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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

This is really cool!

:D Well, I saw the prompt this morning and suddenly it happened? Mostly I was trying to figure out a way to make the "pre-TWS" aspect of it work -- it meant that Steve couldn't recognize Bucky, doesn't know HYDRA is still around, and it also meant that Steve has to be alive and going strong heading into CATWS. Which basically resulted in a lot of gore. I'm sorry -- I should have confirmed if you're okay with bleeding eyeballs and gutfucking. ^^;;

Thanks! I can't quite decide if Bucky never says anything because:
a) he has one of those voice/throat control things mentioned in an earlier prompt
b) he just isn't used to speaking out loud, especially not when there's a mission, and not to other people
c) a part of him recognizes Steve enough to decide that he doesn't want Steve to see/hear him like this

so.... take your pick? :D??

I'm so okay with that stuff I'M the one usually worrying if it's too much LOL

oh whew. guro usually squicks me a bit, especially when it gets super detailed and squelchy, but light guro is funtimes! :)

(Especially when the boys heal so well from it.)

[OP] Thanks so much!! This is my first fill so I'm really pleased people are enjoying it. I hope to have #5 done tomorrow (maybe #6 too if I hurry) so we'll see if that makes a kink bingo. }:)

This is so cute, in a fucked-up way.
Especially the wound-licking part.

teehee. Well how else are you gonna keep your big fluffy teddy bear clean when you don't have water handy?

Just chiming is that this is a wonderful fill.

Aaaahhh that was so good! You really made use of the brevity; there's a huge amount of character in everyone. And Bucky, poor gentle, broken Bucky, silently looking after his man and probably having no clue in hell why.

This was awesome!!

Bucky's laughing. It's his mostly silent laugh, located all in his loose, open grin, the jerk of his shoulders, and jump of his abdominal muscles. Steve says, "What? What did I do? What, am I not intimidating anymore?" He pulls Bucky's head to one side by his hair, hard, and twists his nipple, less hard.

Bucky closes his mouth, but the laughter is still there, his tight-lipped smile squirming.

"Stop laughing at me." Steve tries to put a suitable amount of gravitas into his voice, but really, seeing Bucky laugh makes a bright warmth sing through his body. Even as he's kind of embarrassed, feeling like a kid again, like he’s touching Bucky, really touching, for the first time, pinning him to the floor and glowering at him for the first time at Bucky's request, a young and nervous Bucky whispering between kisses, “Hey, Steve, what would you do if I tried to mug someone on the street? What would you do to me?”
It is all new again. Steve is out of practice.

He lets go of Bucky's hair and shoves him back onto the mattress. Bucky's body flops, no tension in him, and he smiles up at Steve. "No," he says. "You're very intimidating. You have a very commanding presence."

"That's right. Don't you forget it."

"Been there. Done that," and Steve laughs, one loud, avian sound surprised out of him.

"So what's so funny?" he asks.

"Nothing. You just reminded me of something." There's a lot of precedent for Bucky’s memories causing complications, but right now he seems relaxed, which typically means he's been reminded of something he can share with Steve without getting guilty and ferrety for days, like he maybe ruined Steve's entire life by telling him about being operated on without anesthetic.

Often, when it's a nice memory, it's something Steve was there for. Something they can enjoy together.

He says, "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Just, your hand on my face." Steve touches his hand to Bucky's cheek and slaps him softly, a pantomimed version of the more stinging slap he gave him right before the laughter started. Bucky says, "Yeah, that. It's nothing. It's not important right now."

Steve isn't sure what that could have reminded Bucky of--fucking him ages ago or fucking someone else or a scrap they got into, bleeding bony teenage messes. No moment distinct enough to be interesting, just good. A shot of light in the gloomy jumbled mess of Bucky’s brain. Still, to be a dick, he starts yanking on Bucky's hair again—pulling his pigtails--and says, "What? Come on, share the joke. I love jokes."

"No!" Bucky's still smiling even as he winces at the pain in his scalp. "We were in the middle of something. And besides--" he makes his face somber--"you're much too intimidating for me to be making jokes around you."

"You’re damn right I am." He kisses the hollow at the base of Bucky's throat, then slaps his face to set him off on a new wave of pleased silent laughter. It's okay that Steve can't make Bucky tell him what the hell memory he's laughing about, when there are so many more interesting things he can make him do. He forgets about it. They were in the middle of something.

Over breakfast one morning, tapping his spoon against the side of his bowl, Bucky says, “I want to learn HVAC maintenance. Can you believe these advancements in weather-controlled environments? It’s like, uh. The One Sane Man. Do you remember that book?”

“No.” Steve definitely didn’t read that book.

“Oh, well.” He shoves a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth and makes Steve wait for more information. He swallows, and says, “It’s about a man who tries to control the whole world by controlling the weather. Have you expanded your literary horizons at all?”

“You know I hate expanding my horizons.” Bucky bobs his head from side to side in exasperated agreement as he eats more oatmeal. Steve says, “Wouldn’t the moral of that book have been not to control the weather? He sounds like the villain.”

“Nah.” Bucky’s mouth is full, and a bit of saliva-laden oatmeal lands on the tablecloth. “I think it was ambiguous. Not everything has a moral.”

So he looks through the HVAC courses on a nearby community college’s website, and writes down the information for all of them on a slip of paper and carries it around in his wallet for a week before deciding that he should take some other classes first. Training wheels before tackling his real interest.

“I haven’t exactly been in a classroom in the better part of a century,” he explains to Steve. “Unless you count—Nah. And I could still wait for hours to get a good kill shot if I had to, but god knows my attention span for constant flows of information ain’t so hot these days.”

He registers for Creative Nonfiction and Money Management. When he announces this, launching himself one-handed over the back of the sofa to land next to Steve, who’s watching the local news, Steve says, “Money Management? Since when can’t you manage money? You always helped me manage my money.” Steve complained about it relentlessly at the time, but it wasn’t like Bucky was ever wrong that he shouldn’t be blowing money on a new typewriter if he was barely gonna scrape together his next rent payment.

You can write your letters to the editor on my Dad’s, Steve. Come on. You can write them by hand. You have nice handwriting.

“'Since when?' Really?” Bucky nudges him with his metal shoulder. “Three guesses since when I can’t manage money, Steve. It starts with one…nine…four…”

Steve elbows him in the side. Bucky gets a feral grin and elbows him back, which hurts more than Steve probably hurt him on account of—“The fucking metal, Buck, Jesus.” He cuffs Bucky on the back of the head and Bucky grabs his hand and bites his thumb. Steve captures Bucky’s chin and smiles at him. Bucky leers like Bugs Bunny.

“Can I help you with something?” Steve asks.

They fuck on the floor, face-to-face, Steve’s hand around Bucky’s throat, barely pressing, but very present, threatening to pin him in place. It’s something Bucky only started wanting recently, but it makes sense that it takes more for him to let go now than it used to when he was smaller and had no concept of himself as a real threat. Steve can imagine what significantly more intense shit he’d want done to him if he were inclined that way.

Bucky’s asked recently for Steve to use a knife, but he’s waiting for the right time.

“It’s good. It’s good. It’s good,” Bucky’s chants, voice gone breathy.

“It—It is,” Steve says. He moves his hand up higher to force Bucky to show his throat more, and the chanting grows more insistent like Steve’s arguing with him about it instead of agreeing. “It’s good that you registered for those classes, Buck,” Steve says, close to finishing. “My smart fucking slut. Even the money management. You’re gonna do great.” Shuddering, he groans, “Especially with the writing.”

Bucky used to make fun of him for coming faster from talking about ordinary things during sex. He doesn’t this time. He takes Steve’s hand and holds it.

They both have beards now. Steve hates his. Bucky doesn’t. But between the beards and the change in location, they’ve been sliding by unnoticed. Sam flew to their house in the middle of the night once and got called a possible UFO on Twitter. Then the tweets showed up on the news. He drives when he wants to see them now. It’s only half an hour.

Still, Steve gets twitchy any time they meet people together. Even bearded, their faces side-by-side could spark recognition.

He goes to pick Bucky up after his nonfiction writing class. Bucky wants to take him to an art gallery; he said, “We should go on a date, you know. Everyone here thinks we’re a normal couple but we haven’t gone on a date, have we?”

“We are a normal couple,” was what came out of Steve’s mouth, only one of the many confused objections he had to this line of thinking. E.g. Do couples who live together still have to go on dates? Do they have to call it a date? Who are all these people who are maybe studying them and wondering why, if they’re a normal couple, do they not ever go on dates?

Bucky said, “We will be, after I take you on a date.”

Steve shows up in front of the college in sunglasses, jeans, and an ironed button-up. It wasn’t clear how ritzy an occasion Bucky thought a date to an art gallery was, but he sees that they’re dressed about the same, though Bucky’s shoes and braided hair both gleam in the afternoon sun.

Bucky’s lounging on the steps, faux-louche, leaned back on his elbows, smiling at the two women lounging similarly to his right. One looks really young to Steve, but Natasha often looks really young to him, so he’s learned to stop trusting himself on this. The other, with close-cropped hair and mauve lipstick, must be older than he and Bucky are. In one sense.

She’s saying someone as Steve approaches, and Bucky lets loose an enormous, bellowing laugh. He’s definitely been aware of Steve’s nearing presence for at least the past half block, but he looks absorbed. He widens his eyes like the woman is saying something unbelievably crazy that in reality is probably mundane, like maybe she lost her car keys or saw a stray cat.

At some point, Steve forgot that Bucky actually likes being around other people. It’s not that he used to have a lot of close friends, but he was likeable, and he liked being liked, and seemed to find the details of everyone’s lives fascinating, and would recount them to Steve as though Steve might also be invested in Brenda Who I Met on the G Train.

Those instincts must be compounded for him now by the sheer novelty of being told mundane stories about people’s lives. Stories with nothing utilitarian about them.

There’s a pause in the flow of conversation, and Bucky looks up, catching Steve’s eye as Steve jaywalks over. Steve smiles a little and raises his eyebrows. Bucky raises his eyebrows back. He makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, and says to the women, “Here’s my ride.”

“We’re walking,” Steve says, squeezing himself between two closely parked cars.

“Oh, I just assumed you were planning to carry me on your back.”

Steve snorts, but once he’s in front of the group, he isn’t sure how to proceed. Bucky is still sitting, smiling like maybe Steve’s invited to join them. Steve puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

The younger woman asks, “You’re Stewart?” and looks him up and down in the unabashed way that’s less common among people who have no reason to think of him as public property, but still not uncommon among people who know him as Stewart Roberts, who telecommutes and has an ugly beard.

“Yep,” he says. “That’s me.”

“Jake’s told us about you.”

“Oh, well. Jake’s a real talker.” She smiles and nods, looking over at Bucky with obvious fondness. He’s known this girl for a maximum of two weeks.

“Jake?” Steve says; a note of hysteria has crept into his voice. The thought of this interaction having no imminent endpoint makes him feel like his bones are all grinding together.

Bucky says, “Yeah, keep your shirt on,” and stands up, stretching, popping his joints, faking a yawn. He saunters the couple of feet to Steve. He throws an arm around Steve’s shoulders and kisses him on the cheek.

This is the most publicly affectionate Bucky’s been with him since before the war. Maybe these are the people who have been watching and wondering why they don’t go on real dates. That’s the main thing Steve hates about their relocation to somewhere smaller: the constant prickle of potential surveillance. Even if he isn’t being monitored nearly as closely as he was when SHIELD owned him. Owned them both.

Steve puts his hand to the small of Bucky’s back and says, “Yep. Well. We’re going now. It was very nice to meet you.” Bucky’s face is still close to Steve’s, but he submits to being steered around, cajoled into walking away. The women call out goodbyes.

When they’re out of earshot, Bucky slides his hand into Steve’s hair and ruffles away its styling. He says, “They’re classmates.”

“I figured.”

“They asked if I wanted to go for coffee. When I said I was waiting here for you, they said they’d wait too. That’s nice, isn’t it?”

“It is. I don’t know if I’d choose you over coffee.”

“Oh, shaddup.” He leans his head on Steve’s shoulder. They technically could walk that way; they could both walk a lot of more complex ways, but Steve takes it as a hint, and stops walking to put his arms around him, so that Bucky’s head burrows against the side of his neck. It’s a mostly empty street, parked cars and little houses and a bookshop. A woman sitting on her stoop smiles at them, then goes back to her tablet.

“All right there?” Steve asks, and Bucky sighs and pulls away, grinning.

“Yep. Just smelling your cologne.” He starts walking again, and Steve follows, more space between them now.

“I don’t wear cologne.”

“Exactly. You couldn’t wear cologne for our date? Steve.” He says the name in a lower voice, even if no one’s listening.

“I ironed a shirt!”

“I iron my shirts every day. Step your game up.”

Steve takes Bucky’s hand. “You looked happy, you know. You talk about anything fun?

“Ex-boyfriends.”

“What, you consoling? Starting an advice column?”

Bucky laughs, and knocks their shoulders together, squeezes Steve’s hand tighter. “No, no one was consoling anyone. Why do you always gotta assume everything’s a tragedy?”

“Well, I have a melancholic temperament.”

“You’re mostly choleric. We were just sharing stories.”

“About their ex-boyfriends.” Bucky smiles and squints at him like Steve’s missing something obvious. “And. Your. You. Someone, uh. In Brooklyn. Who I didn’t.” He knew at the time that Bucky was sleeping with other people, but it never occurred to him that Bucky would still be able to remember their names. Let alone anything worthy of a story.

“God, no. I would never call any of those guys my boyfriend, Steve. This guy Andrews.”

“In the Army?”

“I was a little busy in the Army, you know. All that shooting and whatnot. He was a SHIELD agent.”

His first thought is that Bucky secretly met and shacked up with someone from SHIELD after the helecarriers fell. They nursed each other back to health. It was torrid, yet domestic. Bucky insisted they get joint custody of a hamster: something that would die quickly, but be adorable and beloved in the meantime.

He returns to reality. He stops walking. It’s sudden. Their hands break apart.

Bucky turns. He raises his eyebrows and his hands, palms-out. “Okay, fine, so I wouldn’t have called him my boyfriend either. He also wouldn’t have called me Jake. You have to meet your audience where they’re at.”

“Fuck, Bucky.”

“What? Wait.” A smile blooms on his face. “You jealous, honey?”

“What?” He thinks, for a moment, that Bucky is asking if Steve is jealous that no one in Hydra ever did that to him. Then his brain catches up. Bucky thinks he’s jealous because he's never raped Bucky. “Jesus Christ, Bucky, I don’t want to—No. Never. I would never be jealous of that, okay?”

“Really? Come on. I’m not judging you.” He shrugs. “I was jealous of Peggy. It’s all right to feel human emotions, Steve.”

“Peggy didn’t. That’s a completely different situation! How the hell can you compare them?”

Bucky sighs and knocks his shoulder into Steve’s again. He tries to take Steve’s hand, but it’s dead weight, so Bucky gives up and places a warm hand on his bicep. “Hey, it’s fine. We don’t have to talk about this right now. Let’s enjoy our date.”

“Buck, if you want to talk about this, we can.”

“What I want to talk about is this artist lady’s ‘use of scavenged decaying materials to create life-size embodiments of the many faces of pathos.’” He studied the program for the gallery closely last night. “What do you think that means? Do you think we’re gonna be allowed to touch them?”

They’re not allowed to touch them. Steve catches Bucky brushing his metal fingertips along a twisting scrap metal arm for a couple stolen seconds anyway.

[A/N: This one is the longest yet! On top of the typical trash warnings it contains fetishistic sexual sadism, homophobic & misogynistic slurs, verbal feminisation, mentions of sexual gun play, CBT, and Rumlow's fragile masculinity. Like the rest of the series it's unbeta'ed so if I fucked up, I fucked up. Enjoy! :D]

Один | 2006

This is what the asset learned when it came out of sleep and had its head reorganised: its reputation was a layered thing. To the outside world the Winter Soldier didn’t exist. The world of spies and assassins thought he (the fools thought it was a man) was a tall tale. To Hydra at large, it was their fabled secret weapon, a precision cannon that shaped history one bullet at a time. To those who worked with it, it was an unstable and highly dangerous machine to be monitored closely and handled with care, not unlike a tiger on a chain. To its masters, it was their sabre and their whore, a body forged in pain and strength to kill and be fucked as they willed.

Within Hydra, the lines might sometimes blur.

It had trained hard with its team prior to this mission, hard enough to deplete its energy reserves. It knew this by the increased volume of its stomach’s ever-present ache and by the way the smell of cooking drew it to the safehouse kitchen like a moth to flame. The operative manning the stove stepped back as the Winter Soldier padded closer; it could practically smell the man’s flash of fear, but the smell of cinnamon and oats was far more interesting. But. It knew its place, and it knew its feeding schedule, so it stopped short to linger in the doorway. (Knowing did not stop the asset from wanting.)

The operative – Rumlow, relatively fresh with a mere five years under Hydra’s service, but promising enough to serve on the Winter Soldier’s team – eyed the asset warily. “You need something?”

Some defective, defiant, poorly-programmed part of the asset wondered how much this agent knew, thus how much it could get away with. It didn’t answer, but it did look pointedly at the pot.

The agent’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so. You’ve got yours and we’ve got ours. The Lieutenant should be back at 0900, he can do your your freaky nose-feeding shit then.”

He spoke brusquely enough, but the asset knew nervousness when it saw it. Rumlow was nervous, the op leader wouldn’t be back for another three hours, and the asset wanted sustenance now.

It advanced a step. Rumlow’s hand went to his gun immediately, and the asset halted again. It clenched its jaw and took a deep breath. Time to change tack: the asset sank to its knees and said, “Пожалуйста, сэр, запрос.”

Rumlow stared, wide-eyed, and spoke as if he were choosing his words carefully. “You wanna run that by me in English?”

The asset’s voice was as rusty as its insides, but it managed. “Please, sir, a request.”

For a long moment the agent said nothing. Finally, though, he wiped a hand over his mouth, moved the pot off the burner, and stepped away. “Stay right there, I’ll be right back.”

The Winter Soldier did not sigh in frustration. It knelt patiently and listened to the operative phone his superior. Even two rooms over it got snatches of the lieutenant’s side of the conversation as well.

“Sorry to call early, sir, I know. You know that thing you said to call in if the asset said it? Pozhaloosta zaprose-something? Well it said it, what the fuck now.”

The lieutenant laughed loud enough to carry. Make it pay for it and then give it what it wants.

“All due respect, sir, I must’ve missed the part where the asset carries cash. I thought it wasn’t supposed to want things anyway.”

No you idiot, it’s a barter. Oldest trade in the world. The asset has two functions and it’s offering you the second one in exchange for something it can’t normally have.

Rumlow made a noise like something was caught in his throat. The asset cocked its head, only half-interested. “What the fuck, I’m not...like that. Sir.”

Oh unclench, Rumlow, it’s not like the asset is a person. Either man up and enjoy yourself or tell it no and miss out on the only pussy you’re liable to get this month. I don’t give a shit either way. Just make sure it understands–

The operative moved out of casual hearing range, and the asset couldn’t be bothered to hone in on the conversation. If they were saying anything it didn’t already know, then it was nothing noteworthy to begin with.

Rumlow returned looking...conflicted. The asset watched him through the curtain of his hair, giving nothing away. This wasn’t its decision to make. It wasn’t too good at decisions to start with, so Hydra in all its mercy removed the confusion of options, leaving only the clarity of orders and obedience.

“So what, you think I’m some sort’a fag, is that it?” Rumlow growled. He seemed to actually expect an answer to that question, so the asset indulged him.

“Irrelevant.” Why was he so defensive? Usually agents would leap at the chance to exert some extra control over the asset. It wasn’t as though it was bestowing some gift or leveling a challenge.

The agent made a face. “You some sort’a fag? Lieutenant says you ain’t human enough for that but you gotta admit this shit’s pretty gay.”

It didn’t have to admit anything of the sort. It wasn’t as though the asset wanted Rumlow – just what he had. “Irrelevant,” it repeated, a little slower this time.

Rumlow took another moment to pace around, bleeding his frustration into violent gestures that connected with nothing. A lot of wasteful motion. The asset remained still and silent. Hydra had made it much more efficient than a man.

“Get up,” the operative snapped as he marched past – though, the asset noted with something akin to satisfaction, Rumlow pivoted so as not to give it his back. Smart. If the asset wanted him dead it would only change which side of his corpse hit the ground first. But hey, marks for trying.

The asset stood in one motion and followed, quiet as dust compared to Rumlow’s tromping boots. It tailed after him as he picked up a plastic bucket filled with little wood-and-metal clips whose purpose the asset couldn’t ascertain, and then into the room where half the team bunked. There were three men in there already. Their faces paled on seeing the asset enter, so it took no more than Rumlow’s coarse “Out” to make them shuffle out of the room.

Rumlow kicked the door closed and shoved the asset towards one of the abandoned cots. It wasn’t enough to make the asset move; curious, that he was still afraid, and that this fact was satisfying.

Fear made baying hounds out of men, though, sharp teeth and all.

“Down.” (The asset knelt.) “Strip.” (The asset did not clench its jaw. It had no right to hope that only its mouth would come into play – it paid whatever price Hydra saw fit to set.) “Stay quiet. Not a fucking word.” (The asset’s clockwork heart ticked faster, thudding like a drum between its ribs. It knew itself, and it knew words that promised pain. “Stay quiet” always mean “You mustn’t scream.”)

Hunger and hate swam in the darkness of Rumlow’s eyes. A dim memory rose of a longer, kinder face that looked at the asset hungrily too; but that was just an artefact, a defect of its imperfect mind left over from the chair, and it cast the memory aside.

Rumlow backhanded it and it swayed with the blow – but the Winter Soldier didn’t miss the way he drew back the moment it connected. The next time he was bolder, struck harder. “That’s right, you got nothin’ to say. You’re gonna take it like a good bitch. Lotta nerve you got askin’ for shit like that. Fucking lucky Lieutenant says you can have it this time, long as you pay for it.”

The operative stepped back to pulls his belt free of his pants. The asset tracked its motion, and the one that followed to loop it double in the man’s broad fist. Ah. The clips would be the parts that hurt. It understood this and closed its eyes as the belt swung towards its head. Yes, it was correct. The clips scored little cuts into its temple and cheek.

“Fuck, you really can take it,” Rumlow muttered. Was that a surprise? The Winter Soldier was forged in ice and pain far worse than Muscovite autumn and a belt. It settled its eyes on the wall; no sense making eye contact and egging him on.

“Fine. You wanna be a whore? I’ll treat you like a whore. Get down.”

And now they began in earnest. Rumlow shoved the asset over onto a cot on its hands and knees. He cracked his belt across the asset’s back and ass until there were slim cuts and broad bruises from shoulder to thighs. It didn’t hurt that much. It didn’t. It didn’t. The asset’s metal arm was good and true – it didn’t shake like the weak flesh arm or its thighs. Its breath came in jags, but the asset itself was good and true – it didn’t speak, and kept its noises quiet. It let its mind go quiet and contemplated the error of soliciting someone who was so clearly afraid. Humans hate what they fear. It should have accounted for this, but it was impatient and greedy. It deserved this.

As it turned out, Rumlow was not merely fearful and hateful: he was creative. Hydra prized creativity after all. The Winter Soldier let out the breath it had been holding when Rumlow spread its legs apart; surely now they’d get on with the fucking, and with any luck it wouldn’t last too long. Somehow what it got instead was even worse.

It sensed Rumlow shift behind it and cocked its head just in time to be caught completely off-guard by the next blow. The belt came down parallel with the crack of the Soldier’s ass, from tailbone to balls, and it felt like getting struck by lightning. The asset spasmed head to toe. It was not silent.

“Not so stoic now, are you. You wanna get fucked? Want something big and hard in that pussy?” There was triumph in the agent’s voice, as if he were standing over the body of a guard dog he’d shot before it could bite. A hand grabbed the Soldier’s ass, roughly kneading and probing dry fingers against its hole. The asset whimpered but said nothing. Yes, please, get it over with. “How ‘bout an M16, you want that? Fuck you with another weapon like you? Or you dead-set on getting this cock?”

The asset actually considered it. If Rumlow used the barrel that might do less damage to its insides. When it didn’t answer, Rumlow grabbed it by the hair and pulled till the asset’s spine bowed back in an agonising arch. “I asked you a fucking question, slut! You wanna get fucked with the gun first, or you wanna get straight onto my dick?”

Ohh no, meaner men had played this game with the Winter Soldier before, and it knew better. This was a trick question.

“Whatever you want,” it croaked. The asset served Hydra, not itself.

Rumlow made a disgusted noise and let go. Apparently that complaisance was enough to knock the wind out of his sails at least for the moment. He rustled around out of view as the asset caught its breath. Nothing was broken, but its testicles were even more aflame than the backs of its thighs. In a horrible way it was impressive.

“Roll over,” the operative ordered. Obediently, the asset turned onto its back and tried to block out the way the threadbare blanket scratched at its wounds. Rumlow had the bucket in one hand, and one of those wooden clips in the other. They looked like clamps for electrodes but the material made no sense. It soon learned their purpose, though, when Rumlow squeezed the thing open and clamped it right down onto the asset’s nipple.

Now there was a new sensation. It hurt, but also sent a thrill of not-pain through its body – a terribly confusing thing. The asset gasped and stared down at its chest, and then up and Rumlow. The man’s eyes were still a wash of heat, of hunger.

“Yeah, well,” Rumlow said as if the Soldier had spoken, “we’ll see how you like it by the time I’m through with you.”

Another clip joined the first, pinching the asset’s aureola. The third pinched the bottom edge of its pectoral. By the time three more mirrored the first ones on the other side, the asset found being still very difficult indeed.

This didn’t escape Rumlow’s notice. “Hands on the sides of the cot. I want you holding onto the sides and don’t you fucking dare let go.”

That, too, was smart. Of course the asset would obey and keep its basest weapons safely occupied. The agent clipped more pins to the asset’s skin in winding lines of pain leading down to its groin, where its cock was twitching in an incongruous state of alertness. Rumlow’s scowl etched deep into his face when he saw that.

“Sicko queer piece of shit,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ stop that, no one gives a shit about your ugly little clit.” With that, he snapped a clamp right down onto the asset’s glans, and the asset choked out a strangled noise. That solved that problem in a hurry, but Rumlow wasn’t done: he chased the flagging half-erection with clamps and more clamps until there was a dense row on either side of the shaft.

[cont'd]

The asset whimpered and groaned. Sweat dripped from its brow. Rumlow licked his lips and watched the Winter Soldier squirm for a while, savouring every little sound.

“Hurts, huh?”

The asset had just enough time to note that Rumlow was finally tenting his pants before he grabbed the clips on its glans and twisted. The world went white for a moment and when the asset could feel more than just pain it found Rumlow’s hand covering its mouth.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch, you fucking asked for this!” He removed his hand and slapped the asset’s face. This time he put at least most of his strength into it. And then he was grappling with his fly, pulling the hard, thick rod of his cock free, spitting in his palm to make it wet (so laughable an effort at lubrication it had to be a taunt). “Who’d’a figured, the Fist of Hydra’s a cock-hungry little faggot whore squirming and mewling to get fucked. That’s what you want, right? This right here.” He rubbed the leaking head of his dick against the asset’s hole before pushing in, not caring one whit how tight and dry it was.

The asset’s metal hand crushed the rod that supported that side of the cot. All too quickly Rumlow was balls deep and pounding away. He pushed the asset’s knees apart, grunting, “Spread your legs for me, slut, that’s right. Yeahh, right there – fuck, Lieutenant was right, this is grade A pussy you’ve been hiding from us.” The asset yelped when he thrust particularly hard, and Rumlow shushed it.

“Maybe should’a used lube,” he chuckled. “Prob’ly make you bleed enough to make up for it though. You don’t care one, do you?”

Risking a glance up at Rumlow, the asset felt itself make a face. Officially it had no opinion but it would have been fucking nice.

Every time it tried to go away in its own head, Rumlow twisted a clamp or put a new one on it. Its skin felt like it was going to split open even if it would only have a few odd bruises to show for it. They would fade, but the memory would be a gaping wound until the next wipe cauterised it. There was no escape from the crushing flame lancing across the asset’s genitals and trunk, the cuts and bruises across its back, and the punishing brutality of Rumlow’s cock tearing into its ass like a battering ram. It was like the chair in that regard, and the similarity wound tight coils of panic through the asset’s chest until it was hard to breathe.

“You take it so pretty,” Rumlow cooed, “you’re a pretty little whore, aren’t ya. ‘Cept for this ugly shit, gotta – gotta do something about that.” He let go of the asset’s knees and closed a fist around its sac, forcing its balls into a taut, shiny globe. The asset whimpered louder, then cried out as Rumlow gave them a savage yank. He stretched and pulled them to and fro without missing a beat in his unforgiving pace in the Soldier’s ass, as if the hairless skin there were a handlebar.

By the time his thrusts grew shorter and started losing their rhythm there were tears streaming from the asset’s eyes. It knew better than to shut them – that never worked out well – so it stared resolutely at the opposite wall as if willing it to collapse and bury them alive. Rumlow chanted a nonsense stream of Yeah bitch take it slut as he drove on towards his orgasm. He tightened his grip on the asset’s sac, swung his other hand high, and brought it down with a world-collapsing SLAP that made the asset howl like he was being wiped. Then another, and another, and another, and Rumlow cackled in unbridled glee as he came.

He pulled out quickly enough to make the asset yelp again, and made a noise of disgust at the mess of blood and come coating his cock. The asset rolled onto its side and shivered like it had just been hosed down or taken off the ice: the deep-body shiver of shock.

Rumlow watched this and rolled his eyes. Grumbling, he yanked the pins off in groups, and finally folded a blanket over the wretched weapon. Warmth. It was so, so grateful for that gesture. After all that, Rumlow was kind, kinder than the asset deserved.

Rumlow tucked himself in and left without another word. The other operatives who’d been listening at the door, wide-eyed and white-faced, gave him wide berth. They stared in at the Winter Soldier. One of them made to enter the room, but another grabbed him by the tac vest and held him back.

“Are you fucking stupid?”

“It’s going into shock!”

The Winter Soldier could survive shock. It knew this firsthand.

“And it could kill you without even trying even like that. Leave it alone.”

“Sick fuck,” the would-be helper muttered. The asset didn’t know whom he meant. It didn’t matter, really. They were afraid. It knew it would not made requests of them either.

#

When the lieutenant returned, he found the asset in a corner with the blanket still stubbornly draped across its shoulders, and it was eating. Not “eating” as in being fed its high-calorie slurry through the NGT, but eating as in huddled defensively around a bowl of oatmeal and fumbling with a spoon like a six-foot cyborg toddler. The asset kept its eyes on the operatives as if expecting to have to fight over that bowl at any moment.

It tasted like...the asset had no words for it. It couldn’t remember tasting anything other than chalk, blood, and semen in its life. Yet it was familiar in the way that spoke of artefacts and brain defects. And by Lenin, it would fucking murder anyone who came between them.

The lieutenant had that look about him, the “why the fuck do you have that thing you shouldn’t have” look, but one of the men piped up quietly: “It paid Rumlow for it. I’m not about to try to take it away, are you?”

“I like my guts where they are,” the lieutenant snorted. The lieutenant was a very smart man. He gave Rumlow a thumbs-up and gathered them all for the day’s briefing. The asset didn’t let its guard down for a moment. If it could want, then it could not-want, and it did not want to pay these fearful men again.

Sam comes over on a Thursday night, in his Volkswagen, and doesn’t get mistaken for a UFO. Apparently, Bucky’s been sending him postcards with, “COME PLAY BOARD GAMES WITH US SIGNED YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE,” scribbled on the backs for weeks.

Sam mentions this as he’s handing Steve his denim jacket, and Steve turns to stare at Bucky, who shrugs from where he’s leaning against the wall. “What?” he says. “It was creative nonfiction.”

Sam fails to stifle his cackle.

At Sam’s insistence—and backpack full of ingredients—they’re having Bloody Marys. He explains, “So I know I don’t normally drink, but it’s only fair to give you two a fighting chance at beating me. Did they even have board games in the 1500s or whenever it is you hail from?”

Bucky shrugs. “We used to play Monopoly, but then Steve decided it was politically unforgivable.”

“It is,” Steve says, and takes the stuff for Bloody Marys into the kitchen. He’s never done this before, but it would be poor host behavior to not make Sam’s drink for him.

As he’s going, Bucky starts shoving Sam toward the couch, Sam laughing and saying, “What the hell, man? I can find my own way there. I don’t need Russian GPS.”

Steve thinks you probably don’t need a blender to make Bloody Marys. He uses the blender anyway, and stares, transfixed, at the red swirl. Over the noise, he can still hear Sam and Bucky talking in the next room, can picture them laid out languorously on opposite ends of the couch, facing one another. Their voices are muffled, but barely, for him.
He hears Bucky ask, “Is Steve acting weird to you?”

“Steve’s always acting weird to me. You’re both always acting weird to me. You have a painting of the Keebler elves hanging in here. There are fifteen different bottles of shampoo in your bathroom. You refuse to use your dishwasher.”

“Yeah, well, can’t see what’s going on in there. Why trust it?”

“Okay, so, one: that does not address the Keebler elves painting, which I’ve asked about every time I’ve been over to this house of cutesy horrors. Two: Is Steve acting weird to you?”

“He keeps asking how I’m doing. And his face is wrong.” Steve almost abandons the blender to go out and ask what that means, but he doesn’t believe in not holding the lid on firmly the whole time. Otherwise, who knows what could happen?

Anyway, Sam handles the question for him. “His face is wrong?”

“Something’s wrong about it. It’s hard to explain. He’s been like this since our date.”

“That art gallery date you were talking about? I’ve heard postmodern art can do that to people.”

“I thought he would like it. Well, who can say? Don’t worry about it. Worry about me kicking your ass at Apples to Apples.”

Steve turns the blender off. It all seems blended. I.e., it looks exactly the same as it did when he poured it in, because it’s all liquids. He braces himself on the counter with his hands and closes his eyes.

Is his face wrong?

No longer muffled by the whirring, Sam says, “You guys know this game doesn’t really work with only three people?”

“Don’t be so defeatist. If it can work with two people, it can work with three.”

“I mean, okay, but it also doesn’t—” This seems like a good moment for Steve to pop his head back in. To see. To know. Is Bucky’s face wrong? He clears his throat.

Sam and Bucky are positioned exactly as he imagined them, though Sam is also absentmindedly kicking Bucky’s shin. Bucky’s face looks like Bucky’s face.

“Are these celery sticks supposed to go in the blender too?”

Sam huffs and tilts his head forward, looking at Steve through beautiful, incredulous eyelashes. Instead of answering, he says, “Steve, what’s with the elf painting?”

“Bucky found it on the street.”

Sam lifts a fist to his mouth and looks determinedly at the wall like it might give him a better answer.

Bucky, helpful as always, says, “I found it on the street.”

Once Sam’s managed to win at Apples to Apples, purely because whose cards were whose was obvious from space and Bucky always purposefully chose Sam’s answer over Steve’s, it’s two a.m. and Sam is too drunk on Bloody Marys to be driving back home. He sacks out on the living room floor in an Army surplus sleeping bag from their supply closet, muttering in his half-dozing state, “I beat you. I beat everyone. Thanks, you guys, for, you know. Sucking at this.”

Bucky tenderly turns him onto his side even though Sam insists, “I’m not eighteen, you know. I can handle my Bloody Marys.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky says. “We can all handle everything.”

After they switch off both bedside lights so that the room is lit only by the glugging blue lava lamp Bucky keeps on his desk, Bucky snuggles up to Steve’s side, wrapping around him, both arms and both legs clamping Steve in place. He kisses the underside of Steve’s jaw, rubs his nose along Steve’s cheek.

“Hey, there,” Steve says. He’s still looking up at the ceiling, but his voice is warm and friendly.

“Hey, there.” Bucky kisses him at the corner of his mouth.

“How’s it going?”

As an answer, Bucky peels his limbs away and sits up, cross-legged, tugging on Steve’s arm so he’ll sit up too. Steve makes a show of implacability for a moment, then goes easily and mirrors Bucky’s pretzeled legs. They face each other like that. It feels ritualistic, like they’re about to become blood brothers (again). He waits, curious to see if Bucky has a plan.

He does, at least kind of, scooting forward until he’s almost in Steve’s lap, and can wrap his arms around his shoulders and start kissing all over the side of Steve’s face. Steve captures his face with a hand at his jaw and kisses him on the mouth, soft and urgent. He ends it, and Bucky edges forward to whisper throatily in Steve’s ear, “I’m turned on.”

Steve snorts. “Oh, wow. Huh, you are learning to write creative nonfiction.”

“Shut up. I am. I’m turned on. I’m hot for you.”

And Steve, well. Steve isn’t not also turned on, as of a minute ago, but— “Sam’s here.” He puts a steadying hand on Bucky’s waist, nudging him back a couple inches.

Bucky frowns. “He’s asleep. And on the other side of the house. Don’t you want to get back at me for letting him win the game?”

“I knew it,” Steve hisses.

“So show me who’s boss. Show me who should have won.”

“I didn’t understand half the cards he put down. Who the hell is Danielle Steel? ”

“Of course you didn’t. I didn’t know either. That’s how I knew they were his.”

“That’s cheating, Buck! You can’t pick cards if you don’t know what they mean!”

“Tell me some more things I did wrong.” Bucky takes Steve’s hand and pulls it to his throat in a silent request, grinning and biting his own thumb.

Steve hasn’t meant to be acting weird, but he realizes, now, that of course he has been, and of course it’s been obvious. He’s been tiptoeing around the Andrews in the room, softening every smile, keeping his hands too much to himself. If Bucky can go to all the effort to speak about his abuse lightly, with strangers, with Steve’s hand in his, there’s no excuse for Steve to let it bog him down. Bog them both down. He can be normal.

He slides his hand further up Bucky’s throat to force his head up and back, raising himself on his knees so he towers over him. Bucky has to stare straight up at his face.

He says, “‘A Morgue’ is a fucked up card to put down for the word ‘delicious,” and Bucky snorts and gets taken over by giggling, enough that Steve pulls his hand away from his throat. He’s afraid Bucky’s going to manage to thrash at the exact right angle and intensity to cut off the blood to his brain with the hapless aid of Steve’s palm.

“Hey!” Bucky says, and tugs on Steve’s wrist. “Put it back. I’ll be quiet.”

Steve wraps some of Bucky’s hair around his fist and pulls so his neck bows to the side, so Steve can feel the vibrations of his now-silent giggling. “I’m more worried about ‘still’ than ‘quiet.’ I’m kind of trying not to harm you over here.”

Bucky allows himself one more dramatic guffaw before smoothing out into perfect stillness, frozen smiling up at Steve, serene, not even blinking.

Steve says, “Thank you,” and uses the fistful of hair to straighten Bucky back up, then releases him and puts his hand around Bucky’s throat again, though looser this time, nervous that he might think the next thing Steve says is also unbearably hilarious.

Trying his best to sound grave, he says, “And that’s another thing. It’s bad form to laugh at your own jokes.”

Bucky just pulls an amused face. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Yeah. Some asshole.” He propels Bucky down onto his back by the grip on his throat. “Maybe multiple assholes.”

He rubs his palm over Bucky’s cock through his pajama pants, and Bucky keens loudly, turning the sound into the words, "Your asshole."

Steve takes his hand off Bucky’s throat again and covers his mouth. “Now I’m worried about quiet. We have. A guest.”

Bucky smiles against his palm and murmurs into it, “Sorry.”

He removes his hand. “Can you be quiet without help?”

Bucky makes a lip-zipping motion and nods.

He palms Bucky’s cock again, watching his face, double-checking before doing anything else, and Bucky keeps his mouth shut, gazing at him so openly, so fondly, so doe-eyed that it hurts. So doe-eyed that Steve has to look away, and he ducks down and skates his teeth across Bucky’s clothed erection the exact right amount, and the muscles in Bucky’s thighs jump. His hands twitch. But he’s silent.

Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s waistband, intimating that he wants to tug his pants down, and looks back up at Bucky. He’s still gazing.
“This good?”

Bucky takes a shaky breath and nods. Steve tightens his hold on Bucky’s waistband, but doesn’t move beyond that.

“You just need to keep your voice down, you know. It’s okay to talk.”

Bucky shifts up onto his elbows. “Do I gotta?”

“Well, you do gotta tell me what you want, yeah.”

“I told you. Show me who’s boss.”

Steve pins him down by his hips, letting his waistband snap against his skin when he releases it. “I got that part.” He tilts his head to the side. He knows that Bucky gets thrown off, occasionally, by the question of what he wants; it doesn’t mean he doesn’t know, just that he needs a minute, and if it’s someone he trusts asking, he likes to be talked through it. “You want me to suck you off? I promise to be an asshole about it. ”

Bucky licks his lips, but doesn’t say anything.

“Buck? You want something different?”

“Yeah. Yes. I mean, no, not something different.” Bucky shakes his head like a wet dog, then grins. “Please. That would be good. That would be great. I want your teeth around me, all right?”

As Steve’s sucking a third bruise into Bucky’s inner thigh, high enough that his cheekbone makes contact with Bucky’s testicles, the fingers of his left hand pressing on the first two bruises and his right hand still holding down Bucky’s hip, thumb hard against bone, Bucky whispers, “Thank you. Thanks. Thank you.”

Steve lifts his mouth to say, “Well, yeah.”

Bucky’s metal hand brushes the top of Steve’s head, not even his skull, just the faintest rustling of his hair. Steve presses into the touch and Bucky jerks back. Steve looks up at him. Bucky’s face is frozen. He’s holding his wrist tight in his other hand like he thinks the arm might become sentient and repeat the crime of sweetly touching Steve’s hair.

Steve furrows his brow. He pets Bucky’s thigh in a spot away from the bites. “Hey, Buck. You can touch me. It’s okay.”

A little life floods back into Bucky’s face. He smiles. It’s shaky. “I know that, Steve.” He rolls his eyes. “Just a glitch.”

“You sure you want me to keep going?”

“Yes. And I want you to be an asshole about it, like you said. You’re being nice and shit. What's going on?”

He stares into Steve’s eyes. It isn’t clear if he’s trying to find something in there or if wants Steve to find something in his eyes, if he’s handing Steve a sliver of what’s going on in his head. But he looks sincere, and stable, and real, and his thigh is warm and solid under Steve’s palm, and Steve accepts that whatever’s going on in Bucky’s head, it isn’t bad.

He lowers himself back between Bucky’s legs, but before he does anything, he takes Bucky’s metal hand and places it against the top of his own skull.

“Pull on my hair if something’s bothering you and you can’t talk.”

Bucky says, “Yes,” and Steve bites him as hard as he can over an already dark bruise. Bucky squirms dramatically, but doesn’t pull on his hair, doesn’t pull on his hair at all that night.

So um I haven't even finished this yet but I'm SCREAMING at the title. You are best

Oh man, loving the slow build. And the snark! And is it weird that my primary thing coming out of this is "Bucky in pigtails! Bucky in braids!!" :D

oh help. I figured that #5 would be Rumlow, but holy fuck what a horrifying/amazing Rumlow! Getting off on WS's pain and degradation, all that fragile masculinity. And the Asset, being so astute at what fear brings out in people. Can't wait to see how this all plays out with Steve (?) in the +1!

(Also -- so much love for Rumlow mangling the Russian.)

Thanks! Glad the brevity works for you! (I was re-reading it just now and was like "wow, that was waaaay shorter than what was in my head." But then again, my head had this complicated thing where as the Hound, Bucky's on hands and knees the entire time.)

I. WOW. I love this so much I'm going to have to come back and comment on it more later when I have time. I love your characterizations of Steve & Bucky, like how awkward Steve is with Bucky's friends, and their sex life (although I'm sure it will only lead to misery), and their sense of humor. They don't use the dishwasher because they can't see what's going on in there!!!!!!!!! Amazing

"If it could want, then it could not-want"

JESUS yes yes yes this line

(op)

OH
MY
GOD

I didn't think this would get a fill (I nearly squealed when i saw it did), let alone as AMAZING as this is so far. I'm going to make a list? Because ~~I'm two drinks in and~~ yes.

1. The little snippets of their sex life are so ridiculously hot. I don't know how you like, peered directly into my garbage brain and checked off all my kink boxes, but you did, so congrats! The hair-pulling, the slapping, the choking, biting, the banter. The banter!!! It's steamydirtyhot but also has this undercurrent of how much they love and care about and are comfortable with each other but ALSO this almost menacing undercurrent of hints at Bucky's trash past and I am just. Absolutely verklempt.

ALSO:

“It’s good. It’s good. It’s good,” Bucky’s chants, voice gone breathy.

“It—It is,” Steve says. He moves his hand up higher to force Bucky to show his throat more, and the chanting grows more insistent like Steve’s arguing with him about it instead of agreeing. “It’s good that you registered for those classes, Buck,” Steve says, close to finishing. “My smart fucking slut. Even the money management. You’re gonna do great.” Shuddering, he groans, “Especially with the writing.”

Bucky used to make fun of him for coming faster from talking about ordinary things during sex. He doesn’t this time. He takes Steve’s hand and holds it.

IM GONNA DIE??? I'm gonna die.

2. I'm also loving how much their banter - both in and outside of sex - seems to be kind of teetering on the edge of miscommunication, but only just. They certainlytalk to each other; they negotiate, they discuss - but there are still all these moments where they don't quite fully hear each other, don't ask the right questions, don't mean the same thing even as they use the same words, don't quite put two and two together. It's nuanced and well-crafted and quite wonderful to read.

3. Their (thematically symbolic) ART DATE, omg.

4. Skipping ahead to COME PLAY BOARD GAMES WITH US SIGNED YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE and the wonderful Bucky/Sam relationship - this was not even in the prompt but again, thank you for reading my mind, authoranon; their brief interactions are so spot-on and I am just BASKING in it.

5. And the humor throughout! As well as Bucky's sense of humor - so good! There's a time and a place for thoroughly grimdark catatonic angst fic, of course, but I love how much, idk, humanity? there is in all of this? Steve and Bucky don't just exist to make us sad in the context of this story, they're very much fully fleshed-out characters/people with rich, active lives and I love it. And I expect it will make the inevitable painful fallout all that much worse when it comes.

6. Also, going back to Bucky's classes - I'm a sucker for anything that incorporates Bucky developing hobbies/pastimes and making new friends in his recovery, and you've nailed that here, too. I love Steve's observation about forgetting/remembering that Bucky actually likes being around people, as well as Steve being awkward around Bucky's friends.

Also, I'm yelling over Bucky casually chatting about "ex-boyfriends" with his classmates, as if having been abused by a sadistic military handler is just like, a normal thing - Bucky, no! (yes!!!)

7. Your Steve voice is great, as is your Bucky voice - they feel really balanced and, idk, particularly well-matched in this? I am of course eagerly awaiting the ugly fallout, but I'm also, I dunno, really quite endeared by them here. It's lovely to read.

I've worn myself out trying to coherently get across all the things I adore about this - what I've written here is probably incomplete - but needless to say, I do love this in like, every imaginable way. And I can't wait for the imminent trash drama to come. <3

Please accept a gift of all the beer bottles currently piling up under my sink, as well as the three rotting peaches I tossed into my compost bin this morning!!!

I just read the first part now, and I have to say, I love your characterization (and I'll have to wait for part 2 until I get back, damn real life responsibilities!)

Thanks! I threw it on AO3 with a picture: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7674715

[OP] Thank you! Getting the chance to harm and hold power over something one fears often makes monsters out of men. Add a pain fetish to the mix and you've got a real powder keg on your hands, and this one's named Brock Rumlow.

And you're correct, it's gonna be Steve + The Aftermath in the last one!

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