[ The first thing Bucky did when he found Andyr, soaked through with blood and gore and the sickening accompanying scent of waste -- because when people are killed and ripped apart, all of what's inside of them spills out; it's never as clean as what you see in the movies -- is to unsnap the collar that has held him captive.
The second thing he did was to take him back to the ship, keeping a tight lid on his thoughts and emotions because surely, whatever he's thinking right now is nothing compared to the turmoil and the hatred, the pain and anger and fear that churns in Andyr like a brewing storm, unleashed upon the slavers who had thought they could keep him obedient. It sickens and enrages him to know that he had been at their mercy for so long -- Bucky had abandoned everything else the moment he knew Andyr was taking, committing all his time and effort into hunting the man down, narrowing the location and extracting him from the place as quickly as he could.
He doesn't know if he had been in time -- he doesn't care for the bodies that Andyr's racked up, as long as he's safe; but there's something in those glassy eyes that tells him that something's cracked anew inside of him, and with all of Bucky's heart he wants to close over it, to mend it and tell him that he's safe.
Bucky keeps his distance, cleaning up while Andyr headed to the showers. He's out sooner than the man is, giving him time to process the trauma of what's happened, sure to be there for him when he needs.
Soon enough, Andyr comes and presses up against him like a kitten seeking warmth, seeking validation and need, and he smells the soap's fragrance instead of blood, the dampness of his skin as he's stepped out of the shower. Andyr leans against him and it's open surrender, it's a yearning that he understands completely; open and vulnerable and matter-of-fact, and once more he wonders at Andyr's trust in him, the simplicity and weight of it both.
So when he guides his hand down, down to his stomach, underneath his towel, Bucky moves further, pressing close to his back and pressing his lips to his shoulder, his neck. ]
Okay. [ He murmurs quietly, softly, as the towel pools at his feet. He will claim him, and wipe away everything that the slavers had tried to stain him with. ] Okay, Andyr. You're mine, right?
no subject
The second thing he did was to take him back to the ship, keeping a tight lid on his thoughts and emotions because surely, whatever he's thinking right now is nothing compared to the turmoil and the hatred, the pain and anger and fear that churns in Andyr like a brewing storm, unleashed upon the slavers who had thought they could keep him obedient. It sickens and enrages him to know that he had been at their mercy for so long -- Bucky had abandoned everything else the moment he knew Andyr was taking, committing all his time and effort into hunting the man down, narrowing the location and extracting him from the place as quickly as he could.
He doesn't know if he had been in time -- he doesn't care for the bodies that Andyr's racked up, as long as he's safe; but there's something in those glassy eyes that tells him that something's cracked anew inside of him, and with all of Bucky's heart he wants to close over it, to mend it and tell him that he's safe.
Bucky keeps his distance, cleaning up while Andyr headed to the showers. He's out sooner than the man is, giving him time to process the trauma of what's happened, sure to be there for him when he needs.
Soon enough, Andyr comes and presses up against him like a kitten seeking warmth, seeking validation and need, and he smells the soap's fragrance instead of blood, the dampness of his skin as he's stepped out of the shower. Andyr leans against him and it's open surrender, it's a yearning that he understands completely; open and vulnerable and matter-of-fact, and once more he wonders at Andyr's trust in him, the simplicity and weight of it both.
So when he guides his hand down, down to his stomach, underneath his towel, Bucky moves further, pressing close to his back and pressing his lips to his shoulder, his neck. ]
Okay. [ He murmurs quietly, softly, as the towel pools at his feet. He will claim him, and wipe away everything that the slavers had tried to stain him with. ] Okay, Andyr. You're mine, right?