#prompted

Leon’s right at your back, one step behind, his voice no louder than the squeaky stairs but grating like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Because the mission wasn’t fraught enough already.

“Generally a good idea to shut up under the circumstances,” you hiss back.

“Good thing you practiced, then.”

“Leon–“

He cuts you off with a hand on your shoulder, pausing you in front of the rooftop access door. Lightning flashes again, filtering through the great white face of the clock dial behind you, illuminating the steel edge of Leon’s gaze.

“If this is gonna work, I need you to talk to me.”

“I do.” Vetoed attempt to push through the door.

“Not chat. Talk.”

You’re not looking at him, your jaw tight.

“Can we pick this up later?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Okay, so you've been avoidant. He couldn’t have done this in fucking transit?

“Are you not challenged enough by this mission? Are you bored, lashing out in class?”

“I know about the copy of the lab results,” he says. Panic flashes through you like the sparking thunderclouds overhead.

Fuck.

His gaze is intense on the side of your face. “Tell me why.”

“Why what.”

“Why the cloak and dagger,” he says. “I would have shown you if you asked. You didn’t.”

It might be easier if he was mad at you. It sounds like he is, but you know him better than that.

He’s worried.

“It’s not personal,” you tell him. “I just… needed….”

Distant thunder fills your silence. Leon’s eyes narrow, working to translate what you’re not saying.

“What are you hiding?”

With a frustrated grunt, you jerk out of his grasp and shove through the access door.

You’re not fucking doing this here.

The rain is louder out here in the open, pinging off the metal scaffolding, gurgling through the gutters, a constant faded hiss in the distance. Thunder tumbles clumsily from the sky, rolling and rattling across the ground, shuddering up the clock tower. The nearby scaffold framework rattles lightly.

You keep moving, pace steady and cautious, the soles of your shoes parting shallow puddles on the platforms.

Movement, above and below you. Claws tapping, slow. Chattering breathing, almost lost under the beat of the rain.

You stop, listening hard, triangulating locations. Just behind you, Leon’s doing the same thing.

You lean back against his shoulder to speak closer to his ear.

“We should split up,” you whisper.

“We’re not even official.”

Your temper spikes.

His back hits the wet wall of the clock tower when you shove him.

“Do you plan on joining the fucking mission at some point?”

Lightning illuminates the knot between his eyebrows. Now he’s angry.

“You seem happy to go it alone,” he bites back.

“Of all fucking times, Leon–”

His eyes refocus over your shoulder and he pushes you down, hatchet flashing to parry where your head had been, flashing again to sever the licker’s long tongue. It hits the wet scaffolding with a spray of bright crimson and slithers off the side as you surge up, cramming the barrel of your gun under the licker’s chin.

BANG

The muzzle flash burns its flesh, the bullet blows its brain cap clean off. It gums the platform above and showers down in viscid clumps.

And that's your location compromised.

“We gotta move! Come on!”

Duh, you’re already moving. His hand goes for your back to push you forward, but it’s just a graze of fingertips before you’re out of reach, running.

The rain’s not making it easy. You swing around the corner, hydroplaning, and catch Leon before he runs past.

“I’ll go high, you go low,” you say breathlessly, jerking your chin towards the set of ladders that drew you up short. He grabs your wrist before you can break away.

“No, I’m right behind you.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

“Seriously? Pot or kettle?”

The licker comes out of nowhere, leaping for the sounds of your bickering. A backhanded sweep of its sinewy arm sends you both tumbling.

You’re lighter; you tumble further.

Your gun, the lightest of all, goes sailing down into the rainy night.

"Fuck," you manage, choked off.

Your body is swinging off the edge of the level, hanging by your armpits. You try to kip up and catch your knee on the scaffolding, but the kipping motion slides you further off the wet platform. Fine; you’ll just drop onto the level below and run before the licker can–

Leon catches your arms and starts to haul you up.

“No, let go! It’s f–“

Fine, is what you’re saying. Which it turns out that it’s not, because you’d fucking shouted.

The pain is so sudden, so extreme, you don’t even scream. You can’t.

You just drop.

The last thing you hear is Leon’s voice screaming your name, before your body hits the scaffolding below and everything cuts to black.

They’ll confirm later, it was the licker below. You’ll only see the wound after it’s sewn closed, a jagged diagonal strike like a red ceremonial sash across your torso. It's gonna be one hell of a scar, but all things considered, you were lucky.

They’ll tell you later about how they found you. How Leon was carrying your limp body, how his clothes were saturated with your blood, how he hadn’t even noticed the violent gash down his own face, bleeding into his eye.

How there were lickers back on the tower that were next to torn apart.

They’ll tell you, that’s when everyone knew. There had been speculation after the venom case, after Leon’s reassessment, of course there was. The two of you are thick as thieves and people love to talk.

This… spilled the beans.

They’d never seen Leon snap like that before.

Of course, you won’t hear any of this for days, yet.

You have to wake up first.

“When do you have to go in?”

The morning light is just a murky lavender, distilled by the living room blinds.

“They didn’t give me a timeline,” Leon murmurs, his lips against the soft, warm skin over your heart. He kisses lower, unhurried, leaving small wet marks like a placket of glass buttons down your front.

You catch his head. He's undeterred.

“Should you find out?”

“It’s not high on my to-do list.”

“Leon. I just want to make sure you’re in the clear.”

“I'm fine,” he promises the skin below your navel. He runs his hands down your legs, gently encouraging you to lift them, draping them over his shoulders.

The first touch of his mouth, his tongue, to your naked cunt has your soul ascending on a hot column of breath.

“Oh my god.”

He hums. You thread your fingers into his hair, your legs spilling wider as he wriggles his shoulders under your thighs, settling in.

He takes his time exploring you, watching the rise and ebb of your body as you writhe, the hill and then hollow of your stomach, the furrows and rising cliffs of your ribs as your lungs fill, empty, hitch.

Every motion of his lips, every move of his tongue, every application of suction is a call and response, reading you. He picks you apart, thread by thread, until you’re unmoored, tethered only by his hands on your body, and then shake apart beneath him, your thighs clamping around his head, your hand pulling his hair.

“Two-three,” he tells you, gently biting the inside of your thigh. Your body’s still twitching with aftershocks.

“New day,” you manage, breathless. “One-zero."

“Mm. Out ahead, huh?”

”I know where you can put in a head.”

He crawls up over you, grinning against your mouth.

“That was terrible.”

You're grinning back, then meeting his tongue, tasting yourself as he kisses you deep. You trail your fingers up his thigh, searching blind. It's not a difficult search.

You stroke him to full mast, his hips eager to help, and then guide the head of his cock where you want it.

The morning light is thick and golden, tracing his naked silhouette in a blazing halo as he pushes into you, inch by careful, rocking inch. You close the final gap with a hungry shove, pressing flush against him, feeling his dick throb inside your tight heat.

He rolls your pliant body in fervent waves, a low and tame motion building inexorably into great peaking crests, crashing into you until you bubble over and dissolve again like foam on the sand.

“Two-zero,” you gasp when you’re back down on earth, and knock him onto his back.

Your skin burns gold, gilded by the rising sunlight as you use your hand at the glossy head of his cock, your wet pussy grinding on the base of his shaft, until he throws his head back and comes, hard, managing to hit the underside of his chin.

Your mistake was in ever leaving the bubble of that night, that morning, where everything between you flowed seamlessly, where it all boiled down to weight-heat-skin and the thrumming electricity of your bodies joined, connected, a circuit closed.

The real world, time, consequences. They’re all waiting for you outside, with brass knuckles.

There’s a cat curled on your lap.

You’re in bed; warm, numb, floating. Drifting below the surface, comfortable in inky blackness. In nothingness.

You could stay like this forever.

But — the cat. The weight of it is creating a sinkhole in your calm waters, a growing eddie that’s sucking your focus towards it. Persistent.

The weight moves. It lifts, heat bleeding away, and then resettles in the same place, a slightly different shape.

You hear a long exhale through a human nose. It’s… deeply familiar.

Your forehead creases.

You open your eyes. It’s slow, like you’re remembering how. Like your eyelids are too heavy.

Everything’s blurry, just a smeared palette of colors all blended together. Nonsense input.

You close it out again and drift in the nothingness.

You could live here, where nothing matters.

But — the breathing. Steady, gentle, caressing a shore, pulling back within. So familiar. Tugging at you, a riptide, drawing you outside of yourself.

The smeared colors aren’t as blended together this time, not as blurry. They’re coalescing into shapes the more you look at them.

You concentrate.

The black of a flatscreen TV, dark, mounted to a soft green wall, shadowed.

The rectangled grid of a drop ceiling.

The white plastic curve of a footboard. Gentle hills and valleys under thin blankets; your feet and legs.

A dark lump, hunched over, with tawny brown hair.

It’s not a cat on your lap.

It’s Leon’s head.

He’s asleep, his chair pulled right up to the side of the bed, his head pillowed on your thighs. Turned towards you.

Horribly, it takes you a second to recognize him.

There’s a thick, dark slash running down his face, laced up with little black stitches. The skin around his eye is bruised, purple mottling into green as it heals, and his scruff is overgrown.

He looks like hell.

Your arm, resting at your side, is trapped under his shoulder. He’s got his hand above the bend of your elbow; a seismometer waiting for a tremor.

You raise your free hand, IV line dragging against your hip, and weakly brush the hair away from his eyes.

Leon wakes with a start.

With a flurry of motion, your lap goes cold. Because he’s holding you.

He’s careful of your heavily bandaged midsection, cradling your head to his chest, his heart thumping against your ear.

He presses a kiss tight to your crown.

“Fuck,” he says alongside your name, his voice ragged.

You can feel him trembling; it’s subtle. You put your arm around him, burying your face against his shoulder, just breathing him in. He’s a little sour, like he’s been wearing the same shirt for a while.

You don’t care.

“How long have you been here?” Your voice is chalky, hardly more than a whisper.

“Three days.”

“Straight?”

“You’re one to talk.”

“No, like they let you stay? What about visiting hours?”

He steps back to look at you, and fuck, there it is.

He knows.

“I told them I was the father of the baby,” he confirms for you, quiet. “Guess the joke's on me, huh."

You sag back against the pillows. This is what you get for playing avoidance, for fucking dragging your feet.

He had to find out like this.

"The lab report,” he says, not a question. Piecing the picture together out loud.

"Researching the likelihood of birthing a demonic watermelon.”

You’re casting around for something to drink. Leon leans over; there’s a cup with a straw on the bedside table, waiting. A silent hope.

Christ. Three days.

He hands it to you.

“My sperm wasn’t altered,” he’s saying. “Nothing foreign.”

“I know. Now.” The water’s lukewarm, but it feels fresh against your starchy throat.

"What happened to the pill?”

“I’m still on it,” you tell him. “So that’s the other thing.”

You share an extended, weighted look.

He drops heavily into his chair. The legs give a short toot against the linoleum floor.

"Well, fuck," he sums up. You couldn’t have put it better yourself.

"I was gonna have labs run an assessment on me, on this," you say, waving vaguely towards your stomach. "I just… hadn't worked up the nerve."

"You know it’s not a watermelon.”

"No," you agree. "It's us. So I thought, before I went to – essentially – our coworkers, I'd better tell you."

“So you were gonna tell me.”

You throw him a look. “I was almost there.”

“One hell of a pregnant pause.”

You roll your eyes shut, pained.

“Leon…”

You're not annoyed. You’ve actually maybe never been so relieved. Jokes are your baseline. He's just shown you the terrain between you and it turns out, there aren't that many rocks.

You take in a deep breath, released from the tight bands of panic.

“Listen, I’m sorry I shut you out. I just…"

You don't need to find the words. He's nodding, running his hand over his mouth. His overgrown scruff sounds like sandpaper against his dry palm.

“I know.”

He does know; he does it, too. It’s a stupid branch of the goddamn protective instinct — in times of personal crisis, push everyone to surface, don’t let anyone near your spiraling deep.

Don’t let them see that you’re drowning.

It’s not a self-preserving instinct.

"Infuriating, isn't it."

He snorts, half-rolling his eyes.

"How many fingers am I holding up."

He’s flipping you off.

You raise him your own, then hold it out. Reaching.

He links your middle fingers together like a pinky promise, and doesn’t let go.

"You do look like shit this time," you tell him.

"Long couple of days,” he understates. Exhaustion’s sitting heavy on his shoulders.

You grasp his wrist, tugging lightly.

"Come here."

He doesn’t fight it, crawling up onto the bed with you, over you, leaning his forehead against yours. You touch his bristly face, run your thumb parallel to the line of black stitches on his cheek. The scabbing is gummy, thick and raised. It’s also going to be one hell of a scar.

He’s watching your eyes.

"Mine's bigger," you whisper.

His forehead bunches, and then he’s kissing you.

"Don't," he says. “Don’t. Not about this.”

His voice is wrong. Cracking. You pull his head back to look at him, incredulous.

“You are not blaming yourself.”

“You had yourself handled. If I had just let you drop–“

You press your fingers over his lips.

“You had me. If I had just let you pull me up,” you counter. “This is not your fault, so don’t you dare.”

He shuts his eyes, his forehead against yours again. Like he’s too tired to hold it up himself.

You close your eyes too. Just breathing with him.

His weight shifts, one hand coming to rest over your low stomach.

“That is your fault,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says. “A little fighter, huh.”

“No kidding.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Mm. We’re not having a DSO baby. We don’t need to blaze that trail.”

“There’s always retirement.”

The air sucks out of the room.

You push him back by the shoulder. He meets your eyes, completely level.

"You’re not serious.”

"We're comfortable. We could do it."

“Leon, that’s…”

It opens in your mind's eye; a rose-tinted aperture, a glowing window into a future.

Leon's strong arms, holding someone tiny. Yours. His.

A perfect hand in miniature, reaching up, touched by his lips.

No weapons weighing him down. The only monsters the ones under the bed. The only biohazards trapped inside a diaper genie.

In the harsh fluorescents of the real world, Leon’s lips brush light between your eyebrows. You’re clutching his shirt.

“Yeah. You're seeing it.”

It’s beautiful, achingly so. But it’s a fantasy.

You don’t even know each other together, yet. For shit’s sake, you only just admitted that you loved each other three weeks ago, and it hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing since then.

Mostly your fault.

“Kind of a crazy speed run.”

“And we’re the prime example of sanity.”

He’s got you there.

“Could you really walk away, when you know it's not over?”

He studies you, quiet. Then,

“Could you?”

You look between his eyes. You can see yourself reflected in them, a dark silhouette against white hospital sheets.

How many years of your lives have you already dedicated, how much have you already sacrificed? Why should you give this job your forever, when all it seems to promise you is a forever cut short?

One foot wrong. That’s all it takes.

Impossible workplace standards, really.

“Someday I get to be selfish.”

“Someday?”

“Yeah. Preferably before I topple apart.”

“Well, I’m right beside you when you are,” he says, his breath ghosting over your lips. You catch his face.

“Don’t put that on me.”

“Then stay on my nine and be ready.”

The shadow of a smile plays on your face, wry.

“You won’t.”

He looks up suddenly, turning his face out of your grasp.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“The call of the bingo hall.”

Your breath gusts out through your nose, your face collapsing into a grudging grin. You press it into his neck.

“You’re an idiot.”

You feel his laugh more than you hear it, a vibration against your skin. He nuzzles your face out from the crook of his neck, brushing your lips together.

“Someday,” he whispers.

It’s not a commitment. It’s not a date to circle on the calendar and a countdown to start.

But it’s an intention, a pledge dropped past the ramparts of your teeth, burned onto your tongue with the heat of his own.

Someday.

Together.

Aaand then a nurse walks in and shouts Leon down like a muddy dog on the furniture

On AO3

Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 🧡

Thanks again to anon for the prompt!

You couldn’t help cringing– which would be quickly followed by raging annoyance and a slight migraine– without remembering your first time training with Bucky. He made it crystal clear he didn’t trust your previous experience or trainers, let alone your sniper training. Within the first week he ground your spirit into dust with his leather combat boots, quashing any attempts to defend yourself. And it’s not like you weren’t familiar with his history, either; he’d broken every single last sharp-shooter that came to the team before you, a hardass ex-assassin with an introverted mean streak who happened one of the top snipers in the United States Army during World War II. Old dogs certainly can learn new tricks, though, and it was extremely apparent when it came to Bucky Barnes.

When you finally had enough midway through the third week, you snapped at him after he corrected you for the umpteenth time on your foot positioning, pointedly informing him you weren’t built like you could take on a goddamned semi-truck with one hand.

Once you finished, he silently handed you a pistol and challenged you to a shoot off. One-handed. You considered it a tie. Tony considered the training range off-limits until he got government permission via S.H.I.E.L.D. to replace every single shooting target and torso dummy in the compound– including the extras.

After that, the two of you weren’t allowed in the gym, on the same mode of transportation, in the infirmary, or the training range without someone else to supervise with a tranquilizer gun at the ready and within arm’s reach of said supervisor. More often than not, though, the ‘someone else’ was either Steve or Natasha– depending who won the coin toss before training that day– and the tranquilizer gun wasn’t really more of a tranquilizer gun than it was a slight sedative to calm each of you down enough for either Steve, or Nat, to drag you out without kicking and screaming at each other. Granted, it only happened one time– a workout competition-turned-sparring match that lasted the better part of four hours– but everyone else agreed to keep it around. Just in case.

You learned, however, exactly how much ketamine it took to down a raging super soldier with a vibranium arm. You couldn’t help but make horse whinnies under your breath every time you passed Bucky in the compound for at least a week. 

With a year of domestic missions underneath your belt, S.H.I.E.L.D. constituted you ready to travel with the DA Team on international missions and operations. You were elated, excited to prove your worth and wit to everyone; especially Bucky, because maybe then he’d be at least keen enough to start showing you a drop of respect.  

Then there was the fallout of when you both learned you’d be sent on the next mission. Together. Albeit with Natasha and Clint– but together. 

Fury said he didn’t have a choice. Tony claimed it was out of his hands. Natasha, while protecting a cowering Steve from the flames and daggers shooting out of yours and Bucky’s glares, flat out told you, “either you both learn to work together, or neither of you are working DA missions again,” adding, with gritted teeth and a pinched bridge, “The whole team thinks you’re a fucking pair of walking time bombs. I don’t wanna use the damn ketamine gun again.”

The next thing you knew, you were on a plane to Turkey with your rifle, wits, and the waiting promise of separate hotel rooms upon arrival. 

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

A reddened sun dipped over the Istanbul skyline, swathing the city in shadows. Dusk was imminent as you ascended the rusted fire escape and stepped onto the roof of the abandoned building; the dilapidated outside was perfect enough to designate it as the main stake out location. You sighed in awe at the view, catching the remnants of the sunset while pausing for a brief break before switching into ‘work mode.’ 

“Stop fuckin’ around, get into position,” Bucky said through your ear piece. Shit. You forgot he could see your video feed via the harness crossing over your chest and the cameras Natasha set up on the roof and the building next door. 

“Sorry, Sarge, thought I’d enjoy the view before I dome some fuckin’ war criminal from a thousand yards away,” you huffed. The line went silent, save from what sounded like very faint cursing amidst the static. You rolled your eyes, swinging the gun bag off your back, unpacking and assembling and loading, preparing for working on yet another thrilling Saturday night.

You silently prayed the hotel had a decent bar with decent hours.

Dropping into a prone position, you were thankful for the custom-fit tac suit that hugged your body as your hips and thighs scraped against debris littering the roof as you positioned the scope of your rifle, placing your hand delicately on the trigger. 

“In position,” you muttered, adjusting into a more comfortable, ready-to-bail position in case things went south. When you shot prone, it felt as if the mission at hand weighed just a bit heavier than others. More unbearable. The tactical suit and additional weapons attached to your aching body rivaled that of cinder blocks chained to your legs, weighing you down to the ocean floor in an attempted drowning while you tried to stay above water.

It's never gotten easier, but it's never been harder. 

The past two days had been filled with inconsistent sleep, hiding out, and keeping watch, all while under the watchful eye of Bucky. Bucky, who was watching you from inside the stakeout building, who threw a super soldier temper tantrum about having to figure out the ‘nonsensical logistics’ of how to stream a fucking live video feed, who barely bothered to say a word to you while meeting Natasha at the location that morning– aside from graciously allowing you to borrow his weapons cleaning kit. 

“You didn’t bring your own?” He cocked a judgmental brow at you, looking you up and down like a creature that crawled out of the Black Lagoon. Steely sea-blue eyes met yours, sharp and bright. Challenging. The collar of your tactical suit had instantly tightened.

“Figured we both use the same stuff, might as well bring the one to save space,” you shrugged, cocking a hip. 

Bucky’s eyes flitted to your pronounced curve before you straightened, swallowing. 

“Fine. Go nuts,” he sighed reluctantly, gesturing for you to sit in the guarded seat across from him. You sensed his piercing gaze follow you, feeling the same heat creep up your neck and cheeks just like all the other times he watched you. You chocked it up to an intimidation tactic, because it sure as hell worked.

You shook Bucky out of your brain. You needed to stay focused.  

“Copy. Target is en route to position, t-minus two minutes. Make it clean and make it quick.” Natasha's voice was cool, calming you and the usual racing thoughts in your head during these types of missions. You preferred her over anyone else to be your spotter since your first time out in the field, but this time she was assigned to be the plant, luring the target away from the rather innocent party-goers so they wouldn’t be splattered with brain matter and skull fragments courtesy of you.

Though, you had to admit, in the right scenarios, that was one of the more satisfying things that came with being a sniper.

“Don’t fuckin’ rush it,” Bucky chimed in.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring him. “Copy, Nat, just keep dangling the carrot.”

“You know I’ll do more than that. Out.” You could hear her wink. 

Two minutes might not seem like much, but missions like these can make it feel like a lifetime. Part of you hoped Bucky watched every second. The other half hoped you could smack the doubtful smirk off his stubble-ridden face– the same exact one he had whenever he watched you train. It was like he wanted you to fail. Like he was expecting it, anticipating it. 

You pinched your wrist. Now was not the fucking time. 

You brought the scope closer to your face, targeting the window Natasha would be bringing the target in front of. The crosshairs helped even out the scene while you lined up the shot right between the bedroom’s curtains. You readied yourself, focusing on breathing and controlling the rise and fall of your chest, steadying your bottom half. You blinked, then, and through the sights you spotted the golden shimmer of Natasha’s dress reflecting off the room’s low lighting. Finger on the trigger, delicately squeezing as the target’s head entered into the crosshairs, stepping unknowingly into the middle of your aim, mere seconds left to live, left until he rots in his deserved place in hell. 

Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Pull.

The target dropped in mere milliseconds as the shot reverberated throughout your body, the sound thankfully muffled by your ear pieces and the silencer. The recoil of the rifle dug into your shoulder, fighting against the rest of your body anchored by stiffened muscles. You exhaled, shaky, still, pushing the scope from your face and resting your head on the cool metal of the stock, allowing it to sear into your burning forehead.

“Confirmed kill. Target down. Meet you back at the hotel, over,” Natasha’s breathless voice crackled into your ear. 

“Copy. On my way down. Bucky do you–”

White hot pain suddenly seared through the back of your skull, slamming you face-first into your rifle. You clutched the back of your head, whipping around to be greeted by the dark void of a gun barrel. You froze, blood draining from your face, stomach free-falling as your gaze traveled up to meet crazed eyes and a twisted face. The man– your assaulter– was clad in black with hints of a tattoo running up his neck like blackened veins. No doubt the symbols hidden under his collar belonged to the syndicate run by his boss. The boss you just killed.

He snarled, yellowed teeth glistening in a maniacal grin. “You’re going to pay for that, little bitch,” he spat and nodded to your rifle as he shoved the barrel in your face. The metal practically branded you like marking a cattle for slaughter.

“Try me, prick,” you gritted through ringing pain and a locked jaw, snarling at the man as you rose, slowly, the barrel unmoving as the gun followed your position.

His grin widened. He began pushing you backwards towards the edge of the roof. Quickly, you kicked your foot out, catching his ankle and grabbing his wrist, pointing the gun at the darkened sky as you clawed at his fingers to release it from his grasp. A deafening shot rang out as you wrestled, sending an elbow straight into your jaw that shoved you away. He aimed for you again as you pulled a knife from your waistband, hurling it at any limb you could hit. It nailed him in his thigh, deep enough you knew it hit bone. He dropped the pistol in favor of his leg, allowing you enough of a break to kick the gun off the roof, sliding it off the opposite edge and down the fire escape.

You stood. You noticed the flicker, the fire, in the man’s eyes as it raged, burning brighter than the streetlights below. He yelled as he lunged, knocking you down again. Hard. Lungs deflated, pain seared through your spine, leaving you sputtering and gasping, grasping desperately for anything: his arms, his legs, your knife, your knife in his leg. Your head spun from the impact, rage and bile boiling in your stomach as arms and legs kicked and thrashed. The man grabbed you by your hair as if to scalp you, limping his way to the edge of the roof, dragging you along inch by inch. You deadened, going limp, hoping to make it that much harder for him to drag you with a knife in his fucking femur. Your stomach dropped as the wind picked up and the distance from the fire escape grew farther away. You knew what was in store: a five-story drop onto the hard street below. 

With impressive strength for a man who was actively bleeding out– and bleeding all over you– he swung you around by the fistful of hair in his hands, dangling your bottom half off the edge of the roof. You fought the panic beginning to set in, thrashing your feet around in an attempt to find some sort of foothold as your hands scrambled to grip the ledge. To add insult to injury, he slammed your head down, skull and jaw dropping with a dizzying thump. A gruff laugh erupted from his chest, and he spat at you. You glanced hesitantly over your shoulder. The world stretched and morphed the longer you looked; your eyes saw a fifty-foot drop while your brain saw a thousand foot death sentence. You willed your sore neck to turn back to the man, only to fight the scream that bubbled up your throat at the sight of a miniature pistol pointed execution-style at you. You ceased any movement, eyes widening, grip tightening on the inch-thick ledge of the roof that held you from becoming a human pancake.

“Looks like you’ll pay after all, bitch!” He grinned, cocking the pistol and preparing to fire. As he squeezed the trigger, as you squeezed your eyes shut, there’s a muffled shot, and then a warm, oozing feeling running down your face and neck. Hesitantly, you opened your eyes, greeted by the sight of the man’s jaw slackened as his eyes began to roll back in his skull. A singular bullet wound centered on his forehead leaked brain and blood and bits of bone. He’s shoved over, body falling like a rag doll and spilling onto the roof. He’s quickly replaced by a seething, panting Bucky with a pistol pointed where your would-be-killer stood. Your eyes widened as your chest constricted, fingertips grinding against the edge as your arms burned and begged to be pulled to solid ground. He lowers the gun, lips parted, eyes boring into your soul like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Sar–Bucky, I’m fuckin’ slipping here!” you yelled as your left hand began to give way to gravity. The entirely reasonable request seemed to piss him off even more as he cursed, dropping his gun and grabbing harshly onto your arms, yanking you back up. He dropped you onto the roof in a heap. While your muscles screamed and you hacked up your lungs trying to regain normal oxygen levels, the annoyance you harbored for Bucky returned just as quickly as the gratefulness you had for his rescue faded once he turned his back on you, heading to the fire escape. 

“Thanks, Bucky, but Jesus fucking–”

He whipped around, blue eyes flashing crimson– a warning sign to choose your next words extremely carefully. 

“Clean up n’ get the fuck down. I’m leaving with or without you in ten fucking minutes,” he seethed, fists clenching onto the fire escape bars. You winced at the groaning sound the metal emitted as he bent it out of place, imprinting his palm prints into the bars.

“Bucky, I– What do–” you stuttered. Thoughts were racing as you looked between him and your would-be murderer decaying in his own drying blood a few feet away. You looked back at him. His eyes, swimming with something unrecognizable, mixed with fear and anger plaguing his features– like he remembered something so vivid, so real, that he was reliving it again.

“Just,” he turns his back to you, voice shaking, “get down here.”

He disappeared, leaving you to clean up the mess.

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

The back alleyway was lit with a single, softly glowing flood light that led out to the busy streets. Bucky, who was already waiting for you with a furiously tapping foot, surveilled you with a stuck-snarling lip as you jumped down from the fire escape. The gilded plates in his hand leading up under his sleeve glinted with the violet-tinted vibranium. 

There's a moment, a beat, shared between you as you stood to look at him. You stared at one another, gazes unwavering and refusing to break, to blink. The shadows surrounding you began to move as if they were dancing on Bucky's face, sharpening his jaw, his features. He stayed on you, eyes flitting ever-so-slightly over your form. 

Your face burned.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Take a fuckin’ picture why don’t ya?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Could say th’same for you.” 

He grumbled something– probably cursing you– under his breath. As he opened his mouth to hurl an insult your way, both your phones pinged.

♦ Natasha: Taking last flight out of IST. Jet coming early AM. Lay low. Don’t kill each other. Please. Talk soon.

You swallowed a groan. 

“Fuckin’ great,” Bucky muttered, loud enough for you to hear. 

“Uh, okay. Fuck you, too, then,” you shot at him defensively. Knee-jerk reaction. Pinching the bridge of your nose and kicking yourself, you dropped the subject. Not the fight you wanted to pick at that moment. “Let’s– let's just call a cab and get to the hotel.”

“No. I have a bike. And we’re going to a safehouse.”

“Bucky, it's dark enough, my bag is–”

Suddenly, he was much closer than a mere second before, backing you up against the wall of the stakeout building. He beat you in height by a decent amount, but him towering over you really put it in perspective. His broad shoulders heaved, vibranium arm whirring in overdrive as he jabbed a plated finger at you, his face inches from yours. 

“I. Don't. Fucking. Care,” he stabbed each word into your sternum. “Bike’s down at the other end of the block. We're taking it, or you can fuckin’ walk. Doesn't matter to me.” 

You wanted to take his finger and break it.  

You glared, focus shifting between his startlingly bright blue eyes and the strange closeness of his face to yours. It was like you were seeing him– like, actually seeing him– for the first time in high definition. All of his details– the small scars by his hairline, the slight crookedness of his nose, crow’s feet and worry lines beginning to etch themselves into his skin, the indent between his brows– overwhelmed you as your eyes darted all over his face. You snapped back to his glare and were suddenly very conscious of your own facial expression that failed to rival his. You set your jaw and furrowed your brow.

You doubted it was convincing.

“Fine.” 

He stepped back and started striding down the alleyway with you at his heels. Your grip on the straps of the gun bag burned your palms as you tried to keep up with Bucky’s annoyingly long strides. At the intersection between the main street and two shops sat a garage; it appeared closed for the night, but was still open to Bucky, apparently, who pulled a key out from under an unsuspecting plant. He unlocked the large metal door, lifting it to reveal a tiny space that was barely big enough to house the large motorcycle and a workbench scattered with parts and tools. He strolled in like he owned the place and grabbed one of the helmets hanging off the motorcycle’s handles, handing it to you with an outstretched arm as he saddled himself onto the bike. You looked from him to the helmet, mouth agape and brow arched in confusion. 

When you didn’t take it, he rolled his eyes and shook it at you.

“C’mon, we don’t have all night.”

“When the hell did you–”

“I’ve got my ways. Now c’mon, put the damn helmet on,” he huffed, leaning back on the seat. His thick thighs clenched and straddled the gunmetal-body of the motorcycle. You held back the shiver that ran up your back as you crossed your arms, hip cocking out in defiance. In the briefest of pauses, Bucky stilled, and you swore you caught his eyes scanning down your body, your curves and full figure, before snapping back up to meet yours. He scoffed, smirking to himself and shaking his head.

“The fuck are you laughin’ at?” Your face turned hot, prompting your arms to hug tighter over your chest. You felt off balance. 

He said nothing and tossed the helmet to you. Your arms uncrossed and reacted much faster than your brain did as you barely caught it, slipping it on. Pointedly sighing, you relented and climbed onto the bike as Bucky put his own helmet on, sliding the visor down. In the shortly-live silence, your breathing echoed his, the air weighing heavy with anticipation. You were suddenly hyper-aware of every single little touch, every tiny movement made, every breath taken– like a bucket of ice water getting splashed on you, you were present for what felt like the first time that night.

The bike roared to life and Bucky leaned forward to fit his body closer to the handles. 

“Might wanna hang on,” he yelled over the noise. You hesitated, probably for a second too long for Bucky’s liking as he looked behind you and rolled his eyes (you knew he did, even behind the stupid visor.) He reached behind his back and grabbed your wrist, pulling you against him and wrapping your arm around his waist. Your free arm followed suit, tightly embracing him, heart pounding in your chest at the sudden act. You lurched forward as he rode out of the garage and began down the street; the location was a mystery to you, other than you knew it was one of the regular S.H.I.E.L.D. approved safehouses in Istanbul.

Weaving through the other bikes and cars, you couldn’t help but lean closer into Bucky, watching the lights and sights pass by in a blur. Fingers fanned over his abdomen as you held on, feeling the firm leather tac jacket against your skin– which became firmer upon pressing into him and feeling like you were palming a brick wall. Knees fit together at the sides of the bike, shifting ever-so-slightly whenever he braked or shifted. Worst of all, as you hugged your chest into his back, you had a front-row seat in viewing the way his broad shoulders twisted with laser-like precision as he drove.

It took every ounce of energy not to let go and fall off the bike. 

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

The four-flight trudge up to the safehouse– more like safeapartment, actually– was a miserable one, especially with twenty pounds worth of gear on your back and a highly impatient super soldier on your ass telling you to “hurry the fuck up.”

“Again: ‘m not built like a fuckin’ freight train, here, Bucky,” you panted as your legs struggled in rounding the fourth and final landing. He didn’t bother to wait for you, instead turning wordlessly off the landing, heading down the hallway to the door with the keys jingling against his vibranium hand. You caught up to him, standing awkwardly off to the side as he fumbled with the sticky lock, and you couldn’t help but watch the way his hands moved. The way the vibranium prosthetic moved as fluidly as his flesh and bone, the way the plates glinted in the dimly lit hallway, the way his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. 

Bucky swung the door open, pulling you out of your trance. He flicked on a light switch to reveal a small apartment complete with a cramped living room, couch, small T.V., and an open kitchen in the back. A hallway diverted off to the left, presumably to the bathroom and–

“It’s a one bedroom,” Bucky muttered, stepping into the apartment. You looked at him incredulously. 

“You– you’re kidding, right?” you asked, closing the door behind you and dropping your bag off to the side. 

“No. Why would I?” Bucky turned to you, cocking a brow with hands set on his hips, revealing his undone tac jacket and the tightest fucking dry-fit shirt underneath. It was practically a second skin, hugging against his abs you felt earlier. You stared slack-jawed at him like he didn’t just hear himself speak.

“Because there’s only one fucking bed?” 

“Yeah. And I’m taking it. You get couch duty,” he stated matter-of-factly. His crooked smirk prodded at your nerves.

You scoffed and mirrored his stance. “What? No! I did the work today, you sat around and just… watched.”

His face hardened. “I sat and just… watched?” he repeated, tone challenging you as he took a step forward. 

You swallowed. “You heard me.”

One second, you were ready to hurl another choice word at Bucky. The next, you were slammed against the back of the door. Hard. 

Bucky had rushed you, grabbing your arms with bruising force and forcing them up, pinning your wrists on either side of your head. You yelled in protest, failing to squirm out of the cage that was his body. 

“Look at me right fuckin’ now,” he demanded, lips curling into a snarl and bared teeth. His voice turned, a complete 180. Dominating, commanding, enraging. When you didn’t obey instantly, he slammed your wrists against the door again.

“Look at me!” 

“No! Fuck– Get off me!” 

With your feet still free, you started kicking him, eliciting what sounded like a growl that rumbled from deep within his chest. Bucky passed your wrist in his metal hand off to his flesh one, pinning both hands above your head while shoving a thick thigh between both of yours– right against your core. An uncontrollable yelp escaped from you as he pushed. Heat pooled in your lower stomach, and it took every bit of control to stop yourself from clenching your thighs together automatically. The fire Bucky ignited only grew, imaginary flames roaring in your stomach and racing up your limbs. His prosthetic hand snaked up your neck and squeezed your chin, squishing your cheeks and lips, forcing your eyes to him.

You felt lightheaded. Bucky– fuck, nobody– ever grabbed you like that; like you belonged to them. To him.

“You’re gonna listen to me, and listen good,” he shook your face, “I saved your fuckin’ life tonight, ‘member? When you were defenseless and as good as fuckin’ dead on that roof? You made me shoot that piece of shit point blank. You made me almost shoot you.” 

His voice shook and he looked away, biting his lip then coming back to you. “I fuckin’ saved your life when you should’ve saved your own. If it’d been any later– if I’d been a second later–” He steadied a breath, shaking his head and scoffing a laugh. He focused back on you with wildly electric blues. “I saved your life. Therefore, I get the goddamned bed tonight. Got it?”

You stared at him for a second longer before nodding gently. The energy building between you was enough to burn the entire building down if someone lit a cigarette. A smirk slowly bloomed across your lips. He released your chin, hand sinking down to rest against your collarbone. 

“Is that all, Sergeant?” 

His Adam's apple bobbed.

“What did you just call me?” he whispered, sliding a vibranium palm around the column of your neck, plated fingers resting on your pulse point. He twitched. Inches.

“You heard me.” 

The air, thick in the apartment, felt charged. 

“Needja t’say it again. Can’t hear too well,” he slurred, licking his lips. Eyelids fluttering, hands squeezing. Centimeters.

“Whatever you say,” you lilted. Millimeters. “Sergeant.”

Lightning struck. Everything ignited, setting fire to both of you as Bucky’s lips seared into yours. Hard, sloppy, desperate as tongue and teeth swapped secrets like old friends. He was unexplored territory, yet he felt so familiar. His prosthetic slowly relented the grip on your wrists, dropping to your shoulder, sliding down your chest where he greedily groped and slid over every last peak and dip of your body: tits screaming for release from your suit; hips jerking in short bursts at his every movement. He grabbed your ass and pulled you closer, forcing your thick thighs to spread wider as his own pushed further against your arousal.

“Been–” Bucky smacked your lips, kissing hungrily across your cheek and biting down your neck, “Shit– Been wanting this so– long, fuck–” He pressed into you, his cock harder a gun in his waistband. You couldn’t hold onto the intensely lust-filled moan that spilled from your throat much longer. Bucky grinned against your neck, lapping and sucking and marking your skin like he owned you. Like he could do whatever he wanted to you. 

And you let him.

“Gotta get this shit off you,” Bucky mumbled into your neck as he shed his own jacket, face not leaving your skin. Rough hands grabbed onto you and ripped away the buckles and buttons of the jacket that kept your body from him. A deep groan rumbled inside his chest as he threw the top half of your suit to the side, drinking in the beautiful sight of your body, hugged in all the right places by the cami that was riding up your stomach while your tits gasped for air, spilling out, fighting against your sports bra.

“Holy–fuck, holy shit.” 

Bucky Barnes was speechless. And you were the reason why. 

He stopped as your wrists came down from above your head and fell down your frame. 

“God, you’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your heart stopped.

“You’re telling me.”

Another charge surged and you threw yourself at Bucky, sending both of you stumbling through the living room. Hands grasped and groped. Fingers busied themselves with removing clothing, undoing pants to throw one way and stripping shirts to toss another. You were magnetized to him, carding through his cropped chocolate hair, hooking your arms behind his neck– which was still bare and practically begging you to mark it in every way you knew. Stumbling over an end table, knocking into the wall that led down the hallway, dragging one another to the bedroom only to pause when you whined at Bucky to shut the door. 

Both of you were near-naked, relishing in each other’s skin by the time you made it to the bed, falling on it with him on top of you in a heap. Bucky hiked you further up the bed, dropping you onto the several pillows that made it feel like Cloud 9. You looked up at him straddling your hips with legs that seemed to spread wider the further down he sat. Eyelids fluttered while your pupils adjusted to the dark bedroom. What lay before was a scene out of your wildest fantasy. 

Bucky sat back on his hips, hair spiking out in wild tufts, cock aching to break free from the confines of his briefs as he stared back at you hungrily. His tongue jutted out to wet his lips, dragging the bottom half back into his teeth while his lust-blown pupils trained directly on you. You truly hadn’t registered the god-like, sculpturesque muscles leading down his chest and over his rippling abs that finished in a very defined ‘V’ below the waistband of his briefs. The veins bulging in his arm and hand were enough to send you spiraling. Everything before you left you speechless. Wanting. Needing.

Bucky slid painstakingly slow hands over your hips, up your waist, your ribs, slipping curious fingers underneath the hem of your sports bra. He didn’t rip it off like you expected, however. 

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “You–” his Adam’s apple bobbed, “y’know this’ll change everything. Right?” 

You nodded, eager, confident. “Yeah. I– I know.”

“You wanna do this?” He tugged harder.

“Yes.” Another tug. Your tits begged for release. 

“And you… got protection, er–” he hesitated, cocking a brow.

“Pill. I–I’m on the pill,” you breathlessly assured him. You added with a shrug, “I assume you didn’t bring any…”

He scoffed a laugh. “You weren’t exactly on my list of things t’do.”

“Well I hope I’m a top priority, now.”

“Number fuckin’ one.”

The elastic tore as he ripped the fabric, finally releasing your breasts from their constraint. Bucky discarded your ruined bra and turned back to you. His hands gravitated automatically to your chest, kneading, squeezing; thumbs and index fingers on both sides felt around for your nipples and pinched the sensitive buds, eliciting a squeal from you and another rush of arousal flooded your core. 

Bucky hummed while locking his lips onto a pointed peak, mouthing and nipping and sucking. You mewled, running a hand up the back of his head and through his messy hair. His vibranium hand started downwards, sending your senses into overdrive as metal fingers teased the hem of your hipsters that met the crease in your thigh. He released your swollen nipple with a pop.

“Fuck you’re soaked, baby,” he moaned. Tugging your hipsters down your legs, he returned to leaning back on his hips. You’re breathless, panting, melting before him as he palms his thick erection. The girthy, leaking head poked over the waistband, aching to finally meet you. To feel you.

He stripped his briefs off, springing his cock free. You couldn’t tell if the uncontrollable moan that escaped from your lips was because of how mouth-watering he was or the thrilling worry that flooded your mind at the thought (and soon-to-be very real act) of fitting him– all of him– inside you. You glanced at him, catching the way his eyes darkened into something sinister, something hungry and uncontrollable. His jaw hardened as he pumped himself, leaking precum droplets onto your thighs. 

“Get on your fuckin’ stomach,” he commanded. You obeyed, willing to do anything in your power to quell the iron-hot ache that made your pussy throb with want. The second your palms hit the mattress he grabbed you, hands bruising your love handles and ass as he yanked you back to him, shoving your face down into the pillows. With your cheek pressing into the mattress, face squishing into your elbow, all of the oxygen was pulled from your lungs. A beat of silence filled the void between you before a loud SMACK followed by a stinging pain radiating from your ass. 

SMACK. “That was for the back talk.”

SMACK. “That was for scarin’ me t’night.”

SMACK. “And that was for makin’ me have to wait this long to fuck your stubborn ass.” 

Drool dripped from the corner of your mouth and onto the sheets as you chewed your lip, trying (and failing) to dull the harsh, hot pain. Hands gripping your hips, bruising and rough, he yanked you back to meet his front. His cock jammed in between your cheeks as he grinded on you, kneading your ass to mold around him. 

“You’re gonna take me,” he rasped, low and throaty. “All of me.”

You felt him line himself up with your entrance, his girthy head poking and prodding at your entrance. A beat. Hesitation from both of you before he finally snapped forward, plunging into you, filling you, stretching you wider than you could’ve imagined. Once inside, he paused, shifting inside you, cursing breathlessly at the perfect fit. You groaned and desperately shifted your hips in silent hope that Bucky would fucking move. The stretching, the fullness, everything gnawed at your insides that were begging for release. For pleasure. 

“F-fuck Bucky, please–!” He slowly, painfully, rolled his hips in small, dragged-out thrusts before pulling out of you with the most self-control you’d ever see from him and jamming right back into you. 

“Fuck! Again! Please, again!” 

He obeyed you; his hips gradually began to pick up speed, thrusting erratically into you. 

“Gimme your arm,” he gritted between hissed curses. Your brain was on a three-second delay between hearing him and when you started to twist; too slow for Bucky’s liking, he growled, bending– and, in turn, stuffing himself until his base scraped your ass– to grab your arm, pinning against your back with a stern hold. The pain, the pleasure, the all-of-it fanned the flames inside you, growing hotter and hotter and threatening to implode. 

“‘M so close, baby, so–” he gasped, “Fuck, where do I–?”

“Back,” you answered, muffled against the sheets. “My back, I– ah!” You clenched around him, locking him in place as the implosion erupted within you. White-hot flashes of intense pleasure shot through your veins like a lethal shock. You screamed. You trembled. You felt the most all-consuming release rock you to your core, all while Bucky drilled into you harder, faster, his own coil on the brink of snapping. His hips began to stutter into you while you rode your high, mewling when it was time to pull from you in a hurry, his fist furiously pumping the last few seconds. A pleasured cry came from his body as hot ropes shot onto you, painting your skin in warm bursts, cum pooling where your spine arced. He groaned. Fist slowing in pumps, he fell onto the covers next to you in a heap as you cautiously lowered your back.

For a minute it was just your labored breathing echoing one another. The smell of sex lingered in the air, the distant sounds of the streets below and within the quiet building were muffled by the walls of the bedroom. It felt like forever before the bed shifted. Bucky stood, fumbling around on the ground for his discarded briefs. Kneeling back onto the bed, you flinched at the suddenly soft touch of fabric as he cleaned you up, wiping your skin until satisfied. He tossed the boxers back onto the ground somewhere unseen, rolling over back to his place next to you. You couldn’t help the smile on your lips, biting it back as you flipped over to look at Bucky, who was already staring at you with a soft smile. 

“Thanks.”

He shrugged in response. “Looks like we both needed it.”

You nodded. “Does this mean ’m still sleeping on the fuckin’ couch?”

“Hm. No, I’ll let you off the hook,” he said, grabbing the covers and pulling them over you both.

“I think I like being off the hook better than being on it.”

He's everything he loathes in a man. Leering and smarmy, with unkempt short hair and beard, armoured like a rough barbarian, with the manners and body language of one used to throwing his weight around, he dominates every room he is in. Shen Qingqiu can't see why, but somehow every courtesan present seems drawn to his presence and he's never seen without a woman or two under his arm.

Well, he does see why. The low, purring words he speaks to the ladies of the brothel might fall all but to deaf ears - but money speaks its own insidious language. Even though his coin is strange, it's plentiful and heavy and always easily parted to his adoring audience as the foreigner teasingly lures the courtesans to him with the foreign coins dancing nimbly on the backs of his knuckles.

They play for him, they introduce him to the local food and wine, and then they take him up stairs for more, and Shen Qingqiu wants nothing more than to see them do to him what they'd done to another barbarian, not long ago. There's nothing quite as satisfying as seeing rough men being thrown out of a window by a group of giggling women.

Alas, aside from looking strange, speaking language no one understands and acting like the worst sort of letcher, the foreigner has done nothing but favour the ladies of the Warm Red Pavilion and clearly they intend to only adore him back.

At least, until his coin purse would run dry.

"How long has he been here?" Shen Qingqiu asks the Madam, as the owner of the brothel joins him for tea.

"Oh, Ai Qiao? He arrived here this morning," the Madam says, as one of the younger courtesans pours for them. "Though he appeared in town sometime yesterday. No one is sure when, exactly - but he made his presence known late afternoon, in the market - where he attempted to find someone who spoke a language he understood. Which he did not find."

Shen Qingqiu narrows his eyes. "He's far inland, to be without a guide or a translator," he mutters, considering. "How did he end up here?"

"Oh, he found his way here - he might've seen one of my girls running errands," the Madam muses and gives him a look. "Does Xiao Jiu know him?"

"No," Shen Qingqiu says and sips his tea. He doesn't know the man's style of clothes either - and more damningly, he doesn't know his language. Though Shen Qingqiu hasn't ever had the time to truly dedicate to learning other languages, he is confident enough to say that he at least knows most human languages by sound. The cadence of Ai Qiao's speech alone is completely unknown to him, never mind the sound he makes, the words he speaks.

There are few things he can deduce, if somewhat begrudgingly, about the man's attire. Though the style is absolutely nonsensical, it's not without finesse - the armour was not just well crafted but to some extent artistic, with floral designs hammered into the metal. The leather straps of it are well made and well maintained and the man's clothes are clearly well tailored and well kept. White like that, on a warrior - there's only so many people Shen Qingqiu knows who can wield a sword and keep white clothes clean, and all of them are immortal cultivators.

It could be indicative of a wealthy warrior without much experience. There were many rich idiots out there who clad themselves in even more extravagant armour that would never see battle, showing off their wealth and claiming bravery where they had none. Except…

Shen Qingqiu clutched onto his cup.

Even outside the aura of mortal danger around the foreigner, Ai Qiao's armour isn't without a scratch - in fact, beneath it's shine and polish, it's quite well worn and battered. And then there is the man's armament - which is… extensive. Sword, crossbow, numerous throwing daggers, bombs… never mind the things hidden in his sleeves, whatever they are. All which the foreigner wore with casual confidence even Liu Qingge would find unnerving.

The man is a killer, there is no doubt in Shen Qingqiu's mind - if not a murderer. And he is currently in congress with who knows how many of Warm Red Pavilion's girls. Even with all the training Shen Qingqiu had given them, and all the weapons he'd done his best to supply with them… none of them are fit to face against a trained killer.

The Madam looks at him, and sees right through him. She smiles knowingly, but is kind enough to not draw attention to his white knuckled fingers or his clenched jaw. "I will have the girls prepare a room in the back," she says. "Will Xiao Jiu play for us tonight?"

"This one will," Shen Qingqiu says. "Let me know when the foreigner falls asleep."

-

The foreigner doesn't fall asleep. For more than two sichens he partakes in the women of the pavilion before making his unwelcome presence known in the hall where Shen Qingqiu is playing the qing. The man saunters in confidently with his armour askew and his knife belt loose, his hair a worse mess than before, grinning with great satisfaction.

"Li-mei," Shen Qingqiu says under his breath to his most recent student in the brothel, a fifteen year old girl who's watching him play intently. "Go see to the girls he left behind."

The girl bows and slips away to take the hidden ladder upstairs. In the meanwhile Ai Qiao is already being attended to by another courtesan at loose ends, who takes the man's arm eagerly and leads him to a table - and to an expensive bottle of wine.

Shen Qingqiu continues to play, keeping his glaring to a minimum while watching the foreign killer. Though it's clear he can't understand a word Ding-er says, they get along just swimmingly, as the man teases her into giggling with his low words and appreciative touches.

Two sichen with who knows how many women and the man still has an appetite for more.

Shen Qingqiu plays, keeping his posture proud and his movements elegant, not letting his worry or disgust show. He doesn't relax until young Li-mei returns to him to tell that, "They're sleeping - all of them," with a giggle. "I think the patron wore them out!"

It takes effort not to verbally express his abhorrence and keep his fingers moving smoothly over the strings. "All of them - how many of them did he have?" Shen Qingqiu demands with disquiet.

"Four," Li-mei giggles.

Incredible - no, impossible. The girls of Warm Red Pavilion might not have the stamina of cultivators, but they have more stamina than to be laid low by a mortal man. Shen Qingqiu narrows his eyes, still playing, and asks, "And they were all… well?" Had Ai Qiao knocked them out - had he struck them, drugged them?

"They looked quite snug and comfortable to me," Li-mei answers, amused. "And the patron left enough coin to cover all their services."

Shen Qingqiu casts a look towards Ai Qiao, who's now listening to Ding-er speak, smiling even though he can't understand a word and urging her on with his hums and murmured encouragement. His fingers, Shen Qingqiu notes, are gently stroking the edge of her collar, where her hanfu leaves her shoulder exposed. The touch is as covetous as it is appreciative. One could even call it proprietorial.

It's nothing he's not seen hundreds of other men do to the women of the brothel, and he's not stupid enough to interject - this is their occupation, and men like Ai Qiao is how they make their living. And a man like this, lustful and generous in his lustiness, is exactly the kind of customer a brothel loves - one who showers several girls with coin and doesn't hold back. And yet…

There is something about this one Shen Qingqiu cannot stand. At first he thinks it's the beard, the attitude, the foreign manners, the way he can't even sit properly. The low tone of his voice, the smarmy smiles he gives everyone, how freely he expresses his desires despite the language barrier. But no.

It's the look in his eyes - dark, shrewd, calculating. It sends cold shivers down Shen Qingqiu's back.

Ai Qiao would be out of the brothel by morning, Shen Qingqiu swears, even if he had to throw the man out himself.

-

Ai Qiao is plied with wine and snacks but doesn't let himself be drawn into a bedroom - instead he sticks to the main hall, chatting nonsensically with Ding-er and then with many other of the women who find themselves at loose ends as the night wears on. The courtesans take turns trying to teach Ai Qiao new words, giggling uproariously at his horrendous pronunciation as he struggles over sounds his own language clearly lacks.

Shen Qingqiu keeps playing and watching and gritting his teeth as the foreigner lets himself be humiliated by the giggling courtesans that have once more begun flocking around him, seemingly as entertained by them as they are by him. Every now and then someone would find their way in his lap and the man would dote upon them, but beyond that he seems satisfied in simply being there and enjoying their company.

And he refuses to tire and go to sleep. He outlasts all the other patrons, who either get ushered into rooms or outside once their coin begins to run out. Ai Qiao's purse remains quite heavy, even with all the coins he's so happily shared with the girls around him, and so he keeps going and going - until finally the hour grows so late that even the women, used to late nights, start tiring.

Shen Qingqiu himself would be asleep by now, if this was a normal night - but he is still on high alert and Ai Qiao doesn't even seem drunk anymore, bidding the sleepy ladies fond good nights with kisses to their hands and some more coins in their palms. Infuriating man.

"Xiao Jiu," the Madam murmurs, coming to his side. "It's late."

By which she means, most of the patrons of the brothel are asleep, and she doesn't want him to play anymore lest he wake them up.

With a slow breath, Shen Qingqiu brings his last piece to a conclusion and then rests his aching fingers on the qing strings. "Very well," he says. "This one shall have some wine now."

Giving him a look, the Madam sighs. "He's been the perfect quest all night," she says quietly. "You need not be so wary. All is well, I promise."

Shen Qingqiu doesn't bother to answer and with a shake of her head the Madam rises and goes to seek her own bed for the night, trusting her women to care for the last patrons they have - namely, Shen Qingqiu and Ai Qiao. Scoffing after her, Shen Qingqiu takes his time going over the Qing and easing it into its case before accepting the bottle brought to him by Ling Ji, one of the older courtesans present.

"Xiao Jiu played beautifully, and for so long," the older courtesan comments while pouring for him. "It has made this a lovely night."

Shen Qingqiu accept the compliment with a nod and distractedly accept the cup - and by then, Ai Qiao is watching them, his eyes considering, his lids low. In an instant Shen Qingqiu is back on the very end of his already frayed nerves, his face growing hot with fury - and, to his utter revulsion, Ai Qiao smiles at him.

Most of the girls are yawning around the man now, and with more kisses and coins bestowed to their hands, the man bids them goodnight - and then he rises. With clear intent and that confident swagger he'd entered with, Ai Qiao approaches the dias where Shen Qingqiu had been playing and is still sitting - and it's plainly obvious what the man's purpose is. He's still smiling - and then one he's smiling at is not Ling Ji.

Shen Qingqiu goes from hot to cold and then back to hot as his fury blazes into pure rage.

Shen Qingqiu rises to his feet in outrage and, clearly delighted, Ai Qiao bows to him - completely wrong and all too theatrical, swinging his arm strangely. The man says, "Ezio Auditore da Firenze, mia cara signora," clearly an introduction. "È un piacere conoscerti." And then he tries to kiss Shen Qingqiu's hand.

Shen Qingqiu throws his wine at his face before he can.

-