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

i am so here for this wow

thatks some high quality trash

you're the best, gosh, everything about this is perfect

"For now." BABY. Breaking my heart so good, every time.

I read part a (and then I really needed to go out) and didn't get to read the rest before returning home - and oh my, that was quite the wait and you did not disappoint.

Also, damn you, now I want to see Steve "trained" to like it.

AN: This follows after a previous meme fill available here, http://archiveofourown.org/works/3633966/chapters/8026983 but I think this stands alone without reading that first. The setup you need to know is Bucky's been in recovery for about a year and has just been raped by Rumlow, who got away.

--

The worst part isn’t that Steve knows.

The worst part isn’t that Steve puts it together, so quickly that Bucky can practically hear the pieces clicking into place on the flight home. Because how could he expect Steve not to, with the way they found him, with the way Rumlow left him, and the part of him that isn’t rattling hollow and empty wants to laugh hysterically. Of course Steve was going to figure it out.

The worst part is that Steve knows, and figures it out, and cares.

--

The flight home could be the first, with tense silence around him while Bucky stares at his hands and doesn’t know what to say. Except Natalia and Barton aren’t there, tracking down Rumlow. Except Sam’s nervous and doesn’t bother hiding it, flicking through his ipod too fast to settle on anything. So the silence stretches out under the throb of the engines, Steve’s hand heavy on Bucky’s thigh. It could be any flight, with Rogers or Rumlow or anyone in the seat beside him. The hand on his thigh is warm and broad, thumb and index finger pressed sharply into the muscle to keep him in place.

--

Rogers and Sam supervise his trip to medical, hovering just out of sight during the examination and talking softly past him after. No one touches him without latex protection.

There’s nothing medical can tell them that they don’t already know. Ingrained situational response. Evaluation for further fieldwork required. Microtears consistent with penetration, multiple subcutaneous hematomas.

Rogers clarifies that only one of the hematomas is new, because he and Sam know better than anyone.

He follows Rogers back to quarters because no one tells him not to, and Rogers sidesteps away from him when Bucky leans too close as they walk. Their bootsteps echo off empty glass and stone corridors and Bucky wishes for Sam’s easy presence, but Wilson’s been dismissed somewhere since medical. Rogers doesn’t want an audience. Bad enough that it has to be done at all.

The quiet emptiness of Rogers’ apartment used to be a comfort, and Rogers kicks out of his boots while Bucky pads silently behind him. They’re reflected briefly off the dark glass of the faux windows before the AI switches it to a view of the grounds, grass stretching to trees. Too dangerous to put living quarters above ground, too claustrophobic without fake windows. Bucky catches Rogers’ eyes in the reflection for a half second before they’re both erased by faux sunlight.

Rogers sets out a change of clothes for him and points him at the shower without saying anything, and Bucky takes the unspoken order. He still smells like sweat and come and fear and Rumlow’s hands, but the water can’t wash that last one away. Rogers’ shampoo smells like sharp, uncomplicated citrus. Clean and honest, and that’s as much of a lie on Bucky as everything else.

The clothes are Bucky’s, the set of dark blue flannel pants and soft black tshirt Wilson gave him that first morning. Not makin’ pancakes for someone wearing jeans to the breakfast table, it’s a Sunday.

The boxers Wilson picked out are ruined, the black pair with the little flowers in the trash. The rest of the set, decorative and soft, blue with black flowers, pink with black plaid, gray with blue flowers, are back in the bare little apartment still nominally called Bucky’s even though he’s slept in Rogers or Wilson’s beds six nights out of seven for the last four months.

It’s okay to wanna look good, man. Lot of options these days, pick what you want.

You look good, Buck. Real good.

Christ it’s pretty like that.

The boxers Rogers set out are plain black, nondescript, utilitarian. Nothing anyone wants to look at.

Rogers is showered and changed by the time Bucky’s dressed. Gone to the gym and back, probably, his short gold hair sticking up still damp. He’s beautiful in all the ways Bucky has never been, sitting there on the bed.

There’s text on the tablet in his hands that Rogers closes before Bucky can see more than snippets.

—incapable of consent—conditioned fawn response—trained to respond to performances of authority—

Bucky sits next to him on the bed, aching. In his shoulders, in his chest, behind his eyes. His neck and throat and thighs feel hot, burned. Scalded. Deep, like a radiation burn or oil, but the skin’s unbroken. The pain makes him sag against Rogers, the strings that have been holding him up cut.

Rogers puts an arm around him, and it almost shatters him, almost breaks him, the tiny pieces he’s been holding together for a year starting to slip through his fingers. He twists into Rogers, looking for something, trying to hide in him, cowardly and disgusting. Rogers smells like his citrus shampoo, clean and sharp and honest. Bucky smells like sweat and fear and come and Rumlow’s hands.

You like that, sweetheart?

Rogers puts a hand on the back of his neck, fingers in his hair and thumb brushing his cheek, and Bucky twists up to kiss him because this is familiar, this is knowable, this is safe.

Christ I missed you.

Christ you’re pathetic.

Rogers’ hands go still, pull back. Rogers pushes himself back, putting distance between them, because he knows. “Bucky, I’m not sure—I don’t think this is such a good idea right now.”

Bucky flinches back like he’s been burned, a blink and a swallow to avoid Rogers’ knowing hands.

Fucking pathetic.

Rogers moves further back, slow, telegraphing his movements so the asset doesn’t spook. “I was just thinking it might be good for us to, you know, slow down for a bit. You don’t—you don’t have to feel like you have to do this,” Rogers says, and his hands are carefully still in his lap where Bucky can’t touch him.

Disgusting. Who’d want it after that.

“Are you okay?” Rogers says. Shut the fuck up. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I—“ Bucky starts, chokes on it. “You’re right,” he says, past his throat closing up.

“You can—“ Rogers’ hand moves, goes still again in his lap. “Your room’s still there, if you need the space. We don’t have to do this. You don’t—” Rogers goes silent. Nothing else to say. Rogers has always been kinder than he needs to be.

There’s a terrible shuddering in his chest, juddering and unsteady.

Heartbeat. His heartbeat. That’s what his heartbeat feels like, under Rogers’ eyes, under Rumlow’s hands.

It’s as much of a dismissal as he’ll ever get from Rogers, and he takes it gratefully.

--

The apartment—holding cell—is as bare as when they first put him in it almost a year ago. Narrow bed, hard mattress, a dresser with uniforms, running gear. Necessities. Wilson and Rogers’ additions. His clothes live here but he never has.

He doesn’t sleep, but he never used to. Not like he’ll ever pass for normal, and now Rogers knows that, so he doesn’t try. The hours of quiet are almost like sleep, and without the soft breathing of a team or a handler or the bowstring tension of sitting watch to break the meditative stillness of it.

Swallowing hurts. The skin around his eyes prickles hot.

He stirs at five, dresses and trains at five after, eats at ten to seven. Precise as clock work in the empty, bare little room, because he’d always been, had no other way to be.

There’s a soft tap on the door at precisely seven, and Rogers stands there in running gear, because of course he does. Wilson stands behind him, light on the balls of his feet despite his smile. They’re ready for the unpredictable, poised and hair trigger. Bucky stands aside to let them in, because an unspoken order is still an order.

They talk at each other and past him, empty nothing filling the room as he changes and pulls on a shirt. Out of leggings for pushups and stretches, into sweatshirt and sweatpants for running outside. He can feel their eyes on his back as he strips, but there’s nowhere to hide in the little room, no part of him that they can’t see and dissect.

Why d’you think it’s scarred all around the arm if it doesn’t scar anywhere else? Dunno. Cauterized, maybe? One way to find out.

Running’s honest, the air cold and damp above ground, the edge of thaw enough to make the cold air heavy and clean. Rogers and Barnes lap Wilson and the training squads, and Rogers doesn’t say anything until they’re standing over a panting Wilson who grins and curses. Rogers directs his jokes and his looks at Wilson, keeping careful distance between himself and Barnes.

They walk back to the bare little apartment and Barnes follows because no one tells him not to. He opens the door for them, but Wilson and Rogers stop just out of reach. They say something about meetings and move to go.

Rogers stops a few strides away, looks back. Wilson stops, watches, stays where he is as Rogers walks back to where Barnes is still waiting by the door, watching but not looking at either of them.

Rogers stands closer than he has since the plane, ducking his head to look at Barnes’ face. He reaches out to put a hand on Barnes’ elbow and the asset stays still. “Buck, you—you know you could have told me, right?” Rogers says, quiet, barely audible to him, low enough that Wilson can’t over hear. “I wouldn’t have asked you to—I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known.”

Barnes nods tightly, eyes on the floor, because eye contact is a challenge, defiance is a provocation, and he’s had seventy years to learn that wishing for something doesn’t make it true, doesn’t make it stop. Rogers was going to find out sooner rather than later, and it had been a delusion to keep it from him. Barnes keeps his eyes down as Rogers starts again. “You’re—“

—fucking pathetic.

—fucking disgusting.

—just fuckin’ beautiful.

Whatever Rogers was going to say hangs in the air between them unspoken. “I’ll—see you around?” Rogers says, and he nods tightly again, because where else does he have to go.

aaaaaagggghhhh "I wouldn't have asked if I'd known" no this is the BEST!

Okay this is actually hilarious.

GOD FUCKING BLESS!!!

I'm so so soooo happy there is a follow up for the original story. I so cannot wait for more of this!!

I love being inside bucky's head. seeing how he see's everything, how deep the conditioning is. It's such a whole new take on his programming and conditioning and I absolutely love it.

Especially Steve and Sam trying to keep their distance now and Bucky seeing it as rejection!! Just fucking perfect. I love all of it.

WS: JESUS CHRIST, ROGERS, I AM TRYING TO TORTURE YOU HERE

Steve: MY POOR LAMB~

"Darling I don't want you to hurt yourself while torturing me"

I am BEYOND thrilled there is a follow-up to that story because where it left off left me absolutely broken. But if I thought it was painful viewing Bucky through Rumlow's eyes, that's nothing compared to seeing Buck's thought process here. Of course he misconstrues Steve's behavior as a dismissal, as disgust because of him. So looking forward to more! :D

Pre-CA:TWS, Rumlow and Steve are fuckbuddies. Rumlow figures out that the one surefire way to make Steve discard any sexual or pain-tolerance limits is to go "it's okay, I'll try to go easy on you if you can't take it" and watch Steve rise indignantly to the challenge.

Cue fucked-up, sadistic interrogation roleplay where the only safeword is "okay, I'll talk." It goes way beyond what Steve gets off on or what he's comfortable with, but like hell is he going to tap out when tapping out is explicitly framed as admitting defeat.

Ooooooh. Yes, please.

OP: Ooh, just had a thought: bonus if Rumlow, who of course is passing information along to his Hydra superiors, does find something that makes Steve go NOPE. Something mean and personal, like simulated drowning in freezing water to remind him of the Valkyrie crash. Of course post-TWS Hydra tries to use it to break him as soon as they can get their hands on him, but this time he holds fast, despite the additional association with months and months of sadomasochistic rape-by-deception. Because last time, Steve only safeworded when he realized this was going to fuck him up for days on end if it went on any longer, and he wasn't going to compromise his mission effectiveness for a sex game. When it's for real, though? He'll make that sacrifice with both middle fingers raised, because fuck you, Rumlow, it's personal.

OMG, I remember your original story and m trashy lil heart is so full of joy you wrote a sequel.

as i read this a light shone down from the heavens and the angels sang of the glories of your beautiful trashiness and i wept amen

honestly i've been thinking about the ending/aftermath of that previous fill ever since i first read it & i am ABSOLUTELY OVERJOYED that it's getting a sequel!

Conditioning is my jammmmm.

God, please. Safewords that would never be used are so trashywonderful and I just want to see Steve get pushed past his limits, thinking he consents when he absolutely doesn't and then blaming himself if/when things go south.

Uggggggh.

OP fucked up! I'm so used to writing any level of consent - this should be dub/non-con. I figured I'd leave it up to you if it was Bucky being forced or old programming being activated or whatever. Sorry for being unclear!

same tbh

it would be so amazing in this context.

Let's be real. If this story is the context? Anything would be amazing. What with the hood of angels singing amen and all.

"Stop crying, you look pathetic. You've only got yourself to blame, you know. If you loved him that much then you shouldn't have dropped him off a cliff."

ooooooooo, that is horrible, i love it

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

Re: Hydra Trash: Ladyhawk variation

Re: FILL: Lamb and Martyr, 16c/19

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Re: FILL: Lamb and Martyr, 16c/19

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