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late-to-the-party-81 · 10 months

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Power Play - Chapter 1

AN: And here is Week 5 of HBS and the start of a new multi-chapter fic, this one a Bucky x Reader story, cos I like to give you all some variety. This also strays into Soft!Dark! Territory, cos, you know… Mob! Bucky. Thanks @buckybarnesevents for the inspo.

I’ve chosen the prompt When I first met you... Electricity

Beta’d by @buckysbarne

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and banner by me. Pictures of Seb courtesy of https://sebastian-stan.com/

Master list | Hot Bucky Summer Master list

Summary: Waking up in a mobster’s house the morning after the night before was not how this was supposed to go…

Relationship: Mob! Bucky x Undercover Agent! Reader

WC: 2.3k

CW: Kidnap, Manipulation, Soft!Dark! Bucky, Alcohol consumption, Reader briefly believes Bucky will force her against her will (use of R word once), kissing, Russian Pet names as mangled by Google translate (all variations of sweetheart/darling except Pchelka, which is explained.)

Your head was foggy and your mouth grainy as you opened your eyes, blinking against the harshness of the late morning sun coming through the window.

“Good morning, Pchelka.” Strong fingers gripping your chin and pinching your jaw harshly, brought you out of your stupor, and you looked up at the owner of the gravelly voice.

“Did you sleep well? I slept like a log. I’m going to say that it was because of the connection we made last night.” He chuckled darkly. “Did you feel it, sladkiy? The electricity when I first took your hand in mine? Because I did.” His body shivered at the memory, and you felt a fission of fear travel down your spine.

His eyes were blue - cool and chilling - and you wished you were looking at them under different circumstances. Wished you were here with him under different circumstances, because although he was your enemy, you weren’t blind.

James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Revered head of the New York Mob, and so sinfully handsome it was no wonder that men and women swooned at his feet.

“Are you going to answer me, Pchelka?”

His brow was arched, amusement still playing at his lips. Challenging you to defy him.

“I’m not your ‘little bee’. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He let your face go with a snort that told you that he knew you were lying. Because you were. How could you not have felt it, when your slim hand had been completely engulfed by his when you’d been introduced? When he’d raised your hand, gently turning it to press a kiss to the fluttering vein in your wrist.

You should have known then that you were fucked. Should have called the whole thing off and got out of there.

But no. You’d decided that you had to stay - had to pull your big girl pants up, get a hold of yourself and prove to everyone else that you were capable of carrying out this mission. You wondered if your colleagues, your fellow agents, were trying to actually rescue you, or were they laughing at your ineptitude?

Barnes crossed to the far side of the room, a classic dark wood office with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with leather-bound tomes. Turkish wool rugs covered the wooden floor that matched all of the furniture. He picked up a decanter, poured a hefty measure of amber liquid into a matching tumbler and brought it up to his lips. You didn’t even realise that you were watching him that intently until he smirked.

He walked back over to you, power and grace showing with every move of his body. He sank into a crouch before you, dipped his finger into the alcohol and then painted it over your lips. Instinctually you licked it away, and the whisky burned on your tongue.

“They think you’re dead, by the way.” That got your attention, making you halt with your mouth part open, tongue tip still midway through catching the errant drops he’d applied. His finger returned to the glass, then back to your lips once again as you sat, stock still.

A sudden anger burned through you, and you tried to leap to your feet, but you hadn’t counted on the bonds that tied you to the chair. You struggled against them, hands curling into fists and feet ineffectually kicking as you let out a wail of frustration.

“Tsk tsk.” Barnes admonished you for your reaction as he stood and backed up to rest against the edge of his, no doubt antique, desk. “And here I was thinking you’d be more grateful. If you’d continued in that job you’d have died of boredom, milyy. Just think. I’ve actually saved you.” He took another sip of his drink, observing you and you wanted to shrink under his gaze - you had to look a mess.

Your evening gown, which had looked stunning on you when you’d gotten ready for this op, was now torn and filthy. Your nail polish was chipped, a couple of the nails torn, and no doubt your makeup was smeared across your face. Somewhere along the line, you’d lost your shoes, or had they been taken from you? Admittedly a lot of it was a blur and you’d also been unconscious for some time, only waking up once you were here, tied to this chair, a smirking Barnes looking down on you.

Conversely, he looked so put together it should be illegal. Last night he’d smouldered in a dinner suit, but this morning he exuded power and danger. His shirt was black, with two opened buttons, showing off the silver rope chain around his neck. His suit jacket and pants were also black but covered with a wide pinstriped check. He had a large signet ring on the pinky of his left hand, and silver and black onyx ring on the adjacent ring finger, and it was hard to take your eyes off them. His pants were tight across his crotch, leaving little to the imagination, and he’d finished off his outfit with a pair of patent black boots and a pair of blue-tinted sunglasses, perched on his head. In a nutshell, he was sex personified and you needed to get your head back in the game before you did something you’d regret.

“You’re deluded, you know that?”

“Focused, Pchelka. Not deluded. I didn’t get where I am now without knowing what I wanted and taking it. And I want you. I think you want me too.”

It was your turn to snort, and you didn’t bother to hide your derision. “In your dreams!”

He was back in front of you in an instant, his beringed fingers curling into the leather chair back, his face millimetres from your own.

“I don’t think I imagined how you trembled when you were in my arms, lyubimyy. When I led you around the dance floor and you felt as though you were made to fit in my embrace. I don’t think I imagined how you sighed and leaned against me as I spoke soft words in your ears.”

Heat burned your cheeks and you tried for some bravado.

“All an act, I assure you. As you know, you were my mark.”

His mouth broke into a feral grin and, for the first time, you were worried. Worried about what he had in store for you… and worried that you might like it.

“You keep telling yourself that. I don’t think you’ll be able to maintain that lie when you’re screaming my name later.”

“I didn’t know your name was Rapist.”

He moved one hand from the back of the chair to rest at the base of your throat, fingers applying just enough pressure to remind you who was in control here.

“Don’t insult both of us, Pchelka. When I take you, you will welcome it. Want it. You will be begging me to make you mine. And I think it will happen sooner than you think.” His voice was a hypnotic whisper, and you could feel yourself spiralling, enchanted by the power that he exuded from every pore, so when he kissed you, you were unprepared.

Barnes used the thumb of the hand he had around your neck to tip your chin up. His pink, sinful lips demanded entry efficiently and you were powerless to resist. His mouth explored yours, tongues tangling, and when he teasingly broke the kiss you were horrified to find that you were whimpering.

Your captor just continued to smile, animalistic and condescending.

“Electric, as I said. You betray yourself without even meaning too. It’s a good thing that I’m a nice man, and I’m not torturing you for information. You wouldn’t last five minutes.”

Feelings of anger, shame and embarrassment rose within you. He was right, god damn it. You weren’t cut out for this work. You knew it. He knew it. The people you worked with knew it. Backroom paper shuffling was where you excelled, but there was no way you could’ve turned down the opportunity for undercover work, because success would have meant a level of recognition and respect that you could never have hoped, to gain otherwise, even if the op was a classic, and somewhat demeaning, honey-trap.

You closed your eyes and willed the tears not to fall.

“Please, Mr Barnes. Just let me go. I don’t know anything. Nothing has happened here that can’t be forgotten.”

“Call me Bucky, lyubimaya. And I don’t want to let you go, or forget you. Stay here with me. Leave those narrow-minded idiots you work for. I would treat you with the respect you deserve. And you wouldn’t just be on my arm and in my bed, you would be by my side. You have useful skills that shouldn’t be wasted.”

Your eyes snapped back open and looked at him in surprise and confusion. “What do you mean?”

Barnes - Bucky - ran the knuckles of his left hand down your cheek, the coldness of his rings a balm to your heated flesh. Tattoos peeked out from under his sleeve, twisting and winding down his skin, and onto his fingers. Vines and flowers and thorns. Letters of the Cyrillic alphabet.

“You think that I would bring you here, to the seat of my power if I didn’t already know every… little… thing… about you? I know what your role was before you started this ill-advised op. I know where you lived. I know what cereal you like for breakfast and what your regular coffee order is. You’re always flitting too and fro, concentrating on work. Busy as a bee.”

You weren’t sure why you weren’t shocked, but you asked him all the same. “There’s a mole inside my unit?”

“Of course, Pchelka. There’s always a mole. Always someone who is more than willing to trade loyalty for power and money, or someone who is so desperate that they can be easily persuaded. Desperate people do desperate things, and tell themselves they aren’t really the bad ones, it’s just their circumstances.”

Both his hands had now settled on your waist, the size of them making you feel smaller than you often thought of yourself. Bucky himself was still on his knees, between your bound, spread legs, his torso virtually pressed against your inner thighs. You absently noticed that the knife you’d placed in a thigh holder was missing. No doubt Bucky or his men had found it almost straight away once you’d been rendered unconscious. You hoped it had been the man in front of you - the idea of being touched in such an intimate place by someone other than him was abhorrent. A part of you wondered why you didn’t think that him touching you was also horrifying.

“And which one do you think I am? Disloyal or desperate?” You arched your brow, trying to ignore the way his fingers were branding you through the satin of your dress.

“You, milyy, are a secret third thing. You are an intelligent woman, who makes decisions based on all the information available. It’s not disloyalty if you’ve been betrayed first. It’s also not desperation that would make you join me if I have no pressure point - no sick aunt, no cousin in debt to a loan shark, that sort of thing. If you joined me it would be because you wanted to. Because you saw the merits of such an action.”

You had to admit, his offer was tempting. You hated your job and you hated your co-workers. It was still a ‘boy’s club’ and all the inclusion and diversity training in the world couldn’t counteract the toxic masculinity that the job attracted. You hated that, despite putting up with this job for so many years, you were still living in a crappy apartment with too long a commute to work.. You hated that, despite the fact you never even got around to taking your PTO, you also weren’t making any decent deposits into your savings account. Okay, you weren’t quite living paycheck to paycheck, but you were by no means where you thought you’d be by now.

The long hours also meant little time to socialise, and the friends you’d once had, had all dropped away one by one as you’d cancelled one social engagement after another. This also meant that your love life was, as the song goes, DOA, and after a while, all the toys in the world failed to satisfy. Which also meant that the feeling of soft, expensive wool, encasing a warm, hard body, rubbing against your inner thighs was upsetting your equilibrium quite a bit.

Then, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to you, his face dipped closer again, his breath, tinged with whisky, fanning over you.

“Imagine how it would feel, Pchelka. The power. The pleasure. You’d want for nothing. Every need would be met. Every whim indulged.”

It was your turn to shiver and as your eyes fluttered closed again you heard him chuckle.

“You want it, don’t you. You want me and everything I can give you. It’s okay to want those things. I want things as well. I want you, lyubimyy. I’ve waited a long time for a Queen.”

“You don’t know me…” Your denial was whispered, and even you didn’t believe what you’d said.

“But I do. I know exactly what you need...”

His lips captured yours once more, but this time you didn’t even pretend not to respond. You drank him in as though he would quench your thirst and you only remembered your bonds again when your body strained against them. Your knees managed to dig into his waist though, and you felt him smile against your lips.

His hands slid from your waist, to one wrist and then the other, freeing them. You threw your arms around his neck, not even trying to get away. In any case, your ankles were still bound.

Your fingers brushed over the short hair on the sides and back of his head, the strands prickling your skin. His own hands were now cupping your face as he continued to kiss you, and you knew what was going to happen. You were falling under his spell.

Chapter 2

Tag list: @jobean12-blog @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky @tuiccim @sidepartskinnyjeans @flordeamatista @bodeckersdiamonddoll @goldylions @luxeavenger @wheezy-stucky @doasyoudesireandlive @chemtrails-club @seitmai @peaches1958 @pono-pura-vida @writing-for-marvel

#hot bucky summer #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes x female reader #mob!bucky x reader #mob!bucky #late writes

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novoaa1writes · 1 year

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ours

pairing(s): dark!wanda maximoff x f!reader, dark!wanda maximoff x dark!natasha romanoff x f!reader

summary:

You grin, slinging the sodden rag over one shoulder and fixing Wanda with a playfully contemplative look. “Your drink of choice. Vieux Carré—”

“Hold the lemon,” Wanda finishes, the corner of her lips twitching—threatening a smirk.

You nod and dip your chin—by all accounts, seeming quite shy all of a sudden. “Did I get it right?” you ask, wide-eyed and hopeful—desperately searching Wanda’s bemused features for a hint of approval. Her approval.

Gods, she thinks to herself, telltale warmth pooling low in her belly at the sight of you. You’re perfect.

word count: ~4,100

rating: teen

warnings: wanda being kind of unhinged, natasha ALSO being kind of unhinged... generally non-consensual dynamics going on, etc etc. kidnapping for sure!

notes: implied female reader (through russian/bulgarian terminology). and on that note, wanda uses a bulgarian dialect because i say so! i guess! .. idk this has been sitting in my docs for a minute now but it’s here! i figured a little post couldn’t hurt while i continue to work on other stuff (that being the ‘find you again’ series update and the recent request i got about queen ramonda)

— —

Wanda Maximoff has always harbored something of a… possessive streak. Particularly where it concerns the things—people—that she wants.

There’s a certain mania in it, she knows—a type of delirium in allowing something to consume you with such sovereignty. A complete loss of self; a sense of desire so vast, you’ll kill every last part of yourself in a bid to make it stay.

She knows this. She thinks a part of her always has. It used to scare her, once upon a time.

But then… well. Aliens invaded. Scientists happened. High Evolutionary, HYDRA… Her mind is a mess of jumbled recollections—their mess. Ultron, S.W.O.R.D., Erik, Agatha. A flicker of bright electric blue; trails of cobalt mist floating on air, curled around her like the arms of somebody she used to know. Two little boys, wide-eyed and earnest. Twins, just like…

A swift movement in her periphery interrupts her train of thought, yanking her back to the present.

Sound assaults her eardrums on all sides: overlapping chatter, wooden chairs scraping the floors, the faint clinking sounds of cubed ice swirling around in glass tumblers. She blinks—once, twice—and forces herself to relax as a slender figure takes a seat across from her with all the practiced grace of a prima ballerina.

“Couldn’t stay away?” Natalia’s eyes—no longer colored her natural green, but a subtle shade of muted blue—dance with amusement. If Wanda looks intently enough, she can see the edges of each contact lens around her irises. She’s bleached her eyebrows, and toned them, too; they’re now a flaxen platinum hue which makes the blue of her (faux) irises really pop.

Wanda shrugs, eyeing the bar out the corner of her eye. The bar, behind which you scurry tirelessly this way and that, serving mixed drinks and tap beer and the occasional shot of something harder to a never-ending procession of barely-legal college kids, billiards-enthused grad students, and haggard-looking blue-collar workers fresh off a 10-hour shift.

“You’re blonde again,” she remarks instead without bothering to tear her gaze away. You’ve always been such a hard worker—even on days that you have every right to be the opposite. It’s one of the many things she admires about you.

Natalia’s smirk widens, though Wanda hardly catches it. “Figured I’d go for something a little more… subtle,” she responds, tucking an errant lock of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. In the same motion, she turns to angle herself just so, such that she too can monitor your diligent movements from out the corner of her eye. “She’s off at 1:00.”

You’re wiping down the bartop with a damp rag now, and chuckling good-naturedly at a joke one particularly greasy-looking patron has (apparently) told. If you take note of the lecherous way he stares down your shirt as you lean in to scrub at a particularly sticky spot on the burnished wood, you do well not to show it.

Wanda does. Wanda notices everything about you.

Her jaw creaks from clenching it so hard.

It’s only Natalia’s voice, clear and calm, which reaches her through the noise—blood rushing, elevated heart rate pounding in her ears. “Easy,” she cautions lowly.

Easy, Wanda repeats internally.

“She’s mine,” Wanda hears herself snarl, fists clenched tightly in her lap as she glares daggers over at the source of her ire. Limp-dicked pervert.

“Ours,” Natalia corrects. There’s a certain edge to her tone, this time—one that Wanda, even as furious as she is, knows better than to disregard.

With some effort, she tears her gaze from you and looks at Natalia, who levels her with a high-browed look in return.

“Sorry,” Wanda mumbles, dipping her chin with genuine contrition. (She’s careful not to lose you in her periphery all the same.)

Natalia analyzes her for a brief moment, then gives a shallow nod. “Be patient,” she murmurs, pitching her voice just over the hubbub and chatter filling the pub. “It won’t be long now.”

“Promise?” she asks—pleads, really; quite suddenly feeling so very, very small.

Natalia has a way of doing that—of making her feel small, and vulnerable, and meek where no one else can, because Wanda swore to herself that she’d never let them. Not again. Not after Stark, and Ultron, and the ever-elusive ghost of a hazel-eyed boy whose name she can’t for the life of her recall.

She’s simply worked too hard, lost far too much to willfully prostrate herself in such a way. There’s nothing to be gained by kneeling at the foot of someone bigger, stronger, meaner ; nothing beyond pain and suffering without end. She knows that better than most.

Natalia is different.

And when Natalia’s lips curve to form a delectably crooked grin, mischief sparking itself alight in her eyes, Wanda is reminded of exactly why that is. And when she says, “Promise,” it doesn’t feel empty, the way it did with everyone else.

It feels like what it is—a promise.

— —

“Let me guess—Vieux Carré, hold the lemon.”

It takes everything within Wanda not to jump out of her skin the moment you—of all people, you—slide into the seat across from her at a pristine table for two. Then, you’re starting a conversational dialogue as though it’s the most ordinary thing on Earth.

Good Lord. Are you trying to kill her? “What?”

You grin, slinging the sodden rag over one shoulder and fixing Wanda with a playfully contemplative look. “Your drink of choice. Vieux Carré—”

“Hold the lemon,” Wanda finishes, the corner of her lips twitching—threatening a smirk.

Gods, she thinks to herself, telltale warmth pooling low in her belly at the sight of you. You’re perfect.

“I’m not much of a drinker, I’m afraid,” she admits, eyeing you intently.

The visible disappointment that flits across your features—though regretful—is damn near as delectable as your naïveté. “Shoot,” you pout, brow furrowed.

A beat passes in silence.

Wait. Silence? That can’t be…

Alarmed, Wanda does a quick visual sweep, logging her surroundings. Head on a swivel. Natalia taught her that.

Chairs flipped up on tables; an empty bar. The neon signs decorating each wall—dark. Lights out; newly-swept floors spotless and bare. Not a soul in sight.

Well, besides the pair of you.

“It’s after 2:00. We closed about a half hour ago,” you offer by way of explanation. There’s an almost… sympathetic look gracing your tawny features; a genuine urge to soothe Wanda’s evident disorientation, strange and unfamiliar though she might be.

“I suppose that… I lost track of the time,” Wanda murmurs more to herself than to you, pinpricks of unease crawling beneath her skin. She can already hear Natalia’s voice in her head—scolding her for losing focus.

You nod, as if this explanation pleases you. “It happens.”

“Not to me,” Wanda refutes before she can think better of it, words imbued with bitterness and longing and grief beyond measure. “Not after…” she trails off, blinking rapidly.

You frown, leaning forth with clasped hands. “After…?” Your voice is gentle—so very gentle; your intonation—probing, yet kind. And that look in your eyes—tender, open… warm. Like she could tell you anything, everything, if she wanted to.

Heaven help her, but Wanda wants to.

It’s only the firm, intent rhythm of boots on wood which stops her from committing any further blunders. Confident footsteps mark the newcomer’s approach, and with them, a rich, intoxicating presence; one ripe with poise and sovereignty.

Saved by the bell.

“I thought I’d find you here,” comes a lofty, languorous intonation. Low, husky; cool and collected as can be.

Natalia.

Her hair is a dark, coffee-stained brown; her eyes a startling shade of hazel. Her brows are penciled in to appear fuller, darker; and, as she draws near, there’s a rather overstated sensuality to her stride—a densely-layered suggestiveness that’s as fantastical as it is distracting.

Yes, Natalia has always been a master of deception. Shedding skins and personas like outerwear; changing seamlessly with the winds of every season. And yet, throughout it all, one thing remains; one thing is constant. She’s in charge, always thinking a step—or ten—ahead. As for the rest of them… well. They’re all just window dressing; side-pieces; extras in her production.

And Wanda surrenders unto it, as she always does. Revels in its close proximity, soaking it up like golden sunlight on a warm summer’s day.

You, for your part, are not left similarly unruffled.

“We’re closed,” you assert, rising unsteadily to your feet with an alarmed expression. “How…” you falter, gaze darting this way and that. “How did you get in?”

If Natalia hears you (and Wanda knows that she does), she does not let on. Rather, she comes to stand directly between the pair of you, peering down at Wanda with a decidedly displeased frown. “I expected you back hours ago.”

Wanda dips her chin in a show of deference, cheeks hot with embarrassment. “I know. I was—”

“Distracted?” Natalia interjects tonelessly. “Yes, I can see that.” Wanda hears her heave a quiet sigh. “You’re forcing my hand here, звезда моя.”

You’re well and truly confused, now; looking from Natalia to Wanda and back again, trying desperately to put the puzzle pieces together. Wanda can practically see the gears turning in your pretty little head. “You guys… know each other?”

Poor thing.

Wanda dares to raise her head, looking up to Natalia with pleading eyes. “I’m sorry,” she professes, her voice small and quiet. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Another sigh, though even before she speaks, Wanda can tell she’s won. (This round, at least.) “Fine,” Natalia huffs, turning to appraise you with a harried look. “It’s high time you took a leave of absence, my dear. You work far too much, anyhow.”

— —

You awaken slowly. Your head spins. And your limbs… tingling, yet numb. So very, very numb. It’s like you’re floating and sinking all at once—suspended in viscous amber, lead weighing heavy in your bones… pressure squeezing your lungs in a steel vice.

And, just as quickly as it’s come, it’s gone.

Awareness sparks a lit match in your chest; it burns a fiery trail up your throat as you hack and cough, hot bursts of air leaving you in a blistering rush. You roll over on a whim, wheezing up what meager remains of your burning lungs onto… a bed. Nicely made. Starch-white sheets, all tucked in around the edges.

And the scent—pleasant, mild, clean. Like a hotel.

Bleary-eyed and disoriented, you prop yourself up onto your forearms and peer around.

Polished cement flooring, shadow-grey walls... a flat-screen TV mounted up on the opposite wall. You’re still in your work uniform—slim-fit tee with a generous V-neck (black), jeans (also black), and a pair of ratty hi-top Converse (blue). Your head pounds.

What happened?

For better or worse, you aren’t permitted the time to think about it for too long. At precisely that moment, all the hairs on your body seem to stand on end, and the realization hits (rather belatedly, granted) that you are not alone.

A pretty, red-haired woman stands in the doorway, regarding you intently with an otherwise blank expression. Delicate, diamond-cut jawline; full, rouge-red lips. Average height, with a slender yet shapely build. Unreasonably attractive.

You think you might recognize her.

Hesitantly (and with a not insignificant amount of effort), you wriggle over onto your back, feeling her eyes upon you all the while.

“H-Hi,” you manage awkwardly. Your cheeks feel hot.

Her full, pinkish lips curve up to form a spine-chilling smirk that dimples both pale cheeks. “Hello,” she answers back in kind, forest-green eyes alight with mischief.

“Where am I?”

She shrugs. “Does it matter?”

You blink, taken aback. “... Yes?”

She sucks in her lips, as if trying not to laugh. “Is that a question?”

You fall silent, then, feeling rather foolish and small all of a sudden.

She says nothing, though the amusement remains upon her pretty angular features, causing your skin to heat and itch with mounting discomfort.

“You look familiar,” you say after a moment. You’ve never been one for awkward silences. “Do I know you?”

She shrugs once more. “Do you?”

You don’t roll your eyes, but it’s a close thing. Instead, you shove yourself up into a sitting position and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Even that meager motion alone is enough to make your head pound and spin and shriek like a banshee on speed, but you’re loath to quit now. “I’m leaving now,” you announce shakily, making to push yourself to your feet—

Only to be intercepted by a deceptively slender body slamming into yours head-on, shoving all the air from your lungs in one fell swoop and jackknifing your upper body violently backward. Instinct allows you to get your elbows behind you in time to stop yourself from tumbling onto your back as she clambers into your lap with all the efficacy and grace of someone who’d done this a thousand times before; steel-wrought thighs clamped around your hips in a bruising grip, an open-faced palm pressed against your sternum.

“I don’t think so, зайка,” she purrs, bearing down on you much like a predator would its prey. And fuck it all, but she’s so much prettier up close. Not only that, but she smells incredible; like honey and pine needles and something indefinable, something entirely her own. “Why don’t you relax, hm? Stay a while.”

You get the feeling she isn’t really asking so much as she is telling.

You gulp, trying your very best to re-gather yourself: your composure, your confusion, your ire. “Who are you?” you try again, suppressing a shudder. “What do you want ?” You give your hips an experimental wiggle—endeavoring to loosen her grip, even if only slightly.

Nothing. If anything, she grips you that much tighter, digs her palm into your chest that much harder until there’s absolutely no question about the impressive bruising you’ll sport come morning.

You bite your lip to hold back a whine, and don’t flinch when you taste blood. Jesus.

“Natasha,” she returns airily. She tacks on something else in a decidedly Slavic-sounding dialect (Russian, perhaps?), followed by… your name.

Your heart skips a beat, your chest beginning to ache beneath her palm. “How do you know my name?” you question dumbfoundedly, ears ringing.

She—Natasha—just chuckles, low and amused. “Oh, зайка,” she muses, cupping your cheek in the palm of her free hand. “I know everything about you.”

You frown, heart thudding double-time against your ribcage. You’re not sure what compels you to test her knowledge, particularly in your current predicament, but, nevertheless—

“When was I born?” you inquire—demand, really. You’ve always been a bit too bold for your own good.

Luckily, though, rather than enraging her, Natasha actually appears… tickled by your impudence. Charmed, even. She rattles off your birthday, complete with the year and time of day—to the minute—without blinking.

“Where was I born?”

She rattles that one off, too, complete with the city, hospital, and cross-streets.

“Where’d I go to school as a child?”

Same deal. Lists the full name of the school, its exact locale (cross-streets and all); even includes the name of your favorite teacher, just to rub it in.

Fuck. You swallow thickly, dread churning low in your gut. “What do you want?” Your voice trembles this time, though you haven’t the presence of mind to be embarrassed about it.

All you can feel is thinly-veiled panic as the reality of your situation hits like a sucker punch to the gut, leaving you lightheaded and dizzy with fear.

“I want a lot of things.”

Again, you don’t roll your eyes, though it’s not for lack of wanting. “None of which includes answering my questions, I see.”

She smiles, all teeth. “Careful, bunny,” she cautions, leaning further in until your faces are centimeters apart and her hair tickles your collarbones. It takes all your willpower to keep from flinching away at her close proximity. “My patience is not limitless,” she informs you, warm breath ghosting across your lips, “and you are testing it.”

Your cheeks burn as you manage a shallow nod, feeling by all accounts properly chastised. “Sorry,” you mumble, however begrudgingly.

“Your obstinacy is endearing, but unacceptable,” Natasha continues, shoving herself back off of you with the palm of her hand—ouch— and dismounting gracefully from your lap in one fluid motion. Your breastbone aches, and your hips aren’t much better—left smarting from the phantom weight of her touch. You don’t dare move an inch. “We’ll work on that.”

You exhale sharply, head still pounding, blood pooling along your lower lip. “I don’t understand,” you tell her, your eyes burning with unshed tears.

“Aw,” she coos, lips pushed out to form a sympathetic (read: condescending) pout. “Poor thing.” As she speaks, another figure enters your tear-blurred vision and—

Wait a minute. Another one?

Your teary-eyed gaze darts over to the new arrival, frantically taking her in. White. Pretty. Long, strawberry-blonde hair, blue-green eyes, and delicate pink lips.

You didn’t even hear her come in.

“Natalia, you’re scaring her,” the strawberry-blonde admonishes, coming to sit directly beside you on the edge of the bed. Her voice is smooth and light, tempered with the faintest hint of Slavic influence. Not only that, but there’s something almost… familiar about her as she urges you to sit upright, begins tucking stray locks of non-existent hair behind your ear with all the tenderness and familiarity of a long-time lover. Have you met her before? “Oh, it’s okay, миличка, don’t cry.”

You shake your head despondently, face hot with embarrassment. You feel like a little kid. “I don’t understand what’s happening,” you whisper hoarsely, willing yourself not to cry.

“Shh, shh, I know, baby,” she soothes, leaning in to place a feather-light kiss upon your temple. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” She nuzzles along your brow with the tip of her nose, leaving kisses upon every inch of skin.

You don’t fight it when she mouths her way down your jaw, tilting your face towards her with an insistent touch beneath your chin.

You—teary-eyed, frustrated, critically overwhelmed—can’t move, can hardly breathe. You’re stock-still, locked in place; looking despondently into her blue-green eyes like you’re drowning, and she might just be the one to save you.

It’s something like a dream when she presses her lips to yours in a feather-light kiss that all too quickly turns open-mouthed and heated; her tongue sliding against yours, teeth nipping at your split lower lip until you whimper.

You don’t mean to. Really, you don’t. It just… it happens so fast.

Your head spins, your lungs burn from lack of oxygen, and God help you, but her kiss is nothing short of intoxicating—warm and solid and there, anchoring you in a moment that feels altogether surreal.

It takes all your grit—and then some—to tear yourself away, but you manage it all the same.

“Shit,” you gasp, chest heaving, head spinning. You damn near tumble off the edge of the bed.

If the woman is at all put off by your sudden retreat, she does not let on. Instead, she merely smirks and licks a smear of blood—your blood—from her upper lip with slow, deliberate movements, as though savoring your taste.

“Delicious,” she murmurs more to herself than anyone else, eyes hooded with lust.

“I-I know you,” you choke out between heaving gasps. And, the moment you’ve said it, you know it to be true. You do recognize her!

She’s something of a regular at the bar, though certainly not in the conventional sense. She’s never ordered anything; not a drink (non-alcoholic or otherwise), nor food. She was just… there. Sitting alone at a table for two, blending seamlessly into the backdrop of every vibrant night.

You aren’t sure when you first noticed her. A few months ago? Maybe longer?

“Wanda,” she offers up, presumably by way of introduction.

“You… You were at the bar,” you say slowly, still quite out of breath. “A lot.”

“Someone had to make sure you did not get into any trouble,” she—Wanda—reasons with a noncommittal shrug.

“You were there every night… because of me ?”

“Of course, миличка,” Wanda enthuses, stroking her thumb in gentle circles beneath your cheekbone. “You’re ours. Where else would I be?”

Ice slithers down your spine. “W-What?” you question, gaze darting briefly over to Natasha, who silently watches the pair of you with interest, before returning back to Wanda. “What does that mean?”

“You’re confused,” she soothes, and perhaps you’re imagining it, but you think you glimpse a flicker of carmine-red arcing through her pupils—here one moment, gone the next.

And in that instant…

Woah.

It’s as if a switch has been flipped.

Time seems to slow. A strange sensation pulses behind your right eye… probing; curious. Inattention glazes over your vision; lead settles heavy in your bones. And that nagging, inquisitive probe… remains.

Oh, does it remain. Creeping its way into your thoughts, coiling its way around the base of your spine… polluting your very bloodstream with red, red, red.

“W-What’s happening?” you hear yourself ask from beneath a sea of molten amber. The words sound tinny to your ears.

“Shh-shh-shh,” the other one—Natalie, Natalia, Natasha—coos from… behind you. When did she get there? Slender arms curl around your ribs, tugging you back into her body, and you… you are like dregs on the ocean’s tide; small, lost, helpless. Where it flows, so, too, do you. “No more talking, зайка,” she murmurs, words wrought with a mirth you don’t understand. “I think you’ve done quite enough of that.”

The distant thought registers that perhaps you should take issue with that… stiffen up, flinch away, make a snappy retort. Something.

But, just as quickly as it’s come, it’s gone, leaving nothing—not even the faintest echo—in its wake.

She’s still pulling you along as she reclines back against the headboard, trading her firm grip on your sides for a looser one around your neck and shoulders. And you… you go willingly. You let her arms pull you back into her chest, tucking your head beneath her chin. You think you might even feel her place a kiss atop your head. Her touch is firm, yet gentle as she holds you against her, and she is so very, very warm…

Wanda joins, too, a half a second later—straddling one of your legs and crawling her way up the length of your body, planting feather-light kisses everywhere she can reach along the way.

“It is better like this, hm?” she hums. “Just the three of us. No arguing, no resistance… No fighting.” Once again, you’re struck by the distinct—and fleeting—impression that you should take offense to that. “How it’s meant to be.”

When she finally comes to rest, it’s with an arm slung around your waist and one of her long, shapely legs tangled with yours. She noses at Natasha’s forearms folded beneath your chin like a brown-nosed puppy, and doesn’t relent until she readjusts her grip with a peevish huff. The moment there’s room, Wanda’s head finds its place against your chest and she lets out a satisfied hum, every warm puff of breath ghosting just so across your sternum. You’re sure she can feel every slow, languorous beat of your heart from there. All at once, it occurs to you to be grateful for your hazy, befuddled state; heaven knows your heart would be thundering out your chest otherwise.

“We care for you, миличка,” Wanda murmurs into your chest, punctuating her statement with a gentle kiss beneath your clavicle. “You don’t understand yet, and that is alright.”

“But you will,” Natasha adds, planting tender kisses along your neck and chuckling whenever a particularly sensitive spot makes you shudder. “No matter how long it takes.”

“This is our promise to you,” Wanda whispers, and though her words sound practiced, in a sense—as though she’s said them many times, and is concentrating quite intently on getting them right—they sound genuine, too. Like she really, really means them.

Moments before you fall asleep, a thought registers—the first rational, clear thought you’ve had since you first saw twin flickers of red flare in Wanda’s pupils: Fuck. What have I gotten myself into?

— —

звезда моя | zvezda moya | my star [russian]

зайка | zaika | bunny (term of endearment) [russian]

миличка | milichka | honey [bulgarian]

end notes: again, this has been sitting in the drafts/docs for a minute, and would love to know what you think! in the meantime, i’m still on that grind for all the shit i need to do that hasn’t yet been completed yet..... heh heh. will probably toss this up on ao3 (but also maybe not?) soon enough. we’ll see </3

link to masterlist

#dark!wanda maximoff x dark!natasha romanoff x f!reader #dark!wanda maximoff x f!reader #dark!natasha romanoff x f!reader #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #dark!wanda maximoff x dark!natasha romanoff x reader #stuff i wrote #f!reader

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bosetsu · 18 days

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Please tell us more about Russian train trip culture? We're constantly inundated by references to American road trip culture, but I know nothing about this and you got me curious!

I love to talk trains! So thanks for asking. Anyway. So I've got to preface that it's a bit more Soviet than Russian. And I am Muscovite so it comes with certain privileges. Russia/USSR is much more big on trains than on cars and planes. Not a lot of people had cars (though there was a whole other culture around cars). Air travel is more expensive and isn't easily available for a lot of towns/cities even now. (Especially now everything is ..ah interesting). We have two main type of trains. Short-distance electric trains or elektrichka. It's the one you take if you are going to a next town or if you go to your dacha (country house). Well, they are short-distanced FOR RUSSIA, I think they are supposed to be up to 200 km and no more. Elektrichkis are a bit dying everywhere except Moscow - we have integrated train systems into metro system now, and it's really cool, and I like it. There is a whole life happening while you ride. Like this

It can be quite nostalgic, but I still shudder after remembering riding with my granma every Sunday from dacha in a really crowded train where you get in by people shoving you inside and hoping not to suffocate. Fun time. Anyway. Do you know street musicians? Meet train musicians

Also meet every seller in a world with all kind of stuff from children toys to food. Meet one woman with a chicken, crowd of old women with motherfucking trees, African band and this three drunk philosophical guys with vodka bottle and pickles. It's a must. There are much more nice fast electric trains, but they are more rare and not that spectacular. Most famous book about elektrichka is Soviet book Moscow-Petushki about this guy on a journey trying to see I think his son in Petushki town. Spoiler: it doesn't end well. And also we have long-distance trains. Well. Russia is sort of kind of big. So you can spend days in a train just living your life having long chats with your neighbors, so it's strongly features in our movies/books/songs etc. Longest one is obviously Trans-Siberian Railway with it's length of 9000+ km. I don't think that a lot of Russians ever rode it the whole way though. I am not sure, it's a bit of a challenge. You absolutely must pay for a tea in a train because you get this glass with tumbler. It's ultimate train thing. This and chatting with neighbors.

Also there is a whole train food thing. You can buy instant ramen or go to restaurant car or something. But stereotypical train food is fried chicken and couple of hard-boiled eggs. And piroshki bought on a nearest train stop. Why? I am not even sure. It's not like chicken is known for keeping fresh without refrigerator. I was thinking about including train road map, but it's too big, so you get Moscow trains (lines that are governed by Moscow)

#trains #long post #sorry not rereading this so this text is going to be like that

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autemka · 25 days

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HEY HEY DUDES!!!!

THIS POST is about MY WHOLE ART that will appear here, as I just started it, I will try to post as soon as I have time for it!!

ART CONTENT

My art is different and most of the times I doodle fandom art, my ocs and just funny scenarios that I have in my head. For THIS ONE, is going to be about Fnaf Security Breach Daycare attenders and Eclipse OC that I created for more FUN.

Fnaf Security Breach

Tickle Content

OC Fnaf Story

Sketches

MEMES

SFW

RolePlay

OC Autem/ Autemka DAYCARE Silly Boys

The oc that you see on the title is my main,She is going to answer and communicate with readers like you. Daycare Boys can also communicate and answer your questions, so don’t be afraid to talk to them.(but be polite)

So the main thing here that please don’t be shy to ask questions and open up your curiosity, I’m always happy reading you comments and talking to you.

Also, I’m talking 2 languages so for those who is Russian speakers, Ребята пишите на русском че как не родные? Ей богу!! Я отвечу в любом случае))))

I DO NOT

RP with EVERYONE

Only with FRIENDS and who I know WELL ENOUGH

Drawing NSFW on tumbler

Talking about POLITICS (leave me alone with this stuff I swear)

Drawing ALL THE REQUESTS that you ask me

Only those that I am comfortable with

Drawing weird stuff that you ask me

(draw sunny and moon pregnant) - you F5.?/) kidding me?..

PLEASE

If you want to draw my Oc or some sort of a Fanart or smth else TAG ME, I don’t want misunderstandings or any questions

Don’t text me and ask for RP, I am the one how decided talking to you or not

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missanared · 4 months

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#русский tumblr #русский пост #русский тамблер #русский автор #зима #russian tumbler

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sofasoap · 11 months

Text

Lastochka - Part IV

Pairing : Nikolai x F!Reader ( OC/Mini MacTavish)

Summary: Will they be too late?

Part I , Part II, Interlude,Part III

MAJOR WARNING: Triggers of mention of near-rape, torture violence, swearing, Mature theme. Thanks to @homicidal-slvt for planting ideas into my brain. this whole series is all for you :)

My usual thanking @saltofmercury, mother of Mini, for lending me the character :) Please go and check out her fics!

“masterlist” for Mini MacTavish expanded verse.

“So, to what I owe the pleasure, Nikolai?” Pouring two glasses of vodka, Sergio turned and pointed towards Soap, “Who is he? Your new sidekick?”

“My brother in law.”

“I am not your fucken brother in law.”

“Yes you are.”

“I didn’t agree for you to be in my family.” grabbing the glass of vodka Sergio offered to him, he sniffed it before taking a sip. “ Steaming Jesus, this is some strong stuff.”

“Best Russian Vodka you can get out there”.

“Hm. still a bit short compared to the best Scotch whisky.” Soap remarked.

“Now back to the topic. What are you doing here Nik. I thought business between us is all... Done.” Waving his hand gesturing signs of finish, Sergio wandered back to his side of the desk, settled himself down on his office chair.

“You have something of mine in your hold.” Nikolai mentioned as he casually twirls the tumbler glass in his hand.

“Oh? Not quite sure what you are talking about. I haven’t been in your territory for years.”

“A month ago. Near the border.” While staring dead into his eyes, Nikolai hinted to Sergio.

Soap watches the whole interaction silently as he slowly shifts himself towards the chair in the corner of the room, playing with a switch knife while other hand slides in the pocket of his jacket, grabbing hold of a little box.

“Ah, the Сука that was snooping around and killed five of my best men?” Sergio let out a sigh, exasperated

Within the blink of an eye, Nikolai surged forwards as he jumped over the table, his hand surges up and constricts around Sergio’s neck.

“Using that word on my WIFE again, and you will have your eyes rolling in that glass of vodka within seconds.” he seethed as he tightened his grasp. “You should be glad my Lastochka ONLY killed five of your men.”

“Soap.” Without a word, Soap passed him the switch knife. Pointing it directly at Sergio eye, Nikolai growled out the warning; “Now, don’t forget who got you out of that deep shit with the KGB back in the day,” he sneered.” Also, what I got in my hand, will ruin your status within THE CIRCLE forever.” Releasing his hold, Nikolai moved back and speared the knife onto the table. “ You have one more chance, WHERE IS SHE.”

Sergio stuttered out the location where you were being held.

“That wasn’t so hard was it?” Soap plastered an exaggerated smile on his face as he pulled the knife back out and stashes it away. “And Nikolai was right, you are easy to deal with.”

“Come on brother. Let’s go.”

“Told you I am not your brother.”

“Pleasure doing business with you … again. You better wish next time I wouldn’t have to threaten you with anything.” Nikolai threw his final parting words down as he left the room, leaving Sergio slumping on his chair.

Flicking Laswell a quick message as they leave, Soap discreetly drops a few more little square boxes into camera blind spot corners of the corridor.

“Green light from Laswell. They are on the move now. You were right about the locations.” Soap frowned as he checked the reply. “How did you know?”

“I know all the secret bunkers and hiding spots that Мудакl owns. And there are quite a few of them well hidden. There is always one that he always likes to take his prisoners to. I just need to double check with him personally.” lighten up a cigarette as they get outside, “I am glad I made the right guess.”

“... and looks like Sergio is quite eager to get rid of us already.” Soap mumbled as he took his gun, noticing a few of the guards started to follow them. “Oh well. Your toys all set?”

“Of course.”

“Have fun with it then.”

Soap whipped out the detonator as Nikolai turned and shot at the guards that started to swamp them. With the press of the button, the sound of explosives started to go off one by one, until the whole building was engulfed by the flame and screams of people.

With the last of the guards shot dead. Nikolai and Soap piled into the car.

“... Thanks for the help Soap.”

“Mini is my sister. Of course I am going to help.” Soap typing messages to Laswell updating on the status as Nikolai started the car and heading towards the location to meet up with the team.

“When?” After a brief silence, Soap blurted out. Nikolai knew what Soap was asking about.

“ Right after the Safe house.”

“How do I know you are not just fooling around with her.”

“She warned me you were going to ask all sorts of questions when you found out.” Nikolai rolled his eyes but was still looking at the road. “I married her, isn’t that enough proof?”

“I can’t believe you two got together without anyone knowing about it.” leaning back into the seat to relax, “I just wish she will let me know earlier.”

“Soap. She really wanted your approval before we got married. But she was scared. She was so scared you would say no. She said to me once you were the best big brother she could ever ask for.” Soap smiled at the comment. “She looks up to you so much, she wants you to be proud of her. She wants you to know she can be your equal. That’s why she has been agreeing on all the covert missions. Trying to prove something.” Running fingers through his hair, frustrated, “I should have been a bit more open about us, otherwise this wouldn’t have happened.” Nikolai gripped onto the steering wheel tight, angry at himself.

Leaning forwards letting out a breath, “That’s why we try to keep her with our team each time we go out, at least we know she is safe, we can keep an eye out on her.” “The Lady Fortuna.”

“ I don’t know how that rumour started. But everyone was trying to fight for her to be on their team. But it does seem to be a miracle every team she heads out with suffers minimal losses.”

The rest of the journey was spent in silence, both of them secretly hoping your own luck will help you this one more time.

A loud scream and stream of curses could be heard echoing through the compound. Price, Ghost and Gaz looked at each other before charging towards the sound.

Standing in the middle of the room, hand tied to the back. Blood all over your face and mouth, down from the forehead ,from headbutting the guard who was trying to force himself onto you. Another guard on the ground , blood pouring out from his neck. Like a caged animal driven into desperation, you have fought back and sunk your teeth and tore a whole chunk of flesh out from his neck.

That’s how the team found you. Your head snapped towards the door as they rammed through the metal door, pupil totally dilated, growling like a mad dog ,ready to pounce onto your next enemy. Gaz and Ghost quickly finished off the two enemies on the floor with shots of bullets.

They were shocked to see you in such a state. Bruises all over, purple and yellow, cuts and wounds, old wounds re-opened as they cut into it again and again, clear signs of torture.

“MINI!” Breaking out of the raging trance as Price called out to you.

“... Price? Gaz? Ghost?” your eyes suddenly clear as you focus on the men. Legs giving out underneath you, Price quickly catches you before you collapse onto the floor.

“ Did they…” Gaz gritted the question out of his mouth, not wanting to finish the sentence. Shaking your head, whispering a reply. “They tried. I fought them off.” You started shivering as the adrenaline courses through you.

Swinging his rifle around to the back of his shoulder, Ghost gently scoops you up. You loop your arms around his neck.

“... Where is Johnny??????” You realised you couldn’t see your brother with the team, panic started to set in again.

“He’s ok. He’s with Nikolai. They will be here soon. Come on, Laswell is waiting for us outside. I’m sorry.” Price patted you on the head. That familiar fatherly action from Price and having two of your brothers in arms with you for the first time in a month, tears started streaming down your face. Retreating out from the compound and towards the humvee where Laswell was waiting, with sadness, guilt and relief all written on her face. You nodded to her in acknowledgement. Lying down on the cot at the back of the humvee, after being quickly patched up, you closed your eyes, trying not to relive the horrible moments you've been through while in captivity. Your last message to the team was telling them not to come for you, after stashing the package you were instructed to steal and also your dog tag and the wedding band, hiding your identity. You were ready to sacrifice yourself to protect the team and for the success of the mission. Deep down you regret not telling your husband about it. Not having the last chance to say goodbye to him. That fuelled your will to survive.

As Soap would have said, “Your stubbornness will lead you to trouble.” You thought a few times in the middle of night, while the captivators left you alone in the dark, that your stubbornness has finally been a positive thing.

Sounds of two pairs of boot running towards the humvee made you open your eyes and lift your head, trying to peek out the back door, you saw Nikolai and Soap running towards you, Gaz helped you to sit out slightly as two of them stormed into the back cabin, Nikolai immediately surged forward and held you in a tight embrace. You couldn’t hold back your emotions anymore, you let out an anguished cry as you buried your face into his chest.

“I am here now, my little bird.. You are safe.I am not going to let you go.” Nikolai took in a deep breath,trying hard to control his own feelings, not letting the tears drop. He finally had you back into his arms, alive and safe. His love, his little swallow. Landing safely in his embrace. You felt someone else was grasping your arm, you turned your head slightly, Soap was looking at you, eyes red and sniffing. You left your husband’s arm for a second and went for a hug with your brother.

“Soap.” Ghost tapped him on the shoulder. “Gaz and I will take the other car. You stay here with Mini and the others.” Nikolai tosses the car key to Ghost. Gaz gave you a quick kiss on the cheek while Ghost gently ruffled your hair. “Good to have you back Mini.” With that comment, the two left to take the other car to follow the humvee.

You stayed in Nikolai’s lap the whole journey with him sitting you on the cot. Most of the journey was spent in silence with Nikolai whispering into your ears and giving you kisses.

“I am sorry. I should have let you know the details.”

“ I am not happy about that. I nearly lost you.” Burying his face into your hair and neck, “We will need to talk about this later on when you are better. You going on missions alone. This is not going to happen again.”

Leaning into his head, “I am taking that everyone knows about us?”

“My brother in law over there had a good talk.”

“ I told you, I am not your brother in law.”

“Johnny. Face it, it's too late, I married this man.” You squeeze out a little cheeky smile.

You heard Price and Laswell’s exasperated sigh coming from the front seat. It’s good to be back with your family again. But you know, the road to recovery, both physically and mentally only just started. That will be another struggle.

Yes I gotta admit I had inspiration from John Wick. From a crack fic, this just went down a very dark road. oop.

Сука - Bitch

Мудак - Shit head Tag :

@roosterr @preciouslittlecreature

@boughhs

#call of duty #cod nikolai #nikolai cod #nikolai cod x reader #nikolai cod x f!reader #taskforce 141

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