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kurogxrix · 6 days ago

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Toy Soldier (part 1)

Bit by bit, torn apart. We never win, but the battle wages on.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Fluff. Smut. Dark content: Sexual Assault Wounds(Bucky) tried to make it as vague as possible but, there are mentioned. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence.

Summary: She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

Word Count: 5.6.k.

notes: Even though this fic includes fluff, smut, and the tone I usually maintain in my stories, there will be flashbacks to unpleasant events that might be triggering. Please read the warnings carefully, and if I’ve missed any, feel free to let me know. More tags will be added in the future.

The cell reeked of bleach and iron, a suffocating blend of sterility and blood. She sat huddled in a corner with her knees drawn to her chest, shaking from the lingering aftershocks of what they had made her do mere hours ago. A steel table in the center of the room bore the evidence: blood-soaked rags, reinforced restraints, and instruments that glinted menacingly under the harsh light.

The door creaked open, and she flinched instinctively. Her pulse quickened as they rolled him in on a gurney, his body was impossibly broken again, but somehow, still alive. The Winter Soldier. His mask was cracked, exposing a bruised cheekbone, his metallic arm hung at an unnatural angle, wires sparking like dying fireflies. His tactic suit was shredded, revealing deep gashes that glistened with dark blood.

"Fix him," the handler barked, void of empathy. He tossed a clipboard onto the table, detailing every injury, every broken bone, every expectation to her work. "We need him ready by morning."

She didn’t move at first. She never did. But the familiar press of a gun muzzle against her temple jolted her into action. They didn’t tolerate hesitation.

Her bare feet slapped against the cold tiles as she approached the table. Soldat’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his blue eyes were half-lidded and glassy, staring past her into the abyss. She wondered, briefly, if he even felt the pain anymore, or if the agony had simply become a part of him, stitched into his body like the scars of the wounds she was forced to erase.

She laid her trembling hands over his chest, cutting the remnants of the suit and rushing her power forward like a tide, knitting sinew, mending fractures, restoring what should have been allowed to rest. His body convulsed as the healing process awakened raw nerve endings. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of both relief and torment and her eyes burned with unshed tears.

"Good pet," the handler sneered, patting her head, "Keep going."

As the minutes dragged into hours, her hands moved mechanically, weaving muscle and bone back into place. Every touch drew more from her, siphoning her strength to pour life into a body that shouldn’t be able to withstand such brutality. The process left her light-headed, and her vision started blurring at the edges, but she didn’t dare falter. They would notice. They always noticed.

As her hands pressed over a jagged wound on his side, a faint tremor ran through his body. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and his eyes fluttered open. Glassy and unfocused at first, they slowly, impossibly, found her. A vacant gaze, yet somehow piercing, locked onto her face as if trying to understand who she was and what she was doing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them. She kept her voice low, trembling, her fingers brushing the edge of the wound as she worked. “I don’t want to do this. I’m sorry.”

His gaze didn’t falter, even as she murmured the apology again, with a cracking voice. He didn’t speak -he probably couldn’t- but the weight of his stare felt like an answer. He knew. Somehow, he knew.

More time passed, and the room emptied. The guards left her alone with him, trusting her to finish her work under the ever-present cameras. The sterile silence closed in around them. She wiped the sweat from her brow and whispered again, “I’m sorry,” her voice breaking completely now. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

Soldat blinked slowly, almost as if acknowledging her words, but his body remained still. Her fingers lingered over his shoulder where fresh skin covered what had been a deep gash, and couldn’t stop herself from caressing his bloodied temple before going back to mend him.

By the time she finished, her legs felt like water, barely holding her upright. The Soldat’s breathing had evened, the jagged cuts on his skin replaced by fresh, pale scars. His metal arm still hung limp, but it wasn’t her area of expertise. He looked human again, or as close to human as Hydra would ever allow him to be. She allowed herself to caress him again as if that gentle touch could make up for what her actions on his body entailed, his endless torment.

When the door creaked open, the spell was broken. The handler barked a question she didn’t hear over the roaring in her ears. Then he stepped forward, inspecting her work with a critical eye. He tugged at Soldat��s extremities and poked his body, then he turned to her with a smile that chilled her blood.

“Well done,” he said, sickeningly sweet. “See? You’re still useful. You’ve earned yourself another day.”

The words felt like a slap, a grim reminder of her reality. She wasn’t a person to them. She was a tool, an extension of their will, just as much a prisoner as the man she had just saved. Her power was her curse, chaining her to a life of servitude. And for what? To keep the Winter Soldier standing. To ensure he could carry out their dirty work, kill their enemies, and endure whatever horrors they deemed necessary for him to endure.

The handler gestured to the guards. “Take her back. She’ll need her strength for tomorrow.”

They grabbed her arms, dragging her toward the door. Soldat's eyes shifted for a moment, trailing her as they walked her out, his gaze still glazing but faintly flickering with awareness. Then the door slammed behind her, sealing them both back into their respective hells.

----

The cryopreservation always left her disoriented, the passage of time reduced to a murky void of nothingness. Days, months, years, they blurred together into a haze she couldn’t untangle. Based on the count of the meager breakfasts slid through the cell door, it had been two days since they’d pulled her from the tube. Her body still ached from the cold, and the numbness clung stubbornly to her limbs.

When the metallic clank of the cell door jolted her from her thoughts, she instinctively tensed. Two guards stood there, gesturing sharply for her to follow.

The halls they guided her through were unfamiliar. These weren’t the sterile corridors leading to the medical bay. These walls were darker and the air was heavier, and the faint hum of machinery was replaced by an unsettling silence. Confused, she knit her brows but swallowed the urge to ask.

When they descended a narrow staircase, her stomach sank. The flickering lights cast long shadows against concrete walls. They passed rows of heavy metal doors, each marked with faint rust and grime. No cells with bars, no windows, just solid slabs of steel.

Her breath hitched when they stopped in front of a door near the end of the corridor. One guard yanked it open with a screech that set her teeth on edge. The other shoved her forward, barking a single command: “Fix it.”

The door slammed shut behind her, and the sound echoed in the cramped room. She stood frozen, since the stench hit her like a physical blow: blood, sweat, semen, and something else she couldn’t place.

Her gaze darted around the sparse room. A cot pushed against one wall. A table cluttered with ominous instruments. And in the corner, barely illuminated by the flickering overhead bulb, the Soldat.

Her breath left her in a shaky exhale as she took him in. He was curled into himself, naked, trembling despite the heat radiating from his abused flesh. Blood and cum stained his thighs, while bruises painted his skin in grotesque patterns. His wrists and ankles bore the raw marks of restraints, and burns and welts layered over old scars, turning his body into a tapestry of pain.

But it was his face that shattered her. A blank mask with hollow and distant wet eyes, haunted by whatever horrors had left him in this state.

She forced herself to move. When her shadow fell over him, his head snapped up and his vacant blue eyes locked onto hers. The movement was sharp and instinctive, but he didn’t lash out, didn’t flinch. He simply stared, as though he were looking through her rather than at her.

She paused for a moment, crouching to his level, resting her hands lightly on her knees. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice steady. “I’m here to help you.”

He didn’t respond. The haunted emptiness in his expression pierced her chest. He didn’t deserve this. “I know,” she said softly, inching closer. “I know it hurts. I’ll do what I can.”

She reached for him carefully, brushing his arm. His muscles tensed under her touch, but he didn’t pull away. Gently, she guided his arm away from where he’d been clutching his side, revealing the bruises and burns scattered across his flesh. Her stomach churned, but her hands remained steady. She had no room for hesitation, no time to falter.

As she worked, she whispered to him, not apologies this time, but reassurances. “I’m with you now, I’ll make this right, even if it’s only for now.”

As expected, he didn’t speak, didn’t move beyond the involuntary twitches of his battered body. But his eyes stayed on her, betraying a silent acknowledgment, a fragile thread of trust.

She tried to focus on the burns on his chest, the raw welts along his ribs, anything but the bruises and blood marking his inner thighs. But eventually, she had no choice. The damage there couldn’t be ignored. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she shifted closer, and her hands trembled for the first time that day.

She couldn’t comprehend it. Couldn’t understand how anyone could twist a man into this, into something pliable, stripped of will, used like a puppet for their every vile whim. The red book and the chair had shattered his mind, and then they’d wielded that power not only to carry out their heinous crimes but also to satiate their carnal perversions.

“Soldat,” she said softly as she crouched closer. “I need to see the rest.”

His chest started to rise and fall in shallow breaths. His lip was caught between his teeth, bitten hard enough to draw blood. The distant, vacant expression he’d worn before had given way to something else now, resignation, or shame.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “I know it's private -should it be-, and it hurts a lot… but I promise I’ll make it better, yes?”

Her tone was as soft as she could make it, the kind someone might use with a frightened child. For a moment, there was nothing. Then he exhaled and shifted ever so slightly, granting her access. The movement wasn’t much, but it spoke volumes. He didn’t fight her. He didn’t resist. Even now, after everything, he complied.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her hands moved carefully, brushing his battered flesh with as much gentleness as she could muster. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her focus on the healing, not on the tears threatening to spill over. Every touch she had to make felt like another betrayal of his dignity, but she couldn’t leave him like this, they wouldn’t leave him like this.

“It’s not fair,” she said under her breath “Fuck, it’s not fair.”

Every so often, her gaze flicked to his face, but he didn’t look at her this time. His eyes were closed, and his body was eerily still except for the faint shudder of his breathing.

—-

Some days, she wondered if he resented her. If he was even capable of that. She wasn’t the one inflicting the pain, wasn’t the one abusing him, but she was the one who ensured he survived it. She pieced him together, over and over, a cruel kind of mercy that prolonged his torment. Without her, they wouldn’t have been able to keep breaking him the way they did.

It haunted her.

Sometimes, it seemed like he remembered her. On the rare occasions when his body was whole and he wasn’t immediately dragged back out for another mission or another “session,” his vacant gaze would linger on her. Just a flicker of recognition in those haunted blue eyes, something that made her wonder if, somewhere beneath the chaos they’d inflicted on his mind, a part of him knew who she was.

Other times, he didn’t seem to know her at all. He would stare past her like she wasn’t even there. She didn’t know which was worse: the possibility that he hated her or the possibility that he didn’t think of her at all.

-----

Nine years had passed since her escape from their clutches. Nine years since Captain America and his team put down Pierce and dismantled Hydra’s plans, the Soldat went missing and she got away in the chaos of the fight.

In the early days, survival had been a constant struggle. She’d wandered aimlessly at first, her coarse, prison-like clothes drawing stares from strangers who gave her a wide berth. The world was unrecognizable: a kaleidoscope of flashing screens, roaring cars, and people glued to strange, glowing devices. Everything felt faster, louder, and infinitely more confusing than the world she remembered.

For a couple of days, she kept to the shadows, but the hunger and desperation eventually pushed her to the edge. One night, trembling and exhausted, she walked into a police station. The officer at the front desk glanced at her with a mixture of suspicion and concern, likely wondering if she had escaped from a mental institution. And maybe, in a way, she had. She tried to explain, spilling out her words in a garbled mess of decades-old trauma. She told them about being taken, about Hydra, about the years spent in cryo. The officer raised a skeptical eyebrow and asked her to sit while he "sorted things out."

She knew they didn’t believe her. Not until one of the younger officers, fresh off patrol, walked in with a nasty road burn on his arm. She didn’t think, just acted. In seconds, the wound knitted itself back together under her glowing hands. The room fell silent, every set of eyes fixed on her in a mix of fear and awe.

From there, things moved quickly. The police dug into her story, and to everyone’s shock, her name and photo flagged a cold case from October 1962, a missing person report filed by her family. A woman who had disappeared without a trace, and presumed dead after two years of fruitless searching.

But what the police uncovered was too big for them to handle alone. They passed her case to federal authorities, and soon, she found herself in the hands of people who promised her a fresh start, though she quickly learned that nothing came without strings attached.

The feds helped her establish a new identity, gave her a place to live, and taught her how to navigate the modern world. In exchange, she worked for them using her mutant powers to heal injuries, aid covert operations, and clean up the messes no one else could.

Still, the past lingered in her mind, haunting her in the quiet moments. She often wondered what had become of the Winter Soldier, since freedom, she realized, was not the same as peace.

In the years that followed, she began piecing the fragments of her past into the puzzle of the present. The world had changed in ways she struggled to comprehend, yet she adapted, carving out a relatively ‘normal’ existence.

Then, one day, she heard his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

She learned about him in bits and pieces from news reports and whispered conversations among the people she worked with. Steve Rogers' best friend. The Winter Soldier.

The details unfolded like a tragic epic: framed in a terrorist attack, slipping under the radar, fighting in Wakanda, only to vanish in the Blip. And then, five years later, he returned. His face, no longer the blank mask of the Soldat, appeared on screens everywhere as the government pardoned him under strict conditions: mandatory therapy and restricted accommodations, a leash that kept him just shy of true freedom.

She watched every news segment, every interview. He wasn’t the weapon she remembered. There was something different in his eyes. Half-masked pain, certainly, but also humanity. He was trying, struggling to reclaim himself, to exist in a world that only knew him as a ghost or a monster.

It wasn’t an obsession. At least, that’s what she told herself. It was curiosity, concern, a connection she couldn’t sever no matter how hard she tried. Because no one else could understand what they’d been through. No one else had seen the depths of his torment, or felt the same chains biting into their skin.

She hadn’t planned to ever contact him. The idea terrified her. For all she knew, his fractured mind might not even remember her. Worse, maybe he did and resented her for the role she’d played, for the way she’d prolonged his torment under Hydra’s commands. Those thoughts were enough to keep her at a distance, safely watching from the shadows of her new life.

But life and destiny had their ways of unraveling carefully laid plans.

-----

Her work with Sam Wilson had started as another government assignment, one of many designed to keep her powers useful and her secrets buried. Yet, somewhere along the way, it had turned into something more. A friendship. He didn’t know about her past -no one did, actually-. He only knew the version of her life the government had scripted, a fabricated identity polished to perfection.

Leaving that aside, she liked him. He had a way of making her feel less like a displaced ghost and more like a person. Sometimes, they hung out after missions, sharing laughs over beers or stories about the ridiculous situations they found themselves in. And when he came back from a mission bruised or limping, she always tried to help.

That friendship had led her here, to a bustling backyard party, with warm laughter and music filling the air. Sam’s birthday celebration. She had accepted his invitation without thinking much of it, expecting a relaxed evening with a few familiar faces. What she hadn’t expected was to see him.

Standing at the drinks table, not the Winter Soldier, not the cold, empty Soldat she remembered, but James. His shoulders were relaxed, his hair shorter, and his blue eyes clearer than she’d ever seen them. He looked... alive in a way that left her breathless. For a moment, she froze, and her stomach twisted into knots. But there was no turning back now.

Not when he lifted his face after grabbing a glass of soda, only to find her mere inches away, rooted in place and staring at him like a rabbit in the middle of the road.

Her breath caught, and the world around them seemed to fade into a blur of laughter and music as his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The faintest flicker of something -recognition? confusion?- crossed his face. The glass in her hand suddenly felt heavy, and she tightened her grip around it as her heart raced.

“H-hi,” she managed to mutter, almost lost beneath the hum of the party.

He tilted his head slightly, deliberately, as if weighing her. For a long, agonizing moment, he simply looked at her with an unreadable expression. Then his lips parted, and a single word escaped from them, low and hoarse.

“You.”

Her stomach dropped while her mind scrambled for a response. Did he remember her? Or was it just the way her face stirred a distant and fractured memory?

“I-” she started, but the words tangled in her throat.

His gaze darted over her, taking her in: the way she clutched the glass like a lifeline, the way her shoulders tensed, the way she made one step back as though retreating was an option.

Sam’s voice cut through the moment, cheerful and oblivious. “Hey, Buck! Flirting already with one of my girls?”

Bucky flinched, the spell breaking as he snapped his gaze toward Sam, stiffening his posture. “I’m not f-”

“Don’t be a dick with her,” Sam interrupted, grinning as if he were the greatest matchmaker alive. “She’s good people. Y/n, this is Bucky, a pain in the ass but a good friend. Bucky, this is Y/n.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his expression still unreadable as his eyes flicked back to her. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer a hand or a smile, just narrowed his eyes slightly, like he was trying to solve a riddle only he could see.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her instincts screamed at her to move, to flee, to escape his scrutiny before his fractured memories pieced her together.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she squared her shoulders and forced her lips into what she hoped was a polite and not-too-awkward smile. “Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice much steadier than she felt.

Bucky studied her for a moment longer. Finally, he gave a slight nod, stepping back as though he’d decided she wasn’t worth the effort of figuring out. “Yeah. Same,” he muttered before turning to leave.

As he moved away, she exhaled, a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her grip on the glass trembled, the adrenaline coursing through her leaving her both relieved and strangely disappointed.

“Don’t take it personally,” Sam intervened, leaning in with a knowing smirk. “He specializes in a heterogeneous game of staring, brooding, and groaning. Dry comments here and there, too.”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, grateful for the break in tension. “Good to know,” she murmured, still gripping the glass tightly.

Sam patted her shoulder with the easy camaraderie of someone who had no idea the weight of the moment that had just passed. “He’s not so bad once you get past all the walls. Might take a while to crack that nut, but hey, who knows?”

-----

Two months later, Sam called her for a job.

“It’s a simple mission,” he’d explained. “Poland. The higher-ups want you to stay at the safehouse most of the time in case something goes wrong, but if we need someone to move unnoticed -play tourist, fetch intel- they figured you’re our best bet.”

She hesitated for a beat, her instincts screaming at her to say no this time. But she had never ditched a mission before and Sam will be there, so she agreed.

When she climbed aboard the military plane early the next morning, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, she almost turned around and fled.

Bucky was already sitting there, strapped into his seat, with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was as closed off as ever, and his gaze was fixed somewhere on the cabin wall. Her stomach dropped, and before her brain could process what she was doing, she turned sharply on her heel and headed straight for the cockpit.

The pilots greeted her with raised brows, clearly surprised to see her there before takeoff. She forced a nervous smile, chatting with them about flight logistics, weather conditions, anything to stretch the time and delay the inevitable.

“Shouldn’t you be back in the cabin?” one of them asked eventually, glancing at her curiously.

“Just thought I’d keep you company,” she replied, slightly strained.

The hum of the plane’s engines growing louder reminded her she couldn’t hide forever. She exhaled deeply, gripping the doorframe. Maybe, she could slip into some corner, unnoticed once the plane was in the air.

But life wasn’t so kind.

“Sam’s voice came loud and clear, calling her. “C’mon, you’re holding us up!”

Bucky’s head turned, locking his sharp gaze onto her the moment she entered. His expression didn’t shift -no frown, no surprise- but what she saw in those blue eyes made her knees threaten to buckle.

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. “Hi,” she greeted the two men quickly, her voice barely above a murmur, before moving to the furthest seat she could find.

Her hands fumbled as she pulled a book from her bag, flipping it open without even checking the page. She pretended to read, scanning the same line over and over as if the words might somehow shield her from the weight of Bucky’s stare.

Sam furrowed his brows, glancing between them with a mix of confusion and curiosity. He’d been prepared for the usual brooding and disagreements from Bucky -his default settings on most missions- but he’d expected her to be more engaged. She’d always been sharp and chatty, quick to offer solutions or crack a joke, but now she seemed... distant.

He leaned toward Bucky, “Did you scare her off already before I got here?”

Bucky shot him an unimpressed sidelong glance. “I didn’t say a word.”

Sam, determined to break the awkward silence, leaned back in his seat and raised his voice. “Alright, we’re stuck in this tin can for the next few hours. Someone better start talking, or I’m gonna make us all play twenty questions.”

She forced a small smile, though her eyes remained glued to the book. “You win. I’m reading.”

He huffed dramatically, shaking his head. “Tough crowd.” Then he turned back to Bucky. “Guess it’s just you and me, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t respond, his gaze flicking toward her briefly before settling on the wall ahead. His expression remained impassive, but his metal fingers tapped against his thigh, the only sign of some internal debate.

-----

After a while, Sam, ever persistent, leaned forward, and turned to her “So,” he started, casually but probing, “you ever been to Poland in other mission before? Got any recommendations for pierogi spots or are we flying blind here?”

She hesitated, tightening slightly her fingers on the edge of her book. Avoiding interaction had been her plan, but the pointed look Sam sent her way made it clear he wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

Finally, she closed the book with a soft sigh, forcing herself to meet his expectant gaze. “No, never been,” she replied, cautious. “Though I think I read somewhere Kraków’s old town is nice.”

Sam grinned, seizing the opportunity. “Kraków, huh? I’ll take that as a vote to play tourist if we get the chance. “Maybe you can even guide us, seeing as you’re good at blending in.”

“I doubt we’ll have time, Sammy,” she said quickly, trying to deflect.

“Oh, come on,” Sam teased, leaning back in his seat with an exaggerated grin. “You’re one of the friendliest people I know. You’ll probably charm us into some exclusive spots. Earn your keep!”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, shaking her head. “I think you’ve mistaken ‘friendly’ for ‘quiet enough not to get in trouble.’”

Sam smirked, undeterred. “Nah, you’ve got that vibe. People trust you, and open up to you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how often you walk away with more intel than anyone else.”

Her fingers tensed slightly on the edge of her book, but she forced herself to smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment... I think.”

“It is,” Sam replied, his tone warm and easy. “And I’m just saying, if we do get downtime, we’re counting on you to find the good spots.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she managed to say, though her stomach churned under Bucky’s relentless stare.

He hadn’t said a word, but the weight of his gaze made every exchange feel heavier like he was dissecting her responses, searching for cracks in her calm facade. She refused to look at him, focusing instead on Sam’s cheerful grin.

Sam clapped his hands together. “That’s the spirit. See, Buck? She’s already proving more useful than you.”

Bucky huffed, the barest flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before disappearing. “Yeah, well, let’s see if she’s still useful when things go south.”

Her stomach tightened at his words, though she kept her face carefully neutral. It wasn’t outright hostility, but the skepticism in his tone felt like a challenge, a warning wrapped in a dry comment.

Sam rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve gotta work on your people skills. Not everyone you meet is gonna double-cross you, you know.”

Bucky didn’t respond and bit his lower lip as he looked away, clearly done with the conversation.

She forced a small smile, trying to defuse the tension. “I think he’s just saying I should prove myself first.”

Sam shot her an encouraging look. “You don’t need to prove anything to him. Trust me, you’re good-”

“Sam,” Bucky intervened almost dryly. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. This isn’t sightseeing. It’s a mission. If she’s not-”

“I can handle myself,” she interrupted, managing to keep her voice steady despite the sudden rush of heat to her face.

The fact that she addressed directly to him got Bucky’s attention. He turned, locking his gaze onto hers, and for a moment, the silence between them felt heavier than the thrum of the plane’s engines.

“Guess we’ll find out,” he murmured, leaning back slightly in his seat. He kept staring at her sharply and unyielding. After a beat of silence, he added, “And, actually, what exactly do you do?”

Fuck.

The question wasn’t casual, she could see it in the way his eyes stayed fixed on her, a glint of something just beneath the surface. He knew. He was waiting for her to say it, to confirm what he already remembered but was pretending not to.

Sam raised an eyebrow, looking between them. “Bucky, come on. She’s solid, alright? I wouldn’t bring her along if she wasn’t.”

Bucky didn’t even glance at him. His attention stayed locked on her. “I didn’t say she wasn’t solid. Just curious what her... specialty is.”

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. If he wanted to play coy, fine. Two could play that game.

“I’m good at staying unnoticed,” she said, feigning a casual tone “Recon, blending in, getting intel…” She shrugged lightly, as though explaining her skill set was just a routine part of the job.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in faint amusement. “That it?”

She gave him a polite smile, curling her fingers around the edge of the book on her lap. “Well, I’ve been told I’m handy in a pinch. Let’s just say I’ve got a knack for fixing things.”

His lips quirked, but the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fixing things, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied smoothly, ignoring the way her heart raced under his scrutiny. “Little cuts, scrapes, that kind of thing. Nothing too fancy.”

Sam, oblivious to the subtle tension between them, chuckled. “Don’t let her undersell it. She devours. Saved my ass more than once, you wouldn’t believe the absolute carnage I've seen her mend.”

“Good to know,” Bucky commented, with his gaze still locked on her. There was something in his eyes -something sharp-, almost daring her to break first, but she didn’t flinch.

“Just doing my job.” She added, her eyes still glued to the unreadable baby blues.

Bucky leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to say more but decided against it.

Sam glanced between them. “It's pretty early for a staring contest.”

She didn’t answer; she just smiled at him and returned her focus to the book. He remembered, she was sure of it.

Still, if he wanted her to confirm it outright, he’d have to try harder. For now, she’d play his game, and she was determined to win.

-----

The safehouse was a two-bedroom apartment in an old building that groaned with every step. It was cramped but functional, the kind of place that wouldn’t draw attention. As they settled in, Sam tossed his bag onto one of the worn couches and stretched like a cat.

“Alright,” he said, grinning at her. “Do us all a favor and work your magic in the kitchen. I haven’t had a proper meal in weeks, and I can’t survive on takeout and those protein bars Bucky packs.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Cooking would give her something to focus on, and it was the perfect excuse to isolate for a couple of hours.

“Fine, let’s see what I can do,” she muttered, scurrying inside the kitchen.

“You’re the best!” Sam called, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll be back soon, gotta meet a contact nearby. You two... play nice.”

The sound of the door closing made her grimace. She exhaled slowly, tying an old apron on her waist as she dug through the sparse pantry and fridge. Within minutes, she was chopping some potatoes, humming Animals while she was at it, because fuck it all.

She felt the weight of his gaze pressed against her back like a physical thing before she heard him. He stood in the kitchen doorway, quiet and unmoving, a presence impossible to ignore.

Her grip on the knife tightened, but she didn’t turn around. “Need something?”

“No.” The simple word carried so much weight that it made her pause mid-cut.

She exhaled slowly and resumed her task. “Then why are you standing there?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretched until it became almost unbearable.

“You’re good at it.”

Her hand froze. “At what?”

“Pretending.”

She forced herself to keep chopping, while her pulse hammered in her ears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” His tone didn’t carry malice, but the words felt heavier than any accusation. He leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms. “I remember you.”

Her chest tightened, and the room suddenly felt smaller. “You’re mistaken,” she said flatly.

“I’m not.” He took another step forward. His tone was soft, but the words were unrelenting. “You were there. Hydra.”

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kurogxrix · 13 days ago

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is it too late to tell y’all that english isn’t my first language?

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kurogxrix · 14 days ago

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Sonon Kusakabe

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kurogxrix · 19 days ago

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BAHAHA DID I LIE THO? the fact that this post got 50 notes and 15 of them is people disagreeing via reblogging (and some of them liking through MY reblog) really says a shit ton. Honestly we should bring back thinking before posting🥰

The ChatGPT FanFiction Special™

You ever read a fanfic, and it just SMELLS like AI? Only bullshit lines that a machine vomited out. You wouldn’t replace your favorite fanfic author with a vending machine, would you? So don’t do it with a fanfic.

WORD COUNT: 2K!

"You’re something else, you know that?" GROUNDBREAKING. Truly. Shakespeare could never.

"The air was heavy with the scent of danger." Bitch... What does danger even smell like? WD-40, fear, and disappointment?

"His piercing blue eyes locked onto yours, a storm brewing in their depths." Oh, so now the character's a fucking weather forecast. Cool. Storm’s coming! Better take cover from that lazy-ass prose!

"He growled low in his throat, a primal sound that sent shivers down your spine." Growled low in his throat—like, WHERE ELSE should he be growling from? Y’all think you’re writing smut, but you’re just describing bad air conditioning.

"The tension between you crackled like a live wire." Oh, we’re crackling now like popcorn inside a microwave? Great, because my relationship with the character is sounding like a radio station.

"You could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy as..." Jesus Christ!

"He wasn’t good with words, but his actions spoke volumes." Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just say the character is emotionally constipated like the rest of us do and move on.

"He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours..." BRUSHING LIPS. Is the character kissing me, or is a draft blowing by?

Listen, I get it. Writing fanfic is hard. But if your Character x Reader fic reads like it was pulled of ChatGPT’s basic-ass memory bank, just don’t. We know, we can smell it, and that smell? It’s not "danger"—it’s mediocrity.

ON WE GO TO THE HOLY EXAMPLES OF SMUT!

The Foreplay Starter Pack:

"His hands roamed your body, exploring every inch like he was mapping uncharted territory." Stop exploring and focus on the destination.

"Your peaks stiffened/pebbled under his touch." Are her tits made of decorative gravel or... how about they might be diamonds?

"His breath was hot against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine." AI and neck breath—name a more iconic duo.

The Main Event:

"Milking him for all he was worth." Milking his cock? Is he a dairy cow? Moo, motherfucker.

"The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your breathy moans." Skin slapping—sexy and clinical at the same time!

"The coil in your stomach tightened until it finally snapped, sending waves of pleasure through your body." Oh, the coil and waves of pleasure! Because orgasms can’t just happen, they have to involve mechanics.

The Big Finish:

"He shuddered as he found his release, spilling into you with a guttural groan." Because he's a guttural broken faucet.

"His hot seed filled you, marking you as his." That's called National Geographics.

"His climax ripped through him, leaving him thoroughly spent." Sounds like he just tore his dick in half and the "writer" was unable to write out the word for ORGASM.

"Your bodies collapsed together in a sweaty tangle, breaths mingling as you came down from your shared high." Oh, sure, nothing like sweaty mingling for a totally original Shakespeare sex scene.

Miscellaneous AI Erotica Bullshit:

"Your slick heat welcomed him eagerly." Ew. EWW. Slick heat. Just stop.

"He groaned as your tightness gripped him like a vice." A vice? Am I squeezing him to death? RIP: his dick. Glad the writer can't write the word pussy, vagina, or cunt, right?

"His balls were churning, and he felt them tighten before he found his release." A churning release. Like milk into butter. Sexy.

"Your moans filled the room as he hit that spot over and over again." That spot while moans fill a whole damn room. Never named, never explained. Just trust the AI—the spot's there. Somewhere.

"Your walls fluttered around him." Walls fluttering. Like curtains while the window is open. AI loves it.

"He kneaded your soft flesh." Kneaded? Like bread dough? Because nothing makes smut more sexy than baking imagery. I can’t. Just say tits or breasts.

"He spilled himself inside you, groaning as he filled you to the brim." To the brim? Am I a measuring cup?

BONUS: No one thinks about condoms or any other help to prevent potential pregnancy. They either know what they’re doing, are in an apocalypse (which would make it explainable,) in an established relationship, or raw-dog it because "nothing else matters but this moment." Fuck STDs and pregnancy, apparently.

More Overused Descriptive Combos (SO MANY):

"Piercing eyes." OH? DID HIS PIERCING EYES LOCK EYES WITH YOURS? Lemme guess they’re also "a stark contrast" to something else, like his rugged appearance, his messy hair, or whatever. AI's go-to move for intensity. His eyes aren’t piercing anything unless he’s shooting lasers.

"Calloused hands." Everyone’s hands are calloused and rough, and they’re ALWAYS trailing along your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake which sends shivers up or down your spine.

"He moved with a predatory grace, like a wolf stalking its prey." Please. The character is not prowling around like some male hunter in a Wattpad mafia fic.

"Their fingers danced across your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake." Yup. That's what I said before. And the fingers danced. AI loves romanticizing every little touch.

"You felt his warm breath ghost against your cheek/ear." LOOK, MORE GHOSTING BREATH. Ghost Hunters should investigate such a fic ASAP. Also, the character loves nibbling your ear.

"The rain pattered softly against the window." Oh great, we’re starting with Rain, The Sad Bitch’s Metaphor™. Nothing screams ChatGPT Energy louder than trying to force the weather to feel human feelings.

"The room was cloaked in a heavy silence." Of course, silence is cloaked now. Did ChatGPT throw a fucking blanket over the scene?

"A soft breeze rustled/carried..." A SOFT BREEZE? Like, was the breeze carrying a soft generic plot development? The character's sweaty ass? AI intros just love sounding deep while saying absolutely nothing.

"Pain shot through them like lightning, sharp and unforgiving." Always with the lightning. Does pain have any other personality traits, or is it just electricity 24/7?

"A chill ran down their spine." Yeah, again. And a chill ran down my spine too... when I realized this fic was AI-generated.

"Through the fabric of their clothes." AI loves this detached, dramatic bullshit, instead of just saying shirt or pants, or whatever clothing.

Emotions for Days:

"There was something in their gaze—a mixture of pain, longing, and something else they couldn’t quite name." What the fuck is something else? Is it allergies? Do they need to fart? Is it a milkshake because of the mix? AI loves throwing vague emotions around because it doesn’t know how to actually write them.

"Their chest ached with a heaviness they couldn’t put into words." Their chest is heavy and aches? They need a doctor, not a quick fuck. Next!

Scene-Setting the Intro for the Basic Bitches:

"The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and red." Of course, AI’s obsessed with painting the sky and dipped sunsets because they’re deep.

"The city buzzed with life, but they felt utterly alone amidst the chaos." Congratulations, AI. You just wrote a Lana Del Rey song, not a fucking fanfic.

And the action scenes? Holy shit. ADRENALINE COURSING through every sentence. And if the words "flickering," "casting eerie shadows," "a stark contrast," "stoic/rough/usual (insert a cringey male behavior cliché) demeanor," or "shifting" don’t pop up at least once every three paragraphs, did it even really happen? And there's still so much more dead giveaways for AI content that I did not write down...

And Finally: The Overachieving AI Writer™

If someone’s dropping 5+ fics a week, you KNOW they’re cutting corners. Writing takes time! Editing takes time! Life gets in the way!

AI Fics Use Formulas – They just put in different names and settings. The structure, emotions, and descriptions? Copies every time.

No Depth – There’s rarely any meaningful plot or character development. The stories are written to sound pretty, not to feel real.

Lack of Personality – Good writers have a style, a unique voice that comes through their work. AI writing? Bland and generic, with no heart and no personal experiences.

Real fanfic writers take weeks (even months) to post because:

They have jobs, school, families, or mental health shit to handle.

They overthink EVERY sentence because they CARE.

Writing takes TIME. Even short one-shots involve brainstorming, rewriting, and editing.

If someone’s putting out a perfectly polished Character x Reader fic every 48 hours, either:

They’re lying about how fast they work, OR

They’re outsourcing an AI that doesn’t need sleep, coffee breaks, or motivation.

NO ONE WITH A NORMAL LIFE CAN POST THAT MANY FANFICS DAILY UNLESS THEY HAVE HELP. Between work, school, eating, sleeping, and, you know, EXISTING, it’s physically impossible. Writing takes time! Editing takes even longer! Like I said, if someone’s putting out perfect fics daily, it’s not skill—it’s AI. Period.

Because I doubt they're secretly a fanfic god on meth. No one has that kind of output and originality unless they’re cheating or they've sold their soul to OpenAI. Stop romanticizing it, and stop outsourcing your creativity to AI.

If you’re still reading and feeling personally attacked, congrats, that says more about you than me, and your written fic might be AI-generated. You’re welcome.

TL;DR:

And here’s why that sucks. (Why AI-Fics Can Go Fuck Themselves)

Real fanfic writers are constantly comparing themselves to this impossible standard. They’re thinking, "Why can’t I write that fast? Am I not good enough? Do people even care about my work if I only post once every few months?"

REAL fanfiction is about connection. It’s about sharing your passion, your creativity, your perspective on a character or story that you love. It’s about building relationships with readers who get it, who see you, and who appreciate the time and effort you put in.

AI fanfics? They’re soulless. No voice. No connection. Just the same tropes and clichés, copy-pasted into a different setting. The fandoms deserve better.

If you're using AI to brainstorm ideas for a writer’s block and to get suggestions, that’s one thing. If it becomes about mass-producing stories for the sake of content and kudos, then it destroys what writing is about. There’s a real difference between using it as a tool and passing off the generated work as your own. Especially when there’s no acknowledgment that it was AI-written.

And the more AI-generated garbage gets uploaded, the harder it is for real fics to get noticed. They flood the tags, the archives, the searches. I’ve seen accounts that magically started posting perfect fics every week in 2023. Search through their archive, and you’ll notice every story sounds the same. And guess what? People eat it up.

@ellipsus-writes said it best: FuckGPT!

AI doesn’t belong in fanfiction! It doesn’t understand the heart of a fandom and it sure as hell doesn't understand the fictional characters like you do!

So yeah, if you’re a real fanfic writer reading this: TAKE YOUR TIME. Post when you’re ready. Because your work—YOUR work—is what makes fandoms magical. Not some AI bullshit. You’re the reason people stay up until 3 AM crying over fictional characters. You’re the one inspiring others to write, draw art, and create. You’re the one giving your fandom community life!

Support real fanfic writers. They’re the soul of the fandom and they deserve better than to be left behind because of AI.

And to the readers: STOP giving kudos to AI-made fics. Read real stories. Because your fandom deserves better.

AI-written fics are all the same, and if you’re pretending to write them yourself while spamming the fandoms with mediocre, over-polished bullshit: We see you. And we judge, report, and even expose you on Reddit.

YOU’RE SOMETHING ELSE, YOU KNOW THAT? Yeah, you're something fake as fuck.

FINAL THOUGHT: "The soft glow of the screen illuminated her face as she realized... this fic was AI as hell."

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kurogxrix · 21 days ago

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right like they’re so many things wrong about this post and i’ll just point some out,

- ‘BONUS: No one thinks about condoms or any other help to prevent potential pregnancy. They either know what they’re doing, are in an apocalypse (which would make it explainable,) in an established relationship, or raw-dog it because "nothing else matters but this moment." Fuck STDs and pregnancy, apparently.’

assuming that just because there is a scene about unprotected sex even in a dangerous environment means that it’s made by AI is insane, not everyone thinks the same, not everyone wants to write the same generic shit and not everyone is safe.

- ‘No Depth – There’s rarely any meaningful plot or character development. The stories are written to sound pretty, not to feel real.’

ever read a drabble or a simple fluff fic with no other plot then the characters cuddling or hanging out? Just because you find it boring that there’s not meaningful plot or character development doesn’t mean that it’s AI generated.

- ‘Real fanfic writers take weeks (even months) to post because:’

once i wrote a 12k one-shot in ONE DAY because i had a day off and i was stressing off about finishing my series. Not everyone has the same capabilities and you don’t need to take WEEKS to write a piece of writing. please.

- ‘If someone’s putting out a perfectly polished Character x Reader fic every 48 hours, either:’

orrrr they have the free time and dedication to do so in a short span of time….?

and in the least meanest way do i mean it, but i think that your take on AI fics roots from your personal preferences on how you like the media that you’re consuming. Overused descriptions doesnt mean that it’s AI, short writing and editing span (unless REALLY unreal) doesn’t mean that it’s AI, synonyms that you may not understand or like doesn’t mean that the fic is AI, and a lack of plot or character development doesn’t as shit mean that it’s AI.

I think that probably you should either write a fanfic to show us what’s your ‘take’ on real writing or perhaps just stick to reading fics made before the popularization of Ai because this post is filled with so much bias and so little sense that maybe i’m starting to believe that it was made with AI😭

Not everyone is going to write fics like you want them to, everyone is different and work differently and just because you work in one way doesn’t mean that so will the rest of us. Wake up from this narcissistic hold😭