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.

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The punishment is usually carried out by three handlers. Sometimes four, sometimes two. On one occasion there were six. That punishment had been very severe.

The handler enters the room, holding the door open for others to enter.

There are a lot more than six.

The asset cannot turn his head to look. From the sounds of the room he determines that there are approximately seventeen handlers in the room; the distant tap of boots in the corridor signals the arrival of further reinforcements.

The asset stares straight ahead as gloved hands manoeuvre him onto his front. The tubing in his side pulls tight against the skin around it until a handler moves the connecting machine around the table to the correct side. The gloved hands on the asset’s skin do not pull away.

“You have your orders,” says the handler, voice loud in the quiet room.

“Order through pain,” respond the other handlers in unison.

The handler moves across the room and crouches down in front of the asset. The single light bulb hanging down from the ceiling casts parts of their face into heavy shadow. Their eyes are level with the asset. The asset must hold still. He must not look away.

“The asset has a new order: the asset must not sustain damage unless ordered by a handler.”

The asset must confirm the order. The asset must confirm the order. But -- you gotta fight back---

The asset remains silent.

After a few long seconds, the handler stands up and steps back.

The rest of the handlers step forward. The gloved hands on the asset’s skin tighten to the point of damage. Two hands slide up the inside of the asset’s thigh, snagging on the stitching there. The fingers of one hand slide up further, push in. The glove’s fabric is coarse. Blood drips down the asset’s thigh.

The other hands are everywhere, pressing against the dark bruising on his side until ribs grind together, digging into the mess of his left shoulder, the stitches on his abdomen, his leg, his jaw. The handler behind removes their fingers and replaces it with something thicker, tearing the wound wider, slicking the way with blood. Handlers in front press at the asset’s jaw until the sensation of damage forces him to gasp for air. Gloved fingers press into his mouth, holding it open for a handler to press inside. Something hits the back of the asset’s throat and he chokes, can’t breathe past the blood in his nose and the intrusion in his mouth and -- you gotta fight -- the asset bites down, blood filling his mouth.

The handler yells and tries to pull away and there are gloves pulling at the asset’s shoulders and pressing down on his broken ribs but he’s not letting go -- he’s not --

In the split second before the hands pull away the asset registers the noise of electricity, and then the lightstick is pressing against the mess of his shoulder and the asset doesn’t register anything at all, can’t process anything beyond the white light sparking down his spine into his legs his toes up into his head his shoulders his arm that isn’t even there anymore. It takes hours, days before the lightstick pulls away, and the asset would gasp at the reprieve but the handler is still in his mouth and he can smell burning flesh and the damage of strained muscles and then the lightstick connects again, pressing right where the bruising is darkest, electricity wrapping around the asset’s ribs, coiling around vertebrae, ensnaring bone flesh skin, every muscle like a garrotte wire pulled too tight. The lightstick pulls away -- the click of the charge being set to the highest setting, and then the white light is pressing at the back of his skull and the damage is a tide rolling over him he’s drowning in it it’s crushing him taking him apart pressure pushing him down down down--

The wire snaps.

The asset’s eyes roll into the back of his head and his spine arches and the lightstick pulls away but the asset continues to shake and shake and shake, body beyond his control and he can’t see can’t hear can’t breathe and the shaking doesn’t stop, will never end and damage sustained damage sustained damage sustained --

The asset regains awareness slowly. His face is pressed against the table. He relaxes his tensed jaw; blood and pieces of flesh slide over his lips. His body is still shaking all over. Someone is screaming -- the handler that was in his mouth, now on the ground, being dragged from the room, smears of blood all over the floor. The handler that was behind him doesn’t scream at all. Their body is still as other handlers drag them from the room.

Gloved fingers hold the asset’s mouth open, press something inside, hook it behind the asset’s teeth and fasten the connecting straps at the back of the asset’s head. The edges of it cut at the corners of the asset’s mouth, the spikes on the sides close to slicing his cheeks. It tastes of metal. The asset tries to bite down; it makes the broken edges of bone in his jaw grind together.

“Anders and Broznik did not follow mission protocol,” says the handler. “The asset sustained damage because of their failings. They had their orders, and they did not follow them.”

“Order through pain,” comes the chorused response.

The handlers crowd in close. The asset can feel the warmth of their breath on his skin. The asset does not move. A gloved hand takes hold of one of the exposed metal rods in the asset’s leg and twists. The asset does not move. There is pressure, the sensation of damage as something pushes inside. The asset does not move.

And then -- more hands on his legs, spreading them apart, almost to the point of causing damage. The warmth of another handler behind him, driving themselves in, and then -- more pressure, right on the raw damage where the first handler already is, and then -- damage sustained -- the second handler pushes forward, pushes in, flesh is tearing, they’re tearing the asset in half.

The asset screams. He is not supposed to. The noise comes out anyway.

Handlers crowd in front of him, pants unzipped. Gloved fingers grip at his jaw, drawing him forward as they push into his mouth, through the metal ring strapped there. They hit the back of his throat, the sensation making him gag and he can barely breathe past the blood in his cracked nose, each inhalation sending white sparks up behind his eyes. After a few thrusts the handler pulls free, spurting hot fluid over the asset’s face, and the asset has barely a moment to draw a sharp breath before another handler is pressing in. Gloved hands tug at his hair, the metal in his leg, the tube in his side, fingers tracing the rows of stitches on his back and shoulder and thighs, pressing at the bruising all over him and digging into the ragged burn marks on his skin. There’s small flashes of damage all over, insignificant compared to the damage between his legs -- handlers are slicing shallow cuts all over the asset’s skin.

Sometimes during punishments the asset closes his eyes and goes away inside, and when he comes back the punishment is over and he only needs to wait for the damage to recover. He attempts that now, slipping under, away from his body and what they’re doing to it, but the moment his eyes close a gloved hand clamps down on his nose, squeezing tightly, and the sudden shock of damage drags him back to the surface, choking, unable to breathe past the hand over his nose and the intrusion in his mouth. Just as the blackness is about to fill his vision, the hand loosens its hold enough for him to inhale, dragging air past the newly-damaged tissue in his nose.

He tries twice more over the next hour, as handler after handler pushes their way inside, and each time they drag him back, until finally, the realisation: he cannot go away inside like he has done before.

He can only wait for it to be over.

I'm not sure why this fic is affecting me so much, only that it's so so upsetting! I think it's bc your characterisation rings really true - I really believe this version of Bucky is the same version as the guy in the bank vault, and the way he's still finding ways to resist and is still capable of resistance on any level in the face of this brutality is just!!!

I love that he's still waiting for Steve, I love that moment at the start of this part where you can just hear the handlers filing in, and I love how restrained the writing is! "That punishment had been very severe", "the asset must hold still" - there's so much implied but Bucky can't/isn't allowed to express how he feels even inside his head.

This fic is making me feel sick and I'm so glad!

(just out of curiosity, are you planning on writing anything post-ws in this 'verse?)

Oh gosh, this is so, so encouraging to hear, thank you so much - and also: sorry for all the horrible things I'm putting Bucky through!

I'm glad that the characterisation works for you - I struggled with it, a little, considering that in terms of actual canon there's really not that much to go on, which on the plus side gives more room for interpretation. In this fill, I tried to communicate the idea that despite having his capacity for introspection + deeper thought stripped away by the mindwipes, i.e his ability to analyse what's going on around him, he still had a little piece of Brooklyn stubbornness buried deep.

It's weird, in some ways it's easy to write from his perspective but in other ways it's a lot more challenging, like - the limit on his self-awareness restricts what kind of information would be included in his point of view - I was nervous that it might read as too simple, but I'm glad it worked for you! One thing I made a point of doing was, when the asset is making comparisons between things, to always be comparing the sensation to something violent, something painful - like that's all he has to compare anything to. And now I've made myself sad again.

I was thinking of writing a short scene set some time after the helicarriers fall and the Winter Soldier is tracking down ex-handlers, and then a little porn-coda set a few months after that once he's reunited with Steve (and maybe Sam) with probably some hints of what he went through but mostly just happy, sexy stuff - I can pretty much only handle HTP stuff if I know that, after all the horrible pain and suffering, Bucky ends up happy.

(New anon.) It's not at all too simple; your intentions are coming through great and I, at least, cannot wait to read the follow-up scenes.

Sorry for the seriously late reply, but OP here, and wow, author anon, you are killing it! Your Winter Soldier voice must be a trick and a half to pull off; it's this very effective, real-seeming mix of detached, simplified, and desperately human. The clinical way he views his own body and processes information makes the tragic emotionality that shines through even worse. The way he experiences his rapes, as an incomprehensible and horrifying way of being damaged, his dawning realization that he can damage himself to avoid punishment, leading to the suicide attempt that broke my heart -- what is this you're writing, where the protagonist survives suicide and that's the more terrible option? I loooove this and I look forward to more!

(Author anon) Sorry for the super late response; thank you so much for the comment, you have no idea how encouraging it is to hear - about 4k into this fill I realised I wasn't really sticking to the prompt, so I was (and still am, with every new part) a little hesitant about how it would be received, but it's really great to hear that you're enjoying it!

No worries. :D I'm totally into what you've got going.

It doesn’t end.

The asset has lost count of the handlers in front, of the handlers behind, of the time that has passed. After the fourth hour the minutes all begin to bleed together: the punishment doesn’t stop. The door opens and closes endlessly: handlers entering and exiting the room, over and over again. The asset does not see their faces.

Over the hours, the flesh at the corners of his mouth has torn deeply, lips splitting from being stretched for too long, the stitches on the inside of his mouth long since ripped open. The metal in his thigh has twisted out of alignment, along with the bones in his jaw and shoulder. The flesh between his legs is so raw that every touch is like a flame pressed to skin. With every movement of the handler behind, the asset feels the slick wetness of blood and the fluid of many handlers dripping down his thighs. There’s more on his torso, smeared all over his face, the flesh in his throat and inside him torn up from the constant friction.

The asset has long since adjusted to the rhythm of the punishment: his nose is damaged so badly that his only opportunity to draw a full breath is between the handler pulling free and the next pushing in. Sometimes the handlers ruin this by spurting in the asset’s mouth as they move back; the asset has lost track of the number of times he has choked, unable to breathe, slipping into the grey haze of near-unconsciousness. When that happens, awareness comes back too quickly. When he regains it, the handlers are still pushing in. They don’t stop. They don’t stop.

Through it all, the handler remains in the corner of the room. Sometimes their voice cuts through the slick noise of flesh against flesh and the heavy panting of the handlers and the loud pounding thrum as the asset’s heart tries to claw its way out through his chest cavity. The handler says, “The asset has a new order: the asset must not sustain damage unless ordered by a handler.”

The first time the handler speaks is so unexpected that the asset does not react at all, still trying to process their words before the next handlers push in and then the asset cannot process anything at all beyond damage sustained. By the third time the asset has managed to formulate the answer -- confirmed -- but it is after the fourth time that the asset realises that there is insufficient opportunity to respond.

The asset must confirm the order. If the asset confirms the order the punishment will stop. The metal piece between his teeth and the handlers pushing into his mouth prevent him from speaking, and the time between a handler pulling out and the next pushing in does not give the asset enough time to confirm the order. Even if that were not the case, the asset’s throat and mouth are so torn that he may not be able to speak at all.

After the handler speaks for the twelfth time, the asset loses count. It does not matter. He cannot confirm the order.

+++

The handler holds up their hand and speaks quietly, “enough.”

The rest of the handlers react instantly, stepping back, away from the asset. The ones inside him pull free, remove their grip on his hips, let his head drop to the table. They zip their pants, and exit the room one by one.

The spikes on the sides of the metal piece in his mouth have scraped deep grooves in the skin on both sides of the asset’s mouth. When the handlers let the asset’s head drop to the table, one of the spikes finally drove itself through the asset’s cheek. Blood is filling his mouth. He does not have the energy to remove it. It drips slowly over his teeth.

There are footsteps. The handler is moving towards the table. The asset cannot turn his head to look. The asset cannot move at all. There was no needle, this time. Maybe now the technicians will be called in to work on the asset. To peel away the flesh, replace it with metal. They won’t need to use the needle. The asset cannot move.

A hand presses against the nape of the asset’s neck. It has been many hours since the asset lost the energy to flinch away from damage. This touch is different, however: the handler is not wearing gloves. Their hands are -- soft. They are not causing damage.

There is a quiet click, and the straps holding the metal piece to the asset’s face loosen. The handler holds the asset’s chin in one hand, tilting his head up, and with the other they carefully ease the spike from the asset’s cheek and the metal piece from between the asset’s teeth. The sound of metal hitting the floor is distant. The muscles of the asset’s face have been locked in position for so long that he cannot close his mouth. Blood bubbles from the hole in his face, trickling down the crooked line of his jaw.

Something presses against his cheek. If it is the handler, if the punishment is not over -- fight back -- the asset tries to open his mouth, pushing down the sensation of his torn lips tearing further. But it is not glove, or skin: it is cloth.

The handler tilts the asset’s head and swipes the cloth over the asset’s cheek, nose, jaw, the corners of his mouth. The cloth is damp. The handler not causing damage.

“Close your eyes,” commands the handler. The asset complies. The cloth leaves his skin, then: the sound of sloshing liquid, of fabric being twisted. The newly-damp cloth brushes along his temple, under his brow, over his eyelids. The grip on the asset’s chin lowers his face to the table and lets go. The cloth moves away from his face, to his shoulders, his back, moving across his skin in slow circles, slower still around the worst of the damage. The liquid sloshes three times more - the handler is very thorough.

The cloth moves down the asset's spine, then lower, lower, to where the damage is worst, avoiding the patches of raw skin and wiping away blood and fluid. The realisation comes suddenly, a bullet from a gun: the handler is cleaning the asset. The asset cannot flinch away -- the handler is -- this is the technician’s job. When the technicians clean the asset the water is cold and the asset stands against the wall and does not move even when the water strips off skin. But the water the handler is using is warm and the press of cloth against the asset’s skin is soft and the touch does not cause damage and it isn’t -- it isn’t --

The asset shudders. His eyes are wet.

After several minutes the handler puts the cloth down and steps away from the asset, walking back across the room. The sound of their shoes against the floor is very loud. The handler stops in front of the asset. They rest their hand on the asset’s chin and tilt his face upward.

The handler repeats a final time: “The asset must not sustain damage unless ordered by a handler.”

“Confirmed,” whispers the asset, and then twice more, in case the handler did not hear the first time. Blood dribbles from the hole in his cheek.

“Good,” says the handler. Their hand strokes over the asset’s hair. “That’s very good.”

[a/n: sorry it's short. rl is kicking my ass.]

My feelings are bleeding.

(OP) oh my good god, this is brutal. Dude, your descriptions of Bucky's body tearing apart as he's raped beyond his physical ability to take it... I feel so sorry for him; it is horrific. You have emotionally suckerpunched me, particularly re: Bucky's attempts to confirm the order to stop the rape but being unable to BECAUSE of the rape; and when he starts to cry because he's being gently cleaned off. Noooo. My baby. :( I love this, it's wonderful, and I can't even imagine where it's going to go from here!

Sorry for the lack of updates on this - motivation really stalled and RL is wrecking me in a way that makes it hard to find the energy to write. I'm now posting this in chapters on ao3 with some small edits/changes as I go, plus a few scenes beyond what I've posted here. Link is here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5493308/chapters/12690917

This is amazing.

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

FILL: Damage Sustained [4/?]

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[Prompt filler here] An update on this

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