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danysdaughter · 7 days ago

Text

Confidential Affairs

pairing | congressman!bucky x assistant!reader

word count | 4.4k words

summary | congressman barnes thought he had control—over his office, his image, and especially his no-nonsense assistant. That illusion ends the moment you hit a man's head against a table, ruin your blazer, and ride him across a random desk like you're the one running the country.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, desk sex, semi-public sex, rough sex, lowkey dom!reader, subtly-subby!bucky, smut with feelings, workplace romance (technically), power imbalance (handled), public speaking anxiety, reader handles everything, mild violence, sexual tension so thick it pays rent

a/n | based on this request, and ooooh I loved writing them

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Sometimes, Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.

Not in the existential way—he'd dealt with plenty of that in therapy. No, this was more of a literal confusion.

Because somehow, in the span of a two years, he’d gone from military black-ops missions with Sam to sitting behind a government-issued desk in D.C., wearing suits that cost more than his first apartment, and debating tax reform with men who’d never touched grass.

Being a congressman wasn’t the weird part.

Doing it well was.

And if he was being honest, that was probably 95% thanks to her.

You.

His assistant. His handler. His chaos manager. And, if he was being really honest—which he rarely was—you were probably the best part of the job. Even if you drove him insane.

You were brilliant. Unshakeable. The only person on staff who could tell him he was being an idiot and still have a coffee waiting for him after. You kept his schedule running like a military op and shut down press rumors before they could start trending.

And you were only thirty. Or—wait, no. Your birthday was in November, so you were still twenty-nine. He remembered because you'd corrected him with the driest look possible and said, “Do not age me prematurely, Barnes, I will unionize this building and have you replaced by a TikTok intern.”

He smiled at the memory as he walked down the hallway toward the bullpen, nodding at staffers, pausing only to fake-laugh at a joke he didn’t quite hear from someone in comms.

Then he saw you.

You walked in like you owned the building—which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely untrue. Blazer cinched, hair flawless, phone in hand, nails sharp, heels unapologetically loud. And everyone noticed. Everyone always noticed.

So did the IT guy—Trevor? Tyler? Something with a “T” and too much Axe body spray—who popped his head out from behind his desk the second he saw you walk in.

“Hey, uh—wow. You look great today,” he said, grinning like a freshman talking to the hottest senior.

You didn’t even slow down. Barely spared him a glance.

“It would be breaking news if I didn’t,” you said with a scoff, breezing past without missing a beat.

Bucky bit back a snort.

God help him, you were a menace.

And he was in so much trouble.

You didn’t stop walking until you were right in front of him, flipping through the sleek black tablet in your hand with the focus of someone already mentally ten steps ahead.

“Okay,” you said, tapping your screen like it personally offended you. “We need to talk about your last interview.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, following you as you turned and started walking again—because you never stood still for these things. You moved. You commanded. People got out of your way like it was instinct.

“I thought it went okay,” he said, already bracing himself.

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “You said ‘worrying’ five times in two minutes. This is worrying, that’s worrying, the whole country is apparently on the verge of a panic attack because you don’t own a thesaurus.”

“I didn’t realize I was repeating myself that much,” he muttered.

You stopped short, turning on a heel so sharply the assistant from admin nearly dropped her coffee trying to dodge you.

“You are a congressman,” you said slowly, like he was the one who needed phonics help. “Not a Tumblr doomer post. Use a new word. I am begging.”

He smirked. “I’ll add ‘thesaurus’ to the list.”

You pointed at him. “Matter of fact, expedite ‘worrying’ from your vocabulary. Evacuate it. Execute it. Eject it from the goddamn building.”

Bucky couldn’t help the laugh that broke out. “You always this dramatic before 9 a.m.?”

You turned and started walking again, this time toward his office.

“I’m not dramatic. I’m effective. You know what’s dramatic? Your public approval rating when you accidentally sound like the world’s ending every time you open your mouth.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” he admitted, trailing behind you.

You pushed the door to his office open with your shoulder and turned back to face him, standing in the doorway with that terrifyingly calm look you got when you were about to change lives and ruin someone’s whole day.

“Now sit down, sip your over-priced oat milk latte, and go over these updated talking points like a big boy while I do everything else required to keep this administration from crumbling.”

You handed him a folder.

He took it.

You turned on your heel again.

And Bucky just stood there, folder in hand, still trying to figure out how someone so casually cruel could also make his heart beat like he’d been running up stairs.

He was totally, completely screwed.

The office was, for once, quiet.

A miracle.

You were perched on the edge of his desk, scrolling your phone with one leg crossed over the other, lip gloss freshly reapplied, looking more like a fashion editorial than someone juggling fifteen constituent emails, three policy briefs, and a senator’s ego on speakerphone.

Bucky watched you from his seat, pretending to read the speech notes you’d revised. Which meant he was reading the same paragraph three times and thinking about the shape of your mouth every time you sipped your iced coffee.

You snorted suddenly at something on your screen.

He raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

“Someone edited your last speech over that one TikTok audio—‘girl, be for real,’” you said, showing him the screen. “Honestly? Accurate.”

He rolled his eyes. “Back in my day, people just read the paper if they wanted to roast politicians.”

You didn’t even look up.

“And back in your day, people thought lobotomies cured headaches.”

He stared at you, face blank. “...Wow.”

You glanced up with a smug little look. “You brought the ‘back in my day’ energy. I just matched it.”

He blinked again. “That was brutal.”

“You survived Hydra, Barnes. You’ll live.”

You hopped off the desk, still scrolling, already halfway out of the room like nothing had happened.

Bucky sat there, mind blank, trying to decide if he should be offended or more in love.

It was a toss-up.

The moment Bucky stepped onto the sidewalk outside the education committee hearing, he knew it was a mistake.

Cameras flashed like strobe lights. Microphones thrust forward like weapons. Reporters shouted over each other with that gleeful, rabid tone they got when they smelled blood in the water—and this morning’s article about his “alarming silence on key policy points” had put them into a frenzy.

He barely got a foot down before—

“Congressman Barnes, are you avoiding questions about your defense budget stance?”

“Why did you cancel your Pittsburgh appearance, is it true there was internal conflict?”

“Do you still consider yourself aligned with Captain America’s legacy?”

The barrage came fast. Bucky blinked, stunned into silence, his brain caught between fight-or-flight and turn-on-your-heel-and-run-to-therapy.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Where the hell were you—

And then.

The crowd parted.

Like God herself said let there be chaos management.

You came storming through the press like a thunderclap in heels—perfect blouse tucked into razor-sharp slacks, tablet in hand, hair slicked, expression set to absolutely fucking done. The press instinctively stepped back, some startled, some frightened, all curious.

Your voice rang out, clear, sharp, and lethal.

“I’m sorry—do y’all even brief before you yell Or is the strategy just ‘shout over each other and hope something sticks’?”

Every camera swung to you.

You didn't flinch.

“First of all—he’s not avoiding questions. He’s walking. Because he has a job. Wild concept, I know.”

One of the bolder reporters started, “We just need—”

You raised a hand, and he actually stopped talking.

“Second,” you continued, flipping your tablet open with the dramatic flair of a magician about to pull a dove out of her sleeve, “if any of you had bothered to read the full statement instead of the chopped-up quotes getting passed around like a sad little rumor chain, you’d know the Pittsburgh visit was postponed, not canceled. And yes, we’re still going. Next Thursday. Bring sunscreen. And better sources.”

A collective murmur. One woman lowered her camera entirely.

You weren’t done.

“As for the Captain America legacy? I’m sorry—do you want him to punch a Nazi on live TV just to keep the branding tight? Because he can, but I promise you’ll cry about that too.”

The air crackled.

Silence.

Actual, stunned silence.

You finally turned to Bucky, handed him a neatly folded schedule, and said—without looking up, without a single ounce of visible emotion,

“Try not to look like a hostage. You’re polling in Gen Z now.”

He blinked. “Right.”

You glanced back once at the press, offered a professional, poisonous smile, and added, “Any follow-ups can go to our press contact. Or the trash. Whichever comes first.”

Then you turned and walked toward the car like you hadn’t just verbally burned down a crowd of trained professionals in under ninety seconds.

Bucky followed, somehow still holding the schedule like it was a lifeline, his pulse in his throat.

“You… good?” you asked over your shoulder, casual as hell.

He stared at you like you’d just walked out of a superhero movie.

“I think I need a minute.”

You raised a brow. “Too bad. You’ve got a budget subcommittee call in ten.”

And that was that.

You slid into the car. He followed. Speechless. Spinning. Aroused.

Definitely aroused.

He was completely, completely gone.

The door to the black SUV slammed shut behind him, but Bucky still hadn’t caught his breath.

You were already typing away on your phone, thumbs flying across the screen like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just verbally suplexed a half-dozen members of the national press with the poise of a Vogue editor and the accuracy of a sniper.

He stared at you.

“You, uh…” he started, then stopped.

You didn’t look up. “Spit it out, Barnes. I’ve got a senator on hold and a lunch order to bully through Postmates.”

He cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt, still slightly warm from adrenaline. “That was… something.”

You paused, glanced up, one perfectly arched brow rising like a challenge.

“Something?”

He floundered. “I mean, it was… damn. You were like. I don’t even—”

“Again I ask… you good?” you asked, deadpan. “You short-circuiting mid-sentence or just trying to say thank you in the least efficient way possible?”

Bucky blinked, mouth opening, then closing again.

Because the truth was he’d watched you take on that crowd like a one-woman PR army, and somewhere between do y’all even brief before you yell? and he will punch a Nazi, something in his brain fried.

You looked hot when you were angry. Not just pretty—intimidating. Like your words could disarm bombs and rewrite legislation at the same time. Like you didn’t need backup, just better lighting.

He wanted to say all of that.

Instead, he muttered: “You, uh… you ever thought about running for office?”

You snorted. “Why? So I can spend my life getting asked what I was wearing when I dismantled a reporter?”

He smiled despite himself. “I’d vote for you.”

“You’re contractually obligated to,” you said, already turning back to your phone. “I handle your calendar. Don’t get cute.”

He stared at you for another second, heart still hammering like he’d been dropped into a mission zone.

You didn’t look at him again.

But you smirked.

Just slightly.

Like you knew.

The green room smelled like nerves, burnt coffee, and the slow, suffocating panic of public office.

Bucky Barnes was pacing like he was back in a mission briefing—except instead of tactical gear and threat maps, it was a podium, two network cameras, and a press corps that could ruin a man’s legacy with the wrong pull quote.

You, on the other hand, looked like you’d been born in this room just to dominate it.

Sitting on a velvet chair in the corner, you had one leg crossed over the other, heels off, full glam, phone in hand, scrolling through TikTok like it was your lifeblood. Nails fresh. Lashes sharp. Unbothered. Entirely immune to the political stress leaking from the walls.

Bucky looked over for the third time in sixty seconds.

“I don’t think I should open with the tax credit line,” he said, voice low and tight. “It feels... forced. Like I’m trying too hard.”

You didn’t glance up. “You are trying too hard. It’s giving ‘read directly from the pamphlet.’ It’s giving post office PSA.”

He frowned. “What does that even mean?”

You sighed, the kind that said you’d dealt with enough of his old-man questions for one day. Finally, you looked up, setting your phone in your lap.

“It means stop being stiff. Loosen your shoulders. Drop your voice an octave. Talk like you're not addressing a room full of mannequins. You’re not a WWII poster anymore—you’re a congressman with a decaf dependency and a wildly underpaid assistant.”

He blinked, caught between laughing and sulking. “I—”

“Uh-uh.” You raised one finger. “Don’t speak. Reset.”

He inhaled, tried again. “Americans deserve relief that doesn’t require three jobs and a miracle to get by—”

You nodded, finally satisfied. “Better. Less ‘Captain America,’ more ‘guy who teared up at the coffee commercial last week.’ They like when you sound human.”

“That coffee commercial was sad,” he muttered, defensively.

“And that’s exactly why they trust you,” you said, standing and slipping back into your heels like it was part of your battle armor. “You’re not fake. You’re just emotionally constipated and afraid of disappointing everyone. That’s what I’m here for.”

He paused. “You make it sound like I’m broken.”

“You’re not broken.” You fixed the collar of his jacket. “You’re rebranded.”

Bucky opened his mouth. Closed it.

Because you looked incredible. Hair sleek. Dress hugging you like it was custom-cut. That slit was illegal in at least three counties. But before he could blurt something pathetic—like You smell like vanilla and ruthlessness—you were already moving.

You shoved his speech notes into his hand, then offered him a bottle of water like he didn’t just forget how to breathe every time you touched him.

“Sip slowly. No weird throat noises at the mic. And don’t stare at the interpreter this time, she filed a complaint.”

“She did not—”

“She did. I covered it.” You were halfway to the hallway, heels clacking like a countdown clock. “Five minutes. Please try not to become a meme this time.”

He followed, dazed, heart thudding, trying not to stare at the back of your skirt like a man starved.

The event was packed. Too packed.

The press conference had just wrapped, the applause still echoing as staffers ushered attendees toward the exit. Bucky had stepped down from the stage, tie slightly loosened, head turned toward you across the room.

You were checking your phone, clipboard under one arm, lips pursed in that way that said, Yes, I heard everything you said, and no, I still think it was weak.

Then it happened.

The shouting started at the back.

At first, it sounded like heckling. Normal. Predictable.

Then it grew louder.

Angrier.

A man shoved past the security barrier, red-faced and screaming. Another climbed onto a chair, holding a megaphone, spitting vitriol.

“Traitor!”

“HYDRA plant!”

“You’re not American, you’re a puppet!”

Bucky’s blood ran cold.

Then came the movement—too fast to be random. Three more men, surging forward through the crowd, coordinated. Too aggressive. Too armed.

The moment his instincts flared, he snapped into gear.

“Everyone out!” he barked, shoving a staffer behind a column, scanning for entry points, exit routes. “Move, move!”

His hand reached instinctively for a weapon that wasn’t there—not since the uniform, not since the missions. But he didn’t need it.

He just needed you.

“Where’s—” he turned, scanning, heart hammering, trying to spot your blazer in the chaos.

And then he froze.

You weren’t hiding.

You weren’t running.

You were standing over a man twice your size with your heel planted between his shoulder blades, one hand gripping his collar, the other fisting the back of his belt as you slammed his face into a table.

BANG.

“I am not the one to mess with,” you shouted, your voice feral, electric, alive. “You redneck motherfucker!”

BANG.

“Keep talkin’. I got time today.”

BANG.

The man made a sound like a dying goose and crumpled.

The others paused. One backed off. The last one raised a fist—only to get elbowed in the throat by you so fast Bucky couldn’t even process it.

You turned, breath heaving, hair half undone, lip gloss smudged, looking like war.

And Bucky?

He stood frozen, surrounded by chaos, heart pounding in his ears—and all he could think was:

Holy. Shit.

You were beautiful. And terrifying.

And he was completely, catastrophically in love.

The second the last attacker hit the floor, Bucky was on you.

You were standing over the man you’d just dropped, breathing hard, blood trickling from a gash on your forearm. Your blazer was ripped at the seam, silk blouse stained.

Your eyes met his, and your face twisted—not in pain.

In indignation.

“This was Valentino!” you snapped, holding up the torn sleeve like it personally betrayed you. “I paid rent money for this blazer!”

Bucky didn’t hear any of it. Not really.

He was already reaching for your wrist, inspecting the bleeding cut. “Come on—we need to get you cleaned up.”

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to wave him off, but he was already dragging you toward the nearest exit, weaving through stunned staffers and security guards who were still trying to make sense of what had just happened.

He shoved open the door to a small conference room and guided you inside. Closed the door.

Then turned on you, jaw tight. “What the hell was that?”

You blinked at him, incredulous. “I was handling it.”

“You are bleeding!”

“I got grazed. Calm down—”

“You think this is about a scratch?” His voice rose. “You could’ve been killed, and I just—damn it, I should’ve protected you.”

You stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “You what?”

“I should’ve been there—should’ve kept you safe—”

“Oh, shut up, Barnes.”

He froze.

“Seriously? You wanted me to wait for you? Let those assholes dogpile me so you could come in all noble and traumatized? I don’t need to be protected.”

“That’s not—!”

“It’s 2027. Women don’t need men to jump in swinging just to feel relevant.”

His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again, lost in the sputter of a man who’d just been emotionally bitch-slapped with logic.

You let out a slow, tight exhale. “I’m not your mission. I’m not your PR problem. I’m your assistant, and I’m a New Yorker, and if you’d grown up where I did, you’d understand why waiting around to be saved is a luxury some of us never had.”

He said nothing, still stunned.

You held your arm out. “Bandage me if you’re gonna be useful.”

Wordless, still trying to recalibrate, he opened the first aid kit on the wall and started wrapping the cut with more care than necessary. His hands were gentle, precise.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

You blinked. That you’re being ridiculous blink that always made him want to throw things and kiss you at the same time.

Then, calmer now, quieter, he asked, “How do you know how to fight like that?”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

And then you said, like it was obvious, like it was as much a part of you as your name:

“You say you’re from Brooklyn—but it’s clear you never grew up in Brownsville.”

Your eyes held his, fierce and dark and unapologetic.

And Bucky?

He’d never wanted to kiss someone more in his life.

Silence settled between you, heavy and frayed at the edges.

You were still perched on the edge of the table, your wounded arm now wrapped with neat gauze, your ripped blazer folded beside you like a casualty of war. Bucky stood in front of you, breathing uneven, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

He didn’t know how to say what was building up inside him.

So he didn’t.

He just leaned in.

His hand hovered near your face. No command. No pressure. Just need.

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Careful. Like the world might shatter if he rushed it.

For one breath, it was perfect.

Then your brow furrowed.

Your palm pressed flat against his chest.

Bucky’s heart bottomed out.

“What the hell are you doing?” you asked, voice cool, sharp, dangerously unreadable.

He froze.

“I—” he stepped back slightly, hand dropping. “I thought—God, I’m sorry. I just—”

Your eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they sharpened.

“I’m your assistant,” you said. “You’re my boss. You’re violating, like, four ethics codes right now. Five if you count how many times you’ve stared at my legs in budget meetings.”

He blinked. “I haven’t—okay, that happened once.”

You raised a brow.

“Twice.”

Your mouth twitched, but you weren’t done.

“I could report you to HR,” you said, calm as ever. “Get you removed for sexual misconduct. Sue you.”

He stumbled back, eyes wide, a pit forming in his gut so deep he nearly doubled over.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—shit, I swear I wasn’t trying to cross a line—”

You tilted your head, watching him spiral.

Then you murmured, almost thoughtfully, “Your term’s almost over anyway.”

His breath caught. “What?”

And then?

You grabbed him by the collar, yanked him back toward you, and smashed your lips against his.

The kiss was nothing like before.

It was hungry. Commanding. Yours.

Your other hand slid into his hair, tugging him closer, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been holding that sound back for months. His hands found your waist, gripping tight, anchoring himself to your body like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You kissed him like you were mad about it.

And Bucky kissed you back like he was never going to recover.

There was no hesitation. No slow build. No questioning what this was.

It was you, claiming him.

Your fingers were in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him gasp. Your other hand slid down his chest, nails dragging over the buttons of his dress shirt as you kissed him like you’d been planning to ruin him for weeks.

Maybe you had.

Bucky groaned into your mouth, deep and guttural, pulling you closer, hands gripping your waist so tight he thought he might leave fingerprints. You tasted like gloss and adrenaline, like sweat and something he couldn’t name—something real.

You broke the kiss just long enough to bite his lower lip—hard.

He shuddered.

“Still think I’m gonna file an HR report?” you whispered, voice low, teasing, lethal.

Bucky laughed—breathless, dizzy. “I’m not even sure I can spell HR right now.”

You pushed him back until his legs hit the edge of the conference table.

Then you shoved him.

Not hard. Just enough.

He landed on the tabletop with a soft grunt, eyes wide, hands bracing behind him.

“Off,” you said, fingers already at his tie.

“Jesus,” he muttered, letting you yank it loose.

“Not quite.”

His blazer hit the floor.

Then the shirt. Button by button, you peeled it off like you were unwrapping a problem you planned to solve with your teeth.

He was hard beneath his slacks. Painfully. Obscenely.

You noticed.

“Oh,” you said softly, eyes flicking down. “So you do like a woman in charge.”

“Have you met you?” he rasped.

You climbed onto his lap, straddling him right there on the table, grinding down slow and firm. His head fell back with a groan, hands flying to your hips, gripping like he was drowning.

“Touch me,” you said.

He did.

Everywhere.

And he was so gone for you.

You ground down on him again, slower this time, your hands planted on his chest, dress hiked up, his belt digging into your thigh. His hands gripped your hips like he wasn’t sure if he was guiding you or just hanging on.

Bucky's breath came in ragged pulls. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Maybe,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “But you’ll die happy.”

You kissed him again—slower, deeper, tongue sliding into his mouth with a confidence that made his spine arch. He felt like he was melting, hands skimming up your sides, over your back, desperate to touch, to anchor.

And then you pulled back.

Stood up between his knees.

Hiked your skirt up higher.

No underwear.

He made a sound—low, guttural, almost a prayer.

You grinned.

Then you undid his belt. Slow. Deliberate. Let the metal clink open, dragged his zipper down with one nail, and reached into his briefs to free him.

He hissed through his teeth when your hand wrapped around him, stroking once, then again, firm and slow and utterly in control. You looked down at him like you were studying something you planned to break and rebuild better.

“You been hard for me since the press room?”

“Since our briefing,” he groaned.

You climbed back into his lap and lined him up with your entrance, teasing the tip against your folds, dragging it through your slick with a roll of your hips.

“You’re so lucky I like older guys.”

And then you sank down.

Slow.

Deep.

All of him.

He choked on a gasp, head falling forward against your shoulder, arms wrapping around you like his whole body had just been plugged into a power grid.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel so good—so fucking tight.”

You rolled your hips once—hard—and he whined.

“Look at me,” you said.

He did.

And the look on your face?

Smug. Wild. Unapologetic.

You started to move.

Up and down, grinding, hips snapping, thighs strong as you rode him like you owned him—and maybe you did. His mouth parted, hands clutching your ass, eyes locked on your face as you took him faster, harder, moaning softly every time he hit just right.

“You gonna come, congressman?” you teased, voice breathy. “Gonna fall apart for your assistant like a cliché?”

He laughed—barely. “Already did.”

And when your nails dug into his shoulders and your rhythm stuttered, when your moan turned breathless and high and he felt you clench around him—

He lost it.

He groaned loud and long, spilling inside you as his vision blurred, body shaking beneath your grip.

You kissed him through it, slow and deep, hips still rocking until his hands went limp and his head dropped to your shoulder.

Breathless.

Ruined.

Yours.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff #james buchanan barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut

2K notes · View notes

lay-z · 8 days ago

Text

cotton candy clouds | 7

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samoyed (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts/personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; slow-burnish; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff/domesticity; humour; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

Despite the already late time on what should be just a lazy Sunday evening, Simon did find Price in his office—working on reports and preparing for the upcoming week, as expected.

A non-existent private life is a common occurrence shared among the squadron, after all.

Another grey plume of cigar smoke curls upwards from the captain’s lips only to dissolve and add to the already thick, hazy air around the office.

“I assume you haven’t read her file, then, like I’d told ya to?”

Simon tightens his fingers around the heavy, black folder on his lap, giving a slow shake of his head. “Didn’t deem it necessary,” he answers curtly. “Didn’t plan to keep ‘er around anyway.”

Price rolls his eyes, crow’s feet appearing in the corners with an amused, tight-lipped smile, and Simon clenches his jaw under the cloth of his mask, biting back a curse while the handlership contract he’d signed just the day before yesterday, rests in front of him on his superior’s desk—practically glowing, though not like a beacon of hope but a great mistake with a spotlight thrown on, here to mock and taunt him for his stupidity in the heat of the moment.

“But she’s yours now, Simon. You’re her handler for the next six months.” He clicks his tongue, eyebrows furrowing in thought as he does notice how his Lieutenant’s eyes widen imperceptibly. “You didn’t read the contract either, did’ya?”

Simon huffs sharply, shifts uncomfortably on the chair in front of the large desk that Price is sitting behind. He shouldn’t have signed it in hindsight—and he curses himself and Johnny for letting the Scotsman agitate him badly enough to sign the bloody contract.

“Six months.” Simon repeats evenly, like an already dead man learning about his death sentence.

“Aye, six months of probation period. There will be an evaluation of you both after that before it’s decided if the… handlership can continue in that constellation.”

There is a moment of silence where Simon is reeling internally—onyx pupils flickering in thought behind a façade of indifference that his Captain can easily see through, despite the balaclava secured in place.

“What about missions?” Christ, Simon bloody hopes he’ll get deployed on an op—a long one at that. “M’ not gonna take ‘er with us. No fuckin’ way.” You’re not made for warzones, not supposed to witness that kind of hardship after what you have already obviously been through. Too bloody soft, too delicate, too bloody precious.

Price shrugs as he sorts through his report papers; his next answer so blatant, it makes Simon’s blood simmer. “She’ll stay in custody of another K9 hybrid handler here on base.”

And that makes him bristle. “Whot?” He raises an eyebrow behind his mask. The thought of one of the K9 unit handlers taking care of you in his absence leaves a strangely tight feeling in his chest. His right leg begins to bounce with queasiness, the urge to pace becomes too real. Negative, he wants to say. Declined.

“Make her stay at the bloody dog compound, tha’it?”

The captain raises a bushy brow, picks up his cigar from the ashtray, and pick up on the sudden restlessness emanating from the man in front of him, too.

“Aye, so? Wouldn’t be wrong for her to be around other dog hybrids, innit?”

Simon snorts humourlessly. Now Price is just taunting him―again. They both know the K9 hybrids; have seen them in action, during training, how they interact with each other. All males, all… bloody starving for action, for something to sink their canines into and rip apart.

Fuck, no! Over my cold, dead body!—is what he wants to say, though “Yes, sir.” is what he replies instead.

“Does she...” Price clears his throat, keeping his eyes trained on the papers and Simon fixes him with a glare, already aware of where the sentence is going. “Negative,” he chimes in curtly, straightening his shoulders as if to brace himself for an argument. “She doesn’t know.”

Price hums, meeting the familiar glare with his own stoic blues. “And you’re not planning to share it with her, I assume? Could be helpful.” He shrugs his broad shoulders, adding: “Eye-opening.”

Simon narrows his eyes at the older male who likes to slip into some father-figure role every chance he gets. “Yeah, right.” He averts his gaze, looks at his hands instead, still clutching your file. “Dunno why I should tell her–”

“Kinship,” Price blurts out, earning a rare, rumbling growl from the man sitting in front of his desk. “Jus’ saying.” The captain shrugs, picks up his cigar from the ashtray; the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

After having the talk with Price, Simon doesn’t steer towards home right away but instead roams the base in the eerie early hours of the night, going through his pack of smokes like a bag of cheap candy until his throat hurts and his coughing breaths fog up the chilly, moist air around him.

And Simon tries to ignore the strange ball of anxiety that has lodged itself hotly into the pit of his stomach when he makes his way back to the private apartment complex eventually—the picture of your sad and fearful face when he’d left you so abruptly is still fresh in his mind, only adding to the immense guilt he’s already feeling.

He finds himself standing stock-still in front of his apartment door for minutes on end like a bloody coward; hands clenching and unclenching at his sides—too empty, too fidgety for a highly-trained and experienced sniper like him and yet he can’t help how nervous he’s feeling. The weight of your file tucked into the inside of his jacket only adds to the tightness inside his chest.

Come on, Simon, you bloody fucking coward. She only knows you had a bloody wank, not that you were thinking of her! It’s natural. It’s nothing. It’s—It’s fucking disgusting! Pathetic! You’re pathetic, mate! Are you fucking daft? What the fuck were you thinking?!

Simon squeezes his eyes shut hard enough until he sees white dots dancing and fluttering in front of his closed eyelids. Holding his breath, he finally shoves the key into the lock and twists it on autopilot before pushing the door open at once.

He’s met with that familiar darkness and quiet he always finds whenever he returns home, though this time it makes him feel anxious rather than welcomed. It shouldn’t be like this, not anymore at least.

Slowly exhaling the breath he’s been holding, Simon closes the door with a quiet click before locking it and toeing his boots off as a precaution to prevent himself from making another quick escape if things get messy again. Coward, he keeps thinking like a mantra, coward coward coward coward—

Consumed by his own dark cloud of thoughts, it takes Simon a moment as he walks further into his apartment before he becomes aware of the soft steady whimpering and sniffles coming from his bedroom, and while his first instinct is to flee, he pushes through his initial reaction, he keeps his balaclava in place and shifts into his perfectly crafted Ghost mindset ―always facing his fears head on.

He’d hoped you would’ve simply gone to bed by now.

The sight that greets him makes his heart drop into a pit in his stomach, makes his breath stutter harshly and his quivering hands clench into tight fists to keep himself grounded.

You’re a wreck. Beautiful, illuminated by the soft yellowy glow of his bedside lamp, but still a mess. Hair as tousled as the fur on your dog ears, pulled flat against your skull in submission, eyes puffy, nose snotty. But you’re not simply sad, no. You’re obviously terrified, and it breaks his heart.

You weep harder when you notice his presence looming in the doorframe, desperately trying to muffle your sounds how he used to do as a child so his father wouldn’t hear him cry, and Simon’s chest heaves with another sharp inhale when you suddenly scramble onto your knees on his bed, dress rucking up to your waist, body trembling as you get into position, presenting your rear to him with your tail tucked between your thighs and your face pressed into the mattress in a way that would most certainly make him blush furiously in any other scenario than this one―until he realizes that you’re awaiting a punishment.

And suddenly, every uncomfortable emotion Simon is currently experiencing turns into something he knows well, something he can handle and function under―blazing wrath.

Not towards you, though. Never directed at you.

He’d gladly kill, no, tear anyone apart whoever caused you such harm and anguish.

With a sudden wave of confidence and a swift motion, Simon pulls off his mask and speaks your name so softly, it borders on a term of endearment that surprises even himself. You flinch as if he’d just smacked you, which makes him flinch in return, so he repeats your name even quieter, like a gentle caress, desperate to coax you out of your fearful state, and he nearly breathes a sigh of relief, when your sweet ears do finally twitch and perk up some.

“Whot’re you doin’, lass?” he asks, not knowing what else to say before he takes a cautious step towards his bed. The fact that he must say his next words out loud make him feel like he gurgled acid in his mouth: “Christ, I’m–I’m not gonna hurt ya.”

That makes your tail relax the slightest bit, ears perking up more with a mix of confusion and curiosity.

“I’d never hurt you.”

His hand trembles even harder as he reaches out to you tentatively and unsure, fingers hovering over the small of your back while his neck begins to flush and sweat and his heart nearly bursts out of his chest with anxious thuds. It’d be so much easier if you were in danger; perhaps drowning and he could simply pull you above surface―literally―instead of whatever it is he’s trying to achieve now.

He’s saved people before; dragged fellow comrades out of lines of fire and into safety by the scruff of their fatigues, barked words of encouragement at them to snap them out of their shock, or used his sheer size to intimidate some drunk blokes at a pub into submission before they could start any trouble, but this?

This is new. It’s raw and delicate. And utterly terrifying.

When his hand finally connects with your bare skin in what is supposed to be a gesture of comfort and reassurance, you gasp in unison with him, and he swiftly pulls his hand back as if burned.

It’s enough to make you peek at him, though, and Simon marks it down as a success.

“N-No?” You squeak, blinking up at him with those teary doe-eyes of yours. He gives a curt nod, a determined one. “Never.”

Your eyes narrow briefly and there is something in your look that makes Simon aware of a deeper cleverness and suspicion hidden behind your own perfectly crafted mask of bimbofication. You know as well as he does that there are more ways than physical to hurt someone, and he knows that you both know that he’s lying.

“Never intentionally.” He adds, and that he means with all his cold, dead heart.

There’s a tense pause before you finally release a long, shuddering breath and your body seems to melt into the mattress, limbs giving out underneath you while he takes a step backwards to give you both space.

“Sit.” Simon orders eventually, his voice yet firm and carrying a slight tone of reluctance that shows just how much he doesn’t want to have this conversation with you, though he knows it’s necessary at this point forward. “We need to talk,” he makes a vague gesture in the air, “about all o’this.”

Of course, you do as he says, hastily wiping at your puffy eyes and wet cheeks while he waits until you get settled on the bed. Simon remains standing, needing the right stance and high ground to feel in control of himself in this moment, nipping the urge to cradle you up in his arms and never letting go until you’re fine right in the bud.

“I read some of yer file an’… had a talk with Cap’n Price,” he begins, clearing his scratchy throat, “and now I have a couple of things we need to talk about, sweet’art. Think ya can work with me ‘ere?”

“O-Of course, Simon.” Your ears perk up fully as you nod obediently, eyes sparkling with renewed interest as if he just hung the moon for you, and it makes his chest feel all warm and tight in a way he doesn’t mind so much anymore.

#cotton candy clouds #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty #hybrid au #cod #cod hybrid au #ghost x reader #cod x reader #cod smut #simon riley smut #reader insert #hybrid!reader #handler!ghost #simon riley x you #ghost x you

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Text

The Invisible String Theory

PAIRING: König x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You didn't expect the man who gave you his coat to be the same one to bust down the door where you and the other women slept - sniper hood scaring everyone within an inch of their life. You didn't expect him to become so important to you, either. (Based on König's in-game backstory).

WORDCOUNT: 9.2k

WARNINGS: Human trafficking, mentions of unwanted touching, trauma, blood, gore, guns, bullets, protective!König, soft!König, nightmares, mentions of bullying, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

'DATE: 25, NOVEMBER, 2021

LOCATION: BERLIN, GERMANY

TIME OF EVENT: 0230

MISSION REPORT: PENDING….'

You don’t remember much from the day that could be called out of the ordinary. Ever since you’d been moved here with the other girls, everything was predictable down to the time the men would come over, to the point where the screams had to be muffled by pillows.

Never in your life did you think you’d be part of the nearly fifty million people stuck in this situation, and neither did you think you’d be the one in one hundred who got out. But before you can think about November twenty-fifth and those pale gray eyes, you have to go back to the beginning. To Al-Qatala.

You hadn’t been with this cell initially—you’d been moved around and bartered off more times than you could count; the initial founder of your predicament was long gone at this point. North and South America, Europe, Africa, Asia, and Oceania…you’d been practically everywhere and on every continent barring the obvious last. In Europe, you couldn’t name the countries, but you knew this for a fact: you’d never been to Germany before.

They had you with five other women in a large SUV in the beginning, this international ring of human traffickers. You had watched from the window, face blank and eyes unblinking, at the men who met near the docks. They had brought you in through Hamburg, first—not only the largest seaport in Germany but the third largest in Europe; you think you read that on a flier at some point. One of those flimsy ones that you find in gas stations with bright lettering to attract the tourists with their interesting facts.

You wished you were only a tourist.

You’d watched the men shake hands, and that was when you knew your fate, as well as that of the five other women, was sealed. You were going to all be here for a long time.

This Al-Qatala cell was ruthless, but you supposed with being around terrorists, ruthlessness was better than being executed.

For days you’d be exploited with the false promises of moments of freedom, breaks, food, and water. For some of the women it was drugs or money, but when your stomach was empty and your eyes blurring from lack of sleep, even addictions seemed to pale for brief hours. But above it all was the threat of death at every corner. These men would kill you.

It was only a matter of time unless you could give them what they wanted.

You yourself had developed a system, and it was probably the only reason you were still alive. Pick one of the handlers, gain his favor, and pray that he treats you specially while you keep up the act of a mindless, weak, woman.

Ivon was the man’s name this time around. Born and raised here in Berlin before the clutches of his fanatical ideations brought him to Al-Qatala. You hated him.

Hated his touch—hated his scent and how he talked; every bit of him was corrupted like a black dog at a crossroads, always leading people down the wrong path. Your only saving grace was that he was stupid. The other girls called you Cat—said you managed to nuzzle up to someone and soon after got them to give you what you wanted. Everything you wanted except freedom, that was.

You didn’t deny that Ivon did give you privileges, but that was the point. About a week into your stay in Berlin, he allowed you to go into public with him. Arm-candy.

A doll.

The townhouse you’d been stuck in had disappeared into a spec behind the rearview mirror, the chilled air from outside making you shiver at the lack of heat and the thin shawl you’d been thrown. No jacket.

The care of your health only extended to how well you were able to work—at the moment you were relatively healthy despite the bulge of bruises and constantly shell-shocked look behind your eyes.

But the trip—the trip. You supposed that was when it had fully started, and you didn’t even realize it before you saw those gray eyes again.

“Come,” Ivon orders, holding tightly to your arm and dragging you along from the corner shop without making a scene. Your hands loosely brush the wrack of clothes, fabric soft under your fingertips as it sways.

Fixing your shawl, you try to burrow your neck into it, gaining what little heat is available to you. It was cold out—you were shivering. People send looks, eyes tight as they shift up and down your form, but no one ever says anything. To be this bold, this cell had to have been at this for a long, long time. The realization didn’t make you feel any better.

That was when you first saw him.

You were standing outside a coffee shop, quivering like a newly hatched butterfly, Ivon making a call only a few feet away with fast motions of his arms. It was hard not to make a run for it right then and there; hard not to take those few seconds of open air and dash away—start screaming and yelling until the authorities came.

It would save yourself, but what about the others? They wouldn’t be so fortunate, you’d be sentencing them to death. None of this was simple—it needed to be thought out. Two games of chess being played at the same time.

The irony of it was that König had been off-duty that day. It had been a shot in the dark.

“Are you alright?” A thick Austrian accent makes you flinch as it appears beside your right ear, grating.

Your eyes snap to the side, moving one foot back as you blink wildly up at the blue-gray orbs that would become a staple. You liked to call it as everyone else did—the invisible string theory. A theory that stated that the universe connected people who were destined to meet one day. Through thick or thin waters, it was inevitable. He was inevitable.

“Yes,” you say quickly, holding your hands tightly around you. The man ahead of you was tall, almost startlingly so, with muscles more bulky than a boulder and his buzz-cut head open to the chilled breeze. He wore a surgical mask over his lower visage, his hoodie under the thick material of a canvas jacket. “Yes,” you say again, hearing Ivon’s voice behind you still on the phone. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Gray eyes furrow slightly, gaze darting over your head.

“Are you…sure, Ma’am?”

“Thank you for your concern,” you fake laugh, eyes pained, backing up farther. That invisible string snaps into place, pulling tight at only those few simple words.

His stature made you slightly nervous—large, intimidating; those hands could do quite the damage if given the chance. Your eyes had hit and bounced off the identity discs at his chest with little thought, too preoccupied to notice the fact that he was in the Service.

König’s eyes had narrowed softly, dark brows minutely moving in.

Ivon hangs up his phone.

“Can I help you?” He asks, coming up and sliding a hand around your waist. The man had stared at him for a long minute, and you had felt Ivon tense slowly at the unblinking eye contact.

This stranger had commented in German a long string of frim words, hands going to his jacket and grabbing at the arms—he slips out of it while still uttering.

Before you can react, the large coat swallows you whole and you snatch at the heat that’s still inside instinctually, now only realizing how much you were shivering. Your body sags into the weight of the fabric, the scent of sweat and coffee.

You don’t even pay attention to the growing tones, shocked. People look over to the two fast words being tossed.

Yet it could only last so long.

Ivon’s hand latches onto the side of your arm, beginning to drag you back and away from this kind stranger like a lap dog while throwing curses behind him. Gray eyes meet yours as old shoes skid and stumble.

König had taken a firm step towards you that day, his body tense and his hands clenched at his side—ready to do anything on a moment's notice should you ask for it. But all you do is stare, jaw loose, and the given coat still on your shoulders. You just couldn’t understand why he would do that.

The stranger gets swallowed by the crowd, and just like that, he’s gone.

That was all it had been; a moment—a few mere seconds in the large plot that was this almost impossible tale. You were glad it had been him, or else the events of the future could have been very different.

Of course, they hadn’t let you keep the jacket, but the memory was enough to warm you for days even as old pains faded and new ones took their place.

But those gray eyes would help you in the future, like a guardian; a protector in your dreams as you watched the snow fall from the sliver of outside light in your room with the others. Your mattress was on the floor like the rest, thin blankets and clouds of cold breath wafting up from sleeping forms.

This was the time it happened, and you’d just woken up to find the curtains shifting as one of the women near it moved in her sleep. Shadows slip past, the light interrupted as it shifts over your tired face with broken fractures.

You were always kept on the ground floor.

'CLEARANCE: APPROVED

TRANSLATING MISSION REPORT ‘RED FREEDOM’…

STAND BY…

Operation Red Freedom took place on November twenty-fifth, 2021, at approximately 0230 in the neighborhood of [REDACTED], at the residence of [REDACTED], Berlin, Germany. A squad of ten highly trained [REDACTED] personnel covertly entered the residence in two teams of five. Fireteam One advanced from the back entrance while Fireteam Two entered the residence from the balcony at the top floor, accessed via ladder.

Squad Leader [REDACTED], part of Fireteam One, set foot in the residence of [REDACTED] at approximately 0238 and began sweeping the ground floor as Fireteam Two cleared three of twelve known individuals belonging to the terrorist organization, Al-Qatala, on the top floor….'

You shift and shiver, your body trying to warm itself as the world blurs at the sides of your vision. Fingers twitch as your hand goes to wrap your waist, curled into the fetal position, creaking emanates from above you. Blinking softly, you frown and take a quivering breath, head nuzzling the thin mattress.

“Cold,” you say, the following low exhale of air out of your lips only making it all worse as everything seems to drop another degree. The darkness didn’t help either, only that one line of light trying desperately to fill the room like a bucket descending into a dry well.

You’re only clothed in the dirty and tattered remains of a large shirt, your legs feeling like they don’t hold any blood in them as they quiver without your knowledge—shaking the blanket above you. A few of the girls had said it would be okay to share, but everyone was afraid of the lock on the door clicking open and the men coming back in and seeing them. In the end, you could only look after yourself.

A thump makes you startle, drooping eyes snapping back open as you gasp.

Head shifting, you blink rapidly upward to the ceiling, confused as to whether that had been a part of a failing mind or if you’d really just heard a muffled bump upstairs. Brows furrowing, you lightly sit up, hands still around yourself and legs limply outward; spine hunched.

Your fingers had lost feeling, just as your nose had gone numb, but moving helped a little. Your hands dig into your flesh and your ears twitch at every creak in the wood—every pass of silent feet that suddenly becomes all the clearer as the sheen of fatigue slowly leaves your brain.

Walking? Small pains move along your body like needles, poking and prodding, but you ignore them as easily as you do the vile hands that had touched you. Survival had forced you into a constant state of self-preservation—pain couldn’t bother you, because if you stopped, you wouldn’t get back going again.

Your head tilts so you can side-eye the door to the room, sleeping forms all around shifting, singular groaning of tired lungs. But there’s something inside of you that stiffens like a prey animal, and you don’t know why. Inside of your sockets, your eyes hone in, bones stiff and your chest stilling as the grain becomes the most interesting thing to you beyond breathing.

There was someone….out there.

Watching, the sides of your vision shadow over to focus harder, your muscles tight. Your mind goes to the thumps from upstairs, the moving feet that sounded far more careful and deliberate than the ones your jailors took care to walk with.

Inside your ribs, your heart patters a bit faster, adrenal glands sending a certain flight or flight through the few veins you hold that aren’t chilled over.

Something was happening. Something wasn’t right.

Only when you move to shake the shoulder of one of the women sleeping beside you does it happen.

A yell.

A scream.

The girls in the room all startle awake, sounds of concern and shock entering the air that you mirror; faces snapping to the ceiling and the door. The townhouse erupts into gunfire and the sound of slamming wood—a warzone that only is separated from all of you by the thin material of the four walls.

You feel yourself being grabbed and held in fear in the dark, as your open face holds the expression of a rabbit in an open field, looking along the long, hidden grass.

The sounds persist, loud German shouts going up over the house and echoing with heated fever. This continues for minutes, added in with the sound of doors breaking off hinges, bouncing off the ground, and shaking the foundation so hard that you can feel it reverberate. The women go silent. Stone-still.

But the gunfire—so much gunfire. The constant pop of assault weapons and a pound of multiple booted feet.

What was going on? You can't make sense of it, so you only freeze and listen; trying to understand the longer the fight goes on, heart hammering; mouth slack-jawed. And then it’s like it never happened.

Silence.

You share quick looks with the others, all gripping one another and heads angled to the door. The heavy feet start back up again, coming closer. Your mind slashes to the window across the room, but it’s hard to think beyond the sudden body that shakes the door that leads directly to you all—the women scream, some standing up and racing to the glass with the same idea as you.

'…Squad Leader [REDACTED], and both Fireteams successfully eliminated all targets inside of the [REDACTED] residence, leaving the room occupied by known hostages last to prevent casualties and/or the usage of bargaining chips. Squad Leader [REDACTED] made contact with hostages at approximately 0244 after the final sweep of the townhouse had been completed and all personnel accounted for.

Local authorities had been contacted by neighbors due to noise but were dismissed.'

The door busts off its hinges and the room devolves into panicked yells and hurled bits of mattress material. Loud pleas and curses stuck like gums to teeth as they were forced out in fear and bone-crushing terror. You remember pushing back into the wall, many others doing the same, as a beast of a man enters the room with his face covered with a loose fabric hood of some sort.

Large—brutish. Like a demon walking with the color of black printed over his entire body; gear hangs from a combat vest, hands holding an assault rifle as a sidearm is strapped to his bulging thigh. Forearms the side of your head stays near his chest, and in order to not hit his head on the doorframe, the individual has to bend slightly. Over that hood, the lenses and head-gear of a night-vision rig sit heavily before it’s moved back with a firm hand that is nearly double the size of yours.

A monster.

Your entire being is tight with quivering tension, eyes blinking away tears at the smell of blood that rolls in from the hallway. The women at the window duck down, hands to their heads as if expecting a bullet to carve its way between their skulls.

“Cat,” one of the ladies behind you mutters, voice quivering. You shush her on bitten lips and move her farther behind you.

“Don’t speak,” you mutter. “Don’t move.”

You don’t know what you expect, but nothing about this is correct.

The man raises his hands, the rifle slapping his chest as it hangs from a strap. He speaks in German, and the heavy and fast noise of it makes your already addled head spin. No one answers beyond the slide of their own feet over the hardwood floors.

“Ich heiße König,” his head swivels from one to another, “Sprichst du Deutsch? Irgendjemand?”

You stare blankly, panting.

After a moment, and a slow step forward from the stranger, he speaks again, though this time, it’s in English.

“My name is König.” His voice is familiar to you, and you blink in confusion quickly, hidden near the back of the shaking bodies. “I am with the German Military, yes? We have conducted a raid on this residence.”

Military? Raid?

“...I am not here to hurt you.” He nears one of the women, beginning to bend down slowly. She squeaks, balking back—making him tense and halt. It didn't matter what he said, König was the epitome of a man who was intimidating on body alone; the gear wasn’t helping. Neither was the hood.

A soldier appears in the doorway, calling out to him in his native language as you flinch at the noise.

König calls back calmly, trying to keep an air of gentle strength around him.

The second soldier comes inside, dressed similarly despite the lack of fabric over his visage which instantly puts many at ease again. He clears his throat as König steps back, gargantuan hands coming up to rest at his vest collar as his legs shift. He seems a bit put off at the fearful stares from everyone, rolling his shoulders for a moment as he turns his head to look out of the doorway.

Your eyes don’t move from him, though. A nagging feeling in the back of your skull.

“We have to leave this place,” the second soldier tells you all, kneeling and resting a hand over his knee. “We’ll get you medical attention. Food. Water. There’s no need to suffer here any longer, hm? We can see to it that all of you will get the best care that can be provided.” A pause. “We can get you back home.”

That certainly got the attention that was needed.

Meek questions started falling out, then louder ones before pandemonium was roused in that tiny room pushed to the very back of the townhouse. Home. It was a word that had almost lost all meaning but was still that constant shining light in the back of everyone’s mind.

Home.

Did you even have one of those left?

As the rest of your fellows all got to their feet, taking you with them, you had to think over that fact as the soldier guided them gently out of the room to join the others waiting—trying to answer their questions and get them away from the gore before they saw it.

You stayed behind, feet shifting over the floor and your lips thin. As the silence settles in, you hold yourself a bit tighter and glance at the mattress all mashed together and stained—those thin blankets as you shiver.

“Are you alright?” Your head snaps over.

You’d forgotten about König.

He still stands there, still and with his hands at his collar; he clears his throat softly, speaking up from his low utterance. “Please…do not be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” you say tinily, your voice cracking in the lie.

You can’t see his eyes—not with the shadow from his hood or his head rig, but you can see the way his skull lightly tilts to the side, trying to see you better in the low light.

“That is good,” he answers, not convinced. “I’m glad. I did not wish to scare anyone.” He moves back and motions with a hand to the door from where they hang. “Please. It is best not to linger, yes?”

“Do I…” you hesitate, shivering. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

König’s face isn’t visible, but you can still sense the feeling of confusion leaking out of him. The man takes a small step closer, and you gaze up at him until his eyes are visible.

Blue-gray.

You stare, mouth parting in shock.

König blinks twice, quickly making a noise in the back of his throat at the sight of your eyes gazing into his—the same woman outside of the coffee shop from days ago.

That little invisible string pulls you closer, small millimeter by small millimeter.

“You?” You both say it at the same time, laced with surprise and shock.

It’s a long moment of gazing into each other, a battered body and another more strong than an ox. All fear of the man dissipates.

“You gave me your jacket,” you whisper, still torn up about it.

König’s hood shifts as he glances back to the door, German speech over the radio strapped to his chest which he takes in and processes in the back of his skull. But he always looks back at you, eyes crinkled with concern and perhaps even a bit of misplaced guilt.

A protective knife sides into his side.

“Come.” The man reaches out a hand, hovering it over your arm. You stare at the gloved limb for a moment before softly moving towards it with your breath caught in your throat, hesitant. König’s fingers delicately slide over the flesh, not closing around it until he feels your muscles loosen. “...Let’s get you warmer, Schatz, yes?”

You blink.

“It’s cold here,” you mutter, letting him guide you along, his gray orbs always keeping you in the side of his vision.

“Yes,” he agrees, nodding. “Very cold. Have you been to Germany during the winter before?”

Your head slightly shakes, bare feet padding along next to the pair of great boots—you lean closer unconsciously to the promise of warmth. König guides you away from the seeping blood on the floor and protects your eyes from the view of the bodies across the room with his own as a guard dog would.

“No.” He notices your leaning and brings you nearer to him, letting you use him as a brace. The man knows the effects of shock, and you wear it as plainly as any other. “I’ve never been here before.”

König hums and his free hand goes up to press into the radio, muttering in his native tongue. He releases the connection and asks as he blinks at you, “Do you require any immediate medical attention?”

Again, you shake your head.

“Where are the others?” You sink further into him, being guided to the front door, open to the soft snowfall and a chilled wind as your shoulder hunch.

“Just outside,” König glances at the bodies across the room—the ones he’d riddled with bullets that still twitch even as the minutes draw longer. Gray eyes going from one to another, the house is heavy with the weight of dead men. Twelve in total and all getting colder just like the temperature outside. König didn’t feel bad about it, and when he’d finally busted open that door to find you and the women, he was satisfied with the blood on his hands. If hell were to be his home, he would walk there with a golden-fanged smile.

But now wasn’t the time for that.

“I will bring you to them,” the soldier speaks, snow blowing in from the entrance. “Slowly, now, Schatz, watch the steps. Allow me to help.”

You stop at the doorway, bringing a hand to your mouth to cover a haggard cough as König makes his way down the first concrete step ahead of you—large armored vehicles had pulled up from a ways away. The women huddle around one another, the rest of the soldiers sticking by them and opening the doors to the vehicles as the night gets only more cold and stormy.

Gray eyes flicker for a moment down to your lack of proper protection, fingers twitching and tapping at his thigh as König remembers your expression the day he’d first met you.

“Do you want me to carry you?” He says slowly, cautious in his approach. The man wasn’t stupid—he wouldn’t touch you unless you explicitly stated it was alright for him to do so. “I will be gentle, I promise. I do not wish for your feet to freeze, I...” He pauses as you blink, staring into his soul. “I…will not touch you if you do not tell me to do it. You have my word.”

You continue to stand there for a moment, face unreadable before your head slowly turns to the vehicles in the street.

The neighborhood was so normal it still caused you to wonder how no one had spoken up and seen something. Rows of connected houses now with their lights on—faces peeking from the windows like little children on Christmas morning; trying to get glimpses of Santa and the man’s reindeer.

Finally, your gaze moves back to the hooded visage of König, able to see it better under the moonlight and the glare of falling snowflakes—a few of those frozen pieces sitting in the folds of the fabric.

“The hood scared them,” you utter about the others. König stiffens a bit, blinking at you but not looking away. “They’re used to people trying to hide their faces, but yours…with how large you are…”

“I understand.” König doesn't tear away his eyes. “...Did I scare you, Schatz?”

You don’t know why, but for what seems like the first time in years, the question makes you giggle. The beast of a man goes still with his feet on the ground, usually jittery and moving body captivated by the sound as it echoes over the night’s air—the puff of your breath as it moves around his hood; rustling it like leaves on a tree.

Eyes widening only a sliver more, König’s breath is in his throat.

It was like listening to a bird’s song.

“Maybe only a little,” you whisper to him. “But it’s okay. I’m scared of most things.”

He licks his lips, but you’re unable to see the slight quirk of them afterward.

“Then I will make it up to you, yes?” He holds out a hand. “Let me? The car is warm and your friends are waiting for you. My men say they ask about your health.”

You softly nod, the shadow of the house trying to drag you back into it—its blackened arms reaching and latching onto old scars. When your hand connects with König's, the man takes his time putting one foot back to a step and scooping you up from behind your knees. With a tiny grunt, you settle at his chest, calming your heartbeat with the fact that you know he won’t hurt you.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

In his arms, your bare legs hang in the air, hand wrapping his neck, and with a slightly nervous look to you as your body hovers. König watches for a moment, hesitating before he begins walking to the same vehicle the other woman had been moved into out of the snowfall.

“Can you tell me your name,” he asks to distract you from his hold, to get you more comfortable with him as his boots crunch through the packed powder on the ground—making sure to watch his step so as to not jostle you.

“Everyone calls me Cat.” Gray eyes blink your way, visible skin painted black. König’s head tilts. You can’t help but find it endearing.

“Katze?” He hums, and you can imagine his lips moving slightly upwards from the innocent tone of his voice as if taken by the strange moniker. “That is…interesting.”

You huff tinily, shivering again as your body moves to curl a little more.

The soldier quickly reassures you. “Nearly there.”

The vehicle is in front of you, and a nearby man opens the door for König as he carries you over. Nodding in thanks, the large individual eases you into one of the seats as the blast of warm air makes you sag—the other woman in there mulls closer, grabbing onto you and laughing through tears.

Looking back at them, you smile and feel yourself get a bit teary-eyed as everything starts to slowly come into focus.

Glancing outward, you stare at the snow that hits the dark hood of König, sticking and hanging off until the tiny white dots melt from the heat of his body. With his legs shifting he moves back a step and nods to you, eyes moving to stare at the ground for a moment.

“We will take you to base. From there you will all be given dorms and fresh apparel to—”

“Thank you, König,” you interrupted him. He stares, lips parted with the half-tones of cut-off speech. “And please extend my thanks to your men as well.”

“...Of course, Katze.” König stands straighter, always twitching fingers moving to the car door as engines start with a grinding roar. He nods again, the loose fabric swaying as the lenses of his rig stay firm at the movement. “There is no need to thank us. Relax. Sleep, if you wish to do it. The ride will be long.” The man’s gray eyes linger for a moment on your own, studying the bumps and small marks on your face. His hand tightens over the door as your gaze is stuck with his own; warmth blooming in his chest. He was glad he had found you.

König slips out a soft, “There are blankets under the seats,” before he closes the door with a firm thump of metal.

You can’t help but smile.

'…Hostages were taken back to [REDACTED] and received minor medical attention on site. Housed in [REDACTED] and were admitted for needed treatments/medications - all details/names listed in File 3 Section 6 for future reference. DNA was placed into databases.

Next of kin were informed of their family members’ position and/or state of being via phone call to the corresponding government official that then traveled through the appropriate channels once identified.'

You sit as a nurse hands you heating pads for your hands, which you take with a small thanks and clenched tightly, sucking every ounce of warmth from them to stop the shaking. Your body was heavy with the weight of new clothes and heated blankets, the room utterly normal in a way you’d not known for years. A corner table with books and a chess board—a connected bathroom stocked with amenities you may need; even a rug on the tile floor. You don’t know why that was shocking to you, but even the simplest thing was awe-inspiring. Your eyes had even slipped over a tiny nightlight near the door.

It nearly made you cry.

Your nurse moves back a bit, smiling down at you kindly.

“Is there anything else you might need, Dear?” Her accent is prominent, though not as much as König’s had been. She waits for your answer diligently as the pitcher of water and a similar glass sit on your nightstand.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. Your socked feet rub together like a grasshopper. “I think that’s all.” Your eyelids blink. “But…” you stop.

“What is it?” The lady asks gently, hands slack at her sides.

“The man—König,” you pause. “Is he here?”

Blinking at you, the nurse tilts her head to the side in curiosity. “Not currently, no. At least, not in this specific building. He and his men are being debriefed across base. They will be there for a long while.” At your blank look, her brows slightly move up in accommodating comfort. “Would…you like me to tell him something for you?”

Playing with the heating pads in your hands, your face gains a slightly embarrassed sheen. You liked the thought of being near König, truthfully. No one had made you feel safe like he did—him and his selfless action of a large coat given with no intention of getting anything in return.

“Just,” you breathe softly. “Just that I’m sorry for losing his coat, and that I hope it wasn’t expensive.”

The nurse stares, very much confused but not about to question you. Her feet shift over the floor, and a light nod is sent your way.

“Of course. I’ll tell him.” She motions to the bed with a hand and explains that whenever you wished to sleep, you were free to use the bed—and the TV was open to you as well, though you might not be able to understand the local stations. With that, she exited the room.

Left alone, your head moves around the room slowly, taking it all in once more as the small bandages under your clothes pull at your flesh. The tears start slipping down your cheeks with no warning.

Wrist coming up to your eyes, the limb presses in tightly, water staining the flesh as it dribbles down, and your lip quivers like a worm below it. You don’t know why you’re crying now and not when König had gotten you out of that townhouse. Why now, when there wasn’t anything prompting you to do so?

But something was prompting you—the knowledge that you would never be going back to anyone who would mistreat you again. You had your own room. Good food. All the water that your stomach could drink down. A nightlight that pushes back the darkness even if you’re so used to living in it.

Through your soft sniffles, chuckles move out, filling the space with a warm echo. You pull the blankets closer to you and collapse backward onto the mattress, smiling widely at the ceiling.

That little invisible string dances as your heart pulls at it.

—

König’s leg lightly jumps from under his table, signing off his name at the bottom of a report before he stands and rubs a hand over the top of his un-hooded head. He grabs the paper and slips it into a manila folder, hands pale with deep scars running the length of them like fissures in the earth. Deftly taking the item, he walks out of his office and begins moving down the length of the building, fingers tapping over the yellowish material with a small connection of flesh and thick envelope.

Tap-tap, tappity-tap.

His fingers were always fidgeting—moving, tensing, twitching. It was one of the reasons they never let him become a recon sniper; the more obvious being the blatant size of his body. Both of which had been the cause of much teasing throughout his childhood.

But König’s mind was on something other than the report in his hands, and it was starting to become a very strong distraction. You. The women. Al-Qatala.

He was angry he hadn’t acted outside of that coffee shop—angry he hadn't noticed the signs right in front of him even if he had been powerless to stop it then. The soldier’s jaw clenched, the strong muscles of his jaw roving.

“Verdammt,” he hisses under his breath, glaring at the tile. “Should have done something.”

König gets to his commanding officer’s office and knocks, only staying long enough to hand him the folder with his finished report and leave once more. His mind wouldn’t stay silent tonight. There’s no doubt that he won’t be able to sleep unless he reassures himself that you and the others are okay.

The man’s head shifts back to the email he had gotten from your assigned nurse, whom he’d taken it upon himself to know the name of when he carried you into the base’s hospital—Eva.

‘...She says she wants to apologize for losing your coat…”

König’s heart had twisted at that—that was what you were concerned about? He had to tell you that it was alright, or else he would never know peace. Perhaps even ask how you’ve been treated so far, just to make sure that everything was comfortable for you.

The man’s eyelids move slightly downward in thought, a pull at his heart to walk outside. He passes a few other soldiers in the hallway, nodding to them with a tiny greeting but unwilling to stop and talk. In only fatigues, König exits the main doors quickly, lightly moving into a jog as his body shivers at the sudden chill touching his arms under the black compression shirt. Under him the snow has grown deeper, the large lights illuminating the almost greenish reflections of the winter landscape of open roads and large buildings.

Curfew was long past—this had to be quick.

Just a check-in, König tells himself as he nears the hospital, his breath puffing in the air. Then I can wipe my hands of it.

He slows as he nears the doors, huffing a breath as he pushes on the barrier, opening it with a squawk of hinges and metal. Entering, the front desk staff looked up at him in surprise, muttering his name in question.

“Katze?” He responds, pushing a hand over his head and feeling the melting snowflakes. His cheeks are a light shade of exposure-red, and inquisitive eyes shift over the two individuals slowly. “What room?”

The pair share a glance and tell him in the same breath. Room ten.

It’s no sooner after that König finds himself there, hand hovering over the handle as the hallway clock ticks beside his right ear. His gray eyes blink at the door, feet shuffling from under him before he clears his throat under his breath, glancing away for a second in hesitation.

Was this appropriate?

König didn’t have an answer, but the pull in his chest was tight and firm—he just needed to see you. A glimpse, nothing more. He raises his fist and raps his knuckles over the wood delicately, three tiny knocks that hit his ears like bullets from a gun; the bullets he’s put into pathetic Al-Qatala bodies and watched burst like sacks of fluid.

He waits, hands going to grasp at his shirt collar, pushing out a low breath to calm himself.

After a long moment, his foot taps the floor, blinking. Again he knocks—a bit louder.

“She is sleeping, you evolutionsbremse,” he utters, accent low and grating. “Leave her alone.” But even if you are, his nerves peek their head over the brimstone wall of his brain.

With his fingers caressing the handle, slowly moved to clutch it fully, swallowing the metal in his grip. König takes a deep breath into his lungs, letting it fill them up. Again, he tells himself, just a check-in.

He twists the doorknob and sets his forearm on the wood, pushing the barrier open.

König moves so that his body makes no noise, even with how large it is as he angles the side of his head through the opening. He finds a large mound of blankets atop the bed—stacked and layered so heavily that he has to blink in surprise at how you can breathe under them; because you were under them.

Gray eyes make out the small sliver of skin peaking out from the side of the bed—fingers—and the top of your forehead near the pillows formed around your skull. Unconsciously, a soft smile works its way over König’s lips until he finds himself chuckling.

“Niedlich,” he mutters, scars over his face shifting as he speaks.

Sighing lowly, König pulls back his head, beginning to close the door once more.

“König…?” Your tiny voice makes him halt like he had in the townhouse.

Eyes wide and lips parted at being caught, the door remains open, only a sliver visible to your vision as your furrowed brows are stuck at the barrier. A red sheen moves across the soldier’s face in a slow sweep of embarrassment that goes bone deep.

With a lick of his lips, König re-opens the door slightly.

“I did not mean to wake you, Katze.” He finds your eyes and nods to you. “I apologize. Go back to sleep—you must be tired.”

“Wait,” you utter, moving your head fully out from under the blankets. König pauses, eyes staring as his other hand comes up to itch at the back of his neck.

“What is it,” the man asks, opening the door fully and moving inside. “Do you need anything?”

The question had hit you in your thin slumber, interrupted only partially by the opening of your door to the familiar pull of gray eyes and a strong build. A buzz-cut head. You take a slow breath to wake yourself up more, watching him from your bed. “...Did you know that I would be in that house?”

König tilts his head at the question, sighing slightly and glancing at the clock inside of the room on your nightstand. He frowns.

“No,” he explains gently, coming closer. “No, I did not. I do not get told such things—only where to shoot and where not to.” The man tries a small smile, kneeling on one leg down by the bed and staring into your sleepy eyes. “But I am glad I found you again, yes? You had me worried.”

“You were worried?” You can’t quite grasp it.

“Ja,” he nods. “Your eyes—they have stuck with me, Schatz, you understand?”

Your eyebrows pull up your face, blinking in shock.

“...Yours, too,” you confess. König’s heart flutters, listening until your lips have fallen still. “They’re very nice, König.”

He goes sheepish, lips flicking up into a smile and his eyes daring away for a moment. “You can thank my mother for them, then.” He chuckles. “I have stolen the family's eyes, I was told.”

You chuckle with him, hand coming to rub at your cheek. A silence falls between the two of you.

“I don’t sleep well,” you tell him in the relative darkness, light from the hallway and your night light illuminating the dips and bone structure of his face. “I was awake when you opened the door.”

He nods after a moment. “Ja.” A pause. “I don’t either…Nightmares?”

You watch him before nodding tinily.

“Ah,” he mutters. “They are not pleasant, I’m sorry that they have been plaguing you. Do you…” König wonders if he should leave—this was far more than he had anticipated. “Do you wish for me to stay?”

Why had he said that?

The string between the two of you tightens evermore, gaining another thread just as it would for the years to come until it became as unbreakable as steel.

“I don’t want to be a nuisance,” you begin but are quickly interrupted with a shake of a square head and a huff of a sharp nose.

“You are not. Do not call yourself such.” His accent deepens with emotion, eyes narrowing as the dark brows on his face pull in. “If you want me to stay, I will stay. Wake you if you become shaky, yes? Keep the bad dreams at bay.”

“But what about you?” Your voice moves around the room as König stands and goes to the table in the back, shifting one of the chairs so that it’s angled your way. You shift so you can watch him sit back, grunting as his legs move out in front of him, opening so he can be more comfortable. He needed a bigger chair, but he wasn’t going to complain about it.

“I’m not tired, Schatz.” A lie. His muscles are heavy, and he longs for his bed in the barracks. He pushes out, “Please, go back to sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

You stare for a long while, studying him and how he fidgets in his seat of choice. A small laugh meets the man’s ears as he crosses his arms over his chest. König pauses, blinking over in confusion. His lips move upwards slowly.

“What are you laughing at, then, hm?”

“You look like you’re about to break it,” you mutter, head nuzzling the pillow under you as fatigue claws its way under your skin.

König huffs, fingers twitching over the meat of his biceps as he slouches. He nods jokingly. “Perhaps,” he shrugs, the window behind him letting a slight tinge of cold air in from outside. “It would not be the first, I’m afraid, though it would be quite the embarrassment to do it in front of you, Katze.” He smirks. “But I’ll say, hitting my head on door frames hurts more than letting my arsch kiss the ground.”

You laugh under your heap, your body jerking to the movement of your lungs.

“I bet,” you say, fingers grasping one of your blankets and pulling it closer. “It’s a funny image.”

“You can laugh all you want,” König jokes, eyes soft as they gaze at you. “It does not bother me.”

Your sweet sounds of amusement waft out from under the crack in the door, where a small group of curious nurses mull and listen with glances to one another. A doctor moves past the hallway where they stand, and all scatter on quick feet.

'…Signed,

[REDACTED]

SUBMITTED: 0517, 25, November 2021

END OF MISSION REPORT ‘RED FREEDOM’

RETURNING TO SELECTION MENU…

STAND BY…'

It’s only after most of the other women leave—sent home to awaiting families or loved ones—that you know your time is coming to a close here in Berlin, Germany. While you’re excited to put this behind you, you can’t help but feel a bit…lost.

There’s something that keeps you here, on this base, until you’re the last out of all of them, waiting. And then you’re given the green light to go—go home—and suddenly you have a backpack full of necessities and you’re closing the door to your room with the little nightlight’s plastic body pushing against your spine. Yet, you stand in the hallway for a long minute, fingers interlocked.

You take a long, deep, breath.

Over the weeks of recovery, König had been a constant companion when he wasn’t needed. He had eased you back into a comfortable state, letting you somewhat lose the black-and-white view you had gained of the world. But there was only so much he could do, even if his soft eyes were still stuck in your dreams—the good ones, of course.

You needed to go home, and, today, the C-17 was whirring on the tarmac, waiting for you to be transported to a military base far from here where you would be processed and, ultimately, let go.

Let go. It was jarring to think about, all of that freedom. What would you do with it? Right now, you don’t have the faintest clue. It was the best feeling you can remember having.

Smiling, you take one last look at the room behind you and walk on.

At the entrance, you say a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to the nurses and doctors in broken German, shaking their hands as Eva kisses your forehead and whispers how happy she is to have had you here for such little time—you know what she means and you chuckle with her at the double-edged sword.

König waits by the door, holding it open with…you blink at the item in his hands as well as his sudden appearance. Canvas fabric. A coat.

The coat.

“I had to have it processed,” he says, smiling as you gape at him. “Very long process. It was found in the closet in the townhouse.”

“Then why are you handing it to me,” you ask, tilting your head and walking closer.

“I gave it to you, did I not?” The man hums, head tilting as he motions with it again. “It’s a good coat, Katze. Winters get cold.” Gray eyes crinkle gently. “I would hate for you to shiver, wherever it is that you end up, yes?”

You shake your head, cheeks hot. But your hands don’t hesitate to grasp the item, König’s hold on it remains fast, though, and you blink at him as you both keep it gently clasped like it’s worth its weight in gold.

König stares at you, the door still kept open behind him. He opens and closes his mouth for a moment as you tilt your head.

“Keep it safe for me,” is what he ends with, but his expression tells you he’s not talking about the coat.

It makes your arms tingle—your heart skips a beat.

“I’ll be sure it never gets lost,” you smile warmly, eyes malleable as the make of their color glints. There is a connection to this man that transcends words, and it is tied to you just as heavily as it is to him; unexplainable, incomprehensible, non-describable.

Enigmatic.

König’s reverential face is soft with care.

“Good,” he mutters, unable to look away. “Very good.”

Clearing his throat, his grays dart to the floor, shifting his feet to move backward. He pushes open the door wider for you, and you hold your backpack in one hand as you shift past him and slip into his coat.

It was exactly how you remembered it, and you sank into the fabric with a thankful sigh and a fluttering of your lashes. You shift the bag back over your shoulders, letting the straps fall into the bulk of the extra material.

The snow wasn’t falling today, and the ground was shoveled of any white powder too. On the air, you can hear the whir of the C-17.

König comes up beside you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as he guides you along. For the most part, the walk to the tarmac is silent with the weight of the future. You had no phone. No socials. You didn’t even know if you wanted any, to be honest. Your mind had convinced you that a good bout of soul-searching was exactly what you needed. And you had to do that alone.

Your lips are thin as your legs take you closer to the plane, König’s scent stuck into the stitches of the coat and covered your senses.

At the ramp, he stops as your feet take you onto the metal. Closing your eyes for a moment, you turn and lock gazes with him—gray hiding away what other, more human, emotions to be found. It was a slate of carefully crafted acceptance, and your own followed soon after.

It had to be this. The string wouldn’t break, no, but it had to be stretched to such a point to come back stronger.

“Thank—”

“Don’t,” he says, not blinking, looking up at you.

You smile. “What do you want me to say, then?”

“You don’t have to say anything to me.” You hadn't known it then, but the both of you had truly thought that this would be the last of your meetings. It produced a pulse in both of your hearts that would never be told aloud. “....Live well,” König utters. “Heal, Mein Schatz.”

The soldier wasn't one to give his chances to hope.

Your eyes follow as he backs up, moving away as you stare. In his head, König pleads with you to stop and give him a reprieve from the hypnosis of your gaze, the addictive movement of your head as it tilts to the side.

Live well.

You send him a smile, a delicate thing, and then you back up a step and turn, disappearing into the darkness.

The string follows, and it continues to do so even as your hands slip into your pockets hours later, bumping into the small form of a black flip phone. The note hidden inside of it.

‘For whenever you find what you’re looking for.’

'REQUEST FOR ADMINISTRATIVE DISCHARGE

REQUESTED BY: [REDACTED]

ENTERED: DECEMBER 15, 2021

TIME: 1422

OPEN FILE?...

REQUEST CANCELED….

RETURNING TO FILE SELECT MENU…

FILE SELECTED….

TRANSLATING…

STAND BY…

REQUEST OF HONORABLE ADMINISTRATIVE DISCHARGE OF [REDACTED] APPROVED ON JANUARY 2, 2022

OPEN FILE?...

REQUEST CANCELED…

SYSTEM SHUTTING DOWN'

You sit in a coffee shop in Berlin, Germany, by the window. It wasn’t just any coffee shop, but you try not to think about all of that. It was all in the past—three years, now. You like to think you’d learned something in that time.

“Danke schön,” you say to the woman who brings you your drink, nodding kindly. You take a small sip, humming and winking at her teasingly. “Perfekt.”

She chuckles, wiping her hands on her apron. “Möchten Sie noch etwas anderes dazu?”

“Nein, nein,” you shake your head, waving a hand that soft bumps the flip phone on the table. “Danke.”

The lady walks away, and you take another sip of the hot beverage, never put off by the heat.

It was winter again, and your eyes followed the flakes as they fell from a cloudy sky, finding the beauty in it easily as you sat inside. The scarf around your neck is loose—your gifted coat open. You smile to yourself and hum, watching people walk past outside, thinking about their lives and how they live them.

A large form travels out from a shop across the street, a plastic bag in his loose grip. He was not small, no, this man was a beast of height and strength alike. The loping, canid-like, walk was accented by the twitch of his fingers over his quarry.

Your wide eyes stay stuck to him for a long moment as he moves to the crosswalk, people shifting out of his way as he ignores them. Familiarity strikes like lighting—a buzz down your spine that leaves you straightening.

After a long moment, a breathless laugh sneaks out of you.

There were just some things that people were never meant to understand.

Your hand places your cup back on the table, picking up the old flip phone and pushing it open. Your thumb runs the keypad, moving to the only contact that had ever been entered into the device.

Pressing, you move it to your ear as you watch with a soft expression, heart pattering.

Across the way, the man tenses, hand patting his leg before the other hand moves inside his pocket and shifts the item out. People walk away, moving to the other side of the crosswalk as he stares at the contact.

A minute passes, and all the while you hold your breath.

He presses and moves the phone to his ear, staying as still as stone. As still as a man afraid his hood might scare a group of terrified women.

His voice graces your ear.

“...Katze?” You beam, trapped in the warmth of the coat around your shoulders.

“How do you feel about coffee, König?”

Blue-gray eyes had never been more beautiful than when they snapped up to meet yours.

TAGS:

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sweetromanova · 6 days ago

Text

Crisis Management: Part One🖤

Natasha Romanoff x PR Handler!Reader

Summary: Your assigned to make Natasha Romanoff more ‘relateable’. Somewhere along the way you forget your job was to fix her image, not fall in love with it.

A/N: three parts coming your way and maybe a few extra if ever actually write something again!

Nothing says ‘serious business’ like a well-timed speech.

Pepper Potts stood at the front of the briefing room, immaculate in a slate-gray suit that probably cost more than your car. Composed, poised, not a hair out of place for a woman, with such a difficult job and an even more difficult husband. With the slightest motion, just one perfectly manicured finger, she tapped the control panel. A hologram flickered to life, bold title blazing across the screen.

THE FUTURE OF HEROISM: STRATEGY & PUBLIC ALIGNMENT INITIATIVE.

You, meanwhile, were mentally rewriting your resume and wondering if your last boss would still be willing to lie for you.

“As SHIELD enters a reorganisation phase…” Pepper began. “It’s important we reinforce public trust. The Avengers Initiative is no longer just about defense, it’s also about presence. Visibility. Hope.”

Tony Stark coughed something that sounded suspiciously like branding.

“We want to reach people where they are.” Pepper continued, undeterred. “Schools. Fundraisers. Streaming platforms. We want to build a bridge between what they see on the battlefield and what they can believe in their everyday lives.”

Steve raised a hand. “This doesn’t involve dancing, does it?”

Silence, then a much quieter. “Not necessarily.”

He groaned. “That’s a yes.”

You tried to blend into the wall but it was too late. Her gaze already landed on you.

“This is our new Public Image Strategist. They’ll be working with each of you individually to build out personal brand campaigns, coordinate appearances, and help… shape the narrative.”

Tony gave a low whistle. Steve looked polite but wary. Clint squinted at you like you might be a new type of training dummy.

And then there was the empty chair.

Seat: Natasha Romanoff. Status: Unaccounted for.

Typical.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The meeting ended with you holding a folder full of schedules, press requests and enough NDAs to gag a lawyer. You managed to corner Pepper near the elevator. “I don’t mean to complain, but you assigned a lot of focus on Nat-“

“Natasha.” She said, crisply. “Yes. She’s the priority. People are more interested in the woman, naturally and she has ZERO presence when it comes to fan or press events.”

“She didn’t even show up to the meeting.”

“She doesn’t need to. You’ll find her.”

You blinked. “Shouldn’t she find me?”

Pepper smiled, the kind that meant you were already ten seconds into a losing battle. “She’s not a ghost. Just... persuasive about her time.”

The elevator doors opened. “And when you do find her.” Pepper added, stepping in. “Be patient. And wear black. She hates color-coordination.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Three hours later, you found Natasha in the gym.

Of course you did. Where else do assassins go to ignore the living?

She was hitting the punching bag like it owed her money. No music. No distractions. Just the thwack of fists and the low hum of tension hanging in the air.

“Natasha Romanoff?” You tried, internally berating yourself over how pathetic you sounded.

No response.

You stepped closer, adjusting your clipboard like it was a bulletproof shield. “I’m-“

“I know who you are.” She didn’t look up.

That was all she said for a solid thirty seconds. Then, still without meeting your eyes, she added. “Turn around and walk out. You’ll get paid either way.”

You paused. “I don’t walk out.”

She finally looked at you. “Do you prefer to be carried?”

“I prefer to do my job.”

Her eyes were cool and calm and terrifyingly amused. “Cute.”

“No, seriously.” You frowned, trying not to backpedal. “I’ve been assigned to help you. And before you tell me you don’t need PR, I’ve read every major article about your past ten years, and frankly? You desperately need PR.”

That got a her attention.

She stopped hitting the bag so you pressed on. “Look, I know you’re not a fan of this ‘smile for the cameras’ thing. But I’m not asking you to be someone else. I’m asking you to control the version of you the world sees. Because right now, the version they see is… scary.”

She walked past you slowly, grabbed a towel and wiped down her hands.

“You think I’m scary?” She asked, almost curious.

“I think you’ve trained people to be afraid of you. That’s different.” Now she looked at you directly. “I’m not scared of you.”

A faint smirked appeared on her face, like she found your bravery endearing, then she said. “Fine.”

“…Fine?”

“I’ll give you one week. One press appearance. One outfit, one event, one pathetic little video or whatever it is you people do.”

You opened your mouth but she held up a finger.

“But if I hate it, if I get ambushed by reporters, if someone asks me which lipstick I’m wearing while the world is still on fire, you’re done. And I mean done.”

You nodded, slowly. “Fair.”

She leaned in just slightly, the edge of a smile tugging at her lips.

“You really should’ve walked out.”

And then she left you standing in the gym with a clipboard, a heart that’s beating out of your chest and the very distinct sense that your life had just become infinitely harder.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You met her outside the Tower’s west exit at exactly 9:00am the next morning.

She was already there, leaning casually against the railing like she hadn’t just scared a State Department liaison into early retirement the week before. Dressed in what could only be described as ‘civilian casual’ for someone with a kill count, she wore fitted black jeans, ankle boots that had clearly seen both combat and cocktail parties and a leather jacket that managed to make her look more dangerous than full tactical gear. No weapons in sight, but it was Natasha Romanoff. She was the weapon.

“I said one event.” She warned flatly, eyes glued to her phone as her thumb flicked across the screen.

“And this is the one. You replied, lifting your tablet in a vaguely defensive gesture. “Daytime talk show. Live audience, five-minute interview slot. You smile, you answer a few softballs and we pretend you didn’t threaten three journalists in the last six months.”

Her lips quirked, barely. “Only two. The third one tripped.”

You tilted your head. “And landed on your elbow?”

“Gravity’s unpredictable.” She said, with a shrug. “How’d you know about that, anyway?”

“It’s in your file.”

“I have a file?”

You chose not to answer.

Mostly because you could already feel the weight of her gaze pressing into your back as you turned and started walking. She didn’t follow immediately. She didn’t need to. You felt her assessing you, like she was running mental simulations of how fast she could incapacitate you, how much effort it would take, whether you were worth the paperwork.

You weren’t easily shaken. You’d sat across from CEOs with billion-dollar egos and reporters with blood in their eyes. But Natasha was something else. She didn’t need attention. She didn’t need to talk big. She existed with the unnerving confidence of someone who could take apart your entire day and maybe your spine, without raising her voice.

Still, you walked ahead with purpose, reminding yourself with every step that you were in charge of this assignment. You had the schedule, the briefing notes and the earpiece with a direct line to PR. She just had the ability to kill you with a paperclip.

Balance.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car ride was quiet.

Not peaceful quiet, where you watch the world pass by outside the window. The kind of loaded quiet where you waited and waited and waited to see who’s going to crack first. Probably the Russian assassin.

She sat across from you in the back of the sleek black SUV, legs crossed, gaze angled toward the window. Not watching anything in particular, just staring out like the city bored her. Like you bored her.

You risked a glance. Her profile was all clean edges and shadowed cheekbones, the kind of stillness that didn’t come naturally. It was trained, learned in silence. Perfected in sniper nests and interrogation rooms. She was beautiful, yes but in the way it was only meant to be observed from a distance.

It said ‘Look. Don’t touch.’

“So…” You said, the word awkward and brittle in the air. “Any topics you want to avoid during the interview?”

Her eyes slid to you, slow and flat. “Do I look like I do small talk?”

“You look like someone who’d rather chew glass than talk about childhood pets.”

That earned a flicker, just the slightest tilt of her head. “You think I had pets?”

You considered her. “I think you probably had to improvise. Like… a stolen lizard. Maybe some kind of Russian forest spider.

She actually laughed. Low, short, like it surprised even her.

“Stolen lizard.” She said, repeating it like she wasn’t sure whether to be amused or vaguely insulted. “That’s new.”

“I try.”

The silence that followed wasn’t exactly friendly but it had softened around the edges. Not warm but not actively dangerous.

You marked it as progress, small but it counts. The kind you didn’t take for granted when your travel companion had a kill count higher than you could count on your fingers and a fan club in the intelligence community.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The talk show set was chaos. Controlled chaos technically but only just. Lights blazed overhead, camera rigs swung dangerously close to expensive haircuts and nervous interns sprinted in every direction, clutching clipboards like life rafts. Someone in a headset was shouting about a broken teleprompter. Someone else was crying over coffee spilled on a celebrity dog.

Natasha surveyed it like it was a war zone.

You watched her automatically scan for exits, track movements in reflections, clock every potential threat with surgical precision. You half expected her to start marking civilians and calculating blast radius.

Leaning slightly closer, you said quietly. “No one here’s going to attack you.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the chaos. “You think that matters?”

You blinked. “You’re not on a mission.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “I’m always on a mission.”

You exhaled slowly and adjusted the lapel of your blazer. “Alright. Well. Mission: Public Relations is go. I’ll be right off-camera if you need extraction.”

She finally looked at you. That assessing stare again. “You’re good at this.” She said.

You raised a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not.” A pause. “I just don’t think you’ve had someone like me before.”

You smiled, tight but genuine. “You mean someone who growls at assistants and refuses to wear anything not black?”

“I mean someone who doesn’t care if people like her.”

You held her gaze. “That’s fine. I don’t need you to be liked. I just need you to be understood.”

That made her pause. Her expression didn’t change much but something shifted. A faint narrowing of her eyes. She looked at you like you’d just said something dangerous or useful.

“Careful.” She murmured. “You keep talking like that, I might start believing you.”

And just like that, you were off-balance again. Because you had no idea if that was a threat, a joke or something else entirely.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

“Okay, people!” The host swept into the green room in a cloud of aftershave, hairspray and effortless charisma. “Where’s my Widow? Is she here? Am I safe? Do I need to wear kevlar?”

You turned just in time to see Natasha’s expression flatten.

“This is him.” You said under your breath, trying to sound encouraging. “Play nice. He’s basically America’s favourite golden retriever personified.”

The host beamed and extended a hand to Natasha. “You must be the famously terrifying Natasha Romanoff. Wow. You’re even more intimidating in person. This is fun already.”

She stared at his hand like it had insulted her ancestors.

Then, very slowly, shook it.

He laughed, nervously. “God, I love that. That vibe. So intense. I mean, what an energy. I’m sweating a little. Are you sweating? It’s hot in here, right? I’m sweating.”

“No.” Natasha deadpanned.

Silence.

You coughed into your sleeve to hide a laugh.

The host pressed on, undeterred. “Okay, okay, we’re gonna have a great time. Just a short segment! Little chat, couple light questions, maybe a joke or two. Nothing deep, nothing classified. Sound good?”

Natasha tilted her head. “I don't really do jokes.”

He pointed at her like she’d just made one. “That’s so good. You’re hilarious. This is gonna kill.”

She didn’t blink.

You gave her a subtle nudge toward the stage. “Smile. Or at least don’t stab him, please.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The interview itself went surprisingly well.

There was only one hiccup, if you could call it that, when the host asked about international diplomacy and Natasha, deadpan as ever, replied. “I don’t believe in it. Some people just need to be punched.”

There was a half-second of stunned silence before the host threw his head back laughing. “Oh my god, same!”

The audience roared. Social media exploded in real time. Within minutes, the clip had been turned into a dozen GIFs. X was already calling it ‘iconic’, ‘big mood’ and ‘girlboss energy’.

From your place just off-camera, you watched her deliver the rest of the interview with practiced stillness, the perfect counterbalance to the host’s bouncing enthusiasm.

She was sleek, calm, perfectly collected. Every answer tight and controlled. Every joke or near-joke landing better than it had any right to. You tried not to feel the flush of something dangerously close to admiration.

Once the cameras cute, she ignored the host’s grateful thanks and his outstretched hand. Instead she walked towards you, expression unreadable.

“Well?” She asked, almost looking for validation.

You crossed your arms. “You survived. No casualties. Minimal PR fallout. The internet is liking you. Against all odds.”

“I still might punch the host later.” She adjusted her jacket. “But for now… not terrible. Also, liking?”

“Liking. We have work to do to make it loving.” You huffed a laugh, more relieved than you’d admit. “But I’ll take ‘not terrible’ as a win.”

She gave you a sidelong glance. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

But the moment lingered, her posture a little looser, the danger less immediate. And for the first time since this assignment started, you wondered if she was letting her guard down or if she just wanted you to think she was.

Either way, you counted it as another mark of progress.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Back in the car, she didn’t sit across from you this time. She sat beside you.

Close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed yours every time the car turned, close enough that you were suddenly hyper aware of your own breathing.

For a while, the city passed in silence, all blurring light, traffic hum and the occasional shout from a sidewalk. She said nothing, but you could feel her thinking.

Then, without looking at you, she spoke. “You really think I can be understood?”

Her voice was low like she wasn’t sure she believed in the question, let alone the answer.

You turned toward her, a soft smile on your face. You looked at the flicker behind her eyes that told you the question mattered more than she wanted it to.

“I think you’ve spent so long surviving that you forgot what it feels like to be someone. Not just escape someone.”

You saw it her falter slightly. Not on her face, she was too good for that. But in the way her gaze didn’t shift. In the way her breathing changed, just slightly.

She didn’t respond. Just turned her head back toward the window. “That was deep.” She murmured, making you huff out a laugh.

“Maybe your intense energy is rubbing off on me.”

“Maybe.” She smirked, letting the silence fill the car again. But this time, she was the one stealing glances, watching your hands twitch on your lap, running up and down paperwork and carving out the outline of your phone like they were itching to pick it up. You kind of were, leaving Tony Stark in charge of a ‘What I Eat In A Day’ was enough to raise your blood pressure.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The next day was officially ‘TikTok Bootcamp’.

The Avengers barely understood what that meant but apparently it was mandatory now.

Steve was standing near the set, eyeing the assortment of ring lights, tripods, and questionable props like they might explode. ““I’m sorry, what exactly are we doing?” He asked, dead serious as Bucky moved closer to him, almost using his body as a Shield.

“TikTok.” You said, forcing a smile that might have come off as a grimace. “It’s short-form video. Builds relatability. Everyone’s doing it. You’re Avengers, not relics.”

“I’d count those two super-grandpa’s as relics.” Tony, lounging in his trademark sweatpants and scrolling on his phone, laughed. “It’s basically the new battlefield. Less bullets, more followers. And memes.”

Clint was stretching like he was about to run a marathon. “I’m gonna blow out a knee. Sam owes me twenty bucks if I get more views than him.”

Sam smirked without missing a beat. “Dude, my last dance hit 2.4 million.”

Natasha leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking like she was mentally preparing to file a formal complaint. “I’m not doing this.” She said, flatly and with a hint of finality.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Natasha, we agreed on five public engagement hours this week. This counts.”

“Dancing is not engagement.”

“It’s literally the most viewed content format on the planet.”

She tilted her head, unimpressed. “I don’t care.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Well, I do.”

That got her attention, her eyes sparked up like she’d been offered a challenge that only she could win.

“Look.” You sighed, at the group of adults stood around you. “Here’s the deal. We’re keeping it simple. No dances with more than six moves max. I’ll show, you copy. You don’t have to smile or enjoy it. Just follow.”

She gave you a slow once-over. “Is this painful for you?

“What?”

“Giving orders and not being obeyed.”

You grit your teeth. “No, what’s painful is organising this entire thing and having you stand there like a gothic gargoyle of sabotage.”

Clint wheezed from the couch. “Did she just call Nat a gargoyle?”

Steve, bless him, tried to intervene. “Hey, maybe we can just-“

“You-” You jabbed a finger at Natasha, ignoring Steve. “-are contractually required to participate.”

“And you-” She leaned in, voice low and wickedly calm “-are way more fun to watch when you’re a little off balance.”

You froze. The smug glint in her eye told you she’d done it on purpose.

Behind you, Tony muttered. “This is what the kids call a slow burn-“

“I got one of those from a chemical in Wakanda ones. I went four days before it blistered.” Bucky nonchalantly added, pointing out a little scar on the side of his elbow as Steve comforted him with a pat on the back. You had one thought running through your head . What the hell is going on right now?

“Ok.” You breathed. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Ten minutes later, Natasha sat across from you like she was prepping for a tactical briefing, arms crossed, black hoodie pulled over a tank top, expression blank enough to scare a mirror.

“Okay.” You said, adjusting the camera. “Simple concept. I play you popular TikTok songs. You give your first reaction. Honest but light.”

She said nothing. Just stared at the tablet like it had insulted her ancestors.

“Can you take that off?”

“My hoodie?”

“Yeah.”

Why?”

“You look less angry with your arms out.”

“You just want to see my arms.” She smirked but beying your order.

“No, I don’t but the fans will. So let’s get this done.”

You hit play on the first song ‘Good Luck Babe’.

Natasha listened with her usual poker face. Then, after a few seconds, she scoffed softly.

“Why does she keep talking about kissing men in bars all the time?” She grimaced. “Also I hate when people call each other ‘babe.’ I’m not a pig, thank you very much. This song is a waste of my time, next!”

You blinked, caught off guard by how blunt she was. “Natasha, can we maybe dial it back a bit?”

“You wanted my honest reaction.”

“We want snarky, not savage.” You said, half-laughing.

She rolled her eyes. “Snark’s just polite savage.”

You sighed and tapped the tablet. “Okay, next we have ‘Espresso’.”

Fifteen seconds in, Natasha tilted her head. “Is this a real song or a torture device?”

You sighed. “Natasha-"

“Because I’ve interrogated people to better soundtracks. Actually, I’ve been tortured to better music.”

You paused the music. “Let’s maybe try a compliment sandwich, okay? Snark in the middle. Praise on either side.”

She blinked slowly. “That’s a real thing?”

“It’s literally in your media training.”

“I thought that was a threat.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Next one.” Your manicured finger hits play on ‘Break My Soul’.

The beat dropped on a club remix that had racked up millions of views. Natasha raised an unimpressed brow. “Did the producer get electrocuted halfway through?”

You snorted, despite yourself. “Okay. That’s not a compliment but it is kind of funny.”

“I’m adapting.”

You hit pause. “Could you just… say one nice thing? Anything.”

She pretended to think. “They… finished the song.”

“Natasha. It’s literally Beyonce, if you hate on her then even I can’t save you.”

She exhaled, long-suffering. “Fine. She has a great body.”

“I- What?”

“Look at her body.” Natasha’s tone dropped to a mock-serious lecture, eyes narrowing like a professor about to school you.

“Look, she’s strong. No wasted movement, curves where they need to be.” Natasha’s voice dropped just a little, a slow smirk creeping in. “And that ass, it’s basically a weapon.”

You blinked, caught somewhere between admiration and embarrassment. “Okay, okay, I get it.” You held up your hands, cheeks heating. “Once again, let’s dial it back!”

Natasha smirked, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Oh, I’m just getting started.”

“Next is ‘Obsessed’, it’s a song about her boyfriend’s ex.”

“Weird thing to sing about but ok.” You click play and Olivia Rodrigo comes to life, Natasha listening intently.

“Ok… the song is garbage-“

“Natasha!”

“But I’m kind of impressed. Her recon would be very good, she’d be a decent agent with some training.”

“I’m sorry, what-“

“She has good instincts.” She shrugs, repeating herself. “Next.”

“Ok last one, we have Billie Eilish.” You click play on ‘Birds of a Feather’ and watch something in her face change for the first time.

She’s quiet for a long moment, like she’s analysing the lyrics. “I like this, it reminds me of Yelena.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“Your sister?”

“Yeah.” She confirms. “Can we have another one?”

“Sure. You want to pick?” You hand her the phone and watch her scroll for a second before she clicks on ‘Lunch’.

It just hits the chorus when Natasha’s eyes narrowed slightly, a slow smirk spreading across her face.

“Oh.” She said, deliberately slow. “’I could eat that girl for lunch.’”

You blinked, suddenly aware of the way she was looking at you. “As she-“

Your throat went dry. “Okay, maybe stop quoting now.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why? I’m really thinking about the lyrics.”

“I need to keep this PG.” You excuse, heat crept up your neck.

Natasha’s smirk deepened. “I like this one too.”

“You’re impossible.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

An hour later, the videos are mostly edited and the first lot have been launched into the black hole that they call the internet. The team are gathered around, scrolling through their phones and reacting to the avalanche of thirst tweets and comments.

Tony was the first to burst out laughing. “Oh man, check this out ‘I’d let Steve split me in half like a pistachio!’ That’s hilarious.”

Clint snorted. “Someone said they want to use ‘Natasha’s thighs as earmuffs’.”

“It could be arranged.” Natasha shrugs, smirking as she looks to you out of the corner of her eye.

“What is girl boss and why do I have it?” Wanda questions, clearly enjoying making new internet friends.

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Listen to this! ‘I don’t know who’s thirstier, the internet or Nat herself’.”

“I’m not thirsty. What-“

“It means hor-“

“Ok, that’s enough for one day.” You interrupt with anxious smile, getting up to collect your things. Natasha’s gaze sharpened slightly but she didn’t say more.

Tony swiped to another comment. “Oh, here. ’Is it just me or is the tension here chef’s kiss?’ On Nat’s video. You two are getting shipped already.”

“Shipped?”

“Where are they going?”

“Why are they kissing a chef?”

“I don’t like boats.”

You laughed at their comments, brushing it off but the colour in your cheeks showed Natasha there was something more. “Tony, what is shipped?”

“Listen guys, maybe it’s time to put the phones down, yeah?” You attempt but Tony has other ideas.

“Urban dictionary says to ship, ‘meaning that you either want them to become an item, kiss or enter into a romantic/sexual relationship or all of the above’.”

“Oh.”

“The internet loves to match-make…” You try to ease the tension as the rooms falls silent.

“Well I did call it a slow burn.”

“I still don’t understand what that is.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You half smile to Steve. “Seriously, stop with the comments. My team will be going through it, deleting hate comments so please don’t reply to any of those.”

“Who’d hate on us?” Sam scoffs, at the same time as Clint says.

“‘Sam’s the only Avenger, who needs a step stool to hang with Steve and Bucky’.” The room dissolves into light laughter and you felt a little less flustered. But you can still feel Natasha’s eyes on you, watching you cautiously from her place on the couch.

“For the third and final time, I’m leaving.” You declare. “Remember no replies to hate comments. That means you Sam-“

“They’re saying I’m 5ft 4!”

“It will be deleted when you refresh the page, my team is good.” You assure. “Get some rest guys.”

The team bid you goodnight, lowering their phones for only a second as you leave the room before bringing them back up, to doom scroll the endless reactions. Just as the elevator doors close, you hear Bucky’s confused tone.

“What’s a bussy?”

#natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanov #fan fiction #light angst #natasha romanoff x female reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #wanda maximoff #fluff #sam wilson #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #tony stark #pepper #bruce banner #clint barton

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serpentface · 1 month ago

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Couya as a 16 year old Odonii initiate with a temple lion.

Young Odonii initiates spend the majority of their time in schooling, and the remainder of that time performing basic upkeep of temples (most often duties that are just Slightly too ceremonial or secretive in nature to be given to servants). Tending to captive lion populations is one of very, very few of these tasks that can be classified as 'cool'.

This is a young adult male, but very close to full size. The subspecies of lion found west of the Blackmane mountains is quite small in general (with males maxing out at ~300 lbs), and the captive stocks tend to be even smaller. The sparse mane shown here is also typical of both captive and wild populations, with full manes extending around the entirety of the throat being extremely uncommon. The pale coloration is a product of captive breeding- leucism occurs semi-regularly among the wild population and is selectively favored in captivity.

These semi-domesticated lions are bred and raised almost exclusively to be sacrificed and used for their hides/hair, as well as being killed as funerary guardian animals for Odonii and high status individuals. The living animals serve functions in the priesthood's internal rites, but they are rarely seen by the public when not in the process of being sacrificed.

They typically have Relatively okay lives in captivity (for a setting without concepts like 'enrichment' and 'animal welfare'), with most being kept in open (walled) outdoor temple grounds which happen to provide sufficient space to carry out basic natural behaviors and derive some degree of enrichment from their environments. They still experience significant background stress from their confined habitats and inability to flee conflict, and often spend most of their time pacing the walls. Captive populations also tend to be very heavily inbred, and introduction of wild stock and altogether fresh genetics is very rare.

They have experienced some selection for tameness and will be routinely handled by humans from birth. Many show interest in human company for socialization and develop attachments to handlers, and most are unaggressive. Maulings and deaths are known to occur, though predatory (rather than fearful or food-guarding) attacks on human handlers are very rare. Caution is, if anything, Especially important around docile and human-friendly lions, as these are still huge fucking big cats with sharp claws and no comprehension of how comparatively squishy a human body is. Most Odonii who have ever experienced regular Lion Duty have at least a couple scars to show for it, if only just from a lion playfully batting the shit out of them.

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scariusaquarius · 5 months ago

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rehab.

Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier! Fem! Reader

Summary: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.

A/n: I couldn't help myself. I really think it would be cool to navigate Bucky's mind within a situation like this, so I really hope that this takes off honestly. I saw another writer on AO3 (@sunny_shadows, PLEASE check out their work, Shattered Under Midnight, it is fucking phenomenal) do story notes and explanations after the chapter, so I wanted to try that out as well! I am NOT fluent in Russian, so I did use google translate cause I couldn't find a good translator that I trusted. If anything is wrong, PLEASE let me know!! Also, I tried to list as many warnings as possible so you know what the story will contain as chapters are posted. Stay safe!

Genre: Slowburn, Enemies to Lovers/Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Drama, Dark Content Rated: Explicit Warning: Angst, Dark Content: Graphic Depictions of Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Manipulation, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Nonconsensual Body Modification/Scarring, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Graphic Depictions of Human Remains, Mentions of Sexual Coercion/Manipulation, Death, Misuse of Drugs/Forced Drugging, Self-Harm (Graphic Depictions and Mentions), Nightmares

Author: ScariusAquarius

rehab masterlist.

Cryogenic frost was a completely different kind of frost. It was invasive; delving into every crack and crevice that it could; went into every orifice possible until you were cold from deep within. It hit you internally first; freezing your organs and bones first before it began to spread out to the muscles and tendons and fat of the human body.

It was uncomfortable, and when it was time to come out of the pod; the melting frost left behind such uncomfortable feelings that would have you desperately messing with your ears until the melted frost drained.

Don't even get Bucky started on the way his balls felt after.

It was an all-around uncomfortable feeling; disorienting and sickening that Bucky could recall some times when he would be taken out of cryo that he would throw up from the vertigo and aching that would come from deep within.

Even now, he could feel the tresses of nausea poking at his stomach as he stared up at the cryostasis pod that was steaming as it opened.

"You know, I think I vaguely remember telling you that I wasn't the only Winter Soldier...and I thought Zemo had killed the remaining Winter Soldier's back in Siberia."

His tone was annoyed, accusing, and the response that Bucky got back didn't make him feel any better about what his old-time friend was doing.

"Well, it seems Zemo was lying or he just wasn't aware that there were more soldier's within the program."

Steve then sighed as Bucky continued to stare at him, his brow furrowed deeply and making Steve return the look.

"Listen, with HYDRA being gone from these facilities, someone needs to rescue these people and rehabilitate them...just like we did with you."

Bucky's brow creased, and he was unrelenting as he turned to Steve, shaking his head.

"You don't understand. Without a handler, some of them can't be rehabilitated. I've trained these people, Steve, there's no getting through to them."

"We got through to you, didn't we? Besides, it wouldn't be right to leave these people in these pods like this."

Bucky's lips pursed and he spun around to face the cryostasis again, his metal arm whirring as the plates shifted; ready for a fight.

"That was different. You were my friend before everything...these people don't have anybody to bring them back."

Steve was quiet, concentrating on the pod. Slowly, a form began to show; boots, familiar leather pants, the same vest, and the same mask. Bucky couldn't help the tightening in his chest when he realized that the person in the pod wasn't just a Winter Soldier: they seemed to be a young woman; their hair becoming wet as the frost within it began to melt.

Beside the pod was a black book; most likely with notes about who the Soldier was and how to activate them, and Steve asked gently as the Soldier opened their eyes.

"Do we need to use the book?"

"I don't know."

Bucky was taken back by the brilliant (e/c) eyes that flicked to him for a moment before looking straight; and when the woman tried to take a step, they began to crumple to the ground. Steve jumped over the control center to catch them, giving Bucky a slightly miffed look as Bucky's feet stayed planted to the ground.

It was too familiar; too known, and Bucky was uncomfortable. He watched as Steve dragged the woman to a chair and sat her down, asking her.

"Hello, are you alright?"

She was unmoving and unblinking, staring straight ahead like a good soldier should and Bucky swallowed thickly, shaking his head. Steve asked her again, but Bucky shook his head a little more.

"She's not going to answer. You're not her handler."

"Okay, then how do we get through to her?"

Bucky pursed his lips, sighing heavily before he stood in front of the woman.

"укажите свое обозначение."

Her eyes came to life for a moment, glancing up at Bucky with a look that he knew all-too-well before she glanced back down; clenching her jaw.

"Зимний Солдат."

Bucky sighed deeply, rubbing his temples slightly, and Steve just observed, his blue eyes curious as he glanced between the two of them. Bucky then took the black book, noting the way the woman's shoulders seemed to square slightly; muscles in her neck tensing, and Bucky felt sick to his stomach. He handed it to Steve, muttering.

"There might be some information in here about her. If not, we'll look into the files we downloaded...if we have time."

Steve nodded, and Bucky turned to the woman again, asking.

"Что ты помнишь?"

"Невозможно завершить. Для выполнения инструкций необходимы дополнительные разъяснения."

Bucky frowned again, muttering to himself before he asked.

"Что ты помнишь перед тем, как тебя уложили спать?"

Her jaw clenched again, and this time, she seemed hesitant to answer. Her eyes flicked up to Bucky, and he could see the uncomfortable look she was giving him within her eyes. The person that was in there was trying to respond; trying to tell him, but the programming wasn't allowing her to answer. Fear flashed in her eyes from the inability to complete his request, and Bucky could feel his throat trying to close up.

HYDRA was getting better at their programming, it seemed.

"I'm not going to hurt you if you're unable to answer. We are not HYDRA."

Confusion flashed within her eyes though her expression never wavered, and Steve stepped forward.

"We're with the Avengers...do you know who we are?"

"Невозможно завершить. Требуется дополнительная аутентификация."

Steve turned to Bucky and suggested, crossing his arms slightly.

"This might be a job for Shuri. We should contact King T'Challa and set out for Wakanda as soon as possible."

Bucky pursed his lips before he turned to the woman, her fists clenched slightly.

"Следуй за мной, солдат. У меня есть для тебя миссия."

She stood up immediately, her eyes becoming dead again as the programming within her mind forced her to follow the commands of The Winter Soldier.

"Готов соблюдать."

Bucky hated it. He hated this feeling; of being the one on the opposite side of the glass; giving orders and handling. While Bucky had trained many super soldiers before, he wasn't ever a Handler like Brock Rumlow or Alexander Pierce. He was another instrument; another tool that just had higher privileges because of his compliance and performance record.

He had learned early on that resistance was futile and met with much harsher consequences.

No, the Winter Soldier's only purpose was to serve HYDRA and to further their cause. That was all. Anything that didn't involve a mission was null. He, among others like him, were only meant to serve the purpose of HYDRA and HYDRA alone.

But he hadn't activated her nor told her that he was her handler, so why was the soldier complying?

Was it possible that the woman had been frozen long enough that the programming was malfunctioning? Was she just assuming that Bucky was her handler because of his arm?

Or was it possible that she was faking it on pre-existing orders given before she was put under.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder at the soldier, the woman's eyes still just as dead-looking as they had been before; looking straight ahead. For a moment, however, her eyes flicked to his, and Bucky frowned before he turned to Steve, muttering.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

Steve's brow was furrowed, lips slightly pursed as he glanced over at Bucky, worry within his eyes.

"You having a bad feeling is never a great sign."

Bucky almost scoffed, but refrained from doing-so; elaborating on his thoughts about the situation instead.

"I never gave her any indication that I was her handler nor did I activate her. What if she has pre-existing orders?"

Steve frowned, his tone becoming more hushed as he walked a bit closer to Bucky.

"Are you saying that she's a threat?"

"Any Winter Soldier is a threat, but I don't know if she's an active threat or not is the problem. She's blankly following orders...either someone gave her a mission before she was put under or...it's possible she thinks that I am still...with HYDRA. We should be careful."

Steve glanced back behind him to look at the woman before glancing down at the black book within his hands. As the three of them walked to the quinjet, Steve instructed Bucky as he sat down at the controls.

"You go ahead and get her strapped in and call Shuri. I'm going to see if there's anything in here about who she is and where she came from."

Bucky nodded before he turned to the woman who was standing in the middle of the jet; rigid and unmoving. Bucky sighed slightly before instructing.

"Присаживайтесь."

Wordlessly, the soldier sat down, strapping herself into one of the seats, and Bucky took a long glance at her. To a normal; outside perspective, it would look as though she was completely still and robotic. It would seem as though she wasn't even breathing; a blank stare to the opposite wall and deathly still.

However, to a fellow soldier, Bucky could tell that there was something on the woman's mind. The soldier's fists were clenched as they rested upon the top of her thighs, eyebrow furrowed just slightly, and Bucky could tell that her feet were fidgeting inconspicuously.

If Bucky didn't know any better, he'd say that the woman seemed nervous.

But what about?

Bucky wasn't able to ponder the thought any longer. Instead, he simply just looked ahead and began to call Shuri, hoping that this wasn't going to end up in a fight.

STORY NOTES: In the beginning, Bucky is remembering what it was like to be put into a cryostasis pod. He recalls that it was uncomfortable and that the frost and ice seem to penetrate every orifice possible, which is extremely uncomfortable when being thawed.

Then, it is revealed that Bucky and Steve Rogers are on a mission to find any remaining super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program that weren't killed by Zemo, which Bucky is apprehensive about but Steve is adamant on doing.

The soldier within the cryostasis pod then awakens after being thawed, seeming to be completely blank. When Steve tries to make contact, the soldier does not respond, leaving Bucky to resort to acting as a Handler, finally getting responses out of the soldier.

While trying to ask the soldier for information, Bucky is unable to get anything useful from the woman. He makes an educated guess that HYDRA had further adapted their programming, making it difficult to make the soldier talk without having to completely activate them.

Steve decides to take a trip to Wakanda to see Shuri and T'Challa so they can rehabilitate the soldier just as they did with Bucky, but Bucky begins to think that the soldier is a threat due to their compliance despite Bucky not activating them nor introducing himself as their handler.

Bucky makes a final observation, noting that the woman seems nervous, though Bucky is unable to figure out what about. He speculates further that there could be foul play, and is unhappy at the possibility of a fight. End Scene.

TRANSLATIONS:

укажите свое обозначение - Indicate/State your Designation

Зимний Солдат - Winter Soldier

Что ты помнишь - What do you remember?

Невозможно завершить. Для выполнения инструкций необходимы дополнительные разъяснения - Unable to complete. Further clarification is required to complete the instructions.

Что ты помнишь перед тем, как тебя уложили спать - What do you remember before you were put to bed/sleep?

Невозможно завершить. Требуется дополнительная аутентификация - Unable to comply. Additional authentication required.

Следуй за мной, солдат. У меня есть для тебя миссия - Follow me, soldier. I have a mission for you.

Готов соблюдать - Ready to comply.

Присаживайтесь - Have a seat.

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