#madripoor four | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gutsby · 2 months

Text

Trigger Tease

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Your honeymoon from hell takes you straight to a strip club south of Madripoor, where Bucky teaches you how to give a lap dance, shoot a gun, and kill a man all in one night—and maybe agree to have his baby, too.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Oral (m! & f!receiving). Sex in a sauna. Sex in a strip club. Praise & degradation. Breeding kink. Daddy kink. Double homicide. Dickriding. Beefy, mob boss Bucky hates birth control and bad men—loves babies and killing HYDRA operatives for his wife.

Descriptions of violence throughout

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

Roleplay was fun—even vital for a marriage like yours.

Only instead of assuming the role of sexy masseuse, strong and strapping CEO, hands-on handyman, or some naughty professor with a knack for after-class punishment, Bucky got to play a bloodlusting assassin.

‘Winter Soldier’ didn’t have quite the same ring as most pornographic tropes, but that was no matter. What counted now was making the shot, and getting it right.

You sincerely hoped you wouldn’t fuck this up.

It was no secret that the Barnes’ bloodline was steeped in dealing, stealing, gunslinging, and laundering cash. Staggering privilege, too. From the sandy shores of Curaçao to Luxembourg and Guinea-Bissau, any living heir to the dynasty could have expected to find safe refuge and respect just about anywhere that they went. It was all but engrained in their DNA at this point.

All that is to say, Bucky had no trouble finding a foreign hideaway in a pinch. He liked the Swiss Alps the best.

After your short and sweet conversation with ‘Joey’ over the phone—HYDRA hijacking the intercom system—he and Sam and Steve had made the split-second decision to reroute the plane to Zürich, and now you were here.

72 hours into a four-day ticking time bomb and totally clueless as to how you might stave off impending death, and mitigate other casualties, the best that you could.

The stress fucking with Bucky made it worth it, though.

In between breakfast and the start of your husband’s early briefing that day, you’d found yourself situated in much the same way you’d been spending a lot of time lately: pinned against the wall of a wood-paneled sauna, Bucky’s broad shoulders supporting both of your legs as he buried his face deep between your thighs. You sighed.

“Hold still,” Bucky grunted, voice muffled as he tried to keep your slick, squirming body in place above him.

You yelped and seized a fistful of his hair when he wedged his tongue even further inside you, nudging your clit with his nose almost too teasingly and deliberate.

“I can’t…help it,” you bit back, ignoring the brief glare you earned from your husband as soon as you said it, “Your tongue’s just so— s— James!”

This time, Bucky let out a full-throated groan when you yanked on those poor wet locks of his—‘Gonna make me bald by next Christmas if you keep doin’ that, honey’—and he pried his head from your legs just long enough to knock you flat on the sauna bench close by.

The western red cedar seared hot on your skin, already flushed from the exhaustion wrought by Bucky’s tongue; you hardly had the strength to hold yourself up when he pushed you onto your back and crawled over your body.

“How ‘bout my fingers, doll? Can you take a couple’a those for me?” Bucky crooned above you as he stroked your hair, bathed in pure sunlight pouring in from the windows. His voice was a touch more sympathetic now.

After all, this was your third orgasm of the morning. It really wasn’t fair for him to use that biological weapon of mass destruction he liked to call his tongue when he knew how sensitive your clit would get from just one ‘O’. Even his hands might be too much in your current state.

Bucky was busy peppering your skin with kisses, working his way from the base of your neck to the crown of your head, when you whimpered and tried to fight a smile.

“Finger,” you corrected him, “Just one finger, Barnes.”

You would’ve thought you’d just thrown your wedding ring in his face and told him to eat shit. Just one?

“How’s one finger s’posed to stretch you out for my cock, huh? Practically had you screamin’ when I stuck it in last night,” Bucky wasn’t one to hide his amusement, grinning even bigger when you swatted him on the arm.

“Who said anything about your cock?” You tried to keep cool as Bucky’s fingers trailed right back down to the place you felt yourself throbbing, aching for his touch, “You have a meeting in ten minutes.”

“Meeting doesn’t start until I say so, my love,” Bucky reminded you just as his index ghosted over your folds.

In truth, he was willing to play this game any way, and for however long, you wanted it done, so long as he was the one bringing you pleasure all the while. Be that his cock, his finger, or all fucking five on one hand, Bucky just wanted to get you off. It was far better sustenance to him than the whole fucking meal he’d eaten that morning.

Bucky kept it down to one digit and lightly circled your bundle of nerves when he sensed you were ready.

You gripped his forearm and shot a quick look between your legs, still in disbelief as to how he could make you feel this good so soon after you’d cum twice before. You felt his lips drift over to yours and steal a few kisses.

“Always doin’ so good for me,” Bucky praised, moving his finger in circles. When you whined against his mouth, he pressed it even harder, “Such a good girl for daddy.”

“James,” you breathed, clenching your legs together.

“Everything OK?”

“Uh-huh.”

More than OK, in fact. That delectable coil of sweet, euphoric release was already swelling gently in your tummy. Bucky moved his finger even faster.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmured low in your ear.

Bucky loved seeing you try to articulate your feelings—relatively fresh and new to your world, still—while he was giving you pleasure. Adored the way you winced and whined and arched your back into his touch as a whole blustering hailstorm of sensations crashed over you.

He sank his tongue in your mouth as he kissed you, as if trying to extract the words from between your lips. Your response, in consequence, came somewhat stifled.

“Mm— feels so, oh—” Your voice broke off in a moan when Bucky tightened his circles, “—so good, daddy.”

“Wanna show daddy how good and cum for me?”

Bucky knew by the way you were whimpering under his hand that the tendril in your stomach had almost tripled in size. It wouldn’t take much to tip you over the edge.

“My sweet girl,” he said, rubbing your cunt at the same time he was stroking the back of your head, gently, “Feels so nice down there, doesn’t it?”

You rolled your hips against the bench and nodded. Your breaths were short and ragged, panting helplessly into Bucky’s mouth when he adjusted his hand just a little: pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit, with his index moving down to your entrance. Pushing inside you.

“Another,” you choked, not thinking.

Bucky met your desperate gaze and nodded, knowing this was exactly what you needed to make it over the precipice.

Still, he wouldn’t be Bucky if he didn’t tease just a bit.

“I thought my wife wanted one finger,” he hummed, brow pinching inward.

“No, no.” You could’ve shrieked when he curled the digit, “Want more— Bucky, please, please, I need more.”

Again, your husband appeared to nod in understanding, but his fingers didn’t budge. He worked his thumb a little faster and watched you writhe on the seat beneath him.

“How many, honey? Don’t wanna hurt my baby.” His words were all kindness, it seemed, but his tone laced with shameless condescension—the kind that said, yes, I know you need this, and no, I won’t indulge you just yet. Bucky was the worst when he wanted to prove a point. You could’ve ripped at his clothes and torn them in two if you weren’t both stark naked and shrouded in steam.

You opted to pull at his hair instead.

Bucky winced, but the smirk never left.

“I said how many?” he pressed again.

“Three. Four.” Fuck if you knew.

Your husband raised both eyebrows and hummed, a single finger still plunging in and out of your cunt at a rapid-fire pace. He teased the tip of another at your entrance and smiled even more when you whined.

“Needy little thing, isn’t she?”

“Bucky—”

“Just wants to fuck daddy’s hand to get herself off, hm?”

Bucky didn’t bother to mask his sweet, degrading tone any longer as he talked down and teased you to no end. It drove him half-insane to see you squirm around, rut your hips, let him say the filthiest fucking words he could conjure up, and just bob your head to whatever he said. His impeccant wife and her insatiable needs—Bucky couldn’t even begin to express how turned on the sheer dichotomy got him. He stared in your eyes, all glossy and soft, and felt his cock stand even more rigid on his belly.

He didn’t give a shit if he’d taunted you enough or not; he just shoved his middle and ring fingers alongside the first and clenched his jaw to start fucking you hard with all three.

Your whole face contorted with pleasure, tinged with the faintest shade of discomfort at the tail end of it. You’d forgotten how big his fingers felt all together.

“Bucky,” you whined, mindlessly clawing at the wrist that was moving back and forth, fast, between your legs, “B-Baby, slow— slow down a little.”

But Bucky was deep in the zone. He knew you wanted it too—sensed that you liked to play it safe when it came to your pleasure and grew a little timid at times it got to feel too much—and he needed to talk you through it.

Rather than turn his head and keep to himself as he got you up to your peak, Bucky pressed his face down to yours and nodded again—this time with a tender sincerity.

“Feel a little stretch down there, huh?”

You didn’t have to say anything, just whimpering in time. Bucky kissed your forehead and let you fold into him as his fingers wreaked havoc down below. He kissed you again, and again, and in between kisses, mumbled,

“That’s daddy’s sweet, needy little slut.”

“My perfect fucking wife, so good at taking my fingers.”

“Gonna be nice and stretched out for my cock, hm?”

Every syllable spoken aloud was like a brand new catalyst for your impending release. You barely nodded your head, opened your mouth and whined pathetically, but that’s exactly how Bucky wanted you. Exactly how you needed to be, bucking your hips in time with the cadence of his fingers fucking inside you, and soon, those whimpers were turning to moans as that soft little helix inside you reached its breaking point.

Bucky brushed once or twice more against your sensitive spot, and suddenly you were coming undone all over him—crying his name, clawing his skin, squeezing your legs so tight around his wrist you feared you might snap it in two, and then getting kissed again, over and over. Bucky soaked in your every sound, and the few tears that would inevitably spring to your eyes, like sweet nectar.

You were still moaning, curling your tongue feebly against his own and leaning into him as far as you could, when your husband slipped three fingers up between your mouth and his and pushed them past your parted lips.

“Suck,” Bucky said, clenching his jaw as he watched you, “C’mere, honey, taste your cunt on my fingers.”

You took him in and sucked your arousal off his fingers just like he asked. Took him by surprise and dragged a mindless, lazy, half-crazed and careless tongue all over his hand, where your juices had no doubt collected too.

That slutty, fucked-out look you gave him—like your brain had all but fallen out of your head with the orgasm he’d given you—was everything Bucky could’ve wanted.

He climbed on top of you and took the base of his cock, rock-hard and weeping tears of precum from the tip, almost drunk from the feeling himself. His mouth hung open as he dragged himself over the seam of your cunt.

“I need to fuck you now.”

Bucky’s words couldn’t have hung in the fog-infested air for more than a millisecond or two before he had you back in his arms and carried to the far end of the sauna.

At the door—or, rather, on it—with your back flush against the wood, you felt Bucky pin you in place with his hips and press his erection to that soft, cramped space between your bodies. You tightened your legs around his middle and sucked in a breath when you felt him pulse.

Then the head of his cock was circling that slick, taut ring of muscles like all hope for his future happiness lay there: right between your legs in the softest and sweetest recesses of your body he could reach. His eyes could’ve been engulfed in flames and still not betrayed a fraction of the smouldering desire that lay behind them now—he drank you in with a single look and sighed.

“Can I— do it, now?” The term ‘fucking’ swiftly lost all lustre when he was an inch from your heat and ready to press in; he just needed to be in you, a part of you, now.

“Yeah,” you breathed. You pressed your forehead to his.

Bucky ran his tip once more down your slit and had just begun to ease his hips forward when a moan snagged in his throat. He braced you firmer against the door, letting your arms drape over his shoulders, and was just about to slide his length inside of you, then—

Thump, thump, thump.

Three knocks in quick succession.

You jumped, the sudden raps reverberating up the door.

Bucky held you to him, tight, and planted a hand beside your head as if to hold the whole frame still. Then, through gritted teeth,

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Need you downstairs. Now.”

It was Sam.

“Can it wait?”

“No.”

Bucky frowned. Scratched the wood surface reflexively.

“Can it…wait?” he tried again, tone laden with a silent but pointed, ‘Is it urgent enough to drag me away from my wife when I’m less than an inch away from being seven inside her?’ Evidently, Sam got the gist, or was just keen to get him out, because he returned, quick:

“Yeah. Legal’s here.”

‘Shit’ was Bucky’s wordless expression below you.

Then a ‘Shit, shit, shit, just shoot me now’ kind of look that raised an eyebrow on your own frazzled face.

Wasn’t the arrival of Bucky’s legal team a good thing? He’d been agonizing for days, badgering Sam and Steve to no end over when they’d hear back from his retinue, and here they were. You couldn’t ask just yet, as your husband was lowering you to the floor and stepping back from the door, chest racked with a shuddering breath, but you wanted to know. You reached for a towel.

“Fine. Fuck. I’ll be right out.” As it was, Bucky had chosen to forgo the dry-off altogether and just started chucking clothes on his body, eyes roaming all over.

You turned from the sound of Sam’s retreating steps and found him moving fast, graceless—shoulders hunched, head bowed, pants wrestled almost angrily up his legs. He found his balance, barely, bracing his weight against the sink, then nearly tore the porcelain fixture off the wall with how hard he kicked it trying to get his left shoe on.

He muscled into his dress shirt and flushed bright red.

In a second, you had either side of the crisp white button-up between your hands, frowning.

“Any reason why we’re so upset?” you asked after a beat.

Bucky puffed a short breath over your head as you secured the first button. Then the next. Then the next.

“What? Apart from the fact I’m not balls deep and about to give you your fourth orgasm?” he grumbled.

You shot him a look.

“I mean it’s— not ideal, getting a visit at a time like this,” Bucky continued once he’d sufficiently contained half a smirk and could don a more serious look, “If we were getting any good news they would’ve just called.”

Hell, great news could’ve made it in an email. The whole aggregate of his legal team taking the trip from Brooklyn to Zürich meant that shit had most likely hit the fan in a big way. Bucky wasn’t thrilled to learn the ‘how’ just yet.

Instead, he cupped your cheek in one hand and brushed his thumb along its curve once you’d made it to the last button of his shirt. He started to lean in, hoping to delay the briefing downstairs with a quick diversion to your lips, but he stopped about an inch away from your face.

You’d lowered your touch, slipping it under the band of his boxers. He was still as hard as you’d felt him last.

Bucky let out a grunt when your fingertips grazed the soft tufts of hair adorning that part of his abdomen. He sucked in a breath when they sank even further.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” you said, voice dulcet and slow as you wrapped your hand around the base of his shaft.

Again, a sound rumbled deep inside Bucky’s chest, and the thumb resting on your cheek stirred. In fact, it had no other choice—your head was starting to move.

Descending, slowly. Sinking to the floor in front of him. Positioning yourself right above the bulge in his pants.

Now Bucky’s palm was laying flat on your head, resting light as it ever had while you drew him even closer.

“Baby—”

“Yeah?” you hummed, just then tugging him out and bringing your mouth to the swollen, leaking head. Bucky gripped a good handful of your hair and rutted his hips without meaning to, and you smiled, “Can’t have my husband showing up hard as a rock to his meeting.”

You were right. There was no way Bucky was getting rid of this wood without the help of his hand or one of your holes. And, under any set of circumstances, he would’ve much preferred the latter to the former. He groaned when you took his tip to your lips and stroked him softly.

You made remarkably quick work of the man with just a minute or two, your mouth, your hand, and a tiny bit of spit—a record-breaking feat, Bucky had thought to himself with some embarrassment. But you weren’t concerned with his stamina in the slightest, focusing instead on the ways in which you might maximize his pleasure in the same way he’d done for you. Stretching your lips, loosening your jaw, and taking him down as far and as frequently as you could manage without gagging around him, you had him good. Deep. All but aching for release as he took a firm hold of the sink behind him.

“That’s a—fuck, that’s a good…fuckin’ girl.”

You bobbed your head once or twice more, flitting your gaze to his face, and felt the warmth unload in ropes—glazing your throat and every soft, square inch of your mouth as he did. Practically flooding your tongue with his cum. Bucky groaned and made a fist in your hair.

“Baby…shit,” came the sound of disbelief under his breath when you pulled off just enough to breathe.

You were careful how you took in air; flaring your nostrils the slightest bit, feeling a twitch at the corners of your lips as you tried not to smirk. Then, with an obscene sort of precision and purpose, you gave something else a try.

You stuck your tongue out at Bucky to show him the warm, oozing load he’d just left in your mouth.

Your husband’s response was immediate: evidently, he loved nothing more than a show of himself inside you, displayed like a prize between your two rows of teeth. You watched him grit his own to suppress a moan.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he seethed. Still reeling from his high.

Then he paused, in awe for a second, before dropping one finger to your mouth and swirling his touch along the sticky, opaque puddle resting over your tongue.

You closed your lips around him, snug, and held his gaze.

A weaker man might have come undone. Bucky just let out a breath and smiled.

“If you wanna play show-and-tell with my cum I can find someplace to put that, doll,” he said, low as ever, then,

“C’mere.”

You didn’t need the powers of telepathy to understand what he’d meant. Should’ve known better than to dip your toe in the cumplay game with a man who arguably harbored the world’s biggest breeding kink and really wanted to knock you up. The realization had you back on your feet in an instant. Having swallowed fast, pried your lips off his digit with a pop, and licked the corners of your mouth, you rose without the threat of a second thought.

Your pale yellow dress was the first thing you grabbed—the first thing Bucky tried to yank off of your body when you’d slipped it up your legs and staggered backward.

“Not happening, Barnes,” you giggled, pretending not to see him advance when you stepped back.

But Bucky had never been big on civility in times like these. He lunged forward and nearly tore the barely-zipped frock off your frame, eliciting a shriek and another arch look from you as you started toward the door.

You were amazed you made it through—your husband had had to stop to tuck his dick back in his pants before stumbling after you—but when you took off down the hall, you knew it was only a matter of time before you heard his footsteps thundering fast after your own.

The tips of your toes had just barely grazed the first step down the stairs when hands seized your hips. You yelped.

“BUCKY!”

Whether on account of your own practiced agility, or the fact that Bucky’s palms were still sticky and slick with his sweat, you managed to wrest yourself out of his grip just long enough to get a start down the stairs.

“COME HERE!” Bucky boomed loud, trying his hardest not to laugh as he chased after you.

You screamed without meaning to. Yanked your wrist out of his reach when you’d made it to the bottom of the stairs and felt your husband close the distance in quick. You tried to be firm, insistent, primed with the kind of fine and unfuckwithable attitude that signaled you meant business. You didn’t, though—the series of giggles bubbling up in your chest said as much.

You descended the last step with a hitch, almost losing your shit within a foot of the landing, when Bucky scooped you up in his arms and held on tight. His lips were at your ear in a second, breaths coming in quick.

“Hell, I’ll give you one right here, honey,” he sneered before flipping you back around to face him.

He pressed you flush to the wrought iron railing, then over it, pushing you back bit-by-bit until you had no choice but to jump and latch your legs around his hips.

“James Buchanan Barnes, if you don’t—”

“Give you a baby right now?”

“—get off of me!” You were laughing now, squirming when he nipped at the space just below your ear.

One more second and he might’ve convinced you. Your Bucky was persuasive like that, too smug and self-assured for his own good but one hell of an advocate when he wanted to be. At length, he opened his mouth to take an even bigger, teasing bite, when a voice cut in,

“Barnes.”

He stopped. You froze. Together, you reluctantly turned your heads in the direction of the sound and found a keystone conference table situated at the far end of the room—seating a dozen-odd faces with identical, muted expressions of surprise. Mild discomfort, for some.

Wild discomfort for your mother and father, you saw.

Bucky set you down and simultaneously yanked the hem of your dress back into place. Flashed a smile for the ages and snaked an arm around your waist as he started to lead you over.

“Nat! Hi,” he tried, far too casual, “Long time no see.”

You bit the inside of your cheek hard and hoped like hell your husband had remembered to zip up his pants.

The woman at the head of the table—the source of the voice you’d heard—raised a brow. One cherry-red curl from her sleek, cropped bob threatened to fall out of place as she tilted her face to regard you both. The smile Bucky proffered had done nothing to repair her glare.

Some wordless exchange passed between the two of them, and next, you felt a hand directing you to a seat across the way—Steve. Smug as ever. Smirking just then.

The empty chair beside your mother. The horror.

You were dimly aware of some introductions being made on your behalf and a round of awkward, disjointed congratulations around the table. Greetings from Nat, Sam, Steve—conceited little shit—a few you knew as Bucky’s groomsmen, a couple members of the security detail, and several more friendly, unfamiliar faces, including a smartly dressed blond named Sharon. Your husband had taken a seat by the latter at the end of the table.

“Momma.” You weren’t sure why you felt the need to whisper when the attention had turned back to Natasha and other matters, but you did, “Where have you been?”

Your mother and father were perched in their chairs like prisoners. There were no shackles to be seen but an air of discomfiture and compulsion bound to their every feature. You couldn’t be sure if it was humiliation on your behalf—they had just witnessed their son-in-law promise to put a baby in you for all present to hear—or something more.

For once in your life, you hoped it was just the prudish, sex-averse tendencies of the two rendering them silent.

You tried your mother again when she hadn’t responded.

“Momma.”

“Now is not the time.”

Her voice was clipped. Abrasive.

You knew better than to test that tone another time. You sank back in your seat and let your gaze roam the table, flitting between your father and Bucky a few more times than it probably should have. Surely, your dad, who had screwed Bucky over to hell and back, obliterated your wedding, and jeopardized your lives for a few more million in his pocket would have warranted some sidelong, hateful look from your husband. A glance or a stare, certainly something to show that he knew, and hadn’t forgotten.

No—Bucky was occupied with Sharon at the moment.

You watched your father twist his signet ring on his pinky, jerking the gold back and forth as if hoping for it to break, or save him. He didn’t look at Bucky, either.

“Natasha Romanoff is the Barnes’ retained legal talent for all things maritime crime and narcotics trade-related. Some estate planning, too,” a voice rumbled beside you.

You made a low ‘Hm’ to feign understanding of whatever the fuck Steve had just said, and nodded.

Then, when your eyes wandered left again,

“Sharon Carter, criminal liaison and kingpin informant. Been in bed with the Barnes’ as long as I can remember.”

He really couldn’t have used a worse string of words if he had tried. You cocked your head just slightly and stared at the pair. You considered holding your tongue.

“And she’s been in bed with Bucky how often before?” You’d decided against self-restraint for the time being.

Steve blinked a little harder.

“What do y—”

“I’m not asking if, but when, they fucked,” you interrupted.

Steve blinked again, as if to clear a string of cobwebs from his eyes, and couldn’t quite find the words to answer your question. Either the truth or some half-baked crock of bullshit—there was no in between.

“Once,” he answered, at length. Honest.

You figured as much.

In any other situation where you were faced with one of Bucky’s former fuckbuddies, you probably would’ve felt more than a twinge of jealousy. Might’ve even cast a dark look in the girl’s direction and willed her not to even breathe the same air as him. Then you remembered you weren’t fourteen years old and could behave with some modicum of maturity when it came to some old flame of your husband. They weren’t even sitting that close.

You winced when Bucky gave her shoulder a playful squeeze, though. That facial tic you couldn’t control.

“So to recap,” Natasha announced, having just plodded through a few dull formalities up front, “Barnes got the intercom call from Schröder at 1500 hours, Friday.”

Every head nodded.

“Schröder gave Barnes exactly ninety-six hours to recover the $90 million lost in the…mishap, in Brooklyn—” Natasha’s eyes flickered to your father no longer than a second, “—and today is Monday. We have twenty-four hours to come up with the funds, or face the…penalties of Schröder’s exploding offer. Whatever those may be.”

You knew what ‘those’ were. Ms. Romanoff was either too kind or too diplomatic to say it, you reckoned, but the threat Joey Schröder had made to Bucky had been patently clear: procure the cash or your wife’s family dies.

That was why you’d been so surprised to see your mother and father seated at the table that morning—Schröder had further stipulated that there was to be no contact between you and your parents in the time it took to come up with the money. You’d been completely cut off, in the Alps, since the day of the attack, left to wonder without reprieve whether HYDRA’s bloodless henchmen had taken hostages of your parents, let them abscond to Brooklyn, or simply killed them both and sent the rest of you all on a wild goose chase to get hold of the money.

Now if they’d only had sex once, why was she looking at him like that?—The intruding thought couldn’t be helped when you peered over again—Surely the most platonic and professional working relationships didn’t call for looks like that.

Shut the fuck up. Shut the entire fuck up, please.

The lives of those closest to you were on the line and all you could think now was how well you compared to this random woman in giving Bucky head? Brain fucking rot.

You scrunched your nose and turned back to Natasha.

“…and up until this morning, Schröder’s whereabouts were unknown,” she continued, careful as she spoke.

It seemed that part had caught Bucky’s attention, too, because he was tilting his head away from Sharon and shifting his gaze to the woman at the head of the table.

“And now?” he cut in.

“I’m getting there, James.”

Sharon smiled a little at that, tracing her nail on the notepad in front of her. She muttered something to Bucky, who disregarded her remark entirely.

“Do we know where Schröder is?” he barked.

Across the table, Sam shifted in his seat. He glanced to Natasha, then Sharon.

“I believe we have modestly reliable intel—” he began, only to have his speech mowed over by an impatient, increasingly irate Bucky.

“No. No— we don’t do ‘modestly reliable’ for this, Sam. We either know where the fuck the guy is or we don’t.”

That last fragment seemed to hang in the air a couple seconds longer than needed, and a tense silence fell over the table. It took a new voice—one you hadn’t heard much at all yourself—to reignite the conversation.

“I know it,” Sharon said, “I know he’s in Madripoor.”

Madripoor? The make-believe safe haven for terrorists? You couldn’t tell if she was kidding at first. Then Bucky flitted a look to the side, and his expression was grave. Natasha’s, too. Maybe there was a Madripoor after all.

“Or he will be there, most likely, tomorrow night,” Steve interjected. The hands that had been folded neatly in front of him were now tapping a light and mindless beat on the table, “He’s got the Foxy Den rented out for a…thing.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Where else but a titty bar would Joey host his ‘things’?” he muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear.

So Madripoor was real, and it had strip clubs. Wonderful.

It seemed Natasha was keen to regain control of the conversation, because she presently broke in,

“Keep in mind that time is of the essence—a private flight from here to the Indonesian archipelago is sixteen hours minimum. We most likely can’t afford to fly private, b—”

“Since when the fuck can’t I afford to fly private?” Bucky spat.

You hated how short and plainly nasty he was being to all those around him. If you hadn’t known any better, you might’ve thought these folks were at fault somehow, but they weren’t. Your father, the real culprit, was sitting right under Bucky’s nose, and he wouldn’t even look in his general direction. Your husband flared his nostrils with a new surge of indignation, and Sharon patted his hand.

“She’s not talking finances, bub,” the blond started, “She’s saying your jet is on a no-fly list, we don’t have time to charter a new plane, and there’s a hefty fucking bounty on your head if you ever set foot in Madripoor. We need to get you on a commercial flight, undercover.”

“Fuck that.” Bucky’s response was reflexive. He rose fast.

If your parents could have appeared any more stiff and uncomfortable you might have mistaken them for two charming, thoroughly terrified wax figures. Your father continued to fiddle with his ring as he watched Bucky.

Natasha tensed as well. As soon as Bucky was up on his feet, pacing around at the end of the table, she was urging him to relax, Buck, this isn’t anything we haven’t done before—sit down, please. Bucky didn’t sit, and he most certainly didn’t relax, but he did kick a stool across the room.

“I am not going back to that shithole.”

The stool tumbled onto its side, one leg splintered in half. You made a mental note to look into some anger management classes. Your parents, along with most of the table, flinched at the crashing sound, while your husband stood, supremely agitated, and did not even regard the broken chair. He turned away from Natasha.

“Yeah, well, that ‘shithole’ is our only hope of getting Schröder behind bars and you out of custody, Bucky,” Natasha called as he started to pace away.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Bucky tilted his head to the side. He contemplated snagging a bottle of Macallan 25 off the bar cart by the window but decided against it.

“Have you been listening to a word of what I’ve said all weekend?” Natasha returned, almost as biting, “Turned on MSNBC or CNN or any other news outlet in the last forty-eighty hours?”

She dropped her own notepad on the table and scanned the area in search of something else. Sam and Steve took that as their opportunity to jump in.

“Bucky,” Sam started, calmly, “There were over a dozen foreign attachés and two heads of State at your wedding, half of whom are now being hospitalized for injuries they sustained in the attack.”

“So?” Bucky snapped.

His eyes were already trailing back to the cart.

“So you think the U.N. Security Council was just gonna let that slide?”

“Two-thirds of its members have been up in arms, practically chomping at the bit to get someone pinned for the fucking thing—that leaves you or Schröder on the chopping block,” Steve chimed in.

“So one more federal probe. What’s the big deal?” Bucky hardly realized he’d taken a tumbler in his hands.

Just as he’d turned to pour himself a drink, guided more by bare muscle memory than anything else, Natasha raised a manila folder—the item she’d been looking for. He’d filled his glass half full when the folder was flung his way like a frisbee. He narrowly saved himself a papercut—or ten—by ducking his head, almost spilling his drink.

“The fuck, Nat?!” he bellowed.

“Extradition, Bucky. Search warrants for your Brooklyn residence, all your money service businesses up the Eastern Seaboard, and a whole hell of a lot of other financial records that we do not need dredged up in this mess.” Natasha pointed to the folder on the floor, which had just spilled a litany of documents at his feet.

“Let them.” Bucky wasn’t fazed by the warrants, walking over them as he drank, “I’m not going to Madripoor."

This time, it was Sharon's turn to roll her eyes as she swiveled in her chair to face Bucky. She was turned from you now, but you could almost smell the smug, knowing look she raked over your husband as she uncrossed her legs and leaned back.

"We don't have time for this," she said, coolly, "If you have any hopes of getting the Counter-Terrorism Committee off your ass and Schröder in custody, you'll listen to Nat."

Bucky paused, weighing her words in his mind before meeting her gaze again. He brought his glass to his lips and drained it.

Then, perhaps feeling a bit emboldened by the idea that she was the only one to have shut Bucky up—to have made him listen, as it were—Sharon piped up again. You didn't need to see her face to know for certain there was a smirk etched across it,

"Don't look so glum, honey. We have no choice here."

It startled every last soul at that table, yourself included and Sharon especially, when the cup in Bucky's hand sailed across the room and shattered on the edge of a cabinet close by. Before the glass had so much as splintered and scattered half of its jagged shards along the floor, your husband was stalking, then stopping, then looming over Sharon with an implacably dour look. And a jaw set tight as you'd ever seen it.

"My choice," he seethed, so low the words almost came out in a murmur, "is to protect my wife. Whatever you, or Natasha, or anyone else has in mind comes second to that. Do you understand?"

Sharon nodded that she did.

A hushed silence fell over the room once more, only now its duration was greater, and the cause of it—your red-faced, fuming husband—had turned his back to the group and was retrieving from the bar cart another glass. Another drink. Natasha followed his path with a vigilant eye.

"Bucky," she said.

Bucky didn't answer. Filled his new glass to the brim.

"Bucky," Natasha tried with a little more volume and vigor.

Your husband lifted the cup to his mouth and started to guzzle, against every shrill and helpless plea from his liver, you guessed. You wanted to object, to take leave of your seat as quick as you could and knock the thing out of his hand before he could finish, but Natasha had you beat—not with any physical act but a word to slow him down: "Barnes."

Then, a few more to get him to stop entirely:

"Look. Over there."

She pointed to a slip of paper somewhere at the top of the shuffle.

Bucky shifted his gaze to the floor. You saw him lick both corners of his mouth, bathed in whiskey residuum and a light, nascent spatter of stubble. He looked almost menacing in spite of the grin that kicked up.

"What's this?" he murmured.

"The terms of Schröder's newest offer. The one he made this morning."

Bucky's second glass was discarded in an instant.

He dropped to his knees, seized the paper in his hands and pored over the bare, 11-point Times New Roman typeface like it was the single most precious set of words in the world to him. There were several mountains of text, and you sensed he couldn't begin to under the legal jargon with just one cursory look.

"What? What's'it mean?" Bucky wouldn't tear his gaze away, even as he shouted to Natasha.

Your own eyes probably should've been fixed on Bucky, or in your lap, or out the window, reflecting in silence on what the fuck could be going on and why it felt as though things were suddenly coming to a perilous head. Instead, you pivoted to Natasha. Her face was tilted to you.

Then she spoke to Bucky, still crouched on the floor a few feet away from her, but she kept her focus on you. She spoke carefully.

"Schröder won't take the money, Bucky."

"What?"

Bucky's gaze combed over the page, desperate to make sense of what was printed in front of him—"The hell's this all mean, Nat, tell me what it means and what he wants, for fuck's sake."—and he flipped the document. Read some more. His eyes flitted from line to line in a full-blown terror.

Then the eyes stopped in one spot.

Bucky stood.

Fisting the letter in one hand and making a wild, inarticulate gesture with the other, he probably could've seared a hole in Natasha's head with the force of his stare. She refused to meet it.

"This is a joke, isn't it?"

All of a sudden, your father leaned over your mother to you,

"We can make it work. We can keep you—"

"Hey. Don't talk to her. Don't fuckin' look at her. Is this—"

"—safe. We'll keep you safe, darling, I swear."

"—some kind of sick fucking joke?!"

You stared at your dad in disbelief. Bewilderment. Then you chanced a look at Bucky, who had all but gone blue in the face as he approached your father from the opposite end of the table, letter still crushed in his hand.

Your father averted his gaze.

He knew.

You saw him flick the gold signet on his pinky once more, and for reasons you didn't yet understand yourself, you couldn't look away from it, or him.

Surely this scared-shitless son of a bitch could speak to you now. He'd have to. There was no way he wouldn't when the problem was staring him right in the face and his son-in-law was practically apoplectic with rage in front of him.

Something clicked in Bucky's brain.

He knew.

Your husband’s breath caught with the full weight of the realization, and he blinked. He didn’t hesitate; he simply sidestepped Sam and Steve—who had stood as soon as they saw the look of understanding cross over his face—and he seized your father. You heard a scream, most likely from your mother, and you saw Bucky swing, but the act barely registered as real until his fist first cracked against your dad’s skull. Again. And again. And again.

Somewhere in the raucous din and sounds of punches, kicks, and muffled groans, a discharge of blood, and the dim recognition that some of the stuff was dousing you, too, you managed to make out several words, disjointed:

“—FUCKING KILL YOU—SOLD HER—SOLD HER?!”

Roleplay was fun—even vital for a marriage like yours.

‘Winter Soldier’ didn’t have quite the same ring as most pornographic tropes, it was true, but it was an alter-ego he’d been given from his earliest days as a made man. A caricature of himself that was to represent everything he did and was capable of doing in places like Madripoor.

You didn’t know that side. You didn’t like that side.

It was Bucky, and it wasn’t—pummeling your father’s face in the ground after learning that he had offered you up, again, in satisfaction of a debt. Sparing no feelings when he spoke to Natasha, Sam, Steve, Sharon, or anyone, making clear his wife’s safety was paramount.

Maybe you were meant to feel proud. Or flattered. Or safe. But oddly, the longer you’d stared at the bloodied, bruised fist he held above your father’s face and the half-deranged look of anger on his own, the more you began to wonder if the fury was for your protection, or simply a knee-jerk response to the thought of losing a possession. A mere object that he couldn’t bear to part ways with.

You had thought long and hard about where the Soldier stopped and Bucky began. No matter where you landed, you were far from comfortable with the conclusion.

Now, even as you stood two feet away from the man in an upper-level lounge of the Foxy Den, roughly half a day removed from the whirlwind turn of events that almost sent your father to hospital, you hardly knew what to say.

“Zip me up?”

The closest thing you’d had to conversation in hours. Bucky obliged.

You viewed your new dress in the mirror from the side and made a face. Pretended to examine the tight black number but were really just zeroing in on the sight of Bucky’s knuckles as he dragged the zip up your back. He hadn’t bothered to mend his hands, and you hadn’t thought to offer to bandage them up. You tried not to stare.

The hands paused at the top of your dress and froze.

Then crept back slowly, taking the zip along with it.

“Wanna—?”

“Bucky!”

One low groan, followed by a palm to his worn and wearied face. When you spun around, he didn’t move.

“Are you serious?” you bit.

“Will you talk to me now?” Bucky retorted.

To be fair, neither he nor his Winter Soldier persona knew how to solve the silent treatment from a pissed-off wife. This was brand new territory—being ignored for hours on end—and frankly, he had thought a playful request for sex might make you more amenable to conversation.

He had thought wrong.

You stared daggers at his handsome face and raised a finger as though to warn him, then stopped. Opened your mouth as if to speak, then appeared to decide against it. A steady, pulsing bass from the floors below was all that could be heard, and momentarily, you were reminded of why you were all here in the first place:

Locate Schröder. Corner Schröder. Capture Schröder. Bring the bad man to justice—or else just pump the motherfucker’s head full of lead and be done with it.

You weren’t too familiar with the particulars of the plan, but that had seemed to be the heart of it. Bucky never intended for you to stray from the safety of the lounge upstairs, where half of his team were casing the club through dozens of surveillance cameras, and he would likely take off with Sam and Steve the second you’d finished dressing. Now would be the time to talk.

And you planned to. Eventually.

For now, though, you’d let him sweat it out.

You had long envied women with effortless sex appeal and charisma. The kind that seemed to be made for the stage, capable of transfixing any audience, or individual, with little more than their aura alone. You’d never felt a fraction of that allure emanate from yourself before, personally, but looking at Bucky now brought you as close as you’d ever been. He was enthralled by your every move, he was intrigued at all times, you could see.

He was visibly aroused before you had even touched him. You knew it was cruel and unkind before you were even fully conscious of what you were doing, but you did it.

Someone had to teach this man how to control his anger—and his urges—somehow. Who better than you?

You drew closer to Bucky until your fronts almost touched.

“Baby,” you murmured. Simple, nearly plaintive.

Bucky blanched. Could it be? Had his bullshit gambit actually paid off and made you want to talk, or possibly do more? His hands immediately went for your hips, but you were quick to shove them off. You poked one finger to his chest and shook your head.

“We can talk,” you said, measured.

You pressed into his sternum and pretended not to see a short-lived look of defeat, followed by confusion, cross Bucky’s features. He let you walk him back a step or two.

“Okay. What about?”

Where the hell could you even begin?

“Sit first,” you urged him.

It was then that he realized you’d been walking him toward the plush sectional couch behind him—a cozy little touch to the VIP room only marginally diminished by the fact that it was coated in liquor, coke, and glitter. Bucky sat down anyway.

You didn’t follow, choosing instead to stand as you appeared to…scratch something on your back? Your husband looked on in muted curiosity as you reached behind yourself and tilted your torso just slightly.

Then he heard a zip. A hitch. Another, longer drag.

Bucky knew he was fucked before you ever slipped the dress off your body. You were to make quick work of it, eyes never leaving the man in front of you as you peeled the fabric down your legs and off of your frame entirely. When you were down to just your underwear, you hadn’t even needed to see his face to know exactly where his gaze was likely to land—this part was new to him. You kicked the dress aside and let him stare.

To be fair, it wasn’t every day he got to see a Ruger LC9 strapped to your thigh. Hidden in plain sight now that you were stripped bare before him in just your bra, panties, and garter-like holster across the top of your leg.

“Where’d you get that?” Bucky nearly choked, eyes wide.

“TJ Maxx,” you huffed, “Where the fuck do you think?”

“I never said you could— And Sam and Steve—”

Bucky paused, suddenly aware of how indignant and stupid he was starting to sound. He had given orders to the rest of his team not to let you carry a gun under any circumstances, but here you were. If he weren’t so violently aroused by the sight of you wearing the thing, he probably would’ve been fuming.

“A couple guys from your security detail were kind enough to make an exception,” you smiled, words verging on smug, “And who’s to say what I ‘can’ and ‘can’t’ do, hm?”

Bucky looked as though he were priming himself to stand when you lifted one stiletto to rest between his legs on the seat. A silent and quasi-sweet threat in one gesture.

“I didn’t say you can’t— well—” Bucky faltered at the last.

“You just said you never gave me permission!” You threw your hands up in exasperation, “That doesn’t sound very equitable to me, James.”

Bucky let out a frustrated sigh of his own.

“C’mon. You know what I mean, honey…I just…want to keep you safe. You know that.”

“Self-defense is a pretty integral part of safety.”

“No one’s ever taught you to shoot!”

“You never bothered to ask!”

This was getting a little too aggressive and Jerry Springer-eqsue for your liking. Not nearly sexy or seductive enough to be heading in the direction you wanted. Bucky always brought the bickering out of you, but you had to stay strong. Slow and steady and all that bullshit.

So, before he could respond to your last remark, you lowered yourself over him. Brought both legs to bracket his hips and hovered carefully in place above the bulge in his tactical pants. When he swallowed beneath you and raked his gaze over your body, you felt a twinge of relief.

You sank further down. Dragged your lower half over his own and earned a groan from deep within his throat. Again, his hands flew to your waist to get a good grip, but you pried them off before they could ever fully sink into the flesh.

“What?” Impatience palpable in Bucky’s tone.

“No,” you answered simply.

“No?”

“No, you don’t get to touch me. You don’t own me.”

Your husband shifted under your body, hands helpless at his sides and masseter muscle visibly clenching beneath the skin as he gritted his teeth. He shook his head.

“I never said that I did,” he managed, after a pause, “Baby, I love you.”

“And beating the shit out of my dad was your special way of showing that?”

“That wasn’t—”

“Or snapping at Natasha. And Sam. Steve. Sharon,” you added emphasis to the last name without really meaning to, and Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. I…lost my temper, I—”

“Couldn’t control your anger. Or wouldn’t. All because my dad made some stupid deal with a man and offered me up as collateral.”

“Because Joey wants you for himself!” Bucky snapped, voice suddenly raised to a near-deafening pitch. He shifted his hips and inadvertently grazed the heat between your legs, drawing a subtle pinch in his brow at the friction, “The deal your dad made was to give you over to Schröder in satisfaction of his own fucking debt—you think I was just gonna sit by and let that happen?!”

In spite of the animosity, you pressed your body to his even harder and watched him fold—if only slightly. He breathed a sharp inhale through his nose and flexed both his hands, as if wanting to make fists. However, he knew better than to move himself around at a time like this.

“What? Like the deal you made with him?”

Your words were clipped, almost cruel. You knew it would hit a nerve in Bucky, and sure enough, he met you right where you wanted him: enraged.

“That’s fucking different,” he seethed, “I would’ve paid your father’s debt without— without anything in it for me.”

“But you didn’t, and you got me.”

“And I love you. I don’t wanna lose you.”

The abrupt vulnerability in his voice was all but agony to hear. For a second, it seemed the anger had fled—or at least been eclipsed by some softer, sweeter shade—only for Bucky to blink again, shake his head, and wear that stupid, hardened look that said, ‘I am not losing this.’ Your hands reached for his belt and started in on the zip.

“You have a real fucked up way of showing love, James.”

To your surprise, Bucky let you continue, unhindered. Blue eyes meeting yours in a cold look.

“Makes two of us,” he mumbled, shrugging his boxers and trousers out of the way anyway.

That was probably true. No person in their right mind would think fucking their husband was the safest, most surefire way to let him know they were pissed at him, but both you and Bucky were working on communication skills, still. You’d get to healthy, non-sex-fueled fights at some point.

As it was, Bucky was fumbling around your thighs, trying to pry them open even wider for better access through your panties. That you allowed, but the second he tried manhandling you over his crotch, you pushed back.

“I wanna do this— without your help,” you said, firm.

Somewhat begrudgingly, Bucky agreed. He let you line yourself up with his length, brace your weight against his shoulders, and when you paused, he made a soft, ‘Hm?’ and glanced down where you looked. Before you could remove the pistol from its holster, he set his palm atop the cool metal.

“Leave it,” he murmured.

His eyes flashed with desire. It was almost more than you could bear, despite the plain fact that riding someone with a firearm strapped to your thigh probably violated every NRA gun safety rule known to man. Whatever.

You lowered yourself onto Bucky, slow, and sucked in a quick breath as he filled you. Your husband groaned.

“Fuck,” followed shortly thereafter, almost timid to crawl out of his mouth as you sank to a fully-seated position on top of him. He gripped the armrest beside him.

When your hips first stirred, you thought the man might burst a blood vessel trying not to move right along with you. You pressed a hand to his chest and reminded him, gently but with purpose: let me fucking do this, Bucky, and he relented. Fisting the couch cushion in something close to a death grip, he nodded his head and heaved a short breath and watched you all the while, grinding on him.

“My pretty…pretty girl,” he managed through his teeth.

He was doing better than you expected. You watched his face contort with pleasure when you lifted yourself up to the tip of his cock and slide back down. You squeezed his shoulders, and you let out a low whimper yourself, and dammit all, you felt that pesky fucking knot already forming in the pit of your stomach. You glanced down and frowned, wanting this to last so much longer.

Fortunately, when your eyes found Bucky’s again, you got the sense that he was in the same boat as you: brow furrowed tight in concentration and lips parted slightly, panting in time with each one of your movements.

“Baby,” he said, the single word treading close to a plea. He paused, dropped a glance to the spot where your bodies were coupled, and swallowed. He cursed aloud, then continued, quietly, “Baby…’m’sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” You bounced a bit faster.

“For— fuckin’ hell, honey— for being a…dick.” The last part of his sentence was pierced by a grunt and a moan, but you heard it just the same.

You clenched around him and tried to keep steady. Manage a small, shit-eating grin above him, even.

“Being a dick?” you repeated, pretending not to know what he meant. When his cock grazed over a particularly sensitive place inside you, you just swallowed the moan and kept going, fingers taking hold of some short tufts of hair at the back of Bucky’s head as you rode him.

“Possessive. Controlling. Kind of a—” Bucky paused to grunt when he bottomed out inside, hands aching to hold you, “—piece of shit.”

Finally, you were getting somewhere. Not nearly close enough to cure the rage or the dark, grating impulses churning inside of him, but good enough, for now.

You reached for his hands and set them over your hips.

The next most natural thing was to lean down and kiss him—let his tongue invade your mouth as soon as he’d caught your lips and show you, with a wordless and fast-moving show of affection, that he missed you. And meant what he’d said. With his hands moving quick to cup your cheeks, hold you to him while he kissed you and stroked deep inside your walls, he gripped you tighter than he had in a while. You could feel strips of tension and desperation bleed through his every fingertip.

“Wanna…fuckin’ kill anyone who even thinks…of— fuck,” Bucky’s words were almost slurred at this point, so close to the point of release it seemed every wild and wanton thought that crossed his mind was likely to dance off his tongue, unchecked. You loved to see him in it this deep.

You also had to remind the murderous alter ego that violence was not the answer…always. You let him pull you closer, bodies pressed flush against each other while you fucked, but you made sure to tilt his chin up to yours so he could see the expression on your face as you spoke.

“Hey,” you pinned him with one stern look, “No murder.”

Bucky frowned.

“Yes murder,” he retorted.

You sighed.

This shit was worse than teaching a dog not to bite.

Instead of pulling back or being strict this time, though, you decided you’d give positive reinforcement a try. You squeezed his short locks of hair, gently, and rolled your hips even tighter to his, eliciting a stuttered groan. You bounced up and down on his cock, pulled him into your chest, and brought your face within an inch of his.

“Promise to be good, and I’ll let you cum inside me,” you murmured into his lips. Not the wisest offer you’d made to date, but one that Bucky seemed to want more than the air in his lungs the second the words escaped you. He pulled you in for a kiss, immediately.

“Fuck, you mean it?” he breathed, in between each sloppy, frenzied movement of his mouth.

“Yeah,” you tried not to grin at how eager he seemed, “You’re gonna apologize to everyone, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

Bucky barely seemed to register anyone or anything but you and your pussy at the moment, yearning for the go-ahead to let himself free inside you. With a nod of your head, you’d let him start meeting your motions with gentle thrusts of his own, and both of you were teetering precariously close to the edge with that added pressure. In spite of both your hot and heady, near-anoetic states, you endeavored to hold out a little longer, legs aching.

“Gonna try and talk to Schröder first?” you panted.

Bucky rutted into you hard, lips twitching into a frown.

“Doesn’t…deserve it,” he grunted, barely able to get the words out as he grabbed your hips and thrusted harder, “A fucking bullet between the eyes is what he needs.”

You eyed him soberly, or as serious as you could manage with the force of his strokes nearly sending you into a spiral. You fought back a moan and gripped him tighter.

“Bucky.”

“Bunny.”

Damn, that name.

“Promise me you won’t kill him—or anyone—tonight.”

“Baby—”

“Promise.”

His thrusts were getting sloppier; with his hands hoisting you just above him and his cock practically drilling into you now, speech and coherent thought were some of the toughest things to accomplish, but he tried it, anyway. Bucky would swallow his pride and accede to his wife, no matter how fucking badly he wanted to cum—and kill that Russian mob boss with both his bare, bloody hands.

He could be better than the Winter Soldier. He would.

With a rough, labored breath, Bucky pulled you in for a kiss and felt you squeeze around his cock like a vice. Still thrusting, clutching you, kissing you hard, he saw both of your releases coming in fast and had to act even quicker.

“I— I promise,” he stammered.

That was all either of you needed, or could bear, quite frankly. In the next second or two, you felt a cord snap in your lower half and a deep, punchy flurry of pleasure follow shortly thereafter, fingers sinking deep in Bucky’s shoulders as he bounced you on his cock and held you close. With your walls still pulsing around him, you felt him chase his own high at a breakneck pace, shooting his load inside you a moment later. It was bad, it was brash, it was a really fucking dumb idea to be playing around with the odds of making babies at a time like this, but it also felt good. Exhilarating, even, feeling him empty his balls in that space between your wet, aching walls and filling you up with his seed.

Maybe just one little mini-Bucky wouldn’t—

STOP.

You barely had the energy to acknowledge, much less arbitrate that bone-crushing conflict between your brain and reproductive organs, so you shut the thoughts up with a quick, messy kiss to Bucky, whose chest was still heaving from the peak of his release, holding you to him.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Maybe even two—

FUCK YOU.

The internal war wouldn’t go away that easy, it seemed.

You kissed Bucky long and hard regardless, hoping the shit would sort itself out before you really had to think. Or worry. Or plan. It was dumb and a bit short-sighted, but feeling that hot, erratic pulse between your legs did a pretty good job of making it seem just fine for right now.

Bucky’s expression was lax. Soaking in the feel of your cum-painted insides still squeezing around him, gently. Had he been anywhere but the heart of Low Town on a covert mission in a strip club, hunting down the head of HYDRA with a whole troupe of trained assassins, he probably would’ve liked to stay that way a little longer. But, as it was, he could already hear folks filing in and out of the lounge, footfalls growing heavier as his team loaded up with guns, grenades, and whatever other weapons they could fit beneath their formal attire.

“Don’t look so sad,” you said as you lifted off of Bucky. Carefully pulling your panties back into place as your husband watched you do it, practically forlorn.

“Too late,” he returned in half a groan, yanking his own clothes where they needed to be and trailing a look up your legs, “Might feel better if we tried it again, though.”

“I bet.” You pulled your dress over your head.

Your husband had just tightened his belt and was rolling his shoulders to get a knot out of his neck, it seemed.

“What are your thoughts on ‘Bucky Jr.’?” he asked casually.

“Don’t start with this shit.”

“Jamie for a girl, maybe?”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your baby talk and death threat tête-à-tête continued for quite some time—just a couple minutes, but they felt like years to you—and before long, you were rubbing the gun under your dress and casting a glare in Bucky’s direction, and he got the sense that it was time to head back to the group. He looped an arm around your waist and led you out into the main space.

The living room was little more than a makeshift headquarters at that point. You’d been expecting to see more faces, but the only ones you found were Sam, Natasha, and a few silent, beefy individuals you assumed were part of security. Where Sharon and your parents had gotten off to was anyone’s guess. You took a seat on the couch.

“Anything yet?” Bucky questioned, approaching the panel of surveillance screens with a wary eye.

“We’ve had intermittent visuals on the second floor for forty minutes or so—” Sam motioned to one screen on the left, “—but Schröder hasn’t moved. Hasn’t done anything but bullshit and booze and buy rounds for his group. Won’t even talk to the dancers, which is weird.”

From what you’d been told, the goal was to get Schröder off the second floor, up to one particular private suite on fourth, then send in an agent dressed as a bottle girl to make entry as soon as the rest of the party had arrived, keeping in contact with HQ, and Sam, via PTT earpiece all the while. The details from that point were hazy, but you’d gotten the sense that someone—or, more likely, a sizable and duly-equipped group of someones—was lying in wait somewhere in the suites surrounding them. Steve had been tasked with leading the incursion, though where he could be found, or whom he was with, remained largely a mystery to you. Recon in a bustling, crowded area with music blaring on all four sides was a formidable undertaking, and you could tell both Sam and Natasha had been having trouble keeping tabs on every player. They seemed on edge, monitoring the screens.

“Won’t talk to the dancers?” Bucky’s brow pinched in.

“Won’t talk to anyone outside of his inner circle,” Natasha said, grim, “Which leads me to think he’s not staying here long. Probably called his associates in for a speedy-quick deal because he knows he’s being tailed.”

“Hasn’t engaged with any of our undercovers?” Bucky pressed.

Natasha and Sam shook their heads. Your husband groaned.

“Then how the hell are we getting him upstairs to the champagne room? If he hasn’t budged and doesn’t look like he’s planning to stay?”

The looks on the faces in front of him said there wasn’t one readily available answer—or any answer at all. Bucky turned back to the screens and seemed to survey the whole panel, gaze cooling with the first inkling that this operation may be classed a failure in the very near future.

He barked some half-coherent babble about strategy, security, and failsafes, then barked for Steve.

And, as if on cue, Steve appeared at the threshold of the room a moment later, breathless and slightly flushed.

“Rogers, you’re suppos—” Sam started, eyes widening at something you couldn’t quite discern from his arrival.

“I know, I know,” Steve cut in, fast, “Want the good news or bad news fir—”

“Just spit it out,” Natasha said, preemptively unnerved.

“Schröder’s headed to the suite right now—”

Bucky raised both eyebrows at Steve as he continued.

“—but they won’t let Wanda in.”

‘Fuck’ was the first audible word from your husband, then Sam, in short order. Wanda must have been the agent playing bottle girl upstairs. This didn’t sound good.

“Why the fuck won’t they let her in?” Bucky snapped.

“Someone might’ve tipped his security off. Or else they’re just being extra cautious about who’s let in.”

Steve fiddled with one cufflink on his suit and tried not to appear too despondent, but the implications of this single event were huge, you could read on every face in the room. Wanda had been meant to do something important before the rest of the brigade mobilized—take some key step that couldn’t be omitted from the plan.

“So we retreat.” Natasha was not one to mince her words, per usual, “Get your guys out of the suites now.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched at his sides.

“No,” he said, sharply, “We’re not doing that.”

“Bucky.”

“We’ll get someone in there. We’ll find another way.”

Your husband was already pacing the space in front of you, and you looked on with uncertain eyes. You chanced a look to Natasha, Sam, and Steve, all of whom shared similar, albeit slightly more wearied, expressions as they watched and murmured among themselves.

“None of our people are getting up there, Barnes. Schröder’s got a goddamn sixth sense about our agents or something,” Steve said, at length.

“They’re all in masks—for a fucking masquerade—and we can’t get one person in?! In-and-out, that’s all it needs to be,” Bucky growled.

“We can’t get in there, that’s the point,” Sam sighed, “Masks or no masks, they know our people too well and won’t let us through.”

“We can at least try, for Christ’s sake. That’s what we came this whole fuckin’ way to do, right?”

When no one said a word in response, Bucky scowled,

“Right?”

There was a lull in the conversation that seemed to last for minutes, when, in reality, couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen seconds. Tensions were high. You could tell from the look in Bucky’s eye he was trying not to lash out as he normally would, but in no time at all, you saw a fractional break in his resolve. You feared he might fly off the handle, or else compromise something that couldn’t be spared at a time like this. You swallowed.

“I’ll go.”

It was stupid.

Every face turned to regard you as if you were stupid, you assumed as soon as the words had left your mouth.

But then, much to your surprise, Steve was perking up, eyes suddenly brighter as his gaze tilted to you.

“She could,” he said, shortly.

“Should she?” Sam seemed to murmur at once.

“Sure, why not?”

“I can think of plenty reasons why not,” Natasha was quick to counter, but beneath that pensive expression, you could’ve sworn you saw the smallest degree of contemplation. Even hope, from the looks of it.

‘NO’ was Bucky’s wordless, immediate, and resounding answer as he kicked whatever furniture—a footstool, this time—was closest to him and sent it flying toward the door. It seemed that self-control of his had worn off fast.

“No,” he affirmed in a word a second later, jaw clenched, “She is going nowhere near that suite.”

He didn’t even spare you a glance while he spoke. He was too busy eyeing the others, Steve specifically, as his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths and a light, blooming tinge of pink rose the length of his neck. If it weren’t for that staunch and menacing look on his face, he would’ve almost looked cute, you mused to yourself.

But, pretty man be damned, you wouldn’t stand for being ignored. Fuck that noise.

“I will,” you returned, a little more resolute this time.

Now Bucky had no choice but to pivot to you. His expression softened some, but not by much.

“No,” he said, again.

“Yes.”

“Baby—”

“Don’t fucking ‘baby’ me, Barnes. You said someone who wasn’t an agent could make it up there, and I can do it. Or try, at least, like you just said.”

If your attention hadn’t been fixed on your husband, you probably would’ve caught sight of more than one thinly veiled smile from the group around you. Natasha, in particular, all but tickled to see someone stand up to Bucky and give him a taste of his own shit—and live to tell the tale. The sight of her boss’s eyes almost glossy in the first tender look she’d seen from him in years was almost too much to bear. Steve stood grinning beside her, and Sam narrowly stifled an exhale of amusement. Neither you nor Bucky flinched from your positions.

“We can’t risk you being around him. They’re already all on high-alert,” your husband said after a calming breath.

“As are all your trigger-happy comrades waiting just ten feet outside the door, right?” you replied, “What is it, like, five, ten of them in total?”

“Twenty,” Steve interjected. Bucky shot him a look.

“I don’t care. I don’t want you up there when that fucker was just trying to— to kidnap you last week. I’m not—”

“Right. Right. Trying to kidnap me, not kill me. If Schröder wanted me dead, he would’ve made pretty quick work of that before,” you cut in, tone a touch more deliberate, “Even if he sniffs me out, he’s not gonna screw this whole deal by hurting me now.”

But the mere suggestion of harm to you had seemed to raise every hair on its end for Bucky, and then he was shaking his head, evidently more stubborn than ever.

“No, fuck. Don’t start,” he snapped with his newfound indignation, then, quieter, “Please…don’t, honey.”

You wouldn’t bow that easily.

“Why not?”

Truly, Bucky couldn’t be certain if it was the lilt in your voice, the pinch at the sides of your lips, or simply the sincerity consuming your eyes as you spoke to him, but the man could not stomach the thought of you, his own wife, being a stone’s throw from mortal danger and beyond his protection—or control, he wasn’t sure which one of the two was more dominating. Some cruel and unforgiving knot inside him came to tighten, and twist, and, nauseating as it was set on escape, the white-hot surge rose like bile in his throat. Before he could stop it, the words were spilling out through his teeth like froth:

“Cause I fuckin’ said so, that’s why. That’s it. It’s settled. You’re not allowed anywhere near him, you hear me?”

What Bucky hadn’t expected was the swift ascent back to your feet. The cool and almost careless expression as you rose, as though his words hadn’t registered at all.

He certainly hadn’t expected you to check him with your shoulder as you passed, knocking him slightly off-balance as he turned, in shock, and watched you give him one manicured middle finger over your left shoulder.

“Rogers, I’d like you to escort me upstairs.”

Worst of all, Bucky hadn’t expected Steve to listen.

Fortunately for him, the night was still young and with it, more than ample opportunity to be proven wrong again. And again.

“And again,” Steve murmured low in your ear as you walked side-by-side down the corridor on fourth floor, “If you get even the slightest bad feeling, you leave.”

“Might as well dip right now,” you muttered, adjusting your mask. Your attempt at humor fell flat with the man.

“I’m serious. We’ll be right outside and listening in from headquarters, but HYDRA is not a faction to fuck around with, or underestimate—as I assume you know by now.”

You did. Or would, eventually.

After the mask, you were busy trying to yank the back of your cocktail waitress dress to cover the full swell of your ass, not just the upper two-thirds. Unsurprisingly, it was a tougher task than you had been prepared to handle. Your new heels were tight and impossibly high, your new dress a mere scrap of pink fabric riddled with sequins and glitter, and your mask—holy fuck, were you glad Mardi Gras was not a year-round affair. Bucky had insisted on the fluffiest, stuffiest, full-face covering to ensure that no one would be able to recognize you, but in exchange for your anonymity, you had had to give up breathing, it seemed.

And then there was that vial of poison between your tits.

Sam had assured you that it was a nonlethal dose before handing it over; Steve had urged you, discreetly, to pour Schröder two for good measure. Natasha had overheard the latter and threatened legal action if he ever tried killing a target without her permission. You hadn’t spent much longer getting ready in the bathroom after that. Then you’d brushed past your husband the second you’d stepped out and strapped that last, semi-lethal ‘accessory’ to your bra before taking the lift upstairs.

As it turned out, you weren’t able to escape him entirely.

While you walked with Steve, Bucky was in your ear.

Literally—the man was talking nonstop through your earpiece and clearly had no intention of shutting the fuck up anytime soon. You silently wondered if there was a way to adjust the volume on the gadget as you ambled along.

“Honey.” There was a slightly more mechanical buzz to Bucky’s voice over your private line. You ignored it.

“So just find the cup he’s drinking from and pour the serum in?” you reiterated to Steve for the third time in the last ten minutes.

Your companion nodded, rattling off a few extra precautions while Bucky’s tone rang out a bit louder:

“Honey? You there?”

At last, you stuck your finger to the tiny flesh-colored device in your ear and snapped, “What?!”

“I love you.”

This fucker.

“I love you too. You’re still high on my shit list, though,” you answered, low and begrudgingly.

“Did I hear ‘hit list’? You’re gonna let me tap that later?”

If you didn’t have about fifteen different reasons to hate the man’s guts, you almost would’ve chuckled. At length, you muttered a quiet, ‘Kiss my ass, Barnes,’ and turned back to Steve, who was just then leading you closer to a room roped off and marked ‘EXECUTIVE SUITE.’ Your stomach did a flip as you paused around the corner.

“Right there. All you gotta do is knock and say a guy named Zemo sent you,” Steve spoke slowly, as if he were teaching arts and crafts to a five-year-old and not a woman about to embark on a high-risk sedation mission.

You nodded and took the silver tray from him carefully.

All the platter contained was an oversized bottle of Brut and a silver bucket, but damn if it didn’t feel like you were carrying the world and some change on that thing. You shifted your weight from foot to foot and turned in the direction of the door just a few yards away.

The time for painstakingly descriptive instructions and pep talks was long past you now. You nodded to Steve one last time and started to wobble over.

The entryway was flanked by two muscle-bound men. You approached with a smile.

“Hi. Zemo sent me.”

You didn’t know who the fuck Zemo was.

You hoped they wouldn’t ask, or notice how stilted and awkward you’d sounded just then. You swallowed a peach-sized lump in your throat and smiled again.

The one on the left grunted. The one on the right gave a nod. Without a word spoken between them, the former opened the door and made way for you to step over the threshold. You couldn’t help but notice both with their eyes trained straight on your tits as you passed by.

There was no way that had just worked. No pat-downs or harrowing threats? Not a single, searing interrogation into your identity or what you might be there to do?

Men were dumb, you decided, far too easily deceived by a decent pair of tits—HYDRA security personnel or not.

But you already knew that. You stepped inside.

The fetid stench of half a dozen blazing cigars and booze spilled on every surface were the first to greet you. A wave of smoke, then a bone-jostling bum bum bum to the beat of what sounded like a Don Toliver song came next. You almost couldn’t bear to make your feet move.

But then, shortly, you had to because a shrill, shimmer-doused beauty was waving you over toward the kitchen.

“Ba-by!” she shrieked, gesture growing frantic, “Bring it over!”

You walked with the tray out in front of you, careful with your steps across the sticky floor. When you made it over, where one other girl was stirring wildly at some concoction on the counter, you stopped, and had only to stand for a second longer, because the redhead that had beckoned you was taking the tray, setting it down, and grabbing something thin and pointy. You’d barely even registered it as an ice pick until the thing was thrust in your face.

“Crush it up,” she ordered, one curt nod toward a block of ice nearby. Evidently not giving a shit who you were or where you’d come from either. You guessed Wanda had just gotten unlucky, or they’d all stopped giving a fuck once Schröder’s men had really started drinking.

And drinking they had been, as your eyes surveyed the scene. Half-naked women with fully-clothed men, dressed head to toe in the finest of suits that were probably soaked through to the bone with sweat and Stolichnaya. You almost shivered at the sight of all the masked, wildly gyrating pricks, fumbling desperately through one verse of ‘After Party.’ You could vomit.

But where was your prick? That grimy little shit, Joey.

“Back of the room by the couch,” Bucky said, as if he’d read your mind.

Then a beat.

“Wait. Shit. That isn’t him. Schröder’s over by the door.”

How many tall, lanky blonds could there be in this place? You cast a sweeping look across the room and received your answer in less than two shakes of a lamb’s tail—there were a shit ton of Joey lookalikes all around.

“Careful. Mr. Schröder’s been on edge all night. Might bite your head off if you stare too long.”

The girl that was stirring had apparently caught you looking. She set the spoon aside and turned, but not before chancing a quick glance at the man Bucky had identified to you as your target. The man lifted his gaze.

You chipped away at the ice even faster.

Crush the shit, make a drink, pour the serum, and get it in him. Now. Don’t draw his attention just yet, though.

Something in your head told you to steal another look. You knew it was a bad idea, but you went on and did it anyway—and fortunately, felt a wave of relief at seeing that he’d retreated somewhere back with his friends. The ice pick in your hands made it through the last block.

“I’ll serve the shots, you bring the bottle to Mr. Pierce.”

Mr. Who?

“One of Schröder’s associates. Roll with it.”

It was Natasha’s voice now. Measured, but tense.

“He’s the older gentlemen straight ahead. He probably ordered the champagne for him and the others.”

That was Sam. You could only imagine how all of them looked huddled around the surveillance panel with the transmitter to your earpiece being passed about from person to person. The grip Bucky must’ve had on his gun, or his switchblade, or whatever weapon he could seize to make himself feel a little less helpless. But he was—as were you. And truthfully, there was nothing either one of you could do about that until Schröder was in custody. This was the first step toward reaching that goal.

So you walked with the bottle, now bathed in a tub of ice. You tried to keep steady, but the staggering drunks all around were making that tough, to say the least.

When one man struck you straight in the chest, elbows jutting out as he danced, you stumbled back a step. Nearly lost the tray for half a second, then recovered.

Until the dipshit hit you again.

This time you truly almost sent the bottle sailing for the floor, grip slipping on the tray and knees buckling underneath you as the force of the blow set you back. You bit a quick, ‘Fuck!’ in the air, seized the platter twice as hard and braced your weight against something firm behind you. A shelf, a TV stand, or something. Maybe a half-wall if you were lucky enough not to have careened against some expensive piece of furniture. You sighed.

“Everything alright?” a voice rumbled behind you.

Or a person. Yeah, a person would be pretty fucking bad to bump into at a time like this. Your whole body froze.

You turned.

“Ye-es sir. Yes, sir.” You quickly righted your tone the second you realized it was someone important.

Not Schröder, but someone who seemed to be big-name enough; you just weren’t sure who. The man smiled down at you from under his Venetian mask.

“Is this for me?” he nodded toward the tray, half-teasing.

You swallowed.

“Are you Mr. Pierce?” you asked.

The man’s grin stretched even wider.

“Nope, I’m Ward. but I can take you to Pierce.”

For the first time that night, your heart swelled with some promise. You thanked him quietly, gratefully, then made as if to follow him back through the crowd, when all of a sudden, you stopped. That heartfelt swelling in your chest halted right along with it. You almost dropped the tray.

“Schröder!” Ward bellowed.

No, no, now you were actually going to lose your shit. There was no way in hell you were keeping a grip on this silver little plate any longer without crying or screaming or shitting your pretty, pink, sequin minidress right there. You almost shrieked when a hand reached for the tray.

“Pierce got you doing all the heavy lifting, huh, honey? The bastard.” Even through his own ornate mask, you could tell Joey was grinning—glinting with conceit, as was his prerogative. He took the load off your hands.

“Take it easy now, he’s just—”

“Staring at your rack. Pull your top up, baby, please.”

The chatter in your ear had switched from Sam to Bucky at nearly lightning speed. You glanced down at your cleavage and tugged the fabric up quick, heart beating even faster underneath it.

In front of you, Joey Schröder was all teeth. A gruesome spectacle in spite of its seemingly benevolent intentions, one smile could have turned your stomach sideways. And it did—you wanted to throw up again—but you knew you had bigger fish to fry, and evil mobsters to poison. You didn’t flinch when Schröder nudged you in the shoulder and made his way ahead, coaxing you to follow.

You didn’t tense and didn’t protest. Didn’t blink when he led you straight through the party, around a few topless performers on poles, and into a backroom lounge.

In fact, your mind practically sang as he led you inside.

It was just every other nerve, muscle, and trembling tendon not under the immediate control of your brain that needed soothing. You could’ve sworn the men on the couches would see your legs shaking as soon as you trudged into the room and sniff you out on sight.

But if they had, they didn’t show it.

No one moved when you entered, save for a few lopsided grins and tilts of happy, masked faces. Sizing you up. Drinking you in. Far too easily mistakable for a band of apex predators that had just caught wind of their next meal, and not a room full of sleazy Russian mobsters. You bit back your grating disgust with a smile.

“Got a present for ya, Pierce,” Schröder announced.

A honey-blond head flecked with silver and white sat up from the sofa. Presumably the one who’d ordered the champagne.

“Oh yeah? What’d ya pay for her?” he returned, mouth curling up in a wicked smile.

Even above the booming music, you could make out peals of laughter as the men around you shared in some lewd, crude comments and several whispers exchanged between them. You would’ve liked to grab your bottle by the neck and break it over the nearest patron’s head, but then you remembered yourself, and your mission. You stilled beside Schröder and let them crack a few more tasteless jokes at your expense. Schröder chuckled and set the tray down in front of a thoroughly amused Pierce.

Then he grabbed you by the waist.

“Right. I forgot to ask—what is your price, sweetheart?” he said, swiftly pulling you up to his front.

Your hands flew to his chest reflexively. Your nose scrunched in a wince at the sound of an electric shout:

“GET HIM OFF OF HER!”

“Bucky, hey, hey, we can’t just—”

“NO! THAT’S NOT PART OF THE FUCKING PL—”

The line went silent. You scratched at the space behind your ear, trying hard not to betray any pain on your face, or the fear for what might be going on downstairs.

Clearly, you failed on both fronts, because Joey’s grip only tightened. He peered down at you, curious.

“You deaf or somethin’, sugar? What’s your price?”

You batted your eyes, momentarily struggling for words.

But then, somehow, you managed to choke out, stomach churning with bile:

“Whatever you want, sir.”

You felt your soul drain out through the soles of your shoes as you’d said it. Something fell from your face—most likely a light behind your eyes and any semblance of self-worth as you stood before the man who had tried to buy you, drug you, and kill half your family, and then pretend like you wanted to dance for him, or do more.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t right by any means, but it was all just roleplay.

Roleplay.

You had to keep telling yourself that as you let Schröder’s hand glide up your spine and grip the back of your neck, tilting your head up to his. It was just like your husband and his cold-blooded Winter Soldier persona, you tried to convince the increasingly frightened voice in your mind. Just like him, just like your sweet and soft and sadistic—

“Bucky,” you whispered unconsciously.

You knew he couldn’t hear you now. It was almost insane to think anyone could save you now but yourself.

“What?” Joey exhaled sharply.

You froze in fear.

“Five hundred bucks,” you corrected your error quickly.

You weren’t sure Schröder was convinced.

“Five hundred bucks for one lap dance and some fun?” he scoffed. Then he squeezed your neck a little tighter and drew your face within an inch of his own. You could feel the hot puffs of breath, smell the rancid liquor on his tongue, but you stayed where he held you in place and tried not to grimace when he said, “That’s a damn steal.”

Your lips were shaking something awful under your mask. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what kissing this vile, soulless bastard would taste like, but you feared it might come sooner than you knew, because Joey was drawing you even more rough and tight into his chest.

Just when your mouth was less than a hair’s breadth away from his, though, you heard a woman’s scream.

Then another. And another. And another.

Before long, almost half the suite had erupted in shrieks, it seemed, and the sounds of their horror were shortly supplanted by a series of explosions. And gunfire.

Johann Schröder dropped your body like the worst habit known to man and went bounding away from the turmoil as fast as he could. This time, you did trip over your heels and took a nasty little nosedive to the ground. Fumbling, crawling, then sliding across the shag carpet on your belly with your eyes in wild search of somewhere to hide.

You spotted a coffee table and muscled your way over.

“SCHRÖDER!” a voice roared from somewhere behind.

Again, you knew better than to look, but the fear of not knowing who, or what, might be barreling your direction at any second outweighed more sensible considerations. You stole a look over your shoulder and nearly screamed.

A man with a pitch black balaclava stormed into the lounge and wasted no time setting sights on his intended target—raising a Heckler & Koch MP7A1 submachine gun to his face and firing the second the impulse struck.

You watched a once-handsome, lively, and drunk man turn to shredded, fleshy carnage in less than an instant and fall right beside your head with a thud. Your hand was your only defense to keep the shriek inside your chest, but even that blockade was crumbling fast as the blood-soaked assassin wrenched the body in the air.

The gunman tore the mask from his victim’s head and inspected the face—or what was left of it. He cursed.

You could tell from your close proximity to the blues of his eyes, and that sigh, you wouldn’t need to ask at all. You just sat there and stared, knees hugged to your chest as Bucky threw the body back down as hard as he could.

“FUCK!” he bellowed, voice flooded with rage.

Steve stumbled in with his gun at the ready. He eyed the man on the floor, then you, then a dozen other flailing, desperate partygoers trying to escape the suite all around you. You just drew in even tighter to the table.

“What happened?! Where’d he go?”

Rogers, like you, seemed unable to look away from the carcass, but for entirely different reasons. He appeared to be studying it just as your husband had been.

“It’s not Schröder!” Bucky yelled.

“Where the fuck’s he— shit.”

Suddenly, an unknown assailant opened fire on the two men from the opposite end of the room. Both dove for cover, but not before Bucky grabbed you and dragged you, full-force, behind the sofa. It didn’t seem there was time for sweet words or consolations, his eyes wide and half-crazed as they bore into yours just in front of you.

“Don’t move,” he barked, readjusting his grip on his gun in one hand and feeling around all over your sides with the other. On seeing and feeling no trauma, he nodded his head and moved his hand to your cheek, just briefly.

“Honey, I need you here—right here for me, alright? Don’t move a muscle,” he spoke low as Steve covered from above, rapid-fire shots ringing out on both sides.

Rushed and furious as he was, he couldn’t help but linger on that face a half-second longer than he intended. You were shaking your head and hugging your knees, meeting his eyes with what seemed to be reproach.

“You promised, Bucky,” you hissed through gritted teeth.

You were in shock, that was what it was, he kept telling himself. You didn’t know what you were saying, and he needed to turn away to help Steve, but then you were eyeing that body—that man he could’ve sworn was Schröder when he’d pumped him full of bullets—and you were turning back to him with unmistakable disgust.

He would’ve fallen to his knees and begged his wife for forgiveness if there weren’t more pressing matters at hand. Like your life and his, and Steve’s—and Sam’s, now, bursting onto the scene with a semi-automatic rifle of his own as he helped his friend gun down the last of the stragglers. Bucky knew he had to help them, too.

So he’d stumbled back on his feet, less conscious than acting on pure impulse, and he joined in on the gunfire.

He reckoned he liked it. However long it lasted. He just rolled his shoulders once and sent the rounds flying; he ducked and he moved and he stood and he crouched and he fired every shot as if it were as easy to him as breathing. He didn’t think. When the three of them had cleared the lounge, and Sam and Steve tore off toward the two or three remaining rooms at the rear of the suite, Bucky still wasn’t fully present in his body. All he knew was that his clip was near-empty and his side was in pain—and the room they had emptied was safe. For you.

For you—where the fuck had you gone?!

Bucky barreled past the spot behind the couch where you were supposed to have been, but weren’t, and made a beeline for the closest room over. And nothing. More empty, threadbare, and bloody rooms filled with bodies that didn’t belong to you, and shortly he was yelling for Sam or Steve or anyone in that massacred suite to help him find his wife. The breaths in his chest were heaving.

He turned once, twice, eyes roaming wildly and hand grabbing fast for more ammo. He couldn’t find any more. Beads of sweat began to collect on his brow, and just when he turned to call for backup once more, he paused.

In his periphery, he saw two forms.

He stopped fully and turned to the side.

If it was fear he had felt just then, he wasn’t aware of it. Instead, it seemed a white-hot and blinding ire had taken over, and rather than grow timid, or afraid, he went cold.

“Bucky…don’t,” you managed in a strangled, hoarse tone, throat visibly contained by a blade being held to it.

Behind you, a man stood masked and unflinchingly calm.

Bucky knew that wouldn’t do—no matter how hard or helplessly you pleaded with him then not to do it, please don’t do it, Bucky, please. All he heard in his head was the throb of his pulse, and all he saw before him was red.

He fired without a second thought.

The round just grazed the edge of the man’s cheek.

Bucky swore. Tried to fire his gun again. It was empty.

Still not thinking, much less hearing his wife’s desperate cries for him to spare the man’s life, he grabbed the smallest, sharpest object that was closest to him and charged your would-be attacker head on.

Both men fell to the floor, but only Bucky was mobile.

Only Bucky held the weapon now, as his opponent’s knife had been lost somewhere in the skirmish, and he was wielding it now faster than he ever had before, he thought—an ice pick, of all fucking things—driving it into the man’s face and neck and chest without the slightest regard for anything else.

Somewhere far outside his mind, he heard you scream. Felt you claw at his arm, grip at his shirt, make some wild, shrill, and vehement pleas that he couldn’t begin to understand in this state, and he continued. Hadn’t even considered slowing down until the man’s carotid was shredded in two and spewing blood all over his front.

Bucky couldn’t be sure how long it lasted like that; all he remembered was stumbling back, energy spent, fist still holding the pick and eyes duly glued to the body he’d just stabbed through and maimed until no life was left.

He saw you crawl over the body.

He wanted to warn you not to touch it. Lifted a hand and tried his best to form words, but nothing came out.

He watched you lift the mask.

From that point on, he was certain he had to have been seeing things that weren’t really there. Trauma-induced psychosis, he tried to assuage himself silently—that was the only explanation for the scene unfolding before him. Surely it couldn’t be you cupping that face, pinching that skin, shaking that cold and lifeless, blood-drenched frame beneath you as a sob racked through your own.

That signet ring on a pinky couldn’t have been real.

Bucky didn’t want to believe that gruesome discovery made manifest before him—in many ways, he couldn’t—but then it was painted clear as day as the cries endured, nothing changed, and a helpless, frantic wail rang out:

“DAD!”

—

Taglist: (If I missed anyone please lmk!!) @vicmc624, @she-could-never, @mcira, @kentokaze, @identity2212, @unaxv, @buchi91, @ordelixx @stinkerbelle007, @opibarnes @wilsons-striped-ties @desigirlxx, @pono-pura-vida, @geminiflanagansblog, @buggy14, @sky-full-0f-fl0wers, @buckysdoll1520, @armystay89, @minimarvelingmarvel, @kunakizen, @ghostiebby06, @blackhawkfanatic @dameron-grant-spector @sushiseoks @deansapplepie @mrsjoequinn @gyokujyn @lunaroserites @first-edition @kaybaby2494, @jaggedsi @excusememrbarnes @daisychainsoflove, @mostlymarvelgirl @diannana @shawnberry @yujyujj @urmomsalex @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @athenabarnes @christinabae @sluttylittlewaistenthusiast @wintrsoldrluvr @bethbunnyy @i-heart-smut @dixsond @aagn360 @dahliawolfe @fantasyfootballchampion @lilyevanstan1325 @kandis-mom @thealyrs

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x you #marvel #mcu #mob bucky barnes #marvel smut #marvel x reader #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #mob!bucky #mob!bucky barnes #mob bucky #mafia!bucky #mafia bucky barnes

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moongirlwidow · 28 days

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SO turns out in Madripoor I can legally get a tattoo, not that anyone cares very much about the law, HOWEVER that means I can get one in a proper shop so I need opinions

Going clockwise from the top left, the bottom image is going last, here’s my reasons for each:

Option one: the symbol I use as the Winter Widow(my symbol is silver but people make more images for Nat so here’s the closest option) I like it, it’s important to me, if I got it I’d probably put it on my shoulder

Option two: roses. They’re one of my favorite flowers and I would most likely use a group of scars instead of the stem/vine, I’m thinking of a group on my right shoulder blade as my best option, though might also go on my shoulder/tricep. Gets a bonus for being sentimental as James calls me Little Rose

Option three: moon with flowers. Nighttime feels safe to me, and my birth mother called me her Twilight Princess. I also just love the moon’s symbolism, and I love flowers. I also love the other background details, again I’d probably put this on my shoulder or shoulderblade(yes there’s a pattern here)

Option four: it’s a dagger with a spider on it. I would probably change the spider’s design from a skull to an hourglass, but I really like the style. This one would probably go on my forearm

Option five(the one on the bottom): I love this one because it has the moon and the rose, and how it’s growing, genuinely beautiful. Again, I’d position it so my scars look like roots, this one probably on my shoulder blade, most likely the right one so the curve of the flower lines up nicely. Might also tuck a star in there for my sisters, since they call me Little Star

Anyways it’s a certain that I’m at least getting a semicolon on my wrist, so I’m getting something either way. Natasha signed off on this under a few conditions, by the way

#the winter widow #vera volkov #marvel rp #mcu #marvel #mcu rp #marvel mcu #marvel ask blog #marvel cinimatic universe

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lovecatsys · 1 month

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Akihiro's relationship with the Fantastic Four starts out as a really funny concept, but at the end it just becomes. so sad.

He made them believe that he was just a lost soul looking for help, looking for a way out and looking to be better. And they completely believed it and genuinely wanted to help him. He went to them intending to use them as part of his scheme, and he did, but somehow he got attached to Johnny. I imagine they slept together as Marjorie said, Akihiro viewing it as part of the scheme, but somehow he went and caught feelings. He became attached to Johnny, so he kept going back. He stole something from Reed under the guise of asking for a weapon, in order to secure his rule over Madripoor, but he didn't do anything to harm them. He played them, pretending to be a better man than he is, but ultimately didn't do any lasting damage to them.

Until he's dying, and he has Reed test him, and he just decides to say screw it all. Even when he tries to show is true colors Reed still believes he can save him, still believes he can reach him. Because even though Akihiro was pretending to be someone he isn't, the truth is that he Is a lost soul and he Does need saving. He just doesn't know it. and Reed can see this. But Akihiro refuses his help. He refuses to be saved. He truly has an opportunity to change here, he told Donna he would change, but he doesn't. He makes one last desperate ploy to fuck with the world before he goes out, and he absolutely ruins his relationship with all the Fantastic Four because he believes this is truly the end.

#its so clear to me in that scene with donna that deep down he really does want to change #he wants to be loved #but hes just so. messed up about it #this poor man #akihiro #fav: maybe power is all i have. or all i need

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delicatebarness · 5 hours

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i cant read your mind | chapter four

Summary: The journey to Madripoor.

Warnings: MCU Spoilers. Captain America: The Winter Soldier. The Falcon and the Winter Soldier spoilers throughout. Zemo.

Word Count: 1148

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: If I didn't split this episode up then this chapter would have been too long for my brain to be okay with. The next one is gonna be looooong.

Strolling down the prison corridors, the sterile white tiles and harsh fluorescent light amplified a feeling of isolation, as well as a headache. “I’m gonna go alone,” Bucky admitted, addressing both you and Sam. Just as Sam questioned his decision, you objected with a firm “No,” as your mind went back to the last time Bucky was alone with Zemo.

“You’re an Avenger. You know how he feels about that.” Bucky continued, answering Sam's question as he shot you a warning glance that silently said, “Don’t push it,”. You didn’t say anything else while he gave Sam more reasons for him to go alone, you let out a sigh as you watched him leave.

Anxiety began to rise throughout your body as you stood waiting, Sam sensed your apprehension about the return of The Winter Soldier. “He’ll be alright,” he said as he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder in reassurance.

Your hand instinctively reached up to rub your neck as you responded, “I’ll believe it when he comes back and doesn’t attempt to kill me,” your memories flooded with your first encounter with Bucky. “Again.”

That day on the bridge changed you. Never before had you been on a mission that came so close to disaster. His right hand effortlessly closed around your neck, you tried to fight back with punches, and kicks and even tried reaching for your gun. He maintained a distance that prevented you from gaining any ground.

Just in the last second, the shield slammed into his back, which forced him to release his grip, sending you tumbling to the ground.

Your eyes sparked with relief at Bucky’s return, and his expression mirrored yours. You suppressed the urge to rush forward and embrace Bucky, absent from The Winter Soldier. As he walked over to you, he instructed you and Sam to follow him.

Guided by Bucky, you ventured into the dimly lit garage, relying on flashlights and Bucky’s hand to navigate. You reached for it the second you stepped into the darkness and stuck close to him as he and Sam debated the merits and risks of freeing Zemo. The tension in the air kept you silent until Bucky located the light switch. With a sigh of relief, you exhaled deeply. As you relaxed into the newfound brightness, you slipped your hand out of Bucky’s.

��I didn’t do anything,” Bucky retorted to Sam. Recognizing his tone of voice, betraying his statement, you knew he had indeed done something. Concern gripped you as you wondered what it could be. Your attention was focused on him as he outlined a plan to free Zemo.

Startled by the door slamming shut, you instinctively moved toward the source. To your surprise, it was Zemo. He strolled into the garage as if it was his own. Maybe it was? “What the fuck, Bucky?!” you exclaimed, joining Sam in a heated exchange with Bucky about this turn of events. As Zemo attempted to interject, all three of you shut him down with a simultaneous “No!”.

“When Steve refused to sign the Sokovia Accords, you both backed him. You both broke the law, and you stuck your necks out for me.” Bucky shifted his gaze between you and Sam, the weight of the past heavy in your eyes, tears threatening to spill. “I’m asking you to do it again.” he pleaded, his gaze softened as he looked down at you, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear. You nodded, affirming your loyalty to Bucky as Sam commanded rules to Zemo before agreeing.

Sitting on a private jet beside Bucky and across from Zemo felt surreal. Their casual conversation with Sam about Marvin Gaye seemed out of place, prompting you to feign sleep, keeping your eyes closed for most of the journey. Your attention snapped back to them when they mentioned Madripoor, the destination you headed to. Intrigue sparked within you as Zemo started the topic of disguises. They have secretly been one of your favorite aspects of being an agent since the beginning.

“Don’t touch her,” Bucky’s voice growled a warning, causing you to snap out of your feigned sleep. You opened your eyes just in time to see Zemo reaching towards your shoulder. Grateful for Bucky’s protective instinct, you glanced around feeling disoriented. Bucky was almost on his feet, presumably to stop Zemo physically.

“Apologies,” Zemo directed to Bucky, who seemed to calm down after Zemo retreated. Zemo then brought his attention back to you. “I have picked out a dress for you to wear, Agent, to blend in,” he gestured toward the door of the jet’s toilet.

Unzipping the dress bag, you were surprised by the beautiful red material and its intricate details. Who would have thought Zeemo had such good taste? Without any hesitation, you shed your casual yet tactical wear and slid into the dress. You admired how it hugged your body perfectly. Rushing to see the final look, you adorned yourself with the accessories he had chosen as well.

Stepping out of the bathroom, you revealed your new identity to your team, Bucky, Sam, and Zemo. Bucky’s eyes widened in surprise, Sam whistled appreciatively, and Zemo offered a polite nod of approval.

“Not a chance,” Bucky’s voice cut through the moment, his gaze bore into you as you walked out wearing the red dress, its neckline plunging and the hem barely covering anything below your waist, your back exposed.

Confusion flickered across your face as you turned to him, he was looking you up and down with only his eyes still seated. “Excuse me?”

His jaw tensed as he continued to assess your appearance, “You’re not wearing that,” he stated firmly.

Your eyebrows furrowed in disbelief, “And, since when did you get an opinion?” you shot back, defiance in your voice as you met his gaze.

The tension on the jet thickened as Bucky maintained his stance. Sam sensed the conflict brewing, he decided to step in and attempt to diffuse the situation.

“Okay, let’s just take a minute,” He interjected, his voice was calm yet authoritative. “We’ve got more important things to worry about-”

“I’m serious,” Bucky interrupted, insisting you wouldn’t be wearing the dress. “You’ll draw too much attention.”

“This dress will not compromise the mission,” you began, your voice steady. “I’ve been in the ‘arm candy’ role for Steve enough to know what I’m doing.” you noticed the shift in his demeanor as his body tensed at the thought of you and Steve being perceived as intimate.

Sam nodded in agreement with you, “She’s got a point, Bucky,” Sam interjected, affirming your statement. He had witnessed this act on a few occasions now to know you’re right. Bucky hesitated, torn between his protective and possessive instincts over you or respecting the supposed end of your so-called relationship. After a moment of silence, a begrudging “Fine.” cut through the tension.

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Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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smashpages · 7 months

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Out this week: Predator vs. Wolverine #1 (Marvel, $7.99):

Writer Benjamin Percy will be joined by multiple artists for this four-issue series, starting with Greg Land. It centers on the ongoing rivalry/battles between a Predator and Wolverine that will occur across the years and locations like Canada, Madripoor and more.

See what other comics and graphic novels arrive in stores this week

#benjamin percy #predator #wolverine #predator vs. wolverine #comics #comic books #new comic book day #can't wait for comics #marvel #ncbd #new comics day #new comics #new comics wednesday #greg land #20th century studios

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applepiewinchesters · 1 year

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Don’t Blame Me (Helmut Zemo x Reader)

A/N: Hellooo friends. This is a fic I started a month or so ago and just now finished so I hope you like it!! This is based around the song “Don’t Blame Me” by Taylor Swift

Word Count: 4,200

Don’t blame me, love made me crazy. If it doesn’t you ain’t doin’ it right.

When you agreed to help Sam and Bucky investigate who was to blame for the recent string of super soldiers running around, you didn’t really think it would entail breaking a terrorist out of prison.

Helmut Zemo was crafty, dangerous, and overall, at least in your mind, a shit person. So, when he emerged from the dark in what apparently was his parking garage, you had to hold back from knocking his teeth in.

It wasn’t long after you were aboard a private jet flying to Madripoor to try and get to the bottom of everything. Bucky and Sam were bickering constantly, and the Baron wasn’t exactly welcome company, but he was quiet as he sat across from you, reading in his seat.

A question was nagging at you, one that was insensitive in some respects, but you were curious regardless.

“Did you really try to kill us all because a sentient robot decided to try and take over the world?” you’d asked suddenly.

Zemo’s eyes lifted from his book to you, raising an eyebrow as he did. He sighed slightly, marking his page before setting the book on the small tray beside him.

“To be truthful, you and your friends were easiest to blame,” Zemo told you casually.

You eyed him, waiting for some cruel comment, but none came.

“We saved everyone we could find in time, you do know that right?” you replied, crossing your arms.

“Yes, and I do applaud you and the others for that, but my family…” Zemo began but trailed off, a pained look in his eye.

You were both silent for a moment before he continued, “Love will make you crazy, perhaps you’ll find that out some day.”

A nasty remark caught in your throat, and you sat back, because he was right.

My name is whatever you decide, and I’m just gonna call you mine.

Of course, your job was being the arm candy. And not even the arm candy of whoever the hell Sam was pretending to be while you four slunk around Madripoor, Zemo’s arm candy.

The dress you had managed to find on such short notice glittered in every light you passed, the gold color of it apparently matching the gold in the Sokovian flag, according to Zemo. The high heels you wore were almost impossible to walk in, and you could hope you wouldn’t be doing any running.

Your hair was curled and pinned back, your makeup accentuating the best parts of your face.

When the car stopped on the bridge, Sam helped you out of the car, and Zemo appeared beside you, offering his arm, his gentleman ways stirring something up inside you.

The man was a murderer, but a classy murderer at that.

You took his arm, and he began leading you towards the city along with Bucky and Sam, who were ready to kill the man if he touched you the wrong way. Despite knowing the fact you wore a knife in the thigh holster barely hidden by your dress, they’d kill Zemo for you at your request.

By the time you finally got to the club, your feet were on fire, and you were ready to just get whatever information you needed and get the hell out of there.

Zemo led you all towards the bar, and once you all reached it his arm let go of yours, moving down to your waist and securing you to his side. Sam looked ready to punch him, and looks could kill, the glare he was getting from Bucky would have made him drop dead.

You tried your best to look happy, even leaning into Zemo to give everyone a show.

“Hello gentlemen, and lady, wasn’t expecting you Smiling Tiger,” the bartender greeted you all.

“His plans changed, we have business to do with Selby,” Zemo lied smoothly, easily and almost absentmindedly, pulling you closer to him when a drunk girl bumped into you.

So close you had to put a hand on his chest as to not look awkward and uncomfortable.

“The usual?” the bartender asked, making Sam only nod, trying to look intimidating.

You could feel Zemo’s heartbeat fast beneath your hand, it seemed his calm exterior may have been just an act.

The bartender set to work, making two normal shots of what you assumed was probably rum or tequila, before setting to work on Sam’s drink.

It was made with at least three different liquors, and you nearly jumped when the bartender pulled a cobra from a glass jar, tossing it on the counter and cutting it open from head to tail, easily pulling out its heart and plopping it in the drink.

You almost snorted, there was no way Sam was going to do it.

The bartender set the two normal shots in front of you and Zemo, and slid the more intricate drink in front of Sam.

“Ah, Smiling Tiger, your favorite!” Zemo exclaimed as Sam reluctantly picked up the glass, inspecting it.

Zemo handed you one of the other shots, taking the other in his hand not on your hip.

“Cheers Comrad,” Zemo told Sam, clinking his glass against the other man’s before turning to you, leaning down so his lips were by your ear, “and you, dorogoy.”

You had no idea what that meant as you weren’t exactly fluent in Russian, one of the main spoken languages of the Sokovians, but nonetheless gave your fake date a dazzling smile before tossing back the alcohol.

It burned your throat as it went down, almost making you feel dizzy, it seemed to be stronger than the average alcohol.

Sam was hyping himself up it seemed, the bartender was obviously getting suspicious. You managed to shoot a look that said “hurry the fuck up” to him and he finally tossed it back, obviously disgusted as he did so.

But at least the bartender seemed satisfied.

“I got word from on high, you ain’t welcome here,” the bartender said pointedly to Zemo, who had Bucky standing close behind him, rather good at keeping up the Winter Soldier persona.

“I have no business with the Power Broker,” Zemo began, “but if he insists, he can either came and talk to me, or bring Selby for a chat.”

“New haircut?” the bartender asked Bucky suddenly, who only gave him a deadpan look.

When the bartender looked away, Bucky leaned over to Zemo, “A power broker, really?”.

“Every kingdom needs its king,” Zemo replied, smiling a bit. “Let’s just pray we stay under his radar.”

“Do you know him?” Sam asked.

“Only by reputation. In Madripoor he is judge, jury, and executioner,” Zemo told him.

Suddenly a man saddled up beside Bucky, telling him something you didn’t understand in Russian.

That was all it took for Bucky to grab him, shoving you and Zemo out of the way as he slammed the man into the bar, bending his arm back and making the man groan in pain.

The sound of guns cocking around you filled the air, and Zemo moved in front of you as he leaned towards Bucky and whispered, “Stay in character or the whole bar turns on us.”

“Selby will see you now,” a man said as he appeared beside Bucky, who let the man go.

“Thank you,” Zemo said, wrapping an arm around your waist again as he led you away, Bucky and Sam trailing behind you both.

You were all led to a back room where the club’s music was quieter, making you wonder if the others inside would be able to hear if you all got shot.

The room looked to be an office of some sort, couches and a desk were the main staples of the room, along with the bodyguards stationed around the room.

Zemo sat down on one of the couches, easily pulling you down onto his lap so you sat sideways, legs hanging off one side and one arm going to rest behind him, the fur of his coat tickling you a bit.

You did your best to look like the bimbo arm candy you were playing, even going as far as leaning into Zemo’s chest, and placing a kiss on his cheek.

His arm wrapped tighter around you, hand gripping your waist.

“Don’t get any ideas,” you whispered to him as a woman with short white hair entered the room. This must be Selby.

“You should know Baron,” Selby began, taking her place on a couch across from you and Zemo, “people don’t just come into my bar and make demands.”

“Not a demand, an offer,” Zemo spoke as you fiddled with the fur on the back of his coat nervously.

"A lot has changed since you were last here,” Selby replied, “by the way, I thought you were rotting away in a German prison. How did you escape?”.

“People like us always find a way, don’t we?” Zemo answered, voice unwavering. “I’m sure you have already heard what I’m here for.”

“You’re taller than I’ve heard, Smiling Tiger,” Selby commented, half ignoring Zemo.

Sam gave Selby a convincing smile, so she turned back to Zemo, “What’s the offer?”.

Zemo smirked, “Tell us what you know about the super soldier serum and I give you him, along with the code words to control him of course,” Zemo spoke, nodding in Bucky’s direction, “he’ll do anything you want.”

Selby smiled, leaning back on the couch, “What about her?” she asked, motioning to you perched on the Baron’s lap, “She’s a pretty one Helmut.”

While your heart pounded in your chest, Zemo only gave you a small smile, his hand moving to cup your cheek, gloved thumb rubbing against the warm skin, “Isn’t she? But I’m afraid this little bird is mine.”

Your face got hot, but you managed a ditzy giggle, grabbing Zemo’s hand from your cheek and holding it in your lap, giving it a squeeze. Maybe a bit too hard.

“Too bad, I could think of plenty of people who would gladly take her to bed,” Selby commented, shrugging off the fact she essentially wanted to pimp you out.

Zemo must have felt you tense up because he gave your hand a light squeeze, leaning over to whisper to you as Selby moved to ‘inspect’ Bucky.

“I won’t let anything happen,” he reassured quietly, making you nod.

While you really tried to hate this man still, it was hard not too when he’d just promised to protect you from the psychopath you were doing business with.

“I’m glad I didn’t kill you immediately, you were right to come to me,” Selby suddenly spoke up, seemingly satisfied with the deal offered to her. “Arrogant, but right.”

Zemo nodded, motioning for her to go on.

“The serum is here in Madripoor, Dr. Wilfred Nagel is the man you want to thank…or condemn, depending on what side you’re on,” Selby explained. “The Power Broker had him working on the serum, but things didn’t go as planned.”

“Is Nagel still here in Madripoor?” Zemo asked.

“Oh,” Selby answered, almost mockingly, “the bread crumbs you can have for free, but the bakery is gonna cost you Baron. And before you get all cute, don’t think you can find Nagel without me.”

Zemo opened his mouth to reply but the vibration of a phone broke the silence, all eyes fell on Sam, who looked like he wanted the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.

Selby frowned, “Answer it, on speaker.”

Sam pulled his phone from his pocket, doing as told, “Hello?”.

“Hey, we need to talk about the situation, it’s been driving me nuts,” came the voice of Sam’s sister, Sarah.

“What situation are we talking about exactly?” Sam asked, trying to keep up the tough guy exterior.

“Are you high?” Sarah exclaimed on the other end, “You know exactly what situation, it’s the only situation you and I have!”.

“What situation Sarah? Say it!” Sam commanded, raising his voice.

You could feel yourself beginning to sweat, this was going downhill fast.

“The damn boat! And watch your tone okay? I let you slide at the bank.”

Sam scoffed, “The bank, yeah. Laundered so much…they’ll come around.”

“If that was the case, why did they dog you out, Big Time?” Sarah asked, obviously annoyed.

“Yeah, you damn right I’m big time, you’ll see when I have that banker killed,” Sam answered, trying to sound cocky.

“Cass! What’d I tell you about the Cheerios? I don’t have time for this! Sam, listen, I’ll have to call you back,” Sarah spoke, and with that, hung up.

Your heels were kicked off and you were ready to run.

“Sam? Who’s Sam?” Selby asked, your heart dropped, “Kill them!”.

You jumped, Zemo joining you shortly after, but before any of you could pull a gun, the sound of glass shattering filled the room, along with a sickening crack as a bullet pierced Selby’s skull from an unseen shooter, killing her instantly.

All of you ran, Zemo grabbing your hand and pulling you from the club, weaving you through sweaty bodies and out into the cool night air.

“They’re gonna pin this on us!” Sam spoke hurriedly as you all began power walking down the street, you stumble a bit as Zemo pulled you along.

“We have a real problem now, so leave your weapons and follow my lead,” Zemo reassured, continuing back the way you’d came.

Phones began pinging around you and it wasn’t long before the sound of gun shots filled the air, some whizzing right past you.

“Shit!” Sam yelled as you all scrambled, Bucky and Sam continued running forwards, while Zemo pulled you down an alleyway, both of you sprinting, breathing hard, his hand never leaving yours.

Your path was blocked suddenly by a rather larger man, and before he could react you ripped your hand away from Zemo’s, reaching for the knife in its holster on your thigh and tossing it, the blade sinking into the man’s chest.

“Come on!” you shouted, grabbing Zemo’s hand once again, as it was your turn to pull him away from danger.

You felt relieved when you spotted Bucky and Sam at the end of the alley you’d turned into, both staring in confusion at a dead man laying on the ground.

“Seems you have a guardian angel,” Sam was saying as you and Zemo stopped, catching your breath.

“You okay?” Bucky asked you, and you nodded, still trying to breathe normally.

“Well, isn’t this just perfect,” came a voice behind you.

You whipped around to find the last person you expected to be there. Sharon Carter.

For you, I would cross the line.

Music shook Sharon’s large home, you were almost afraid some of the priceless art would fall due to the loud bass.

People danced, sweaty bodies moving to the beat of the music, or they stood around talking about the art surrounding you.

You sat at a small table, sipping the drink you’d gotten from the bar. Bucky and Sam were “patrolling” at a party of all places, and you could see Zemo on the dancefloor. He danced like the whitest dad at the neighborhood block party, but either the alcohol, or the fact it was sort of cute, made you giggle.

Zemo happened to look over as you were laughing, and you quickly tried to hide it by taking a sip of your drink, but it was obvious he saw you.

In minutes he was sitting across from you at the table, drink in hand, a bemused look at his face.

“Did I catch you smiling at me?” he asked, taking a sip of the amber liquid in his glass.

“Laughing, actually,” you retorted, leaning back and crossing your arms.

Zemo smirked, “You expect me to believe that, dorogoy?”.

“You dance like an old man,” you replied, looking away from him and to the dancefloor.

Surprisingly, Zemo laughed, a genuine one, making you smile a bit.

“Ah,” Zemo pointed to you, “there it is again.”

“Oh, shut up,” you told him, taking a drink from your own glass.

Zemo obliged, but still smiled as he leaned back in his chair.

It was silent between you both, before you spoke again,

“Would you really have protected me from Selby?” you asked, eyeing the man across from you.

“Of course, you had no business with her,” Zemo replied without hesitation.

“Even with my…background?” you asked, referring to your alliance with the Avengers.

The man chuckled, “Like I said, of course, you’ve proven you are much more than what I believed you to be.”

“And that would be?” you questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“I thought you’d be much like your friends, loyal to a fault, but you…you are much more. You know what you want, you know what you’re worth, I admire that,” Zemo told you, and you couldn’t help the blush that crept across your cheeks.

“Um…thank you,” you told him awkwardly.

“You are welcome,” Zemo told you, throwing back the rest of his drink, “now, you owe me a dance.”

You must have looked unsure, because Zemo smiled, standing and offering his hand to you, “I promise to not dance like an old man, as you put it. We must blend in, correct?”.

Sighing, you took his hand, and he led you to the dancefloor, more towards the edge, away from others. He took your hands, moving them so that they rested on his shoulders, and his moved to your waist, pulling you a bit closer.

While the song was fast and loud, you two moved slow, still to the beat, but nothing like the others jumping around you.

“Is this so bad?” Zemo asked, looking down at you.

“I suppose not, but you better be careful, one wrong move and Bucky will make you swallow your teeth,” you joked, making the Baron wince slightly.

“It will be hard not to cross that line with you, I must admit,” Zemo told you casually.

“You can’t fall for the first girl you meet out of prison,” you laughed, but the man in front of you looked serious.

He leaned down so that his face was closer to yours, his lips beside your ear, “How can I not when she is so beautiful?”.

A shiver went down your spine as one of his arms snaked around your waist, pulling you against him, his other hand sliding into yours.

You managed to get out a small laugh, “You’re smooth, I’ll give you that.”

I would fall from grace, just to touch your face.

After some help from Sharon in Madripoor and the imminent death of Dr. Nagel, who was shot by none other than Zemo himself, you were all hiding out in one of Zemo’s houses, this one located in Latvia, where the super soldiers were thought to be.

The sheets beneath you were cool and soft despite the heat radiating from your bare skin. You were laying on your side, watching the rise and fall of the Baron’s chest. He looked peaceful when sleeping, the seemingly permanent frown lines gone from his face.

If someone had told you a few days ago you would have slept with none other than Helmut Zemo, you probably would have punched them in the throat. But laying here beside him, the morning sun streaming through the window, you couldn’t help but smile.

Sam and Bucky had left you to “babysit” Zemo last night and hadn’t come back. If they found you like this, they’d surely kill Zemo, and then you, for “sleeping with the enemy”.

This would be your fall from grace for sure.

The Baron’s eyelids fluttered suddenly, slowly opening, blinking in the morning light. He sighed, blinking a few times before his eyes met yours.

A small smile broke across his face and he reached for you, easily pulling you on top of him, despite your slight protests.

“Shhh, just lay with me printsessa,” Zemo spoke, voice gravely from sleep.

You huffed, resting your head in the crook of his neck, his fingers trailed up and down your spine. He turned his head to plant a kiss on your forehead, making you giggle.

Zemo smiled in turn, resting his head back against the pillows.

It was silent besides the sound of you both breathing, both content to lay there forever, although you both knew it wouldn’t last. None of this would, but that wouldn’t stop you from pretending it would.

“They’re going to come for you, aren’t they?” you asked softly, tracing a scar on Zemo’s chest, more than likely from his years as a Colonel in the Sokovian army.

The Dora Milaje warned Bucky just yesterday they would come for Zemo, and that you would all have no choice but to hand him over.

Zemo sighed, arms wrapping around you, “I suppose…but that does not mean I will be gone forever.”

“You’re going to escape The Raft?” you scoffed, making Zemo chuckle.

“Did Sam not do so?” he asked you, “Do you not believe in me?”.

You smiled and shook your head, “Of course I do…it’s just, they’ll find you, again and again.”

Zemo kissed the top of your head, “I’ll find you lyubov’, every time.”

If you walked away, I’d beg you on my knees to stay.

You gripped onto Zemo’s coat tightly, sobbing.

“Y-You can’t, you can’t go,” you whimpered, tears streaming down your face.

Everyone knew this would happen, you, Zemo, Bucky. You knew the Dora Milaje would come for him, but it was too soon.

You’d ran with him when Bucky and Sam were distracted by John Walker and the Dora Milaje when they’d all arrived at Zemo’s home in Latvia. You two spent an amazing night at another one of his safe houses.

When he brought you to the Sokovia memorial, you knew he was saying goodbye before Bucky even showed.

“I have to,” Zemo told you calmly, gently prying your hands off his coat. You only wrapped your arms around his waist, wishing that if you held him tight enough, he wouldn’t leave.

“Please,” you choked out, “you don’t have to take him.”

You moved to look at the members of the Dora Milaje standing behind Zemo, but you were only met with a cold glare, “He will pay for his crimes,” one of them told you.

Turning your attention back to Zemo, you were met with a man who accepted his fate. You wanted him to fight, to run, but he wouldn’t, you knew that.

Zemo took your face in his hands, pressing a kiss to your lips, when he pulled away he kissed your forehead as well.

“Let me go, Moya lyubov’, I’ll find you,” Zemo told you softly.

You shook your head as Bucky grabbed you from behind, forcing you away from Zemo, holding you tightly against him as you thrashed, hitting his arms, kicking him.

Given he was at least 50 times stronger than yourself, it really wasn’t much of a fight on his end.

You watched helplessly as Zemo nodded to Bucky in thanks, giving you one last look before following the female warriors to their ship and boarding without a fight.

He only let you go when the ship disappeared from sight and you collapsed, the hard ground beneath you hurting your knees as you fell but you didn’t care.

You cried into your hands, your whole body shaking. The one good thing in your life in years and it was gone in seconds, he was gone in seconds.

“Come back,” you rasped out, “please.”

Bucky let you cry until your sobs had died and you’d stopped shaking. He carefully helped you up and away from the memorial.

“It’s better this way,” Bucky tried to reassure you, but you weren’t listening, you could only think of the phone number Zemo had put into your phone the night before. The number that with one call, could maybe get him back.

Oh lord save me, my drug is my baby, I’ll be using for the rest of my life.

Red lights flashed and sirens blared throughout the Raft, signaling a security breach. The lights inside went out and the emergency lights flashed on, illuminating everything in red.

Helmut Zemo sat up on his bed, raising an eyebrow.

Guards ran past the Baron’s cell, armed and ready for whatever, or whoever, had just breached one of the most top security prisons in the world.

The door of Helmut’s cell slid up moments later. Helmut stood, walking hesitantly towards to escape.

A shadow moved in the blinking red lights, walking towards him. Helmut had no weapons, but he’d go down fighting whatever the hell was coming towards him.

But the lights flashed again, illuminating a familiar face. Your hair was tied back, a gun in your grip.

“Dorogoy?” the Baron spoke.

When the lights flashed again you were smiling, running towards him now and when you slammed into him, wrapping your arms around him, Helmut felt his heart skip a beat.

Helmut’s fingers tangled into your hair as he held you tightly, afraid you’d disappear if he let go, still unsure if this was even real.

You buried your face into his shoulder, hugging him even tighter.

“I know what you mean now,” you told him, your voice muffled.

Helmut’s brow furrowed, pulling away from you.

“What?” he asked, making you smile.

“Love, it really does make you crazy,” you replied.

Helmut smiled, shaking his head slightly and pressing a kiss to your lips.

Don’t blame me, love made me crazy. If it doesn’t you ain’t doin’ it right.

#fatws #fatws spoilers #helmut zemo #baron helmut zemo #helmut zemo x you #helmut zemo x reader #daniel brühl #helmut zemo angst #marvel #Bucky Barnes #sam wilson #don't blame me

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venusfalling · 1 year

Text

I’m Sorry If I Scared You

summary: You deal with the fallout of going to Madripoor with Bucky.

warnings: Reader has long term injuries from previous battles, talk of injuries, canon typical violence

notes: part 3.3 of Where You Go, I Go. Based on Ep. 3 of TFATWS

Sam did his best, really, but criminals are a paranoid bunch. It was lucky that someone shot Selby through the window the moment Sam’s (and your own) cover was blown, otherwise you would all have been killed. When the first shot was fired, Bucky ran to you, taking out the two gunmen near you before you could. “Let’s go,” he commanded as he grabbed your hand and pulled you forward. Another guard stands in your way, firing off three shots. Bucky holds his metal arm to block the bullets, but they never find their target. The guard stares in confusion as the bullets hang still in the air three inches from Bucky who turns around to look at you. Your face is serious, your eyebrows turned down in concentration. You wave the hand you’ve held up to stop the bullets to the side and the tiny projectiles follow the same path. Then you raise your hand up. This time, it’s the man’s gun that flies upward and is quickly ripped out of his hands. With a wet crack of bone breaking, Bucky knocks out the formerly armed gunman with an easy right hook. Bucky’s eyes look you up and down for injuries, and god you wish he would stop treating you like you were so fragile you’d break at the slightest effort. “I told you I could take care of myself,” you say. Internally, you run a quick scan: your chest hurt, but not much, and you were still breathing relatively normal. You figured that as long as you leaned on your powers and not physical capabilities you no longer had, you’d actually make it through this mission alive. “We gotta go,” Sam says making his way over to you, a gun from one of the guards in his hand. Bucky and Sam, in sync in ways only military men can be, take stock of the situation. Sam clears a path towards the exit with you and Zemo following while Bucky brings up the rear, carefully sweeping the area with the scope of his semi-automatic rifle for any more threats. The four of you stop at the exit, trying to think through next steps. “We may have a real problem now, so leave your weapons and follow my lead,” Zemo says. Before Bucky and Sam can argue, he adds, “If we arm ourselves now, we’ll be shot on sight.” You make your way out onto the street again, nearly stumbling on the wet asphalt. Bucky steadies you with his arm and you don’t let go. Around you, phones begin to ping, and eyes underneath neon lights follow you wherever you turn. You can feel in your bones what’s coming. So can the others as the four of you begin to walk faster. “This is not good,” says Zemo just before the bullets start flying. Zemo takes off in the opposite direction, but you don’t have a chance to stop him as Bucky pulls you low, then into a sprint. You ignore the way your feet hurt and your lungs burn as you struggle to keep up. “Come on!” Bucky yells over his shoulder to Sam. “I can’t run in these heels,” Sam yells back, sprinting to catch up and taking the spot to your right. Tell me about it, you want to say, but your breaths are coming in harsher now, and speaking would only waste more of the precious air in your scarred lungs. Running had been the most difficult thing to do since you were injured in the fight against Thanos, and even with your best effort, you were slowing them down. The rumble of motorcycles begins to follow you as you continue to race down abandoned railroad tracks. With a flick of your hand, you make spikes out of the rusted metal, causing the motorcycles to veer off course. It slows down your pursuers, but not by much as they begin to chase you on foot. The three of you duck into an alleyway, and the shots are fired so quickly, you almost miss what happens. An armed man had been standing at the end of the alleyway, and was shot by Zemo before the he could even aim. Then two shots came from an open window in the graffitied brick building lining one side of the alley. Both shots landing squarely in the chests of the two men who were chasing you. The second those bodies hit the ground, you double over. You cough so violently you think a lung might come out, and you just can’t seem to catch your breath. Distantly you can hear Zemo and Sam saying something, but it’s hard to make out what over the sound of your own gasps for air and the pain in your chest that makes your head dizzy. “Sweetheart, you need to slow your breathing,” Bucky whispers in your ear. “Just like we practiced.” You can feel his hand on your back, drawing soothing circles. You take a moment to catch your breath. When it feels like the ground beneath you is finally still, you straighten up, Bucky’s arm tight around your waist to help keep you steady. “You good?” Sam asks, but all you can do is give him a small nod. “Well this is too perfect,” someone speaks from behind you as they make their way up the alley. You know that voice. You fought alongside the person to whom it belongs to. Sharon. “Drop it, Zemo,” she demands, pointing her pistol at him. He does as he’s told and puts his arms halfheartedly in the air. “You cost me everything.” Not once does she lower her gun, and you realize that she might not be talking just to Zemo. “Sharon, wait. Someone recreated the super-soldier serum and Zemo had a lead,” Sam explains quickly. “That explains why you guys are here. And Selby’s dead.” Sharon cocks her head to the side, blond hair swishing slightly in the wind. You can tell by the look on her face that she’s not had an easy go of it, and you berate yourself for not checking in on her after she had helped save Bucky. “So what are you doing here?” Bucky asks. “I stole Steve’s shield, remember?” she tells him, then turns her attention to Sam. “I also took the wings for your ass, so that you two could save Bucky’s ass from him.” She nods to Zemo, regarding him with more venom than you do. “Unlike you, I didn’t have the Avengers to back me up, so I’m off the grid in Madripoor.” “Hey, don’t blow that smoke at me, I was on the run, too.” “Was. Is. Big difference,” she pauses, voice rising a bit when she next speaks. “I don’t talk to my family anymore. I can’t. My own father doesn’t know where I am.” “Sharon,” you cough, throat still sore from your run through Lowtown. “Sharon, we’re sorry, but we need your help.” She laughs at that. “Please,” you plead. She looks you up and down. You’re hunched over, cradling your ribs with an arm wrapped around yourself. You’ve not had it easy either. Two sides of the same damned coin of pain and suffering. “This isn’t over,” she says. “I have a place in High Town. You’ll be safe there for a while.” Sam pushes Zemo ahead, and the four of you follow her. — The drive to High Town is tense. Sharon gives no further details of her life since stealing Steve’s shield and Sam’s wings. Not even Zemo dares to make a comment. He was right about the stark difference between High Town and Lowtown, though. The neon lights still prevailed, but the further you drive away, the less guns you see. Sharon’s place is nice, even by High Town standards. Art work lines the walls and is scattered throughout the room in well lit, secure glass cases. Sam makes a crack about how breaking the law has made her quite successful, and he’s right. This is stolen art. Not a route you ever expected her to take, but with her talents, you’re not surprised that she seems to excel at this life. She leads you into a living room, offering fresh clothes for the party she’s hosting in an hour. One that serves as much as an auction as it does drunken dance hall. The first thing you do is change into more comfortable shoes. “Karli Morgenthau and at least seven others have taken the serum,” Sam begins to explain. “You guys really should steer clear of all of this, for your own safety.” Sharon gives you a pointed look. “We know it’s a risk, but we’re not gonna leave until we find the one who cracked the code.” Sam is confident the group of you will succeed. These things had a way of working out in your favor, but what would success look like? You would all surely be in trouble for breaking Zemo out of prison, and handing over someone who could make super-soldier serum to the government sounded disastrous. “We got a name. Wilfred Nagel,” Bucky offers up the information. “Nagel works for the Power Broker,” Sharon replies, standing to pour herself a drink. “We need your help, Sharon,” Sam says. After a bit of back and forth between them, Sharon agrees to a deal: she helps the four of you find Nagel and Sam will get her name cleared so she can move back to the States. The party is the perfect place for her to start. Sharon is well connected, and she would be working those contacts all night while the three of you have a short reprieve. Sharon sure knew how to throw a party. Booze and drugs flowed freely as people danced among priceless works of art. Bucky leads you through the crowd. He’s wearing a simple black suit and a fitted blazer, why Sharon had such clothes, you didn’t ask, but if you weren’t in Madripoor on an exhausting mission, and you and Bucky weren’t currently in a fight, this could be a fun date. Instead, the three of you take turns keeping an eye on Zemo, and when it becomes Sam’s responsibility, you leave the crowd to find a quiet corner to sit in. There is a laundry room in the back of the building, beyond the crowds and works of art. You lock yourself in, and you get a few minutes of peace before there’s a knock on the door. You know it’s Bucky before you even open it. “You okay?” he asks. “Just needed some air,” you answer. Bucky reaches his right hand up to touch your cheek, then leans in to place a soft kiss of your forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispers when he pulls away. “I shouldn’t have said what I did on the plane.” “Well, maybe you’re right, maybe I shouldn’t have come.” You hate to admit it, but that chase through Madripoor made you feel so weak. “How are you feeling?” he asks, hand still softly touching your cheek. “It still feels like something is sitting on my chest,” you tell him, rubbing the spot over your heart with your hand. “This is what I was worried about.” Bucky pulls his hand away and places both of his on his hips, as if to scold you. “I know, Buck, but I’m fine, honestly.” He gives you a disbelieving look, so you change the subject. “How are you?” “You’re worried about me?” “I’m always worried about you, Buck. You make it hard not to.” You reach out to touch his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm. He sighs, “I promise, I’m alright.” It’s your turn to give him a look. He meets your eye and concedes. “Pretending to be the Winter Soldier again was… hard, especially with you there. I was worried I’d scare you.” “You could never. I know you’re still my Bucky.” “I am glad you’re here. I just wish it was safer for you.” His hand returns to your cheek. “Well, I can’t go back home now,” you say, holding onto his arm to keep his hand in place. “I’m sure by now they know it was us that broke Zemo out of prison. The second I take a step back in the States, I’ll be locked up.” Bucky lets out a long frustrated groan. To him, there were no good options here, but he’d rather have you there with him where he could protect you than anywhere else. “We’ll fix this, together,” he decides. “And I promise, I’ll tell you all of my plans from here on out.” You lean up to kiss him, and Bucky slides his arms around your waist to keep you there. Your worries melt away as Bucky deepens the kiss, teeth gently biting on your bottom lip. You pull him further into the laundry room, and he kicks the door shut behind you. Your back hits the washer. Bucky’s hands move from your waist to the backs of your thighs, then he lifts you onto the washing machine. You giggle as he sets you down, tugging on the hem of his shirt to untuck it from his pants. Bucky’s hands continue to wander, finding the back of your top and beginning to undo the ties that kept it in place. Both of your shirts are already off when the door opens. “Really, guys? Couldn’t wait until after the party?” Sam chides. “Get out, Sam,” Bucky yells, covering your body with his own as you laugh. “Sharon has something for us, so hurry up and finish,” he calls as he closes the door. “Guess we better go then,” you whisper. You touch your forehead to his. “I love you, Mr. Barnes.” “I love you, too Mrs. Barnes.” He smiles.

------

Thanks for reading <3 Tags!!

@my-patronus-is-a-raptor

#TFATWS!Bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #tfatws!bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you

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lunarbuck · 2 years

Text

Reset - Eight

Возвращение на Родину

Pairing: The Winter Soldier x f!Reader

WC: 3k

Warnings/Tags: somnophilia, oral (f recieving), mentions of infertility, fluff

series masterlist | my masterlist | ao3 | @hydravictrix | fic playlist

AN: i'm sorry this update is not only late but short :/ i hope you still enjoy it <3 thank you as always to @purpleshallot for being an incredible beta, this fic would not have been posted if not for you my dear

please feel free to send me any requests for one-shots /drabbles /headcanons you have for this series!! we’re almost done with fic so i can post them once the series is over :)

chapter 7 / chapter 9

Куколка

"How'd you know this was here?" you ask as James pulls the car around to a little private jet hangar.

James shuts off the engine and sighs, running a hand through his hair. It's gotten so long that it's almost always in his eyes. "I worked in Madripoor for a bit and had to come through here a few times. Figured it'd be worth a shot to see if anyone left their jets here." You nod, climbing out of the car and following James into the building.

Inside, you see an old jet covered in a thick layer of dust. You can tell it didn't get much use even before Hydra's takeover just by looking at it. James pulls open the door and examines the controls, mumbling to himself as he checks them.

You look over the jet's exterior for any damage, but you don't find any. Hope starts to brighten your thoughts. If James knows how to fly this jet and it works, you can be in Vietnam by tonight.

You watch James go through the motions of inspecting the jet. Though his movements are rehearsed, you wouldn't describe them as robotic. They are muscle memory, almost like a dance.

It comes to you in small moments like this; the realization that James is so much more than a soldier, so much more than the man that Hydra made him.

He catches your gaze, and you see hope in those bright blue eyes of his. Hope. It's such a fleeting, delicate thing. But despite it all, he is hopeful, and you can't help but smile at the sight.

"It can fly?" you ask, curling your fingers into fists with anticipation.

"Yes." Your heart speeds up in your chest. Leaving the United States for Vietnam will change things. You'll know no one there, have no friends, no family. You'll only have James.

Once you leave, there's no going back.

You chide yourself. You've been past the point of no return for so long. The moment you admitted your attraction to James, the moment you gave up on hope for Steve's return, the moment you let James into your mind. You fell off the deep end a long time ago.

James helps you climb into the jet and straps you in. His hands linger on your hips, your ribcage, your neck. He sweetly cares for you in a way you know he wasn't trained to.

This isn't the Winter Soldier. This is James.

Maybe it's not the James that Steve knew, but he's still in there. Little pieces of the man he used to be.

James readies the jet for flight quickly, fueling it up and opening the hangar with an expertise you should have come to expect from him, and then you're off.

Hanoi is beautiful. Maybe it's just because of the change of scenery, but you swear that the colors here are more vibrant. Hydra's cancerous touch hasn't tainted this city, and you breathe better knowing that.

There are people out, living their lives in a way you haven't seen in years. It takes you a moment to adjust to the nostalgic yet unfamiliar feeling of it all.

James stands by your side, a protective hand on the small of your back, as the two of you weave through the streets. You can tell he's on edge because of the number of people around, but you soak it all in and feed off of the energy of the city.

The flight was almost four hours, and the sun is setting by the time you and James find somewhere to stay. A little hostel that hasn't seen many tourists in recent times.

Right outside of the hostel are a few food vendors. You don't know where James got the money, but he pays and even tips the vendor after getting food for the two of you.

You sit on the porch of the hostel, watching the nightlife of Hanoi emerge as you eat. It's almost funny to watch James eat his Phở; the chopsticks and soup spoon look comical in his metal fingers, but he uses them like a seasoned pro.

"Where do we go next?" you ask James, stirring your own soup around with your chopsticks.

"There's a village close by, only 10 or 15 minutes away. I think it's a good option." You nod, savoring the flavors of your Phở. You've had it a few times in the States, but it was never this good.

"And then what?"

Silence sits heavily between the two of you. You'd never spoken about what your future together would look like. Would James even want to be with you now that he's truly free of Hydra? He doesn't seem to think of you as his prisoner anymore, so why would he feel any obligation to remain with you?

"And then we live."

"You want to stay together?" James' eyes dart to yours, clearly taken aback by your assumption that he'd just leave you behind.

"Of course I do." You can tell you hurt his feelings by asking that, and your heart tugs in your chest. Careful not to spill your soup, you shift to press your side against James. You rest your head on his shoulder, feeling him relax beneath you.

"What does the future look like to you?" He takes his time responding. You know what those Hydra documents said and how he reacted. Maybe the plans he once had for the future had to change.

"It looks like you, принцесса. It looks like you and me in whatever you'll let me have you. I want to make you happy; I want to give you the world." He stops himself, but you can tell he wants to say more.

You rub circles on his knee with your fingers, encouraging him to continue. "Those documents," he starts, voice tight. "If what they say is true, then I cannot give you everything."

He means children.

The Hydra documents explained that because of the serum, James is infertile. Your stomach turns at the thought of them performing those tests; you know he did not go into them willingly.

Part of you had already come to terms with this knowledge; Steve was also infertile. The night he'd told you, he'd cried. Steve wanted children more than anything and knowing that he wouldn't be able to killed him inside.

Steve tried treatment after experimental treatment, but because of everything else the serum did to his body, he was resistant to them. You'd told Steve that you didn't care that he couldn't have children. You loved him either way.

Now, as you sit beside James, you want to say the same thing.

"You don't need to give me children to make me happy, James," you say softly. "We can be happy in our own way." You feel him nod, but you know he probably doesn't believe you.

"It is probably for the best that I cannot have children. What kind of father could I be?" You can hear the disgust in his voice, and it sparks anger in your gut. You sit up and grip James' face with both your hands, forcing him to look at you.

"Don't talk like that," you say sternly. "You didn't have any say in the shit they did to you. How do you know you'd be a bad father? You care about me, right? You keep me safe? How do you know that it would be any different with children? You don't. You don't get to talk like that." James' eyes widen at your tone; you've never really spoken to him like that. But he nods in understanding before tipping his head forward to touch his forehead to yours.

"You would be a wonderful mother," he whispers. Your heart tightens in your chest, it aches slightly with what could have been, but the ache dissipates because what use is it to mourn what never could have been.

James looks at you, confused and concerned about what you might say next. You're not sure where your confidence in his ability to parent came from, but you stand by it.

He's been through so much, suffered so much; he deserves the joy and happiness that children can bring to life. It would be difficult, he'd have a lot to learn, but something in your gut is screaming at you that he could do it.

You hadn't given much thought about what it would be like to raise a child you and James had created. What they would look like, and what their personality would grow into.

All the lessons the child would learn.

The world is fucked up and horrible, but a child could be the light at the end of the tunnel.

You sigh and let the conversation fade.

You have James, and that's enough for you.

James

Мой ангел is tired, so she goes to bed before I do. Once she is settled in the room, I step back outside.

It has started to rain, and the moon faintly illuminates the rolling gray clouds that crowd the sky. I cannot tear my mind away from what she said earlier.

I know that мой ангел would have wanted children if things worked out differently. She probably had plans for a family with the Captain before I'd ruined it all.

She has so much love inside of her, so much empathy. She would make a wonderful mother. Her children would grow up to be just like her; kind and sweet and beautiful.

Before her, I had never thought of children. They were merely an inconvenience, a hazard. But when I found her, when I realized that my life would never be the same without her...

To think of something that could be ours, not Hydra's, not SHIELD's, but ours. It makes my head spin and my heart tighten in my chest. Would they look like her? With her beautiful eyes and bright smile? Would they have my dimpled chin and dark hair?

I had never thought of such things before, but now, my heart yearns for them. It is almost like a cruel punishment for all of the pain I have brought onto this world.

Whatever divine power at play does not see me fit to have such joy.

It isn't until the sun is rising that I realize how long I have been away from her.

I return to the bedroom and lay in bed beside her, holding her close to my chest until she wakes. As мой ангел's breathing changes, signaling her starting to wake up, I shift around her and settle myself between her legs underneath the blanket.

She fell asleep just in one of my shirts and her panties, and it is a beautiful sight. I place light kisses along the waistband of her underwear before carefully sliding them down her legs.

I watch her face for any discomfort or confusion, but all I see is a pleasant smile on her features.

She stretches lazily and settles back into the pillows with a sigh as I trail my fingers along her inner thighs.

Моя куколка, always one to please me, opens her legs more, and my mouth waters at the sight of her bare before me. I cannot hold myself back.

My tongue finds her clit, and I slowly lave over it in gentle circles. She tastes sweeter than any fruit; I can't get enough of her. Back in the compound, when I fantasized about what pleasure I could have with a woman, it was always about her pleasuring me. Me taking my pleasure from her.

This is so different. The way that I yearn to taste her, to see her writhing on my fingers and my cock, it's so new. I need her to feel as amazing as she makes me feel; she deserves it.

I have never wanted to make anyone feel anything before. Still, I know that I will not leave this bed, leave her beautiful thighs, until she is begging and pleading for me to release her.

I feel her fingers tangle in my hair and tug. Even in her sleep, she is so powerful and strong-willed. I let her guide my head and tongue where she wants me and as her grip tightens, I know she is waking.

"James," she whispers, voice filled with sleep.

"Принцесса," I reply, lightly biting her inner thigh.

"Please don't stop." So I don't. I pour every piece of me into her, working her up higher and higher until she is so close to that edge, just about to fall over it.

When she comes, her whole body reacts, tightening up into a ball of energy that she unleashes upon me. It is beautiful.

I come up for air, emerging from beneath the blankets to мой ангел panting and blissed out. A smile tugs at my lips, and I wonder if life can truly get better than this.

That is all I thought about last night as I stared at the homes of other people, as I imagined the two of us here in this new place.

Моя куколка finally calms her breathing and tucks herself into my chest. She is warm against my skin, but I welcome her, running my fingers along her back and neck.

I have never had a home. Houses, places I've lived, of course. But never home. Now, I hold her in my arms; I feel the press of her cheek against my chest, and the ache in my heart eases. She is my home.

When she is out of my sight, out of my reach, I feel what I can only describe as homesickness. It is a new feeling, one that makes me hurt all the way down to my long-lost soul. She is the only remedy.

The drive to Bat Trang is quick but beautiful. Мой ангел gazes out her window the entire time, and every time I glance over at her, I am taken aback by her beauty.

Before her, I never knew such beautiful creatures could exist in such an awful world.

We arrive in the village and leave the car; I want to walk around with her.

The village is known for pottery making, and as we walk around, I see мой ангел's eyes light up at the sight of all the different creations. She wiggles her fingers when she sees a woman forming a beautiful vase. I hope she takes up pottery making.

As we get further into the village, we are greeted by people working outside their homes. Мой ангел smiles, and I can see her settling in already.

Before we arrived in Vietnam, I'd found a man in the village who was looking for someone to care for his home while he traveled for a few months.

I arranged for it to be us. We only have to walk for a little longer until we arrive at his home.

It is small, just one bedroom, a kitchen, and a living area, but it is enough for us.

Мой ангел walks through the home with a pleasant smile on her face the whole time.

"This is perfect, James," she says, placing her hand on my arm. I kiss the top of her head and revel in the simple beauty of the action.

"I have a surprise for you," I say against her hair.

Мой ангел tugs her bottom lip between her teeth as she smiles, unable to hide her excitement for what the surprise could be.

Beside the house is a few acres of empty land. I walk моя куколка out of the building and out toward the middle of the land.

"I want to give you the world," I say, voice tight with emotion that I have not experienced before. "But until then, I want to give you a home."

Confusion flickers across her gaze as she tries to understand what I've just said.

"We already have a place to stay; what do you mean?"

I look around at the land surrounding us. I imagine our possible future, and it finally is within reach.

"This is where I will build our home," I say, turning back to her. I take мой ангел's hands in mine, running my thumbs over her smooth skin. "This is where we will live our lives."

Tears pool in the corner of her eyes, and I release her hands to wipe them away. I know they are happy tears. She is not afraid of me.

"James," she whispers.

"I would burn this world to the ground, raze cities. I would follow you to hell and back. The least I can do for you is give you a home, принцесса ."

She laughs and leans up on her toes to kiss me. She tastes sweet as she presses against me, and I wrap my hands around her waist to pull her closer.

I have already figured out where I will get the materials from and what our home will look like.

When it comes to her, everything is so easy. It all falls into place with little effort. I imagine building our home will be the same.

I look forward to working with my hands, to finally creating something instead of destroying it.

No longer the fist of Hydra, I am fulfilling my new destiny.

Knowing that Zemo was the one to give up our location still makes my blood boil, but despite his hatred for super soldiers, I remain.

John Walker wanted us dead or captured by Hydra, but he failed. At every turn, when someone has been there to stop us, we have fought tooth and nail and won.

It gives me hope; it helps me find peace within myself. There is more to this world than pain and violence. I just have to open my eyes to it.

Translations:

ангел = angel

куколка (f) = little doll

принцесса (f) = princess

please let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglist must be 18+

General tags- please let me know if you do not want to be tagged in this series

@peaches1958 @prettylittlepluviophile @writerwrites @w0nderw0mansw0rld @hawsx3 @meetmeatyourworst @harrysthiccthighss @goldylions @late-to-the-party-81 @luxeavenger

Series tags - 18+ only!! must have age in bio - message me to be added <3

@/cwbucky @emmabarnes @w0nderw0man-reading @summerofsnowflakes @winter-soldier-101 @littlered6307 @peaches1958 @callingsergeantbarnes @fandoms-writings @prettywhenicry4 @zombiexbody @trinitytheinfinityromanoff @cjand10 @buckybarnesandmarvel @red42985 @thats-a-gaybie @hallecarey1 @snugglingbucky @/goldylions @wickidlady @saraissleepy @buckybarnesthots @shirukitsune @elizacusi-blog @kitty1960 @searchf0rtheskyline @buckyshbic

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biitchcakes · 8 months

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V e r s e s :

THESE ARE ACTIVE WIPs AND WILL BE ADDED TO :

v. ham sandwich-woman. ⸻ heavily influenced by Captain Marvel 2019, Spider-Woman 2020 and Fantastic Four 2023 ; partially influenced by Spider-Woman 2015 & 2016. She's left the Avengers after the events of the Spider-Verse in search of something more normal, and returns to private investigation / bounty hunting work. Single-ship verse where Jessica's currently dating Johnny Storm ( @revenantinflames ). They've been together for a few months, they have a cat. No Gerry Drew.

➥ tag : ( v. ham sandwich-woman. ) ⸺ ⌜𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕡𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕚𝕟𝕟𝕠𝕔𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕓𝕪 𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕡𝕚𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕘𝕦𝕚𝕝𝕥𝕪⌟

v. spy-der-woman. ⸻ heavily influenced by New Avengers 2005, Spider-Woman 2009, S.W.O.R.D 2010, Avengers 2010, Avengers Assembled 2012 ; partially influenced by Spider-Woman 2015, 2016 & 2020 and Captain Marvel 2019. Depending on where in her timeline, she's either still an Avenger, or she's quit. I will default to her time in the Avengers, shortly after the Secret Invasion, unless we've discussed something else beforehand. Multi-ship. Again though, no Gerry Drew if we write post Spider-Woman 2016.

➥ tag : ( spy-der-woman. ) ⸺ ⌜𝕤𝕖𝕔𝕣𝕖𝕥 𝕒𝕘𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕙𝕦𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕖𝕟 𝕤𝕜𝕣𝕦𝕝𝕝𝕤⌟

v. spider-verse. ⸻ takes place during the comic spider-verse ( though I will happily write with movie muses & use whatever movie canon you want ! just be warned, I will have lots of questions, as I've not seen the film ) ; heavily influenced by The Amazing Spider-Man 2014, Spider-Woman 2015 & 2016, and Spider-Women Alpha & Omega. Single-ship where she's not-so-secretly with Miguel O'Hara ( @neonwebs ). You know the drill, no Gerry Drew.

➥ tag : ( v. spider-verse. ) ⸺ ⌜𝕔𝕒𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕖𝕓 𝕠𝕗 𝕒𝕟 𝕒𝕡𝕠𝕔𝕒𝕝𝕪𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕔 𝕞𝕦𝕝𝕥𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕒𝕝 𝕤𝕡𝕚𝕕𝕖𝕣-𝕠𝕣𝕘𝕪⌟

v. dark angel. ⸻ heavily influenced ( basically set within ) Spider- Woman 1978 ; she’s a private investigator, and still pretty new to this whole superheroing thing after escaping HYDRA. She lives out in California, first Los Angeles, then San Francisco, and has a dual identity at this time.

➥ tag : ( v. dark angel. ) ⸺ ⌜𝕥𝕠 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕚𝕤 𝕥𝕠 𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕙𝕖𝕣⌟

v. TBD. ⸻ heavily influenced by Wolverine 1988, Spider-Woman 1999, & Alias 2001. Temporarily losing her powers, Jessica takes on bounty hunting and private eye work full time. Over the next couple of years, her powers begin to come back, though they're unstable. She and her partner Lindsay McCabe end up in Madripoor and open their own P.I. firm, before returning to the states, where Jessica mentors the third Spider-Woman: Mattie Franklin.

➥ tag : ( v. TBD. ) ⸺ ⌜TBD⌟

v. family-woman. ⸻ heavily influenced by Spider-Woman 2015, Spider-Woman 2016, Captain Marvel 2019 and Spider-Woman 2020 ; she’s got her baby in this one !!! Only thing is, I really disagree with a lot that happens in her 2015 and 2016 runs — including her sudden decision to get pregnant ( I can go into reasons why but I won’t here LOL ). So, my favourite headcanon I have for Gerry is that he’s actually Clint Barton’s son — as I just see him and Jess still hooking up on occasion. If plotted beforehand, I’d most likely be willing to change this headcanon for something we’ve discussed. But, as it typically stands, Gerry secretly being Clint’s is my canon. Though, this is still a multi-ship verse.

➥ tag : ( v. family-woman. ) ⸺ ⌜𝕤𝕡𝕚𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕕𝕠𝕟'𝕥 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕗𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕖𝕤 - 𝕓𝕦𝕥 𝕚 𝕕𝕠⌟

v. star trek. ( ▽ )

#please have a read through these !!#save #verses

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vivid4am · 2 years

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Life Goes On (Chapter 11)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Sam, Bucky, and Y/N are in Madripoor. Y/N finally gets to see the Winter Soldier in action.

Warnings: Language, TFATWS spoilers

A/N: Sorry for the year long wait! I had really really REALLY bad writer's block, but I'm hoping to finally finish this fic. It's what y'all deserve for being so kind. Also, I google translated the Russian from the show as best as I could. It's not perfect, but we'll pretend that it is. Thanks!

Chapter 10

The thing that Y/N noticed immediately as she stepped off the plane was the humidity. The air felt thick and stuffy in Madripoor.

Madripoor is an island in Southeast Asia run by, you guessed it, a rotating variety of criminal gangs and terrorist groups. Y/N’s blood thrummed as she read up on the country during the flight.

Thankfully the A/C in Zeno’s hideout was still working, despite him not being there for a while. Zemo had given Sam and Y/N fake identities that they would hide under. Powerful people who no one would dare try to touch. Bucky didn’t need one, as everyone already knew him as the Winter Soldier.

Y/N was hesitant. Sure, she could pull off a few lies, but to try and fake out criminals? Liars who could spot liars? That would be difficult for her to do.

What was even more difficult was the lack of choice she got in her clothing. Y/N wore a short black mini dress with swirled silver glitter adorned to it. Her hair was pulled up, which was helpful considering the heat. The dress hugged her in all the right places and she was afraid that would stir up trouble. The black strap heels she wore dug into her ankles but she tried not to complain.

She took on the identity of Katrina Stachová, a daughter of an affluent man from the Czech Republic who did most of his dealings in Madripoor. Katrina Stanchová was apparently also involved with Conrad Mack, the Smiling Tiger, aka Sam Wilson.

With Zemo in the lead, the four marched towards their disastrous plan. Despite the numerous criminals that roamed the streets of Madripoor, Y/N was astounded by the country at night. The bright purple and blue lights lit up the skyline. The smell of the ocean was a little sour and foul, but Y/N disregarded it as best as she could.

“We have to do something about this,” Sam sighed. “I look like a pimp and Y/N looks like a lady of the night.” Y/N rolled her eyes.

“No offense.” Sam grumbled.

“Only an American would think that a fashion-forward black man looks like a pimp and the lovely Lisichika resembles a lady of the night. It’s called fitting into your surroundings.” Zemo argued back with Sam. “You look exactly like the man you’re supposed to be playing. The sophisticated, charming, African rake named Conrad Mack, aka the Smiling Tiger.”

Y/N laughed. “God, he even has a bad nickname.” She said, playfully hitting Sam on the arm. Zemo took the phone out of his coat pocket and handed it over to Sam. On the phone was an almost identical match to Sam. To the untrained eye, one would say that Sam and Conrad are identical twins. However, upon closer inspection, there is a mole under Conrad’s left eye, while Sam is without one. Zemo must think that the others won’t get close enough to notice.

Y/N heaved a heavy inhale through the nose and then out the mouth. Everything was just starting to settle in for her. She felt terrified.

“You smell this?” Zemo asked, breaking Y/N out of her thoughts.

“Yeah, what is that? Acid?” Sam replied.

“Madripoor,” Zemo replied. “No matter what happens, we have to stay in character,” He coached. “Our lives depend on it. There’s no margin for error.”

The group came upon a black car that was waiting for them on the bridge. It was parked perpendicular to the bridge, almost blocking their way. Sweat broke out on Y/N’s forehead. She felt sick to her stomach with nerves.

“High Town’s that way.” Zemo said, motioning to the skyline in front of them. “Not a bad place if you want to visit,” Zemo opened the door to the car, Bucky following in the back seat to let Sam and Y/N in. He hasn’t spoken a word at all tonight. And that makes Y/N really nervous. Y/N zoned out of the rest of the conversation, doing her best to pull herself together so she doesn’t sell them out before their plan of trickery even starts.

On the ride toward the club, the car is surrounded by bikes that seem to escort the quartet. Y/N swallowed hard and chewed on the inside of her cheek. She thought she was doing really well, holding herself together, thought that no one noticed.

Bucky’s fingers grabbed her hand, slowly intertwining their fingers together.

Oh, She thought. Bucky noticed.

Soon enough, the four arrived at their destination. Bucky subtly calmed Y/N’s nerves by holding her hand in the car. But now, she noticed, he was on high alert. He made sure that Y/N was in front of him the entire time and looked around his surroundings for any immediate threats. Zemo led the sailing group through a sea of people. Criminals making deals, counting cash, and yelling threats at one another.

When they made it inside the club, Bucky notice Y/N tense up, her shoulders almost touching her ears. She looked like she wanted to crawl and hide away. It took a moment for Bucky to realize that she was uncomfortable being around a bunch of men in a crowded unfamiliar place. Not just men, he reminded himself, criminals.

Bucky closely trailed behind Y/N careful to not let her out of his sight. Zemo, ahead of the group announced in a loud voice so that everyone was aware of his presence. “Я готов отвечить зимний солдат?”

Ready to comply, Winter Soldier?

Bucky's jaw clenched at the phrase. He swallowed thickly, eyes trained on what was in front of him. An attempt to ground him. Y/N.

Whispers broke out around the group. Whispers about the Winter Soldier being here. Shocked gasps entered his ears, making his skin crawl in disgust. He hated himself like this.

Bucky stood idly by the bar while Zemo, Sam, and Y/N ordered their “usual” drinks. It took every bit of Bucky’s strength to hold himself together when Sam almost threw up over his snake shot. Y/N downed her martini without thinking twice. Bucky leaned on the bar, as he watched this tall man, bald and bearded with many tattoos approach Zemo from behind.

He cleared his throat, causing Zemo to turn around. “Got word from on high. You ain’t welcome here.” The man said, head nudging towards the upstairs balcony. Zemo, cool and collective replied, “I have no business with the Power Broker, but if he insists, he can either come and talk to me..” He then turned to Bucky. Bucky’s stone-cold blue eyes glared at the man. The man smirked. “New haircut?”

“Or bring Selby for a chat.” Zemo stated, earning the man’s attention again. The man seemed to grow uncomfortable and then retreated, turning his heel and stalking away.

“A power broker, really?” Bucky scoffed.

“Every kingdom needs its’ king,” Zemo replied. “Let’s just pray we stay under his radar.”

“Do you know him?” Sam asked. Zemo shook his head. “Only by reputation. In Madripoor, he’s judge, jury, and executioner.”

“That’s one shitty justice system.” Y/N deadpanned. She picked an olive off of the toothpick of her martini. Bucky would’ve laughed at Y/N, showed some sort of appreciation for her deprecating humor, but another man, this one in a black beanie, sauntered behind the group. Bucky stood by, waiting for his orders.

Zemo sighed, seeing the man before he turned around and said,

“зимний солдат. ты атакуешь.”

Winter Soldier, attack.

It was expected for the man to grab Zemo’s shoulder.

But that’s only in T.V. shows, Bucky gathered. Nothing is ever perfect for them.

The man grabbed Y/N’s shoulder with a tight grip and Bucky immediately sprung into action.

Everything happened so fast. One minute Y/N was eating a gin-soaked olive and the next she was watching Bucky beat the living shit out of a man who grabbed her by the shoulder. Y/N watched in horror as Bucky dodged punches and then launched into attacks, metal arm clamming in human skin. Bones cracked from the sheer strength of his punches. Sam and Y/N couldn’t do anything but stand by and watch. Zemo seemed to egg him on, sending more enemies his way.

“Didn’t take much for him to fall back into form.” Zemo smirked to Sam, sending chills up Y/N’ spine. She had forgotten that this wasn’t the Bucky that she knew.

The Bucky she knew liked listening to Frank Sinatra and playing rummy with her over a few beers. The Bucky she knew would sit and listen to her babble on and on about The Beatles. And he’d never complain about it.

But this Bucky, he was cold and ruthless. It made her stomach flip and her thighs shake.

The sound of a gun cocking made Y/N freeze and quickly swallow her vile. She watched as everyone in the room loaded and cocked their guns, just as Bucky slammed his latest victim into the bar. Sam laid his hand on Bucky’s metal soldier. Zemo cleared his throat. “Stay in character, or this whole bar turns on us.” He hissed.

Y/N watched as Zemo rolled his shoulders back and placed his hand on Bucky. “Молодец, солдат.”

Well done, Soldier.

Bucky immediately snapped out of his rageful “trance”. “Selby will see you now.” The bartender stated wanting to quickly get the group out from ruining the rest of his business for the night.

Bucky let go of the man. The man slid down the bar, gasping for air. Sam, with a concerned look in his eyes, softly asked. “You good?” Bucky did nothing else but exhale sharply in reply, before turning away and following after Zemo.

Regret was drowning in his blue eyes and Y/N wanted to scream and cry for him. He didn’t want to revert back to his old self, she knew. Her heart ached for him. She wanted to wrap her arm around him and tell him everything would be just fine.

But she couldn’t.

Because now she had to face Selby.

Life Goes On Tag List:

@livvpl107 @navs-bhat @bluemoon-icecream @sltwins @loveheathens @wintersfilm @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @theashlynbarnes @joscelyn02 @gene5sos @vibraniumqueen @icant-hangout-imdrumming @spideyswebshooters @darkacademic2 @bahama-mama-llama @lawrencekate @thewinterrbucky @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @dancerslovelife @hey-there-angels @archaeoheart @unmagically @marvelfansworld @lethallyprotected @marvelanddumbstuff @tylard-blog1 @lokigirlszendaya

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delicatebarness · 17 hours

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im already over 700 words for chapter four of i cant read your mind and the trio arent even in madripoor yet.

#i cant read your mind #i cant read your mind notes

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anonymityisfunwriter · 1 year

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The Twin Flame - Chapter 15: "Getaway Car"

"While he was runnin' after us, I was screamin', "Go, go, go!" But with three of us, honey, it's a sideshow, and a circus ain't a love story, and now we're both sorry..."

Madripoor is every bit as chaotic as Zemo described.

A vaguely acidic smell fills your nostrils as you step out onto the bridge that leads to a grimy bar with a large, flickering neon sign hanging above the entrance.

"Hey," you greet at three menacing men standing on the side of the road. You nod to another woman, who stands twirling a knife in her hand, "Good to see you again."

"What are you doing?" Sam hisses under his breath, pulling you away from the random strangers you're greeting.

"What? I'm blending in!"

"Well, stop it!"

You roll your eyes at Sam and continue walking the length of the road. And though Bucky is now fully immersed in his role as the Winter Soldier, he spares you a fleeting glance to check if you're okay.

You nod ever so slightly, following right behind Zemo into the bar.

Zemo throws the door open, entering the bar like this is his domain, his most natural element.

The bar is packed, filled with people who put Bucky's cold stare to shame.

You can feel eyes on you four the moment you enter the bar.

And because Zemo has yet to tell you exactly what role you're to play tonight, you're unsure if you're supposed to shrink under the scrutiny or bear it with a head held high like Sam.

The second you hear the whispers as you walk by, you're certain it doesn't even matter.

No one's looking at you.

They're all looking at Bucky.

"Is that the Winter Soldier?" you hear someone murmur.

You hear more hushed whispers, echoes of awe and fear about the infamous Winter Soldier as you walk towards the center of the establishment, straight for the bar.

You can't help but feel for Bucky. Even now you flinched when someone even said the word asset in your presence. You can't imagine being reduced to a mere weapon ever again, but here Bucky is, doing it flawlessly.

"Hello, gentleman," the bartender gruffly greets. The bartender looks at Sam for a moment, "Wasn't expecting to see you here tonight, Smiling Tiger."

"His plans changed," Zemo interjects on Sam's behalf. "We have business with Selby."

The bartender's eyes shift around the room, making eye contact with another unfamiliar man. Then, without a word to the unknown messenger, the bartender turns back to Sam. "The usual?"

Sam nods once and your eyes scan the room as the bartender makes his mysterious drink.

In the sea of people staring at your ragtag group, you watch as the unfamiliar man disappears to alert someone of your arrival.

You turn back to the bar just in time to see the snake in the bartender's hand being sliced open.

"Ah," Zemo smirks as Sam's snake venom drink gets placed in front of him. "Smiling Tiger, your favorite."

"One for the lady?" the bartender asks, but you immediately notice that he doesn't actually ask you, his head cranes over you directing the question at Zemo.

Zemo's hand reaches out to clutch your bicep to pull you closer to his side. His grip is firm, borderline painful as Zemo unknowingly agitates your injury. "No. None for the asset."

A breath gets caught in your throat as your blood runs cold.

You do your best to suppress your wince but it turns to a jagged hiss as his fingers grip the gunshot wound on your arm.

And you immediately know why Zemo didn't tell you what your role was tonight, because Sam never would have allowed it.

All you can do now is hope the night doesn't get any worse.

Though Zemo maintains a hand on your arm, the moment the bartender isn't focused on you and Zemo, his grip loosens and allows you a slight reprieve.

For the shortest, millisecond Sam catches your eye, trying to discern if this whole charade needs to come to an end. You don't dare shake your head for fear of breaking character, you simply exhale and look away from him.

"I love these," Sam plainly states, raising his glass.

"Cheers, Conrad," Zemo offers, clinking their glasses together.

Zemo is the first to put the drink to his lips.

Though Sam tries not to show it, he almost hesitates, not wanting to down the mysterious liquid.

You quietly clear your throat to smother your chuckle as Sam gulps the drink down. He schools his expression, giving the bartender a stone-faced thumbs up.

"I got word from up high," the same man from earlier says, approaching Zemo from behind. "You ain't welcome here."

"I have no business with the Power Broker, but if he insists, he can either come and talk to me..." Zemo pauses, gesturing to Bucky.

"New haircut?" the man taunts Bucky, trying to show how unaffected he is by Bucky's menacing presence.

"Or bring Selby for a chat," Zemo finishes.

The man sneers, narrowing his eyes at Zemo.

Bucky's vibranium fist opens and closes once as a warning.

The man visibly hesitates, his hand hovering above Zemo's shoulder.

Bucky's jaw clenches, meeting the man's glare with every once of intimidation plus a little more.

After a second more, the man reluctantly backs down with a huff.

"A power broker, really?" Bucky grunts as the man walks away.

You lose sight of the messenger in the densely packed crowd, while you scan the room you notice that eyes are still locked onto Bucky, everyone watching every single move he makes.

"Every kingdom needs its king. Let's just pray we stay under his radar."

"Do you know him?" Sam quietly asks.

"Only by reputation," Zemo ominously states. "In Madripoor, he is judge, jury, and executioner."

The messenger approaches once more, but this time Zemo doesn't exchange another back and forth. Zemo turns to Bucky, speaking several words in Russian.

The atmosphere of the entire room shifts, the sudden tension thick in the air before anything even happens.

The man places a single hand on Bucky and before you know it, Bucky is attacking.

You gasp at the first punch is thrown as Zemo pulls you away from the altercation. Bucky looks at you for the shortest second, eyeing as you watch the scene play out in front of you.

As quickly as he caught your eye, he turns to throw another merciless punch.

You have to look away as Bucky pins the man to the bar.

Not because his actions scare you, but because you know it must be hard for him to pretend to be the Winter Soldier again.

You don't want to make it any more difficult for him.

"Didn't take much for him to fall back into form," Zemo mutters, a light hand still holding your arm.

You whirl back around when you hear a loud cacophony of guns clicking and cocking throughout the entire bar and it takes everything in you not to intervene when he's so clearly in danger.

You would do the same for any of your friends, you tell yourself.

Zemo tightens his grip on your arm in warning, still unaware of the pain radiating through the injured area. He whispers in your ear, "Stay in character or the whole bar turns on us."

"I could take the whole bar," you exhale.

The corner of his mouth twitches up, he chuckles, "As entertaining as that would be, we have a goal tonight."

Zemo turns away from you and back to Bucky. Zemo mutters a few more words in Russian.

The second the words are uttered, Bucky stands tall, letting the unconscious man slump off the bar and onto the ground with a muted thump.

"Selby will see you now," the bartender announces.

Before you can ask Bucky if he's okay, Zemo maintains the tight hold on your arm, tugging you through the crowd that parts for you like the Red Sea. He murmurs in your ear, "Now, play your part, Asset."

You're not even playing a role when you shudder as he starts pulling you forward like a guard dragging an inmate to their execution.

"You good?" you hear Sam quietly ask Bucky.

All you hear is Bucky's sharp exhale in response.

Zemo continues dragging you through the crowd, through a long, menacingly lit hallway.

Your heart starts pounding in your ears, louder than the music that thumps throughout the bar.

Dread continues building, adrenaline slowly flooding and overwhelming your system until you reach a small, hidden room in the very back of the bar.

A woman sits on the couch in the center of the room with two men flanking her. She begins with a calculated cadence, speaking with the same Machiavellian grin Zemo often wears, "You should know, Baron, people don't just come into my bar and make demands."

"Not a demand. An offer."

"A lot has changed since you were here last, Baron. By the way, I thought you were rotting away in a German prison. How did you escape?"

Zemo seems unfazed by Selby's line of questioning. He smirks at her, languidly shrugging, "People like us always find a way, don't we? I'm sure you've already figured out what I'm here for."

"You're taller than I'd heard, Smiling Tiger," Selby randomly observes, pointing at Sam.

Sam doesn't say a word, sharply nodding once. With a mischievous grin, she purrs at him.

She scans over your group, her eyes falling on you for a long, uneasy moment. Her intense scrutiny takes all the oxygen from your lungs and for a moment you're sure you're going to fold.

But her gaze leaves you just as suddenly and all of her attention focuses on Bucky, it's clear she already knows who he is.

"What's the offer?"

"Tell us what you know about the new serum."

She nonchalantly shrugs. "I don't know what serum you're talking about."

"And I'll give you him," Zemo finishes, gesturing to Bucky. "Along with the code words to control him, of course. He will do anything you want."

A wide smirk grows on her face, a calculating glint in her eyes, "Now that's the Zemo I remember. I'm glad I decided not to kill you immediately. Alright, I'll confess, you were right to come to me. Arrogant, but right." Her eyes shift around the room once more. She slowly leans forward, ready to impart what she knows, "This new serum, it's being manufactured right here in Madripoor. I've heard of some glitches, but powers beyond your wildest imagination."

"And?" Zemo urges.

She chuckles, leaning back into her seat, "The rest is going to cost you. It's a dangerous game going against the Power Broker."

"What about the girl?" Zemo offers.

"The girl?" Selby scoffs, not even sparing you a second glance. "How cute, but I have not use for your little doll."

"Oh, no. This, this is a great weapon," Zemo creepily praises, stroking your cheek. You flinch away from his hand, feeling uncomfortable as the various people in the room leer at you. "Kept a strict secret. SHIELD's greatest asset."

"And how do I know you're not lying?"

"Perhaps a little demonstration will convince you. As an act of good faith." Zemo pushes you forward, further into the center of the room. You breathe heavily, almost tumbling over at the shove. "Now."

You freeze. Normally, you'd look over to Sam for a quick reassurance, but you force your eyes to remain locked on Selby as you weigh the ramifications of what you're about to do.

You'd always been told keeping yourself a secret was your greatest source of protection, and here you were about to give it up. Words escape you, you can barely stammer, "I- "

"Soldier," Zemo curtly orders.

"Okay, okay!" you blurt, not even allowing a moment for Bucky to act. You're not even worried that he'll hurt you, you're worried that he won't and he'd blow everyone's cover instead.

So you give up your last real source of protection, so he doesn't have to.

You swallow the knot in your throat and with a shaky hand, you hold out a blooming flower to Selby.

"How quaint," Selby condescendingly coos. Just as the words leave her mouth, the flower erupts in a bright blue flame. She quickly inhales, her entire face lighting up with intrigue, "And what else can you do?"

"Ah," Zemo interjects, grabbing your arm and tugging you back. "The demonstration was free. Anything more will cost you."

"Dr. Wilfred Nagel is the man you want to thank. Or condemn, depending on what side of this you're on. The Power Broker had him working on the serum, but ...things didn't go as planned."

"How so?"

"Your credit has run out, Baron," Selby tuts, standing up out of her seat. She begins to predatorily circle you. For the first time all night, you play your part, your eyes downcast at the floor beneath your feet, your head submissively slumping down. She triumphantly chuckles as you shrink under her scrutiny, "And before you get all cute, you won't figure out a thing without me. And most certainly not Nagel."

She only stops circling you when a loud vibration emanates from Sam's pocket. Her eyes snap towards him, "Answer it. On speaker."

Sam freezes for a second. All eyes remain on him as he reluctantly pulls his phone out of his pocket, tapping the screen several times before responding, "Hello?"

"Hey, um, we need to talk about this situation," Sarah's familiar voice echoes throughout the room. "It's been driving me nuts."

"What situation exactly are you talking about?" Sam stiltedly asks.

"Are you high?" Sarah retorts. "You know what situation. It's the only situation me and you have."

"What situation, Sarah? Say it," Sam sharply orders.

"The damn boat. And watch your tone, okay? I let you slide at the bank."

"The bank," Sam dramatically scoffs. "Yeah. Laundered so much... Yeah, they'll come around."

"If that was the case then why'd they dog you out big time?" she chuckles.

"Yeah, you're damn right I'm big time. You'll see when I have the banker killed," Sam lies.

You're almost impressed with how easily he's playing off the conversation.

"Oh and before I forget, you were talking about the airport earlier, is she still coming back? What's the deal?"

Sam humorlessly snorts, his eyes narrowing at you. "The asset has been apprehended and secured, definitely won't be trying anything like that again."

"The asset? Right... the SHIELD thing. So you're good? You don't need - Hold on, Cass!" Sarah shouts. "Sam, I'm sorry, I'm going to have to call you back."

"Sam?" Selby questions, a bewildered look flashing across her face. "Who's Sam? Kill them!"

Before anything can happen, one singular shot rings throughout the room, stopping everyone in their tracks.

For a moment, it all goes silent.

Selby's lifeless body slumps down on the floor, blood pooling on the back of her shirt as she lay face down on the floor.

The first man standing directly beside Sam acts almost immediately, Sam dodges the first blow, punching the man square in the temple, knocking him out cold.

Bucky tears the gun out of the man standing beside you, using the butt of the rifle to leave the man unconscious.

You pry your arm out of Zemo's hold, the four of you scrambling to get out of any direct line of fire.

You're the first to huddle by the emergency exit, quickly followed by the others.

Sam scans the room again, more specifically, the three people strewn on the ground, "They're going to pin this on us."

"We have a real problem now," Zemo sighs, glancing down at his screen. You only catch a small glimpse of his screen with a large red banner above his picture. "So leave your weapons and follow my lead."

The four of you unceremoniously exit the building through the back exit with your heads down, walking at a normal pace to avoid calling attention to yourselves.

Before you can even make it more than a few feet, you hear a collective pinging of phones throughout the dirty streets of Madripoor as though one notification just went out to the entire city.

You wince, not bothering to suppress your visible cringe, "That's not good."

"No kidding," Sam sarcastically retorts as eyes begin finding the four of you.

"We-"

Before Bucky can finish his sentence, more shots ring out above you.

You all begin to move and move fast, a brisk walk turning into a fast jog that turns into a full on sprint through Madripoor. Your lungs burn as you follow behind Sam, Bucky trailing right behind you.

"Shit!" Sam shouts as the streetlights above you begin to ominously flicker. They simultaneously shut off, leaving you all in a pitch black night, with no ability to see who's coming or how to defend yourselves.

"Come on!" Bucky shouts, guiding you and Sam off the main roads.

"I can't run in these heels!" Sam calls back to him.

Without a second worry about the dirty floor and jagged pavement, you stumble, kicking off your shoes, taking them in your hand to follow Bucky and Sam. Trailing right behind them, you scream, "Go, go, go!"

Several more gunshots ring out, but this time not at you, but killing the people that were just trying to kill you.

You all halt your sprint, your eyes raking over the suddenly eerily quiet streets.

"Are we done running?" you wheeze, your hands on your knees as you try to catch your breath. "Please tell me we're done running."

"You seem to have a guardian angel," Zemo comments, following behind Bucky.

"Well, this is too perfect," a familiar voice calls from the shadows. "Drop it, Zemo."

Zemo gently places the weapon on the ground without a second thought, raising his hands in surrender.

Sam's eyes narrow, craning his neck to see through the pitch black street. "Sharon?"

"Sharon?" Bucky repeats.

"Sharon!" you excitedly greet as she steps into the light. She tugs down her hood, revealing herself to the four of you. "Oh, this is great! I haven't seen you in forever!"

She practically ignores you, offering only a half-hearted smile. Her eyes remain trained on Zemo, her gun aimed directly at him, her fingers are already grazing the trigger, "You cost me everything."

"Sharon, wait," Sam interjects. "We've got a situation."

"I don't care."

"Just hold on!" Sam implores. "Someone is creating this dangerous serum and Zemo had a lead."

She doesn't drop the gun, only removing her finger from the trigger to hear Sam out. "That explains why you guys are here. And why Selby's dead."

"So what are you doing here?" Bucky asks.

"I stole Steve's shield, remember? I also took the wings for your ass so that you could save him from him." She turns away from them to you, with an equally vitriolic glare, "I also lied to Ross about knowing where the hell you ran off to so you could help those three idiots. But unlike you guys, I didn't have the Avengers to back me up, so I'm off the grid in Madripoor."

"Hey, don't blow that smoke at us, we were on the run too," Sam defends.

"Was. Is. Big difference. I don't speak to my family anymore, I can't. My own father doesn't know where I am," Sharon sneers, her finger once again hovering over the trigger.

"Sharon, we need your help," Bucky asks. Sharon incredulously chuckles at Bucky's words. "Please."

"This isn't over," she warns. With a begrudging sigh, she finally lowers her gun, placing it back in its holster, "I have a place in High Town. You'll be safe there."

"Great!" you beam.

Sharon sighs deeply, finally sparing you a second glance. You're a little confused by the irritation on her face that seems to be reserved for you. Her gaze slowly rakes over you, ending at you feet on the floor, "And you are barefoot."

You sheepishly chuckle, holding up your shoes in your hand. "Sorta running for my life. They had to come off."

She shakes her head at you, rolling her eyes, "Let's go."

The Twin Flame Chapter List AnonymityIsFun Masterlist

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