It was ever so slightly different from the man she remembered, his mannerisms and gestures and the pressure of his mouth slightly off; like he’d gone rusty, and he had to warm up those ancient engines before he could remember how to do this. But every additional touch — nails against his shoulders, digging into his skin, leg hooked around him — sparked another ghosting memory, another nudge of recollection.
“Lisichka,” he answered as they broke for breath, his forehead tipped against Natasha’s, the term of endearment suddenly coming to him with unexpected certainty. Little fox: a nod to her blazing red hair, her mischievous demeanour, and the way the girl had always gotten underfoot at the Red Room. Lisichka, and it was all muscle memory more than conscious recollection (he still couldn’t tell her every mission they’d been on, they’d successfully carved that out of him). But it was there. It was like getting on a bike and realising you still knew what to do, where to put your hands.
He had done this before— —they had been here before—
James drifted slightly sideways to kiss the pale column of her throat, his mouth hot against her neck, licking the sweat from her skin. And with the sensation of taking a gamble and hoping he was right, he kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear which he thought he remembered had always made her shiver, once upon a time.
The Russian endearment washed over her, making her tremble just lightly. It rang in her ears like a sultry bell, smooth and silky, and Natasha couldn't check a small, wanton moan as the breath washed over her lips. She knew she was remembering the exact same thing: cold stone walls, a haggard, spavined cot, and burning mouths and hands, tangled together at every stolen opportunity.
Then, unbidden, "...moya zvezda," purred out of her mouth, and she almost lurched, but thankfully James held her close and upright. My Star; her name for him, testament to the five-pointed emblem on his left bicep, scarlet against the bright silver. My Star; her haven, her safe place, the one she'd follow without question, the only one to ever both break her and put her back together - the name had encompassed all that he was, all that he meant to her.
"Moya zvezda," Natasha - Natalia - breathed again, her head tipping back in sheer permission, tilting slightly to grant him unfettered access to her heated, aching skin. Those smooth, remembered lips graced her flesh with soft, sure kisses, and Natasha felt her knees suddenly go dangerously weak when they sought out the warmth beneath her ear, and she gripped tightly, one small hand fisting in James' dark hair and the other clutching him around the waist.
It was dark inside their apartment, but she didn't need light to see; the former Red Room graduate still remembered every line, every muscle, even the cherished scent of his skin was still the same. A few more scars here and there, but that wasn't at all surprising. She'd earned her own share, too.
This was fast, desperate, the boundaries between them collapsing, the pair accidentally tripping right past friends and straight into the something-more. Because all of a sudden, they weren’t strangers anymore. She had been patient, waiting him out and watching to see if any of those long-buried memories would ever be excavated. And he had been— oblivious, a little, but perpetually haunted by that absence, the lack, the sense of something he was missing in the picture.
But now the puzzle pieces were slamming together. Making up for lost time. James found that he missed the warmth of her mouth on his, her hands on his bare skin. Their apartment was already muggy and hot, they were already sweaty and half-naked, and so it would be the easiest thing to slip into more if this was what they wanted—
He reluctantly broke the kiss, pulled back just enough to catch his breath. His right hand had gone to Natasha’s cheek, the line of her neck, holding her in place, their eyes meeting. His composure was always so difficult to rattle, but his breaths were shallow now, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard; another victory for her. There was an unaccustomed hunger in his eyes when he looked at her.
“I don’t remember everything,” he admitted. He wanted to say it. Make it clear so it didn’t feel like he was taking advantage of her; walking in another man’s shoes and robbing his memories, except that man was also himself. “There are still… gaps. They burned it out of me. I don’t know if it’ll all ever come back.”
He’d been encountering it with Steve, too. No matter how much the other man waited and prompted, occasionally asking questions like do you remember that day we took in the stray cat, he’d simply had to shake his head regretfully and say, no, sorry. It’s gone.
“But I do remember… moments like this. Us.” His thumb brushed the line of her jaw, the corner of her mouth, her lips. His expression had gone a little distant and thoughtful. “I kissed you behind the generator building at the Red Room, standing in the snow. You crawled into my bed after the job in Rovaniemi.”
Small details dredged up out of the abyss. How long? How long had they done this? How much had been taken from him?
Natasha too was panting softly when they broke apart again. And rather than insist on more kisses, more eager, hungry caresses, she let him pull away, let him hold her still and rest his forehead against hers, blue eyes gazing directly into green. She held still, seeing him struggling with...everything. Composure, memories, balance.
Score for her; she knew how hard it was to discombobulate the Winter Soldier.
Unlike James, Natasha hadn't forgotten anything. She still remembered their missions together - etched in a bittersweet shell of pleasure and pain. She still remembered the weight of his fist, crashing down on her in the training room; she still remembered the warm gutturals that purred beneath her ear later that same night. She still remembered every assignment, every cover, every kill. And, for just a moment, she was quietly glad that he couldn't.
She'd take the pain of him not knowing them over him not knowing what they'd been forced to do together. How many lives had been lost at their talented, dangerous hands.
So she forced a small smile, a reassuring smile, and shook her head lightly, lowering her lashes even though she still rested her forehead against his. "It's okay, James," she soothed him, gently stroking his cheek even as he cupped hers. "--I don't expect us to just...pick up where we left off."
A small warmth curled through her at his spoken recollections, though. Because she remembered them, too. "It was really cold that day," she added to the memory. "And we were supposed to be running the obstacle course that ran around the compound." A light shrug. "...but." Then, "...you were mad at me after the Rovaniemi mission." A light smirk curved her lips. "You didn't approve of me getting all familiar and handsy with the CEO's son."
But she'd needed a way into the man's executive office that didn't involve bloodshed. So, seducing his playboy, over-confident son had been the next best idea.
Natasha chuckled lightly. "You barely spoke to me for the rest of that day and all night, too. Only when I marched over to your bed and shoved you over did you even look at me, all glowering and pouting." She gently stroked his face, fingertips gentle against his skin. "That didn't last too long, though..."
He huffed a small laugh, an exhale of breath against her wrist. If he grasped for the edges of that memory, he thought he could finally see the edges of it, even pale and threadbare as it was: his silent surliness, that jealousy stewing beneath his skin. The way Natasha had drawn him back out of that shell, and he had made a point of putting his mouth where the playboy’s had been; of being better than him; of getting her to make noises that the other man hadn’t been capable of.
The very tips of his ears turned faintly red at the memory.
“I shouldn’t have sulked,” James said. “It wasn’t my place. You had a mission to do.”
He still sounded contemplative, weighing over a decision, and how much he knew better. He shouldn’t rush this. They shouldn’t. This thing still felt fragile and new, whatever it was.
But.
He craned his head into her touch, and looked at her again, and there was a flicker of humour on his mouth which was suddenly very much Bucky: not the Soldier, not even James. “What if I wanna pick up where we left off?”
"I liked that you did," she whispered with a sly little smile. "Made me feel...worth something, somehow. I liked that it got under your skin. That I meant something to you." She'd never had anyone care, before him. She'd been just a tool, an asset, barely with a name of her own. Their prodigy, but only as long as she was useful.
Natasha's hands slowly feathered over Bucky's shoulders, his upper arms - not at all daunted by the gleam of silver on the left - and back again, silently greedy for the feel of him once more. She'd been starved for decades. A small hand moved to cup his cheek, relishing the slight scruff of his jaw against her palm, and she felt him lean into her touch, as if he too were so hungry for it.
Then her brows lifted with his quiet question, green eyes searching his face, his expression. "...really?" A reflexive answer. They were still so close, Natasha trapped between Bucky's large frame and the kitchen counter. But the world around them might as well not even exist at all. "Do you really want to?" Followed by, "...can you, James?"
His expression flickered; a scrunch of his nose, a gesture of mock affront at that last question.
“Yes, and yes, and that almost sounds like a challenge, Natalia.”
Can he, though? Is he capable? It had been long enough that he honestly didn’t know if he could wake his body up again and pull these particular strings again, but— “Let’s find out,” he added, fierce, and he leaned in and kissed her once more. Lips hard against Natasha’s, the lean lines of his body crowding hers against the counter, hands drifting back into her red hair, seizing that challenge and running full-tilt with it. He wanted to recapture this, whatever they’d once had.
No one was watching them. They didn’t have handlers and surveillance and cameras on their every move, ready to swoop in and punish them for the intimacy, for straying outside the lines of their existence as weapons. Maybe, just maybe— this time, for once— they could simply have what they wanted.
It wasn't so much of a challenge than it was a serious inquiry; Barnes' mental state was the very reason they were even here, in Madripoor. Rogers had always handled him with kid gloves, every watchful, ever wary that his best old friend might run off the rails at any moment, driven by the demons in his own mind. And, if she were honest, Natasha had done the same; at a lesser degree, of course.
But since they'd been traveling together, she hadn't seen the first inkling of anything other in the man, at all. Of course, they wouldn't be truly safe until HYDRA's conditioning was broken once and for all, erased completely, but so far, no relapses. Not even any serious nightmares. A few bad dreams here and there, but honestly, she could understand that.
However, it seemed that James wanted more than friendship, and Natasha didn't have any objections. When he kissed her again, hard and fervent, she didn't hesitate. Both of her arms went around him, and she immediately slithered atop the countertop, so that she might drag him between her thighs and wrap her strong legs around his waist to hold him close. It was hot in their apartment, yes, but her skin burned where it met his, and she gave a series of low, needful moans on every shaky breath.
He didn't have to be Bucky Barnes. He didn't have to be the Winter Soldier. Not for her. All she wanted was the man in her arms, kissing her like he'd never get enough, and that was more than enough for Natasha.
Needing more than a quick inhale, Natasha abruptly broke their kisses to pant, "--bedroom's too far," before latching her mouth to the throbbing pulse in his neck and sinking in her teeth.
All of this was something of a minor miracle: realising and learning that what he’d assumed was just his tongue-tied antsy crush on a very competent teammate was, well— something else. Walking the same footsteps he’d once walked before. A deep wellspring of shared history, entangled in all the details he could just barely catch and unpick from the tapestry, and then the ones he couldn’t. James’ own body and subconscious betraying him and remembering Natasha, apparently, even when his conscious mind couldn’t. Some recollection sparking in the husky sound of her voice in the mornings, the way they walked around each other in this cramped apartment, the warmth of her body on the mattress in the wintry cabin beside him.
And here, now, the easy way she hopped up onto the counter and comfortably drew him closer, pressing her lips to his neck, the scrape of stubble on his jaw. Even that nip of her teeth: James was learning that he liked that little flash of gentle pain, the knowledge that she could leave hickeys on his throat, they didn’t have to hide the evidence any longer, they could visibly ruin each other and no one would give a shit. Another miracle: he wasn’t even self-conscious about the desperation of it. He just wanted his hands on her again. Wanted to walk this ground again; have what he’d once had with her, again, and again.
So he stepped into the cradle of her legs, and with him just in those boxer shorts, Natasha could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against her. While he cocked his head so she could better reach his neck, he reached blindly behind her; the bikini top was even easier to undo than a bra, just one tug at the tie and the fabric was falling free, replaced by the warmth of his hand palming one bare breast, thumb rolling over her nipple.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured in Russian, the words familiar, like a ghost.
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maskirovka) wrote2021-07-20 01:46 am
no subject
“Lisichka,” he answered as they broke for breath, his forehead tipped against Natasha’s, the term of endearment suddenly coming to him with unexpected certainty. Little fox: a nod to her blazing red hair, her mischievous demeanour, and the way the girl had always gotten underfoot at the Red Room. Lisichka, and it was all muscle memory more than conscious recollection (he still couldn’t tell her every mission they’d been on, they’d successfully carved that out of him). But it was there. It was like getting on a bike and realising you still knew what to do, where to put your hands.
He had done this before—
—they had been here before—
James drifted slightly sideways to kiss the pale column of her throat, his mouth hot against her neck, licking the sweat from her skin. And with the sensation of taking a gamble and hoping he was right, he kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear which he thought he remembered had always made her shiver, once upon a time.
no subject
Then, unbidden, "...moya zvezda," purred out of her mouth, and she almost lurched, but thankfully James held her close and upright. My Star; her name for him, testament to the five-pointed emblem on his left bicep, scarlet against the bright silver. My Star; her haven, her safe place, the one she'd follow without question, the only one to ever both break her and put her back together - the name had encompassed all that he was, all that he meant to her.
"Moya zvezda," Natasha - Natalia - breathed again, her head tipping back in sheer permission, tilting slightly to grant him unfettered access to her heated, aching skin. Those smooth, remembered lips graced her flesh with soft, sure kisses, and Natasha felt her knees suddenly go dangerously weak when they sought out the warmth beneath her ear, and she gripped tightly, one small hand fisting in James' dark hair and the other clutching him around the waist.
It was dark inside their apartment, but she didn't need light to see; the former Red Room graduate still remembered every line, every muscle, even the cherished scent of his skin was still the same. A few more scars here and there, but that wasn't at all surprising. She'd earned her own share, too.
no subject
But now the puzzle pieces were slamming together. Making up for lost time. James found that he missed the warmth of her mouth on his, her hands on his bare skin. Their apartment was already muggy and hot, they were already sweaty and half-naked, and so it would be the easiest thing to slip into more if this was what they wanted—
He reluctantly broke the kiss, pulled back just enough to catch his breath. His right hand had gone to Natasha’s cheek, the line of her neck, holding her in place, their eyes meeting. His composure was always so difficult to rattle, but his breaths were shallow now, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard; another victory for her. There was an unaccustomed hunger in his eyes when he looked at her.
“I don’t remember everything,” he admitted. He wanted to say it. Make it clear so it didn’t feel like he was taking advantage of her; walking in another man’s shoes and robbing his memories, except that man was also himself. “There are still… gaps. They burned it out of me. I don’t know if it’ll all ever come back.”
He’d been encountering it with Steve, too. No matter how much the other man waited and prompted, occasionally asking questions like do you remember that day we took in the stray cat, he’d simply had to shake his head regretfully and say, no, sorry. It’s gone.
“But I do remember… moments like this. Us.” His thumb brushed the line of her jaw, the corner of her mouth, her lips. His expression had gone a little distant and thoughtful. “I kissed you behind the generator building at the Red Room, standing in the snow. You crawled into my bed after the job in Rovaniemi.”
Small details dredged up out of the abyss. How long? How long had they done this? How much had been taken from him?
no subject
Score for her; she knew how hard it was to discombobulate the Winter Soldier.
Unlike James, Natasha hadn't forgotten anything. She still remembered their missions together - etched in a bittersweet shell of pleasure and pain. She still remembered the weight of his fist, crashing down on her in the training room; she still remembered the warm gutturals that purred beneath her ear later that same night. She still remembered every assignment, every cover, every kill. And, for just a moment, she was quietly glad that he couldn't.
She'd take the pain of him not knowing them over him not knowing what they'd been forced to do together. How many lives had been lost at their talented, dangerous hands.
So she forced a small smile, a reassuring smile, and shook her head lightly, lowering her lashes even though she still rested her forehead against his. "It's okay, James," she soothed him, gently stroking his cheek even as he cupped hers. "--I don't expect us to just...pick up where we left off."
A small warmth curled through her at his spoken recollections, though. Because she remembered them, too. "It was really cold that day," she added to the memory. "And we were supposed to be running the obstacle course that ran around the compound." A light shrug. "...but." Then, "...you were mad at me after the Rovaniemi mission." A light smirk curved her lips. "You didn't approve of me getting all familiar and handsy with the CEO's son."
But she'd needed a way into the man's executive office that didn't involve bloodshed. So, seducing his playboy, over-confident son had been the next best idea.
Natasha chuckled lightly. "You barely spoke to me for the rest of that day and all night, too. Only when I marched over to your bed and shoved you over did you even look at me, all glowering and pouting." She gently stroked his face, fingertips gentle against his skin. "That didn't last too long, though..."
no subject
The very tips of his ears turned faintly red at the memory.
“I shouldn’t have sulked,” James said. “It wasn’t my place. You had a mission to do.”
He still sounded contemplative, weighing over a decision, and how much he knew better. He shouldn’t rush this. They shouldn’t. This thing still felt fragile and new, whatever it was.
But.
He craned his head into her touch, and looked at her again, and there was a flicker of humour on his mouth which was suddenly very much Bucky: not the Soldier, not even James. “What if I wanna pick up where we left off?”
no subject
Natasha's hands slowly feathered over Bucky's shoulders, his upper arms - not at all daunted by the gleam of silver on the left - and back again, silently greedy for the feel of him once more. She'd been starved for decades. A small hand moved to cup his cheek, relishing the slight scruff of his jaw against her palm, and she felt him lean into her touch, as if he too were so hungry for it.
Then her brows lifted with his quiet question, green eyes searching his face, his expression. "...really?" A reflexive answer. They were still so close, Natasha trapped between Bucky's large frame and the kitchen counter. But the world around them might as well not even exist at all. "Do you really want to?" Followed by, "...can you, James?"
She was ready if he was.
no subject
“Yes, and yes, and that almost sounds like a challenge, Natalia.”
Can he, though? Is he capable? It had been long enough that he honestly didn’t know if he could wake his body up again and pull these particular strings again, but— “Let’s find out,” he added, fierce, and he leaned in and kissed her once more. Lips hard against Natasha’s, the lean lines of his body crowding hers against the counter, hands drifting back into her red hair, seizing that challenge and running full-tilt with it. He wanted to recapture this, whatever they’d once had.
No one was watching them. They didn’t have handlers and surveillance and cameras on their every move, ready to swoop in and punish them for the intimacy, for straying outside the lines of their existence as weapons. Maybe, just maybe— this time, for once— they could simply have what they wanted.
no subject
But since they'd been traveling together, she hadn't seen the first inkling of anything other in the man, at all. Of course, they wouldn't be truly safe until HYDRA's conditioning was broken once and for all, erased completely, but so far, no relapses. Not even any serious nightmares. A few bad dreams here and there, but honestly, she could understand that.
However, it seemed that James wanted more than friendship, and Natasha didn't have any objections. When he kissed her again, hard and fervent, she didn't hesitate. Both of her arms went around him, and she immediately slithered atop the countertop, so that she might drag him between her thighs and wrap her strong legs around his waist to hold him close. It was hot in their apartment, yes, but her skin burned where it met his, and she gave a series of low, needful moans on every shaky breath.
He didn't have to be Bucky Barnes. He didn't have to be the Winter Soldier. Not for her. All she wanted was the man in her arms, kissing her like he'd never get enough, and that was more than enough for Natasha.
Needing more than a quick inhale, Natasha abruptly broke their kisses to pant, "--bedroom's too far," before latching her mouth to the throbbing pulse in his neck and sinking in her teeth.
no subject
And here, now, the easy way she hopped up onto the counter and comfortably drew him closer, pressing her lips to his neck, the scrape of stubble on his jaw. Even that nip of her teeth: James was learning that he liked that little flash of gentle pain, the knowledge that she could leave hickeys on his throat, they didn’t have to hide the evidence any longer, they could visibly ruin each other and no one would give a shit. Another miracle: he wasn’t even self-conscious about the desperation of it. He just wanted his hands on her again. Wanted to walk this ground again; have what he’d once had with her, again, and again.
So he stepped into the cradle of her legs, and with him just in those boxer shorts, Natasha could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against her. While he cocked his head so she could better reach his neck, he reached blindly behind her; the bikini top was even easier to undo than a bra, just one tug at the tie and the fabric was falling free, replaced by the warmth of his hand palming one bare breast, thumb rolling over her nipple.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured in Russian, the words familiar, like a ghost.