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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Op is delighted! Whatever works for you, I'm happy either way :D

Apparently I've got a thing for brands and marks, eeep. This is just a quick thing that came to me as soon as I saw this prompt and it doesn't really cover the team's reactions. I'm looking forward to the fill that the other author!anon is working on!!

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It was a stupid mistake and all his own fault.

HYDRA would never have stood for anything close to this kind insubordination—they would have beaten it out of him long before it got this far. But his new handlers (no, goddammit, his friends, his new friends) have been so kind, so lax with the rules and… Bucky has grown complacent. Lazy.

They’re all staring at him now; they’ve got him surrounded in a horseshoe around the hospital bed, all their faces dark with anger or contorted with dismay. No means of escape.

Not that Bucky would dream of trying to run from them—this is all his own fucking fault and he deserves whatever punishment they want to mete out.

He’s still clutching his t-shirt in his hands; he resists the urge to pull it on, to cover himself up. Bucky hunches his shoulders, lowers his head. He tries to look as repentant, as acquiescent as he can. It’s not hard—he’s so fucking sorry.

Stark was the one who spotted it first. It figures. Stark is the one most tuned to logos and marks of ownership. One second he’d been joking with Clint on the other side of the bed, making some quip about getting shawarma now that the last of them was finally released from the hospital—but then he’d fallen ominously silent between one word and the next.

Bucky felt the unease prickle in his skin even before Stark opened his mouth again—

“Barnes, what the fuck is that?”

And then they’d all seen. They’d all gone behind him to look, and all Bucky could do was wring the t-shirt in his hands and wish like fuck that he’d had the presence of mind to ask them to leave before changing into his clothes. But that’s not fair. His handl—his friends had a right to inspect his body as much as they wanted; it’d been wrong of him to try to hide it in the first place.

But even more wrong than that was the fuckup he’d made of the new brand.

“Bucky, why do you have that—that on your back?” Steve’s voice is tight, like he’s making an effort to keep from yelling. He’s so generous. They all are. They haven’t even started punishing him yet, they’re giving him a chance to explain. Bucky doesn’t deserve their kindness. He lowers his head and waits for correction.

The silence stretches in the room, taut and heavy.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, finally, when he can’t stand the strain any longer. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“No—don’t, don’t apologize,” Steve says, his voice cracking, “Just tell me what’s going on.”

Bucky still can’t bring himself to lift his head, to face his punishment the way he should. He’s weak, and the shame is too heavy. He watches with lowered eyes as Steve’s hands curl into fists. Bucky can’t help it then—he flinches as the dread rushes into his gut.

“I’m sorry, please,” he says, “I know I should have removed the HYDRA mark all the way, I should have burned it off with acid—I was going to, I swear.” Bucky knows excuses aren’t allowed—but he can’t stop himself, he wants so badly for them to understand. It was a mistake, a stupid lazy mistake—not insolence, not defiance.

Bucky risks a glance up: Steve’s face looks white, stricken. He can’t believe that Bucky would repay the generosity they’ve all shown him with this level of misbehavior. Bucky has betrayed their kindness, and now they can’t trust him. They need to punish him.

Bucky curls over his knees a little more—he can’t help it, he’s weak and pathetic and fucking ungrateful. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to hold the words back, but they spew out of him anyway, the justifications, the feeble explanations.

“I know I need to be punished for it—I’m not trying to get out of it, I swear,” he says, “But please, I didn’t mean it, I never meant to make a mess of the new brand.” Bucky’s hands twitch again of their own accord and he has to force himself to hold still, to not twist and try to cover up the mangled mess at the small of his back.

The “A” he’d carved beside the old HYDRA mark is crooked and untidy. It had been difficult to reach behind himself, and working off of the bathroom mirror had been confusing—his hand kept wanting to go in the wrong direction. He’d fully intended it to be a temporary mark, he’d meant to go to Banner or Stark or one of the doctors, maybe, to get it done right. But he’d been lazy about it. Then when no one had mentioned it, it had slipped to the back of his mind and—he’d forgotten.

The shame washes over him again, he feels like he’s drowning in it. Bucky can’t believe how neglectful, how ungrateful he’s been.

“Bucky—” Steve’s voice has dropped to a hoarse whisper now. The others are still silent, they’re all still staring at him, shocked, appalled at his insubordination.

“Please,” Bucky tries one more time, “I’m so sorry. I promise, I know who I belong to.”

There’s no response—they’re clearly done listening to his bullshit—and Bucky braces for the pain to begin. When it doesn’t, he makes himself look up again.

Steve has backed away a few steps. His face is averted, and his hands are still curled into fists. He can’t even bear to look at Bucky anymore. Bucky doesn’t blame him.

He fucking deserves it.

oh nooo what does he think Tony's going to do to him??? :(((

Op - this ... This is a masterpiece anon! You convey so much horror, such depth of emotion in such a short piece. I'm speechless. This is pure genius anon.

Warning: this gets really gross towards the end. Also features self-harm. If you've read the prompt discussion you probably have some idea of what's going to happen but it's probably better to warn just in case.

____

The panic came creeping back. It took a few days, though, and Bucky was relieved. It meant that he could deal with the more reasonable crazy shit his brain was throwing at him; the moments of disassociation, the nightmares of blood and brain fluid, the scraping feeling of blurred memories trying to reassert themselves. His therapist would nod understandingly and say that this was a normal part of the healing process. Steve would hold him and tell him he was safe and loved and that none of it was his fault. But it still came creeping back.
It was early in the morning, and following one of the few nights where both Bucky and Steve had an uninterrupted night's sleep. Bucky had gone to the bathroom, saw the slight bulge in his lower abdomen, and his brain crumpled into batshit. No matter how much he tried to reason with himself - no, it's not a fucking baby, it was my bladder, I just needed to take a piss - the thought had sunk itself into his mind and wasn't going to come out. By the afternoon, even watching some program about misbehaving cats with Steve wasn't enough to distract him. If it was anything else that had gotten stuck, he would have mentioned it to Steve, but this was weird even by Bucky's standards and he was pretty sure that mentioning it would get him committed.
"I just gotta do my therapy homework," said Bucky, tossing the chip bag at Steve and standing up.
"Do you want me to -"
"I'll call if I need you."
Steve nodded, grabbed Bucky's hand and squeezed it gently before letting go. Bucky went into his bedroom, fiddled around with his therapy notebook and pen for a few minutes, and then played a "fiendish" game of Sudoku on his tablet. That was enough time to plausibly work on stuff. He grabbed the test out of his sock drawer, along with the bag he'd taken from the bag of bags, and stuffed them in the pocket of his sweatpants. In the bathroom, he did the test, put it back in the bag, put the bag back in his pocket, and went back to the bedroom. He sat on the bed and waited.
Not pregnant. The expected answer, but good. He grabbed his tablet, set up a new Amazon account, and ordered 30 tests. Just so he wouldn't have to go running out to get one while having a horrible, all-consuming panic attack.

He'd actually managed to keep a decent equilibrium for a few months. There were days when he'd really not felt like facing the world, and there were times when his brain fell out of gear and didn't settle back in quite right, and his therapist had had to drag some very uncomfortable admissions about what he'd experienced out of him, and he still wasn't a functioning human being, but he was doing a lot better. And he'd managed to get up to a week between having to do the tests.
And then Steve had to go.
It was a short mission, only one night, and they'd both prepared for it. There were prepared meals in little plastic tubs, the phone numbers of people Bucky trusted were written on the fridge and stored in his phone, lots of Bucky's favourite programs stored on the DVR, and Steve had arranged times to check in whilst on the mission.
So of course, it all went to crap.
The night Steve was gone, Bucky had one of the nightmares - doctors dispassionately examining him, poking and prodding and discussing his "progress" like he wasn't even there - and he woke up, clammy and frantic, tangled in Steve's comforter. He extracted himself, pulled up his shirt and touched his stomach gently with his metal fingers. Still flat. He sat on the edge of the bed and focused on his breathing. "I am safe. I'm in Steve's bedroom." He began listing what he could see from the dim glow of the alarm clock. It was a grounding exercise his therapist had recommended. "I can see the lamp, and the bed, and the box of tissues. I can feel the carpet. I am safe. I'm never going to be Hydra's again." I am not pregnant.
He couldn't bring himself to say the last bit out loud. It felt too dangerous.
He shuffled to his room, reached down the back of his closet and pulled out the box of pregnancy tests. It was empty. Shit. He stood there, staring through the box for a few minutes, before crushing it up and tossing it on his bed. He threw on some clothes and went to the 24-hour pharmacy, throwing the box down the garbage chute on the way. He rehearsed the story about the panicky girlfriend on the way there, over and over, but the cashier at the drug store was barely awake, let alone interested in why some scruffy man was buying pregnancy tests at four in the morning.
He got home, and with shaking hands (shaking everything, really) opened the test and did it without reading the leaflet. He'd done so many of these, he didn't need to. He pissed on the stick with some difficulty - his hands wouldn't stay steady and his mind kept blanking out or offering up horrifying visions. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but surely it was ready. He picked up the test from the side of the sink and checked it.
Pregnant
He dropped the test back in the sink. His knees buckled under him and he sat on the floor in an untidy ball, forehead pressed to his knees and hands running through his hair. He wasn't actually thinking at this point, he could feel his heart pounding and a horrible screaming static in his mind. Once that stopped, his first thought was I have to get rid of it. There was something at the back of his mind - something about wire coathangers. A prep room. Laughter. "Should just shove a rusty knife in her cunt, mate."
Bucky scrambled for the bathroom bin. It was mostly full of old toothpaste tubes and soap bottles, but at the bottom was an old disposable razor, spots of rust beginning to form on the blades. Bucky pulled his pants down, bit down on the neck of his hoodie to muffle any screaming, and felt for his asshole. (That's where they'd fucked him, so that's where the... thing was growing.) He found it, pulled it open with one hand and forced the razor in with his other. The blade caught on the rim and slicing pain leapt through his body. He bit down harder and shut his eyes. He could feel tears on his cheeks and his own whimpers against the makeshift gag. If you don't do this, it'll be worse, he reminded himself. He pushed the razor further in and turned it. More of the lancing pain rushed through him. He pulled it out, felt it catch slightly on exit, and did actually scream, dropping the fabric from his mouth as he collapsed to the floor. He looked at the blade. It was completely stained, and smelled awful. He dropped it back in the bin, pulled up his pants, and limped back to his bedroom, wincing with every step.
He lay on the bed, comforter pulled up over his face. The pain was mostly a dull ache that occasionally flared when he moved. He wasn't sure if he'd done it properly, but he couldn't face the thought of going through that again. He punched himself in the stomach with his metal hand, once, and then in rapid succession, concentrating on his lower abdomen. Eventually, he just curled in on himself, sobbing, and fell asleep from exhaustion and dizziness.

Oh god, poor Bucky. I've read about (cis) guys doing pregnancy tests as a lark and getting positive because the test was expired. Can't wait for the Steve-finds-out fallout of all this horror!

It was a short mission, only one night, and they'd both prepared for it. There were prepared meals in little plastic tubs, the phone numbers of people Bucky trusted were written on the fridge and stored in his phone, lots of Bucky's favourite programs stored on the DVR, and Steve had arranged times to check in whilst on the mission.

What a lovely image of how good at caregiving Steve is. He's going to feel awful that he left Bucky alone and this happened.

OH man, I love how much Bucky is blaming himself here. <333

Oh, this is fantastic, I could quote every line. Please say you'll write more of Bucky's delectably fucked up headspace!

Some people are well aware of that but happen to dislike Stella as a name, too. All I hear is Marlon Brando screaming 'StelllaaAA!" And it's not like female Steve is supposed to easily fit in with her peers by having a popular name.

Oh goddamn it, you beautiful trash monster. That is the worst cliffhanger. Just. Ow. After all of this. It's so plain to see that Bucky and Tony are so worn out and triggered to hell and they just need a goddamn break, but they never get it. Holy shit.

Holy shit this is great.

So help me god if this thread continues to be name arguments instead of badwrong speculation about ways hydra tortured her I'm gonna write a fill and name her Siobhan.

apparently this is my thing too; holy shit, anon, this is so good! i'm in love with your bucky voice and impressed with all the horror and pain you've packed into a minifill. nice one!

MY HEART ugggh yes

I think Steve was expecting to have to do some comforting and support when he came back, but probably not dealing with this sort of thing.

And yep, Steve's going to feel terrible, even though he did everything he could and it's not his fault he didn't know everything. (I'm still working out the details of the next instalment but so far one of the main themes is "everyone feels terrible.")

Oh wow, Bucky's headspace here is so sad and twisted. I love how he can't conceptualize any of their reactions as anything but anger and disappointment towards him. He just can't imagine they might be angry at HYDRA. Poor Bucky!

(new anon)

I've been waiting for this day to come. Someone give me Siobhan Rogers, quick. hahaha good lord the fucking mess that happens when people go into the linguistics of name frequency distribution in 1910s Brooklyn (I once spent hours looking through census data for a decent rule 63 Steve name, so I'm not judging.)

Okay, but BACK TO THE TRASH: Hydra has people working in the Red Room, but they were working on S in another Hydra branch. Hell, maybe it was even just a specialist department of the Red Room as they have lots of memory tech to work with. When that doesn't work because she keeps being a pain in the ass to work with, they pass her on to the people in charge of the Asset to see if they have any more luck.

Ideas for her torture before being introduced to Winter Soldier: isolation, kept in confinements that didn't allow her to move, sensory deprivation, given chemicals to increase sensory reception after long periods of deprivation (so that even taking a breath is agony on her nerves), lots of gaslighting and misinformation about the war and who she thought she was. They definitely wanted to keep her intact at this point, still hoping they could use her like the Asset or the Widows.

S is fairly indomitable. She is CERTAIN she was Captain America and she refuses to play ball with these guys, she knows herself. She is SURE it's a bad idea to follow along when she can't keep the story straight. Even when she doesn't know who she is, she's a pretty intractable person and she keeps fighting because if she doesn't have ALL the details, it can't be right, damn it. I love Steve holding out for a while before getting indoctrinated... in case you can't tell, haha

But once they decide to use the Winter Soldier to deal with her, how does it go? Do they tell the Soldier to pretend to be Bucky? Try to pass it off as "Do this, Stella. Look at your best friend - he's going along with it because he knows this is the only way to save the world." Is she just so confused with all the drugs they pump her with (to keep her from fucking shit up and escaping) that she goes along with it? Is the Winter Soldier standing there and going "okay this is weird, I hate long ops that require covers, ugh". Does he have to be regularly wiped and primed on his cover identity to prevent periods of instability?

ORRR is it more along the lines of: once Stella's been "rescued" for a while, she knows exactly how fucked up the situation is but she doesn't have enough freedom/resources to save both herself and Bucky. So she goes along with things because Bucky will take her down if she disobeys and HE will be the one punished? (After he punishes her, of course. Can't let his pet get taken away!)

Does she feel like she fucked up so bad that the idea of suffering year after year as she gets fucked by the shell of Bucky isn't as bad as the idea of leaving Bucky there alone?

Does the Soldier get put in and out of cryo over the years, never quite remembering her but knowing that the person he gets lead to sometimes is His? He gets to keep her as long as he makes sure she's Good.

Exactly how much body mutilation is in OPs wheel house? Because while my initial instinct would be to err on the side of "keep the Cap intact", I could see Stella being reduced to basically existing to pop out serumed kids. Crippled hands and feet, tongue cut out sort of thing.

(Okay so, I would really like to see this get filled, pls. But if no one wants to after a week or so I'll probably be down. TELL ME YOUR TRASH GUYS, what sounds interesting?)

OP here, oh man yes this is all my jam. My thought is that even though she can heal pretty fast, anything they do to her is still going to hurt and even if she got used to a level of torture pain would still be a strong incentive to not do particular things. Even if the mind-wipe chair wasn't effective for wiping her, they could crank it up high enough that it would be pretty painful. And if she had any fear of drowning from sinking the Valkyrie I think they'd be pretty quick to suss that out and there's a lot of things they could do with that. I mean they could probably figure out a way to keep her in low levels of pain all the time through drugs or something and even if she's fighting as hard as she can she's got to reach a point where she's just *tired* and it's easier to give in for a bit if it means a few hours of sleep with no pain and a blanket.

I was thinking more along the lines of the second part for the Winter Soldier, where at this point she's maybe tried to escape a few times and they've made it clear that they can always find her and she'll be punished for it and she's just tired of fighting. If she's good she gets a warm soft place to sleep and food and nobody touches her except for Bucky and even if he's fucked up and can't remember her he tries to be nice to her and it's better than nothing. Maybe by that point things are a bit hazier anyway and the longer things go on the harder it is for her to remember why she didn't want this.

My headcanon is that at least in the earlier years the Winter Soldier was out more and was a little more autonomous (based off of my limited knowledge of the comics) and I think that even if they erased the memories of her between missions they'd leave the idea that she belonged to him as long as he took care of her and she behaved. Maybe even if he couldn't remember he'd know too that she was somehow important to him and it would be extra incentive for him to behave on missions and so Hydra would keep her around because it made it easier to deal with him.

Physical mutilation actually squicks me out a bit, sorry, but I'm good with pretty much anything else.

Also wild thought out of left field: what if her kids don't end up having the serum and Hydra punishes her for it (even though they turn them into agents anyway). Maybe she ends up reaching a point where she's docile enough to start training the junior agents and a bunch of them look suspiciously similar.

Anyone who wants to write this is free to take any of this and go wild, these are just my headcanons on it. :D

All of this a million. Did I write this in my sleep?

AYRT: Oh yeah, I mean. Eventually she'd give in just because - what other option is there?

I love the idea of her being kind of confused hazy on the truth of things. It's been so long since she's had another sympathetic human being to check her version of the facts, and the people keeping her of course keep telling her she's wrong. That of course she wants this. That she'd be able to have it if she'd just cooperate.

Yeah! I could see it happening in the late 50s-early 60s. I mean, canon is all over the place with what the fuck the Winter Soldier's been doing the last however many years. So it's definitely possible he was out much more often back when! I imagine stability would be a big issue if they introduced her to his routine, though. Considering just about every WS iteration has had some weird flashbacky/dissociation stuff happen when he sees Steve. So, they'd probably be wiping him at intervals/doing lots of checks to make sure he was functioning correctly.

(Of course, one could also go extra trashy and have him occasionally realize what's happening and who Stella is to a certain extent, but he doesn't say or do anything because A) he hates being wiped; B) he doesn't think there's any other real option; and C) this set up is far better than he's used to and he doesn't want to give Stella any hope back because then she'll be insufferable and make things WORSE again.)

I LOVE THE IDEA THAT THEY WOULDN'T HAVE THE SERUM.

What kind of punishments are you thinking? Physical? Psychological? Telling the Soldier that his pet fucked up and the WS being disappointed and angry at her for 'failing' them? Taking her AWAY from the WS for a while? (So she's just had a baby taken away from her by the shadowy organization holding her and now she's isolated from the one thing she actually cared about.)

I love the idea of old lady Cap (who still looks/moves young because serum)
training all these young agents. Teaching them all her gymnastics and strategy skills... Because Stella has always had a very unique way of assessing a fight, and she's finally soft enough they decide to let her. I mean, on one hand it's kind of darkly sweet?

On the other hand... okay this might be a little squicky? What if the first time she's allowed to train them, one of the children who has been raised by the Red Room is this impetuous preteen girl. And she looks at this glaze-eyed chick who is supposedly going to teach them something and thinks, "fuck that! I'm better than her." So she tries to take Stella down first thing. Unfortunately, this is the first time Stella's been allowed to see other human beings for a very long time - and the WS is watching to make sure she behaves. And well, he gets pretty possessive about his pet. So, I mean, I'm just saying. That moment when Stella is watching this girl who reminds her so much of Bucky's sister come at her with a knife. This girl who has his cleft chin, and Stella's mother cheekbones - and then the Soldier shoots the girl through the head because No One Touches His Pet. (After that, the Soldier isn't allowed to sit in on training anymore. He's far too destructive with Red Room property.)

Okay, this is sort of an intermezzo that exploded from an idea I had for Cinnamon, which in turn comes from Agent Carter.

Ehm, warning for (non-sexual) but nonetheless awful things happening to underage girls

---

Natasha slouched down in the torture chair and sighed. She felt sweaty and tired, and not at all confident anymore in what she was about to do. She thought about how Bucky's face had lit up at the sight of spaceships on screen,how he smiled when he forgot to be sad, and even how he cried, more gently than one would expect of a man of his stature. The feeling that maybe what they were going to do was wrong, was constantly nagging at the back of her mind. She was no psychologist. This could do more harm than good. But she made a promise, and breaking it might lead him to seek out desperate solutions.

She thought about him on that bathroom floor, huddled in on himself, not knowing who he even was. No, she couldn't know all that and let him be used by strangers. At least like this she'd know no-one was going to slit his throat and bury him in their backyard.

She took to cutting her nails. It was likely it wouldn't even be necessary, but if she was going to be - as he had put it - inside him, that would prevent any damage she didn't plan for. Remembering the way he had said that sent shivers down her spine and she didn't even know why.

The funny thing was he'd probably let her shove anything in, long nails and all. She needed to be the responsible one here. As she cut her nails to an acceptable length, memories crowded her mind.

"Please, you have to help me."

Anna's expression was bordering on hysteria and she was nervously looking around if no-one could be eavesdropping. She cornered Natasha in the toilets, standing between her and the door. Natasha thought about all the ways she could punch Anna to the floor and walk out. Two - maximum three moves, she thought. But she had no quarrel with the girl.

"We're supposed to do it ourselves," she hissed.

"I know! I tried but I...I can't. Please, I don't want to disappear like Yelena did."

"You don't know it was because of that," Natasha said, hushing her voice.

"You don't know it wasn't."

Anna held up her hands. The pinky and the ring finger on her left hand looked bloody and painful, both missing their nail. The other nails were still present, though the one on her middle finger looked chipped and had blood under it.

Natasha sighed. All of her own fingertips were covered in bloody band-aids. They had been given 48 hours. She had been the first to succeed at the task.

"If I do this, you owe me a favor."

Anna nodded feverishly. Two favors. Three. Anything you ask."

Natasha sighed. She took out her own pliers, still safely in her pocket. If Teacher was going to give her tools, she would not be stupid nough to lose them.

"You need to be quiet."

"I don't know if I can."

"Then you need to make yourself quiet. Take off your shirt."

For a moment the girl looked terrified, but she obeyed. She was still wearing an undershirt, but it was enough to make her shiver in the Russian winter, even if they were inside. Natasha made the shirt into a makeshift gag.

"Open your mouth," she ordered. Anna did, terrified, and had the shirt shoved in. After that, Natasha worked quickly. She did not want to get caught. She placed the pliers on the already-chipped nail and pulled. It came out with reluctance. Anna screamed a muffled scream against her gag. Natasha didn't stop. She quickly moved to the next finger. That one took two tugs to get it loose, and she could feel Anna shaking as she got to the thumb. That made catching the nail between the pliers harder, but she managed soon enough, and tore the thumbnail loose.

There was a significant amount of blood, and it dripped on the old tiled floor. She wanted to take Anna's other hand, but the girl desperately shook her head, tears streaming down her face.

"Look, if we stop now, I'll have risked this for nothing. You'll have suffered for nothing."

She pulled Anna's other arm towards her, and while she still felt a resistance, the girl wasn't actively fighting her anymore. She tried to work quickly, pinky first, but Anna collapsed to her feet as it was pulled out.

"Get yourself together", Natasha hissed. "Regardless of what happened to Yelena, you'll never survive like this."

Natasha did not bother to help her up, she merely pulled out the two next nails, but by this time Anna was sobbing frantically, and she pulled her arm against her belly, dirtying her undershirt with blood.

She spit out the gag. "No more. No more, please."

Natasha was having none of it. She didn't just risk disobeying their handlers just to fail at the endeavor. She pinned Ann down, and pulled out the last two nails. As she was removing the last one, Anna made loud noise even through the gag. Natasha's heart sank as she heard movement in the hallway. She dropped the pliers, and ducked into one of the stalls. She knew this one hair a ventilation shaft with an loose vent. She pulled it open and ducked into it, hoping she was quick enough for the noise not to be heard.

She heard Teacher's footsteps as she came in, and tried to hold her breath.

"Anna," Teacher said, "what are u doing here, girl?"

"I'm sorry,"Anna whimpered. "I did not mean to scream. It was hard for me, but I'll do better next time."

"You do that," Teacher's stern voice sounded, "you were the last to complete the task this time around."

"I'm sorry,"Anna whimpered.

"Don't be sorry, be better."

Natasha could hear the scraping noise of the pliers being picked up by Teacher. Dammit, she thought. Now she'd lose a perfectly good tool because of someone else's stupidity.

She heard Anna leave with Teacher, still sobbing quietly. She waited a long time - maybe an hour or so - to come out of hiding. At least she didn't get caught, but that favor better be worth it.

Natasha snapped back to reality, and looked at her nails with mild disdain. No-one would ever know that they had once been torn off just by looking at them - but she did, she could still picture it. Long or short, painted or natural, she could still tell how they were slightly different than before.

No point in dwelling on it now, though. She was only stalling, letting her own memories scare her, and that would not do anyone good.

So, I just want Rollins who doesn't really like anyone that way, doesn't date or have sex, but he can still enjoy the physical sensations of having his dick touched. So anyway, someone persuades him to use the Asset's mouth.
I just want quiet, pretending-to-be-an-object Asset and Rollins using him to get off and casual objectification.

Also know as "Bucky's oral and anal trauma". Okay, just kidding, but I finally wrote the sex scene, and I hope it's adequately awful. An mistakes are my own. It's split in two for character length, but 6c and 6d are the same chapter.

----

She texted him with a time and place the next day, and his heart was beating in his chest uncontrollably at least five hours prior.

He had already cleaned himself out once that morning, but he did so again before leaving, just to be sure. Steve was actually not thrilled about letting him go on his own, he knew, but he wanted Bucky to build up some autonomy, so he actually let him borrow his motorbike.

When he arrived at the old warehouse, his legs were shaking under him, knowing that what would follow would not be pleasant. It reminded him of some of the places where he'd been kept - stored, even, like property - because that's what he had been.

He followed the instruction, making his way down in the elevator, and every heartbeat felt unbearable now. He found himself before a closed door, and he remembered what she had said before, so he stripped himself naked, folded his clothes neatly and left them on the floor. He placed his boots next to them. He debated if he should leave his hair tied, but figured naked was naked, and he did not want to incite her wrath, so he pulled it loose. This would be unpleasant enough without added punishment.

He knocked on the door, and pushed his arms behind his back, metal wrist held in his palm. His handlers had always wanted him to look non-threatening. Even if she was not really a handler, it was probably a good call.

The door opened, and he bowed down his head, awaiting instructions.

"Come in, James," she said, and he stepped forward. He dropped to his knees, legs apart like his handlers had liked it, head still bowed. He could hear her take a sharp intake of air, and wondered it that meant he was being good or bad.

When he looked up he saw she had chosen to wear her black catsuit, and had a stray thought about really liking her hair, but he pushed it away, it felt inappropriate to think like that about his Mistress. She has on gloves and was holding a bamboo cane, and he felt it brush over his cheek, then move under his chin. He knew it would be painful if she chose to beat him with it.

If she were anyone else, he might make a defiant remark now, a joke maybe - but this was a service, this was a kindness, he would not disrespect her.

"Stay like this", she ordered.

She crouched down next to him, and he was thinking this was wrong, she should not stoop to his level. She moved his hair to the side, tucking it behind his ear. It felt gentle for a moment, and he closed his eyes, letting it happen. It was small and meaningless and she probably didn't even think about it, but maybe that was enough to carry him through this.
Soon he realized what she was doing. He had been too caught up in the moment to notice before, but there was a black collar tucked behind her belt, and she carefully fastened it around his neck. Her fingers touched his skin a few times as she did so, and that was nice, he could enjoy it without feeling guilty. He did not look at her as she fastened the strap, he did not know if he was allowed. Soon - too soon - she was done, and he dared to breathe again. The collar was tight, but not too much so, he could still breathe perfectly well. She was being generous.

"Thank you, Mistress," he said.

She patted him on the head in a way that would be patronizing in most situations, but it made him feel like he did well. That was always an advantage in these situations.

"Come," she said and she nudged him with the cane. He had not been ordered to stand again, so he crawled after her, to where she was pointing. There was a bench next to one of the mirrors, and it had a collection of maybe 20 dildoes on it, arranged carefully in a row, going from small in size and girth, to intimidating, to absolutely terrifying.

"Choose one you could accommodate comfortably," she ordered.

The question was harder that she realized. In truth, he could accommodate none comfortably. His body closed up quickly when there wasn't any regular fucking, and even her fingers had been a little painful, before. In the back of his mind there was a part of him, the part that remembered playing on Brooklyn streets, that hated any penetration and wanted to punch anyone who even dared to suggest it.

Her bamboo cane came down on his buttocks, not hard enough to actually be truly painful, but enough to get his attention.

"Choose, or I will choose for you."

He started to shake. He did not want her to pick one of the larger ones - even though he needed the pain, those might leave him bleeding for hours after, and he did not want to deal with that after this was done. He had bled for days on some occasions, after parties where he'd been use as release for the men. But then, he did not want to lie to her, either. The consequences for that could be far graver.

"Please," he stammered, "clarify orders, Mistress."

He braced for another stroke that never came.

"Which part it unclear, James?"

"Define 'accommodate comfortably'."

"Are you saying none are comfortable, James?"

"Correct, Mistress."

"Get on all fours."

He did and felt her move behind him.

"Spread wider", she ordered, and he obeyed, precariously keeping his balance.

He felt her pulling apart his ass-cheeks and he felt exposed and humiliated. He had taken the opportunity to look once there, with a mirror. His asshole did not quite look...normal. It was surrounded by a myriad of scars where he had been torn open, healed by the serum, the re-torn again. He knew that she could see it now that she was looking there, the evidence of a thousand or more cocks entering him there, and the idea made him have to fight back tears. She would see and she would know. He braced for an ugly remark that never came: Well would you look at that, our boy here has been put to good use before. Let's not keep him waiting.
The memory made his cock twitch, but he tried to push it away all the same, at the same moment that her thumb pushed in.

"Ah!" he cried out, part surprise and part pain. She swatted his ass and he could feel himself clench around her.

"Good boy," she said. "I feel how tight you are. You've been obedient and have not been playing with yourself, hm?". He was getting rapidly,shamefully hard. A deep, visceral part of him wanted to be obedient. Wanted to be good for her.

"Of course, Mistress."

She pulled out of him, and he had equal instinct to tell her to get away from him, and to beg her to please put it back in.

"Pick one that will hurt as much as necessary, but not more than needed."

That was an order he could work with. He crawled back to where the dildoes were aligned, and he picked the 5th from the smaller end. It was still generous, and he hoped she would not punish him for not picking something larger, but she did specify. He held it up, offering to her with his head bowed.

"Very well," she said. "Come with me." She slowly walked to the intimidating-looking chair in the middle of the room. He crawled along, staying next to her leg. When they arrived she yanked his hair and pulled his head up. She held the back of the dildo - the suction cup- near his mouth.

"Make it wet."

He licked it as well as he could, while her fingers were still curled in his hair. He glanced up at her, trying to find approval in her eyes, but he couldn't read her. When she deemed he was done, she pulled it away, and stuck the suction cup to the chair, making the dildo stand upright and hard in the middle of it. He knew where this was going.

"Kneel before it," she commanded, and he did.

She felt him push something in his hand. It felt like a small bottle.

"Lubricate it was much as necessary," she said.

He looked at the bottle in his hand, but then put it neatly back on the ground without opening it, looking back up at her. Her look was questioning.

"This is as much as is necessary, Mistress." Then he bowed his head again, both in shame and in fear of overstepping his boundaries.

He swore he could hear something of a sigh. Did he displease her? "Very well then. I wish to see you suck it."

That he could do. He remained kneeling, but pulled himself up on the armrest, aware of rattling the chains there. He took the dildo in his mouth and slacked open his jaw, letting it slide in. He bobbed his head up and down, taking it with skill and ease. He was hard against his own belly, and he was grateful for that. She knew how to give him what he needed.

She grabbed him by the hair again, and forcefully pushed him all the way down in it, making him deep-throat the toy. He had bigger, but pushed down like this it still had him struggling for air and it brought tears to his eyes.

"I knew you could do better , James."

She pulled him off, leaving him gasping for air, then almost instantly pushed him down again.

Good. Don't fight it.

She repeated this for several minutes, but it felt longer, until the lack of air made him giddy and the violation of it left him a horny mess. When she pulled him off the last time, he collapsed on the floor, face flushed and breath ragged, panting like a whore wanting more. The cane came down on his thigh and he flinched.

"Get up," she told him. He barely could, but he tried.

"Now sit on it."

He knew that this was coming, but he dreaded it all the same. This would hurt. This would show her the true nature of his depravity. But ultimately, it's what he came for. He positioned himself above the dildo, and felt its head poke at his rectum. If he lowered himself on it now, he'd be impaled on it.

"Look at me," she ordered and he wanted to beg no, please, don't look at me, don't watch my shame, but she had every right to watch, every right to order this. Her hand came up under his chin, more gentle than he had expected, and forced his face up.

He still could not read her. Most handlers were amused when they did things like this. Or lustful. Or both. Her face looked mostly neutral, maybe with a hint of concentration. Perhaps he did not please her. Perhaps he was not capable of pleasing a woman, as he had suspected.

He dug his fingers into the armrests of the chair, and slowly lowered himself, never breaking eye contact, not disobeying her order . The first intrusion burned, and he heard himself make a pathetic wounded noise as the head tore into him. After that, it was a bit easier, but every inch going down felt like violation, filling him up to serve his shameful needs. By the time it was fully in, he felt tears on his face, and she was still looking, and maybe that was more unbearable than the pain in his ass. He felt that his body was shaking, and he was sweating. He had to look like an ugly, dirty mess to her.

Her hand moved away from his chin, and he wanted to protest the loss, bt it was not his place, and he did not blame her for not wanting to touch him.

The cane struck his inner thigh and that made him twitch, losing control, and the dildo slid deeper still. This was it, this was as deep as it could go. It felt even harder than a real cock, and just as intrusive.

"Up and down, James, you know the drill. I want to see you fuck yourself."

This was a different torture altogether. He had to do this to himself. He had to show her what a slut he really was for it.

"Yes, Mistress," he said, but he heard his own voice breaking. Pathetic, he thought.

His leg muscles were strained from holding his weight, and he was grateful for the arm rests, but gravity was not in his favor here. He started moving up and down, the last few inches down always being hardest, most painful, but he could do this. He'd done far worse. He could taste his own tears now, and he reprimanded himself for going so soft lately, since he was free. The Soldier could take fifty cocks in one night. The Soldier could have a baseball bat shoved up there without lubrication and say thank you, and he was whimpering about taking a moderately sizedsex toy. He had to get it together, or all this would be for nothing. He focused on the filling burn inside him, on how it made him hard. He must have closed his eyes, because he felt a hard smack on his face.

Your work has been a gift to mankind. No, not that memory, not him now.

"James, where did you go just now?" she asked.

"Pierce," he admitted shamefully. Her fingers dug into his hair again, pulling painfully.

"Hmm, you were a whore for him, were you?"

He nodded pathetically.

"Show me how you take cock like one, then."

There was no point in resisting this. The only thing he was resisting was himself. He fucked himself on the chair, wanton and greedy for it, the toy giving him pleasure with his pain. It lasted minutes - long minutes - and she never took her eyes off him.

"Tell me how that feels, James."

She couldn't be serious. she couldn't really want to know. It was humiliating enough as it was. But he'd obey, of course, if she wanted.

"I'm being torn open, Mistress. It hurts. It burns. I'm ashamed you can see me like this." He wanted to bow his head, but remembered he was not allowed, so he kept looking at her with tearful eyes.

"I'm going to fuck you, James. I'm going to fuck you hard," she said. "And you're going to beg me to do it."

"Yes, Mistress. Please, Mistress. Please hurt me. Please rape me. I need it."

Another slap to his face knocked the breath out of him.

"Damn right you do."

She moved back to where the dilldoes were lined up. "What do you think, James. One size bigger..." She touched the one with her fingers, then moved to another. "...or two?"

"Two", he choked out as he continued impaling himself. He hated this, but the horniness was taking over, driving him to be desperate. He needed it all, all she had to give. No point in fighting it, she already knew how pathetic he was. If she'd offer five sizes up he'd say yes all the same. He didn't care anymore if it would still hurt tomorrow, or the day after. He just needed her to fuck him.

She slid her legs through a leather harness, and attached the larger dildo at the front. She was still wearing her catsuit, and he suddenly though that was wrong, that there should not be clothes between them - that she should take pleasure from this. But maybe she did not want to be naked with him, to defile herself like that - he understood.

The toy looked large and menacing on her, making him clench around the toy already inside him. She walked back, and even without warning, or without order, she shoved the dildo in his mouth. She grabbed the back of his head with one hand, for leverage, and placed her other hand on his throat, feeling how deep the dildo was lodged inside under the collar there. It stayed in like that for a long time, and the lack of oxygen made it hard to think.

He wanted this to end. No, he wanted to please her. No, he wanted to come. No, he needed her to fuck him so hard he'd bleed for days.

He started breathing thought his nose frantically, and she must have heard that, because she loosened her grip now, fucking into his mouth. He struggled for air with every thrust, but there was something peaceful about being used like this. He did not have to think, he did not have to choose- he merely had to submit and obey. When she did finally pull out, he felt empty and naked.

"Get up," she ordered, and as he did the dildo on the chair pulled out of him with a squelch. His ass, too, felt empty now, but he was more sore than he had realized. Out of practice, as he thought. She had not ordered him to lower his gaze, so he looked at her, and he thought he saw a flicker of fear behind that calm composure. He moved his hands behind his back, making sure she saw it - the Winter Soldier was no threat to her, she could use him any way she pleased. Something did change in her face, but he wasn't sure it was for the better.

"Ass up, face down," she ordered.

He knelt down on the cool floor, crossed his arms, and rested his cheek on it. His ass remained pushed up - as it had many times, ready for use, convenient for easy access.

"Spread wider, I want to see your hole."

He had deliberately placed himself in a position where it was less visible, knowing it would look loose and used now, on top of being scarred and deformed. She knew his humiliation, and she would not let him get away with it, she'd make him expose it all before this was done. The thought made him want to bury himself into the ground, but it also kept him rock-hard. He pushed his legs apart, making sure she had a good view. He could no longer see her, but he hoped she'd be pleased, at least.

He heard a swish, and her bamboo cane came down on his buttocks, hard. It made him cry out, more from initial shock than from actual pain, but before he even recovered the cane impacted his skin again and again. She was no longer using it as a tool to guide him, but to hurt him proper. He was panting and his cock was leaking precum. Suddenly, without warning, the cane hit him right on his hole, and he howled like a wounded animal, legs collapsing under him.

"Get back up," she said flatly, 'I'm going to get you nice and tender before I fuck you."

"No, no, no...please no," he begged.

"Are you calling red, James?" he heard her ask, half in a daze.

No, he thought. She couldn't stop. He could not let her. They were so close - he was so close. The need in his loins was unbearable. All he could think about was the final release.

"No, Mistress," he said, and he crawled back up.

"Hold yourself open for me."

He reached for his ass with trembling hands - well, at least one was - and he held open the cheeks for her. The cane came down straight on his asshole again, expertly missing his fingers. He howled again, but this time he managed to stay in position.

"Good boy," she said, and she hit him there again - one more, two more, ten more, until he was crying and choking on his sobs like a child. His ass burned and the rest of him felt unreal, like it wasn't his body at all, like he felt when he was lying out in the snow, thinking he was going to die.

The beating stopped and he felt the warmth of her behind him. She grabbed his hips, and when she fucked into his beaten hole without warning, it felt like he was being penetrated by a hot poker. It was big - too big, and he felt something tear inside him. He screamed through his tears, but knew that would not stop her. This was how it should be. He was finally getting what he needed.

She was good. Not even most Hydra agents were this proficient at dealing out pain and humiliation. Her fucking was grounding him, and he was returning to himself, desperate and horny, craving every inch that tore him open, every punishment she might dish out. He moved his hands back in front of him, biting his flesh hand to stop himself from biting his tongue. He was aware of his knees chafing on the floor and of something warm and wet - probably blood - was making its way down his thighs. His mind was still in an almost dream-like state, obedient and pliable, and his half glazed-over eyes noticed drapes on the other end of the room. They were covering a mirror, he realized, but a small part had slid off, and he could see part of his reflection - the wet face with red eyes, outlined by sweaty strands of hair, being pushed forward with every brutal thrust. He only saw part of her - but she looked strong and determined holding him by the hips, the rhythm unwavering. At first he closed his eyes, not wanting to see. But only seconds later, he felt compelled to open them again, and watch his own degradation. He remembered a thousand hands, a thousand cocks - touching, hurting, forcing their way in.

"Please," he begged between sobs. "Show me what I'm good for."

He arched his back and pushed back, making sure the full length of the strapon would go in. She grunted and thrust into him hard, over and over, and he was still sobbing as she did so. Then slender fingers closed around his cock, tightly grabbing the shaft. He gasped, he didn't even see it coming. She never stopped thrusting as she worked him with her hand. He was close, so desperately close, excruciating pain and endless pleasure flooding him side-by-side

"Permission to.." he started, but it was too late, much too late, because he came all over her hand before he could even finish the sentence. The sensation was almost unbearable, and he whimpered through his orgasm, letting the waves of it flow through him - his short, desperate reward for all he had been through.

Just as quickly as it had arrived, it was gone, and he returned to an unpleasant clarity. She was still inside him and it felt disgusting and wrong and no no no and out out out. .

"Get off me," he shouted, and pulled himself free. He ducked and turned to face her, metal arm battle-ready to both protect and destroy. She, too, moved away in a fraction of a second, holding her arms in a protective stance. He made no mistake, though, those could just as fast be on his neck. She was still wearing the dildo, and it was equally absurd and menacing in this situation.

"Bucky," she finally spoke. "Bucky, it's okay. Look, I'm not touching you. You're good."

He let out a desperate breath, feeling on the verge of hyperventilation. He quickly moved his arms back behind his back, kneeling with legs spread open, head bowed.

"I am so sorry, Mistress. Please feel free to punish me as you wish."

He heard her let out a breath and when he carefully looked up. He saw he sitting down on the floor, panting. Her muscles were relaxed now, no longer in fighting mode. She slid the strapon down her legs and tossed it aside.

"I think that's quite enough for one day."

He could see now that she too was flushed and sweaty, but she still managed to be more beautiful than ever. He felt strangely relaxed, like an extreme version of how he'd feel after a heavy physical workout. And these was something else there - something small and scared, needy for affection. He wanted put his head on her lap, and beg her to forgive him until she would grant him a small mercy - a pat, maybe, a few second of petting his hair. He should not think of such things, certainly not now. Though, maybe, if he was clever...maybe he could get something.

He looked at her hand, still streaked with his semen. Any other handler would have punished him for sullying them, but she did not know those rules, he could use that to his advantage.

"I should clean that up," he said. "Please, it's not proper."

She looked confused, but he crawled over, making himself small when he knelt in front of her.

He looked at her hand, then over to her face for permission.

"You really don't have to do that."

"I should. Please."

She shrugged andah, she fell for it . He carefully took her wrist in his right hand and brought her hand to his lips, carefully licking off the stains of his own cum. Her skin was so very soft.

"Oh," she let out, and he felt her tense up. He stopped. "I didn't know you meant with...never mind, go on." He was quick about it, and efficient. He had pushed his luck enough already. He was gentle, too, though - how could he be not be, with someone who did so much for him? She relaxed again under his lips - and when he was done he felt almost guilty, stealing touches from her. But she did not know - they could both pretend it was something else.

When he pulled away, all he could see was confusion. He kneeled again, and she got up. She returned with a bathrobe and a few towels - neatly folded - which she put down in front of him. On top of the pile was a tube of the healing ointment she had given him before.

When she spoke again, there was something in her voice he could not place. "You do what you need to do. Take as long as you like. I shouldn't have hit you anywhere you can't reach, but if you need help..."

He slid his fingers between the fabric of the towels, and they were soft, so very soft.

"Thank you, " he said, still on his knees."You didn't have to..."

She pushed some of her sweaty hair back. "Yeah, I did, actually. There's a shower, if you want. Or you can go home. Or I can go home. Whatever you want."

This was strange, and unsettling. She had been so in control just a few moment before - and yes, he knew, when it was over they went back to being Bucky and Natasha, but still he couldn't help but feel like he did something wrong.She seemed to have been at ease before, and now she couldn't wait to create distance. Not that he blamed her.

He wrapped the soft bathrobe around him, feeling better being less exposed in front of her. He pressed the towels against his chest, like they could hug him back, like they could protect him from his intangible feeling of dread.

He backed away into the shower, feeling almost like he was retreating from battle.

Wow tbh I hate stuff happening to nails, so I skipped a lot of the details, but I love that this is in the story if that makes sense.

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Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

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