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

[trashmod]

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.

Comments

Fill: Drink Me, 7/?

[(Anonymous)]

Bucky tried not to think about where Natasha was, or what she was doing. He tried to behave as if nothing was different, as if today was a normal day.

But a normal day meant the ache in his chest growing hour by hour, his milk coming in for his Natashenka. A normal day ended on Natasha's couch, letting his little girl and the pump drain him dry so he could go to bed with Steve without giving himself away.

He didn't think about it, and didn't think about it. The end of the day came, and he headed downstairs like he always did, except that he didn't get out of the apartment before Steve said his name.

Bucky stopped at the door and closed his eyes without turning back.

"She's not there," Steve said quietly, gently, like he was trying not to touch something painful. Like Bucky might really have believed this was a normal day.

"I know." Bucky stayed perfectly still, not shifting his weight, not opening his eyes.

He heard Steve come a half-step closer behind him, still well out of reach. "She won't be back tonight. Midday tomorrow at the very earliest."

Bucky nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Buck," Steve said, his voice wavering. It made Bucky hurt, sharpened the ache in his chest almost unbearably. Steve needed him, even if he didn't need what Bucky had to give. "Please, just come to bed."

Bucky couldn't restrain his flinch. He reached out, opening the door before he let himself think of it. "I will. I always come back, Steve. I just--I need..."

"She's not there," Steve said. "Bucky, I'm right here."

If Bucky told him, there were a dozen ways Steve could help him relieve the pressure in his chest, or just stay out of the way and not be hurt by whatever he was imagining.

But telling Steve meant admitting this as a weakness, showing him something vulnerable and having Steve see it as something broken, because to Steve those were the same thing. And in the end, there was still enough wounded animal in Bucky to choose hurting Steve over seeing himself hurt in Steve's eyes.

"Twenty minutes," Bucky said, and stepped out the door.

Steve didn't so much as shift his weight or raise a hand to stop him.

***

It took more than twenty minutes. Alone with the pump, acutely aware of how far away Natasha was and that his milk might be no use to her, he couldn't seem to make it let down. He had to turn up the pump to something brutal halfway through, and it still took twenty-five minutes to be sure he was dry.

After that there was no point in hurrying. He'd already made himself a liar.

He transferred the milk from the bottles to the freezer bags Natasha had left out for him, neatly labeling each and stashing them in the fridge next to the growing supply. He washed out the bottles and tubing, set it all out to dry before morning.

He let himself back into his and Steve's apartment thirty-four minutes after he walked out. The apartment was dark and silent, and the absence of surprise was a weight in the pit of his stomach. He didn't turn on any lights, just went into the bedroom and stripped. He crawled into the empty bed, and pushed the covers down to leave his nakedness on display for when Steve came in.

He slept through the night without being disturbed, and woke up alone in the morning. He had been dreaming of Natashenka, hurt in training but refusing to cry, and his chest ached with fullness. He saw when he sat up that he'd leaked all over the sheets.

He stripped the bed and threw the sheets in the wash before he put last night's clothes back on and went down to Natasha's again.

***

Bucky didn't see Steve that morning; he'd taken Wanda off somewhere for one-on-one training. Bucky didn't let himself wonder whether Steve had deliberately taken away the next-most-consoling person for Bucky to try to look after in Natasha's absence. He didn't want to think it, but Steve had also taken himself away, so clearly Bucky was being punished.

He kept close to the rest of the team, letting Rhodes and Vision take turns declaring drills to practice. After a while Rhodes abandoned his suit, declaring it time to put in some training for "totally fucked up contingencies." He and Bucky and Sam took on simulated attacks orchestrated by Vision.

No one remarked on how often Bucky threw himself in the way of an attack to shield the other two. He was faster, stronger, quicker to heal; they might not have noticed anything unusual. He was only taking Steve's role, really. There was nothing incriminating about it.

Bucky slipped away in the afternoon to pump again, another joyless and slightly painful session alone on Natasha's couch. It was a stark contrast to the pleasure of working with even a subset of his team, a mockery of what the milk ought to mean.

He sensed someone outside when he was about to open the door to leave. For a moment he let himself imagine that it would be Steve waiting for him, to catch him... being exactly where Steve would know he was going. As if Steve would stoop to catching him. Steve could find him any time he wanted, but Steve just kept backing off.

Bucky stopped for a moment, leaning his forehead against the door while he pushed away the imagined sight of Steve's face--disappointed or coolly furious or sheepish and apologetic....

It wouldn't be any of those. It wouldn't be Steve. Steve would chase him to the ends of the earth to save him, but he wouldn't walk across a room to ask Bucky for something.

Except he had asked last night, and Bucky had walked out.

Bucky thumped his head against the door a couple of times, realizing, not for the first time, that he and Steve really did deserve each other. With that familiar bleak humor to brace him, he gave up and stepped back to open the door.

Sam was standing on the other side of the corridor, leaning at ease against the wall. He looked Bucky up and down--there was nothing to see, Bucky had taken the precaution of wearing his most camouflaging hoodie today--and said lightly, "You know, usually it's the person outside the door who knocks."

"Steve told you where you could find me." Bucky wasn't going to pretend this wasn't about what it was about.

Sam tilted his head, admitting the charge. "You want to talk about it?"

Bucky considered it for half a second. He could tell Sam what was going on, what he was doing with Natasha, what he wanted with the rest of the team. He could invite Sam in for a glass of milk.

And no matter what Sam's reaction was, it would be just a foretaste of what Bucky was in for, because once Sam knew, Steve would have to know too. Sam was Steve's friend first, and Bucky had no claim on his loyalty except through Steve. He might not actually tell Steve himself, but neither would he let Bucky keep his own secrets in peace.

Bucky missed Natasha like breath knocked from his lungs.

He shook his head in mute answer to Sam's question. "You want to tell me where Steve slept last night?"

Sam snorted. "My couch, if you want to call that sleeping. He was tossing and turning all damn night, except when he was muttering to himself. Or pacing. Or--punching things, maybe? There were some thumps, woke me up every time he started that."

"Gesturing," Bucky diagnosed, with a weird displaced sense of fondness. "If he was really punching he'd have broken things. But sometimes when he's arguing with somebody in his head he starts gesturing to make his points. You never caught him doing that before?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't think he was imagining arguing with you much when we were looking for you."

Bucky shook his head again. "Idiot."

Sam didn't argue with that, but after a few seconds he said, "So I didn't get much sleep last night because Steve was on my couch arguing with you, and you don't look like you're having a great day, so..."

Sam gestured down the corridor in the direction of his own apartment. "How many Star Trek movies do you think we can watch before we pass out?

"We're skipping the first one," Bucky said. He needed to be close to somebody, and Sam was offering, and letting him keep his own secrets after all, for as long as he managed to keep his mouth shut.

"There was no first one," Sam agreed, and that was that.

***

They were halfway through the one with the whales when the screen froze, and Kirk and Spock disappeared into an alert. Bucky glimpsed Incoming call, Clint Barton, and he felt himself turn to ice in the fraction of a second before Barton's face appeared on the screen.

"No, she's okay!" Barton yelped immediately, his gaze falling on Bucky and whatever Bucky's expression was just then. "She's here, she's in one piece, we're coming home."

Bucky exhaled and folded forward to bury his face in his hands, shielding his chest from Barton and Sam's view. It was getting close to bedtime. He was achingly full, and Natasha was on her way home.

"She just, uh..."

Bucky looked up to search Barton's face, holding his hunched-over position.

Barton grimaced. "She took a pretty bad knock on the head. Had her checked out before I let her in the quinjet--no fracture, no internal bleeds--but she's got post-concussion like a motherfucker. She's already thrown up twice and she can't really move or pick her head up or be exposed to bright light."

"And you decided a long flight was a good idea?" Sam demanded.

Bucky closed his hands into fists at the thought of someone keeping Natasha away from him when she was hurt, making her recover in some undisclosed location without him.

"Nat decided," Barton said, shaking his head. "Both times she threw up were because I told her we needed to stay put and she wouldn't quit arguing. And I know my way around a head injury, I know the only thing that's gonna help is rest--but she's not gonna rest if she's freaking out about wanting to go home. So I'm bringing her home. She says she'll feel better after a night in her own bed."

Bucky's chest throbbed, and he felt the trickle of milk sliding down the undercurve of his pecs. He was leaking on both sides at just the thought of putting Natasha to bed when she was hurt, feeding her and comforting her.

He searched Barton's expression for any sign that he knew, but he looked back steadily, nothing new or unsettled in his eyes. "She said she needs you to wait for her. Tuck her in."

There was no insinuation even in those words, nothing from Barton to indicate that he found it strange or shameful for Natasha to want that, for Bucky to give it.

Well, Barton was a parent, after all. Maybe he understood.

Bucky nodded. "I'll wait. However long it takes, I'll wait for her."

"Couple hours, tops," Barton said, nodding like he'd known Bucky would say exactly that. "I'm having to maneuver around rough weather so she doesn't get sick again, but unless Thor's in town and actively fucking with me it shouldn't be more than two hours. I'll call you if I have to detour us up the jet stream or something."

Bucky nodded. "Barton--thanks."

"Not much I wouldn't do for Nat," Barton said, like it was simple. "Over and out."

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 7/?

[(Anonymous)]

The longer it takes Steve to find out, the more I am filled with dread and glee!

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 7/?

[(Anonymous)]

:D :D :D

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 7/?

[(Anonymous)]

Bucky, cuddle bug, TELLLLLLLLLL HHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMM. *flail*

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 7/?

[(Anonymous)]

Well that would make it WAY too easy. :D

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 7/?

[(Anonymous)]

(OP) I keep going to read thinking, this time it's going to blow up, and then things will be okay, and then it keeps NOT BLOWING UP and it's driving me insane but in a good way. Soooo much tensions! Also I make this little noise every time you mention leaking and it's starting to get embarrassing.

Re: Fill: Drink Me, 7/?

[(Anonymous)]

:DDDDDDDD

And I am glad you're enjoying the leaking because that is... not stopping just yet. :D