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4fterc4re · 4 months ago

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★ Happy b-day to Bucky and me <3

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4fterc4re · 4 months ago

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"i could use someone like you.

someone who'll kill on my command,

and asks no questions. "

'Pyscho, Muse. '

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4fterc4re · 4 months ago

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I loved broke men !! 💝

thankyou so much!! very out of my comfort zone so this means a lot <33

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4fterc4re · 4 months ago

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★ 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐧.

summary depressing drabble abt you n buck!

a/n first piece and very short, never rlly write like this--ill post much longer ones soon but currently going through a loss so this was the best i could do so far! mwah. divider by; @uzmacchiato

I still recollect the feel of him against me. The way his body, so immense and consuming, swallowed mine with ease. The cold of his metal slowly thawing with the body heat radiating between bare skin. We were naked, though not in a way of expectation, rather in a way of being so raw and being as intimate as you can, even skin couldn’t stop you.

If he could, he would’ve been amid my bones and bathing in my blood. We would have been flesh. In that moment, I needed that.

Loss is a funny thing. Something so frail is finally set free, yet we who still stand have to suffer their disappearance. I often walk around my apartment, still reminiscing the places they’d sit, lie, eat. Knowing they’ll never do that again, never be seen with my own eyes, is something still so tender that tears pressure my eyes at the thought.

That aching, that woe, that sorrow, is taken away for a few moments when he was with me. Bucky, in all his might, with a serum swimming in him that is so alien to humans, acting as though he’d been human all along. He was also flesh and blood and bone, though his mind was frayed in two. I wonder, to this day, if he found amity when in that position with me. Raw, so utterly raw, that even his mind was forced to strip itself of war.

Knowing that the man who rested next to me, so tender and wary that he was willing to tear his arm off just to embrace me, would soon leave and continue on his assignment, shattered my heart. He’d be brought back to the base now eerily familiar to me, only to have his mind stripped naked and exchanged.

How the hands cupping the crook in my waist and the flesh of my neck would soon be used to massacre the next name on HYDRA’s list. They built his foes, told him they were his marks, yet lacked the dignity to give a reason why.

He complied. He moved on. He took his ‘leave’. And then he was back, the same nurses injecting him with that abominable serum. He’d battle black until his body gave in on him, numbing and dying all at the same time as being born once again.

New handler. New rules. New enemies. New means to chastise him, more vile and crueller than the last.

When I’d interview those who’d operated with the ‘Winter Soldier’, or as they called him, ‘V’, they’d tell me things that made me regret ever studying psychology. Repulsive, callous, vile, cruel things that I should have reported them for. Though if I did, my story would only conclude as soon as I stepped foot near an officer.

I sat, legs crossed, fingers shuddering against my notepad, as they go into detail of how the harm in V’s throat came to be, how the discolouration surrounding his temple, his thighs, his back, were for ‘цели наказ��ния’— ‘punishment purposes’.

I felt bile crawl up my throat at every word they’d speak, at the way their lips upturned at the retention of what they’d done to him only days prior. Perhaps even hours.

With him so near me, so tender and tepid, contrary to the harsh Russian weather outdoor, I felt as though I could shelter him. As though with no fighting skills, no trained gun skills, I’d still be able to give him ease as they hauled him away and superseded the time we’d spent together with time he’d spend assassinating a new target.

I could already hear them coming, their boots heavy against the concrete floor. I didn’t care, and by the absence of movement behind me, V didn’t either. He only held me snugger, jostled me deeper into his crevices.

The door swung exposed, the soldiers’ guns blazing at their fronts, ready to fire at any instant. They were bellowing in Russian, something so frightening that even I knew it would cause a fatality. I thought to myself that I if I were to die here, I would die happy. I’d die in the arms of the only person I’d ever known. I’d die with a memory of only him, not of anything else.

V's body lugged me up, plucking up my feet and cradling me against his body. He coiled into the corner as he shoved me deep inside his hold, his back to what I could only expect being ten to twenty guards and shut his eyes so snug I’m sure he’d burst a blood vessel.

I wish I could say it was the first time they’d seen him naked, seen his body drawn into a ball to shield himself, though I’d be sorely flawed. I tried not think of that as I felt each blow, each batter and thump of the back of the soldier’s guns hit his body with a force so damaging I was astounded I didn’t hear V’s bones shatter.

I closed my eyes too, avoiding the agonising look on his face as cold metal met jarringly with his back. He did his best to grasp onto me, until irreversibly, his body wilted.

Dwindling against me, guarding my body still, a syringe stood tall from his nape. Even in a lifeless state, it’s as though his body’s drive was to defend—conflicting what he was made for.

They wouldn’t kill me, and with the looks on their faces as my look met theirs, they knew they were to lock me up again. I once had quarters, a proper bed, a bathroom, a shower. After everything that happened, though, those pleasures, those each human deems essential, were stripped from me.

They heaved his body off mine, all six soldiers fraught with V’s body weight. His eyes blinked open for only instants, watching as I drew the blanket once shielding us both, now shielding only my bare body.

He said something. I know he did. What? I’m not sure.

I never would know.

I embrace my knees to my chest, pretend that there is a warmth behind me that belongs to him. That belongs to the broken man.

I pretend his metal arm clasps my waist; his flesh hand holds mine. I pretend and pretend until I feel the tears flowing from my eyes wither away as sleep digs its claws in me, distorting the sensations until I fall into a slumber.

I’d never see that man again. I’d never thank him for saving me.

I’d never hold him or tell him how the future looks.

Because, for some reason so cruel and unfair, God had decided that his death would not only end, but begin, every week, every day, until his body strained into obedience. His death was his birth, his memories new and raw and so touched that the many lives he lived plagued his mind.

He wasn’t one, he was thousands. He was everywhere and nowhere. He was V, Bucky, James, the Winter Soldier, Soldat, Pet.

He was broken men.