With all respect to the people of Wakanda: they've turned metallurgy into a technologically marvelous art form and have made the most appealing scenario in which Bucky Barnes could hide from the world. The problem is more that Bucky can't hide from the world for long. Oh, he knows why he should... the words in his brain, the bits and bobs of the Ten Rings and neo-fascists and old-school fascists and run-of-the-mill crazy people with an interest in history and remnants of HYDRA all spinning on the same blue ball as he is means that he's going to run into the wrong crowd eventually, even if he does his level best to vanish into obscurity.
But Bucky itches to be in the world. To be doing something to make it a better place, after he unwittingly made it a worse one for so long for all the worst people. He's had some time to sort through the shit in his brain, to figure out what was real and what wasn't, to sort out the few times he had lucidity and feeling and wasn't just a machine, to try and pin them on a timeline based on history, location, what he was up to. It did happen, the lucidity, mostly in the 1950s and 1960s or so, which is... distressing in a new millennium to have the realization that it's been roughly fifty years since you've had a thought that wasn't part of a preprogrammed set.
You know. On top of all the other trauma about the entire situation.
All this to say: he leaves Wakanda. He doesn't leave without saying goodbye (to the children), and he doesn't consider the sort of concern this might bring up amongst his super and over-powered peers. He is a man on a mission.
That mission is to make the world slightly better than it was before he started hiding.
It was rough, definitely, the travel from the heart of Africa to Eastern Europe but he'd practiced handling the worst of it in Wakanda's crowded cities. Got used to the press of other humans, of semi-disappearing in a sea of people when he's built to stand out or vanish completely. To act normal, more or less. He knows what people act like when they're afraid, and when they're not; when they're bracing for the world to end and when it's just another day.
It didn't really occur to him that anyone would bother coming to track him down, at least not until he'd gotten really into it.
"It" being the improvement project. Sure he could've gone after multinational corporations, or become the vengeful boogeyman in greasepaint again... but corporations are actually difficult to dismantle in a meaningful way if one is neither the government nor willing to assassinate an entire board of directors (no matter how much they might deserve it, in his opinion, okay?) and he's not trying to raise the wrong red flags here. He'd do more harm than good before other people got called in to handle it, and so. It. The improvement project. AKA routing a small valley from the chokehold the local mobsters have everything in.
There are flowers, and his mouth is dry, and his skin feels hot in a way that would imply he'd been asleep in the sun for too long.
None of these things makes any sense. Because he's dead, truly deceased this time, and he knows it. Can still feel the hand of the Mad Titan at his throat. He was not headed for Valhalla, surely, and Valhalla doesn't appear/look/feel/smell/sound like this anyway.
This is not a noisy hall full of fallen heroes at a meal meant to last an eternity. This is a field full of vivid blooms in strange colors, some scattered buildings in the distance, what could be a city's spires on the horizon, and there is someone else standing not ten feet away from him with their back to him.
The Black Widow. That's... odd. What is she doing here?
He's moving toward her before he realizes he's made any decision about speaking to her, kicking up pollen the entire way there. Either she doesn't hear him or she's so distracted by also attempting to figure out just where they are and how the Hel they managed to get there because her back is to him the entire time as he crosses the distance between them. He should probably stop a reasonable distance, clear his throat, get her attention. Prepare for her to attack him in expectant self-defense.
Ask her, perhaps, just what it is she's wearing.
None of that is what happens.
Instead, he reaches out to touch her arm without saying a word and his brain just kind of goes sideways. He's not sure if he turns her around or if the Widow does that herself. She's got on the flimsiest white shift dress he's ever laid eyes upon, along with some odd circular golden floating headdress. The material of the shift dress clings to her body's curves in ways he can't stop noticing and makes it immediately apparent she has nothing on underneath it. Loki's mouth waters.
He also has on some ridiculously thin set of clothes, in black, which is not terribly unusual, even though it's not what he died wearing. The fact that he has on nothing beneath the pants is also not unusual.
All these things he takes in within the span of a moment because in the next second, he's shoved her back toward the ground, following her down and landing on his knees. His fingers catch at the neckline of the dress to keep her from hitting the ground too hard and while it does work, the fabric rips across her chest and exposes her breasts, and he has bent over to take one in his mouth before he can even blink, tongue flicking against a nipple just before he bites down.
One hand shoves the shift up nearer her hips while the other reaches between her thighs, parts the lips of her cunt, before two fingers press into her. He is dimly aware that this? Should not be happening. Something is wrong. He is too aroused and too willing to give into that sensation without trying to figure out what is going on.
He watches her face as he moves his fingers apart inside of her and sucks a bruise into her breast and decides, firmly, that he does not care.
The problem with going undercover with Natasha Romanoff is that she's maybe the most beautiful woman he's ever seen in his life. Which in reality shouldn't be a problem at all, in fact somehow, after all of this mess of bullshit she's even ended up as his. How? He's still not sure but she assures him that he is exactly what she wants and how can a man argue with that?
The issue though, is that on this specific mission Natasha's cover is that of some wealthy heiress, three times removed from some small monarchy in Eastern Europe and desperately trying to make political connections. His own cover? Her body guard, which means he can't actually spend nearly enough time looking at her in the little green dress that makes him ache with anticipation.
No, he has to stay watching the rest of the party, a healthy distance away. Far enough to listen to her flirt with other men, rich men, much better men then him. He never thought himself a jealous man, but somehow it seems like that is exactly what is rearing it's ugly head as the night goes on. Their mark they've been tracking is due to speak here in another hour, fuck it.
He checks his phone, even though there's nothing there before pocketing it and heading over to Natasha.
"Madame, I'm so sorry, but I have an urgent message from your sister if you'll please follow me..." He tells her as he heads to a set of backdoors to an empty hallway he'd clocked when they cased the place earlier.
( the address is more than enough for her — she can trace it back to any number of aliases, cross reference it with what she knows of him already (admittedly not much, it’s rude to dig too far on your casual whatever-they-are’s), file it away for later. for the moment, she’s too interested in what is waiting for her there —
she breaks in through the back door with a set of lock picks, disabling the security system with a well-placed mini charge of electricity mostly because she can.
when he comes in, she’s already in the shower. the noise bounces off the tile walls and out through the door she’s left open — not just for an invitation, but for security purposes. blood washes down the drain in rivulets, the bulk of it being washed out of her hair, clothes abandoned in a pile in a corner that she was careful not to let touch any bath mats or rugs in case the blood transfers. )
That might be the only reason I turned up on time. ( or close enough, anyway. it's uttered mildly, something between a statement of fact and what could, from the right angle, almost be taken for a joke. (in a manner of speaking.) he leaves it to natasha to guess at how much truth there is to it, his own expression flickering as she says everything looks good on her.
there's no disagreement there, although his gaze lingers long enough to do more than imply that he's considering her statement. weighing it up before he looks down as she draws attention to the quote-unquote detail of the dress and he exhales. it's almost a laugh, and then natasha asks if he wants to dance.
it's not, strictly, that he'd like to, but—.
he holds a hand out towards in lieu of a 'yes'. then, in answer to her remark about the dress, with an eye cast over the rest of the guests— ) Too daring for who? Daphne and her sister have both been in the city for long enough that a bit of leg isn't going to shock them.
( natasha’s almost (almost) surprised that he says yes — but maybe tonight is a night for marc spector to continue to surprise her, and she’s learned to roll with the punches. he holds out a hand and she takes it, not wasting any time with hesitation; tugging gently, she leads him back towards the dance floor where attendees seem to be straddling the line between what natasha imagines would be regency appropriate type dancing and a bit more modern slow dancing.
settling herself in front of him, she doesn’t hesitate to rest one hand on his shoulder, the opposite still holding onto his as she raises it into more of a ‘waltz’ type position. it’s on the tip of her tongue to tease him (‘like what you see?’) but instead she just watches for a second.
if he doesn’t start them swaying, she will — with a neat little step that still gives the illusion that he’s leading. )
I heard they had family arrive. ( her smile is bland, neutral — ‘heard’ being, of course, a euphemism for found out. even in a place like this, old habits die hard; the bridgerton’s are (as far as she can tell) mostly harmless … but it doesn’t hurt to keep an eye on everything. ) Family that might be a little bit less used to ‘a bit of leg’ —
( a beat, bland smile deepening to a smirk. ) You don’t seem to mind it, though.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redhourglass) wrote2022-10-14 08:28 pm
@moonknighted (tfln)
less irritating
if someone is trying to kill you, it’s generally socially acceptable to take them out
c:
Re: c:
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
With all respect to the people of Wakanda: they've turned metallurgy into a technologically marvelous art form and have made the most appealing scenario in which Bucky Barnes could hide from the world. The problem is more that Bucky can't hide from the world for long. Oh, he knows why he should... the words in his brain, the bits and bobs of the Ten Rings and neo-fascists and old-school fascists and run-of-the-mill crazy people with an interest in history and remnants of HYDRA all spinning on the same blue ball as he is means that he's going to run into the wrong crowd eventually, even if he does his level best to vanish into obscurity.
But Bucky itches to be in the world. To be doing something to make it a better place, after he unwittingly made it a worse one for so long for all the worst people. He's had some time to sort through the shit in his brain, to figure out what was real and what wasn't, to sort out the few times he had lucidity and feeling and wasn't just a machine, to try and pin them on a timeline based on history, location, what he was up to. It did happen, the lucidity, mostly in the 1950s and 1960s or so, which is... distressing in a new millennium to have the realization that it's been roughly fifty years since you've had a thought that wasn't part of a preprogrammed set.
You know. On top of all the other trauma about the entire situation.
All this to say: he leaves Wakanda. He doesn't leave without saying goodbye (to the children), and he doesn't consider the sort of concern this might bring up amongst his super and over-powered peers. He is a man on a mission.
That mission is to make the world slightly better than it was before he started hiding.
It was rough, definitely, the travel from the heart of Africa to Eastern Europe but he'd practiced handling the worst of it in Wakanda's crowded cities. Got used to the press of other humans, of semi-disappearing in a sea of people when he's built to stand out or vanish completely. To act normal, more or less. He knows what people act like when they're afraid, and when they're not; when they're bracing for the world to end and when it's just another day.
It didn't really occur to him that anyone would bother coming to track him down, at least not until he'd gotten really into it.
"It" being the improvement project. Sure he could've gone after multinational corporations, or become the vengeful boogeyman in greasepaint again... but corporations are actually difficult to dismantle in a meaningful way if one is neither the government nor willing to assassinate an entire board of directors (no matter how much they might deserve it, in his opinion, okay?) and he's not trying to raise the wrong red flags here. He'd do more harm than good before other people got called in to handle it, and so. It. The improvement project. AKA routing a small valley from the chokehold the local mobsters have everything in.
tl;dr excuse me
I won't excuse you, no :P
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
here there be pollens of strange and terrible forms
None of these things makes any sense. Because he's dead, truly deceased this time, and he knows it. Can still feel the hand of the Mad Titan at his throat. He was not headed for Valhalla, surely, and Valhalla doesn't appear/look/feel/smell/sound like this anyway.
This is not a noisy hall full of fallen heroes at a meal meant to last an eternity. This is a field full of vivid blooms in strange colors, some scattered buildings in the distance, what could be a city's spires on the horizon, and there is someone else standing not ten feet away from him with their back to him.
The Black Widow. That's... odd. What is she doing here?
He's moving toward her before he realizes he's made any decision about speaking to her, kicking up pollen the entire way there. Either she doesn't hear him or she's so distracted by also attempting to figure out just where they are and how the Hel they managed to get there because her back is to him the entire time as he crosses the distance between them. He should probably stop a reasonable distance, clear his throat, get her attention. Prepare for her to attack him in expectant self-defense.
Ask her, perhaps, just what it is she's wearing.
None of that is what happens.
Instead, he reaches out to touch her arm without saying a word and his brain just kind of goes sideways. He's not sure if he turns her around or if the Widow does that herself. She's got on the flimsiest white shift dress he's ever laid eyes upon, along with some odd circular golden floating headdress. The material of the shift dress clings to her body's curves in ways he can't stop noticing and makes it immediately apparent she has nothing on underneath it. Loki's mouth waters.
He also has on some ridiculously thin set of clothes, in black, which is not terribly unusual, even though it's not what he died wearing. The fact that he has on nothing beneath the pants is also not unusual.
All these things he takes in within the span of a moment because in the next second, he's shoved her back toward the ground, following her down and landing on his knees. His fingers catch at the neckline of the dress to keep her from hitting the ground too hard and while it does work, the fabric rips across her chest and exposes her breasts, and he has bent over to take one in his mouth before he can even blink, tongue flicking against a nipple just before he bites down.
One hand shoves the shift up nearer her hips while the other reaches between her thighs, parts the lips of her cunt, before two fingers press into her. He is dimly aware that this? Should not be happening. Something is wrong. He is too aroused and too willing to give into that sensation without trying to figure out what is going on.
He watches her face as he moves his fingers apart inside of her and sucks a bruise into her breast and decides, firmly, that he does not care.
😌
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
The issue though, is that on this specific mission Natasha's cover is that of some wealthy heiress, three times removed from some small monarchy in Eastern Europe and desperately trying to make political connections. His own cover? Her body guard, which means he can't actually spend nearly enough time looking at her in the little green dress that makes him ache with anticipation.
No, he has to stay watching the rest of the party, a healthy distance away. Far enough to listen to her flirt with other men, rich men, much better men then him. He never thought himself a jealous man, but somehow it seems like that is exactly what is rearing it's ugly head as the night goes on. Their mark they've been tracking is due to speak here in another hour, fuck it.
He checks his phone, even though there's nothing there before pocketing it and heading over to Natasha.
"Madame, I'm so sorry, but I have an urgent message from your sister if you'll please follow me..." He tells her as he heads to a set of backdoors to an empty hallway he'd clocked when they cased the place earlier.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
@ vestments
as long as it has hot water
( the address is more than enough for her — she can trace it back to any number of aliases, cross reference it with what she knows of him already (admittedly not much, it’s rude to dig too far on your casual whatever-they-are’s), file it away for later. for the moment, she’s too interested in what is waiting for her there —
she breaks in through the back door with a set of lock picks, disabling the security system with a well-placed mini charge of electricity mostly because she can.
when he comes in, she’s already in the shower. the noise bounces off the tile walls and out through the door she’s left open — not just for an invitation, but for security purposes. blood washes down the drain in rivulets, the bulk of it being washed out of her hair, clothes abandoned in a pile in a corner that she was careful not to let touch any bath mats or rugs in case the blood transfers. )
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
for vestments (continued from duplicity)
mk’s last reply
That might be the only reason I turned up on time. ( or close enough, anyway. it's uttered mildly, something between a statement of fact and what could, from the right angle, almost be taken for a joke. (in a manner of speaking.) he leaves it to natasha to guess at how much truth there is to it, his own expression flickering as she says everything looks good on her.
there's no disagreement there, although his gaze lingers long enough to do more than imply that he's considering her statement. weighing it up before he looks down as she draws attention to the quote-unquote detail of the dress and he exhales. it's almost a laugh, and then natasha asks if he wants to dance.
it's not, strictly, that he'd like to, but—.
he holds a hand out towards in lieu of a 'yes'. then, in answer to her remark about the dress, with an eye cast over the rest of the guests— ) Too daring for who? Daphne and her sister have both been in the city for long enough that a bit of leg isn't going to shock them.
( natasha’s almost (almost) surprised that he says yes — but maybe tonight is a night for marc spector to continue to surprise her, and she’s learned to roll with the punches. he holds out a hand and she takes it, not wasting any time with hesitation; tugging gently, she leads him back towards the dance floor where attendees seem to be straddling the line between what natasha imagines would be regency appropriate type dancing and a bit more modern slow dancing.
settling herself in front of him, she doesn’t hesitate to rest one hand on his shoulder, the opposite still holding onto his as she raises it into more of a ‘waltz’ type position. it’s on the tip of her tongue to tease him (‘like what you see?’) but instead she just watches for a second.
if he doesn’t start them swaying, she will — with a neat little step that still gives the illusion that he’s leading. )
I heard they had family arrive. ( her smile is bland, neutral — ‘heard’ being, of course, a euphemism for found out. even in a place like this, old habits die hard; the bridgerton’s are (as far as she can tell) mostly harmless … but it doesn’t hurt to keep an eye on everything. ) Family that might be a little bit less used to ‘a bit of leg’ —
( a beat, bland smile deepening to a smirk. ) You don’t seem to mind it, though.