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sprout-fics · 7 months

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Engravings (Chapter One)

(Makarov x F! Reader)

Engravings Masterlist

Word Count: 4.2k Rating: Mature Tags: Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, False Romance, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Injury/Blood, Whump, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier AU, No Fluff, Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Mind the tags (Read on Ao3)

“How do you think you’ll die?”

His fingers still as they trace your bare spine.

It’s silent in the solitude of his apartment, one of many he moves between to keep safe. This is one of the nicer ones. Furnished with silk sheets, the interior is immaculately clean. Wide windows overlook St. Petersburg below, a sight you never see with towering curtains blocking the view. Carefully curated art hangs from the walls, an abstract painting flecked with gold above his bed. You see shapes in it, think you see something akin to a lynx staring back at you. There’s never anything on the counters, no mess that would indicate someone lives here. It feels too pristine, almost artificial.

Hazy, bluish light drowns both of you as you both sprawl in bed. You like it when he makes love to you here. The large space makes you feel so alone, so much closer to him, like you have him all to yourself. Greedy, you drink in his scent, claw at his back, listen to his breath stutter as he rolls his hips into you.

Makarov is silent as you tuck into his side, shift and tangle your legs a little closer to his. You can’t see his face, but you know the look in his eyes. Precise, calculating, almost detached. His silence is indicative of his answer before he even speaks it.

“With glory.” He responds, fingers resuming their lazy path. “For Russia.”

You nod without any response. You’re not sure what you expected, but it should have been that. Makarov is a soldier, just like you are. A warrior, one who will kill, die for his ideals. As much as you long after him, as much as he loves you in return, you know his death will be exactly as he says. Not gently, not beside you in old age, sighing softly into your arms with his last breath, a lifetime of joy he left behind. His mere existence speaks of violence and retribution, a danger you yourself are caught in as an inescapable tide.

You don’t remember a time before Makarov.

There’s glimpses, yes, whispers of a time before he found you, but they’re distant echoes drowned by the sound of his voice. He says you were a soldier, and you know this much is true. He says he found you dying, on the brink of death. He scooped you from the ashes, rescued you from the embrace of the grim reaper and brought you here. Home. Your earliest memory of him is when he sat in the hospital chair, looked upon you with curious, sad eyes and asked you your name.

You didn’t know.

Marionette, your callsign. A name he bestowed upon you, the one who holds the strings. You’re his blade, his weapon, the arrow in his bow. You fly in the direction of his enemies, cut them down with lethal precision, feel their heartbeats stutter and still in your hands. You’re used to the scent of blood by now, arrive back to him awash in red and let him kiss it from your lips, the taste of your murder on his tongue.

You know what the others say about you. You see them as they watch you walk with him, two steps back, by his right shoulder. A designated position. If someday he were to be betrayed, shot through his spine, you know the bullet would enter you first.

You know too that you’ve accepted this.

Marionette. The puppet, the other soldiers say. Beautiful, poised, but empty. He holds you in his palms and you go willingly, holding onto every scrap of warmth he offers like it will fill the hollow inside you. The others, they’re scared of your devotion to him, the way you’d be ready to die if he asked. Yet there’s something else there too, glimpses of desire for a thing they’ll never touch. A longing to feel your skin, to see the glimmer behind your gaze. Those who look too long disappear, and you know without having to ask that it was through his hands.

You’re his, after all.

In private he calls you милая, дорогая, любимая. Honey, darling, beloved. He cups your face in his hands and presses gentle kisses to your forehead, presses you into the sheets with endless praises of your violence. He treats you like he loves you, even though he never says it. You think perhaps it’s taboo for people like you, speaking of blessings only to have them stolen as soon as you confess. He gathers you to him when he sleeps, presses your bare form to his. You stay awake just to hear the sound of his even, steady breaths, watch how his face doesn’t soften even in sleep.

In the morning he’s gone before you rise. You tiptoe to the living room, see him standing at a crack in the curtains, awash in the hazy dawn. When you wrap your arms around his bare torso, he kisses your knuckles but says nothing. Eyes distant.

Loving Makarov is hard.

He always seems not completely there with you, eyes gazing into a distant future you cannot see. You’re stuck in the present, helplessly watching him discern the spinning axis of the earth, blinking as you see constellations sparkle in his gaze. Copernicus, he watches the stars rotate with him at the axis, tracing across their glimmering brightness like he’s drawing prophecies from the heavens. All for once was a far-fetched dream of Russia, one that becomes closer with every death in your grasp.

You don’t do it for his vision. You do it for him, and there’s some days where you wonder if you could ever stop.

“Come back to bed.” You whisper against the flesh of his shoulder, and he holds your hand to his chest where you feel his pulsing heartbeat.

“There are things to be done.” He murmurs instead. He’s silent for a while, as if waiting for you to protest. You never do.

“Dress. Eat.” He tells you in Russian, as he turns to hold your face in his hands. “I have somewhere to send you.”

That’s how you end up in Prague.

Trailing an informant, one of his own. He’s a twitchy sort, constantly looking over his shoulder in a way that means he knows he’s being followed. Your mission is not to kill him, not yet. First you must see who he meets, which enemy he speaks to, and then bury them both.

December. Snow dusts the streets. You’ve long since become accustomed to the winters in this part of the world, the way the sun hides during this part of the year. You’re bundled in a stylish coat and matching scarf- his choosing. It brings him a certain pleasure, somehow, to choose how you dress. You find you don’t mind, leaning up to his words of endearment with every fine thread he drapes you in.

It’s a shame the coat will get stained. You find he doesn’t mind that either, as if he prefers the color red on you.

You sip on coffee in a chair of the cafe, wishing instead for hot chocolate. The bitterness is familiar, even as the temptation of sweetness lingers in your senses. You hide your face between sips, pulling up the mask that covers the lower half of your face. The informant sits in a corner booth alone, leg bouncing. Sloppy. Obvious. You watch him with cat-like eyes, blinking slowly, wondering if he’ll beg when you kill him. The man that meets him is calmer, dark haired, clearly English. His mere presence seems to soothe the other man, and you watch as they discuss things in hushed detail, the informant sliding a USB across the table where their drinks sit untouched.

The Englishman leaves first, gives a small farewell and shrugs on his coat, neatly slipping the traitorous item in his pocket. You wait a minute until after he leaves, watching your fidgety comrade count on his watch by instruction until he too is supposed to depart. You’ll be back for him later. You know where to find him.

You trail the Englishman into the overcast afternoon, following his dark coat until the street is empty. Yet as you close the distance between you and the spy, a figure rounds the corner just in front of him. Your awareness roars to life a moment too late, and even though you stab your knife forward the man before you counters it easily. His movements are experienced, practiced, and strong. They counter your quick, precise agility in a flurry of movement, before at last you’re forced into the shadow of a building, his broad form crowding you from behind.

“Where is he?” The man breathes in your nape. Cigar smoke, musk, the grip on your wrists speaking of a soldier’s strength. You don’t need to ask who. You already know. You know you’ll die before you tell him.

“Minsk.” You lie easily, and the grip on your hands tightens.

“Try again.” He growls.

“You’ll never find him.” You offer instead, voice easy, almost detached. It makes him pause for some reason, and you wonder if that alone has startled him.

You don’t expect him to flip you around, press his forearm to your throat and rip down your mask.

You see him for the first time then. He’s worn in the way warriors are, years of duty etched onto his face. Thick brows, a beard, eyes that you think in another lifetime could have been kind. He stares at you with open astonishment, a bewildered shock that fades to a strange grief you can’t understand.

“You’re alive.” He whispers.

You blink at him, and for the first time feel your expression change to that of confusion. He seems to recognize you. You’ve never seen him once in your entire life.

He whispers a name, one you don’t know. Yet the voice he speaks it in is that of despair, a realization that seems to eclipse the fabric of his soul.

“What has he done to you?”

Panic flares inside you, and suddenly your entire being is consumed in the instinct to run, run, run. The man holding you captive radiates a danger far beyond that of duty, a fear that roots inside you and cracks at the foundation of your composure. You throw a leg up between you, and in his attempt to dodge his grip loosens on you. You duck under him, seize the knife that had been wrestled from your grip. A slash on his leg brings him to a knee. You dart a distance away from him, shaking, looking back with wild eyes. Red drips from your blade.

You should kill him. You’re not sure you can if you try.

You run.

When you find the informant, let his blood pool over his fingers, you see your own fear mirrored in his eyes.

The Englishman gets away. It’s an unacceptable failure, and when you send an encrypted message to Makarov he is silent for some time before he responds.

Report back.

He’s displeased to say the least when you arrive, mouth pressed into a scowl, brow drawn tight. You try to stand tall, refusing to show just how shaken you are by the whole ordeal. You know better than to show him weakness. Yet the man’s words from before haunt you, repeating in a ceaseless echo that sends the world under you spinning violently.

Makarov paces away from you, but at the mention of the stranger he snaps to look at you, blinking in something akin to shock. It flashes over his features for only a moment before he stills back into his stony passiveness, and then it darkens into something that makes your stomach sit heavy, making you nearly take a step back at the glint that warns of danger.

He strides over to you, and this time you do falter. You’ve seen Makarov angry before, but it was always with his subordinates, the men who show fear, hesitation, those who don’t follow orders. You’ve seen him shoot a man dead for daring to question him, and as he stood over the man’s oozing corpse he had murmured that Russia’s future did not include traitors.

Yet this- as he crosses the room with surprising speed, as you reel backwards out of pure instinct, as he captures your jaw and presses you to the wall so the lynx painting rattles- is different.

“His name.” He growls, teeth bared, jaw clenched, and he doesn’t notice the way your hand encloses his wrist in a pleading grasp. “What was his name?”

“I-I don’t know.” You manage in hardly a whisper. “I swear.”

He holds you for moments longer, stares into your eyes and waits for your gaze to falter with dishonesty. Your heart beats at an aleatory rhythm in your chest, a tremble starting in your hands and spreading along the sinews of your body. Yet as Makarov waits for you to stumble, to confess something you don’t have, you stare into his eyes.

and you see fear.

The ground cracks under you like splintering ice. A flare of panic takes a frigid hold of your veins. Makarov is not afraid. He is not fearful. He isn’t scared of death, of defeat. He throws himself in the jaws of lions and peels their teeth to use as daggers. He does not waver, he remains steadfast, unmovable. So this...this....

He releases you, and it takes all your strength to not gasp in relief, practically sagging against the wall as he turns. There’s a coiled tension to his shoulders, his fists clenching and then releasing before he turns back to you, eyes almost gentle.

“I’m sorry, darling.” He murmurs, reaching forward to loop his arms around your waist. Despite the tremble in your limbs you learn eagerly into the safety of his embrace. “I shouldn’t have scared you. I just can’t imagine the thought of someone like that taking you away from me.”

He presses your cheek to his shoulder, and even though you stay there your eyes are unblinking, wide, as if seeing the first glimmer of the truth to come.

As you sleep in his arms that night, you lay awake with wide eyes still, the stranger’s words repeating endlessly in the cacophony of your mind.

“What did he do to you?”

He gives you a few days to rest but leaves you alone in the too-large apartment. You feel miniscule against the towering windows that overlook the city, and in the absence of his touch your thoughts spiral in uncertainty.

How did he know you?

You’re sent out once more, and this time you aren’t alone. It unnerves you. You’ve worked by yourself for so long that the men on either side of you on the plane feel like they crowd into your space. One of them, the younger one, is fairly talkative. You pass idle exchanges, but every time he asks something that even remotely pertains to you his older comrade hisses at him, as if they’re not allowed to know. As if the mere knowledge of you as anything other than a weapon is a sin.

The rifle in your hands is familiar, the weight grounding as you perch on a snowy rooftop, examining the ambassador’s aide just outside his home. You watch him kiss his wife, blink and feel something familiar and forbidden tug in your ribs.

The older soldier is beside you, his own sights trained on the driver. His younger comrade scans the surrounding rooftops for interference. He doesn’t flinch at the gunshot, the scream from the wife.

He does, however, collapse at the third gunshot. Not yours.

You bolt, rifle hoisted to your shoulder. The older comrade calls for his friend, and you tug him back even as he fights you. He acts as a shield when the next shot rings out, and his blood coats your arms. You duck, roll, plant yourself behind a vent cover and search for the other sniper. You find him on a taller rooftop, his sights glinting in the dawn. A shot dents the steel, and you focus your sights on its origin.

A skull mask. A reaper.

It tugs at something inside your thoughts, the same place where the stranger’s words echo. Distant, a whisper of familiarity locked behind a terrible dread. Brown eyes. The color of rust. They widen when they see you, and in his hesitation you fire a single round.

Your aim is off.

It catches him by the shoulder, and he rolls out of view. As police sirens howl, you take that moment to escape, cast a lingering glance to the neighboring rooftop and wonder why it feels as if you just saw a phantom.

You lose two men, and the deaths are acceptable. They died for the cause. Martyrs for the future that Makarov divines even as he licks the blood clean from your fingers.

It’s only then that the dreams begin.

You sleep in an empty bed. Cold, the phantom chases you through sleep. The bone white mask fades at the edges like mist. It snakes into your lungs, chokes the air and freezes your ribs. In the hollow of your chest there’s whispers of a name you don’t recognize. Yelling, screaming, hands reaching for you amidst chaos and flames. You fall through the sky, descending too quickly. Their voices are lost to the wind, and as you pull at your shoulder, the thing that unfurls above you is shot through with debris. The ground races up, up, up-

You fall, wake up on the floor, trembling, chest heaving, trying to remember where you are. Who you are.

The voices chase you on your next assignment, pulse in tandem with the heartbeat that fades under your fingertips. You try to blot them out, try to replace them with the sound of his voice, and in the midnight darkness they return, howling like the gale. Faces you don’t recognize, hands, touches, laughter.

“You were talking in your sleep.” Makarov tells you when he rouses you in the darkness of a safehouse. Your bruised ribs from your last mission heal under bandages, and as he soothes a hand over them you wince but don’t protest. “Were you dreaming?”

Yes. You think, and open your mouth to tell him, confess the chaos of your nightmares. Yet something howls in the gale inside you, screams in a soundless cry that stifles the air in your chest, sends your voice into wordless silence.

“I don’t know.” You whisper, and it’s the first lie you’ve ever told him.

After that, you only dream when you’re alone.

Never alone on missions, not again. You’re constantly accompanied, flanked, and you have the itching, uncomfortable feeling that you’re being monitored.

You try to ask why you aren’t allowed to go alone and see the way the smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he holds you close.

“To keep you safe, дорогая.” He coos, stroking your cheek with his knuckles. “How could I ever lose you?”

You accept this, but the hollow of doubt inside you wonders that, if that were true, why he would risk you at all. Hardly a week goes by without another injury, another bruise from a target, a mission, an enemy he throws you at and you carve into fatal stillness. It feels in some ways like he’s punishing you, forcing you to bear the cost of his love. Yet he presses kisses to your cuts, the blossoming yellow and purple across your skin, sighs endearments and swallows your whimpers with the slant of his mouth against yours.

Yet you fall into him, your only source of comfort, your beacon. You’re lost without him, a marionette with no master. You don’t whisper the sin of your loved confession even as it tightens in your chest, knowing he can never say it back lest it summon destruction. Taboo, forbidden, just like the doubts you refuse to share with him. You cling to him instead, listen to his heartbeat and try to synchronize it with your own.

“You’re shaking.” He whispers as you shiver in his arms following something akin to lovemaking. “Are you scared?”

“No.” You tell him, another lie. It’s not of him, never him. Not yet.

Your dreams are the thing that terrify you, and you fear them because you don’t understand. They paint images you struggle to discern. Falling one moment, caught in an embrace the next. Gunfire replaced by the clink of glasses and a bark of laughter. Cigar smoke envelopes you, war paint smears charcoal across your fingertips. An arm slings across your shoulder in warm familiarity, hands wrap a wound, and blue eyes turn to you in an affectionate concern. They whisper a name that bores into your marrow, takes holds like rot, and the deeper you carve to dig it out the more you begin to fracture.

Doubt, and it terrifies you. You never have to doubt Makarov. You turn to his hands as they guide you, surrender to his touch as they hone the fatal edge of your killing strike. You’re his, and his alone.

It’s in Belgrade that you begin to understand.

The details of the mission are obscure. Moving a Belarusian oligarch, a team with you. Different from your usual assignments, your carefully curated wardrobe is exchanged for plate armor, gloves, bracers. You wear it like a second skin. The weight is familiar, almost relieving. There’s not much for you to do, sitting in the back of the Humvee beside the package, watching the nighttime city fade to countryside and listening to the loud thrum of the convoy. You’re still healing from your last mission, a sprain that aches in your shoulder. You didn’t protest when he pressed it, took note of your grimace and declared you fit for duty. You must have made a face, because he’d tipped his knuckles under your chin, and had forced you to meet his gaze.

“You’ll do it for me, won’t you, Marionette?” He murmured with those dark, soft, velvet eyes, and you found yourself empty of protests.

The Belarusian oligarch grumbles the entire time, and you don’t entertain him. Yet eventually he seems to take notice of you in a different sense, eyes roaming over the dip of your waist that your gear obscures, then up to your eyes hidden by your helmet. You see it out of the corner of your eye, ignore his sly murmur and hungry gaze. He plants a hand on the thigh hidden by your canvas pants, and you resist the fatalistic urge to separate his fingers from his-

A whoosh of noise, a shout by the soldier in the front seat. Garbled, surprised Russian, and you make out the shout of GRENADE!! before the world groans and twists violently around you.

The truck lands upside down, and you kick out the window to escape, haul the unconscious oligarch out behind you, then the driver. The convoy screeches to a halt, darkness illuminated by growing flames and bright bursts of gunshots. A comrade runs to assist your stumbling stance even as you try to drag your package to another truck, and he gets three steps before he crumples to the ground. The bridge where the convoy is halted is precarious, prone to gunfire, and you can hear panicked shouts as those in the trucks behind you realize the mangled wreckage of your Humvee blocks the way.

Another grenade, and this one is close. It knocks you flat onto your back, scatters asphalt and dust over you. There’s a ringing in your ears that deafens gunshots to distant pops, and even your groan of pain sounds like it comes from under water. Your helmet has been knocked from your face, and when you tilt your head to the side you see hostiles growing closer, nearly atop you.

You stand, turn, fall again as a bullet grazes your shoulder. Yet there’s a shout then from behind you, one you stubbornly ignore as you rise once more, stagger towards the edge of the bridge.

That name again, the once that’s become familiar to you by now, the one that isn’t yours. You bend over the railing, stare at the current below, racing in the darkness. The voice calls again, and you turn, stare at the face partially obscured by his helmet. Brown eyed, a mustache, younger than your spirit feels. You’ve seen him before, and you don’t know where, like he’s appeared in a distant dream.

Hands off his weapon, he takes a step towards you, repeats the name in a cracked, desperate call. You look at him, feel fear of the unknown once more pulse between your ribs. The ringing in your ears grows louder, and you stumble backwards in uncertainty. He reaches for you.

“Wait-” He tries, gaze open with despair. “Please.”

“I know you.” You breathe, seeing the way the fire alights across his brown skin in amber hues. “I...”

A step back, a stumble. You pitch over the railing, into the water.

Darkness surrounds you.

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crazyinlovewithbucky · 1 year

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“don’t fill your void with me”

“Свою пустоту мною не заполняй”

Pairings: Villain!The Winter Solider!Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: this takes place in an alternative universe where Hydra took over the world and the winter soldier killed all Avengers and he became the leader of Hydra and he’s controlling the whole world. He saw you one day and he determined you were his and he made sure of that. making you live very comfortably as his “favorite” mistress and he turns very very soft with you.

Warnings: heavy smut, some fluff (if u squint), villain bucky turns sweet, oral (f receiving), jealousy, dark themes, dark!bucky to soft!bucky, dom bucky, lots of praise + lots of praise in Russian.

This was inspired by Яд by Erika Lundmoen

please read my author note it’s very important!

AU/N: this is only part one and still working on part two. thought I’d make this only one part but it was too long I had to cut it into two parts. I need to remind you that English is not my first language so excuse any misspelling or mispronunciation of any words or any grammatical mistakes lol. Hope you enjoy this dark fantasy I had of Bucky as I was wondering how he would be still a villain. Also, this was heavily inspired by ‘Yad’ (Яд) by Erika Lundmoen, I love this song so much and it always reminds me of Bucky in his Winter solider era. Enjoy loves xx

PART 1.

You sighed before swallowing that last sip of the red wine glass that the air hostess brought you. This was already your 3rd glass. You looked through the window to the dark clouds and the night sky as you kept thinking and wondering how you get here in the first place. It was somewhat a normal Friday late afternoon, you were getting ready for the evening, and your –rich new– friends have prepared for you. They were setting you up with a blind date, they said it’s a very handsome guy who's an heir to a big industrial company. You weren’t amused that much as none of them know your secret or your secret lover.

Then you remembered him, your secret mysterious lover, who’s the reason you’re living this lavish rich lifestyle. You remembered six years ago, on the news, you were watching Captain America getting brutally killed by none other than The Winter Soldier himself. You watched the fall of this new organization of superheroes and agents called “The Avengers” and the new world order seeing light under the hands of The Winter Soldier. Hydra ruled and controlled every country in the world, including the USA. It was three years ago when you saw on the news that every leader and all the rulers of Hydra were killed and it was an inside job. The Winter Solider rebelled and killed every single one of them and he, alone, became the new Hydra leader, recruiting super soldiers and making the biggest army of super soldiers known to man.

A year ago, you were just a normal waitress girl, in a hotel restaurant, minding your own business and working just to make ends meet. You weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth and your upbringing was very normal and somewhat poor. Until one day your boss came and told you there will be a very important diplomatic meeting that’s happening in the hotel and he assigned you and two of your coworkers to wait on the leaders and diplomats. On this same very evening, you saw him for the first time. The Winter Solider. Bucky Barnes. Captain America’s best friend who was brainwashed by Hydra and was under control for decades. He was so charismatic, terrifying, very handsome, and absolutely dangerous. Just like a fallen angel, just like Lucifer himself. You were drawn to him at first glance until he noticed you and made eye contact with you. Your heart skipped a beat then, there was a connection between you both, you were certain of this as at first glance, you saw his face change emotion and he was staring at you.

“барышня, only 5 minutes till landing” You were brought back to reality from that memory train you were on by the sound of the bodyguard on your left. you nodded to him with a smile and fastened your seat belt around your hips.

Looking back at your past now made you wonder if you actually deserve to live this life or not, to go everywhere with a private plane like the one you’re in now. To live in the finest, most luxurious apartment in Brooklyn, to have rich friends and live a rich lifestyle, to attend galas and be the face of many luxury brands, all because of him, all because he liked you the first time he saw you, all because he promised you to make all your wishes and dreams come true only if you became his, all because he wanted his “favorite one” to be separate from the other women and to live like a princess whose all her dreams are granted.

In fact, you didn’t ask for any of this at all, but you loved the idea that he made all of this for you just because he thinks you’re worthy of it. In the end, you were “his favorite”.

The plane landed in the small very private airport near his mansion in Russia. you had your fur coat covering you. At least, you were dressed very fancy for the ball you were going to with your friends to meet your blind date. As you were about to leave your apartment, you were met by Bucky’s super soldiers' bodyguards at the front door of your apartment, telling you that The King wants you now. So you didn’t argue, you nodded and just took your bag and phone and left with them. This was your deal with him, him giving you whatever you want and desire in life, and you being available and there whenever he calls for you or want you. He has the plane ready for you and super soldiers protecting you and going everywhere with you, in case something goes wrong.

The guards guided you into the mansion and into Bucky’s suite which took up the whole second floor of the mansion. You walked with them till you arrived in front of the door of his office then they left you there alone. You knocked slightly.

“входить” his voice was deep and calm, you just felt butterflies in your stomach as you were very anxious and excited to see him, it’s been nearly a month since your last meeting with him and you missed him dearly. You opened the door and entered and as soon as you closed it behind you, he looked up from the pile of papers in front of him, his hair was perfectly combed, and he grew his beard, which was a very new look on him but also a very sexy one. He grinned widely as soon as his eyes met yours. “ahhh моя кукла”. he stood up from behind his desk and you walked closer to him and he moved closer to you too.

He kissed you very deeply and passionately before hugging you tightly, you hugged him back and buried your face in his neck. “Missed you so much, кукла” he whispered in your ear and kissed your neck softly.

“Missed you too, James” you smiled softly and he started to rub your back slightly.

You didn’t actually know how to address him, didn’t know if you should call him sir, king, soldier, Bucky, or James. You never actually asked, but you found James to be just perfect as you felt weirded out to call him sir or king. ‘James’ was good enough based on the relationship you both had, you were not actually lovers or boyfriend and girlfriend to be intimate and call him Bucky and yet you both weren’t platonic or had a strict respectful relationship to call him sir. so ‘James’ did the job perfectly.

At least, he didn’t complain about whatever you call him.

He removed your fur coat slowly and looked at your body and your fancy dress. “You look so beautiful,” he held your hand and spun you around to take a good look at the dress. It was a tall tight dress that hugs your curves perfectly with a very long slit on the left that shows your whole left leg from your upper thigh to your left foot. It was burgundy colored with a black sheer silk attached to it that gives the dress a matte look under lights. “did you get all dolled up for me?” he smirked at you when his eyes left your body and met your eyes.

“Well, umm-,” he leaned back on his office desk and sat on its edge and pulled you to him slowly “you didn’t give me any heads up that we were supposed to meet so I was actually going to a ball party with a bunch of friends” you looked down to your hands playing with his black suit’s blazer, trying to hide the truth that you were going on a blind date.

The thing you didn’t know about Bucky is that he is very good at reading body language and the second you broke eye contact and said that, he knew you were hiding something and that’s not the truth. But he didn’t want to confront you yet about it so he took it slowly. “Oh really?” he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him as your chests now touching and he has a perfect view of your boobs as it’s pushed up from the tight dress. “what kind of a ball party?” he moved his head and start kissing your neck.

“A normal one.” you bit your lower lip as his kisses now moved down to your shoulders and collarbone.

“normal one? what kind of a ball is that exactly?” he chuckled while his right hand moved down slightly and he started rubbing your left butt cheek as his kisses never stopped and his lips moved down to your chest, leaving more kisses.

“Just a normal ball party, James” you sighed, feeling more frustrated as you are getting more turned on by his touching and kisses and you feel yourself getting wetter, you can’t stand wearing your panties anymore, it’s getting more uncomfortable as you are soaked down there.

“A normal ball party where rich people gather around for whatever reason, stuffing their faces with crab cakes and drinking champagne until they’re passed out,” you said with an annoyed tone as you can’t just stand the teasing anymore.

The relationship you had with Bucky was just casual sex every now and then unless that was what you thought it was until 8 months ago, he started to show more feelings, starting saying “I miss you”, “I want you”, “you are beautiful”, “my girl”, “my favorite girl”, “my doll”, “baby girl”, but never the word “love”. He started being more romantic. Taking you on dates, of course, they were secret private dates as he was a known criminal and he shouldn’t be seen in public at all but with his power and money, he can rent or buy any restaurant or place in the world just so you both could enjoy your time and dates together.

He was very gentle with you, protecting you, getting you a big apartment in Brooklyn which was like 3 blocks away from his childhood home, he didn’t mention that at all but you knew it when you went to the Captain America museum and explored the whole room dedicated to Sargent James Buchanan Barnes, Captain America’s best friend.

You learned a lot about him, actually about the old him. Now, he’s just the winter solider, the cold blooded murderer who killed all his superiors and killed the avengers and is now running the Hydra organization and having the biggest super soldiers army in the universe.

But at least, he had a soft spot for you.

He moved his hands to the back of your thighs and lift you up, your legs wrapped quickly around his waist, which was sort of a habit as he loved picking you up like this, like his small girl. he kept looking at you and murmuring I miss yous and you look so beautiful, against your lips while kissing you and walking towards his bedroom, there was only a wall between his office and his bedroom. he opened the door, and his room wasn’t unfamiliar to you but you were just amazed every time by how big and wide it is. The ceiling is so high up and the walls are filled with paintings and mirrors.

He put you on his king-sized bed and you just laid on your back, looking at him. He smirked at you and moved his hands down your dress and took off your panties, freeing your soaked cunt from the now-uncomfortable material. “So, it was just a normal ball party with normal rich friends, huh?” he held your left ankle and pulled it up, and rested it on his shoulder. you nodded and saw him undoing the straps of your heels and taking them off. “Are you sure about that, кукла?” he gave you a very intense look and at that moment you knew that he knows you were hiding something so keeping it hidden won’t do you any good. “You know I hate it when you lie to me.” he rubbed your ankle and calf slowly, giving it a simple soft massage.

“I am not lying to you” Your tone was serious. “My friend, Emma, she set me up on a blind date with this guy,” you saw his facial expression get more tense and his hand tightened on your ankle a bit harder. “I mean, no one knows that I’m- umm, that we-… you know, together” Your tone was shaky as you started to get more anxious as his grip hardened on your ankle. “they just thought I’m single and wanted me to have a date so-..”

“So you decided to dress and doll up for a strange man, didn’t you?” he cut you off suddenly as you can see he started to get angry.

“No, they don’t know about us. No one knows. So I’m just playing the part. acting it. That’s it.” you said with a sad tone, breaking eye contact with him and looking up at the ceiling and huffing. this is truly what you felt like. Playing a part in Bucky’s world. Being nothing more than his sex doll and his mistress. You hate the fact that you wanted him and wanted to be with him forever and you just can’t handle living this lifestyle anymore. Yes, it’s a blessing but you didn’t want all of that, you didn’t ask for any of that. You just wanted him.

“Well, this dress is no good anymore. Can I tear it apart?” he put your left leg back again on the bed and pulled your other leg by the ankle and on his shoulder and removed your heels from this one too.

“Why isn’t it good anymore? I think it’s pretty.” you looked at him confused, not knowing what the dress has to do with anything.

“It is pretty but now, for me, it’s what you wore for another man’s eyes and not mine. I hate it now.” he pulled it up to your upper thighs and your legs are now bared to him.

“But what am I going to wear when I leave? Can’t just be wearing my fur coat. It’s freezing outside.” he chuckled darkly at your words and looked at you with a dark smirk on his face.

“As much as it would be so fucking hot of you to not wear anything except for a fur coat, I can get you any other dress that you want,” he grabbed the dress from its slit on your left thigh with his metal hand and ripped it open until the dress was fully ripped from the left side. “anyways, you’re staying for the whole weekend with me, I don’t want you wearing any clothes at all.” he moved up to meet your eyes and he pepper kissed your jawline. “and if you got cold, you can wear my clothes, my wardrobe is all yours, милая” he ripped and removed the dress from your body, leaving you fully naked underneath him.

you moaned slightly as his hands roamed your body, massaging and rubbing your boobs while his tongue is attacking your lips and mouth, kissing your hungrily. You opened your legs more for him, signaling to him where you wanted him the most. he removed himself from on top of you to get undressed. He removed all of his clothes and got on top of you again, kissing you passionately then starting to kiss you all over. Leaving marks and love bites all over your body, showing you who you truly belong.

“ты моя навсегда, куколка” his voice is raspy and deep, he moved his head down and kissed and sucked on your nipples, of course leaving marks and love bites on your boobs too. You were so needy for him and a part of you was glad that he was as much as needy for you as you are of him.

“James, please. I need you so bad. Please fuck me” you whined and opened your legs more for him. he pulled his head up and looked at you with nothing but pure lust in his now dark blue eyes.

“No, baby doll. No fucking. I missed you too much to just fuck you. I’m going to make love to you ‘cause you deserve this, honey. you’ve earned this.” he kissed your lips passionately but you were just startled, confused, and slightly shocked. You kept wondering why he would say such things and do such things. It’s the first time you ever see him being like this to you or talking like this to you. You were sick of these feelings you have for him and he was just toying around with them.

“You make love to someone you love, James. What we have isn’t love” You looked directly into his eyes with a concerned look on your face.

“Maybe you are right,” these words went straight to your heart and smashed it. You had a little hope he would correct you and tell you he loves you. “But tonight, just pretend that we’re in love. act it like you just said you’re acting it and playing a part.” you wondered if toying with your feelings like this was his way to punish you for what you just said about playing a part in your new life. “make me make love to you. make me show you how you’re supposed to be loved. Or at least humor me, принцесса” his mouth never left your face or your body. He couldn’t stop kissing you and leaving marks everywhere on your neck and body. You weren’t sure what his intentions were by what he just said. A little part of you hoped he meant what he was saying.

You felt his cock twitch against your thigh and felt him leaking. You couldn’t hold it any longer and you lift your hips up to meet his. Signaling to him that you need him. “I’ll give you whatever you want, just let me take my time with you first. I missed you too much” He said between breaths and kisses as he’s now moving down, kissing and leaving love bites all over your belly. “missed this belly,” he kissed your belly button. “missed my little ladies,” he grabbed your boobs with his hands as his mouth kept going down to your lower belly.

“but I missed this pretty girl the most.” you could feel his hot breath against your soaked cunt now, gushing more at the new nickname he gave to your pussy. he groaned when he saw you gushing and your slick is wetting the bed underneath you, making a mess everywhere. he looked up at you and you locked eyes with him while he slowly licked a long stripe between your folds, never breaking eye contact. This sight alone had you crying out and shutting your eyes while throwing your head back on the pillows.

Bucky kept flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud and sucking on it. He was really taking his time, he wasn’t fast or hard. He was simply just eating you out, slowly, gently, like he actually wants to taste you. You were so needy that you wanted more than that. You started pushing your hips more into his face and grinding slowly. “Greedy aren’t we, my little girl?” He got up and wiped his chain from your glistening slick with the back of his hand.

He got on top of you again and pressed his lips against yours, and you can taste yourself on his lips. he licked your bottom lip, asking for entrance and you opened your mouth happily for him, licking his tongue and tasting more of yourself. “Do you know what do you taste like?” he broke the kiss but his lips were right above yours. you shook your head slightly and bit your lips. “Like fucking peaches.” he pushed his tongue into your mouth again, kissing and licking it all over. “You taste like fucking peaches, especially your pussy.” you moaned into his mouth “You’re driving me insane, принцесса. Guess peaches are my new favorite fruit”.

He buried his face in your neck, attacking the sensitive skin again with kisses, especially that sweet spot that gets you all turned on and horny. As if you’re not going to lose your mind already from how horny you are. You could feel his tip pushing slightly on your clit and you were just a moaning mess at this point. “Ready for me, love?” he lifted his head and rested his head on your forehead, locking eyes with you.

“Always, Bucky” you whispered, his whole expression changed. his eyes widened a bit at the sound of his name slipping out of your mouth like honey. He hadn’t heard this name in so long, and you say it like this had his heart beating faster, if he wasn’t in love with you before, he believes now he is.

………………………………………………………………..

PART TWO

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lucid-loves · 3 months

Text

Taste Like Venom ~ Simon "Ghost" Riley Part 2

Pairing: Ghost x assassin!reader (fem!reader, no use of y/n, callsign “Hex”)

Word Count: 3.1k

CW: angst, violence, blood, strong language, scars, enemies to friends to lovers trope, slow burn, clear attraction and sexual tension, reader POV and ghost POV, minors dni, Soap lives in this AU

Let me know if I missed any CWs.

Story Synopsis: After Makarov gets away once again, Laswell decides to force a favor from you, the world’s greatest assassin and best-kept secret. You are now expected to help the 141 with taking down Makarov in addition to playing nice with them. It’s hard to play nice when you have always worked alone. It doesn’t help that one of the team members, Ghost, gets curious about you in each interaction.

Chapter Synopsis: After a few days of planning, it is time to head out to get new information on Makarov that would hopefully lead to his takedown. You have decided to take control with a plan that makes Ghost want to get to know you even more. Turns out, you’re quite good at the game he wants to play.

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Part 6 ~ Part 7 ~ Part 8 ~ Part 9 ~ Part 10

The 141 have been treating you like a feral cat ever since they arrived. Every time they tried to get close to you more than necessary, you distanced yourself and threatened violence. Despite the conflict, you have attended every brief they wanted to have. From a distance of course. Kate had sent you files upon files of information from the identities of the men you were working with and mission reports. Soap, Gaz, Ghost, and Price had impressive records. Many successful missions, few failed. However, they were clearly stuck in a box.

The government’s military had a very particular way of doing things that are absolutely wrapped in red tape. They trained soldiers to think a certain way and do certain things. To you, it was like brainwashing. That was part of the reason why you didn’t fit in when you did try joining the military long ago.

The boys clearly needed a new perspective. The official ways of the military weren’t working. It would be insanity if they kept trying to do the same things over and over again.

The day before you were to all head out again, you decided to change their plans at the last minute. They scheduled a checkpoint back in civilization where they would be provided an armored car and instructions to drive it to a hangar. From there, you were to fly to Italy and capture one of Makarov’s weapons dealers for interrogation. Except, you decided that you weren’t going to do any of that. You couldn’t stand wild goose chases.

You had called a meeting, much to their surprise considering that you barely even spoke during their scheduled briefs. It didn’t take long for them to gather around the table, take a seat, and tune in to what you were about to say. Did you finally trust them? Decide to cooperate like a good soldier?

“We’re going off-grid.” You announced loud and clear, asserting your authority.

“We’re already off-grid.” Soap retorted, clearly confused by what you meant. You had to stop an insult from escaping your lips.

“No, you’re not. I’m talking about cutting off government and military contacts. No check-ins, no checkpoints, no assists. Everything from here on out is unreported, completely classified, and off-record. Laswell will be our only life-line and she is also going under the radar.” You explained with no hesitation in your voice.

At this, Price stood from his seat in defiance. “Are you crazy? We could be labeled as deserters!”

You had a solution for this. “No, you won’t. I know how much your reputations and jobs mean to you, even if I think it’s blind stupidity. Kate is going to submit fake reports and check-ins. VPNs are going to make it seem like we are where we are supposed to be.”

“Then what the hell do we do now? Where are we supposed to go now?” Gaz spoke up now, his tone much more gentle in comparison to the outrage they all must feel. They probably weren’t used to taking orders from someone from the outside of their little boy’s club.

“We’re still going to Italy, but we aren’t going the way that is expected. We aren’t securing the target either. We’re going to spy. Gather information from their own natural conversations and slip-ups. Take note of everything.” You elaborated, all of this information seeming quite obvious in your own head.

Price let another outburst slip. “We don’t have time to just wait around like that.”

You rolled your eyes and headed to the whiteboard that was scrounged up from your basement earlier in the week. On it, you wrote “patience” and circled it. “Makarov has always been one step ahead of you. It’s because he has patience. The patience to sit down and plan what he’s going to do next. Your actions have all just been reactionary. Besides that, he’s Jokering you.”

It took them a moment to let that settle in, trying to decipher what you meant. Eventually, one of the boys got it. For some reason, you were surprised that it was Ghost who understood first. “You mean he’s expecting us and wants us to show up. Like Joker and Batman.”

You nodded, but didn’t slow down your flow. In another life, you probably would’ve made captain with your natural leadership, even if it came from a place of desire for control. “Exactly. This new plan also eliminates the possibility of a mole leaking information.”

The boys looked at each other in panic at this one. Price was offended that you would accuse any of his men to be a mole. Here and back home. However, he bit his tongue and dug for more information. “A mole?”

“I don’t have much proof yet, but I have my suspicions. A lot of what makes up Makarov’s madness is patience. Some of it, though, is knowing sensitive information. Reading the mission reports, several points of interest implied that someone was leaking information to him. If we go with my plan, then we will see if my theory is true. If not, then no harm done.” You reasoned.

Soap’s curiosity got the better of him. He just had to ask. “Who do you think the mole is?”

You were blunt with your answer, not one to sugarcoat anything even if it hurt. “Shepherd.”

Price swore under his breath, your theory making sense to him now. All of the 141 have been suspicious of him ever since the incident in Mexico. It was startling to them that Makarov was transporting him as a prisoner in Siberia at one point as well. He may very well be the reason why they can’t catch Makarov. All the times he got away seemed to be under Shepherd’s watch. Why didn’t they see this before?

Finally, Price gave in. The reasoning was just too sound to completely ignore. “Fine. We’ll go with Hex’s plan. For the time being, Hex will call the shots.”

The next twenty-four hours were tense as everyone gathered their things and prepared to start their first mission now under the radar. You could tell that the squad didn’t like the fact that you were essentially their new leader for now. However, they wouldn’t dare defy their Captain’s orders. This kind of loyalty instilled by the military was one thing you were grateful for.

It was three in the morning and you were still up, printing things that would aid your journey in the office. The boys have already retired for the night, the time for departure being bright and early at five o’clock. They needed rest before what was to come. Who knew when they would have comfortable beds again.

You yawned and took a sip of your coffee, watching the printer slowly turn out what would become stickers. It was an old printer so it took ages just to print one thing. Agonizingly slow.

Suddenly, you felt a pair of eyes on you from the shadows. You have already started to become familiar with the feeling and who it was from. His gaze barely left you when you were in the same space together like you were a specimen to be observed. You decided to ignore him, refusing to entertain him in any way.

Eventually, he emerged and stood in front of your desk. The walls were lined with more books. Instead of classics, though, the shelves were lined with more modern pieces along with comics. “I didn’t peg you as a comic book fan.”

“I have a lot of time on my hands. I read everything.” You curtly responded, watching him from the corner of your eye. He was still wearing that skull balaclava, but he was dressed in pajamas. Long, flannel pajama pants, a tight black t-shirt that showed off his muscles and tattoos. You could just about trace every definition of his strength with your eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He tried continuing the conversation. He was stubborn, you gathered. He lived by his words, trying to get to know you when you clearly didn’t want to be known. Yet, he now knew that you were a reader of just about anything. Classics, modern, comics, cookbooks. It didn’t matter to you. A book was a book. Books were meant to be read.

“I don’t sleep.” You threw him a bone, hoping that he would be satisfied with this miniscule, insignificant piece of information.

Ghost didn’t say anything for a while. He just watched you watching the printer. The way the lamp illuminated your features, the way your own set of pajamas hugged your curves, and the way you lazily watched the paper emerging from the machine had his stomach do flips. He was impressed with how you handled the meeting today. Well, not just impressed. Attracted. The way you carried yourself, presented ideas without remorse, and connected the dots was a sign of intelligence. Even natural leadership. For him, it was incredibly attractive which at the same time frustrated him.

Simon wanted to get to know you, but at the same time, he didn’t. You were still frustrating to deal with. He didn’t like how you talked back and stubbornly refused to get closer to them. Yet, there was something about you that he couldn’t ignore. Not just looks and intelligence, but a sense of loneliness. He could feel it in the walls of your home and the way you bit back at attempts of compassion. You didn’t like people. At the same time, you confided with Kate. That was enough of a sign that you did need human interaction. Wanted it.

He sat in a lounge chair on the opposite end of the room, still wanting to push your boundaries. “Got any recommendations?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I recommend you get the fuck out of my office.”

He scowled and suppressed his urge to storm out. You were a real piece of work. “I meant book recommendations.”

The paper was finally done printing which you swiped up eagerly. Taking a pair of scissors, you began to cut out your images. “None that you would like.”

“Try me, Hex.” He pressed.

You gave a long, exasperated sigh. This was ridiculous to you. However, you thought about it for a moment. Perhaps having him read a book would get him to shut up. Especially since you will have a long drive together in a few hours. The last thing you wanted was roadtrip talk. Finally, you paused your work to find a book for him off your shelf. Once you spotted one of your favorites, you slid it out and tossed it to him.

He caught it with ease, processing then to examine the cover followed by the synopsis on the back. He looked up, questioning your recommendation. "This is what you like to read?"

"I don't like the bare surface. I like the deeper meanings.” You confessed, a little annoyed that he seemed to be bashing your recommendation despite asking for it.

“You’re an analyst.” He pointed out, a smirk concealed under his mask as he learned more snippets about you. Your displeasure at his comment was obvious as you frowned and crossed your arms across your chest.

You walked over and attempted to snatch the book out of his hand. However, he stood up and held the book above your head out of your reach, looking down at you for a reaction. Instead of jumping in attempts to grab it, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled it down to your level. Your blood was hot with anger. “What fucking game are you playing at?! You think this is fucking funny?”

“It’s amusing, I’ll admit. I’m just getting to know you, though.” He admitted, his heart thumping hard against his chest from the thrill of getting your attention, even if it’s like this.

“I’m not your fucking recruit or your fucking toy, understand? If anything, I am your enemy that you’re forced to work with this one time.” You seethed, eyes blazing. You wanted to view him as an enemy to ensure that the distance between you two was even further. If he hated your guts, it would make things much easier.

Instead of agreeing, he just shook his head. You frustrated him, sure, but he couldn’t hate you. “Keep your friends close but your enemies closer, Hex.”

You gave it some thought for a moment before letting go of his shirt and turning back to your little arts and crafts project. At first, Ghost didn’t know what to think of your response. He expected to hear some fighting words back or maybe an attempted punch. Not surrender like this. Your next words caught him even more off guard. “Read the book and let me know what you think. Don’t dog-ear it either. I can’t stand that. There are bookmarks in the coffee table drawer out in the living room if you need one.”

Your tone was calm and collected. Calculated. Oh, but you planned to knock the wind right out of his sails soon enough. You were just waiting for the right timing.

Ghost gathered himself, trying to figure out what was going on in that brain of yours. It made him uneasy, yet thrilled. It was like he was on a rollercoaster blind. For now, he played along. “Fine. Just don’t complain if I criticize your selection when I report it back.”

As he made his way out of your office, you shrugged and gave a wicked smirk. Even if it was malicious, it made his breath hitch. It made him want to see what other smiles you had. Joyous, silly, sympathetic, all of it.

Just before he left completely, you gave a final retort. “You got a deal, Simon.”

He halted in his tracks, feeling a shiver run down his spine. The electricity traveled through his nerves as you said his real name in that mocking tone of yours. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. You knew his name, signifying that you were already ahead in this little game he initiated. A step ahead. It enraged him that would use his name so bluntly, mockingly, and disrespectfully.

To hear his name on your lips, though, at the same time, made his heart quiver. On the way out, he slammed the door, your muffled laughs of victory behind it making blood rush to his ears. Another beautiful sound that he both admired and hated.

At five o’clock sharp, you were closing the door to your cabin and whispering a temporary goodbye to it. The outside of the cabin was run down, the porch nearly falling apart from rot. On the outside, it looked abandoned. The perfect cover hiding the place you called home for the past couple of years. You were going to miss it.

“Alright, men, time to hike.” Price ushered forwards, leading the strange pack toward a vehicle you kept camouflaged near a dirt road. Within an hour or so, everyone should stumble upon a dirt road leading to a nature park, one that hasn’t received visitors in years. From there, you could lead the way and take the car to start the road trip to Italy from Austria.

For now, you walked rear, right behind Ghost that also preferred to be in the back of the pack. After some time, Soap, Gaz, and Price were comfortable enough to engage in casual conversation to pass the time. Simon was listening, chiming in every now and then. His senses were mainly focused on you though. He wondered what you were thinking about. Were you listening to the conversation? Answering the questions in your own head?

A little bit perhaps. Your own senses were mostly trained on the environment. Small animals scurrying in far off shrubbery, birds flapping their wings to get to different branches, the feeling of leaves crunching beneath your boots. It kept your head quiet as you walked.

Finally, a dirt road was revealed beyond some trees, a sign that it was time for you to lead the way. You snapped out of your meditation and headed up to the front. Looking both ways down the road before stepping out, you led the way to the vehicle you only used occasionally. It didn’t take long for you to track down your car. “Gaz, Price, help me take the camo off. Soap, keep an eye out for any hikers.”

They obeyed like obedient dogs of the military, following your orders as instructed. Ghost stood silently, watching the branches and leaves reveal just what kind of car you planned on packing them all in. Much to his amusement and horror, it was a minivan. The kind a football mom would drive her kids’ team around. “You’re joking.”

“No, I’m smart. This will receive a lot less attention compared to an official military armored vehicle. Here, keep yourself occupied and put these on the back windshield.

From your pack, you fished out the craft you were working on last night. Hand-made stickers of a stick figure family along with a few cliche, family-friendly bumper stickers. “PTA Mom,” “Go Little Sharks!” and “Pomeranian Family” were just some of the cringey bumper stickers that you handed to Simon. He didn’t know if you were a genius or crazy. Maybe both.

Once the camo was clear, stickers on the minivan were secure, and the coast was clear, the men filed into the car like a little league team. They even argued about who was going to the poor victim in the very back seat. Of course, being the youngest, Gaz pulled the short straw on that one. “God damn! My legs are up to my fuckin’ chest!”

“You can switch at pit stops.” You reasoned, taking the driver’s seat naturally. Much to your dismay, Ghost decided that he was going to sit up front with you. Your passenger.

You knew he did this on purpose. “Do you really have to sit up here with me?”

“Of course I do. A happy family always has a mom and dad at the front.” He teased nonchalantly. You knew he was smiling cockily under that mask. You hoped that the rest of the 141 didn’t hear his inappropriate comment. The last thing you needed was for the rest of the team to start testing your patience too with teasing.

You started the car and slowly pulled onto the road. “You’re insufferable.”

“Thank you.” Simon simply accepted, taking it as a compliment. Even if you weren’t thinking about him in a positive light, you were still thinking about him. That alone was enough to make him feel like this was his own victory.

You turned on the radio, hoping that music would chase the thought of Simon out of your head.

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jen-with-a-pen · 11 months

Text

F O X ＨＵＮＴ

summary: Not only has HYDRA executed their infiltration on S.H.I.E.L.D., but they have also reclaimed their finest weapon. Your safety isn't the only thing that's compromised.

pairings: WS!Beefy!Bucky Barnes x F!Avenger!Reader

word count: 6.1k

warnings: chasing, being hunted down, implied n0n-con elements, canon-level violence, cursing, implied t0rture, blood, beat1ngs, forced nud1ty, language, HYDRA-level cruelty, Bucky gets Brainwashed (again), there's Steve x Reader if you squint REALLY REALLY hard

read here on ao3!

a/n: This was inspired by last year's Whumptober Day 2: NOWHERE TO RUN - CORNERED, CAGED AND CONFRONTATION. I know it's February JUNE, but shit came up and my motivation tanked lmao thanks adhd med trials Literally have never done a dark(er?) fic before and this one has been cooking for god knows how fucking long now. I hope y'all like it <3 (also the hydra victory au is something i discovered from the lovely @lunarbuck reset series and stewed obsessively over for literal months now. still obsessed with it whoops)

dividers by @firefly-graphics | gif by @lost-shoe | @hydravictrix

my ao3 | my masterlist

Translations

Lisitsa | лисица - fox/little fox

Soldat | солдат - soldier

Syuda | сюда - over here

Khitraya suka | хитрая сука - sly bitch

Moy priz | мой приз - my prize

Glupaya pizda | глупая пизда - stupid cunt

Moye | мое - mine

The infiltration was subtle at the start.

A few missions gone mysteriously wrong, agents killed in action or disappearing entirely, hacks that were, thankfully, contained within an inch of a full-blown data breach. All of it seemed so coincidental when it happened, swept under the rug each and every single time before Director Fury could have a swear-filled say as to what the hell was going on.

But hindsight is 20/20. It always is.

The day S.H.I.E.L.D. fell was, ironically, the perfect day: brilliant sunshine, clear blue skies, a breeze weaving between the towering buildings and skyscrapers. It was almost eerie, in a way, how perfect of a day it was.

You found yourself in the gym, Steve and Sam hashing it out on whose turn it was in sparring. You had all but knocked Sam out cold in the previous round as Steve watched from behind the ropes, cheering you on with a cocky, proud grin as he watched all of his hard work in your training pay off.

Of course, the stubborn ass he was, Sam wanted another go.

“C’mon, Steve! I wanna rematch!” Sam protested, gesturing wildly in your direction with one hand while his other held an ice pack to his bruised temple. Steve stifled a laugh, tossing a glance over his shoulder to you. You shook your head, smiling back as you gulped down the rest of your water bottle. Cool strands spilled out from the corners of your lips and down your chest. You welcomed the relief from the sweat gluing your t-shirt to your skin.

“How ‘bout I take Steve instead of giving you another concussion?” you retorted, giggling as Sam shot a narrow look at you. He huffed, forfeiting his argument by waving a dismissive hand.

“Fine, ’m gonna go find some pain meds,” he grumbled, turning to point a swollen finger at Steve. “I better see you in the infirmary next, Cap.”

He stomped off through the metal doors and left the two of you in silence.

“Whaddya say, sweetheart? You up for round two?” Steve teased, stepping under the ropes and into the ring. He wrapped his hands as he moved to the center, muscle memory carrying him while keeping his eager gaze on you. His eyes carried excitement as they journeyed up and down your figure, rolling his lip between his teeth as he drank you with his stare.

You did little to hide your pride at the Captain checking you out, chewing the corner of your cheek to tame your own smirk at the beautiful blond. You turned away, hiding the heat from your cheeks as you tossed your bottle at your bag. You weaved under the ropes, coming face to face with your willing opponent in the center. You lifted your chin to meet his, the hidden smirk on your lips growing into a grin.

“With you? Always, old man,” you purred. You tossed him a teasing wink as you positioned your fists in front of you, feet planted firmly in the starting stance. Steve lingered on you for a second longer, tongue swiping across his lips hungrily as he cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, raising his hands to mirror you.

The two of you began to circle one another, dancing in a familiar pattern you knew by heart. Steve took his first swipe at you and you ducked, managing a hit to his stomach. A grunt escaped from him– not of hurt but of thrill. He lunged for you as you dodged again, blocking his failed strike to your head.

“Wow! You really can’t teach an old dog new tricks!” you taunted, dodging another blow, his wrapped fist only grazing your shoulder. You rolled it back, holding back a slight wince as you continued the violent waltz.

You lunged at him, instead faltering and falling to the ground. Readying the curse on your tongue, it stopped short of your lips as you looked up at Steve.

He stood frozen in place, panting, fists at his sides clenching tighter and tighter. As you opened your mouth to unload even more cursing questions, screeching erupted from the loudspeakers around the room. High-pitched tones screaming above, a robotic voice speaking clinically and quickly. You scrambled off the floor, unease creeping in as you latched onto Steve’s arm, his arm tensing under your touch.

CODE WHITE. CODE SILVER. ALL SECURITY AND TEAM UNITS URGENTLY NEEDED. 40th FLOOR. THREAT IS ACTIVE AND HIGHLY DANGEROUS. REPEAT. CODE WHITE. CODE SILVER. ALL SECURITY AND TEAM UNITS–

The message had cut out, static replacing it alongside the echoing alarms throughout the hallways outside the gym. You looked up at Steve. Anxiety surged upon finding his face devoid of all blood, his jaw slack, eyes boring into the metal doors leading to the hallway. He looked scared.

You’d never seen Steve scared before.

“Steve, what the fuck was that–”

“Get to the locker rooms and hide,” he ordered. He pulled his arm from you, jumping over the ropes and sprinting to his duffel bag on the floor. He pulled out his phone and dialed frantically as he ran to the doors.

“Steve!” You stood trembling in the ring as your stomach churned.

“Now!” he yelled. “I’ll come back for you!”

He didn’t wait to hear your response as he slammed the gym doors shut, followed by a whir and click.

He locked you in.

You didn’t– couldn’t– hesitate as a surge of urgency overtook you. You needed to hide. Now. Fast.

Your legs carried you as you jumped out of the ring and raced to grab your duffel bag, sprinting to the back of the gym through another set of double doors. You wove through the tiled maze of the locker room searching for some sort of hiding spot, settling on the showers. You snuck over to the stall at the very end, the closest one to the emergency exit, and ducked under the opaque plastic curtain. Your bag fell to the floor as you climbed onto the stall seat. Blood pumped in your ears, thumping as quickly as your shaky, shallow breathing. Millions of thoughts and questions and worries rushed through your mind at impossible speeds.

White and Silver. Which alert was that for?

You racked through fleeting memories, distant recollections of training and orientation from months ago, searching for anything remotely familiar. You remembered all of the other codes– red, orange, teal– but no white, no silver.

A faint buzzing sounded from inside your duffel. You lunged, unzipping it and fishing out your phone. Natasha. Her name lit up the screen and you frantically hit the answer key before the call could even think about dropping.

“Where the fuck are you?” Her panicked voice hissed into your ear. Her edged tone was enough to make your stomach backflip faster.

“Locker rooms, forty-fifth floor. What the fuck is going on, Nat?” Your voice shook as anger and confusion boiled in your blood.

A muffled swear. “Where’s Steve?”

“He ran out, locked me in, told me to hide.” More incoherent curses.

“Fuck, fuck, okay, look, trust me on this, you need to stay where you are, okay? I can get you out, I–”

High-pitched ringing overtook the speaker, sending you reeling away from the receiver. Static echoed out of the speakers.

“You what? Natasha!”

“No– time– you–”

“Natasha! Hello?”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

You tore the phone away from your ear and choked back the bile rising in your throat. Service was out. The blinking bars at the top of the screen mocked you and your sudden plunge into isolation.

The lights went next.

The dull fluorescents flickered. Someone cut the electricity, sending you into almost darkness as the backup generator lights kicked on. Scattered lights from above cast an eerie yellow glow over the shower tiles. You’d only seen this kind of outage happen once before, when New York was hit with Hurricane Noah a few years back.

The fear you felt in that storm paled in comparison to what you felt now.

You sighed, shaky and surrendering, and pulled your body closer to you on the shower bench. A chill snaked its way down your spine as your skin brushed the cool ceramic, an unwelcome addition to the cold already enveloping you. Your sweat-soaked t-shirt and shorts failed to aid you and your aching muscles. Fingernails dug into your kneecaps in a struggle to stop trembling as you tried to focus on your breathing. Inhaling, exhaling, in, out. Screwing your eyes shut, praying to any deity imaginable it was all just a drill, it was all an accident or a misunderstanding or–

The ground shook as a loud bang echoed from outside the locker room. A panicked yelp escaped your throat before your hands could scramble and cover your mouth. You froze as the tremors subsided and listened. It, or they, sounded close.

Too close.

Another BANG! Then another.

Rhythmic, steady blows, each quicker and more powerful than the last. Hands clamped tighter over your lips until your blood froze at the sounds of crushing steel and crumbling concrete. The lump in your throat grew as horrific realization flooded over you.

They, or it, broke in.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it– those doors were more fortified than Tony’s lab. Four-inch-thick, steel and plexiglass doors with a three-tier secured locking system. Nothing, nobody– not even the strongest Super Soldier– was powerful enough to make the faintest of dents in them.

Racing through who, or what, could have possibly broken into the gym, your train of thought derailed as echoes of men yelling indecipherable words and mixed commands shattered the remaining air of safety you clung to. Listening intently, a mix of combat boots and tactical gear filtered in with the echoed commands.

The S.T.R.I.K.E. Team.

Your legs begged for reprieve from crouching, but your body disobeyed and froze you in place. Part of you didn’t trust who was outside. Footsteps and gruff voices became heavier, closer. The relief that greeted you was replaced again by panic as you listened closer.

Clear, Russian commands resonated at the entrance to the locker rooms. They were coming in.

Your breath hitched, blood running cold as footsteps closed in. It was one person, but their steps didn’t sound like the heavy boots before them. They sounded more like…

Sneakers?

The rubber from the intruder’s shoes squeaked on the tiled floors. Ragged breathing echoed off the walls. A low growl, accompanied by quiet whirring. Someone big, someone mean.

Your heart made its way to your throat as the intruder inched closer. Slow, methodical, as if trained in search and rescue.

It didn’t feel like a rescue.

The lump almost turned into a scream as an echoed BANG carried from the bathroom stalls around the corner. Silence followed, then a growl, then another BANG. The cycle repeated for the remaining stalls, the intruder slowly creeping along. Growls became deeper upon each disappointment.

Hostages. They were looking for hostages.

Soles squeaked as the intruder changed course, stomping around the corner to search the line of shower stalls. You hiccuped a sob, realizing tears started to trail down your cheeks. Biting your palm only proved a lame attempt to calm your racing heart, a scream threatening to leave your throat as they began tearing the plastic curtains off the stalls. Each clang of metal cracking onto the tile became closer as you ground your teeth into the meat of your hand. Eyes screwed shut, silent prayers raced in your head, pleading to wake up; to wake up from this hellscape of a sick, twisted nightmare.

The intruder’s steps stopped.

Your eyes opened, widening at the blurred, hulking shadow standing outside of your stall. They had to be well over six feet. Towering, bulky, monstrous.

Slowly, the shadow’s hand reached for the curtain. One by one, its fingers closed around the plastic’s edge, preparing to rip it down and rip you open. Eyes burning, hot tears felt like molten metal as you attempted to make yourself as small as possible in your corner, huddling your knees as close as they could be. This was it. This was the end. You prayed– actually fucking prayed– hoping they couldn’t hear your pathetic whimpering, hoping they would make this quick, painless; break your neck or put a gun to your head and get it over with. Leave your body for someone else to find.

“Soldat, syuda!”

The command made your heart stop.

The shadow froze, stopped by a call from the entrance to the locker room. Skin met your teeth as you bit harder into your hand. Lungs began panicking as you started hyperventilating, bile reaching your throat and burning the back of your tongue.

The shadow, the monster, growled in protest. It retracted the curled hand from the curtain, wordlessly moving back towards the bathroom stalls. Footsteps faded as muffled conversation floated away from the locker room.

You needed to get the fuck out of there.

You slid off the bench, legs aching and knees popping as you crouched silently over to the curtain, peeking out behind the plastic. It crinkled quietly and you bit your lip, leaning out ever so slightly over the threshold.

Tiptoeing around the corner, you faced the emergency exit. The glowing sign omitted a creepy, green glow that added to the eeriness brought by the generator lights.

This was it.

You slammed the push bar down, throwing the door open with your body and spilling out into the hallway. Sunlight flashed through the infinite glass hallway, blinding you. In your frozen state, you hear commotion from behind the door as it slammed shut. Banging from the other side, the sound of metal on metal, made your teeth grind. Indents from punches dented the door, deforming its smooth outside. You didn’t stay frozen for long as your body screamed at you to fucking move, now.

Your legs obeyed immediately, carrying you through the corridor to the closest means of escape you could find. As you rounded the corner, the crushing sounds of the door breaking off of its hinges hit your ears. You didn’t dare to look back, sprinting through the twists and turns of the infinite hallway. You followed what felt familiar, burning muscles egged on by the sound of pounding footsteps getting closer and closer.

Finally, you stumbled onto the entrance to a stairwell, pausing to gasp for air your lungs demanded. The burn in your legs and chest only aided in the physiological need to hyperventilate. Sweat dripped from your temple and your head pounded as hard as your feet hitting the ground.

You leaned into the safety bar, inches away from further distancing yourself from whatever, whoever, was on your trail, when a yell erupted from the end of the hallway.

It felt like slow-motion; one of those scenes in those cheesy horror movies Sam always made you and Steve watch on weekends off. The ones with cheap FX, bad sound, but somehow great editing for the budget. The scenes where realization hits the main character and suddenly everything is half the speed while they still move in real time.

You turned your head towards the source. Then, it hit you. Blood drained from your face as the horror of realization hit you, like a speeding sixteen-wheeler head on.

Bucky Barnes stood hulking at the end of the hallway. Generator lights and setting sun illuminated his snarling teeth, gleaming from parted lips that had him panting like a rabid dog. If you hadn’t known better it would’ve looked like he was heading for the gym for his daily workout. Blown pupils, sweat-stuck hair, complimented by a shaking frame– most definitely caused by adrenaline, dopamine, and a slew of Gods-knew-what other drugs he had pumped into his system. Splotches of drying, smeared blood coated his neck and shirt while even more dripped onto the ground from his fists. The crimson contrasted with the medically white floors.

Bile rose in your throat again. The acidic taste made you dry heave at the sight of the blood, knowing from the looks of Bucky it definitely wasn’t his.

He snarled as your eyes finally met. Fists of flesh and metal flexed. Rippling muscles shook as he readied to launch forward.

“You’re mine, lisitsa!” he barked. His voice booming louder than the speed of sound, it made your ears ring.

Your throat finally opened. You screamed as he sprinted towards you, making more ground down the hallway than an apex predator out of hibernation. You shoved the exit door open, heaving your legs forward as you ascended the stairs. No choice but to go up, you refused to look back– nay you didn’t dare to even consider it. Muscles and tendons and joints burned, yearning for you to stop, but the door slamming from flights below you only pushed you harder, flying up and passing floor after floor.

You were fast, but he was faster.

Dizziness overtook you as your vision began to blur. Darkened edges of your peripherals made you stop your climb at level 50, pausing for a split second to hear Bucky’s progress. He was close behind, but you still had more of an advantage. You knew the Tower better than him. You knew level 50 had another stairwell on the opposite side of the floor, through another hallway off the corner of your current one. Sneakers pounded too close for comfort as you shoved the door open and made a break for it down another corridor labyrinth.

If you made it out of this alive, you swore you’d kill Tony’s architect yourself.

“You can’t hide forever, lisitsa!” Bucky’s voice rang out from the stairwell as you rounded the corner, sprinting through more identical-looking hallways. Another corner later and the glowing red EXIT sign appeared above the next stairwell. A beacon of hope, almost. Relieved, you head straight for it, body and mind and soul pushing against the burning and the gasping for air. You were right there, hand outstretched, fingertips grasping the metal bar–

It felt like a car crash.

Not an accident or fender bender. No, it felt like seventy miles an hour meets a tree with no intent of moving. That split-second feeling where your stomach drops and you can all but brace for the deadly impact destined for you to meet.

Time stopped as you were yanked backwards. Cold, slick metal wrapped around your ankle, bloody hand print smearing some poor bastard’s DNA all over your calf as your body fell to the ground. Hard. Your jaw clenched as your chin slammed into the linoleum. Teeth ground into your tongue as copper flooded your tastebuds. Your lungs, with little wind left in them, gasped for oxygen. Another scream rising in your throat became stuck in your vocal cords.

Bucky whipped you around as you struggled to free your lower half. You landed on your shoulder, head bouncing against the floor and teary eyes struggled to stay open and endure the pain. He straddled your form, the weight crashing down on your bones and organs. A sharp inhale impaled your chest as you met Bucky’s darkened eyes, then; the familiar steel blue replaced entirely with dilated, unhinged pupils.

It was the first time you got a good look at his face. His face is speckled with blood spatter and several bruises spread across his cheek down his neck. Two black eyes, a bloody nose– one you hoped was his– and a broken lip. The bloodied collar of his shirt only aided in the mess of his hair. His soft, chocolate strands stuck in mats to his neck and temples with sweat and blood.

Out of sheer habit, because he looked like your Bucky, you couldn’t help but reach a hand out to him. A soft plea for the man behind his eyes, one you begged everything holy was still there. He held your stare, face contorting into unrecognizable emotions. Tears brimmed your eyes as your hand stretched further, sobs escaping as your fingers inched closer and closer to his battered face.

“Bucky, it’s me–”

Your appeal transformed into a shriek, quickly snuffed out as Bucky wrapped his crimson-spattered metal hand around your throat. You choked, sputtering lost pleas as your hands flew to your neck. Fingernails flailed in futile attempts to claw off the weapons-grade titanium.

“You’re done running, khitraya suka,” Bucky’s hot breath fanned your face as he leaned in. His mouth grazed your jaw, titanium hand on your throat flexing with each syllable. He slowly made his way down your neck, pushing harder into your chest with his forearm. A heavy growl. His grip only tightened as you tried to knee him in the groin, picking you up by your neck and slamming you down again.

Stars circled your blurred vision, eyes rolling back into your head. The corridor, the lights, everything split into two.

“You owe me for my victory, lisitsa,” Bucky’s husky whisper resonated in your ear as he licked the side of your face, his hot, wet mouth against your tear-stained cheek. As his free hand moved to the waistband of your shorts, another surge of panic washed through you. You tried to sputter a weak cry from your closed-off throat, blood turning cold, another scream building and building in your chest and aching for release.

“You owe me what’s mine –!”

BANG!

Something from somewhere all of a sudden. The object slammed into Bucky, throwing him off of you and spilling across the floor.

Finally, your lungs lunged at the chance for air, leaving you a heaving, choking, coughing mess. Spitting at the ground as you made your way shakily to your hands and knees, a freed hand traveling to rub the fresh strangulation bruises forming on the column of your stiff neck.

“Get the fuck off her, Bucky!”

Steve.

As your vision cleared, the shield whizzed past you as it ricocheted back into Steve’s open arms. Bucky groaned, low and guttural, but only for a moment is he subdued. Slowly, he rose, like smoke from extinguished ashes, looking to his metal vice. A large dent adorned the weathered, bloodied appendage where his bicep met his shoulder. He then turned his attention to Steve, baring his teeth, anger coursing through him as he immediately disregarded you. His sights set on a new target, launching himself at Steve without a beat lost.

Steve grunted as Bucky’s metal fist met the vibranium shield with a deafening clang. Steve gritted his teeth and pushed back, managing to break Bucky’s attack and aim a kick for his stomach.

“Go! I got him!” Steve yelled to you through a gasp as Bucky countered with his own swipe at Steve’s middle. Your body stayed put, relishing in the ability to fucking breathe again, also painfully aware how screwed you’d be if you didn’t escape as you had the chance. You willed yourself to move, to run and to keep going, to no avail. As Steve landed a blow to Bucky, his eyes met yours once more. His baby blues, pained and tired, begged for you to listen to him for once in your life.

“Now!”

The strain in Steve’s voice seemed to ignite a fire underneath you. Pushing yourself up, you willed your legs to carry you to the exit. Bloody shoe prints tracked your route as you slammed through the doorway. You cursed, knowing they’ll give away which way you’d go, knowing your life matters more than a twenty-dollar pair of sneakers. Kicking them off, throwing the pair down the exit, praying they made it far enough Bucky wouldn’t know any better.

You threw yourself up the stars, tremors and pain afflicting every limb as the cold concrete seeped in through your socks in each step. The railing helped as you heaved yourself forward with help from the railing. Sweaty palms slipped on the bars, but your grip only grew tighter.

You didn’t know how you, or your body, was able to do it, making it up seven more flights of stairs before your knees buckled on level 57. Heaving the door open and slamming it shut, you stumbled out into the new hallway. You hadn’t visited that level before. Something Steve and the others– especially Doctor Banner– said was “just a business floor.”

The sign on the wall directing to ‘SAFELAB’ said otherwise. Nothing in the Tower was “just business.”

What you did know was that every SAFELAB on every floor was located in the same, far-east hallway.

Wiping the sweat from your temple, you turned right, jogging down the darkened, emptied-out hallway. It felt like the apocalypse. No sign of anybody else. Doors left ajar, papers and bags and other employee memorabilia scattered throughout abandoned offices and cubicles. You hoped everyone was able to make it out, at least.

Part of you didn’t hope for much, though.

The door to the lab came into view as you rounded the last corner. The door was still locked, the lab inside sterile and untouched. A sigh of relief escaped you. Holding your palm to the door’s scanner, it answered your prayers in a soft beep and whir, miraculously allowing you in.

You maneuvered through the multiple security doors, four in total, crouching low once you managed to slip into the lab itself. The gigantic window at the front of the labspace spared no room for you to hide easily, but you had zero room to complain about it. It was your only option, after all.

Well, besides the roof.

Crouched, you snuck your way around the counters and various equipment to one of the supply closets. The furthest corner from the entrance. You scoured through drawers and cupboards for some sort of weaponry; the most you could find was a new scalpel out of a box of extras.

You closed in on the supply closet, reaching up and grasping the handle, turning it slowly to prevent any squeaks from the inner hinge. A tear glided down your cheek in relief. You hadn’t realized you started crying. Again.

The door swung open. It greeted you mostly empty, deep enough for you to cram your body into. Crawling inside, bones and limbs contorted into the most comfortable position you could manage. You pinched the edges of the doors to close them as best as you can, accepting they, in fact, couldn’t close all the way from the inside. A curse under your breath, the sliver of dim light through the crack cast onto your face. Once settled, you crumpled your damp t-shirt up from the collar and shoved the fabric into your mouth. Teeth and tongue greeted sweaty cotton and hints of copper as you bit down on the collar, covering your mouth with a free hand.

At last, after Gods knew how long it had been since you ceased moving, a silenced sob heaved out of your chest. Tremors only worsened as your nervous system rode out the fumes of its adrenaline high and flight mode instincts. Hot tears spilled down your cheeks, mixing with snot further down your face, slipping down to your neck and leaving behind streaked paths in the bloodied, hand-printed bruises adorned on your flesh. The pain from the near-strangulation you suffered broke through the shock and endorphins that were keeping you sane until then. You knew, though, you couldn’t break down. Not yet. Not until you saw Natasha or Steve or someone you trusted face-to-face.

You started counting your breaths. Mind racing, thoughts traveling near sonic speeds through your mind carrying questions at how the hell it all happened.

You thought for sure S.H.I.E.L.D. was secure, especially after the ordeal with Bucky, Steve, and the whole ‘defeating HYDRA’ ordeal from a few years back. Hell, you thought it was safer than taking the FBI’s recon mission that was offered to you before being referred to Tony himself. Your mind raced, what-ifs and endless possibilities flashing across your eyes like a snuff film. You hoped Steve was okay. You hoped Natasha was on her way to your location any second. You hoped Sam was safe and made it out okay. You hoped Bucky –

Bucky.

Christ, you hadn’t even stopped to think about how the hell everything happened to him. He’d been doing so well in his recovery program. Steve was even telling you about it that same morning, bragging about how well Bucky was doing, how much progress he was making, how soon they’d finally be able to move in together once Doctor Banner cleared him. Another sob overtook you. How you’d never seen him like that before, the feeling of his titanium arm slowly crushing your windpipe, the weight of his entire body crushing your internal organs as he’d held you down. The things he’d said. You tried to wrap your head around what he’d said, what he was going to do–

Crashing followed by shattering glass emitted a muffled yelp from you as your blood ran cold. Another wave of tears flooded out of your burning eyes, chest heaving unevenly. Your hand clamped even tighter over your mouth as teeth bit into the salty fabric of your shirt, drying up any more moisture your mouth was grateful to finally have.

BANG! Then another. Then more in rapid succession. Shattering, crashing, shattering, silence. The final blow to the security doors sounded from inside the lab itself. Your breath hitched and bile began bubbling in your stomach, reaching the back of your throat and across your tongue. You forced yourself to swallow the acid, listening intently to the crunch of sneakers on shattered glass.

He’d found you.

“Lisitsaaa,” Bucky drawled, his voice dropped to a primally low octave. Lower than before. You almost couldn’t make out the words, a mixture of growled mumblings of English and Russian. Knees folded closer to your chest, you tightened your grip on the handle of the scalpel. Bucky’s footsteps were slow, methodical, predatorial.

His heavy steps inched closer, each followed by a pause, then sudden crashing of lab equipment and smashing of drawers. More glass and metal slammed to the ground and walls after each pause. He sounded feet away. Then inches.

Your breathing stopped as the sliver of light clouded over. The lump in your throat threatened more puke to rise as you dared to peer up through the crack, heart dropping like a dead weight to your stomach as your eyes fell on freshly bloodied sneakers. A stifled scream in your lungs choked you. You refused to think about whose blood that was.

Eyes darted back up. You could see Bucky’s blurred features clouded in shadows. The only light visible, then, was the glint from his wicked smile. Bloodied teeth shone as he licked his lips hungrily, a predator finally cornering its prey.

Ever so slowly he crouched, shoving his face closer into the seam in the door. Tears and snot continued to stream down your face, your body hyperventilating as you forced yourself to look into his eyes. There was nothing else you could do. Nothing else to say, to cry about. There was nowhere left to run. He got you.

“There you are, moy priz,” Bucky hissed before reaching through and throwing the doors open, heavy hands leaving imprints in the flimsy metal. Frozen, your fist was still closed around the scalpel, your muscles tensed as joints locked in place. His evil eyes scanned your body greedily, looking for which cut of meat to divulge in first. His gaze stopped at your fist and he chuckled, tisking in a disappointed tone.

“Oh, glupaya pizda,” Bucky shook his head, amused at your meager choice of weaponry. Compared to him, you might as well have been waving a white flag. His smile only grew, tongue jutting out to lick his lips. Specks of blood coated the sides of his cheeks and edges of his mouth, smeared about from ear to ear with the back of his hand.

“Come with me and they might consider your life, lisitsa–”

You sprung into him, swinging your arm, landing the scalpel into the middle of his flesh hand, impaling straight through it. In an instant, blood spewed from the impact. Bucky screamed out in pain, a slew of mixed language curses reverberating in your skull. You scrambled out of your hiding place, bashing him with a balled fist to the face as you tumbled out and onto your feet, sprinting to the lab’s only exit. Freedom was only an arm’s length away when an overturned stool tripped you. The impact didn’t hurt near as much as the millions of shattered glass bits shredded cut into your skin, your hands and knees and arms and face littered as blood smeared under you and across the once-sterile white floors. You cried out, writhing around. Battered and bloodied, struggling to rise and run again despite the searing pain in your ankle.

Before you could form your next thought, a rough hand snatched your scalp and dragged you up by your hair. You uttered a panicked scream as Bucky hoisted you to eye level, snarling like a rabid dog as he shook you hard.

“I thought you were smarter than that, lisitsa,” he sneered, “but I was wrong.”

He hurled you back onto the floor, his bloodied, titanium fist still gripping your hair, dragging you over to one of the disheveled lab tables. More glass shredded your skin, blood and sweat and tears mixing and pouring over your face and hands and body. With ease and a free hand, he swiped the rest of the contents off another counter; beakers and burners crashed to the floor. His grip tightened as he threw you up onto the stainless steel counter, the dead weight of your body banging onto the table, landing you hard on your back. Eardrums rang into your skull and jaw, radiating down your spine and out your limbs. Your hands slip against the smooth metal from the blood, futile attempts to grab onto something, anything. You groaned and huffed excess sobs. The pain, unbearable; the fear, unimaginable.

Bucky hoisted himself onto the table, landing on top of your broken body, his knee hitting your spine and knocking your last breath out of you. Straddling you, his thick thighs bulged through tattered sweatpants, squeezing into your rib cage. He looped another fist into your hair, raising your head and slamming it down. The side of your face smushed into the steel table, smearing around more blood as he did it again. And again. The cartilage in your nose cracked and throbbing pain radiated into your eyes, your skull. Warmth from the break and the blood poured over your face. The pain, dulling into numbness as you began to fade in and out of consciousness.

Your vision started to blur and blacken, stars and specks orbiting around Bucky like a halo of hallucination. Your body, finally surrendering to him. No fight left. Any strength you could have mustered, funneled into staying awake, proved useless.

A new sound, then: ripping.

You didn’t have to look to witness Bucky unrelentingly tear your t-shirt away from your body, training his eyes on your open form. Bruised skin exposed to cool air, your chest still momentarily held together by your sports bra. He made quick work of it next, the nylon snapping off in one swipe, sending goosebumps racing down your spine.

Ice-cold titanium fingers untangled from your matted hair and made their way from your nape, to the small of your back, to the waistband of your gym shorts. Muscles tensed as you felt each digit wrap almost leisurely onto the elastic. He tore them away swiftly, baring the rest of you and your skin to him. A growl, one of pleasure, vibrated into you from him, emitted he palmed the skin of your ass. His fingers journeyed languidly in a slow trail from your back to your core. You squirmed, wasting the last of your strength, a hopeless attempt to get away one last time.

A crack came across your face. Flesh against flesh, he slapped you. A punishment. A command for obedience. Your body fell limp. Breathing raggedly and gagging on blood and spit, you shuddered as he took your wrists and tied them together with your t-shirt.

Satisfied, his prey finally submitting, Bucky paused, panting as he leaned down to you. He wet his lips before speaking, gruff words slurred against your ringing eardrum. As he spoke, cold metal grazed your entrance, a threat of what was to come.

“Now, I get to take what’s mine.”

Your screams echoed as the world fell dark.

514 notes · View notes

papyjr13 · 2 months

Text

A Swap AU : Newtopia

Here is my version of the popular swap AU. You can also interpret that drawing as if all three of them fall at Newtopia.

Sasha : Sasha wasnt directly found by the royal army. In fact, she tried to escape them and survive like a street rat for one month. When she was finally caught, Yunan was very impressed by her tenacity and proposed to train her by becoming her apprentice.

Sasha had no choice to accept but she quickly learnt to love it. By the following months, she became one of the best soldier of the city and respected by everyone. She also learnt how to manage her anger.

Sasha didnt struck a deal with Andrias, she truly wanted to return home with the others but Andrias didnt want to let go a good host, so he tricked Sasha to test a new armor and so the Core took possession of her. Sasha was so rebellious that the Core was obligated to put her in the deepest pit of her subconcious but nothing can stop a warrior trained by the General Yunan.

Anne : Anne wasn't very quiet and got directly caught by the royal army. She was brought by Andrias and when he saw the box in the hands of the human, he finally knew it was the time. He welcomed Anne with big open arms by giving to her everything she wanted.

Quickly, Anne became the most trending person in the city. She bought everything she wanted, nobody couldn't tell "no" to her. She frequented the high aristocracy but was always supervised by Lady Olivia. The latter became like a new mother figure for Anne, she couldn't tell her "no" but tried everything to set the young girl in the righteous path.

Andrias knew how to exploit Anne's flaws. He forced her to retrieve the stone by promising to her he will give to the three girls the best life he can afford. Anne was very tempted but she finally missed her home and family. The Core wasn't very happy with that statement, so they convinced Andrias to give to Anne some "brainwashing" session until she will be ready to be a host.

The Core took possession of her mind and body but wasn't put in a mind prison, instead she was welcomed by the Core's inhabitants until her desire to break free catches the attention of some rebellous individual like Igor the Brave.

If you have any question about that AU, feel free to use my AMA.

#amphibia #marcy wu #anne boonchuy #sasha waybright #ask me anything #amphibia au #general yunan #lady olivia #the core amphibia

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lycheedr3ams · 8 months

Text

Death's Angel

Part 8: On Angel Wings

royal!fem!reader x executioner!konig

Summary: It's 1554. You're one of the eight daughters of the Austrian royal family, and your parents do everything they can to ensure their kingdom is prosperous and peaceful. No royal court is complete without their hand-picked executioner, one who stands out against the sea of black, faceless bodies that make up the profession. It just so happens that your family's new executioner, one who has made a name for himself far and wide for his skill with the axe, has caught your eye and ruined you for good.

Warnings: MDNI! smut, mutual pining, forbidden love, death (konig is an executioner duh), mean sisters, mentions of medieval-type violence, overbearing parents, konig is brooding and a perv, some predator/prey dynamics, possessive!konig, maybe dark themes bc reader likes seeing him kill people and bc he's a perv?

Part 7

I can't thank you all enough for the support i've gotten on this fic! this fic is what made my blog big and i just can't believe it's been so well-received. don't worry, it's a happy ending!!! also I'm sorry this took so long...I hope you guys like the ending. I'm super nervous my writing quality on this story went down, but maybe I'm too critical of my work. in any case, I hope you guys enjoy!

.......

series inspired by the art below!

you weren't sure how much time passed when you woke up in a warm bed. you blinked open your eyes and rubbed the exhaustion out of them. you looked around the room, and noticed konig sitting right by your side.

"Engel?" he asked softly. you had never heard his voice so tender.

"what happened?" you asked. you tried to sit up, but were immediately struck with a sharp pain in your chest. konig gently pushed you back down on the bed.

"lay down, Engel. you are hurt. you need to rest."

you looked down at your chest, and realized that it was wrapped with bloodied bandages. your dress was nowhere to be seen, but the blanket covered your lower half.

"what happened? where are we?" you asked as you could feel panic rising.

"we are somewhere we will never be found by anyone who wishes to separate us," konig said quietly. "you..." he couldn't finish his sentence as he cleared his throat.

"i what?" you asked.

konig shook his head. "you protected me. it is not supposed to be that way. i am supposed to protect you, and i couldn't." konig's head hung low in shame, his eyes now completely obscured from you.

you suddenly remembered everything that had happened right up to when the sword fell. your heart raced.

"i...my body just acted on its own. it was like i didn't have control over myself. it just happened." you thought for a long moment, and it was silent. konig's head still hung low.

"i don't regret it, though," you said firmly. konig looked at you in confusion.

"i promised to protect you, and here you are, laying in a bed soaked in your own blood," he said quietly as his eyes glassed over.

you smiled. "it's okay. i would do it again if i had to. but where are we? what happened to the knights?"

konig was silent for a little while. you closed your eyes.

"we are in france now. a little countryside town. after the soldiers patched you up, they realized that you weren't lying. they agreed to pretend that it never happened. but they will be back in a week, to make sure this is what you really want." his voice was quiet as he spoke.

"so...my parents and siblings still think i've been kidnapped?"

konig nodded.

"no. they need to know that you are not in the wrong. they need to know that i chose this."

"i don't know if that's a good idea," konig said after a moment. "they will say I brainwashed you."

"i don't care what they will say. if they don't believe me, that's on them. i will have the soldiers take a letter to them once they go back, and i will never speak to them again," you decided.

konig stared at you for a long while. he gently took your hand and stroked it with his thumb.

"i am sorry things turned out this way," he whispered as he looked at your hand.

you shook your head. "i wouldn't have it any other way, konig. i'm with you, and we can have our own life here. what is this town like?"

konig still stroked your hand as he spoke. "there are lavender fields surrounding the town, and a small forest to the east. there is an empty plot of land where a house can be built. the people are kind, and it is quiet and peaceful."

you smiled. "it sounds perfect."

konig brought your hand up to his lips as he lifted his hood to kiss the back of your hand. "i will make it up to you."

"there is nothing to make up, konig," you assured him with a smile. "everything will be okay now."

konig shook his head. "i will give you the life you deserve, my princess. i will build a house for you, and you can have as many gardens and animals as you like. you will have the finest sheets once again, and you will never want for anything."

you smiled. "as long as i have you, i will never want."

...

several months later

You walk out of the cottage that Konig had built for you and him on this warm morning. the birds are chirping and a gentle breeze blows over the lavender fields to the right of your cottage. you smile to yourself as you breath in the scent of lavender, and hear your sheep, ducks, and goats already waking up for the day. your garden, fenced off with bushes and a trellis with roses, blooms brilliantly in the morning sun.

konig quietly comes up behind you and wraps his strong scarred arms around you. he nuzzles your head gently with his nose and smiles underneath his hood.

"good morning, my Engel," he whispers gently to you. he speaks those four words to you every single morning. some may regard it as just a morning custom, but you know that konig never wastes any of his words. those four words every day, reserved only for you.

"good morning, konig," you smile up at him and gently hold his arms as they're wrapped around your waist. your goats bleat a few times, and you and konig share a gentle laugh.

...

life has been peaceful ever since the hell you and konig had gone through. you sent the letter to your parents, telling them the truth about your relationship with konig: how you weren't brainwashed, you didn't like being a princess, and this was the life you chose for yourself. your parents begged you to come back, their handwriting betraying their nerves and worry. but you never wrote to them again.

konig built this cottage for you in no time, and you two built your life together in this small countryside town in France. you helped out at the local bakery most days, tended to your farm animals every morning, checked your garden several times a day. you cooked warm meals for konig, which he always ate gratefully.

konig was no longer an executioner. he decided to leave that part of him in the past for your sake to build a peaceful life with you. the strong, calloused hands that once gripped axes to chop people's heads off now gripped saws and hammers and other tools to build houses, make horse shoes, craft swords. konig never spoke about it, but the gentle look in his eyes that grew as he got accustomed to normal life was something you always noticed and loved.

you two make a modest living; no more silk and fine china, but you couldn't have cared less. living life every day, doing what you wanted, you forgot about the endless want that material possessions creates. for the first time in your life, you are happy. you no longer had to worry about perfectly adjusting your hair, tying your corset, or matching your dress to the occasion each day. your hair changed each day based on your mood, and your clothing was simple and comfortable. no one told you where you had to be or when, you no longer had to watch every word that was spoken. you are free.

...

you hand konig his lunch basket for the day with a sweet smile, packed with fruits and bread and some salted meat. he rubs your head affectionately and kisses your forehead through his hood.

"danke, Engel."

"have a good day," you smiled up at him as you hugged his muscular chest. you gently tap his chin over his hood, and he smiles at your little signal and presses a chaste, gentle kiss on your lips. you watch as he descends the porch and walks to town.

you weren't sure exactly where you and Konig's lives were going to lead, but among your farm animals and garden and cottage and his arms, none of that mattered. the only thing you cared about was living each day with konig, living a normal life. you taught him what it meant to live, to breathe, to create things that made life better rather than take it away.

and even though you are no longer a princess, you will always be his angel.

taglist: @kneelingshadowsalome, @plumdreadful, @dumb-dumb-idiot-girl, @elichisstuff, @konig-breedme, @tr4psta, @cutiecusp, @konigsleftkidney, @local-vampire-s1ut, @ihaveaproblematicbrain, @twice360noscope, @madzeesstuff, @crazy-phan-girl13, @babygirl-panda19, @warrior-of-justice, @eluffi, @mooniesthings, @elowynnlane, @zaxlrza, @red-bed-bug, @alexdoesntlikeyou, @helmipss, @11aplacesange11, @rouge-swears, @pasta-m1lk, @ghostinvenus

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sprout-fics · 7 months

Text

Engravings (Chapter Three) (Finale)

(Makarov x F! Reader)

Engravings Masterlist

Word Count: 6.5k Rating: Mature Tags: Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, False Romance, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Injury/Blood, Whump, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier AU, Psychological Abuse, Happy Ending, Some Fluff, Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Physical Abuse, Domestic Violence, Attempted Homicide, Physical descriptions of gore, Mind the tags (Read on Ao3) A/N: The final chapter of Marionette's escape

How do you kill the person you love?

You’ve bathed in the blood of dozens, possibly hundreds. The violence Makarov has wound into your veins is inherent to your soul. Poisoned, your heart is dyed in ink, pulsing in glinting obsidian. If there was anything pure in you before he turned you into what you are now, it’s been swallowed by the years spent under his control, in his arms, drinking in his breath as if it were your own. The lives you’ve taken for him are a mere chill compared to his searing warmth. It burns against your skin in the light of the truth, but the pain is a bittersweet addiction you can’t release.

You know a hundred ways to kill an enemy, but you know none to kill Makarov.

It’s getting hard to maintain this farce of yours, your tender, relieved smiles at his presence, your soft sighs into his shoulder. Every time he echoes the name he’s bestowed upon you “Marionette.” a vile, sour thing twists inside you with a scream of something wrong.

He knows.

He knows, he sees through your farce, but he pretends like nothing is wrong. He presses gentle kisses to your forehead and you don’t let him see the pinch of your expression with how it hurts- the way something inside you longs for him even now. There’s a distant temptation to sink to your knees before him, confess and plead for mercy. You’re his, you’ve always been his. He loves you. He’ll forgive you, even if it means you’ll never see your friends again. If he forgives you, at least you’ll still have him, and there’s a part of you that still thinks he’s all you ever needed.

Has he engraved that into you too?

You dance around each other in this vain, feckless game of yours. You whisper his name like it’s a prayer, and his velvet eyes soften in return. Accepting your docility, as if he doesn’t see your feral nature lurking just below the surface. He embraces you, holds you tight to his chest, and you feign willingness, knowing the fatalistic gaze of him as he gazes past you. He’s playing you just as you play him, both of you waiting for the other to crack and end this macabre waltz you revolve in just like the ever-changing axis of stars above.

You’re running out of time.

You try to imbue yourself in the memories of your allies that have surfaced inside you despite his control over your mind. You think of the curling smoke of Price’s cigar, the sly sparkle of Gaz’s eyes, the bark of Soap’s laughter, the curve of Simon’s smile in the rare moments without his mask. You think about the clink of glasses in a dimly lit pub, the boxes of takeout that litter the coffee table in the rec room. You think about the despair in their eyes when they saw the thing you are now, and the scrawl of Johnny’s handwriting in the letter you wish you still had to give you strength.

We’re coming. We’ll bring you home. We won’t stop until you’re away from him.

Be patient, stay alive.

Come back to us.

Please, hen.

You think you may be dead by the time they rescue you. You think they might die trying to free you.

and you think about how cold Makarov’s blood will feel on your hands.

Maybe you can catch him while you lay in his arms in the blue light of his bedroom. Maybe you can pilfer a weapon and conceal it. Maybe you can breathe in his final, shuddering gasp when you drive the blade between his ribs, whisper a useless apology for the sin of loving him.

Maybe he’ll kill you with a kiss before you can try.

“They’ll never take you from me.” He’d told you. You know he’ll never let you leave alive.

You need to go home, and once more something secret inside you whispers that you are home.

He wakes you on a cold March morning a week after your breakdown, and as you blink slowly up at him he smiles, that gentle, heart tugging gesture that used to be the light of your entire life. Now, it makes you want to burst into tears.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He coos ever so gently, and you manage to not shy away from his touch as he smooths a hand across your bare shoulder. “Get dressed, I have somewhere to send you.”

No.

You’re not ready. You don’t know what it is, but something inside you twists in sickening apprehension at his words. Even so, you offer him a complacent smile, murmur something about coming back to bed for just a few more minutes.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Within the hour you are dressed in a dusk-colored coat and bundled into the back of a black van with two other men, both of them armed. Anxiety takes a foothold in your chest, and it takes effort to appear calm and composed even as the car pulls away and Makarov fades behind you.

They take you to a warehouse in a town just outside the city. It looks abandoned, but you know it’s merely a concealed location for something nefarious. Smuggling, storage, planning of logistics, a black site that doesn’t even exist on the map. You wonder if these are your executioners, if they’re taking you to a quiet, hidden spot to dispose of you. They won’t even dig you a grave, not with the ground frosted over by winter. The men at your back escort you inside, through empty corridors, down a set of stairs into a dark cellar. Every muscle inside you coils tight, ready to fight, claw your way to freedom through a path of blood.

Yet when the door to the cellar opens, all you see is a friend.

Alex.

He’s tied to a chair. Bruised, bloodied. There’s a welt above his left eye that you want to smooth over with a delicate touch, fall to your knees at his feet to undo the ropes that bind him. His head hangs on his chest, but when he looks up at you he startles, eyes wide before his expression falls into abrupt sadness. He calls your name and it takes all your strength to stand tall, to stay composed. Blank eyed, obedient. The puppet he wants you to be.

“What did he do to you?” He rasps, brow pinched in distress. He flexes his arms at the ropes, and they don’t budge. He calls your name again and it’s desperate. A sound of despair.

Movement beside you. A knife pressed into your palm.

“Do it.” Your handler murmurs in Russian. “Kill him.”

You tremble now, trying to keep your expression passive despite the looming panic rising up your chest and threatening to choke your air.

It’s a test. One you’re designed to fail.

You can kill him, watch the light from Alex’s eyes fade and his blood drain down your wrist. You could buy yourself just a little bit more time before Makarov decides to test you again, and again, until one day your usefulness to him expires and he tosses you aside.

You step closer, feel the phantom whisper of him in your ear, hands pressing your back into his front in a sinister embrace. His palms cover your eyes, blinding you.

“You don’t even have to look, darling.”

The knife shakes in your grip.

Alex turns his face to you, and the grief there makes something inside you splinter, crack and unspool in tormenting agony.

He’s your friend.

“It’s me.” He whispers sadly at your thousand-yard stare. “You know me. It’s Alex.”

“Do it.” The other handler snaps impatiently. “Prove yourself to our cause.”

“They’ll never take you from me.”

You won’t do this. Not anymore.

“No.” You whisper as something inside you finally changes along with the light of hope unfurling in Alex’s eyes. “I won’t.”

The two men behind you are silent for a moment, looking at each other, before one of them sighs.

You know the movement is coming before he lunges towards you, and easily you sidestep him, seize his arm and twist in a brutal grip. Something snaps. He screams.

The blade in your hand turns red with his blood.

As he gurgles a death moan on the ground, the other tries to raise his weapon at you. You force his hands up to the ceiling as he fires, and the bullet lodges itself in the damp wood. Two quick movements. A slash to the chest, under his bulletproof vest, and as he chokes a gasp you stab forward into the side of his neck, rip from one end to the other. Warm wetness coats your hands, and as the man slumps it drips from your fingers onto his stricken, frozen face.

You turn to Alex, and see in his eyes that he looks afraid. Afraid of your brutality, of your violence. Afraid of the weapon you’ve become. Afraid of the thing Makarov has made you.

The knife cuts away his bindings, and you drop it in favor of trying to touch him, reach and help him. You jolt when you realize how your skin has turned scarlet in the act of taking more lives. Yet Alex’s hands close over them, holding with a tight grip as if to anchor you from yourself.

“They, Price and the others, they sent me to find you.” He tells you hoarsely, rushing through his words. “They needed to know you were alive. That-”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

“Where are they?” You ask, gaze still bent to your hands. Soft, almost demure. Numb to the act of taking lives.

“A two-hour drive. We can make it before reinforcements come.” He declares, and suddenly you’re being pulled up the cellar stairs, past the empty corridors and into the overcast morning.

You gently pull your hand away from him. Alex looks at you, eyes stricken.

“No.” You whisper quietly, eyes full of hurt for what you are about to do. “I can’t.”

Alex blinks, and then he turns to grab at your shoulders, gripping you. “What are you talking about? This is your chance. You can escape!” He pauses, fingers clenching into your wool coat before he softly adds: “You can come home to us.” Your face pinches, you shake your head in a quick gesture that silences a growing sob.

“They’ll find us before we make it out of the city.” You tell him softly. “Makarov won’t let me go that easily.”

You feel that new, fragile thing inside you clench with the hurt of your words, how desperately you want to follow him. “I can’t get you killed for this. You- you go. I’ll distract them, make sure you get to safety.”

Alex’s grip softens, but his voice remains hard. “I’m not leaving you.” He declares with unwavering conviction. “We’ll find a way. I can’t just-”

“Go.” You gasp, cutting him off. “I need- I need to go back. I need to end this.”

You look at him then, eyes brimming with tears. The truth of what you need to do aches in your bones, a sorrow that grows tenfold at the devastation in your friend’s eyes.

“I need to kill him.”

Alex blinks, swallows.

“He’ll try to kill you.” He whispers.

You nod, and at last resignation settles into your soul with a sigh. “I know.”

Yet then you manage to smile past your tears, head tilting and eyes fond.

“I’ll follow you soon.” You tell him softly. “Don’t wait up.”

Alex holds you to his chest, red hands pressing your face to his shoulder. You can feel his rigid frame as he tries to contain his protests.

“Be safe, sister.” He tells you in Arabic. “Come back to us.”

“I will.” You promise, eyes closing and swallowing down a sob. “I will.”

---

As Alex makes his escape, you find yourself once more throwing yourself into the jaws of the lynx.

The drive back to Makarov’s safehouse is quiet, almost peaceful. The scant brightness of the winter sun glints off your dull-eyed gaze. The blood on your hands and clothes dries by the time you pull into the garage, hit the button to the beautiful, pristine apartment that overlooks St. Petersburg. You close your eyes, swallow down the howling voice inside you that screams in anguish at the sin you are about to commit against the man you once loved, and somehow have been taught to love still.

There’s no guards at Makarov’s door, and it makes you falter unexpectedly. Even so, you cautiously tread inside, the knife in your grip concealed in the sleeve of your blood splattered coat. The smell of food wafts from the kitchen, and as you step inside you see him at the stove, tending to something mouthwatering. It’s only then that you catch sight of the set table, the flowers in a vase, the fine silverware and white napkins set just so.

“Welcome back.” He tells you without looking at you, and you notice how nicely dressed he is, pressed shirt sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows. “Go change. There is a dress for you in the bedroom.”

You don’t move, caught entirely off guard by this...this display of romanticism he never once has offered in the time you’ve known him. It’s sinisterly amorous, deceptively charming in a way designed to unsettle you. It finds its mark, because something inside you squirms with abject, growing discomfort, knowing something is wrong.

It’s then that you see the pistol laying beside him on the counter.

Soviet era, semi-automatic. Nine-millimeter.

“Dinner will be ready soon.” He tells you blankly, still not looking at you, as if he doesn’t even consider you a threat.

The water runs pink in the bathroom. You try to find a way to conceal your knife on your person, but the dress he’s set for you offers little excuse to hide your weapon. Red, the color he adores you in, and your hands fumble as they try to drag the zipper up your spine. When the bedroom door opens you can’t contain a flinch. Yet Makarov is silent as he crosses the room, bare hands sliding the zipper up your spine in a slow, suggestive gesture. When he’s finished, his arms snake around to hold your hips, nose descending to the exposed flesh of your shoulder and tracing along the skin. He breathes in your scent, and you can’t help but ease somewhat at the sinister seduction he offers to you.

“Come eat.” He whispers breathily. “You’ve had a long day.”

His grip on your shoulder is unrelenting as he escorts you to the immaculately set table, popping his chin on his hands as he sits across from you with slow blinking eyes.

You look down at the steak on the fine china. Your stomach clenches in disgust. Poisoned, your mind whispers.

“I’m not hungry.” You whisper, your voice sounding more fearful than you’d hoped.

Makarov huffs a little sound that sounds almost amused.

“Do you think I’d stoop so low as to poison you, Marionette?”

You freeze.

As you look up from the steak to Makarov, as horror dawns across your expression, you realize he knows.

Makarov tilts his head and observes you with a slow, cruel smile.

“My greatest prize.” He purrs. “Come to kill me? How ironic.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. The apartment around you seems to spin dangerously. Heartbeat hammering, you look quickly to the steak knife beside the plate. Yet Makarov follows your gaze, and before you can grab for it he reaches forward with a disappointed little sigh and takes it from your grasp.

“Please, Marionette.” He tells you with false sincerity. “We’re trying to have dinner.”

“Is that what this is?” You ask hoarsely, throat dry. “I could have sworn this is you taking your time to gloat before you kill me.”

“Kill you?” He laughs, eyes sparkling with cruel glee. “Why Marionette, you haven’t even heard my offer yet.”

That makes you pause. You look at him, shoulders rigid, and Makarov’s eyes glimmer like the stars above.

“I’ve known about this farce of yours for a while, beloved.” He tells you, and the low timbre of his voice makes your chest tighten with an aleatory mix of emotion. “I was willing to overlook it as long as you did your job correctly, performed as you were meant to. After all, I’m so very fond of you.”

You spit a curse at him in Russian, and Makarov doesn’t even flinch.

“Of course, now that your friends are getting close to finding us, it is time to look at different options.”

You stiffen impossibly further in your chair, sitting elegantly in your lovely red dress, blood still under your fingernails, staring at the man holding you prisoner with noxious dread.

The smile Makarov gives you is ominously affectionate.

“I’ll give you one last chance, Marionette.” He offers silkily. “I’ll let you live. I can promise no harm will come to you. I won’t make use of your skills, and I won’t force you to kill your allies. You can stay, and you will be safe.”

“Under what conditions?” You ask quietly.

Makarov observes you, unblinking like the lynx painting that hangs above your dreams.

“You will never leave my side again.”

Your heart cracks against your ribs.

Stay with him. Protected, not forced to murder anyone, beside him always.

It’s what you’ve always wanted.

To be at his side, to walk beside him, not two steps back like the weapon he’s made you as. To fall under the wing of his protection and be his, only ever his. To be not his puppet or his tool but as his. Perhaps...even to be loved by him in the way you’ve wanted since the moment he found you.

It doesn’t make any sense. Why spare you? Why keep you beside him when he knows you want to take his life? Why take the risk?

You blink, and suddenly his words make sense. Why else? To keep you only as a shield, as insurance against your allies hunting him down, trying to kill him. Not as his weapon, no, but as leverage. The second Price and the others step too close he’ll hoist a gun to your head, force them to lay down their arms for the cost of sparing you.

In your dream, Price and the others look upon you with despair beyond the sights of the pistol in your grip.

“Stay with me, Marionette.” He purrs, head tilted at you with fixated intent. “Give in, and I’ll keep you safe.”

You swallow, feeling sandpaper scrape at your throat. “As your hostage?” You ask, voice trembling.

Makarov smiles. It looks almost kind.

“As my beloved doll.” He returns sweetly. “Perfect and beautiful just the way you are meant to be.”

You can imagine it. Just as he says, you’d be nothing more than a prize sitting amongst his trophies of war. Clad in beautiful clothes, pristine, at his side as a display of his power over you. Nothing more than a puppet, a captive, his marionette. You’d sit like a lachrymose dove in his golden gilded cage, staring up at the stars and wanting desperately to fly. Wings clipped, you’ll slowly rot until you once more become an empty shell whose only purpose is to love him.

An empty, soulless existence. Worse than the one you’re living in.

Makarov is silent as he waits for your answer, and you look upon him, this man you had once existed for. You remember his passionate embraces, his claiming kisses and soft strokes along your bare body. You remember a time when all you had ever wanted was for him to confess his adoration for you, tell you how beloved you are to him.

You look upon him now, and you see the man who offers a beautiful cage.

“I’m leaving.” You tell him, voice trembling with the strength it takes to speak. “I’m going to leave you, Makarov, and when I do, I’m going to learn to live without you.”

The light of false kindness in his eyes slowly fades to a blank, detached apathy.

“Darling.” He whispers, words low with threat. “You’ll never leave me.”

He reaches for the pistol.

You react entirely on instinct, shove the entire table towards him so it hits him in the stomach. Makarov catches it, but not in time, and he grunts as his features morph into a scowl. You stand so the chair topples behind you, lunge for him just as his hand closes around the gun. You manage to hoist it high and away from you, eyes wild as every instinct inside you roars to life. The skills he’s carved into you, the lessons of the weapon he’s made you, now turn against him in a desperate bid for survival.

Makarov curses at you, and as you follow his motion he drags you across the table, knocks a leg so it falls. You find your footing anyways, use his imbalance to shove him against the too-large windows that overlook St. Petersburg. Makarov rams his head against yours, and it sends you reeling for a moment, grip loosening on his wrist. He shakes it loose, but before he can fire you yell, plant a strike to his arm to buckle it. A shot rings out, and it goes wild, shattering the vase of roses on the kitchen counter.

Makarov grapples for you, his hand closing around the lower half of your face as you pin his arm to the curtains. You bite down so blood fills your mouth, raise a leg between you so you can kick out one of his legs. Makarov falters, and as he does you twist, reaching for the gun once more. Yet Makarov anticipates your movement, and as he rapidly adjusts you manage to only knock the weapon from his hands. It slides across the tiled floor, well out of reach.

In your surprise he catches you off guard, and the world spins around you as he snarls, hoists you and throws you through the glass table.

The impact makes something crunch inside you, broken glass slicing your skin as you fall on your side, pain blossoming brightly in your ribs. It stuns you, the hurt fracturing outwards and robbing the breath from your lungs. The impact rattles you from head to toe, and even as you are winded you try to roll and push yourself up, to face him once more.

Makarov’s hands find you before you get the chance.

He forces you violently onto your back, chest heaving as he leans over you, hands snaking up to grip your neck in a strangulating hold. It takes a moment for your head to clear, but when it does you struggle, choking in pain at the suck of air that doesn’t reach your lungs. Makarov’s thumbs press into your airway as he straddles you, ignoring your flailing hands as they try to scratch at his face. He grabs at them with one hand, struggling for a moment before he hauls both far above your head. It gives you only a moment to breathe before the choking hold returns, starving you of air.

You trash, flail, but with every movement Makarov’s hands seem to press down harder. His eyes stare down above you, mouth a grim set line as he watches the horror and desperation transform your expression.

Black dots threaten your vision, and you feel your strength beginning to fade. The only thing left is the constellations in his eyes, glimmering darkness that you once had looked upon with adoration.

“Vlad...imir-” You wheeze, tears falling.

He blinks, expression faltering.

At your fingertips, a piece of glass.

You stab it into the meat of his palm, loosen his hold as he cries out in pain. He relaxes his grip on you, and without thinking you surge upwards so the killing edge finds its place in his throat.

Blood coats your hands.

Makarov reels backwards, grips at the wound where blood rushes forth. He falls off you, and as he does you suck in a desperate gasp of air, filling your lungs with oxygen and coughing at the crack of your ribs as they seize. Glass digs rips at your dress, embeds itself into your flesh, and even as you rise you cut yourself further still, whimpering until at last you brace beside Makarov’s form.

There’s a wet gush of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, the shard of glass dyed red as it does nothing to stem the flow of blood that stains his collar, puddles on the floor. His hands weakly try to stop it, but he too seems to realize it’s too late. It’s over.

His eyes find yours. Confused, for a moment, but then blinking in a distant realization you don’t understand. He’s weak as he reaches for you, and you expect him to try and grab at you in a last-ditch effort, to take your life so you both tumble down to the fires of hell together.

Instead, his hand strokes a gentle, scarlet path onto your cheek.

You blink down at him, horrified, and Makarov’s eyes blink at you once, twice...

A slow exhale. His hand drops to the floor.

and slowly, the constellations fade.

The divine stars turn dark.

-----

It’s dark when the truck pulls up to the cabin.

Gentle hands shake you awake, coaxing you out of dreams. Your head lolls in your fatigue, but it lifts at the careful encouragement spoken in soft Russian. You yield to it, allow yourself to gently be helped from the passenger seat and onto your feet. There’s a thick blanket tucked around your form, and as you steady yourself you hug it tighter to keep the frigid cold at bay. Your too-large clothes hang loose from your form, and as you take a step forward you sway unsteadily.

Nikolai’s hands land on your shoulders, and you sag into his safety with relief, eyes fluttering with exhaustion.

He keeps you pressed into his side as you’re escorted forward, murmuring in Russian.

“Careful, Солнышко. Easy, I’ve got you.”

You don’t say much, glassy eyes focused more on your socked feet than where you’re being led. You can feel the way Nikolai’s fingers grip you, know from his touch alone how much it pains him to see you as a mere shell of your former self. It hurts somewhere deep inside you, a distant pain hidden by the numbness of the thing you’ve done.

A few more steps, and a door bursts open. You lift your gaze to take in the brightness that spills from the cabin, but it’s overshadowed by the rapid motion of figures quickly moving towards you. There’s a shout, a cry of your name, and the next thing you know you’re being passed from one set of arms to another, pressed into a smothering embrace.

“Soap.” You hoarse.

“Thank God.” He rasps, voice muffled by the blanket surrounding you. “Steamin’ Jesus, hen. We thought, we thought-”

He tenses in alarm as you abruptly sag into him, the strength in your legs giving out. Yet then there’s a second set of arms, and you lift your face towards the scent of cloves and gunpowder.

“Gaz.”

Gaz bends so he can look at your half-lidded eyes. You think you see tears.

“That’s right doll, it’s me.” He tells you, and a hand strokes your face. “We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Snow crunches under footsteps. A smoke-laden voice. “Get her inside.” Your captain murmurs softly, voice muted. Resigned.

“Price.” You try, twisting to look for him. You see him just off to your side, and his eyes are caught between bitterness and heartbreak, an anger and sadness that you wish you could comfort. You reach for him, but all you manage to do is put yourself off balance, the pain in your hip flaring as you stumble. Gaz yelps as you sink downwards.

A larger set of arms, skeletal gloves. Ghost’s hands scoop under your legs and haul you upwards. You whimper at the pain from the movement, and you feel him gentle at the sound.

“You’re alright, pet.” He offers softly, and you somehow find it in yourself to nod, relax into his hold.

There’s murmurs as you’re carried into the warmth of the cabin, and you hear Price ask something to Nikolai in a low, grave voice, to which Nik merely shakes his head in disbelief.

You’re set near the fire, and the flickering glow warms you though. Someone tucks another blanket around your shoulders, pushes a steaming mug of tea into your hands. You look down at it hazy-eyed, shell shocked and numb, trying once more to tell yourself you’re safe. You’re home.

At last, you look up at them.

“He’s dead.” You announce hoarsely. “I killed him.”

The group is silent. There’s no cheering or cries of triumph. It’s a victory, but it has come at a great cost. Instead, their eyes are sad, bitter, staring at you like looking at an empty, lost soul.

Soap crosses the room first, sits beside you and hauls you gently against his side. It’s a wordless gesture, and you know it’s because there’s nothing he can say. Instead, you lean into him, feel your throat clog with the emotion of finally being held by someone you trust.

“Is Alex safe?” You ask in a wavering voice.

Price nods. You swallow down a sob.

“He came back.” Gaz tells you softly, reaches forward to take the mug from your bandaged, shaking hands and sets it atop the woodstove. “He told us what you did, that you went back by yourself. We...we thought...” He trails off, and you see the pain in his eyes, the way they’re glassy with tears.

“I’m sorry.” Soap offers then, voice cracking, his hand on your shoulder bunching the blanket in his grip. “We should have tried harder, we should have never stopped looking for you, we-”

“It’s not your fault, Johnny.” You tell him gently, with a weariness that sits heavy on your soul. Johnny grows silent, but after a moment he sucks in a breath, rubs at his face vigorously to erase the tears there.

“Johnny’s right.” Ghost offers sorrowfully, and when you look up you see the full extent of his emotions play out across his bare face. “I should have grabbed you in Minsk. I shouldn’t have let them take you.”

The conviction in his voice makes you pause, and you want to tell him it’s not his fault either, that he was just trying to figure out a way where you both made it out unscathed.

“It doesn’t matter.” Price murmurs grimly, bent forward in his chair, staring down at his clasped hands. He looks defeated, head drooping towards the floor. There’s no declaration of triumph in his voice at killing the man they’ve been hunting for years. Not when you’ve come back to them like you are now. He stands, gently pads over to kneel at your feet. You feel something dull stifle your chest as he turns his heartbroken gaze to you. “What matters now is that you survived. You made it out, and you came home to us.”

Home.

Your real home.

It breaks the dam inside you, and you feel your face scrunch before you suck in a gasp, begin to cry with fat, hot tears rolling down your face. Price hushes you, drags you into his arms, and you fold into him with a gasping wail of relief, of grief, of emotions you’ve yet to name. Johnny tucks into you from behind, followed by Kyle, and soon you feel the added weight of Simon wrap around you as well. They hold you, your brothers, listen to you shudder and weep in their arms. You feel them cry with you, grateful and grieving for all that was lost, and the price it cost to return you to them.

You don’t know how long you cry. It feels as if you cry for every single day you were caged, weeping for the time you lost with them, and the things you were forced to do in the time you forgot them. You weep for the lives you took, for the bruises you earned, for the words you believed, and you weep for the thing inside you that will forever remain changed because of it all.

Exhaustion takes hold as you empty yourself of cries, and you’re gently carried to a bed further inside the cabin, where a body, then another, lay down beside you and let you curl into their warmth. You drift to sleep, safe in the arms of those who love you.

As you rest, Nik relays to the others the story you told him- of how you escaped.

You’d taken the pistol Makarov gave you, shot the guards that had come to his rescue, and had driven far out to the other end of the city. Injured, bloodied, in nothing but the dress Makarov had given you, you had run for the better part of a day before finding a way to contact Nikolai. He was the one who had found you collapsed in the dark bushes of a park, hidden amongst the branches like a nestling fawn. There, you’d collapsed into the snow, gripped the spent pistol Makarov had tried to use on you, allowed frostbite to take its hold, and prepared to die.

Instead Nik collected you into his arms and brought you to a safehouse. It was there that he tended to your wounds, to your broken ribs and injured hip from being thrown through the glass table. Bruises litter your right side, a circling of dark coloring around your neck, a welt across your forehead, all things you earned in your bid for freedom. He’d removed the shards still sticking from your skin, had cleaned and dressed your cuts and taken your dress to burn it in his stove. You’d stayed awake throughout, told Nik of the thing you had done. You cried into his arms as you confessed your sins, begged for a forgiveness he could not offer.

He’d held you, kept you safe, and he brought you home to them.

You don’t dream as you sleep in the arms of your brothers.

The rest of the story comes slowly over the next few days as you rest and recover. You’re never left alone, scarcely without someone to lean into, to be held by, and for this you are grateful. Grateful you are too, of the gentleness your friends give you as they care for you. Warm food, hot tea, a place by the fire, clean clothes, and tender hands that redress your wounds. They listen to you as you tell them the story from the beginning, from the day you woke up without a name to the day you earned it back. You tell them of the one named Marionette, the beautiful puppet held by his strings. You tell them of a life that was not yours to control, and of how you escaped.

Johnny sleeps by your side, soothes your restless slumber. Gaz pushes food into your hands and reminds you to eat, to earn your strength back. Ghost gently re-wraps your ribs, murmurs soft praises as you bite down on complaints. Price tucks you into him as you sit on the couch, listening to him read novels you don’t care to know the names of, until you fall asleep once more. You’re cared for, tended to, and the beloved touch of them slowly eases the wounds on your soul.

They cry for you, your friends. Soap weeps into your lap and sobs apologies for being unable to rescue you. Gaz holds you in his arms and cries for the things Makarov did to you, of the ways you were changed by his machinations. Simon looks upon you with tears when you forgive him, forgive all of them for not coming sooner.

When you cry into Price’s arms, finally confess to him that you once loved the man you killed, you feel his silent tears stain your shoulder. He’s quiet, angry, and you know it hurts because it wasn’t him that killed the man who took you from them.

In the days that follow you slowly regain your strength, and you know it will take many months to come before time gently washes away the things you can allow yourself to forget. Your family will stand beside you, protect you and shelter you as you find yourself again. They’ll hold you when the nightmares try to drown you, when you hear his voice in your thoughts and grasp desperately for them. They’ll stay with you as the pain slowly fades, as you learn how to smile again. They listen to the sound of your laughter and scarcely conceal their tears of joy.

It takes days to secure a safe path out of Russia with Nik’s help. In that time you hear how Makarov’s death has changed the world. Without their Copernicus, Russia’s ultra-nationalists flounder. Nik holds you with a soft smile when the others aren’t looking, and thanks you for doing the thing nobody else did. You think maybe you’ve earned an ounce of forgiveness with Makarov’s death.

You dream of him.

In the blue light of his bedroom, with the lynx painting, of soft words in Russian, of how his smile never reached his eyes. You dream of his final act- gently stroking your face, and of the hesitation in his gaze when you called his name in a breathless cry.

It’s a gentle dawn the day you leave Russia. You stand outside swaddled in the borrowed clothes of your friends, looking at the soft blue dawn that draws over the horizon. You think of that morning in St. Petersburg when you asked him how he would die.

“With glory. For Russia.”

You wonder if he loved you, at the very end.

There’s something inside you that remains a fragile, brittle thing. It’s changed by the time you spent with him, by the way he hollowed you out inside. Someday it will heal, will be filled once more by the beloved laughter of those you love, and the tender embraces of those who care for you.

You know that some things will forever remain the same, with the memories that you keep of him.

To the stars, you pray for the day to come soon when his engravings will finally fade.

Taglist:

@writeforfandoms @alicesfracturedmirror @soapskneebrace @badame0224 @mayhem-baby @emrzennn @papaver-decervicatus @warenai @ggeveryone99 @justmare @merkitty49 @darkstars-14 @lostagoodcigar @gazs-blue-hat @siilvan @bucca2 @franticallyfanning @danjo-ao3 @scatter-mind001 @lonesome-doves @thriving-n-jiving @bucketbunny @secretliteradite @anatweyen @imagineswritersblog @bucca2 @sae1kie @preciouslittlecreature @allbark-littlebite @theallpowerfulrosami

---

Thank you for reading Engravings.

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inoreuct · 3 months

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ZOSAN POLICEMAN/CYBORG SIDEKICK AU

inspired by me talking to reg after work and thinking about sanji fighting after a full shift at the baratie and then saying he must have heels of steel. lesgo.

zoro’s a police officer because of course he is. his lifestyle’s insanely militaristic and according to luffy, insanely mundane; he goes to bed at eight every night and has been wearing the same three white t-shirts for the past ten years. don’t even start about his socks— most of them are more hole than fabric. he has more emotional attachment to those things that a ballerina to her toe pads.

he has a pretty high position in the police force and his underlings are constantly trying to get him out to dinner or the bar, and he always says NO. he has to hit the gym. or go for a run. or go to kendo practice. that 1st dan rank of his doesn’t maintain itself.

anyway something big goes down that has the whole department up in a frenzy and zoro’s put in charge of it; he’s fully ready to take on the case and the investigations. chasing down crooks and pulling corrupt happenings into the light is his specialty. he gets the job done because he never changes his methods and he works just fine alone.

enter stage right: blackleg sanji.

blond. brilliant. beautiful. he’s a disarming smile and luscious golden hair wrapped up in a pretty silvery bow before you realise he could actually. like. strangle you with the ribbon. he could literally break more than half the bones in your body without breaking a sweat and then meet his friends for dinner after.

he got his namesake from the parts of him that aren’t quite human; everything below mid-thigh is reinforced carbon-fibre, sleek and dark gray. his veins are wires, his muscles pistons— there are knives hidden in his heels and there’s a gun in his right kneecap with a flamethrower in the other. he’s proficient in muay thai, savate, and kickboxing. he’s a badass. end of story.

judge, his biological father, is a high-ranking government official/scientist in charge of a military project called GERMA66. he mechanically engineered his children into the perfect supersoldiers by quite literally brainwashing and rebuilding them. think bucky barnes in the winter soldier, but more fucked up because these are his KIDS.

in any case. sora makes fucking sure that she plays a big enough part in sanji’s upbringing that he fights the mental conditioning and manages to get away before judge does everything he had planned. zeff takes him in, raises this snot-nosed little kid in the back of his restaurant for eleven years, and every part of sanji that counts takes after zeff and his mother.

(zeff’s also friends with garp, who happens to be luffy’s grandfather, and luffy happens to be zoro’s best friend and routine patrol buddy. small world.)

judge managed to make it so the mechanical enhancements would grow with the kids, so sanji doesn’t really need any adjustments. that doesn’t mean he didn’t get a little squeaky here and there, though, and zeff’s touch-ups with engine oil in the middle of the night can really only help so much.

and then he meets usopp, and then franky. they’re mechanics (technically) and mad geniuses (definitely) and they fix him right up. usopp’s the one who makes sure all his fuel and stuff is chemically optimal, and franky reinforces his hip with titanium to help his body withstand the sheer torque of his kicks. the grandma jokes are ENDLESS.

in any case, judge finds him. yeah. and sanji gets assigned to (read: forced to help) zoro and the mutual dislike/disdain/animosity is IMMEDIATE.

zoro thinks sanji’s a contrary asshole who starts fights for the sake of fighting. sanji thinks zoro’s just another law enforcer prick in cahoots with judge. they go on their first stakeout and almost get busted because they can’t stop biting and snipping at each other, but zoro gets grazed by a bullet in a shootout and that night they both sit a little quieter than they’re used to.

their bond forms slowly. they resist it at first but it’s just so easy to fall into step with one another, taking turns with offence and defence, trusting the other to fill whatever gaps in their attacks one of them alone can’t handle. they don’t bicker to intentionally hurt anymore— it’s more quips and harmless snark than anything. sanji cooks for the both of them and makes sure they don’t get malnourished while they’re off chasing baddies, and zoro helps him realign all the finicky little parts in his legs that aren’t big enough of a problem to warrant paying franky a visit. they’re good together, and it’s comfortable. they’re comfortable.

and then they realise that there’s something much bigger going on.

zoro’s feeling more and more uneasy as they unspool the thread of lies and motives because it’s starting to feel like the people they catch and bring in are being… targeted. like someone wants them out of the way.

he brings it up to sanji and the blond freezes. brushes it off like he hadn’t since the beginning and goes right on to talking about the next suspect on their list. a tiny voice at the back of zoro’s head tells him that something’s not right, but he brushes it aside for the time being and focuses on planning with sanji.

the feeling gets worse.

it all blows up one night when they’re having dinner in sanji’s apartment, and zoro’s staring at the plate of spinach pesto linguine in front of him with his fist clenched around his fork.

“what?” sanji laughs, scrubbing at the frying pan in the sink. “looking a bit too much like your hair?”

zoro swallows. “what’s going on?”

the air thickens, and zoro’s breath is shallow as sanji turns around. “what do you mean?”

“you know what i mean.” the blond’s been bitter lately, too much like how he’d been when they'd first met. it brings out something fiercely protective in zoro, underneath that initial glaze of anger, because he knows sanji well enough at this point to know when the other man’s being avoidant and not just secretive. sanji’s afraid of something and he’s running from it. there’s resentment in the way his spine curls, and it’s sour on zoro’s tongue because he knows it’s most likely directed at sanji himself.

sanji’s throat bobs as he turns away again, turning the tap on, but zoro doesn’t let up. “they’re innocent,” he continues, voice low. “they’re innocent and you know it. these people are being framed—”

“we don’t know that,” sanji interrupts.

“—we know,” zoro says fiercely. “you know it, curls, so what are you getting up to?”

the other man stays turned away, washing and drying calmly. the gears in his legs whirr as he shifts his weight.

“sanji.” zoro stands up and rounds the island, fingertips dragging over the countertop. “you know these people aren’t doing anything wrong and you’re still taking them in. tell me what’s going on.”

sanji takes a measured breath and tilts his head, before pushing out a short, “can’t.”

zoro can feel himself getting angry. it’s heat at the base of his skull, the back of his neck, the itch to grab his partner (they’re partners, now. what a thought.) by the shoulders and shake until he comes to his senses. sanji is kind. if zoro is sure of anything at all he’s sure of that. sanji is kind and he will fight to the fucking death to make sure justice is served with fairness, and this is how zoro knows that something is wrong.

WE NEED A PART 2 I HIT THE CHARACTER LIMIT

(part 2)

#one piece #zosan #roronoa zoro #black leg sanji #zoro x sanji #one piece zosan #one piece sanji #one piece zoro #sanji #zoro #cyborg sanji au

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smollandkindaannoyed · 3 months

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You ever think about soulmate-mark Stucky AU, about how they would have soulmarks on their arms and they knew they were each others soulmates from a young age. But of course it is WW2 america, we got the time usual homophobia, so they have to hide their soulmarks. Maybe we even got some internalized homophobia on one or both sides. So even though they know they are soulmates, they dont fully act on it.

And then Bucky falls off the train. Steve both loses his best friend and his soulmate in one mission and it is absolutly defestating. And now Steve has to walk around with his soulmark on his arm, has to look at the mark of a relationship that never was and now also never will be. He gets stuck in the ice, gets found and suddenly is in the modern age. Here he has once again have to realise Bucky is gone, has to be with the avangers where some have found each other and where the time typical homophobia is not like WW2 times. He is happy for everyone but also it stays that reminder of what couldn't be.

BUT THEN WE HAVE BUCKY'S POV OF THIS. Bucky who gets found, brainwashed and used. Bucky who also lost his soulmate, who knows he has at first, but slowly his memories get wiped. And to make it even worse his mark is gone, all he has is his new arm with a mark that isn't his. So even if he wanted to remember his soulmate, nothing would be there to remind him of Steve, all he would see is that red star.

So when Steve finds the Winter Soldier he is in shock. His soulmate is alive, he is right in front of him but something is wrong. Bucky doesnt recognize him, the metal arm with a different mark and the fact that Bucky is trying to kill him. Steve got his soulmate back but they don't know that, and now Steve has to do anything to get his friend and soulmate back.

I can't stop thinking about Soulmate-mark Stucky. Like Stucky is already heartbreaking when I think about them for to long but soulmate mark them hits.

#stucky #marvel mcu #mcu #steve rogers #bucky barnes #stevebucky #soulmates

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onceuponastory · 11 months

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if you believe in me - the winter soldier x reader

Part 2 of my Ghost Story AU - Read the previous part here.

Plot: Y/N and Bucky flee her grandma’s house, and with the help of Steve and Sam, soon make it back to Avengers HQ, to safety. And there, Y/N learns the truth. Pairing: The Winter Soldier/Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader Warnings: Mentions of death, violence/abuse, trauma, blood, pain, torture, brainwashing, weapons, and everything Bucky did as the Winter Soldier, and had done to him by HYDRA. Please use your own discretion. As always if I miss any triggers, let me know. Notes: This is the very requested part two to my fic Ghost Story, so please read that first if you haven’t already. Thank you for loving this story so much and for wanting to see more! Not beta’d, so any mistakes are my own.

“Ready?” Bucky smiles. And without even thinking about it, Y/N nods. Even though they've only known each other for about a week, she’d follow him anywhere.

“Okay. We’ll get the jet sorted. Wheels up in less than two hours. We’ll be back at HQ by tomorrow morning.” Sam explains. And then, Y/N and Bucky are alone again.

“How are you feeling about all this?” She asks, and Bucky raises a brow.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the one who’s had your whole life upended for the second time already. Sorry about that, by the way.” Y/N shrugs.

“Bucky.” She soothes. “You don’t have to be sorry. I understand why you did it. You were terrified of going back to HYDRA and thought I posed a threat. You were just trying to protect yourself.” Bucky nods. But he still feels awful about scaring her so badly, and making her think for even a second that her life was in jeopardy. At least now he knows that Y/N could never hurt him. Honestly, he doesn’t think she has an evil bone in her body. Not like him, with all the blood he has on his hands. No matter how much he tries to repent, that blood will still be there. He’s always going to be the Winter Soldier. A murderer. “Well, your life has completely changed in less than an hour. You’re going home with your friends who love and care about you. It’s probably a lot to take in.” Y/N continues. And she’s right. Honestly, Bucky feels like he just got his old life back, handed to him on a silver platter. Or at least, he’s on the steps to it. “I’m glad you’ve got it back, Bucky.” She’s so kind. Even when he knows he doesn’t deserve it. Honestly, he’s not quite ready to live this new life yet. At least, not without Y/N. She’s a big part of his life now, too.

Yet, he notices that there’s something troubling her.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing.” He can tell that she doesn’t want to take away from his happy moment with his friends by talking about her problems. But Bucky wants her to know how incredibly grateful he is to her, and that she means a lot to him. And that includes her feelings and her worries.

He doesn’t know what angel was looking down on him the day he found Y/N’s grandmother’s house, but he’s so glad that they were. After all, if it wasn’t for Y/N, he wouldn’t have his life back. She saved his life.

“Y/N. It’s okay. Just tell me the truth. We’ve been through a lot already, remember?” He points out, and Y/N chuckles. Some may find it strange that they’re laughing about everything they’ve been through, but he already feels close enough to her to do so. And that’s why he’s even more glad that she’s coming with them.

“I just.” She sighs, still clearly unwilling to admit her feelings. Yet, when Bucky prompts her further, she explains. “I feel weird about leaving all my grandmother’s stuff here. It’s the main reason I came here after all. What if you’re right, and HYDRA comes looking for us? I don’t want it being destroyed. That's all I have left of her.” Bucky nods. He understands her worries, of course. If there was anything that reminded him of his past, he’d want to keep it safe too. He just wishes there was something to remind him of his old life, when he was still Bucky Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. But since he can’t do that, the least he can do is help Y/N keep her grandmother’s memory alive.

“Well, how about you bring a few things with you, and I’ll help you put some stuff away and hide it? And once this is all done, I promise that we’ll come back and get her stuff. Whatever you want, and whatever you need. Just us two.” Y/N nods, smiling softly. Although that’s all she wants, she knows that Bucky’s just trying to keep her morale up. Honestly, she’s not holding out much hope for her grandmother’s things if HYDRA does come knocking, whether they’re hidden or not. Ideally, she’d stay here, keeping them safe whilst trying to live as normal a life as possible. She knows there’s no way Bucky can promise something like that.

Yet, she appreciates Bucky’s effort to cheer her up all the same. Because she knows the alternative is much worse than what he’s proposing. And besides, she knows that when it comes down to it, her life is worth more than some photographs. And of course, her grandma would’ve wanted her to stay alive too. “Just us two.” Bucky’s voice echoes in her mind. Deep down, she hopes that will be their future. Her and Bucky, just like it was before.

“Okay.” She nods. “That sounds good.”

Despite the cramped jet, Y/N is glad to be on the way to safety. Or at least, what she hopes is safety. During the ride, there is mostly silence with the occasional bit of small talk here and there. But Y/N is glad to be sitting in silence. Being in such close proximity to Captain America and the Falcon is making her heart race already, let alone the thought of making small talk with them. Y/N looks at the lights below as the sky darkens, once again realising how different her life has become since going through everything with Bucky. She’ll never be able to return to a normal life after this. Whatever ‘normal’ is now. What if HYDRA hunts them down for the rest of their lives? What if she can never go home again? …Wherever her home is now, that is.

But despite that, she’s glad that she and Bucky have been brought closer together. They’ve really made a connection, despite how they met. And at least she’s going through this new and unfamiliar experience with him. After all, she trusts him.

Some time later, Bucky glances over, checking on Y/N. She’s asleep, softly snoring as her chest slowly rises and falls. He smiles, watching her for a little while. It reminds him of the night she took care of him, cleaned his wounds, and made him some food. That night was the night everything changed, and he started to see Y/N in a new light, as a carer rather than a danger to him. Maybe, Bucky thinks, he was wrong. When he said an angel was looking down on him when he found Y/N’s grandma’s house… maybe Y/N was the angel all along, sent to show him that there’s still good in the world after everything he went through.

The morning after, he had woken up feeling more refreshed than he ever had before. And then, he noticed Y/N fast asleep in the armchair beside him. Without even thinking about it, he had wrapped a blanket around her. Even thought it was a small gesture, it was the least he could do after all she had done for him. After that, he didn’t even focus on his mission, or make sure that HYDRA wasn’t tracking them. He just watched her. Making sure she was okay. She seemed so at peace, compared to the first time they met. As the sun rose and its golden glow shone on her face, Bucky registered his heart beating ever so slightly faster. And this time, it wasn’t because of fear. He’s started to get that feeling a lot more, he’s realised. At least, whenever Y/N is around.

But before he has time to dwell too much on that feeling, Steve interrupts with a “We’ll be there in about an hour.” Sighing, Bucky nods, and his stomach begins to churn. God knows what awaits him when they land, when he’s brought back in front of the Avengers after killing so many innocent civilians. Of course, Steve and Sam reassured him they would stand by him and explain that it wasn’t his fault, but Bucky knows it won’t make much difference. Controlled or not, he still did it. He looks back over at Y/N, still fast asleep and completely unaware of just how deep this goes… and all the violence that Bucky is capable of.

Ideally, she’d never know, because Bucky doesn’t want Y/N to be afraid ever again, especially not of him. He doesn’t want to lose her, either. She’s done so much good for him, more than he could ever deserve, and he’ll protect her from everything bad in the world.

Even him.

Avengers HQ, Y/N soon learns, is a lot bigger than she expected. As soon as they arrive, someone takes Steve and Sam away for questioning. And with that, she's also reminded of just how unimportant she is compared to her companions. An innocent civilian who had her life turned upside down overnight, someone who doesn’t fit in this life full of superheroes and secret agents. As people mill about the building, looking at her curiously, she wonders what they’re thinking, and what’s going to happen to her.

“Are they going to want to question me, too?” Bucky shrugs.

“Maybe. Steve and Sam are the Avengers, so they’re the ones who are in high demand right now.” But before Y/N can say much else, a group of guards suddenly swarms the pair. Two of them grab Bucky’s arms.

“Sir, come with us.” One of them orders.

“Wait, what’s going on?!” Y/N calls, trying to jump in and stop them. Steve and Sam hear her cries and come rushing. Yet, the guards ignore her and start dragging Bucky away. And the whole time, Bucky doesn’t fight it. Instead, he gazes back at Y/N sadly. And then, he just lets them take him. “Bucky!” Y/N calls after him. She tries to go after him, to make sure that he’s alright… but a guard angrily gets in her face.

“Ma’am. Move back, or we will make you move.” He snaps, the heat of his breath against her skin making her flinch.

“But-” Yet, before she can plead Bucky’s case any further, Steve steps in, gently pulling her back.

“I understand, sir. I-I’m sorry.” Y/N tries to wriggle out of his grasp, to run after Bucky down the hallway, but Steve’s firm grasp on her arm stops her.

“Steve, where are they taking him?!” she demands. Steve sighs, his shoulders slumping. For a moment, the first time she met Steve flashes in her mind. His tall, confident pose, the image of a hero. Now, he looks the complete opposite. He can’t even look her in the eyes.

“He’s going into a holding cell, Y/N.”

“Why is he in a cell? Have they taken him into custody?” When she sees the nervous glance Steve and Sam give each other, her brow raises.

“It’s just a precaution.”

“For what?! Sure, he scared me at first, but he did nothing to hurt me. He’s not dangerous.” She insists. “I can go explain to them, Steve. Just let me go!” Yet, both of them are still quiet. And Y/N feels her stomach drop. “Guys…what’s going on?” Steve sighs, releasing her arm and running a hand through his hair.

“There’s something you should know about Bucky.”

The pair sit her down first, making sure she’s comfortable. Despite knowing their actions are coming from a place of kindness, they only make her more nervous. Whatever they’re about to tell her, it can’t be good. And then, slowly, they explain everything that Bucky did whilst under HYDRA’s control. All the blood that stains his hands, and all the lives he’s destroyed. Even everything he tried to do to Steve and Sam before Steve managed to get through to him. Y/N sits there, silent as she takes everything in.

“He told me about HYDRA, and what they did to him. Why didn’t he tell me about this?” She gasps, suddenly grateful to be sitting down. If she hadn’t have been, she swears she may have collapsed.

“He probably didn’t want you being even more frightened, especially after he already pointed a gun at you.” Y/N takes a few breaths to calm herself down, her heartbeat racing. Although she knows she has no right to demand more information about Bucky’s trauma, she would’ve rather heard this from him, on his terms, instead of after he’s been dragged down a hallway by armed guards like some sort of animal.

“B-But it wasn’t him, was it? At least, he wasn’t in the right state of mind. He told me they wiped his memory, so they must’ve done something to make him like this, right?!” she demands, not even realising how shaky her voice is. Sure, they got off on the wrong foot at first, to put it lightly, but Bucky has been so kind to her. The idea that someone like that could be responsible for something like this….

And then, she remembers their first meeting, and the gun pointed directly in her face. At first, she put it down to how terrified Bucky must’ve been to hear her walking into the room, and when she learnt just what he’s been through, that confirmed it for her. All this time, she assumed he thought she was a HYDRA agent, but stopped when he realised she was just a civilian. Now, she sees it in a new light. He really was about to kill her, after all. She was a witness to him, and he was told that witnesses need to be silenced. After all, he silenced everyone else.

No wonder she thought he looked like some kind of super trained assassin. He’s been one this whole time.

“We don’t know the full extent of what HYDRA did to him, but now we know that yes… they brainwashed him, and manipulated him into doing it. It wasn’t Bucky’s choice.” Sam confirms. Y/N nods. That makes her feel a little better about the situation, but it still doesn’t help calm her. The same fears she had when she first met Bucky, about how she was going to die and wondering just what sort of monster she was suddenly sharing her grandmother’s house with, now rear their ugly heads once more. She tries to push them down, to picture the memories she has with Bucky now. Smiling, laughing, happy times.

He’s not dangerous. He can’t be. She saw the way he looked at the world, and at her.

“The three of us know Bucky’s not dangerous, but in the eyes of the law, he is. He killed a lot of agents too, not just civilians. So for now, he has to be treated as such.” Steve adds. Y/N doesn’t respond.

She could’ve died.

She should be dead.

But something stopped him. Somehow, she got spared.

“Look, it’s been a long day. How about we get you some food, and find a place to-”

“Why didn’t he kill me?” She asks, cutting him off. When neither of them replies, she continues. “You said it yourself. HYDRA sent him out to kill their detractors and told him not to leave any witnesses. I’m a witness. Fuck, I surprised him in his safe hiding place. He could have shot me right away without a second thought, but he didn’t.” Her voice gets louder and louder as she speaks, almost yelling.

“We don’t know either.” Steve shrugs. “Hell, I’m his oldest friend and he still tried to kill me at first, even when I told him who I was. Maybe his brainwashing was fading, and he felt safe around you. Or maybe he took pity on you.”

“You took care of him, too.” Sam points out. “That probably helped him not see you as a threat.”

Despite nodding her head in agreement with their explanations, Y/N still can’t understand why she was spared while others weren't. Sure, perhaps Bucky’s brainwashing was wearing off, and that’s why he took pity on her, but given what she’s heard about him and what he’s capable of, she’s still surprised that she survived their first encounter completely unscathed without so much as a bruise. Maybe there’s more to it, another reason she could bring him back and convince him to let her live where others failed.

And she wants to know what it is.

A few moments later, a woman approaches the trio. Her brunette hair is tied in a pristine bun, and her eyes pass over the three of them. When she reaches Y/N, her brow quirks. Y/N gulps. Here it comes. Is she going to be hauled into an interrogation room? Or arrested for knowing too much about all of this? She could make a break for it, but she’s already seen the weapons their guards carry, and she definitely does not want to be on the receiving end of them.

“Maria. Nice to see you again.” Steve chuckles. She doesn’t laugh.

“Fury wants to see you in his office. Immediately.” She states. Judging from her stance, Y/N can tell she’s important, and that she means business. In other words, do not get on her bad side. As Steve and Sam start walking, Maria raises her brow again, glancing over at Y/N. “You too.” She beckons. Quickly, Y/N follows behind them, murmuring a ‘sorry’ to Maria.

The office is pristine, and full of tech that Y/N could only ever dream of affording. God, she definitely does not fit into this life. A figure stands at the front of the room.

“Rogers. Wilson.” He speaks, and both nod. And then, the man notices her. “You must be Y/N Y/L/N.” Y/N’s brow furrows.

“How do you-”

“I know everything there is to know.” The man replies. “I’m Director Nick Fury. I’ve heard a lot about you, and how you helped Barnes.” Still surprised, Y/N nods. Guess she has to get used to people knowing every little detail about her life now. And if the Avengers know every aspect about her life, that means HYDRA will too, if they’re looking for her. Because that’s not terrifying at all.

“I did. So, what happens now?”

“Well, we have to monitor him for a while until we’re sure he’s not a threat. I assume Rogers and Wilson told you about the Winter Soldier?” She nods again, too afraid of saying the wrong thing. “Good. As for you, you’ll be moved into a safe house until things are under control. We’ll put agents around you to make sure nothing happens.” When she blinks in surprise, Nick’s brows furrow. “Is there a problem with that?”

“Not at all, it’s just….” She sighs. “I wasn’t expecting all this. Honestly, I didn’t realise I was worth the trouble.” She chuckles awkwardly. Nobody else laughs. When she first came here, Y/N didn't know what she expected. But it definitely wasn’t this, to have so many people trying to protect her of all people.

“Well, there isn’t much choice. You’re not an Avenger, so you can’t stay in the compound with the others.” The casual nature of his tone surprises her. As if her staying with Iron Man, Captain America, the Falcon and their friends was ever a possibility. “But you are a witness, and you’re interlinked with Barnes’ life now, arguably just as much as these two.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far-”

“To HYDRA, that makes you incredibly valuable. They want to get their soldier back, and they won’t hesitate to go after his friends to get him. And that includes you.” He insists, cutting her off. Her cheeks heat up slightly at being called Bucky’s friend. She never saw herself as that. Bucky was just a guy she was sharing her life with, and they slowly got closer to one another. Yet, after how close they’ve become, and how she followed him here with little prompting, he’s right. Obviously, part of her decision making was because she didn’t want to have to fend off a mass of HYDRA agents on her own, but the majority of it was because she didn’t want to leave Bucky. It feels like their time together has only just begun, and she wants to stay and help him with his healing journey as much as she can. Honestly, calling Bucky her friend feels right. “Understand?” Nick asks.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

As Fury continues to explain the situation and where she’ll be staying, Y/N’s mind goes back to Bucky. God knows where he is. Hopefully somewhere safe, where he can heal. What if he gets hurt? Or he gets shoved in jail and she never sees him again?

“Any questions?” Y/N takes a breath, unsure of how this is going to go. But it’s all she cares about.

“Can I see him?”

Downstairs, Bucky sits in his cell, strapped in as much and as tightly as possible for everyone’s safety. He doesn’t even know how long it’s been since they brought him here, since he saw Steve, Sam…and Y/N. Although he knows that they’re safe now, and he’s going to get what he deserves, he wishes he was back at her grandma’s house with her. Just the two of them. Sure, HYDRA was probably hunting them down, and they likely still are, but at least they were both happy together. He would have fought tooth and nail to protect her. He would fight tooth and nail to protect her.

So why didn’t he stay there, with her?

Why didn’t he fight for her?

Groaning, Bucky tries to readjust himself into a more comfortable position. Although, considering both his hands are shackled, that’s easier said than done. The metal handcuff digs uncomfortably into his skin, and he hisses in pain. Of course, he knew that after what he did, he wouldn’t be allowed to move around freely, or be entitled to any comfort. His time as an assassin is finally catching up to him.

Right on time, he registers the guard outside murmuring something to his colleague, and then they glance back at his cell. Bucky can only pick up a few words from their conversation, but he can tell what sort of things they’re saying from the way they look at him. Although he can’t say that he’s surprised. Who would be okay with being forced to watch over an assassin 24/7? Even though he escaped HYDRA’s grasp and is slowly starting to remember who he is, there’s no way anyone is going to trust him ever again, or see him as anything but a monster.

And even though he isn’t surprised by their judgemental looks, it still fucking hurts to be stripped of your identity over and over, tortured and brainwashed just for someone’s sick fantasy. And even after escaping all that pain, he’s forever tainted by something he never wanted to do. Something that wasn’t his fault, while the people who did this to him escaped or were killed before they could be brought to trial. Despite the things he did, Bucky’s a victim too… and yet, he seems to be the only one being punished.

Frustrated, hot tears stinging at his eyes, Bucky closes his eyes, hoping he can at least imagine something better, more comfortable. And then… he remembers the softness of Y/N’s grandma’s couch. After so long running, he could finally sleep, and it was the best damn sleep of his entire life. Until Y/N woke him up, that is. Y/N. Where is she now? Hopefully, she’s safe. Even though he knows and hates how everyone is going to see him as a monster now… all he cares about is what Y/N thinks of him. Although they only met a week ago, somehow, she means more to him than anything in the world. Even thinking about her and her smile makes him feel a little better.

Then, a memory of them both replays in his mind.

“You want some music?” She asks, sorting through some records and tapes. “My grandma was a huge fan of all different genres, so we have plenty of choices.” She chuckles. Bucky doesn’t reply, transfixed by the sheer number of records in front of him. Some names trigger some recognition in his brain, but nothing too intense. He peers down at the ones in front of them, reading the names aloud.

“The Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, The Beatles….”

“If you see anything you want to play, just tell me. Your choice.”

“I’m sorry Y/N… I-I don’t know any of these.” He sighs, disappointed by his inability to choose something.

“Hey, it’s okay.” She reassures him, placing her hand on his forearm reassuringly.

Even now, Bucky remembers how that touch felt. The comfort and the support behind it. He misses that warm touch more than anything.

“I have an idea.” She smiles, picking up a record and putting it on the player. “My grandma loved this one, and I think you’ll like it too.” Soon, the vocals of Ella Fitzgerald begin to play, and recognition dawns on Bucky’s face.

“W-Wait! I remember her voice.” He furrows his brow, listening closer. “I think I remember this song, too.” Y/N grins.

He remembers Y/N’s smile too. As bright as the sunshine. And despite how cold and alone he feels right now… that smile still makes him feel as warm and comfortable as he did the first time he saw it. “Say it's only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea.” Bucky sings to himself softly. “But it wouldn't be make believe, if you believed in me.”

And he does have someone to believe in him. Y/N. Even after everything he did, she still treated him with kindness, and saw him as more than he was. He just wishes he saw himself that way, too.

The door to Bucky’s cell opens. Closing his eyes, Bucky braces himself, waiting for whatever’s in store for him. After being under HYDRA’s control for so long, he’s almost expecting the same abuse that he suffered at the hands of his superiors. Yet, when he opens his eyes again, focusing on the figure that just entered the room, his eyes widen.

“Y/N? W-What the hell are you doing here?”

“Oh, my god… Bucky.” She gasps, taking in the sight in front of her. And how tightly they have strapped Bucky in. When he sees the look of guilt and shame on her face, Bucky’s heart sinks. Although Y/N believes in him, he hates that she has to see him like this, like some sort of caged animal.

“Y/N. You shouldn’t be here. You need to leave.” He tells her, but she ignores him.

“Why have they strapped you in so tightly? You’re not dangerous, and you’re not going to hurt anyone. Steve and Sam told me it wasn’t your fault.”

“We can’t take that risk. After my past, they want to make sure they know everything about me and what I’m capable of first. And then…” He pauses, as the full weight of the situation dawns once again. “They’ll decide what to do, and how to punish me.”

“Is there going to be a trial?” She asks. “I-I’ll testify. Say that you aren’t dangerous.”

“Y/N-”

“If they had just seen the way you looked at me, or how we laughed-”

“That’s not going to be enough!” He insists, his voice coming out harsher than he intended. Sighing, Bucky clears his throat. “We still don’t know the risks, and the last thing I want is you getting hurt. So, you should go.”

“It is! It is enough! And I know you’re not dangerous.” She exclaims, tears falling down her cheeks. “I know that because you spared me, despite all your training and the things you’ve done before. For some reason, you didn’t kill me.” She’s right. After all the victims he’s had, Y/N is the only one where he let them go free. And he still doesn’t know why. But despite that, he knows that isn’t going to do much to help his case. One victim spared, compared to the thousands he killed, is purely a drop in the ocean.

“Y/N.” Bucky sighs. “I appreciate the offer, but really… it’s not worth it.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “It may not have been my choice, but I still did it. And I deserve whatever I’m about to get.”

“You promised me, remember? That we’d be back in my grandma’s house again, listening to music or going through old pictures. Just the two of us.” Bucky’s stomach twists. “I’m not giving up on you.” She tells him, and something deep in Bucky’s stomach flutters. “We may not know why you spared me, but there has to be a reason. And I’m going to find it. Because it proves that you’re not the monster everyone thinks you are.” Stepping closer, she places her palm against the glass. Bucky’s arm twitches, almost as if he was about to place his hand on the opposite side, over hers. “We’ll get through this. I’m not giving up on you.” She repeats, and Bucky can’t keep a smile from growing on his face.

Say it's only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea.

But it wouldn't be make believe, if you believed in me.

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