ꜰᴏʀ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ
ᴊᴜꜱᴛ... ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ
ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ⧗
one - shot inspired by the song “Glory Box” by Portishead — also a tad inspired by @artficlly ‘s lessons in love making
winter soldier!bucky x black widow!femreader
She's Red Room. He's Winter Soldier. Neither remembers what it feels like to be touched without orders, to be wanted without purpose. Hydra pairs them as weapons, but in the quiet between missions—in bruised silence and shared Russian—they begin to find something unspoken. Something fragile. Something theirs.
masterlist | 5.9k words | photos do not depict what fem!reader looks like | mentions of torture, trauma, brainwashing, illusions to assault yk normal red room/hydra things, wee bit of violence and blood, praise, grinding, handjob, unprotected piv sex (not rlly tho if yk black widow lore…) and that’s it pls lmk if there’s more
You were transferred in a box.
Not literally, of course—but it felt that way. Blacked-out convoy. Shackled wrists. A one-way ride from the remnants of the Red Room to a Hydra-controlled facility somewhere in the Balkans. No name. No destination. Just cold metal under your thighs and a silence that felt worse than any scream.
You’d heard whispers of this place. Of him.
They called him the Winter Soldier.
Hydra didn’t send many female agents here. They kept you in Moscow, mostly—tight, quiet, obedient. But after your last handler died during a failed seduction op, you were labeled unstable. Too volatile. Too effective. Hydra saw potential where the Red Room saw disobedience. So they made a deal.
You became someone else’s problem.
The Hydra base was underground, cold as a morgue, walls humming with electricity and cruelty.
They didn’t assign you a name. They gave you a number: Agent 47.
Your first few weeks passed in silence. You trained alone. Slept under surveillance. But being from the Red Room you hacked the camera. Ate without speaking. No one told you why you were there. Not until you saw him.
They wheeled him out of cryo like a weapon being unsheathed.
You were at the edge of the training floor, bandaging your knuckles from solo drills when he appeared—broad, silent, wrapped in shadow and control. Long hair. Muzzle mask. That metal arm. He didn’t look at you. Not at first.
But you looked at him. And you knew.
He was just like you. A ghost in someone else’s skin.
You were paired together two missions later. No warning. No introduction.
They handed you a brief, said “You’ll go with him,” and shoved you toward the drop point.
You didn't ask his name. He didn’t offer it.
The first op was simple. A kill mission in Istanbul. You were bait, dressed like a party favor, coaxing the target toward a hotel balcony. Bucky waited in the hallway like a shadow. The kill was clean. Fast. He didn’t say a word the entire flight home.
You were used to silence. But his silence felt different. It was less about obedience, more about weight. As if words were too dangerous to carry.
You watched him when he wasn’t looking. The way his hand sometimes tremble after a kill. The way he stared at the wall like it was going to scream.
You recognized it. The fracture. The absence of self.
It took three more missions before he looked you in the eye.
Just a glance. After a messy clean-up in Kraków, blood is still damp on your collar. You were wiping a cut on your lip, sitting on the tailgate of the evac van. He stood across from you, face unreadable. Then his gaze flicked to yours.
Not curious. Not judgmental.
Just... knowing.
As if he saw you. Not the mask. Not the makeup. You.
Your fingers twitched.
You didn’t smile. Neither did he.
But something shifted.
Mission Location: Bucharest, Romania Objective: Eliminate asset defecting to S.H.I.E.L.D. Cover Story: Tourist couple at Hotel Beron
You hate hotels.
Not because of the sheets—they’re always clean, bleached, starched into fake softness. Not because of the lighting, though that’s usually cheap and flickering. You hate them because of what they mean: appearances. Playing and acting. Your body as a bargaining chip. Your face as a lie.
Tonight is no different.
You slip the gold earring into your ear with steady fingers, check your reflection one last time. The Red Room taught you to dress fast and fight faster. Hydra doesn't care what you wear, only that the target dies before he talks. Still, the dress they chose for you is low-cut and wine-red, tailored like a weapon.
Across the room, he doesn’t look at you. He’s adjusting the sight on a sniper rifle, calm as the grave.
The Winter Soldier wears a suit like a soldier wears a uniform—wrong, like it's just a disguise for the kill underneath.
You don’t speak. He doesn’t either.
That’s how it works between you.
The hotel bar is warm, glowing with amber light and careless laughter. You step into it like a ghost wrapped in silk.
Your heels click softly against the marble floor, your smile painted on with surgical precision. You're here to lure the target—a Hydra informant who decided to jump ship to S.H.I.E.L.D. You only have to keep him busy long enough for your partner to get in position.
You spot him at the bar. Older. Nervous. Talking too fast to a bartender who couldn’t care less.
You slide into the seat next to him like gravity pulled you there. A warm laugh. A brush of your shoulder. The same tired seduction dance the Red Room taught you at fifteen.
I’ve been a temptress too long.
He looks at you like every man does. Wants you like every man does. You feed it to him like honey over poison.
But as he starts to relax—fingers inching toward yours on the bar—you feel it: a prickle on your spine. The shift in air. The knowledge that he’s watching.
You don't need to turn. You know where he is.
Across the bar, tucked in the shadows near the back service door, sits the Winter Soldier. No mask. No rifle. Just a man in a suit too nice for the way his eyes scan the room—lethal and unblinking.
No one notices him. But you do.
He’s waiting.
The target gets comfortable fast. Too fast. He leans closer, asks if you want to go upstairs. You smile and say yes.
Your earpiece crackles with static, then his voice—cold, barely there.
“Level 5. West hallway. Blind spot in 40 seconds.”
You don't reply. You don’t have to.
The elevator ride up is silent, except for the elevator music and your heartbeat.
The hallway is dim. Carpet muffles your steps. When the door to 509 clicks shut behind you, you let the man touch your arm. You don’t flinch. You’ve played this role before. You already know how it ends.
You count down in your head.
Three... two...
The window explodes inward.
A blur of motion. Shattered glass. You duck before you even register the gunshot. The target stumbles back, screaming—blood blooming from his throat like a second collar.
You look up through your own hair, breathing hard.
He’s standing in the broken window frame.
Wind whips through the curtains. Gun still raised. Eyes locked on yours.
The Winter Soldier.
Back in the extraction van, it’s silent as always.
Your dress is ripped at the hem. There’s a scratch on your collarbone that stings. You can smell the powder burn still clinging to his jacket beside you.
You glance at him. His gaze is forward, unreadable.
But something about the way he watches the road—jaw clenched, fingers twitching—tells you he didn’t like what he saw in that room.
Not the blood. Not the kill.
You.
You wonder if he saw through the act.
You wonder if he saw how your hand shook when the man touched you.
Give me a reason to be a woman, not just a weapon.
He doesn’t speak. But just before the van turns, you feel it—his hand, brief and accidental, brushing yours where it rests on the bench.
He doesn’t pull away fast enough.
The building smells like antiseptic and cement. Cold, old-world concrete, retrofitted with modern surveillance tech and the stench of fear.
You haven’t been back in months. Not since the transfer.
The Red Room occupies the eastern wing; Hydra’s Moscow cell lives in the west. Where steel doors outnumber smiles and most conversations happen under cameras.
You walk the hallway beside him in silence.
The echo of your boots and his heavier tread match in rhythm—military, precise. You glance at his shoulder once, just once. The black tactical coat fits over the metal arm too cleanly, like it was sewn around the violence.
Neither of you speak until you’re summoned.
Inside the glass-walled debriefing chamber, the temperature drops by several degrees.
Your superior sits across from you—Director Volkov, thick-fingered, well-fed, and always two steps away from cruelty. Behind him, an aide prepares the recorder.
“Садитесь,” Volkov says without looking up. Sit.
You and the Winter Soldier obey in unison. Side by side. Chairs too straight to relax in.
Volkov doesn’t waste time.
“Доклад,” he says, motioning lazily with one hand. Report.
You glance once at Bucky. He stays still, metal fingers twitching once before stilling.
You begin.
“Цель устранена. Враг не передал информацию Щ.И.Т.,” you say clearly. Target eliminated. Enemy did not pass information to S.H.I.E.L.D.
“Свидетели?” Witnesses?
“Нет. Один охранник — был устранён.” No. One guard—eliminated.
Volkov raises an eyebrow. Then turns his attention to Bucky.
“And you?” he says in Russian, but slower. As if testing him.
Bucky’s voice is low, sharp like ice cracking.
“Всё прошло по плану.” Everything went according to plan.
His accent is almost native. Almost. But there's something strange in the way he says it—mechanical, hollow. Like he’s repeating words pulled from an old program.
Volkov watches him for a beat too long.
Then: “Хорошо.” Good.
But his gaze slides to you.
“Ты выглядишь усталой, девочка.” You look tired, girl.
Your jaw flexes.
“Я выполняю свою работу.” I do my job.
He leans back, smirking. “Иногда ты больше, чем просто работа.” Sometimes, you're more than just a job.
The edge behind his words makes your stomach tighten. A test. A threat. You don’t blink.
But you feel it.
A shift beside you. The faintest sound—leather glove tightening around a fist.
You don’t look at him. But you feel the Winter Soldier bristle, just for a second.
He heard it. He understood.
Volkov notes the silence like a man lighting a match near gasoline. He lets it burn a moment. Then shrugs.
“Свободны,” he says. You’re dismissed.
You both stand without hesitation.
But as you turn to leave, he speaks again.
“Солдат.” Soldier.
Bucky stops.
Volkov doesn’t look up as he says it.
“Девушка — хрупкая. Не дай ей сломаться.” The girl is fragile. Don’t let her break.
You look over your shoulder.
Bucky doesn’t respond. Doesn’t twitch. Just walks out, silent as death.
You follow.
In the elevator, no one speaks.
Not until the doors close and the security light turns green.
Then, in Russian—so quiet it almost doesn’t reach you—he says:
“Ты не хрупкая.” You are not fragile.
You stare straight ahead. Your heart stutters once behind your ribs.
After a long pause, you whisper back:
“И ты не только оружие.” And you are not only a weapon.
Location: Hydra Training Compound, Belarus Objective: Infiltrate and surveil ex-Hydra weapons broker operating under a NATO-aligned cover Alias Names: Alina & Ivan Morozov Cover Story: Married couple visiting from Kaliningrad for black-market tech negotiation
The base is colder than Moscow.
Not in temperature—though it’s frigid at dawn—but in design. Gray walls. Glass panels. Doors with no handles unless they want to be opened. The kind of place where every hallway feels like a test, and every reflection in the steel has eyes.
You stand in the armory, adjusting your tactical vest, eyes on the mission file. The photos are grainy, black-and-white. Surveillance stills of a man named Konstantin Mirov, former Hydra quartermaster turned freelance weapons broker.
Your job? Get into his meeting. See who he’s selling to. Get out without making noise.
No seduction this time. No backless gowns or hotel bar whispers.
This one’s quiet. Careful. Married couple traveling for business, Hydra’s handler had said.
You’d snorted. The Winter Soldier hadn’t reacted at all.
Now he enters the room, dressed not in his usual black ops gear—but something more civilian. Dark gray slacks. Black sweater. No gloves.
You glance at the arm.
He doesn’t bother to hide it.
Bold.
Or suicidal.
You zip your coat, grab your compact pistol, and glance at him. He’s adjusting his earpiece, expression unreadable.
Your handler enters with a clipboard and two forged passports.
“Your aliases are Alina and Ivan Morozov,” she says, Russian clipped and cold. “You’ve been married for five years. No children. No friends. You’re a quiet couple from Kaliningrad who want to buy access to Mirov’s smart-tech vault.”
She hands Bucky the ring box like it’s a threat.
He opens it.
Two simple wedding bands inside.
You stiffen. “Is this necessary?”
The handler smiles, teeth like knives. “You’ll be staying in a private villa. Shared bed. If Mirov suspects you’re spies, he’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll sell your location to S.H.I.E.L.D.”
You take the ring.
Bucky slides his on with mechanical ease.
You follow.
Infiltration Point: Moldova border, safehouse en route to Mirov’s estate
The drive is quiet. Trees blur past the windows, and you feel the weight of the silence settle between you like fog. The radio crackles occasionally—local news, rain reports, nothing useful.
He’s driving with one hand, the metal one. The flesh one rests on his thigh, fingers tapping once, twice, in thought.
You speak without looking at him.
“Are you comfortable with close contact?”
He doesn’t respond right away.
Then: “I don’t need comfort. I need control.”
You glance at him. “That wasn’t the question.”
He doesn’t answer.
The Estate — Mirov’s Private Villa
By the time you arrive, the act has begun.
You’re greeted by a security detail with mirrored sunglasses and thick accents. They scan your car. Search your bags. But they don’t find the tracker tucked beneath the spare tire, or the bone mic embedded behind your left ear.
Inside, the villa is all excess. Marble floors. Velvet drapes. Surveillance in every corner. You walk in like you belong.
Your room is on the top floor. One bed. No cameras inside, but you know better. Hidden mics, pressure sensors under the floorboards.
You wait until the guards leave before speaking.
“You take the side near the door.”
He nods once. No questions.
You unpack. Slowly. Deliberately. The room is small. Every time you turn, he’s close. Too close.
You kneel to unzip your weapons case and find yourself eye-level with the holster strapped to his thigh.
He doesn’t move.
Your fingers brush the hem of his coat as you reach for your knife.
He still doesn’t move.
Your heartbeat spikes—briefly.
I’ve been a temptress too long.
Now I just want to be human.
But I don’t know how to be near him without wanting something I shouldn’t.
Later That Night
The mission recon begins at the gala in Mirov’s garden.
You’re dressed in black. Minimal makeup. Armed with a compact camera hidden in your pendant. Bucky wears a suit again—same fit as Bucharest—but this time, you’re on his arm.
For show.
You link arms. Skin to skin.
He is warm.
You keep your smile fixed and your eyes on the crowd. Inside, you whisper:
“Three o’clock. Red dress. That’s the American buyer.”
He leans in slightly—lips brushing your temple in a way that makes your stomach knot.
“She’s carrying,” he mutters. “Ankle holster. SIG P365.”
You smile and laugh, loud enough for Mirov’s man to hear. Just two lovers sharing a joke.
But when you turn away, his hand on your back doesn’t drop right away.
You feel the heat of it through your dress.
You don’t speak on the walk back to the villa.
The guards let you through without questions. One of them gives you a knowing smirk, like he expects you to fuck as loudly as you kill. You offer him the barest smile in return—just enough to keep him stupid.
Inside, the bedroom light is low. Amber and shadow and the faint buzz of some generator humming through the floor.
You unclip your earrings and place them on the nightstand.
Bucky’s already unbuttoning his cuffs. No words. No wasted movement. Just a slow, methodical undoing of the man he pretended to be tonight.
You glance over.
He hasn’t looked at you once.
But his jaw is tight.
You strip off your dress with your back to him. No flourish, no invitation. Just routine. Your spine is bare and littered with scars in the mirror. You catch his reflection when he finally turns.
His eyes flick to yours, just once, before dropping.
He looks away like it hurts.
You slide on the black sleep shirt. One of the few things in your duffel that’s actually yours. Cotton. Worn thin at the collar.
Bucky changes into a pair of Hydra-issued sweats and a black t-shirt. The metal arm gleams under the soft light, all tension and symmetry and weaponized restraint.
He takes the side nearest the door, just like you asked.
You slide under the covers beside him.
The silence is too loud.
The bed dips beneath his weight but doesn't move again. He’s still. A wall of heat and control.
You close your eyes.
And then—after several long breaths—you whisper, in Russian:
“Ты не расслаблялся ни на секунду.” You haven’t relaxed once.
He exhales through his nose.
Then:
“Слишком опасно.” Too dangerous.
You open your eyes. The ceiling is textured with shadow.
“Мне казалось, ты был другим, когда мы танцевали.” You seemed different when we danced.
He doesn’t answer.
But he’s listening. You can feel it. His focus, always so sharp in combat, is now centered entirely on you.
You turn on your side, facing him in the dark. His profile is a study in contrast—scar and softness, human and not. The kind of face built for silence.
“I forgot who I was for a minute,” you murmur. “On the balcony. When you touched my back.”
His jaw tenses.
“I didn’t mean to,” he says.
You swallow hard.
“I didn’t want you to stop.”
The air between you thickens. Warmer now. And dangerous in a different way.
This isn’t flirtation. It's a confession. Two ghosts pressing against the skin of the living.
You feel his fingers move—just barely.
Then:
“Why are you telling me this?”
You don’t know.
Maybe because it’s dark. Maybe because he saw you undressed without leering. Maybe because when you kissed him in Bucharest, he didn’t pull away—he just stood there, stunned, as if you’d woken something up.
“I want to know if you felt it too,” you whisper.
His voice is a thread of breath:
“I don’t let myself feel things.”
You reach for his hand under the sheet. Not the metal one. The other.
Your fingers find his fingers.
And he lets them.
He doesn’t pull away.
You fall asleep like that. Not tangled. Not pressed together. Just a point of contact—skin to skin.
A line crossed.
And neither of you can go back.
Location: Hydra Training Compound Day Three Post-Mission
They call it “recalibration,” but it feels like punishment.
Mission successful. Mirov neutralized. Intel secure. And still, they’re back on the mat like it means nothing. Hydra doesn’t reward precision. It doesn’t reward loyalty.
It rewards silence.
You’re already in the training gear—black compression top, reinforced leggings, bare feet on the polished floor. Your knife is strapped to your thigh even though it won’t be used today. Just a habit.
Across from you, Bucky stands shirtless, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair damp from the shower.
His metal arm catches the light like a warning.
You circle each other in silence. There’s no music, no overseer today. Just the distant hum of the base and the scuff of movement on the mat.
Then, in Russian:
“Готова?” Ready?
You nod.
He lunges first—fast, controlled, mechanical. You drop low, sweep a leg, and he pivots instead of falling. His movements are brutal but beautiful, like clockwork designed to hurt.
You block a palm strike, twist under his arm, shove your elbow toward his ribs.
He lets you connect.
Not full force. Not enough to bruise.
Just enough.
You both freeze.
Your breath hitches.
He stepped into it—on purpose.
Why would he let me land a hit like that?Why does it matter that he did?
You disengage fast, roll back onto your feet. He stays still, watching.
Eyes unreadable.
Then, quieter:
“Ты теряешь фокус.” You're losing focus.
You sneer. “Ты проиграл.” You lost.
He steps forward again—slow this time. Less like a soldier, more… man. His chest rises and falls in an even rhythm.
“I let you win,” he says.
There’s no arrogance in it. No mocking.
Just a fact.
You bristle. “Why?”
His eyes flick to yours—then lower. Just briefly. Enough to notice the slight swelling on your lip from the earlier blow he did land.
“Because you’re tired.”
You swallow, throat tight.
He noticed. And he cared. Not because Hydra told him to. Not because it helped the mission.Because it’s me.And that scares me more than it should.
You don’t reply.
You rush him again, but this time it’s sloppier. Emotion leaking in through the cracks. He catches your wrist mid-strike, and for one heartbeat, you’re just… there. Trapped in his grip.
His fingers tighten—then loosen.
He releases you.
Your skin burns where he touched it.
You step back.
“Again,” you say.
He hesitates. Just a flicker.
Then nods.
You spar for thirty minutes. No talking. Just the sound of bodies hitting mats, of breath caught and released, of two people pretending not to feel what they feel.
And after the last round—when you’re both on the floor, sweating, chests heaving, his arm braced beside your shoulder—
You ask, quiet:
“Why are you different with me?”
He doesn’t look at you when he says it:
“Because you don’t look at me like I’m a weapon.”
You look at me like I’m still human.You look at me like I deserve to be one.
You could kiss him right now.
You don’t.
You just stay there, breathing next to him.
Neither of you moves.
The sparring is over, but it’s still clinging to you—under your skin, in the beat of your pulse, in the shallow ache of your left wrist.
You sit on the bench in the armory locker room. Shirt discarded. Wrist tender. It throbs in waves now that the adrenaline’s worn off.
Hydra’s med supplies are cold and clinical: gauze, antiseptic, wraps. No painkillers. No comfort.
You’re wrapping the bandage sloppily, one-handed.
“Дай мне.” Let me.
His voice is low. Behind you.
You flinch, but you don’t stop him when he kneels in front of you.
You offer your wrist.
The metal hand holds it steady. Too gentle. The human one does the wrapping.
He’s meticulous. One layer. Then another. His breath fans across your forearm.
Your voice is soft:
“Ты заботишься.” You care.
He pauses.
Then—barely above a whisper:
“Ты не должна была заметить.” You weren’t supposed to notice.
You study him as he works. Down here, kneeling, close like this—he doesn’t look like a ghost. Or a soldier. He just looks... tired.
And young. Younger than you imagined, when he’s not under command.But you’ve seen his file. You know that doesn’t make sense. Unless something’s been taken from him.Time. Memory. Self.
“What do they call you?” you ask quietly.
He doesn’t look up.
“They don’t.”
Not a name. Just a directive. A ghost.Winter Soldier. Asset.
You nod once. You won’t ask again. You’ve done worse to people with names.
When he finishes the wrap, he doesn’t let go right away.
His thumb brushes the edge of the gauze. Not by accident.
Your breath stutters.
He touches like he’s afraid he’ll break you. Like no one taught him how to be soft, but he’s trying anyway.And you… you need it.God, you need it.
“You stay too long after the others leave,” you whisper.
He looks up at you. Those eyes—gray and still and far away.
“So do you.”
You pull your wrist back, slowly. His hand follows for a second longer than it should.
You rise.
He doesn’t stop you.
But before you turn to leave, you glance over your shoulder.
“What's on your mind,” you say in Russian. “Just one thing.”
He looks at you for a long moment. Like he’s trying to remember what counts as real.
Then, finally:
“Я боюсь забыть, каково это — не быть один.” I’m afraid of forgetting what it feels like to not be alone.
You don’t speak.
But something inside you breaks.
And you don’t fix it.
There are nights when the base goes too quiet.
Not silent—because no Hydra base is ever truly silent. There’s always the dull hum of the server banks, the pressurized hiss of sealed doors, the echo of boots in the corridor above.
But this? This is quieter. Hollow. Heavy.
You can’t sleep.
Your bed is too narrow, your bones too wired. There’s a tremor in your hands you can’t shake. Not fear, exactly. Just… residue. From training. From life.
From him.
You slip from your quarters, barefoot. In a tank top and soft black shorts. You don’t bother to put boots on.
The halls feel colder at night. You glide through them like smoke.
Down one floor. Then two.
You know where he’ll be.
There’s a small chamber near the weapons lab—an auxiliary control room that no one uses after hours. No windows. Just a slatted steel vent near the ceiling where moonlight slices in, pale and ghostlike.
He sits there in the corner, on the floor.
Back against the wall.
Awake.
He’s always awake.
You don’t speak when you step into the doorway.
He lifts his eyes. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise.
Just looks at you like he knew you’d come.
You sit across from him, knees pulled up. The cold seeps through the floor into your skin.
For a long time, neither of you speaks.
But that’s never mattered. Not with him.
The quiet between you has its own language.
He finally says, “Ты тоже не можешь спать?”
You can’t sleep either?
You shake your head. “Слишком много шума.”
Too much noise.
He nods.
You don’t mean the base.
You mean the static in your blood. The ghost-thoughts. The bruises that don’t bloom until morning.
You watch him. The way he sits so still. But you’ve seen him move—he’s lethal in motion, but now, in this shadowed room, he’s just… there.
Like a monument to some war no one ever won.
You speak again.
“Do you remember who you were… before?”
His jaw flexes. Not anger—hesitation.
Then he says, “No.”
Just that. One syllable that splinters something in you.
“I think I was someone else, too,” you whisper. “Before the Red Room.”
And maybe neither of you can get back to that person.
Maybe that’s what this is. Two weapons sitting in the dark, trying to remember how to feel like people.
You shift a little closer. Not touching. Just near.
“I think about it sometimes,” you say. “What it might feel like. To live outside these walls. Outside orders.”
He doesn’t respond. But his eyes are on you like he’s trying to see that world through yours.
You whisper, “Give me a reason.”
His brow furrows.
You search his face in the low light.
“Give me a reason to feel like a woman again. Not a tool. Not a weapon.”
A pause.
Then he leans forward—barely, barely—and says, so low you almost don’t hear it:
“Because when I look at you, I forget I’m a weapon.”
The air between you crackles.
But neither of you reaches across the space.
You just sit there, two shadows in the dark, a heartbeat apart from ruin.
But after a while sitting on the hard floor gets uncomfortable so you rise up slowly.
You guide him by the wrist—his flesh one, calloused and warm—and not his metal one. That’s on purpose.
He follows you without a word, boots silent on concrete. You don’t need to look back to know he’s watching you. You always know when he’s watching.
Your room’s a concrete box. No windows, no comforts. Just a cot, a gray blanket, a single lamp. But it’s private. It’s yours. And he’s never been here before.
You close the door behind you, fingers slipping the lock into place.
“C’mere,” you whisper, and he does.
He’s quiet, always quiet. That’s how they trained him. But he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole damned place. Like your hands are the only ones he trusts not to hurt him. You pull him close, let your forehead rest against his chest. The cool metal of his arm touches your back as he hesitates—then wraps it around you.
He doesn’t know how to ask. But he wants this.
So you climb onto the cot, pull him down with you. No words, just breathing. The way his nose presses into your neck. The way his body curls toward yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You pet his hair. His breathing slows. You feel the tension drain from his body, even if only a little. You fall asleep like that—his arms around your waist, your hand over his heart.
But sometime in the dark, you feel it.
A slow press of his hips against your ass. The warm breath hitching against your neck. His hand twitching on your belly, the tremble of restraint in his thighs.
You shift, just slightly. You feel the outline of him—hard. Needy.
You whisper into the dark quiet of the room: “Soldat.”
He flinches like he’s been caught doing something wrong. But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t deny it.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he mumbles, voice rough and ruined with shame. “I— I didn’t mean—”
“Hey,” you say softly, reaching back to touch his thigh, grounding him. “It’s okay.”
He goes still. Like he’s waiting to be punished.
You turn over in the narrow bed, face to face now. You tuck his hair behind his ear. “You want help, soldier?”
His eyes widened—blue and glassy and desperate.
“You sure?” you ask, your fingers brushing down his bare torso, over the soft ridges of his abs. “We don’t have to if—”
“Yes,” he breathes out, like it’s been torn from him. “Please. I don’t… I’ve never…”
That makes your heart ache. But it also makes heat twist low in your belly.
“Let me take care of you, then.”
You kiss him first. He doesn’t expect it, but melts into it like he’s starved for it. Like he doesn’t even know how to kiss back but he’s trying so hard it hurts. His metal hand grips the edge of the bed; his flesh one grabs your hip like he’s afraid you’ll float away.
You straddle him slowly. He’s shirtless, boxers straining against his hard length. His breath shudders when you grind down, rubbing against him through the fabric.
“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut. “It feels… s’good. Don’t stop.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, dragging your lips down his jaw. “Just let me.”
He nods, breathing hard. He’s so worked up already, hips twitching under you.
You take your time. Slide your fingers beneath his waistband, and he gasps when you wrap your hand around him. He’s hot, flushed, leaking already. You stroke him slowly, watching him fall apart.
His head tips back against the pillow. His thighs tremble. He whimpers when you twist your wrist just right.
“You like that?” you ask, voice dark and honey-sweet.
“Y-yeah. Shit. Don’t stop—please.”
You press kisses to his chest, his neck, then whisper against his ear, “You wanna come like this? Or inside me?”
He chokes on air, like his brain short-circuits.
“I—inside,” he groans, eyes pleading. “Please.”
You slip your shorts off. Tug his boxers down. You don’t tease. You just line yourself up, wet and ready, and sink onto him slow. He shudders beneath you, fingers digging into your hips.
“Oh fuck,” he groans, brow furrowed, chest heaving. “You feel—god, you feel so warm, so tight—I can’t—”
“Shhh,” you murmur, rocking gently. “You’re doing so good, baby.”
He whines at the praise. Whines.
You ride him slow, deep, keeping your forehead pressed to his, your hands in his hair. Every thrust makes him gasp. Every grind makes him moan, softer than you thought a killer like him could.
You rub your clit, and he watches, eyes glassy and wide like it’s the most intimate thing he’s ever seen.
When you tighten around him, he loses it.
His whole body locks up, and he spills into you with a broken cry, hips bucking helplessly. You don’t stop. You work yourself over him until you come too, clenching tight around him, panting into his mouth.
You collapse on top of him. He wraps both arms around you—flesh and metal—and for the first time, he doesn’t look like the Winter Soldier.
He just looks like a man who’s finally been given something he didn’t have to earn.
The room is quiet again.
You’re both breathing hard, chests pressed together. His skin is slick with sweat, still flushed from the high. But his hands haven’t moved—still holding you like he’s afraid to let go, like the second he does you’ll be taken from him.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice hoarse against your neck.
You shake your head slowly, nuzzling into him. “No.You were perfect.”
He lets out a breath, shaky and full of disbelief. You reach up and brush his hair back, gentle fingers gliding over his cheek. You don’t need to say anything else. You don’t need to tell him how good he was, or how beautiful he looked begging under you. He’s still figuring out how to believe those things. But you’ll show him. Again and again, if that’s what it takes.
You shift off of him gently, and he lets you go, reluctantly. You feel him twitch at the loss of contact.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over both your bodies. “I’m not going far.”
He blinks up at you, eyes glassy in the dim light. “Can I… hold you?”
“Of course you can.” You curl into him, tangle your legs with his, tuck your head beneath his chin. His arms tighten around you immediately—strong and possessive and scared.
You kiss his collarbone. His breath hitches again.
Neither of you says anything for a while. You just lay there, wrapped around each other. Listening to the hum of the base outside the door, far away from this little world you’ve built.
Eventually, his voice breaks the silence, soft and so vulnerable you almost don’t recognize it.
“I didn’t think it could be like that,” he murmurs.
“Like what?”
“Like it meant something. Like I got to feel good. Like… you wanted me.”
You tilt your head up and meet his eyes. “I do want you. Not just this.” You brush your fingers over his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm. “All of you. Even the parts they tried to erase.”
He closes his eyes. A tear escapes down his cheek, but he doesn’t wipe it away. You do it for him.
“I don’t want this to be the last time,” he says.
You rest your forehead to his. “It won’t be.”
“You’ll stay?”
You nod. “As long as you’ll have me.”
That does something to him. His jaw trembles. He doesn’t speak. Just tugs you tighter into his chest and buries his face in your hair.
Eventually, his breathing slows again. You feel his body finally begin to relax beneath you. His grip loosens—not because he’s letting go, but because he trusts you won’t leave.
You fall asleep like that, curled around each other in a narrow cot in a concrete room under Hydra’s nose. But none of that matters. Not now. Not here.
For once, he isn’t a weapon.
And for once, you both believe—just a little—that maybe this, whatever this is between you, could be real. That maybe you’ll find freedom not just from Hydra, but from the cold, lonely lives they built for you.
Together.
dividers by @cursed-carmine & @hyuneskkami 🏷️ @zevrra @millersdoll @littlemillersbaby @stell404 @perpetually-fangirling-blog @veraarora @layaispunk @surebutwhy @m00ngazing @devilslittlehelper @bxtchboy69 @cinderblock24 @lilylovesu
