Bio: sleazy yandere!robert x ex assassin fem!reader
Is it weird that your boss talks to the security cameras on every street in California that youâve been on? Is it crazy how he uses his superiority to put you in check, even though he doesnât have to? Is it crazy that he bumps you up on the leaderboard even though youâve already failed two missions? Nothing really makes sense when being around Robert Robertson. Nothing ever makes sense when being around Robert Robertson.
âName, you can take a break,â he says over the intercoms. You can hear Prism and Flambe letting out tired groans.
âHow come [Name] gets to take a break? All she did was run errands!â
Then their voices start to cut offâRobert muted them once again.
âI donât think itâs fair that youâre benching me. I could really help out with this~â
Then he mutes you before you can say a single word. His precious subordinate should stay safe. He stalks the office for you a lot. He scares you if you get too close to his desk.
âIs there something that you need, villain?â he says it with so much sweetness, but it still reeks of the same poison. He makes claims for you that no one else would. At first, you thought he was just being nice, but now itâs getting out of hand.
âI just saved you from getting cut. How are you going to pay me back, [Name]?â
He chuckles darkly, directly into your ear. He knows you need this job, and he knows you need that second chance. He can take it away just as easily as he can give it.
âI understand, sir. I canât repay you.â
God, this is embarrassing. You were once a great assassin people from all around the globe called for your skills. You were one of a kind. Now look at you, shivering because of some white guy. Good. You should be ashamed.
And he doesnât even use your âheroâ name he calls you by your full government name. How the hell did he get his hands on that? Not even Blazer could get her hands on that. But he did. And every time he says it, it sounds more teasing than the last.
And donât get me started on the house party. You were told to go upstairs to grab some towels from Water Boy, only to see an entire evidence board dedicated to you. It had pictures of you from the time you first became a villain, pictures of you during your assassinations, and even more recent ones. How the hell did he get his hands on those? Thereâs no way. Ainât no way some stupid college dropout like Mecha Man could even dream of this.
You come back with the towels immediately, but Lord have mercy after what you saw in that room, you donât know if you can face Robert ever again. But youâll have to. He has a special mission for you: get him donuts from Grandmaâs.
So every morning, you have to see that sweet, sickening smile as he offers you a bite (he literally feeds it to you like youâre some hopeless idiot). And donât be around him when heâs in the Mecha Man suit nine times out of ten, heâll put a tracker on you. Your dryer almost exploded from the last one.
âIâm so sorry Iâm late, my alarm clock was broken.â
Then Robert hands you a new alarm clock exactly like yours. Heâs such a hero. A creepy, weird, stalker hero who now has his lunch breaks with you at his side.
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Illumi never imagined getting married, which is why, when he was informed that heâd be marrying a woman from the elusive Crimson Syndicate, he had no words.Â
And yet⊠He obliged.Â
The Crimson Syndicate. A renowned yet practically untraceable group of Assassins. Unlike the Zoldyck Family, they prefer to blend in with the rest of society, so theyâre merely perceived as a chilling rumor to the public, but a select few Assassins know the reality of the Crimson Syndicate.
Of course, this union within matrimony is beneficial to both the Zoldyck Family and Crimson Syndicate. It tightens relations, lessens the tension, and further spreads fear and despair to any living creature with a functioning brain.
Gotoh, ever the diligent butler, kept tabs on you as soon as you arrived at Kukuroo Mountain, informing Illumi of aâ
âA bubbly yet refined womanâ at the testing gate.
While you entered through the testing gates easily and had permission to go straight to the manor, you opted to first befriend and play with Mike, which made the hunting dog happily follow you up until the butler quarters, where Mike was led back down by Canary.
Gotoh couldnât believe it as he watched Mike whimper and paw at the ground as Canary carried him back down to the gate. Nonetheless, Gotoh concealed his reaction and led you to the main estate.
Gotoh mentally noted each thing you said from the stories of your various journeys and travels to simple likes and dislikes. It wasnât long until Gotoh began to share his own thoughts and stories about his work. It was when you both were almost outside the door to the meeting room for you to meet Illumi when Gotoh saw your smile and immediately realizedââ
His guard was completely down.
Not only that, but youâd also only disclosed barely surface-level details about yourself, and in exchange, Gotoh practically bared his whole life story to you.
And you knew.
And you didnât say anything.
You just smiled.
Without another word, you simply let yourself into the room.
_________________________________________
The meeting went as well as two strangers getting married could go. You signed your papers, and He signed his. Then, after the papers were processed and word got out about your marriage, you were officially a Zoldyck, and Illumi was your husband.
Still, even after the first two weeks of marriage, you couldnât help but feel that something was lacking, as if Illumi was still wary about and around you.Â
Either way, you stayed positive, and still, you both were in your own worlds.
_________________________________________
â âllumi! Iâm heading out, âkay?â You happily exclaimed as you slipped on your Louboutin heelsÂ
âWhere are you going?â Illumi asked, his voice carrying the slightest hint of curiosity as he took in the sight of youâ
 A black backless dress, black-red bottom heels, and accents of gold jewelry with a matching clutch to tie it together. A look that didnât command or draw attention, A look that let you do the talking.
âI have a mission tonight down in Yorknew City, itâs at the Brookway Boulevard Theater for a show happening one night only! Do you want to come with me?â You hummed as you looked at him while applying the finishing touches to your lip gloss.
âNo, I have no interest in the theatre. Good Luck on your mission.â Illumi said as he left the foyer of your shared Yorknew City High-rise condo.
With that, you say goodbye and head out for the night.
While Illumi had no interest in the theater, he did have an interest in one thing tonightâŠ
You.
All he knew about you was your standing history and high affiliation and status within the Crimson Syndicate, and even with his Hunters License, he was unable to find information about you or the Crimson Syndicate anymore, besides the fact that you obtained your Hunters License at the age of ten.
Something about you left him wanting more. The way you seemed so close yet so far. The way your presence lingered as if it was beckoning him to follow it.
And follow he did.
Using Zetsu, he followed you to Brookway Boulevard Theater to watch you do the most intimate thing an assassin could do.
Kill.Â
Though, unexpectedly, it took longer than he expected. You mingled and spoke to person to person, never in one place longer than necessary. There were times he even lost sight of you before the show started.
It was the 3rd Act, the climax, where you suddenly got out of your set dropping your clutch as your hand lightly brushed the shoulder of the man sitting next to you, as you swiftly left, mumbling something about âneeding some fresh airâ as you made your way to the balcony.
An assassin crying? Illumi could barely process it until he noticed the man who was sitting beside you follow after you, your clutch in his hand.
âŠ
âE-excuse me, Ms? You dropped your purseââ The man said as he watched how the moonlight captured the gentle tears still on your face.
âOh-! My apologies, the theatre gets me so emotional-â You said wiping away the few stray tears.
âOh no, I completely understand this play is an emotional work after all. I understand why itâs a one-night performance now,â The man says as he welcomes himself to stand beside you on the balcony as he continues to hold the clutch for you.
âYes, a one-night-only performance, and it already seems the curtain is closingâŠâ You hum as you look at the man standing beside you.
âHuh-? But thereâs stillââ The man was cut off as he fell to the floor, head to concrete, concrete to blood.Â
âAnd with that, the night and curtains come to a close. You really shouldnât pick up just any woman's clutch, yâknow?â You nonchalantly say as you crouch beside the dead man, picking up your clutch and ending your nen manipulation technique on the object.Â
Illumi couldnât take his eyes off the sight that isâŠ
 until he felt the nick of a knife graze his left cheek.
âDid you enjoy the show, âllumi?â You hummed as you turned to face him.Â
â...Yes. Very much so.â Illumi stated as he expertly wiped away the stray blood from his face.
âGood. Cause this is a one-night-only event.â You statedÂ
âIs that so? How unfortunate, I quite enjoyed myself.â Illumi hummed as he gently grasped your hand.
âYes, Next time when I ask you to join me, you should simply come. Weâre married after all; thereâs no need for you to hide behind your nen.â You said as you felt the chill of his hand against yours.
âI will. And you shall accompany on mine.â Illumi states
âOkay! Itâs a date then âllumi!â You hum, gleefully walking hand in hand with Illumi as you hear the claps and cheers from the audience as the play inside the theater ends.Â
one - shot inspired by the song âGlory Boxâ by Portishead â also a tad inspired by @artficlly âs lessons in love making
winter soldier!bucky x black widow!femreader
She's Red Room. He's Winter Soldier. Neither remembers what it feels like to be touched without orders, to be wanted without purpose. Hydra pairs them as weapons, but in the quiet between missionsâin bruised silence and shared Russianâthey begin to find something unspoken. Something fragile. Something theirs.
masterlist | 5.9k words | photos do not depict what fem!reader looks like | mentions of torture, trauma, brainwashing, illusions to assault yk normal red room/hydra things, wee bit of violence and blood, praise, grinding, handjob, unprotected piv sex (not rlly tho if yk black widow loreâŠ) and thatâs it pls lmk if thereâs more
You were transferred in a box.
Not literally, of courseâbut 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.
Youâd heard whispers of this place. Of him.
They called him the Winter Soldier.
Hydra didnât send many female agents here. They kept you in Moscow, mostlyâtight, 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 elseâs problem.
The Hydra base was underground, cold as a morgue, walls humming with electricity and cruelty.
They didnât 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 appearedâbroad, silent, wrapped in shadow and control. Long hair. Muzzle mask. That metal arm. He didnât look at you. Not at first.
But you looked at him. And you knew.
He was just like you. A ghost in someone elseâs skin.
You were paired together two missions later. No warning. No introduction.
They handed you a brief, said âYouâll go with him,â and shoved you toward the drop point.
You didn't ask his name. He didnât 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 didnât 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 wasnât 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 KrakĂłw, 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 didnât 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 sheetsâtheyâre always clean, bleached, starched into fake softness. Not because of the lighting, though thatâs 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 doesnât look at you. Heâs adjusting the sight on a sniper rifle, calm as the grave.
The Winter Soldier wears a suit like a soldier wears a uniformâwrong, like it's just a disguise for the kill underneath.
You donât speak. He doesnât either.
Thatâs 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 targetâa 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 couldnât 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.
Iâve 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 relaxâfingers inching toward yours on the barâyou feel it: a prickle on your spine. The shift in air. The knowledge that heâs 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 roomâlethal and unblinking.
No one notices him. But you do.
Heâs 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 voiceâcold, barely there.
âLevel 5. West hallway. Blind spot in 40 seconds.â
You don't reply. You donât 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 donât flinch. Youâve 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, screamingâblood blooming from his throat like a second collar.
You look up through your own hair, breathing hard.
Heâs 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, itâs silent as always.
Your dress is ripped at the hem. Thereâs 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 roadâjaw clenched, fingers twitchingâtells you he didnât 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 doesnât speak. But just before the van turns, you feel itâhis hand, brief and accidental, brushing yours where it rests on the bench.
He doesnât 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 havenât been back in months. Not since the transfer.
The Red Room occupies the eastern wing; Hydraâs 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 rhythmâmilitary, 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 youâre summoned.
Inside the glass-walled debriefing chamber, the temperature drops by several degrees.
Your superior sits across from youâDirector Volkov, thick-fingered, well-fed, and always two steps away from cruelty. Behind him, an aide prepares the recorder.
âХаЎОŃĐ”ŃŃ,â Volkov says without looking up.
Sit.
You and the Winter Soldier obey in unison. Side by side. Chairs too straight to relax in.
Volkov doesnât waste time.
âĐĐŸĐșлаЎ,â he says, motioning lazily with one hand.
Report.
You glance once at Bucky. He stays still, metal fingers twitching once before stilling.
âĐĐ”Ń. ĐĐŽĐžĐœ ĐŸŃ ŃĐ°ĐœĐœĐžĐș â бŃĐ» ŃŃŃŃĐ°ĐœŃĐœ.â
No. One guardâeliminated.
Volkov raises an eyebrow. Then turns his attention to Bucky.
âAnd you?â he says in Russian, but slower. As if testing him.
Buckyâs voice is low, sharp like ice cracking.
âĐŃŃ ĐżŃĐŸŃĐ»ĐŸ ĐżĐŸ ĐżĐ»Đ°ĐœŃ.â
Everything went according to plan.
His accent is almost native. Almost. But there's something strange in the way he says itâmechanical, hollow. Like heâs repeating words pulled from an old program.
Volkov watches him for a beat too long.
Then: âĐ„ĐŸŃĐŸŃĐŸ.â
Good.
But his gaze slides to you.
âĐąŃ ĐČŃглŃĐŽĐžŃŃ ŃŃŃĐ°Đ»ĐŸĐč, ĐŽĐ”ĐČĐŸŃĐșа.â
You look tired, girl.
Your jaw flexes.
âĐŻ ĐČŃĐżĐŸĐ»ĐœŃŃ ŃĐČĐŸŃ ŃĐ°Đ±ĐŸŃŃ.â
I do my job.
He leans back, smirking. âĐĐœĐŸĐłĐŽĐ° ŃŃ Đ±ĐŸĐ»ŃŃĐ”, ŃĐ”ĐŒ ĐżŃĐŸŃŃĐŸ ŃĐ°Đ±ĐŸŃа.â
Sometimes, you're more than just a job.
The edge behind his words makes your stomach tighten. A test. A threat. You donât blink.
But you feel it.
A shift beside you. The faintest soundâleather glove tightening around a fist.
You donât 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.
âĐĄĐČĐŸĐ±ĐŸĐŽĐœŃ,â he says.
Youâre dismissed.
You both stand without hesitation.
But as you turn to leave, he speaks again.
âĐĄĐŸĐ»ĐŽĐ°Ń.â
Soldier.
Bucky stops.
Volkov doesnât look up as he says it.
âĐĐ”ĐČŃŃĐșа â Ń ŃŃĐżĐșаŃ. ĐĐ” ЎаĐč Đ”Đč ŃĐ»ĐŸĐŒĐ°ŃŃŃŃ.â
The girl is fragile. Donât let her break.
You look over your shoulder.
Bucky doesnât respond. Doesnât 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 Russianâso quiet it almost doesnât reach youâhe says:
âĐąŃ ĐœĐ” Ń ŃŃĐżĐșаŃ.â
You are not fragile.
You stare straight ahead. Your heart stutters once behind your ribs.
After a long pause, you whisper back:
âĐ ŃŃ ĐœĐ” ŃĐŸĐ»ŃĐșĐŸ ĐŸŃŃжОД.â
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 temperatureâthough itâs frigid at dawnâbut 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 heâs selling to. Get out without making noise.
No seduction this time. No backless gowns or hotel bar whispers.
This oneâs quiet. Careful. Married couple traveling for business, Hydraâs handler had said.
Youâd snorted. The Winter Soldier hadnât reacted at all.
Now he enters the room, dressed not in his usual black ops gearâbut something more civilian. Dark gray slacks. Black sweater. No gloves.
You glance at the arm.
He doesnât bother to hide it.
Bold.
Or suicidal.
You zip your coat, grab your compact pistol, and glance at him. Heâs adjusting his earpiece, expression unreadable.
Your handler enters with a clipboard and two forged passports.
âYour aliases are Alina and Ivan Morozov,â she says, Russian clipped and cold. âYouâve been married for five years. No children. No friends. Youâre a quiet couple from Kaliningrad who want to buy access to Mirovâs smart-tech vault.â
She hands Bucky the ring box like itâs a threat.
He opens it.
Two simple wedding bands inside.
You stiffen. âIs this necessary?â
The handler smiles, teeth like knives. âYouâll be staying in a private villa. Shared bed. If Mirov suspects youâre spies, heâll kill you. Or worseâheâll sell your location to S.H.I.E.L.D.â
You take the ring.
Bucky slides his on with mechanical ease.
You follow.
Infiltration Point: Moldova border, safehouse en route to Mirovâs 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 occasionallyâlocal news, rain reports, nothing useful.
Heâs 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.
âAre you comfortable with close contact?â
He doesnât respond right away.
Then: âI donât need comfort. I need control.â
You glance at him. âThat wasnât the question.â
He doesnât answer.
The Estate â Mirovâs Private Villa
By the time you arrive, the act has begun.
Youâre greeted by a security detail with mirrored sunglasses and thick accents. They scan your car. Search your bags. But they donât 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.
âYou take the side near the door.â
He nods once. No questions.
You unpack. Slowly. Deliberately. The room is small. Every time you turn, heâs close. Too close.
You kneel to unzip your weapons case and find yourself eye-level with the holster strapped to his thigh.
He doesnât move.
Your fingers brush the hem of his coat as you reach for your knife.
He still doesnât move.
Your heartbeat spikesâbriefly.
Iâve been a temptress too long.
Now I just want to be human.
But I donât know how to be near him without wanting something I shouldnât.
Later That Night
The mission recon begins at the gala in Mirovâs garden.
Youâre dressed in black. Minimal makeup. Armed with a compact camera hidden in your pendant. Bucky wears a suit againâsame fit as Bucharestâbut this time, youâre 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:
âThree oâclock. Red dress. Thatâs the American buyer.â
He leans in slightlyâlips brushing your temple in a way that makes your stomach knot.
âSheâs carrying,â he mutters. âAnkle holster. SIG P365.â
You smile and laugh, loud enough for Mirovâs man to hear. Just two lovers sharing a joke.
But when you turn away, his hand on your back doesnât drop right away.
You feel the heat of it through your dress.
You donât 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 returnâjust 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.
Buckyâs 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 hasnât 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 thatâs 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. Heâs still. A wall of heat and control.
You close your eyes.
And thenâafter several long breathsâyou whisper, in Russian:
âĐąŃ ĐœĐ” ŃаŃŃлаблŃĐ»ŃŃ ĐœĐž ĐœĐ° ŃĐ”ĐșŃĐœĐŽŃ.â
You havenât relaxed once.
He exhales through his nose.
Then:
âХлОŃĐșĐŸĐŒ ĐŸĐżĐ°ŃĐœĐŸ.â
Too dangerous.
You open your eyes. The ceiling is textured with shadow.
âĐĐœĐ” ĐșĐ°Đ·Đ°Đ»ĐŸŃŃ, ŃŃ Đ±ŃĐ» ĐŽŃŃĐłĐžĐŒ, ĐșĐŸĐłĐŽĐ° ĐŒŃ ŃĐ°ĐœŃĐ”ĐČалО.â
You seemed different when we danced.
He doesnât answer.
But heâs 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 contrastâscar and softness, human and not. The kind of face built for silence.
âI forgot who I was for a minute,â you murmur. âOn the balcony. When you touched my back.â
His jaw tenses.
âI didnât mean to,â he says.
You swallow hard.
âI didnât want you to stop.â
The air between you thickens. Warmer now. And dangerous in a different way.
This isnât flirtation. It's a confession. Two ghosts pressing against the skin of the living.
You feel his fingers moveâjust barely.
Then:
âWhy are you telling me this?â
You donât know.
Maybe because itâs dark. Maybe because he saw you undressed without leering. Maybe because when you kissed him in Bucharest, he didnât pull awayâhe just stood there, stunned, as if youâd woken something up.
âI want to know if you felt it too,â you whisper.
His voice is a thread of breath:
âI donât let myself feel things.â
You reach for his hand under the sheet. Not the metal one. The other.
Your fingers find his fingers.
And he lets them.
He doesnât pull away.
You fall asleep like that. Not tangled. Not pressed together. Just a point of contactâskin to skin.
A line crossed.
And neither of you can go back.
Location: Hydra Training Compound
Day Three Post-Mission
They call it ârecalibration,â but it feels like punishment.
Mission successful. Mirov neutralized. Intel secure. And still, theyâre back on the mat like it means nothing. Hydra doesnât reward precision. It doesnât reward loyalty.
It rewards silence.
Youâre already in the training gearâblack compression top, reinforced leggings, bare feet on the polished floor. Your knife is strapped to your thigh even though it wonât 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. Thereâs no music, no overseer today. Just the distant hum of the base and the scuff of movement on the mat.
Then, in Russian:
âĐĐŸŃĐŸĐČа?â
Ready?
You nod.
He lunges firstâfast, 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 itâon 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.
He steps forward againâslow this time. Less like a soldier, more⊠man. His chest rises and falls in an even rhythm.
âI let you win,â he says.
Thereâs no arrogance in it. No mocking.
Just a fact.
You bristle. âWhy?â
His eyes flick to yoursâthen lower. Just briefly. Enough to notice the slight swelling on your lip from the earlier blow he did land.
âBecause youâre tired.â
You swallow, throat tight.
He noticed. And he cared. Not because Hydra told him to. Not because it helped the mission.Because itâs me.And that scares me more than it should.
You donât reply.
You rush him again, but this time itâs sloppier. Emotion leaking in through the cracks. He catches your wrist mid-strike, and for one heartbeat, youâre just⊠there. Trapped in his grip.
His fingers tightenâthen loosen.
He releases you.
Your skin burns where he touched it.
You step back.
âAgain,â 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 roundâwhen youâre both on the floor, sweating, chests heaving, his arm braced beside your shoulderâ
You ask, quiet:
âWhy are you different with me?â
He doesnât look at you when he says it:
âBecause you donât look at me like Iâm a weapon.â
You look at me like Iâm still human.You look at me like I deserve to be one.
You could kiss him right now.
You donât.
You just stay there, breathing next to him.
Neither of you moves.
The sparring is over, but itâs still clinging to youâunder 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 adrenalineâs worn off.
Hydraâs med supplies are cold and clinical: gauze, antiseptic, wraps. No painkillers. No comfort.
Youâre wrapping the bandage sloppily, one-handed.
âĐаĐč ĐŒĐœĐ”.â
Let me.
His voice is low. Behind you.
You flinch, but you donât 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.
Heâs meticulous. One layer. Then another. His breath fans across your forearm.
Your voice is soft:
âĐąŃ Đ·Đ°Đ±ĐŸŃĐžŃŃŃŃ.â
You care.
He pauses.
Thenâbarely above a whisper:
âĐąŃ ĐœĐ” ĐŽĐŸĐ»Đ¶ĐœĐ° бŃла Đ·Đ°ĐŒĐ”ŃĐžŃŃ.â
You werenât supposed to notice.
You study him as he works. Down here, kneeling, close like thisâhe doesnât look like a ghost. Or a soldier. He just looks... tired.
And young. Younger than you imagined, when heâs not under command.But youâve seen his file. You know that doesnât make sense. Unless somethingâs been taken from him.Time. Memory. Self.
âWhat do they call you?â you ask quietly.
He doesnât look up.
âThey donât.â
Not a name. Just a directive. A ghost.Winter Soldier. Asset.Â
You nod once. You wonât ask again. Youâve done worse to people with names.
When he finishes the wrap, he doesnât let go right away.
His thumb brushes the edge of the gauze. Not by accident.
Your breath stutters.
He touches like heâs afraid heâll break you. Like no one taught him how to be soft, but heâs trying anyway.And you⊠you need it.God, you need it.
âYou stay too long after the others leave,â you whisper.
He looks up at you. Those eyesâgray and still and far away.
âSo do you.â
You pull your wrist back, slowly. His hand follows for a second longer than it should.
You rise.
He doesnât stop you.
But before you turn to leave, you glance over your shoulder.
âWhat's on your mind,â you say in Russian. âJust one thing.â
He looks at you for a long moment. Like heâs trying to remember what counts as real.
Then, finally:
âĐŻ Đ±ĐŸŃŃŃ Đ·Đ°Đ±ŃŃŃ, ĐșаĐșĐŸĐČĐŸ ŃŃĐŸ â ĐœĐ” бŃŃŃ ĐŸĐŽĐžĐœ.â
Iâm afraid of forgetting what it feels like to not be alone.
You donât speak.
But something inside you breaks.
And you donât fix it.
There are nights when the base goes too quiet.
Not silentâbecause no Hydra base is ever truly silent. Thereâs 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 canât sleep.
Your bed is too narrow, your bones too wired. Thereâs a tremor in your hands you canât 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 donât 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 heâll be.
Thereâs a small chamber near the weapons labâan 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.
Heâs always awake.
You donât speak when you step into the doorway.
He lifts his eyes. Doesnât flinch. Doesnât rise.
Just looks at you like he knew youâd 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 thatâs never mattered. Not with him.
The quiet between you has its own language.
He finally says, âĐąŃ ŃĐŸĐ¶Đ” ĐœĐ” ĐŒĐŸĐ¶Đ”ŃŃ ŃпаŃŃ?â
You canât sleep either?
You shake your head. âХлОŃĐșĐŸĐŒ ĐŒĐœĐŸĐłĐŸ ŃŃĐŒĐ°.â
Too much noise.
He nods.
You donât mean the base.
You mean the static in your blood. The ghost-thoughts. The bruises that donât bloom until morning.
You watch him. The way he sits so still. But youâve seen him moveâheâs lethal in motion, but now, in this shadowed room, heâs just⊠there.
Like a monument to some war no one ever won.
You speak again.
âDo you remember who you were⊠before?â
His jaw flexes. Not angerâhesitation.
Then he says, âNo.â
Just that. One syllable that splinters something in you.
âI think I was someone else, too,â you whisper. âBefore the Red Room.â
And maybe neither of you can get back to that person.
Maybe thatâs 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.
âI think about it sometimes,â you say. âWhat it might feel like. To live outside these walls. Outside orders.â
He doesnât respond. But his eyes are on you like heâs trying to see that world through yours.
You whisper, âGive me a reason.â
His brow furrows.
You search his face in the low light.
âGive me a reason to feel like a woman again. Not a tool. Not a weapon.â
A pause.
Then he leans forwardâbarely, barelyâand says, so low you almost donât hear it:
âBecause when I look at you, I forget Iâm a weapon.â
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 wristâhis flesh one, calloused and warmâand not his metal one. Thatâs on purpose.
He follows you without a word, boots silent on concrete. You donât need to look back to know heâs watching you. You always know when heâs watching.
Your roomâs a concrete box. No windows, no comforts. Just a cot, a gray blanket, a single lamp. But itâs private. Itâs yours. And heâs never been here before.
You close the door behind you, fingers slipping the lock into place.
âCâmere,â you whisper, and he does.
Heâs quiet, always quiet. Thatâs how they trained him. But he looks at you like youâre 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 hesitatesâthen wraps it around you.
He doesnât 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 heâs afraid youâll 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 thatâhis 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 himâhard. Needy.
You whisper into the dark quiet of the room: âSoldat.â
He flinches like heâs been caught doing something wrong. But he doesnât move away. Doesnât deny it.
âI didnât mean to wake you,â he mumbles, voice rough and ruined with shame. âIâ I didnât meanââ
âHey,â you say softly, reaching back to touch his thigh, grounding him. âItâs okay.â
He goes still. Like heâs waiting to be punished.
You turn over in the narrow bed, face to face now. You tuck his hair behind his ear. âYou want help, soldier?â
His eyes widenedâblue and glassy and desperate.
âYou sure?â you ask, your fingers brushing down his bare torso, over the soft ridges of his abs. âWe donât have to ifââ
âYes,â he breathes out, like itâs been torn from him. âPlease. I donât⊠Iâve neverâŠâ
That makes your heart ache. But it also makes heat twist low in your belly.
âLet me take care of you, then.â
You kiss him first. He doesnât expect it, but melts into it like heâs starved for it. Like he doesnât even know how to kiss back but heâs trying so hard it hurts. His metal hand grips the edge of the bed; his flesh one grabs your hip like heâs afraid youâll float away.
You straddle him slowly. Heâs shirtless, boxers straining against his hard length. His breath shudders when you grind down, rubbing against him through the fabric.
âYou donât have to do anything,â you whisper, dragging your lips down his jaw. âJust let me.â
He nods, breathing hard. Heâs 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. Heâs 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.
âYou like that?â you ask, voice dark and honey-sweet.
âY-yeah. Shit. Donât stopâplease.â
You press kisses to his chest, his neck, then whisper against his ear, âYou wanna come like this? Or inside me?â
He chokes on air, like his brain short-circuits.
âIâinside,â he groans, eyes pleading. âPlease.â
You slip your shorts off. Tug his boxers down. You donât tease. You just line yourself up, wet and ready, and sink onto him slow. He shudders beneath you, fingers digging into your hips.
âOh fuck,â he groans, brow furrowed, chest heaving. âYou feelâgod, you feel so warm, so tightâI canâtââ
âShhh,â you murmur, rocking gently. âYouâre doing so good, baby.â
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 itâs the most intimate thing heâs 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 donât 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 youâflesh and metalâand for the first time, he doesnât look like the Winter Soldier.
He just looks like a man whoâs finally been given something he didnât have to earn.
The room is quiet again.
Youâre both breathing hard, chests pressed together. His skin is slick with sweat, still flushed from the high. But his hands havenât movedâstill holding you like heâs afraid to let go, like the second he does youâll be taken from him.
âDid I hurt you?â he asks, voice hoarse against your neck.
You shake your head slowly, nuzzling into him. âNo.You were perfect.â
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 donât need to say anything else. You donât need to tell him how good he was, or how beautiful he looked begging under you. Heâs still figuring out how to believe those things. But youâll show him. Again and again, if thatâs what it takes.
You shift off of him gently, and he lets you go, reluctantly. You feel him twitch at the loss of contact.
âItâs okay,â you whisper, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over both your bodies. âIâm not going far.â
He blinks up at you, eyes glassy in the dim light. âCan I⊠hold you?â
âOf course you can.â You curl into him, tangle your legs with his, tuck your head beneath his chin. His arms tighten around you immediatelyâstrong 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 youâve built.
Eventually, his voice breaks the silence, soft and so vulnerable you almost donât recognize it.
âI didnât think it could be like that,â he murmurs.
âLike what?â
âLike it meant something. Like I got to feel good. Like⊠you wanted me.â
You tilt your head up and meet his eyes. âI do want you. Not just this.â You brush your fingers over his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm. âAll of you. Even the parts they tried to erase.â
He closes his eyes. A tear escapes down his cheek, but he doesnât wipe it away. You do it for him.
âI donât want this to be the last time,â he says.
You rest your forehead to his. âIt wonât be.â
âYouâll stay?â
You nod. âAs long as youâll have me.â
That does something to him. His jaw trembles. He doesnât 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 loosensânot because heâs letting go, but because he trusts you wonât leave.
You fall asleep like that, curled around each other in a narrow cot in a concrete room under Hydraâs nose. But none of that matters. Not now. Not here.
For once, he isnât a weapon.
And for once, you both believeâjust a littleâthat maybe this, whatever this is between you, could be real. That maybe youâll find freedom not just from Hydra, but from the cold, lonely lives they built for you.
Cold and dark. Descriptions of the Gotham night that also fit you. You scoured the rooftops, lurking, searching for your prey. One small little bird⊠a Robin.
You spotted the scuffle down in the alley, five or six of the trained assassinâs sent by Raâs were failing. Blood spurting under blades and soft groans of pain filling the silent night. You sighed, âSo much for experienced assassins.â
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 heâd recognise it now.
No one else wouldâve heard you land. Your feet soft as snow when it falls to the ground, particle by particleâŠexcept to him. Your teacher, your peerâŠyour best friend. Ex-best friend.
Enemy.
He bristled, muscles tightening but he didnât turn toward you. RightâŠhe doesnât know who you are. Good, itâs been too long anyways. He wouldnât 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 beforeâŠonly 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. âWho are you?â You didnât reply, instead striking harder, aiming for more vulnerable places on his body. âYouâŠhow did you knowâŠwhere did you learn that kick?â
Damnit. At least he doesnât know who I am yet.
âI know youâ He threatened, voice hot and hissing. You stilled, glaring at him through the slits in your mask.
Two statues on a rooftop, warriorâs statues with blades raised as taught. He blinked, eyes glowing in recognition.
â(Y/n)â he breathed finally, shoulders relaxing a tad. âPrince.â you spoke. A whisper so harsh it couldâve shattered his sword.
âWhat are you doing here? Why are you fighting me?â He demanded, fury on his tongue yet his eyes were gentle and soft. âOrdersâ Your sharp response was rewarded with a âttâ 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. âWhat are you doing?â You hissed. âFace me with your blade or Iâll kill you where you standâ
His hands outstretched, palms to the sky. âI wonât fight you (Y/n). I know who you are. Come back to me.â
âFunny. You never came back to me.â You spat, the words poison on your tongue. He froze, eyes closing with guilt. âI know.â
âYou 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.â You hissed the last two words, they hurt the most.
âI didnât. I thought of you everyday.â
âWell you didnât think hard enough to come back did you? Enough chatter. Fight me Damian.â
âNo. Come with me now. Iâm sorry I left you there⊠Father wouldnât have allowed me back. But you can come now⊠please.â
âYour Father wonât be very impressed.â
âDoesnât matter. Iâll make him see.â
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 liesâŠ
âCome with me. I can give you what youâve wanted since we were young. Freedom, choice. Home and not just a house.â
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. âCome. Follow.â
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 wasnât cold per seâŠno Bruce looked at you like an object. Eyes scrutinised how useful youâd be, how reckless, how dangerous.
âFine. But sheâs to stay in the manor at all times until further notice.â âFine fatherâ Damian muttered back, sensing you were about to fight against Bruceâs conditions.
âSo much for freedom and choice.â âItâs only temporary. You can leave with an escortâŠâ âThat wasnât mentionedâ He didnât answer, only dragged you to the kitchen where Alfred had set up Damianâs usual snack after patrol.
âEat.â 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 didnât eat until he slid a plate of food in front of you seeing as you wouldnât 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 Damianâs unusual kindness.
The next few days, youâd met Tim. He was absent most of the time. In his room, in his mind. You didnât mind. Jason was louder⊠crude, called you Damianâs girlfriend and stopped only once youâd taken out your katana. Dick was interesting. Heâd hugged Damian as he saw him though the latter boy stayed stiff other than a hand patting Dickâs back. Heâd attempted to hug you too but backed away once youâd 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 youâd pulled him off the training mat after defeating him. You ignored his brotherâs 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.
A/n: Okayyyy so second fic. I like this one better. Itâs a lot more scenic?? I know itâs a very well known trope for Damian but I felt better trying to do a well known one since itâs more comfortable. Hope you like this đ and I hope I got all the charactersâ personalities right. Let me know what you think Iâd really appreciate any comments/feedback :) Also Iâm super open to requests if anyone leaves me any?? (Just no smut/ x male!reader I donât think I could do either of those justice) anyways hope you enjoyed
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summary: When Tangerine spots you in the middle of his mission on a bullet train, he gets entangled in your plans and loses track of his own...
word count: 2.8k
warnings: SMUT, p in v, fingering, hair pulling, slight marking, dirty talk, canon!typical violence, drinking
"Got it, sir," you say before hanging up the phone and stepping onto the train. This was your first mission since you left the White Death's payroll and you had to prove yourself to your superiors if you wanted to rebuild your reputation.
You have no idea what is waiting for you on this train, but you can imagine a mission as straightforward as retrieving a briefcase will be anything but simple.
Straightening your bartender uniform, you push through the throngs of people exiting the train and strut down the aisles as you search for the package you were assigned to find.
***
"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.Â
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.Â
"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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
"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.Â
Tangerine pushes his trousers down to his knees and angles you back before sheathing himself fully inside of you in one movement.Â
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.Â
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.
"Well," you whisper, your voice fading as he loses consciousness, "I guess today was your lucky day."
cw: child abuse, trafficking, minors being exploited, trauma, shitty things abound
Nothing was ever just a coincidence.Â
You learned later in life that your kidnapping wasnât merely happenstance. It was premeditated. Someone had their eyes on you for months. Maybe even years.Â
Pretty girl with a witty outlook. No siblings, busy father, stay-at-home mom who rarely left the house. Vulnerable. Alone. Unsuspecting. Â
No one knew your familyâs habits like your bodyguard. He was too easy to manipulate. Someone too close to you, who you eventually learned was feeding intel to your oppressors.
They studied your routine and habits like a textbook. Who you spoke to. Everything about you, from the clothes you wore down to the scratch on your left earphone.Â
They bided their time until the day your guard was too far down. When they were sure no one would come looking for you. Not so soon. Not when school was still letting out and the sidewalks were barely alive with other children.
â
You awoke to your body being jostled about. The sound of tires bumping around on worn axles. It smelled of tobacco and mildew, buried in upholstery in desperate need of replacement.Â
The sobbing came next. Wet hiccups, sharp shushing, young voices trying to keep it together.Â
You blinked against the bleariness, the sluggishness clouding your mind. Your head pulsed. Your mouth was dry, tongue sticky and swollen in your mouth.Â
It was dark inside. You could barely make out the features of someone beside you. Another on your left. You tried to move, but you found your hands manacled behind your back, plastic zip ties biting unforgivingly into your wrists. Your ankles, too.Â
You began to thrash against your bindings as panic welled thick in your chest. Someone beside youâa girl who couldnât have been much older than you, shadows sinking into her hollowed featuresâshook her head in your periphery.Â
She looked like sheâd seen a ghost. Like sheâd danced with them. Befriended them. âItâs no use. If you run, theyâll bring you back,â she rasped, sounding as if she hadnât had water in days. âTheyâre not nice when you run.â She canted her head slightly, revealing bruises blooming purple on her throat.
Adrenaline spumed through you. No matter how much you labored to, you felt like you couldnât take in enough oxygen. In your frenzy, and after your eyes finally adjusted to the dimness, you took stock of your surroundings.Â
Girls of varying ages, heights, and skin tones sat beside you. In front of you on ledges protruding from blackened walls. Some lay on the floor, eyes closed, hope lost, slicked in sweat.Â
Slivers of light bled through the shoddy spray paint job used to cover the windows. You took in your prison once more. Some girls were crying. Sniveling. Some looked like they were already dead.
You didnât know what awaited you. How long you been out. Where you were, what time it was, what day it was. How long you'd been shacked up in some nightmarish vehicle with the air dense with sweat, urine, and desperation. Â
But you werenât going to roll over and expose your belly without a fight.Â
â
You fought every chance you could.Â
You made your oppressors work to subdue you. Sedatives to keep you docile in between vehicle changes and rest stops. When they wore off, you were hell on bound legs.
You screamed until your throat felt raw and your voice grew hoarse. You spat. Threw your body around, thrashing and biting like a feral child whoâd never known civility.Â
Still, you were small against men twice your size. Pumped with a cocktail when you were deemed a handful. Goods they âcouldnât afford to damage.â Someone they had to keep in one piece until the exchange.Â
The vehicles you were shuttled in always looked the same. Smelled the same. Your circadian cycle was thrown off kilter. You couldâve been traveling for weeks and had no clue.Â
They fed you enough to keep you alive. They called you a handful? You made sure you lived up to the title.Â
You bit whoever you could when they tried to feed you. You had more bruises marring your face than youâd acquired over your body playing sports at school. You stopped crying after the fifth âlessonâ they taught you with their fists.Â
Crying was a weakness. A display of conceding. You wouldnât give your captors the satisfaction of knowing they were breaking you.Â
You never befriended the girls held with you. You couldnât afford to. They came and went as swiftly as a breeze. Some remained constant. Some were replaced. You were always the constant, trying your best to ease the blubbering of the youngest girls when you werenât fighting for your own life.
â
Trauma is a fickle thing.
Itâs a cut that refuses to heal, its claw marks emblazoned on the surface of your psyche. While the central details are fragmented and sometimes long-buried, the worst of it never grants you reprieve.
Even decades later.
Itâs hard to forget the stench of rotting metal. An incessant dripping sound, sweaty bodies pressing against you as you were herded through a dark hallway like pigs gathered for slaughter.Â
You still recall the smell of the ink. How someone held you while another person scrawled a number on your calf with a black marker.Â
#444. Youâd never forget it. You chanted it like a broken mantra amid the darkness and the whimpers of the girls surrounding you. Somehow, it gave you escape when your young mind collapsed in on itself as you awaited your fate.
Those masksâa pig, horse, wolf, owlâyouâll never forget them. The eyes shining with intrigue behind them. Fingers contemplatively rubbing clean-shaven chins. The expensive weave of their suits.Â
You donât forget how they watched you from behind the glass like gems held to the light. Your skin still recalls the warmth of the amber stage lights bleeding from overhead. You still smell the disinfectant. Sweat. Bodily fluids. Fear.
Girls were displayed like merchandise. They were appraised and purchased if they werenât too badly beaten or emaciated. You didnât know where theyâd gone. You heard grumblings amongst your captors about brothels and exotic pets. Party favors. Pretty things to take apart.
You considered yourself lucky the day you were auctioned off. And, true to your name, you gave the guards hell as they held you beneath the tawny stage light.Â
The men in suits behind the display laughed at your brazenness. A couple picked up the phones beside them, murmuring things into the receiver while keeping their greedy eyes on you.
You were sold to men who didnât want to turn you into a pet. A plaything to be defiled. They didnât want to use you until your body was no longer your own.
They wanted to turn you into a weapon.
I love her.
God, I love her. Knowing the woman she is in the present time, it makes you root for her so much harder. She underwent some of the most unimaginable trauma a child can experience... and is still somehow alive.
I want to go to battle for this type of character, not because theyâre fragile (far from it), but because they end up spending their entire lives convincing themselves they donât deserve softness due to what they became. Ms. Assassin believes she is too broken/hardened/used up/useful only when she's a tool to be worthy of soft love. And yet, softness is what she deserves most.Â
You read a story like this and you can feel how much sheâs endured, how much sheâs buried, how much she literally defies going down without fighting with every last tooth and nail she has. I cannot waiiiiit to hear how she was honed into a weapon and how she met Sylus. Because we all know they basically save each other in ways they don't feel like they deserve or need. But deep down, both of them still carry the heart of the child they used to be, the one who just wanted to be safe.
A/N: Still of Bucky Barnes in my header taken by a still made by @rainbowkisses31. Itâs just what I needed, I hope you donât mind!
Starring: Senator!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Assassin!Reader
Summary: Bucky broke your heart. You didnât expect to see him on a job.
Warnings: 18+ Only. Angst. Oh angst. Lots of feelings. Unprotected sex. Oral sex (f receiving). Bucky being a menace.
Word count: 3892
Divider by: @firefly-graphics
You adjust your earpiece, scanning the crowd at the political fundraiser as you blend into the background. Itâs a sea of expensive gowns, suits, and forced smiles, but youâre not here for idle chatter. Your target for tonight is Valentina Allegra De Fontaineâ Val for short. Her dealings have been raising enough eyebrows to catch the attention of some high-level playersâyour employers. Itâs supposed to be a simple recon mission, but that changes the second you see him.
Bucky Barnes.
You havenât seen him in over a year, not since things between you ended. And there he is, mingling with the upper crust, looking just as good as ever. His dark hair is a bit longer, the salt and pepper in his beard a striking contrast to the image burned into your memory. Itâs unfair, reallyâhow he can look so composed while your heart clenches painfully in your chest.
You step further into the shadows, hoping to avoid his attention. Itâs been too long, but not long enough for the unresolved tension to dissipate. Seeing him now, as Senator Barnes, reminds you of how much has changed. Heâs no longer the man haunted by his past, trying to make amends for sins that werenât his fault. Heâs powerful, respectedâredeemed in the public eye. But you knew him before all that.
He hasnât spotted you yet. Youâre not sure if thatâs a blessing or a curse.
You edge toward the far side of the room, keeping a low profile, but itâs impossible not to steal glances in Buckyâs direction. The way he carries himself now, with such calm assurance, is a far cry from the man you used to know. Thereâs still a trace of that hardness in his eyes, a remnant of the Winter Soldierâs past, but thereâs something else tooâsomething softer, more refined.
You tell yourself to focus. Val is your target, not Bucky. Sheâs standing at the other end of the room, talking to some prominent political figures. Her influence is growing, and that makes her dangerous. But despite your best efforts, your attention keeps drifting back to Bucky.
Then, as if sensing the weight of your gaze, he turns.
Your breath catches. For a moment, time slows. His sharp blue eyes lock onto yours across the room, and in that instant, you know thereâs no escaping this reunion. The recognition in his eyes is immediate, the brief flicker of surprise quickly masked by something deeper, something unreadable. His lips part as if to speak, but the distance between you is too great.
Before you can decide whether to slip away or stand your ground, heâs already moving toward you. Each step he takes feels deliberate, calculated, like a predator closing in on its prey. You square your shoulders, refusing to be the one to back down. If he wants to talk, then fine, letâs talk.
âDidnât expect to see you here,â Buckyâs voice is low when he reaches you, still the same voice that would talk to you well into the morning on nights you couldnât fall asleep.
You manage a tight smile, keeping your tone neutral. âDidnât know you were the political type.â
He gives a small chuckle, though thereâs no humor in his eyes. âGuess weâve both changed.â
You swallow, trying to keep your emotions in check. âYeah, guess we have.â
For a moment, silence stretches between you, heavy with things unsaid. His gaze softens, just slightly, as if heâs remembering the same things you areâthe late nights, the shared laughs, the comfort of each otherâs presence. But the wall is still there, solid and stoic, keeping you both at bay.
âSenator Barnes,â a voice interrupts, and you both turn to see an aide approaching. âYouâre needed for the closing remarks.â
Buckyâs eyes stay on you for just a beat longer before he nods to the aide. âIâll be there in a minute.â Then, turning back to you, his expression shifts, becoming guarded once more. âWe should talk later.â
You want to say no, that itâs better to leave the past where it belongs. But something in the way he looks at youâsoft yet steadyâmakes you hesitate.
âWeâll see,â 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 youâd buried, and now youâre left wondering if you can keep your distance or if something will pull you back in. The mission isnât 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 itâs 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 canât shake the feeling that this wonât be the last time you see him tonight. But you push the thought aside and focus on the task at handâgetting back to the safehouse. Val didnât 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 whoâs very good at staying hidden.
You whip around, but itâs too late. Buckyâs 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.
âStill sneaky,â you mutter, trying to mask your surprise with a steady voice. âSome things never change, huh?â
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. âOld habits die hard.â
You fold your arms, trying to shake off the adrenaline, but heâs watching you too closely for comfort. âWhat do you want, Barnes?â
He steps even closer, his presence overwhelming in the quiet night. You canât help but feel a little cornered.
âYou.â The word is simple, direct, and it catches you off guard. Before you can respond, he adds, âThought we could catch up. Away from the crowd.â
You raise an eyebrow, your pulse still racing. âI donât think thatâs a good idea.â
Bucky tilts his head slightly, the smirk still in place. âWell, I wasnât really asking.â His voice is playful, but thereâs an edge to itâsomething 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.
âLook,â he says, amusement dancing in his eyes, âyou can come willingly⊠or Iâve got other ways.â The metallic grip tightens slightly, just for effect, the sound unmistakable. You know heâs joking, but itâs the kind of joke that only Bucky could pull offâthe kind that flirts with the line between danger and familiarity.
You stare at him, half-exasperated, half-impressed by the audacity of it. âYouâre still an asshole, you know that?â
He chuckles, taking another step closer, and despite yourself, you donât move away. âYeah, but you liked that about me, remember?â
You roll your eyes, though thereâs a small smile forming on your lips. âFine. Lead the way.â
Buckyâs grin widens, and for just a moment, the cold exterior drops, and you see the man you once knewâthe one who trusted you with his broken pieces. He turns, gesturing for you to follow him, and you do, though the tension between you hasnât lessened. If anything, itâs growing stronger with every step.
As you walk beside him, you canât help but wonder what this night will bring. Closure? Old wounds reopened? Or something else entirely?
The walk to Buckyâs 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 youâwith a smirk, of course. You fall into your old rhythm without much effort, trading barbs like no time has passed at all.
âSo, Senator Barnes, huh?â you tease, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. âWhoâd have thought?â
Bucky chuckles, his gaze flicking over to you. âYeah, well⊠It's a little different from the whole âbrainwashed assassinâ gig. Less world-saving, more handshaking. Youâd hate it.â
âProbably,â you admit with a grin. âDo they know how much you hate suits?â
âStill hate âem,â he says, tugging at his tie for emphasis. âBut the job comes with perks. Decent coffee in the office now.â
âAh, right. The important things,â you quip, keeping pace with him easily. âCoffee and ties. Glad to see your priorities havenât shifted too much.â
âHey, gotta have something to look forward to in the mornings,â Bucky shoots back, the glint of humor in his eyes making him look youngerâmore 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 youâre on your way to his place. Thereâs 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, youâre surprised by how much lighter you feel. The laughter, the easy camaraderieâitâs like slipping back into something familiar, something youâve both been missing.
When you step into his apartment, the first thing you notice is how neat and inviting it is. Thereâs warmth to it, a sense of home you didnât expect.
You turn to him, genuine admiration in your voice. âThis place is⊠really nice, Bucky. Iâm proud of you. Everything youâve overcome⊠Youâve done well for yourself.â
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.
âThanks,â he says quietly, his voice a little rougher now. âThat means a lot, coming from you.â
You both stand there, trying to reach beyond whatâs in front of you to see what the other is holding back deep inside. Then, just like that, the moment passes.
âCan I get you a drink?â he asks, already moving toward the small bar near the kitchen. âWine?â
You nod, still taking in the space. âWine sounds good.â
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.
âSo,â he starts, leaning casually against the counter, âhowâs the contract-for-hire life treating you? Still chasing down bad guys?â
You shrug, swirling the wine in your glass. âSometimes. Mostly itâs boring surveillance work these days. But, you know, it pays the bills.â
He smirks. âStill sounds better than committee meetings.â
âI donât know,â you tease, raising an eyebrow. âYou might have a future in politics. Youâve got that whole brooding, mysterious thing going for you.â
He chuckles, shaking his head. âYeah, Iâm sure thatâs why they voted me in. The brooding.â
The conversation flows easily again, both of you relaxing into the comfort of familiarity. But thereâs 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, Buckyâs 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 donât move, your pulse quickening as he closes the distance. The room feels smaller, the air thicker.
âBuckyâŠâ you start, but your voice falters as he reaches you, his body just inches from yours.
He doesnât 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 thatâs when you knowâheâs not going to ask, heâs 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.
Itâs like no time has passed at all, like all the emotions youâve both buried have resurfaced in an instant. He kisses you like heâs been waiting for this, like heâs finally letting himself feel everything heâs 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.
âI missed you,â he murmurs, his voice low and rough.
You swallow hard, your heart racing, his words settling heavily in your chest.
âI missed you too,â 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. Thereâs 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.
âBucky,â 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 youâre not even sure what youâre 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 heâs trying to gauge whether you want him to stop. His gaze is intense, but thereâs something vulnerable there too, something raw that youâve only seen glimpses of before.
But you donât want him to stop. You donât 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 heâs 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 thereâs more than just passion here. Thereâs history, memories, and a connection that never really faded, no matter how much time has passed.
Buckyâs thumb brushes gently along your side, his voice a steady rumble as he speaks. âI never stopped thinking about you,â he admits, his words carrying something you hadnât expected. âNo matter how hard I tried⊠you were always there.â
You swallow, your chest tight with emotion, but you donât pull away. âI didnât forget you either,â you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. âI couldnât.â
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 thisâbeing 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. Thereâs a tenderness in his gaze now, an openness you havenât seen in him in years. âI donât want this to be a mistake,â he murmurs, his voice quieter, more uncertain now. âI donât want to hurt you again.â
Your heart twists at his words, but you shake your head. âThis isnât a mistake, Bucky,â you say firmly, your hand coming to rest against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. âWeâre different people now, but that doesnât change how I feel.â
He exhales a shaky breath, like heâs 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. âI donât deserve you,â he whispers.
You smile, a soft, bittersweet smile, and shake your head again. âMaybe not,â you tease lightly, your voice gentle. âBut youâve got me anyway.â
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.
Thereâs still so much unsaid, so much youâll need to talk about, but for now, youâre 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. âYou drive me crazy, you know that?â
âI could say the same thing about you.â Your eyes trail down his body, taking in his broad shoulders and muscular chest about to burst through the fabric of his dress shirt.
âI want to take you upstairs and ruin you.â
âThen whatâs stopping you?â You challenged.
âNot a thing,â 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 Buckyâs 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 hadnât 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."