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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Hydra probably figures letting him get off on dogs fucking him is double duty, the dogs are calmer for it, and no one has to help the asset with his pent up come.

They don't want to touch him if they don't have to. He's dangerous, plus dogs have used him, gross.

It felt ashamed. It had received so much, been given so much by the Avengers, and if this was how it repayed them, well, it was no wonder they were disappointed. It had let them down, failed them.

"I know it's in the wrong place." It whispered. It would admit to its faults, not try to hide them. But at the same time, it would be honest, try and explain what had happened, how it could have gone so very badly wrong. "I was just... not thinking. I wanted..." It swallowed. "I wanted it to go over my heart, but I couldn't work out how to position it, not with the other one already there. I'm sorry."

If anything they looked more disappointed, and then Stark swore low, and Bruce leaned in to have a look, muttering about infection. Romanoff was cursing in Russian, and Thor looked angry, and it felt worse than it had since coming to the Avengers.

It had no right to try and show off its body, to flaunt the work it had done, because it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to make it theirs, and it was a fool to have even tried. It waited for them to cast their judgement.

There was a strange stillness over the group, before the Captain stepped forwards. In serious issues, it was always the Captain who took the lead, despite the flashes of memory it had of the Captain making mistakes and being foolish. The Captain had been a child then, a young man. Now he was a leader.

"Why did you do it Buck?"

"I... I know I looked disgusting before." It started to explain. "With the Brand. HYD-They..." It caught itself, stopped itself from naming its tormentors. That word alone could upset the Captain, even when he wasn't already angry. "They said I was theirs forever. But I'm not. I know I'm not. So I wanted to show it. It's not perfect, this is just temporary, I was going to make a stencil but I..." It felt tears welling up in its eyes. It had been foolish, and lazy, but it hadn't meant to be bad. It had wanted to belong, and it should have waited until it was fully equipped, but it just wanted the chance to show them it was theirs.

It lowered its head, taking shaky breaths, determined not to start sobbing in front of them.

It looked up at the ceiling, trying to stop tears from escaping. Crying was weak. Crying was an attempt for sympathy. They were all staring, and it swallowed softly, closing its eyes for a moment before it looked up.
"It was a mistake. And I'm sorry. I will find a way to fix it."

"Damn right it was a mistake-" Stark snarled, pausing as Bruce placed a hand on his arm, and it shivered. It had let them down. It understood that. It watched Bruce guiding Stark away, saw the angry gestures, Stark pointing to his own chest where the reactor was embedded into his chest.

The Captain was still staring.
"Did you do this to try and please us?" He asked, and it nodded, feeling overwhelmed by the sense of shame that flooded through it. It had made such a mistake, it had done the wrong thing.
"I know it's not good enough." It started to stay, and the Captain's lips pressed together, thin.

He took another breath, as though weighing up what to say, and it waited for the blow to fall.
"Can you explain why you thought this would please us?"

"It shows I belong to you." It began to explain. "I cut away the last one, made it unreadable, and the Avengers logo... it shows that I belong to you all, that I'm yours and not..." It shuddered. "Not Hydra's. Before, every time I saw...every time anyone saw, they saw that I was Hydra's. Now I'm not."

The silence continued, and Romanoff in the end was the one to take pity on him.
"Bucky, could you get me another drink?" She asked, holding out her empty glass. It could tell this was a ploy to get it away while they discussed punishment, but it didn't mind. It was grateful for the escape, and it left to prepare a drink for her.

It heard the voices rise behind it, but returned with the drink, not eavesdropping. Stark looked a little calmer, and the Captain's eyes... looked strange. Almost damp. The Captain reached out for it, and it went to him, letting the Captain fold his arms around it's body.

"It's okay Buck." The Captain said gently, and it felt relieved. They had accepted its offer, its feeble attempt to being claimed. "You are ours." That sentence was the most incredible thing it had heard, and the tears that had threatened earlier were spilling down its cheeks.

"You are ours Bucky." The Captain repeated. "We won't ever let HYDRA have you. you're ours."
"It's a part of you." That was the archer, and sometimes Bucky got the sense that the archer knew more of a life like its than he admitted. "Deeper than any cut. That's what being on a team, really on a team, means. You're claimed. In your soul."

Bucky nodded slowly. It was theirs, and it made sense that it would be permanent, that nothing would let it change. It belonged to them.
"Not a very neat cut there though." Natasha said softly. "When it's healed up a bit, we can do something neater."

It felt relief run through it at that generous offer. It would be theirs. The Captain didn't look overly happy at the discussion taking place, but he didn't say no, and it nodded quickly. It would be able to prove who it belonged to. It would never return to HYDRA. It was the Avengers' now.

Aw, yay—I'm glad that they understand what Bucky was trying to do, and what he needs. And Nat even offers to help him fix the cut! It's so sweet that they're able to meet him where he is, affirming that he belongs to them, rather than simply freaking out at him for his misconceptions.

love it love it love it. i came off my bike a few years ago & hit my head and i had to recover alone in the aftermath being very confused so it'd be in my interests to see bucky getting looked after by steve. maybe bucky is more loose-lipped about stuff hydra did to him when his head has been all messed around with like that..? poor steve

Oh yay, I'm glad that Nat helps everyone understand. And honestly, I've always felt like the whole "tattoo the Avengers logo" thing can be viewed as ... pretty normal, like getting a team tattoo.

(Maybe Steve will get one to match Bucky's?)

thank you!!!

yeah tbh i initially felt weird about my choice to write from steve's pov bc i was thinking so intensely about it from a perspective of strongly feeling bucky's feelings, like, "damn, steve, step off and let me process my trauma on my own time," is a pretty legit way to feel. but! steve also obviously and increasingly does have a ton of also legit reasons to worry and be freaked out even if he isn't always approaching it very well or tactfully. he's basically having a nonstop lowkey panic attack throughout this fic and there will be more about that ~later~.

ahh thank you!!! i'm so glad you're still enjoying it.

(also the creative nonfiction thing is definitely going to boomerang back into existence. an awful, screaming and bleeding boomerang)

He can’t talk to Bucky; journaling is useless; and he also can’t talk to anyone else. It’s private; it wouldn’t be fair to Bucky, not knowing that people are looking at him and knowing what happened. But if he asks Bucky for permission, he’ll flip his lid again. He’ll say, “You got an issue with me, tell me directly. What am I, a brick wall? Who is it that doesn’t see me as a person now?”

Since he was a kid, Bucky’s been distressed by the thought of being discussed behind his back. Thank god for him that Steve was the problem child.

It’s not like it’s unreasonable. Of course not. Steve could always handle being talked about up until the point where it was about him having trouble with something. Steve Rogers vandalized the school hallway with his amateur protest art? Say what you want. Steve Rogers got beat up by three boys larger than him but then he bit one on the arm and the kid bled all over Steve’s clothes? Such a good topic for conversation.

Steve Rogers is probably on his deathbed? Well.

But the thing is, he asks himself, How would Bucky handle this if he were me? And the answer is, He’d find a way to talk to someone. No matter the challenges that might come with that; he’d figure it out.

Steve doesn’t, he decides, have to be specific. There has to be a way to broach the topic with someone while making it sound like he’s the one carrying a lot of baggage. The one struggling to communicate his feelings—how to communicate them sincerely and how to know if he’s ready. He can sell that. It’s embarrassing, anticipating it, rehearsing his lines into a hand mirror. But Natasha loves poking at him about this kind of thing, and she might be so gleeful that his embarrassment will get swept under the rug.

After Bucky leaves for Money Management class, Steve sits down in the kitchen and calls her.

Before she can even say hi, he grits out, “I want to talk to you about sex.”

“Oh, this should be good. Is this a clinical issue, or are we about to have phone sex? Do you want to know what I’m wearing?”

“Depends. Is it interesting?” He picks up a salt shaker and rolls it around in his hand.

“It’s coveralls,” she says, voice low and husky and on the brink of laughter.

“You’re a fashion plate. Neither of those are why I’m calling.”

“I’m not giving you sex advice, Steve. Read the Kama Sutra. Go on some forums. The internet is very enlightening, you know.”

“Why coveralls?”

“I’m a janitor today. It’s a whole thing.”

“You’re not strikebreaking, are you?”

“Yes. As a highly trained, multilingual spy, combat expert, and computer hacker with dozens of extensive legitimate resumes under dozens of illegitimate names, I’m so hard up for work that I’ve resorted to strikebreaking. You got me.”

“Impressive qualifications, Nat. Just keeping you honest.”

“You need to see a therapist.”

“What, so they can hypnotize me and tell me I was emotionally crippled by having a single mother?”

“I don’t think you understand what therapy is.”

“Of course I do.”

“Sam goes to therapy, doesn’t he? You don’t think they’re hypnotizing him and saying he was emotionally crippled by having a single mother?”

“He didn’t have a single mother.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Steve.”

“And he isn’t emotionally crippled.”

“And that is a very intriguing can of worms that you just opened, but unfortunately, I have to get back to work. Talk to a professional, Steve. If they bring out the pocket watch and start asking you to count backward, you can always get up and leave.”

Steve makes a disgruntled noise that he knows she’ll interpret as agreement. “Is the janitor gig fun?”

“Oh, it will be in a second. Gotta go.” He hears a volley of shots. Natasha hangs up.

After some staring at the wall (red floral tile that Bucky took an immediate liking to when they first looked at the place, saying it was familiar), he decides to call Sam. With a different approach in mind, of course. Sam definitely has no interest in discussing his imaginary sexual hang-ups. If Steve tried, Sam would prop his phone up in front of the TV speakers and walk away.

Instead, when Sam picks up, with a, “Yeah, shoot,” Steve says, “Board games again?”

“What, your boyfriend’s too busy to invite me himself?”

“This wasn’t delegated. I want you to. We had fun.”

Sam starts laughing, and says, syllables jumping up and down, “You lost miserably. You can’t even stand to lose happily.”

“That game was rigged against me. Something else. Pictionary? I can play Pictionary.”

“Some of us can only draw half a stick figure but, sure, yeah. Wipe the floor with me. Does Bucky know you’re honing in on his territory here?”

“I’ll check with him when he gets back from class. I doubt he’ll mind.”

“That guy minds everything.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, not sure what Sam means, “that’s his charm.” He lifts a corner of the tablecloth and triples it up so he can sink his teeth into something for a few seconds. “You doing okay?”

“When aren’t I?”

It occurs to Steve for the first time that Sam might not also be sitting at home doing nothing in the middle of a weekday. He has a job where he goes out. Where he speaks to people. He maybe even speaks to people in other contexts (besides occasionally being Captain America), and just pretends to Steve that he doesn’t. That he’s lonely too.

Still, Steve says, “Haha. Seriously. If you show up and you’re wasting away, I’m mother henning you.”

“You can’t even make a Bloody Mary, Steve. It’s tomato juice. Good luck making me into a baby hen.” The sound of something rustling in the background. “But I’m fine. I’m actually fine right now. I took an early lunch break.”

“Shit. I don’t want to keep you from—”

“Shhh. Shhhhhh.” He sounds like a waterfall. “Text me the details of game night and I won’t hold it against you. Love you. Wilson out.”

How long does Steve stay in the kitchen? The front door groans open. How long has Steve been sitting here with the lights off? Even through the blinds and the barely parted curtains, the room was less gray when he first picked up the phone. At some point, he got himself a mug of orange juice. It sits by his aching elbow, half-finished.

The front door groans and clicks shut. And Bucky sighs in a contained, grumbling way, and kicks his shoes off, and mutters, “Ow.”

Can he tell Steve’s been in the kitchen since he left? No, of course not. Steve picks up the orange juice and downs it. It’s warm and too sour, but it’s not like it can hurt him. “Honey, you’re home,” he says, at a regular, talking-kind-of volume, and Bucky laughs and says much louder, “Honey, you are too!”

“You said ow. You all right?” They both gave up pretending long ago that they couldn’t hear each other’s every move and whisper.

“Finger plate caught on my hair, worrywart. No issue.” He’s got the same slick swagger in his voice that he gets when he tells a joke, and Steve braces himself, clenching the mug handle, not knowing if he’s going to get, Banana you glad I didn't say orange? or Stalin has the conductor shot. The train doesn’t move—

The mug is from Bucky’s favorite library. He donated money and he got a mug. What happens if Steve breaks the handle off? They’re out of Krazy Glue. He unbraces. He pushes it across the table.

When Bucky comes into the kitchen, he flips the light on without commenting on the darkness. Steve blinks more than he has to. Judging by the whorls and bumps still molded in by thickness and time, Bucky had his hair up in some kind of braided bun contraption today, but he’s taken it most of the way down. There are hair ties around his metal wrist, and bobby pins along his t-shirt’s collar.

Khrushchev rehabilitates the conductor. The train still doesn’t move—

Bucky plucks the mug off the table and sets about washing it at the sink, squeezing an absurd amount of dish soap onto their ratty sponge. He hums something Steve doesn’t recognize, high and boppy. Twitches his head from side to side.

“So,” Steve says, and for no real reason but maybe a performance of politeness, Bucky turns the sink off and turns to look at him. “I invited Sam over for Pictionary?”

“Oh.” He smiles a few seconds too late. “When?”

“Not sure. I called him this morning and said I’d check with you. But he’s in.”

“You’re s’posed to send a written invitation.” Bucky turns back to the sink. He rinses the mug out, but puts it in the sink instead of in the drying rack. “It’s not a proper party otherwise.”

“Not one of us is a proper anything.”

“You’re a proper sight for sore eyes.”

“You’re not even looking.”

Bucky looks. He leans with his elbows on the sink’s edge, body on a dramatic slope. “Yep. Just as I thought. Sore eyes.”

He doesn’t say it like he’s flirting, even though he’s used that line on Steve plenty of times, following it up with, “So why don’t you make the rest of me sore too?”

Almost always Steve has said, “I’d love nothing more,” and made him sore all over, fucking him harsh and fast, twisting his nipples until he screamed, biting purpling marks into his shoulders and hips and neck and twisting his arms behind his back, and trying to make him heart-sore too, to make him feel all bruised up on the inside in a warm, content way.

“You could close your eyes if it’s a problem,” Steve says, and Bucky says, “Nah,” and walks toward him, but falls short. He’s walking with a slick swagger too. Staring sore-eyed at Steve, he pushes his hair back off his face, with his metal hand, and from the wince on his face, the finger-plates catch again, but he won’t make any noise about it this time.

His finger-plates never catch on his hair. He has great control over when they flex open or closed, except sometimes when he’s all fucked-out, but he isn’t. He can’t be.

He doesn’t walk closer, but he does bend forward, face floating in front of Steve’s. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

There’s the faintest scent of gin on his breath, mixed with cinnamon gum.

“Yeah. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Why in some of the Little Audrey jokes was she evil but in others she was just a stupid slut?”

“I’m not really comfortable with you saying that, Buck. It’s, uh. Unsavory?”

“It’s true, though. And don’t act like you don’t say those words.” His hair is still stuck in little bumpy shapes in places, and his eyes look close to unfocused. He licks his lips.

“It’s different than saying them about a woman. A young woman.”

“A fake young woman. Like me.”

Bucky breathes out a heavier gust of gin and cinnamon. He rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll think about it by myself.” Still bending over, he takes another step forward.

“Hey.” Steve raises his arm and hovers it by Bucky’s side, in the vicinity of his waist. He wants to pull him into his lap and hold him and smooth his hair out and maybe put it up for him again, if sloppier than before.

Bucky slips his metal hand into the hovering hand and then drops it like it bit him.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.” He straightens up and backs away until he hits the lip of the sink.

“To do what, Buck? I reached for you.”

“To touch you. You don’t want that, right? You don’t like it. That’s fine.”

“I can touch you.” He pulls his arm back and crosses it over himself like a seatbelt, digging fingers into the flesh between shoulder and chest. “I just don’t know if we should be having sex.”

“Well, that’s a fucking arbitrary line to draw.” He should look angry as he says it, but he just looks worn out. He runs his hand through his hair again and the plates catch again and this time he says, “Ow,” ostentatiously as though daring Steve to make something of it before shaking his head like a wet dog and barreling forward.

“Why not admit you don’t want me anymore because you think it’s disgusting that I would fuck someone in Hydra? I’m not thrilled about it either, but it’s a hell of a lot less reprehensible than any of the other shit I was doing at the time. You’ve somehow forgiven me for all that.”

“I didn’t have to forgive you for being brainwashed and I don’t need to forgive you for being raped either, Buck.”

“Not when you put it like that, I guess. It’s real convenient that you get to choose what language we’re using.”

“I don’t understand. Do I hate you for it or don’t I, in this delusion?”

“You hate me and want to talk like you don’t, fuck. It isn’t complicated.” He turns away, toward the sink. He rinses the mug again and moves it to the drying rack this time.

“That sounds awful for me.”

“Yeah, well, it’s awful for me too, but you’re doing it anyway.”

“I’m not. I’m just worried. You’re drunk, Bucky. I didn’t know you could get drunk.”

“Of course I can get drunk. I’m a normal fucking person.” Steve doesn’t rise to the bait, even as an anvil sinks from his throat down through his chest and into his guts. Bucky never says that shit to him except in jest. Steve doesn’t say anything. Bucky stays staring into the sink. “When are you going to stop punishing me for not being sad?”

“I wouldn’t do that, Buck. I don’t want that.”

“Well, we don’t even own Pictionary.”

“We can buy it. What can it cost, five-hundred bucks?”

“I’ll get it out of the library.” Finally, he turns, and he grins. “Don’t touch my mug, please. You’re just going to break it.”

Brezhnev closes the curtains and says, “Now we’re moving.”

I love this

“When are you going to stop punishing me for not being sad?” OH NO. Boys!

They messed with his head so badly he doesn't know consent AND he can only get off with a dick in his mouth.

like imagine that, him living with the avengers wanting so badly to just go down on them to relieve his blue balls, but trying to stay strong in only the name of his recently recovered heterosexuality.

Then he just snaps, and poor Tony suddenly has the winter soldier going for his dick. It would be terrifying and hot. How used he would feel once he found out what was happening.

What would happen if it was in front of a bunch of people, the avengers or even the press. They'd probably freak out/blame Tony.

I'm sort of tempted to go for a sort of 5+1 or 6+1 or whatever - if I did, anyone in the Avengers line-up you do/don't want him lusting after awkwardly?

This time, Sam brings bottled White Russians. “No preparation needed, all right?”

Bucky says, “These are like two percent alcohol,” but accepts one anyway and pops the lid off with his teeth to take a long slug.

Sam squints at him and raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that cannibalism?”

“The metal bit or the White Russian?” Bucky wipes his face with the back of his hand like he might have a milk mustache. His beard leaves a pink mark on his skin.

“Whichever you think is funnier.”

“Let me tell you later.”

They’re all still standing in the entrance. Bucky has Sam’s jacket draped over his metal shoulder. Sam is resting his head against the door, cradling the boxes of White Russians in his arms like they're a giant, pampered dog, watching as Bucky finishes his drink in under a minute and tucks the empty into the deep pocket of his jeans. Steve wonders if he should tell Sam that Bucky can get drunk after all. Unless Sam already knows. Unless Bucky sent him a postcard about it.

“We playing for real?” Steve asks. “Or are you both too yellow to get creamed by me?” His voice sounds hollow as a leg full of White Russians.

“Look.” Sam lifts his head from the door. “I know I’m not winning on this account, but I gotta say: Pictionary doesn’t work with three people either. You form into teams. You guys really gotta get another friend so we can do these nights correctly.”

Steve fakes a wounded look. “Natasha’s my friend!”

Bucky, however, looks genuinely wounded. “I have a lot of friends, douchebag. I just can’t bring them over because they’d recognize Captain America in the flesh.” He punches Sam softly on the arm.

“Fine, fine. Next time I’ll wear one of those rubber George W. Bush masks.”

“Those what?” Bucky takes one of the boxes of drinks from him and heads to the living room.

“I know you know who George W. Bush is. He was a popular Halloween costume for a little bit there. You both slept through some dark times.”

Steve takes another box. “We’ve lived through dark times too, you know.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but nods in commiseration. They both follow Bucky, who’s now camped out on the floor, knees pulled up and spread, Sam’s jacket still over his shoulder.

When Steve asked, before Sam arrived, if Bucky remembered to get the game out of the library, Bucky said, “Didn’t need to. Did you know it’s just words and drawing? You can get words off the internet and we already own pencils and paper.”

“Wouldn’t it be fun to do it the official way?”

“Well, that doesn’t sound like Steve Rogers. You all right in there?”

Bucky was lying on the couch with his head on the arm and one booted leg kicked up onto the back. He didn’t appear to be doing anything over there, but who knew. Steve was doing visual espionage on his laptop in a chair he’d dragged in from the kitchen.

He looked at the blurry panorama photograph he was supposed to be evaluating. He’d circled one spot in red and added a question mark.

“No, I’m fine, Buck. Just thought that’s how you’d want to do it.”

“This way’s fun. I chose the cards, so it’s like I’m cheating.” He rolls his head to the side and smiles at Steve. It’s tight, but wide, and the corners of his eyes do crinkle.

“Fine, I give. We can use my colored pencils too.”

“Don’t waste your nice pencils on my account. I bought crayons. It’s gonna be great.”

The crayons in question are lined up neatly on a coffee table Bucky found in the trash. One-hundred and twenty of them, ordered into a neat and accurate spectrum. There’s also a pile of face-down index cards, three pencils, three clipboards full of paper, and a little plastic hourglass.

Bucky points to where he wants Steve and Sam each to sit, so they’re in a triangular formation. Sam picks up a salmon-colored crayon from the row and rolls it between his fingers. “Awesome. Do you just own a jumbo pack of Crayola or what?”

“No.” Bucky flaps a hand at him until he’s supplied with another drink. “My friend Katarina used to do quality control for Crayola. She gave 'em to me.”
“What?” Steve picks up a cornflower blue, just to have something to hold. “You said you bought these.”

“Oh, sure, like that’s an interesting story. Come on, you’re ruining my façade.”

“Uh, I hate to also ruin your façade, but, ‘My friend gave me a box of crayons,’ isn’t much of a story either.”

“Yeah, fucking bitch and moan at me. Everyone’s a critic. Which! By the way, I did think of the three people problem, thank you very much.”

“Oh, my bad.”

“It doesn’t have to be teams. Both other people get to try to guess. Whoever guesses right’s allowed to take a drink.”

Steve puts his crayon down, careful to line it up with the others. “I assume we’re also tracking who wins in the end.”

“No. That’s no fun. I want to have fun, and that isn’t it. So come on. Whoever can beat me in arm wrestling gets to go first.” He rolls the sweater sleeve up on his left arm, and grins at them both.

Sam sighs, and passes him two White Russians, motioning to his own teeth to make it clear what he wants. Bucky bites them open and distributes them evenly. “No takers?”

Steve and Sam both shake their heads, and Bucky says, “Great! I go,” and pulls a card from the stack.

Pictionary seems to be a much more leisurely game than Apples to Apples, even if it involves a lot more frantic yelling. Sam draws a can of gasoline that looks like an elephant or a purse, or—and Bucky crumples his face up when he says this—phallic. Bucky draws Steve for the word, “husband,” but Sam, who knows it’s Steve, yells out insulting guesses, and Steve, embarrassingly, doesn’t recognize his own face.

Wedding cake. Extension cord. S’mores. Wooly mammoth. Mirror. Exercise. Et cetera. And then Bucky starts only drawing Steve or himself.

He draws Steve for “macho” and Steve throws a corn chip at him (Bucky was hiding a bag of corn chips under the couch as a surprise). He draws Steve for “pilot” and Sam says, “Kind of dark, man,” but Steve and Bucky both giggle, looking each other in the eye, and Sam’s tipsy and Bucky is something and both of them are infectious, and things feel normal. Little icicles hang off of Pilot Steve.

Bucky draws himself for “myth.” He draws himself for “sleep.” He draws himself all beat-up and gory for “bruise.” It’s when he draws himself for “puppet” that Steve says, “I thought you wanted to have fun.”

Bucky frowns at his drawing of a little Winter Soldier in the goggles and mask.

Sam says, “Yeah, moratorium on pictures of anyone in this room or I’m out.” Gently, he takes the paper from Bucky’s hands and stares at it.

“Though you are a better artist than I thought you’d be.”

“I’ve got a ton of talents.” Bucky stuffs a fistful of corn chips in his mouth. When he’s done chewing and swallowing, Steve’s in the middle of trying to illustrate “protestant.” Bucky says, “Sorry.”

“That’s fine,” Steve says, and Sam says, “Yeah, we’re good,” and it’s difficult to read whether Bucky believes either of them.

That’s fair. Steve can’t even read whether he himself believes Sam, toward whom he feels a rush of guilt and protectiveness. He definitely shouldn’t have invited him over when things were this tense. He was hoping to break the tension, not mire Sam in the thick of it.

Steve draws an outline of California and Bucky correctly guesses, “Drought. That’s drought. You won’t stop talking about it.”

Sam draws a cluster of bees and Bucky guesses, “Bees,” and Steve guesses, “Extinction,” and Bucky guesses, “Bumblebees,” and Steve guesses, “Threatening,” and it turns out that it was a swarm. It was a swarm of bees.

The game ends when they run out of drinks, which happens pretty quickly once they decide to abandon Bucky’s rule, due to the fact that almost no one’s guessing anything right and so almost no White Russians are getting consumed.

Part of Steve is surprised that Bucky doesn’t offer to sleep on the floor this time and let Sam share the bed. But it’s clear that he’s feeling ginger and self-conscious about the whole Calling Himself a Puppet Possibly as a Passive-Aggressive Dig at Steve and Steve’s Newfound Celibacy slip-up and wants to make everything look as normal as possible.

So Steve goes to get the sleeping bag and Sam follows him. Thank god. Once they’re out of view of Bucky, who’s slipping his crayons back into the box one-by-one, he grabs Sam’s arm, hustles him into the bedroom, shuts the door most of the way, and throws a blanket over both of their heads. There’s not a ton more he can do to muffle their conversation.

“This is not the right way to build a blanket fort,” Sam says, not in a paranoid whisper.

“Shhh. I need you to keep your voice down.”

He does this time. “Are we being bugged?”

“No, just. I don’t want Bucky to hear.”

“Ominous.”

“Does his face look wrong to you?”

“What?”

“Does his face look wrong?”

Sam moves his jaw around. He closes his mouth and breathes out slowly through his nose. “Look, the guy drew himself for the word 'puppet' and didn’t seem to think it was kind of weird.”

“Yeah.”

“And he didn’t seem to be joking.”

“No, he didn’t. So his face looks wrong?”

“Why do you people think that’s a real phrase?”

“I know it’s not! But I’m just checking. Thank you. Did you have fun besides that?”

“Yeah. That’s not a question you need to ask under the blanket.”

“Oh. I guess not.”

They use teamwork to throw the blanket back onto the bed.

In the living room, Bucky’s still putting the crayons away, and shows no signs of having heard them. He’s working on the green crayons, and mouthing something to himself. He pauses, and looks up at Sam with half a smile. “Hey, I decided.”

“To do something about your ugly mug? That’s great man.”

“Shut up. Which one’s funnier. It’s White Russian. I like your Russian jokes better than your metal jokes.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I dedicate a stand-up routine to you.”

Bucky leans into Sam’s space and wraps an arm around one of his calves. Sam doesn’t startle. Bucky leans back. “Sorry. I’d hug you like a normal person if I weren’t on the floor.”

Steve unrolls the sleeping bag. He tucks Bucky’s “husband” drawing into his pocket when no one is looking.

So many things I love about this fill, but one of them is the way the jokes are integrated into the story. Oh god the train joke.

Yeah, it's like -- they both know there's something wrong with the other, but they're reading the situation completely wrong. Bucky's reading Steve's anxiety as disgust, and Steve's reading Bucky's desire to control his own narrative as rejection and performance.

Oh man, now I'm thinking too hard about the other words that Bucky picked, and whether they can all be illustrated with Steve or Bucky.

Rumlow thumbs the remote, and the bullet vibe, snug in its clever little pocket in the crotch of Sharon's panties, hums cheerfully to life again. One minute on, four minutes off. It hadn't felt like much of anything, at first, but by now it's impossible to ignore. If she could shift her hips, press it more firmly against her clit—but she can't, and she won't give Rumlow the satisfaction of seeing her squirm.

The training room, as Rumlow had called it, has a cream-colored carpet, and pale yellow walls. (That's not necessary, Rumlow had said, stepping into her cell and watching Sharon retreat until her back hit the wall. This is where you sleep: nothing's gonna happen to you in here. Now: you gonna follow me nicely to the training room, or do I need to cuff you and drag you? They'd gone with option B, in the end, which resulted in a bloody nose (Sharon) and a great deal of good-natured grumbling (Rumlow). I think you're smarter than this, Rumlow said, afterward, touching a cool cloth carefully to her face. You got no reason to fight me. I'll just end up hurting you as much as I need to, and then, whatever it is, I'll do it anyway.) She's tied down to a padded table, still wearing the loose cotton pants and shirt she'd found neatly folded in her tiny bathroom the night before. A light blanket covers her from chest to toes. The vibe buzzes insistently, maddeningly against her clit. It feels good, but it's not enough.

"This is rape," she says, when Rumlow turns it off again. "You get that, right?"

Rumlow looks up from whatever she's doing on her phone. "Is it? I'm not even touching you. Anyway, I think you like it. I think it's making you wet."

Sharon's throat goes hot with fury. She grits her teeth. Rumlow bursts out laughing. "You should see your fucking face, sweetheart. Jesus, I'm kidding. Relax. Of course it's fucking rape." She puts her phone away and stands. "We're the bad guys, remember? It's good work if you can get it."

Now, Sharon thinks, as the other woman comes closer. Now, it's now, she's going to— But Rumlow doesn't pull the blanket away. She frees Sharon's right hand, and steps back. "Okay, here's the deal: the first one's free. That vibe will feel a whole lot better if you move it how you want it, get some friction. Go ahead."

Sharon leaves her hand where it is. At the risk of repeating herself: "Fuck you."

Rumlow shrugs philosophically. "Suit yourself. I'll give you—say, five more cycles? And then, if you prefer, I'll drag you all dripping and needy back to your cell, and tie you up so you can't touch yourself, and we'll try again tomorrow."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Mocking, contemptuous. "On Hydra dick, or not at all?"

"Guess I'm feeling generous."

On. The sparks of pleasure—not quite right, not quite there—send a wave of frustration through her. It would feel good, to reach down and grind the little toy against her clit. The soft cotton panties are damp with her slick. Under her shirt, under the blanket, she can feel her nipples harden into sensitive nubs. She curls her free hand into a fist. She doesn't move.

Off. "Why are you doing this?" Her voice comes out rough. "Why bother? If you're going to use me for—for entertainment. Isn't that what you said? I can't stop you."

Rumlow laughs. "Yeah, that's definitely the kind of enthusiasm I like when I fuck. Go ahead and get it over with, you sadistic motherfucker. Thanks, but I'll pass." She touches Sharon's shoulder, lightly, and goes back to her chair. "You think the rich Hydra bigwigs want to stick their dicks in someone who'd really rather they didn't? I hate to say it because it's fucking bleak, but you can get that shit anywhere."

"And you think enemy combatants are your best bet for willing sexual partners?"

"Aw," Rumlow says, "willing's easy enough. Meet a girl, take her home, do her real nice while she hopes she looks good, hopes she's making all the sounds she's supposed to. Think of the dozen reasons she might be fucking you, and how few of them have a thing to do with her cunt aching to be stuffed. That's willing. You don't need to be the boss of an international terrorist organization to get that."

On. Sharon rocks her hips, can't help it. The fading ache in her clit throbs to life again, quicker each time as the stimulation builds. She thinks of Rumlow's threat, to leave her bound all night, slick and wanting. Angry heat flashes through her stomach. Her cunt clenches hard.

Off. She bucks against her restraints, chasing the sensation. The arousal is slower than ever to settle.

Rumlow's tone is interested, polite: "You ever had an orgasm with another person in the room?"

Sharon blinks. She has, actually: twice. Once at summer camp, when she was eleven, rocking quietly against her hands in the bottom bunk, three other girls breathing in the dark around her. Once her freshman year of college, furtively touching herself in her narrow dorm bed, her roommate drunk and snoring ten feet away.

"You don't have to answer. But I feel like, if you don't answer it, though, you're kind of answering it, you know?" That low, infectious laugh. "It's all right. We'll get there."

On. Fuck this. Sharon shoves her free hand into her pants. She ghosts her fingers across the damp cloth of her panties, feels the bulge of the vibe in its neat little pocket. She presses down and circles it firmly over her clit. Again, harder. Again. Pleasure races through her.

Off. She bites back the soft sound of frustration, and knows Rumlow hears it anyway. She takes her hand away.

"A little advice," Rumlow says. "If you want it. A minute's not very long. You might want to keep yourself going, while you wait for it to come around again. See if you can build up into it. I appreciate that you're trying, but you've only got two more chances."

There's no point being proud. Not here, not over this. She has one job, which is to survive. None of the rest of it matters. She slides her hand back down, rubs the small weight of the vibe against herself. It feels good, but not—not enough to get her there. She changes the pressure, the motion, experimenting. A promising throb, then nothing.

On. "Oh fuck," Sharon says, and feels a wet pulse in her cunt. She grinds the vibe against her clit, urgently now. Her toes curl. The waves of pleasure are building to a rhythm, building—

Off. She works herself, but it's too fast, too hard, and the sensation slips away, the peak eluding her. She can't, like this—this isn't how she does it. She wants to roll over, shove her hands underneath her and rut against her fists. Helplessly, she pulls against the straps.

On. Need flares through her nerves. It feels good, it feels so good, and she can feel the edge rushing toward her, finally, she's close, she's— From the corner of her eye, she sees Rumlow lift the remote. "Please."

Rumlow leaves it on. She gasps in startled gratitude, her fingers moving without conscious direction, pressing and releasing, adjusting the tiny buzzing thing against her, riding the crest. Now that Rumlow's stopped tormenting her, though, now that she's evidently supposed to get off, she feels the ugly seep of embarrassment wash through her. She's right there, she's watching. I can't, I can't with her there. It's not like she's never tried a vibrator before. Brandon, two boyfriends ago, had bought her one, had loved to see her work it against her clit while she rode him. It had felt nice, in an abstracted sort of way, the sensation buried under the overwhelming fact of his proximity, her own nakedness, the low-key discomfort of his cock splitting her open. She turns her head to look. Rumlow's not, in fact, watching her; she's gone back to playing with her phone. For that matter, Sharon's fully clothed, and under a blanket. No pain, no exposure, no one touching or even looking. She can do this. She shuts her eyes and nudges the vibe just there against her sensitized flesh. As if on cue, the vibrations tick up a notch, the faint hum audible now. Just feel it. Just feel.

She comes hard, shuddering for long seconds through the aftershocks. The vibe wrings spasm after lingering spasm of pleasure from her twitching clit. When it starts to feel like too much, she pulls the little toy away as far as the fabric of her panties will permit. Rumlow flicks it off.

She's allowed to rest, and then, in the privacy of a tiled washroom, to strip, and shower, and change into a fresh set of clean, soft clothes. When she steps back into the training room, Rumlow smiles up at her and gestures to a chair beside her own. Sharon crosses the thick carpet gingerly, and sits.

"So," Rumlow says. "That was nice." It's not a question. "It's also the last time you'll be coming for a good long while." She flashes the screen of her phone; Sharon doesn't recognize the app. "Your collar has a reading now, on physiological changes during orgasm. You jerk off, I'll know about it. And you are not allowed."

Sharon presses a hand to her own hot cheek, as if it were possible to hide from this conversation. "Well that's creepy as fuck."

"What would you suggest? Leave you tied all night, for real? Inhumane. Video surveillance in your cell? A hell of a lot creepier, if you ask me. Also, who the fuck is going to watch the feed? I don't even have an intern I hate that much." She shrugs. "It's easier, I admit, with our boysluts: we can lock their little cocks away while we train them to serve with their holes, milk them every now and then to drain their poor balls. Can't put a cock cage on you, though, can I? So you get this." She touches two fingers to her own neck. "You won't be tempted for a while, I imagine—we're going to work on other things first, and I can see how falling victim to the depraved excesses of your worst enemy might not be a turn-on—but you will be tempted, and when you are, I want you to remember this. If you make yourself come without permission, I will punish you. Do not make me do that. It'll hurt you and scare you and I've got no interest in it, not at this stage. Hell, I don't want to take your damn clothes off till we get to know each other a bit better. Okay?"

"If you don't want to hurt me," Sharon spits, abruptly and helplessly furious, "then don't. Stop talking about it like—like something I can control."

Rumlow's dark eyes widen a little in surprise. "No," she says slowly. "You're right. You're not the one in control here."

After a moment, Sharon nods. She thinks of Rumlow laughing at her: you should see your fucking face, sweetheart. At least they understand each other. There might be some comfort in that.

"So," Sharon says, and swallows. "What. What are we going to work on first?"

"First," Rumlow says, good cheer restored, "I'm going to teach you to suck cock."

Well shit, Sharon thinks, the odd cautious breath of optimism snuffed out. In that case, we're going to have a problem.

Oh, fuck, I LOVE this.

I am so, so grateful for this wonderful and delightful fic! The blanket fort!! The White Russian jokes!! "My friend gave me a box of crayons!" I love everything about it and it's just getting more and more tense.

oh god if i were sam i'd be so done with these two emotionally constipated grandpas.

(also: cap!sam!!!!! eeeeeeee!!!!!!!)

[WHALE NOISES OF SUFFERING]

0
The Asset felt a heat stirring in its lower half as it completed its mission. It wiped the blood from the blade and sheathed it. It dragged the woman’s body to the balcony, where it would later be found. Evidence of a break in by foreign nationals had been planted earlier. The Asset had perfectly executed every part of its mission.

It looked forward to the potential that its handlers would consider it a job well done and reward it by allowing it to suck their cocks. The heat in the asset’s own genitalia grew more incessant, but it did not let it show in its outward behavior. A weapon was not useful if it did not restrain itself on missions. Useless weapons were not allowed to suck cocks.

The Asset was let into the transport vehicle where its team was waiting. The doors were shut behind it and they were off. Its arousal grew, but it was not finished with its duties yet. It carefully disarmed in the moving vehicle while giving a mission report.

Finally finished, it dropped to its knees and nuzzled the commander’s crotch. Weapons did not speak unless it was mission relevant. It had to request its reward in a different manner.

The commander pushed its head away, saying, “Not now, Asset”
The Asset shuffled away obediently as the leader wiped off the blood on his hand and pants. Second-in-command of the team said, “Come on, Rumlow, don’t you feel sorry for it? Look that boner it’s sporting you can see it through its pants. You know the technicians messed it up so badly it can’t get off without a cock in its mouth.”

The commander growled, “So what, Rollins? I’m busy here. Unlike some people my job doesn’t end with extraction.”

“Fine, I’ll do it. Here, Asset.” The second-in-command said, while unzipping his pants. The asset crawled past the other agents over to him.

“If you do that it’s going to go back to hounding us to pull out our dicks again. We only just trained it out of it.” The commander grumbled.

“It’s just the once. The Asset did a good job, didn’t it?” Second-in-command said with a pat to the Asset’s head as he fed his cock into its mouth. The Asset rumbled in pleasure from the praise. The moment the cock hit its tongue its nerve endings lit up and its genitals started leaking. It started suckling at the flesh in its mouth.

“Whatever, it’s not like it isn’t fun to train the bad habits out of it.” The Commander said.

Pressure built up in the Asset’s balls, so it took the cock deeper into its mouth until it hit the back of its throat and the pressure doubled. Too practiced to choke, it bobbed its head, tasting the thick veins and salty skin of the cock with its tongue. The Second-in-command’s fingers were twisted up in its hair.

Soon enough jizz flooded its oral cavity and was promptly ingested. It stiffened, and then relaxed as semen seeped into its tactical pants. The itch had largely abated, but there was still a small coil of heat as it removed its mouth from the cock and cleaned it off with a few swipes of its tongue.

Someone said, “I’m always amazed at how it comes untouched.”

“Yeah, those technicians are something, you could jack that thing for hours and it wouldn’t come unless you put a cock in its mouth,” Second-in-command replied. “I’m told it was to improve efficiency and whole bunch of other bull crap.”

It looked at the cock agent in the next seat over. He was staring at it while palming his cock. Sensing an opportunity, it started to shuffle over to him.

“Asset. No,” the Commander growled. “Dammit, Westfahl! Get your dick back in your pants.”

1
It took the Asset a long time to piece things together. After he dragged Rogers, Steven Grant out of the water, he went looking for a way to understand the bits of memories coming back to him. At first he followed mission protocol even though he knew he couldn’t return to Hydra. It was helpful for staying hidden, but several weeks in he discovered having no handlers means having no cocks to suck for relief. He was pent up and there were all these provocative pictures of women just posted in public. He didn’t know how everyone wasn’t popping boners in front of these stores. He half considered going back just so he’d have a cock to suck.

Eventually he reasoned that no handlers also meant no one to stop him from sucking whatever cock he wanted now. He started to find men to corner in back alleys whenever he needed some relief. He stayed on the move; almost every day new memories were triggered.

Bucky’s sense of self slowly returned. His memories were still patchy and he still felt disconnected from the world around him, but he knew certain things about himself. For instance he was straight. He always had been. He remembered having sex with women, fantasizing about them, coming, and without another dick in sight. Even now it was soft bodies and ample breasts that turned him on, not men. It was the strangest thing when he realized that straight men don’t come from sucking cock.

Once he realized that, he decided that he was never going to do it again. He was not going to let Hydra dictate anything else about him.

2
When Rogers, Steven Grant - Stevie found him on the streets of Anaheim, Barnes didn’t want to go with him. Barnes had just wanted to live quietly, work out his issues and put his past behind him. He tried to high-tail it out of there, but he had forgotten how stubborn Steve could be.

Several blocks later he found out while being pinned to the ground with some sort of magnetic device.

“Buck, you’re my friend, I want you to be safe. Come back with me,” he pleaded.

Barnes growled, “Get off me, I’m fine on my own.” He tried wrenching his arm free, while making sure Steve didn’t draw too close.

Steve didn’t let up. “No, you’re not. Hydra could find you just as easily as I did.”

The device came loose in the pavement and Barnes pulled his arm up with the device still attached. His blood rushed to his dick in triumph.

“Please, Bucky. Just come with me,” Steve begged one last time.

At that moment, Barnes was so strung up with sexual tension, he’d agree to go just about anywhere with someone with a dick. He’d tried every way of jerking off he could remember, and even hit up some women for sex, but no matter what he couldn’t come. It was getting painful.

So he caved in. He agreed before he even remembered his vow to never suck another cock again.

During the trip back to Avengers HQ Barnes found it difficult to keep his eyes from straying to Steve’s dick. He knew he could get some relief if he just could get his mouth on it. The thought disgusted him almost as much as he longed for it. Stevie was like a brother. It was weird enough to need to suck cocks; he didn’t need the extra weirdness of it being a cock he grew up with. Though he secretly wanted it.

3
Barnes was welcomed to the Avenger’s facility with little fanfare. After being cleared by security, he was briefly introduced to everyone staying there. He was already familiar with the Black Widow, Natalia Romanova and the man with the wings whose name turned out to be Sam Wilson. There was also Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Thor, Tony Stark, and Maria Hill.

He could tell most of them were mildly uncomfortable with his presence, Stark more than anyone it appeared, but did what they could to welcome him. He was given an expense account and a tablet to go with his rooms. They didn’t bother him too often, but did invite him to eat with them or watch movies.

He quickly felt a connection with Natalia. She knew what it felt like to be broken and used like he had been. She spoke Russian and had received similar training as him as well. The best and worst part was that she was drop-dead gorgeous.

Barnes thought he could get by without it, but Steve and the other Avengers insisted he talk to someone with training in counseling. He finally agreed to talk to Sam on the condition Natalia was there as well. He could trust her to help explain some of the things he’d been through. There were still a lot of things he wasn’t ready to talk about.

What he didn’t count on was how straining the sessions would be for his dick. He could hardly concentrate on the conversations. Natalia would sit next to him, not touching, but close enough he could smell her. Sam sat across from him, his legs spread wide, practically begging for someone to come suck his cock.

Natalia would say or do something arousing, which was practically anything with her, and Barnes would get wound up to the point he could hardly tear his eyes from Sam’s crotch. He ended quite a few sessions early to give himself time for his erection to go down.

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Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Re: Bestiality, objectification, dehumanization, body modifcation

Fill: Marks of Ownership (2/3)

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Re: Hydra ruined Bucky's life attempted suicide addition with Steve/Bucky aftermath

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Fill: The Straight and Narrow or 5 times Bucky Resisted Cocks + 1 Time He Didn't [1/7]

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Fill: The Straight and Narrow or 5 times Bucky Resisted Cocks + 1 Time He Didn't [3/7]

Fill: The Straight and Narrow or 5 times Bucky Resisted Cocks + 1 Time He Didn't [4/7]