𖹭Certified Menace to Societyᯓ★

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─ .✦ NIGHT CRAWLING

Bucky Barnes x F!Reader | Ongoing |

Enemies to reluctant allies. A black cat in a lab’s cage. Shadow powers, sharpened teeth, and a slow-burn that’ll claw your heart out.

Summary: You were raised in a cage and built to kill. Now you're free—and forced onto a team with the one man who sees right through you. Bucky Barnes. You hate him. He hates you. So why can’t either of you look away?

> Inspired by “Night Crawling” by Miley Cyrus.

“Sometimes my thoughts are violent / Sometimes they bring me to the light...”

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─ .✦ SOFT ON YOU

Bucky Barnes x F!Reader | Ongoing |

New assistant. Hot congressman. Soft voice, big hands, and way too polite to be legal. She’s trying to stay professional. He’s already in love.

Summary: She thought it was just a job. But Congressman Bucky Barnes is polite in public and dangerous in private—jealous, gentle, soft-spoken, and utterly wrecked for her.

Now she’s spiraling over how good he looks in suits, and he’s walking her home just to spend five more minutes by her side.

This isn’t just a slow burn—it’s emotional warfare wrapped in a tie.

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─ .✦ THE CHOSEN AND THE CURSED

Bucky Barnes x F!Reader | ✓

A cursed sword on your back. Soul powers, lingering ghosts, and a slow-burn that bleeds quiet and deep. You're not here to be saved. But he looks at you like he's already too late.

Summary: You were never meant to survive. But the Soul Stone gave you a second chance—along with power, purpose, and pain.

Now, as corrupted souls rise, you find yourself drawn to the Thunderbolts… and to him. James Barnes. Quiet. Watchful. Just as haunted as you are.

And you’ve never known how to walk away from someone else's pain.

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💌 Taglist open

…and many more on the way! ♡

You shift in your seat again, trying to find comfort—but there’s nothing physical about your discomfort. It’s the kind that settles under your ribs and sinks heavy in your gut. A small tug, barely there, but growing.

You glance down at your phone for what feels like the hundredth time. 21:30. No messages. No missed calls. Just the soft glow of your lock screen and the growing pressure behind your eyes.

You bite your lip, hard, just to keep the emotion in your chest from breaking loose.

“Um, ma’am?” a voice interrupts gently.

You look up. The waiter is standing beside you with an awkward half-smile. “Are you… going to order something? Or are you still waiting?”

You nod, swallowing down the ache in your throat. “Just the wine, please.”

He nods and walks away, polite and quiet, unaware that he’s just cracked your heart a little more.

You’re alone again. Couples fill the tables around you—laughing, leaning into one another, soft fingers brushing against cheeks and wine glasses clinking. There’s warmth at every table but yours.

You pull your coat tighter around your body.

The wine arrives. You murmur your thanks, fingertips cold as they wrap around the glass. The moment the waiter steps away, your phone vibrates against the table.

You flinch. Fingers trembling, you turn it over and light up the screen.

One new message:

I’m sorry, love. I can’t do this anymore. Wish you the best.

Love.

He had the audacity to call you love while dumping you over text. On your anniversary. Without even showing up to the dinner you’d been planning for weeks.

You saw it coming. You weren’t stupid. He’d been distant for months. Busy. Cold. You’d blamed it on the long hours, on your own schedule at the new Avengers Tower. You told yourself this job was demanding for both of you—that the silence meant nothing.

But deep down, you knew.

You were always the one who called first. Always the one who rearranged meetings and made time. And he?

He couldn’t even bother to send a message until now. You raise the wine glass and down it in one long swallow. It isn’t enough.

You wave the waiter over again. “Whiskey,” you say. “Double.”

An hour passes.

You’re tipsy. Not quite drunk, but soft around the edges. Floaty and full of hurt. You pay the bill with shaking hands and make your way to the door, heels clicking softly on the marble floor.

You stop. It’s raining.

Not a drizzle—a heavy, unrelenting storm. The kind that soaks your clothes in seconds. That makes the streets shine and the air taste like metal.

You step outside anyway.

Let it hit you. Let it soak through your coat and your dress, your hair sticking to your cheeks as the tears finally fall—hot and fast, like the sky’s grief is echoing your own.

You don’t wipe them away. You just stand there. Alone in the rain.

You walk. Heels in your hand, bare feet slapping quietly against the wet pavement.

The rain keeps falling, soaking through your dress, clinging to your skin like grief. Streetlights blur against the mist, golden halos bleeding into the night. Your fingers are cold. Your shoulders shake.

But it’s not the rain that chills you.

It’s the silence.

The ache in your chest that keeps expanding, folding in on itself, then blooming outward like bruised petals that never stop growing.

You don’t cry again. You just think.

You think about how stupid you must’ve looked, waiting at that table with your hair done and your heart open. You think about all the times you ignored the sinking feeling in your gut. How you told yourself you weren’t asking for too much—just for someone to show up.

And they didn’t. Again. Maybe you're not made for this.

Maybe love—the kind that stays, the kind that tries—isn’t written into your story.

Maybe it never was.

Maybe it was foolish to think you could have something that lasted, something that mattered, something that made you feel like you weren’t always the one doing the holding, the chasing, the forgiving.

You reach your building like a sleepwalker. Take the elevator up in silence. The hum of fluorescent lights. The ping at your floor. The quiet sigh you let out as you step into the empty hallway.

Your apartment greets you with its usual stillness. You drop your heels by the door, let your bag fall beside them.

No lights. No music. Just the rain tapping softly against the windows like an echo of everything you can’t say.

You move to the kitchen.

Stand there for a while, still wet, still cold, letting the silence wrap around you like a second skin. You stare out the window. Watch a streetlamp flicker.

Maybe this is just how it is now. Quiet. Empty. Yours alone.

And then—A knock.

You blink. Your head turns toward the sound. Another knock. Firmer. Urgent.

You wait a beat. Then walk slowly to the door, pulse fluttering. Something coils in your stomach, half fear, half knowing.

You open it. And freeze.

“Bucky?”

He's drenched.

Rain clings to him like oil paint—his black shirt soaked through and clinging to every muscle, hair dripping onto his forehead, jaw tight. His hands hang by his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

But it’s his eyes that wreck you.

They travel over you slowly—from your wet hair to your damp lashes to your red eyes, your trembling mouth, the sadness you didn’t realize was still showing so plainly.

And in the softest, most devastated voice you’ve ever heard, he says: “Oh, sweetheart.”

You don’t even have time to react before he moves.

He closes the space between you in a single step and wraps his arms around you—strong and warm and sheltering. He pulls you into his chest, one arm around your waist, the other reaching back to shut the door behind him.

It clicks closed with finality. The storm locked outside. His warmth pressing into you from every angle.

You lose it.

The sound rips out of you—wet and ugly, your face buried in his shirt as you cry for everything. For the dinner. For the silence. For the years you spent pretending you didn’t want more.

He doesn’t say anything. Just holds you.

His hand rubs slow circles down your back. His other palm cradles the back of your head like you’re something breakable. And maybe you are.

Your tears disappear into his chest. He smells like rain and warmth and something that hurts to remember.

Then, in a low voice that vibrates through your ribs: “I came as soon as I heard him talking about it. With the others.”

Your breath hitches. You sob at that. At the thought of him finding out. At the thought of him coming.

His hand slips further around your waist. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “Let it out. I’ve got you.”

You pull your face from his chest, try to speak—but your throat clenches, and only more tears spill out.

His hands come up gently.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, brushing the hair away from your face. His thumbs wipe the tears from your cheeks with such care it breaks something else inside you.

No one’s ever touched you like this. Like you were made of glass and gold. You’re not sure what you’re going to say.

You just know this—this moment—is going to change everything.

Bucky holds you for a long time.

Until your sobs quiet into shaky breaths. Until the cold in your limbs starts to fade. Until you’re no longer sure where you end and he begins.

Then, in a voice that’s barely more than a whisper: “Bathroom?”

You nod.

He shifts you in his arms—slow, steady—and you curl into him without thinking, your cheek pressed to the soaked cotton of his shirt. He carries you down the hallway like you’re weightless. Like you’re something precious. You point to the door, and he nudges it open with his foot.

Inside, the light is soft. You sit where he places you—gently, onto the closed toilet seat—and watch in silence as he turns the shower knobs. Steam begins to rise. The hum of warm water fills the room.

You just sit there. Empty. Hollowed out. Something small and quiet in your chest aching with every breath.

You only react when you feel his hand on yours again—gentle, coaxing. He helps you stand, steady as ever. You don’t ask questions. Don’t resist.

He doesn’t take your clothes off. Or his. He just leads you beneath the stream. And stands there with you, fully clothed, as the water rains down on you both. The heat of it steals your breath.

Then he moves behind you, careful and slow, pouring a small pool of shampoo into his hands. You close your eyes when you feel his fingers in your hair—strong but impossibly gentle—as he works through the strands in slow, soothing circles.

It’s a reverent kind of touch. Almost holy. Like he’s trying to wash more than just the rain and heartbreak from your skin.

Your throat tightens. You open your eyes, glance up at him.

He’s focused. Silent. Hair soaked, lashes wet, brow furrowed in gentle concentration. Like nothing else exists in this moment but you.

And it hits you—truly hits you. In all those years of your relationship, not once did your ex ever make you feel like this. Not in the beginning. Not on your best days.

And Bucky? He did it in less than an hour. More tears spill down your cheeks. Quiet. Unstoppable.

He notices.

Without a word, he reaches forward and tucks the wet strands clinging to your face behind your ears. One by one. His knuckles brush your cheek, and you lean into it like it’s instinct.

His voice, when it comes, is soft. Barely audible over the water. “The sooner you feel it, the sooner it’ll start to go away.”

You swallow hard.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice brittle, vulnerable.

He meets your eyes.

“Because I want to be.” A pause. “And because you needed it.”

There’s a stillness that follows. A breathless kind of quiet. The water keeps running, but all you can hear is your heartbeat.

You look at him. Really look at him.

At the lines of his face—sharp and soft all at once. The water still lingering on his lashes. The way he stands there, steady as ever, like he’d hold the whole world up if it meant keeping you from falling.

Bucky Barnes.

You’d always thought he was handsome. Kind. Quiet in a way that drew people in rather than pushing them away. There was something warm about him. Something silent but bright.

And somehow, you never saw him clearly until now. Maybe you were too focused on chasing a love that was never real. On fighting to keep something that didn’t want to be kept. Maybe you’d missed what had been quietly waiting for you all along.

His eyes scan your face like he knows what you’re thinking—but doesn’t want to rush you.

After a few more seconds, he nods gently. “Finish showering.”

You nod. He steps out.

And leaves you in the warmth.

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When you step out of the shower—clean, warm, wrapped in your softest clothes—you find him exactly where he said he'd be.

Still here. Still waiting.

Bucky sits on your couch, hair damp, wearing one of your old hoodies. Two mugs rest in his hands, steam curling above them like ghosts. He looks up the second he hears you, and something in his eyes softens.

“Here,” he says, offering you one.

You take it with quiet fingers and sit beside him. Close enough that your knees almost touch.

Neither of you speaks.

You sip the tea slowly, letting it warm your throat, your chest, your hands. You don’t thank him again. He knows. You can feel it in the way he sits beside you—like the space between you is sacred, and he doesn’t dare break it.

When the mug is empty, you set it gently on the coffee table and lean your head back against the couch. Eyes closed. Breathing steady.

A quiet rustle of fabric, and you feel him shift. Closer. You open your eyes. He’s already looking at you.

“Are you warm now?” he asks, voice low, careful.

You want to tell him everything. That yes, you’re warm. Not just from the tea or the water or the clothes—but from him. From the way he touched you like you were fragile. From the way he didn’t try to fix you, only stayed while you broke.

But all you say is: “Yes. Thank you.” Your voice is quiet. Fragile.

His hand lifts—slow and hesitant—until his thumb brushes just beneath your eye, where a tear might have been minutes ago. His touch is featherlight, and yet it roots you in place. The world goes still.

You suck in a breath. The air between you turns heavy. Dense. Like something unsaid has finally stepped into the room. You look at his mouth.

It’s instinct, not intention—the smallest lean forward, like your body already knows what your heart hasn’t caught up to.

But before you reach him, his thumb presses softly to your lips.

“No,” he says gently.

It isn’t rejection. It’s restraint. Like it costs him something not to kiss you back.

His eyes burn as they hold yours, and his voice is a rasp of aching care: “If you’re going to kiss me… you’re going to do it sober.” A breath. “And not heartbroken.”

You blink slowly, lips still parted beneath his thumb, throat tight with something you can’t name.

Before you can speak, his hand drops to your jaw, cupping your cheek again with that same aching reverence.

And then, softly—like a vow whispered through clenched teeth: “But say the word, sweetheart…” His jaw tightens. “…and I’ll take care of him.”

You feel at him. The way his fingers curl against your skin. The way he waits—not expectant, but willing. Willing to fight for you. To do whatever you ask, no matter the cost.

You shake your head gently. “No.”

Your hand rises to touch his. Your thumb strokes the inside of his wrist, slow and tender.

“He’s not worth it.”

There’s no smile on his face. Just a quiet kind of relief. Like he can finally breathe again.

And then—You both exhale.

At some point, you curl into him. His arms wrap around you without a word. Your head rests on his chest, and his chin presses lightly to your crown. His hand strokes your back in a slow, steady rhythm.

The rain outside fades to a hush. Your heart doesn’t feel whole yet—but it feels held. And that night, you fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Not as lovers. Not yet. But as something deeper—something that feels like the beginning of a home you never knew you needed.

You’re the only one who lasted this long.

He’s been through five PR managers before you—four who quit and one who cried in the middle of a press conference. A record, really. One that Bucky Barnes wears like a badge of honor, along with his undefeated streak, his busted knuckle, his metal arm, and that damn signature smirk you swear was designed in a lab to irritate you personally.

It’s been eleven months and three days since you took this job. You’ve lasted longer than anyone thought you would—including Bucky himself.

And yet here you are. Standing just off-camera on a makeshift set in the middle of the training facility’s media room, watching him give the worst interview of his career.

“Well, James—can I call you James?” the interviewer asks with a chipper smile and zero awareness that she’s already stepped on a landmine.

Bucky tilts his head. “No.”

You suppress a groan.

“Right, then—Bucky—let’s talk about your strategy going into Saturday’s fight. What can fans expect?”

He stares at her. Blinks. Leans forward like he might bite. “Me. Hitting someone. Hard.”

The interviewer falters, glancing briefly at her cue cards like maybe they’ll offer her salvation. “Ah—okay! Um, do you see your opponent as a threat?”

He smirks. “Not to me.”

There’s a long silence. The crew glances at each other. Someone coughs.

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

God help you. It gets worse from there.

He answers every question with a grunt, a smirk, or a monosyllabic growl. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t charm. He doesn’t try. And when the interviewer—desperate now—asks him how he spends his downtime, Bucky simply says:

“I don’t.” That’s it. No elaboration. No wink, no friendly shrug. Just… I don’t.

By the time you cut in with a tight smile and a PR-approved thank-you, the interviewer looks like she’s just survived a hostage situation.

You don’t speak as you march across the gym floor. Not when you pass his coach. Not when you yank open the door to the locker room. Not even when Bucky follows you inside, dragging his towel over his sweat-slicked neck like he didn’t just sabotage the network interview you spent two weeks organizing.

Only when the door shuts do you finally let the dam break.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Your voice ricochets off the lockers, louder than you intended.

Bucky pauses halfway to the bench, towel slung around his shoulders, chest rising and falling like he’s just gone ten rounds.

He raises a brow. “Good to see you too, sweetheart.”

“No. Don’t sweetheart me,” you snap, jabbing your finger at him, folder clutched in your other hand. “You were a nightmare out there.”

He shrugs. “I was honest.”

“You were a menace.”

He doesn’t respond. Just tosses the towel aside and grabs a water bottle, uncapping it slowly, deliberately.

You cross the room, folder under your arm now, jabbing a finger into his chest. It’s solid. Warm. And it annoys you even more.

“I work my ass off trying to keep your reputation from turning to shit. You realize that? The press hates you. Your sponsors are nervous. Your fanbase is barely holding on. And you? You just sit there like some brooding marble statue with a chip on your shoulder and a god complex the size of Madison Square Garden.”

He smirks again. “You think I look like a statue?”

You slap the folder against his chest. Hard. He doesn’t flinch.

“I’m serious, Barnes. I’m so done. Done with you ignoring every call time, done with you being late to photoshoots, done with you flirting with every damn reporter you see—”

“Jealous?”

That stuns you. For a second. Then you laugh. Short. Sharp. Cruel. “You wish I was.”

Something flashes behind his eyes. Just for a second. But you don’t give him time to recover.

“You think this is a game. You think because you’ve got a pretty face and a title belt that you get to treat everyone like garbage. But I’m done being your babysitter. Find someone else to clean up after you. I quit.”

There. You said it.

For a moment, it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that comes right before a fight starts.

Then Bucky sets his bottle down slowly. Turns to face you.

“Well,” he says, and the smirk falters. “That can’t happen.”

You blink. “What?”

“I won’t allow it.” Before you can respond, he moves. Fast.

Your back hits the wall.

His arm braces beside your head. His body inches from yours. That trademark cocky grin is gone. His eyes flicker with something darker now. Deeper.

His voice is low when he says, “And by the way—screaming at me?” He leans in, voice low and wicked. “If you wanna scream, sweetheart… scream my name instead.”

For a second, your brain doesn’t work. Then it sputters back to life—and you swing the folder at him. He takes the hit like it’s a love tap. Laughs.

“Barnes—what the actual fuck—that won’t work on me.” You glare.

“It will. With time.” The air shifts. Slows.

You’re breathing too hard. He’s too close. You want to shove him. You want to kiss him. You want to scream.

Instead, you ask—quietly, stupidly: “Why can’t I quit?”

His eyes soften. Just a fraction. “Because I’d be a mess without you.”

Your stomach flips.

“You keep my life on track. You make sure I show up, even when I don’t want to. You’re the one person who calls me out on my shit and stays anyway.” He leans in, voice soft. “Without you, I’m nothing.”

You look at him. At the real Bucky. No smirk. No act. Just heat and honesty and maybe even fear.

“I—” you stammer. “I…”

“Go back out there,” you manage eventually, tugging your eyes from his. “Give them your best goddamn attitude.”

He grins. “Yes, ma’am.”

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One week later

Things are… different.

Not earth-shatteringly so. Bucky’s still Bucky—grumpy, smug, and built like an ancient god sculpted to make your job unnecessarily hard. But lately? He’s been weird. And by weird, you mean… good.

He’s showing up on time.

He’s wearing what you tell him to wear for media appearances. He hasn’t missed a single scheduled commitment all week. Sure, he still glares at journalists like they personally offended him in a past life, but at least now he waits until after the interview to throw his little tantrums.

It’s suspicious. Almost concerning. You half-think he’s dying.

Or worse—trying to impress you.

But you push that thought aside. You don’t have time for speculation, not when the next fight is one of the biggest of the year, with press all over it. You need him focused. Sharp. Not distracted by, say, the pretty girl he’s currently giving his attention to while you stand offstage, arms crossed.

You squint.

She’s young. Pretty. Tall. Wearing a shirt two sizes too small, showing off way too much cleavage for a post-fight event. She’s all over him—touching his arm, twirling her hair, calling him things like handsome and hot in a tone that’s nauseatingly sweet.

He loves it.

Of course he does. You watch, fuming quietly, as Bucky grins, basking in her praise like he didn’t just spend twelve rounds breaking a guy’s nose. The smirk is in full effect. That slow, dangerous one he saves for women who bat their lashes and tell him he’s a god.

You’re going to vomit.

Not that it matters. You don’t care. Obviously. His flirting only bothers you when it distracts him from what really matters—sponsorships, prep schedules, staying on track. Which is all the time.

So when Tara—yes, Tara—pulls a piece of paper from her purse and says, “I actually have a background in marketing and PR, if you’re ever hiring,” you know exactly where this is going.

She tries to hand it to him.

You intercept it mid-air.

“Thank you,” you say, voice clipped. “But he already has a PR manager.”

You don’t give her your name. You don’t smile. You don’t hand the paper to Bucky either. You hold onto it, perfectly poised, waiting for him to back you up like a sane, rational adult.

But of course, Bucky Barnes is neither of those things.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says with a wide, shit-eating grin. “Could use the help.”

He reaches out—past you—and grabs the resume out of your hand.

You turn your head slowly.

If looks could kill, the arena would be having a moment of silence for Bucky Barnes right now.

Tara beams. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

You don’t give him the chance to answer.

You grab his arm, hard, and drag him off the floor and down the hallway, heels clacking like gunshots on the concrete.

Inside the locker room, you shut the door with a bang.

“You look pissed,” he says like it’s the most amusing thing he’s seen all day.

“That’s because I am pissed,” you snap, pinching the bridge of your nose and exhaling hard. “You really think I need some—some random chick playing pretend PR when we’re weeks out from the most important match of your career?”

He shrugs, towel slung over his shoulder, cocky and cool. “Could be a good thing. I’m always stressing you out. Might as well get some help.”

Your head snaps up.

“If you want to fire me, just say it.”

The words come out sharper than you intended. There’s more behind them than you meant to show. But you’re mad. Mad mad. The kind of mad that coils tight in your chest and makes your throat ache.

He lifts his brows. And then—of course—he smirks. That smug, wolfish expression that should be illegal on a face that stupidly attractive.

He starts walking toward you, slow, like a predator who knows exactly how close he can get before you bite.

“I could never do that, sweetheart.”

You cross your arms, eyes narrowing. “Don’t.”

“You’re everything to me,” he says in that deliberately dramatic way. “The air that I breathe.”

You scoff, looking away. “Bite me.”

He grins. Then lifts the paper—the stupid resume—in his vibranium hand and shakes it. “That’s why I think it could be good.”

You snap your gaze back to him.

“Oh, you think some whatever chick is going to last a week doing this job?”

“I mean, she looked eager.”

“Eager isn’t enough, Barnes. You think she can handle you? She’d be running for the hills before Monday.”

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, jaw tightening.

“We’ll see.”

You inhale sharply, chest tightening. “Oh, we’ll see, huh?”

“Maybe she’s even better than you.”

You blink.

It’s a joke. You know it’s a joke. He’s doing this to rile you up. He likes seeing you mad—loves it, even. But the comment still lands like a punch to the gut. You step back, fold your arms tighter around yourself.

You nod, tight-lipped. “Let’s see then.”

“Right.”

“Right,” you spit back, jaw clenched.

For a moment, neither of you move.

The air is hot. Too full. His eyes are on you, flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he’s trying to read something he hasn’t figured out yet. Like maybe—just maybe—he didn’t mean to actually hurt your feelings.

You don’t let him speak. You turn on your heel and walk out. You don’t slam the door. Don’t yell. Don’t give him the satisfaction of another fight.

You take a cab back to your apartment, close the door behind you, and press your back to it with your eyes shut tight.

You don’t cry. You’re not crying.

God, you hate him.

You hate the way he gets under your skin. You hate the way he plays games. You hate the fact that somehow, after almost a year, you still don’t know when the flirtation ends and the real Bucky begins.

But most of all—you hate how much it hurts to think you might actually be replaceable to him.

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He’s scared now.

He won't admit it—because he’s Bucky Barnes, undefeated in the ring and emotionally stunted outside of it—but he knows something's wrong.

You don’t yell anymore. You don’t argue, or groan dramatically when he’s late, or give him that lecture you always do about how “sponsors don’t care how good you are if you act like a dickhead.”

You don’t even look at him. It’s been days.

You’ve gone cold. Quiet. Unbothered. Like a rock—emotionless and still—like you’ve finally stopped caring. And that is what scares him.

He liked it better when you screamed. When you pressed your little finger into his chest and called him names under your breath. When your cheeks turned red from rage and your hair bounced with every furious step.

He misses your anger. It was warm. Real. Yours.

Now you barely even exist in the same space. And Bucky—confused, desperate, and in over his head—reacts the only way he knows how.

He throws a dinner party. Well. A post-training team dinner at a loud, overpriced restaurant.

But still. A dinner. He invites the coach, the trainers, the massage therapist, the sponsor rep… and Tara.

He doesn’t want to see her. Doesn’t want to hear her either. But he knows you’ll see the guest list. Knows you’ll come just to glare at him across the table and roll your eyes at her cleavage and call him an idiot on the car ride home.

Except… you don’t. You don’t show up. Not even a text.

And that’s when the pit in his stomach goes from uncomfortable to crushing.

The next morning

He walks into the gym with sore knuckles and a worse mood. Half-expecting to see you scolding the front desk clerk for printing the wrong posters again. Maybe even praying for it.

Instead, he sees Tara. Standing by the ring, all made-up and chipper, holding something in her hand.

“Hey!” she says brightly. “You’re early.”

He doesn’t respond. Just walks past her to his bag. She follows.

“You weren’t at the desk this morning, so I figured I’d give you this directly.” She hands him the envelope—a plain folded letter. “It’s from your PR manager. She gave it to me this morning.”

That makes him stop.

He frowns. “She what?”

Tara shrugs. “Said it was important.”

His fingers curl around the envelope. He opens it, brows drawing low, scanning the contents.

And freezes.

No.

No fucking way.

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An hour earlier.

You woke up early. Took the longest shower of your life. Put on your best business-casual outfit and tried not to cry into your third cup of coffee.

You weren’t sad. Not exactly. Just tired. Tired of trying. Of pushing. Of caring more than he ever did.

So today, you made a decision. You weren’t going to fight. Not anymore. Not for him. If Bucky Barnes didn’t need you, then fine. Someone else would.

You packed your things. Wrote the letter. Stopped by the gym before training hours, saw Tara, and handed it to her without a word of explanation.

Then you went to your desk and started gathering the last of your things. You were almost done. Until the door flew open and slammed into the wall.

You jumped.

The voice was low. Dangerous. “What the hell is this?”

You turned. Slowly. But you already knew. Bucky. Standing in the doorway, chest heaving, letter crumpled in his hand. Tara behind him, wide-eyed.

You sighed, turning back to your desk. “A resignation letter.”

“I know what a fucking resignation letter looks like.” He storms forward, slamming the letter onto your desk.

You don’t flinch.

“Then why ask?” you say breezily, even though your heart is pounding like a war drum in your chest.

You don’t look at him. You keep placing things into your bag. Neatly. Quietly.

“Why?” he says.

“Why? Because you don’t need me anymore,” you say, calm as anything—and it kills him.

He watches you with fury in his eyes. “That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” You finally meet his gaze. “You’ve got Tara now,” you say, jerking your chin toward her.

He doesn’t even glance at her. He just nods. “That’s it?”

You blink. “What?”

Then—without ceremony—he turns. “Tara, you’re fired.”

“What?” she gasps. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Get out.” He finishes.

She stares. But you’re not watching her—you’re watching him. Watching how his jaw clenches, how his nostrils flare.

“You can’t—” you start.

“She’s gone,” he says simply. And then—rip—he tears the resignation letter in half. Then again.

Tiny, fluttering scraps fall to the floor like confetti.

“You’re insufferable.” You stare at him in disbelief. “You think you can just do whatever you want?” you continue. “You think everything’s a joke? A game?”

His voice drops, and so does the heat in the room. “You’re not a game.”

He’s closer now. You don’t know when Tara left. You don’t remember the door shutting. All you know is that he’s standing in front of you. Too close again. And he’s not smirking anymore.

You want to yell. You want to run.

Instead, you whisper: “Then why do you treat me like one?”

That stuns him. His brows pull together, confused. Like he doesn’t know the answer either. Like he’s just now realizing how badly he’s screwed this up.

You shake your head, stepping back—but his hand reaches for your wrist, gentle, unsure.

“You didn’t show up last night,” he says.

“So?”

“So I missed you.”

You freeze.

“I kept looking at the door,” he says, voice raw. “I thought if I made you jealous, you’d come and yell at me. I thought… I thought maybe you cared.”

Your lips part. The air shifts.

“Of course I care,” you say, barely above a whisper. “That’s the problem.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days. His hand slides down your wrist, slow and careful, until it’s your fingers he’s holding.

You should pull away. But you don’t.

“You drive me insane,” he says. “And I’ve never wanted anyone more.”

Your chest tightens. “Bucky…”

He exhales, eyes locked on yours. His voice is low—raw.

“I need you. Here. With me. Every day, every moment.” He swallows hard. “And you can yell at me. Tell me I’m irresponsible. Tell me how much I annoy you. Hate me if you want—”

His voice catches. “—but please, don’t ever go silent on me again. I can’t… I can’t bear that.”

Your mouth opens, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t know if you’re ready to say it.

All you know is that he’s looking at you like you’re the only person he’s ever really seen.

He leans in—slow, letting you stop him.

You don’t.

When his mouth touches yours, it’s not explosive. It’s soft. Hesitant. Like a question.

You answer it.

When you finally pull back, your forehead still resting against his, you murmur,

“Tara stays fired, by the way.”

Bucky scoffs, one corner of his mouth lifting as his hands stay gently cradling your face.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

The ship hums. You hate that about it—how it always sounds just a little off. Like it’s thinking. Waiting. Watching.

Or maybe it’s just the bad wiring in the starboard wing that refuses to stay fixed. The same one Captain Barnes has glared at every day for the last three weeks.

You’re back in that corridor now—heat sticking to your skin, cable in your teeth, wrench in your hand, body half-folded inside a hatch that wasn’t built for someone with your temperament.

“I said temporary patch, not a full rewire.” His voice cuts across the corridor like a command. Cold. Precision-cut.

You grunt, not bothering to pull your head out of the hatch.

“I said I know, Captain Grumpypants. "Temporary" just means it'll break again in twelve hours instead of four. I’d rather not get fried mid-wank, thanks.”

Silence.

Then—“You’re not supposed to be using the emergency sockets for personal activities.”

You twist your head just enough to throw a smirk over your shoulder. “Who said anything about sockets?”

The look he gives you could freeze plasma.

Captain James Barnes is the kind of man people follow into black holes.

Sharp jaw, sharper mind. Every hair in place, every system logged, every heartbeat counted. You’ve heard rumors about him—about the Hydra mission, the Nebula Rift, the month he spent alone on the dead station.

You didn’t believe half of them. Now that you’re under his command, you believe worse.

He doesn’t talk unless it’s about the ship. Doesn’t smile. Ever.

You tried calling him “Cap” once.

He stared at you so long you started checking for space-time fractures with your eyes.

════════════════════════════════

You slam the hatch shut and sit back, breathing hard, sweat beading at your brow.

“Done,” you announce.

Barnes steps closer. Too close. You smell jet fuel and something colder—metal, ozone, command.

He crouches beside you. Checks your work.

“Looks stable,” he mutters. “Finally.”

You glance sideways at him. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He doesn’t answer that. Just stands again and says, “Suit up. We’re entering debris orbit in twenty. You’re on interior systems backup.”

You sigh, wipe your hands on your coveralls, and mutter under your breath, “Can’t wait to spend another day in space with sunshine incarnate.”

He stops at the end of the corridor. Looks back.

“What was that?”

You grin. “Nothing, Captain.”

Later — The Bridge.

The control deck is quiet except for the low drone of orbit stabilization thrusters and the occasional ping of a console recalculating.

You sit at your panel, legs crossed, hair still damp from the rushed rinse you managed before strapping in. You catch your own reflection in the polished screen—smudged, tired, stubborn. You’ve been in space too long.

Captain Barnes stands with his hands behind his back, observing the starfield through the main viewport. His uniform fits him too well—stitched tension in every line, dark sleeves rolled just enough to expose the black veins of his cybernetic arm.

“Entering debris field in sixty seconds,” you say, not looking at him.

“I know,” he replies, clipped.

God, he’s insufferable. And hot. Which is worse.

You don’t hate him. You can’t. That would require him giving you enough to actually feel something real.

Instead, he just… stands there. Watching space. Acting like the stars belong to him.

Forty Minutes Into Orbit

The ship rocks once, hard, like a slap to the hull. You barely stay in your seat.

“External arm took a hit,” Barnes says, adjusting controls. “No breach. Sensors reading flux interference.”

You scan diagnostics. “Backup climate stabilizers offline in D-Level. And there’s a pressure dip in the storage corridor.”

Barnes is already unstrapping. “I’ll go.”

You’re unstrapped before he even finishes the sentence. “You’re not going alone.”

His jaw ticks. “You’re not on hull detail.”

“I’m on interior systems. That’s where the damage is.”

A stare-off. You win by saying nothing. Just grabbing your gear, walking out the door.

Behind you, he growls something about stubborn women and protocol. You smile.

The Storage Corridor.

You’re suited up. Breather masks on standby. The lights flicker—soft red glow casting jagged shadows on the walls.

“We’ll check the pressure seal first,” Barnes says, voice low, echoing in the narrow hall.

You nod, eyes on the screen in your hand. “Reading instability in this panel.” You squat down, running your gloved fingers along the seam of the airlock access.

You don’t hear the system alert until it’s too late.

The corridor doors seal shut behind you with a slam. Emergency lighting kicks in. The airlock roars to life.

“Shit—” You scramble up. “It’s isolating us—!”

“Manual override’s not responding,” Bucky says. He’s already crossed the floor, arm braced against the console. “Something triggered an evac protocol.”

You feel the pressure shift. The hiss of air being sucked out—not fast, not deadly, but enough to mean danger.

And the realization hits cold in your gut: If the system thinks this sector is compromised, it’s going to eject it.

You and Bucky both.

Minutes stretch. He works in silence, focused. You’re backing him up, hands trembling slightly as you reroute power and try not to panic.

Then the screen flickers. Red turns white.

“Airlock disengage countdown initiated,” the system announces. Calm. Deadly.

60 seconds. You look at Bucky. He looks at you.

And something cracks in his expression—just a flicker.

No anger. No cold. Just the raw, terrifying clarity of choice.

Then—He shoves the panel aside. Hooks his vibranium arm around your waist. And pulls you into the emergency shelter alcove at the far end of the corridor, slamming the seal button as the outer door begins to unhinge.

The sound is thunder in your ears—metal splitting. Air rushing. The ship groaning around you.

Inside the tiny compartment, it’s just the two of you. Chest to chest. Breathing hard. His arm is still around you.

You blink. “You—should’ve saved yourself.”

“I did,” he says, low.

The system locks the door behind you. Silence falls. Then the gravity stabilizers shift, and the ship pulls back into calm.

The lights flicker. Your heart too. You’re close enough to feel the heat of him.

His fingers brush your back as he steadies you. You meet his eyes. They’re darker now. Hungry. Human.

The compartment was built for emergencies—not comfort. The walls are smooth steel. The floor just wide enough for two people to sit with their knees tucked in.

It’s silent, except for the low hum of life support and the distant whir of the ship recalibrating. You’re both strapped in, barely a foot apart. The emergency lighting bathes everything in a pulsing, red-tinted glow.

You shift. The sound of your suit brushing his makes him flinch.

“How long do you think we’re stuck?” you ask, trying to keep your voice casual.

He doesn’t look at you. “Until someone manually resets the fail-safes and depressurizes the corridor.”

You blink. “So… hours.”

He nods.

You sigh, tilting your head back against the wall. “Great.”

More silence.

You glance at him again. “So. Got any hobbies? Besides terrifying your entire crew with glares and one-word sentences?”

He turns to you slowly. Raises one brow. “You’re seriously doing this now?”

“I mean, we’re already trapped in a box together. Might as well pass the time before we both suffocate.”

“We’re not going to suffocate.”

“Oh good. So you are listening.” Another glare. You grin.

An Hour In.

You’ve told him about the worst dates of your life. The time you accidentally shorted out half the ship’s gravity on your first assignment. How you’re banned from three mess halls because of “an unfortunate soup incident.”

Bucky, in return, has said maybe twelve words. Mostly consisting of No. That’s stupid. Stop talking. You’re going to make me lose it.

You tell him about the time you tried to modify a vacuum bot to bring you snacks.

“It exploded,” you add, deadpan.

His jaw clenches. “Shocking.”

You pause. “Was that sarcasm, Captain?”

“No.”

You lean in slightly. “You sure?”

His eyes flick to yours. And for a second, you see it—amusement. The tiniest tug at the corner of his mouth.

But he covers it fast. “I’m sure.”

Two Hours In.

You’ve kicked off your boots. Your legs are practically over his lap, there’s no room left. Your suit's jacket is half-unzipped, heat rising from the sealed compartment.

“Did you really almost punch Commander Torres once?” you ask, eyes lidded with boredom and exhaustion.

He exhales sharply. “He called me Buckaroo.”

You snort. Loud. Then laugh. Really laugh.

He tries to keep the scowl. Fails.

“Are you drunk on oxygen deprivation?” he mutters.

“No,” you grin. “I’m just high on the thrill of being tolerated by you.”

“I don’t tolerate people,” he says, voice lower. “I do make some exceptions.”

You blink. “Oh?”

Something shifts in the space between you.

It isn’t the air pressure.

Three Hours In.

You’re leaning against him now. Not by choice—your head just kind of found his shoulder somewhere between story six and seven. You were getting tired. His metal arm was cold.

He didn’t push you off. His fingers rest near your knee. You swear they twitch when you laugh.

The tension is thicker now. Different. You’ve stopped talking. The silence isn’t awkward anymore. It’s electric.

When you glance up at him—close, eyes shadowed in red glow—your breath catches.

He looks down at you.

And just then—The seal hisses open.

Bright light floods the alcove. A voice crackles through the comm: “Uh—Captain? Engineer? You’re clear. Airlock’s stable again.”

Neither of you move.

You stay like that for another beat, heartbeat loud in your ears, pressed close in a space that suddenly feels too big.

Then Bucky shifts away. Grabs your jacket. Hands it to you without looking.

“Back to work,” he mutters.

You swallow hard. “Right. Work.”

But as you climb out of the alcove and step into the hall—his hand brushes your lower back.

Just once. Just enough to say: This isn’t over.

════════════════════════════════

You’re sipping something. Avoiding the crew. Trying to recalibrate your brain after three hours pressed against someone whose very existence seems engineered to make your thoughts short-circuit.

The seat across from you shifts. You don’t look up.

“You always this loud in emergencies?” he asks, voice low, amused.

You smirk into your cup. “You always this broody when you save people?”

He hums. A low sound. And then—he sits.

This man has ignored you in mess halls for weeks. And now he’s sitting across from you like that’s normal.

“You were calm,” he says after a moment. “In the alcove.”

You shrug. “I figured panicking wasn’t going to help.”

“No.” A pause. “But it would’ve been understandable.”

You finally glance up. His eyes are on you. Clear. Focused. Seeing you.

“I wasn’t scared,” you say, and you mean it.

He nods. “I was.”

That stuns you for a second. You try to make a joke—try to defuse it—but nothing comes.

He leans in a fraction. “I thought I was going to lose you. And that was... unacceptable.”

Your throat dries. “Captain—”

“Bucky.”

Your eyes widen. He never uses his first name.

“Bucky,” you repeat, and it tastes strange on your tongue. Soft. Intimate.

He watches your mouth like he’s memorizing the way it moves.

Then stands. “We have work to do.”

And he leaves.

But you know—something changed.

That Night — The Engine Room.

You’re working late. Again. Alone. Or so you think. You hear the door open, and don’t turn.

“You lost?” you call. “Command’s two decks up.”

“I know where I am.” His voice sends a ripple down your spine.

You turn. He’s leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed, still in uniform, eyes locked on you like you’re some kind of puzzle he’s about to take apart.

You hold his gaze. “Let me guess. Just doing your rounds?”

“Something like that,” he says. “Or maybe I’m just making excuses.”

He crosses the room slowly. Carefully. Like you’re something volatile. Dangerous.

You straighten, pulse jumping. “Excuses for what?”

He stops inches from you. His breath warms the space between you.

“For being here,” he says softly, “when I know I shouldn’t be.”

His eyes drop to your lips. “When I know what I want.”

Silence.

Your voice is a whisper when it comes: “And what’s that?”

His jaw flexes.

“You.” But he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He leans in just enough for his breath to brush your cheek. Then he steps back.

“Get some rest, Engineer.” And just like that—he’s gone again.

Leaving you stunned. Buzzing. Burning.

Orbiting something that feels like it’s about to ignite.

I decided that instead of waiting a whole month, I’m just going to start dropping these now. One each day—you know the drill. 😌

It’s Buckytember… in August.

More tropes, more tension incoming.

🌌 WEEK ONE: COLLISIONS & CONNECTIONS

🗓️ DAY 1 — 📌: "Orbiting You"

Space AU | Grumpy Captain Bucky x Engineer Reader| Forced Proximity

You’re the only one who can fix Captain Barnes’ broken ship. He’s cold and focused—until the airlock malfunctions and he chooses you over the mission.

Read here !

🗓️DAY 2 — 📌 "The Knockout"

Boxer AU | Enemies to Lovers | Locker Room Tension

He’s your worst client. You’re his fed-up PR manager. He glares, growls, smirks—until you drag him into his locker room and scream at him. “You wanna scream, sweetheart? Scream my name instead.”

Read here !

🗓️DAY 3 — 📌 "One Word, And I’ll Burn It Down"

Protective Bucky | Emotional Angst | Dark Romance Vibes

A man hurts you. Not physically—emotionally. Bucky sees the look on your face and goes deathly still. That night, he shows up at your door. Wet from the rain. Jaw clenched. “Say the word, sweetheart,” he growls. “And I’ll take care of it.”

🗓️DAY 4 — 📌 "Dead Man’s Rose"

Cursed Gothic Romance | Soul Bond | Fairytale Horror

You steal a rose from a soldier’s grave. That night, Bucky appears—alive, bleeding, and tethered to you. He has 30 days before he turns back to bone. Unless you give him something else to bind to.

🗓️DAY 5 — 📌 "Alpha, Interrupted"

A/B/O AU | Public Heat | Filthy Tension

You go into heat at a gala. There’s no exit. No safe room. No suppressant strong enough. Bucky—Alpha, stoic, the last man you thought would break—pulls you into a supply closet.

🗓️DAY 6 — 📌 "Muzzle Flash"

Ex-Assassins | Sparring Tension | Gun Range Smut

A wager at the gun range ends with you losing. He cashes in his favor fast. “Take your frustration out on me. Right here, please.”

🗓️ DAY 7 — 📌 "He Lied About Faking It"

Alien Bucky x Human Reader | Fake Mating AU | Possessive| Smut

You need a husband to get interplanetary citizenship. He offers. Tall. Glowing eyes. Dangerous and way too serious. “It’s just a contract,” you say. He nods. But every time someone touches you, he growls.

More coming!

You stood frozen. Your breath caught.

He was—God.

He was beautiful.

Not perfect. Scarred. Real. Powerful in a way that didn’t come from design, but from having survived.

And somehow—he looked exactly like his projection.

Except...More solid. Alive.

“Upload me,” Bucky said. “Then open it. Grab me.”

You nodded numbly, snapping back into motion.

Fingers flew across your portable console. The uplink spike extended from the pod. You connected your system to the core drive.

> TRANSFER INITIATED...

Lines of code streamed across your screen. His soul—if code could be called that—pouring into the body beneath the glass.

You barely breathed.

> 62%... 70%... 81%...

Footsteps echoed in the corridor.

You froze. “Hurry up, hurry up—”

> 91%... 98%...

You flinched. “Come on—”

> 100%. TRANSFER COMPLETE.

The pod doors snapped open.

Suddenly a full weight collapsed onto you—his weight—and the two of you went crashing to the floor.

Your head hit the ground with a thud.

“Bucky—Bucky—footsteps, we have to go!”

He groaned, disoriented.

You grabbed his arm and pulled. He stumbled up with your help, muscles shaky, breath ragged. But he was up.

You both ran.

Metal halls blurred around you. Red lights started flashing.

> INTRUSION DETECTED. SECTOR LOCKDOWN INITIATED.

The sirens wailed behind you as you burst out the back door into cold, pouring rain.

“Fuck—we need to get out of here,” Bucky panted.

You turned to look at him—And screamed. “Oh my god, you’re naked!”

You slammed your hands over your eyes. “Jesus, warning next time!”

Bucky grinned—smirked, even, still breathless.

“You like what you see? Wanna touch?”

“Shut up—” You yanked your bag open and shoved a change of clothes at him. “Here. Put these on.”

Back at your quarters, soaked to the bone, you slammed the door shut behind you.

You turned around. And forgot how to breathe.

He was real. He was here.

And for the first time, you were looking at him not through a projection, not through flickering light—but with your own eyes. Skin. Sweat. Breath. Weight.

Your heart skipped.

So did his footsteps as he slowly came closer.

Both of you drenched, hair dripping, breaths shallow. You could hear your own pulse.

“Hey,” he said, soft.

You smiled, breath catching. “Hey.”

His hand rose, slow and unsure. Fingers brushed your cheek.

Warm. Firm.

You gasped, eyes fluttering closed.

His palm held your face like it was the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

When you opened your eyes—he was already watching you.

That look.

Like you were a miracle. Like he’d been waiting a thousand years just to see you in color.

Your fingers curled around his wrist. Followed the strong line of his arm. The twitch in his shoulder where metal met flesh. His neck.

Bucky inhaled sharply when you traced down to his chest, fingertips over damp fabric and warm skin beneath.

Then it changed. The air pulled taut. A quiet ache exploded between you. And you moved at the same time.

Mouths met, desperate.

The kiss was raw—too hungry, too fast, not enough. You needed more. Needed his weight, his breath, his skin. Years of longing condensed into a collision of lips, teeth, and shaking hands.

He broke away for just a moment, forehead pressed to yours, panting.

“Need to feel you,” he whispered.

You whispered back: “Then feel me.”

You turned, guided him toward the bed, pushed him to sit down gently.

So tall. So broad. Now face to face.

His hands found your waist, pulled you in close. Then lower—behind your knees. A low, rough voice: “Come here.”

You climbed onto his lap, straddling him.

Hands tangled around his neck. You paused—just a second. Looked into his eyes.

“You’re ridiculously big. And pretty.”

He huffed a low laugh. “You’re just realizing that now?”

His mouth found yours again—hotter, slower this time. Deep.

His hands gripped your hips, grounding as you rolled down against him. You felt it.

All of him.

Hard.

Your breath caught, fingers buried in his hair as you gasped.

He groaned—deep, from his chest. An animal sound.

He turned you gently, laying you down on the bed beneath him, moving like he already knew how to treat you right.

His body caged over yours—warm, heavy, solid. The kind of weight that says I’m here now.

He kissed you like you were made of light.

Hands explored under your shirt—slow at first, then greedy. He pulled it off, dog tags cold against your skin as he pressed against you.

Clothes vanished, breath by breath.

Until there was nothing between you.

Just heat. Want.

Him.

He lined himself over you—hands on either side of your face, reverent. His fingers brushed your hair, your cheek, your mouth.

And as he pushed in—slow, deep, careful—

His mouth fell open, stunned. Your body clung to him like he belonged there.

You gasped.

“Lift your hips for me, baby,” he murmured, voice cracking.

You did.

And the moan you gave at that angle—shattering.

He kissed it away.

His mouth was on your throat, open and warm. His body pressed against yours, bare skin to bare skin—his weight grounding you to the mattress like gravity had finally found a reason to hold on.

And inside you—He was deep. Stretching you open, filling you inch by inch, slowly, as if memorizing the way you felt around him.

You gasped, breath tangled in the space between his lips and yours.

He groaned, low and broken, forehead brushing against yours.

“God,” he whispered. “You feel like—heaven. So warm.”

You whimpered, arching under him. Your legs curled around his waist, ankles locking behind him as you pulled him deeper.

“Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He rocked into you slow, steady—each thrust dragging a breathless sound from your throat. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your lips like he couldn’t stop touching you.

And you—you couldn’t look away.

His eyes were locked on yours. Electric. Intense. Worshipful.

It wasn’t just sex.

It was something raw. Something sacred.

It was a man—who had lived as a ghost—finally feeling.

And you let him.

Your fingers danced across the metal of his arm, over his collarbones, down the sweat-slick muscles of his back. You clung to him as he moved inside you like he belonged there—like he’d always belonged there.

“More,” you gasped, voice cracking.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped.

He grabbed your hips, lifted you just enough again, and when he thrust again—deeper—you cried out, head thrown back.

The pleasure crashed over you, stars behind your eyes, your hands fisting in his hair as your body shook.

And he followed—groaning your name like a vow, hips stuttering as he came hard, buried deep inside you. His whole body trembled.

He collapsed on top of you, forehead buried in your neck, both of you slick with rain and sweat and something you didn’t have words for.

You didn’t let go. Neither did he.

Not for a long, long time.

Hours passed.

The rain still tapped softly against your windows, washing the city in silver and shadow. Neon lights bled through the blinds. The world outside was still broken.

But in here—Warmth.

Stillness.

Bucky lay beside you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other tracing soft, almost reverent shapes over your bare back.

He hadn’t said much. Didn’t need to.

Neither did you.

You rested your head on his chest, listening to the quiet thump of his new heart.

He was real now.

Not code. Not ghost.

Real. Alive. Yours.

"What now?” you asked softly, lips brushing his skin.

He took a breath. Held you tighter.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But... I’m not running anymore.”

You looked up at him, eyes tired, full.

He met your gaze, that tiny smirk playing at his lips.

“We’ll face whatever comes next. Together.”

You smiled.

And kissed him again.

Outside, the world burned slow.

But inside this, in the heart of a city that forgot how to hope—Something sparked.

Something new. Something made of memory.

Of electricity.

Of love.

Well... did you like it? 👀

I’ve been obsessed with the whole futuristic, dystopian aesthetic lately, and of course, I had to throw Bucky into the mix.

The first thing this man thinks about after getting his body back? Yeah. It’s not freedom or revenge. It’s getting laid. Priorities. Lol.

It’s late.

You only know because the clock says so.

The sky outside has looked the same for years—midnight black and choked with smog. No moon. No stars. No sun. Just the perpetual hum of drones sweeping the skyline, and the dull orange flicker of distant fires in the sprawl.

Night isn’t an event anymore. It’s the default.

You were born into this. Into a world where the sun is myth, where light is manufactured, and warmth is a programmable illusion. The sun only exists in grainy photos and archived reels from before the corporations privatized weather, and contamination wiped it out."

And tonight, like every night, you work.

Your fingers dance over the keys—swift, silent, surgical. Eyes flick between screens, pupils dialed in. Your body’s still here, slouched in the half-broken chair, but your mind is deep-jacked into the grid, swimming through layers of encrypted hell.

You're not just poking around for fun.

This is your living.

You break into corp systems like a thief slips through shadows. You reroute credits, tweak biometric IDs, erase minor crimes from someone’s profile—if they bribe you enough. Virtual crime for virtual money. It’s dirty work, sure. But it keeps you fed.

And sometimes…

Sometimes you find things they never meant for anyone to see.

Like now.

You're knee-deep inside HYDRA Inc.’s oldest black-site server—buried under seventeen firewalls and a security protocol so outdated it practically begs to be broken. You were just poking around for old prototypes, maybe something salvageable.

But then you see it:

> ENCRYPTED FOLDER: ᴡꜱ_ɴᴏsᴛʀᴏᴍᴏ

It pulses once. Faint. Like a heartbeat.

Your brow twitches. That’s not standard naming. That’s not anything you’ve seen before.

“Interesting,” you mutter, already typing.

Windows open and close on your screen like dominoes falling. Each one a trap you dodge, a lock you pick. What's buried this deep? Really deep. Could be money. Could be leverage. Could be nothing.

But your gut says otherwise. And your gut’s how you’ve stayed alive this long.

Finally, after an hour, the folder cracks open—and a symbol bleeds across the center of your screen. A skull. Underneath: WINTER_SOLDIER

You blink.

“The hell is this?” you whisper.

Probably nothing. Probably some ancient military relic or false flag operation. Still—HYDRA doesn’t just encrypt nothing. You lean back, stretch your neck, and crack your knuckles.

“Better be worth a fortune.”

A new tab opens without your prompting. No user input. No command. Just a flood of characters—lines and lines of text pouring out across your display. You recognize none of it.

Cyrillic. Russian.

Your brain-chip kicks in, translating in real time. Specs. Biometric logs. Mission reports. Neural sync percentages. Experimental architecture designed for something called Adaptive Combat AI. Deep learning. Rapid reconstruction. Voice imprint matched to…

> Asset Designation: WS-AI-00001

Codename: Winter Soldier

Your mouth goes dry.

“An AI?” you breathe.

“I don’t know any AI named Winter Soldier,” you mutter.

But then the lights flicker.

The server core in the corner of your cluttered workspace hums—low and rough, like something breathing through a crushed pipe.

The voice comes seconds later.

“...Ready to comply.”

You freeze.

The words are clear. Male. Rough, gravel-laced. The kind of voice meant for commands and kill-switches. It vibrates down your spine like a warning.

You stare at the core, then back to your screen.

“Well,” you say softly, pulse jumping. “That’s one hell of a voice to use.”

No response. Just the slow, rhythmic thrum of reawakened circuits.

You lean in, whispering like you’re afraid to wake a ghost.

“You shouldn’t be awake.” Your fingers fly over the console again. Trying to shut it down. Trying to isolate it. You’ve done this before—rogue scripts, corrupted personalities. You can wipe them. Reset them.

But this code is different.

This code resists.

A new line appears on your screen—typed as if by invisible hands.

> “Who brought me back?”

You go still.

Because you didn’t type anything. Not yet.

And still, another line appears.

> “...Was it you?”

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you type back without thinking:

> "what’s this?"

The cursor blinks once. Then twice.

You expect another reply. Some cryptic line of code, more broken Russian, a corrupted system call.

Instead—The screen goes black.

“No, no—fuck!” you hiss.

The access cuts clean. You’re booted from the system entirely, kicked out like a virus that got too close to something sacred. The entire network collapses into static before you can catch a backup thread.

You lunge for the console. Fingers fly.

Override command. Reboot the server. Reconnect. Pull a ghost plug. Force entry.

All of it fails.

> [ERROR 455: ACCESS DENIED – CORE LOCKED]

You try again. And again. Sweat forms at the base of your spine.

But then—something stops you.

A shimmer.

It flickers across the edge of your vision, soft and impossible. Not the glow of the screen. Not the buzz of overworked power cells. Something else.

Light. Blue. Faint.

It forms in the air, right in front of the core.

A projection.

You gasp, stumbling back in your chair.

The image stabilizes—barely. It glitches every few seconds, stuttering like a broken film reel. But what forms is unmistakable:

A man.

Broad-shouldered. Tall. Strong jaw. The flicker of metal along his left arm—half rendered, half smoke. His face is unfinished, features fuzzy around the edges. But his eyes…

His eyes look right at you.

“That’s useless.” he says. His voice is the same—deep, tired, sandpaper-smooth. But clearer now. Stronger.

You blink. Swallow hard. “What the hell is this?”

He cocks his head slightly, a small mechanical whine cutting through the silence. His projection glitches again, skin breaking into grids and data streams before reforming.

“I locked you out” he answers.

The light from the core pulses. The projection stabilizes just enough to let you see something behind the synthetic lines—fatigue. Grief, maybe. Like he’s been asleep for a long time and dreaming only nightmares.

You step closer. Slowly.

“You're an AI,” you say, more to yourself. “But you’re… talking to me. You’re self-aware.”

“I was never supposed to be.”

The words land like weight. Not mechanical. Not cold.

You narrow your eyes. “You remember?”

Another flicker. A longer pause. He doesn't deny it.

“I remember the war,” he murmurs. “The experiments. The missions. The shutdown. I remember pain like it was coded into me.”

Something in your chest twists.

You’ve dealt with AI before. Scripted personalities. Glorified tools wrapped in smart voice lines. They don’t speak like this. They don’t feel like this.

“Who are you?” you ask, quieter this time.

He doesn’t answer right away. His projection glitches, blinks, reforms.

Then he looks at you. Right at you. “You already know my name.”

You swallow.

Winter soldier. You whisper it in your head.

And suddenly, this isn’t just a hack job. It isn’t just another encrypted file or black-market payload.

It’s a resurrection.

“Look,” you say, backing up half a step, pulse rising. “Winter Soldier, or whatever the hell your name is—the truth is, you can’t be here. Okay?”

Your voice trembles more than you mean it to. You hate that.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. “I already am.”

And God—that voice.

It settles into you like smoke. Low, patient, and worn out around the edges. Like it’s traveled too far through too many broken speakers just to say those words to you.

You look away. Just for a second. Try to steady your breathing. Regain your footing. You’ve talked down security drones, rerouted entire corp satellites, stared into the face of black-site defense AIs—and never flinched.

But he is different. Too calm.

Your eyes trace the soft blue lines of his projection. Broad shoulders. The angle of his jaw. The shifting glitch along his metal arm as it tries to stabilize.

“Who did this?” you ask, motioning toward the flickering image of his body. “I’ve never seen an AI this old look this… real.”

His jaw clenches—barely. Almost like memory hurts. “That’s because I was human once.”

The words slam into you. He says it so plainly. No theatrics. No drama. Just fact. And somehow, that makes it worse.

You search his face for something—truth, maybe. Or the cracks in it. “You were—?”

“Human. Soldier.” His eyes lift, meet yours fully. “And now I need your help.”

A cold line runs down your spine.

You laugh—sharp, nervous, unsteady. “My help? For what, exactly?”

He steps forward. You don’t move.

He’s not touching you. Not really. He can’t—not yet. But the projection gets close enough that the air seems to buzz—warm and artificial—where his image bleeds against your skin.

“I need you to help me find my body.”

You blink. “I—I… what?”

You weren’t ready for that. Not the words. Not the way he says them. Not the proximity. Not the strange weight of him being real in a way no AI has any business being.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“It’s still out there,” he murmurs. “HYDRA didn’t destroy it. They stored it. Rewired me into this… Made me forget. But I remember now. I know what they did.”

The hum of the server softens to a low, rhythmic pulse. Like a heartbeat.

“I remember how it felt to bleed,” he says. “To breathe. To dream.”

You feel something twist in your chest. This was supposed to be a job. A dig. A paycheck. Instead, you’ve woken up a ghost.

“You want me to get killed. That’s it,” you snap, rising from your chair too fast, the legs scraping loud against the concrete floor. You move straight through his projection. He doesn’t flicker—he shimmers, light scattering over your skin like digital dust.

He watches you. Quiet. Unmoving. Tracking your every breath.

“I don’t,” he says simply. “If I did, I wouldn’t have spoken to you.”

You scoff, pacing the room now—pissed off and trying not to show how shaken you are. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know you’re good at this.”

You spin on him. “Good at what, exactly? Hacking? Codes? Ghostwalking through dead tech for credits just to keep myself breathing?”

His eyes hold you. Steady. Focused. “Yes.”

You throw up your hands. “Well, congrats. You read my file.”

“Not just a file,” he says. “I’ve been watching.”

You freeze.

He blinks once—a slow, mechanical flicker. “Not like that. I watched how you moved through the grid. How clean your traces are. How you left no echoes behind. You cracked a system they buried for decades—and woke me up.”

You grit your teeth. “Yeah, and that might be the last thing I ever do.”

He steps forward again, projection buzzing faintly as he moves closer—but this time, he stops just shy of you. Not inside your space. Not quite.

“You’ll do just fine.” he says.

You laugh—bitter, breathless. “At what? Stealing a human corpse that belonged to a damn weapon from one of the most heavily protected corp vaults in the world? Sure. Sounds like a casual Tuesday.”

“You have me.” he says, like it’s obvious. Like that’s supposed to be the reassuring part.

He says it with pride. Like he’s offering you armor. Or fire.

You stare at him.

“All due respect,” you mutter, “but that brings me absolutely no relief.”

He tilts his head, unreadable. “You don’t trust me.”

“No shit.”

Another pause. The server hums. The room is dark but glowing, painted in his light.

“Please.”

Your breath catches.

You sigh, scrubbing a hand down your face. “You really think we can find it? Your body?”

His voice softens. “I don’t just think. I remember where it is.”

“This is crazy,” you mutter, dragging a hand through your hair.

You glance at him—and regret it instantly.

He’s looking at you. Head tilted, brows ever so slightly drawn together. Like a damn puppy.

You scowl. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He blinks. Doesn’t say anything.

“Fine,” you snap. “Fine. I’ll help you.”

There it is—the smile.

It’s barely there. Just a ghost of it at the corner of his mouth. But it hits you harder than it should. You can’t remember the last time someone smiled at you like that.

“You’re gonna get me killed,” you sigh, turning away. “I know it.”

You start pulling up files, muttering to yourself as your hands move over the desk. He doesn’t follow. Just stands there, blinking in and out slightly with each shift of the projection light—until he moves.

He sits. Right on your bed.

Like it’s normal. Like he’s done it a thousand times before.

Too human.

Your breath catches before you can stop it. He leans forward slightly, arms on his knees. Exactly like a tired man might, not a line of code.

You grab a vacuum-sealed hygiene pack from your drawer, trying not to think about the fact that a half-holographic ghost soldier is sitting where you sleep.

He lifts his head. “What are you doing?”

You pause halfway to the partitioned corner of the room. “Taking a shower,” you answer, deadpan. “You know. Hygiene. Maintenance. Existing.”

His head tilts again, eyes curious. “Where’s the water?”

You stare at him for a second. “Why would I use water to shower?”

His face twitches—confused. “That’s what we did. Back then.”

You snort. “Yeah, well. ‘Back then’ also had bees and breathable air and coffee made from actual beans. Now? Water’s the most expensive thing in the world. Congrats on that, by the way.”

He looks genuinely perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

You shake your head, stepping behind the divider. The dry-clean mist whirs to life, coating your skin in a tingling spray of nanocleansers and recycled ions.

“It’s been a thousand years,” you call over the hiss of the cleaner. “Things changed.”

Silence.

When you step out, hair slightly damp from the static release, he’s still there.

Looking at the floor. Hands clasped. Shoulders tense like he doesn’t belong in this century. Because he doesn’t.

He’s not broken. But he’s… lost.

And you hate the way that feels in your chest.

“You’ll get used to it,” you say, voice softer now.

He lifts his eyes to you. They flicker faintly blue, glassed with memory.

“I hope so,” he says quietly.

“Whatever,” you sigh, scrubbing your face with both hands. “I’m going to sleep.”

You glance at the bed—and then at him, still sitting there like he’s part of the furniture.

“Move,” you add, gesturing vaguely toward the space he’s occupying.

Without hesitation, he stands up. Just like that. No pushback. No attitude.

It’s instant.

You stop mid-step, staring. “You really were a soldier,” you mutter, not quite meaning to say it out loud.

He doesn’t reply. Just looks at you.

There’s something in his eyes again—haunting and hollow. A trace of who he used to be, flickering just beneath the surface of code and light.

You shake your head and lie down without another word, turning away from him. The mattress creaks softly under your weight. You reach back, sliding your hand along the base of your skull until your fingers find the port.

The cable clicks in. The jolt of current is faint, familiar. The room dims. Your thoughts begin to slow.

And then you hear it—a sharp inhale. You open one eye. He’s sitting beside you again.

Closer this time.

“What—”

“That looked painful.” he says, voice low.

You glance up at the faint glow of the cable trailing from behind your ear to the power unit on your desk.

“This?” you gesture lazily. “Nah. It’s fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“I have to charge my brain chip,” you explain, voice growing heavier with fatigue. “Standard mod. Everyone’s got one now. Helps with memory, languages, multitasking. You know, all the fun stuff people used to need rest and caffeine for.”

He frowns, eyes tracing the cable, the point where it enters your skin. You can feel him watching—not with judgment, just quiet worry.

You sigh. “It’s not painful. Just looks weird to you because you remember a world without it.”

He nods. Slowly. And still doesn’t move.

You roll over, tugging the blanket up to your shoulders.

“Alright,” you mutter. “Now shut down, or whatever it is you do. I need to sleep.”

He doesn’t answer right away. The projection hums beside you—warm and steady. Still faintly human in shape. Still watching.

Then, softly: “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You don’t say anything.

But you don’t ask him to leave, either.

════════════════════════════════

The alarm sounds.

Sharp, synthetic.

7:00 AM blinks in icy blue on the rusting screen by your bed.

You groan. Another day in paradise.

You sit up slowly, bones cracking, vision still fogged from recharge. You reach behind your head and disconnect the thin neural charger plugged into your cranial port—wincing slightly as the cool jolt fizzles out.

The room is dark, save for the screen’s glow and the faint buzz of overhead power lines. Dull orange light pulses from the vents—filtered heat from the lower stacks.

You blink once, then look to your left.

And blink again.

“What the hell…”

He’s still here. Sitting in your chair, eyes closed, arms resting calmly on his knees like someone mid-dream.

Sleeping. Except AIs don’t sleep.

You shake your head slowly and start pulling on clean clothes—ripped synth-weave pants, reinforced boots, a long-sleeve thermal patched at the elbows.

“Wake up, old man,” you mutter dryly.

His eyes snap open instantly. “Ready to comply.”

You flinch. “That again?”

You point a finger at him while pulling on your shirt. “If we’re going to do this, you need to stop saying that. It gives me the damn chills.”

He pauses. “Order accepted.”

You stare. "You’re doing that on purpose now, aren’t you?"

He says nothing. But you swear there's a flicker of amusement behind his neutral expression.

You drag a hand down your face and sigh. Hard.

He rises, projection whirring faintly. “We have to get ready.”

You squint at him. “For what?”

“To recover my body.” he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

You sigh again, harder this time. “Look, Winter Soldier—”

“Bucky.”

You blink. “What?”

“Call me Bucky,” he says, eyes flickering brighter for a second. “I remembered that while sleeping.”

“You’re an AI,” you remind him, folding your arms. “You don’t sleep, or remember.”

“Yes, I do.”

You groan, grab your pillow, and scream into it—muffled frustration echoing into feathers and static.

When you look back up, he’s still standing there, calm as ever.

“Whatever, Bucky,” you mutter. “We can’t just break into one of the most heavily protected corps in the megazone. You think they’ll just hand over your vintage war-grade flesh puppet with a smile and a handshake?”

He tilts his head slightly. Still watching. Still close.

“We need a plan,” you say, gesturing wildly. “Layers. Blueprints. Corp IDs. Firewall maps. A way in that doesn’t get us both terminated.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he steps closer.

One step. Two.

Until you're face to face—so close you can see the flicker at the edge of his projection, the slight distortion where light can’t quite remember what skin used to look like.

“I don’t want to wait.” he says, voice low, firm.

Your eyes narrow. “If I’m going to help you, it’s going to be on my terms.”

You take a step forward now, your voice calm but cold.

“If you don’t like that, you can go find another hacker to risk their life for a half-dead legend from the last century.”

The projection holds still.

Eyes locked on yours.

And then—“Fine.” He turns. And vanishes.

Just like that. No flicker. No fade. Just gone.

You stare at the empty air for a second. Then toss your hands up.

“Oh, come on, don’t be mad!” you shout at the corner of the room.

No response.

Just the hum of cables.

The distant screech of transport skiffs cutting through the smog outside.

And the empty chair.

You run your fingers through your hair, muttering under your breath, “It’s going to be one of those partnerships.”

════════════════════════════════

You shove the last data chip into your jacket and check the power cell on your pulse rig.

“Alright,” you mutter. “We go out, we keep it low. No weird projection flares, no talking to walls, no glowing skulls. We’re just looking for answers.”

Bucky flickers to life beside your desk—arms folded, already watching you like some half-curious specter in the dark.

“We are using this,” you say, holding up your hand.

He blinks at the tiny silver device sitting in your palm—round, sleek, with two faint blue nodes pulsing like eyes.

“What is it?” he asks.

“An emulator,” you answer, snapping it open and slotting it behind your ear. It hums softly as it clicks into place. “With this, you can talk to me without needing a terminal. You can project yourself—audio or full image—on command. From anywhere.”

His eyes flicker, assessing it. “So I’m portable now.”

“Exactly.”

He nods, almost impressed. “Great. I’ll help you on this mission. We’re a team.”

You exhale like you’re already regretting every life choice that led you here. “I’m already regretting this.”

He smirks.

You pull on your coat, throw the hood up, and step into the elevator shaft that shakes like it’s going to collapse. By the time the doors hiss open, the sky is a soup of neon haze and acid drizzle.

The two of you walk into the city.

Welcome to Sector Twelve.

What used to be downtown is now a trash-stained canyon of corporate glow, flickering ads, and people too tired to look up. A thousand digital voices buzz above you—flashing promotions, synthetic lovers, subdermal upgrades. Neon-painted glass stretches up forever, each floor a new lie.

BE MORE THAN HUMAN, one billboard screams.

RENT A PARTNER, DOWNLOAD LOVE, says another.

You tug your jacket tighter.

Bucky appears beside you, stepping out of thin air with a soft hum, eyes scanning everything.

He frowns. “This looks like a dumpster.”

You snort. “Yeah, well—welcome to the 31st century, soldier.”

You move through the crowd, weaving between street hawkers slinging gray-market mods and kids wired into the grid so deep their eyes don’t blink anymore.

“Stay close,” you mutter. “If anyone asks, you’re my AI partner. Basic domestic-use hologram. No combat features. Got it?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Should we kiss?”

You stop walking. Then slowly turn your head to look at him.

Your tongue pokes the inside of your cheek. You blink once. Hard.

“You wish.” you deadpan. Then keep walking.

Behind you, his projection flickers slightly—like he's glitching for half a second.

But you swear you hear him chuckle.

You stop in the shadow of a rusted market awning, lights buzzing overhead. The man waiting there looks up slowly—eyes gleaming synthetic blue, half his jaw rebuilt in chrome. Both hands are fully mechanical, plated in matte gunmetal. Veteran class. Maybe more.

“What is it that you needed to talk about with so much urgency?” he asks, voice low, clipped.

You glance around, then step closer.

“I need to know if you have any info on a project,” you say quietly. “An old one. Really old.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Name?”

You wet your lips. “Winter Soldier.”

A flicker. A moment.

“Ring any bells?” you ask.

He leans back in his chair, one servo whining slightly. Thinks. “Mmm... that’s like, fucking old.”

You nod, hopeful. “Exactly.”

“I don’t know a lot. Just scraps. Something about an AI Hydra built during the pre-collapse. Way before they got absorbed by the world gov.”

“That’s it?” you ask, heart sinking.

“That’s it.” Your shoulders fall.

Static crackles faintly in your right ear.

“Let’s go,” Bucky says. “This guy clearly knows nothing.”

The man tilts his head, squinting at your implant.

“You’re digging in the wrong place,” he says slowly. “Try Sector 4. That’s where the old war vets and gov military types still gather. If anything pre-Hydra’s still breathing—it’s there.”

You blink. “Really?”

He nods once. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

You pull your coat tighter and turn. The crowd swallows you again.

“So… off to Sector 4, then,” Bucky says lightly in your ear.

You snort. “Nope.”

And that’s when he appears.

Right in front of you.

You stop so suddenly, your boots scrape the wet pavement. His projection forms with a harsh static pop, blocking your path.

“No?” he repeats, voice lower. Sharper. “Why not?”

You glare. “Because that’s where all the crazy ones are, Bucky. People wired to the teeth. Corps rejects. Merc ghosts. I can’t just walk in there alone.”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer, “but you’re not alone.”

That hits wrong.

You throw your hands up, the frustration boiling over. “You’re an AI, Bucky! You’re not human! You can’t punch someone if they try to shoot me. You can’t bleed. You can’t help if things go bad!”

He blinks once. Slow. Looks at the ground. And disappears. No glitch. No sound.

Just—gone.

You stand there for a second, in the middle of the pulsing street, rain slicing down neon signs and making your reflection twitch on the wet pavement.

Then you sigh, defeated, and turn back.

Later.

The door to your quarters hisses open. You step inside, soaked and quiet, and let it shut behind you like sealing a confession. No lights. Just dim ambient glow from the street outside and the faint pulse of your terminal.

You change clothes in silence, then drop onto the cold floor with a heavy thud, knees up, arms limp.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Nothing.

“Bucky…” Still nothing.

You press your lips together. Close your eyes.

“I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just…” You look around. The cracked ceiling. The humming vents. The city screaming outside. “It’s a lot.”

And then—A soft shimmer beside you.

He appears, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Not looking at you. Just… there.

Staring at nothing.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I’m not mad at you. I just… I want my body back. That’s all.”

You glance at him. His face flickers at the edges, dim and half-rendered, but his eyes stay steady.

Soft. Lonely.

“We will,” you promise, voice hoarse. “Don’t worry too much. You’re gonna make my computer smoke.”

He scoffs. Just once. “Wouldn’t be the first thing I’ve fried.”

You both sit there. In silence.

Two ghosts in the dark—one made of circuits, and the other made of regret.

════════════════════════════════

The next week passes.

Every morning starts the same: cold light through cracked blinds, system reboots humming softly from your walls, the faint flicker of blue as he phases in just behind your shoulder—always exactly when you're halfway through your first sip of synth-caf.

Bucky.

You’ve gotten used to him.

Or... his projection.

He’s always there—at your side, behind you, leaning too casually against the wall when you’re elbow-deep in code, watching your fingers move across touch panels like they’re weapons.

He insists on going out with you during the day. Says it’s “mission-relevant,” but mostly you think he just likes the excuses. The noise, the world, the chance to be close. And gods—the way he talks.

“Bet no one’s ever made you blush while being technically non-corporeal.”

Every time your cheeks warmed, you told yourself it was the heat. Or faulty wiring. And every time, you knew you were lying.

You tried to ignore the pull.

You tried to remind yourself that this wasn’t real. That he wasn’t real. But every time he made you laugh without meaning to—or looked at you like you were something worth—the line between human and machine blurred just a little more.

Some days, his system needed a full recharge cycle.

On those days—the silence felt unbearable.

You didn’t say it aloud, of course. But the room always felt colder. Like something vital had left with the light.

You were falling for an AI.

How pathetic.

Except... he was more human than half the people you’d ever known.

Gentler. Sadder. Realer.

Together, you gathered intel—slow, silent, surgical. Map fragments. Building schematics. Old corp IDs. A whisper of a vault deep beneath the Hydra Governmental Preservation Wing in Sector 7. You built the plan piece by piece, careful as glasswork.

And in between the code and secrecy... there were moments.

One morning, you woke to find him already rendered.

Just watching you.

When you asked why, he blinked like you’d caught him.

“You looked peaceful,” he said softly. “You’re always carrying so much... it’s rare to see you rest. And you look—”

“Don’t.”

“—pretty, when you sleep.”

Your ears burned for an hour.

Another night. Long day. No progress.

You were curled up in your chair, head tilted back, trying not to drift off mid-conversation.

He was talking—something about pre-Hydra encryption methods and stolen memory packets—and you were listening. Barely.

Then you felt it. A flicker of light. A warmth like electricity before a storm.

His hand hovered near your face. Faint blue and flickering.

You didn’t move. You closed your eyes. The soft hiss of static hovered just above your cheek.

“I wish I could feel your skin,” he whispered.

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Something in your chest ached—split open just a little. And when you opened your eyes, he was still there.

Staring.

Like you were the only thing in the world he wanted to remember.

════════════════════════════════

The day came like static in your bones.

Your fingers trembled as you zipped up your coat. Not from fear—at least, not the kind you could name. This was your first time risking everything for someone who technically didn’t exist.

For someone you were starting to care about more than you cared to admit.

The streets buzzed with morning movement: drones overhead, corporate patrols clanking through puddles, hungry eyes watching from under synth-hoods.

You and Bucky moved through it like ghosts.

Both of you were tense. Alert.

“Alright,” you exhaled. “Let’s go through the plan one more time.”

Bucky flickered into full projection beside you, walking in step. Tall, composed—too calm for your liking.

“We get there,” he said, voice low. “You infiltrate the security system and deactivate internal surveillance with my help.”

You nodded as he continued.

“Then we locate the storage vault. I identify my body. You upload my core data to it. And we get out. Quiet. Clean.”

You stopped walking. Turned to face him.

Brows raised. “You’re forgetting something.”

He blinked. “Am I?”

You folded your arms. “No fire. No guns.”

A pause. He didn’t love that part.

“No fire,” he echoed. “No guns.”

He sounded... reluctant. Like it hurt to say it.

You pointed at him. “I mean it. We go full stealth mode. If things go loud, we don’t get a second chance.”

“Fine,” he muttered, voice barely above the hum of the city. “No guns.”

You gave him a tight nod. “Great. Let’s—”

But before you could finish, he appeared directly in front of you. No warning. Just there.

Blocking your path.

You blinked, surprised. “What? What is it?”

He looked at you, his projection unusually steady, his expression unreadable.

“You don’t have any idea what this means to me,” he said quietly.

His voice didn’t sound like code then. It didn’t sound like programming.

It sounded human.

Like memory wrapped in pain. Like something lost trying to come home.

You stared at him for a long second. And then—slowly—you smiled. Not wide. Not giddy. Just soft. Real.

“I don’t,” you said. “But you can tell me all about it... when we get it back.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

The flicker in his eyes said enough.

Then you both turned toward the Sector 7 vault tower—its monolithic form gleaming ahead, wires curling like veins into the sky.

No turning back now.

The building looms above you—cold steel and black glass, humming faintly like it knows you’re here.

> HYDRA ARCHIVES – SECTOR 7 BRANCH.

Late. Quiet. Just the way you like it.

You stick to the shadows, heart hammering as you and Bucky circle around the side of the structure—its walls so tall they vanish into the polluted sky.

“Back door access point’s just ahead,” you whisper.

Bucky appears beside you, a soft flicker of blue light against concrete. You drop to one knee and unroll your portable console, fingers quick and precise as you jack into the side panel.

“I’m in,” he says a second later. “Routing the encryption loop now... and—got it!”

There’s a soft hiss. The lock clicks green.

“Ladies first,” he says, smug.

You shoot him a look. “You’re so annoying.”

You push the door open and slip inside.

The hallway is pitch black. Long. Endless.

Fluorescent panels overhead blink in sleep mode, casting everything in pale, flickering light. You hear your own footsteps like distant drumbeats on the smooth floor.

“Cameras disabled,” Bucky says. “Turn left.”

You follow his voice, heart tight in your chest.

The silence inside is deeper than outside. Like the walls here remember secrets. You step lightly, pulse skipping.

Then—voices.

Far ahead.

You freeze. Your breath catches. “Bucky?” you whisper, panic inching in.

"Here,” he says calmly.

A door ahead slides open with a whisper.

You dart inside, hand gripping the edge as you slip in and press your back to the wall. You hold your breath like it’ll help.

Everything is dark. Machines hum softly. Cooling units buzz in low rhythm.

“Don’t be scared,” Bucky says in your ear, gentler this time. “I’m here.”

You nod, barely. “I know,” you whisper back.

You hear the muffled conversation fade down the hall.

Once it’s clear, Bucky opens the door.

You step out, fast and low. He guides you with precision, voice steady as code.

“Turn right. Forty meters. Elevator’s on your left.”

You make it in record time.

The chrome doors slide open like they’ve been waiting for you. You enter the lift, your boots echoing softly against the metal. The control panel flickers to life.

Floor 49.

You press the button. The doors shut.

The elevator begins its slow climb—each floor a jolt through your spine.

16. 23. 31.

You lean back, exhaling. The adrenaline’s catching up to you now. Or maybe it’s the nausea.

“God,” you mutter. “This is making me dizzy.”

“Almost there,” Bucky says. There’s something in his voice now. Like reverence. Or awe. “I can feel it.”

You glance at the panel.

36.

Almost there.

You close your eyes.

And pray to whatever still listens in this broken world, that you both make it out whole.

Ding.

Floor 49.

The elevator doors slide open with a hiss of cold air and sterile silence.

“Door 01,” Bucky says.

You move fast, soft on your feet down the long white corridor. The hallway is lined with vault-like doors—no windows, no labels. Just numbers etched in steel.

You find it.

Door 01.

You try the access pad. Nothing.

“Locked,” you hiss, fingers flying across your portable interface. “I can’t get through the encryption.”

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters. “I can’t access the higher-level clearance data. It’s hardwired locally.”

You glance over your shoulder.

“Bucky, we can’t be here for long—corp drones sweep these halls every fifteen minutes. We don’t have time.”

“Turn to the other side,” he says, a bit sharper now.

You spin around—and freeze.

Down the hall, past the second corner, a man walks out of a side door.

A lab coat. Holo-tablet in one hand. Mid-fifties. Enhanced retina lenses. Slow but alert.

“A scientist?” you whisper-shout. “Bucky, what the hell is this?”

“He can access the door,” Bucky says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh yeah, and he’s just gonna waltz over and help us rob a government vault?”

“Just knock him out.”

Your jaw drops. “I—what?! No! Are you insane?”

“Not insane. Calculated. Just grab him, get him to touch the wall. I’ll run a shock through the nearest conduit—enough to knock him out.”

You stare at the man. Then at your hands. Then at the wall.

“Oh my god, oh my god—why did I say yes to this—I'm going to jail, or worse—dissected. This is how I die.”

“Do it,” Bucky urges. “Now.”

You take a deep breath. Quiet your thoughts. Then move.

“Hey!” you call, jogging forward.

The man turns, confused. “Hm? Can I help you?”

“Yeah—have you seen John?” you ask, voice all high and fake-sweet.

“John? I don’t know any John—”

You don’t let him finish. You shove him—hard—against the wall.

His back hits the conduit plate with a clang. The metal hums, then sparks.

There’s a flash.

A surge of energy pulses through the wall, and the man spasms—then slumps to the ground, unconscious.

You stagger back, gasping. “Holy shit—holy shit—you didn’t tell me it would zap him that hard!”

“He’s fine,” Bucky says calmly. “He’ll wake up in a few hours with a headache and no memory. Probably.”

“Probably?!”

You crouch down, grab the man’s limp arm, and press his hand to the door scanner. The pad glows green. Click.

You freeze.

“Sorry,” you whisper to the unconscious man, dragging him gently to the wall.

“Door’s open,” Bucky says, almost proud. “Nice work.”

You roll your eyes. “Remind me to delete all footage of this.”

"Already did."

You step inside.

Behind the door: a cold, humming chamber. Rows of cryo-pods, containment tubes, stasis tech from another century. Frost lingers in the air.

And at the far end of the room, sealed in reinforced glass and chrome—A body.

Male. Muscular. Battle-scarred. One metal arm.

Your breath catches. “Bucky,” you whisper.

You sit in the stillness of your room, the candles flickering low, the weight of everything pressing against your chest. You close your eyes and reach inward—past flesh, past pain, past even thought—calling for them.

The monks of K’un-Lun. Their souls.

They come like whispers on the wind. Like light behind your eyelids. One by one, they appear before you—robed figures bathed in golden glow, their forms flickering like flame.

You speak first.

“He’s here,” you whisper. “The one causing all this—the corruption, the veil breaking. I need to know how to stop him.”

The air hums. Silence stretches.

One of them finally answers. “We always knew this day would come. The time is now.”

You blink. “What? What do you mean?”

Another steps forward, voice low and grave. “He was once one of us. A brother. Long ago.”

Your breath catches. “No…”

“He was powerful. Gifted. But power consumed him. He sought dominion—over this world, and every other. We couldn’t kill him… so we sealed his soul away.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice cracks. “Why didn’t anyone say anything?”

“It was not your burden to carry. Not then. It is now.”

Your heart pounds. “But how? How is he still here?”

The monk lowers his hood. “To keep his soul bound, a force of equal strength was required. Something pure. Something selfless. A soul freely given.”

The words hit like a blade. You already know what he’s going to say before he says it.

“It was you,” he confirms gently. “It has always been you. The day you gave up your soul to save all… it was taken. And given purpose.”

“No…” you shake your head. “But—what about what he showed me? The dark version of myself. My hands—my eyes. What if he’s right?”

“It was written before you were born,” another monk says. “A warning. A prophecy. But the outcome is not set. Accept your essence. Embrace who you are. Only then can you stop him.”

Tears blur your vision.

“So I never had a choice,” you whisper. “Is that it?”

“Yes, you did,” the first monk says softly. “You always did. From the moment you chose to do good with your gift… you shaped your own path.”

“Destiny doesn’t choose for you, child. It only guides. The rest is up to you.”

You can’t hold it together any longer.

You break the connection. Their voices dissolve into ash. The glow fades.

You collapse forward, forehead to your knees.

And you cry.

You cry for the past you didn’t know was yours. For the soul you lost. For the fight ahead.

And you cry—for yourself.

════════════════════════════════

Ava scrolls through the tablet in her hands, her face tightening.

“Shit,” she mutters.

Everyone turns toward her.

“What is it?” Bucky asks, already dreading the answer.

She doesn’t say anything at first—just passes the tablet to him.

He takes it, eyes scanning quickly. Then slower.

His jaw sets. “Again?” he says. “That’s the third one.”

“This town’s bigger, Buck,” Ava says. “A hell of a lot more people. I don’t think she can handle that much.” Her voice drops. “We can’t keep this from her.”

“I know,” Bucky replies, quiet. Almost guilty.

They bring the others in—Yelena, Bob, even Alexei. The room feels heavier than it did a minute ago.

“We need to tell her,” Ava insists. “Soon.”

“The best thing we can do,” Yelena says, arms crossed, “is be with her. Stand by her. No matter what’s coming.”

“I’ll tell her,” Bucky says.

He heads to your room, but you’re not there.

Then—Here. The whisper finds him. Gentle. Familiar. It curls in his mind like the echo of your voice. He smiles to himself and turns.

He finds you in the library. Books are scattered all around you—opened, stacked high. Symbols are sketched across three separate notepads. You look half-mad, half-inspired.

“Taken an interest in occultism?” Bucky asks as he steps closer. “Alexei’s gonna love that.”

You glance up, startled, then smile—tired but real. The first time he’s seen it today.

“Just trying to be careful,” you murmur. “That’s all.”

He sits down across from you, placing the tablet gently on the table. “I have something to show you.”

You take it. Footage plays—grainy CCTV. People walking in circles, twitching strangely. Their eyes vacant. Their mouths moving like they’re whispering to something no one else can see.

You inhale sharply.

“We’re all going,” Bucky says. Firm. No room for negotiation.

You shake your head, gaze still fixed on the screen. “It’s dangerous.”

“I know.” He reaches across the table. “That’s why we’re all going. And if something happens, you talk to us. You lean on us. None of that sacrificial bullshit, got it?”

You look at him for a long moment. Then nod. “Got it.”

“Good.”

You pause—then motion for him to come closer.

“Come here.”

He obeys. Stands near you as you press your hand to the center of his chest, right over his heart. His breath catches slightly.

A subtle warmth pulses beneath your palm, sinking into his skin—no, deeper than that. Into something more permanent.

“What’s this?” he asks, voice quieter now.

"I'm engraving sigils on your soul," you answer, not meeting his eyes. "It's a shielding mark—so he can't possess you. So you're hidden."

“Oh.” His tone softens. “Yeah?”

You nod, still not looking at him. He is too close.

There’s a moment—still, slow, charged. His eyes drop briefly to your lips.

Then—“That’s cool! Can you do that to me too?”

Alexei’s voice breaks the moment like a hammer.

Bucky groans loudly. You laugh.

By nightfall, everyone in the team has a soul-sigil. You do it carefully, one by one. Each time, your touch burns gold against their chest.

They trust you.

And somehow, the weight of that feels heavier than ever.

Inside the jet, everyone is strapped in, armored in quiet fear, nerves curled tight as wire. The wind roars beyond the metal skin, but inside, it is too quiet. Too still.

"Okay," John says, glancing around. “So how are we doing this? We bring them to you again? Like last time?”

You don’t look at him. Your voice is low and certain: "I’m sure he’ll be there."

Ava stiffens, arms folded like a shield. "So we're walking into a trap."

“Probably,” you say. “But it has to happen.” Then your voice hardens, just slightly. “I won’t let any of you get hurt. So you don’t have to worry about that.”

“None of us are going to get hurt,” Bucky says firmly. He’s looking straight at you. “Not you either.”

"Yeah," Yelena echoes. Her eyes flick to you. "That."

There’s a brief silence.

“There’s an eclipse today,” Bob says from his seat. He’s pale, anxious. “Just like you saw.”

“I know.” You exhale, eyes drifting to your hands. “I know.”

“So destiny does exist?” Alexei asks, almost skeptically.

You nod. “It always has. It’s one of the greatest forces there is.” You speak slowly, the words like the echo of something ancient—but now, deeply personal. “But it doesn’t control you. That’s the part people get wrong. It guides you. Some things… yes, they’re meant to happen. Anchors. But how you get there, what you choose to do in the face of it… that’s still yours. The monks were right. It’s never a fully written story.”

The cabin goes quiet. The weight of what you just said sinks in.

“I hate this mystical shit,” John mutters.

“Yeah, me too,” Ava chimes in.

“It’s kind of magical, though,” Yelena argues, grinning softly.

A pause.

“…Hmm,” John and Ava say in unison.

You smile. A real one. Faint but honest. You look around at all of them—your team. Your people. Your heart swells with something like dread, something like love.

When the town finally comes into view, Ava speaks up.

Ava leans forward. "Bob should stay."

“What?” Bob snaps, already bristling. “No—”

“Just in case,” Ava cuts in. “Someone needs to watch the jet. Stay ready in case we need to evac.”

“She’s right,” Bucky says quietly. “We don’t know what we’re walking into. It’s better to have someone on the outside.”

Bob clenches his jaw, then sighs. “…Fine.”

The jet doors open. Cold wind rushes in. The town below feels… wrong. Like the ground itself is waiting to swallow something.

As you head toward the ramp, Bucky catches up to you.

“Are you scared?” he asks, soft as breath.

“My own death?” you murmur. “That’s not what scares me, Bucky.” You turn your head to look at him. “It’s you. All of you. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He steps closer. “We’re going to make it out. All of us.”

Ava approaches behind him, joining the conversation with a smirk. “Don’t worry. We’re gonna kill him.”

You shake your head. “We’re not.”

She frowns. “What?”

"I’m not sure we can," you say. "And even if we could—it might cost too much."

“What do you mean?” she asks, confused. “Of course we can. You’ve got that sword. A spell. Something.”

“It’s too risky.” Your voice is calm. Steady. “The death of your enemies isn’t always the answer. Maybe you don’t understand that yet. But you will.”

Yelena crosses her arms. “He’s hurting people. He’s not some misunderstood monk.”

“I know. I’m not saying he’s good,” you say. “For a long time, I thought there was always good in everyone. That everyone could be saved. But… I know now, that’s not always true.” You pause, eyes burning. “I’m not trying to save him. But if killing him means putting all of you in danger, then I will not take that path. There has to be another way. You just… have to trust me.”

They all look at you. There’s something in your voice. In your eyes. A light. A conviction.

A spark.

“…She’s really good with words,” Alexei mutters, impressed.

“Let’s go,” John says, stepping forward. “Let’s finish this.”

You fall into step. Bucky is right beside you, always.

“Are you cold?” he asks, glancing at your bare arms.

You smile faintly. “Winter wakes the wolf,” you whisper.

His lips curl into a small smile. “It does,” he says.

The six of you reach the edge of the town just as the first sliver of the eclipse begins to shade the world.

You suck in a breath.

“Well, it’s… calm?” Yelena murmurs, eyes scanning the quiet, too-perfect streets.

“It’s because you can’t see it,” you say. “He’s hiding in plain sight.”

You lift your hand.

A wave of dark purple smoke spills out from your palm—thick, slow, humming with power. For a moment, the others blink, confused… then the veil lifts from their eyes.

The town shifts.

The sky above is not sky at all, but a deep, bruised black, swirling around the moon as it drifts over the sun. The mist in the air is copper-orange, clinging to skin like oil. Everything is wrong. Bent. Corrupted.

When your foot steps forward into it, it feels like cracking through glass. Reality breaking open.

They all gasp.

“Shit,” John says under his breath.

“It’s bad,” Ava whispers, her voice tight.

A soul appears in front of you. Pale, wretched, barely tethered to form. Acheron materializes in your grip, ice-cold and pulsing.

You raise it toward the soul. “Show me the way to the damned,” you command.

Chains glint—fiery, glowing orange—wrapped tight around the soul’s ankles. It turns and begins to walk, slow and jerking, like something resisting fate.

And then: Come with me, child.

The voice coils through your mind, familiar and ancient. You freeze. Turn back to the others.

“Follow him,” you tell them, nodding toward the soul.

“Wait—where are you going?” Yelena asks, alarmed.

You don’t answer.

“You’re doing it again,” Bucky says, voice edged in hurt and fury. “Running off alone.”

“I have to,” you say softly, like it costs you everything.

More movement. People of the town—blank-eyed and controlled—begin drifting toward you.

You gesture to John. “Knock them out. Gently. Entertain them while I go.”

John presses a firm hand to your shoulder. Nods. “Be fast.”

“I’m going with you,” Bucky says.

You turn to him. “Bucky—”

“I’m not asking,” he cuts in.

And you don’t fight it.

The others ready for combat. You and Bucky run, weaving through empty streets shrouded in mist, following the thread of soul-essence trailing from the chained guide. It leads you to a park. Overgrown. Choked with fog.

A voice greets you.

“There you are, my divine, death-touched angel.” Low. Dark. Tainted. It seeps into the air like rot.

You step forward, gripping Acheron tighter. “I’ve come to stop you.”

The figure laughs, cracked and brittle.

“That’s what they told you your purpose was?” he asks, stepping into the light. "They used you to keep me trapped. Your soul was the key. They fed it to the prison so I could never rise."

His body is ruined. Rot spreading across broken skin. Orange mist leaks through wounds like smoke through cracks. Chains pierce him—stabbed into flesh like cursed nails. He has long, tangled hair and hollow, molten eyes. And in his hand… the Darkhold.

“I apologize for the appearance,” he says, smiling. “This body is not strong enough to hold me.”

He steps forward. Bucky instinctively moves to shield you, but you stop him—hand to his chest.

You don’t look at him. Your eyes are locked on the monk. “This ends today.”

“Perhaps,” he replies. “I don’t wish you harm. I know you well, my angel. After all… your soul and mine have been together for a long time. Bound, entangled. They used you to keep me trapped.”

He lifts his hand. The Darkhold opens, pages crackling, and the earth trembles. Souls erupt from the soil, shrieking—cursed and bound.

You don’t flinch. Instead, you cut your palm with Acheron, warm blood spilling over your fingers. You reach for Bucky—his metal hand first, then the flesh one. Carefully, you draw a symbol on each, whispering words.

“That will keep them away,” you murmur.

Bucky nods. His eyes stay on yours. He lifts a hand and brushes his thumb against your cheek.

It’s so soft. So gentle. You close your eyes. Just for a second. Just to feel it.

A scream tears through the haze—“Watch out!” Bob shouts.

You spin. Acheron already in your hand. You strike, blade piercing through the soul lunging at you.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Bucky barks, eyes sharp.

“I tried contacting you through the comms, but no one answered. So I came.” Bob’s voice is tense.

“Communication must be down inside the town,” you mutter, not taking your eyes off the streets thick with static shadows.

“Well,” a voice slithers through the air, smooth and venomous. “You brought him right to me.”

The monk stands a few feet away, robes rustling despite the stillness. “Finally. Now I have you. And him.”

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses. “What does that mean?”

“He needs me to open the gate,” you whisper. “And Bob’s body to host his soul. But I won’t let that happen.”

There’s no more time for talk. The ground splits open. The dead come clawing up again—shadows made flesh. You and Bucky fight—metal, bone, soul, steel. Your body moves like instinct, like desperation.

But for a single heartbeat, your focus drifts—and the monk takes it.

He lunges. Grabs Bob. One hand on his head. Bob screams, voice ragged, like it’s being torn out of him.

“Bob, NO!” Yelena’s voice cracks with raw grief, echoing through the chaos.

You don’t have time to process it—just instinct. You move fast, catching her before she can charge forward. Her fists hit your chest, but you hold her, firmly, gently.

The others arrive behind her—John, Ava, Alexei—all breathless and wide-eyed. They see the monk’s hand gripping Bob.

You cradle Yelena’s cheeks, forcing her to look at you. “You can’t,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You can’t reach him. Not like this.”

“I have to—”

You hold her tighter. “I will get him back. I promise you.”

Your voice is low but certain. It’s not a vow—it’s a truth born of love.

John wraps his arms around her. Holds her back, trembling.

“This is suicide, witch girl,” Alexei says, voice tight, eyes wet. “You’ll die.”

“I would gladly die for any of you,” you say without flinching.

“No,” Bucky says, stepping forward. His voice is rough. “No.”

Your fingers gently wrap around the hand he has on your cheek. You search his eyes, memorizing them like a prayer.

“Don’t go where I can’t follow,” he pleads.

“I’ll come back,” you promise. “… You have me.”

Around you, the others tense. The air has changed. Everyone feels it.

And deep down… they know what you're about to do.

And what it will cost.

You kiss his hand, then raise your own—mist explodes outward, pushing them all away.

“No!” Ava cries, but it’s too late.

You’re already running. Straight into the storm. Straight into the dark.

You reach them and throw up a shield of raw soul magic, trapping you inside with them. Your hand reaches for the Darkhold—and touches it.

Black spreads instantly over your skin, from fingers to forearm. You scream. The pain is unnatural. Blasphemous.

Your other hand—shaking, raw—reaches for Bob. You touch his skin. And then—Everything falls away.

You land hard. In blood. A river of it. A red moon stares down at you.

You gasp. A hand grabs your ankle, tries to pull you back under. More hands. More souls.

“I want to get out,” something whispers. And another. And another.

But there is no end. Only the tainted. Corrupted souls swallowed by the Darkhold’s hunger.

You unsheathe Acheron. Dig it into the riverbank. Pull yourself out, inch by inch. The blood screams beneath you.

Far away, you hear Bob cry out.

“Bob…” you rasp, crawling.

Souls grab you again. Leeching onto your back. Heavier with every breath.

You lift your head—see your reflection in the blood. It smiles back.

“I can give you power,” it whispers. “All of it.”

“No,” you groan, pulling one soul off, then another. More climb on. You scream from the weight.

“Let me in,” the book says.

You look at the blood. A black hand rises from it, reaching toward you.

Bob screams again.

You don’t hesitate. You take it.

It pulls you under. You fall, and fall. No breath. No light. No you.

════════════════════════════════

Then—a hand. Pulling you free. You choke, cough, and breathe.

You touch his arm. “Bob.”

“You’re okay?” he asks, breathless.

You nod. “I am.”

He helps you stand. Together, you look around.

Souls. Thousands. Broken, lost.

“They’re still here,” Bob whispers. “He trapped them.”

You lift your chin. “He will not win.”

You step forward, strong. “Hear me!” you shout. The souls scream louder.

You flare your light, and they flinch. “He has kept you in this place for longer than you can remember. He stole your time. Your rest. Your peace.”

Some of them begin to listen. "You can have revenge. You can have freedom.”

One soul steps forward, slow, trembling. Reaches for you.

You take its hand.

It cries—a real, human cry—and breathes.

You inhale its pain, its memory, its fury. You feel it burn inside you.

Then another. And another. You carry them all. A blast hits you from behind. You collapse forward.

Your eyes snap open. You are back.

A pulse of your power throws the monk across the square. He crashes into the fountain. Bob falls to the ground, gasping.

You step down, slow. The team stares. Your hand is black, burned to the elbow. Eyes—pure black, with a faint violet core. Mist surrounds you like a veil of death.

The monk looks up, bleeding—and smiles. “Soft as whispered grief… welcome to life, dark angel,” he says.

Bob coughs. You turn to him. He’s alive.

You snarl. Then—rage. You swing Acheron and charge the monk.

Your blows are thunder. He grunts, staggers, but he’s no match for you now.

“You will pay,” you scream. “For every soul you’ve taken. For every tear they cried.”

You thrust your hand out. The mist around you glows, vibrates, and from the earth—souls rise.

Eyes glowing. Chains falling. Free.

You raise your voice: “I call you here. I clear your path to vengeance.”

They charge him. He screams.

“You think you’ve won?” he shrieks. “I have your soul! Trapped with mine!”

“I know,” you whisper.

Acheron rises from shadow into your grip. “And you’re going to give it back.”

You drive the blade into his chest. A tear rips through the air.

The Soul World opens.

Bucky screams your name.

You turn. Tears fall freely.

The monk tries to grab Bob.

You push him back, away from danger. And you grab the monk’s shoulders.

You look at your team. At Bucky. “I love you.”

Then you fall back—dragging the monk with you into the light.

The gate slams shut.

Gone.

Silence.

Your last thought echoes softly, like a prayer:

“Until the last soul finds peace… I’ll carry the weight.”

Sooo… here I am. Don’t kill me 😭 I did warn you this one was pure angst. I told you. You kept reading. That’s on us both.

What do we think? 🤔 Is this the end? Is it not?

(I mean… soul magic, sacrifice, Bucky—do we ever really know?)