i got guns in my head and they won't go。

[foes]

(THIS IS A TRAIN WRECK RN I'LL FIX IT LATER) PERMISSIONS: backtagging: yes pls thank you, i'm slowwwww af myself because Life threadhopping: if it's contextually appropes, otherwise it's just awk fourthwalling: there are certain understandable punctures, like the comics-within-comics about captain america, and social media shenanigans PREFERENCES: ships: m/f preference (with a rare dash of m/m re: the occasional steve). cross-canon and OCs are also super cool, e.g. what up diana/bucky aka ducky (OCs with the caveat that it may be more on a case by case basis). unless it's on a shipping-centric meme, it's usually gotta evolve after some delicious CR. my fave ship is, believe it or not, bucky/wanda but i'm weirdly picky about my wandas so if you're not sure, just ask! kinks: no: brainwashing; weird bodily fluids (blood does not count as weird for bucky). yes: hairplay; bondage (with the right, trusted partner — would not be random); dom/sub play (also with someone he trusts); sensory deprivation; body worship; orgasm denial; somnophilia; dubcon (with regard to aphro/sex pollen context, usually with partners who are already into each other); unhooking motherfucking brassieres. anything else? i'm open. teach me ur kinks. WARNINGS: content from this character: involves severe PTSD, mind control, dissociative identity symptoms, violence, gore, fallout from non-consensual living weaponization. cybernetic (possibly vibranium alloy) left arm - which has been re-gifted post-ca:cw as a full-on upgrade from new ally t'challa (black panther). if any of these traits/items make you uncomf, lmk.

OPEN POST:
TFLN overflow (or brand new texts - crack/reg)
CONTINUATIONS (meme threads, any threads)
PROMPTS (pics, quotes, music)
START SMTH (fight me)
you don't have to ask, post it and i will love it B)

Comments

[compromised]

( ooc | this is completely unprompted and i am just a rando off the street, feel free to ignore if you're not into it. )

[foes]

( ooc: um no i was so happy to find this in my inbox you have no idea? rando love all day come to my arms. )


[ It’s past 3 a.m. – all good girls and boys have gone to bed – but they’ve hit the sparring mats again.

This is their routine: they dance around each other in broad daylight, toying with band-aids where stitches should go; they keep a distance measured in waltz steps, and the music is always played in a slumbering G minor. They exchange few words. They pretend efficiently. They are professionals.

Then night falls – the key shifts and the chords rear themselves awake and vengeful, lusting after decades lost, years spent staring down the barrel – and they convene without fail to wage war. It’s no waltz, when they cross blows. This is leaving fresh bruises in an effort to claw back under flesh for their many former selves. Hold them up to the moonlight, if not accountable.

Which are you? (a right hook to a stubbled jaw)
Which am I not? (a metallic grip around a pale throat)
Which can we be? (a slam of two human-shaped weapons up against concrete)

He’s got his left arm around her, pinned by the neck to his chest, but he’s suddenly not there. The next moment puts him in 1944, shells blasting all around him, he’s trying to keep the rifle mount steady, Brody next to him just fell to the snow—

Then a voice speaks to him, like a nursery rhyme he’ll never forget, and he’s nameless, he’s more fist than man—

He’s sliding deftly over a hilltop, more snow, there’s a car overturned and two survivors. He really only needs to eliminate the male. The redheaded woman seems determined, though, to make the body count two. Efficiency override, always. He fires just one round, through her gut, and the man behind her slumps, glasses sliding halfway off his face. He doesn’t stay to see if the woman survives. He doesn’t—

He doesn’t know when his grip around her became so relentless, unforgiving, desperate. She’s clawing at him now, her heel sharp over his knee, and his skin goes cold. He’s ten paces away before either of them can blink, breathing as if bricks are weighing him down. ]

“…Natasha?”

[ Which one am I now? ]

wonderful! i'm glad! and this is amazing, ty for indulging me

[compromised]

[ in a life before this one dance became second nature. on pointed toes she can convince anyone she's something else—a swan, a princess, an ally. holding a posture with the beat and playing out a scene is just as important as how to hold a gun, how to break bone, how to survive. the roles change, she’s found, but the moves remain the same. he was there, one version of him, when she mastered the form.

she swings blunt, unyielding hits at him with little of her usual grace. between his arm and the chemicals pumping in his veins she should’t be a match, but the pretense of a spar doesn’t dissuade her. it’s a dialogue after all; metal and bone collide in place of the words they’re careful not to say. which are you? which will you be tomorrow?

nostalgia is a dangerous thing. it became rooted in this life somewhere between a best friend and auntie nat. the problem with wanting is the shot that goes through isn’t quite so clean, even if no on else can see the scar. she should learned her lesson a long time ago when she was natalia and he was james. before a bullet ripped through her in odessa. before the bridge in dc. before metal fingers bruised her throat.

history doomed to repeat. ]

Bu—cky! [ the name feels wrong in her mouth, his arm laid over her neck and pressing firmer with each passing moment.

he’s off of her almost as quickly as it started. her trained composure wanes, body hunched over as her lungs struggle for air. natasha can hear the tone in his voice, remembers that fear of the disconnection between your mind and body all too well. what do any of them have, if not themselves? ]

James—[ she shakes her head and stops herself. that’s not who he is anymore. ] Bucky. You're alright.