#zhenya)))

Zhenya x reader

Code Name Anastasia

Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four

Being ugly means no one being interested in you. That’s the great thing of agency. But you have a secret to conceal what’s underneath.

Contains: Spy Thriller | Psychological | Dark Romance | non-consensual | force | dark-twist | manipulation | child ab@se | bothered Queen🧎‍♀️‍➡️😭

The message was sent.

Encrypted, encoded, and traced through a dozen digital dead ends. The information you pulled from Borodin’s lips—names, phrases, whispered mentions of Project Anastasia—was out of your hands now.

Package received. Await further instruction. Rest.

You stared at that last word again.

Rest.

You turned everything off for the night.

The lights. The monitors. The comms.

Even the handheld tracker slipped into a drawer and locked with a code only you knew. Just in case. But the mask stayed on. You didn’t take chances.

You stripped down, changed into an old loose nightgown, and sat on the edge of your bed with a silent breath. For the first time in hours, the room was quiet. Safe.

Then your monitor lite up on its own. A file opened before you could move:
WINTRLIGHT_C14

You froze. The video started—low quality, slight static—but unmistakable. You.

Facing the mirror, fingers trembling, as you peeled off your mask for the first time that night. No disguise. Just skin and breath and the sound of your own heartbeat. Then you slid it back on. Swiftly. Automatically. Like muscle memory.

You remembered that night. You just stared at your own face for two seconds too long.

Someone had been watching.

Your stomach turned.

And before you could react, before your hand could even reach the power button—

A voice behind you.

“Sloppy.”

You whipped around.

Zhenya stood by the wall, leaning against the cold steel of the frame like he’d always belonged there. Not a knock. Not a sound when he entered. Just… appearing.

You shot to your feet. “What the hell are you doing—”

“You knew there were cameras,” he said, voice flat. “Or you thought you did. But not this one.”

You stared at him, jaw clenched.

“That video means nothing,” you spat. “It could be anyone—”

“You’re lying to my face,” he snapped.

No warmth. No room for negotiation.

You took a step back.

“I told you. It’s not me.”

He tilted his head slightly. Then lifted a remote from his pocket and pressed something.

Another screen—one you never knew existed—lit up on your far wall.

A hidden panel slid open with a mechanical hiss. Cold, sterile light filled the space.

And on the screen:

You again.
In a silk dress.
On the bed.
Mask long gone on the floor.

Your body partially reclined. The man you investigated—Borodin—trailing his hand along your thigh, fingers possessive. Your lips parted, eyes half-lidded, whispering something in a voice designed to lure.

Zhenya stood beside the screen, arms crossed.

You stared in horror.

“Delete it.”

“Why?” he asked, voice dry. “Afraid someone might mistake it for consent?”

You snapped. “I was undercover.”

“So was I.”

You turned toward him, fury rising. “Don’t compare—”

“You let him touch you,” Zhenya said, stepping forward now. “You let him licked your back.”

Your face twisted. “Shut your mouth—”

“You let him put his hands on you. Let him drag his mouth along your body like you belonged to him.”

Your stomach curled.

“I had to get information—”

“And when I touched your back at the party?” he cut in, voice suddenly sharp. “When I reached for your glass? You flinched. You whispered ‘Please don’t, sir.’”

He took another step. You didn’t move.

“You wouldn’t even look at me.”

Another step.

“But him?” His voice turned low. Mean. “You smiled. You moaned.”

Your jaw clenched. “It wasn’t real.”

“Oh,” he murmured.

Your hand reached for the monitor—he caught your wrist. You struggled. Fought to yank free. But Zhenya was fast.

Too fast.

His hand gripped your arm and spun you, pinning you harshly to the cold wall. Your chest hit the wall first, a sharp breath escaping your lips as your legs tried to stabilize—but he was already behind you, keeping you in place with his body.

“You don’t get to act like a victim,” he murmured near your ear. “You played him like a whore. And now you’re pretending to be clean?”the words echoed through you head. You snarled. “Let me go!”

“Make me.”

You twisted, kicked—useless.

He grabbed both your arm above your head with one arm as the other yanked at the edge of your mask. His thigh pressed against your straining you against any movement.

“No—”

Too late.

He tore it off.

You gasped—breathless, exposed, but he didn’t hesitate.

Then he pulled off the wig cap that had been holding your hair in place. Gracefully strands of (h/c) tumbled down like waterfall.

He grab your chin towards him—

His mouth crashed against yours. There was nothing soft about it. It was harsh.

His hands were everywhere—your neck, your waist, your hips—groping like he had the right to search every inch of the body he saw on that tape.

You shoved, clawed, bit down on his lip—but it only made him smirk. His grip tightened, hand sliding under your shirt like he was searching for shame he could touch.

You jerked your head away. “Why are you doing this—!”

He’d only stayed silent.

His fingers slid down again. Over skin you didn’t want touched.

“Zhenya—stop.”

He didn’t.

Not until he felt it—you trembling. Not from arousal.

He finally pulled back, but only barely. His thumb brushed your lower lips—plump, wet.

“You’re weak,” he said, tone as sharp as glass. “And for someone so clever, you’ve made it easy.”

Your eyes burned as tear filled up.

Because it was true.

Because this wasn’t about the mission anymore.

And somewhere in your mind—deep, buried—you saw something.

A memory.

While your lips were still swollen with his taste and your hands were shaking from the force of him.

Zhenya straightened his coat like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just pressed every part of you you’d never let anyone near.

Then he turned to leave.

He left your mask on the floor.

Didn’t bother picking it up.

Didn’t say another word.

And once the door shut—

You finally slid to the floor, cold, breathless, silent.

The video still playing in the background.

You. Laughing. Luring. With his hands on your skin.

You hold your hands to yourself, as if embracing yourself from this cruelty. Tears kept collecting from your eyes, blurring you vision until the world faded into soft outlines.

Theough that blur, memory surface—fragile, distant, yet achingly vivid.

You remembered the creak of wooden floorboards beneath your small feet. The peeling wallpaper. The way wind would slip through the cracked window panes. The old rented apartment—too cold in winter, too hot in summer—was all you had. But it was enough to live.

You could still hear her humming, her voice soft, as she lulled you to sleep. Your mother had once been beautiful. She still was—

To your eyes, atleast. 
She was a principal ballerina in your hometown—graceful, revered, the pride of the local theatre. Rising from dirt floors and calloused feet, she had earned everything with sheer will and aching bones. And she was supposed to go to the Soviet. One breathtaking performance—when she danced Giselle with nothing but borrowed shoes and a rented costume—they said she had promise. Real Promise. A scholarship. An invitation.

Russia, the sacred ground of Ballet.

But then came the fall. A single mistake. A slip.

Her knee shattered like glass beneath her. And with it, the dream. The letter stopped. The opportunity, once so close she could almost taste it, vanished in the blink of an eye. 
So she turned to you. Cold. Exact. Elegant. She never cried about the career she lost. She had you instead. You were her second chance.

From the moment you could walk, you weren’t allowed to walk. You were made to glide. Tiny steps with turned-out feet. Ankles pointed. Chin high. Spine like a string pulled from heaven.

By five, your home was no longer a home.

It was a studio.

The floors taped with pirouette lines.
The living room mirror used to check your port de bras.
The dining chairs stacked against the walls so your oversplits could hover without obstruction.

You knew how to hold your arms like swan wings before you could spell your last name. Stretched with elegance.

No weekends. No breaks. No playdates.
Just repetition. Until it stopped being trial, and became performance. “This is the sacrifice. If you want to fly, you must first break your bones.”

She never shouted only corrected. Silently. Precisely. Pain was proof. Blood was progress.

When your feet bled through your tights, she peeled the pointe shoes off carefully, kissed your bruises, and whispered:

“You’re becoming beautiful.”

You thought that meant worthy.

You were eleven when it happened.

A government-sponsored youth talent showcase. Held in a glittering hotel ballroom—glass chandeliers, polished red carpet, rows of strangers with pocket watches and soft leather gloves.

You had just finished your ribbon routine.

Your back was slick with sweat. Your limbs trembling from the final split leap.

But they clapped.
Polite. Quiet. Controlled.

Backstage, you stretched again. A recovery arch.

Back bowed. Arms curved behind your head like petals. Just a child doing what she’d been trained to do.

That’s when you saw him.

A man. A judge. Beady-eyed. Pale. Watching from the curtain.

Not with admiration. He didn’t blink.
Didn’t even pretend to look away when your mother stepped in front of you.

She’d seen it too.

Back home, she didn’t yell. She locked the door. Took off her shoes. Set her keys down.

Then she turned. Slowly.

And slapped you.

Your head snapped sideways. You gasped but didn’t cry.

“Why did you arch like that in front of him?”

You stammered. “I—I was just stretching, Mama, I didn’t know—”

She crouched in front of you. Fingers cold, rough on your flushed cheeks.

“You never let a man look at you like that. Not unless you can use it.”

Her words hit harder than the slap.

You were already crying.
Soft. Guilty. Confused.

But she wasn’t finished.

She held your face, trembling in her grip.

“You were beautiful tonight,” she whispered.

And you couldn’t tell if it was praise.

Or punishment.

That night, you slept curled up on your training mat.
The one with the sweat-stained corners and frayed lines.
Your tears soaked the crook of your elbow.

You didn’t arch your back.

You didn’t move at all.

You just lay there. Still.

Too afraid to make a mistake with your body.

Too afraid not to.

Now.

You sat in your room again.

Cold air clinging to your skin.

Your reflection in the mirror was still watching you.

Lips red. Slightly swollen.
From a certain harsh action.

You could still feel him. Zhenya.

His hands. His mouth. His words.

You stared and stared and stared.

At that strange, ugly girl in the mirror.

So pretty.

So soft.

Still so… bendable.

Your mother’s voice echoed somewhere in the marrow of your bones.

“You must first break your bones.”

But you weren’t strong.

You never had been.

All of it—your composure, your wit, your mask—
It was a performance.

Smoke and mirrors.

And tonight, it shattered.

You were crying.

Silently. Pathetically.