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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I was really doubting to put this part in, but I felt like the story needed a part of Nat's past, and I wanted it to be sufficiently awful. happy you're still reading, despite it.

Thank you so much for your kind words - and I love more in-depth comments, if you're so inclined at some point,because I like knowing the parts that people liked.

Thank you so much, I'm glad you enjoyed it!

It's a bit of a sloth fic in terms of making, but I'm glad I finally got to this part, and that people seemed to enjoy it. Thank you for reading and commenting :)

To be clear I really liked it and I think it adds a lot to the story! I just couldn't read the details.

Oh heeeeell yes. Trashy dirty talk with Steve forcing himself to relive things because He Wants to Win and he feels like the only way is to bludgeon himself against his bad thoughts. While simultaneously getting off on them.

Also: that clothing difference, yessss. If it did happen the same day, imagine Steve's laid out naked with his ass still leaking come and Bucky's still completely dressed and he's toying with Steve's hole. Maybe even gets come on his sleeve.

And Maybe Bucky is a little (a LOT) awkward about it but he'll do his best for Steve, like always. Fuck, man, I love this stuff. Can never get enough of this trope.

Rumlow knew from the minute he set eyes on Pierce that he was the kind of guy who kept dogs. Not yappy apartment-sized ankle-biters that cost just as much as his suits or some five-bedroom, two-point-five kids, suburban squirrel-chaser that was dumb as a post, no, Alexander Pierce was the kind of man who ran hunting dogs.

Every so often he’d bring one into the office, all sleek red fur, alert eyes, and quiet as a ghost. It’d sit back on its haunches patiently if Pierce stopped for longer than a moment in one place, face upturned to its master.

“Well-trained bitch you’ve got,” Rumlow had commented once.

“They have to be. The breed has a habit of playing deaf,” Pierce told him. He’d patted the dog fondly on the head, scratching lightly behind its ears and making the tags on its collar jingle softly. Its tail swished and thumped against the floor. Pierce half smiled as he declared: “I do like a challenge.”

Later, the first time Rumlow saw the asset pulled out of cryo and put on a leash, he believed it.

Barnes hated the leash. It’d go on and he’d go nuts, eyes rolling and wild, metal hand gripping around that thin strip of leather while the terrified technician on the other end of it was busy shitting his pants. Before long the techs started using the leash to haze the lab’s newbies, and Rumlow found it fucking hilarious every goddamn time, his chest heaving with silent laughter watching egghead after egghead lose it the minute that clip went on the collar. Not that Rumlow was immune, or too much of an asshole to admit that hell yeah, he’d flinched once or twice seeing Barnes like that, but they’d made the asset do a lot of things he hated and so far the programming held up. A collar around his neck like an animal was child’s play compared to a few days in a cell with a spreader bar and a spider gag.

Maybe that’s why Barnes took to it, ended up all complacent and docilely kneeling at Pierce’s side, face forward and expressionless while HYDRA’s top muckity-mucks pored over plans and maps and whatever latest droning suggestions Zola had for them.

Rumlow rolled his neck from side to side until it popped satisfyingly and shifted his weight slightly from heel to toe and back again. He never knew why the fuck they insisted on having STRIKE in the room in addition to the asset. One guard dog should’ve been enough.

“Gentlemen, we need to agree on something,” Pierce urged. He eased away from the conference table, lowering a hand to the top of Barnes’s head, stroking his hair and tucking the dark strands behind Barnes’s ear so he could run his fingers there, along the pale shell of cartilage and then down, towards the heavy muzzle that fit snugly against his jaw. Rumlow’s pants tightened a bit thinking about that muzzle coming off and the vicious, useless glare Barnes gave anyone who put something in his mouth. Maybe when Pierce was done having his fun--

“I’ve made my case,” Pierce added, when the hushed arguments around the table didn’t reach consensus. His hand now cupped Barnes’s cheek and chin, and Barnes was fucking leaning into the touch, his throat going taut and the bob of his adam’s apple faintly quivering before he swallowed. “Either some of you abstainers and no-votes need to agree with me, or you’re going to have to do some very serious convincing.”

Rumlow’s least favorite man in the room was Walters, a pig-faced bureaucrat who always smelled faintly of sauerkraut. Walters cleared his throat and Rumlow could imagine the hot prickle of sweat that must be starting up under the toupee glued to his head, but the man had the balls to be the only opposing voice to speak up. “We’ll need more time,” Walters said.

If the flick of Pierce’s fingers was subtle, its effect was not: Barnes was up off the floor in an instant, muzzle falling away, the edges having left an angry red indentation in his skin. He snarled and snapped, blunt teeth no less menacing, and only Pierce’s fist now holding securely to the taut length of his leash kept him from tearing off Walter’s pig nose and spitting it onto the table.

Rumlow flexed his fingers where they rested at the low of his back. He ached to hold that leash, ached to hold it and let it release: to feel the leather slide free and watch Barnes tear another man’s throat out with his bare teeth. Christ, but it’d be good.

There was murder in Barnes’s eyes, but he stayed in place at the length Pierce allowed him without straining. That his hands were gloved was the only thing that saved the glossy surface of the table from gouges. The other dissenters politely ignored how Walters kept his head turned away and his eyes pinched shut. There was spittle on his face. The feeble skin of his cheek quivered as he did his best to keep it together.

“You have a day to reconsider your positions,” Pierce said. He reeled Barnes back in, and the way Barnes leaned against Pierce as he went back on his knees--

Rumlow was too well trained to be distracted by the maneuver, but he definitely took note.

“We’ll discuss our options,” Walters said carefully, and the meeting adjourned.

UNF omfg this is so fucked-up hot and AMAZING. I LOVE stories where Bucky is treated/trained like a dog. And god, my imagination is going on overdrive thinking about how exactly Bucky got from hating the leash and making techs shit their pants to kneeling docily by Pierce's feet and leaning into his touch jfc. Also, I loved that line at the end: Rumlow was too well trained to be distracted by the maneuver, but he definitely took note. So Rumlow is basically admitting that Pierce trained him, too (albeit in a different way). SO TRASHILY DELICIOUS. ;)))

FJFJDJSJSJAKDBFJAJ I'm reading this at work and straining to maintain a straight, not-flustered face. This hits like, all of my power- and collar-related buttons. Hits them hard.

I'm a sucker for Pierce controlling the fuck out of Bucky, and I'm a sucker for Rumlow, so yeah, this hits all the right buttons. Great job!

I understand! Thank you for reading and commenting, in any case :)

Torn cardboard and dried out glue stick trash SCULPTURE for this fill of trash beauty.

Seriously , HHHHHNNGGGh LEASHES. asdfghjk

Does Bucky have a trashy past too? I'd love to see the angst of him coming to terms with being in the position of the abuser, even though it's consensual.

Seeing as how actual CATWS gay porn is a thing now (thank the gods), clearly HYDRA need to make their own movie with Steve.

Maybe it's some HYDRA leftovers using a captive Steve to drum up some bankroll money. Maybe they have Steve in a cell in the run up to Insight's launch and decide to make the best Christmas Party movie ever.

Lots of emphasis on them deliberately degrading Steve; being made to hold/being tied up in the same position for hours, closeups of him stretched open in the filthiest ways, facials, closeups of his face.
Also lots of emphasis on the HYDRA guys having the time of their lives.

"Seeing as how actual CATWS gay porn is a thing now" ... What? Really?! Could you point me to this marvel?

men.com has started a 'parody' series, featuring Steve, Bucky, Nick Fury, T'Challa and a male Sharon. ...sadly no Rumlow, though. I think there are downloads lurking out on Tumblr somewhere.

IS THIS REAL LIFE?

Yes. I've seen a still. The WS costume is OK, but he lacks the metal arm. Speculation is that some :ahem: other appendage is metal instead.

List of things I didn't know I needed: Bucky with a metal dick.

OP:

AHHHHH!!! (!!!) :D

Well... Okay, so I was gonna give you a list of favourite my gal on gal trash, but I literally don't have any bookmarked apparently (since it's so dang rare, argh). Most the stuff I know of is xeno - which has entirely different dynamics.

I'll hunt around! I'm certain there's stuff out there I can give you. And no pressure if you end up not wanting to do it. Just the thought that you might possibly want to makes me happy, haha!

Alright, let's make it happen. HYDRA gives the Winter Soldier a metal dick. Run with this however you'd like, author anon. Anything is fair play.

Unbetaed, any mistakes are mine because no one else was involved. :) Also, I can't think of a title, so if anyone has ideas, let me know.

---

Thank God that debrief was over. Rumlow cracked his neck as he walked down the hall of the Colorado base, on his way out to find something to eat that wasn't goddamn MREs. After a three-week mission that had turned into six, he never wanted to choke down a veggie omelet again. He wanted a burger, and he wanted it two hours ago. It was a ten-mile drive down a twisting mountain road to the nearest town, but he'd make it in five minutes to hit the diner that made the best onion rings that had ever existed. His mouth was watering. A burger, onion rings, a beer or five...

Fuck. He felt in his pockets. He’d left his wallet in his locker before the mission, and now it was eight floors down and halfway across the complex. Rumlow quietly swore again and reversed direction, ignoring the lesser Hydra agents who jumped to attention apprehensively as he strode to the elevator and glared at the tech until she ducked out and let him have it to himself.

It wasn't in his locker. Fuck. Had he brought it on the mission? He must have. Had he put it in the rifle bag? The armory was up on two, and there were few things Rumlow hated more than having to retrace his steps. Fuuuuuck. His fingers itched to punch something as he paced back to the elevator and pushed the button harder than he probably should have.

The armory was at the back end of the building, but the wallet was in the bag, right where he’d left it. Goddamn, if he’d known it was there he could have used it to buy vodka, or something to eat other than goddamn MREs. He put up with the smirk on the agent who'd been stuck putting away everyone else's gear, and made a mental note to have the man reassigned to bathroom duty or something equally revolting. No one looked at the STRIKE team leader like that. Rumlow had run too many ops and kissed way too much ass to get where he was, and the fact that he was still alive and still in charge meant that no one got to judge him.

Rumlow hit the button for the elevator. The garage was in the bottom of the complex, at the base of the mountain. Cars could come and go without raising suspicion, though probably even the most conspiracy-minded wouldn’t suspect there was a secret thirty-level base hollowed out of the mountain.

STRIKE leader or no, it didn’t make the elevator come any faster. He hit the button again, and waited. And again. And again, his ire growing each time until he smashed it so hard it stuck. The button gave out a mournful beep and the light slowly went out.

“Goddammit,” Rumlow ripped out, and ignored whatever looks he was getting. He’d take the motherfucking stairs, Jesus, today was going to kill him.

Going down the stairs three at a time took the edge off his anger. He could almost taste those onion rings. Level nine, level thirteen, level twenty, level what-the-fuck?

The stairwell door on twenty-five was propped open with a shoe. It wouldn’t have been a big deal upstairs; people ran up and down a few flights all the time, just to avoid those fucking elevators. But twenty-five was closed, waiting until they needed to expand further down. Anyone on this floor was doing something they didn’t want HYDRA to know about. And if HYDRA didn’t know, Rumlow needed to find out.

The floors down here were concrete, the walls unpainted cinderblock. Some joker had scrawled a HYDRA octopus in spray paint under a weak emergency light. Hilarious. Rumlow walked carefully down the hall, on high alert for whoever was operating down here.

He was two-thirds to the other side of the complex when he heard grunting. Rumlow froze, ascertained the direction, and crept towards the noise. Around the next corner was an open door, dim light beaming onto the floor. The grunting grew louder, interspersed with groans and words he couldn’t make out. Rumlow rounded the corner and froze.

What. The fuck.

The chair in the center of the room was occupied and humming, a familiar tangle of dark hair visible from behind. On top of the asset was Coburn, grunting at each thrust, his hands clamped tight to the asset’s arms. He looked up in alarm. Rumlow didn’t even have to think; he strode in and pulled his sidearm. “You were warned,” he said, and shot Coburn in the head.

Coburn’s body jerked and crashed to the floor, face obliterated. Rumlow sighed. “Hands off the asset,” he said to the corpse. “You fuck him, it fucks up his programming, and he’s more valuable than you are. I told you that.”

Rumlow had had his eye on Coburn for STRIKE, once upon a time, until he’d caught Coburn about to feed cock to the asset, and realized that anyone that dumb would get half the STRIKE team killed on his first mission. Coburn was stupider than Westfahl, and that was saying something. But at least Westfahl could be trusted to follow orders.

Who had even let Coburn get near the asset, much less take him away? The asset was naked, no clothes to be seen, so Coburn must have snatched him right before he was scheduled to be hosed down, and that was probably Westfahl. If Westfahl wasn’t so good in hand-to-hand, Rumlow would shoot him in the face too.

Fuck. Rumlow rubbed his temples. The first order of business was to get this cleaned up. Pierce might understand, but Rumlow didn’t want to test that. Idiot or not, Coburn had his place in HYDRA, and Rumlow had no idea what projects he might have been involved in. If Rumlow had fucked up something Pierce was running, he’d probably be right beside Coburn with his own brains blown out. No, he needed to deal with this on his own, and quietly. Maybe Coburn had run off. Rumlow could make that story work.

Not without help, though. Fuck. Rumlow tapped the comm at his ear and set it to STRIKE’s private channel. “Rollins. Get down to twenty-five.”

Murphy’s voice came back through the comm. “Need something, sir?”

“Murphy,” said Rumlow, as patiently as he knew how. “If I needed you, I would have said your name. I want Rollins. Now.” He’d deal with Westfahl later.

“On my way,” came Rollins’ terse voice. Rumlow shut off the comm and looked at the asset, who was staring at the ceiling. Blood, brains, and bits of skull were splashed across his face and chest. He didn’t seem to notice. There were times Rumlow envied that detachment, and now was one of them.

“Who else knows you’re here?” he asked. The asset’s eyes flicked to him, then back to the ceiling. “Answer the question, soldier.”

“No one.” It almost sounded like a question. The asset’s voice was lighter than it was in the field.

“You sure about that?” There were only so many people Rumlow could disappear before it started looking suspicious, but the asset gave a tiny nod. Fine. Rollins would clean up the blood, they’d get the asset back to his cell, and once the body was safely disposed of, no one would know.

“Christ, you’re a mess,” Rumlow said to the asset, who didn’t reply. First thing was to get him up and scrubbed down. Rumlow looked around for the controls. This chair was an old one from the seventies, tan vinyl over steel, solid in a way carbon fiber never seemed to be. It didn’t tilt or move like the newer ones; it was a brick of a thing, back inclined at a 135 degree angle and armrests solid blocks to the side. The clamps were thicker too, and there were more of them-- head, neck, upper arms, forearms, chest, waist, thighs, Jesus, where wasn’t he cuffed? They must have needed it back then. His legs were separated, locked to the edges of the chair just far enough that Coburn had managed to worm his way in between them. His dick had left a slime trail across the asset’s thigh when he fell to the side.

There was the computer, state-of-the-art circa 1980 or so. Its green prompt blinked at him from a twelve-inch monitor that must have been huge back in the day. Of course, back in the day was before Rumlow’s balls had dropped, so he had no fucking idea what he was supposed to do with this thing.

Coburn had obviously powered the chair up enough to get the clamps to close, but the halo pieces were still separate, one at each corner of the wide headrest. The humming was going to drive Rumlow bugfuck nuts in exactly three-point-seven seconds if he didn’t get this dealt with. He shot a look at the asset, but the soldier kept his eyes straight front as if he didn’t know Rumlow was there.

And then they flicked. Just once, over to the side and back.

“Where are you, chief?” came Rollins’ voice down the echoing hallway.

“Shut the fuck up,” Rumlow hissed. “Get in here.”

Rollins came in and took in the whole situation at a glance. “Shit.”

“You’re goddamn right,” Rumlow said. “We gotta get him cleaned up and get this asshole thrown in a ditch before anyone notices. What do you know about this old computer?”

Rollins frowned. “Boss, why would you think I know anything about old computers?”

“Because you’re second in command and it’s your job to know the shit I don’t,” said Rumlow. “Don’t tell me you don’t know. Don’t tell me that.”

Rollins looked at the screen, poked a few keys, and shrugged. Rumlow ground his teeth. “Then who does know?”

“Maybe Murphy?” Rollins hazarded. “He knows all kinds of worthless shit.”

“Fine. Someone’s got to clean the asset up anyway.” Rumlow sure as hell wasn’t going to scrub him down and wipe his ass for him. He tapped his comm. “Murphy, down on twenty-five.”

“On my way, sir!” Murphy sounded entirely too cheery. Rumlow wanted to curse him on general principles.

“So.” Rollins stood back and surveyed the body. “He was…”

“Sticking his dick where he shouldn’t.”

“You think he was planning on wiping him afterwards?”

“Probably. Coburn was always an idiot.”

“An idiot who at least knew how to work the computer,” Rollins pointed out. Rumlow glared at him, then at the asset. The universe was just fucking with him now.

The stairwell door slammed open, and footsteps raced down the hall. “Sir!” came Murphy’s voice. Rollins went to the door and waved him in. Murphy’s cheerful look vanished when he saw the body. “What happened?” he asked.

Rumlow was getting really tired of that question. “What does it look like?” he snapped. “Get over here and see if you can get this chair working.”

Murphy took the computer in at a glance. “Sir, this is really old tech--”

“I know it’s old tech! Tell me you can get it working.”

“I can try. It’s older than I am.”

Rumlow pinched the bridge of his nose. All he’d wanted was a burger and a beer.

“Hey,” said Murphy, sounding cheery again. Rumlow opened his eyes. “I don’t know this exact system, but it looks kind of like DOS, which I sort of know.”

Rollins rocked back on his heels and gave Rumlow a satisfied nod. Rumlow raised his eyebrows. They weren’t out of the woods yet.

The asset took a deep, shuddering breath. Rumlow turned to look at him, and his eyes cut to the side again. Rumlow took a step forward. “What?”

The asset didn’t respond, but his eyes met Rumlow’s, slid away, and flicked to the side once more. “Jesus Christ,” said Rumlow. “Soldier. Tell me what’s your problem.”

The humming intensified, and the halo pieces began to close. The asset’s face went white and he began to hyperventilate. “Murphy!” Rumlow barked. “Shut it off!”

“I’m trying,” said Murphy, typing frantically. The asset began to pant, his mouth open and his eyes rolled to the side as far as they could go with his head immobilized. Rumlow followed his gaze and put everything together. “Rollins, find him something to bite down on.” They didn’t need the asset to crack his teeth or bite off his tongue on top of all of this.

Rollins tore through the drawers, and in five seconds tossed a hard rubber mouthguard at Rumlow. He caught it and shoved it in the asset’s open mouth just as the halo closed around his head. “Murphy!” Rumlow shouted. He didn’t know what might happen, but if this ancient tech destroyed the asset’s brain, they were all dead.

“I’m sorry, I’m trying!” Murphy’s typing intensified. “I don’t know what I-- okay. There. Okay.” The humming stopped, leaving only the asset’s ragged breathing. “Well. Now I know what not to do.”

Rumlow was cursed to be surrounded by idiots.

“Just give me a couple minutes,” said Murphy. He pulled out his phone and eyed it sadly. “If we weren’t so far down, I could look up the commands. I know the basics, sort of, but there have to be forums--”

“No,” Rumlow snapped. The last thing they needed was for someone to track Murphy’s online activity and put two and two together.

Out of nowhere, there came a clicking sound. Rumlow’s eyes met Rollins’ and he jerked his head to the door. Rollins had the same idea, moving at the same time as Rumlow’s silent command. Rumlow thought rapidly. If it was someone low enough on the roster, they might be safe. Two bodies could disappear as easily as one.

Rollins looked back and shook his head. Murphy had stopped typing, but the clicking continued. Rumlow looked around the room for a camera, although there wouldn’t be anything he could do about it if there was one. The damage had already been done.

Murphy frowned and pointed at the asset. Rumlow looked. The asset’s eyes were closed and the mouthguard was moving rhythmically. Rollins broke the silence. “The hell?”

The asset’s eyes snapped open. The clicking stopped. He looked around the room, closed his eyes again, and resumed sucking on the mouthguard.

“It’s his pacifier,” Murphy said with an incredulous grin. Rumlow couldn’t fucking believe it. The asset, HYDRA’s greatest killing machine, sucking on his mouthguard like a toddler. Rumlow sighed the sigh of the longsuffering. “Get him out of there,” he ordered, and turned to Rollins. “Get him cleaned up enough to move him. We’ll hose him down afterwards.”

“I’m not--” Rollins started, but backed down at Rumlow’s glare. “This is Gillette’s job,” he muttered.

“Paper towels are in the bathroom,” Murphy said absently, tapping on the keys. Rollins shot him a black look, but Murphy didn’t notice, and when Rumlow took a step toward him, Rollins rolled his eyes and went to hunt down a bathroom.

The asset was still sucking, the click less obtrusive now. His head was still surrounded by the halo, and the clamps held secure, but he had stopped struggling and the tension had left his body. Rumlow looked closer. The asset’s right hand was moving, thumb circling the pads of his first two fingertips. Over and over it slid, and between it and the mouthguard, the asset almost looked happy.

The two halves of the halo began to hum again, and instantly the asset stiffened up. But they pulled away this time, retracting into their housings. The clicking stopped, and Rumlow watched the asset’s throat work as he swallowed hard.

“Awesome,” said Murphy. “Now if I can just… hah! Yes!” There was a snap, and the clamps around the asset’s ankles sprang open.

“Fine,” said Rumlow, hiding his relief. “Get the rest off him.”

“I don’t know,” Murphy said, “I mean, that should have worked for all of them.”

“I swear to God, Murphy, if you don’t have him out of there in the next ten seconds--”

Murphy typed frantically. “R-2,” he muttered, “R-5, okay, no, R-2.5.” Another snap. The arm restraints popped open.

For the first time in this whole clusterfuck, the knot in Rumlow’s stomach loosened. Rollins came back with an armful of paper towels and that was even better. He started wiping the asset down. The asset sucked his mouthguard, his eyes half-closed and his whole body relaxed. Snap, snap, one by one his restraints released. When he was free, his eyes closed entirely and he sighed.

Rollins wasn’t gentle, but the asset didn’t seem to notice. The mouthguard clicked away as Rollins spat on the paper towels and scrubbed at the drying blood. It smeared into a red stain down the asset’s cheeks and across his chest. He looked less like HYDRA’s secret weapon and more like a kid caught fingerpainting himself. His peaceful expression didn’t change, even when Rollins wadded up a paper towel and used it to scour Coburn’s Last Jizz out of the asset’s crotch and asshole. Rumlow hoped it’d been fucking well worth it for Coburn.

“And, there.” Murphy hit enter.

The humming that had been torturing Rumlow’s nerves finally died. “All right,” he said, hiding his relief. “Let’s get him back upstairs. We’ll leave this motherfucker here till there’s time to smuggle him out and throw him off a cliff.” He reached for the asset, whose eyes twitched open. “Spit it out and let’s go,” Rumlow said.

He held out his hand. The asset looked at it, then up at him. He sucked it once.

“I’m not fucking around, soldier,” said Rumlow through his teeth.

The asset sucked one more time, his eyes fixed on Rumlow, then spit it out into Rumlow’s hand. Rumlow tossed it on the pile with the paper towels and Coburn’s dead body. “Move,” he ordered the other two.

Twenty-three flights took a lot longer going up than coming down. Even the asset was panting a bit when they reached the top. Rumlow checked to see the coast was clear, then waved them into the hallway. The locker room was the second door on the right; Westfahl’s worried face met them when they came in, then brightened at the sight of the asset.

“No,” said Rumlow sharply before Westfahl could say anything. “You are in serious shit, you have no idea how much. How the fuck do you lose a naked assassin, Westfahl? Explain that to me. It better be real fucking good.”

“I,” Westfahl started. “No, hang on, Coburn said you wanted him for debriefing--”

“Why the fuck would I need to debrief him, you idiot? I was there!”

That obviously hadn’t occurred to Westfahl.

“I told you to get him cleaned up and put away. If I’d changed that order, I would have commed.” Neither had that. At least Westfahl had the grace to look ashamed. “Scrub him down,” Rumlow said. “Thoroughly. Inside and out, I want him clean.”

Westfahl looked at the asset, saw the faint smudges Rumlow hadn’t been able to rub away, but said nothing more than “Yes, sir.”

Rumlow turned to go, thoughts turning back to his beer and his onion rings, but a hand caught his sleeve. “Thank you,” came that light voice. Rumlow turned back. The asset’s attention was solely fixed on him. “I won’t say anything.”

Rumlow blinked once. “What.”

“I won’t tell,” the asset said. And wasn’t that just wonderful, wasn’t that fucking perfect, that the Fist of HYDRA thought he could keep secrets just like a real boy. Shit. Rumlow hadn’t wanted to go there, but the asset had forced his hand.

“When you’re done,” he said to Westfahl, “get him to technical and get him wiped. He’s been glitchy since we came in.”

“Yes, sir,” said Westfahl, on his best behavior. “When’s he going back out, Commander?”

The asset’s eyes hadn’t left Rumlow’s face. A betrayed expression flashed across his face, then there was nothing but a perfect blank. “Within the week,” said Rumlow. “Waiting on orders. Clean him, wipe him, put him in a cell. Think you can handle that?”

“Yes, sir,” said Westfahl again. Rumlow twitched his sleeve out of the asset’s hand and left. There was a body waiting for him to toss, and a burger out there waiting for him, and a whole lot of beer, and then maybe half a bottle of whiskey to burn the memory of this whole fucking day out of his brain.

After HYDRA wins and The Asset doesn't need to be a weapon for them anymore, they decide to put his arm to better use.

Namely retrofitting it into a fucking machine that they proceed to use on a captive Steve. Sometimes they have the hand hold a series of toys that the machine slowly pumps in and out of him, and then there are the days when they just go wild and let it fist him senseless.

—It doesn’t count—

The metal bar holds her legs spread wide, and the men are holding it pulled above her, bending her almost double and exposing… everything, every private part of her. They’re laughing, laughing and the sound is heavy, dirty, suffocating, filling every ounce of air in the close, dingy room. Stevie can barely breathe.

—It doesn’t count—

If it was anything else, if it was anyone else, maybe Stevie could block it out—could handle it, could cope.

But: it’s Bucky.

It’s Bucky—her Bucky—kneeling between Stevie’s obscenely spread thighs. It’s Bucky’s dull, flat eyes on her face. It’s Bucky’s cold metal fingers touching her, stroking her, rubbing her in secret places Stevie’s never shared with anyone.

Bucky is as naked as she is—the two of them naked and vulnerable and glaringly female in a room filled with fully-dressed, armored, armed men. Bucky’s dark nipples are puckered, sticking out of her small breasts, tight with the coldness of space around them.

Stevie squeezes her eyes shut, bites back the next whimper—of agony, of awful, unwanted pleasure—that threatens to escape her throat.

Bucky is still stroking her clit. Her metal fingers are unrelenting, unyielding, remorseless and steady in their rhythm against Stevie’s delicate, sensitive flesh.

—It’s not sex if you don’t consent—

Lick the bitch, the men tell her, and Bucky bends down, lowers her face and—oh God—Stevie feels her wet, hot tongue. It’s on her, against her, almost inside her and Stevie twists, writhes, bucks. Horror rushes through her, lurching and raw. Please, she thinks, please.

Fuck the bitch, the men tell her, and Stevie feels the cold metal fingers slide down an inch, start to—probe. Stevie’s body clenches, reflexive, defensive. Her thighs strain to pull together, to close—but they’re held fixedly immobile, spread.

The laughter around the room picks up volume, vehemence.

Don’t, Stevie wants to whisper, to scream; don’t, she wants to beg—but she doesn’t. She presses her face into her bicep, holds her breath. She bites back the nausea, the bile, the gasp. There’s a moment of stillness, of awful, agonizing anticipation, then—

—It doesn’t count, you’re still a virgin—

The cold, hard, unnatural fingers push into her—coldly, bluntly, rudely—and it hurts (oh God it hurts) more than she thought it would, more than she’d imagined. The pain goes on and on, burning and invasive and relentless and wrong.

There would be tearing, Stevie knew, flesh would give way and there would be bleeding—but something’s wrong, it shouldn’t be this lasting, this tight and painful and unremitting.

—It doesn’t count, it’s rape—

Bucky had always laughed at her for waiting. Stevie, believe me, nothing in this goddamn world comes close to the feel of a man between your thighs. Her eyes wicked and her face shining with pleasure—and even more so when Stevie’s skin burned with embarrassment (with bashful pride) at her best friend’s audacity, her irrepressible sass.

Bucky never cared, never minded, never gave a shit about anything as pedestrian as reputation. Bucky was never a good girl; she never did anything other than what she wanted. She grabbed life with both hands and squeezed every bit of pleasure she could out of living. She laughed and smirked and winked and Stevie could bask, could live off the unabashed joy shining from Bucky’s—her Bucky’s—irrepressible face.

Bucky’s face is blank now. Her eyes are dead.

The men tell her to spread her knees, and she does. They tell her to arch her back, show them her cunt, and she does. They tell her to keep her eyes on Stevie’s face, and she does.

One of them shoves himself into her—Bucky’s whole body jerks with the violence of the entry—but she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shudder, doesn’t blink. She keeps her unseeing eyes on Stevie’s face and her tongue never stops licking, her metal fingers never stop thrusting. Her rhythm never falters.

—Rape doesn’t count, you’re still a virgin—

They tell Bucky to give it to her both ways and Stevie doesn’t understand—she can’t process the meaning of it past the pain, the shame, the horror—until she feels Bucky’s other hand. Until she feels Bucky’s flesh fingers brushing her again—lower, below.

Stevie can’t hold back the next whine, low and miserable and animal-scared, as Bucky’s finger pushes into her—in another place, an awful place. That other entry into her body than can—shockingly, appallingly—accommodate penetration. God oh god please let this be a nightmare.

They tell Bucky to give it to her like a pro—like she can take it—and Stevie feels more fingers pressing into her. She can’t even tell where anymore; it’s all a burning, cleaving, merging agony at her core.

—It doesn’t count, it doesn’t count—

The knuckles slide in, and Bucky’s whole fist is inside her now. It jerks inside Stevie in time with the harsh, animal thrusts that are wracking Bucky’s body.

Bucky still doesn’t object, still doesn’t twitch, still doesn’t cry. Her dead, fixed gaze doesn’t flicker from Stevie’s face.

—Please, please don’t let it count—

Stevie screams.

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