#assassin!reader

You were transferred in a box.

Not literally, of course—but it felt that way. Blacked-out convoy. Shackled wrists. A one-way ride from the remnants of the Red Room to a Hydra-controlled facility somewhere in the Balkans. No name. No destination. Just cold metal under your thighs and a silence that felt worse than any scream.

You’d heard whispers of this place. Of him.

They called him the Winter Soldier.

Hydra didn’t send many female agents here. They kept you in Moscow, mostly—tight, quiet, obedient. But after your last handler died during a failed seduction op, you were labeled unstable. Too volatile. Too effective. Hydra saw potential where the Red Room saw disobedience. So they made a deal.

You became someone else’s problem.

The Hydra base was underground, cold as a morgue, walls humming with electricity and cruelty.

They didn’t assign you a name. They gave you a number: Agent 47.

Your first few weeks passed in silence. You trained alone. Slept under surveillance. But being from the Red Room you hacked the camera. Ate without speaking. No one told you why you were there. Not until you saw him.

They wheeled him out of cryo like a weapon being unsheathed.

You were at the edge of the training floor, bandaging your knuckles from solo drills when he appeared—broad, silent, wrapped in shadow and control. Long hair. Muzzle mask. That metal arm. He didn’t look at you. Not at first.

But you looked at him. And you knew.

He was just like you. A ghost in someone else’s skin.

You were paired together two missions later. No warning. No introduction.

They handed you a brief, said “You’ll go with him,” and shoved you toward the drop point.

You didn't ask his name. He didn’t offer it.

The first op was simple. A kill mission in Istanbul. You were bait, dressed like a party favor, coaxing the target toward a hotel balcony. Bucky waited in the hallway like a shadow. The kill was clean. Fast. He didn’t say a word the entire flight home.

You were used to silence. But his silence felt different. It was less about obedience, more about weight. As if words were too dangerous to carry.

You watched him when he wasn’t looking. The way his hand sometimes tremble after a kill. The way he stared at the wall like it was going to scream.

You recognized it. The fracture. The absence of self.

It took three more missions before he looked you in the eye.

Just a glance. After a messy clean-up in Kraków, blood is still damp on your collar. You were wiping a cut on your lip, sitting on the tailgate of the evac van. He stood across from you, face unreadable. Then his gaze flicked to yours.

Not curious. Not judgmental.

Just... knowing.

As if he saw you. Not the mask. Not the makeup. You.

Your fingers twitched.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But something shifted.

Mission Location: Bucharest, Romania Objective: Eliminate asset defecting to S.H.I.E.L.D. Cover Story: Tourist couple at Hotel Beron

You hate hotels.

Not because of the sheets—they’re always clean, bleached, starched into fake softness. Not because of the lighting, though that’s usually cheap and flickering. You hate them because of what they mean: appearances. Playing and acting. Your body as a bargaining chip. Your face as a lie.

Tonight is no different.

You slip the gold earring into your ear with steady fingers, check your reflection one last time. The Red Room taught you to dress fast and fight faster. Hydra doesn't care what you wear, only that the target dies before he talks. Still, the dress they chose for you is low-cut and wine-red, tailored like a weapon.

Across the room, he doesn’t look at you. He’s adjusting the sight on a sniper rifle, calm as the grave.

The Winter Soldier wears a suit like a soldier wears a uniform—wrong, like it's just a disguise for the kill underneath.

You don’t speak. He doesn’t either.

That’s how it works between you.

The hotel bar is warm, glowing with amber light and careless laughter. You step into it like a ghost wrapped in silk.

Your heels click softly against the marble floor, your smile painted on with surgical precision. You're here to lure the target—a Hydra informant who decided to jump ship to S.H.I.E.L.D. You only have to keep him busy long enough for your partner to get in position.

You spot him at the bar. Older. Nervous. Talking too fast to a bartender who couldn’t care less.

You slide into the seat next to him like gravity pulled you there. A warm laugh. A brush of your shoulder. The same tired seduction dance the Red Room taught you at fifteen.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

He looks at you like every man does. Wants you like every man does. You feed it to him like honey over poison.

But as he starts to relax—fingers inching toward yours on the bar—you feel it: a prickle on your spine. The shift in air. The knowledge that he’s watching.

You don't need to turn. You know where he is.

Across the bar, tucked in the shadows near the back service door, sits the Winter Soldier. No mask. No rifle. Just a man in a suit too nice for the way his eyes scan the room—lethal and unblinking.

No one notices him. But you do.

He’s waiting.

The target gets comfortable fast. Too fast. He leans closer, asks if you want to go upstairs. You smile and say yes.

Your earpiece crackles with static, then his voice—cold, barely there.

“Level 5. West hallway. Blind spot in 40 seconds.”

You don't reply. You don’t have to.

The elevator ride up is silent, except for the elevator music and your heartbeat.

The hallway is dim. Carpet muffles your steps. When the door to 509 clicks shut behind you, you let the man touch your arm. You don’t flinch. You’ve played this role before. You already know how it ends.

You count down in your head.

Three... two...

The window explodes inward.

A blur of motion. Shattered glass. You duck before you even register the gunshot. The target stumbles back, screaming—blood blooming from his throat like a second collar.

You look up through your own hair, breathing hard.

He’s standing in the broken window frame.

Wind whips through the curtains. Gun still raised. Eyes locked on yours.

The Winter Soldier.

Back in the extraction van, it’s silent as always.

Your dress is ripped at the hem. There’s a scratch on your collarbone that stings. You can smell the powder burn still clinging to his jacket beside you.

You glance at him. His gaze is forward, unreadable.

But something about the way he watches the road—jaw clenched, fingers twitching—tells you he didn’t like what he saw in that room.

Not the blood. Not the kill.

You.

You wonder if he saw through the act.

You wonder if he saw how your hand shook when the man touched you.

Give me a reason to be a woman, not just a weapon.

He doesn’t speak. But just before the van turns, you feel it—his hand, brief and accidental, brushing yours where it rests on the bench.

He doesn’t pull away fast enough.

The building smells like antiseptic and cement. Cold, old-world concrete, retrofitted with modern surveillance tech and the stench of fear.

You haven’t been back in months. Not since the transfer.

The Red Room occupies the eastern wing; Hydra’s Moscow cell lives in the west. Where steel doors outnumber smiles and most conversations happen under cameras.

You walk the hallway beside him in silence.

The echo of your boots and his heavier tread match in rhythm—military, precise. You glance at his shoulder once, just once. The black tactical coat fits over the metal arm too cleanly, like it was sewn around the violence.

Neither of you speak until you’re summoned.

Inside the glass-walled debriefing chamber, the temperature drops by several degrees.

Your superior sits across from you—Director Volkov, thick-fingered, well-fed, and always two steps away from cruelty. Behind him, an aide prepares the recorder.

“Садитесь,” Volkov says without looking up. Sit.

You and the Winter Soldier obey in unison. Side by side. Chairs too straight to relax in.

Volkov doesn’t waste time.

“Доклад,” he says, motioning lazily with one hand. Report.

You glance once at Bucky. He stays still, metal fingers twitching once before stilling.

You begin.

“Цель устранена. Враг не передал информацию Щ.И.Т.,” you say clearly. Target eliminated. Enemy did not pass information to S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Свидетели?” Witnesses?

“Нет. Один охранник — был устранён.” No. One guard—eliminated.

Volkov raises an eyebrow. Then turns his attention to Bucky.

“And you?” he says in Russian, but slower. As if testing him.

Bucky’s voice is low, sharp like ice cracking.

“Всё прошло по плану.” Everything went according to plan.

His accent is almost native. Almost. But there's something strange in the way he says it—mechanical, hollow. Like he’s repeating words pulled from an old program.

Volkov watches him for a beat too long.

Then: “Хорошо.” Good.

But his gaze slides to you.

“Ты выглядишь усталой, девочка.” You look tired, girl.

Your jaw flexes.

“Я выполняю свою работу.” I do my job.

He leans back, smirking. “Иногда ты больше, чем просто работа.” Sometimes, you're more than just a job.

The edge behind his words makes your stomach tighten. A test. A threat. You don’t blink.

But you feel it.

A shift beside you. The faintest sound—leather glove tightening around a fist.

You don’t look at him. But you feel the Winter Soldier bristle, just for a second.

He heard it. He understood.

Volkov notes the silence like a man lighting a match near gasoline. He lets it burn a moment. Then shrugs.

“Свободны,” he says. You’re dismissed.

You both stand without hesitation.

But as you turn to leave, he speaks again.

“Солдат.” Soldier.

Bucky stops.

Volkov doesn’t look up as he says it.

“Девушка — хрупкая. Не дай ей сломаться.” The girl is fragile. Don’t let her break.

You look over your shoulder.

Bucky doesn’t respond. Doesn’t twitch. Just walks out, silent as death.

You follow.

In the elevator, no one speaks.

Not until the doors close and the security light turns green.

Then, in Russian—so quiet it almost doesn’t reach you—he says:

“Ты не хрупкая.” You are not fragile.

You stare straight ahead. Your heart stutters once behind your ribs.

After a long pause, you whisper back:

“И ты не только оружие.” And you are not only a weapon.

Location: Hydra Training Compound, Belarus Objective: Infiltrate and surveil ex-Hydra weapons broker operating under a NATO-aligned cover Alias Names: Alina & Ivan Morozov Cover Story: Married couple visiting from Kaliningrad for black-market tech negotiation

The base is colder than Moscow.

Not in temperature—though it’s frigid at dawn—but in design. Gray walls. Glass panels. Doors with no handles unless they want to be opened. The kind of place where every hallway feels like a test, and every reflection in the steel has eyes.

You stand in the armory, adjusting your tactical vest, eyes on the mission file. The photos are grainy, black-and-white. Surveillance stills of a man named Konstantin Mirov, former Hydra quartermaster turned freelance weapons broker.

Your job? Get into his meeting. See who he’s selling to. Get out without making noise.

No seduction this time. No backless gowns or hotel bar whispers.

This one’s quiet. Careful. Married couple traveling for business, Hydra’s handler had said.

You’d snorted. The Winter Soldier hadn’t reacted at all.

Now he enters the room, dressed not in his usual black ops gear—but something more civilian. Dark gray slacks. Black sweater. No gloves.

You glance at the arm.

He doesn’t bother to hide it.

Bold.

Or suicidal.

You zip your coat, grab your compact pistol, and glance at him. He’s adjusting his earpiece, expression unreadable.

Your handler enters with a clipboard and two forged passports.

“Your aliases are Alina and Ivan Morozov,” she says, Russian clipped and cold. “You’ve been married for five years. No children. No friends. You’re a quiet couple from Kaliningrad who want to buy access to Mirov’s smart-tech vault.”

She hands Bucky the ring box like it’s a threat.

He opens it.

Two simple wedding bands inside.

You stiffen. “Is this necessary?”

The handler smiles, teeth like knives. “You’ll be staying in a private villa. Shared bed. If Mirov suspects you’re spies, he’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll sell your location to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

You take the ring.

Bucky slides his on with mechanical ease.

You follow.

Infiltration Point: Moldova border, safehouse en route to Mirov’s estate

The drive is quiet. Trees blur past the windows, and you feel the weight of the silence settle between you like fog. The radio crackles occasionally—local news, rain reports, nothing useful.

He’s driving with one hand, the metal one. The flesh one rests on his thigh, fingers tapping once, twice, in thought.

You speak without looking at him.

“Are you comfortable with close contact?”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Then: “I don’t need comfort. I need control.”

You glance at him. “That wasn’t the question.”

He doesn’t answer.

The Estate — Mirov’s Private Villa

By the time you arrive, the act has begun.

You’re greeted by a security detail with mirrored sunglasses and thick accents. They scan your car. Search your bags. But they don’t find the tracker tucked beneath the spare tire, or the bone mic embedded behind your left ear.

Inside, the villa is all excess. Marble floors. Velvet drapes. Surveillance in every corner. You walk in like you belong.

Your room is on the top floor. One bed. No cameras inside, but you know better. Hidden mics, pressure sensors under the floorboards.

You wait until the guards leave before speaking.

“You take the side near the door.”

He nods once. No questions.

You unpack. Slowly. Deliberately. The room is small. Every time you turn, he’s close. Too close.

You kneel to unzip your weapons case and find yourself eye-level with the holster strapped to his thigh.

He doesn’t move.

Your fingers brush the hem of his coat as you reach for your knife.

He still doesn’t move.

Your heartbeat spikes—briefly.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

Now I just want to be human.

But I don’t know how to be near him without wanting something I shouldn’t.

Later That Night

The mission recon begins at the gala in Mirov’s garden.

You’re dressed in black. Minimal makeup. Armed with a compact camera hidden in your pendant. Bucky wears a suit again—same fit as Bucharest—but this time, you’re on his arm.

For show.

You link arms. Skin to skin.

He is warm.

You keep your smile fixed and your eyes on the crowd. Inside, you whisper:

“Three o’clock. Red dress. That’s the American buyer.”

He leans in slightly—lips brushing your temple in a way that makes your stomach knot.

“She’s carrying,” he mutters. “Ankle holster. SIG P365.”

You smile and laugh, loud enough for Mirov’s man to hear. Just two lovers sharing a joke.

But when you turn away, his hand on your back doesn’t drop right away.

You feel the heat of it through your dress.

You don’t speak on the walk back to the villa.

The guards let you through without questions. One of them gives you a knowing smirk, like he expects you to fuck as loudly as you kill. You offer him the barest smile in return—just enough to keep him stupid.

Inside, the bedroom light is low. Amber and shadow and the faint buzz of some generator humming through the floor.

You unclip your earrings and place them on the nightstand.

Bucky’s already unbuttoning his cuffs. No words. No wasted movement. Just a slow, methodical undoing of the man he pretended to be tonight.

You glance over.

He hasn’t looked at you once.

But his jaw is tight.

You strip off your dress with your back to him. No flourish, no invitation. Just routine. Your spine is bare and littered with scars in the mirror. You catch his reflection when he finally turns.

His eyes flick to yours, just once, before dropping.

He looks away like it hurts.

You slide on the black sleep shirt. One of the few things in your duffel that’s actually yours. Cotton. Worn thin at the collar.

Bucky changes into a pair of Hydra-issued sweats and a black t-shirt. The metal arm gleams under the soft light, all tension and symmetry and weaponized restraint.

He takes the side nearest the door, just like you asked.

You slide under the covers beside him.

The silence is too loud.

The bed dips beneath his weight but doesn't move again. He’s still. A wall of heat and control.

You close your eyes.

And then—after several long breaths—you whisper, in Russian:

“Ты не расслаблялся ни на секунду.” You haven’t relaxed once.

He exhales through his nose.

Then:

“Слишком опасно.” Too dangerous.

You open your eyes. The ceiling is textured with shadow.

“Мне казалось, ты был другим, когда мы танцевали.” You seemed different when we danced.

He doesn’t answer.

But he’s listening. You can feel it. His focus, always so sharp in combat, is now centered entirely on you.

You turn on your side, facing him in the dark. His profile is a study in contrast—scar and softness, human and not. The kind of face built for silence.

“I forgot who I was for a minute,” you murmur. “On the balcony. When you touched my back.”

His jaw tenses.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says.

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t want you to stop.”

The air between you thickens. Warmer now. And dangerous in a different way.

This isn’t flirtation. It's a confession. Two ghosts pressing against the skin of the living.

You feel his fingers move—just barely.

Then:

“Why are you telling me this?”

You don’t know.

Maybe because it’s dark. Maybe because he saw you undressed without leering. Maybe because when you kissed him in Bucharest, he didn’t pull away—he just stood there, stunned, as if you’d woken something up.

“I want to know if you felt it too,” you whisper.

His voice is a thread of breath:

“I don’t let myself feel things.”

You reach for his hand under the sheet. Not the metal one. The other.

Your fingers find his fingers.

And he lets them.

He doesn’t pull away.

You fall asleep like that. Not tangled. Not pressed together. Just a point of contact—skin to skin.

A line crossed.

And neither of you can go back.

Location: Hydra Training Compound Day Three Post-Mission

They call it “recalibration,” but it feels like punishment.

Mission successful. Mirov neutralized. Intel secure. And still, they’re back on the mat like it means nothing. Hydra doesn’t reward precision. It doesn’t reward loyalty.

It rewards silence.

You’re already in the training gear—black compression top, reinforced leggings, bare feet on the polished floor. Your knife is strapped to your thigh even though it won’t be used today. Just a habit.

Across from you, Bucky stands shirtless, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair damp from the shower.

His metal arm catches the light like a warning.

You circle each other in silence. There’s no music, no overseer today. Just the distant hum of the base and the scuff of movement on the mat.

Then, in Russian:

“Готова?” Ready?

You nod.

He lunges first—fast, controlled, mechanical. You drop low, sweep a leg, and he pivots instead of falling. His movements are brutal but beautiful, like clockwork designed to hurt.

You block a palm strike, twist under his arm, shove your elbow toward his ribs.

He lets you connect.

Not full force. Not enough to bruise.

Just enough.

You both freeze.

Your breath hitches.

He stepped into it—on purpose.

Why would he let me land a hit like that?Why does it matter that he did?

You disengage fast, roll back onto your feet. He stays still, watching.

Eyes unreadable.

Then, quieter:

“Ты теряешь фокус.” You're losing focus.

You sneer. “Ты проиграл.” You lost.

He steps forward again—slow this time. Less like a soldier, more… man. His chest rises and falls in an even rhythm.

“I let you win,” he says.

There’s no arrogance in it. No mocking.

Just a fact.

You bristle. “Why?”

His eyes flick to yours—then lower. Just briefly. Enough to notice the slight swelling on your lip from the earlier blow he did land.

“Because you’re tired.”

You swallow, throat tight.

He noticed. And he cared. Not because Hydra told him to. Not because it helped the mission.Because it’s me.And that scares me more than it should.

You don’t reply.

You rush him again, but this time it’s sloppier. Emotion leaking in through the cracks. He catches your wrist mid-strike, and for one heartbeat, you’re just… there. Trapped in his grip.

His fingers tighten—then loosen.

He releases you.

Your skin burns where he touched it.

You step back.

“Again,” you say.

He hesitates. Just a flicker.

Then nods.

You spar for thirty minutes. No talking. Just the sound of bodies hitting mats, of breath caught and released, of two people pretending not to feel what they feel.

And after the last round—when you’re both on the floor, sweating, chests heaving, his arm braced beside your shoulder—

You ask, quiet:

“Why are you different with me?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it:

“Because you don’t look at me like I’m a weapon.”

You look at me like I’m still human.You look at me like I deserve to be one.

You could kiss him right now.

You don’t.

You just stay there, breathing next to him.

Neither of you moves.

The sparring is over, but it’s still clinging to you—under your skin, in the beat of your pulse, in the shallow ache of your left wrist.

You sit on the bench in the armory locker room. Shirt discarded. Wrist tender. It throbs in waves now that the adrenaline’s worn off.

Hydra’s med supplies are cold and clinical: gauze, antiseptic, wraps. No painkillers. No comfort.

You’re wrapping the bandage sloppily, one-handed.

“Дай мне.” Let me.

His voice is low. Behind you.

You flinch, but you don’t stop him when he kneels in front of you.

You offer your wrist.

The metal hand holds it steady. Too gentle. The human one does the wrapping.

He’s meticulous. One layer. Then another. His breath fans across your forearm.

Your voice is soft:

“Ты заботишься.” You care.

He pauses.

Then—barely above a whisper:

“Ты не должна была заметить.” You weren’t supposed to notice.

You study him as he works. Down here, kneeling, close like this—he doesn’t look like a ghost. Or a soldier. He just looks... tired.

And young. Younger than you imagined, when he’s not under command.But you’ve seen his file. You know that doesn’t make sense. Unless something’s been taken from him.Time. Memory. Self.

“What do they call you?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t look up.

“They don’t.”

Not a name. Just a directive. A ghost.Winter Soldier. Asset. 

You nod once. You won’t ask again. You’ve done worse to people with names.

When he finishes the wrap, he doesn’t let go right away.

His thumb brushes the edge of the gauze. Not by accident.

Your breath stutters.

He touches like he’s afraid he’ll break you. Like no one taught him how to be soft, but he’s trying anyway.And you… you need it.God, you need it.

“You stay too long after the others leave,” you whisper.

He looks up at you. Those eyes—gray and still and far away.

“So do you.”

You pull your wrist back, slowly. His hand follows for a second longer than it should.

You rise.

He doesn’t stop you.

But before you turn to leave, you glance over your shoulder.

“What's on your mind,” you say in Russian. “Just one thing.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Like he’s trying to remember what counts as real.

Then, finally:

“Я боюсь забыть, каково это — не быть один.” I’m afraid of forgetting what it feels like to not be alone.

You don’t speak.

But something inside you breaks.

And you don’t fix it.

There are nights when the base goes too quiet.

Not silent—because no Hydra base is ever truly silent. There’s always the dull hum of the server banks, the pressurized hiss of sealed doors, the echo of boots in the corridor above.

But this? This is quieter. Hollow. Heavy.

You can’t sleep.

Your bed is too narrow, your bones too wired. There’s a tremor in your hands you can’t shake. Not fear, exactly. Just… residue. From training. From life.

From him.

You slip from your quarters, barefoot. In a tank top and soft black shorts. You don’t bother to put boots on.

The halls feel colder at night. You glide through them like smoke.

Down one floor. Then two.

You know where he’ll be.

There’s a small chamber near the weapons lab—an auxiliary control room that no one uses after hours. No windows. Just a slatted steel vent near the ceiling where moonlight slices in, pale and ghostlike.

He sits there in the corner, on the floor.

Back against the wall.

Awake.

He’s always awake.

You don’t speak when you step into the doorway.

He lifts his eyes. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise.

Just looks at you like he knew you’d come.

You sit across from him, knees pulled up. The cold seeps through the floor into your skin.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

But that’s never mattered. Not with him.

The quiet between you has its own language.

He finally says, “Ты тоже не можешь спать?”

You can’t sleep either?

You shake your head. “Слишком много шума.”

Too much noise.

He nods.

You don’t mean the base.

You mean the static in your blood. The ghost-thoughts. The bruises that don’t bloom until morning.

You watch him. The way he sits so still. But you’ve seen him move—he’s lethal in motion, but now, in this shadowed room, he’s just… there.

Like a monument to some war no one ever won.

You speak again.

“Do you remember who you were… before?”

His jaw flexes. Not anger—hesitation.

Then he says, “No.”

Just that. One syllable that splinters something in you.

“I think I was someone else, too,” you whisper. “Before the Red Room.”

And maybe neither of you can get back to that person.

Maybe that’s what this is. Two weapons sitting in the dark, trying to remember how to feel like people.

You shift a little closer. Not touching. Just near.

“I think about it sometimes,” you say. “What it might feel like. To live outside these walls. Outside orders.”

He doesn’t respond. But his eyes are on you like he’s trying to see that world through yours.

You whisper, “Give me a reason.”

His brow furrows.

You search his face in the low light.

“Give me a reason to feel like a woman again. Not a tool. Not a weapon.”

A pause.

Then he leans forward—barely, barely—and says, so low you almost don’t hear it:

“Because when I look at you, I forget I’m a weapon.”

The air between you crackles.

But neither of you reaches across the space.

You just sit there, two shadows in the dark, a heartbeat apart from ruin.

But after a while sitting on the hard floor gets uncomfortable so you rise up slowly.

You guide him by the wrist—his flesh one, calloused and warm—and not his metal one. That’s on purpose.

He follows you without a word, boots silent on concrete. You don’t need to look back to know he’s watching you. You always know when he’s watching.

Your room’s a concrete box. No windows, no comforts. Just a cot, a gray blanket, a single lamp. But it’s private. It’s yours. And he’s never been here before.

You close the door behind you, fingers slipping the lock into place.

“C’mere,” you whisper, and he does.

He’s quiet, always quiet. That’s how they trained him. But he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole damned place. Like your hands are the only ones he trusts not to hurt him. You pull him close, let your forehead rest against his chest. The cool metal of his arm touches your back as he hesitates—then wraps it around you.

He doesn’t know how to ask. But he wants this.

So you climb onto the cot, pull him down with you. No words, just breathing. The way his nose presses into your neck. The way his body curls toward yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You pet his hair. His breathing slows. You feel the tension drain from his body, even if only a little. You fall asleep like that—his arms around your waist, your hand over his heart.

But sometime in the dark, you feel it.

A slow press of his hips against your ass. The warm breath hitching against your neck. His hand twitching on your belly, the tremble of restraint in his thighs.

You shift, just slightly. You feel the outline of him—hard. Needy.

You whisper into the dark quiet of the room: “Soldat.”

He flinches like he’s been caught doing something wrong. But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t deny it.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he mumbles, voice rough and ruined with shame. “I— I didn’t mean—”

“Hey,” you say softly, reaching back to touch his thigh, grounding him. “It’s okay.”

He goes still. Like he’s waiting to be punished.

You turn over in the narrow bed, face to face now. You tuck his hair behind his ear. “You want help, soldier?”

His eyes widened—blue and glassy and desperate.

“You sure?” you ask, your fingers brushing down his bare torso, over the soft ridges of his abs. “We don’t have to if—”

“Yes,” he breathes out, like it’s been torn from him. “Please. I don’t… I’ve never…”

That makes your heart ache. But it also makes heat twist low in your belly.

“Let me take care of you, then.”

You kiss him first. He doesn’t expect it, but melts into it like he’s starved for it. Like he doesn’t even know how to kiss back but he’s trying so hard it hurts. His metal hand grips the edge of the bed; his flesh one grabs your hip like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

You straddle him slowly. He’s shirtless, boxers straining against his hard length. His breath shudders when you grind down, rubbing against him through the fabric.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut. “It feels… s’good. Don’t stop.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, dragging your lips down his jaw. “Just let me.”

He nods, breathing hard. He’s so worked up already, hips twitching under you.

You take your time. Slide your fingers beneath his waistband, and he gasps when you wrap your hand around him. He’s hot, flushed, leaking already. You stroke him slowly, watching him fall apart.

His head tips back against the pillow. His thighs tremble. He whimpers when you twist your wrist just right.

“You like that?” you ask, voice dark and honey-sweet.

“Y-yeah. Shit. Don’t stop—please.”

You press kisses to his chest, his neck, then whisper against his ear, “You wanna come like this? Or inside me?”

He chokes on air, like his brain short-circuits.

“I—inside,” he groans, eyes pleading. “Please.”

You slip your shorts off. Tug his boxers down. You don’t tease. You just line yourself up, wet and ready, and sink onto him slow. He shudders beneath you, fingers digging into your hips.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, brow furrowed, chest heaving. “You feel—god, you feel so warm, so tight—I can’t—”

“Shhh,” you murmur, rocking gently. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

He whines at the praise. Whines.

You ride him slow, deep, keeping your forehead pressed to his, your hands in his hair. Every thrust makes him gasp. Every grind makes him moan, softer than you thought a killer like him could.

You rub your clit, and he watches, eyes glassy and wide like it’s the most intimate thing he’s ever seen.

When you tighten around him, he loses it.

His whole body locks up, and he spills into you with a broken cry, hips bucking helplessly. You don’t stop. You work yourself over him until you come too, clenching tight around him, panting into his mouth.

You collapse on top of him. He wraps both arms around you—flesh and metal—and for the first time, he doesn’t look like the Winter Soldier.

He just looks like a man who’s finally been given something he didn’t have to earn.

The room is quiet again.

You’re both breathing hard, chests pressed together. His skin is slick with sweat, still flushed from the high. But his hands haven’t moved—still holding you like he’s afraid to let go, like the second he does you’ll be taken from him.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice hoarse against your neck.

You shake your head slowly, nuzzling into him. “No.You were perfect.”

He lets out a breath, shaky and full of disbelief. You reach up and brush his hair back, gentle fingers gliding over his cheek. You don’t need to say anything else. You don’t need to tell him how good he was, or how beautiful he looked begging under you. He’s still figuring out how to believe those things. But you’ll show him. Again and again, if that’s what it takes.

You shift off of him gently, and he lets you go, reluctantly. You feel him twitch at the loss of contact.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over both your bodies. “I’m not going far.”

He blinks up at you, eyes glassy in the dim light. “Can I… hold you?”

“Of course you can.” You curl into him, tangle your legs with his, tuck your head beneath his chin. His arms tighten around you immediately—strong and possessive and scared.

You kiss his collarbone. His breath hitches again.

Neither of you says anything for a while. You just lay there, wrapped around each other. Listening to the hum of the base outside the door, far away from this little world you’ve built.

Eventually, his voice breaks the silence, soft and so vulnerable you almost don’t recognize it.

“I didn’t think it could be like that,” he murmurs.

“Like what?”

“Like it meant something. Like I got to feel good. Like… you wanted me.”

You tilt your head up and meet his eyes. “I do want you. Not just this.” You brush your fingers over his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm. “All of you. Even the parts they tried to erase.”

He closes his eyes. A tear escapes down his cheek, but he doesn’t wipe it away. You do it for him.

“I don’t want this to be the last time,” he says.

You rest your forehead to his. “It won’t be.”

“You’ll stay?”

You nod. “As long as you’ll have me.”

That does something to him. His jaw trembles. He doesn’t speak. Just tugs you tighter into his chest and buries his face in your hair.

Eventually, his breathing slows again. You feel his body finally begin to relax beneath you. His grip loosens—not because he’s letting go, but because he trusts you won’t leave.

You fall asleep like that, curled around each other in a narrow cot in a concrete room under Hydra’s nose. But none of that matters. Not now. Not here.

For once, he isn’t a weapon.

And for once, you both believe—just a little—that maybe this, whatever this is between you, could be real. That maybe you’ll find freedom not just from Hydra, but from the cold, lonely lives they built for you.

Together.

You spotted the scuffle down in the alley, five or six of the trained assassin’s sent by Ra’s were failing. Blood spurting under blades and soft groans of pain filling the silent night. You sighed, “So much for experienced assassins.”

As the last black-clad fighter fell to his knees you jumped. Landing on silent feet behind the caped crusader you brought out your sword. A beautiful thing, really. Layers upon layers of hand-forged steel weaving into a fine Damascus, the silk Ito dressed the sword creating diamonds along the handle. Your katana. A gift from him. Not that he’d recognise it now.

No one else would’ve heard you land. Your feet soft as snow when it falls to the ground, particle by particle…except to him. Your teacher, your peer…your best friend. Ex-best friend.

Enemy.

He bristled, muscles tightening but he didn’t turn toward you. Right…he doesn’t know who you are. Good, it’s been too long anyways. He wouldn’t remember.

Silently, you stalked him as a leopard stalks her prey, sword glinting in the moonlight.

You moved swiftly, blade coming down in a cascade. Blocked by his. Steel against steel. Sparks flying from each hit. Just as before…only a few differences.

Then a mistake. A kick, taught by him. It was unique, and he knew it. He stopped, chest heaving and sword held up, on guard. “Who are you?” You didn’t reply, instead striking harder, aiming for more vulnerable places on his body. “You…how did you know…where did you learn that kick?”

Damnit. At least he doesn’t know who I am yet.

“I know you” He threatened, voice hot and hissing. You stilled, glaring at him through the slits in your mask.

Two statues on a rooftop, warrior’s statues with blades raised as taught. He blinked, eyes glowing in recognition.

“(Y/n)” he breathed finally, shoulders relaxing a tad. “Prince.” you spoke. A whisper so harsh it could’ve shattered his sword.

“What are you doing here? Why are you fighting me?” He demanded, fury on his tongue yet his eyes were gentle and soft. “Orders” Your sharp response was rewarded with a “tt” from him.

Sword forgotten in his hilt, he approached carefully. A shepherd approaching a lamb so as not to scare it. You faltered as his blade vanished, confused. “What are you doing?” You hissed. “Face me with your blade or I’ll kill you where you stand”

His hands outstretched, palms to the sky. “I won’t fight you (Y/n). I know who you are. Come back to me.”

“Funny. You never came back to me.” You spat, the words poison on your tongue. He froze, eyes closing with guilt. “I know.”

“You forgot me. Forgot what they put us through. Everyday the same: wake, eat, train, sleep. And then I had to do it all alone. Without you.” You hissed the last two words, they hurt the most.

“I didn’t. I thought of you everyday.”

“Well you didn’t think hard enough to come back did you? Enough chatter. Fight me Damian.”

“No. Come with me now. I’m sorry I left you there… Father wouldn’t have allowed me back. But you can come now… please.”

“Your Father won’t be very impressed.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll make him see.”

Your heart stuttered… was he offering what you thought he was? A life… away from the shadows and guilt, from blood stained hands and echoing screams. Too good to be true. But it was him. Damian Al Ghul never lies…

“Come with me. I can give you what you’ve wanted since we were young. Freedom, choice. Home and not just a house.”

Your forced loyalty to the Demon Head bristled. Seems like he still knew you.

A small nod made its way through your body, blade slowly moving back to its hilt. Damian moved closer, a breath of relief left his lips. “Come. Follow.”

He jumped from rooftop to rooftop, cape fluttering behind him and a few seconds later so did you.

The cave was cold, condensation causing droplets to fall from the stalactites. His gaze wasn’t cold per se…no Bruce looked at you like an object. Eyes scrutinised how useful you’d be, how reckless, how dangerous.

“Fine. But she’s to stay in the manor at all times until further notice.” “Fine father” Damian muttered back, sensing you were about to fight against Bruce’s conditions.

“So much for freedom and choice.” “It’s only temporary. You can leave with an escort…” “That wasn’t mentioned” He didn’t answer, only dragged you to the kitchen where Alfred had set up Damian’s usual snack after patrol.

“Eat.” You stood in the doorframe. Food had never been comfort. Never been given freely. It was a necessity, a reward. And yet, a simple command, eat.

So you sat, back stiff as a board and watched as Damian ate. He was obviously hungry, obviously used to this treatment. You didn’t eat until he slid a plate of food in front of you seeing as you wouldn’t grab any yourself. Slowly, as if scared someone would snatch it away as soon as you touched the food, you ate. Alfred watched from the sidelines, a small smile appearing discretely at Damian’s unusual kindness.

The next few days, you’d met Tim. He was absent most of the time. In his room, in his mind. You didn’t mind. Jason was louder… crude, called you Damian’s girlfriend and stopped only once you’d taken out your katana. Dick was interesting. He’d hugged Damian as he saw him though the latter boy stayed stiff other than a hand patting Dick’s back. He’d attempted to hug you too but backed away once you’d kicked his knee. Bruce let you be mostly, calling you down to the cave every once in a while to see you fight against his training bots. You always won.

Things were becoming normal. Except Damian was becoming stranger.

His hand lingering in yours once you’d pulled him off the training mat after defeating him. You ignored his brother’s gaping at that feat. His eyes found yours everyday after school. It was treacherous, you knew everything they attempted to teach. His body leaned closer when you spoke and he always seemed to move closer and closer with each passing day.

It was quite simple to Dick, Jason and Tim. Damian Wayne had a crush. On an assassin he rescued, no less. And the Damian Wayne was too shy to do anything about it.

***

"Enough with the Thomas the train shit," Tangerine groans to Lemon as the bullet train finally leaves the station. "I don't give a flying fuck if you think I'm a Thomas or Diesel or whatever."

"Well, first of all," Lemon interjects, lifting a finger, "it's Thomas the Tank Engine. And second of all, I never said you were a Diesel. I made that very cle-"

Tangerine stops listening when he notices your figure pass them down the aisle, your gait tantalizingly familiar. 

What the fuck are you doing here? he thinks before standing up abruptly.

"Lemon, hold that thought."

Tangerine grabs the briefcase and slowly follows you down the aisle, making sure to keep a safe distance so as not to alert you of his presence. He's skirting around the other passengers trying to put their luggage away, and he's about to catch up with you when a person in a large Momomon costume steps in front of him.

"Get the fuck out of my way," he grunts irritatedly, shoving the figure into one of the seats, before noticing all the children around him. "Apologies for my language."

He leaves them with a small wave, but it's only then that he notices you are missing.

"Fuck!" Tangerine exclaims again, kicking the seat next to him. He doesn't waste any more time and rushes down the aisle, waiting as the sliding doors take their time to open in front of him.

When the door finally slides open, he steps into the corridor, only to feel a lithe hand grab the back of his neck and push him forward. He spins around, but is pushed to the floor before he can register what is happening.

The next thing he knows, he is kneeling on the ground, looking up at you, as you press a small gun to his temple.

When did you start using guns?

Tangerine immediately puts his hands up, knowing the only way to diffuse this is to play to your soft side (okay, softer side).

"Hey, hey," he urges you in a charming tone, "I just wanted to talk, sweetheart."

"Yeah?" you challenge, pressing the cold metal harder against his head. "Let's hear it then."

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the soft curls back from his face. "It's been too long, doll. I wanted to catch up, see how you've been."

He can't imagine that any of this is working on you, but he has to try if he's going to finish this mission in one piece.

You smirk, finally taking in Tangerine's kneeling form before you. If your employer had told you that this mission would involve beautiful men on their knees, you would have signed up ages ago.

You met Tangerine six years ago at a job that ended up going completely awry...for him at least. The White Death had sent you to Japan to kidnap the son of one of the remaining Japanese crime families, and when you arrived, Tangerine and Lemon had already been walking him out the front door. They were nothing if not punctual, but back then, that was about the only thing they were good for.

Your weapon of choice had always been tranquilizer darts -- but you never said no to good ol' hand-to-hand combat -- and your lack of real weaponry eventually become a calling card of sorts. Especially because you always made it out alive, and with the job completed to perfection.

That day, Tangerine and Lemon clearly hadn't been expecting anyone, because upon spotting you, they didn't even bother to blink. You had played into their naive mindset and when you got close enough to grab the kid, they were each left with a tranq dart to the neck and a nice, long nap to recover from the shame of losing their asset.

Since then, you have been on opposite sides of many more missions, but the retrieval of this briefcase is the closest encounter you two have had in years.

In your reverie, your gun loosens in your hand and Tangerine must have noticed, because he shoots up, pushing your hand to the side and yanking his gun from his waistband. You aim your weapon at him again, and you are both left pointing your guns at each other, your grip tightening as your heart rate quickens slightly.

"Alright, darling, give me one good reason not to kill you right now?" he threatens, his jaw tightening by a fraction. "You fucked up our entire operation in Bolivia when you knocked out Lemon and got the White Death's men out before we could kill them all."

"Oh, honey, I've done much more than that," you smile, cocking your head to the side. If this was the game he wanted to play, then you would play along, but only as long as he kept it interesting.

"And as for why you shouldn't kill me," you continue, your eyes glinting with amusement. "It's because you need me."

Then, before he can react, you whack the side of his head with your gun and grab the briefcase from his hands. He grunts, clutching his temple, and you use the moment of distraction to dart out of the corridor and down the train cars, sprinting past the passengers and the angry ticket collector.

When you reach the bar compartment, you pull open a random cabinet and stuff the briefcase in a garbage can. It's not a moment too soon, because a second later, Tangerine bursts through the doors, his chest heaving and expression getting more agitated by the minute.

Reaching down, you grab a cocktail shaker and pour in the ingredients laid out on the counter, preparing a drink for yourselves. 

"Where the hell is it?" he demands, stalking towards you.

You shrug, fighting the curve of your lips. "You'll get it when I've gotten what I need from you."

Your gun is sitting idly on the counter, so he tucks his own into his waistband and shrugs off his suit jacket, tossing it to the side. He starts to roll back his sleeves and you lick your lips as you shake the cocktail.

If nothing else went right on this mission, at least you'd be getting some eye candy for the evening.

Along with all of the times you've screwed up his missions, there have also been a multitude of other close encounters. Whether it was his hand around your throat as you stole his asset right from under him, or his breath against your neck as he snuck up behind you during a stake-out, his presence always entranced you.

Tangerine's seemingly magnetic hold on you has never escaped your notice, but it has also never gotten in the way of you finishing your jobs. 

He sees the glint in your eyes, but doesn't say anything, deciding to use it to his advantage.

"Come on, sweetheart," he smiles sweetly, placing his rough hands on the counter in front of you. "Where is the briefcase?"

"Why do you need the case anyway?" you ask him, your eyes imploring his with something akin to genuine curiosity.

"It's the ransom money for the Son of the White Death," he responds honestly, watching your movements carefully as you grab glasses from below the counter.

You seem to ponder this. "Intriguing. On a separate note, how is Lemon these days? I heard they're calling you two the fruit twins now."

Tangerine rolls his eyes, his hands slamming down on the counter as he loses his patience. "He's fucking fantastic. Now where is the case, y/n?"

You don't respond, and instead pour out two drinks before sliding one towards him.

He doesn't bring his lips to the glass until you gulp down your whole drink and even then, he only takes a few sips.

He sees you watch his throat bob and he feels an unfamiliar pleasure at the thought of you finding him attractive.

"Look, Tangerine," you say with a resigned sigh, "I'm not working for the White Death anymore, but I still would like that briefcase. You know, for leverage."

He's not sure how to respond but then you start unbuttoning your blouse and, even after that drink, he feels his mouth go dry. His mind goes blank and he can't formulate any thoughts as your long, smooth neck becomes visible. Only when the first few buttons pop open does he realize that you're showing him your bullet proof vest.

Running a hand down your padded chest, you shoot him an amused look. "In case you try anything stupid." You pause, your hand sliding down your thigh. "Besides, if I remember correctly, you never liked these anyway, did you?"

This time, he anticipates your movements, and when a knife goes flying out of your hand, straight towards his chest, he manages to dodge at the last second, watching as it sinks into the hard back wall of the compartment.

When he turns back around, you're gone.

***

That was a lot closer than you would have liked, and you slink down the train cars, gripping the handle of the briefcase between your fingers. 

It feels like everyone's eyes are on you as you walk down the aisle, slipping past the economy cars. When you reach the first class car, you stash the briefcase in the luggage compartment and are about to wait for the next stop to arrive when a man in a white suit takes a seat across from you.

"Can I help yo-" you begin before he cuts you off.

"You will pay for what you did to my family."

"Listen man, I don't know who you are," you try to tell him, but he pulls a massive knife from his belt and you know you can't just sit here any longer.

Swinging your legs out of the seat, you shove him away and grab the laptop of a sleeping woman a few seats over. Using it as a shield, you block a few of his jabs and slices before his knife finally starts to pierce through the metal and glass. 

Chucking the laptop at him, you run in the opposite direction, back towards the briefcase, but he's right on your tail.

You push your way into the corridor, but the man grabs you from behind, shoving you forward and slicing down with his knife. The edge grazes your bicep and you wince, but right before you can brace yourself for the next swing, a gunshot rings out from behind you and the man falls to the floor, a shocked look plastered on his face as the life leaves his eyes. 

You immediately jerk your head back to see who your savior is, and you admit that you're surprised to see Tangerine lowering his gun. 

"Thanks," you gasp out, not wanting to waste another moment. He's tucking his pistol away when you reach towards the luggage to grab the case, but he sees your intentions and acts quickly.

His corded bicep locks around your neck from behind, pulling you back with an extraordinary strength that has you flying off the ground.

You gasp, struggling to breathe, but then you manage to lift your legs and kick out at the wall, pushing the both of you back. His grip loosens slightly, but it's just enough for you to spin around, sending him a kick to the shin that makes him grunt.

Tangerine strikes out at you, his fist narrowly missing your jaw, and you knee him in the groan, making him double over in pain for a few moments.

 "That was low," he groans, his face turning red, "even for you, doll."

You chuckle, backing up. "It's a man's world, Tan."

Nevertheless, he's stronger than you remember and he recovers quickly, locking his forearm against your neck and pushing you back into the bathroom. You press up against the wall, facing him, and you can't help the smirk that reappears on your lips.

Well, this is certainly interesting.

"You're better," you huff, your voice straining from the weight of his arm, "than Bolivia, I mean."

You dig your fingers into his hard muscles, trying to pry him off. "You two were absolutely miserable back then, but you've got some chops now."

Tangerine smirks, leaning forward so his breath tickles your nose. "You haven't seen the half of it, darling."

Your eyes dart down to his mouth for a split second, but he's just as fast and he notices your hitched breath. His eyes darken immediately, and before you can utter a word, his mouth is on yours.

His arm lets you go and his large hands grasp at your waist as you press into him, clinging to his body for support in the small bathroom.

His calloused fingers on your skin send a shot of heat down to your core and you bite his lip harshly. He pulls back for a moment, his eyes wide with surprise and lust, and you notice the drop of blood a second before he wipes it away.

Your lips crash together again and he doesn't take his time while grabbing your loosely hanging hair and tugging back, exposing your neck to him. Tangerine licks a line up the column of your throat and your fingers split open his vest and button-down in one go, sending the buttons flying to the floor.

You gasp when he tears off the velcro of your bullet proof best, chucking it to the floor, before kicking the bathroom door closed with a loud click.

Thankfully, your skirt provides him easy access, and he doesn't hesitate before yanking your panties to the side and sticking a thick finger into your pussy. You cry out, your head falling back against the small mirror as he hoists you up onto the sink.

He doesn't warn you before adding another finger, his quick pumps hitting the walls of your cunt with a harsh precision that has you getting close embarrassingly fast.

"Look at you," he smirks, watching your eyes roll back, "whimpering like a school girl from just my fingers."

You are about to finish, and he must feel the tightening of your core, because he pulls away, leaving you impatient and unsatisfied.

"Bastard," you groan as he chuckles, bringing his fingers up to your lips.

You suck them into your mouth, and he almost moans at the feeling of your hot tongue around him. When they're clean, he pulls his fingers from your mouth with a pop and reaches down to undo his buckle. 

Tangerine pushes his trousers down to his knees and angles you back before sheathing himself fully inside of you in one movement. 

He groans from the wet heat of your cunt and the tightness of you squeezing around him has him gripping the counter for support. He doesn't wait before thrusting up into you at the pace of a bullet train, his rhythm never faltering even as your head falls back in pleasure.

Tangerine leans down and sucks a bruise into your neck, enjoying the way the purple and red blossom against your skin in a delicious mark. 

You start to tighten around him and he knows his release is imminent, so he lifts you up off his cock and turns you around so your elbows are on the counter. He starts to fuck you from behind, one hand on your waist while the other grips the back of your neck, holding you to him.

You arch your back, changing the angle in a way that has both of you moaning with pleasure. You come apart a moment later, and he follows close behind, relishing the sound of your whimpering as his body slowly relaxes.

He pulls away from you, grabbing a paper towel to clean you both up, when he hears a light hiss from the ceiling.

He looks up to see a thin green snake slithering down from the vent, its teeth bared and ready. Both of you shriek as the snake shoots down toward Tangerine. He smacks it away and into the toilet, but not before it takes a sharp bite out of his shoulder.

His vision starts to blur and you grab his arms, leaning him back against the counter before you move to open the door.

"Please tell me you spiked those drinks from earlier with the antidote," he groans, his face growing hotter as the venom spreads through his system.

“Senator Barnes,” a voice interrupts, and you both turn to see an aide approaching. “You’re needed for the closing remarks.”

Bucky’s eyes stay on you for just a beat longer before he nods to the aide. “I’ll be there in a minute.” Then, turning back to you, his expression shifts, becoming guarded once more. “We should talk later.”

You want to say no, that it’s better to leave the past where it belongs. But something in the way he looks at you—soft yet steady—makes you hesitate.

“We’ll see,” you reply, before slipping away into the crowd.

You make your way toward the exit, your mind spinning. Seeing Bucky again dredged up emotions you thought you’d buried, and now you’re left wondering if you can keep your distance or if something will pull you back in. The mission isn’t over yet, and neither, it seems, is your connection to him.

You step out into the cool night air, letting the noise of the fundraiser fade behind you until it’s just the sound of your heels and the swish of your dress keeping you company. The emotions from seeing Bucky lingers in your chest, and you can’t shake the feeling that this won’t be the last time you see him tonight. But you push the thought aside and focus on the task at hand—getting back to the safehouse. Val didn’t do anything suspicious yet, but tonight was only about observation.

The quiet of the street calms your nerves, or at least it starts to. That is, until you sense it.

The presence.

Your instincts kick in, honed from years of training with the Avengers, and you freeze mid-step. Someone is behind you. Someone who’s very good at staying hidden.

You whip around, but it’s too late. Bucky’s already there, closer than you expected, moving with a silence that only someone like him could master. Your heart skips a beat, your fight-or-flight reflex kicking into overdrive.

“Still sneaky,” you mutter, trying to mask your surprise with a steady voice. “Some things never change, huh?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Old habits die hard.”

You fold your arms, trying to shake off the adrenaline, but he’s watching you too closely for comfort. “What do you want, Barnes?”

He steps even closer, his presence overwhelming in the quiet night. You can’t help but feel a little cornered.

“You.” The word is simple, direct, and it catches you off guard. Before you can respond, he adds, “Thought we could catch up. Away from the crowd.”

You raise an eyebrow, your pulse still racing. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Bucky tilts his head slightly, the smirk still in place. “Well, I wasn’t really asking.” His voice is playful, but there’s an edge to it—something teasingly dangerous that makes your heart thump for different reasons.

You take a step back, eyes narrowing, but before you can say anything else, the low whirr of his bionic arm fills the silence, his metal fingers flexing with a soft, mechanical hum.

“Look,” he says, amusement dancing in his eyes, “you can come willingly… or I’ve got other ways.” The metallic grip tightens slightly, just for effect, the sound unmistakable. You know he’s joking, but it’s the kind of joke that only Bucky could pull off—the kind that flirts with the line between danger and familiarity.

You stare at him, half-exasperated, half-impressed by the audacity of it. “You’re still an asshole, you know that?”

He chuckles, taking another step closer, and despite yourself, you don’t move away. “Yeah, but you liked that about me, remember?”

You roll your eyes, though there’s a small smile forming on your lips. “Fine. Lead the way.”

Bucky’s grin widens, and for just a moment, the cold exterior drops, and you see the man you once knew—the one who trusted you with his broken pieces. He turns, gesturing for you to follow him, and you do, though the tension between you hasn’t lessened. If anything, it’s growing stronger with every step.

As you walk beside him, you can’t help but wonder what this night will bring. Closure? Old wounds reopened? Or something else entirely?

The walk to Bucky’s apartment is filled with easy conversation, despite the underlying coil tightening between you. He walks beside you, hands in his pockets, looking far too casual for someone who just threatened to kidnap you—with a smirk, of course. You fall into your old rhythm without much effort, trading barbs like no time has passed at all.

“So, Senator Barnes, huh?” you tease, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Who’d have thought?”

Bucky chuckles, his gaze flicking over to you. “Yeah, well… It's a little different from the whole ‘brainwashed assassin’ gig. Less world-saving, more handshaking. You’d hate it.”

“Probably,” you admit with a grin. “Do they know how much you hate suits?”

“Still hate ‘em,” he says, tugging at his tie for emphasis. “But the job comes with perks. Decent coffee in the office now.”

“Ah, right. The important things,” you quip, keeping pace with him easily. “Coffee and ties. Glad to see your priorities haven’t shifted too much.”

“Hey, gotta have something to look forward to in the mornings,” Bucky shoots back, the glint of humor in his eyes making him look younger—more like the man he used to be.

The conversation flows easily, each sarcastic jab softened by shared memories. You banter back and forth, pretending that neither of you are hyper-aware of the fact that you’re on your way to his place. There’s an undeniable simmer underneath the surface, bubbling just out of reach, but you both seem content to leave it unspoken… for now.

By the time you reach his building, you’re surprised by how much lighter you feel. The laughter, the easy camaraderie—it’s like slipping back into something familiar, something you’ve both been missing.

When you step into his apartment, the first thing you notice is how neat and inviting it is. There’s warmth to it, a sense of home you didn’t expect.

You turn to him, genuine admiration in your voice. “This place is… really nice, Bucky. I’m proud of you. Everything you’ve overcome… You’ve done well for yourself.”

He pauses, caught off guard by the sincerity in your words. For a brief moment, the playful banter fades, replaced by something softer, more real. His gaze softens as he looks at you, his expression unreadable.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, his voice a little rougher now. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

You both stand there, trying to reach beyond what’s in front of you to see what the other is holding back deep inside. Then, just like that, the moment passes.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks, already moving toward the small bar near the kitchen. “Wine?”

You nod, still taking in the space. “Wine sounds good.”

He pours you a glass and hands it over, his fingers brushing yours briefly, sending a jolt of warmth up your arm. You take a sip, trying to focus on the rich taste of the red liquid and not the way his eyes linger on you.

“So,” he starts, leaning casually against the counter, “how’s the contract-for-hire life treating you? Still chasing down bad guys?”

You shrug, swirling the wine in your glass. “Sometimes. Mostly it’s boring surveillance work these days. But, you know, it pays the bills.”

He smirks. “Still sounds better than committee meetings.”

“I don’t know,” you tease, raising an eyebrow. “You might have a future in politics. You’ve got that whole brooding, mysterious thing going for you.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s why they voted me in. The brooding.”

The conversation flows easily again, both of you relaxing into the comfort of familiarity. But there’s an undercurrent now, something neither of you can ignore.

After a while, you put your glass down on the counter and lean back against the wall, Bucky’s eyes stripping away the barrier you so carefully put around yourself in the months prior. The atmosphere shifts again, the playful edge softening into something more, something neither of you are bothering to hide anymore.

Bucky takes a step toward you, then another, his eyes locked onto yours. You don’t move, your pulse quickening as he closes the distance. The room feels smaller, the air thicker.

“Bucky…” you start, but your voice falters as he reaches you, his body just inches from yours.

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he places one hand on the wall beside your head, his other hand coming to rest lightly on your hip. The heat of his touch seeps through your clothes, sending a quiver up your spine.

His eyes flicker down to your lips, and that’s when you know—he’s not going to ask, he’s just going to do.

In the next breath, Bucky closes the space between you, his lips crashing against yours with a fierce intensity that steals your breath. The kiss is deep, demanding, and you respond without hesitation, your hands fisting in his shirt as you pull him closer.

It’s like no time has passed at all, like all the emotions you’ve both buried have resurfaced in an instant. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this, like he’s finally letting himself feel everything he’s been holding back.

Your back presses against the wall, the solid weight of his body pinning you there, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger that matches your own.

When you finally break apart, both of you breathing hard, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

You swallow hard, your heart racing, his words settling heavily in your chest.

“I missed you too,” you admit, the truth undeniable.

The moment hangs in the air, your breaths mingling as you stand pressed between Bucky and the wall. His hand remains on your hip, firm but not forceful, while the other stays braced against the wall, caging you in. There’s no space between you now, just the heat of his body and the overwhelming pulse of your own heart as it pounds against your chest.

His lips find yours again, slower this time but no less intense. Each kiss feels like a release of everything left unsaid between you, and you respond in kind, your hands moving up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. Bucky lets out a low, satisfied sound from deep in his chest, and it sends a thrill through you.

His lips trail away from your mouth, finding the soft skin along your jawline, his breath warm against your skin. You gasp, the sensation sending a rush of warmth through your body as he presses closer, the cool metal of his bionic arm brushing against your side in contrast to the heat of his touch.

“Bucky,” you breathe, trying to catch your breath, though you make no effort to push him away. His name comes out as a soft plea, though you’re not even sure what you’re asking for. All you know is that after all this time, after everything, being here with him feels inevitable, like no amount of time or distance could have changed this pull between you.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his breathing uneven as he searches your face, like he’s trying to gauge whether you want him to stop. His gaze is intense, but there’s something vulnerable there too, something raw that you’ve only seen glimpses of before.

But you don’t want him to stop. You don’t want this moment to slip away.

You pull him back to you, capturing his lips with yours again, and that seems to be all the answer he needs. His arm slips around your waist, holding you against him as he deepens the kiss, his hand moving up your back, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Every touch, every movement feels deliberate, as if he’s trying to memorize the way you feel against him after all this time.

When you break apart again, both of you are breathing hard, your foreheads resting together as you try to steady yourself. The air between you is wrought with desire, but there’s more than just passion here. There’s history, memories, and a connection that never really faded, no matter how much time has passed.

Bucky’s thumb brushes gently along your side, his voice a steady rumble as he speaks. “I never stopped thinking about you,” he admits, his words carrying something you hadn’t expected. “No matter how hard I tried… you were always there.”

You swallow, your chest tight with emotion, but you don’t pull away. “I didn’t forget you either,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. “I couldn’t.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the world outside his apartment feeling miles away. The only thing that matters is this—being here, in this moment, with him.

Finally, Bucky leans back slightly, his hand coming up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly across your skin. There’s a tenderness in his gaze now, an openness you haven’t seen in him in years. “I don’t want this to be a mistake,” he murmurs, his voice quieter, more uncertain now. “I don’t want to hurt you again.”

Your heart twists at his words, but you shake your head. “This isn’t a mistake, Bucky,” you say firmly, your hand coming to rest against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “We’re different people now, but that doesn’t change how I feel.”

He exhales a shaky breath, like he’s been holding it in for a long time. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, his gaze flickering down to your mouth before meeting your eyes again. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.

You smile, a soft, bittersweet smile, and shake your head again. “Maybe not,” you tease lightly, your voice gentle. “But you’ve got me anyway.”

His lips curve into a small smile, and in that moment, it feels like something between you finally clicks into place. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, and when he pulls back, the intensity between you has shifted into something warmer, something steadier.

There’s still so much unsaid, so much you’ll need to talk about, but for now, you’re content to simply be here, wrapped in the comfort of his arms. Bucky steps back slightly, his hand sliding down to rest on your waist. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

“I could say the same thing about you.” Your eyes trail down his body, taking in his broad shoulders and muscular chest about to burst through the fabric of his dress shirt.

“I want to take you upstairs and ruin you.”

“Then what’s stopping you?” You challenged.

“Not a thing,” he whispered, before scooping you up into his arms. You let out a surprised yelp, your arms wrapping around his neck as he carried you upstairs, his stride confident and sure.

He kicked open the bedroom door, depositing you onto the soft mattress. His eyes never left yours as he began to undress, his jacket quickly strewn on a chair in the corner. His shirt hits the floor followed by his undershirt. Briefly, you close your eyes and memories play through your mind of nights when you would run your fingers along the intricate gold pattern of Bucky’s mechanical arm while he slept. You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching as he revealed more and more of his toned body.

"Like what you see?" Bucky asked, a cocky grin on his face as he stood there in just his boxers, his erection straining against the fabric.

You raised an eyebrow playfully. "Maybe," you teased, sitting up and reaching for the zipper of your gown. Bucky watched, his eyes darkening with desire as you slowly stripped, revealing your matching lace bra and panties.

He climbed onto the bed, his body covering yours as he captured your lips in a fierce kiss. Your hands roamed over his body, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the heat of his skin mixed with the coolness of metal. Bucky's hand found the clasp of your bra, undoing it with a practiced ease. He pulled back, his eyes taking in the sight of your bare breasts.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he murmured, his head dipping down to take one nipple into his mouth. You gasped, your back arching as he swirled his tongue around the sensitive bud. His hand found your other breast, his fingers pinching and rolling the nipple, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

Your hands found his boxers, pushing them down, freeing his cock. You wrapped your hand around the length, marveling at the feel of him, hard and hot in your hand. Bucky groaned, his hips thrusting into your touch.

He pulled back, his eyes meeting yours. "I need to taste you," he growled, his hand slipping into the waistband of your panties. He made quick work of garment, pulling them down your legs and tossing them to the floor.

He settled between your legs, licking his lips as he lowered his head. The first touch of his tongue on your clit sent a lighting bolt through you. You moaned, your hips bucking against his mouth. Bucky chuckled, the vibrations sending another wave of ecstasy through you.

He licked and sucked, his fingers sliding into you, preparing you to take his cock. You writhed beneath him, your hands fisting the sheets as you chased your release. Bucky's fingers curled inside you, hitting that spot that made you see stars. The man still knew your body, like he hadn’t gone a year without it in his hands.

"Bucky," you gasped, your orgasm crashing over you. Bucky continued to lick and suck, riding out your orgasm with you.

As you came down from your high, Bucky moved up your body, his cock poised at your entrance. He captured your lips in another searing kiss, the taste of you still on his tongue. "Ready?" he asked, his voice a low growl.

You nodded, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. Bucky slid into you, filling you completely. You both moaned, the sensation overwhelming. Bucky began to move, his hips thrusting in a steady rhythm.

"Fuck, you feel so good," Bucky groaned, his head dipping down to capture your nipple in his mouth. You groaned, your hips meeting his thrust for thrust.

Bucky flipped you over, positioning you on your hands and knees. He slid back into you, his hands gripping your hips as he began to fuck you harder. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixed with your cries and his grunts.

"Harder," you demanded, looking back at him over your shoulder. Bucky complied, his hips moving faster, his cock driving deeper into you.

"Fuck, I'm close," Bucky grits, his fingers digging into your flesh. You reached down, your fingers finding your clit, rubbing in quick circles.

"Me too," you gasped, another explosion building. Bucky's metal hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back as he leaned down, his lips sucking a bruise into the tender skin of your neck.

Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, shockwaves of bliss making your mind go blank. Bucky groaned, his release following yours, his cock shooting his seed deep inside your cunt.

You both collapsed onto the bed, panting and sweaty. Bucky pulled you into his arms, his lips brushing against your forehead. "Next time," he murmured, his voice filled with promise. "Next time, I'm fucking your ass."

Ahh yes. The Bucky Barnes you remember indeed.