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

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

Unholy hell-miracle achieved! Welcome to Bad Guys Do Bad Things To Your Faves 2: Electric Boogaloo. AKA the seamy sexual-violence-and-violent-sex underbelly of Captain America fandom, AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. As usual, BLANKET NON-CON AND NSFW WARNINGS apply: just assume going in that everything in this landfill is unfit for human consumption.

Rules in brief: don't be a jerk except to fictional characters, warnings for particularly fucked-up garbage are nice but not required, thou shalt not judge the trashiness of thy neighbor's kinks unless thy neighbor is trying to pass off their rotting banana peels and half-eaten pizza crusts as a healthy romantic dinner for two, off-topic comments may be chucked out of the dumpster at management's discretion, management's discretion decrees that omegaverse, soulbond AUs, D/s-verse, non-superpowered AUs, and dark!good guys AUs are off-topic.

[Round 1] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by

greenkirtle)] [Round 2 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

Round 2 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 3.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

(OP) holy crap this is getting a fill!! and it's so amazing!

Your Rumlow is such an asshole (I am delighted). He's having such a good time trolling them! And then once Bucky walks in... you gave me everything I wanted when I prompted this. Like, it's so striking to me that Rumlow instantly assumes that Bucky is now Steve's property, even though: a) Steve would never use someone like the Winter Soldier the way Hydra did; b) Bucky's behavior is visibly different; and c) people are interacting with Bucky like he's a person! The idea that the asset could be a person is so far outside of Rumlow's grasp it doesn't even occur to him. And that persists even once Rumlow's picked up on who the asset really is. You did a fabulous job depicting that persistent, internalized, unconscious dehumanization in a way that delivers an emotional wallop. Maybe part of it is the way it feels so natural for Rumlow, like he's not intentionally dehumanizing Bucky, he's just stating facts, this is just the way the world is... I almost feel offended on Bucky's behalf, actually, my sad baby.

You seriously hit my love of intimacy founded on violation/abuse; it's this great, awful mix of fascinating/disturbing/sad/enraging that Rumlow thinks he knows Bucky better than any of these people, and in a way, he does. Bucky has changed radically since the 1940s, and he changed because of this terrible situation he was in, and Rumlow was right in that situation too. Rumlow knew him when he was still in captivity, and so of course he's familiar with the behavioral patterns Bucky picked up as a result of his abuse. You really got that across -- it really worked, and impacted me, to have Rumlow be the only one who noticed Bucky's body language & what it meant, like the flinch or the positioning of his hands. The read he has on Bucky is almost tantamount to another violation; Bucky wouldn't want him to have this level of insight, the insight was won through abusive circumstances, and the person receiving the insight is unmerciful and ungenerous. You have destroyed me...

And the way you had Rumlow referring to Bucky as "it"! k i l l m e

Also, murder zombie.

P.S. I love that you included the earring because the fill that's from is for another one of my prompts, and I loved it in that, and I just love everyone in this trash heap. Group hug?

Can i just have Maria completely dominating Rumlow, making him embarrassed and stuttering and maybe some tears? If his STRIKE teams finds out that would be perfect especially if Maria's all like "why are you embarrassed? Wear this chastity belt during your next mission and dont take it off"
Meh, just give me the Femdom smut

;___________________________________;

AN: please excuse the handwavium of some bad missionfic on the way to the trash.

--

The mission goes to shit basically as soon as they land in Minneapolis, which is pretty perfect as far as Brock’s concerned. His eyeballs still unlock doors, but that’s about all that goes according to plan.

They pile out of the quinjet on some windy rooftop that’s freezing balls and then it’s down to the skyways for the first bit because Hydra’s big on hiding in plain sight. Brock was never a big fan because there’s no way to subtly walk into a bank wearing full tac gear, but he didn't get paid for his real estate opinions.

They hit it right at the lunch rush and everyone’s in the skyways instead of the street because it’s Minnesota in March, and the asset doesn’t stick out as bad in the crowd as Rogers does. Cap’s got the shield in what he’s trying to pass off as the world’s biggest bodhran bag, and it’s fucking dumb. Except for the way the asset slides back and forth between mirroring Brock and Wilson’s walks, they blend in pretty well. Romanoff undoes Brock’s cuffs but keeps a small hand clamped around his arm, and he doesn’t doubt she could keep him from making a break so he doesn’t. He’s got a better plan anyway.

The cuffs go back on as soon as they’re past the first door and out of public view. Romanoff keys them off and on with her thumbprint, and it would be a gamble, but hers probably isn’t the only fingerprints that unlock the cuffs. Wouldn’t take much to find out, anyway.

The asset had a rifle in pieces in the coat, and the rifle gets assembled while they walk through the gray carpeted hallways, Wilson, Romanoff and Rogers pulling pistols from their coats along with the shield. The asset and Rogers take point, followed up by Wilson and Widow at Brock’s back and Barton taking up the rear. It’s a cubicle farm like any other, except that it’s dead empty in a way that creeps even Brock out. There’s even coffee cups and shit still sitting on desks and some of the fluorescents flicker on over the middle aisle as they move to the back offices.

Brock gave this up in one of his first debriefings because they’d started downsizing this branch even before DC, and the poor bastards working out here were posted to Minnesota anyway so it wasn’t like their lives could get any worse.

It goes to shit for Cap and friends when Brock’s eyeballs open what’s supposed to be the central stairway down to the server racks, and only Cap, Widow, Brock and asset make it through the door before the mechanized steel fire door starts closing at the same time something explodes in the cubicle farm. Hydra’s not stupid. Brock gave up this place first because he was reasonably sure his biometrics would have been cleared out or rekeyed in the system when it was downsized, and it’s looking like he was right. Now to just keep his own ass from getting shot at.

“Little help here?” Wilson’s voice says out of someone’s earpiece and through the door at the same time as the sound of gunfire picks up outside the door.

“Open it,” Rogers snaps at Brock, and even Widow and the asset look at Cap incredulously because there’s obviously no retina scanner or keypad on this side. Roof and top floor exit only, because the basement hadn’t been only for servers. Brock shrugs as much as he can with the cuffs.

“Keep going, we’ll circle down from the top,” Barton says through an earpiece but not through the door, so they must have moved away by now. Fat chance of that, but not Brock’s problem. The opposite of Brock’s problem.

So down it is. Rogers takes point, Widow and the asset poking Brock in the kidneys with their guns. Another door and another set of stairs, then they’re winding through maintenance corridors with dim bulbs every hundred feet or so, and Barton and Wilson finally go quiet through the earpieces. First trailing off to static, and then to nothing. Romanoff and Rogers frown at each other and keep going until Romanoff calls a halt at a t-intersection.

“This wasn’t on the map,” Rogers says, and Romanoff gives Brock a cool look.

“Been six years since I was here,” Brock says. “Two for the asset.” Rogers’ eyes flick back where the asset must be over Brock’s shoulder, but there’s no answer because of course there isn’t.

They huddle with Romanoff’s gun aimed straight between his eyes, and Brock doesn’t move because he doesn’t doubt that she’d do it, consequences and finding a way out of this maze be damned. Rogers gestures back at Brock, radiating anger, and the asset shakes its head. Romanoff’s impossible to read, so Brock doesn’t try.

Finally, when Rogers looks about like he’s ready to slap the asset, the asset sets its shoulders and jaw. “Steve, it’s fine,” the asset says. And Brock can tell it’s not fine, because the asset’s eyes keep half sliding back to Brock before snapping back to Rogers, and the asset is definitely mirroring Brock’s posture now and not Rogers’. “I’m fine,” the asset says. “You said you’d let me make the call.”

Widow looks the asset up and down while Rogers chews on that, scowling at his shoes, and the look on her face says that she knows something’s up with the asset. But they didn’t bring Brock along to play asset whisperer, so goddamn if he’s going to. Fucking pathetic if they’ve had this past year to read up on the asset’s care and maintenance and haven’t figured out what it looks like when the asset’s looking for orders in an unclear situation.

Rogers finally nods at Widow and the asset, and Widow takes point this time. She prowls down the left hand turn, and it’s unnerving the way she disappears into the dark, even wearing goddamn neon shoes. She moves like the asset when she wants to, and it’s half sexy and half terrifying to see a woman move like that.

Rogers takes the right turn, and the asset nudges Brock in the small of the back with the rifle to follow. The air’s too hot for all that it was freezing balls outside, like they’re under the facilities plant for the building, and the only sound is Rogers’ footfalls because the asset’s behind Brock and might as well not be there for all the sound it makes. There’s ductwork and piping and loose wires snaking every which way up and down the walls, and Brock doesn’t say it but they’re probably headed in the right direction for the server racks because he remembers everyone bitching about what a pain it had been to splice in power and coolant circulation from the rest of the building when Pierce had ordered the server racks installed. Brock’s sweating balls under the wool peacoat they threw at him, and having hands cuffed in front of himself doesn’t help much.

Brock clears his throat for some kind of noise. “So, Cap, if this is a horror movie, are you the virgin that lives, or the jock who dies?” Brock asks, making conversation because Hydra’s dark basements creep even him out. No goddamn reason for all the doorless underground corridors except to freak the fuck out of prisoners. “Since we already got rid of the black friend and the slutty cheerleader, I mean.”

“Rumlow, if you don’t shut the hell up, you’re going to be the jock,” Rogers says without looking at him.

“Didn’t take you for the murdering prisoners type, Cap,” Brock says, just to goad him.

Rogers gives Brock a long look over his shoulder, and then glances past Brock to the asset. “There were seven of us, during the war,” Rogers says after a while, turning forward again, and Brock sighs at the subject change. Story time. “Me, Bucky, Morita, Jones, Dugan, Juniper, Falsworth and Dernier, behind enemy lines. No air support, no radio contact for weeks. Took out some big Hydra installations, some little ones. Ran almost a hundred missions in two years and only brought back prisoners once,” Rogers says slowly, like he’s talking to a child, like Brock hasn’t read about this a thousand times between Rogers’ files and Hydra. Rogers glances back at Brock with his head tilted, like he’s curious about something. “What do you think happened all the other times, Brock?”

It’s the easiness of the way Rogers says his name for the first time in months, admitting to war crimes in that steady, even voice, because yeah, they don’t put that in the files or the Smithsonian. The asset nudging him in the small of his back with the rifle brings Brock back, though. “No guesses who you had do the deed,” Brock says, and Rogers frowns before turning back.

“Shut up, Rumlow,” Cap says. Hit a nerve, then.

“Some things never change,” Brock says, because Rogers gave him the upper hand and Brock’s not stupid enough to let it go. There’s a door and a bend in the corridor up ahead, and it might have been six years but Brock’s starting to get his bearings again. “Seventy years is a long time, Cap. Hard to build something without the foundation already in place. You’d have fit right in with Hydra. Did, for a couple years.”

“Shut up,” the asset growls behind him, the first time the asset’s said anything directly to Brock, and isn’t that interesting.

Brock glances over his shoulder with a smile and looks the asset up and down like he’s actually considering it. The asset looks back, mouth twisting like it’s going to say something else. So Brock smiles wider. All he has to say is, “No,” and the asset flinches violently and breaks eye contact.

“Course, Shield always knew you two made a good team,” Brock says conversationally to Rogers’ back like the asset never interrupted. Cap’s back tenses up at that, but he stays quiet. Gay for Barnes, probably, Brock’s seen the photos, but it’s hard to believe the asset ever wanted anything. “D’you even know how many times you were the asset’s front for an operation? More than a couple, I can tell you that. Pierce was thinking about doing the happy reunion differently before you got your panties all in a twist about Insight, Cap.”

The sudden crackle of the earpieces interrupts whatever Rogers was going to snap back. “We’re in the stairwell, but we’ve got company,” Wilson says. Sounds out of breath. Brock would never have put a goddamn pussy paramedic on a tac team, so it serves them right. “Cap, Barnes, Widow’s off the grid and you’ve been spot—“

The Minnesota branch hasn’t been completely downsized, because somebody’s shooting from behind them as Wilson’s voice crackles away, and the asset shoves Brock face first into the wall before shooting back. The asset covers them while Rogers takes half a second to cuff Brock to a pipe before sprinting off into the gunfire with the shield. And not like that’s never happened before in a tight situation, but then there’s a distant explosion and Brock’s still shaking stars out of his vision enough that the flashing lights don’t immediately register until the asset’s trying to pry open the fire door that’s coming down between them and Rogers. Rogers is pounding on metal from what sounds like further down the corridor, not the other side of this fire door, but the gunfire’s stopped.

There’s the sound of what must be Cap’s shield ricocheting off the fire door and then the wall. “Bucky, I can’t,” Rogers’ voice says through the asset’s earpiece, and the asset finally lets the fire door shudder close. “Are you—“

“Yeah, Steve, I’m fine,” the asset says into its earpiece, rubbing its face and leaning against the fire door. “It’s fine, I’ve got eyes on Rumlow, he’s with me.” And isn’t that interesting, that the asset’s learned to lie, because the asset’s scowling at the cement floor and looking everywhere but at Brock.

“Cap, Barnes, we might have found control,” Barton’s voice says in the asset’s earpiece. A little staticky, at the limits of range, probably. “If you hang tight we might be able to find you and get the doors up. Widow’s back on grid.”

“Barnes,” Romanoff says, distant. “I’ve got a location for you, I can circle back—“

“Christ, everybody, I’m fine,” the asset snaps, still rubbing its temples and scowling at the floor. The rifle’s slung useless over one shoulder now, the asset’s flesh arm is tucked under the metal one across the asset’s chest. “Stick to the goddamn plan. I’ve got eyes on a likely route to the servers, regroup as planned.”

Then the asset takes the earpiece out, tucks it in a coat pocket, slings the rifle back over its shoulder, and walks right past Brock without a look.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Brock says to the asset’s back. “Get over here.”

The asset stops dead, back rigid, and finally turns to face him. The asset’s got the metal hand tight on the rifle and flesh thumb and index finger pressed together over it with that stupid look when it tries to not say something. Didn’t work on Pierce, didn’t work on Brock or Rollins or anyone else because the asset’s always been an open book, so Brock waits patiently. He watches the asset swallow, mouth twisting around whatever it’s trying to say. Shield might have cut the asset’s hair to make it look less feral, but in the dim light there’s more of the asset left than whatever there was before.

“Go fuck yourself, you rapist piece of shit,” the asset says slowly.

(authoranon)

omg, all the group hugs, I love that prompt and its fills, and Rumlow being a trolly horrible asshole is my favorite kind of Rumlow. I have such a thing for Rumlow/post-recovery Bucky trash exactly because of the intimate re-violation thing, especially for a Bucky who's most of the way to recovered but doesn't want Steve et al to know all the horrible details. Bucky's so emotive in both movies that it seems like it would be really hard for anyone around him to not pick up what he's thinking from his body language, but in the second movie his body language is still open but not as big as in the first movie, like he's gotten used to moving less D: So like Bucky's still there, just being pushed into emoting in different ways that Steve might not necessarily recognize at first.

(I stole murder zombie from another snarky asshole Rumlow fic but now I can't find it to link)

aaaaahhhh thank you, my Rumlow is based a lot on your Rumlow, I love not-quite-recovered Bucky being used as a thing to hurt Steve, it hurts all my buttons.

and hahaha yeah, I wrote in "it" the first couple of times without planning to and then went with it D:

Brock smiles wider. All he has to say is, “No,” and the asset flinches violently and breaks eye contact.

oooh gosh all of this is GREAT

This is brilliant. Love your Rumlow voice!

And isn’t that interesting, that the asset’s learned to lie, because the asset’s scowling at the cement floor and looking everywhere but at Brock.

Oh God my heart, I can't even.

Oh my GOD.

Yes please!

YESSSSSS.

The next few days passed like a parody. Steve was near Bucky, always, but he was careful not to touch him. Bucky for his part tried to pretend he couldn't see the discomfort in Steve's eyes, the way he tensed and looked away.

Bucky wished the worst part was the fact he had nearly hurt Steve. He felt terrible for what he had done, for nearly forcing himself on him, but that wasn't what kept him awake at night as Steve dozed, blankets between them like a shield. But the worst part, the bit that buzzed around his head at night, was that part of him blamed Steve for all of this. That he couldn't shake the feeling Steve was overreacting. If he hadn't hit him, what would have happened? Steve would have got jerked off, maybe got a blow job. Bucky sometimes thought that wasn't so bad. It wasn't anything they hadn't done before.

Bucky hated that part of himself. The part that had become so used to Hydra's abuse, so accepting of it, that he felt Steve was overreacting. Steve was hurting and still hadn't stepped away, and yet Bucky blamed him for being hurt.

They lay in bed together, and Bucky had his eyes open, glaring at the wall as he cuddled up against Steve. He knew where he was. Stark Tower. New York. It was somewhere he was safe. There was no more Hydra here. Pierce was dead. He knew that. He knew all of it. He wanted to kiss Steve, to brush his lips against his own, but Steve looked so like Sandy... Like Pierce had, when he was younger. It was too much of a risk. Sandy was dead and still finding ways to torture him, and wasn't that just typical. He had what he wanted so close he could smell it, but it was closed off to him thanks to Hydra's games.

"Fuck." He breathed, anger inside him twisting into a knot. It wasn't Steve's fault. Steve was the damn victim here, and Bucky didn't know how he could ever have thought of blaming him. He had nearly raped Steve, in a way, and Steve still held him close. No matter how bad not kissing, not touching, was hurting him it must have been hurting Steve worse.

"What is it Bucky?" Came Steve's voice, gentle and soft as always, and Bucky realised with a jolt guilt that Steve must have been laying there awake too. He could say it was nothing, and they could carry on lying in the dark in silence, or he could try to break the deadlock. That was really his only option. He couldn’t carry on like this. He took a deep breath and licked his lips, before twisting towards Steve. The blankets slid over him, and Steve moved back a little so that they could look at each other face to face.
"I hate that I fucked it up. I want to be with you. I want..." He licked his lips again, and swallowed back the obscenities. This wasn't Hydra, he didn't need to beg for anyone's cock. He had to be honest. It was honesty Steve needed, not pornography. "I want to be with you. Like we were before. I hate that we aren't... that they took that away from me. That even though he's dead he still gets to win because every time you touch me I'm back with him. I want nothing more than to kiss you, to taste your lips, but if I do I'll be on my knees before I can think. I hate that they made me violate you like that, that I lost control and hurt you when that's not... that's the last thing I want. And I hate that I let it happen. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that I can't kiss you because of what they did to me. That I have to sleep in a blanket like a straitjacket to make sure that I don't try and kill you, or start thinking you're one of them and do something that hurts you worse. I hate that I let them win..." He was panting now, out of breath, and Steve's arms around him felt secure.

Steve was pulling him closer, and he pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was a tender gesture, one that was uniquely Steve, and when Bucky lifted his head he had to blink a few times to try and get rid of the tears. He knew what he looked like when he cried, and Steve didn’t need to see that.
"Still here with me?"
"Still here." Bucky confirmed, taking a deep breath and nodding. "Still here."

"Then they didn't win." Steve said, and it was his best calm voice. The one he used when people were frightened, and Bucky knew it should have annoyed him, but at that moment he just found it reassuring. "You survived it and they didn't win."
"They left me tainted. I start getting close to you and I am back with Pierce and I can't-"
"You aren't tainted. We just need to work out what we can do." Steve said clearly, and Bucky looked up with a frown.
"Huh?"
"We need to work out what we can do." Steve said, and now his eyes were shining more brightly. It looked like he was about to laugh.

Bucky still hadn't worked out the joke.
"What?"
"I could kiss you on the forehead, right? But not on the lips. There's stuff... there are things that make you go back there in your mind, but it's not everything." Steve was beaming now, and Bucky had a sudden flash of memory, of them sitting on the steps of some half-destroyed base. He'd found some chocolate, and Steve was joking, and everything had felt good. For a moment, his heart felt lighter than it had in weeks.

He looked Steve in the eye.
"You know we might have to try a few things? That I might think I’m with them when we try?”
"Don't care." Steve answered, and there was a confidence in it that made Bucky's insides tie themselves in knots. "If you do that, I’ll pull you back out... look, it means a lot to you. And I want to do it. If this is how we have to do it, it's how we do it. We can make it work, you hear me?"

Bucky looked him in the eye and smirked.
"Whatever you say Captain."

so, can we talk about the trashy possibilities of one of these? https://www.thekinksters.co.uk/product/310/the-ultimate-ass-lock.html

i keep thinking about someone being restrained with an ass lock -- imagine bucky in a hydra cell, chained to the floor by one. imagine the humiliation in being held in place not by wrists or ankles but by something in his ass.

Wow, I love Bucky alternating between being angry at himself and at Steve. And Hydra, of course.

Also:
He knew what he looked like when he cried, and Steve didn’t need to see that.
Aw, precious babies.

(OP)

This is still making me so happy. ;_; One of my favorite things about this installment is Bucky's body language. Not only the way Rumlow can so easily read him (and judge him harshly; the 'stupid look' he gets when he tries not to say something, like !!), but the vulnerability he displays! Refusing to look at Rumlow, flinching away at 'no', tucking one arm under the other -- he reads, without wanting to, like a kicked puppy, which is so in contrast to the confident way he presents himself to the others. It's wonderful characterization work! It must be a challenge to get across all these layers of Bucky -- who he is, how he wants his friends to see him, the things he's trying to hide -- from such an unsympathetic outside perspective, but you're doing a great job.

Bucky's fear of/fixation on/discomfort around Rumlow kept me wondering if they had any trash history between them: surely? but maybe not? Rumlow hasn't said anything about this? and so on, which brings me to something else that stood out at me, which is THE LAST LINE. I think it was a great choice to keep that info back so long, because it reveals so much about Rumlow and the way he views Bucky. Like, it makes me think Rumlow probably doesn't view himself as a rapist, which has all kinds of implications, all gross (he thinks Bucky consented? or -- hey, you can only rape people?); and also the fact that he's raped this guy is so unimportant to him it doesn't even enter into his internal monologue regarding Bucky. It just made me... *hands* Do you think Steve et al. knew about this?

I am gonna be sad when this ends but I'm looking forward to the next part!

I really love the read on Bucky as an emotive/emotional guy. :D Also a big thumbs up to Rumlow/Bucky after Bucky has figured out that it was wrong, he should be safe now, and no one has the right to hurt him like that. It's hard enough when all Bucky has to wrestle with in recovery is his private trauma. To think about him being revictimized is so many extra flavors of awful, and I love the pain.

uh. 7k, first foray into the trash, and definitely inspired by this prompt.

right here on my ao3 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3639411) due to me not really understanding dreamwidth. contains fem!steve, protective bucky, stubbornness, artificial insemination, breeding plans, slight mentions of voyeurism, misplaced affection, lots of desperation, and a collar. hope it's the sort of thing you were wanting to see.

Oh my GOOOOOOOOD. I'm usually not a fan of Fem!Steve, but CLEARLY I didn't realize the whump of having Bucky be her HUSBAND, holy hot damn. You write her struggle against PTSD and trying to keep her head in the situation perfectly. Thank you!

Brock laughs, can’t help it. They’d done such a good job pretending the asset had something in there they’d gotten the asset playing along with it too. The asset half-flinches at that like it did from Rogers. Mouth tense, half a blink.

“They tell you that?” Brock asks, knowing the answer full well. The look that passes over the asset’s face tells Brock he’s right. He laughs again, because of course they hadn’t. Rogers would have beaten Brock’s face in if he’d known. “Course not. You got all that back on your own. Good boy,” Brock smiles, and the asset visibly shudders and drops its eyes, half turns away expecting the blow even from this distance, like Brock’s not handcuffed to a pipe. One shoulder hitches up and the asset watches the floor in front of Brock’s feet, looking for movement without looking him in the face. Brock doesn’t have to move because the asset’ll come to him. “Rogers, Wilson,” Brock says slowly, watching the asset tense up like it knows exactly where this is headed, “Romanoff, Barton, Hill, Coulson, they only know what’s in the files and the files always left out the good parts, didn’t they?”

The asset takes a couple of shuddery breaths and takes a step back. Doesn’t try to answer, because Brock and the asset both already know.

“You remember that time in Vientiane?” Rumlow asks rhetorically, since the asset either does or doesn’t and it’s not like it matters either way. If Rogers has the asset playing at shit like dignity and shame, Brock’ll use it for everything it’s worth. “I dug a bullet out of your thigh in that shitty little hotel and you told me to fuck off then, too, until I let you finish my warm Beerlao. Looked like it hurt like a bitch but you took cock from the whole team like a champ all night after that, just for another half a shitty Asian beer. Think Rogers wants to hear about that when he gets back here?”

The asset’s mouth twists and works like it’s trying to find words for something, but nothing happens. Nothing to say.

“Get over here,” Brock says again.

There’s a long silence that stretches out as the asset’s breath hitches and comes short, but Brock’s always had a soft spot for the asset and it’s going to take the cavalry a while, so he can afford to be patient.

The asset takes one heavy step towards him and then another, and like gravity it turns inevitable the closer the asset gets until the asset’s standing right in front of him. Brock rattles the handcuffs and the asset presses a thumb to the fingerprint lock, hands warm and eyes down. Brock tucks the handcuffs into his pocket and puts a hand on the asset’s face, cupping jaw and the back of the asset’s neck. The asset’s clean shaven, not even the shadow of stubble under Brock’s hand, and the earrings are pretty cute, just round little steel studs. Cap doesn’t have such bad taste after all.

Brock runs his thumb over the asset’s cheek, and the asset turns into it just a little, same as always. So easy. Brock finally tosses away his own coat and undoes the buttons of the asset’s. Now that Brock knows who the asset’s supposed to be, the coat’s a good ringer for the one in the Smithsonian. More of Cap’s useless sentimentality. Brock pushes it off the asset’s shoulders, and all the asset’s got on underneath is a goddamn hipster v-necked black tshirt, tight enough that the asset’s nipples and scar tissue around the arm stand out under it.

And fucking hickies. Dotted all up and down the asset’s throat where they’d been hidden by the stand collar of the coat and—yeah. Brock moves the collar of the shirt aside with one finger as the asset shivers even though Brock can feel the heat and smell of sweat radiating off it, and the hickies disappear down the asset’s chest below the tshirt.

There’s one right on the roll of the asset’s shoulder, big and dark and right where it can only mean someone was fucking the asset from behind when they put it there. “Cap’s not such a virgin after all, huh?” Brock says, watching the asset wince as Brock squeezes its shoulder over the bruise. Brock brings a hand up to cup the asset’s cheek, running his thumb over the asset’s lips thoughtfully. Still pliant and warm as ever, the asset half chases it when Brock drags the asset’s lower lip with his thumb. “Down,” Brock says, and the asset’s mouth twists but doesn’t move a muscle otherwise.

“Go to hell,” the asset says finally, but it’s faint and the asset’s still got its cheek pressed to Brock’s hand, eyes down. Brock watches the muscles around the asset’s eyes and mouth tighten—like—like the asset’s trying not to cry. That’s pretty cute. Brock smiles and backhands the asset against the wall.

The asset stumbles back, boneless and breathing raggedly, cheek red around the blush where Brock slapped it. Hard as fuck too, no hiding it in skinny jeans, and that’s some Pavlovian shit. Brock steps into the asset’s space and puts a hand back on the asset’s face.

“Christ, you’re pathetic,” Brock says affectionately. He runs a hand through the asset’s short hair; still long enough to grab, and the thought of Rogers doing this gets him harder. “Bet this would hurt like a bitch when it got torn out,” he says, and gives the asset’s earring a little tug. The asset’s eyes squeeze shut, but the asset doesn’t move otherwise and still leans into Brock’s other hand in its hair.

The asset doesn’t flinch or move away as Brock drops hands to the asset’s belt and makes quick work of the buckle and fly, because this has been inevitable since the asset got on the plane and they both know it. The asset’s breath quickens as Brock shoves it around face first against the wall and starts shoving down the asset’s pants.

“What the fuck is this?” Brock says, and Rollins would have a good laugh at the way Brock’s stopped practically cupping the asset’s tight ass, but that poor bastard’s dead. But someone’s put the asset in goddamn panties, or one step away anyway, faggy black boxer briefs with little pink and blue flowers across the ass. “Cap pick these out? Or Wilson?”

“Fuck you,” the asset stutters against the wall, voice unsteady as Brock digs fingers into the asset’s hips. “I don’t need to hurt people to prove my masculinity.”

Brock laughs because it’s such a goddamn boyscout thing to say he can practically hear it in Rogers’ voice. Doesn’t matter anyway who put the pretty little panties on the asset because Brock’s shoving them down and—shit. Brock kicks the asset’s feet wider because not only has Cap or Wilson put bite marks all down the asset’s neck and back, but over the asset’s ass and inner thighs too. Brock runs a hand up the inside of the asset’s thigh and laughs under his breath because Cap eating out the asset is beyond even Brock’s dirty fantasies.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” the asset says, voice rough and choked. Brock ignores it and pulls his cock out, putting a hand on the asset’s neck with fingers tight over the asset’s thready pulse jumping as Brock spits on his hand.

The asset shivers agains the wall but doesn’t move a muscle otherwise as Brock steadies himself in. It’s good, really fucking good, the asset’s still tight as a virgin even though Brock’s seen Rogers in the showers enough to know exactly how wrecked the asset should be. Always was one of the nice things about the asset, tightened back up no matter what happened.

The asset breathes ragged and sharp through teeth and nose, like getting ready for the chair as Brock fucks into the wall harder. The asset always managed plenty of pain, just never very quietly.

There’s a brief moment where the asset struggles against the wall, but Brock yanks the asset’s head back by the hair and bites the asset’s shoulder, in a perfect mirror of the one on the asset’s other shoulder, a little calling card for Cap to see who else was here.

The asset gasps wetly and stiffens, practically collapsing against Brock. He laughs because nothing changes much and the asset comes with ragged little breaths against the wall and gets even fucking tighter, and keeping the asset pulled backwards by the hair and pinned against the dirty wall is about the only thing keeping the asset upright as Brock finishes.

Brock doesn’t last as long as he’d like, and it’s over for him when the asset moans weakly, sweet tight ass fluttering with aftershock as Brock snaps his hips twice and then grinds as he finishes. The asset’s skin is almost too fucking hot to touch and Brock’s got the smell of Old Spice, sweat, metal and come on him, but fuck was it worth it. He bites at the asset’s pretty little earring just to feel the asset shudder one last time before pulling out.

He tucks himself away before putting the asset back together, spinning the asset to get the faggy boxer briefs and belt back up over the asset’s still half hard dick. Just like old times, getting ready for a covert op, and Brock smiles at the asset practically nostalgic.

“Down,” Brock says again, and the asset crumples easy as anything, knees landing on the concrete with a satisfying crack.

Brock stands there for a minute, admiring his work. Thinks about handcuffing the asset and taking it with, but they’ll be too identifiable together once Brock makes it back to street level. Connecting with whatever part of the cell here is holding out is out of the question with Cap and the rest clearing out the building. He thinks about handcuffing the asset to a pipe just for the poetic justice of it when Rogers gets back, but that’s almost too easy. And it’s better without, because if it’s good knowing that Cap and friends will find the asset like this, it’s even better knowing that all Brock had to do was give the order. Let them doubt what else the asset might still do on Hydra’s orders.

Brock grabs his own coat and picks up the asset’s to fish the earpiece out, and Wilson’s voice crackles out right on cue. “Bucky? Bucky, come on, check in, what’s your status?” Someone, Rogers probably, is making a shit ton of noise in the background. Brock tapped the earpiece back into the asset’s ear and patted the asset’s cheek.

“Tell Cap I said thanks,” Brock says. Runs a thumb over the asset’s swollen lips. Pity he didn’t have time for anything else.

The asset looks up at that, eyes red and throat working. Definitely crying, as much as the asset can cry, a weird attempt to mimic emotions with dry eyes and that unsettling stiffness even in its choked breathing.

“No,” the asset says.

“Bucky?” Rogers’ voice says through the earpiece before the others break through, loud enough that the asset winces, eyes squeezing shut. “Bucky, are you okay? What—“

Brock sighs. “Don’t know why they bother having you play pretend,” Brock says, running a hand through the asset’s hair. The asset shudders but leans into it anyway, same as always. “Not like you’ll ever pass for normal.”

Brock turns to go, because he’s got shit to do and the asset’s not on that list anymore. The door at the bend in the corridor opens for him, and it’s not the server racks, but it does look like Brock remembers it. There’ll be a stack of burner phones, unmarked bills and some passports hidden in a ceiling tile in the shitty little custodian’s office off the underground garage if Brock’s good luck keeps up.

“Burning wreckage was too good for you, Rumlow,” the asset says quietly to the floor. Brock throws a smile over his shoulder and shuts the door between them, whistling Cap’s theme song.

The worst part of it isn’t that Bucky’s there for all of it, because he is. He’s there for Rumlow’s fingers in his hair, practically gentle like he always was, and Rumlow’s come leaking out of him, because Bucky had always been there for it. Not always remembering context or thinking about much, but there.

The worst part of it isn’t that he’s there for it. Rumlow had never been particularly creative or cruel, and he only had so much time. Compared to some of them, Rumlow had been practically a reprieve. Bucky had looked forward to Rumlow as much as he’d looked forward to anything, then. This time is hardly anything.

The worst part isn’t that the rest of them know before they even see him, because Bucky just knelt there obediently and let Rumlow walk away. There’s not a mark on him and they know before they even seem him kneeling there with come leaking out his ass. Steve, Natalia, Sam, Barton, even if they don’t know the rest yet, they know he’ll follow orders, they’ve seen him left kneeling there, they’ve seen that it’s all just been playacting these past few months. He’s just gotten better at pretending. Sam and Natalia suspected, and this is just confirmation.

When the team asked for his approval to bring Rumlow, Bucky couldn’t decide if it would be worse facing Rumlow if the bastard had told all first or kept it all to himself. It was fine, he was fine, until the bastard started talking, because no one else knew and Bucky was fine so long as he pretended it would stay that way.

Because of course Steve and Nat and Shield wouldn’t have let Rumlow near him if they knew, because Bucky wouldn’t have been in the field to begin with. Not if they knew how easy Bucky would follow orders.

Would always follow orders. Because if it happened again, Bucky knew he’d do the same again. Follow orders. Not fight back. Kneel. Let Rumlow walk away.

But now they’ve seen, and after Rumlow and Hydra took everything else, that’s the worst part. Even after everything Hydra’s taken, there’ll always be something new to take as long as Bucky chases normal. Steve’s knees crack on the concrete beside him and Bucky lets himself be folded into Steve’s arms, because it’s no worse than anything else that happened, and Rumlow’s right.

::badly muffled broken sobbing::

Oh, God. This hurts so, so good. Fuck.

Holy shit dude, you're fucking amazing. This is like one of the best stories I've ever read. I will try to write a more detailed comment later. This is just TOO MUCH.

and if anyone wants it, the whole thing is complete over on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3633966/chapters/8026983

OOooooooHHH Noooooooooo. God, anon, this is beautifully written and IT HURTS SO MUCH.

Please accept 3 moldy tea bags, an empty "hungry man" tv dinner container, and some plastoc dvd packaging.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/3417743
This may be RTYI.

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

Re: Fill: Reunion Tour (1/~3?)

Maria/Rumlow FemDom humiliation

Re: fill: pick at the shell 2/2

Re: Fill: Reunion Tour (2/~3?)

Re: Fill: Reunion Tour (1/~3?)

Re: Fill: Reunion Tour (1/~3?)

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Re: Fill: Reunion Tour (2/~3?)

Re: Fill: Reunion Tour (2/~3?)

Re: Rumlow/All non-con, humiliation, possible watersports

Re: Fill: Reunion Tour (2/~3?)

Fill: I can't face your touch (4/5)

ass locks

Re: Fill: I can't face your touch (4/5)

Re: Fill: Reunion Tour (2/~3?)

Re: Fill: Reunion Tour (1/~3?)

fill; they say the wretched get their kingdom

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Fill: Reunion Tour (3/3.5)

Re: Fill: Reunion Tour (3.5/3.5) complete

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Re: Fill: Reunion Tour (3.5/3.5) complete

Re: complete on AO3

Re: Fill: Reunion Tour (3.5/3.5) complete

Re: Maria/Rumlow FemDom humiliation