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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Ahhh omg this is my favourite trash! Bucky you poor thing, what a mess.

love this, thank you

Every bit of this owns.

omg please update this, it is fantastic

If this thread could be continued, I would be so happy :( dear anon, any chance inspiration will strike again and you’ll finish the story?

AN: Not abandoned, but also how did this get so long? fml.

----

Blue-eyes won the night, but Rumlow had held his own, enough that he ended in the green. It could be that the Contessa had thrown a few hands intentionally. She fixed him with a hard stare at the end of the night and said to him, “Looks like I owe you,” before turning to Pierce to add, “I like this one.”

He bristled at the implications but kept his trap shut. Wisely so, as that led to Pierce seeing his guests to the door and an invitation upstairs when only Rumlow remained. Rumlow hesitated, moreso this time than before. Once burned, twice shy.

“You lied about command positions,” Pierce said casually, a hand resting on the banister. A sharp snap of his fingers and Barnes came to heel. Pierce pointed up the stairs and Barnes slowly crawled up them. Pierce watched the ascent, but Rumlow could feel the prickle in the air warning him that most of Pierce's attention wasn't on Barnes at all. “You’ve led a good number of incursions.”

“Unit command is different than sitting at the table in the war room. I'd rather be filing reports than reading them.”

Pierce waited until Barnes had cleared the top stair before he turned to Rumlow. “Steve Rogers thinks very highly of you and of your qualities as a leader. Nick Fury is inclined to agree.”

An awful swelling pride twisted in his chest, a knot of tentacles that squirmed and sought to fill the spaces between his organs. It was an uncomfortable feeling in the wake of being so thoroughly humiliated. Impossible to say if it was a biscuit meant to smooth things over. “And you, sir? What's your assessment?”

“You're smart, you're vicious, and if anyone other than the asset has a chance to take down Steve Rogers when the time comes, it's you.” Pierce lay a hand on the railing and nodded towards where Barnes had disappeared. “Last chance. If you want to understand why he obeys, this is your chance.”

Sometimes it felt like Pierce was a fucking mind reader. Or a puppet master, Rumlow thought, as he allowed himself to be pulled up the steps by invisible strings.

“Did you know that every single time we've had to force a major wipe, I've had to start from scratch,” Pierce said, leading the way into a bathroom that was larger than Rumlow's bedroom. Barnes perched waiting on the edge of a freestanding stone tub that looked like it was hollowed out of a split boulder.

The room was mostly white, tiled in smooth gleaming squares that didn't have the pretentiousness or hassle of marble but equalled the elegance. It fit with the rest of Pierce's home, everything clearly showing its price tag but none of the screaming overcompensation of the nouveau riche or the dusty pomp of old money. Before enlisting, as a teenager Rumlow had worked a construction crew, and refitting houses nudged up against golf courses had taught him a lot about the well-to-do. Alexander Pierce's home said he paid well for what would last the longest and serve him the best without unreasonable upkeep.

Rumlow regarded the jarring black and silver of the asset disrupting the clean lines of the room and reconsidered Barnes’s upkeep. “Why bother?” he asked. “Does it get easier every time?”

“Not at all,” Pierce admitted. He grabbed a folded towel off a cedar chest and tossed it to the floor. It slid to a stop in front of Barnes who twitched, muscles prepped to move; it wasn't until Pierce nodded that he slid off his perch to kneel on the towel.

“So why?”

“I learn something new every single time,” Pierce said, rolling his sleeve halfway to his elbow before starting the tap. “Such as how a hot bath is as welcome a reward as an iced dessert.”

Barnes stripped when ordered, leaving a neatly folded pile of clothes and gear plus an array of knives piled next to his boots. He returned to his towel and waited attentively as Pierce produced a shaving kit, setting out a mug, an old safety razor with ivory inlaid in its wooden handle, and a fresh blade.

Just seeing the small naked blade made Rumlow want to pick it up and stripe red cuts into Barnes’s skin. If they were shallow enough you could watch the wounds stitch themselves right up and then wipe away the blood, the skin beneath as good as new. Go deep enough though, and, well, there were a lot of marks and scars on the assets body beyond the ugly knots near his shoulder. Most of them healed too, just a helluva lot slower.

Pierce motioned for Rumlow to take care of the shaving cream while he dismantled the razor to screw the blade into place. “Just add a bit of water to the soap and whisk it around,” he said, offering the instruction whether or not it was needed. “It'll foam right up.”

The lather built into creamy peaks, a subtle, sweet smell rising up out of the cup. The squat brush handle matched the safety razor, and Rumlow found the weight of it in his hand oddly pleasant. It reminded him a bit of a billiard ball, lighter by far, but solid and purposeful for its size. He ran his thumb over the checkered bits of ivory as Pierce dumped a dozen rolled-up washcloths out of a shallow metal bowl and then dipped the bowl into the steaming tub to fill it.

Barnes had raised his arms up ready to receive the bowl and hold it. How many times had they done this that he was so well trained?

“What, no hot towel?” Rumlow said, as Pierce looped a dry white towel around his neck. He slid a matching cedar stool out from under the cabinet and set it directly in front of Barnes. He took a seat and stared straight into Barnes’s eyes. Barnes stared right back, calm in an unsettling way, he wasn’t begging to be touched now, but he was waiting with purpose, with intent. He’d wear the same look sighting down a scope with a finger on the trigger, Rumlow was sure of it.

It creeped him the fuck out.

“Some rewards come with diligent service,” Pierce said, the composure of his voice only amplifying the jangle of nerves along Rumlow’s spine. “Other rewards are reserved for more unique circumstances.”

“And which is this?”

“For you? Or for him?” Pierce’s glancing gaze didn’t beg a response. He held out a hand for the cup that Rumlow had worked to the brim with lather, and said, “Shut off the tap, would you?”

Little licks of steam rose into the air as the surface of the water settled to stillness. The sudden quiet magnified each rasping scrape of the razor across Barnes's cheek and throat. It hardly seemed like Barnes took a breath or swallowed, his adam’s apple quivering only once after the razor passed over it and up to the point of his chin.

Rumlow wished he were bored. Watching another man get shaved should be a dull if not tedious ritual, something that didn’t affect him in the slightest, but the sound and smell of it got to him somehow. He used an electric at home more times than not, a couple quick buzzing passes when the shadow on his cheeks started threatening to turn into a beard. He only ever really used a proper razor when he had a really hot date lined up and wanted to be baby soft in preparation for a thick pair of thighs around his head.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from each swift pass of the razor, couldn’t help the stir in his blood each time Pierce cleaned it with a brisk swish in the bowl Barnes held. He noticed only after a while that at some point Barnes’s eyes had closed and that he himself was holding his chin up, echoing Barnes’s posture.

He shifted uncomfortably, felt the unease swell beneath his ribs again. He should’ve left. He could’ve been home by now, in the shower with a cold beer and this bizarre day swirling down the drain. The razor swept neatly over the hinge of Barnes’s jaw, Pierce’s knuckles trailing behind to test the closeness of the shave.

A few more passes and Pierce was finished. He took the towel in hand and gently wiped away the thin stripes of white left on Barnes’s face. Barnes looked younger. If he didn’t have the body of a brawler, he should be selling cologne in the glossy pages of a magazine.

Pierce dried his hands and pivoted to face Rumlow. He gestured at the space in front of him. “You?” he said, and at the sound of his voice, Barnes’s eyes slid open again. The illusion of youth vanished.

A small, sick part of Rumlow wanted to say yes. The awful, weak, trembling part that was at the heart of his squirming unease. No one would know if he took up the offer, and let Pierce’s sure hands take his face. The man already had all the power in the world over him, saw him fucked face down by his two-legged pet, what would it change?

Rumlow swallowed around the hard knot settled in his throat. His fingers had turned cold and brittle. “No thanks,” he said, sneering.

“Few things nicer than a proper shave,” Pierce replied conversationally. He stood and Barnes followed suit, dumping the clouded water in the bowl into the sink and then stepping wordlessly into the bath. One ritual down, more to go.

“I’ll clean ‘em,” Rumlow offered, gesturing at the brush and razor. He wasn’t so much anxious to help as to get things moving.

Pierce didn’t object, and let Rumlow clean and rinse and set things to dry as he attended to the asset with as much care as he’d shown in shaving him. He stretched Barnes's metal arm out, supporting it at the elbow as he wiped down the plates with a damp cloth, methodically cleaning the seams and joints.

This was maybe worse, Rumlow thought, glancing over as he finished putting the kit to rights. This felt like watching something he wasn't supposed to, uncomfortably intimate to the point of obscenity. He lingered near the sink and watched stubbornly anyway, catching it this time when Barnes’s eyes went to slits and then closed entirely, his mouth parting slightly as Pierce bathed him, the washcloth periodically disappearing under the water to run along his legs and groin.

“You like doing this?” he asked Pierce.

“I started in the field, you know,” Pierce said. He was washing Barnes’s hair now and didn’t look up from the task. “Nick and I came up together, though I was already running a desk by the time he joined SHIELD. Do you know what it is that makes a field agent successful? It’s not good papers or window dressing, and it’s certainly not money, though that of course comes in handy.”

As Pierce rinsed Barnes’s hair with a bowlful of fresh water, Rumlow made a vague sound, not sure where this was going.

“Success as an agent comes from being satisfied with the results of your work.” Pierce paused as he had Barnes rise and step from of the bath. He began to towel him off with the same thorough care, one limb and then the next, periodically catching the water that dripped from Barnes’s long hair. “Now, the wind can change at any time when you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be, doing something you definitely shouldn’t be doing, and you might get burned, or you might have to abandon an asset you’ve been spoonfeeding for weeks, months, years even. Where’s the satisfaction in that, you wonder? When all your hard work turns into nothing or bureaucrats back home shit on the intelligence you’ve gone through great lengths for…?

“Well it’s managed chaos, isn’t it,” Pierce continued. He wrapped Barnes in a fresh, fleecy towel. “You can lose a thousand battles and still win the war. So do I enjoy scrubbing down a fucking attack dog that can’t string two sentences together when he isn’t delivering a mission report? Not particularly, but he looks damn good after a wash, doesn’t he.”

With that, Pierce released Barnes, who still looked oddly sated. Rumlow wondered what Barnes would’ve been like if he'd been a fly on the wall. Would there be even less tension in him? Would he have responded to Pierce even more acutely? Was a shave and a hot bath really all it took to have Barnes willing to wear a collar around his neck and play fetch?

Barnes didn’t sink back down to the floor like Rumlow expected. Clean and groomed he was free to be a man, and his bare feet were silent on the tile as he led the way again.

Aaaaand replied to the wrong thread. This is how long it has been since I've updated. orz

!!! Hooray! I have SUCH a shaving kink. You are a blessing.

OMG, this entire fic is a blessing. I feel like Rumlow -- started this expecting some straightforward puppy play, but it just keeps getting more and more interesting. I love all of your characterizations. <333

PLEASE tell me this is not abandoned!

Continued in Round 4! https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2271.html?thread=5214175#cmt5214175

author!anon: not abandoned!!! put on the back burner for a variety of reasons, but not permanently. a short installment is flying in and will be touching down in a few minutes.

The meteorologist is tracking a storm when Bucky plops down next to Steve on the couch and loops a rope around Steve’s neck. Loosely, more like a stole than a noose. Steve scrunches his eyebrows at Bucky and says, “Am I a farm animal today? Are we herding me somewhere?”

Bucky’s hair is in a high ponytail. His hands are clutching each end of the rope. “Yep. Come along, Steve sheep. We’ve got wool to shear.” He winks, then pulls on one of the ends so that the rope slithers off of Steve. Abrasive against his skin as it goes.

Warm temperatures tonight. Heavy rainfall tomorrow, and the humidity is already making the hair at Bucky’s temples curl.

Throwing his leg across Steve’s thighs, Bucky waves one of the rope’s handles in the air between them. It’s a light, polished wood, and the tapered shape--Steve’s gut clenches as he remembers how sometimes he'd slip one like that into Bucky, pinching and smacking Bucky’s ass so he’d tighten up around it.

Bucky bites the wood in a quick gnash and click of teeth, then takes his mouth from it and grins. “One jump rope, proper kind, delivered as guaranteed.”

Steve takes the handle from him, and the rest of the rope. Coils it on his lap and Bucky’s outstretched leg. “Where’d you get this? This is—” ancient, but he feels punched in the gut by the word. He and Bucky fucking happily is an ancient thing. His old body, handling this kind of jump rope, is ancient and gone. Not even allowed to return to dust.

“Old as fuck? Katarina loves antiquing at flea markets.” His body spreads out, practically oozing, his movements are so liquid. His other leg joins the first across Steve’s, his metal arm on the back of the couch behind Steve’s head. Steve’s shoulder becomes cozy with Bucky’s armpit, and the rope gets trapped between Bucky’s legs.

Steve asks, “Who the hell is this person?”

“Uh, she’s Katarina. From my class. You met.” Bucky flicks him on the cheek and rolls his eyes.

“No, I know that—You’re joking.”

“Yes. Come on. You’re you and I’m me and you think that her life story is over-the-top?”

“Well, sure. I’m me. You’re you. But everyone else is. Well.”

“Regular?”

“Sure. Happy and regular.”

“Natasha’s not. Sam’s not.” Bucky pulls the rope from between his legs. He playfully thwacks Steve in the chest with the handle. It feels how a church bell sounds.

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because. You know why! Bucky.” He’s embarrassed to have to explain, to have to put it out there how secretly close he holds the people he loves these days. How he squeezes them so hard they melt into him. How he doesn’t know a different, healthier, more contained way to feel.

“Because I’m me and you’re you and they’re both also me and you.”

“In a way, yeah.”

“The ego you’re dragging around there.”

“I’m not wrong.”

“You’re not. We’re all each other. I get it. I know.” And he sounds like he really does, like Steve doesn’t need to either explain more or walk around thinking Bucky’s got half the story. They’re all each other, and it’s a fragile, hard-to-look-at thing. Before all this, before ice or sleep, he and Bucky weren’t even the same. And now he’s got all these people, all stitched up with him. All wearing the same rubber masks.

He looks at the television. Then moving into Monday, if we turn to Virginia--He turns back to Bucky, who’s got the rope in his teeth like a dog with a chew toy. It makes Steve smile; it makes him want to pet Bucky’s shining hair and feed him and call him good, so good, perfect, even if that last one isn’t exactly true, because.

He’s right. No argument. They’re all each other.

He does stroke a thumb along the hair at the front of Bucky’s head. Soft and clean.

He says, “I bought suspenders. And. Well, the full outfit. I’m all in.” He got the pants and shirt secondhand, feeling stupid about it; he could afford them new. But they should have some wear in them, a lived-in quality. Beating them against a rock until they looked older than they were would have been cathartic, but not everything cathartic is a good idea. He knows that now.

Bucky shakes his head so the rope shakes, and gives a little growl, then drops it into his lap, the material damp with spit. “There’s the spirit. You get me clothes too?”

“Clothes? What do you need clothes for, huh? You’re there to be pretty and helpless and whipped, not to have any dignity.”

“You know, I love that answer.” Bucky snuggles in, kissing Steve on the cheek. Biting his earlobe. Kissing the whole opening of his ear with a loud pop, so Steve squeaks against his will and jerks his head to the side and away.

Bucky’s laughing, and says, “Hey, you wanna hear a joke,” no question mark.

“Oh, I do? That’s interesting.”

“Yep.” He nods at the television. “What’s the difference between weather and climate?”

“What would you do if I gave you the real answer?”

“Punch you in the mouth. And I don’t want to, so I’m talking over you--The difference is you can’t weather a tree, but you can climate!” He says, “Good wisdom for you, pal.” He lies his head on Steve’s shoulder and sighs. The meteorologist hands the camera's gaze off to the news anchors.

Steve says, “Deep, Buck. Thanks. Where do you get this shit?”

“The internet. I look for it. You’re missing out on a lot of good jokes.”

“Sure I’m not. I’ve got you here to pass on the best ones.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“It’s right. That’s your job. And you do it well.” It’s not good, so good, perfect, but it’s close.

Rain tomorrow, but the hurricane won’t reach them. It’ll fall to pieces halfway, becoming nothing but wetness and wind. As they watch the news, Steve’s fingers toy absentmindedly with the jump rope. Rough, spit-damp, ancient as being separate from other people instead of tangled up with their innards, grotesque and alive.

OH THEM. <3333333333333333333333

So glad to see this update!!

*leaves drift of candy wrappers and broken egg shells at your shrine*

I saw this roll in last night while I was at work and the STRENGTH OF WILL it took to keep teaching and not go hide in a bathroom and read is indescribable. Anyway. You're an angel, I love you, I'm scraping all the food wrappers from the corners of my bedroom for you.

You updated <3 And skipping rope!

DONE! Thanks for sticking with me, y'all.

--

Rumlow wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow and exit the room before Pierce. There was no protocol for this and nothing in Pierce’s body language to guide him. He wished now that he hadn’t separated the razor from its handle and could have offered to do Pierce a turn. Not that there was much of a shadow on him even after a full day; only the faintest prickle of white-blond showed near his jaw, the skin there less marked by what age and years of sun had put on the rest of his face.

The water in the bath was still steaming, and Rumlow nodded at it. “You mind if I--?”

That smile ghosted across Pierce’s face again. “Be my guest,” he said, plucking one of the stray washcloths off the counter. He passed the roll to Rumlow as he exited and politely closed the door behind him.

Rumlow stripped down. He left his things in a haphazard pile, a crumpled, chaotic mess scattered on the floor near Barnes’s neurotic little stack. Rather than get into the tub and soak, he gave himself a wash like this was the field: dipping the cloth into the water and scrubbing ruthlessly at his skin until it turned pink not from heat but from raw abuse. Grimacing, he swiped between his legs at the last. Dripping wet, the water that trickled down the insides of his thighs made his muscles seize. He left the washcloth to sink into the bathwater and snatched a towel to hastily dry off.

He could hear them talking--Pierce anyway, a murmur too soft to pick words out of.

He’d stood hallway duty plenty of times before, never for Pierce, but keeping watch while someone got their jollies off was inevitable when babysitting diplomats and businessmen. Whether the entertainment was escorts or flings from a hotel bar or some other politician’s wife, there was always an element of sameness from the other side of the door.

Rumlow retrieved his pants and hauled them on over still-damp skin, then tugged on his tee. Instead of putting his socks back on he balled them up and stuffed them into his boots. Briefly he entertained the idea of whether or not he could get it up and jerk a quick one into one of Barnes’s socks, but there was no guarantee he’d be able to right now--or that Barnes wasn’t going to get fresh laundry in the morning and be put away by Pierce all prim and proper.

Scooping up his boots and the rest of his gear, Rumlow killed the lights and left the master bath.

It didn’t surprise him in the least to find Pierce naked in bed, his back propped against pillows while the asset sprawled across his lap. He was toying with Barnes’s drying hair with one hand and Barnes’s mouth with the other.

Rumlow dumped his things against the wall and knew that there could’ve been a very different end to this night. If he hadn’t read the situation so damn wrong earlier, his ass wouldn’t be smarting in his pants and he very well might have petitioned Pierce to let him put that dog in its place. Barnes was no stranger to getting spitroasted, and Rumlow was good at making sure the guy on the other end felt each thrust.

But he couldn’t forget Barnes’s weight on him, the brutal hold of his arm and his relentless rhythm. It hadn’t been a fair fight. Hell, could he say he even fought back at all? Rumlow found himself avoiding eye contact and holding up a piece of wall. Pierce mercifully didn’t question the decision, and the few feet between them stretched into miles. As Rumlow drifted further from the action, he catalogued the way Barnes responded to Pierce's touch: Pierce was training the asset to do things that he found pleasurable and at the same time clearly working out what it is that Barnes reacted to. From that vast distance, Rumlow added to the list in his head: fresh shave, hot bath, and slow kisses to the shoulder.

He watched everything through that strangely faraway lens up until the moment when Barnes was flat on his back, his real arm thrown over his eyes and his cock standing flush and hard. The whimpering sob that cracked past his lips hauled Rumlow back into his body, a rush of something that felt more like fear than a sexual thrill clutched at Rumlow's insides.

He hadn't ever heard the asset make a sound like that. Not even when bleeding and dripping from both ends or slumped in a corner soaked in piss. But Pierce had taken him there somehow, through whispered words too quiet for Rumlow to hear and gentle touches that brushed from throat to thigh.

Suddenly, viciously, Rumlow’s lust came roaring back. He wanted to climb into that bed and fuck the asset sloppy, to pry Barnes's knees apart and force his fingers against where Pierce had certainly loosened him up nicely. He bit the inside of his cheek, knowing that his moment had passed and he wasn't meant to have that; he had to settle for watching Pierce roll Barnes onto his side--too gently, far too gently--and spoon against him.

It took a while before Rumlow realized Pierce wasn't even fucking Barnes, not really, Pierce was doing him schoolboy style, dick pushing between pressed thighs.

And Barnes-- Barnes was into it, his cock twitching as it filled and grew.

Rarely did the asset get hard without being forced there, tugged and groped until his body grudgingly responded. Hell, that'd been true earlier tonight, when Rumlow had been trapped under the clamp of metal on his neck and had to endure the awful press of a spongy dick rubbed up against him until Barnes had gotten hard enough to push his way in.

And now there he was, cock straining and drooling, teeth on his lip like he was trying to keep quiet.

Maybe it was muscle memory meets buried memories. It wouldn't surprise Rumlow if this was how Barnes had passed time on the eastern front, Rogers all cozy beside him, a little private time cause they were such good friends weren't they.

That viciousness surged up again, swelling up in his throat, slick and oily. He studied the micro expressions playing across Barnes's face, the tug of his brows and the quiver of his lip. And then, later, when Barnes’s cock was spasming and spitting a heavy load over Pierce's sheets, the confusion that stared out from blurred eyes.

The look faded as minutes passed, turned into boredom until Pierce rolled away satiated himself and ordered Barnes to clean up. Finally, this was something that Rumlow would’ve bet on happening tonight: Barnes lapping up what he could, tongue leaving dark stains on the million thread count and then scooping up the mess that had been left dribbling down his thighs in wet fingerfuls that he sucked clean and swallowed with an impressive thoroughness.

There wasn’t a drop left when he was done.

“Do you understand it now?” Pierce asked, returning with a damp towel. He wiped clean his hands and his dick and then threw it towards the asset without bothering to look at him. “Why he obeys?”

Rumlow stood up straighter, shoulders squaring. “Obeying was...never in question.”

“Indeed it wasn’t.” Pierce was clearly pleased that Rumlow that arrived at the right answer. “Why then do you think he obeys me in the manner that he does?”

Barnes had curled up at the foot of the bed, practically tucked into a ball with his cheek tucked into the crook of his arm. It wasn’t too far different from the way Rogers managed to shrink down to hide behind that fucking shield of his. The look in his eye was back to calculating, observant. Less like a hound and more like a cat.

Rumlow chose his phrasing carefully, picking his way through the words like a minefield. “You give him something he wants. What he needs, maybe, even if he doesn’t always like it.”

“Smart and vicious,” Pierce said. He sat on the edge of the bed, and stroked Barnes’s from shoulder to hip. “And do you know then, why you accepted the invitation to my home and then chose to stay?”

Rumlow swallowed thickly. He knew the answer, even if it pained him to say it. He felt lightheaded to the point that he now needed the wall to keep on his feet. “I’m no better than Barnes,” he said, and clenched his teeth so hard they hurt.

“Good guess, but not entirely true.” Pierce continued to pet Barnes as he spoke, soft touches that matched his tone. “He is starved, and useless to me without his programming. You’re a man of free will who is simply...hungry.”

Rumlow almost asked what it was that Pierce believed that he was hungry for. He tried, but his voice dried up before it left his throat. It didn’t matter, he realized. If he couldn’t see the forest through the trees, Pierce would do it for him. A gritty laugh tore out his throat as he sunk to the floor. He sat there, staring up at Pierce, feeling every hurt in his body clawing down to settle in his bones.

Pierce turned down the bed and regarded him. “Stay as my guest as long as you care to. Join me for breakfast if you’d like. The asset is capable of fixing up a decent plate of toast and eggs. Later in the day, I’d like you to accompany me to secure the remainder of those votes.”

Rumlow didn’t care to stay where he was, but he’d turned to stone, a weight too heavy to move. “Yes sir,” he managed.

How fucking hungry--

The sheets whispered as Pierce slid between them. At the foot of the bed, he heard Barnes shift.

“Go fetch some bedding,” Pierce ordered.

Bare feet landed in front of Rumlow. A moment later, the asset’s metal hand offered him a woolen blanket and a foam pillow.

When he didn’t take them, they were placed carefully before him.

“Good boy,” Pierce said, as Barnes crawled back onto the bed.

Rumlow shoved at the pile of his gear beside him, bootlaces left trailing across the thick pile of the carpet. He gathered up his knees and draped his elbows over them. The door was still open to the hallway, dark and yawning, the path to the stairs and the door his to take.

Eventually he lowered himself to the floor, pretending that he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the praise had been meant for the asset alone. He rolled onto his back, and crammed the pillow under his neck. Patterns crept into the shadows that marched across the ceiling.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the faint gleam of metal at Barnes’s side. Rumlow still had a chance. He could leave now, before Pierce got any more ideas about what was ticking in his head. He could walk right out of here and pretend this whole night didn’t happen.

“Good boy,” he mouthed, testing the shape of the words in the darkness. The feel of Rogers’s short hair in his fist sprang into his imagination. He bared his teeth, lips peeling away from his gums. Pierce must know he ached for it every single fucking time he had to look Cap in the insufferable All-American eyes. Was that the ultimate command position? A reward reserved for unique circumstance?

Best not to assume, the Contessa’s voice whispered a warning.

Rumlow turned the prospect around in his mind for a long while, chewing lightly on the edges of the idea. If Pierce valued his loyalty, what would it matter if he gave up a bit more of his dignity to prove it. You need to play the game to win, he reasoned. He might not want to hand out marching orders on the regular, but if Pierce let him run down Rogers when the time came and that’s what it took to be at the other end of that leash….

The idea kept his blood running hot until he caught a more subtle gleam from the foot of the bed: Barnes was awake and had that dead-eye stare trained back on him.

Under the weight of that gaze, he tempered his resolve. He shook out the blanket and made himself more comfortable; crashing on a carpeted floor sure as hell beat laying a bag out on the cold dirt. His skin prickled as Barnes tracked his every move, and the whole of his flesh went tight as he shut his eyes and turned his back on the threat.

He’d played right into this, but he could still muster ambition where the asset couldn’t, and he could harness the anger that in the asset simmered uselessly behind programming. He might be on the same lead, but he didn’t have to fear a wipe, only a bullet.

Holding that cold comfort close, he chased sleep and tried to shake the feeling of metal on his throat, clamped there like teeth to hold him down.

holy heck what a stunning end! I love how smart and cognizant the Asset is through all of this. I hope you post it to AO3 so that I can give it internet points.

[WHALE NOISES]

This writing is so incredibly good. The hurt here just wrings you out, holy hell. Bucky's thinking how Steve's logic is flawed, when he can't see his own flawed logic. The way Steve desperately wants to do the right thing, but can't understand Bucky's frame of reference enough to know what that it. Begging not to have to tell Steve more. James mourning his old life, mourning what was done to him. Just.... Damn. This is amazing and cruel and delicious and terrible and wonderful.

aw thanks. <3 Can't believe how long this thing turned out, but I'm cleaning it up for posting now that it's done!

:D :D :D the best noises!

Read the prequel and had to read what came after. This was heartbreaking in the best way.

Please, dear author, I understand you must have moved on already, but there are some readers who still haven't, so please come back and give us closure, Bucky has to get some comfort here!

Pierce looks wrecked.

His clothes are rumpled, hair out of place, glasses sliding down his nose with no effort on his part to right them. There are bloody imprints of his teeth in his lower lip, eyes so wild that Nick isn’t sure if he’s faced with gratitude or outrage. He’d hope saving the bureaucrat’s daughter and a dozen others would entitle him to the former, but he’s under no illusions about the situation. He carried out an unauthorized operation on foreign soil and made a fool of Pierce before the rest of the State Department. The odds he won’t be made a scapegoat are slim.

Pierce’s hands are shaking. It’s a far cry from the man Nick had seen only yesterday. Pierce had been in the same suit then, but it was impeccably pressed. He’d looked so calm and collected, so certain he could negotiate the rebels down.

Nick had nodded at the decision and then left to take matters into his own hands. And now Pierce will have his head on a stick for it.

“You,” Pierce manages. His mouth works silently afterward, fingers twisting the fabric of his cuffs.

“Me,” Nick says. Usually he can rein in his smart mouth around simpering politicians who never have to get their hands dirty. But usually those politicians cut right to the chase.

Pierce’s eyes flare and yeah, it’s outrage Nick sees there. The words come spilling out, finally, though halted and stammered. “How dare you—You defied—you risked—”

Then the words stop as abruptly as they’d started, cut short by Pierce slamming his lips against Nick’s.

It’s not as surprising as it probably should be. Nick doesn’t work under anyone without learning all there is to know about them, and he could tell in his gut well before any intel came back. Not that there’s been much to find. Pierce is either deep enough in the closet that he might even have fooled himself, or he’s got a hell of a knack for discretion.

He had, Nick corrects. Pierce’s mouth is still pressed against his own. He kisses like he knows his business: not weak and waiting, but not struggling for dominance either. There’s room for Nick to reciprocate, if he chooses to.

Instead he grips Pierce by the arms, pushing him back. Pierce looks as stunned as ever and there’s no way Nick’s going to stand here and deal with either Pierce coming to terms with being a queen or a hasty gratitude blowjob in a makeshift embassy.

It’s only now that Nick realizes how tired he is. The adrenaline’s well and truly gone if he prefers a soft mattress to getting sucked off.

“Your daughter’s asking for you,” he says, releasing his hold on Pierce. He turns and walks out of the office without waiting for a reply. Whatever mud Pierce wants to sling his way can wait until he’s slept.

And maybe Pierce’ll reconsider attacking the man he just outed himself to. Nick’s not too exhausted to hope.

It’s not in Nick’s nature to keep from looking a gift horse in the mouth, but when Pierce makes him head of S.H.I.E.L.D., he can’t bring himself to dwell too long on the downsides. If this is a bribe for his silence, it’s a hell of a reward for shutting up about a secret he already planned to keep. If it’s an attempt to discredit him—put him in over his head and watch him leave the agency in disgrace, so any accusations he makes are ascribed to bitterness—then Pierce will find Nick’s a lot more skilled and resilient than he’s estimated.

And if it’s really just a gift in exchange for saving Pierce’s daughter? Might be nice to have an ally who throws all his resources into so richly rewarding common sense.

There’s a ceremony, and the food’s much more memorable than any of the speeches. Nick lets the words wash over him, mostly droning stuffed shirts who didn’t know him from Adam until Pierce pulled some strings, going on about Nick’s achievements and character.

He almost misses when Pierce goes to podium, tuning back in just in time to hear him say, “Director Fury’s shown me just how much I’ve yet to learn about the world.”

Holding in a laugh, Nick regrets it when he nearly chokes on a bite of filet mignon.

Pierce appears at Nick’s side later, once the ceremony’s concluded and Nick’s had about all he can stand of the glad-handing. “A word?” he asks.

It was inevitable. Nick follows Pierce to the office and waits to see which route this’ll take. Careful euphemisms, maybe, praise for his discretion. He won’t resort to threats or blackmail; he’s too smart for that and he won’t want Nick as an enemy. Not with what he knows.

Nodding to an empty chair, Pierce sits on the edge of his desk.

Nick doesn’t take the seat. He’d prefer to know where they stand before he gets too comfortable.

Pierce’s gaze is measured and steady as he speaks. “Would you like to fuck me?”

He’s casual, like this is an offer he’s made dozens of times. Maybe it is, and Pierce is just skilled at secrecy instead of closeted. There’s no leer in his stare, nothing in his tone that indicates he feels that Nick is indebted. He doesn’t sound as if he expects gratitude, and that above all else drives Nick’s reply.

“You got a place?”

“My home?” Pierce offers.

Nick cocks a brow. “And your wife?”

Pierce’s smile comes easily. “You think she doesn’t know?”

They end up in a hotel room, some obscenely expensive place with fresh cut flowers and champagne waiting in the suite. The pace is slow, every movement drawn out and carefully assessed. Neither of them wants to lose control first. Neither wants to stop scrutinizing the other.

Pierce may be an idealistic bureaucrat, but Nick has to admit he’s a clever, collected one. And a damn good lay.

The fifth time they fuck is in the early morning hours after some party in Seoul. Pierce comes into Nick’s hotel room with the extra key, cursing under his breath and scrambling to get his watch off. By the pale dawn light filtering through the crack in the shades, Nick can see deep imprints circling Alexander’s wrist. It looks like he’s bleeding in places.

“Christ.” He sits up in the bed, pulls the chain on the lamp. “What happened?”

“This was a gift from the Korean ambassador a few years back,” Alexander says, setting the watch on the nightstand. He rubs at the raw skin of his wrist. “Damn thing’s too tight.”

“So don’t wear it.”

Alexander shoots him a look. “Right, and offend the ambassador. That’ll go over well.”

Nick rubs a hand over his face. It’s both too late and too early for this. “Why didn’t you just sell it and buy yourself another one that fit?”

Alexander’s glare falters, and Nick doesn’t bother to hide his smirk. “There are very rare occasions when I don’t think of everything.”

“You’re telling me.” Nick shuts the lamp off again, settling back against the headboard. “Lie down, you idiot.”

Alexander’s sliding off his bowtie, dark silk wound around his long fingers. He pauses, turning his head. “Call me that again.”

“What, idiot? Sure thing.”

“I like it.” Alexander shrugs off his dress shirt, stretching out on the bed. “It implies much more reckless behavior than I’m able to get up to in my line of work.”

“Your kink is getting told off?” Nick rolls his eyes, reaching down to help Alexander out of his belt. “Should’ve let me know sooner. I’d like nothing better.”

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Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Re: places [4/5]

Re: Mini-fill: The Interests of National Security [1/1]

Re: FILL: Lie Down on the Wire 16/16

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Re: [FILL] Where my diamonds hide (4/?)

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Re: Keep that dog on a leash, Pierce.

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FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (17/?)

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Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (17/?)

Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (17/?)

Fill: The Kind of Man Who Leads [6/6]

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[Fill] "The Joke that You Made in the Bed" Fury/Pierce and Bucky, WWII Roleplay [1/4]