" glad you're self aware at least. because this is ... booooring. " uncomfortable niggle of sincerity to leech out with each breath. it's in spite of the open air carding around them that claustrophobia of some sort is starting to make a home for itself between them in the stakeout. honesty & introspection at three o'clock in the morning? not on the agenda. so levity, a jester's hat ( one, he's been a little too quick to don as of late ) perches behind his tilted goggles. & defuse the spark crackling in the wake of bucky's bantered barbs.
" oh, man. " an abashed palm clams over his neck again.
fathers. nothing conjures the big top painted over in purple stripes better . he thinks of barney & down-on-his luck mug & & still stealing after all these years. that urge toward honesty boxes his ears at this, & " say no more. i don't wanna spend a second more thinking about my old man than i have to. "
it might be for a fleeting moment , but he looks directly at bucky like he's taking aim. the way his adam's apple jerks is camouflaged by the velvet night cloaking the pair of them. " so what are you wanting to think about? chinese food? "
' man, you'd've never hacked it in the army if you think this is boring. ' morning drills at tepid dawn, stripped clean from the wooden ribs of creaky mounted bedframes, scalding frigid air pulsing around beaten lungs; spiral curled barb-wire fingering uniform-clad shoulders, scratchy soil rucked up around the impression of his narrow ribs, the rat-tat-tat-click of german ballistics, banging artillery, belly-down in a dug out foxhole waiting for a signal... sometimes, bucky misses the forward simplicity of that life, the tight-knit unit he trusted to cradle his heart.
leisurely, bucky brushes the thicket of his unfurled curls out of his eyes, tucks dense ringlets behind the flare of his ear. george left no scars upon bucky, marked him only by weight of legacy and the sucking hole of his absence, how it turned him into a tall child. the wound had simply scabbed over, shadowed by the expanse of broader losses.
a sincere smile crooks plush red-pink lips, provokes dimple-lines beneath the rounded apple of bucky's cheeks. ' yeah... there's a nice-lookin' place in yonkers i wanna try, if you're up for the ride. '
gloved hand lifts, initiating a gentle halt. ' stop. you hear that? '
@inhcritance
the winter soldier stiffens. scrubbing onyx pigment, their natal hand stills, flicking runoff water back into the wide-mouthed basin their handlers called a sink. the soldier is unreadable. ' mikhail. что ты хочешь? '
Zombie
The Cranberries
No Need To Argue
pov you're supposed to be spotting while he snipes
your mouth says “not bad”, but your eyes say “everything’s bad.”
cr1tikal | @awbro really, the married modernism to medieval firearm (he handled the stock of his rifle with a sort of arduous attention, secondary cousin to primitive lust) is unique and durably crafted. bucky feels the wealth carved into it's stock handle, brazenly admires the scope rail, twenty nine inches of compound steel from bolt notch to butt. bucky plies the resistant drawstring across the grooves separating his natal fingers, relishes the reciprocal tension that pushes back.
it's a fine weapon, a kinder gift. the reticence is spurned on by the nagging unknown: why clint imparts it unto him is lost on bucky. his gaze flits up as the bridge of his arms sinks, neck inclining just slightly to account for height disparity proving self-evident so close.
' this is a nice piece of equipment, clint. i just think it'd be better put to use in your hands, not mine. my guns have silencers. you're better at this than me. '
' i guess it'd probably be insensitive to ask if you ever read mary shelley's frankenstein , huh? '
@mad-hunts
' oh, gross . ' flick, flick . the spent webs cling like mucus. ' what is this stuff even made outta, kid? '
@spidrclone
" anyone ever tell you're boring? " deflected, batted aside with a stray hand that doesn't dignify bucky's plying with an equal merriment. a deep ache has navigated itself into the cleft of where his knees bend after squatting for so many hours, the byproduct of which is apparently taunting the erstwhile ( ? )
he keeps his eyes affixed on the far end of the binoculars after ascertaining between the shadowed arch of smirking sport gamifying whatever ... this ... is. but if bucky can flick taunts back toward him like daggers each tagging their target , then clint, greatest marksman , can certainly spire a few finely tuned flirtations himself.
kinda. " you're boring. "
" old fashioned sonuvabitch. " " -------- what's wrong with pizza? "
' all the time, pal. i'm an old man, boring is what we do. ' tongue clicks appraisingly against the ribbed roof of the mouth, swiping off an eye-tooth; what was the word? schadenfreude , epicaricacy, simkha la'eid , the adolescent provocativeness of catty satisfaction. the zoomers ( young bands of new-aged heroes, though bucky didn't ply himself by trade any celebutante; his fame rode whispering winds and the sixth-sense of eyes upon your back, a death omen ) and a handful of their allies and coworkers certainly brandished that exact sentiment more than once.
honestly.. he's bored . bucky boasts a deeper well of patience in comparison to clint where it concerned sedentary observation--such was a requisite talent of a long-range reconnaissance agent, sniper nestled in russian snow, he could sit abreast of barton day in and day out if not for his penchant to annoy--but it doesn't merit any particular enjoyment.
' reminds me too much of my dad. ' temptation to procure his rifle to mutually observe ( and shake off an encroaching discomfort ) is set aside. he trusted clint's eyes. ' not what i wanna be thinkin' about, being some scrappy kid again, if i'm going to dinner with you. '
Bucky has his share of the fight handled -- a quick and merciful death to the last of his opponent, she doesn't mind that. She stretches out and steps closer to him, light on her feet. She giggles at the mention of Logan's body hair, as she cannot disagree with him on the topic.
" That hair is also soft as hell, as you say, " she chuckles, remembering the brief tryst she shared with the honorable gaijin... before she met Ororo, before he returned to Mariko.
She rolls her shoulder, giving a satisfy grunt when it pops, sliding her weapons back into their sheaths and hidden spots. " Oh they were looking for me. I turned them down recently. A ronin with my skill is a dangerous thing to those organizations. They want me to join or die. I serve no master but my own. "
" Yukio, " she introduces herself properly, holding her hand out for him to shake, looking up into his eyes. " Nice to meet you, stranger. "
on that, bucky would silently agree to disagree, hitching a grin in lieu of sharing water-warbled memories of a younger logan grinding his prickly, wiry stubble into a smaller bucky's cheek just to work up him up in the morning, harmless torture to greet european theatre of war and it's foggy mornings. it left topical burns that faded as the day closed out into the night, but the impression of the recollection left it's paltry scar. he'd groused about it until his ears steamed, he thinks.
arms shake out, prosthetic and natal alike, ball-joints rolling synchronously; the tide of battle droughts into lapping adrenaline, damming itself to disperse into bucky's limbs. he gives an acknowledging nod, casts his gaze briefly over the field of interlocking bodies. ' no lone wolves, huh? i can't imagine attacking somebody you wanna recruit is gonna get them on your side, wonder how well that works for 'em. '
but even he knew there were limits. bucky takes care to prompt his right hand, warm flesh over cold plated adamantium-vibranium sting, firmly but kindly cupping her hand. he feels the lissome strength in her tendons, knuckle joints. ' bucky . you too, yukio. ' glee tapers into a well worn dimpled smile, he slackens his grip when appropriate. ' if there's more of 'em holed up nearby, i say we root them out. i think we can take 'em. '
" of course it's not katie. " offense bridles the nape-downed hairs purling out from beneath his cap on kate's behalf that her name is even in bucky's mouth. his snap is reactiv e, the gnash of his jaw clamping together all the grief for these bodies. culpability slackens his proud, recurve shoulders , snipping the tendon until it drenches through him, byzantium & brutal. an urge strikes the tips of his fingers, that he'd like to scrub the ground until it ruptures the vessels under his flesh &
" just meant the list is short is all. " black swish of a katana's haloing blade. that had been him , hadn't it? a pilfered time machine had harbored enough doppelganger confusion that there's really no simple answer to any of this. " wasn't me. not this time. " anemic of conviction , staring down at these gaping death masks.
the rigor is already setting in, scaring open, unseeing eyes with gossamer gloss casting over what were once no doubt warm with something . searching their features for something familiar conjures little in him aside from building on the mountain of his ponderous guilt.
" wouldn't know 'em from adam, " distant whine of that authoritative call manages to pierce the barrier of his ear drum through the hearing aid. the last of his arrows, net unspooled, yarns up between his threading fingers as he picks a boot up & " hey, buck ----- " & " ---- him . "
where barton abides apparent snappy disgust and despondent gloom ( an objection that hits a wall and ineffectually rolls off him ) , bucky is a distinctly cold dichotomy, any thread of wanton emotion tucked beneath a bolted static mask. this is training kicking in, muscle memory that pacifies intrinsic response, the same as a cut nerve. ' like i said. ' his observations are detached; the helm of this violence tasted like vinegar, stealing the moisture from his palate. it reminded him of himself. if he ascertains the waver in clint's voice, he makes no untoward remark.
despite contention-- most of which accrued off the smart spade of clint's wagging tongue--bucky's faith isn't nearly as tenuous as portrayed. he doubted very much that clint was capable of the same extirpative wetwork he was, saw that natural recoil when faced with it for himself that was aberrantly absent from bucky. a lifetime of espionage and professional assassin-work lent itself to a sort of desensitization, no matter how hard he clung to the familiar apertures of ' the greater good ' and all that.
spurned on easily, metal grip acts like a hook-wire propelled by barnes' (un)natural strength. he bounds up at an impressive trajectory, grace of an olympic gymnast mimicked in his saulto. heel pivot, he traces the path to where clint's eyes meet. the banshee wail of police tocsin ticks down, closer, closer, hastens his droning heart. run white and blanched by death, the face that emptily stares back is unfamiliar to him. ' thought you said you didn't know 'em. ' his gesture spells urgency, a jerk-sweep of the prosthetic arm. ' where are we going, clint? '
' i, uh.. might've made some enemies on this planet. but, look--if anything happens, i'll make sure you don't get involved. '
@skycapt4in
נומי נומי ילדתי
tanja solnik
" ow --- hey! remember who's the regular guy here. " ( put upon ). " bold of you to assume i have any wisdom. or cash. brother robbed me blind. "
his fingertip narrows in the pinhole focus of the binoculars, which has the superior benefit of masking his expression ( humor? warmth? good old-fashioned barton annoyance? ) . " so if you want dinner, you're buying. "
efforting to swallow his burgeoning amusement, bucky burnishes it--as he's want to--into a derisive snort, conveying only what he wanted to profess, never the white belly of sensitivities. ' didn't mean for it to be that hard, honest . ' his ( muted ) intonation is impossibly level, any vestige of fallacy or honesty alike lost in the murk of smooth nothingness, not quite so paradoxically bitter as apathy, but just as unreadable.
' --sure. i can be real gentlemanly when i wanna be, you know, even if i like being woo'd. ' now he's teasing, landing coquettish barbs in every pliable part of barton, hoping he rouses up some visible response. this was boyish bucky , a facsimile of a child that oscillated between audacious mischief and spitfire rage, hungry to find station in the world beyond the cast of soldier . ' i'll kill you if you suggest pizza, though. '
zimwyRebloggedawbroFollow[ ➶ ] @zimwy " so, stakeouts are like ... our thing ... now, huh? " zimwyclint's scratched up that dry-funny wire line of humor in him; bucky sucks a breath, knocks the knob of his elbow into the xylophones of his ribcage. ' you think you'd wizen up and buy a guy dinner first, at this rate. ' #awbro#THREAD.#V. PRIMARY.#:)16 notes
zimwyold doodle of bucky from 2021 in a hanukkah sweater :) #long time mutuals may remember this one lmao#MINE.#if you saw me delete n repost this its bc i accidentally linked to my art twitter HFJHWJWH
zimwyonlyfiends asked:when eliot stopped to help this motorcyclist, he was trying to do his good deed for the day — instead, he called out, " need a hand? " seconds before noticing, you know, bucky's metal arm. then there's an awkward pause and, well, shit, how do you come back from that? " i . . . uh . . . sort of know my way around an engine . . . ? " yeah, that'll do.' damn. damn! ' though bucky's accrued some measure of handiness in his time, skilled labor demanded as an aspect of his plied trade (more than once, the winter soldier was injected into the field bereft of weaponry and tools, supplemented by on-site procurement), he certainly didn't boast a mechanical know-how comparable to some of his friends. he's sure logan would've had his harley purring again in a handful of minutes, but he can't expect logan to abandon his obligations and come packing his way down some foreign highway. no, this trouble was his and his alone. bucky exhales a frustrated breath, thankful he has the foresight to keep a multitool in the saddlebags. he crouches beside the cooling center frame, working at unbolting the transmission housing, when a voice catches his attention. natal hand tucks into the depth of his riding leathers, coasting over the textured grip of his biometric pistol, stare snapping to intake the approaching silhouette. no firearm pointed his way, barnes relaxes a mite, unfriendly seams popping like loose stitches. he sighs. need a hand? all of bucky's features scrunch to one hemisphere of his face, cast into an amused grimace. he darts his tongue over his lips contemplatively. ' this one does the job pretty well. ' the prosthetic could have the housing cover off in a second, but then that would fray the metal vertices and wound his ride even more. at least it lets him appraise the hot pipes (they reminded him of steel intestines) without injury. ' .. alright. long as you got a gentle touch, you can give it a shot, sure. and--i know i'm out here alone, but don't try any funny business, fella. ' @onlyfiends#onlyfiends#RESPONSE.#bites him!
zimwyRebloggedawbrohe's been thinking. okay, so he's been down on his luck lately ... a lot. a steri-strip pieces together two rent sides spliced through his eyebrow & the scars are beginning to add up, coloring his features in all manner of cicatrice pink & silver as they seal closed. but clumsy, human wounds aside, he's still a master tactician. a better marksman, but ... " yeah, something ----- " clint steals up another arrow & flicks it back toward himself by the cresting. the tip muddies up with spare tissue from where he'd winched it. wiping it clean on the kevlar bracing his chest, he sheathes it. still mulling. there isn't a spare shot, no flesh wounds bored into these bodies, no scanted arrows spent off to the side. most of these had been fired off so expertly that the victims hadn't been so much as able to lift a hand in defense. it makes his bones cold. antifreeze seeps through his veins at the thought. " there's only four people who could come close to making these shots, buck. " hastily, retrieving another arrow-as-evidence. the espionage thing has never been his bag, but recognizing another archer's work? he can sniff out the swordsman ten protégés deep. so, seeing these in action? " i'm one of 'em. there's katie. then barney. & bullseye. & these are my arrows. not just replicas. " zimwyspying the staff of a reed protruding from the thoracic valley of a downed body, bucky spares a few steps, plants one heel against the slack curvature of the diaphragm, and twists the shaft free. bits of dislodged tendon clutch at the pointed stem; barnes does him the courtesy of rolling his wrist, projecting the scrapped flesh at the ground. this one is tucked directly into barton's quiver, fletching breaching the rim in such a way it reminded him of some morbid bouquet of flight feathers.shoulders flick up, sink down, girded muscle relaxing; he steps back into clint's view. ' so, it's bullseye. ' the very concept the identity of the assailant strayed beyond was unthinkable, to bucky. although his familiarity with barney was limited to anecdotes clint himself deigned to provide, he knew kate; not even fledgling doubt nests in him that she bears any willful responsibility for the slayings. ' come on, it's not kate. ' though bucky's expertise at following a scented trail was only second to, perhaps, the wolverine, he needed enough substance to latch onto in the first place, like any good blood hound. speculation only ran so far, stretched so thin. ' you recognize any of these guys to begin with? ' the temptation to ply through a wallet coaxes his natal fingers to flex into the meat of his palm. a distant siren blares, the indicative bellow of approaching authority. ' hustle, clint. ' #awbro#THREAD.#V. PRIMARY.
zimwyquick scrib of buck as that one famous photo of ava gardner#my Wife.#itsfine its like midnight no one will see thiss#MINE.
zimwybucky scent notesmetal. it is unavoidable. but it doesn't have that stinging astringent edge; it's a comfortable, warm-wet metal scent. boot polish, leather. often a faint note of blood. (it won't wash out.) trace hints of smoke. you cannot bed down in explosions and foxholes and come away without the soot living in the underside of your skin. (some of it is logan's cigar smoke.) honey and shea. he doesn't do much for his skin, but he's lightened up to advanced hair care. the masks sit once a week when he's sure he has no work. cat. alpine's little white hairs ruck up all his casual clothes. clean cat, though; he's gotten her comfortable with baths when he feels she isn't cleaning herself well enough. faint gasoline and motor oil. he takes good care of his bike. bergamont, verbena, iris, amberwood. all the aspects of woody bar soap. if he's dating someone, his partner lingers at every edge of him; their cologne or perfume, their natural scents, etcetera. every now and then, strawberry and sweet, 'girlish' scents. he indulges himself with a scented conditioner. #HEADCANON.
zimwyRebloggedawbroclint tugs the neck of his collar out & smothers his nose in it, but the only thing he can smell is cold copper & the fading adrenaline twang leeched out in last moments. a shrug bucks at one of his shoulders. pointing an index finger back at bucky, a wry quirk plies at his lips ( rife with the situational irony, here ), " i think you're projecting. i made fresh coffee this morning. " but as quick as the smirk plucks at his bowstring mouth, it looses again. these bodies are no laughing matter. people died. & his hallmark is stamped all over them. " you know i don't have it in me to do ... this. " his palm splays wide across the cap of his thigh as he levers himself back up to standing. the arrow shaft's shrapnel can't stay here unless he wants to wind up in a holding pen with no way out. both fragments clatter into his quiver. he reaches down, using his boot to dislodge the steel point from another body & it crunches, wet with the meat still attached to it. bile roils in his gut, starts to ascend up the column of his throat in a hot slake. " help a guy out, would ya, lefty? " as he peels a scant piece of fletching from the floor, clint speaks up again. this time, grim-mouthed, when he speaks, " remember all that stuff about calling cards when we were looking for nat? " zimwyprojecting... right. hell, clint does a good job at rousing the child that yet plastered to the walls of his selfhood, flecked in the great deluge of what he's become since. james would've thrown a mean fist by now, split narrow wood-hard knuckles on his stubble scratchy skin, earned himself a talk beneath the medicine cabinet whilst george wrapped his wounds in sterile gauze. but bucky is nothing if not a tempered tool, and compartmentalizes any vestigial need to respond. the mouthy thing in him submits. some audacity he has to ask for help after that opener. barnes may be cruel, but not so cruel. he does not suppress the reactive roll of the eyes, yet there he goes, bothering to stoop before a corpse unattended. single entry point, shot clean through the sternocleidomastoid and associated artery, albeit without the appropriate force to pierce the opposite wall or the spinal vertebrae. bucky plies the arrow free at the head, listlessly digging prosthetic index and thumb tip into the sucking crevice. his grip tweezes the arrow head, slipping it free in a dripping string of scarlet. that they yet bled so richly indicated recent deaths. bucky's hackles raise at the prospect this killer--or band of them--might linger in the area. he unwinds his tabled spine, stretching back to height, and unceremoniously shoves the arrow at clint. ' yeah. you got somethin'? ' #awbro#THREAD.#V. PRIMARY.
zimwyexpanding on bucky's gender / the Vaguely Trans Fem thing i get from him.bucky is not cisgender, but he presents that way because he would assume he is. he lacks terms to use that he's knowledgeable on. while judaism is tenuously more accepting of varied states of sex and gender, historical orthodoxism is still rife with homophobia and transphobia, twined into one thing, and bucky grew up in an orthodox borough with an orthodox father. george was a good man for the time period he raised his child, but he never told bucky it was okay to be 'a queer', just that it didn't matter if other boys called him that since he wasn't. the words he knows are associated with bullying and weakness. pansy/sissy/queer/fruit/flamer were what he heard the most, but that certainly didnt preclude 'fag' and 'faggot'. he likes "girl" things. he secretly identifies with femininity much more than he does masculinity and he doesn't strongly feel attached to the concept of manhood. it's just... 'what he is', and the concept there is some measure of choice in presentation is lost on him from an internal perspective. this isn't to say he feels this way about anyone else--absolutely not, bucky is very accepting--but it does mean the shame and guilt he feels over a draw toward femininity means it becomes extremely difficult to address or express. but he doesn't think he CAN be anything else--even if he had the terminology to use--because he is, admittedly, content as a man, even if he does experience an amount of dysphoria. in his general day to day life, he presents pretty masculinely and it doesn't cause him particular distress. but when he approaches femininity, there is euphoria; undefinable, frightening, new euphoria, that is burdened by raw shame.this is why i describe him as "nonbinary with a disconnect from gender and vaguely trans feminine but not a trans woman", because he isn't really a woman, but he only calls himself a man performatively if that makes sense. it feels without accurate descriptor, so he doesn't bother to address or name these things. canon lgbt characters like billy and teddy would really be helpful in opening his eyes to this.#HEADCANON.#i may link this in my rules to avoid confusion when i talk about bucky being a doll lmao.#fellow transgenders will get it#f slur#f slur tw#(i can say this btw i am gay afjwhjfw)
zimwynames/nicknames bc some fanon hcs about this bother the fuck out of me lmao. bucky would not call steve 'stevie'. ever. i'm sorry, i hate this hc and dont understand where it comes from. for a romantic partner, while he almost always will prefer to call them by their name or diminutives of their name (as is the general format for displaying affection in most eurasian countries), he will use baby (sometimes babe)/sweetheart/doll/tiger/stud, the latter two reserved exclusively for men unless a female partner said she was into that. even then, 90 percent of the time its gonna be their name. natasha is a special case. calls her 'natasha' or 'tasha' around everyone else, but when speaking just to her and no one is around to overhear, will call her natalia. baby buck was much more loose about nicknames, though they were usually doled out less affectionately and more geared toward lighthearted mocking. not always the case, but usually. lot of old slang. doesn't use the word 'dame' anymore, but definitely used to. was never intended to be chauvinistic, either.has a hard time identifying with the word 'queer' simply because it is still a slur to him. he's never going to tell other people what to call themselves, but he definitely flinched the first time he heard someone using it, and still kinda doesn't get why they use it. #HEADCANON.#q slur
zimwyif you married bucky, would that make him your sniper wifle? #OOC.#TBD.#the phrase is just pinging around in my head. wife him up i guess
zimwyRebloggedperditosSteve put aside thoughts of his 'retirement' date for later, much later. Maybe, one day, he'd get bored or have the equivalent of a mid-life crisis, and pick-up... golf, or something, or try any number of things he'd no doubt have some success at. (Quite a resume: Captain America, Leader of the Avengers, World War II veteran). It was just that he was so good at fighting and he had so many things he considered worth fighting for. Steve had never been good at picking his battles. It didn't matter if he retired, retreated to a quiet life with a spouse and children, inevitably he'd witness what had always gotten his hackles up: a big guy picking on a little guy, in whatever form that took in the world. And before he could stop himself, against the wishes of friends and family, and sometimes even himself, he'd pick-up a shield and pick a fight. It was his nature. Steve couldn't help it. It reminded him of a curious Russian Proverb about a scorpion. "I'm sorry, it's my nature," but that itself was an excuse. Steve was just as good with a watercolor brush as he was with the shield. Was it not, just as much his nature, to paint a sunrise or draw a cartoon? Was creating something good and beautiful not as good as fighting Hydra?But he pressed aside those philosophical thoughts for the here and now.He knocked his knee into Bucky's knee, reminding him of when they were boys (much smaller and skinnier, with scuffed skin), and sitting on the stoop whiddling away the hours until dinner. Now they were men, bigger and stronger, but worn by the years of war. The brief contact, a shared heat through layers of jeans, down to the hidden skin of their thighs, warmed Steve's leg up to his hip. From his angle, leaned back on his elbows, while Bucky remained upright and hunched, he could admire the powerful curve of Bucky's back. The slope of his shoulders, the strong shape of his biceps, and the define vertebrae that poked out even from beneath the cotton of his t-shirt. Steve idly thought of drawing him: the shapes he'd use, where he'd press down on the pencil to darken a region of shading, and where he'd lift, to lighten. A trust artist could make a beautiful rendition out of anything but Bucky was such a perfect composition that he seemed to lend himself to art. Maybe in another life he could be a model or movie star. He could imagine him on a silver screen, wooing a leading actress... There was an odd flash of envious pain within Steve, imagining this total hypothetical of watching Bucky in love from an uncomfortable movie theater seat. A totally, and wholly, incomprehensible emotion."Logan's got a cabin," Steve mentioned. He stretched through his right foot, the stiff leather of his boots straining as he idly rolled his ankle. "Somewhere up in Alberta, he said. Could be worth it to check-out, see if we actually like the ruff and tumble life. You know I'm a city boy, Buck, I've never lived anywhere that's not within walking distance of a Bodega."Course, back in his day, the corner stores on the West Side weren't called Bodega but modern parlance had crept into even Steve's vernacular. "Be a bit embarrassing to pick up everything and move to the middle of nowhere," he mused, with a grin, "and realize we like it in New York more."He took a swig of alcohol, noting they were almost halfway through the bottle. Which would be enough to put any two grown men on the ground if not heavily inebriated. If Steve squinted and thought for a second, he could feel a slight, lingering buzz. He offered the bottle back to Bucky, sitting up on his arm to lean forward enough to put it within reach."You know who we could ask?" Steve smirked, "Pepper. I bet if we told her we were going on a vacation to Europe, she would be all over it. Especially, if we promised to bring her a few things back."He was mostly joking. Steve had enough squirreled away (those Captain America royalties really ticked over during his decades asleep) to pay for both him and Bucky, and Stark was plenty rich and generous to make sure they traveled in style."We could find someone," he assured Bucky. "Plenty of people in New York to take care of a cat, or even, we could leave her with a friend. Only question is, when do you wanna go? You know I'm serious about this. Serious like, as soon as we get back to the states I'm finding time on my calendar. I think I owe it to you given what I've put you through these past couple weeks, worrying about me."zimwynights like this remind bucky of a swath of tangled memories; new years and shabbat and a christmas celebrated more for the honoring of his dead mother than any actual obligation to the holiday, bare legs where his play-pants rolled up to the knee, sitting on a park bench or the apartment building stoop or the fire escape with his father. you see that star, james? he'd indicate, and bucky would follow his hand to the brightest bulb in the stygian sky, that's polaris. the fond warmth would burn into stolen moments of normality as the winter soldier, perched upon an urban rooftop waiting for a designated target to arrive on site, watching the foot traffic beneath or the morning sparrows collect on electrical wires. there were so many years lost between them, steve's life ensnared in a prison of submerged ice, bucky's in captive psyops. the future made him nervous by comparison; their past was firmly molded, unbreaking and unchanging, but the suspended unknown of what lay before them made his nerves prickle, skin hot. always painfully methodical, bucky hated when he could not sight the proverbial horizon, and so often with these advancing developments and, plainly, the chaos, of the modern era, it sunk deeper into hilled obscurity. the notion of accelerated loss terrified him. bucky felt like the grasp he had on his life now was tenuous at best, and even if nothing in the world could break into his mind and muck up all those carefully crafted defenses, whatever rug they stood on, a facsimile of normality, could be yanked from beneath him at any moment, any time. no certainties. somehow, it was far less daunting to be pigeonholed by the slow march of time when he was young. he'd hardly cared what rested on it's laurels in their given path, despite the lost he'd tasted at that tender age; the quality of pain was.. different.his thumb encircles the neck of the bottle as prompted, liquid weight drawing the bridge of his wrist low. bucky mulls the thought over, lets his mouth linger shallow over the rim, hot breaths warming the vacant circle. finally, he imbibes, a reflexive exhale following his swallow. ' long as i don't gotta sleep outside, i don't think it'll bother me. jus' don't wanna wake up with bugs in my hair again. ' that was where the winter soldier and bucky differed. the winter soldier drew no complaint (at least, after a point; it's early years were painted with stubborn refute), thought of the elements only as an aid or hinderance and little more. from frozen japanese mountains to swelting south east forests, there was no path it would not tread. bucky, however, liked doling it out by the mouthful. he's simply less talkative these days. ' yeah, you can ask her. i'm not exactly mister charming these days. ' not compared to the plucky adopted attitude brandished in the upswings of the war, at least. that bucky knew what buttons to push to elicit a particular response. the body he occupies now only plays at that game for the purpose of extraction and deception; besides, he isn't particularly fond of tony, and fears it might soak into his attitude. steve, on the other hand, acted like spongy adhesive, got along with everyone and drew the respect of those he didn't. bucky was just.. some slick void-cloud, a poor chameleon, a mimic of a better man, a fine tool to be used by those better men he didn't believe in. it's hard to determine if the warmth that pools in his diaphragm is spurned by the whiskey, or by the way steve looks at him when bucky cares to turn his head, finding his face. his brows incline subtly toward his dense hairline. ' yeah? you're serious?.. i'll have to see if i've got anything lined up and who i can pass it to if i do... you know how demanding they can be. ' fury, hill, shield, the avengers, every organization designated toward counterterrorism employing agents like him and natalia. hypocrites. ' maybe.. bobbi, or sharon, she likes them. alpine can get fussy without me. can't leave her with nat, then it'd just be nat finding a sitter for her and liho. ' he'd felt especially bad about the time she'd clawed the hell out of riri and one of her curtains. bucky unfurls his angled legs, lets them stretch to a booted en pointe, then thuds flat into the ground, the back of his head flush with the grass. ' y'know, ' he hums, keeping his stare on the blanket wreath of stars. they were always clearer outside of cities. ' almost sounds like you're askin' me on a date. ' it's just a joke, but.. bucky finds himself paralyzed, terrified of what he'll see if he looks at steve. #perditos#THREAD.#V. PRIMARY.#smiles :)
zimwyRebloggedawbroFollow@zimwy said: your judgment is severely impaired. " says the guy who hasn't washed his hair in ... what ... a month? wouldn't kill you to invest in a three-in-one, ya know. " gosh, he kinda hates bucky. but ... this does look kinda bad. a garden of arrows ( his --- there's even a label flagging up on the shaft of the one to his left ) shoots up in different states of bloom. from a series of felled bodies. " but you know i didn't do this. ain't my style. " except for the killing, it is. the trajectory angle matches where he'd stand back for the ideal shot ; it's even from his vantage point. clint bends down a knee to wrap his hand around the shattered shank & wrenches it free with a twisting grimace. " aw, " drains the smirk from his mouth as a spill of red trickles free. " so, what do you say, bucky? up for another round as the world's second-best sidekick? " zimwyif looks could kill as effectively as the rest of him, barton would be a shred of sanguine ribbons heaped over the cracking concrete by now. god, he hates hawkeye, he really does; the memory of his slingshot weight upon his aching spine does him no favors, stings his agitation through his eyetooth. it's like he can see the migraine flowering behind his retinas, steve's voice a gentle lilt, don't fight with our friends, buck. well, steve wasn't fucking here. ' that's rich, coming from the guy who smells like three-day-old coffee, dog breath, and cold pizza. ' he wouldn't have cut it among GI's if he hadn't learned how to roll with the one-two punch rebound and dish it back out, something about kinetic energy, transference. clint knew little about him, so the breadth of his insults plink against bucky's steel veneer and shatter harmlessly. bubbled gore stirs naught in barnes, not even lingering disgust. he knows this, intimately. the ineffectual barb means bucky doesn't reach into the well of spite inside him and conjure up something crueler, something personal. natalia loves him. that has to mean something. i'm not a sidekick and second best? wrestle within him, grinding against his molars. what bucky lands on is, ' yeah, so i can keep an eye on you, 'cause this is looking pretty damning. ' #awbro#THREAD.#V. PRIMARY.#girls no fighting#bucky who probably already believes clint didn't actually do this since he knows he doesn't kill: bitch
zimwyReblogged g2g0oohhitsvalFollowYou’re going to look into my big brown eyes and tell me no? Unbelievable #ssfkwhwjmekbmkemkeb ww2 bucky constantly#MUSINGS.
zimwyi feel like its important to understand that even though buckys accepted that he isn't a hero or a symbol and that he's okay with doing dirty bloody work and taking on the 'stain' of these duties from other people (because someone has to, because the killers deserve to be killed), that he very much wants to be a good man. he doesn't consider himself one by any means, but, god, isn't it the truth that he desperately wants to be considered someone worth looking up to and following, even if he isn't a natural leader? it isn't about fame or glory either, or recognition, its.. about the fact the core of him is good regardless of his actions, and the fact he wants to be loved by the people that matter to him (steve, nat, etc), wants them to think of him as a man of character and not as a stone cold killer. i think it would break his heart if thats all steve thought of him, and every time steve admonishes him in a way that brings his perception of bucky into question (e.g. 2016 thunderbolts animal control collar scene), it feels like he's chipping at a wall that has long been crumbling or cracked. and, one day, steve is really going to see him for who he is, and that other shoe will drop, and the only person in the world who will still love him regardless of their standing is natalia, and now that he has steve again and has for years, that thought is fucking unbearable. #HEADCANON.#also hi. sorry. my brain has been kind of sludgy all day so i've been lurking.
zimwyghostscribes asked:i won't stop until you've come so hard your legs shake. ( alexei. Whoops ) smut meme. | @ghostscribesthere is a streak of meanness in alexei that bucky understands; it bears a deep familiarity to him, as barbed and violent as the winter soldier unfettered. beneath that resolute kindness (bucky thinks, it's something he's worked toward achieving), it worms through him, visible only to anyone like them--well-honed tools that operated best in the yawning dark. they spar not only to blow off steam, but because it benefits the both of them. alexei is bigger and very likely stronger, built like a wall. bucky is smaller and quicker, fluidly dexterous. the disparity in build and attributes meant that they were each others foils, and engaging in combat sharpened out their weaknesses; in a real fight, someone else as sleekly graceful as bucky would have a harder time facing alexei if he knew what to do with them already. his thrown punches hit with the same impact as steve's always did, and it exhilarates bucky to fall into easy and familiar avenues, even when the full force vibrates through his muscle tissue. that pain feels good. bucky buzzes around him, incessant as any fly. he ducks a right hook, jams his elbow into alexei's kidney, slides between his legs, and thrusts both heels into the red guardian's shins. the force is enough to push him off balance, but the way alexei falls is unanticipated. if he'd been thinking about it, he'd have had time to react and roll out of the trajectory of his collapse, but it happens quickly; in a moment, alexei has full on bodied him, all six-foot-three and two hundred-some odd pounds crushing into barnes like a solid slab of concrete. a loud grunt punches out of bucky's chest, pinned at the apex of his shoulder and hefty thighs by the red guardian's sprawled weight. the pain graduates and rescinds entirely, replaced by pressure he would've enjoyed in another situation, the soothing kind of heft. ' alexei. ' he slaps his scapula with his open natal palm, moaning protest. alexei's ribs shake when he laughs, pressing one palm flat against bucky's chest to leverage himself up and alleviate his weight. the other sprawls over the training mat. they both smell like sweat, adrenal heat, and now that the combatant focus has broken, it's a high ledge to come down from. even as alexei adjusts his legs into a fold intended to bring him to his feet, he gives pause, the palm resting on bucky's pectoral unmoving. bucky had said nothing of the initial contact--he did need something to push off of, anyway--but, now... his lingering hold hastens bucky's pulse, subtly thrumming beneath the wealth of his left sided breast bone. he blinks, lips parting around words that refuse to fully form. the tension breaks into mutual understanding, a hot knife lanced through the stretched membrane. it's release, the same as sparring, the same as a midday meal, the same as a good night's sleep, and bucky hasn't been with anyone, under them, over them, in a stretch of five months. alexei appreciatively cups one of bucky's thick thighs, thumbing the widest band of muscle. strong thighs, he says, broad palm digging into the skin beneath bucky's training gear (he always alternated between loose sweats and a tank top or form-hugging tights when he was training the operatives). i am wanting to know how they feel around my waist. Keep reading#ghostscribes#RESPONSE.#PROMPT.#HI.........#translation: well then kiss me you fool / prepare yourself.#he's such a brat#NSFW.#soft but nonetheless
zimwysnkts asked:"Meet me in the bathroom in five minutes."smut meme. | @snktsbucky hasn't been in madripoor since 1956. the memory is corpse-like and bloated, white in the sunken valleys of his mind where all the new-old truths hatched and broke open from their membranes. the man the winter soldier had assassinated was called... gaines, if he's allocated the correct details to the ill-preserved recollection. still, that memory stirs a thin finger of anxiety in his belly when logan asks him to accompany him. he says something about his fine touch, and how natasha wasn't available, and... bucky doesn't hear much else, visibly uncomfortable at the prospect. what's eatin' you, buck? logan drawls, and bucky should've expected there's little he can hide from his superior senses. bucky wrings his hands together as a self soothing gesture, metal thumb dug into soft grooves. ' i killed somebody in madripoor. ' bucky starts, slackening his arms. ' for the kgb. i think he was a british ambassador. ' what makes him different? the question filters through bucky like rain through a slatted roof, wires through eye holes; he doubts logan intends it so strike him so crudely, so the brief glimmer of accusatory anger that swells in bucky in response gutters as quickly as it forms, a rare display of curated regulation. he puffs an excess of air out in such a way that it vibrates off his lip, like a sound a bored child might make. ' nothing, i guess. ' he was right, wasn't he? it was no less punishable, no less crooked and mechanical than all the other assassinations. so they go to madripoor. the nature of his assistance isn't adequately portrayed to him until logan shoulders out of his bomber jacket and dusty bike jeans into a pressed, crisp suit, the blazer as white as a mountain ermine. logan needs a partner of some variety, for reasons bucky doesn't entirely understand, but he loves logan, trusts him, and thus, trusts that this need comes from a place of authenticity. bucky certainly wasn't dressed for the proposed occasion, though. they were going to visit a live music jazz hall that whomever logan was pursuing frequented, and find an opportune time to strike. bucky, however, was yet clad in his fleece-collared leather jacket and loose track pants; the joint was high end, so this wasn't going to cut it. logan says he knows a place. bucky acquiesces. they travel by city-sanctioned taxi, and the cabby is friendly, if quiet, apparently nonplussed by two individuals of their caliber or descript. logan stops him down a chintzy boulevard, the two of them greeted by the fluorescent shine of rich lights, neon beginning to paint the wealthy side of madripoor in watercolors as the sun hangs low on the horizon. the building he leads him toward boasts a massive window, gorgeous text printed upon the forefront: la boutique de beauté de miss gloria. i would'a taken ya to jumbo carnation, logan gruffs as he palms open the polished cherry wood finely carved door, but he's been a bit busy lately. bucky isn't given the opportunity to ask who that is; the moment he steps into the boutique, a woman wearing a fine wreath of plumage with tall, teased platinum hair and vibrantly red lips coos from where she's adjusting a mannequin stand, oh! monsieur bandeau! she turns, gleefully sauntering over to the duo, her attention fixed on logan. if bucky has to guess, this is the eponymous gloria. logan gestures open handed at bucky. hey, gloria. can you doll up my girl here? the forward feminization sends a rocket skating through bucky's abdomen. it swells and bursts in his chest, runs his hands clammy, his skin prickling at every pore. he's glad he shaved, glad everything is a touch loose, glad that miss gloria doesn't even bat an eye at the suggestion this strong-framed brunette in her shop was a woman. of course, my dearest, she hums, her accent thick and native. it will cost. miss gloria indicates to bucky to remove his coat. flustered, he fumbles with the zipper a few times before he yanks it free, letting it slide off his shoulders. before it pools to the ground, logan does him the courtesy of seizing it mid-fall, and hangs it up at the standing rack positioned beside the door. you know i'm good fer it. bucky, decidedly, keeps quiet. miss gloria procures a flexible measurement tape. from where, bucky hasn't the slightest idea; it's as if the tool materializes in her gloved hand. she wraps it around the smallest part of bucky's waist and tugs until it's tight, a thoughtful and lively sound resounding behind her closed mouth. the tape lowers to his hips, the process is repeated, and again to his chest. miss gloria takes care not to touch him more than necessary, an effort bucky appreciates. she doesn't even remark on the cold imposed flat of his prosthetic base or the weight of the arm when she maneuvers it, her measurement tape cascading from the hollow of bucky's clavicle to the floor. finally, miss gloria retreats just enough to encourage barnes to turn. she appraises his physical, every strong angle, every soft edge. oui, miss gloria exclaims, i do believe i've something already made that might fit. i've been waiting for the right person to grace with it, i simply cannot part with it if the je ne sais quoi is not matched. the fanciful tailor and dressmaker retreats into a back room shaded by a thick curtain. bucky turns on his heel to accost logan with an arching raise of the brows, a look that speaks volumes without verbalizing even a word. he sees the smile that beds into howlett's face, and the part of him that wants to throttle him for subjecting him to this without warning instead combats the part that recognizes the warm authenticity in the folds of his skin, the glare of his eyes. he was approaching something bucky only expressed in famished secret, something logan had bore witness to in his youth burdened by the sanction of war. a soldier couldn't be anything but a firmly reliable man. a soldier couldn't be a queer who fantasized about boys and roles delegated to women. the mindset isn't easy to break free from. miss gloria returns with a pair of heels and a sheer dress, black and sluicing silver-white that matched the shimmer of bucky's arm, plunging neckline framed by a dazzling lace-and-rhinestone applique. she holds it up on it's wire hanger to test it against bucky's frame, then after a moment of deliberation, shoves them both against his sternum. go. put it on. the dressing room is over there. stunned into silence, there's no other option for bucky to follow but the one laid before him. the door thuds behind him. he rubs his brow, sighs about whatever the hell he's gotten himself into this time, and obediently strips behind the separating wall. his shirt and track pants sling over the high edge, boots and socks kicked into the corner, leaving bucky bare but for his narrow undergarment. the dress is shockingly easy to put on, hugging every precipice of his body like it was made for him, no slack cloth around the chest or bunching around his dense thighs. after slipping into the heels, bucky turns to examine himself in the affixed floor mirror, ensuring nary a strap or stone was out of place, and, finally, returning unto the presentation floor. his heels click-click-click, stepping into view for the both of them to take in. all he needed was some styling of the hair, a layer of accentuating makeup, maybe a ring or necklace. that was unlikely something miss gloria would handle. all the same, she lets out a delighted keen bucky can only imagine means he fits the image of the wearer she had in mind for her dress. when bucky locks eyes with logan (patch, he remembers here), what he finds looking back at him is more than appreciative. there is no predicted amusement at his expense, nothing remotely subdued. he doesn't think he's ever seen the wolverine so shocked, looking at him as if he'd hung the moon, as if he'd been carved out of marble and tucked into the foyer of a museum. the fashion magazine logan had been carding through slips right out of his slackened hand, bowing into the floor. ' that bad, huh? ' the voice that comes out of bucky is soft and trained, convincingly feminine, held up in his head and throat. he adjusts the cascade of his curls, pivots in place to show off the dress at all angles. his backline is exposed to the center of his spine, all corded definition. miss gloria charges logan two-and-a-half thousand for the dress. if bucky knew the numbers, he would've choked on a thousand needless apologies, as if he'd been at fault for the price somehow when it was logan's suggestion he play this role to begin with. the night goes easy. it's not particularly hard to play the girlfriend of a high-roller, maintaining an easy and sticky honeypot, deferential smiles and sleek feminine-branded confidence. persuading their man to follow is certainly a hell of a lot smoother going when the operative influence is a stunning woman (a quick visit to a salon had been enough to touch up his hair, attribute a surfacing of makeup unto his features). no scene is caused; bucky leads the man out into a secure location, gathers what information they need that would otherwise have to be pried from an unyielding tongue, and knocks him out with a mean left hook. the image inducer falls apart, leaving barnes' prosthetic gleaming in moonlight. he lifts a secure keycard off the guy and makes his way back to the meet up point. logan (patch) still smells like appetizers and champagne. the professionalism is knocked out of him the moment he gets a good look at bucky again, though; with the job done and nothing else on their plate for the night, he stirs, reaching to trail the outer ledge of bucky's natal forearm. his thumb rounds the ball-joint of his wrist. it's.. unbelievably romantic, actually. bucky thinks he might lift his hand to kiss the veined side in a moment or two if they linger like this. instead, he steps closer, angling onto the bridge of his toes to find bucky's ear. meet me in the bathroom in five minutes. bucky's lidded eyes flit open, swallowing moonlight. it runs his stare especially black. he stands at an edge, and has to leap. it's unceremonious, and lurid. the synapses in his brain fire off in a desperate fusillade, trying to catch up. ' yeah? '
yeah. #snkts#RESPONSE.#PROMPT.#i truly cannot tell you what compels me to write 800 paragraphs of set up for every response/thread/etc#didn't even get into any meat here#q slur#internalized homophobia cw
zimwyperditos asked:“is this okay ? [ ... ] tell me if that changes, alright ?”From Steve <3smut meme. | @perditosthis is exploratory, for both of them. bucky's acclimated to a life of disuse of the left arm--it took nearly a decade for the cybernetic development of the original model prototype, after all, and though he did not spend every day of those nine years aware and conscious in the waking world, the winter soldier was rapidly repurposed in those sunset years. they lived a life without the use of their natal born appendage, and the muscle memory of how to operate without it is far from lost on bucky now. but it does propose this new sense of vulnerability, territory to traverse for the both of them. bucky is laying on his stomach, legs spread just enough for steve to slot between them, though the way he hovers is far less charged than suggested. the prosthetic has been ejected, carefully resting over the seat of an arm chair, placid and unmoving. steve's palm tests at the seam of the metal plate through bucky's shirt, feeling about the mounded flesh beneath the trim ruby cotton. the sensation that transmits through the pathways in bucky's brain is muted; the flesh oscillates between hypersensitivity and insensate numbness, the unfortunate result of surgical necessities. it was simply impossible to spare the severed nerves upon the wound site. is this okay? he questions, appraisingly following the valley of the attachments to the bottom of bucky's scapula, the latissimus dorsi a rigid valley of muscle and ductile chrome, giving way to the stretch of oblique above the iliac crest. it almost feels like a massage to bucky, who has long since shut his eyes, face buried in a downy pillow. steve's fingers delve beneath the barricading hem of bucky's nice henley, smoothing up the bare slope of his back. one palm cups the outcropping of the base, the other fondling the upper curve of bucky's shoulder blade. it's so gentle, so affectionate and obliging, bucky forgets that bonfire of whipping passion that'd been blaring between them not ten, fifteen minutes beforehand. it'd been about trust, the comfort of intimacy removed of his aid, a thousand 'are you sure's. ' s'good, steve. ' bucky's voice comes from under him, appropriately smothered by the plush pillow. he turns his head just enough to clarify himself some, adding after a moment or two of thoughtful pause, ' but i thought i told you i wanted you inside me. ' he practically hears his throat dry up, the gust of a held breath. you did. tell me if that changes, alright? ' which part? ' there is a grin, in spite of the fact it would not be conveyed well at this angle. both. either. #perditos#RESPONSE.#PROMPT.#made this.. angling toward spicy but cute. soft.
zimwyus4genta asked:you feel so fucking good.smut meme. | @us4genttoday's operation bleeds off some of bucky's unassailable professionalism. the target is a former red room agent whose made contact with a sentient alien species interested in harboring him and a precious mystical artifact thought long inert, lifted from a museum in the balkans. the interpersonal drive makes his mouth brim with dry cotton, a doll with a frayed stitch. he knows his name when he sees it on the pre-operation file, and it burns him to the core. the actual operation goes smoothly enough, up until the subject requires physical apprehension. bucky goes a little overboard. he rattles their hostile, slams him into the yielding ground over and over, an exchange of heated russian carrying across the concrete floor of the red room student's greek safehouse. it happens too quick: false hand coiled around his throat, bucky applies an excess of pressure, popping his spine. the axis cervical vertebrae snaps, and that's that. he goes slack, glass eyed. everyone sees, and no one comments. the ride back in the f-35 (after returning the artifact to it's place) is eerily quiet. the evening winds down. john's prepped meal remains untouched in the shared commons fridge; bucky notices it sitting there (J.W. sharpied into the lid) when he retrieves his own protein bowl. when the microwave beeps, he grabs the plastic by the steaming rim with his prosthetic hand and meanders off toward john's room, shoveling hearty helpings into his mouth. when he finds his door unlocked, he shoulders in, finding john propped up against the furthest wall just beneath the jut of a windowsill. ' hey, ' bucky grunts as he finishes off his dinner, tosses the empty bowl into the rooms garbage can seated near the exit. ' you're not eating? ' he studies john's face, watches his stare move from an imperceptible spot on the floor to meet him, sees something there that reminds him of contempt. not nearly so astringent and cruel, but bucky sees whatever lurks beneath the surface of him, even if he cannot determine it's form. no, john murmurs, watching you kill that guy curbed my appetite. it feels like harp strings lined on bucky's back, plucked one by one; very few individuals had a way of rubbing sandpaper into his skin the way john did, and if it didn't agitate him so much, he'd consider it a talent. their synchroneity and his dedication to duty always made bucky forget the capacity walker had to irritate him. but this went beyond some petty agitation; bucky's jaw muscles flex, instinctive tensing bracing his body. ' he was one of my students. you think i wanted to do that? he wasn't going to surrender. we're taught not to. ' death in service was the most honorable option in the eyes of the soviet union. though, if bucky thinks about it too long, he cannot say the american government or military is all that different, can he? he watches that same emotion harden and collect. john pops his lips, makes a face that drives jowl lines into his firm jaw. he gets to his feet, meanders over to an assortment of personal affects sitting in a cardboard box atop a nightstand. bucky watches him rifle through the contents with delicate care, like he was searching for something gauzy and breakable. just feels like a double standard, doesn't it? you kill someone and nobody bats an eye. the unspoken is immediately known to bucky, unveiled easily by john's terse tone. (but when i kill someone, it's a problem.) ' be careful, walker. ' proffered as a warning. bucky's stare darkens, something cold as ice welling to the surface of him, wintry and honed. it threatened to give way to that well of explosive anger just beneath, a roaring conflagration that fed easy on the feelings bucky didn't want to address. yeah? john probes, arms slackening as his hands fall away from that box. bucky thinks it might be mementos, memories, personal affects he could not bear to part with. that made sense. he carried a part of natalia and steve and sam with him wherever he went, in some way or another. what, or you'll kill me too? or maybe torture me first? get me screamin'? bucky's temper overflows. he grabs john by the front of his shirt, two hands fisting around the cloth at his clavicle, and jams him back into the wall. the effort it takes would surprise him if he was thinking about it, always forgets the extent of his strength and the resistant quality of it. his build was subtle and hidden away, and it spoke nothing of the endowment of superior strength. bucky, john breathes, his intones shifting in such a way they play along bucky's insides like piano keys. what he finds in his determination is hunger, burning from rage into primal lust. when their mouths meet, it's crushing. bucky has to drag john's head down to account for the disparity in height, coaxes his natal hand into the hinge of his jaw and the field of coarse hairs he finds there. his heart slams mercilessly into his chest, the density of his anxieties crashing into an accruing need. they've gotten so close to this before, only to stall out at the last moment, no consummation over duty. but, they have time, tonight. time, and privacy. john takes the lead from him, seizes his proverbial leash. when his hand passes across bucky's chest, grips at the muscle and tests a thumb across the bud of his nipple through his undershirt, bucky whines, throaty and full. john must decide he likes that sound, because he does it again only seconds thereafter. his opposite hand glides across bucky's back, raking the definition and following the curve of his spine until he meets the arch of his ass over his form-hugging nylon. Keep reading#us4gent#RESPONSE.#PROMPT.#NSFW.#it's big and it's long! (this response. and nothing else. surely.)
