PALIMPSEST.

[zimwy]

THERES NO DISCHARGE IN THE WAR! ind. james buchanan "bucky" barnes rp blog, primarily 616 based with minor mcu influence. crossover, multiverse, multiship, oc & ship friendly. originally est. 2018, rebooted 2021 & 2024. mun 25+. #ZIMWY. affiliated with @0utl1ers & @rotdame / @onlyfiends & @perditos & @awbro & @morinotsume & @snkts <3

RULES | ABOUT (DOSSIER) | TAGS | PLAYLIST | VERSES | PROMO. | PERMA SC. ic wire: zimwy. blogroll: sam. erik.

SEMI HIATUS. having persistent gastrointestinal and esophageal health issues. i'm here when i'm here.

[zimwy]

Intense staring as he pulls out a sticker book. Flips to a random page and gently peels a sticker off. HERO in hot pink bubble letters. He peels another that says COOL in blue bubble letters. He holds out both with a small smile. "You can stick them on your stuff or crumple them up. I don't care." (the respect for him is insane)

bucky is quietly waiting for logan.

he does this a lot. has learned a lot about the x-men and all their younger cohorts like this, observational as he was. if he were of poorer character, it'd make one hell of a categorical ledger for governmental systems that'd benefit from it. but bucky is nothing if not a dissenter: down with the man, and all that.

even if his.. historical record will say otherwise.

(james barnes was on the verge of delinquency when he was scouted to play the role of bucky, jaundiced pages will say. this is entirely accurate.)

jonathan the wolverine nests across his thighs. hungry, his universal translator insists. hungry. ' pretty soon, buddy. gabby's been giving you way too many treats, anyway. ' bucky nudges the rumpled fur behind his ears. pink boy, jonathan announces.

bucky cants his head up. quentin. his name is quentin. they'll have to provide jonathan with an equalizer later to spare him the indignity of such rudimentary descriptors. he watches quentin unhouse narrow cut outs that take him only a moment to discern the nature of. they're stickers, COOL and HERO in pink and blue emblazoned drop shadow, giving the appearance of depth. bucky blinks, an earnest awe stunning him into softly slackened lips, dumb bats of long lashes. he gives quentin a once over, then the offered stickers, reaching out a tenuous hand to accept them. the adhesive crests his fingertips and clutches at his trigger roughened callus.

' you know what, pal? ' bucky hums. he plants the HERO sticker upon jonathan's collar, who produces a snorty rumble in response. the COOL sticker is carefully turned around the apex of barnes' fingernail, promptly sticking it right in the center of quentin's graphic tee. the brief application of pressure lets him feel just how thread-thin the kid is, the slight bow of his diaphragm accounting for bucky's force. ' i'm not a hero, and you're a lot cooler than me. '

@k1domega

[heavensghost]

sorry for acting batshit crazy I was feeling a little unwanted

[zimwy]

actually i do have a more in depth sunday themed post ive talked about on discord but i dont think ever on here:

bucky really likes prey/pred play. he likes being both roles. and i mean to an extreme. the winter soldier was an apex hunter and bucky is one of the best trackers behind folk like logan. he relishes in a hunt, both the sense of hunting, finding, and capturing, and in the sense of being the hunted, the prey attempting to elude the hunter.

if your muse is the kind that wants to feel what it feels like to be hunted for your life--though, of course, bucky never will hurt them in the end, he'll stab his knife into the ground or press his gun muzzle to their skin to show them they're dead and then cast it aside--bucky will indulge. equally, if they want to feel the rush of hunting a living person without consequence, bucky eagerly will prove why the winter soldier has his reputation.

and yes they can fuck when they get caught or catch him.

[zimwy]

there'd been a red room trained telepath in that last constituent of organized criminals bucky had been so urgently tasked with dispersing. a powerful one. he should've seen it coming: his suspicion had bristled when the historical trail ran dead, no more transactional history past the last five years, no roots tying this fascist militia to a parent organization. a rogue, splinter cell, ghosts in the system.

but he'd bit anyway, zealous bloodhound that he was. rattling the foundations of bucky's mind was no easy task, all solid steel firmly bolted to a proverbial mantle that was his sense of free will and autonomy: the screws strip bare, a leg flags. he's gone before he even knows it.

still, bucky makes it home without fuss, hide nor hair unharmed. he even greets bob with a kiss, hiking up onto the toes of his boots. ' hi, baby. ' when bob's eyes lull to a close, bucky strokes his shoulders, sinks his palms down his arms, and, producing a hefty pair of power dampening cuffs from his yet-adorned gear belt, bucky hooks bob's wrists together behind the small of his own spine. he ducks the embrace with militant grace before bob can close it, rolling onto his shoulders to springboard off his scapula. both legs lock around bob's head, all condensed weight (his sleek muscle and tendon crowning a hundred seventy odd pounds, his arm an extra hundred) hanging off the nape of his neck in an effort to slam him onto his chest.

@bobrvynolds

[zimwy]

bucky's official military headshot circa late 1944 & the winter soldier's praporshchik KGB reform headshot circa 1972

[zimwy]

there's always an unspoken slant to the winter soldier's operations: don't come home if you fail.

of course, it always comes home anyway. soviet masters will rouse the kennel if they don't, like the overbearing snap of a remorseful parent, except the reprimanding hand is the crushing jaws of a massive black russian terrier. today's inquisition is for the purpose of research, synthesis from genetic material.

the kgb would have liked it entirely intact, from the nape of pallid neck to the scuff in her (it, they would insist, is not a woman) shoe soles. but they've settled for a biological sample as opposed to acquisition of the girlish mass: the soldier presents as a plain clothed civilian, some care given toward it's garments, scores of resistant dark curls cleanly parted and nested behind the shell of their ears.

blood and a clipping of hair would temporarily satiate soviet nosiness, though they knew it would not be enough. the research and development department will cry for bone marrow samples and deep tissue biopsy.

the winter soldier's head bows as it nears mami upon a busy sidewalk, easily blending with the current of mundanes. their attention is seemingly fixated upon their cellular device, tapping away at the settings bar. a minuscule panel in the heel of their prosthetic glides open, the virtually indiscernible tip of a protracted needle waiting at the open mouth.

@mamidearcst

[zimwy]

hey if you put that brotherhoodwarlord guy on my dash i'm gonna block you. just a forewarning.

[zimwy]

it never says a word. in fact, it barely makes a sound.

it takes a course of six hours to separate arthur from his team. the hex are diligent, but the soldier is indomitable, and shrewd to boot. it observes from points of elevation, it's pursuit a midnight, ardent streak. the soldier moves more like a jungle panther than a man, a sleek bolt darting from loft to loft. it's cleated boots make nary a conspicuous sound, as if it were synthesized from the empty air for the purpose of subterfuge.

james waits. their tongue wicks the saliva off the veneer of their teeth, jaw flexing beneath their muzzle. they bide until the moment is perfect: the rumble of a passing tram conceals their forward movement.

the winter soldier pounces, slingshotting their densely muscled legs around nightengale's shoulders. they lock their shins, squeezing even as they cant forward to maintain balance. a garrote wire zzzzips as it unspools, threatening arthur's windpipe.

@onlyfiends

[hitsharder]

🦻 ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ: ▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪ ​🇫​​🇺​​🇱​​🇱​ ​🇧​​🇦​​🇹​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇾​     — ❝ Sounds like a lot of work. ❞ The blonde was unimpressed. Clint leans on him. Folding over his shoulders and letting his weight press. Like he has every right to Bucky's space. ❝ You sure? Looks performative. What's there to think about? We go in, we fight some bad guys, we get out. ❞

[zimwy]

' yeah. one of us has to do it. ' there bucky lets his fangs lie, unspooling from the vacant place he bites at. finessing off a sharpie cap one handed, bucky pages through the first leaflet of paper, then the second and third, until he finds what he seeks. the tip of the felt unleashes a pungent chemical scent, ink coiling around a margin of text. bucky's lines are precise and perfect. ' right. you know how many guys they got? or how well armed they are? or who they work for? how about positions? radios, comms? backup? ballistics? come on, clint. '

[zimwy]

.

[onlyfiends]

CALM  DOWN?  CALM  DOWN?!     given  present  circumstances,  amir's  panic  feels  completely  justified.  he's  not  like  bucky  or  the  rest  of  the  hex  ;  he's  just  a  guy.  a  guy  with  amazing  tech  skills,  but  a  normal  guy  nonetheless  .  .  .  well,  as  normal  as  any  of  them  are,  all  things  considered  —

(  AMIR.  SLOW  IT  DOWN.  )

the  one  thing  he  always  goes  back  to  from  that  night  is  drifter's  voice,  and  it's  enough  to  pull  him  back  into  reality.  grey  gaze  settles  on  bucky  from  behind  orange  lenses,  which  he  adjusts  with  a  shaky  hand.  “  y  -  yeah,  alright  .  .  .  ”  killing  someone  is  so  not  on  his  to-do  list.  “  what,  uh  .  .  .  what  do  you  need  me  to  do?  ”

[zimwy]

' amir. '

barnes' racked rifle lowers, defensively inert where it slackens to the bridge of his defined hips. his suit leaves only intimates to the imagination, powerful scores of muscle adorned only by extraneous clips and accessory pouches (likely loaded to the seams with ammunition and specialized militial tools). the sleek make of the rifle blends with his panther dark thighs, only the long muzzle and the end of the stock disrupting his silhouette. ' look at me, pal. i'm the killer, here. i'm pulling the trigger. i'm taking the shot. you're saving lives. you get that, yeah? these are bad guys. '

and it was the winter soldier that served as the arbiter of their fate. bucky had long since cast off his reservations about taking lives, remembers how tremorous and thin skinned he'd been at the start. you did what you had to, buck. the strength and purity of steve's character superseded his own, and paradoxically confirmed to bucky that if steve told him it was right, it was right.

his natal hand awkwardly lands upon the outer shelf of amir's shoulder blade, rifle nose scuffing the concrete. ' i need you to get into their comms line, so i know where they are, or if they figure out where we are. if you can feed it over to me, i'll know what they're saying--they won't be speaking english. can you manage that? '

[perditos]

Victor feels like a live wire, burning hot and nervous, gut churning stuff. He sees his claws smeared in blood, James' and his, and his father's disemboweled in his feral rage. The old log pa used to pin his hand to before bringing down the ax; the pliers, the pain. Sniffling in a dusty corner, covered in his own piss and feces and blood, chained down, chewing on his own hands. He learned he could bite through the joint of his first knuckle. Spit or chew, and it'd grow back. He kept biting and chewing and gnawing, because if they didn't grow back then he'd get to go back upstairs. He'd get to sit at the table again, get to be his ma's little boy again. Just missing a few digits this time but good. But no he was gangly and wrong, and too big, and.

And trying so hard to be good now that the effort might just kill him. Be good for James, something demands in him. Good. Good. Good. Some instinct he hates and yet twists him up into a knot anyway. Demands submission, almost like self-flagellation. Victor grumbles about it and yet he wants it, wants the touch. Wants the heat of James' body rising into his and he slumps across their knees. Too big and too awkward to fit into the smaller lap.

"Not a cat," Victor insists again but knows he'd be physically ill if he was ever called 'tiger.' "If you gotta know..."

He flexes and retracts his claws, the powerful muscles of his forearms contracting in time. A demonstration for James' to evaluate and pick apart. Victor looks up only to watch the black crescent slink from beneath the slits of his skin and curl towards his palm. He closes his fist and the claws pierce the meat of his hand. Pin pricks of blood that well before the wounds heal over. He repeats the gesture, pricking, and pricking.

"S'different, pal," Victor mutters. Half in another world. "Someone stuck that to you and it's cool as shit. I grew these. I know what I am, freak or monster, or whatever the fuck. I like rippin' people's throats out and eatin' animals alive. Nothin' good about it. 'Bout me."

[zimwy]

the face james makes is briefly unpleasant, a contorting of brows eliciting a subtle line between the scar split hairs. their displeasure stems not from victor's behavior, but his explanations. ' i know. ' james murmurs, and lets it rest upon it's laurels at that; victor wasn't an animal, and they had never thought he was. the comparison was only topical, harmlessly intended. still, they watch with an intent verging on alien, the quiet repose of a hunter--observational skills curated over a century of life taking and subterfuge, the same as him.

in fact, their sameness might've repulsed bucky, if the tenuous connection points between james and bucky were to finally bridge. all james can feel is a concentrated, boyish curiosity, and a subtle awareness of the lethality decorating every corner of victor's body.

but, in the end, they were just parts.

nothing in him was so innately deadly that james nursed even a shred of anxiety over his particularities anymore. teeth and claws that tore and crush, provided and fostered just the same.

they shake their head, those curls (gradually reforming with care, the string of soviet distress buffering slowly out) bobbing about the frame of their face. ' but i didn't ask for this. i woke up without an arm. ' they pass their natal hand over victor's shoulder, encouragingly nuzzling the warm knob of their knuckles into his trapezius, then neck. ' i kill for my country. i lie for my country. i pretend to be anyone.. anything.. for my country. i.. i bend over for my country. play at girls and boys. whatever is needed of me. good soldier. Я больше не хочу быть хорошим. Я хочу быть собой. ' a hitch in their affectionate ministrations follows a shudder of breath. ' мне жаль. i know, the killing is easier. '

[morinotsume]

Oh, but Bucky was a torturous tease sometimes. He wondered how anybody else had handled him at his worst, in the same moment realizing that more than likely, nobody else had. A couple might have gotten close, might have managed to just satisfy the conflicting desires that lived within this man who'd been dealt so many blows in too long a life… but until Logan, he had still kept certain parts of himself hidden away. Sequestered behind iron walls and locked chains that only someone in whom he could fully lay his trust could break through. And even then, Logan wasn't sure he'd cracked them all -- he didn't dare be that full of himself. Any day, he wondered if he'd find one extreme or the other, the one that finally broke Bucky's will entirely or the one that destroyed the trust they'd built.

Maybe it was the same one. Maybe he hoped that'd never happen.

Because he adored Bucky, not just for his insatiable libido and the admittedly ego-boosting way he seemed to want only him… but for his sweetness. The way his dark eyes glittered when he was happiest, the way he ducked his head and looked away when he grinned, like a shy girl hiding her smile. How so many of those softly feminine actions were reserved for him alone - and how beautiful Bucky was when he was wracked with quivering pleasure under him.

"Ain't it enough?" he retorted, thrusting again. "Couldn't just leave in the middle 'a th' day just 'cause you need a good fuckin', baby…" Shifting his stance, he leaned a bit further over Bucky, his elbow locking, keeping the pressure on his lover's throat. He started moving his hips in a smoother, more rhythmic motion, watching Bucky's face carefully, ready to release his grip if he showed any sign of distress.

[zimwy]

Distress isn't what lands upon Bucky's face, nor is it what guides the orbital of his eyes rolling up feint the cavern of his sockets; this renewed angle allows Bucky to take more of him, deep grinding thrusts landing steady striking his core. Sharp, stirring pleasure lurches him forward, met by the resistance Logan's anchored hand provides, laryngeal prominence squirming through swallowed saliva. The sound he wants to make gums up his throat, producing a tremorous whine, pitchy and watery thin. The low arch of Bucky's hips rolls, desirously meeting Logan's metronomic thrusts in an effort to feel as full as humanly possible.

A gulping laugh escapes Bucky, bisected by a stuttery grunt. Barnes drives his natal thumb into the crease dip of connective tissue locking Logan's adamantium-bound clavicle to his deltoid, crudely digging his fingers into the thick, corded muscle that made his lover's arm, half possession and half mooring himself in the present.

That's what Logan was. The stake in his heart that kept him from rising like some fucking vampire come to terrorize the world with it's sharp, rending teeth. The cuffs he submitted to, gleefully; the kedge that trapped the Winter Soldier in a well-constructed prison of something that he was sure was love.

(Of course, it never felt like a prison, and Logan was hardly his warden. But it was warm and soft, so he wanted it. He was mutually gripping Logan's leash, all the same, the pair of monsters that they were.)

' I didn't know, ' Bucky starts, his voice rattling about his head instead of rooting in his chest (this near return to a youthful untrained cadence weaving in and out of Bucky's breathy subdued intones), ' th' big bad Wolverine, ' he jeers, smarm immediately suffocated by tingling pleasure slithering his guts, ' had so many--mmhn--scruples. ' His pretty hole clenches, yielding muscles offering the same pressure as the practiced cuff at his throat.

[zimwy]

i am thinking about this again, so:

bucky will always have some kind of feelings for steve. always. even when he is fully, 100 percent happy and content and deeply in love with his partner if it's not steve.... it hangs around. bucky loves him platonically more than anyone else, and is attracted to him, and has feelings for him; those feelings all mix together into this frankenstein conglomerate where bucky cannot find the end of one thing and the beginning of the other.

not to mention, he isn't self aware enough to know he has those feelings. he's very self aware about almost everything else in his life, but his feelings for steve? no. he can internally admit that he idolizes steve (not that he worships him.... which he does.... just that he idolizes him), but the fact some part of him will always be in love with steve, even just a teeny tiny bit, completely passes him by.

[0utl1ers]

'  i'm—gross?  ерунда!  '    piotr  chokes  on  the  reply,  caught  between  what  he’d  wanted  to  say  and  what  so  easily  got  him  to  sidetrack  from  it.   he  likes  to  believe  that  if  all  his  flaws  were  laid  out  in  front  of  him,  ‘ superficial ‘  wouldn’t  be  one  of  them—but  he  can’t  help  noticing  the  way  the  shorts’  fabric  clings  to  bucky’s  skin,  almost  as  if  they’d  been  painted  on,  accentuating  the  grooves  and  ridges  defining  his  thighs.  the  angles  of  his  square  jaw  are  softened  by  dark  brown  wisps  caught  at  the  edge  of  his  hairline,  bouncing loose from their ponytail and clinging  to  dewy  skin,  flushed  and  blooming  where  increased  blood flow  had  painted  him  with  spots  of  soft  pinks and reds.  the  question  quickly  dissolves  in  the  awkward  silence  that  comes after,  stretched by many failed attempts to search for anything to follow with.

it   isn’t   until  piotr  feels  the  sudden,  gentle  brush  of  alpine’s  weight  against  his  leg  that  he’s  able  to  divert  his  gaze. he bends, reaching to give old girl a few scratches between the ears, but she's smart. alpine knows he's not here for her, and once she's had her fill of playful touch, she zips past the two of them, going back to her usual spot on the windowsill—back to entertaining herself with passing traffic. ' Да, i wait here. no rush. ' he swallows, flustered again at the sight of the beads of sweat running down the length of bucky's neck, past the dip where collarbone and sternal notch meet. and he almost blurts it out without thinking, once again feeling absurd in the face of something far more simple than he's made it out to be.

' there is something...i wish to speak with you. it's important. ' he shifts awkwardly on his feet, managing a bit of a smile, hoping he's not coming off the wrong way—the fleeting thought that bucky might yet retain some of their american sensitivities occurs to him.

[zimwy]

bucky steps back into the throes of his living space, taking care not to nudge his meandering feline, creating a berth of space for piotr to take up. only when the door clicks behind him does he allow himself the freedom of baring his back to piotr, the innate survivalism of a cornered animal crouching in him even now: paranoia becomes something akin to instinct. he passes into his bathroom to briefly douse his face, the bloom of heat and sweat subdued by the fresh tap, then migrates to the partition of his room.

' yeah? ' barnes calls, door half ajar. he thumbs the elastic of his shorts, rolls them down to the cuff of his ankles, and delicately plies either foot out of the stretchy nylon. his dampened shirt follows overhead, metallic digits coiling into the sizing tag to scruff the collar; bucky takes a moment to shake out his curls and palm the loose tee across the plane of his abdomen. ' well, you know me, pal, i'm an open book. ' an underhanded toss lands his discarded outfit into a shallow hamper, following an absent categorizing of his array of garments. the tip of a natal finger taps the blades of hangers, one after another until he lands upon a gauzy, semi-sheer blouse, and high rise, form fitting jeans. that would do.

emerging fresh from the confines of his bedroom, bucky migrates to his kitchen, swinging the door of his fridge open. ' you want a beer? i only drink german lagers. had a few pilsners when i was in nazi germany and never shook the habit. '

[perditos]

He hasn't had anyone since Logan. The idea of undressing, being seen, being touched, it's made him sick for years. All worked up in knots, been making do with his own hand for a while now, and it's never been enough. What's a few saltine crackers compared to a full course meal? Nothing. Had it all and it all went sour, and bad; and nothing compares, nothing compares to Logan. No one ever touched him the way Logan did. Looked at him the way Logan did. Like, he actually meant something and had some kinda worth. Course, it was all a lie, all some kind, bullshit. Probably the way James was gonna go, eventually. When the novelty of Sabretooth wore off and they realized they had better options after all.

But James looks so good, warm, and firm, and soft. And Victor hesitates for a second, taking them in. He wants, he never knows what he wants, or how to trust, but fake it 'till ya make it, right? He wants this, wants James', even all it means is feeling good and a little less empty for an evening. Don't have to be real. So, he lowers himself down to rest between their legs. He knows pretty damn well what he's about to do, already pushing down James' boxers, finally freeing the half-heard length of their cock. There's an impulse to just rip the underwear off but he behaves and he grumbles, maneuvering himself and James to get the garment off intact. Don't say he can't be nice.

"Ain't you sweet?" Victor chuckles, hands skimming down James' sides, feeling all the knobs of their ribs and the jut of their hips. Skin's smooth and supple, thanks to that healing factor of theirs, no doubt. Not a lot of hair either. "Ya want me that bad? All impatient like? Heh. Just wait, I got somethin' I want first."

Victor pushes up James' thighs, hands bracing into the thick and corded muscle, letting him settle down onto his stomach on the floor. He keeps a knee underneath him as he presses his mouth into the interior of his leg, tongue wet with spit and teeth scraping at the skin. Victor likes that he can leave a mark, nipping to leave indents the shape of his fangs. He works to the base of their cock, eyes locked upwards, onto James' face, measuring their expression. For all his bluster, Victor wants this to be good, wants James' to be satisfied, happy. Happy with him. He turns his head to the side to mouth at the length of James', tongue laid flat over his teeth, all the sharp, ugly bits of him softened and warmed, more palatable. But his claws curl in, pricking at the exterior of James' thighs, his grip strong, unyielding. He moves up, sucks and tongues at the tip.

"I think," Victor smirks. "I like the taste of ya. Could eat ya whole, Jimmy."

[zimwy]

the cool air that caresses their bare, flush dick sends a tingle of nerves from james' mounting erection to the very core of their autonomous system, a spasming of synapses mistakenly firing off the false receptors in their prosthetic. the metals creak and mechanically whirr as the overlapping chassis, like each segment of an exoskeletal carapace, shifts and folds, eroticism inherent in supple and smooth waves the robotics make. his false fingers coil into nothing, forearm flexing to the elbow, then relaxing again. they want so badly to touch him with it, to be able to feel heat and the tactile sensation of hair and pores, to feel every hard angle and bunched muscle and comfortable fats congeal against and around their finger tips, to know the manipulation was real.

limited to the single operative limb, barnes glides their fleshy thumb affectionately through the field of hairs hugging fringe victor's dense jawbone, across through the pale shag that gave way to the beautiful cascades of silken yellows, threading their fingers just above his temple. their palm delicately brackets his brow, a master come to praise a hound.

it was a strange feeling, when they were so used to being the bloodied doberman, heeling for shiny oxfords and smoke-roughened russian.

james had the feeling they were both subjugated monsters, finding alternative means of expression, gnawing through heavy chain that bound even like this.

his sinus rhythm hastens, each wet, warm engulf of his sensitive glans earning pitchy whimpers, undignified sounds certainly unbecoming of a living weapon. every time victor's hot, perusing tongue encompasses him or swipes up his engorged cock, he sounds a tremulous whine, plump doll lips pressing intently together in a lame effort to spare his dignity. the ache crawls through his pelvic line. ' Ох, Витя... ' instead of anchoring his prosthetic uncomfortably beneath him, james pries one of creeds hands from the mass of his muscled thigh, only to thread his false fingers between victor's larger, claw-tipped ones, a silent plea writ into the gesture alone to be held. ' Ты добрее, чем хочешь казаться. Я чувствую себя хорошо. '

if only this position allowed james to service him, too.