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

It felt more private than sex somehow, more naked; it felt like he'd peeled back Bucky's skin and reached inside, had his hand around some organ that wasn't ever supposed to be exposed.

Yes, this. While Bucky jerking Steve off was hot obviously, Steve touching Bucky felt intimate like whoa.

I don't know if that's legit, but let's say it is, because I want Hydra to try that out on one (or both) of our lovely super-soldiers.

Semi-NSFW link: http://41.media.tumblr.com/64cac32067c66cc42d2ba78a9f67dafb/tumblr_mlij8vUDg51s1x4mso1_1280.jpg

"Just weird. Like touching a scar."

oh my god this is so incredibly intimate and gorgeous and i know the next part is probably going to rip me to pieces. and i can't wait.

(Anon from just above) I am working on this fill, I just write at a glacially slow pace. I went with talkative Hydra prisoner rather than video uploaded to the internet, because the second one just makes me want to hug Bucky forever and write all the fluffy Bucky, which doesn't quite fit this trashcan!

(OP) Talkative Hydra prisoner is suuuuper okay with me, and please take all the time you need, I'm just so excited you're filling this!

In order to keep him from getting distracted, Hydra kept the Winter Soldier in a cock cage/whatever kind of chastity device author wants while on his missions. ALL of his missions. Including the one where he went to save the Project Insight helicarrier and ended up wandering off. For whatever reason, he doesn't remove it himself (maybe he physically can't, maybe he doesn't want to, maybe he's so used to it it never even occurs to him to do so). Cue however much time later, he's back with Steve and Steve finds out. When and how is up to author, I just want Steve finding out that not only was Bucky kept in this thing while with Hydra, he's had it on the whole time he's been away from them as well.

anon, i love you and i want this desperately

A fill has been started for this! I hope you enjoy -

http://archiveofourown.org/works/3748864/chapters/8318782

(OP) omg. This is so great so far. I'm so thrilled you're filling this.

***

The Secretary was a man with strange interests.

Brock Rumlow was a city kid raised by a mom who had struggled to keep the power on, much less buy her kids a goddamn pony, and he'd never understood the fascination some people had with horses. The were big and shifty and liable to kick you in the balls or trample you, not even for looking at them the wrong way or being an asshole, but for no fucking reason at all, so he viewed them with a healthy skepticism. Plus, they made him sneeze.

After delivering Pierce's birthday present, Rumlow walked back out to his car along the sunny, treed walking path that led to the equestrian center. A man swept past him in show hunter attire, shiny black boots and all, leading a tall bay stallion out towards the dirt field full of jumping obstacles. The man didn't acknowledge him at all, merely clucked at his horse to ignore the interloper. "Come now, Augustus, walk." No eye contact, not even a nod. Even the horse had his nose up in the air. Rumlow in his civvies might as well not exist. Fuckin' rich people.

Rumlow had considered sending Mercer to act as courier for the asset, but the unholy light in her eyes when he'd said the word "pony" had been, frankly, kind of terrifying. The asset came back from these sessions with Pierce already traumatized enough, he didn't need to be put through Mercer's horse obsession on top of that. Murphy had claimed that equestrian sports were unjust and species-ist in some kind of convoluted vegan logic Rumlow couldn't follow, and refused to step foot on the property. Anders was busy hosting her two elderly great-aunts for a multi-day recipe exchange and baking extravaganza and thus exempt for reasons of protecting the supply line that provided STRIKE's elite-level pastries. Rollins had dealt with the fallout from that horrible squid incident the month before, which they still all remembered with such visceral disgust that even Brock agreed it wasn't fair to dump a new clusterfuck in his lap again so soon. Jack had laughed and laughed and laughed when the mission dossier hit Rumlow's desk.

Their mission, whether they accepted it gracefully or not: make Pierce's birthday special.

Well, objective one achieved. There was nothing to do now but wait. If this was anything like last year, it was gonna be at least a couple of hours.

Fuck it, he was taking a nap in his car.

*

The asset shifted nervously from foot to foot. No, hoof to hoof. His mission was to pretend, and ponies had hooves, which meant he was shifting from hoof to hoof, standing on the clean dirt fill of the indoor arena. The boots kept his feet arched unnaturally, balanced up on his toes, and the precarious footing ironically made it that much easier to mimic the dainty footsteps of the flighty, poorly-trained pony the Secretary assured him he was.

The touch of the lunge whip on his hip made the asset startle, the tiny bells clamped to his chest chiming musically as he danced away. It was difficult enough to resist the urge to bolt when he was being driven on the long line, but going around and around in circles on the lunge line was maybe worse. Between the uncomfortable tack and the endless circling, he felt he was slowly going mad.

"Ugh, he's still so skittish," a man's voice echoed through the riding arena. "Try not to frighten him, remember your voice aids."

After their first disastrous ground work session, the trainer had attached blinders to the asset's bridle to help keep him from shying at the sight of every new tool that appeared in his master's hand. The trainer assured Pierce that he was so highly-strung it was for the best, even if it mostly hid his pretty blue eyes.

Pierce clucked at him encouragingly and drew the whip along beside the asset's hip, tip pointing towards the ground. "Walk," he said, drawing the vowel sound out and inflecting his voice upwards. "And, ter-rot." The voice command for 'trot' had two syllables, so the asset could not pretend to confuse it with 'walk'.

"Contact, watch your mouth contact," the trainer said to Pierce. "There, that's better. Ask him to stretch out a little, now."

The asset felt a little slack on the line, and relaxed his aching neck and shoulders gratefully as he jogged in a circle, the bells on his nipple clamps ringing at each footfall. His arms had been pinioned behind his back for over an hour, and it was beginning to interfere with his concentration. He was probably strong enough to tear through the tightly-laced sleeves along with the rest of his bindings, but he had been ordered not to interfere with his tack. The equipment needed for this mission was extensive: in addition to the boots, bridle, and arm-binders he also wore a chest harness and martingale. A thick plug settled in his ass anchored a false horse's tail, and his cock and balls were tightly wrapped in several yards of stretchy latex wrapping. The martingale connected the metal o-ring around the base of his genitals to his bridle; he had to be careful not to move too sharply or he'd yank on himself painfully.

"Reverse," Pierce said. The lunge whip was still behind his hip, though, so the asset balked.

"No, come on now, we went over this already." Pierce was not always the most patient of drivers. It was good that the trainer was there to help this time. Their first session had not gone well.

"Body position," the trainer reminded him. "Get even with the shoulder line. Yes, there."

Through the blinders, the asset watched as well as he could as Pierce shifted the line and whip to the opposite hands and gave the command again. "Reverse," he said, this time with his body positioned correctly and the whip in front of the asset's chest. Pierce put pressure on the line, pulling the asset's head inward to begin the turn.

"Much better," the trainer said. "Practice a few more times, then walk him around the ring a few times to cool off. Don't overwork him."

Pierce drove the asset through a final series of gait changes and reversals until he was satisfied with their progress for the day. "That's fine, that's good enough. I still have that dinner at eight, we'd better call it a day."

The trainer eyed the asset critically. He was streaked with dirt and sweaty under all of his tack, panting through flared nostrils while he waited. "Shall I put him away for you?"

"No, just get his stall ready, I want to groom him myself today."

The trainer made an affirmative noise and left the arena. The asset's sides trembled far beyond what the physical exertion of the session called for, and the false tail attached to the plug stuffed in his ass swished in agitation as he stepped in place restlessly. He told himself this was perfectly appropriate equine behaviour. Stallions were not always well-behaved, he had heard the trainer complain about the other equines at this facility more than once.

"There, there." Pierce said cheerfully as he drew in the line. The metal bit in the asset's mouth was flecked with foam and he danced a little against the pressure pulling him in, resisting. "You're all dirty, don't you want to get cleaned up?"

Pierce took the reins in hand and unclipped the lunge line, walking him around the ring a few times while talking quiet nonsense at him. Pierce did not attempt to touch the asset, just made soothing noises as the asset settled into the walk. He could hear the assorted sounds of other equines in the building -- the occasional whinny of a fractious animal from the stalls, or hoofbeats echoing from the hallway as their grooms or riders walked them back out to the paddocks.

After a few minutes the sweat had dried in salty streaks on his flanks and the asset was beginning to feel chilled. Working on the lunge line had kept him warm, but now he longed for a blanket thrown over his shoulders, not even caring whether they removed his tack first. Pierce was impeccably turned out in riding boots, breeches and collared shirt; he'd even worn his jacket today against the crisp air of early fall.

Pierce must have noticed the asset's shift in mood. "Alright, let's go warm you up," he said. As always, the asset shied and tossed his head as much as the martingale would allow as he was led through the arena entrance, hating the transition from the brightly-lit riding hall to the somewhat dimmer stables area adjoining it. Goosebumps rose up on his exposed skin, and he shivered.

His hoof-boots clicked on the stone flooring as Pierce led him down the hallway and tied him to the ring outside his usual stall. The trainer was waiting there with a bottle of water, and the asset made a pretty good imitation of a whicker as he nosed for it eagerly. The asset sucked down half the bottle from the trainer's hand while Pierce used a hose to sluice off the worst of the dirt and sweat, washing it away down a drain in the floor.

"Hold his head for me, will you, I want to wipe him down first," Pierce said, and pulled a sponge from the bucket of soapy water the trainer had placed by the stall door. The trainer allowed the asset to finish the bottle of water while he held the cheek piece of his bridle firmly. Last time the asset had turned to bite when hands touched him too familiarly, and it was still hard not to snap when Pierce removed the clamps from his chest, the asset muffling a shriek at the explosion of returning sensation. The warm water, at least, was a relief.

Pierce's hands dragged the sponge over him methodically, thorough and not missing a speck of dirt. He unwrapped the stretchy latex that bound the asset's penis tightly down against his balls. Next, he removed the series of loops that sheathed the asset's flaccid cock, and then the anchoring wraps around the base. Finally he unwound the cylinder of tape that wrapped around the base of his scrotum, that had acted as makeshift ball-stretchers. The asset shuddered at the rush of fresh blood returning to his genitals, wanting to squirm away from Pierce's hands as they rinsed him with water and then massaged soap into his tender flesh, pulling and squeezing his aching balls, rolling back his foreskin to expose the glans, rinsing and repeating the process several times before Pierce was satisfied and the asset was breathing hard and confused by his body's conflicting signals.

Next came the oil rubbed into the asset's coat, making his skin shine golden in the dusty light of the hallway. As always, the asset felt unsettled by the attention, his body responding from somewhere beyond his will as his sore, reddened cock thickened. Pierce took no notice, but ran a soft bristled brush over him in brisk circles, working from nape to chest, over his flanks and down his haunches. The asset couldn't hold in a shuddering gasp when they scrubbed over his nipples, raw and painful in the cool air of the hallway.

"Oh, someone's interested now," Pierce rumbled good-naturedly as the asset minced delicately on his toes. "Walk him up to the bar, Patrick." The trainer smirked and took a tighter grip on the asset's bridle as he led him into the stall.

The asset hadn't been able to see it earlier because his peripheral vision was blocked by the blinders, but he reared back in dismay at the sight of the padded leather mounting block. His head twisted against the trainer's steady pull, but they'd used a curb bit with a shank today and had excellent leverage against his sensitive mouth. The trainer tapped his riding crop against the asset's swollen balls in reminder that the metal o-ring was still in place and easily pulled on via the martingale if he decided to be difficult, and the asset reluctantly conceded. Ponies remembered things, and he very much did not want a repeat of his last session. The trainer didn't need to be rough with him this time; a firm hand between his shoulder blades was all that was required to bend him over the block and clip his head in place, shaking with nerves.

The asset's legs were pushed apart and then the trainer clipped his feet -- hooves, the asset amended hastily -- to the steel spreader bar bolted to the floor in front of the block. The bar was long enough to force him to expose his ass, leaving his genitals hanging vulnerably for the audience to play with, but not so long that balancing in his hoof-boots became impossible. He would be expected to maintain his footing no matter what happened next. Pierce had informed the asset that show ponies were expected to keep their feet under them; they did not collapse under pressure or beg for mercy.

Pierce took off his jacket and tossed it casually over the stall door as the asset shifted anxiously, line of sight restricted by the blinders. The martingale that connected the o-ring to his bridle meant he couldn't move his head much in this position, and his arms were still bound behind his back, so all he managed to do was flex restlessly against the bench, beginning to sweat again.

"Calm yourself, now." A hand stroked meaningfully from the back of his neck down to the powerful muscles of his ass and thighs. The asset's nostrils flared and he snorted against the restraints, neck outstretched. "Be still."

His skin quivered under Pierce's hand as the Secretary played idly with the asset's tail, pulling lightly on it to withdraw it a fraction, releasing it to allow the asset's ass to suck it back in, then pulling on it again. The thick, flared base rubbed against his insides strangely, the pressure and fullness somehow making his cock stir despite himself. He thrashed his head against the restraints in protest. An oiled hand came between his legs to close over his exposed balls, squeezing lightly. "You know what they do to stallions that can't behave, right?" The hand pulled at his sac in warning, rolling the asset's testes between his fingers. "I'm sure we can find you a vet if you insist on being gelded," Pierce mused. The asset shuddered, and forcibly relaxed against the bench.

Pierce's finger circled around the edge of the asset's hole, pink and stretched a little by neck of the plug. "You look so pretty with a tail, you know, it's almost a shame to take it out." He twisted the tail-plug inside the asset, who tried not to moan against the bit as Pierce worked the thick silicon in and out of him a few millimetres at a time. "Feels good, doesn't it. Let go of it now, I'll give you something even better." A few more insistent push-pull thrusts, and the plug finally slid out of his ass with an obscene pop as his anus yielded to the pressure. The asset gritted his teeth as much as was possible with the bit in his mouth.

"I could put the bells back on you, would you like that? I'm told they bite even harder the second time 'round," Pierce said, friendly, and the asset whimpered. No, please no. He would follow orders, wasn't that enough?

The asset heard but couldn't see Pierce step in behind him and unzip his breeches. He tried not to tense up, as he knew from experience that would only make it hurt worse. The trainer passed Pierce a packet of lube, and Pierce slipped a finger inside the asset, testing. His ass was still well-lubricated from whatever they'd used on the tail-plug, it was very long-lasting.

Pierce slicked up his own cock and pressed the head of it against the asset's hole. The asset could feel Pierce's hands spreading apart his cheeks to look at his anus, still stretched open and gaping a little from the thick plug. Pierce pushed in past the first ring of muscle, slippery with lubricant and hatefully easy. The asset tried not to struggle against the spreader bar but he knew his legs were trembling with effort.

"Behave, now," Pierce said admonishingly, and then pushed in to the hilt in one smooth motion.

The asset sobbed and bucked up sharply against the intrusion as far as the martingale would allow, settling only with a hard smack against his rump. "Let's not repeat our last session. You don't need a reminder, do you? I'm sure we could have someone fetch Augustus again."

No, he did not need a reminder. He remembered the last time very well, the enormous animal huge and terrifying standing over him as the trainer stroked it to completion on the phantom mount, its semen splashing down over his ass and thighs as he panicked in the restraints underneath, the teaser mare whinnying from the stock in front of him. The asset shook his head as much as the tie-down would allow and willed himself to relax against the bench.

Pierce fucked into the asset slowly, making him feel every inch of it. After a few thrusts Pierce must have been satisfied with the asset's self-control because his hands started roaming over the asset's flanks, squeezing the meat of his ass, spreading his cheeks to watch his cock fuck into him over and over, running up along the leather lacings that bound the asset's forearms together behind his back. The asset closed his eyes and turned his face against the bench as the trainer, still standing by his head, rubbed idly at the bulge in his own breeches.

But of course it wasn't enough just to ride him, Pierce needed to master him, break him, and so he dropped a hand between the asset's legs. The asset tossed his head fitfully but didn't protest as Pierce stroked him to full hardness; he had learned better than to fight that. He was drooling around the bit a little now as he pressed his forehead to the bench, desperately trying not to thrust into that slick hand as his body started to get more insistent. The Secretary gave him what he deserved, no more, no less, even if the sensation was overwhelming and sickening after having been so tightly bound.

Pierce grunted behind him. "God, you're always so tight, every time," he said, and started grinding against the asset's prostate with purpose. He was pulling the asset back onto his cock by the straps of his chest harness, and his other hand was fondling the asset's balls hard enough to hurt. Tears leaked out the asset's eyes and ran down onto the bench. He was making little hiccuping sobs behind the bit, now, trying to stay silent but failing, feet scrabbling for purchase on the stall floor. The trainer groaned and shoved a hand down his breeches.

That slick hand returned to wrap around the asset's cock and stroked him relentlessly as Pierce fucked him. "You need this, don't you. You're made for this, always so hot for it," and Pierce's thrusts were picking up speed. "I'll always be here to give you what you need, my little whore, you'll never go without, I'll make you mine every time," and the asset was crying in earnest now as the Secretary rode him. Pierce's cock in his ass was agony as it hit that spot inside him over and over, hand stripping the asset's cock in concert. It wouldn't be long, now, the asset could feel his body being pushed to its limit, his balls drawing up tight against the o-ring.

"That's right, give it up. Give it up, come on my cock like the slut you are," and the asset was fighting it but the Secretary was right, he couldn't stop himself, he hated it and he was still going to come. A few more tight strokes of his cock while his ass was fucked hard, forced down against the mounting block like he was a mare in heat being serviced by a stud, and he broke. The asset wailed and thrashed as his orgasm ripped through him, hips jerking erratically under Pierce, his come splattering against the straw beneath him. "There we are," Pierce laughed, "you always squeeze me so tight, like you never want me to stop," and then the Secretary pulled out. Pierce jerked himself the last couple of times until he shot jets of semen over the asset's twitching, open hole, up the crease of his ass and dripping down to his balls, marking him up as property. Livestock. A few seconds later the asset felt the trainer's release splash over his face and into his mouth where the bit kept it open, the humiliation of it somehow worse than physical pain.

Both men stood there panting for a few seconds, catching their breath. "That was excellent," Pierce said, and landed a stinging slap on the asset's rump. "Wish I was younger so I could go again." Both men laughed.

"Maybe on your 75th, sir," the trainer suggested. "Clear your schedule, make a whole day of it."

"Good man, I like the way you think."

They zipped up and walked out, leaving the mess for someone else to deal with. That was what staff were for, after all, and Pierce had a birthday dinner to get to. He would hate to keep people waiting.

*

*

Rumlow walked down the hallway of the outbuilding, eyeing the large, scrupulously clean stalls with suspicion. Some of the stalls had brass nameplates mounted above the doorway. Most of them were unoccupied right now, their inhabitants presumably out doing horse things in one of the many fenced paddocks surrounding the facility, or else working in one of several indoor or outdoor training areas. This place was swank. Every so often an empty stall appeared to be used as a gear locker, halters and ropes and all kinds of mysterious other horse equipment lined up on shelves and hanging on pegs.

Rounding a corner, Rumlow finally reached the stall Pierce had designated as the terminal hand-off point. Christ. They'd left the asset slumped over some kind of tall leather bench, still covered in their spunk. Rumlow eyed the mess distastefully. "Hey kid. You alive in there?"

The asset jerked away from his voice and made a shivery noise. Jesus, that was a bad sign, he'd seen the asset run on a broken leg with less of a reaction. "Mission completed, good job. I'm gonna unclip you now, hold on." Rumlow knelt beside the asset as he detached the spreader bar from his ankles, and then undid the D-ring leash clip that fastened his horse-y headgear to the far end of the bench. Under his face, the bench was slippery with spunk and drool and maybe tears, it was hard to tell. Pierce was a sadistic motherfucker. Rumlow would know, he'd read the personnel evaluations the man wrote for his underlings. Ruthless, precise, and brutal.

"Doing this the fast way, just a sec," Rumlow said, and took a pair of safety shears to the lacing of the arm-binders. The asset gasped in relief as his arms were freed, although he hugged them into himself immediately after shaking them out. Pierce had said he wouldn't need to be as rough as he was the first time, but it didn't look like that was the case. Rumlow sighed internally. This kind of crap generated so much extra work for everybody, and it rebounded right onto STRIKE whenever the asset's subsequent reprogramming didn't go exactly as planned. For a man who purportedly wanted the asset kept in top condition, Pierce sure spent a lot of time and effort fucking him up recreationally.

"I brought a blanket for you, don't try to lay down just yet." Rumlow ignored the kinky bondage gear and wrapped a plaid blanket -- the one he kept in the emergency kit in the trunk of his car, along with booster cables and a flashlight and some other shit, just in case -- around the asset before helping lower him to the floor. The kid was wobbly as a colt when he tried to stand up in those ridiculous boots. "Okay buddy, we're running a bit ahead of schedule, so you can just crash out for a couple minutes while I get the rest of this stuff off of you." The asset did not so much as twitch once he collapsed down in the straw bedding.

Westfahl had lost their head-to-head poker death match last night and would be cleaning all the sicko leather gear, so Rumlow just dumped it all in a duffel bag off to the side as he unbuckled the million little fiddly straps the old men liked to play with. One led down to the asset's junk, Jesus the Secretary took things literally. Of course he had to have an assassin by the balls, that was Pierce all over. The asset's breath hitched in a tiny sob as Rumlow took off the o-ring, chest harness, and assorted other pieces of kit. The bridle had left deep red marks across the asset's cheeks and forehead, and the corner of his mouth bled a little as he let go of the bit.

"Gonna take your boots off now, you let me know if you're injured at all." They looked like they were the equivalent of pretty tall platform heels, and the asset was sweaty and chafed enough that he'd probably been running around in them. Rumlow unlaced each boot -- of course they had yards of old-school fucking laces for him to deal with, of course -- and pulled the false hooves off the asset's feet. It took some doing, they were really tight. "Can you wiggle your toes for me, buddy?" The asset did so unenthusiastically, grimacing as his foot flexed.

"Right, okay. In five minutes I'm gonna order you to get up and walk. I found a people-shower out back where all the plebs hang out," which was true, he'd only seen grounds staff go back in there, nobody in fancy dress had deigned walk around to the back entrance of the main building's kitchen, "so you can rinse off before we head back." The asset snuffled. Well, that was progress at least.

Minutes passed and Rumlow didn't miss how the asset curled in on himself at a loud neigh that rang through the stable, and froze entirely when another horse was led past their stall door. Poor kid barely breathed until its footsteps were well away. "I don't like them either," Rumlow confessed, mostly to see if he could coax the asset's face out from the blanket-cocoon he'd wrapped himself in.

No dice. And that damn blanket was going to be impossible to get clean now that it was all full of straw and, please Mary mother of God, let it be human spunk this time. Pierce creeped him out on so many different levels.

"Alright kid, time to move. I remembered to bring shower stuff and a towel and some clean clothes, this time. And look, Anders sent you some cookies." The plaid fleece burrito lying beside him stirred minutely at the mention of sweets. The kid was woefully easy to incentivize; there was a reason Anders hadn't acquired so much as a paper cut in the last three years of Asset-related missions. Her aunties were amazing bakers. The mergpijpje had been kind of weird, but Rumlow would seriously consider killing a man for their kerststol. "It's an old family recipe, apparently." It was toeing the line between encouragement and outright bribery, which Rumlow normally frowned upon, but given the circumstances, he was making an exception.

Another half an hour and three stroopwafels later, Rumlow had the asset gingerly curled up in the back seat of his SUV, still damp around the edges and rather shaky.

"Just remember kiddo: no matter what, Pierce's birthday only comes once a year. And he's pretty old, so like, only a dozen more times probably."

The asset stared at him for a moment, stricken, then leaned his forehead against the window and closed his eyes.

Rumlow wasn't paid enough for this shit. Maybe Anders would figure out sjekladebollen in time for next year.

OH MY GOD.

I have no words how hot this is. And it makes it even better that you clearly know your horses, and Dutch pastries. STROOPWAFELS FTW.

you clearly know your horses

oh THANK GOD there are no obvious errors, I spent a lot of time on google for this. (Readers, if you see equestrian-related mistakes please let me know so I can fix them in the event I get over my shame enough to post a cleaned-up version to ao3).

Ah, stroopwafels are the best! Anders cares. I mean, not enough to do anything useful or morally correct like 'help' or 'make it stop', but, yanno, here's a stroopwafel, kiddo.

*Quietly drops chapter 1 in the dumpster* *Quietly crawls back under some moldy newspapers in the corner*

Features Angry!Bucky, Hydra-guy-with-a-death-wish, and excessive weird formatting.
In addition to all the general dumpster warnings, I should mention it's been ages since I've written fic, and I write at the pace of a drunk snail. More parts will be forthcoming, but not swiftly.

It’s a HYDRA scientist who brings Bucky’s slowly rebuilt world crashing right back down. Afterwards, he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t even be surprised.

He was getting so much better. He was learning how to smile and laugh like a person, learning how to say, “I want that,” without having a panic attack and ending up curled up in a corner, learning how to let people casually touch his shoulder or his knee or the small of his back without the desperate fear panic run kill response lighting up his spine. He was doing so well that he was even allowed to join the others on small missions sometimes. They kept him away from the HYDRA missions, but that was ok. He’d already taken out most of the more important bases alone, before Steve found him and brought him from the cold.

The Avengers had given him a home and food and kept him safe from the government, though he avoided most of them like the plague and only really trusted Steve, in so far as he trusted anyone at all. He put his past behind him, made sure the others knew he was fine.

(“And I fucking swear, Wilson, you ask me again and I’ll make you eat your fucking teeth”) (and ok, so maybe the one with the wings was the only one besides Steve who really badgered him about his mental state, but he could still see the looks the others gave him) (like they could see, could somehow just know what HYDRA’d done to him when he didn’t perform up to par) (but if they knew, they wouldn’t look at him like he was a human no they’d know he was nothing just a weapon just a toy)-

He’d disabled all the bugs Stark had on his room, tearing JARVIS out of every corner, as well. No one was ever going to watch him again without his permission.

All in all, life was looking up.

Then Natasha returned from an easy solo mission checking out what was supposed to be an abandoned HYDRA lab with a prisoner in tow. Bucky remembered that lab.

(There wasn’t supposed to be anyone there they aren’t supposed to bring back prisoners why can’t they all just die?)

The first Bucky knew about it was when he Steve got a call during breakfast and started shifting around and looking at Bucky from the corner of his eye like the world’s guiltiest golden retriever. “Spit it out, Steve,” Bucky growled. “I know that was Romanov on the line, and you can’t hide things worth shit.”

Steve’s mouth turned down in an unhappy pout that Bucky ignored. Not his fault if Steve didn’t like hearing the truth.

“She brought back a prisoner from that base she hit yesterday. She brought him to Tony’s lab on the fourteenth floor, you know, the one he let her turn into an interrogation room? We don’t really have to be there, though. It’s not like Natasha can’t handle interrogations without us. Why don’t we try going for a walk to that diner you like instead?” If he was honest with himself, a pretty large chunk of Bucky wanted to take Steve up on that offer.

It would be so easy to just leave it alone. The scientist might not have even been involved with the Winter Soldier project. He could have been a part of any number of other projects; there was no reason to suspect that he might know all of the things that Bucky hadn’t told anyone. Even if he did, what was he gonna say? It’s not like Natasha had brought him back to the tower just to interrogate him about Bucky, about the stupid shit they did to the Winter Soldier once upon a time that Bucky was recovering from just fine. No one else they’d interrogated so far had said anything about Bucky.

But Steve seemed unusually nervous, and who knew what sort of information a Black Widow might deem it important to learn? So Bucky pasted on a smile, asked Steve to lead the way to the interrogation, and reminded himself that just about everyone important was already dead and gone, or at least locked up so far underground they’d never see the light of day again.

When they reached the interrogation room, Bucky halted so abruptly that Steve nearly ran into him. He recognized the captured HYDRA scientist handcuffed to the chair across the room, being faced down by what seemed to be every last Avenger and then some.

“What the fuck are they doing here?” Bucky snarled, pointing to the others.

“This is my tower you’re using, and my lab you’ve commandeered for your interrogation room, Robocop,” Tony Stark replied, condescension dripping from his words. “Besides, we helped bring him in.” Bucky growled at him. He and the Stark brat got along like a house on fire – that is, with lots of screaming and property damage any time their interactions went on too long.

That was the point that the HYDRA scientist noticed the new arrivals. His attention had previously been taken up by the Black Widow, but he turned his head at Bucky’s voice.

“Didn’t think the Avengers were desperate enough for manpower to use the Winter Soldier,” he sneered. Bucky missed the replies from the others as the room tipped sideways and static blurred his ears. He didn’t miss the way the technician’s head tipped back as he laughed, though.

“You sure you know everything HYDRA put their precious weapon through?” the technician asked with a sneer.

Bucky could feel Steve next to him vibrating with rage, but it was the Black Widow who replied, getting up in the man’s face and demanding, “Explain.”

Bucky wanted to shake her, wanted to scream. The HYDRA tech didn’t need to explain a goddam thing. No one fucking needed to know anything he had to say, but he was already talking, already fucking telling them everything and watching Bucky because he knew.

“Did you know that whenever their precious soldier mucked up a mission, they punished him by turning him into a toy until he learned his place?”

Bucky was pretty sure Iron Man was saying something snarky and stupid, but he couldn’t hear anyone else through the rushing in his ears.

“Yeah sure, some of them treated him like a punching bag. But I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what would get him sent to me with blood and semen dripping down between his legs. Even with the enhanced healing, it’d still be hours before he wasn’t walking with a limp again.”

All the Avengers were silent at that, but Bucky could imagine what was going through their heads. Steve was never going to look at him again. The others had already known he was broken and now they had an idea just how fucking disgusting he was, but fuck them. Bucky didn’t give a shit about any of them.

But Steve was never going to look at him again.

“Shut up,” he growled, taking a step towards the technician. The Black Widow looked behind him at Steve, and he felt a hand close around his left arm, but he ignored it. They were going to take him away and then this fucking HYDRA tech was going to tell them everything and Bucky was going to tear his fucking head off first.

The technician laughed again, hardly flinching when Natasha turned her glare on him. “What, are you afraid I’ll tell them how much you enjoyed it when I’d clean you up after?” he asked, and Bucky felt a sick swooping in his gut.

“Shut up,” he growled again, ashamed to hear the note of panic in his voice. Steve was telling him to leave and he was being bad but he couldn’t move couldn’t fucking make his legs work-

“It was harder to clean you up when you would come all over yourself at the first sign of a nice touch, but it was a funny enough sight that I wasn’t complaining, though you’d make the most pathetic noises too if you weren’t muzzled. I guess some of the higher ups enjoyed it when you’d beg like a whore, but I preferred quiet in my work-“

Bucky lunged for the man, snarling, but Natasha got to him first.

“Oops,” she said, a Widow’s Bite lodged firmly in his neck. “Oh well. He didn’t seem to have any useful information anyway.”

Bucky wrenched his arm out of Steve’s grip, gears whirring and grinding together as he stalked out of the room.

He could still hear the HYDRA tech laughing. The others were talking too, but fuck them.

(They know they know they know they know-)

He’s a fucking puppet who knows how to shoot a gun and take a cock up his ass and love it.

And Steve was never going to look at him again.

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY FUCKING GOD

Holy shit this is already EVERYTHING I AM ABOUT goddamn y'all should write more often, anon, you have a fucking way with words.

DO YOU NEED A STROOPWAFEL ANDERS MADE LOTS

AMAZING!! AMAZING TRASH!! This is EVERYTHING I WANTED. I fucking love how done Rumlow is (That line about the "fiddly straps" was PERFECT).

Please accept a 1994 Horse Fancy magazine complete with a post-it note scribbled "this one is named princess" and several self portraits done in blue ball-point pen of me riding horses and shooting bows and arrows. My apologies, but they've all been kept under the bed and are soaked in cat pee.

Oh god, the part with the real horse! And Pierce dirty talking! This meme, I swear. <3

Reading this I went from STEVE NO to TONY NO to HYDRA GOON NO to NATASHA NO to BUCKY NO

Aww, this hurts so good. Bucky believing the bad guy, Bucky worrying about what Steve might think of him now, ouch hngh.

(OP) Oh god, this is so painful. Bucky believing that Steve will never look at him again! Noooo. I'm looking forward to more!

BUCKYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.

Ahhhh this is a great start, I love ittttt.

Rumlow's ham-handed aftercare gives me life. "Uh, wow. So. Have a cookie I guess."

several self portraits done in blue ball-point pen of me riding horses and shooting bows and arrows MERCER GET OFF THE TRASHMEME AND GET BACK TO WORK

I mean, it's not horse-fucking but it's not *not* horse-fucking … the meme needed some horse cock, what can I say.

(what I can say is just *horrified screaming from under a pile of wet straw*)

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

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