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sicariav · 2 months
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Silence fills the space between, bridges gaps into chasms, furrowed brow caveman-esque in the pronunciation. What is it he wants? They, the faceless, the nameless, the godless, all wanted something. What, he did not remember. Much like their shapeless forms their desires escape him. But always a price to pay.
The Motherland will have her share.
Peripheral tracks the glaring pallid skin unaccustomed to the harsh foods, the bitter spirits. His focus lay in the locked gaze of his companion upon him. The ripples of water send pulses of life to limbs he'd rather stay dead. For now. For...
The Soldier's nostrils flare, throat convulses around a stuttering breath, aching limbs shift, situation, legs dip beneath cloud kissed waters, chest protrudes higher. Soap clings to the carving of taut muscle. He does not speak.
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Not the worst thing he's been caught doing, let's be honest. He's wavering between making a mad dash for his room and locking the door or...
Alright. In he goes. Steve hooks a finger around the wedge of the door and pulls it open. He tries to act casual like they do this every day. Did this every day.
No going back now. The water's almost to the rim of the tub but still he sits on the sturdy edge. An old claw tub left behind in the rubble. No one's dumb enough to come back for it. He reaches down to trail the tips of his fingers in the opaque waters dangerously close to the mound of a strawberry knee scalded by the heat of the water.
Steve's eyes never leave those Heart Of The Ocean blues.
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sicariav · 2 months
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@camerica asked: Steve might be staring through the crack in the door while the Soldier is soaking in the tub.
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"Мышь любопытна?" Voice is low, a rumbling tremor before the earthquake strikes. Dark lashes kissing darker circles beneath the dip of his eyes. He does not move a muscle to ripple the water, only tilts his head towards the figure, lids lifting high enough to bring him into view.
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sicariav · 7 months
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Nostrils flare and dead eyes ignite with life, bearing down on the handler as if to pick him apart molecule by molecule. Seamlessly, perfectly, painfully.
Mine.
You're mine.
It stuns the senses, all but sight. Sound and taste and smell and touch blur until he can no longer discern the world around him as separate.
So long he stands rooted in place that his body hums, pulsates as if to sync with the beating of the heart inside the man on the floor.
And it is the stinging in his eyes which trigger a blink and it is gone. All of it. It hollows him out leaving what they intended behind. The shell, the husk, the withered decaying remnants of what used to be a man.
Is that....y e a r n i n g?
The Soldier lowers to one knee.
"We stay here."
sicariav​:
          That’s not a name.
     To be given a name…
          I want a shower.
     Cold eyes snap to the fore, barrel down with heat intensive. Blacksmith quality, the kind that melts steel.
     “I said no.” The Winter Soldier knows better than to move locations. Not without headquarters approval. Not without job completion. Extraction is elsewhere, he’ll get the coordinates the moment the job is done. They’ll know, they told him. His chest felt tight.
     “Get up. I’ll clean you off.” Rising from the grave, old bones creak and snap into place, heat trapping tarp clings to sweat laden skin as a second layer and the Soldier peels it away.
     “He wasn’t an old lover?” This…Bucky.
     The thought of the indignity of having someone else clean him up like he’s a child heats his face well into the cut off of his hairline and he swats at any reaching hands that might want to urge him up.
     “Don’t you dare. Wiping it off isn’t the same as showering.” And its funny how fast that indignation changes to sorrow. And yearning. And a myriad of other feelings he couldn’t even begin to follow the trail of. They all bleed into the same place and it leaves him feeling…hollow.
     “No, like I said. That’s your name. I’m not calling you Soldier anymore, it’s…” Well, that’s the point isn’t it? To dehumanize him? To make every handler who is paired with him see him as nothing more than a weapon to be used? Thrown into the crossfire? An autonomous gun. He won’t follow their rules while they’re not under Their roof.
     “You don’t like it?” Now that Bucky’s standing, bare from the waist down, half mast and sated, Steve gets a good look at him and he swallows. Trying to make the math fit with how that fit inside him is… Don’t think about it, it’ll lead right back to where this all began.
     “You know…I wasn’t planning on…” A vague gesture to the makeshift bed like the man’s going to understand what he means. “So when I said plans have changed, they have. You don’t have to live in the squalor they drop you in, you know. Not when you’re mine.”
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sicariav · 7 months
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camerica​:
     It feels like he’s been dipped in ice water the way it washes over him. All his limbs set to tingling and his heart racing. He’s not sure whether to be overjoyed or terrified. The cat’s out of the bag, he’s got questions Steve isn’t ready to answer yet.
     He rolls over, thighs still wet and the lewd slick between his cheeks heats his face all the way to his ears.
     “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t ask. We’d be getting dressed right now.” He breathes into the cold crisp of a draft, settling in to the ache washing over him. It’ll pass soon and he’s never been more thankful, staring into the void of where his best friend had been and- oh god, don’t think about it. Keep talking.
     “It’s what I want to call you, I’ve decided. Can’t keep calling you Soldier. That’s not a name.” His hands are shaking, though. What if- It could ruin everything. The timeline, the plan, all of it come crashing down. Or worse, improvised along the way. He’s not ready yet, he’s still working on the second act.
     Then again…they could go on the run, couldn’t they? Survive in the wild? Bucky knows how, bet the Winter Soldier’s perfected it. There’s always the chance of defecting back to HYDRA. He hasn’t found a way to sever that tie yet.
     Maybe…this is the way?
     He can’t cook so through the stomach’s out.
     Steve pushes himself up, heat creeping from ear to cheek to neck to shoulders at the way he feels his thighs slick and the wet trail of mess sliding down bare legs. God he needs a shower and- fuck. No shower here. Nothing working but the roof, barely. 
     “You know how you said we’re staying here? Change of plans. I want a shower.”
          That’s not a name.
     To be given a name...
          I want a shower.
     Cold eyes snap to the fore, barrel down with heat intensive. Blacksmith quality, the kind that melts steel.
     “I said no.” The Winter Soldier knows better than to move locations. Not without headquarters approval. Not without job completion. Extraction is elsewhere, he’ll get the coordinates the moment the job is done. They’ll know, they told him. His chest felt tight.
     “Get up. I’ll clean you off.” Rising from the grave, old bones creak and snap into place, heat trapping tarp clings to sweat laden skin as a second layer and the Soldier peels it away.
     “He wasn’t an old lover?” This...Bucky.
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sicariav · 8 months
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it’s a gun
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sicariav · 8 months
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cause I’m with you till the end of the line
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sicariav · 8 months
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@youxmove​ asked:
you can't do this. you need help.'
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     “Move.” He snarls, muscle rippling beneath worn leather. A wolf lowering belly-to-ground to prepare for the long sprint. Teeth bared beneath blood stained lips. Familiarity creeps in at blurred edges and like an old skin he slips into it once more.
     “Or I will move you.”
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sicariav · 8 months
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angst prompts
'that's a lie. that's a filthy lie.' 'no, stay awake, stay awake.' 'you promised.' 'is that all this was to you? just a game?' 'all good things must come to an end, right?' 'you wouldn't...' 'don't you dare lie to me.' 'was this all a joke to you?' 'please don't leave me.' 'i thought you loved me.' 'did any of this matter to you?' 'don't say that. don't say that to me.' 'i can't breathe.' 'i don't think i'm gonna make it out of this one.' 'just get out.' 'i don't want to see you again.' 'you're bleeding!' 'you can't save everybody.' 'some people don't want to be saved.' 'get away from me.' 'don't touch me!' 'how can you even look at yourself?' 'so, this is it?' 'i would've died for you.' 'we were a mistake.' 'none of this was worth it, was it?' 'who cares? nothing matters.' 'don't you close your eyes. don't you dare close your eyes.' 'wake up. wake up!' 'are you even sorry?' 'did you really think this wouldn't hurt me?' 'save it. i don't want to hear it.' 'i never got to say goodbye.' 'you can't do this. you need help.' 'i trusted you.' 'joke's on me, right?' 'it's gonna be okay.' 'this is all my fault.' 'you can't leave me here.' 'i just want to give up.' 'do you even see what you're doing to yourself?' 'is that all you have to say? ''i expected more from you.'
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sicariav · 8 months
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camerica​:
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     Lightning travels up his spine as quick as its name, numbs his senses, sets his head all fuzzy. The sound of that voice, gravel low… It’s almost a full body shudder by the time its through and it feels downright shameful to look in those eyes.
     “I won’t do it again.” He won’t. Not for a long time yet. Not until those eyes look at him with some familiarity or at the very least gentility. When that cornered dog syndrome isn’t triggered every time someone steps two feet into his personal space.
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     The asset’s lips curl, a sneer at the obvious. One of those. Lips brush heated shell of an ear, graze down to lobe and it rumbles guttural from the deep of his chest.
     “You do, you lose that hand.” Clarification is key. Don’t say he didn’t warn you. No ambiguity to be had here.
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sicariav · 8 months
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camerica​:
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     He knew better. God he knew better. It got the best of him in the moment and he lost himself and nearly… His tongue flicks out to wet his lips nervously, gaze flickering between two wild eyes staring him down like the lion that finally caught the hyena.
     “I’m sorry…” To his credit, there isn’t an ounce of fear in his voice, just the widening of vivid blues and the gaping slack of his jaw. He wouldn’t blame Bucky if he gutted him then and there. Might be happier for it, actually. Knowing that this is who they had to deal with all this time.
     He’s drenched within seconds, miserable and struggling to see through the torrents of water cascading over his furrowed brows but he still sees enough. feels the steel grip crushing his wrist little by little. A normal man would have balked by now. Screamed. Begged. Had his bones shattered. He’s got to call his attention to something else or the game’s up.
     So Steve glances over the Winter Soldier’s shoulder praying someone’s going to come break up the tension.
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     “No one’s coming.” It growls beneath water logged locks. Rivers drip from his brows, punctuate the purse of lips with a gentle pop. There is nothing but the slap of water on tile, the hum of old pipes, the hiss of his voice in an ear. Delicate, pale, red under the cold of the water.
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sicariav · 8 months
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camerica​:
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     He wants- no, needs the Soldier to feel safe. He needs those eyes to turn to him for shelter, for protection. And that means giving him the dignity of showering unsupervised. So he moves to turn away, avert his eyes to the ceiling tiles caked with mold and crumbling away to dust except…
     His eyes catch on the webbing of scars. A grid patterned down the side of him like lightning striking in rapid succession spidering out from impact. His breath catches in his throat. He should…right. Turn around. Stop staring look anywhere but-
     The curve of that neck, the spattering of small scars inconsequential. They must’ve felt like mosquito bites in comparison. Curiosity sated. Look away look- Steve’s gaze flickers down to the small of the man’s back to the garish and mottled skin of a scar the size of his palm. He knows that positioning.
     It’s not just his heart in his throat, it’s his whole god damn internal system. He can’t breathe, he can’t see anything beyond the marring and without thinking he reaches out to touch it. Still looks fresh, like someone had only just taken out the stitches with how vibrant its color.
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     Pain. Excruciating. Tearing its way through spine and lung alike, buckling knees and spilling hot over quivering thighs. A scream guttural tears raw from his throat.
     The Soldier turns, an iron fist clutched bone-crushing around offending wrist, snaps him to attention centimeters from wild eyes. 
          DO NOT TOUCH
     Wordless, weightless, the water hisses and steam rises as he shoves his attacker under, pins wrist to shower wall, steps into the searing rain to glower through wettening locks.
          DO. NOT. TOUCH.
     It isn’t a warning anymore, this is a threat. A promise. A hand severed if he tries it again.
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sicariav · 8 months
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camerica​:
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     Why isn’t he surprised there’s no answer? He doesn’t bother pressing it either he knows he’ll be bashing his head against a brick wall. The sturdy kind with fifteen feet of cement behind it. So he orders him up and takes him through that steel door, down the hall, into the showers. Clean up, he says wordlessly. Clean up so he can do inventory. Damage assessment. They’ve got a mission in the morning, need you top shape.
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     The Handler gives no indication there will be privacy. Nor does he expect any. Clothes shed laboriously, metal gears whir and click and wires hiss at every twisted angle. Leather peels from sweat laden skin and the blood which seeped through fine threads trickles into pink rivers. It is not his blood, he notes. So little is ever shed.
     What is, is the dignity of unblemished skin. A myriad of scars running criss cross beneath the cold talons of steel digging in around its living host. Beyond, near the low of his spine stretches a formidable etching of a memory best forgotten.
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sicariav · 8 months
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camerica​:
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     He expected this blind obedience without opposition and yet still it surprises him to watch 300 pounds of man drop at the lilt of a voice. This is what the US government wanted. They got him instead. And he’s never been more thankful for it.
     He closes the distance between them as the sound of the door mechanism locking into place. Nearly a foot of steel, girders for the lock. Even he would be hard pressed to get through it. Fine by him, he wants the privacy.
     “Look at me.” Steve’s hyper aware of how his voice drops the authoritative tone the moment his fingers touch the raised angry spot on the man’s cheek, thumb brushing a hair out of the way to look for lacerations. Just one, curve of his jaw. There’s only bruises. Poor bastard couldn’t get close enough to throw a punch that mattered. The hell were they thinking throwing that guy in the ring with the Winter Soldier? Was it meant to be an execution or a lesson?
     “Does it hurt anywhere else?”
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     Does it...hurt. The Soldier knows the meaning, but not the intent. The question is the same as the pain. Inconsequential. Heavy lids fall and dark lashes kiss the hills of his cheeks, flutter open again to find focus on the furrow of golden brows. Akin to...worry? Concern. Curiosity would pique if he had mind to question it.
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sicariav · 8 months
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camerica​:
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     Something about that defiance is satisfying. Knowing that the Soldier will always defer to him first..and then it tanks his mood considerably. This isn’t a good thing. This is obedience in the face of direct threat. This is a lack of self preservation. It’s a simple order, but the program is so complete he will not comply unless the right one gives the orders. The Overseer is a dick, he won’t let it slide so Steve steps forward, hands on his belt.
     “Comply, Soldier.”
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     The Soldier falls heavy to his knees, cold cerulean skies drift aimlessly taunting over the gleam of hard steel and framing sight. The Overseer’s knees begin their knocking, his throat convulses. Eyes swivel to the Handler, locking, searching. There is comfort in the command which chases tension from wound limbs. There is nothing left for the Overseer here and on he scurries, footsteps fading fast, faster, into the distance.
          The Winter Soldier is contained.
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sicariav · 9 months
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sicariav · 9 months
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     Move. Keep moving. Knee to the septum, drive hard. Bone break, blood cascades. Chest heaving, broad shoulders swing, dip, pivot. Each blow misses him by a mile. Pain makes them angry. Anger makes them sloppy. This is the part he likes. Watching them bleed out over themselves, anger turning to fury, fury making them rabid. A rabid dog bites and doesn’t care where. His thumb sinks into the soft palate and back goes the head. The wet gargle follows a sharp bark of an order.
     The Soldier stands still, vapid blues swivel to the Overseer. To the Handler. Fixate on the way that back arches into something powerful. A wall unafraid of toppling. As if nothing could.
     “Сидеть.” The Soldier does not comply.
     “Сидеть!” It is not the Overseer’s place, fear creeps into the swell of his throat, and still the Soldier stands.
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@sicariav​ asked:
He is teeth and fury, a beast wild and ravenous tearing his way through armor and defense alike.
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     It’s brutal here. He learned that from day one. Don’t be a fish out of water, don’t offer your hand when someone stumbles, don’t wipe the blood from the Soldier’s brow and tell him he did a good job. This is expected. Anything less is a failure. Anything more is HYDRA.
     Still, he watches out of the corner of his eye, picks up on queues that tell him exactly where the fatal blow will land, how the spine will snap, which way the legs will buckle. In theory, of course. This is training after all. No one loses their life until hubris or sheer stupidity drive them to it.
     “Sign there, sir.” Sir around here feels a lot like spit in the face. It’s a damn good thing he doesn’t know these men. Won’t ever get to. And just to spite the asshole, he turns fully to watch the beast they created do the damn good work he was meant for. Funny how a single man can look so god awfully different in the span of a few years. Tugs right where the strings are.
     Never really noticed how vibrant the blue of Bucky’s eyes could be under a splash of crimson, either. The corners of his lips twitch downwards, brows knitting the longer he watches.
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sicariav · 10 months
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     [ I need coffee but I need these more. They rot my teeth faster. ]
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Inspired by This Post by @thegayreich
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