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.

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

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He didn't start to run until he was out of sight of the others. It didn't really matter where he went. He couldn't hide from his team. He barely even wanted to. But he couldn't do this right now, in front of all of them. He couldn't--

He ducked into a locker room, two levels down from the one the Avengers usually used during training. It belonged to a staff gym, he thought. There was no one in it, which was all that really mattered. He shut himself in a bathroom stall to catch his breath and figure out what to do next.

This wasn't going to go away. He couldn't make it stop, and clearly he couldn't just manage it. Logically there had to be a way--doctors, something. They could turn it off. It was something HYDRA had done to him. He could get it fixed.

He didn't want it fixed. He didn't want it to go away. Making the milk stop would be like--like solving sexual frustration by cutting his balls off. He wanted it, needed it, but he couldn't have what he wanted with Wanda or Sam or anyone. It was insane, it was--

"Barnes."

Bucky turned before he thought, throwing open the latch and bursting out of the bathroom stall. Natasha couldn't be here. Not her. No one could know--if they caught her, if they knew she'd come after him--

He stopped short at the sight of her looking nonplussed by his sudden appearance. He recognized his own burst of panic and had just enough time to wonder what the hell that was about before Natasha was stalking across the distance between them.

"I don't know what your issue with Maximoff is," she said, leaning in, and then she stopped short.

She inhaled, deliberately, through her nose.

He couldn't remember any time in the last week when she'd been close enough to smell him. He hadn't even realized he was avoiding her, but--

Bucky shook his head and backed up. She couldn't be here with him. Not Natalia. He hadn't even let himself imagine it. He hadn't gone near her. He hadn't given her away, he hadn't given them any reason to suspect--

He didn't know who the fuck he was afraid of but he knew they were watching, listening, and Natalia wasn't paying attention to the danger. She was just standing there, frowning, breathing in the smell of him while her eyes turned away toward some memory.

Bucky shook his head and whispered hoarsely, "Natashenka--"

He clenched his teeth shut as soon as the name escaped. He didn't know why he'd said that. He didn't know her that way; he didn't have any right.

He knew better than to say it out loud.

Natasha's gaze snapped sharply to him, but she still didn't look afraid.

She stepped in closer, still frowning, and raised one hand to chest-height.

Bucky shook his head, shifting his weight back, but Natalia moved with him as smoothly as a dance. She'd always been graceful, and never afraid, even when she should have been, she--

"Don't," Bucky whispered, to Natasha or to the memory welling up from somewhere deep and dark, planted down in his bones, in the throbbing ache of his chest.

Natalia moved in another step, striking fast, but instead of a blow he could block she pressed her face to his chest and wrapped her arms around him.

Bucky felt his milk let down in a surging tide. His arms were around her, his face pressed into her hair, his nipples throbbing with pain and satisfaction as they leaked milk uselessly into his shirt. But he had his Natashenka in his arms; she was safe with him, close and warm and trusting--

He shook his head, trying to clear it, but that certainty wouldn't come loose.

She turned her head and murmured softly, too low for the technicians and monitors to overhear, "Mamochka."

He laughed in startled reflex, and it was the same fond stifled laugh as always for the right-wrong nickname that only she used. She looked up at him with her wide green eyes in that china doll face and he saw the little girl who tucked herself fearlessly under his left arm. She was his Natashenka, who leaned warmly against him and drank her fill from his left side while the machines drained him from the right.

He shook his head a little, struggling to fix the memory, to make it fit somewhere. She turned her face against his chest again, her hand coming up to knead gently at his swollen pecs, making more milk spill for her.

"You smell the same," she whispered. "You--I didn't--they made me forget that part. The milk. I remembered the knives and the rifles--"

That came back to him as she spoke. He remembered towering over that horde of little girls and drilling them on their knife-handling, making them load and unload and sight down their rifles in the cold air. One, with red hair and quick hands, had been particularly fearless. She hadn't been his most promising sniper, but no one could match her with a knife. Natasha had known that about him already, that he had been her instructor.

This, though. This was something else.

His milk had fed the girls, making them stronger, faster, quicker to heal. But there were so many little girls and only one Soldier to fill enough bottles to feed them. The scientists had known somehow that the machines that emptied him, efficient though they were, didn't make the milk flow the way a child would. So they had chosen the girl who would most willingly cuddle close. They had made it her responsibility to drink from him, so that he would make enough milk for all the others.

He had known he must show no preference for her, betray no emotion, no affection that reflected the hours while she leaned trustingly against him and drank up all he could give her. She had known it too. She had called him mamochka in secret, only even whispering it a few times in the course of that year.

More often she had traced the letters--Cyrillic and Roman--on the bare skin of his back where her arm curled around him while she was cradled in his lap. He had responded in kind, spelling out Natashenka on the nape of her neck, hidden by the fall of her hair. It had been their secret, their minuscule shared rebellion, to love each other in that simple animal way, parent and child, the one who gave and the one who grew strong.

Neither of them had been allowed to remember. When the feeding and training were no longer required, he was wiped and put away, and Natasha's memories of him taken. But his body remembered what had been stripped from his mind, and it had brought him back to her. To this, to the chance to give her this again.

He ran his hand over her hair, carefully, lightly, as she went on standing there, pressing her face and hand against him through the muffling layers of his clothes. He could feel the ache of more milk building up in him, the desperate thirst that, if satisfied, would let him make more still.

She wasn't disgusted by him--she remembered, and she was clinging to him every bit as tightly as he held her. But he didn't know if that meant she wanted what he'd given her before. That had been something the Red Room did to both of them--

Her fingers twitched and pressed against his chest, making another jet of milk spurt out. She nuzzled against him like a baby rooting, like a midnight session when she was too sleepy to look where she was putting her mouth.

He found himself laughing again, low and quiet. She hadn't said it again, hadn't even spelled it with her fingers, but she was calling him her mamochka all the same.

"Not here," he murmured when she looked up at him. Her smile was shy, but there was no hesitation in the way she pressed against him. "All you want, but not here."

"My quarters are private," Natasha told him, boast and promise at once. She stepped back and looked around, then shook her head slightly. "Come with me, there's a back way--"

Natasha led him through a utility closet to a quiet, narrow corridor and up two flights of stairs. When they emerged into a wide, windowed corridor he knew they were near the Avengers' quarters--he shared a place with Steve up another level from this and around a corner.

Natasha pulled out her phone, and he watched as she texted Steve. B is ok. Ancient history, I need to talk to him.

After she'd sent that she added, Don't pull your punches! :)

He couldn't think about Steve, about what he might think that meant. It was enough to know that their absence was accounted for. They stopped by a door and Natasha touched the ID pad beside it.

"Come into my parlor," she said dryly, a little spider after all, and she meant to have her fill. Bucky followed her inside, and she waved him toward a sleekly decorated living room and walked on further into the apartment.

Bucky walked automatically toward the armchair and then hesitated in front of it.

He remembered the soft chair he'd sat in to be milked, the only gesture toward comfort in that big, sterile room. Even then Natashenka had barely fit into his lap with her mouth at his chest. She was taller now, and in any case--they didn't have to do this the way they'd been made to do it.

He sat down in the center of her couch and leaned forward to peel out of his wet shirts, pulling off t-shirt and hoodie together. When he sat up, shirtless and wet all down his front, Natasha was standing there with a washcloth in one hand, a bottle of Gatorade in the other.

Bucky reached for the bottle, and Natasha handed it to him with a smile, reminding him of the endless cups of sweet tea she had fetched for him while he sat still, attached to a pump. She sat down at his left side with the wet cloth and gave him a look, asking permission.

He nodded as he twisted the cap off the drink, raising his left arm out of her way as she gently wiped him clean, not putting pressure anywhere that would make the mess worse. He tipped his head back, gulping down the Gatorade.

When he was finished, so was Natasha. She took the bottle and set it aside with the cloth, and then gave him a serious look.

"You know you'll--if we do this, you'll make even more. That was kind of the whole point of me in the first place."

"I don't care how much I make if I'm actually feeding someone," Bucky said, pushing away the problems more would bring--more to hide or dispose of, more to hide from Steve. But if he could just have this...

Natasha nodded understanding, and Bucky made himself think twice.

"You don't have to either," he said. "If you just want milk, we don't have to--"

She was already settling herself against him, curled on her side facing him. She raised her eyebrows skeptically. "It never tastes the same from a bottle. You spoiled me."

"Oh, I spoiled you," Bucky parried automatically as she leaned in against his chest. Bucky wrapped both arms around her, holding her close and helping her find the right angle without having to prop herself up.

She made a little satisfied sound as she trusted her weight to him and leaned her cheek against his chest. Bucky gasped at the feeling of milk letting down again. But this time, for once--

He tightened his grip and Natashenka turned her head, her mouth covering his nipple where it was already wet with milk, just waiting for her. Bucky let his head fall back at the feeling of her first strong suck, milk streaming into her mouth as he held her safe in his arms.

THIS IS AMAZING

*beams*

Oh my god oh my god oh my god I don't even really like thinking about breastfeeding too much in real life but in this I am SO INTO IT OH MY GOD

MWAHAHAHAA

This is oddly sweet. I wouldn't expect a Hydra trash fill to be sweet but it really is :) I'm curious to see what happens next!

Sweet trash seems to be my niche. ;)

Although it's gonna get pretty bitter in a bit...

(OP) This is so beautiful, I love it so much :D I love how they kind of remember together, and how sweet they are (these two deadly soviet assassins), and the terrific urgency of keeping it a secret in the memories that bleed over to the present, and pretty much everything else in this whole thing <3

Particularly, the way he doesn't want the desire to nourish fixed, he wants it satisfied! The horror of "get this Hydra thing off of me" is all well and good, but I have a great love for the times when he's like "It's my arm, I'm keeping it," or "Winter Soldier's just a codename, of course I'll still use it." ("It's my milk, I just want to feed someone with it" is probably my new favorite though :)

Thank you! :D

And, yeah, I love it when Bucky is just like FUCK IT, THIS IS MINE about freaky Hydra aftermath shit. Although, yeah, lactating is a whole new level.

I love this SO much.

Thank you!

akflasfjd! she says, and asfslfjasfsd!

This is A D O R A B L E. Am cackling for having earwormed you into writing it.

(-mags from ao3)

(OP) I'd never even heard of that story before the author mentioned it, but now I've read it like four times and it has become pretty much my favorite Bucky/Natasha family story of all time :D I was *this* close to crying near the end.

Yayyyyyyy thank youuuuu! :D :D :D

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

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