zimwy

[zimwy]

wippie.

[zimwy]

clint. clint. clint.

the name embeds itself in the runaway, fishing wire propellant through ragged mind and the infection of hollowed memory; whatever the soldier was, it learned secondary, possessing naught to confidently reflect in turn. it may know it's name, it may not-- instinctual russian strangely contorts in their language cortex, džejms to james. nervous eye rounded wide, it's blurred-edge stare casts back over the valley of their chromatic bicep, narrowly missing a misplaced bullet. a ten millimeter slug pings off an adjacent vertical beam, displaced air clipping their stringy curls. the soldier tenses, teeth firmly furrowing a notch into their squared jaw.

what choice did they have? his robins-egg fixed contemplation, borne of vulnerability, grapples at the bleeding heart entombed in forested cybernetics, a bisected beat where the prosthetic joined artificial plating. it fucking hurt, this aimlessness, a negative void where substance once sat. something about him is starkly familiar. they feel as if this precipice upon which they hang suspended is revisited rather than unique to this particular moment.

pulse slamming the tensor muscle in their throat, they acquiesce, bedding natal hand to palm, skin to skin. clambering over the eave of the roof relies predominantly on their mechanized grasp, long legs and firm form coalescing a powerful silhouette across the fiber concrete.

' clint, ' the soldier breathes, ' you're a fool. дерьма--- ' a percussive bang-bang-bang on the lower rungs of the utilized escape light a neonate urgency in the core of their abdomen, brittle ice stopping up their veins. it's thoughtless when they urgently coax three fingers into the apex of clint's elbow joint, the stiff ball of olecranon prominence serving like a painless snap of horse reins. run, it says.

the scene is still unfurling: crackling spires fishtail & fizzle from the arrow's prong. from his vaulted vantage point, he can't see where it embeds, but knows it's fanged deep beneath tissue to render weeping carmine ( & with any luck, a severed tendon to buy them some time ). this whole thing reads like a vicious play of a most dangerous game: the person before him, wrung out with adrenal flush & wild-eyed, the haunt swollen in pitch black pupils, is on the run.

one look at the splashy five points marked in ruby to his shining shoulder is all clint needs to see to know.

" someone who can can get you to a safe place. " corded muscle twines in a taut ligature, vigilant. the curvilinear belly-side of his bow swings out beneath the thread-lock of his fingers at the ready, tracking the flinching figure who might revive ... or worse & more likely, might have a throng of supporting airstrike vehicles zeroing in on their locale any moment. clint drops his grip, extends his open, archer's palm as if demonstrating how he can be a respite.

" i'm clint, " offered in lieu of hawkeye. vulnerability begets vulnerability. trust is a passageway earned. his eyes are an open, cloudless sky, crystalline & softer than the sparks whistled free from his arrow. " & i'm not gonna hurt you. "

[zimwy]

Genre of character: submissive like a guard dog is submissive

[zimwy]

cat boy vs. dog boy

[zimwy]

' so -- ' the unwinding proffer of his tongue indicates just one thing: amounting comfort. if he didn't like chris, he'd be steely and as silent as a sealed crypt. bucky's half-his-height higher up, perched, if only for the leverage; a sniper needed it. (he's stood beside him, flat ground, and felt dwarfed.) ' they ever put you on stake-outs like this before? '

@biosurvive

[zimwy]

some lil prosthetic arm thoughts (standard current model, not the liquid metal one):

while the plating interlocks and is a mixed adamantium-vibranium compound--therefore virtually impenetrable--the internal wiring is not. it would make no sense for the wires to be. they're conductive metals, mostly copper and aluminum, but i would believe the current model likely employs a host of stark tech that makes it very difficult to pry apart, manipulate, or overheat.

interlocking plates will shift, move, and flare to release any excess heat. i don't think the arm can actually overheat or anything, but it's probably better for the internal wiring.

arm is equipped with heat sensors and can warm to gentle, human-like warmth for the purpose of infiltration or to keep a lover comfortable.

it's also equipped with a straight up flame thrower, which suggests some kind of kinetic energy core somewhere in there. again, probably stark tech. (he doesn't like tony much, but he tolerates him for steve's mental wellbeing, and behaves himself.)

it cannot feel tactile sensations, but bucky can feel pressure and knows when his arm is being touched or touching something. no pain aside from phantom pain. cant discern hot or cold, the sensation of skin or fur or hair, etc, just that its being touched.

sometimes removes it to sleep, sometimes doesnt. rarely removes it in the shower. it is waterproof--it's just exceptionally heavy, 90 lbs fixated on the entire left side of his body.

the arm is somehow wired directly into bucky's mind, otherwise he has some cyborg techno-organic connection to it as he's able to manipulate it when it's detached and he's completely unconscious.

the plate that encompasses the areas destroyed by the drone plane explosion is built in a way that it mimics artificial structure and internals beneath the surface metal; a false clavicle that connects to the rest of his real bone, false joints, etcetera.

blade housed in the arm is not just a small hidden one but a full on sword, my personal hc is it was forged with a recovered fragment of the destroyed muramasa blade so is threatening to regenerative individuals.

can roll in it's socket in any and every direction without causing bucky any stress; its ball joints are 360 aside from where it connects directly with bucky's body/would be obstructed. fingers and arm at the forearm can also bend both ways.

the connection point is part magnetism and part a sequential lock / slotted. it's difficult to remove if bucky doesn't want it removed, but not impossible.

it's really fucking strong. the amount of force required to do the things the arm can do is crazy, especially like ripping off doors and bending steel rails. he broke things with it a lot when learning how to use it, and even though he's very controlled now, it will still slip--like during vulnerable moments, sex, anxiety, anger, etcetera.

fingers are equipped with retractable panther-esque claws, probably a gift from t'challa actually. no nails otherwise at all, just smooth tips. bucky forgets about this 6/10 times.

literally no explanation for how this works, it is just canon that the arm will reload his weapons automatically if its holding one. don't ask me how, i have given it zero thought because its silly.

[zimwy]

would anyone like a little starter from the winter soldier in one of their episodes where they wander off/dont report after a mission

[zimwy]

beneath this american sun, the winter soldier blitzes a midnight blur, rubber soles ripping inky where heavy combat boots tread. their ribs expand and clutch; from their foxhole they've been sprung, ducking soviet handlers, but nothing dams the waterfall of panic cascading inside them. it's head pulses and throbs, retentive warmth haloing their skull like a vice of palms.

soft browns, too emotive for their betters, crane up until they take in an unfettered athletic form--the shriek of a loosed arrow whirls past their head, a caterwaul erupting just behind it's gleaming deltoid. a passing hand scrapes the valley of their spine, fingers starfish loose at their ankle; the soldier wrenches their ankle free and stomps clutching digits until they snap like dry wood.

he is not familiar to them. why would he aid them?

they spot a trajectory, the metallic spire of a fire escape, enough to bear their weight. that's their out. their handlers were vicious, but lacked the enhancements necessary to pursue; the winter soldier veers toward the lifted iron ladder, thick legs propelling them to grasp the grating. they swing easily up, their own prey-stink clinging like ozone heat.

' who the hell are you? '

@zimwy / plotted starter

charcoal smears running dark trails under a gaze that boasts a shock of carob warmth. recognition lights a flame behind his sternum like a furnace flourishing. those same eyes ... now lit with agency ... he's seen them. somewhere.

lissom grace traced with deadly skill hurls blow & deflection from a pursuer under his tracking stare.

clint doesn't know what makes him do it, but his string is at his cheek, shock arrow's aim foreshortening on the chaser seemingly ferreting his quarry. " hey, bad guy! you might wanna look over here! " twang. the wire looses & before he even hears the stunny thwack following impact, clint's broad shoulder rolls down & he bounces to the next building's roof by strong fingers at the shingle. arcs of blue electricity lash out, crippling, when he loops up to land on both feet.

" ---------- you look like you could use some help. "

[zimwy]

i love dogs. doesn't everyone?

oblivion. | @awbro

sprawled supine on his floor, a sweat-slick post-operation mess of darkened lavender hitched up tantalizing to the cusp of his navel--bucky cannot help the shameless pass over his eyes take, observing the byway of dusky gold-brown hairs cinched off by his belt line--clint buries both callus roughened hands, tapestries of medical tape and butterfly wings, into lucky's thick coat. he watches the rescue dog (overweight, he thinks) lap eager strokes from the dusky stubble hinge of clint's jaw, across one cheek, through the thin field of a scarred brow. lucky's tail beats metronomic, displacing air that gusts across barnes' shin span.

' guess that depends on your perspective. ' one ankle, delicate yet firm paradoxically, ropes across the other, boots pairing. bucky slackens into clint's couch cushions, slinky and malleable. ' sometimes, we used dogs to hunt down fenya, or runaways. couple bastards liked to let 'em out around the yard in the gulag just to see who'd run first. ' bucky shrugs in response to the strangled half note that stops up in clint's throat, expects he'll grouse about what a downer he is. ' i thought he was kate's dog, anyway? '

[zimwy]

fc edits.

[zimwy]

some manilla folder stamped CLASSIFIED sits between open spider-leg metal fingers, vague consternation pinching bucky's features just up until he hears the little patter of august's shoes. his gaze softens instantly, attention pried in tandem as the folder is relinquished to his coffee table.

the scent hits him as auggie explains, smeared verdant streaks and soft wafting earth. it takes him back 90 years in an instant, chalk marks on new york concrete. his grin notches a line into his cheek. ' yeah? the knights slay th' dragon, or did the dragon eat 'em up? ' he gestures vaguely in the direction of his bathroom. ' nah, she's a good gal. ya want me to help? '

@zimwy

the boy wanders in, a towel draped against his shoulder. alpine meows and paws at his hoodie. (the cat was a mess. grass patches. dirt clumps.) softly: “ we were playin’ knights and dragons. ”

alpine had played her dragon role spectacularly. auggie leans toward bucky. “ will she raise hell if i give her a b-a-t-h? ” spelling the term instead of speaking it.

[zimwy]

the difference in athleticism and technique between bucky as cap and steve as cap is not extremely noticeable to an untrained eye--bucky was canonically taught to fight exactly like steve and can emulate it perfectly beyond a few things he doesn't quite have the strength for that steve does--but like, once you get down into a fight with them, esp if you are someone who has fought steve before but not bucky, it becomes noticeable quite quickly.

bucky, for one, always carries firearms. always, and he uses them. if he cannot have his rifle (shield tends to occupy that space), he will have his sidearm. he also always carries knives, and likely has numerous strapped to his body even in the cap suit.

two, bucky is much more slender and significantly shorter than steve. steve is canonically 6'2, bucky is canonically 5'9; it isn't a huge height difference but it certainly is notable.

three... the actual fighting differs. i don't think bucky uses the shield differently, and he does maintain the captain america fighting style as much as possible. he's trying very hard to be someone steve can and will be proud of, he idolizes steve, loves steve, frankly worships steve. this is his mantle and legacy, and bucky has to at least be of substance if he cant fill the shoes entirely. however, ultimately, he is an assassin and world class acrobat. not to say that steve isn't very athletic and cant do some fancy flashy stuff--of course he can, man is a master of kick flips--but bucky moves like natasha does, just a little different since he's wider.

when you get down to that, bucky is going to pull out moves steve never would. (and vise versa, frankly; steve is much more of a tank than bucky is, and can bull his way through a problem, where bucky cannot.) bucky is going to flying scissor headlock you with his legs and drop you from standing upright to slamming your skull into the ground squished between his thighs. bucky is going to backward donkey kick you in the mouth in a full arabesque. bucky is going to spider over your shoulders and springboard backflip off your back. bucky is going to slip-slide through the part of your legs and handstand his way into snapping your neck with his boots.

and if all that fails, he's going to pull out a hunting knife and stab you in the femoral artery. he did it to rumlow.

i just think its funny. he is the snappy little dog of a captain america who shakes violently when you tell him to sit and stay because he wants to be a good boy so bad but its fucking hard.

[zimwy]

obligatory 'not an mcu guy' but this genuinely fucking rocks, SOURCE HERE

[zimwy]

the sweltering sheathe of panic, a roaring consummation of panic-fear and violent habit, encloses like a hot dome across every aperture of bucky's skin. sweat burns at his brow and throat, the long column of his neck sticking seamed with the tail ends of his own wispy curls. he feels it bloat in his chest, the slam-pang of a zephyr throwing him onto his back in the red room radiating through his muscle memory.

but he wasn't in the red room. he was here. he was with steve. they were supposed to be sparring, keeping up steve's strength (or the new extent of it, anyhow), a comfortable and familiar lull. and he's fucked it all up.

at least steve takes it on the chin, like he always did. somehow, that makes him feel worse; he crowds in on himself, arms bridging shins, breaths hastening in spite of his efforts to slow his sinus rhythm. he can't find it in him to laugh, to rib you're flat on your ass, pal, to take the easy comfort clearly extended to him. fuck, he wished steve would just be mad at him, for once; that he'd admonish him and drive the nail in, hurt him the way he deserved.

but he never would, would he?

' i'm sorry. ' a frown cuts across his jowls, pronouncing dimples, soft flesh. his voice roughens in his throat, raw and thin. ' i.. uh. fuck. ' it's still there, lurking around inside him, prickling hot beneath his skin. that feeling, that prey-fear. ' steve, i'm--i'm sorry. i've killed so many people, i.. i drifted. '

                              STEVE'S HEAD SNAPS FORWARD WHEN BUCKY SUDDENLY LETS GO OF HIS HAIR, but he only has time to keep himself from smashing his nose against Bucky's jaw, and then he already feels a sharp, ugly pain radiating from his left hand, which only fuels the speed of his knee to get Bucky to fucking stop with this bullshit, but then inhuman strength rips Steve's hand off his throat, and then the world explodes. Steve has been hit by the metal arm before, of course, he has, but a) there has always been some sort of protective uniform that had dampened some of the power, and b) he'd been a super soldier then with super muscles and super stamina and super resistance, and right now, he has neither.

                               All the air leaves him as he involuntarily curls around the horrible pain to try and lessen it like that, and honestly, he doesn't even register the kick to his shoulder. Jesus fucking Christ. Steve coughs briefly because he at least gets air back into his lungs, even if each breath hurts like a son of a bitch. He needs to blink a couple of times to clear his vision from black spots and some tears of pain that automatically gather in the corners of his eyes. Then he rolls onto his back because the longer he stays curled up, the worse it will feel later, so he gets it over with quickly and stretches out. Holy mother of God, his torso feels like it's on fire. He can't wait to find out what color his stomach is going to have in a couple of hours. "Yeah," he wheezes, "I can give you a minute. But this means I won, just saying." He's not going to turn this into a big deal. Bucky kinda forgot or was triggered or something like that, but it's not his fault. Nobody died. 

[zimwy]

chad vangaalen -- molten light.

she flew out of the stone cold ground and / she'll find you and she'll kill you

[zimwy]

a mean spring-coil inside bucky punches out, flinch reactive, seized cuff buzzing at hard-bedded instinct barely suppressed. infantile militial self defense that bled murky into school yard scuffles (red, wet lumps tended over cold tile floors), a natural proclivity fostered to flower. the winter soldier's teeth gnash, phantom metallic salt pangs knifing sinuses; yet, he goes anyway, skating on shapely powerful legs, drumming combat boots bombing concrete. war taught him chain of command and deferential order, and.. clint was not captain america, but bucky admittedly was steeped in a natural inclination to follow. obedience, the reddened wet maw of a herding dog, submissive to fault, was easiest. it was comfortable. it was what he was.

even in spite of that roaring conflagration in him, an all consuming firebrand, an aversion to authority. he made a poor simulacrum at the helm of leadership, he thought; independence suited him best.

still--he would be a liar (and why not? clandestine behooved a spy) if he perpetuated his supposed sour indignance as anything more than another dissimulate safeguard to his soft, spongy, gauzy parts.

' the hood? ' the plush of his lips coil to one dissatisfied side, propellant to an aggravated sigh. the verdant scent of underfoot grass and spring-summer pollen makes him dizzy on inhale, ducking through the urban moor. ' again? ' exasperation hardens into resolve, ticked brow. bucky has always been about forward progress. ' don't you think we should have another person on this? '

" most of 'em ------ " arrested in place, the mortis coagulating the ball-clasp joints of felled bodies all around them lurking its festering death to claw up his boots & writhe his ankles almost captivates him. his recognition of that man's facial structure in the beginning, sinking stages of moldering acts like a slow toxin slugging his pulse to a stuttering stop.

the howling klaxon barrels in with sparkling cherry & cobalt flooding his horizon. it's enough to pierce the frangible barrier of his aided hearing & serve an antidote that strikes his pulse nigh into tachycardia from a muted stop.

spurring forward, thawing first into a sensation akin to slow motion before the fast-twitch fibers hewn into his calves & thighs come to life with an aerobic rush, clint unlatches firm, archer's fingers to drop seamlessly to the ground. floaty ---- head swimmy with the rush of blood torrenting to feed his legs ---- clint exists outside his body. bucky's question & the warning screech of patrol cars careening closer cascade out to the roar of an ocean walled into a conch held to an ear.

" couple of safe houses nearby, " scrounges up from beneath that deep-water, breathless suffocation & it strangles out of the pumice rough of his throat like a gasp of air. " shouldn't go back to my building. that guy ----- seen him on the rooftop a coupl'a times. pretty sure this is tied to all that work i did against the hood. " acting under bucky's compelling plea, clint wraps his grasp in the cuff of his shirt & powerfully yanks him toward a bramble silhouette of the tree line so they can make their getaway.

[zimwy]

in the old testament, there were recounts of exorcism, albeit executed in very different ways. there was no one agreed-upon methodology; david effected temporary expulsion of the evil spirit of saul, the book of tobit detailed burning herbs and submersion of the affected in water. a ritual quorum involved a host of ten men, not two. these were lessons bucky only paid tenuous attention to--they were theoretical in his mind, bearing no foothold on reality, only historical and rudimentary understanding of what he supposed was manifestations of illness. protective passages passed under-tongue, but they weren't the expulsing element.

of course, all of this was conjecture to bucky, until now. there was water to this; he had no choice but to trust and engage, even if he finds castiel terribly strange.

but, then again.. he'd become comfortable with the presence of the atlantean prince and pair of fire-starters on his team, and the crux of intersectional on-off eclectics who were to accompany the invaders as need be. logan, and robert, and brian, all unorthodox and anomalous in comparison to an average joe like him. he was just natally skilled. how could that compare?

he clicks his tongue off the ribbed roof of his mouth. ' awright. i'm thinkin' they're holed up some ten, fifteen clicks northwest, up 'round the howden river. maybe the dam;. we was told it's all dense woods bucked up 'gainst the mountain side--easy place t'hide a platoon, maybe a company if they're careful. ' bucky shrugs his shoulders, then it hits him. castiel was going to.. fly him?

a nervous pallor briefly flashes across his face, opens those baby cow brown eyes a mite wider. ' this ain't gonna--i ain't gonna be up high, am i? '

                         "THAT ENTIRELY DEPENDS ON THE PRAYER. An exorcism will affect them, obviously, but a generic prayer will not bring results other than a flinch upon hearing the name of God." Hebrew, interesting. Not many in this part of the world know this holy language. In fact, those who do and have the misfortune of meeting Nazis end up in death camps all across Europe. Humans will always find a reason to hate and kill each other; this century, it's religion once more. Castiel had hoped they wouldn't use that again as a pretense after the Crusades a couple of centuries ago. He wonders what his Father thinks of His most beloved creation slaughtering each other in His name.

                          "If you do find a demon, you can pray to me directly by name in whatever language you want; I will hear it and come to you immediately in case I'm not around." Does he have to stay close to Bucky? How do you work with a human? Castiel has never needed to handle a situation like this, not even during the Exodus. Normally, a higher-ranking angel was his link to whatever leader the humans had (e.g., Moses), and Castiel got his orders from them. This time, Michael decided that splitting them up to cover more ground would be the wiser decision, and Castiel finds it a little peculiar.

                          "We shall start at the main camp, then," he decides. If they go there together, Castiel will see at once if the demons are among the rest of the force. "Where is it? I will fly us there." That's way quicker than traveling by foot.