Open RP Post

[wuzzafuzzle]

↪ Pick one of my characters (make sure to specific which version) OR drop any character of yours in and get a random choice.
↪ Find a meme, roll something, idefk
↪ Or cheat and just pick something.
↪ You can also just throw a picture, quote, or whatever kind of prompt you want.
↪ Or just leave a TFLN.

Comments

anyone u waaant (i'm cheating)

[fossils]

hurr durr gives u a tooth thief

[kulak]

[ The sides of the off white porcelain sink stain a pinkish red color as flaked blood parts from his hands, mixing with the black and gray of dirt, grime and gunpowder residue. It wasn't an easy fight, and it never is these days. Even Captain America's looking worse for wear, as Bucky's eyes lift from the sink to the smudged mirror, looking at the man hunched on the side of the mattress in the compact, cheap Prague motel. So out of place, looking larger than life, even covered in cuts and blossoming bruises and damage from the fight, squeeze into this little hole in the ground. Something the Winter Soldier would have blended easily into, gone unnoticed in the shadows. Rogers doesn't even have his uniform on, and the hat that had been pulled over straw blond hair sits ignored on the motel room floor. Even so, it's an odd picture. Just doesn't fit.

A wash cloth in one hand dabs over a large gash across Bucky's chest, teeth grinding to bit back the hiss that wants to escape his as the alochol soak cloth sterilizes the wound. They have plenty of bad injuries, but nothing they'll need a hospital for. Nothing they won't heal from, the way they are. But injection is another issue entirely. Not worth the risk, out here and off the grid. It's been months since Steve hunted him down here. Months since he'd reluctantly agreed to let the soldier handle the remnants of HYDRA still wanting to reel him in in his own way, only sticking around to support. Let them out themselves coming after him. No walking into the den. They can spend their best trying to hunt their best, and when those are gone, it's just smoking out the anthills of the workers left. That means waiting it out in a shitty Prague motel. A bunker in St. Petersburg. A suburb of Vienna. Most of the time it's a slow trickle, sometimes it's a battlefield. Three guesses what this one was.

Rinsing out the cloth in the sink, dulled blue eyes watch the stream of red water circle the drain before he drops it there, reaching for a new couple cloths to soak, one in water, one in the grain alcohol he'd picked from a convenience store a few days ago, before pacing out of the room. Steve sits with shoulders squared over his knees and Bucky wonders if he's always as stable as he looks - solid and firm and unwavering. Or if they just built him that way. He remembers glimpses of a skinny kid in Brooklyn, bent over behind a roller coast booth at Coney Island, puking his guts up. He also remembers the same kid telling off a guy three times his size like he was nothing. ]

This'll sting. [ A muted warning as he crouches down in front of Steve, still human hand pushing his chest some to have his straighten, as he peers at a deep puncture on his upper abdomen. From placement, everything vital should be missed. They'd likely know by now if it wasn't. He'll survive fine. Tearing at the fabric of the shirt some, he makes space to get to the wound before wiping at blood crusting over the skin, cleaning, and then there's the alcohol. This is the stinging part. A brief glance is spared up to Steve before the hand on his chest pushes him back a bit more, more careful than it is insistent, because just dabbing at a wound this deep with a soaked cloth isn't going to work. Fingers of his right hand curl over the Captain's shoulder as the metal hand raises up the glass alcohol bottle, and he begins to pour before giving warning. Try not to spasm, pls. ]

[fossils]

[ At the warning an eyebrow raises, just barely enough to say 'oh yeah?', and then he lowers his gaze again to his knees. Somewhere Steve once heard that the body remembers every wound, cut and scrape. He can't really say if his does anymore, but he's still got memories to spare.

There's no resistance to the hand pressing against his chest. He lets it shift him, hardly winces as the cloth wipes away the dried blood - and if his stare goes a bit unfocused he's only recalling the thousand of other times they've been like this. It's easy to fall back into old habits (to feel small again).

With the second push he leans back a bit, grits his teeth at the burn, muscles and skin twitching involuntarily. Yeah, that stings. But he stays obediently still, and quiet - even for him. Been like that since they got back to the motel, the way he gets when something's bothering him (besides a semi-gaping wound in his torso). His body can handle all of this: the self-appointed mission, the chasing and the waiting, every physical toll. These are easy habits to fall into too.

But that's the problem.

He takes in a deep breath, feels the sharp spike of pain from the wound, and lets his lungs empty again. As Steve leans forward again his gaze finally lifts from his knees. He softly shrugs the hand from his shoulder with what is probably supposed to be a carefree smile, or at least the impression of one. The knit brow kind of defeats the effect. ]

Don't think we're getting the deposit back. [ Though hey, this place looks like it's used to getting bloodstains (among other things) out of the carpet. He lets out a short laugh through his nose at the joke he didn't even bother to finish, which has him wincing again and slumping at his shoulders. It's only a split second of indecision, eyes locked on his knees again, before he leans down to rest his forehead on his friend's shoulder.

Old habits. These days they tend to get him stabbed, but that's what this body is good for. ]