“We think it’s time we start going over the rules now,” He continues, voice warm like he’s saying something kind. “Just so things stay nice and easy here. You want things to be easy, don’t you?”

Your heart gives a dull thud, but you nod once.

“We’re gonna keep things simple for now,” He seems pleased, folding his hands together. “Rule number one: No wandering off. Ever. Not without one of us holding your hand. If you leave your room, it’s because one of us is with you. At least for now.”

You swallow as Bucky speaks next. His tone is low and gravelly, less gentle, more grounding.

“Number two: No lying. Not about how you’re feelin’, not about what you want, and definitely not about tryin’ to leave.”

Your shoulders tense, but you don’t move.

Steve gives him a quick look. Then softens his own voice again, like it’s meant to balance the weight of Bucky’s.

“We’ll always keep you safe. But we can only do that if you’re honest with us, okay? If something’s wrong, you tell us. Littles don’t need to worry about anything grown-up. That’s our job.”

You glance up at him. “What if I don’t wanna be… little?”

It comes out smaller than you mean it to. Careful. Testing.

Steve’s smile doesn’t falter. “That’s just the scared part of you talking, honey. You are little. You’ve just forgotten how to feel safe.”

Bucky stands now, slow and steady, and walks over. You hold your breath as he kneels beside you again. His eyes don’t soften, but his voice drops to something quieter.

“You’re ours now. You get to stop running.”

You turn your gaze away as Steve continues.

“Rule number three: Big girls don’t make the rules here. Littles follow the routine. You’ll get up when we say, eat what we give you, and nap when it’s time. And if you’re good, sweetheart…” His tone drops to a purr. “You’ll get certain rewards. Books. Toys. Maybe outings if you’ve been extra good.”

“And… if I’m not good?” You ask, voice barely a whisper, already suspecting the answer.

Bucky speaks first.

“Then we teach you.”

It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.

Steve gives a lighter version. “We help you remember what’s best. That’s all.”

There’s a silence after that, thick and expectant. Then Steve brightens a little, clapping his hands softly once.

“But you’ve been very good today, haven’t you? I think someone’s earned a little reward.”

You sit frozen, the rules echoing in your head. No wandering. No lying. No questioning the routine. You’re sure there’s more they aren’t mentioning yet.

You’re still holding the crayon in your hand, the colors blended together on the page. Steve’s footsteps are soft as he walks to the small counter on the other side of the room, but you don’t pay any attention to him. The world feels strange, like the edges are becoming blurry. You can’t focus on the drawings anymore. The crayon feels wrong in your fingers, too heavy. Everything’s shifting, like the walls are closing in.

Bucky’s voice breaks through the fog. It’s firm, steady, like it’s always been, but now there’s something gentler behind it. Like he’s trying to make you feel something you can’t put into words.

“Time for your snack, little one.”

You flinch. The words hang in the air, just as oppressive as they were earlier, but now, they feel different. Heavy. You swallow hard and feel a knot form in your throat. It’s like your brain can’t decide whether to resist or to just let it happen. Your fingers tremble as they grip the crayon tighter.

Steve’s voice is next, and it’s gentler, almost coaxing. “You’ve been a good girl. Now, it’s time to get your treat. You deserve it, sweetheart.”

The word girl makes something tighten in your chest. You want to argue. Want to snap that you’re not a child. That you can take care of yourself. But the resistance feels… heavy. It’s like a pull inside your chest, urging you to listen, to do what they say.

Bucky returns with a bottle given to him by Steve. The milk inside is warm and thick, the smell faintly sweet, like it’s supposed to be comforting. Your stomach churns. It smells like safety, something your body is telling you it’s supposed to trust, even though your mind rebels.

You try to pull away, but Bucky’s already there, crouching beside you again. His eyes flick over your face, calculating. For a moment, it feels like he’s waiting for you to make the next move, but you don’t. Your head dips a little. A silent surrender. You feel the smallest twinge of guilt, like something inside of you’s letting go. The last thread of resistance. Your mouth parts instinctively as Bucky raises the bottle to your lips.

“It’s good for you,” Steve says softly, standing close behind him. “Nice and warm. Makes you feel better.”

The bottle feels too big in your mouth. You sip it slowly, unsure, but the warmth settles in your stomach, spreading outwards. It feels… safe. A little too safe. You don’t want to admit it, but it’s there. You almost want to sink into it, but you can’t.

You drink, slow and hesitant, until the bottle’s empty. Bucky takes it away without a word, and you blink up at him, trying to hold onto some fragment of yourself, some edge of defiance. But the fog is thicker now. You can feel your eyelids heavy, the weight of everything pressing down on you. Still, you fight to keep your eyes open, not wanting to give in.

Steve’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Good girl.”

His words are soft, but they settle in your chest like something warm. You don’t know why, but it’s enough to make your body sink a little deeper into the softness of the cushions, like your muscles are finally giving up the fight.

“You’re doing so well,” Steve continues, his fingers brushing through your hair gently. “We’re proud of you.”

A part of you wants to pull away, to refuse the soft touches, the kind words that feel too familiar now. But another part of you is weak, and it feels nice. Your breath catches in your throat, and you feel the pressure build up behind your eyes.

But Bucky’s voice cuts through before you can retreat any further.

“You’ll learn to trust us,” He mutters, like a promise. “You’ll see that we’re here to take care of you.”

You feel yourself shrinking inward, like the words are pushing you back into a corner. Your face heats, your stomach tightens. The bottle and the warmth from it make your body want to give in, even if your mind still screams to fight.

You want to escape. You want to run, but there’s nowhere to go. Your body’s too heavy, too compliant now. And your mind is so small, so young. You can’t focus on anything other than the weight of their presence, their hands, their soft, soothing words. They surround you like a cocoon, and part of you feels like you could disappear into it. It’s almost easier.

But it’s not right. You know that. You want to scream, but instead, the words come out weak, almost childlike.

“Don’ wanna be here… wanna go home…”

It’s barely a whisper, and before you can even think about it, tears prick at your eyes. Your chest tightens painfully, longing for a home that never existed.

Steve’s eyes soften immediately. His hand moves to your cheek, warm and comforting, like the moment your vulnerability slips free, he’s there to catch it.

“You are home,” Steve reminds you, voice quiet but firm. “This is where you’re safe now.”

And that’s when you realize, no matter how hard you fight, no matter how much you wish it weren’t true, their version of safety has started to settle into your bones. You blink back the tears, but they come anyway, soft and silent, like a child finally giving in to the feeling of being held. Steve is there to hold you gently as your body melts into his arms even if your mind rebels, comforting you softly.

Steve and Bucky exchange a quiet look. There’s something different now in the air, something that shifts the dynamic between them, like they’re waiting for something to happen. But they’re patient, and that patience settles over you, pushing your shoulders to relax just a little bit more.

Steve’s voice comes first, low and soothing.

“You’re feeling little now, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You nod slowly, your head still heavy, your body sluggish, but warm. Comfortable. It’s a strange sensation. It’s like something that feels a little too good to resist, even though you know, deep down, it’s wrong. You swallow, trying to fight it, but your body betrays you. You feel small, too small to push away their words, to hold onto the edges of yourself.

Bucky’s gaze flickers over to Steve for a moment before he turns back to you. His voice is softer than it has been all day.

“Alright, little one. Wanna get back to your playtime?”

Your heart skips a beat at the question. It sends a ripple of discomfort through you, but it’s too late to pull back now. The milk and the warmth have dulled everything down, leaving you tired and vulnerable. You look up at them, uncertain, like a child unsure of what’s coming next.

Steve looks down at you, his expression patient but expectant. “We got you some other toys to play with. Do you want to see them?”

Your eyes flicker between them, making a small movement of your head, nodding. Like you’ve given in without realizing it.

Bucky moves across the room, gathering a few plush toys, blocks, and a soft blanket from a nearby shelf. He arranges them in front of you, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s setting up a space for you to feel safe.

“There you go,” He mutters, settling on the floor beside you. “All for you.”

You stare at the plush toys and blocks, unsure of what to do with them. The toys look soft, inviting, like something that should belong to a little girl. A little you. Something in you pulls at the thought, and your fingers twitch as if reaching for them, but your mind is still cloudy. It’s hard to make decisions now, hard to decide whether you want to push away or lean in.

Steve’s voice is gentle when it comes again, pulling you back into the moment. It’s like he can see you struggling as he encourages you, “You can do whatever you want, honey. Just relax and have fun. No need to think about anything else.”

You hate the way they make you feel, like you have to be small. But there’s an undeniable pull in his tone, something comforting that makes it hard to resist. And so, your hands move almost automatically toward the plush toys. They’re soft, almost too soft, and they feel like a childhood that you never got to have.

You turn your attention to a stuffed bear, picking it up and running your fingers over its fuzzy ears. Your face softens without meaning to as you curl the bear into your lap. Something inside you lets go.

Bucky watches you from his place on the floor, his gaze is less guarded now. There’s a small shift in his posture, like he’s watching a part of you unfold that he’s been waiting for. Both of them are being careful in their movements as they watch you regress.

“That’s a great friend you have there, kiddo,” He speaks, his voice lower now, less sharp.

Steve sits beside you, his hand resting gently on your back, providing an anchor. His touch is comforting in a way that feels almost too real.

“You’re safe, sweetheart. Just play with your bear, okay? No one’s going to hurt you here.”

The words sound so simple. So easy. But they strike deep. Your fingers move to tuck the bear into the crook of your arm, holding it close. You feel small. Like a child. And even though part of you tries to pull away, tries to scream no, another part of you is so tired, so tired of resisting. You bury your face against the soft fur, closing your eyes for just a moment.

A soft sigh escapes you, and you feel Steve’s hand rub your back gently. His thumb makes little circles, just enough to ground you. Just enough to make it easier to slip deeper into this state.

And you become a little more pliable in that moment. The situation settles in like a balm to a wound. Your body feels heavy, lethargic, and in the same breath, there’s a part of you that’s letting go. Fully leaning into the care they’re offering. You don’t have the strength to fight anymore. Not now, at least.

You curl the bear tighter, pulling it to your chest as if to keep the tiny shreds of your older self intact. The way you play is slow, hesitant, and yet… you start to feel like it’s not that bad. Not if you let it wash over you like this. Let yourself be small.

LOL, the fact that I can imagine them breaking out into song and dance 😭

Thank you for reading!!! ♡

Oops, I Joined a Cult Again

Summary: You joined a cult. That’s it. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 900+

A/N: Same as the unhinged/chaotic reader series, supposed to be shorter but then I added more group chat shenanigans. I wanted something quick while I work on other stuff. Sorry if it’s messy. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Original Fic

Bucky Barnes had one job: watch your back on the infiltration mission.

He didn’t know that meant literally watching you disappear into a torchlit temple deep in the mountains and emerge forty-eight hours later in robes, glowing, smiling cheerfully, and being worshiped as the reincarnation of a snake god.

“They call me The Hissening,” You whispered, eyes far too wide, far too smug.

“I told you not to touch the statue,” Bucky muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as the robed people behind you chanted in perfect sync: “HISSSSSSS.”

-

48 HOURS EARLIER

The briefing was simple. Infiltrate and investigate a rising cult rumored to be a Hydra front. No weapons. No overt powers. In and out.

Naturally, Tony turned to you and said, “You’re on distraction duty. Just… go be yourself.”

You took it as a compliment. It was not.

You and Bucky parachuted into the outskirts of the mountains under cover of night, both in tactical gear. Silent and focused… until you turned to him mid-descent and yelled, “DO YOU THINK CULTS HAVE SNACKS?”

“…What?”

“LIKE HOLY GRAHAM CRACKERS OR- wait, no, Blessed Chex Mix!”

He didn’t respond. He just stared straight ahead, wondering for the millionth time what cosmic punishment he was paying for to be partnered with you on this particular mission.

The problem was never that you were bad at missions. In fact, in combat, you were terrifying. Strategic. Surgical.

But in deep cover? You were yourself, which is how exactly five minutes after entering the temple courtyard, you said:

“Nice snake statue. Can I boop it?”

And when the head priest responded, “Only the Chosen One may lay a finger upon the sacred Fang of Enlightenment,” You touched it immediately, whispered “boop,” and passed out.

When you woke up, glowing faintly with what may have been divine energy (or some type of poisoning), the cult declared you their prophesied leader.

You didn’t correct them.

-

BACK TO PRESENT

Bucky had finally gotten inside. Posing as a new recruit, hood up, mouth shut, inner turmoil vibrating at a ten. He spotted you instantly. You were standing on a golden platform, arms open, and being fanned with palm leaves.

“Hey,” He hissed when he reached you. “Mission. Hydra. Ringing any bells?”

You waved vaguely. “They have really good soup here.”

“This is not the time for soup.”

You nodded solemnly. “There is always time for soup.”

Someone handed you a ceremonial staff. You took it. It was sparkly.

You then whispered to Bucky, “So here’s the thing… I might’ve said we should cleanse our enemies in a fire of spiritual rebirth. Which they interpreted as actual fire. So, like… maybe be cool about that.”

He blinked at you.

“You started a holy war, didn’t you.”

You smiled brightly. “Only a small one.”

That night, under cover of darkness, the two of you escaped; you still in full ceremonial garb, Bucky dragging you by the elbow while you shouted goodbye to your “disciples.”

One of them threw a snake at you in farewell. You caught it. You named it Gary.

Steve, upon your return, asked what happened.

You saluted and said, “I was a god for three days and it changed me. Also I have this soup recipe now.” You handed him a scroll. When he opened it, it was blank.

Bucky looked at you, exhausted, covered in ash, a little bruised, holding a snake in one hand and your glitter-covered robes in the other.

“…You are the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me,” He said.

You winked. “But I’m your weirdo.”

“Yeah, you are.”

-

Bonus Debriefing.

Group Chat:

Tony: Okay, so. Roll call. Who let them start a religion??

Clint: AGAIN?!?

Sam: Are we seriously ignoring the snake?? Why does she still have the snake?

You: his name is Gary, he chose me

Bucky: The snake did not choose you. You caught him and said “I am your mother now.”

You: and he accepted me

Wanda: Did you eat something weird again? The last time you said a goat “chose you” we had to evacuate a whole town.

Steve: Back up. How did we go from “infiltrate Hydra cult” to “being crowned a divine prophet of the hiss age”?

Bucky: Because she touched the sacred artifact. While they were giving a warning not to.

You: i wanted to boop it 🐍✨

Bruce: [Image attached: Security cam still of you dramatically booping a snake statue and passing out like a Victorian child seeing ankles.]

Tony: Okay but why are you glowing in this?

You: i think I absorbed a minor god

Sam: Define “minor.”

You: likeee a demi-snake. A snack god

Bucky: You said, quote: “Let the hiss of salvation whisper in your soul or something.”

Tony: You started preaching???

You: they gave me a podium! what else was I supposed to do? NOT use it!?

Natasha: …Yes?

Clint: wait, so did we ever find out if the cult was a Hydra front or…

Steve: Nope. She gave a sermon and declared Bucky her “divine enforcer.”

Bucky: Yeah. Still mad about that.

You: srry Prophet Punchy

Tony: We are never letting you go on recon again.

Bruce: I still want to know how you pulled off a glowing aura with no tech or magic.

You: I ate three glowsticks on accident.

Wanda: …

Steve: …

Bucky: This is not a joke. I watched it happen.

You: I thought they were minty tubes.

Sam: Was anyone else weirdly inspired by her speech though?

Steve: Sam.

Sam: I’m just saying I felt something 🐍

Bucky: I felt betrayal and secondhand shame.

You: don’t worry guys, the cult disbanded peacefully. i left them a doctrine :)

Tony: A what.

You: [Image attached: Crayon drawing of a snake with sunglasses saying “BE NICE. EAT SOUP. HISS IF THREATENED.”]

Bruce: This is shockingly coherent.

Clint: I hate how effective it is.

Thor: I would like to join this religion. It seems wise. HISS.

[Thor has been muted again.]