mustreadwinterwidow

[mustreadwinterwidow]

Fanfic is a free hobby.

It's one of the last few things we can have as a society that's free. You can engage, for free. People give you things (art, stories, etc), for free.

Don't buy into the consummerism just because it's everywhere else.

You don't have to consume everything you interact with. You don't have to use things, just because they exist.

You're allowed (still, for now), to have things that are enjoyable for free.

Do you realise how insane the world is? We don't have many places where we can just be, for free anymore, but ao3 is. Did you notice we don't have ads in ao3? We don't have pop ups? Where ELSE do we not have that?

Where else can you just go and not have to wait for a commercial to be over or for ads to be on the sidelines?

I don't think the younger people understand, but the whole of internet used to be like this. YouTubers would do Youtube for free, just because. You couldn't monetise your internet presence before.

Ao3 is like a little preserved corner of the internet where the old internet used to be, and it's being attacked by people who do not understand that free things are allowed to exist without judgment.

Please don't ruin this for us.

Some of us need it.

[mustreadwinterwidow]

In a Name

She was Natalia first.

She imagines, now, her mother and father discussing and deciding on what they would call the baby. Maybe it would have been Pavel or Oleg or Dmitry if it was a boy, and maybe they had pondered on Maria or Sofia or Tatiana before settling on Natalia—the first name she was given, but not the last.

Among all the other things she doesn’t remember, or that are murky and hazy, she likes to think that she forgot the smile of her mother looking at her and for the first time whispering “Natalia” with awe and love.

(As she says, love is for children, and surely the girl she once was would be deserving of it.)

After that, maybe lifetimes later, she would be known by many names.

All of them titles that speak of actions, and loyalties, and treason and blood.

Blood that she spilled, blood that was hers on the floors of the Red Room—and maybe in a way it all mixes together, because just as she killed all those other people, the ones whose names she doesn’t even know, she also killed Natalia.

Even if she’d been taught against it, the Widow had hesitated—maybe it was the nerves of her first kill—so Natalia’s death was slow, torturous, even though the agony went unseen and silent, in a prelude of the fact that she would go by unnoticed, unmourned, forgotten; for from the blood and gore that became Natalia Alianovna Romanova’s ethereal corpse something glorious emerged:

The Widow.

The Red Death.

The Slavic Shadow.

It was a necessary sacrifice.

When she defects, before another title is thrust upon her—the Russian Avenger—Nick Fury asks her what name she wants to take. She thinks of something American, to integrate better, and then discards the idea—she isn’t sure yet that this isn’t all some deep cover thing, but it’s better not to start that way, at least in the secrecy of her mind. She thinks of Alisa and Olga, because those are names she has always found pretty. Inevitably, she thinks of Natalia.

The problem is that Natalia is dead, and now, for the first time in years, it feels like she can finally rest, like she won’t be rolling in her grave for what became of what she was. It doesn’t feel right to take that name now, to disturb the dead and pretend to be some dead girl.

The idea of randomly picking something also doesn’t sit well with her. She’s done that many times, but it was always meant to be transitory—for a night, for a week, for a few months—but now it’s supposed to be forever. She’ll still need to be Anna or Mary or Irina or whatever else is decided for missions, but there needs to be something that isn’t temporary, that it’s truly hers.

If only she knew who she truly is, then maybe the task of picking a name wouldn’t be so difficult.

Nick Fury is looking at her with a blank expression, but she can see annoyance and impatience past that empty gaze. They say things are different here, but she knows not to make a handler wait for too long, and from the deep recesses of her mind, help comes.

“Natasha,” she says, and then adds, “Romanoff.”

As aliases go, it’s terrible, but Fury doesn’t say anything, just types it down. 

When asked, she will say that it was a way of making her birth name easier for everyone, that this one will get less butchered by tongues unaccustomed to the rounder vowels and more diverse consonants. 

But the truth is that she was Natalia first, but for her mother and father, she was also Natasha. When she did something cute, or when they were crossing the street and she had to hold her mother’s or father’s hand, that’s what they called her. Before she was taken away, that’s what her mother, covered in the blood of her father, screamed.

That’s the last word her mother ever spoke.

Natalia is dead, and will remain so, but maybe Natasha is what couldn’t be killed, a living thing among many ghosts.

She was Natasha second, and last.

Read on Ao3

[mustreadwinterwidow]

2. “You’re still the same guy I fell in love with”

i am so sorry this took so long!!! but it finally became exactly what i wanted. 

#INFINITY WAR SPOILERS

fic prompts?

Bucky was overlooking the city from a deserted rooftop. It had been one year, seven months and thirteen days since he’d been pulled out of the Soul World and back to the land of the living. Since the final battle with Thanos. Since Steve sacrificed himself so they could win.

Afterward, throwing himself into work seemed like the best option. T'Challa had offered him a position as a ‘War Dog,’ Wakanda’s elite group of spies stationed around the globe, and he had jumped at the opportunity. Not only to pay back some of the debt he owed the country that had given him so much, but also to stay busy. Give his mind something to think about other than the crippling loneliness that had plagued him since Steve had died.

He had been in Toronto, looking into a tech company that wanted to purchase a large amount of vibranium, when he first began putting together the string of accidental deaths happening in Russia.

Two higher up governmental officials went down in a civilian plane crash. A neurosurgeon had an accident at a local lap pool. A Deputy Secretary of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service had gone missing on a ski trip. The only thing they had in common was that they had all happened within a week of each other.

He had finished the job, the tech company had ended up being a front for a weapons manufacturer, and Bucky had asked for a couple weeks off to investigate.

His working theory? Someone had bankrolled a rebirth of Department X and was cleaning up after themselves.

finish on ao3

[mustreadwinterwidow]

࿐Another Autumn Night

✧ Pairing: BuckyNat/Winterwidow

✧ Warnings: Depressive thoughts, low self-esteem and lots of self-blame, basically Spoiler-free.

✧ Word count: 1.5k words

✧ A/n: following one-shot takes place somewhere around Ed Brubaker’s Captain America comics, where Bucky took the that mantle. It was originally published a few months ago by me on Marvel Amino, so this is basically a late repost!

The night sky was full of stars but no moon. Skyscrapers shone bright, spilling the color upon dark night. The city came alive when noises had filled the streets. The lights and sounds of the big city have always delighted Bucky. Although the lifetime passed since his youth, he still heard the gunshots; bombs dropping everywhere; the desperate, angry screams; the lifeless bodies falling down, staining the earth with the blood – sounds of the war. The lively, loud streets reminded him that people were living their normal life without the war, without deaths and tortures.

Well, at least most of them lived it that way, normal way. For others, the war had never stopped. Instead, it mutated. There was no black and white anymore. The spectrum was all grey. And people? People just played along with it all. They were puppets who’s master always changed. Bucky knew it better than anyone.

Keep reading

[mustreadwinterwidow]

BuckyNat fic

Christmas Like In The Old Days

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28709313

Written for @quietlyimplode

Summary: Bucky Barnes and Natasha Romanov both attend holiday parties where they long for the other. Then they make a little holiday retreat of their own.

[mustreadwinterwidow]

For this year’s BuckyNat Secret Santa I did @rainonsand ‘s prompt: “Them on a mission together: Nat the spy at the gala, Bucky the sniper covering her from a great distance.” I hope you like it :)

[mustreadwinterwidow]

Rating: Explicit Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes/Natasha Romanov Characters: Natasha Romanov (Marvel), James “Bucky” Barnes Additional Tags: Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Established Relationship, Domestic, Shameless Smut, Tabloids, POV Natasha Romanov Series: Part 29 of BuckyNat Prompts Summary:

Natasha couldn’t not buy the magazine when she saw it. It simply wasn’t an option. The headline stopped her dead in her tracks. Black Widow’s Shocking Affair with Teacher! it read under a picture of Natasha. In a smaller font underneath the headline, it said: Late-night romp, boozing & how they trashed a hotel suite!

*************

Natasha and Bucky have only told a select few that they are in a relationship and living together. The privacy is great, but the rumors? Well, some are entertaining, some are baffling, and one might hit a bit too close to home for comfort.

For @medeafive as an answer to all three prompts, Well, mostly the last one about leaning into the smut, but the other two gave me the flimsy plot to wrap it up with. Hope you like it :]

[mustreadwinterwidow]

࿐ She was his, he was hers

✧ Pairing: BuckyNat/Winterwidow

✧ Warnings: slight smut with lots of fluff and feelings. This was not beta read as well as any other drabbles of mine.

✧ Word count: 464 words

✧ A/n: following Drabble has been written for my BuckyNat drabbles collection. Make sure to read the information in Masterlist which you can find in my bio. Requests are open as well!

Quiet, soft moans slipped out of Natalia’s pink lips, reddened and swollen from all the kisses and bites. She slowly moved while she sat on James’ lap, his cock sliding in her as they faced each other; his piercing blue eyes watched how pleasure dawned on her features, enjoying each second.

She’s beautiful - he thought, amazed by her grace, her charm, her appeal… he had never met anyone like her - so fierce, so deadly, so strong yet so gentle. He didn’t know to describe her, no words could put it right. She was something you should see, feel. 

Keep reading

[mustreadwinterwidow]

Natalia's little. She's small like a babybird and he could crush her in one hand. He knows how'd that feel. He'd done that. She'd seen him.

But here's the twist, she could crush his neck between those same thighs he'd bury his head in.

If he's the death, then she's the reaper. 

He doesn't remember everything about her. His brains all juiced up, cut in slices and then chopped into tiny unrecognizable pieces. He might as well have nothing in there. But he has her. 

He remembers her hand more than he remembers her eyes. She can change those but she can't change the lines running down her palms. 

They're rough. She got callous thick like mud on each fingertip and then the insides of her knuckles. But when she holds his face, they're the softest thing on his blistering skin.

She's not half of his soul. She can't be cause he's got none and the whole of his is the whole of her. She's not half of his soul because she's their whole.  

Natalia's little. She's small like a babybird and he could crush in one hand. But most of the time, he's curled into her and she, around him. Most of the time, he's the babybird and she'll never crush him.

[mustreadwinterwidow]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics), Black Widow (Comics) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes/Natasha Romanov Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes, Natasha Romanov (Marvel) Additional Tags: mcu canon compliant, post avengers: endgame, i hate that ending, sad bucky, Gentle Sex, Bad Dreams, Dream Sex Summary:

Sometimes, Bucky dreams at night. When he does, everything is as it should be and he gets to hold his spider close.

[mustreadwinterwidow]

Title: See You

Collaborator: sarahbeniel

Link: Ao3

Square Filled: Y1 (Through a Scope) @buckybarnesbingo

Ship/Main Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov

Rating: M

Major Tags/Warning: Non-graphic violence, brief non-graphic sex, smoking  

Summary:  Bucky’s about to pull the trigger on a target when he’s interrupted by a familiar figure.

Word Count:  1975

[mustreadwinterwidow]

BuckyNat Week prompt: The first time in what feels like forever.

(This is late, I’m sorry)

On AO3

There are gaps in Natasha’s memory. Blank spots from living a longer life than most people, and gaps that feel like a missing tooth. A cavity in her mind that she can’t stop probing at despite the pounding headache it will leave her with. Then there are the blank spots that she doesn’t know about. The ones that she only discovers when it’s too late. Like spotting recognition in a stranger’s face.

The last kind scared her, and she didn’t like being scared.

***

The place she has lived in for the past few years is too big and too small at the same time. Her footsteps echo when she moves between rooms and why did she even think she needed that many rooms anyway? She has no use for all of them and they make the place feel empty, hollowed out. Moving on is easy. She has never liked being tied to one place for long. Home is a concept and not one she has an urge to embrace. Besides, the new place comes with furniture and the privacy that being new grands her.

(It comes with a cat too, but she hasn’t decided if that counts as a pro or a con.)

Clean slate sort of thing. Not that her slate can ever be considered clean. But the change of pace is nice. Being treated as a human being instead of an Avenger or an untrustworthy spy. Natasha has talked with the downstairs neighbor a few times and not once have they talked about the end of the world or alien invasions or the latest crop superpowered villains. Instead, it has been about the bakery a few blocks away that she just has to try and the cat that has somehow become a permanent fixture in Natasha’s life. Little things that don’t matter much.

It’s nice, makes her feel almost human again.

***

Life goes on. She works almost constantly and when she doesn’t, she grows restless. Working leaves her no time to dwell on whatever inane reasons Leo had for doing what he did to her or if he did more than to make her his puppet for a few days. (Or why sometimes she will walk into a room or hear a certain phrase being spoken and it will make her skin feel too tight.)

Work forces her to focus on the present, she needs that reminder these days. Too much history for her to get lost in if she indulges. Working is easy compared to that.

With her head occupied by work, she doesn’t think much of it at first. Barnes grew up around the same time as Steve did. Both act weirdly courteously at times. She can’t even remember the first time she heard about him. It’s buried somewhere in her past. Either during his time as a sidekick to Captain America or when he was the Winter Soldier. But the point is that she has known of him, she hasn’t really known the man himself. They travel in similar circles even if those circles don’t often intersect. So, she doesn’t find it odd when he treats her with more courtesy than he does other people. Natasha heard about him in the Red Room, he might have heard about the Black Widow program and what it put them through.

***

The thing is, she thinks they might have been close once, her and Barnes. His touch doesn’t provoke her usual urge to strike out hard and fast the way most people’s touch do. And they make a good team. They move around each other without having to tell the other what they are doing. Fighting with him by her side is easy.

What’s more, he begins to enter her dreams.

They aren’t memories. That much Natasha is sure of, her dreams never work like that. And they stay with her even after she wakes. She can feel strong, mismatched hands clutching at her, a mouth hot on her skin, and hear the litany of words that spill out of it. So vividly she has to stop herself from checking for bruises when she wakes up.

And it’s not just one night.

Night after night she presses close to a body that isn’t there when she wakes up. Night after night she wakes up gasping on a bed as wide as an ocean.

She needs to do something about it or else she’ll go mad.

***

James is nowhere to be found, of course. Or at least not anywhere she can easily reach out to him. If she sends out feelers to check up on his whereabouts, he might take it the wrong way. The man values his privacy and she can’t begrudge him that.

So, Natasha does what she has done for a while: she waits and after a long while he turns up in the last place that she expects him to.

The safehouse is hers and while she hasn’t used that particular safehouse in years the silent alarm she rigged it with works just fine. The grainy images show her a dark-haired man who is easily identified as James when he reaches out with his left hand to turn off the alarm. Metal fingers aren’t that common after all.

Paris it is then.

She knocks on the door to her safehouse the next day.

James opens it with a wary look on his face. “Na—Natasha? What are you doing here?” He stumbles a little over her name. It’s not the first time either.

She tilts her head at him. “I’m supposed to be the one with the memory problems, not you. This is my safehouse.”

He looks… embarrassed. It looks wrong, his features aren’t made to look embarrassed. Skin rasps against skin when he rubs a hand over the back of his neck. (Is his flesh and bone hand calloused like her hands are? Is its touch as gentle as her dreams have told her?) “Sorry. I’ll pack up. Leave you to it.” He opens the door all the way, turns back to the apartment.

She stops him with a hand on his wrist before he gets very far. “James, wait.”

The light touch is enough to freeze him in his tracks. He turns his head to look at her but doesn’t speak.

“I came because I wanted to talk with you.”

His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “Alright. Come on in.”

His footsteps are silent on the carpeted floor and she tries very hard not to wonder if the tee stretched over his broad shoulders hides a network of lines she – well, remember is the wrong word but so is imagine – the bloody tracks she is pretty sure she has dug into his back during their past relationship.

“D’you want something?” asks James when they reach the doorway to the kitchen. “I have coffee, beer, and, uh, leftover Thai food.”

“Coffee is fine,” says Natasha and tries to not sound amused.

She continues to the living room while he goes into the kitchen. Laid out on the dinner table are a variety of firearms and a cleaning kit. The brand of the gun oil is unfamiliar to her and she steps closer to look at it, but the smell pulls at something deep inside. The blank series of blank spots she has only recently begun to discover. The blank spots that could have killed her if the person holding the key to them had been a different person.

Trust, she thinks, it’s about trust. (It’s not something she has a lot of experience with.)

The touch of the back of a hand against her elbow brings her back to reality. She whirls around and finds James standing with a steaming coffee mug in his hand. The wary look is back. He holds out the cup to her. Ripples on the surface of the coffee betray his seemingly steady hand. “What did you want to talk about?”

She takes the offered cup. The liquid inside is nearly black, the smell of it strong. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, uses the time to slow the beating of her heart. “Why do you think I did?”

His face twists up. There’s pain there that much is obvious, but relief, too. “I’m sorry. If I could take it back, I would. If I could go back—”

She stops the cascade of words with a finger. (The power she has over him with the simplest gestures is dizzying.) “You loved me?”

He nods. Finds his voice again to answer, “Yes.”

“And I loved you?”

No hesitation this time either. “Yes.”

The certainty in James’ voice and in his stance makes Natasha shiver. She puts the cup down on the table next to them, a few drops of coffee spill onto the bare wood. She is kidding herself if she thinks she’s the only one with that strange power. “Why did you keep it from me?”

“I didn’t want to put you through that hell again. I wanted to keep you safe. Natalia, I…” He pauses and she thinks he’s about to launch into another apology. “I will tell you whatever you want. I’ll stay away if you want me to. I don’t—I just want you to be happy.”

His skin is rough with stubble when she cups his jaw. “What makes you think that you staying away will make me happy? It hasn’t so far.”

James leans into her touch. Gently, as if he’s afraid she’ll pull back. In a voice that nearly breaks, he murmurs, “I missed you.”

It shouldn’t be possible to miss something she doesn’t remember having, but she has. “Show me,” Natasha says and closes the gap between them.

He is warm, so much warmer than the facsimile of him who visited her in her dreams were, but his arms are as strong, and his mouth is as eager. It’s easy then to let him embrace her, to let him cover her with kisses and to answer each one of them with equal hunger. To dig her fingers into him with a promise of never letting go again. She doesn’t remember him. but her body does. For the first time in what feels like forever she is home. For the first time in what feels like forever she has a home.

[mustreadwinterwidow]

BuckyNat prompt from @stars-inthe-sky​:  “I’m cold, and I’m tired, and I just want to be done with whatever this is.”

Reposted because Tumblr messed up the markup…

On AO3

At first, he thinks he has made a mistake, taken a wrong turn on his way to this gymnasium. The facility is unknown to him, after all. Some mix-up has landed him in this room where half a dozen girls are idly stretching. The thing is, you aren’t allowed to make mistakes in his line of work. Mistakes mean punishment. Mistakes get you disappeared. The girls turn to face him as one and he realizes that this is the right room, and these are the Black Widows he’s supposed to train. Their eyes look much older than their bodies. They remind him of soldiers – lower-case s – back from the war in body but not in mind.

After the training session is done, he says to their supervisor, “That one will go far if you let her.”

She barely looks up from her notebook long enough for him to nod in the direction of the redhead. He is there to train the Widows, not to evaluate them.

Or maybe not.

A week later, he gets a new assignment: He is told to train the redhead and she quickly becomes his favorite student.

  Her name is Natalia.

She tells him this two weeks after he begins training her. They are alone in the gym, stretching after a long sparring session. She is sitting on the floor, bend nearly double over her legs. Her hair falls over her face almost, but not quite, hiding the way she studies his face for a reaction.

He lets her. He is finding it harder and harder to refuse her anything. Straightening, he offers her his hand and pulls her to her feet when she wraps her calloused finger around his wrist. Marveling at how she never shrinks away from his touch, how she welcomes it instead. “Is that the name your parents gave you or one you were given here?”

“Does it matter? It’s mine now.” She says it with such conviction that he believes her.

  Later, when they are tangled together on his bed, the blankets kicked haphazardly off it along with their clothes, she asks the question she didn’t ask when she told him her name.

“I don’t have a name.” It’s not a secret. He has come to terms with it a long while ago.

It’s not pity or disgust that carves furrows in her brow. It’s the rage that he sometimes sees bubbling under her otherwise calm surface when she is given an order that doesn’t make sense. (It’s dangerous, is what it is. It’s rebelliousness and that cannot, will not be allowed here.)

  He loves her. He loves her with his body and soul and all the words he whispers in her ear when they are alone together. He loves her until she – along with everything that makes him who he is – is taken from him and erased.

He doesn’t get any of it back until after he has put two bullets in her.

Keep reading

[mustreadwinterwidow]

“Go back to sleep.”

Bucky stirs in the bed, looking over his shoulder to see Natasha snuggling deeper into him, her red locks twisted into a messy pony that laid itself delicately on the pillow. So. She hasn't slept yet, too.

"I can't," Bucky whispers, turning around to engulf her into a bear hug. She grunted at the heat, knitting her eyebrows together as she wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms limp behind him, "I'm thinking too much..."

"Tell me," Natasha murmured.

Bucky glanced down at her, and if he didn't know better, he would've gone back to sleep and left Natasha snoring away. He knew better. He knew her too well people started asking personal questions. Bucky, instead, kissed the top of her head, brushing away her hair.

"Have you ever looked out into the sky..." Bucky spoke, and Natasha felt the vibrations of his voice on the top of her head, and she sighed at the comfort of it, "...don't you ever see it empty? It's surreal. The way the stars conquer the sky. They remind me of spilled pearls on a black duvet... they stand out so much..."

Natasha hummed. "Why is it keeping you awake?"

Bucky took a deep breath. "Do... Do you see the beauty of it?"

"...Yes. James, what is this?"

Buvky shook his head, bringing her closer to his chest, just feeling the way her breath shadows over his bare chest. "Do you see yours?"

Natasha groaned at the way Bucky held onto her, her nails lightly digging at his biceps. Bucky loosed his grip, and Natasha took her time to sit up, her hands on his chest.

She grinned, and the moonlight settled on her hair like sparkling rivers. "You love me that much, solnyshko?"

As Natasha straddled him by the waist, Bucky settled his hands on her features, caressing her cheeks as her hair tickled his face. He smiled at that, breathless as he says, "Of course, my red star,"

They went back to sleep, deep in dreams as Natasha laid on top of him, the moonlight dancing in their bodies like the dancers they were: tiptoeing with life and death, they were the fates itself.

x. from drabble help #46

for buckynat week!

[mustreadwinterwidow]

(i have built, deep in my heart, a chapel filled with your love);

It's the little things you don't tell him.

It's allowing your hand to gently rest on his forehead when he falls asleep on your shoulder, like it's his second home.

It's wishing you could keep him there always and forever. Until the end of times; until you can't feel his heart beat against yours anymore.

It's thinking about him even when you're thinking of other things, even if they're things that need your immediate attention, even when he's not around. Especially when he's not around.

It's texting him at 3 AM, after waking up in cold sweat— from a nightmare that should not be solidified by words— under the pretence of checking up on him.

It's feeling the ghost of his hug when he replies a minute later. I'm okay, are you?

It's holding his hand to your chest on the battlefield, saying his name over and over; a plea to whoever is up there, listening— Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay, please—

It's rushing to hug him, to confirm for yourself and him, that this is real, so real— you are both here. Here.

It's holding him steady, as his body shivers against yours, choking on sob after sob as the dam finally comes crashing down.

It's being there, to anchor him against the surge.

It's staying strong, for him.

It's the little things that you don't tell him.

It's the little things that you don't tell him, that say the most.

[mustreadwinterwidow]

x.

“I didn’t think red could be so peaceful.”

Bucky didn’t want to look at Natasha, who could be staring intently at the overwhelming red and orange sunset that was setting upon his apartment in Brooklyn. He kept his head down on his book, eyebrows knitted together in concentration with his lip in between his teeth it must’ve felt painful; he could feel her shift on her spot on the windowsill, her arm burning his bare torso where they met much like the sun, painful yet everlasting.

Natasha’s eyes had a sorrow in them, and Bucky still didn’t want to look up, to see her captured in an atmosphere of absolute purity and euphoria that it seemed indifferent in her own being pure of only nicotine smoke and gunfire.

She sighed, continued to say: “I didn’t— I didn’t know that,”

Bucky couldn’t bear the openness of his — their — bedroom window, and he still couldn’t believe it: the window was pushed open and the curtains were still in the warm air, and their feet were dangling over the ledge as they sat on the narrow windowsill, thinking that they could fit into such a tight space, but they did and it’s just so good to sit like this, so close to each other that it’s scorching their skin. 

Natasha’s palm was resting on her bare knee and her fingers were barely grazing the fabric of his sweatpants, and it feels good— the static of energy running through his skin and the additional numbness of being so close but too closed to finally feel the intimacy is mindblowing torture.

God, they were so close it seemed illegal to just intertwine their fingers together.

There’s a shiver running down Bucky’s bare spine, and he feels as if he was reading the same line over and over again, just grasping sand at this point as he desperately clung onto distraction. The world was right below them, and it seemed to still for its King and Queen (Were they royalty? They didn’t feel like it), absolutely empty and crowded at the same time it felt like a high to keep this going.

Finally, with a shudder, Bucky whispered, and he felt the hot air turn back into winter and the tidy bedroom turn into a messy hotel room,“You obviously haven’t seen your hair,” and he’s too far away from her to feel intimate, but the way Natasha tried to hide her smile? It’s nicotine once more, and it’s almost intoxicating, “Have you seen the fire in your eyes? It’s like a forest set ablaze; emerald forged in stars. How come, Tasha?”

Natasha didn’t turn to him, but she had spoke through thin lips, “Peaceful, James, I said peaceful,”

Bucky finally looked up, scrutinizing the crease and twitch of her expression, trying to undress her motives and reveal that cleverness behind double meaning words. He spoke, breathless, “Sorry. It’s just— I’ve loved your eyes for so long I’ve begun to call it home, and you know how home is always so… homely, always quiet and tranquil. I think you’d like it. It would be a nice change,”

Natasha deliberately nods, her lips in between her teeth as she looked over in his general direction. The scarlet sun rays of the sunset had settled on her blood red hair and began to cling onto her features, enveloping her in a mosaic fit for cathedrals. Her eyes sparkled, and there’s that same fire in them that Bucky had learned to admire. Her lips twitch into a smile, and it’s not long before she finally turns to plant a gentle (slow and deep, just to savor the taste) kiss on the corner of his lips.

They let their eyes linger on each other before turning to the sunset, and yes. It did feel more peaceful here at home.

[mustreadwinterwidow]

Hey, can people please start writing buckynat fanfic again. I miss it