Tiny Wings, Gentle Things

Caged in Comfort (Pt. 3)

Summary: Your first escape attempt! It doesn’t go as you planned. (Dark Stucky x little!reader)

Warnings/Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Dark Stucky. Age Regression. Forced Age Regression. (Feeding again. Drugged milk.) Kidnapping. References to Labs. Restraints/Restraining. Lots of dialogue. Stockholm Syndrome in the future likely. You are responsible for the media you consume.

Word Count: 2k+

Caged in Comfort Masterlist | Previous | Next

Later, after they’ve fed you, after Steve has coaxed you into bed and Bucky tucked a soft stuffie beside you on the bed like some mockery of care, they finally leave you alone. The bedroom door closes with a soft click. You lie there eerily still and silent, waiting. You count the seconds in your head, ten seconds. Then thirty. Then a minute. Nothing moves. All you can hear is silence.

You sit up slowly and peel back the blanket. Easing your way off the mattress and careful not to shift the bed too much, your feet hit the floor. You move like a shadow across the room, scanning the space more precisely now for any escape route. The window’s is nailed shut. No use. You don’t know how many floors you are from the ground anyways.

Moving across the room carefully, you listen through the door. There comes the sound of muffled voices, but they’re far, maybe closer the kitchen? Another bedroom? You don’t know. Your fingers tremble, but your heart stays steady. This is the only chance you’ll get. And you take it.

The door is shut, but you still twist the handle gently. Click. It’s unlocked.

Your breath catches. They forgot to lock it. You slip out with practiced certainty, heart pounding, and creep down the hall. Everything smells like cedar and laundry detergent and something sweet. Lots of things you don’t really recognize. All the colors and different shapes are unfamiliar to you. It’s all wrong. Too normal. Too different.

Then: voices. Closer than you initially thought.

“…she’s adjusting,” You can hear Steve saying.

“She’s pretending,” Bucky replies, voice low and sharp. “She’s watching everything.”

“She drank from the bottle, Buck.”

“She was starving. Doesn’t mean she’s trusting us.”

You duck behind the edge of the hallway, flattening against the wall.

“Then, let her pretend,” Steve sighs softly. “She’ll see soon enough she’s safer with us than she’s ever been.”

Their footsteps move away again. You don’t hesitate to bolt. Silent, barefoot, and down the opposite hall. Whatever floor you are on seem impressively large. You find a door that you can only hope leads out. You lunge for it only to find it locked. Not only just locked, there lies a code panel next to it, clearly some form of high-tech.

Of course it is.

You stare, scanning for patterns, wires, anything that could be tampered with or help you. You know how to hotwire a panel. You’ve done it in the lab during simulations. But you need time and the right tools. Currently? You have none of those things nor do you know where you could get them. Then you hear it.

“Sweetheart?” Steve’s voice calls out gently, sounding a bit further away like it had been outside your “room”.

You spin, slipping into the nearest room you see, a coat closet. You close it behind you in a hurried yet silent fashion, quiet as breath, crouching under a shelf. Coats brush your cheek. You press your hand over your mouth.

Footsteps can be heard more clearly now. They’re coming closer to the door. You curl into yourself, eyes sharp, breathe silent.

“She’s not in bed,” Steve sounds heartbroken.

“I told you. She’s pretending.” Bucky growls. “We rushed it.”

Silence fills the air for a minute. You keep your breathing as quiet as you can, trying to remain still as a statue.

Then Steve says, quietly, “She’s scared.”

“I’ll check the kitchen,” Bucky’s footsteps depart.

You stay still. So still your knees ache. You count each second in your head. You’ve got maybe two minutes. Then you see it, hanging from one of the coat hooks. A keyring. Maybe the door can be unlocked manually. The previous high-tech panel having captured your focus entirely, maybe there was a key hole. You grab the keys, barely daring to hope. It jingles a little too loud and you let out a small curse under your breath.

Then a voice right outside the door.

“Sweetheart?” Steve. “Are you hiding?”

You freeze in place as the doorknob turns. The door creaks open with light spilling in the enclosed space, soft and golden.

Steve stands in the doorway, still in his sleep shirt. His eyes land on you, seeing you curled under the coats like a frightened deer, key ring in your hand. You can see his expression shifting. Not angry. Worse. Disappointed.

“Oh, honey,” He breathes, kneeling down. “Why’d you do that?”

You lurch back against the wall instinctively. “Don’t—“

“I’m not mad,” He interjects gently. “But this wasn’t safe. What if you’d made it out? Barefoot? Alone?” He reaches for you slowly, like you’re some skittish animal.

You slap his hand away out of instinct, not even bothering with innocent pretense anymore.

He flinches but doesn’t stop. “You promised you were trying.”

“I never promised anything,” You correct, standing suddenly. “You locked me in here like I’m a—”

“Bucky. She’s safe.”

Full of relief yet pained words escape from Steve as he calls out to his partner in crime. And then you hear him.

Much heavier steps with the intention of being heard. Cold air rushes in from behind Steve as Bucky appears. His face is like stone. He takes one look at you, the key in your hand, the defiance in your eyes, and grabs you.

You jerk back as he reaches for you, but his hand is suddenly there. He’s much rougher, faster, and stronger. Never enough to hurt you, but he grabs you around the waist and hauls you out like you weigh nothing. You scream once, purely out of instinct, kicking as your bare heels hit the wall. “Let me go!”

“Not a chance,” Bucky states, gripping you like a sack under his arm.

You thrash, twisting violently, but his metal arm clamps across your back and stills every movement. He carries you like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly how to hold a squirming little girl who thinks she’s grown.

Steve trails behind, quieter, eyes sad. “You’re not in trouble, okay?” He murmurs. “You’re just overwhelmed. You’ll feel better after some rest.”

You snap your head toward him. “You’re insane! Both of you!”

But neither of them respond. Once you’ve all arrived back in your room, Bucky kicks the door shut behind him and sits on one of the rocking chairs in the room with you still wriggling under his arm.

“You want to act big?” He says flatly. “You get treated like a brat.”

“I’m not your anything,” You hiss.

“Not yet. But you will be.”

He shifts you in his lap and pins your arms tightly against your sides. It’s humiliating; being held like a toddler, legs dangling, chest heaving with frustration. Meanwhile, Steve walks in holding another warmed bottle in one hand, having took a short detour earlier. You stare at it, letting out an adamant:

“No.”

“It’s just milk,” Steve says softly. “You need something more in your system. You barely ate earlier.”

“I’m not drinking from that again.”

“Then you’ll be held until you do,” Bucky says. “Your choice, kid.”

He pins your jaw with one strong hand. Not rough, but impossible to move. Firm. Steve kneels in front of you, moving the bottle closer. You can faintly smell it now. Similar to before, it smelled sweet and warm. Maybe with some vanilla this time. And something else. Something wrong. Your gut twists.

“I said—!”

But the bottle is pressed against your lips, and your mouth is forced open just enough. The first taste hits your tongue, thick and cloying, and you try to spit it out this time.

“You fight everything,” Bucky mutters. “Even when your body needs help.”

You try to turn your head, but his hand follows you. The milk keeps coming, slow and steady, coaxed down your throat by pressure and patience. You gag once. Than you swallow. It doesn’t take long. Your vision blurs a little. Limbs going fuzzy at the edges, no longer squirming. You’re still there, conscious, but it’s harder to hold on. Your thoughts begin to drift, like static under water. You blink slowly, the fight draining from your muscles without your permission.

“There she is,” Steve whispers, brushing a hand through your hair. “You’re okay now. Just rest.”

You don’t answer. Well, you can’t. You slump forward against Bucky’s chest, heart still hammering with resistance, but your body limp like a puppet with its strings cut. The bottle is pulled away. You don’t know where nor do you care.

The world fades in and out, like a flickering lightbulb behind your eyelids.

Warmth surrounds you, lights dimmed, the dull ache of your limbs refusing to move. You’re distantly aware of motion… a shift… your body being cradled and lifted again. Everything slows, like time itself has thickened.

“She’s out,” Steve murmurs somewhere above you. His voice sounds far away. Gentle. “Poor thing fought so hard.”

You want to respond with some sort of protest. Screaming. Kicking. Running. But your mouth doesn’t obey. Neither do your eyes. Nor does your body. You can’t even lift your hand.

Bucky’s arms tighten slightly, a subtle adjustment as he carries you across the room again. You feel the texture change beneath you as you're lowered onto the mattress, your head meeting the soft, already-warmed pillow with practiced care. You can feel a blanket being pulled up as you’re tucked in with such care and tenderness once again. It should feel nice, but with your situation, it’s only sickening.

“She’s gonna try again,” Bucky says lowly, almost to himself. “Next chance she gets.”

“I know,” Steve replies, sighing. “She’s still scared. Still stuck in that survival mode. It’s not her fault.”

“She’s got too much fire,” Bucky mutters, brushing a stray piece of hair from your cheek with the back of his knuckle. “Reminds me of you.”

Steve huffs a small laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Then you know you can’t scare it out of her. That’s not how she’s gonna trust us.”

“I’m not trying to scare her,” Bucky retorts, quietly defensive. “I’m trying to keep her. You know how easy it’d be for someone else to get to her if she ran? She doesn’t understand that. She’s still thinking like a weapon.”

Your chest rises and falls steadily. Too slow for comfort. Too heavy. They think you’re gone. But you’re still there. Just locked behind your body, helpless, your lashes fluttering slightly as their voices move around you.

“We’ll start smaller tomorrow,” Steve says softly. “Routine. Breakfast together. A story, maybe. You can show her the playroom.”

“She’s not gonna want to go anywhere with me after tonight.”

“She will. Just have to ease her into it, help her realize there’s a softer side.”

You feel the blanket tugged up higher, snug around your chin. Fingers adjust the pillow beneath your head, just so. It’s too much. Too close. You want to scream and cry and claw at your skin, but all you can do is lie there.

Then you hear it. A rustling sound. Then you feel something soft brushing your ankle. You try to move, barely, but your body doesn’t respond.

Just the faint sensation of leather or fabric being pulled snug around your ankle. Not tight. Not rough. But definite. Present. A physical reminder that you’re not free.

“She’ll hurt herself less this way,” Bucky murmurs, voice near your ear now. “Until she remembers she’s ours.”

You can hear Steve start to speak before holding back. The hesitation clear even if you can’t see it on him. The sound of a click can be heard next, a soft one. Probably coming from a buckle or clasp. You can’t tell in this state.

Your breathing must have hitched, because Steve whispers, “Shhh… just sleep, sweetheart. You’re home. You’re okay now.” A kiss lands on your temple, Steve, feather-light.

A hand brushes across your forehead. Then the soft click of a lamp being switched off. The nightlight in your room automatically illuminating and breaking through some of the darkness. Not like you could see it this time though.

You’re too deep in your drugged sleep to hear the final words between them, but there’s a sense of finality in the air. A feeling that you’ve crossed a threshold. Whatever you were, however you fought, it doesn’t matter anymore.

They’ve secured you.

You’ll sleep, and they’ll wait for you to wake, soft restraints in place, ready to keep you under their control.

✩˚ ｡ Rules/Guidelines ｡ ˚✩

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LOL, I KNOW RIGHT? Such a fun story to write for, I love it. Thank you for reading!!! ♡

Certified Genius, Unlicensed Moron

Summary: Exploring more of your relationship and dynamics with the rest of the Avengers, they are well-acquainted with how much whiplash and how many headaches you give them on a daily. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: The other going on dates fic didn’t have enough unhinged questionable reader for me. And to be honest….I didn’t like it as much as the prequel. So! I wrote this to cheer me up and feed my need for dumb & genius reader. Purely self-indulgent but hopefully you like it too. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

Being an Avenger came with certain expectations. Tactical prowess. Cool one-liners. Teamwork. A mild-to-moderate understanding of physics.

You had exactly none of that. And yet, you were thriving.

You had taken on aliens, mercenaries, HYDRA agents, and that one time, an actual raccoon with a vendetta. You once guessed the password to a SHIELD vault on the first try by inputting “boob69.” It worked. Nobody ever explained why. You were untouchable.

But nothing broke the team more than the group chat.

It had been a standard team communication channel at first: briefings, updates, emergency alerts. Then you joined and everything fell apart.

-

GROUP CHAT: “Earth’s Mightiest Dumbasses”

Tony: Meeting in the conference room at 9 A.M. sharp.

You: what’s 9 AM in frog time

Natasha: What does that mean?

You: like if a frog wears a watch is the time upside down

Tony: Please, I’m begging you to just answer the question like a normal person.

You: normal is a strong word

-

You once sent a photo of a pigeon wearing a hat with the caption “me when I infiltrate enemy lines.” No one questioned it. Mostly because they couldn’t.

After all, you’re the same person who confidently gave a TED Talk about the strategic history of medieval siege warfare mid-mission while wearing Crocs. The same person who once said, “Vibranium tastes like disappointment,” and then refused to elaborate. You somehow manage to both ace every debrief but also once asked if Wi-Fi is just helpful air soup.

Thor called you “small thunder” after you electrocuted yourself trying to microwave aluminum “as a science experiment.” You did not have lightning powers. It was just dumb luck. And you’d do it again.

-

GROUP CHAT:

Clint: who the hell labeled all the fridge items in latin?

You: idk man maybe someone wants you to be cultured

Bucky: You labeled the eggs, “Future ankle peckers, do not anger them”

You: ...and have you been attacked? no? you’re welcome.

-

Bucky still doesn't understand you. Not even a little.

And a lot of times, that haunts him.

He watches you eat hot sauce straight from the bottle like it's a health tonic, quote Shakespeare when you’re tired, and wear mismatched crocs into certain battles because "they're my war shoes." One has a tiny sword glued to it.

You once looked him dead in the eye and said, “I wasn’t born. I was assembled in a Target parking lot during a thunderstorm.”

And then walked away.

He’s been thinking about it for months.

Another time you brought him a bag of gummy worms, patted his head, and said, “For when the depression demons attack.”

Despite all your nonsense, he can’t stop looking at you like you hung the moon with glitter glue and then ate half of it because that brand “smelled like frosting.”

He had tried to pretend you’re a nuisance at first, shaking his head and sighing at some of your antics. But it’s all morphed to reluctant acceptance of the fact that he’ll have to live with so many unanswered questions. That doesn’t stop him from taking care of you though.

He brings you hot chocolate after missions. He makes sure you’re behind him when it gets dangerous. He drags you out of fountains you jump into because you wanted to know what the regals birds like about it. He even downloaded TikTok just to understand your references.

One time you disappeared in the Tower. For five hours.

He found you in the broom closet, sitting cross-legged with three Roombas, wearing a crown made of forks.

“They know secrets,” You whispered. “I’m learning their ways.”

Bucky blinked.

“…I brought you pizza.”

You gasped. “I knew the prophecy would come true.”

-

GROUP CHAT:

Steve: Can someone explain what this is?

Image attached: You in a vent near the ceiling wearing a bad ghost outfit like a cursed Halloween decoration, eating Cheez-Its.

You: surveillance

Steve: Why…

You: i wanted to know what Bucky does when I’m not looking

Bucky: They’ve been up there for 6 hours. I offered help. They hissed at me.

-

Despite it all, you were deadly in the field.

You’d spout off the periodic table in the middle of a fistfight, pull off gravity-defying stunts “because I saw it in a cartoon once,” and solve encrypted Hydra codes in 30 seconds, all while questioning if Mickey Mouse and his friends ever had to pay rent to live in the Mickey Mouse clubhouse.

Bucky, your begrudgingly loving boyfriend, no longer reacts when you do things like wear medieval armor to a stealth op for morale reasons or quote Shrek during hostage negotiations. He just quietly takes your hand and steers you away before you lick anything radioactive.

Steve once asked why you were on a mission wearing roller skates. You said, “Speed and style, Cap,” then crashed directly into a vending machine and pulled out a single uncrushed Twix with solemn reverence.

Tony called you “the human embodiment of a broken Google search.” Wanda called you “a mystery I’ve chosen not to solve.” Natasha just called you “terrifying.”

Because for every baffling thing you did, like calling her “Mom” during a sniper stakeout because “you give off stern PTA energy”, you turned around and cracked encrypted intel before Bruce finished making coffee.

Once, in a mission briefing, Rhodey asked, “Wait, wasn’t the Hindenburg caused by a gas explosion?” and you, dead serious, replied, “Who’s the Hindenburg? That sounds like a guy who collects teeth.”

Everyone went dead silent.

Sam just nodded slowly and said, “Right, okay. Yeah, cool. This is the part where I stop paying attention.”

Nobody could figure you out.

Bruce once ran 14 psychological profiles on you. None of them matched. One came back as possibly a goat in human form.

Clint swears you once explained string theory using sock puppets and a waffle. And it made sense.

-

GROUP CHAT:

Tony: I’m updating the security protocol. Everyone needs to re-register their biosignatures.

You: what if I am a security risk

Tony: You are. Absolutely. Every day. In every way.

You: then I win

Natasha: What did you win?

You: You’ll see 😈

Tony: I have forgotten what peace feels like anymore.

-

You called yourself “The Distractinator” in combat.

Enemies didn’t know what to do with you. Were you a genius? Crazy? Feral? Was that a printer you just threw at their face while quoting Pride and Prejudice?

Yes. To all of it.

And somehow, impossibly, you were everyone’s favorite. Because while you were a chaos gremlin of untold magnitude, you cared.

You noticed when Clint seemed tired and unorthodoxically left snacks in his quiver.

You taught Steve how to use TikTok but made sure to curate only dog videos and motivational frog memes.

You convinced Bucky he could wear purple and look amazing. He does now. Regularly.

You helped Tony fix a faulty AI loop by accident while trying to build “a blender that screams.”

You’re not just a part of the team. You’re the emotional support cryptid.

And no matter how many explosions you cause with your “experiments,” or how many philosophical debates you start about whether lasagna is a cake, the Avengers wouldn’t trade you for the world.

…Though Tony did try to sell you to the X-Men once.

It didn’t work.

They sent you back with a fruit basket and a strongly worded letter.

Haha, they’re so much fun even if she doesn’t make a bit of sense sometimes. Thank you for reading!!! ♡

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.

Aww… I hope everything goes well, dear. May you have or find someone in your life that is just as comforting and supportive as Bucky is. Thank you for reading! ♡

Exactly As You Are

Summary: You slowly form a tender, deeply emotional relationship with Bucky Barnes supports you through the bad days and gently breaks down the walls you’ve built from past abandonment. Despite fears of being a burden, Bucky stays, proving with quiet strength and unwavering presence that love doesn’t need to be perfect to be real. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Reader is chronically ill. Mentions/Depictions of symptoms of said illness. Angst. Hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 2.3k+

A/N: This is sort self-indulgent but still an enjoyable read regardless. I left the type of illness ambiguous. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

The first time Bucky saw you, he thought you were just tired.

You were sitting on a bench outside a small, independent bookstore in Brooklyn, a reusable water bottle half-empty beside you, a paperback open in your lap. It was cold out, the kind of sharp October chill that cuts through jackets and settles in bones. But you sat completely still with your shoulders slumped, hands trembling slightly, and breath shallow.

He might not have noticed if not for the way your fingers struggled to hold the book steady.

He didn’t stop. Not at first. He just glanced, like a thousand other people passing by, and kept walking. But two blocks later, something tugged at him soft and persistent, like a memory he couldn’t place. He turned around.

You hadn’t moved from your spot.

By the time he walked back and crouched in front of you, your lips were pale, and your skin had that waxy undertone he recognized from war hospitals and med units. His instincts kicked in, but not the soldier kind, rather the man who’d learned how to read distress in the quietest forms.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low but steady.

You blinked up at him slowly, as if hearing him from underwater. Then you offered a weak, breathless smile and said, “Yeah, just… my body does this sometimes.”

“Does what?”

“Stops.”

He didn’t fully understand what that meant then. But it wasn’t pity that made him sit beside you, not fear or heroism either. It was something else. Familiarity. A kind of haunted recognition.

“Can I call someone for you?” He asked. “Friend? Partner? Family?”

You shook your head. “No one close by. It’ll pass. I just need a minute.”

But your hand was still shaking as you reached for the water. He watched silently, then gently reached over and held the bottle steady so you could drink.

“Thanks,” You murmured.

He nodded. He didn’t press. He simply sat there, beside a stranger who looked like their body was betraying them one breath at a time.

After a long stretch of silence, you spoke again. “You don’t have to wait.”

“Don’t want you to pass out on a sidewalk.”

You huffed a dry laugh. “Romantic.”

He smirked. “I’ve heard worse.”

You turned to look at him then, and something in your expression shifted.

“You’ve had bad days too,” You said.

His breath caught. You weren’t asking. You knew.

He gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

Your eyes softened. Not out of pity, but out of understanding. “Then you get it.”

He didn't reply out loud, but the way his hand hovered hesitant, then steady, offered the only answer you needed.

Eventually, you regained enough energy to stand. He offered his arm, and you took it without flinching at the metal. That surprised him. Most people still tensed.

Inside the bookstore, he bought a copy of the same book you'd been reading before slipping you his number. You noticed, and raised a brow.

“Trying to impress me?”

He shrugged. “Trying to have an excuse to see you again.”

You laughed then. Still tired, still aching, but real. “Well. It worked.”

-

You didn’t start dating right away. There were slow texts. A few coffee shop visits where he learned which chairs were softest for you to sit in for long periods, which days your hands couldn’t hold a cup, and how sometimes you’d go quiet mid-sentence but not from disinterest, just exhaustion.

But Bucky never minded. He’d lived too many years rushing through the world. With you, everything slowed down. And for once, that felt like healing.

On your first date, he had planned it carefully.

Not because he thought you needed to be impressed but because he wanted to show you he was paying attention. That he’d been listening, clocking every tiny detail you never made a big deal about.

So when he asked, “Dinner with me?” and you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because your body was in one of its quiet warning phases, he didn’t try to convince you. He simply offered an alternative.

“I know a rooftop,” He said. “It’s a quiet and private place with a good view. I’ll bring the food.”

You smiled, that same tired-but-warm curve of the lips he was learning to read better each time. “What kind of food?”

“Soft stuff,” He smiled before teasing. “Things that won’t piss off your stomach.”

You laughed, which he counted as a win.

The night of the date, he showed up at your door with a reusable picnic bag over one shoulder and that awkward, lopsided grin of his. You were in your softest clothes, sweatpants and a knit sweater two sizes too big, and your hair wasn’t doing what you wanted it to.

But he looked at you like you were wearing a red carpet gown.

“I like this,” He said simply, and gestured to your entire self. “It’s very you.”

“Exhausted?”

“Real.”

The trip to the rooftop was just a short elevator ride and half a flight of stairs, but halfway up, your legs started to tremble.

You tried to play it off, pausing to “check the sky,” you said. But Bucky had already seen the shift in your breathing, the tremor in your hand as you gripped the railing.

Without a word, he stepped behind you and wrapped an arm gently around your waist, the cool metal of his left hand bracing your spine.

“You okay with help?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded once. He didn’t rush you. Just matched your pace, supporting you the whole way to the roof.

By the time you sat down on the old couch someone had dragged up there years ago, your body was already crashing. You tried to hide it like you always did. But your hands were limp in your lap, your eyes glassy, and your shoulders had that slight slump Bucky was learning to hate.

He knelt beside you.

“Tell me what you need,” He said gently. “No pressure. Just… tell me.”

You wanted to smile. To tell him he didn’t have to stay, or fuss, or worry. But the words stuck somewhere behind your ribs.

“…I don’t want to ruin this.”

His eyes softened. “You’re not.”

“It’s not fair. You finally ask me out and I’m… this.”

“You were always this,” He countered. “And I asked you anyway.”

That made you blink.

He took the blanket from the bag, yes he’d brought one, and wrapped it around your shoulders. Then he pulled out a thermos of broth and a soft rice dish you’d once mentioned in passing. No wine. Just herbal tea. No candles. Just the city lights. No pressure to be anything but what you were.

You looked at him and he didn’t flinch from the fog in your eyes or the weakness in your voice. He didn’t reach for the version of you from the good days. He reached for you.

“I don’t need the perfect night,” He told you gently, watching you carefully. “I just need you.”

You let out a slow, aching breath. “What if I never get better?”

He brushed a knuckle down your cheek. “Then I’ll learn every version of ‘bad’ until I can walk you through it with my eyes closed.”

You felt something in your chest unravel.

And when he curled up beside you, careful not to jostle your fragile form and content to just sit in silence; you knew, with absolute certainty, that this wasn’t the beginning of something fragile.

It was the beginning of something real.

-

There were days that weren’t as pleasant. Yet time and time again, Bucky insisted on staying. Comforting and reassuring you every step of the way.

One afternoon, the apartment was quiet but not the peaceful kind. The kind of silence that pressed against the walls, thick and tense. The kind that settled in your chest and made it hard to breathe.

You sat on the couch with your knees pulled up, a blanket draped around your shoulders even though it was midafternoon. You should’ve taken your meds earlier, should’ve eaten something by now, should’ve answered the texts piling up on your phone. But your joints ached like they were full of broken glass, your head pounded from hours of tension, and every sound, every thought, felt like it might shatter you.

You didn’t hear Bucky come in. Not at first.

He always moved quietly, even when he wasn’t trying to. It was a habit that never left him. A ghost of another life. He didn’t say anything right away, just took in the picture in front of him. The faraway look in your eyes. The way your hand gripped the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering you to the room. The way your body curled in, like it was trying to disappear.

He crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, not touching you yet, but remaining close.

“Hey,” He greeted gently. “Rough day?”

You nodded, barely. Your throat felt too tight to speak.

Bucky waited. He was good at that, waiting. Letting you come to him on your own time with no pressure or pity. Just quiet, patient presence.

But then the words came tumbling out before you could stop them.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracked. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this all the time. With me.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, not in confusion, but in a kind of slow heartbreak. Like he’d heard this before because he had, and every time it hurt more.

He reached slowly, brushing your hand with his gloved fingers before gently taking it in his.

“Don’t say that,” He spoke quietly.

You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “But it’s true. You didn’t sign up for this. For all the canceled plans, and the bad days, and the… God, the way I feel like a burden.”

He exhaled, long and steady, and then stood, just enough to sit beside you. His arm curled around your shoulders, pulling you in with a kind of care that felt deliberate. Solid and unshakeable.

“I know what it feels like to think you’re too much,” He began slowly. “To think you’re broken, that people will get tired, or that you’ll wear them down until they leave.”

You swallowed hard.

“I spent years feeling like that,” He continued. “Even when Steve stayed. Even when Sam stuck by me. It never went away easy. But then I met you.”

His hand found yours again. Held it tighter.

“You taught me that people aren’t burdens. That pain doesn’t make someone less worthy of love. That needing help isn’t weakness.”

You shook your head, voice hoarse. “That’s different. You went through hell. You didn’t choose it.”

“And neither did you.” His voice was low but firm now. “You didn’t ask for this. You fight through more pain in a day than most people even imagine. And you still smile. You still care. You still show up.”

“But this isn’t fair,” Your voice was shaky. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this. You could… you could have anyone.”

Bucky went very still.

You turned your head away. “I don’t want you to stay because you feel obligated. I don’t want to trap you in something broken.”

His voice was low, firm as he asked. “You think I stay out of pity?”

“No. I think you’re kind. And maybe you don’t realize yet how permanent this is. How much this takes. I can’t go on missions with you, I can’t run, I can’t even cook without getting dizzy. Some days I can’t even-“

You broke off. Voice cracking.

“I can’t give you a normal life, Bucky. I’m tired all the time. And someday you’re going to wake up and realize I’m more burden than person and I can’t survive that again-“

Your breath caught. You hadn’t meant to say again. But it was out there now.

He didn’t try to shush you. He didn’t give you empty words or say you’re not broken, or you’re still beautiful, or it’s not that bad. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead gently against yours. His voice was raw and honest.

“You think I want a normal life?”

You blinked at him.

“I spent years being turned into someone else’s weapon,” He whispered. “I wake up some nights not knowing what year it is. I have blood on my hands I can’t wash off, and a mind that doesn’t always feel like mine. You think I came here for normal?”

He exhaled shakily. “No, sweetheart. I came here for you. Just you.”

Your chest caved with a soft, helpless sob.

“I don’t want perfect,” He said. “I don’t want easy. I want real. And you… this pain, this fight, all of it; it’s real. You’re still here. You keep going. And if you think for one second I’m walking away because your body’s at war with you…”

His hand slid into yours, careful and steady.

“…then you don’t know me yet. I choose to be here,” He said. “Not out of obligation. Not because I feel sorry for you. But because I love you. All of you. Even on the bad days. Especially on the bad days.”

Tears welled up before you could stop them. You hated crying in front of people but with Bucky, it never felt like weakness. It just felt honest, safe.

He pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin, wrapping both arms around you like a fortress. “You are not a burden,” He murmured. “You are my home.”

And in the stillness, something inside you began to loosen. Not the pain, no, that stayed. But the guilt, the weight of it all began to lift just a little as you let yourself be held.

For once, it felt okay to just exist. To be loved, even when you didn’t feel lovable.

And Bucky held you like he’d never let you forget it again.

Because he didn’t try to fix you.

He just loved you.

Exactly as you are.

When you find it, let me know 😔 (Lol)

Thank you for reading!!! ♡

A Place They Call Home

Summary: You, a regular person with no powers, become a quiet, comforting presence in Steve’s and Bucky’s lives. They slowly form a deep, romantic bond with you built on quiet moments, mutual care, and unspoken understanding. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 700+

Main Masterlist

You weren’t part of their world, not really. Not in the way most people defined it. No powers, no enhanced serum in your blood, no combat training etched into your muscles. You didn’t fly, or punch through walls, or wear a suit of armor. But somehow, you’d become just as necessary as any shield or weapon.

You met Steve first years ago, back when everything still felt a little raw after one of his missions. You were a barista then, tucked into a cozy corner café just off one of the quieter streets of the city. He came in looking like the ghost of a time long gone, polite to a fault, his smile more habit than warmth. You served him chamomile the first time he walked in and a honeyed espresso the second. By the third visit, he remembered your name. By the fifth, he asked if he could sit near the back, away from the windows. He said it was for the quiet. You didn’t press.

Then came Bucky.

Rough edges and distant eyes. The first time he walked into the café, Steve stood up instinctively like a soldier ready to meet a comrade in arms. You noticed the way Bucky’s eyes flicked over every exit, every reflective surface. The way his hands, always gloved, never truly relaxed. You didn’t say much that day, just placed his coffee on the table with a gentle, “No charge. First one’s always free.” You caught the twitch of his lips. Almost a smile. Almost.

They started coming together after that. Sometimes they’d stay until closing, long after the last customer left, helping you clean tables or fix the flickering light in the storeroom. You never asked them for anything. Maybe that was why they kept coming back.

You didn’t mean to become their safe place.

It started in little moments. Steve would bring you books he thought you’d like. Bucky would fix your broken sink without asking. You’d find yourself cooking too much food and pretending you hadn’t expected them to show up. When the nights grew long and cold, they stayed longer. When the world felt too loud, too harsh, too damn fast, they found themselves in your apartment above the café, Bucky curled into the corner of your couch like he was hiding from the world, Steve softly reading aloud from whatever book he could find on your shelves. You never minded.

You became a routine. A quiet rhythm. The world outside buzzed with chaos, but here, in your apartment lit by mismatched lamps and warmed by the scent of cinnamon and dust, everything stilled. There were nights when neither of them said a word, and yet none of you wanted to leave. Just the soft click of a record player, your hand brushing against Steve’s when you passed him a cup of tea, the way Bucky’s posture would finally relax when he fell asleep on the couch.

You didn’t know when it changed.

Maybe it was the night you found Bucky asleep in your bed, not because he’d planned to be there, but because you’d offered, gently, when he couldn’t stop shaking. Maybe it was the way Steve held your hand after you fell asleep watching an old film, fingers laced like he’d been waiting a lifetime to touch you. Or maybe it was the morning you woke up wedged between both of them on your too-small couch, their heartbeats steady, anchoring you to something real and lasting.

One night, you found yourself dancing in the kitchen. No music, no occasion. Just soft light, leftover pasta cooling on the stove, and Steve’s hand in yours. Bucky leaned against the counter, watching with a fondness he didn’t bother to hide. When he stepped in to join, Steve only smiled, and you felt something shift in the air, like all three of you had silently agreed on something unspoken. Something fragile and deeply needed.

“I never thought peace would look like this,” Steve whispered, forehead resting against yours.

“I didn’t think I deserved it,” Bucky added, his voice quiet from behind you as his arm slid around your waist.

But he did. All three of you did.

And in that tiny kitchen, warm with heart and memory, you realized something simple but powerful: they didn’t come to you because they needed saving.

They came to you because, with you, they were already home.

Oh dear! Maybe I tagged you wrong, that was my first time tagging someone ngl lol

And they’re such troublemakers…really lucky they’re cute. Alpine is definitely the one pulling the strings, that little matchmaker. If I make another part, it would likely be of Reader confronting them or them further trying to get Bucky or Reader to confess ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

Thank you for reading, I’m glad you enjoyed it!

Mischief Meets Alpine

Summary: Bucky introduces Alpine to you and Mischief one afternoon. An intense, one-sided, stare off ensues with an interesting truce that practically leaves you speechless when they start influencing each other for better or worse. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to talk to animals.

Word Count: 2.3k+

A/N: To be honest, I wrote this one based on the idea given by @kissingkillercriminals in their reblog of the prequel. Hope it turns out to be a fun read for you and everyone else. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist | Prequel

It was a slow afternoon in the Tower. Clouds had gathered thickly in the sky, casting a grayish hue through the windows. Rain pattered gently against the glass, the soft drumming filling the silence in the common room.

You were curled up on the armchair with a book in your lap and Mischief lounging across your legs like the possessive feline empress she was. Her tail twitched lazily every few seconds, ears flicking to the rhythm of the raindrops. Her eyes were half-lidded, content.

That is, until the elevator dinged. Her ears perked immediately. You looked up as footsteps echoed down the hallway. Familiar ones.

“Hey,” Bucky greeted from the doorway, a little damp from the drizzle. But he wasn’t alone.

Nestled comfortably in his arms, perched like a queen surveying her domain, was a stunning white cat. Blue-eyed, snowy-soft, and eerily calm, almost regal in the way she looked around the room.

Mischief went still.

Your eyes widened. “Is that… Alpine?” You had heard of Bucky’s cat before, but never seemed to have the chance to meet her until now.

Bucky nodded, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips as he stepped in. “She was pacing by the window when I left the room this morning. Figured she might want a change of scenery.”

Mischief lifted her head. Her pupils narrowed sharply as she fixed her gaze on the uninvited guest. A low growl began to bubble in her throat, barely audible to anyone but you.

You gently placed your hand on her back. ‘Easy’, You thought, not even needing to speak it aloud. She didn’t seem to pick up on your message because her entire body was locked, tense, and offended.

Bucky moved slowly, like he knew he was treading on sacred ground. “Didn’t mean to start a turf war. Just figured maybe it was time.”

You stood slowly, Mischief reluctantly hopping off your lap. Her tail whipped once in warning.

Alpine was unfazed. Her blue eyes landed on Mischief with mild interest. She gave a soft, courteous mrrrow, as if greeting a fellow royal.

Mischief’s eyes narrowed. She sat, but her body language screamed intruder.

“She’s beautiful,” You said gently, watching Alpine with cautious awe. “I didn’t know she was so calm around new places.”

“She’s used to traveling,” Bucky replied, setting Alpine down slowly onto the floor. “Doesn’t like being cooped up. Kinda like me.”

You watched with a held breath as Alpine took a few exploratory steps forward. Mischief didn’t move, but her eyes tracked every inch like a sniper zeroing in. When Alpine got within a few feet, she paused. Then, with the unbothered grace of someone who feared nothing, she laid down.

Mischief hissed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even aggressive. But it was unmistakably territorial.

“Mischief,” You warned softly, crouching next to her. “She’s not a threat.”

Bucky crouched too, beside Alpine, who had begun grooming her paw without a care in the world.

“Look at them,” He said, his voice hushed like it was a secret. “It’s like they’re trying to decide who owns the building.”

You laughed under your breath. “Mischief thinks she owns it.”

“Alpine knows she doesn’t need to prove it.”

As the two cats stared each other down, you caught it, soft and calm, threaded right beneath the silence.

She’s dramatic.

You blinked. Wait… That voice, sleek, composed, feminine, was Alpine’s. Not a meow, not a growl. Words.

You glanced at Bucky, but he was oblivious. Still watching the feline standoff like it was a chess game. Mischief’s growl rose slightly. Alpine remained still.

She likes you. That’s why she hasn’t lunged yet.

Alpine added, her voice as silky as her fur.

But I don’t back down either. So this should be interesting.

You noticed Mischief didn’t seem to hear your telepathic conversation with the newcomer. So you didn’t respond aloud, instead responding in your mind. ’You’re really not bothered, are you?’

He smells like snow and blood, but his hands are gentle. She’s possessive, not of the tower. Of you.

You felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rain. ‘I can see why.’

Mischief hissed quietly, and you caught a flicker of Alpine’s tail.

She wants me to leave.

’Will you?’ You thought, unsure if you were asking out of hope or curiosity.

No. But I’ll wait. I’m patient. She’s not the only one who’s bonded.

The two cats remained still, locked in a silent standoff. Well, more like a one-sided standoff. A slow, deliberate blink passed from Alpine to Mischief.

To your utter shock, Mischief paused for a moment before blinking back. A beat passed before she turned her head and sat down with a huff. Not surrender. But perhaps a reluctant acknowledgment.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Was that…?”

You blinked. “I think that was the feline equivalent of a handshake.”

He grinned, proud. “Progress.”

You looked down at both of them, one lounging and one sulking. You rose to your feet now, and as you did, Mischief brushed your leg with her tail, circling your feet like she was claiming you. Alpine simply hopped onto the rug and began inspecting a string toy left forgotten from Tony’s latest failed bribery attempt.

“So,” Bucky said after a moment, straightening. “What are the chances our girls end up tolerating each other?”

You glanced down at Mischief, who gave you a look that seemed to say, I allow this only because you do.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” You murmured. “But… It’s a start.”

Bucky stepped a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “They’re like us,” He said quietly. “Cautious. But… maybe not beyond letting someone in.”

You turned your head toward him slowly, heart skipping.

“Maybe,” You said. “If they’re lucky enough to find the right person.”

And beneath the steady sound of rain, the two of you watched the loved cats learning the quiet language of trust across the room.

-

Though, you didn’t know what that trust would actually entail. The first incident began with silence, which, in your experience with Mischief, was never a good sign.

The Tower was unusually quiet that morning. You were sipping tea in the kitchen, reading reports while waiting for the coffee machine to finish sputtering its way through Bucky’s drink order. Mischief had been suspiciously absent since breakfast. Alpine had vanished not long after.

You glanced toward the hallway only to find nothing out of the ordinary.

Then, a crash, coming from the direction of Tony’s lab.

Not a small bump or a gentle thud. No, this was a metallic, shattering, the Tony-will-not-be-pleased sort of crash.

You bolted upright, nearly spilling your tea, and sprinted toward the noise. Bucky was already there, jogging in from the elevator, sweatpants loose, hair damp from his time at the gym.

“You heard that too?” He asked, eyes narrowing.

Another sound followed. A high-pitched zip-zip-zip noise, like drones activating. Followed by… pawsteps?

You and Bucky skidded to a stop at the entrance to Tony’s lab. It looked like a bomb had gone off.

Three of Tony’s prototype micro-drones were hovering erratically midair, one of them twirling in panicked circles. The rest lay in pieces scattered across the floor, wires tangled like a crime scene. And in the middle of the chaos sat Alpine, tail curled delicately around her paws, completely unbothered.

On the counter nearby, Mischief crouched with a gleam in her eye that could only be described as unrepentant. She looked directly at you, then at Bucky, and gave a soft meow as if to assert her innocence.

“I think we just missed the heist,” You said breathlessly.

Bucky muttered, “Alpine was supposed to be the calm one.”

“I never said Mischief was a good influence.”

You both stepped forward carefully, surveying the disaster. Mischief had clearly pried open one of the drawers, Tony’s "Do Not Touch" ones. Wires were dragged out like spaghetti noodles. A spilled jar of who knows what rolled lazily across the floor.

“Is that my cloaking device?” Came a voice from the hallway.

You winced as Tony rounded the corner before stopping dead at the sight.

Alpine jumped gracefully down and walked over to Bucky’s feet, brushing against him as if she hadn’t just helped dismantle a small fortune in tech.

Tony's eye twitched. “Why are your cats smarter than my interns?”

“I ask myself that every day,” Bucky said, scooping up Alpine. “You didn’t leave any exploding gadgets out, right?”

“Not this week,” Tony snapped, waving a tablet like a club. “Do you even understand what they’ve broken? That drone was programmed to help defuse bombs.”

“I’m sure they had a good reason,” You offered, not that it helped, gently lifting Mischief off the counter. She purred, content and absolutely smug.

“Ask her what the hell kind of reason that would be,” Tony snapped at you.

You looked at Mischief, questioning in a flat tone. “Why?”

Mischief stretched lazily, flicked her tail, and in a nonchalant, mental whisper, said:

It blinked first.

You groaned at the excuse, hesitating before giving the answer. “She says it blinked at her.”

Tony blinked. “It blinked? That’s your defense?”

“She’s a cat, Tony.”

“Whatever.” He pointed at Bucky. “And your cat?”

Bucky looked down at Alpine, who yawned wide and graceful. She murmured to you with eerie composure,

I wanted to know if it could fly backward. It couldn’t.

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

“What?” Tony demanded, head snapping towards you.

You waved him off. “You… don’t want to know.”

Later that evening, after Tony had barricaded the lab and implemented new retinal scans to keep out the feline menaces (his words, not yours). You found Bucky in the living room with Alpine lying beside him with a toy and Mischief perched on the back of the couch.

“They’re lucky they’re cute,” You muttered, flopping down beside him.

Bucky glanced sideways. “I think they’re bonding.”

“They broke a drone.”

“Exactly.”

You looked at the two cats now comfortably sharing the space, Alpine nibbling at the feather toy, Mischief eyeing the object like it had wronged her.

You shook your head. “It’s like watching spies team up.”

“They are spies,” Bucky corrected, definitely not taking this seriously, evident by the grin he wore. “Tiny, furry, manipulative spies.”

Mischief flicked her tail in agreement as Alpine blinked slowly. And for a brief moment, peace, albeit temporary, settled over the Tower.

-

However, while the first incident was annoying for Tony, the second was catered more toward you and Bucky.

It started small to the point where you didn’t notice it at first. Mischief, your eternally territorial shadow, began to behave… differently. She still took up her usual place on your lap, still growled at anyone who got too close, and still owned the Tower like she paid the bills. But she started following you and Bucky when you left rooms. Lingering in the halls, appearing on counters and ledges when the two of you happened to be in the same space.

Alpine, meanwhile, watched everything from a perch of regal detachment, or so it seemed. But you knew better since you heard her.

Don’t hiss this time. Just watch. Let him sit next to her first.

You had paused when you heard it the first time, over breakfast. Mischief was on the table (illegally), staring daggers at Bucky as he walked in. Alpine, curled on the windowsill, barely flicked her tail, but her voice unintentionally slipped into your thoughts again as she directed the ‘secret’ information to Mischief:

She likes it when he brings her things and when he calls her 'trouble.' You should let her admit that.

You almost choked on your toast, but didn’t say anything when Bucky looked over at you with a questioning, concerned gaze.

That was the first clue.

The second clue came two days later, when Bucky was helping you patch up a cut you'd gotten during training. It was nothing, barely a nick, but he'd insisted. Kneeling in front of you, his gloved hand cradled your wrist while the other applied antiseptic.

Mischief watched from the armrest, her ears twitching. It was clear she was tense, jealous… until Alpine hopped up beside her and gently nudged her with her head.

Now. Purr. So she relaxes.

Mischief blinked slowly, tail twitching. Then, shockingly, she purred. Loudly and deeply. You actually laughed, easing into the moment, and Bucky glanced up at you with that rare, boyish half-smile that made your chest ache.

You knew that had been Alpine's doing. And Mischief, traitor that she was, seemed fine with it.

The third clue? Bucky confessed it.

You were sitting together in the lounge late one night, watching the rain tap softly at the windows, each of you nursing mugs of tea. Mischief dozed between you on the couch. Alpine had curled beside her, touching, no less. A miracle in itself.

Bucky tilted his head toward the sleeping cats. “You know, Alpine's been… weird.”

“Weird how?”

He hesitated. “She… keeps pushing me toward you.”

Your heart did a very stupid, very hopeful thing. “She told you that?”

He gave you a sheepish look. “She doesn’t talk to me like she talks to you, of course. But she’ll nudge me when I move away too soon. Block seats unless I sit beside you. Once she knocked my phone out of my hand when I was trying to leave the room.”

You could feel your heart beat faster, but tried to cover up your nervousness with a laugh, joking a little. “She’s matchmaking.”

“I think Mischief’s in on it, too. Last night, she dragged your hoodie into my room.”

Your eyebrows shot up. So that’s where your hoodie went, of all places.

“And then Alpine slept on it like it was a peace offering.”

You looked down at the two curled balls of fur, now subtly pressed together. Mischief’s tail lay loosely draped over Alpine’s back.

“Is this what a truce looks like?” You whispered.

Bucky’s fingers brushed yours, and you didn’t pull away.

“Looks like,” He murmured.

You didn’t answer this time, but your fingers curled around Bucky’s gently as Alpine purred softly and Mischief, even in sleep, didn’t object.

That was enough of an answer until either of you could act on the same thing both of your hearts wanted.

⋆༺Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist༻⋆

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: A collection of different one-shots with an unhinged reader as a chaotic whirlwind of misplaced confidence, untraceable knowledge, and genuine good intentions. People find you to be both a genius and an idiot, and no one can determine which side wins more often.

Main Masterlist

Keys | Fluff ✿ | Angst ⛆ | Dark 𓉸 | Hurt/Comfort ❦

✿ Heart First, Sanity Later - You, a dangerously chaotic genius with the common sense of a soggy spoon, somehow captures the heart of Bucky Barnes. Despite the constant emotional whiplash, raccoon-related injuries, and deeply cursed inventions, Bucky finds himself falling hard.

✿ Disastrous Dates - Bucky wanted to take you on an actual date. It was meant to be sweet. Normal. Quiet. Unfortunately, you were involved. So naturally, it was none of those things.

✿ Certified Genius, Unlicensed Moron - Exploring more of your relationship and dynamics with the rest of the Avengers, they are well-acquainted with how much whiplash and how many headaches you give them on a daily.

✿ Oops, I Joined a Cult Again - You joined a cult. That’s it.

✿ Operation: Lover’s Retreat (You Think) - Sent on a recon mission in the Carpathian Mountains, you treat it like a romantic getaway including but not limited to bath bombs, a sparkly kazoo, and one shared bed. Bucky remains constantly torn between exasperation and deep affection.

✿ Unqualified, Unhinged, and Unforgettable - A bunch of excited, hopeful rookies have the absolute displeasure honor of being trained under you.

✿ Chaos Counseling - You accidentally becomes the Avengers' unofficial therapist, delivering unhinged wisdom that changes lives whether they like it or not.

✿❦ Glitter, Gunfire, and Grape Juice - You throw yourself between a rookie and an energy blast. Bucky panics.

✿ Infected by the Chaos - Overtime, your questionable tendencies and unpredictable phrases have rubbed off onto your boyfriend. The team reacts by trying their best to un-corrupt the supersoldier.

Good afternoon, my lovelies. I am currently on my 12+ hour car ride back home and will try to post at least one fic later tonight. Hope everyone is doing well and thank you all again for all the support and engagement recently! Happy reading!!! ♡

The Solstitial Truce

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Angel!reader

Summary: You met him at the border between realms every solstice. Neither of you spoke of the war or how many souls were claimed. You simply watched the stars together, two entities out of place, bound by quiet conversation and the kind of silence that speaks more than words ever could.

Word Count: 2.5k+

A/N: This takes place in the winter solstice by the way! I had this idea earlier and hope you like it as much as I did. I tried to do more descriptive language/scenes. This has ANGST and is left on a cliffhanger by the way. References to a war too, but not explored. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

The sky was a tapestry of frozen silence.

Stars flickered like dying embers, scattered across the heavens above the boundary. The solstice wind stirred the trees into brittle whispers, and the snow under your feet crunched with every tentative step. You shouldn’t have been there. Angels weren’t meant to wander so close to the borderland, not without orders, not without reason.

But tonight, something had drawn you in. A pull like a thread around your ribs, subtle but unyielding. You followed it, quiet, unsure, your wings folded close to your back like a secret you weren't ready to share.

And then, you saw him.

At first, you thought it was a shadow. A patch of darkness that refused to yield to the moonlight. But no. He moved. Slowly, with the weariness of someone who had lived through too many endings.

He knelt in the snow near a half-dead tree, one hand buried in the frozen soil, fingers clenched like he could still hold onto something that had long since slipped through. Smoke curled faintly around him, not from fire, but from him. It coiled at his shoulders like a protective beast, breathing in rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest.

You froze when you realized who he was. A demon.

Not just any demon, him. The Winter Demon. The one they spoke of in the higher halls. The one who fell long ago but never quite burned out. You recognized him from the whispers. A former soldier. A shattered soul. A blade that had once been wielded by hell itself.

Your hand moved instinctively toward the hilt of your blade, but you didn’t draw it. Something in you held back.

He didn’t move or flinch. Didn’t seem surprised by your presence either.

“I thought angels didn’t walk this far down,” He spoke in a voice low and rough, like it had been dragged through gravel and time. “Unless they’re looking for a fight.”

You hesitated. “I’m not here to fight.”

He chuckled, but it was a hollow sound. “That’s what the last one said.”

You stayed silent, watching him closely. He didn’t turn. Didn’t rise. Just kept his hand in the dirt, like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

The wind stirred again, ruffling the edges of your robes. Your wings shifted restlessly, feathers rustling with unease.

“I’m not here on Heaven’s orders,” You finally answered, your voice barely audible over the wind. “I came because… I felt something. A pull.”

“Funny,” He muttered. “So did I.”

That made you blink.

He finally looked up, just enough for you to see his face, half-shadowed, but unmistakable. There was no cruelty there. No hunger for sin or conquest. Just exhaustion. Blue eyes that had seen centuries of death, hands that had done terrible things, and yet, beneath it all, still remembered mercy.

“I should leave,” You said quietly, unsure whether it was directed to him or to yourself.

“Then why haven’t you?”

The question hung in the cold air between you like an open wound. You didn’t give him an answer because truthfully, you didn’t have one. So you stayed.

Not close and not far. Just within sight. The two of you sat there, separated by ruthlessness and faith, by war and fire, peace and light. You didn’t speak again that night. You just watched the stars together.

And for a brief moment, the world felt like it had paused. As if Heaven and Hell had looked the other way, just long enough for two things that should never coexist to breathe in the same silence.

When you finally rose to leave, he didn’t stop you. But he didn’t look away either. And somehow, you knew you’d see him again. And you did.

You never ask his name.

He never asks yours.

There’s no point, not here, not in this place where names don’t hold power, where they melt into the snow like forgotten prayers. You know what he is and he knows what you are. That remains enough for now.

Solstice after solstice, you come back to the edge of the world, to the boundary where no song from Heaven reaches and no scream from Hell echoes. The silence here is sacred in its own way. Unclaimed. Unwatched. It belongs only to you and to him.

This time, you arrive before he does. The frost has crept higher since last year, lacing the dead branches in silver threads that catch the moonlight like cobwebs made of glass. You sit on a stone half-buried in snow, your wings draped around your shoulders like a cloak.

You don't wait long before you feel him.

Not see. Feel.

The temperature shifts subtly. The wind thickens. The smell of ash and old iron fills the air.

He walks through the trees as though they part for him, his breath visible in the cold. The same worn coat, the same heavy boots. The metal of his left arm catches the moonlight like ice. And as always, the smoke follows him, not malicious, just… present. Like a memory he can't shake off.

He sits beside you without a word, the way he always does.

You don’t look at each other at first. There’s no need. You both understand the rules of this fragile ritual: no questions, no fights, and no judgment.

You sit in the cold, close enough to feel the soft heat of him. His unnatural warmth, something Hell must have carved into his bones to keep him burning in all the wrong ways. You stay far enough that the stars won’t take notice, won’t whisper of betrayal.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The frost creeps slowly over the fallen branches, delicate and determined. You both watch it, as if it matters. As if the way it grows, inch by inch, might teach you something about stillness. About survival.

Like usual, sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't.

Tonight, he breaks the silence first.

“I used to be human,” He confesses, almost absently. His eyes stay fixed on the sky, where clouds drift like smoke across the moon. “A long time ago.”

You glance at him, not surprised. You had suspected it. There was always something in the way he spoke, the way he moved, like he hadn’t quite forgotten what it meant to bleed in the ways that mattered.

He continues before you can answer. “Can’t remember much. Just flashes. Pain. Screaming. Cold water. And someone-“ He cuts himself off with a bitter breath. “I think I had a name before… Bucky. Maybe that was it or maybe not.”

You don't speak immediately. The words settle like snow, quiet and heavy.

Then, ever so softly, you speak: “You remember enough to mourn it.”

He turns his head a fraction, just enough to meet your eyes. He doesn’t refuse your comment, doesn’t try to argue. And that, somehow, feels more painful than anything else.

You both return to silence as he leans back against a frost-bitten tree, metal fingers twitching restlessly in his lap. You can feel something aching inside him, coiled too deep for words. Guilt? Regret? Or maybe just the echo of what once was.

You don’t try to fix it. You just stay. Because that’s the unspoken promise of the truce. Not salvation. Not forgiveness. Just presence.

And somehow, in a world that burned the both of you down into what you are now… maybe that’s enough.

-

During your next meeting, the snow falls heavier this time.

It comes in thick, whispering sheets, softening the world until even your footsteps are silenced. The sky is overcast, swallowing the stars, and yet you walk the old path by memory. Your wings are hidden this time beneath a dark cloak. Your halo, long dimmed near the boundary, pulses faintly, a reminder of the place you still belong to, even if you don't feel like you do.

He's already there when you arrive, perched on a broken stone wall, hood drawn low, and smoke curling lazily around his shoulders. He doesn’t look at you when you approach, but his metal fingers tap once against the stone, a quiet acknowledgment. A habit, maybe. Or a signal meant just for you.

You sit beside him, brushing snow off the ledge. Neither of you says anything for a long time. The snowfall thickens. It clings to your lashes, melts slowly against the heat of his shoulder when it drifts close. You almost lean toward him. Almost. But you don’t. Because this… this thing between you isn’t named or defined. It’s a careful, wordless balance, like walking a tightrope strung between Heaven and Hell. And you don’t know what happens if one of you leans too far.

So you speak instead.

“They’re starting to wonder where I go,” You murmur. “The others.”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “Same.”

You glance at him, startled. You didn’t think demons would care.

“I shouldn’t be here. They don’t trust me much,” He says. “Never did. I’m not… obedient enough. Still got too many memories, I think.”

You study the side of his face, how the flickering light catches the scar near his jaw, how snow gathers in the folds of his coat, how his eyes stay fixed on the horizon like he’s waiting for something that never arrives.

You whisper, “Why do you keep coming back here?”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares into the white blur of the trees.

Then: “Because this is the only place I don’t feel like I’m supposed to be anything.”

The words hit harder than they should as you can feel your throat tighten. Because you understand. Because that’s the reason you come too. Not for salvation. Not for curiosity. But because here, on this forgotten ledge at the edge of war, you get to just exist.

Not as a Weapon or a Symbol. Not a Messenger, Servant, or Slave either. Just… as yourself. And maybe that’s why it almost happens.

The shift.

It begins as silence, broken only by the snowfall and the distant cry of something too old for naming. Your knees are nearly touching. His arm is barely a breath from your shoulder. And then, he turns to you. Really turns to you. The snow on his lashes. The flicker in his eyes. The pain he doesn’t speak about and the comfort he doesn’t ask for.

You don’t breathe.

His hand lifts slightly, hesitating between you, as if asking without asking. As if unsure whether reaching out will ruin everything you’ve built from the silence and distance.

Your breath fogs between you and you don’t move as that moment hangs like crystal in the air. Fragile. Shimmering. Dangerous.

But then he blinks and withdraws, looking away. The space between you swells again with all the things you didn’t say. All the things you didn’t do.

He clears his throat. “Should go. They’ll notice.”

You nod, but don’t stand.

He hesitates, then turns, walking back through the trees. The smoke follows him. Softer now. Calmer.

You stay until the snowfall covers where he sat. You don’t cry. Angels don’t cry. But something in you bends. And maybe next solstice… maybe it will break.

-

The snow is late this year.

The sky is too clear, too wide, the moon too full, as if the heavens are watching, waiting. You sit on the same broken stone wall, cloak wrapped tight, wings folded beneath layers of quiet. You haven’t spoken aloud since your last meeting. No words seem right unless they’re for him.

He’s late this time. You don’t pace. Angels don’t pace. But your fingers twitch and your breath stutters. The frost gathers along your lashes, and still, he does not come.

Then… you hear movement. The trees stir. Smoke curls through the air, faint at first, then thick, clinging to the wind like a memory refusing to be forgotten. And then he’s there. Shoulders hunched. Jaw tight. There’s a limp in his step you’ve never seen before. Something about the way he moves, it’s quieter. Smaller. Like he’s folding in on himself.

You don’t speak yet. Not yet. You watch as he stops before reaching the wall. He doesn’t move to sit. He stands there, hood shadowing his face, and one hand clenched tight inside his coat pocket. The other twitches at his side, fingers curling and uncurling like he’s trying to hold onto something too fragile.

You wait, watching him in silence for a minute. Two. Ten.

Finally, he speaks.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

Your voice is steady, even if your heart stumbles. “You say that every year.”

His eyes lift to yours. Something in them flickers resembling pain maybe, or guilt.

“No.” The word is thick. Real and raw. “I mean it this time.”

You don’t ask why. You could. You could demand the answer, peel it from his throat if you wanted. But some truths aren’t meant to be touched. Some are better left where they lie, between silence and suspicion.

Instead, you ask quietly, “Then why come?”

He looks down, taking a slow breath before moving closer to you. Slowly and Carefully, like it costs him something. From inside his coat, his gloved hand emerges, clenched around something small and heavy. When he opens it, the object catches the moonlight and your breath.

A coin. Worn. Misshapen. Half-melted, like it passed through fire and never forgot. Its edges are jagged, dangerous, like the lives it's touched. Like his life. You know what it truly is though.

A soul coin.

You’ve only seen one before, only once a long time ago. It served as proof of salvation. The kind no demon carries unless they’ve done the unthinkable, not damn a soul, but save it. It is a mark of rebellion, of change. Of loss.

He holds it for a moment more, then steps closer before holding it out to you. You hesitate, but only for a heartbeat. Your fingers close around it gently, reverently. It’s warm. Alive, almost. You can feel its weight and the cost of it.

And then, his voice, quieter now.

“Proof,” He states. “That I’m not all gone.”

Your eyes search his face, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way he’s trembling, but only slightly, like a man who’s fought too long and finally let himself feel it.

“Why give this to me?” You ask, barely above a whisper.

You watch as his gaze drops and hear the silence swell between you. Then, he says it. The thing that breaks you.

“Because next solstice…” He stops. His throat works around a word he doesn’t speak. His eyes close, “I might not be here.”

And that’s when it hurts. Because demons don’t lie. Not like this. Not with this kind of sorrow. You reach for him, but he steps back. Not in fear or nervousness this time. In resolution.

Like if you touched him now, he’d stay. And he’s already chosen to leave. When he vanishes, it isn’t with fire. It’s with smoke swirling softly and quietly. Like the ghost of a memory that never settled right.

He leaves behind nothing more than the coin in your hand, still warm, and a silence that feels too alive to be empty. A terrible ache in your chest builds, because angels don’t hope.

But tonight, you do. You hope to see him again.