I don't own Marvel. Last I updated I was being a whiny lil ho. Sorry bout that. I was dealing with feelings, but I've since dialed my Emotions™ back to to -1 where they usually are. Essentially I stowed my crap (with the help of Netflix, pizza, and my friends Jack and Coke). So now we're back in business, kids! To clarify chapter 8 was set in December 2008, 9 was in May 2009, and this chapter is set into autumn of 2009.
Babe, there's something wretched about this
Something so precious about this
Oh what a sin
As far as soulsearching goes, she spends her summer being considerably less productive than her friends. Deja, and her now-boyfriend, Aarav, go on holiday. They spend the next several months in New Dehli, Dubai, and Istanbul. Adam moves to Manhattan and begins his job on Wall Street. Paola volunteers in Brazil and Argentina for the summer. Meanwhile Christina Pierce rotates between binge watching television, visiting The Vault, and sneaking around with the Winter Soldier.
He gets so few missions in the continental USA that dropping by her apartment isn't normally an option. But, from time to time he does have the opportunity to visit after an assignment is completed, before he's scheduled to meet up with the extraction team.
Nearly a year has passed since the time the assassin met Pierce's daughter. The pretty little blonde has honesty been a gift in his cold, empty life. After all the blood, the gore— the red— he doesn't know how someone like Christina came into his life, but he knows luck enough to recognize it when it's staring him in the face.
Alexander Pierce is convinced his daughter is looking to join the ranks of Hydra, what with how often she visits The Vault, hangs around his office, peruses the halls. He hasn't a clue that between wandering the corridors and reading in his office, she spends a high percentage of her summer pinned underneath the organization's treasured Asset.
Christina can only imagine the kind of reaction it would elicit from her father. She thinks he'd probably have her killed, or worse, inducted. To be perfectly honest she's surprised the two of them have come this far unnoticed. Even that day, after her father becomes distracted by paperwork, she sees herself out and disappears to find her lover.
The assassin is between evaluations when she tracks him down to the observation bay. Entering, she finds him seated on an examination table, unguarded, staring off into space. The click of the door seems to jar him from his reverie. The assassin glances to the threshold, watches a blonde woman in a grey jersey dress and a pair of white sneakers enter the room. Pretty, he thinks absently, despite looking void. Expression empty and emotionless, he levels her with steel blue eyes and Christina feels cold. "You remember me today?"
The man in question blinks, stares her square in the eye, and then looks down at the tile. "No." His response hollows the pit of her stomach, makes the ice of anger— disappointment— heartbreak— fill up the void. It's been a while since he'd forgotten her. Perhaps his recent mission to St. Petersburg would explain the relapse, the Russian sector always seems considerably more harsh with his routine. Each time he works with them on an assignment he comes back a little more empty than last she'd seen him.
Some part of the Soldier knows her, at least he feels that he does. The phantom sensation of gentle fingertips that ghost over his shoulders, clamp onto his throat, tug at his hair. The recollection of breathy panting that fill his ears, lips that steal his breath away. The smell of mango and pomegranate— forbidden fruit. This woman smells that way, like the glimpses of a ghost that lives locked away in the hollow of his memory.
Drifting back into the present, the assassin can see her plump, pink lips moving. He hears her talking with her voice like a wind chime. She's a beautiful girl, though he can't remember meeting her. But, he does remembers that he'd saved her— at least once— and that he's kissed her before— her tongue tasted like coffee and the mint of a menthol cigarette.
Finally tuning back into the words the pretty blonde is forming, The Asset forces himself to be present and pay attention to what she's saying. "I said, I can help with that, if you'll let me." A smile graces her lips, all sweet and encompassing— setting fire to his blood— but her tone of voice promises something far less innocent. He barely feels himself nod, but he does, and it's enough consent for the woman to make her move.
Crowding close to the assassin, Christina combs her fingers through his long dark hair, pushes his bangs back away from his pretty blue eyes. The Winter Soldier holds her gaze, staring back into her brilliant cerulean irises. He says nothing, but when she leans froward to kiss him, he angles his face and meets her mouth first. That day her kiss tastes faintly of the peppermint tea she'd drank on the drive over, he tries to commit that to memory.
Sensory overload burns through him, feeling suddenly all too aware of her heated skin and wandering hands. The scent of her changes as she kisses down his neck, still pomegranate and traces of mango, but sweeter— unafraid and aroused. He knows that scent, recognizes it somehow. And, when she sinks to her knees, pops the fly of his fatigues, and opens her pretty pink mouth, he prays. God, he wants to remember this.
Eyebrows furrowing, jaw going slack, the Asset focuses on her mouth. Warm and wet, wrapped around his length. Fingers thread through her blonde locks, tangle in the gentle curls, as she hollows her cheeks. One of her fist closes around what she can't fit in her mouth, pumping in tandem with the bobbing of her head. "Fucking hell," the Asset curses, all puddy in her hands. How the hell could he ever have forgotten that mouth?
The Soldier lives for receiving, Christina has come to learn. Particularly he enjoys deepthroating, which of course is no surprise. Christina doesn't really mind, though as she sits in the back of a black town car next to her father— on their way to a late lunch at Ris on 23rd and L— her jaw feels stiff from the intense facefucking. She chuckles silently to herself, thinks about how appalled her father would be if he knew she'd been sucking off the organization's ever valuable Asset just ten minutes prior.
Alexander Pierce orders the ever simple grilled fish of the day— salmon— paired with feta and olive oil crushed potatoes with chopped egg and tomato caper vinaigrette and grilled lemon. His daughter picks her go-to food— pasta— and decides on Blistered Tomato Maltagliati. As they wait for their meals they each enjoy a glass of Pinot Noir and chat about various topics. The numerous job offers she'd received, about politics, about her cousin—Carol's— crazy antics. When the food arrives she picks over the fresh ricotta, basil, grilled swiss chard, pancetta and parmesan and stares out the window. Neither she nor her father are the type that try to eat and hold a conversation simultaneously.
Returning to The Vault, they walk in on the tail end of the Soldier's mechanical evaluation. His leather tactical gear is folded over his knee and his upper half is bare, shirtless so that the technicians can run diagnostics on his cybernetic arm. Pierce, his guard, and his daughter enter the fully occupied room. Three members of the S.T.R.I.K.E. unit are present, along with a scientist, a doctor, and two technicians, who are crowded around the Asset. Each of them bumbling around like busy bees.
Steel blue eyes meet Christina's cerulean and her mind flashes back to just an hour and a half prior, when she'd been crowding him too, but for a different, more delicious, purpose. The scent of sweet—now familiar to him— fills the assassin's nose and a hunger settles deep in the hollow of his chest. The Winter Soldier wants her again.
All but ignorant to her lover's longing— if not for his unyeilding stare— Christina leans back against the wall adjacent to the examination table and watches her father talk to the lead scientist and the head technician. She knows the Asset is watching her, but she also knows that Rumlow has noticed the assassin's hyper-awareness to her. From the corner of her eye she watches the commando glancing between the two of them curiously. Bravely she offers Rumlow a brief glace, keeping her face poised. She betrays no emotion, refuses to acknowledge either of the mens' looks, despite the heat at the apex of her thighs.
Nose flaring wide, the Winter Soldier inhales. Breathes in the smell of pomegranate and sweetness, longs to bury his face between his lover's thighs. He can't touch her here, not with the audience, but that doesn't stop the burning desire. The assassin is glad for the convenient placement of his tac uniform on his lap, he doesn't exactly know how he'd explain popping a boner on the examination table to his superior— considering the hard on is for the man's daughter.
When Christina files out the door after her father, she spares the assassin a telling glance. The Asset has a mission tonight, a simple high profile monitoring assignment, and after he sufficiently details his marks' routine, he'll be free to visit his lover. Russia was more than cold in temperature, he'd spent all his time strapped into The Chair or chilling in a cryotube. Assassin or not he's more than ready to get back to the warmth at Christina's side— even though he doesn't quite remember all of it.
As far as surveillance details go, the Winter Soldier finds politicians to be the most uneventful of his usual targets. When the boring, sixty-some year old, right wing conservative and his simpleton wife tuck in for the night the Asset is... happy— is that the right emotion?— to be able to rest his tired eyes. Come daylight he'll have to meet with yet another extraction team, but until then he knows a warm place to spend his free time.
Eight PM rolls around with no sign of the Asset, Christina is pretty sure her favorite assassin won't be making any surprise appearances that night. So she opens herself a bottle of Merlot, puts on a Robert Johnson record, and turns the dial to pre-heat her into her pantry, she picks up a long, purple aubergine and nods to herself, "Eggplant parmigiana it is."
An hour and a forty minutes later the Winter Soldier slips into Christina's apartment through the balcony door. It smells like food. Like tomato and cheese and— pomegranate. His lover stands at the kitchen counter, mixing a bowl of greens, humming along to the tune resonating through her home via an old record player. A man sings over the aged record, strums the strings of a guitar, and tells of hell hounds a'comin.
The woman sways to the song, stands all lovely in her cream colored, satin shorts and cool-toned, floral camisole. Long, wavy blonde tresses thrown over her shoulder and hang down her back, she looks comfortable in her pajamas. A glass of wine sits on the counter an arm's length from her, beside an open bottle. The assassin cracks a grin. Such a pretty little thing.
Christina jumps when she sees him, just barely, but enough that a smirk settles on his lips, as he comes to lean against the counter beside her. "What are you doing?" he questions, voice rough from lack of use again. The oven timer begins to beep and she leans down to retrieve the baking dish containing her meal. "Making dinner," she offers simply.
Meal time is a difficult concept for the Soldier, so dinner like the kind laid out in front of him is completely foreign. During missions he's provided MREs and they don't bother feeding him if he's being placed back in The Cradle, but when he isn't, they try to feed him twice a day. Usually a large helping of chicken or fish with vegetables, on a cafeteria tray, served with a lot of water. Not good but not bad, mostly just to keep him from losing muscle mass from the lack of regular proper nutrients.
So the home cooked Italian dish in front of him leaves him at a loss of words. "What is in this?" Questions the assassin after taking a bite. Christina glances at him, smiles and takes a sip of her wine, "Eggplant, cheese, tomato sauce." The Asset looks pleased as he shovels more food into his mouth. The woman has no idea what it is, but even something as simple and down to earth as him eating dinner with her is something Christina could get used to.
Another foreign concept to the Winter Soldier is dishes. He watches her, in her little satin pajamas, sipping red from her wine glass, swaying to another track on the record. More Delta blues. Soulful voice, subtle inflections of pitch, and smooth guitar. The fluid tune strikes a cord in him, like he'd heard it before. The assassin listens closer, but can't quite put his finger on the song. But, watching his lover humming along, he feels a line resonate in the hollow of his core.
Boy, dark gon' catch me here. I haven't got no lovin' sweet woman that love and feel my care.
Christina startles when both metal and flesh-and-bone arms wind around her slim waist, accidentally splashing dish water onto her pajama top. The blonde giggles, pretty wind chime laugh filling that hollow in his empty soul, as she turns in his arms. Trapped between his solid chest and the sink, she stares up at him, cerulean baring into steel blue. His right hand palms over the wet spot on her shirt, spots the strap of her undergarment falling off her shoulder with the floral strap of her wet top. He pulls the soaked material up over her head.
The bralettete she wears underneath is nude-toned, pale peach flesh, and lace. It's fitted and cropped just above her belly-button. So sheer, his eyes swallow he sight of her skin, like a man dehydrated. Fingers trace over the black ink of the tattoo on her side, then he's sweeping her up off her feet and spiriting her away to the bedroom.
Lord, that I'm standin' at the crossroad, babe. I believe I'm sinkin' down.
Cunnilingus has often been disappointing for Christina Pierce, at least with previous lovers. It is far from that with the Winter Soldier. He's eager and eats cunt like a man starved, he also really enjoys her sitting on his face. "Oh fuck," The blonde whines, panties that match her lace bralette left abandoned on the carpet and her ass planted on the assassin's chest, legs parted on either side of his head.
She buries her fingers in his dark hair as he grips her hips, whines at the slick of his tongue dipping between her folds. White hot heat courses through Christina's bones, has her chest heaving and her thighs trembling as the Asset nips, sucks, licks and nuzzles, like he's having the time of his life. Cerulean eyes rolling back into her skull, her palms falling back to brace against his chest as she fucks herself on the assassin's tongue.
"Winter, fuck!" she practically screams, hips stuttering as she crashes into her orgasm, latches onto his wrists where he's holding her hips. Chest heaving and legs shaking, Christina nearly falls off of him coming down from her peak. "Jesus," hisses the blonde, collapsing back on her bed. When the assassin sits up a triumphant grin is plastered on his face, she can only muster the strength the winkle her nose in response, worn out from the powerful climax he'd given her. "Smug bastard." The Winter Soldier merely shrugs.
The couple sleeps mostly through the night— well not the Asset, but Christina does. He only manages to to sleep in intervals of ten to fifteen minutes before he startles awake. He knows better than to allow himself to enter any deep sleep cycles, least he have one of his nightmares and accidentally harm his lover. Instead he opts for watching the latter sleep, focusing on the rise and fall of her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart.
When the sunlight begins to filter through her window, still faint but slowly rising, the Soldier finds himself bored. They say idle hands are the devil's workshop; idle lips, his mouthpiece. And, what better to with his restless fingers and willful tongue than to turn them on Christina. Wickedness loves company—and leads others into sin.
Gasping for breath, Christina finds herself awoken by the slick, steady stripes being licked between her thighs. She moans, parts her knees wider without prompting, and let's her head fall back against her pillow, "Good morning to you too, Winter." pants the blonde, fingers curling into the bedspread already.
The Asset hums in response without so much as a glance toward her face. The vibrations of his reply, combined with the pressure of his tongue on her clit makes Christina keen, back arching up off the mattress. "Well this is definitely one way to be woken up," She attempts to joke, despite her heaving chest, but the fingers that slip inside her stunt any further banter.
She don't know what time it is and she doesn't think to even check. Dim sunlight casts shadows across her windowsill and the floor of her bedroom. She closes her eyes, buries her hands in his hair, as he pumps two metal fingers into her cunt. With the assassin's tongue attacking her clit, Christina practically jumps out of her skin when her cellphone bursts to life.
A Jo Stafford song rings over the speaker, the call vibrations thrumming against her nightstand. She cracks open an eye, sees the name Dad flashing over the screen. "Shit," whines the blonde, reaching out for the phone. She sees the time, 5:17 AM, as she presses the device to her ear.
"Morning, Dad." says Christina, a little louder than she usually would, as a call out for the Soldier to stop the ministrations below her waist. Which he doesn't heed. The woman nearly bites her tongue off trying to hold back a moan, as Alexander Pierce begins to rattle on about an acquaintance who'd reached out to him. Something about some D.C. based crisis management firm and two fixers, named Anika Johar and Lisa Clarke.
Truthfully, Christina isn't really listening, she's more the a little distracted. Especially with the Winter Soldier eating her out and fingerfucking her into oblivion. Doing her best to contain the breathy whines, the little gasps, and cries of ecstasy; she makes it through the phone call and promises her father make it to the interview later in the day.
At the end of the call, her cell phone bounces against the carpet where she tosses it. "You're out of your mind, Winter!" She cries, sitting up on her elbows to glare at the man between her legs. The Winter Soldier smirks up at her with a wicked look, "You've no idea."
Btw, the title is a reference to Robert Johnson's song of the same name. Also the song Christina is listening to when Bucky walks in is "Hellhound On My Trail". I love Robert Johnson, sooo much, "Crossroads Blues" is one of my favorite songs and the song they're listening to while Christina is doing the dishes, which was recorded in 1936 so Bucky is more than likely to have heard it at some point before the war. But anyway, I thought it was a fitting title to the whole Heaven, Hell, Garden of Eden theme.
Also, while I've raked in my Feelings™ and pulled on my big girl panties, I'd like to say that I plan to continue writing this story (as I've already planned it out as far as the sequel. How do y'all like domestic!AU?) comments really help the process along. The response to The Grandstand Girl was so vast and I feel like that's the reason I was able to stow all my crap despite my dad passing away. Which is really why (among other things) I've been hanging out down here in the dumps of Emotionville. And, though I know I don't owe anyone an explanation, it's safe to say I'll probably be back here again, so to keep the typewriter a'flowin I'm probably gonna need the extra push. So thanks to those of you who commented you're truly the driving force of these updates.