hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #2: ...'Cause a Hydra Trash Party don't stop

When they really started to look--in old HYDRA bases, in Natasha and Nick's shadowy contacts, in the vastness of the SHIELD data dump, decrypted but also de-indexed, unsearchable and with all context obliterated--there was information about Bucky everywhere. HYDRA had inherited the Nazi passion for meticulous record-keeping, and they recorded everything to do with their prize asset, their perfect soldier.

None of it actually told them anything about where he was now, what he would do or where he might go, but Steve kept hoping to find a hint. The location of a base, the name of a doctor not yet dead, or, hell, a dry factual report about how they'd brainwashed him to report to a particular address and wait for orders if he ever happened to survive the fall of HYDRA.

So far it was mostly repetitive. Some of the files seemed almost benign until you understood that the man whose vital signs were being so carefully tracked was a mind-wiped prisoner, yanked back and forth between life and death on his captors' whims.

And then one day Steve opened a file headed Surgical Report and read the words Objective: permanent destruction of urinary continence.

The words vanished the second after he read them, his eyes filling with tears in a rush as reflexive as the sudden painful flood of saliva. Steve twisted away from the desk and doubled over, breathing fast and shallow while he waited to see if he was actually going to throw up or pass out. He did neither, and after a moment he realized he was still hunkering half-under the desk like that report was a barrage of small-arms fire he was waiting out.

It would still be there no matter how long he waited. And even if he could get rid of the file, it would still have happened. For a moment he toyed with the idea that he could refuse to read it as a matter of respect for Bucky's privacy, and then he felt doubly ashamed--for flinching from the horror, and for only pretending, even to himself, to give a damn about Bucky's privacy when it concerned something he didn't want to know.

He took one more breath and sat up, clamping a precautionary hand over his mouth as he read.

Subject has displayed a pathological persistence in over-retention of urine, resulting in injuries to bladder and kidneys as noted--and an alarmingly long string of dates. They were months and years apart, but Steve had a pretty good timeline by now of when Bucky was and wasn't in cryo through the fifties and sixties. He had been hurt this way just about every time he was awake.

Over-retention is also observed in regard to bowel function, requiring assisted evacuation before cryofreeze but without similar physical injury resulting. Analysts conclude that over-retention is a subconscious assertion of bodily control. Positive and negative reinforcement and repeated mental conditioning have not remedied the behavior. A surgical solution is recommended both to avert physical injury and to produce a salutary psychological effect.

Steve's gaze slid back up the paragraph, wanting those last five words to mean something else--but no, there was no way it could mean anything else.

Stripped of every other form of control, probably not even knowing why he was doing it, maybe not even knowing that he was doing it, for decades Bucky had controlled the one thing he had left: his bodily functions. And they'd done this to him to stop him from hurting himself by it, but also to make sure that he knew that even his own body, even his own piss and shit, didn't belong to him.

Steve let himself skim the rest--complete excision of external sphincter muscle and no immediate evidence of regrowth and existing damage to internal sphincter and then...

Results: Satisfactory. Muscle has not regenerated although surgical scars have healed perfectly. Urine leakage is constant as long as subject is adequately hydrated. Somewhat reduced by upright posture due to partial effect of internal sphincter, which is not sufficient to allow damaging retention or an illusion of control. Subject appears indifferent to condition when leakage is managed, but evinces distress when leakage is uncontrolled or when attention is drawn to this state.

Bowel function now occurs as directed.

Steve stared at the file for a while as all the implications of that assessment sank in. He sorted it into the directory with Bucky's other medical records, and then he stood up, walked to the bathroom, and threw up until there was nothing left inside him.

I love your brain.

I love everyone in this thread

Oh wow I don't care if my survival skills are nonexistent, I'm camping by this prompt.

This prompt gave me the saddest trash boner ever.

I love it. seconding this prompt (and thanks for the pic, to go along with it ;) )

Now I'm imagining the Strike team guys all working out in the gym and loading up the bar with a supersoldier-strength amount of weight and then making the asset do deep squats, naked, so they can watch his hole yawn and gape under the strain of all that weight. And then after they've all taken multiple turns fucking him until those asslips are just drooling helplessly with come, they order him to push it all out, but he's so loose all he can do is stand there trying to clench and unclench while gravity does most of the work.

Leg day is really, really popular in the HYDRA gym.

Wow, I'm not normally in to gaping asshole trash but this aspect of it sounds amazing.

The horror of what the reports mean as told through Steve's understanding is just...wow. You nailed it, anon. CONTROL OVER HIS BODILY FUNCTIONS WAS THE ONLY REMAINING CONTROL BUCKY HAD OVER HIS BODY AND HYDRA TOOK THAT AWAY FROM HIM TOO. I'M FINE. This was so good.

Oh my god, this visual. I love your brain.

well that was some horrible (lovely) trash. Steve's reactions were the best, really, I wanted to hug him all the way through :)

Bucky slides down flat on the bed after a while, resting his head between Steve's pillow and Sam's. Teddy is starfished on his chest, right arm wrapped around Bucky's left, left hand clutching the sleeve of Bucky's shirt. Teddy's sleeping breaths turn to pathetic little snuffles from time to time, but he's sleeping hard, the collapse of the exhausted child.

There's a little time yet before the nightmares will start. Bucky closes his eyes and tells himself to catch some sleep in the lull. He can, as long as he doesn't let himself think--as long as he doesn't fall into the trap of believing he's really alone, really off-duty.

Really safe.

The thought has barely formed when he hears a small noise at the front door, and then carefully quiet footfalls entering the house.

He begins to shake. He knows what's coming, and he knows that his reprieve is about to come to a very abrupt end.

He closes his arms around Teddy, squeezing him firmly enough to loosen his sleeping grip. When he feels like he's being held on to safely, Teddy tends to switch from clinging to cuddling--and right on cue, Teddy draws his arms and legs in and curls up against Bucky's chest.

The bedroom door is pushed open silently, and the approaching shape hesitates, peering in. Bucky keeps his eyes nearly closed, so no gleam will give him away. He doesn't move.

Steve unslings his shield as he comes over to the bed, and Sam comes into the room on his heels, moving to the right side of the bed while Steve takes possession of the left. Flanking him.

Bucky presses his face down against Teddy's hair, trying to deny for one more moment, but Steve's hands are on his wrists, coaxing him to let go. He can feel Sam close on his other side, sliding his arms into Bucky's grip to close on Teddy.

Bucky doesn't want to know how badly he caused them to blow this mission. He doesn't want to know what this cost. They came home. For Teddy. For him. He shouldn't have called; he couldn't have not called. And somewhere, deep down, he knew what would happen. He knew they would come back. They always come back for Teddy.

And for him.

Bucky relaxes into Steve's grip, letting his head tilt back as Sam lifts Teddy away. He watches Sam lift Teddy away while Steve's hands slide down his wrists to his hands, squeezing gently. Bucky's gaze stays on Sam and Teddy; he watches Sam hug Teddy tight for a moment and press a kiss to the top of his head, and then Sam leans in.

They hand off smoothly, Steve taking Teddy and hugging him while Sam's hands drop to fold together around Bucky's right hand. When Steve has had a moment to hold Teddy he lays him down gently, settling him with his cheek exactly on the star at the center of the shield. Teddy's hand slides fondly down the curve and hooks around an edge. He sighs contentedly and keeps sleeping.

He's the only kid in the world who can identify vibranium at a touch in his sleep; the shield is the only substitute for Bucky he'll almost always accept.

Sam slips something into Bucky's ear, and he can hear the slightly metallic sound of Teddy's breathing up close; Steve must have planted a bug on the shield, so Bucky can listen to Teddy from a safe distance.

He closes his eyes and lets himself shake. He doesn't worry about what happens next. Steve and Sam's hands are on him, levering him up off the bed; he stands between them for a moment and he knows they're waiting to see what he'll do. He has exactly enough time to think, This is all right, they're here, it's fine and then he bolts.

They keep pace with him, a stride behind out of kindness. They follow him into his room, and he doesn't bother to try to keep them out. He's not really running away. He couldn't do this if they weren't right here with him.

He throws himself at the bed. It's not a matter of hiding, not really. He can't hide from the shaking. He can't hide from the knowing, the feeling. When he reaches out his arms close around Sam, and he hides his face against Sam's chest.

Steve's arms close around him, and Steve presses close against his back. There is this to say for being years on from the videos first leaking: Steve and Sam know not to be delicate anymore. They know that distance doesn't help.

Steve molds his body tight against Bucky's, hips pressed to his ass, legs bracketing Bucky's, chest against his back and pushing him into Sam. There's a still moment where Bucky trembles in their combined grip and thinks it might be enough, but he can hear Teddy's soft, even breathing in his ear and he can hear Teddy sobbing in bewildered, horrified hurt.

Sobbing feels very much like vomiting, breath and horror forced suddenly out of his center. He doesn't do it gracefully, fights against it too much to even fall into a rhythm. Each racking spasm is an individual failure of control, and the struggles between are sometimes longer, sometimes shorter. His mind replays jumbled details of his son's distress, mixed with the few flashes he remembers of the abuse from the video: Teddy clinging to his arm and the sensation of being held down, the rising pitch of Teddy's voice asking questions amid tears and the whine of the stun baton.

There's nothing that feels coherent enough to be a thought in his head, just that cascade of memories, when he hears a word forming in the wet barking heave of his breath. "Why? Why--"

Steve's arms tighten around him. Sam's hand cups the back of his neck. He's shaking harder now, and he's just like Teddy; once the words start they won't stop.

"Why, why did they, why the fuck--why--he's just a kid--"

Words aren't enough. He's making helpless animal sounds of pain against Sam's chest, dimly aware of them making comforting noises above him, rearranging him so they can hold him closer, tighter. But he still hears Teddy's voice: Why were they doing that? Why would they hurt you?

He doesn't fight it. Doesn't resist or try to hold himself steady. Steve and Sam are here now. He can be a hurt thing, a trapped, wounded animal, bleeding and helpless. He doesn't have to understand. The hurt is pure for a moment, without meaning, without memory; just the fact of hurting and nothing else, which is almost painless by comparison.

But reason pushes back in. He recognizes what he is doing, where he is, not just in his room and tucked safely between his lovers, but In A Moment Of Crisis, when he cannot yet (or any longer) muster the practiced procedures for coping and moving forward. Moments Of Crisis are allowed. But the line between recognizing it and beginning to feel that he is indulging in it is a narrow one, and soon he is counting his breaths, trying to steady himself. The familiar words, rehearsed so that they become automatic, fall into place.

Teddy is safe.

You are safe.

It wasn't your fault.

You did your best.

You did your best.

The words feel false and foreign the way they always do at a time like this; there is weary, bleak comfort in knowing that this is part of the process.

He tries to match his breathing to Teddy's, slow and shallow in his ear; he picks his head up to draw a cool, clear breath.

"That's it," Steve murmurs, and another sob shakes out of Bucky.

He twists toward Steve's hand, brushing his hair back, and something cool and wet and soothing touches his cheek, salt-soaked and flushed. He sniffs his nose clear and recognizes the smell of the baby wipe Sam is using to wash away his tears. He sobs out a shuddering laugh, and Sam's lips press against his forehead while Sam wipes the rest of his face.

"He was so scared," Bucky says in a small, strangled voice. "He was so fucking scared, for me, because I--"

The rest is lost in a keening sound. He struggles to sit up and they let him, rearranging themselves around him as he draws up his knees and wraps his arms around them. He wants to be holding Teddy, but nothing in the world is more important than Teddy's sleeping breath in his ear.

"Those fucking--those videos, those fucking videos, he saw, he knows--"

That's the center of it, that's the awful exposure, the place where he's newly raw.

"He knows I can't." Bucky forces the words out. "Can't protect--"

"Hey," Sam says softly, like he's going to argue with that.

"I can't," Bucky insists. "Not from--not--from bad guys, yeah, from somebody hurting him, from--but not from the internet. Not from knowing, not from mean kids."

Steve's lips press to his temple.

"Buck," Steve says softly, and there's an ache in Steve's voice that matches the feeling in his chest. He knows that if Steve's holding it together now, it's not because he doesn't feel this. "How old was I when we met?"

"F--fi--fuck," Bucky says helplessly.

Five. Steve was five; Bucky was six. Steve's father was dead in the war, Bucky's father inscrutably wounded by it. Steve was getting in fights over the things people said about his mother, Bucky was dodging fights over the things people said about his father, and they weren't any older than Teddy is now.

"He's so small," Bucky says, the words shaking on something closer to a laugh than a sob.

Sam laughs outright. "I bet Steve was smaller."

Bucky shakes his head--Steve was always bigger than he looked, always big enough to fight. He was never so small that Bucky could truly have any hope of shielding him. Not like Teddy.

"He's strong, Buck," Steve says softly. "I wish to God he didn't have to be, but we've given him that--you've given him that. This shook him, but it won't break him. It just hurts."

"Fuck you it hurts," Bucky mutters, but he can feel himself settling down. It just hurts. A lot of things have hurt. This is another; worse in some ways, but mostly just the latest. "Fuck."

"Dad?" Teddy says sleepily in his ear. "Daddy? Where's Pop?"

"Teddy," Bucky says, and Steve and Sam don't get it right away. He can feel them waiting for him to finish the sentence. He tries to gesture, hampered by the way they're both wrapped around him and his own reluctance to push free. In his ear Teddy gives a little grunt of effort, getting into motion.

"Teddy," Bucky repeats, louder. His bedroom door is open; he hears it twice when Teddy calls out, "Pop!"

There are little running footsteps, and Bucky recognizes why they sound unbalanced at the same time Steve does. Steve jumps up, darting to the door just as Teddy reaches it.

He's standing there in his pajamas, hair all rumpled with sleep and cheek creased from the sheets. He's holding Steve's shield up with both hands on one strap, so it won't drag on the ground.

Mod, could you delete this one? This is not where I meant to put it.

Bucky slides down flat on the bed after a while, resting his head between Steve's pillow and Sam's. Teddy is starfished on his chest, right arm wrapped around Bucky's left, left hand clutching the sleeve of Bucky's shirt. Teddy's sleeping breaths turn to pathetic little snuffles from time to time, but he's sleeping hard, the collapse of the exhausted child.

There's a little time yet before the nightmares will start. Bucky closes his eyes and tells himself to catch some sleep in the lull. He can, as long as he doesn't let himself think--as long as he doesn't fall into the trap of believing he's really alone, really off-duty.

Really safe.

The thought has barely formed when he hears a small noise at the front door, and then carefully quiet footfalls entering the house.

He begins to shake. He knows what's coming, and he knows that his reprieve is about to come to a very abrupt end.

He closes his arms around Teddy, squeezing him firmly enough to loosen his sleeping grip. When he feels like he's being held on to safely, Teddy tends to switch from clinging to cuddling--and right on cue, Teddy draws his arms and legs in and curls up against Bucky's chest.

The bedroom door is pushed open silently, and the approaching shape hesitates, peering in. Bucky keeps his eyes nearly closed, so no gleam will give him away. He doesn't move.

Steve unslings his shield as he comes over to the bed, and Sam comes into the room on his heels, moving to the right side of the bed while Steve takes possession of the left. Flanking him.

Bucky presses his face down against Teddy's hair, trying to deny for one more moment, but Steve's hands are on his wrists, coaxing him to let go. He can feel Sam close on his other side, sliding his arms into Bucky's grip to close on Teddy.

Bucky doesn't want to know how badly he caused them to blow this mission. He doesn't want to know what this cost. They came home. For Teddy. For him. He shouldn't have called; he couldn't have not called. And somewhere, deep down, he knew what would happen. He knew they would come back. They always come back for Teddy.

And for him.

Bucky relaxes into Steve's grip, letting his head tilt back as Sam lifts Teddy away. He watches Sam lift Teddy away while Steve's hands slide down his wrists to his hands, squeezing gently. Bucky's gaze stays on Sam and Teddy; he watches Sam hug Teddy tight for a moment and press a kiss to the top of his head, and then Sam leans in.

They hand off smoothly, Steve taking Teddy and hugging him while Sam's hands drop to fold together around Bucky's right hand. When Steve has had a moment to hold Teddy he lays him down gently, settling him with his cheek exactly on the star at the center of the shield. Teddy's hand slides fondly down the curve and hooks around an edge. He sighs contentedly and keeps sleeping.

He's the only kid in the world who can identify vibranium at a touch in his sleep; the shield is the only substitute for Bucky he'll almost always accept.

Sam slips something into Bucky's ear, and he can hear the slightly metallic sound of Teddy's breathing up close; Steve must have planted a bug on the shield, so Bucky can listen to Teddy from a safe distance.

He closes his eyes and lets himself shake. He doesn't worry about what happens next. Steve and Sam's hands are on him, levering him up off the bed; he stands between them for a moment and he knows they're waiting to see what he'll do. He has exactly enough time to think, This is all right, they're here, it's fine and then he bolts.

They keep pace with him, a stride behind out of kindness. They follow him into his room, and he doesn't bother to try to keep them out. He's not really running away. He couldn't do this if they weren't right here with him.

He throws himself at the bed. It's not a matter of hiding, not really. He can't hide from the shaking. He can't hide from the knowing, the feeling. When he reaches out his arms close around Sam, and he hides his face against Sam's chest.

Steve's arms close around him, and Steve presses close against his back. There is this to say for being years on from the videos first leaking: Steve and Sam know not to be delicate anymore. They know that distance doesn't help.

Steve molds his body tight against Bucky's, hips pressed to his ass, legs bracketing Bucky's, chest against his back and pushing him into Sam. There's a still moment where Bucky trembles in their combined grip and thinks it might be enough, but he can hear Teddy's soft, even breathing in his ear and he can hear Teddy sobbing in bewildered, horrified hurt.

Sobbing feels very much like vomiting, breath and horror forced suddenly out of his center. He doesn't do it gracefully, fights against it too much to even fall into a rhythm. Each racking spasm is an individual failure of control, and the struggles between are sometimes longer, sometimes shorter. His mind replays jumbled details of his son's distress, mixed with the few flashes he remembers of the abuse from the video: Teddy clinging to his arm and the sensation of being held down, the rising pitch of Teddy's voice asking questions amid tears and the whine of the stun baton.

There's nothing that feels coherent enough to be a thought in his head, just that cascade of memories, when he hears a word forming in the wet barking heave of his breath. "Why? Why--"

Steve's arms tighten around him. Sam's hand cups the back of his neck. He's shaking harder now, and he's just like Teddy; once the words start they won't stop.

"Why, why did they, why the fuck--why--he's just a kid--"

Words aren't enough. He's making helpless animal sounds of pain against Sam's chest, dimly aware of them making comforting noises above him, rearranging him so they can hold him closer, tighter. But he still hears Teddy's voice: Why were they doing that? Why would they hurt you?

He doesn't fight it. Doesn't resist or try to hold himself steady. Steve and Sam are here now. He can be a hurt thing, a trapped, wounded animal, bleeding and helpless. He doesn't have to understand. The hurt is pure for a moment, without meaning, without memory; just the fact of hurting and nothing else, which is almost painless by comparison.

But reason pushes back in. He recognizes what he is doing, where he is, not just in his room and tucked safely between his lovers, but In A Moment Of Crisis, when he cannot yet (or any longer) muster the practiced procedures for coping and moving forward. Moments Of Crisis are allowed. But the line between recognizing it and beginning to feel that he is indulging in it is a narrow one, and soon he is counting his breaths, trying to steady himself. The familiar words, rehearsed so that they become automatic, fall into place.

Teddy is safe.

You are safe.

It wasn't your fault.

You did your best.

You did your best.

The words feel false and foreign the way they always do at a time like this; there is weary, bleak comfort in knowing that this is part of the process.

He tries to match his breathing to Teddy's, slow and shallow in his ear; he picks his head up to draw a cool, clear breath.

"That's it," Steve murmurs, and another sob shakes out of Bucky.

He twists toward Steve's hand, brushing his hair back, and something cool and wet and soothing touches his cheek, salt-soaked and flushed. He sniffs his nose clear and recognizes the smell of the baby wipe Sam is using to wash away his tears. He sobs out a shuddering laugh, and Sam's lips press against his forehead while Sam wipes the rest of his face.

"He was so scared," Bucky says in a small, strangled voice. "He was so fucking scared, for me, because I--"

The rest is lost in a keening sound. He struggles to sit up and they let him, rearranging themselves around him as he draws up his knees and wraps his arms around them. He wants to be holding Teddy, but nothing in the world is more important than Teddy's sleeping breath in his ear.

"Those fucking--those videos, those fucking videos, he saw, he knows--"

That's the center of it, that's the awful exposure, the place where he's newly raw.

"He knows I can't." Bucky forces the words out. "Can't protect--"

"Hey," Sam says softly, like he's going to argue with that.

"I can't," Bucky insists. "Not from--not--from bad guys, yeah, from somebody hurting him, from--but not from the internet. Not from knowing, not from mean kids."

Steve's lips press to his temple.

"Buck," Steve says softly, and there's an ache in Steve's voice that matches the feeling in his chest. He knows that if Steve's holding it together now, it's not because he doesn't feel this. "How old was I when we met?"

"F--fi--fuck," Bucky says helplessly.

Five. Steve was five; Bucky was six. Steve's father was dead in the war, Bucky's father inscrutably wounded by it. Steve was getting in fights over the things people said about his mother, Bucky was dodging fights over the things people said about his father, and they weren't any older than Teddy is now.

"He's so small," Bucky says, the words shaking on something closer to a laugh than a sob.

Sam laughs outright. "I bet Steve was smaller."

Bucky shakes his head--Steve was always bigger than he looked, always big enough to fight. He was never so small that Bucky could truly have any hope of shielding him. Not like Teddy.

"He's strong, Buck," Steve says softly. "I wish to God he didn't have to be, but we've given him that--you've given him that. This shook him, but it won't break him. It just hurts."

"Fuck you it hurts," Bucky mutters, but he can feel himself settling down. It just hurts. A lot of things have hurt. This is another; worse in some ways, but mostly just the latest. "Fuck."

"Dad?" Teddy says sleepily in his ear. "Daddy? Where's Pop?"

"Teddy," Bucky says, and Steve and Sam don't get it right away. He can feel them waiting for him to finish the sentence. He tries to gesture, hampered by the way they're both wrapped around him and his own reluctance to push free. In his ear Teddy gives a little grunt of effort, getting into motion.

"Teddy," Bucky repeats, louder. His bedroom door is open; he hears it twice when Teddy calls out, "Pop!"

There are little running footsteps, and Bucky recognizes why they sound unbalanced at the same time Steve does. Steve jumps up, darting to the door just as Teddy reaches it.

He's standing there in his pajamas, hair all rumpled with sleep and cheek creased from the sheets. He's holding Steve's shield up with both hands on one strap, so it won't drag on the ground.

Bucky lets himself fall heavily against Sam as Teddy's eyes go wide and Steve scoops him up, taking the shield from him. Teddy lets it go, wrapping one arm around Steve's neck and squealing happily, "Samma! You came back!"

"I promised, didn't I?" Sam says, his words only shaking a little, his fingers digging in against Bucky. "I said we'd be back as soon as we could."

Teddy turns his attention to Steve. "Did you get the bad guys already, Dad?"

Bucky's heart squeezes, but there's no sign of hesitation from Steve. "Yeah, pal, we did."

He brings Teddy back to Bucky's bed, setting the shield aside before he snuggles in beside Bucky with Teddy still in his arms.

"After we talked to you, we moved up the timeline," Steve is saying, and Sam gives a little reassuring squeeze against Bucky's ribs, telling him to believe it. Bucky sags a little harder against Sam. "We hurried up and got the bad guys all squared away so we could come home quick."

"Good," Teddy says definitely.

He lunges out of Steve's arms and shoves heedlessly at Bucky, making space for himself to drape across and hug Sam. Sam obligingly wraps an arm around him, and Bucky adds his left arm around Teddy's hips. Teddy snuggles in contentedly, his body impossibly angled on three different planes with Bucky's knee under his stomach.

Everything is still for a moment, Teddy drooping like he's going to go to sleep right there. Then his eyes flash open and he jackknifes up to sit awkwardly on Bucky's knee, looking back and forth between Sam and Steve.

"Pop told me the secret," Teddy says solemnly.

Bucky tries to look calm while frantically trying to remember when he used that word. Teddy's ideas about secrets have more to do with operational security than most five-year-olds', so....

"He told me he's really a 'Venger," Teddy explains. "A secret 'Venger, and I'm his mission."

Bucky cuts a glance at Steve, who smiles and leans over to give Bucky a brief, soft kiss before he turns his attention to Teddy.

"You're Pop's mission, huh?"

Teddy nods. "He takes care of me. Right? He said that's it."

"Yeah," Steve agrees. "That's how we worked it out. Pop stays here with you, Sam and I go when we need to do missions somewhere else."

Nobody steps in to mention the times Bucky has had other missions in the last few years: twice while Sam was recovering from surgery and once while Teddy took a surprise week-long trip to visit Barnes cousins in Indiana.

"But he really is, right?" Teddy says, looking back and forth from Steve to Sam while his fingers trace seams on Bucky's arm. "He's a real 'Venger and he's strong as Dad and he heals fast and his arm is special like Dad's shield."

Bucky's breathing stutters and Teddy twists to look straight at him. "It is, isn't it? It's like Daddy's shield."

"Yeah," Bucky says. "Yeah, made of the same stuff. And nobody else has an arm like this, just like nobody else has a shield like Dad's."

"Only my pop," Teddy says, nodding and patting Bucky's arm. "Nobody else."

"Yeah," Sam says. "You got it, Teddy. Your Pop's pretty special, and he's definitely an Avenger."

Teddy nods.

"So it's not secret from me anymore," Teddy insists, and then looks at them expectantly.

Bucky huffs, a smile stretching his mouth involuntarily. "I don't have a costume, pal. Sorry."

"But you could now," Teddy says eagerly. "You could make one for 'Venger things. And I could see."

Bucky realizes what Teddy's really asking for with that hopeful look. It cuts him to the bone, almost too sweet to hurt.

Steve's the one who manages to put it into words while Bucky's still trying to breathe.

"You want to see Pop doing Avenger stuff? You want to see how special and strong he is?"

There are videos of that, Bucky thinks, dazed. But if you watch those you're going to see me trying real hard to kill your Dad and Sam and Auntie Nat.

And that, he realizes with a sick lurch that's almost relief, is probably what those bigger kids were looking for to show him. Footage of the Winter Soldier, to take Cap and Falcon's kid down a peg. Scare him a little, knock the shine off his pop--probably rehash all that tabloid shit surrounding a trial that had been a few weeks of formalities, neatly scheduled so he could be home every day by the end of Teddy's afternoon nap.

"Can I?" Teddy pleads. "Pop? Can I see?"

Bucky takes a breath. He can feel Sam and Steve's waiting silences; they'll back up anything he says now, but they're leaving it to him. And God, but he wants to say yes. He wants to say yes right now, to prove himself to Teddy before Teddy shuts his eyes again. And even more than he wants to impress Teddy, he wants his hands on a rifle, his hands hungry for it like his body gets for Sam and Steve when they're gone too long.

But this is not a good time to be guided only by what he wants, no matter how willing Steve and Sam are to humor him. And Teddy needs him to be not just an impressive dad, but a sane one. He takes a deep breath and focuses on the normal things. Rules. Boundaries. He made Teddy stand on the other side of the door while he took a piss this afternoon; he can do this.

"You've got school tomorrow, baby bear."

Teddy's eager look collapses at that, but he doesn't argue. He doesn't beg not to go back there.

"This is your week to feed the rats," Bucky prompts gently. "You're responsible for them. You can't skip that. And tomorrow is music, too, you've been wanting to try out the drums."

Teddy looks a little brighter, disappointment shifting to bargaining. Bucky smiles, waiting for it. There's a way to make this work, and Teddy's going to make sure they find it.

"At lunchtime, though?" Teddy tries. "Ben and Zoe leave at lunchtime, and after lunch is just nap and quiet time and reading and art and I can do art with Dad because Dad's home now, so in the afternoon I could do 'Venger stuff with you."

Bucky gives him a stern look. "You're a long way off from being Avenger material, pal. But if you want to follow directions, and stand where I tell you to stand, and watch--"

Teddy nods frantically.

"Then I'll pick you up at lunchtime," Bucky says. "We'll come home and have lunch with Dad and Sam, and you'll do art with Dad and read with Sam, and then you can come to the rifle range with me and watch target practice."

Bucky has a feeling he's going to spend the whole morning in meetings at Teddy's school anyway; might as well not have to make another trip to get Teddy at the end of the day.

"And for now," Bucky says, "it's way past your bedtime, and you need to get to sleep. Come on, back to bed."

He throws Teddy over his shoulder as he stands, and Teddy wiggles cheerfully in his grip as Bucky carries him back down the hall to the big bed.

"We should be in the middle tonight, Pop. Sam, can Pop have your spot?"

"If he wants my spot, he's welcome to it," Sam says. "But that's up to Pop. He sleeps on the end because he usually feels better there."

Teddy's wiggling takes on purpose, and as they step back into the big bedroom, Bucky swings Teddy down to his hip. "Pop?"

"Yeah," Bucky says. "Yeah, middle sounds good tonight, baby bear. Now come on, you're supposed to be asleep already."

Bucky drops him on the bed, and he scrambles up to lay smack in the center of the bed. Bucky lies down beside him, head on Sam's pillow, and Teddy immediately cuddles in against him. Sam and Steve disappear into the bathroom and soon reappear in kid-in-the-bed appropriate pajamas. Sam settles in at Bucky's right side, and Steve takes his place on the other side of Teddy. They curl in close, bracketing Bucky and Teddy.

Teddy squirms in closer to Bucky to tug at Sam's t-shirt sleeve where his arm is draped over Bucky's waist. "Sam, Sam, you gotta tell me good night."

"Oh, good catch," Sam says, and he pushed up and leans across Bucky to curl his arm around Teddy while Bucky's still holding him. He presses his cheek to the top of Teddy's head and then kisses him. "Sweet dreams, Teddy. I love you. Good night."

"I love you, Sam," Teddy echoes, "Good night."

Sam settles back down behind Bucky, tucked even closer now, while Teddy rolls over under Bucky's arm to face Steve.

Steve scoots in without prompting to hug Teddy and kiss his cheek. "Good night, Teddy. I love you."

"I love you, Daddy," Teddy says, snuggling back against Bucky. "Good night."

Steve stays propped on his elbow, looking down at Teddy. "Should I tell Pop good night, too?"

"Give him a kiss and a hug," Teddy instructs. "You said you wanted to before, and now you can."

Bucky can feel the submerged quake of Sam's laughter behind him, and he's smiling as Steve leans across Teddy to give him an extremely chaste kiss and a one-armed hug.

"Good night, Bucky," Steve murmurs, and in the years they've been saying this the nice way for Teddy's benefit, it hasn't stopped being a little bit funny and a little bit overwhelming every time. "I love you."

"I know," Bucky says, just to make Teddy elbow him.

"Pop! That's not what you say!"

He can look away from Steve's eyes then, glance down at Teddy and grin, and clear some of the tightness from his throat. "Okay, okay, pal. I'll say it."

"Don't say jerk," Teddy adds.

"It's past your bedtime, baby bear, you're not allowed to boss me around when you're supposed to be sleeping."

"Ahem," Steve says. He doesn't even clear his throat, he actually just says ahem.

Bucky gives a big showy sigh and raises his gaze to Steve's, and he's done this a thousand times but it still takes an effort, tonight, to keep his voice steady as he says, "I love you, Steve."

"Now Sam," Teddy says as Steve's lying down, curling an arm around him under Bucky's arm.

"Sam's already hugging me," Bucky points out, patting Sam's arm around him.

Sam snuggles closer, tightening his grip, and says, "Yep, I'm on it, Teddy."

Teddy gives him a wide-eyed beseeching look, and Steve, out of Teddy's eyeline, gives him a wide-eyed beseeching look that means something else completely, which isn't going to be happening anytime in the next twenty-four hours.

"Okay, okay, I got this," Sam says, and he pushes up over Bucky and leans in so slowly for a kiss that Bucky thinks there should probably be a dramatic flourish of strings. Even with Teddy wriggling impatiently under his arm, Bucky's heart is beating faster by the time Sam's lips brush his, and he sighs into it and pushes closer.

Teddy makes a sound that sounds like he tried to say Pop! Sam! from behind Steve's hand, and Bucky grins and tilts his head, prolonging the close-mouthed kiss until the muffled sounds from Teddy are just squealing giggles.

He cuts a glance toward Teddy, who is peeking through his own fingers at them and giggling behind Steve's hand. Sam is watching them, bright-eyed and warm; Steve always did like watching.

"I love you, Sam," Bucky says without hesitating. "Good night."

"Sweet dreams," Sam says, very firmly, like he can make it happen. He pushes Bucky to lie on his side again and spoons up behind him before he adds, "I love you, Bucky," and presses a last kiss to the nape of his neck.

"There," Bucky says. "We're all loved up, baby bear."

"Nuh-uh," Teddy says, flinging his arms around Bucky's neck and giving him a smacking kiss on the chin. "I love you, Pop. I'll be right here if you have bad dreams. Night-night."

Teddy stole his line. Bucky hadn't realized he'd said it that many times, but he hears his own voice in Teddy's words. He hugs his son close, as tight as he dares, until he can push him back and kiss his forehead.

"I love you, Teddy," he says quietly. "I'll be right here. Always. Good night."

And before he has to meet Steve's eyes, before Sam can whisper anything in his ear, he adds, "House, lights out."

He listens to them breathing around him in the dark, Teddy held safe, Sam at his back, Steve's arm tucked under his. He thinks about tomorrow: not the inevitable meetings, not the awkward conversations, and definitely not, with Teddy lying against his chest, how much more interesting bedtime will be tomorrow night.

He thinks of the rifle range, and Teddy in the sun, safely behind the firing line. Even before he sleeps he's dreaming of steel under his hands, the kick of recoil and a perfect trajectory.

So there's lots of fic where Bucky thinks horrible hydra things are normal and tries to do them with Steve, but what about the other way around?

Because of it being illegal and all, Bucky and Steve had all sorts of euphemism codes for what they did together. Like kissing and calling it practice, but taken to an extreme. For example, they say they're just going to 'wash up' and it means some very specifically located, repetitive washing (of the dick, if that wasn't clear). Or 'cleaning the floor' involves about as much hands and knees as you'd expect but far fewer rags and sponges. And so on. So they can talk (and dirty talk) about their relationship in public as though it's normal-- Bucky says he's gonna clean up when they get home, means he wants Steve to bend him over and fuck him.

So when HYDRA's had Bucky long enough to remove personality, inhibitions, etc, but not quite all of those deeply-rooted Steve Memories, some agent or tech just happens to mention washing up (or a totally different euphemism, I encourage creativity!) and Bucky immediately tries to give the guy a sweet, affectionate hand job, because isn't that the normal response to that? So Bucky ends up trying to make love to HYDRA.

HYDRA, of course, thinks this is hilarious, and everybody starts triggering him on purpose and then being rough and cruel with him while he's in his Lover mode. He, however, has just enough programming that he can't fight back, and enough muscle-memory of how he was with Steve that he doesn't know how to be anything but an attentive and generous lover.

Aw, I love this. Especially Teddy bossing all of his dads to say they love each other.

(DA) The HYDRA techs have to do a bit of extra work to protect all that tender, delicate skin from freezer burn from the enormous metal plug when the cryo temperatures get as cold as they do. So they apply a thick, gelatinous lube, smearing and rubbing handfuls of it onto his asslips, into every crease and fold; cupping palmful after palmful of the stuff in a gloved hand and gently, carefully working an entire fist in and out of his gaping hole to coat his inner walls with it. The filthy squelching sound of it is incredibly obscene, almost more so than all the things they've done to get his hole that loose and worn-out in the first place. When it's all done his glistening, sticky asslips make such lovely smacking noises as the lube gets tacky and they weakly twitch and flutter in anticipation of the plug.

OP here
JFC My brain legitimately shorter itself out for like a good minute over the image. I love the way you think, nonnie.
JFC there is little I love more than gaping stretched assholes but gaping stretched assholes covered in STICKY lube is one of those things good lord in heaven I love this SO MUCH

OP here
Oh my god
Bucky would be so humiliated, offering his ass up to Steve, and probably wants to cry every time all that stimulation and gentle touching gives him a shameboner, and if Steve actually gets kind of really into it and secretly loves how Bucky looks all gaping and vulnerable then Steve would definitely be having a gigantic moral crisis. Possibly while masturbating furiously. Imagine if Bucky ever realises that Steve gets hard while playing with his asshole. He'd probably be so betrayed but also maybe he'd be glad that Steve isn't disgusted by how used and worn out his hole is. Is his effort to make his asshole recover to as pretty and tight a state as possible even if it means humiliation via constant buttplugs only because he wants his body to recover or is there still lingering shame from all those times Hydra agents said terrible filthy things to him about how disgusting and loose and droopy he was and how absolutely lucky he was that they would still use a cunt that wrecked and he wouldn't even find someone so accepting as them so it's just as well.

Op here
I'm just imagining him on a raised platform so that his ass is at eye level for easy viewing and access. I love the idea of the exercise because as far as I can tell super soldiers don't actually NEED exercise to be beefed up so it's got absolutely zero purpose besides humiliation. Maybe the audience heckles him and he tries to sole his hole from opening and closing involuntarily by squeezing down but all he manages is a few weak twitches.
Maybe since he can't actually do anything to push out the cum except twitch a little and wait for it to leak, they make him go back to the squats and it jostles his droopy asslips and while his hole opens and closes helplessly, a thick wet stream of lube and come just drools out until there is a little puddle beneath him.

Now on AO3, minus a few grammar errors and with a few changed sentences.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/4495677

OK IM GOING TO DO IT, AND I HAVE SO MANY NEFARIOUS IDEAS. I CAN'T WAIT.

So Bucky is now with Steve after Hydra fell, they're fumbling along into a relationship, and then Bucky gets Steve into bed. Bucky dirty talks like a pro, low velvety voice whispering filthy things into Steve's ear about how he loves Steve's slutty hole and his perky titties and how desperate he is to get fucked. And Steve loves it, rides that edge of helplessness and shame and comes like a speeding train
EXCEPT
Bucky doesn't realise that this is kinky behaviour and thinks this is how normal vanilla sex is supposed to go. Because when he was getting raped by hydra lots of them liked to verbally degrade him and make him feel humiliated and awful while also making him feel good and come (all the more to humiliate him and prove them right about being a slut for it). They probably did terrible things to him too, all kinds of painful torture, but those were the only time he ever got to feel good, and he wants to make Steve feel good.
And when Bucky fucks Steve he's triggered to all hells but he wants to please Steve so even though it's triggering him he keeps going. And he deliberately tried to recall the worst most nasty things they said to him because he wants to be better for Steve. So basically Bucky us all dirty talking Dom but on the inside he is constantly on the verge of a panic attack. And also he had trouble keeping it up sometimes because he doesn't want to hurt Steve like this, even if Steve wants it, he knows this isn't right, but he doesn't know any other way of having sex that includes making it good for the bottom, and he really wants Steve to feel good.
Cue self loathing and confusion
Bonus if Steve finds out but only after weeks of mindblowing orgasms and then he is promptly horrified and then cue more angst and self loathing.

Yasss, this is the trash I came here for.

I also really have a thing for fics where the abuse basically lead to Bucky being (mostly) a top, as a way to get some semblance f control in his sex life, but this ould twist and complicate that and it's beautiful!

So much yes for IDC-inspired trash.

Dumpster #2: ...'Cause a Hydra Trash Party don't stop

Fill: What's Fixed Will Always Be Broken

Re: Bucky's wrecked asshole

Re: Bucky's wrecked asshole

Re: Bucky's wrecked asshole

Re: Bucky's wrecked asshole

Re: Bucky's wrecked asshole

Re: Bucky's wrecked asshole

Re: Fill: What's Fixed Will Always Be Broken

Re: Bucky's wrecked asshole

Re: Fill: What's Fixed Will Always Be Broken

FILL: Could Never Prepare You, 6a/6 (I mean it this time)

Re: FILL: Could Never Prepare You, 6a/6 (I mean it this time)

FILL: Could Never Prepare You, 6a/6 (I mean it this time)(now correctly threaded, too)

FILL: Could Never Prepare You, 6b/6 (the end! really!)

reverse aftermath trash

Re: FILL: Could Never Prepare You, 6b/6 (the end! really!)

Re: Bucky's wrecked asshole

Re: Bucky's wrecked asshole

Re: Bucky's wrecked asshole

Re: Bucky's wrecked asshole

Re: Fill: Drinking Games (4/4)

Re: Fill: Drinking Games (4/4)

Dirty Talking Top Bucky

Re: Dirty Talking Top Bucky

Re: I've discovered young Robert Redford