{My girlfriend’s boyfriend isn’t me

[notworthallthis]

PSL with oldfashionedhero + matreshka

Flatline is just one breath away
I was born with one foot in the grave
My heart still beats, my blood's still red,
hallelujah, I'm not dead

After the events of Civil War, Steve, Natasha, and Bucky break away from everyone else and try to figure out what life after The Avengers looks like.

credit

🎶
Texts: Bucky/Nat
Body Heat: Bucky/Steve

Comments

{Collections

[notworthallthis]

If you put an OTA on a meme or have a thread somewhere else that attaches to this PSL drop a link here!

» Bucky Meme TLs

[notworthallthis]

@ Would you kiss them?

@ Kissing scars

@ Word association

@ Surprisingly gentle

@ Insomnia

{Just don’t wanna spend the night alone » Natasha

[notworthallthis]

[continued]

———

The banter could sustain him for a good, long while, but eventually the craving for human interaction is more than he can ignore. Whatever scarce clues Natasha decided worth handing over is all he really needed to track her down. She wasn’t hard to find and he knows that was absolutely on purpose. If she’d felt like it, she could have really leaned into that cat-and-mouse thing.

Bucky’s glad she didn’t.

That was a few hours ago. Now, he’s settled on the couch in Natasha’s suite, a pleasant buzz humming across his skin and, fuck he could get used to this. It’s a good thing Asgardian booze is not something he necessarily has a steady, unfettered access to, because he could very easily slide into this as a (terrible) coping mechanism if he wasn’t careful. It’s so nice to be just a little bit numb. Just for awhile.

“Thanks,” he murmurs quietly, looking up through his lashes at the woman beside him. “I needed the company.” He always wants it, it’s a deep and desperate thing that claws at the inside of his chest more often than he’d like to admit. He doesn’t need idle chatter or even the booze. Just companionable silence and the presence of another person in the room so he knows he’s not actually alone.

Bucky is practically melted into the couch at this point, comfortable and at ease, and inching ever-closer toward Natasha, though he does not notice he’s doing it.

He aches for this, too. The easy affection of someone both safe and increasingly familiar. He can trust her to handle both herself and him if something manages to go incredibly wrong, and it says more than he could ever properly put into words that he does trust her quite like that. To do whatever might be necessary to stop him, if she had to.

But, God, how he hopes she doesn’t have to.

Bucky is not a great conversationalist these days, this part of being social that used to be as easy as breathing is much more complicated now. But he still says so much without ever letting a single word pass his lips.

His focus has been on Natasha for these languid rolling minutes of silence. Or more specifically, her hand. His fingers of one hand twitch gently, that ache settling deep into the hollow of his chest.

He’s had enough booze to act without the thought that might typically make him abandon the idea, so he lets it happen— a cautious, telegraphed move she could easily pull away from if she wanted. If she lets him, though, he wraps his fingers around her wrist and tugs her hand closer, until he releases the grip on her wrist in favor of sliding one finger feather-light as he follows the pattern of the lines in her palm.