Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).
Note: This is an on-going collection of drabbles and/or one-shots from prompts I've received on Tumblr (under the name of puckering-gustin). Please take note that this has been posted on my Tumblr and on AO3 as well. All one-shots or/and drabbles are not necessarily connected unless stated otherwise. Thank you.
Warning(s): Triggers, Implanted/False Memories, Torture, Murders.
Timeline: Set after Captain America: The Winter Soldier, when (or if) Steve finds Bucky.
Posted on: June 9th 2014
cityscapeinview asked: "Cleanliness is next to godliness." [feat. Darcy Lewis, just cause.]
"Cleanliness is next to godliness."
"Are you talking about Thor?" Darcy piped in from the space a few feet for them on the couch and both Bucky and Natasha passed their attention to her, who, in return, looked too preoccupied with the television rather than the fact Natasha was openly straddling the former, still-recovering Winter Soldier. "And seriously you guys, I know for a fact you guys will make like, one hell of a porn movie with how hot you two are, and I can seriously vouch for that, but I'm not really in the mood for any kind of exhibitionism."
Neither older party respond to that and let her be as Bucky slanted his thumb over Natasha's thigh down to her knee, flicking it, then putting a pressure. The Black Widow stared down at him, returning her full attention to the man she was straddling, and briefly, brought her eyes down to his lips.
"Natalia," he warned, voice raspy and low.
"It's Natasha," she reminded, not breaking her gaze on his face, noticing the slight bruise aching along his cheekbones, one she once touched a long time ago.
He might have snorted, Natasha wasn't sure, smirking slightly in that lazy way of his which ticked her off that this man was a man who held multiple personalities, from who he was, who he had become and who he was trying to be ― and was not the same assassin who held her throat when he kissed her, who put a bullet through her flesh just to complete a mission, who gave her everything and nothing at all back when he'd put just enough love and trust into her ― and right now, Natasha wasn't sure who he was.
"And it's Bucky, doll." He drawled, his eyes sharpened.
Natasha resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but she did shove him, "Sam wants you to pick up your trash, James. I suggest you get down to it."
She's on her feet by then, when she'd heard him chuckling; as she turned around, James smiled, a rare sight, until she realised that this man wasn't completely the James. The one she fell in love with, the one she kissed secrets to at nights when she was sixteen years old. This was also Bucky. Steve's best friend.
"So he sent you?" He asked, "Must be desperate."
"Must be," she responded, a hum. "You're a mess, James."
He laughed, and she thought, yeah, maybe he was, but she could adjust to this. She could. James was different, but everybody was, after everything they went through. And she realised this as she picked up his hands, wove their fingers together and memorised the sound of his laughter as it echoed through her ribs.
(And she thought, my God, was James beautiful.)