#glittercrow3

[unearthlydust]

I’m very curious about this “scar” too!

Hi!

I'm not sure if they used his natural crease to create the scar or if the vertical line is supposed to be the scar, but there's definitely something there. It doesn't say a lot, but it's still a nice detail. :)

[barb-aricyawp]

Bed and Bucky?

Bucky in a bed is bad news, bears. (for torture tuesday) 

trigger warnings: implied sexual violence

When the asset greets his handler for the mission, something plummets inside of him. He recognizes this man. Broad, gregarious, and with a beaming smile. 

This is the man who touches. This is the man who never lets the asset out of his sight.

When they complete the mission (successfully, the asset glows with accomplishment), they return to the safehouse with several other agents. The asset usually eats in the kitchen at the sink, a rare moment of solitude that the asset sometimes craves during missions.

But this handler doesn’t let the asset eat alone. He has him kneel by his chair at the dinner table. The asset dislikes kneeling, finds that his thick thighs are an uncomfortable weight on his ankles and knees. 

He also dislikes the attention when he kneels.

The other agents laugh, call the asset the handler’s pet. The handler likes that, rubs his fingers through the asset’s hair. Says, “Good boy,” to the laughter of his peers.

Maybe the asset is a pet.

And like a particularly beloved pet, the asset sleeps in the handler’s bed. The handler waits until everyone else has ambled into their bunks, then, quietly, takes the asset to his room.

This is what plummeted dread through the asset when he saw the handler. This is what he remembers.

The bed is narrow, too narrow for two grown men to lie side by side. So, the asset tries to curl up at the end. (There was one handler, a Russian, who liked the asset there to warm his feet. But this handler is different.)

“Come sleep next to me,” he says. His smile is warm, welcoming. He is always happy to have the asset.

When the asset obeys the command, the handler pushes him onto his back and lies on top of him. The full weight of his body presses along the asset’s from shoulder to knee. His chest crushes into the asset’s lungs, hips flush against the asset’s.

The weight is suffocating. The asset cannot breathe or squirm under such a large man. Even after the handler’s breathing evens out in slumber, the asset is held immobile. Driven down into the mattress and held in place.

—

Steve stares at the single bed in the safehouse and sighs. “I told them there would be two of us,” he says to Bucky. “They promised there’d be enough room for both of us.”

Bucky shrugs. “I sleep better on the floor.”

Steve considers the moldy carpet, the rat he spotted in the kitchen when they entered. “Might not be clean.”

Bucky gestures to himself and the ashy filth that clings to his sweat streaked skin. He smells terrible, even from across the room.

Steve snorts. “Fair. Sure you don’t want to share?”

Any humor in Bucky’s expression drops out immediately. His eyes go cold and suspicious of Steve. 

“Buck, I–”

Bucky shakes his head and stalks out of the room towards the shower. Steve hears him drag a chair with him from the kitchen so he can barricade the bathroom door.

Steve sighs and holds his face in hands.

—

He won’t see Bucky again until much later that night, when Bucky will creep in and lie on the floor next to Steve’s bed. He will reach up and press his fingers to the back of Steve’s hand, then withdraw again.

[horatiosroom]

Please tell us more about Brendon’s love injection!!!!!!!!!!!

There’s not much to tell other than what’s depicted in Ben’s fantasy isn’t quite how things turned out when he told Brendon he wanted to “play doctor” haha.

He ended up liking it anyway ;^)

[barb-aricyawp]

Can Steve please dry some Bucky tears??

I was hoping someone would let me do this.

“Hey,” Steve says, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “What are you feeling?”

Bucky smiles, but there’s nothing alive in it. His mouth is a flat, stiff line drawn taut like a fishing wire through his face. He gives a shrug, and this too is dead. Hollowed out by something Bucky won’t speak of.

“Oh, I’m fine.” Bucky pats Steve’s back twice. “Nothing you don’t already know about.”

It’s only now that Steve is realizing how much of Bucky’s affectation of being alright is composed of gestures and half truths. A smile, a pat on the back, a casual dismissal. Steve has let these reassurances slide for months because he wanted to believe them. He wanted to see Bucky smile, he wanted to hear everything was alright.

But he can see in the tremor of Bucky’s hands--the hollows of his cheeks, the abandonment of his grooming, the emptiness in his eyes--that not everything is alright.

Steve tries to press harder, “You sure?” but that just drives Bucky away.

“Yeah,” he says with another hard smile, “I’m just going to hit the gym, I think. I’ll catch you after? We can have dinner?”

He tries to walk away, but Steve catches his arm. “Bucky,” he starts, then realizes there isn’t any way he can make Bucky talk. There’s no passphrase that will unmute him. He’s not a machine.

Bucky arches a brow at him, waiting. At least this gesture rings sincere.

Steve shakes his head. “We don’t have to talk about it. I love you all the same.”

As if wiped clean, Bucky’s face goes blank. Then it hardens, going tight around the eyes and mouth. The whites of his eyes sting pink with salt water as his tear ducts well and spill over. His face flushes, as if surprised by his own body’s reaction.

“Shit,” Bucky says, rubbing his eyes and turning away. “Shit, Steve. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t have to be.” Steve says. He pulls his sleeve over his hand and rubs Bucky’s face, just under the eyes. Nothing too tender--Bucky will baulk at anything too sweet--but enough to take care of him. “I love you all the same.”

[barb-aricyawp]

6 and 14 for Bucky? I'm so excited you're back!

Mm. Medical experimentation and reluctant caretaking for Bucky. This one is going to be a little fantastical. More The Tusk than Human Centipede.

trigger warnings: body modification, self harm, blood

Bucky wakes up back in his cell with a heaviness to his head and a terrible pressure against his temples. He curls his knees up and tucks his forehead against them. Or tries to.

When he drags his head across the floor, something screeches against the concrete. Bucky lifts his hand and finds...

Horns.

He fingers the bony ridges, following the tight spiral. Like a goat or a ram. The horns erupt from his temples and end in a sharp point just behind Bucky’s ears.

Outraged, Bucky searches through the bars for someone he can blame. A guard is watching him, naked disgust on his face.

“What purpose do these possibly serve?”

The guard responds in Russian, a long string of bubbling consonants that Bucky can’t follow. Why did he focus so much on learning French when he should have been studying Russian?

Bucky lifts a hand, signaling that the guard can stop trying. He props himself up against the wall and focuses on his new appendages. The horns don’t seem to be simply attached to his forehead, but rather burst through the skin. 

Bucky takes a deep breath and seizes one with his metal hand--the prosthesis is stronger than his flesh arm. The guard seems to catch on, but can’t get the door open in time to stop him.

Bucky yanks the horn down. He doesn’t manage to rip it off his head, but the bone breaks a bare inch from the base. When the horn cracks open, blood gushes from the root.

The amount startles him. He didn’t expect there to be a large blood vessel inside. Still, he goes for the second one. As the guard is fumbling with the key, Bucky wrenches his left horn off. 

This, too, spouts blood.

The guard rushes to him, repeating something with all the harshness of a swear. He seizes Bucky’s blanket off the bed and crams the fabric against the stump of the horn to stem the bleeding.

“Stupid American,” the Russian mumbles in heavily accented English.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, feeling a little dazed. “I bet that just undid months of work.”

The Russian frowns at him. “Horn grow back.”

[barb-aricyawp]

6 and 12 for Bucky?

Poisoned + hiding an injury. Oh, I’m so glad y’all asked for this.  (for torture tuesday)

trigger warnings: what’s on the tin + vomit mention (no actual vomiting)

If they know, they’ll make it worse.

Something has gone wrong with the serums they’ve been pumping into Bucky. His body feels…tight. Like there’s not enough room for himself in it. He’s constantly nauseated, disoriented by dizzy spells that seem to stretch on for days. Worst is the cramping pain that seizes his stomach. It speaks of poison. 

Bucky is weak. Getting weaker by the day.

But if the Soviets know, they’ll make it worse. And Bucky is still hatching an escape plan. He still has to get out of here. He can’t die here. 

(Or worse than dying here, the possibility he can’t bear to consider: living here.)

The door to the cell opens and Bucky straightens to standing. He’s learned he can stay still so long as he has an anchor and right now that anchor is the cot that presses against the back of his calf. He watches the Soviet approach with wary eyes, brow lowered. It’s how he deceives them into thinking he’s still sharp.

The Soviet presses a palm to Bucky’s chest. Just a palm, just a press. Not a shove or even a push. All the Soviet has to do is press and Bucky stumbles back, landing on the cot.

Shit.

The Soviet smiles. He calls out to his buddies in the hall. They swarm into the cell to crowd around Bucky. One of them grabs Bucky by the jaw, bites something out in Russian, and spits directly into Bucky’s eye. Another reaches out and rubs the saliva down Bucky’s face with the heel of his gloved palm.

There could be three of them. There could be thirty. Bucky’s head is filled to the brim with static. He can’t focus. They wanted him like this. They did something to him to make him like this.

Bucky can’t let them know how bad it is.

When a Soviet steps in close to tug at Bucky’s eyelids, Bucky kicks him directly in the diaphragm. Hard enough to knock the breath from him. Hard enough to send him staggering back as if shot.

That horrendous cramping is back in his gut. So, Bucky smiles, his easiest most natural grin, because that’s what he does when he’s in a tight spot.

Even as a Soviet rolls up his sleeve and drives a sucker punch directly into his stomach. It’s as if he punched the whole room into spinning. His head whirls. Vomit threatens his esophagus, but this, too, Bucky smothers down. 

Jaw grit, stomach roiling, head spinning, Bucky smiles.

[barb-aricyawp]

Oh oh number 3!!!! I love lyrics that speak to people

Oh my gosh, I meant for you to answer this, you selfless wonderful thing. I’ll answer if you promise to.

lyric: “remember me, love, when everyone is a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn.” -hozier, “shrike”

quote: “tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies from the lake and dress them in warm clothes again” -richard siken, “scheherazade”

[barb-aricyawp]

When I was 4 I fell out of a moving car. In middle school I didn't know nasal saline was different than contact saline solution and burned my corneas. I also grabbed a piece of tall grass at a zoo and tried to see if bobcats liked to play like regular cats. They do and I got scratched and bled everywhere but I also knew I couldnt ask for help lol

Holy hell these are some bad ones, babe. Did your corneas heal? What kind zoo allows that kind of access to motherfucking bobcats?