hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Holy shitballs, look at us go. Welcome to Captain America fandom's resident wretched hive of scum and villainy: ROUND THREE. AKA Bad Guys Do Dirtybadwrong Things To Your Faves, 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 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.

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Okay, so let's say that instead of the hunting down what's left of HYDRA-route, Bucky turns the other way. He's so horrified of the things he's been made to do that he swears never to touch a weapon again, never to hurt anyone,... you get the idea.

He's also too ashamed to turn up at Steve's doorstep. Stealing (food, money, papers, ...) is out of the question too, so how's he gonna get by? Prostitution, obviously.

Either a mission gone wrong or skeevy Rumlow relationship, or whatever floats your boat, but the trauma's still pretty fresh when CATWS happens. Bucky comes in from the cold and he's not only touch starved but desperate to prove that he's more than a weapon, that he can do more than kill, destroy, hurt. Steve goes along. Drama. (also hotwrong sex)

Bro. Yes. Seconded. So hard.

There was a moment of silence, and Bucky thought Steve was going to say no. All kinds of emotions and thoughts were making their way across his face in a confused jumble, but after a few seconds had passed Steve nodded, swallowing and setting his jaw.

It was an expression Bucky recognised from when they were children. This was Steve's face for when he was squaring up to a fight with someone far stronger and more powerful than he was, knowing he would be hurt but not willing to back down. It was an odd expression for sitting together, cuddled up on the couch.
"You tell me whatever you need to Bucky. If you'll sleep better after talking about it, that's okay. Tell me whatever helps..." And as he said that, Steve's hands rubbed at Bucky's shoulders, taking away some of the stress. That felt nice. He closed his eyes and relaxed at the touch, wondering if maybe this wasn't so bad. He could tell him everything and if Steve still wasn't angry or disgusted, he could tell him the truth.

He took a deep breath.
"They..." He swallowed, trying to work out which of his memories he needed to discuss. He wouldn't talk about what happened to Natasha - that would be wrong. It wasn't his place to discuss it. Natasha had always been given respect. But what happened to him, well, that was why he was here. "They never saw her as a person. She was just a thing, there, for them to use. A warm body I guess... they laughed, called her all sorts of names..." He bit back the words that had been used. The hissed mutters that he was just a hole, just a toy, that he was worthless, that this was what he was made for.

"That wasn't right Bucky." Steve said softly, and his hands were still rubbing Bucky's shoulders. Bucky closed his eyes. "She didn't deserve that."
"Yeah..." Bucky swallowed, dryly. "Just... if they got bored, they'd hurt her. If we were...if we were in a truck, for a long journey..." He thought of a few months ago, when the strike team had been heading out west for a mission. "They'd have her strip. They'd probably start by touching her, but then they'd... it'd get more. They'd use her mouth...or.. or you know, the rest of her..." He swallowed again, and Steve's grip around his shoulder was firmer now, grounding him, keeping him away from that truck, from those nightmares. "They used to just chat while they were doing it. Like, about sports and stuff. She was just...just there..." He risked a glance at Steve.

Steve's expression had gone past preparing for a punch now. He looked like he had been hit, his eyes dark, but he caught Bucky looking and he smiled.
"That wasn't her fault... God..." He whistled through his teeth. "I had no idea. She does a good job of hiding it. She's an amazing woman, I always knew that..."

Bucky frowned. Natasha was amazing, but he wasn't. He'd let it happen, let them use him.
"I saw..."
"And Buck, that wasn't your fault either. You didn't choose to be there."

He thought of the other men in the truck, Rollins snorting when Rumlow had him strip, muttering about the fact that the asset might make a mess. He could hear Rumlow calling back, promising that it wouldn't be allowed, and then Rollins calling him over once Rumlow was finished. It wasn't like Rollins had set out to hurt him. He'd just been there when it had started. That was true of so many of them. Normally it'd only be one or two who really went for it, and the others would use him because he was already there. He shuddered.

"She used to cry." He spat, remembering the heat of tears running down his face. "Used to sob and whine and it was...it was disgusting. They'd kick her for it, yell at her, call her pathetic..." He was trembling now, rocking slightly in Steve's grasp. Steve held him close.

"Bucky, she was hurting. It wasn't her fault. I know it must have been scary to see, especially when you cared about her, but she couldn't help it. It wasn't her fault that she was crying, you understand that right? I’ve cried before when I get injured on missions, and that’s just physical pain, that’s not fear as well.”

Bucky nodded, feeling his eyelids prickling again. He refused to cry now, to start to sob when he wasn't even injured. Steve looked almost angry with him, but he was still touching him gently so he couldn't have been that angry.

"It...I didn't like it."
"I know." Steve said softly. "I know..." And the way he said it, Bucky thought he was trying to end the conversation. But there was worse. Worse that he had to go over.

"The...The...Polkovnik, he used to really hurt her. For hours, or days, he'd have her chained up, cut her, and as he got older he hurt her worse and she'd be such a mess and I..." He thought of his own body hanging from the wall in Pierce's basement, close to collapse, his toes just about able to reach the floor, legs streaked with his own blood. He had screamed himself hoarse long ago. "She never fought back. And I never saved her."

"She ... you couldn't have done anything Bucky. Neither of you could have." Steve promised. Bucky thought of Rumlow, walking in, laughing with Pierce about the state of him. Remembered Pierce pointing at him and telling Rumlow to take a turn. Then he'd walked over and the pain had got worse. Rumlow had just been following orders.

"Buck..." Steve's voice sounded anguished. "None of it was your fault..." He guided Bucky into his arms. Bucky wasn't sure when he had started crying. He wasn't sure when he'd be able to stop.

i ADORE this so far!

Oh trash God, I can't wait to see the fallout of this!!!

She was standing there in one of the old-fashioned dresses she favored—probably for his benefit, Bucky realized—and he caught the moment she recognized Steve, freezing.

Bucky looked at her with new eyes: she didn't really resemble Steve, no one would mistake her for his sister, but her coloring was perfect and her hands and feet were a little too big for the rest of her, and more than anything she held herself like it was impossible that anyone would ever deny her.

"Oh God," Steph said quietly.

Bucky’s thoughts slowed to the Winter Soldier’s deadly calm and he was on his feet before he realized what he meant to do. Steve tried to stop him but he evaded the grab without thought. If Steph was field-trained she’d been hiding it perfectly, and at this range she couldn't draw a gun in time. She didn't try to run, though he wasn't sure if she was trapped by fear or just aware he'd catch her anyway.

He pushed off the last step to hit her hard and bore her over backwards, not trying to cushion the landing except that he made sure she didn’t hit her head because he needed her to talk. “Hail Hydra,” Bucky said, the affectless growl all too easy.

“I’d rather not,” Steph said. She was breathless from the fall but the look on her face was resignation. “Jim—”

He slapped her with his flesh hand, not hard, just enough to startle. “Bucky!” Steve exclaimed. He ignored him. “Don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” Bucky ordered. Steph winced and nodded. “What’s your real name?”

“Katrina. Katrina Georges. If we stay here someone might see us,” she said, and Bucky thought it over.

“Is the office bugged?”

“Not while I’m here,” she said. “Your place is, though.”

Bucky stood and hauled her to her feet by her wrists. The metal arm didn’t move like it was supposed to; it was stiff, slow to respond. They must have put an inhibitor in it, because while it wasn’t quite as dextrous as his right, he could remember it being much better than this. He had a flash of memory, crouching behind a car and pulling one of his little sphere-grenades from its place, setting it by touch, intending to roll it into the Black Widow’s hiding place to drive her out...he shook his head. “Let’s go.”

He put her in the desk chair and sat on the edge of the desk himself leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees. There was little enough room between the desk and the wall that she couldn’t make a move he couldn’t reach. Steve took unhappy sentry at the closed door, arms crossed over his chest.

Steph—Katrina drew a shaky breath. “There’s a STRIKE team on call but their response time is three minutes minimum. I’m supposed to keep you under control by...” She grimaced.

“By being me,” Steve said expressionlessly.

“Yes,” she said, and now she looked ashamed. Bucky didn’t buy it, but he had to admit she was damned convincing. Maybe she was a Widow; maybe she’d been faking her body language all along, even when she didn’t know she was being observed. “They picked me because of how I look.” She smiled, a flash that was there and gone. “I don’t have heart problems either.”

“You’re making this very easy,” Bucky said.

Katrina made a sour face. “I never wanted to be doing it in the first place. I signed up to work for SHIELD, not Hydra.” Steve made a small, surprised noise; Bucky carefully didn’t react at all. “A couple of months before Insight, my boss started acting weird. Personal. Taking an interest, you know? And then the data dump happened and she killed herself because she was Hydra. She’d been feeling me out, and I thought...I thought I was out of a job but I was lucky she didn’t get a chance to try recruiting me. I decided I didn’t want to be in the game anymore, moved here, and opened the store.” She paused and for the first time her eyes filled with tears. “Three months ago my folks were in a car accident. The morning after the funeral I went downstairs and there were two men in the living room who showed me live video of my brother Peter.” She swallowed. “He’s sixteen.”

“Hydra has him,” Steve said, disgusted.

“They let me talk to him once a week, but even he doesn’t know where he is. Nothing happens to him as long as I stay here and make sure the Winter Soldier stays under control and, well.” She wiped furiously at her eyes and her slumped shoulders straightened. “So you can kill me if you want. I might as well fuck them as hard as I can before I die because Peter was dead the second you remembered who you are.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Steve. Bucky...wasn’t sure what to think. The story was certainly plausible; Hydra didn’t scruple at using hostages to guarantee behavior.

“Why didn’t they just tank me again?” It would have been safer than relying on a memory wipe holding for an extended period, and his dreams were evidence enough that it hadn’t been solid even in the beginning.

“Tank you?” Katrina asked, looking baffled.

“Cryo,” he said impatiently. “Why didn’t they put me back in cryo?”

Her mouth hung open for a second. “Cryo-sleep works?” she asked, and for some reason Bucky found her astonishment convincing.

“Normal people, I think they just die, but it works on him,” Steve said, with grim humor. “It’d probably work on me.”

Bucky growled, “We’re not gonna find out.” It was irrelevant; maybe they just didn’t have a tank. Maybe they didn’t want the lead time of taking him out.

Maybe they just thought it was funny watching him try to live like a normal person.

"OK, here's what we're going to do," he said. "You and I are going to keep up the happy families act. Steve, what've you still got—the Black Widow have any contacts left? We need to figure out where her brother is."

Steve smiled, the smile Bucky remembered from watching Hydra bases burn, and said, "I'll see what I can do."

*

He couldn't take Steve to his bugged apartment, so they walked instead.

"Buck...you do remember me?" Steve asked.

Bucky smiled and said, "Like I could forget your ugly mug, Rogers."

Steve breathed a laugh. "Jerk."

"I just call 'em like I see 'em," Bucky said.

Steve punched him in the arm—fortunately for him he was on Bucky's right—and they went a few more paces in silence before he said, "If you need me to leave you alone, I can do that." It was pretty clear he'd rather gouge out his own eyes with a spoon, but Bucky knew he meant it. "I just. I just needed to see you were OK."

Bucky sighed. "I didn't...I didn't run because of you, Steve. I didn't even know for sure who you were for the first, must've been a month or more. Hell, I barely knew who I was. And once I figured that out, it just seemed safer to stay dark for a while. I was thinking about how to get in touch when they caught up with me."

"How'd that work, anyway?" Steve asked. "I noticed you're not exactly a pushover."

When Bucky was trying to kill him. He suppressed the wince and said, "There were a couple of deep-implant triggers. One-use, last resort stuff. Guy walked up to me in a bar in Singapore and said Sputnik and I fell over. By the time I could move again they had restraints on me." He looked up at the sky. "And then I woke up in an apartment with no memory and a cat."

Steve almost stumbled. "You have a cat?" he demanded, and Bucky started to laugh.

Amazing work! I can't wait for shit to hit the fan :)

But...wait a sec, Bucky keeps talking as if he's Rumlow when he's pretending what happened to him happened to Nat. So his memory with Pierce and Rumlow...does that mean Bucky is going to tell Steve he "took a turn" with Nat? I can't even fathom what sort of emotions that would bring forth in Steve.

I absolutely loved this story from start to finish - it was great to see how Bucky was coping for himself, and the way they work it all out! Lovely writing. And glad that Steph isn't completely evil

Thank you, for the kind words and for reading. <3 Next part should be up soon!

I'm sorry you had to go through that, nonnie, but glad that the depiction here rang true to you, and that it was good or useful to see it described in a fic. Your comment means a lot to me. <3

And yes, absolutely - he's holding a lot of contradictory ideas in his head (Steve loves me vs. Steve punishes me; the rapes aren't my fault vs. there is something about me that deserves contempt and inspires abuse; Steve won't judge me vs. Steve can't know the truth) and he is so confused, although he's trying to keep it together.

Yay, I'm glad that line worked for you! :D The natural follow-up thought there - to the idea that Sam had the prior claim on Steve, and might resent Bucky - was that Steve turned out to be someone that Sam and Bucky could share. But - nope!

Sorry for the delay, nonnie, but thank you for the encouragement! Next part up soon.

IMAGINE. Oh no, I am imagining it, OP, and actually I think there's awful trash potential in a twisted version of this. I mean, when Steve and Sam finally stop fucking him, Bucky's going to be pretty down about it. What if he decided that the only way to get back the support/affection/cuddles was to reinitiate a sexual relationship, and the best way to do that was to enlist the help of his therapist and present them with, you know, a certified therapeutic plan for gradually reestablishing intimacy? They'd be suspicious, of course, but the "you don't get to tell me what I need/define my experiences for me" argument can be a hard one to counter - and they'd want to believe him. And then we'd end up right back where we started, only it'd be extra creepy because Bucky would have the guidance of a mental health professional and the associated language to talk about what he's pretending to want. (I'm not going to take it there - I don't know if I could maintain the reader's sympathy for Bucky through a deception that calculated - but I like the idea.)

[H]e has no way of predicting or preventing that day's possible slew of rapes. MORE ON THIS in the next part.

[Y]es, yes, yes... NO!! :D This was one of the beautiful things about the prompt: except for his broken perspective on sex, Bucky sees things more or less clearly, and he knows who Steve is. And that's dangerous, because while Bucky understands Steve, Steve doesn't understand the situation...

I'm glad you liked the little normal moments. I figured I had to get Sam and Steve out of the bedroom for five minutes and show that they're happier, they're healing. Your guess as to why this might be important is entirely accurate. :)

Next up: the relationship talk. (Update in two parts because character limits.)

It doesn't take him long to search the place: he is expert and methodical. Still, when he's sure he's alone, he does it again. He sits down at the bar, finally, and gets out his phone, and tries to compose his thoughts. I'm sorry would be an obvious place to start, but he's not. He didn't do anything wrong, and the creeping misery he feels can go fuck itself. So Steve knows other people use him - so fucking what? He can't help it, which makes Steve's anger unfair. And that's what he'd seen on Steve's face, wasn't it? Anger, and surprise, and hurt.

[[Steve]], he types, and then, [[Stevie. Can we]]. He pauses, because he has no idea what the fuck he's trying to say. Can we talk about it? Will you let me explain? Will you let me give you a chance to do better, be better than this, like I know you are? He doesn't have the balls. He deletes it, starts again. [[I wish you hadn't seen that, Stevie, but]]. But what? Fuck. He slams the phone down on the wooden bar. It buzzes, aggrieved, and for a second he thinks he's broken it. Then he sees the message.

[[Are you coming home]]

*

James stands outside his own door and takes a slow breath. Another. He needs to be calm enough, brave enough, to face whatever is going to happen to him now. And he's neither of those things, not really, but that's too fucking bad, because he has no choice. It's Steve, he thinks fiercely. It's Steve, which means that it is more or less, on the whole, in the end going to be all right. He squares his shoulders and turns the first key in the first lock. The second. The third.

The entryway is dark, but there's a lamp on in the living room: he can see the glow. He'd guessed right, then. There'd been a minute's uncertainty, at the bar - did home mean Steve's apartment, or his? - but of course Steve is here, waiting for him. Steve and Sam have all the keys to where he lives. (It occurs to him, belatedly, that he has a key to Steve's apartment as well. Maybe Steve will want that back.)

He takes his shoes off, hangs up his coat. It's after midnight. On the forty-five minute subway ride back to Harlem, a measure of his defiance had bled away. He's lost the Winter Soldier's trick of not allowing fatigue to touch him. If Steve is angry, James thinks, he's ready to apologize. Fair or not, he needs to fix this. If Steve wants to hit him, hurt him, make him pay, make him sorry, that's his right. James isn't brave, but he's here. That will have to be enough.

He turns the corner out of the hall, and stops. Steve is curled up on the couch, his feet tucked underneath him, the absurdly soft synthetic blanket that Sam had pronounced hideous but that James secretly loves draped over his shoulders. He looks as tired as James feels. There's a hint of redness around his eyes.

James takes in the picture Steve makes, small and huddled, and doesn't even think before crossing the room to sit down next to him. There's an instinct here stronger than his uncertainty, older than his fear. Steve is sad, and that's - unacceptable. James moves to put an arm around him, but Steve shrugs it away, so James folds his mismatched hands in his lap, and waits.

"So," Steve says, eventually. His voice is rough: the bar had been loud, and when they'd wanted to talk, they'd had to shout. "So. What the fuck was that? He wanted to? You let anyone who wants to suck your dick now, is that it? What the actual fuck, James."

Well, yes, obviously, but James knows a rhetorical question when he hears one. "I'm sorry," he says, and means it. Not for fucking the kid, which wasn't his choice, but for upsetting Steve. Turns out he's sorry as hell.

Steve scrubs a hand over his eyes. "Do you. Not want to be with me anymore? Me and Sam?"

James feels himself go cold. "No. No, that's not what - fuck, Stevie, I'm sorry, I am, but I know you, and I don't get why you're mad about this. I thought - " It hurts to say it. "I thought you wouldn't care."

Steve stares at him. Draws breath to speak, and then doesn't. Finally: "You don't understand. Why I'm upset?" James nods, helpless. He can't control the way he's used for sex, and good people don't hold you to account for that, for the things that happen to you - and Steve is the best person he knows. He always has been. When he feels the shame of it start to crawl across his skin, Steve is the voice of reason in his own damn head, the one reminding him that the hands that touch him, hurt him, leave no stain. If the real Steve reaches a different conclusion, then he's either wrong about Steve, or wrong about himself. And he's not wrong about Steve.

Steve, who's still staring, like James is a puzzle he can't quite solve. "I'm upset," Steve says slowly, "because I thought we were in an exclusive relationship. You, and me, and Sam. I guess we never spelled it out, the three of us, but - I just assumed - "

Exclusive. James's heartbeat is loud, suddenly, in his own ears. "What does that mean?"

Steve looks lost. "It means - you don't fuck anyone else. None of us do. We're it, for each other." He draws a shaky breath. "Is that. Not what you want?"

And now it's James's turn to stare, while the implications sink in. Steve is saying - he's saying he wants James to belong to them. Just them. To be theirs to use, and no one else's. He's never been off limits before, he's never been valued that much, and the thought is dizzying. Even Pierce, who'd owned him body and soul, hadn't refused to share him. You don't fuck anyone else. It's more than he could have hoped for, more than he could have imagined, so much more than he deserves.

Steve must see the shock on his face, and misread it, because his own face crumples even as he starts to say something stupid about how it's okay, it's okay if that's not what James wants or needs right now, they'll figure it out, and James has to kiss him to shut him up. "Mmph!" Steve says, and his hands come up to James's shoulders like he's going to push him away, but he doesn't, and after a moment his mouth goes soft, sweet under James's. "Yes," James gasps, when he breaks the kiss, and he means it down to his bones. "Yes, please, Stevie, that's what I want." I thought we were, Steve had said, and that means this isn't even a gift, it isn't a change in his status - it's something Steve already intended, possibly from the beginning. The casual, magnificent arrogance of it steals his breath, pierces his heart, because only Steve. Only Steve could assume that there was no need to tell him, that James would simply wear his ownership like a brand, that no one else would dare to touch what Steve had claimed as his. It also means, of course, that he has fucked up, and Steve might need to punish him for that, but he can't bring himself to care. His right hand is tangled in Steve's hair, and he lifts the left one to cup his cheek, as gently as he knows how. "I made a mistake, and I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I want to be - what you said. Exclusive. Just yours. Yours and Sam's."

And there it is, cautious at first, and then not: Steve's smile, like a goddamn sunrise. James pulls him in again, and this time Steve kisses him back, hot and fierce. It's so much to take in, and James feels shaky with relief, with the unfolding of happiness. It's an unprecedented offer of safety Steve has made him, one he knows it will take time to fully comprehend. You don't fuck anyone else. He won't have to worry, anymore, about who will decide to use him, and when, and how, because they're not allowed. He belongs to Steve and Sam, and when other people want him, he'll ignore them, the way he used to do on missions. If he can't ignore them - well. Most of the time, he thinks, a gentle no will suffice. There's no reason to be impolite. Hell, if he'd been able to tell Katie up front that he couldn't have sex, that he was in an exclusive relationship, they might have gotten around sooner to being friends. And when no proves insufficient -

He huffs an amused breath into Steve's mouth, and Steve pulls back, grinning at him fondly, his eyebrows raised. "What are you laughing at, James Buchanan Barnes?" He won't let Steve call him by his old name, because he's not that person anymore, so this is a compromise, rarely used, for when Steve is feeling especially sweet - an incantation, linking them to the past.

He ducks his head, embarrassed, unable to hide his answering smile. "Nothing. It's stupid. I was just thinking about - being yours, and - something I learned in class. That you can use reasonable force to defend someone's property. Not deadly force, obviously, the way you can to defend a person, but - " He's rambling, he thinks, but he can't seem to help it, not with this buoyant feeling in his chest, and anyway Steve loves him, and won't mind. "It's just - there's this one guy, in particular. The next time he tries something, he's going to get a demonstration. Of reasonable force." He laughs again, softly, and buries his dumb face in Steve's shoulder. "Ask me tomorrow and I'll deny it, but there are advantages to being a highly-trained Hydra assassin. It's going to be fun."

I stand before this meme a simple trashbaby with some wires seriously crossed. I watched Ant Man and read Birds of Paradise (http://archiveofourown.org/works/4486698) too close together.

What if HYDRA had gotten their hands on that shrinking technology? Sam Wilson could be made to fit into a totally normal bird cage and retrieved at little personal risk for trash purposes. HYDRA agents fighting over who gets to take him home for the weekend like an elementary class with the school goldfish.

(Could also be handy for containing recalcitrant brainwashed super soldiers when they're not on duty--stick them in a gerbil cage, maybe make them fight like scorpions. Doubles as another way to make Sam cry!)

TBH they could zap him back to normal for the trash, I'm more fussed about the decorative/helplessness thing in general than on him being bird-sized during the act.

Oh gods, this is amazing! I just found this fic yesterday and now it's updated and mmph. So good! Everything just makes me wiggle in happiness. I love how James interprets Steve's 'claim' on him and how he twists it so much. And Steve, damn it, he's so oblivious but also not. He keeps misinterpreting things in a totally reasonable way because he knows nothing, and he doesn't want to know about the past.

Thank you for writing this!

Silence. Then, gently but firmly, Steve is pushing him away. When they're eye to eye again, James sees that Steve's face has gone curiously still. Steve says, "What?"

"Aw, nothing. Stupid joke. Forget it, let's just - " He leans in for another kiss, or tries to. Steve's grip on his shoulders is unyielding.

"What do you mean, someone's property?"

"Just - what you said. That I'm yours. That no one else can fuck me. It's nice to think about, is all." James waits for Steve to smile at him again, wide and warm, but Steve's expression is frozen.

"That doesn't - that doesn't make you my - " Steve's voice is strange. He shakes his head as if to clear it. "Wait a minute. What guy, James? Who are you talking about? What do you mean, the next time he tries something?"

James manages not to roll his eyes. Steve's already caught him with a stranger's mouth on his cock - he can't be surprised, now, that there were others. Steve might not like the thought of people using his things, but James has apologized, and even if he has to be punished first, he expects to be forgiven. "He's no one, Stevie, honest. A guy at school. He's just - rough. Can't see him taking no for an answer."

Steve's eyes widen. "He hurt you?"

James feels the first prickle of unease. The flush of pleasure has drained from Steve's cheeks, from his lips. He looks worried. And James doesn't want to talk about this, should never have brought it up. The ones who hurt him, the ones he'd been childishly looking forward to hurting back, just a little, are the ones who see him clearly. (You'll do whatever I want, won't you? It's pathetic.) David wouldn't do to another person what he does to James. It had been the same with his handlers: some of them, granted, had been psychopaths, had been sick in a way that only a bullet to the head could cure, but many more had had wives, kids, people who loved them, people they would die to spare from cruelty. It was only around him that they'd turned into monsters, and he doesn't want Steve wondering what that says about him. He doesn't want Steve to look at him and see what they saw.

He shrugs, quirks his mouth to show that he's ready to dismiss it, to move on. "Not much. It's nothing to worry about. Let's - "

Steve's grip tightens painfully. "What did he do?"

Damn. This is what he gets for running his fucking mouth. He doesn't want to answer, but Steve has asked him a direct question, and his tone is - not happy. No longer playful, no longer pleased. James drops his gaze, the old habit reasserting itself, and holds very still under Steve's hard hands. "Nothing. Really. He just - likes to see blood. On his fists, on his cock. It gets him off." And then, disingenuously: "I can't help what he likes, Stevie." Let Steve think David is one of the broken ones, the ones who would torture poor dumb animals if there was no one else around to hurt. Let him think James isn't to blame.

For a moment, Steve is speechless. "I don't - " he starts, and seems to run out of air. "James, I'm so - but I don't understand what you're - " James ducks his head, submissive. His heart is pounding. This is going wrong. "How long has this - have you - "

"A few months." He hears Steve's sharp intake of breath. This is going wrong, and he needs to stop it. He needs to explain, because Steve is angry again, and James is going to have finger-shaped bruises on his right arm - but he can't risk explaining too much, showing himself for what he is. "I was working. It was crowded, and he sat down at my table. We talked for a bit, and - he wanted me." Steve is not a handler: Steve's just scaring him a little, and eliciting the conditioned response, which isn't fair to either of them. He makes himself look up, and tries to smile. "Not like I get a say, right? So I went home with him, and he pushed me down and fucked me dry, and that's how I figured out - you know, what he likes. And that's it." There: an honest account, with the damning details elided. No reason to tell Steve that it had been fine, at first, it had been fine until David saw the wrongness in him, which had its usual effect.

Steve lets go abruptly, and then Steve is off the couch altogether, looming over him, and James controls the urge to shrink back against the cushions, to make himself a smaller target. He lowers his eyes again; can't help it. Steve paces a few steps away, then wheels back. "He wanted you," Steve repeats. "Like that kid tonight?"

James nods. The lightness in his chest has washed away, leaving him leaden, dully afraid. Steve stops in front of him, and James waits for a hand to close on his jaw, force his head up. His face feels hot, and he balls his hands into fists, tells himself to calm the fuck down. His handlers had never minded if he cried: it was just something he did, sometimes, when he was hurt badly enough, and as long as he didn't make any noise, it was easy to ignore. Steve and Sam don't like it, though. He gets away with it, on occasion, because Sam has said it's okay to feel overwhelmed, it's okay as long as he still wants it, but right now he has no fucking excuse. Steve isn't even doing anything to him.

"He wanted to." Steve goes to his knees, bringing his face level with James's. "Oh god. James, oh my god." His voice is ragged. "So people want you, and you go along with it, even if you hate it, because - you're property, and you don't get a say? Is that it?"

The distress in Steve's tone is incongruous, James thinks, disproportionate to the simple and obvious truth. He makes himself shrug. "Yeah. Of course." Although the last part isn't right, actually: he goes along with it because he's nothing, and there's no alternative. Belonging to Steve, to Steve and Sam, would obligate him to defend their interests. But there's no chance to explain, because Steve has had another thought, and now Steve looks like he's going to cry. "What about us, James? Me and Sam? Was that - did you get a say in that? Or did we - "

Stop, he wants to beg. This is awful, this is hurting Steve, and he doesn't know how to fix it. Steve wants to hear yes, wants James to say it was his choice - but that can't be the right answer, that makes no sense, and he can see he's taking too long, he needs to say something and he doesn't know what. "I'm sorry," he says, because it's all he can think of. It's not enough, but it's the only thing left.

Steve's face twists. "So when you said yes, when you told us you wanted us, that was a - you were just - "

Lie. Lying. He doesn't say it, but James hears it anyway. And that's not fair. "But it's what you like, Stevie." He hears the protest in his own voice, the plea for understanding, and can't control it. "Both of you. You want me to want it, you want to hear yes, you want me to say it feels good." Steve gasps for breath, and James knows he's making it worse, somehow, and shuts his mouth on the rest of the excuses, the explanations that want to come tumbling out. "And that's - fine," he finishes, absurdly, as if it were even possible to pass judgment on what Steve wants. "People like different things."

"Was any of it - " James waits, but it's a long moment before Steve can go on. "Was there any part of it that was - real? That you wanted?"

Again, unfair, and the question makes his head hurt. The right answer is obvious, the same as it's always been, but Steve seems to be asking for something else, now, something James doesn't know how to give. "Please," he says, and fuck, he's begging, and he's not allowed. "Please don't make me, I can't - I don't know how to answer that. Sex isn't, it's not something I - it's just, people use me, or they don't." No one has forced him to articulate this before, and it feels wrong - wrong to be saying it out loud, wrong to be saying it to Steve.

Another painful pause. Then: "You tried to stop us. Last week. We were teasing you, taking turns with you, and you - you broke away. And then you said you were good, and we kept going. We held you down."

"I'm sorry!" This time, there's no disguising the edge of desperation. "I'm sorry, I know that was a - a punishment, even if you never tell me what they're for, and I should have kept still, but I just - I panicked, for a second. I didn't mean to. I'll do better next time. I can be good, Stevie, I swear, I can be so good for you and Sam - "

Steve gets to his feet, backs away from him. He is crying, now, and James would say anything, anything to repair the damage he's done, to erase the hurt and the horror from Steve's face. "I'm sorry," Steve says, and that's wrong too, Steve has nothing to be sorry for, not ever. "James, I'm so fucking sorry. We should have been more careful, we should have - " He bumps into a chair, and grabs it to keep it from falling over, and then he sits down abruptly, and covers his face with his hands.

James pulls the abandoned blanket around his own shoulders, for comfort. He feels hollow with exhaustion. This will be better in the morning, he tells himself. Whatever has gone so incomprehensibly and dreadfully wrong tonight, it won't seem so terrible. They'll figure it out. He belongs to them now. It's going to be all right.

"Listen to me," Steve says. He wipes roughly at his face. "James, listen. You are not my property, or Sam's, or anyone's. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. We should have realized - fuck, I should have realized - and I didn't, and I'm sorry, but - that's over now. Do you understand?"

Steve's voice sounds very far away. James nods.

"Right now, can you tell me - how to help? What you need? I can stay here, if you want, and sleep on the couch, and in the morning we - "

"Please," James says. "Wait." He can't have heard right, because it sounds - it sounds like Steve is getting rid of him after all, and that's not how this is meant to go. Now he's looking the enormity of that loss in the face, he can't accept it. He won't. Steve wants to know what he needs? "Come here," James says, and he doesn't give a damn if it's the right answer, the correct response. "Come back here. Let's not talk, for a minute, just - sit with me." Steve crosses the room warily, settles gingerly beside him. James wraps his arms around him, and Steve goes stiff under his touch, but James holds on. He needs gentleness, and reassurance. He needs to know that Steve still loves him. "Would you," James says against his ear. "Would you kiss me, please."

And Steve shoves himself back, cringing away from James's hands. The look on his face is a familiar one. "You don't have to do that anymore," he says, and it's there in his voice as well. Disgust. "Please - please don't do that anymore."

So, he was wrong. Not about Steve, but about himself. He really is corrupted, contemptible, and now Steve can see it too. It doesn't make Steve want to hurt him - Steve is too kind for that - but even Steve can't bear to touch him.

He shouldn't have to. "Okay," James says, and he hears the defeat in his own voice. "Okay, then I want you to go." And Steve is reluctant, unhappy, but he goes: after extracting promises about tomorrow, after asking and asking again if it's what James really wants, he goes, and James is left alone. He drags himself to bed, and doesn't sleep. In the morning, when his alarm begins its series of chimes, he turns his head to watch it. His first class starts in an hour. He thinks about getting up, showering, putting on his clothes, locking the door three times behind him and walking out again into the world where he is no one's, where anyone can have him. You are not my property. That's over now. He switches the alarm off, and doesn't move.

I'm literally crying right now, author. Sitting on my bed and crying. This is so good.

"If Steve wants to hit him, hurt him, make him pay, make him sorry, that's his right. James isn't brave, but he's here. That will have to be enough."

MY HEART.

Also Bucky being elated about being's Steve's *property* is somehow strangely adorable yet sad.

awww noooooooo

Oh my god this is so heartbreaking.

*Incoherent screaming*

GODDAMN IT STEVE. IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT AT ALL BUT YOU BROKE BUCKY DAMMIT. I don't even know what to do anymore. Except wrap Bucky in a blanket and feed him cinnamon rolls until things get better.

So good anon. So good

What's so sad is that Steve now knows, but still doesn't get it - doesn't get that feeling owned by him made Bucky feel safe, and doesn't get that not wanting the sex doesn't mean Bucky doesn't still want his love and hugs and kisses. Aw this is so awful yet so good.

Prompt!OP here. Thank you again for this absolutely lovely fill <3

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Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

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