sugar kisses

The strength is inhuman. Unfair. Bucky can feel it every time he swings. The arm fucks with his balance, sure, throws off his center and puts too much pressure on the left leg when he’s pivoting, but the tradeoff is obscene. He’s not blocking with it. He’s bullying with it. Might as well be a hammer of his own. Odinson comes again, overhead, and with a full brute-force try. Bucky shifts, quick on his feet, hips turned, eyes locked through the slits in the helmet. Then he leans in with his torso twisting and slams the arm into Odinson’s gut, using it as a battering ram.

Fill the sleeve. Hide the wound. Make the cripple knight easier to look at. Give the nobles something prettier to stare at than absence. Bucky gets it. He really fucking does. He’s not stupid. But… it ain’t rude. Walking around with an empty sleeve that reminds folk that war doesn’t clean up nice. That sometimes people survive things they shouldn’t, and what’s left isn’t palatable, convenient, or aesthetically pleasing.