hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Holy shitballs, look at us go. Welcome to Captain America fandom's resident wretched hive of scum and villainy: ROUND THREE. AKA Bad Guys Do Dirtybadwrong Things To Your Faves, AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. As usual, BLANKET NON-CON AND NSFW WARNINGS apply: just assume going in that everything in this landfill is unfit for human consumption.

Rules in brief: don't be a jerk except to fictional characters, warnings for particularly fucked-up garbage are nice but not required, thou shalt not judge the trashiness of thy neighbor's kinks unless thy neighbor is trying to pass off their rotting banana peels and half-eaten pizza crusts as a healthy romantic dinner for two, off-topic comments may be chucked out of the dumpster at management's discretion, management's discretion decrees that omegaverse, soulbond AUs, D/s-verse, non-superpowered AUs, and dark!good guys AUs are off-topic.

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Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

What the fuck was in that tube?

Steve panted, shaking, mouth moving but forming no more sounds as everyone laughed.

“Gee, I’m really sorry. Here I thought I was helping. Maybe if I spread it around.” His arm moved, like he was jerking Steve off, and Steve started squirming, twisting to try and get away, held in place when Moss and New Guy grabbed him around the shoulders. Some part of Steve had to be aware, or else he would have been able to bodily force himself from their grip, but still, even though he fought, even though he couldn’t convince his body to stop moving and fidgeting, he allowed himself to be abused.

Whatever it was they were doing now, Steve seemed just as shocked as Bucky. And he was. He thought he’d seen all their tricks, but they’d never done this to him.

“Ever since that Bogota op,” Shankman said, turning around to face Bucky for the first time since this started, “you know, where you snapped and tried to rip my spine out, that one?”

Bucky knew the one. He’d tried to escape and taken down eight Hydra agents before he’d been subdued. Shankman in particular had suffered a back injury that, last he’d heard, hadn’t been as bad as it looked.

“Back was never quite right after that. This stuff, though?” He pointed to the tube dangling from Kane’s fingers. “Miracle stuff. Capsaicin. You know, I used to think holistic medicine was bullshit. Never woulda tried it if it weren’t for the number you did on me, Barnes.”

Capsaicin. Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Steve. No wonder he was screaming.

Bucky stared with renewed focus at the sweat pouring down Steve’s back. The sting of that in so many open wounds had to be nothing compared to the burn of the ointment.

Steve’s eyes were darting all over the place, this potential escape here, that one there, so clearly telegraphing his motives. His eyes skated over Bucky as he was frantically looking around and there were tears gathered at the corners.

“Yep, this is the stuff that keeps me going,” he continued, walking around to Steve’s front. “How do you find it, Cap? Got a bit of a kick, I’ll give you that. Really does wonders for inflammation, though.”

Steve’s teeth chattered. He kept swallowing, over and over. “We. We. We used to. Use poultices.”

“Not such of a smartass now, huh?” He glanced down. “Careful with that. You get that up his ass and no one can fuck him. I didn’t spend three hours stretching him loose just to jerk off and go home.”

Kane rolled his eyes and pulled his hand back from where he’d had it pretty deep between Steve’s legs. “S’not his ass. Taint one, nor the other.” He snorted at his joke, pulling off the gloves and tossing them to the side.

Jesus, Bucky could smell it from here. It burned his sinuses.

Shankman walked back around Steve, running his fingers through the mess of blood and sweat in Steve’s hair, tugging his head back. “Right about here, actually,” he said, almost to himself. Then he kicked Steve again right in the spine. Hard. Right where Bucky had injured him.

There didn’t seem to be any air left in Steve’s lungs to make any sound. His body seemed to just shrink in on itself.

His next kick wasn’t as vicious, just a practical nudge to shove Steve over. He just barely got his hands up in time to catch himself.

“Finally,” Shankman said. He unceremoniously shoved his dick right in. After a couple of minutes he sighed and pulled out, like Steve was some great disappointment. “You really do give a hundred percent, don’t you? You could pass a baby through there.”

He walked around and hauled Steve up by the shoulders, not enough to be kneeling, but just far enough off of the floor that he couldn’t support himself properly, leaving him hunched painfully. He dug his thumb into the juncture of his jaw, positioned himself, and waited.

Bucky knew what that felt like, and he’d had many a fantasy, right at that moment, of snapping the man’s neck and walking out. Wishful thinking, but it helped. Despite knowing that the only way out was through, despite hoping that Steve would make this easier on himself … despite all of that, when Steve leaned forward and took the man’s filthy cock into his mouth, despite where it had just been, something inside Bucky went very cold and still.

“Don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Moss said, taking up position behind Steve and pushing in. Steve didn’t even react. “I like it roomy.”

That was the thing, though. It wasn’t roomy. It was still as ass. It just wasn’t going to expand beyond a certain point, and no matter what they said, it still always felt plenty damn tight to him. But maybe he was biased, since it was always his ass being reamed until it was so swollen he didn’t know how they fit anything in there. But it didn’t matter, because they’d always call him loose, tell him he was so open he’d never close back up, always take the opportunity to degrade him. He’d never thought of it like that until watching it happen to Steve, but in that moment, he just knew.

Moss finished before Shankman, maybe because Shankman kept pulling out to rub his cock all over Steve’s face before shoving it back in, and New Guy stepped up to take his place. He didn’t shove in, though. He grabbed the empty beer bottle he’d been playing with and moved it between Steve’s legs.

“Nice and cool, huh?” he said, moving it back and forth, nudging up behind Steve’s balls. “That good?”

“The fuck do you care, Ross?” Kane spit. “We’re not gonna get him off. No one’s touching that thing.”

Steve made a strange choking sound, so sudden and startling that even Shankman pulled back and out of his mouth. He made it again, and again, and Bucky suddenly realized that he was laughing.

Jesus fuck, he was fucking laughing.

Kane slapped him across the face.

Steve spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva. “You did.”

“The fuck are you going on about about?”

“You touched it,” he gasped out. “How was it for you? Me, I thought your technique could use a little work.”

Everyone, including Bucky, stared at Steve for a solid ten seconds. None of them knew what to make of him. Bucky knew all too well.

Shankman knocked him flat onto his back and straddled his neck, leaning his crotch into his face and pulling his head up to meet him. He moved Steve’s mouth back and forth along his dick, again and again, viciously slamming in, and Bucky could see that Steve didn’t even try to breathe depending on the angle his head was at. New Guy had stopped playing with Steve and was now just idly shoving the wide end of the bottle into him, turning it this way and that to get it to fit, making Steve squirm again. The dumbass must have smeared the ointment all over the bottle.

Oh, God, Steve.

And Steve … Steve was cradling his genitals, as if it would do any good, as if it could stop the burn or leave him less vulnerable.

Bucky couldn’t look way, now that he’d opened his eyes, even after he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t do it. But it was just so pitiable a sight that he couldn’t help it. He felt like if he looked away, Steve would just disappear between them, and he couldn’t let that happen.

So he didn’t see when New Guy took out his cock and shoved in, but he definitely heard the pathetic whimpering and crying that followed.

“Jesus Christ,” Shankman groaned. “What did I tell you?”

New Guy was curled on his side in a fetal position, making wounded noises.

“Get him some ice.”

Kane tossed New Guy a fresh bag of ice, none too gently.

“I fuckin’ warned you not to get it in his ass.”

“He spread his fuckin’ whore legs,” New Guy howled. “Bitch wanted it.”

Of course he did. He already felt the burn; he knew just what would happen when that moronic goon got a taste. Two down, he couldn’t help thinking, smirking a little with a twisted sort of pride.

Shankman always took forever to finish, but Bucky could tell that he was close, even if he was subtle about it. It had taken a while to figure out when he was just about to go off, since nothing about him changed until the last second, and Bucky had gotten more than one stinging eyeful of come trying to learn his rhythms and habits.

Just before he pulled out, though … Steve flinched, and shut his eyes tight, and tried to turn his head away. Just before he pulled out and sprayed all over Steve’s face. Steve didn’t even look surprised.

Shankman did. Bucky kind of was, too.

“Where’d you get it?” Shankman asked after a few seconds of panting. He lowered his weight so that he was sitting on Steve’s neck instead of over it, exerting pressure.

Steve didn’t answer, trying to turn his face this way and that to get the semen off of his eyes so he could open them. Shankman huffed an angry breath and grabbed Steve’s head in his hands, using his thumbs to pull Steve’s eyelids up. Steve blinked rapidly.

“Did you get hard watching it? Huh? You like this cock so much you know just what it can do? Before you even got a taste? This must be a dream come true for you, then. Did you come watching your little friend get rammed? Like watching him lick up his own sick little pool of spunk?” He forced Steve’s head to the side so he could look at Bucky, and Bucky didn’t understand until suddenly, looking at Steve’s miserable, angry, bizarrely indignant expression, he did.

Bile rose in the back of his throat, coating his tongue with no way to spit it out. The burn was welcome compared to the tearing in his chest that he was pretty sure was the tattered remains of his dignity.

“It was sick,” Steve said finally, more emotion in his voice that he’d had in hours. “It was disgusting. You’re disgusting. Every second of that tape made me ill. You’re animals, and anyone party to this kind of … of … revolting filth should have the decency to die quietly and spare the rest of humanity the burden of their existence.”

“Strong words.”

“Sick minds,” Steve shot back. His chest heaved faster than before.

So that was it, then. Steve had seen … Jesus, there was a tape. They’d filmed him. He didn’t know that. And Steve had ended up with a copy, which made a certain kind of sense. And he’d watched it. Steve had an incredible memory, always had, remembered all kinds of odd, specific shit, stuff that no one else noticed, even before his transformation. But Bucky knew that there were some limits even to his extraordinary mind, which meant … which meant that to have anticipated everything he had, all of the preemptive flinches and the dark looks at jokes he shouldn’t have understood and the strange familiarity with Bucky’s tormentors … All of that meant that he’d watched it more than once. He’d studied it.

And he’d talked to Bucky, worked with him, shared a goddamn room with him … and never said a word. Never let on that he knew this awful secret that Bucky intended to take to his grave. He’d given no indication that anything had changed, and Bucky had had no idea that they had. But they had. God, they had, or this never would have happened, Steve would have let them leave this place and follow up on a real lead if he hadn’t been chasing after these assholes.

And here Bucky thought that this would be harder on Steve if he knew. And he already did.

That small, irrational hurt, the one that bloomed like humiliation when Steve said that they were all sick and disgusting … He knew that it was irrational. He knew that Steve wasn’t talking about him. But he’d been a part of that, and it felt like it was thrown in his direction.

“This really puts a new spin on the whole situation, doesn’t it, boys?” Shankman crowed. “Here I thought Captain Right and Proper of the SS Tight-ass wouldn’t dream of this. And all along, he already does.”

He climbed off of Steve and grabbed the pair of gloves Kane had thrown to the side, pulling them back on. Within moments of kneeling down, he already had his fingers in Steve’s ass, prodding and searching.

He tried for a good fifteen minutes, poking at Steve’s prostate and having a go at his genitals, but nothing worked. Steve was just in too much pain to get even remotely hard, which earned him a round of laughter and a booted foot mashing his dick into his pubic bone.

Shankman laughed again when Steve’s hands reflexively went back to his injured penis, pulling them away by his wrists. “Don’t be so pathetic,” he said. “Maybe your little bitch will kiss it and make it better later.”

Steve lunged forward, using the grip Shankman had on his wrists to leverage himself up and grind his thumbs into the man’s eyes, rubbing his hands over his face.

He shrieked and threw himself away from Steve, who used the spectacle as a distraction, seizing the moment where the other men were focused on their leader to roll himself over to Shankman’s weapon and make a grab for it.

It was unreal how terrible the odds were for them one moment, and the next, before anyone could react, Steve had shot everyone in the room.

Shankman was still sputtering, blood pouring from his chest where he lay on the floor, when Steve leaned over him. “Orgasms make men lazy. Dull the reflexes. But the stupid was all on you. You brought that with you.” He shot him again, right between his red and teary eyes.

He sat still and quiet for a minute, not looking at Bucky, not looking at the carnage. Eventually he crawled over to their bags and rooted around until he came up with a travel bar of soap and a bottle of water and set about washing the capsaicin cream from his hands.

Of course. He hadn’t been cradling himself. He’d been arming himself, covering his bloody, irritated hands in that hell cream and then waiting until the right opportunity to use it.

He scrubbed and rinsed for ten minutes, then tried to gingerly clean anywhere else the stuff had touched. Bucky tried to give him some privacy while he did that, sitting there awkwardly with tape over his mouth and his hands in shackles. In his peripheral, Steve’s shoulders sagged, sinking lower and lower until Steve just lay down on the floor and breathed shallow and slow.

The last thing that Bucky wanted to do was bother him, or, really, have to look him in the eye, if he was being honest, but he was seriously concerned about the urgency of Steve’s injuries and, also, he really fucking didn’t want to sit here shackled and helpless any longer. He rattled the chains just a bit, just enough to get Steve’s attention, and he could tell when Steve heard the clinking, but he still didn’t get up right away. When he moved, a minute or so later (a minute that felt like an eternity), it was just to reach into the nearest pocket and root around. When he came up empty, he rolled the corpse over to reach another pocket, then reached over to another body, moving himself no more than the bare minimum required. Despite having had to do the very same thing during the war, and having seen Steve do it, it made Bucky a little nauseous to watch.

Finally Steve came up with the key and tossed it over to Bucky, then lay back down with his arms over his ribs.

The first thing that Bucky did after he unlocked himself and ripped the tape from his mouth was to spit out stomach acid and keep spitting until his mouth tasted less like pennies.

The second was follow the trail of blood around the room that led to Steve’s beaten body, trying to calculate how much was on the floor and how much was left in Steve. The math made him hurry faster to Steve’s side.

He intended to get Steve help and get out of there and deal with everything else later, but when he reached Steve and looked down at him … when he looked at him, he kept thinking about what Steve had said. About what he knew. Until Steve looked up at him, eyes hazy, covered in blood, sweat, and filth, surrounded by dead bodies that had not even an hour ago been live monsters. Just lying there like it was taking all of his effort to stay conscious.

“Later,” Bucky said. He put his hand on Steve’s forehead, ignoring what it came away with. “Rest. I’ll deal with this. You don’t need to do anything right now. Be here later.”

Steve closed his eyes, nodding absently, and Bucky would have been concerned by the speed at which he drifted off, but he was already fumbling a cell phone out of yet another pocket and calling Natasha, briefly darting upstairs to get a location. If he didn’t get the bleeding taken care of and Steve wasn’t seen by a doctor soon, it wouldn’t really much matter whether he was conscious or not, so why did he have to be?

Up close the bruising was horrifying. New Guy hadn’t been exaggerating. There was something wrong with his chest. How he’d managed to breathe, let alone speak, let alone do everything he’d done, that was a mystery. There was nothing that Bucky could do about that. He focused instead on the lacerations, the handful of burns, and the blood between his legs. There was a lot of it. It had sounded like they’d been going for distance, and that way led to perforated organs.

Bucky palpated his abdomen, feeling for any unnatural firmness that might indicate internal bleeding, and he found it.

Goddamn it, Steve.

He did what triage he could, and when that turned out to not be much, he grabbed a towel from the bag, wetted it, and cleaned Steve up. Steve didn’t stir, losing color and breathing shallowly, forehead cool to the touch.

But not gone yet.

When he was finished, he took off his jacket and laid it over Steve, then lay down beside him, trying gingerly to share his body heat without aggravating Steve’s injuries. He interlaced their fingers and waited for help to arrive.

Bucky opened his eyes and looked up at himself.

He was on the ceiling, on his back. The light was dim, but he could make out a sheet covering most of his body. He tried to reach out to the other Bucky, but his arms wouldn’t move. That should have seemed worrying, but his thoughts were sluggish, muddled. A sheet. Maybe he ought to be sleeping. He didn’t need to move as he slept.

Maybe he was the one on the ceiling, looking down at himself. Maybe he’d died. It seemed anticlimactic, kicking it in his sleep after all he’d survived, but oh well. Zola would be pissed. There was that.

He hoped death didn’t consist of staring down—up?—at himself as he decayed. Maybe he could find Steve, and they could haunt Zola and his squid-Nazis, give them hell until they died of fright. Steve was probably dead by now. It was so hard for him to breathe in the cold, and it was so damn cold in this hellhole...

But Steve wasn’t here.

And he didn’t have trouble breathing anymore. Bucky tried to shake his head, but even that wouldn’t move. His mind felt thick as molasses. Molasses. When was the last time he had that?

There was a light, sudden and blinding. Bucky’s eyes snapped shut. Lights...they meant Heaven, right? Or Christmas, but probably Heaven. Was he allowed in Heaven after all the shit he’d said lately? Shit. He shouldn’t think things like ‘shit he’d said lately’ if he wanted to make a case for why God should cut him some fucking slack. And he shouldn’t think ‘fucking’ either. Shit.

The light wasn’t stabbing through Bucky’s eyelids so badly anymore. It must have moved. He felt a soft touch, a hand on his cheek. “Sergeant Barnes.”

Zola. When he looked, he wasn’t staring back at himself anymore, but at those beady little eyes behind glasses. He could catch a glimpse of his reflection in the lenses, and he wondered if Zola was reflected in his own eyes, and back and forth forever and ever and—

“The procedure has already started,” Zola said, but he couldn’t have said it. He had no mouth. The space where it had once been was replaced by fabric. Or maybe paper. Something thin, something that rustled with each syllable. Something that was pale powder blue.

Bucky always liked the color blue.

“Direct your attention to the mirror, please,” Zola said without a mouth, and he stepped aside. The light came back, but it didn’t hurt so badly. He was on the ceiling again. So was Zola, though only the top of his head was visible. Bucky couldn’t see a mirror.

He couldn’t remember how the nuns back home said Heaven would look, but he was pretty sure Zola wouldn’t be there.

There was something in Bucky’s mouth, something like a snake holding his jaws open, forcing itself down his throat. He couldn’t feel it. He should feel the snake. He knew from recent experience that his gag reflex was pretty damn sensitive.

The snake tasted like plastic.

“I gave you every opportunity to cooperate with our work,” Zola said. The Zola on the ceiling, all covered in that powder blue something, pressed a sponge to the throat of the other Bucky. Dark liquid spilled out, staining the pale skin brown. Bucky’s own throat was cold. “But you chose to hamper any progress with your fighting and smart remarks.”

They’re the only smart thing in this place, Bucky thought. He couldn’t speak around the snake.

“Do not be afraid,” Zola continued. “You will feel no pain during the procedure. This is not sympathy, mind you. To allow you to suffer would distract you from the point of this lesson.”

On the ceiling, the other Zola replaced the sponge and laid a scalpel against the other Bucky’s throat.

The skin split like paper. Just peeled back like the wrapping around a present. Christmas again. Bucky was the gift. He wanted to laugh, but no one could laugh with a snake in their throat. Bucky had seen men impaled on bayonets before. There was always an awful sound, and such effort to wrench the weapon back out. But the other Bucky unfolded like a package.

Was the other Bucky made of paper? A doll, like his sisters used to dress up? Was this a puppet show?

Bucky doubted he’d earned a puppet show.

“And this is indeed a object lesson, Sergeant Barnes,” Zola continued. Someone else was on the ceiling now, mopping at the red that came spilling from the paper Bucky’s throat as the paper Zola worked. It looked wet. They shouldn’t let their doll get wet; he’d dissolve. “Your body is my experiment, as you will learn. You do not own it, and I can do with it as I please.”

The paper Bucky’s throat was pinned open. But pins belonged in fabric, not paper. And presents didn’t bleed. The snake in the paper Bucky’s mouth went all the way down his throat, out of sight.

Longer than that Kraut’s dick, Bucky thought. The snake wouldn’t let him giggle.

The paper Zola knocked the snake to one side. In Bucky’s throat, something shifted. The paper Zola held something like tweezers, and he grabbed a flap of wet tissue—tissue paper, ha—in them.

“The vocal cords can be cut out, of course,” Zola said. “But it is troublesome to do so. Much like the epiglottis, the vocal cords seal off the trachea during the process of swallowing. And there is no use in a weapon that chokes itself eating.”

Vocal cords. Bucky had always imagined them like guitar strings, only thicker. He didn’t see any strings in the paper Bucky’s throat.

“Scarring the cords, however, achieves a similar silencing effect. You see, Sergeant Barnes, the voice is produced when the cords vibrate. If the scar tissue is thick enough, the cords can no longer reverberate, and no sound can be formed.”

The scalpel was scraping at the tissue paper, over and over. Blood poured out, spilling onto the snake before the other set of paper hands used more sponges to mop it up.

This was the strangest Christmas ever.

Yeah, it won't be very fun.

AMAZING UPDATE IS AMAZING

this is so horrifying and amazing, I love you author anon

In the second grade, Bucky had his tonsils out.

There’d been a damn near epidemic of strep throat in his building. It started with the Robbins boy in the apartment below theirs. Then one of the girls next door to him had caught it, and then on and on until Rebecca came home from school running a fever. And despite his mother’s insistence that everyone wash their hands and his father barking at them not to go near Rebecca, one by one, Bucky and his remaining sisters all came down with strep.

Bucky was the only one who refused to eat because of pain. Whose entire mouth broke out in spots. The medicine didn’t seem to touch it, and his tonsils grew so swollen that even a bowl of chicken broth made him gag and choke.

He remembered the nurse settling the ether mask over his face, remembered his heart racing before he passed out because it had felt more than ever like choking then. He remembered Steve coming to visit, telling him that he wasn’t the one who was supposed to get sick. Most of all, he remembered pain afterward, as if he was scraping his throat raw every time he spoke or ate.

This was worse.

Bucky woke with the taste of copper in his mouth, a raw and tacky feeling in his throat. There were sutures itching on his neck, and an ache just above his collar bones, one that seemed to deepen with every breath.

He remembered the reflection. The scalpel.

When he tried to speak, it was like shards of glass scraping in his throat.

When he tried to scream, the shards were hammered deeper in.

There was a soft laugh as the door opened. Zola. Bucky tried to growl and then tried to shriek, jerking in his restraints.

“If you continue to fight,” Zola said, smirking, “I will cut you open again and again. I will replace your body piece by piece until you learn to obey. But I believe you are not such a slow learner.”

Bucky could only glare.

“Silence suits you, Sergeant Barnes.”

Zola held a file in his hands. He opened it, thumbing through the pages inside. “Regarding your allies, there is something I have waited for years to show you. My colleagues wanted to reveal this information as soon as you woke, but I knew that the impact would be greater if I waited for your lowest moment. Look.”

Bucky shut his eyes. He refused to see photos of the Commandos captured. Mutilated. Refused to see Agent Carter riddled with bullet holes, or Colonel Phillips hanged.

“Open your eyes, Sergeant Barnes, or I will staple them open.

Bucky looked.

Newspapers. Two of them, yellowed with age. The first read CAPTAIN AMERICA CRASHES IN ARCTIC, and below that, Stark leads search party, hopes low. The second: STARK RETURNS EMPTY-HANDED, Captain America declared dead.

Each newspaper is dated from 1945.

Bucky sobs into his hands. He’s screaming, howling at the top of his lungs, but all that comes out is a faint, ragged hahh.

It goes well with Zola’s laughter.

And I love you, reader!

Well, it was one of the creepiest, most disturbing and most wonderful things I've read in CA fandom. The way you portray Bucky's perception of the surroundings, his overwhelming hysteria and growing, creeping insanity is both terrifying and mesmerizing. Just perfect.

Thank you, and good luck, can't wait for the next chapter of the story!

poor bucky! :(

The asset’s throat ached.

The canteen hanging from his tac-belt was empty. It had been empty within an hour of their arrival that morning, and now, just past noon, the desert sun blazed down on their heads. Sweat soaked the asset’s hair and neck. The air he breathed through the mask was stifling.

“Hahh,” the asset tried.

Commander Rumlow did not hear the asset. He stared through his binoculars, scanning the horizon. The targets were not where the briefing said that they would be.

The asset wanted to tug on Rumlow’s sleeve. He wanted to take the empty canteen and throw it at the commander. But he was not allowed to touch his superiors without permission. He was not allowed to throw things. And he was absolutely not allowed to let go of his rifle and move from his ordered position.

“Hahh,” the asset said, and no one looked at him.

A hour later, and the asset could not even do that. His throat seemed to stick to itself, and he did not understand how air could pass through. He had stopped sweating. There was nothing else to come out.

Rumlow shoved his radio into his pocket, mopping at his forehead as he settled on the sand. “They must have got word we were sniffing around,” he said. “Orders are to make direct approach and look for any sign of—Fucking Christ!”

Still swearing, Rumlow pulled away, almost following over. He was cradling his hand to his chest, and the skin on it looked pink and shining. He had burned himself on the asset’s arm.

The asset went very still, suddenly cold. The asset was not allowed to hurt field commanders without direct orders from the Director.

“Boss?” Murphy raced to Rumlow’s side. “What happened?”

“You could make a fucking omelet on the Soldier, that’s what happened,” Rumlow snapped. He leaned toward the asset, eyes narrowed. “Jesus. Take off the mask, Soldier.”

The asset ripped the mask away, gasping for breath.

“We’re damn lucky he hasn’t died of heat stroke or short-circuited his arm,” Rumlow said. “He needs to get back to the shelter, now, so he won’t be fucking dead when we need him.”

The asset did not move. He shut his eyes, hoping that Rumlow would order Murphy to lead him to the shelter. Or Rollins. Anyone but—

“Harmon, you take the Soldier back,” Rumlow said. “You’ll only fuck up any evidence they left at their camp anyway. And give him your canteen. Soldier, follow Harmon.”

The asset’s stomach sank. He took the canteen with a trembling hand. The asset did not want to follow Harmon. He did not like Harmon: the way the man’s eyes lingered on the asset during briefings, the way he found excuses to be alone in a room with him. The way he stroked the asset’s hair and said that the noises the asset made when he fucked him were gasps of pleasure, not muted screams.

The asset drank slowly, trying not to vomit.

Harmon grabbed his flesh wrist when they reached the shelter. “My canteen’s empty now,” he said, as though he couldn’t refill it. “You owe me.”

The asset tried to step away.

“Commander Rumlow told you to listen to me.”

When Agent Rollins stepped into the shelter, the asset was still wiping away the come on his thighs. “For fuck’s sake, Harmon,” he said. “Do you have a death wish?”

Harmon only shrugged. “He didn’t say no.”

My New Year's resolution was to be more evil to him, apparently.

Thank you so much! I do love writing characters who are unable to fully comprehend the horror they're experiencing, and so just...break mentally.

The mask fell to the pavement, rolling as the Winter Soldier stood up.

He turned, and the face staring back at Steve belonged to a ghost after all. One Steve had never expected to see again.

“Bucky?” he asked, numb.

The Winter Soldier hesitated before he opened his mouth.

For a second, there was only black. The space that should have been occupied by teeth and tongue was just an empty void.

Then the blood gushed forth.

It poured from Bucky’s lips like a broken faucet, coating his chin and chest with red before pooling at his feet. The blood bubbled out although Bucky’s hands clamped at his throat as if to stem it. It flooded the street like a river, soaking into Steve’s shoes and staining his pants. The air reeked of copper, and Steve was nauseous, head spinning.

The street was silent save for Steve’s pounding heart and the splatter of blood from Bucky’s lips. Bucky was screaming, but it was silent. Steve could only tell from the look in his eyes—

Steve bolted up in the bed, hands flying to his mouth to stifle his gasp.

The same dream. Every night, the same dream.

He scrambled out of the bed, heading toward the shower. He needed to wake himself up fully. He couldn’t risk flinching at Bucky if Bucky caught him right after a nightmare.

But Bucky’s door was still shut, the familiar note stuck to the wood.

The Post-It notes were Steve’s idea. The apartment is littered with them now. On Bucky’s toiletries:

On Bucky’s favorite foods in the pantry and fridge:

On the spine of each book that Bucky had decided to read:

NO!

NO!!

NO!!!

Steve wasn’t sure when Bucky had remembered exclamation marks. He chose to view it as progress.

The first month after Steve and Sam had tracked down Bucky, he thought his friend’s silence was due to trauma. Bucky didn’t speak. He also flinched whenever anyone moved toward him unexpectedly and insisted on sleeping on the floor next to his bed instead of in it. Things would get better. Bucky would get better. He’d start to talk and he’d see therapists and he would heal.

Steve just had to make a safe, consistent environment for him until he was ready to take those steps.

And things had seemed better, little by little. Bucky had stopped stockpiling weapons. At least, he hadn’t added anymore to the stash that Steve knew he kept in his dresser. Occasionally, he was able to sleep through the night. And Steve was even able to coax him out of his bedroom and in front of the TV.

When they watched Snow White together—“You’ve seen this one before, Buck, we went to the theater when it came out”—Bucky had even smiled at animals tidying up the house.

After that, they started working their way through the whole Disney animated canon whenever Bucky was willing to leave his room. It was a nice, safe routine for Bucky, and Steve, having always been a fan of animation, finally had the chance to catch up on all the movies he’d missed. Bucky went from leaving his room once a week to twice a week, and then every other day, until Steve could lure him out daily for at least the length of a movie and usually dinner as well. Bucky started to smile more frequently at the plots. Maybe one day, he’d laugh.

Then they got to The Little Mermaid, and all hell broke loose.

The sea witch was using magic to literally rip out the mermaid’s voice, and then she wasn’t, because a metal fist had shattered the TV screen.

Bucky had already collapsed on the floor before Steve could reach him, tearing at his hair as he rolled around in the shards of glass. Tears were pouring down his face, mouth open and contorting. He hadn’t made any sound.

“What’s wrong?” Steve had begged, trying to stop him from clawing at himself. “Bucky, please. Tell me what’s wrong!”

It was a quarter of an hour before Steve realized that Bucky’s chest was heaving because he was screaming, not gasping. It was just that the only sound he could make was so faint. It took another handful of minutes before Steve could read his lips. Can’t. Can’t can’t can’t can’t.

It wasn’t that Bucky wouldn’t speak. It was that HYDRA had removed the ability.

Steve still didn’t know how they did it. Bucky refused to see doctors. He wouldn’t let Sam into his room either, leaving Steve with nothing but speculation and panic. Bucky could make a faint amount of noise, so that meant his vocal cords had to be there. Was it damage to them that was silencing him, or had the chair affected the areas of his brain that controlled speech? Was the damage permanent, or did it have to be repeated to stay effective? Could he heal over time?

If his voice was healing, Steve hadn’t heard it. Other than runs to the bathroom and kitchen in the middle of the night, Bucky refused to leave his bedroom ever since the mermaid incident. Occasionally new Post-It notes would appear, and a set of books Sam had brought about ASL vanished from the coffee table, but Steve hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of Bucky in weeks.

“Just be there for him,” Sam had said during one of their morning runs, a week ago now.

“He literally won’t let me in,” Steve had said. “I don’t know what he needs.”

“He knows you’re there. You’d be surprised how much just knowing you’re not alone can do.”

Yeah, right, Steve couldn’t help but think, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. Bucky was probably hiding from Steve as much as he was hiding from his past. What if he thought Steve knew all along, and the movies were just a cruel trick to taunt him?

What if he thought that Steve considered him broken?

There was a sound from the hallway, and Steve’s heart seemed to stop. Holding his breath, hardly daring to hope, Steve turned slowly. There was a blue eye framed by lank, filthy hair watching him from the edge of the doorframe.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said, as casually as he could. “You want some breakfast?”

A set of spiral bound note cards began to inch its way into sight. Steve had given it to Bucky along with the Post-It notes, hoping to create a convenient way for Bucky to have common responses with him at all times. But Bucky had only ever opened it to one card: the one that he’s displaying now.

NO!

The exclamation mark was new.

“Okay,” Steve said. “I’m going to go on a run with Sam. If you’re hungry when I get back, I can make something then. Do you want to come with me?”

A metal finger tapped the card. NO!

“Okay,” Steve said. “I guess I’ll head out then.”

The eye looked away, the back, then away again. What little Steve could see of Bucky tensed, and then he took a jerky step so that his body was fully in the doorway.

He didn’t seem to have bathed or brushed his hair since Steve cleaned him up after their last movie night. Nor had he changed clothes. His hair was a greasy mess and his skin not much better. Steve could smell him from across the room.

Bucky held up his hands, and he signed. YOU COME BACK.

Steve stared. “Bucky?”

Again, YOU COME BACK. Steve had been studying ASL online just in case Bucky ever came out of his room again. He’d also signed up for a local class that hadn’t started yet.

In ASL, or at least in Steve’s understanding of it, questions were indicated with a raise of the eyebrows. But Bucky’s face never changed save for the rare smile. He wasn’t sure if Bucky was asking or giving an order.

No. No, he was sure. He could just see a faint sliver of Bucky’s front teeth worrying at his lower lip. He was asking. He wanted to be sure that Steve would return.

Bucky was still communicating. Steve just had to learn to read him.

He didn’t hug him. He didn’t assure him that he would always come back. Instead, as Bucky had, he signed. “Yes,” he said as he did. “I’ll come back.”

Bucky didn’t smile, but he did stay out of his bedroom, watching as Steve left.

For the first time in weeks, Steve didn’t dream of blood that night.

Okay, Nat doesn't have any superpowers. One would expect her to get kidnapped frequently, but she doesn't. This makes it a surprise when she goes out on a mission and never comes back.

The Avengers assumed she'd tired of them or something like that, but she had been kidnapped by HYDRA trying to reclaim their lost asset. They try to rebreak her by any means the filler deems appropriate. HYDRA does this rebreaking at the same facility as the Winter Soldier is stored at/they attempt to use the Winter Soldier to break her.

Of course, at some point, the Avengers realize that she was kidnapped and go looking for her. When they find the base she's at, they rush in to see a traumatized Natasha being guarded by a shaken Bucky.

+ If Natasha doesn't remember most or all of the Avengers.
+ If Bucky recognizes Steve not as his friend but as Captain America, his savior from Zola back in WW2.
+ If this happens pre-WS, so Steve had no clue that Bucky was still alive.
+ If it is implied this sort of thing has happened before by Clint. ("Oh. Hey James, I'm here to get Natasha again." **attack** "Okay, is it a Soldier day again? Good to know.")

Oh man, Little Mermaid = GENIUS. Bucky's meltdown was so good. <333 And yay Bucky learning ASL!!

My thought process was as follows:

"Hmmm...how's Steve gonna find out. Well, maybe he could see a scar on Bucky's throat, or Bucky could write it down or...No, what's the most dickish way possible? OF COURSE! DISNEY!"

Your brain is an absolute blessing!

Also: so glad to see Bucky exercising his right to say no! :)

Also also: I am totally imagining Bucky getting to the point where he feels comfortable on the internet and lets his sass show through blogging.

I'm not sure how much it came off since I wrote it through Steve's sad and scared mindset, but I was picturing Bucky sort of going through a terrible twos kind of stage and just doing his equivalent of shouting NO at every opportunity. In a healing, autonomy-regaining way.

Oh hell yes, sassy Internet Bucky.

It definitely comes through, and dovetails very well with the end of pt. 4 with Harmon's comment about Bucky not saying "no". :D Plus it's easier to write than "mine", and far more cathartic.

Internet Bucky who hunts down neo-Nazis and gives them what-for. (Also: Bucky + texting.)

I'm just really happy that it ended on such a positive note. Thank you, a!a!!

I like it so much

Thank you!

"Bruce, can you check him over?" Steve called out as they reached the quinjet, and Bucky allowed the doctor to prod and poke at him. He said nothing. There was nothing that he possibly could say in this situation, and anyway his pulse was still racing. It was taking most of his concentration not to throw up. He shuddered and risked a glance at Steve.

Steve was nearby, his hand resting on Bucky's shoulder, fingers digging into his shoulder a little. He looked up at him, uncertain, and tried to force a smile. Steve always liked him smiling. Steve smiled back, and another realisation hit like a punch to the gut - Steve would probably want him to smile through the punishment as well.

"Hey, it's okay..." Steve murmured, sitting beside him, wrapping an arm around Bucky's shoulder. "I should have known you weren't ready to fight yet..." He could hear an echo of Pierce there, as he had told the soldier he blamed himself for the soldier's flaws, that he clearly hadn't been trained well enough, that they would have to try better, and he flinched. He hated the thought of Steve being anything like Pierce. Pierce was bad and Steve was good.

Steve would punish him, and that was because he had broken the rules, because he deserved it. He felt like throwing up, like screaming, but really it was all his own fault. He knew what he was doing, and in the same situation he would have made the same choice again.

He was heavily armed, and Steve was basically undefended. He could lash out with a knife and cripple Steve, at least for several days. Could fight his way off of the quinjet. But he wouldn't, because he deserved it. He deserved every second of the punishment.

Steve's arm was around his shoulder, and he was still talking to Bucky, telling him he'd done well, that they were all safe, that they'd be home soon. Bruce offered Bucky a pill and he took it, barely registering the information that it was a sedative. If doctors handed you pills, you took them, he understood that.

A sedative would be good. It meant that if he panicked he would not be able to lash out the way he might otherwise do. He would lay there submissively as he was punished, and that would be enough... and Steve's fingers brushed some of the hair out of Bucky's face.
"You okay?"
He made himself nod and forced a smile to his face which did not meet his eyes.

He tried to reason with himself. He had known this was coming. The fact it was from Steve shouldn't have been so bad, and if he'd been with Hydra he'd already be kneeling by now, using his mouth maybe, trying to placate them, to show remorse. But the fact it was Steve was overwhelming.

He was helped down from the jet, and Steve's hand was firm on his arm, guiding them in the direction of his bedroom.
"Maybe you should lie down Bucky." He said, and Bucky was aware the world felt a little soft around the edges. He knew it would be weak to scream or panic. It would be wrong to beg.

But he went to his knees anyway, tears forming in his eyes. Steve crouched in front of him, and Bucky began to plead, the words tumbling out.
"Please, no, not like this, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."
"Bucky?" Steve asked, and he swallowed.
"Thor. Or Bruce. Or Tony. Anyone... just please, not you, please..." He jolted as his arm was shaken and he looked up to find Steve frowning at him, then embracing him tightly.
"Buck, what's wrong?"

"Give him air." That was Romanoff, and she pushed Steve back a little, crouching in front of Bucky, her expression carefully schooled kindness. "You expect to be punished?"
He nodded, and she inclined her head a little.
"And what is standard punishment?"
"I ..the team... the team punish me...I get... they fuck me, so it's good for them, maybe kick me, but... but this team... you're so kind..." He shivered. "With Barton it was only one. I can do more, but please, I know he's team lead, but please...not him, I need…please" He was aware he was a mess, begging in front of them all, and a glance up showed Steve had gone white, anger on all the faces - Bruce had turned away and was rubbing at the bridge of his nose. For a frantic second Bucky worried he was about to Hulk out here for the punishment in front of them all, but Romanoff's voice guided him back.

"That was your old standard punishment." She said softly, and there was something close to understanding in her voice, something in the way she phrased it which reminded Bucky of Coulson. "You have a new team now. They get to decide your punishment. What was your wrongdoing?"

Beside her, Steve began to talk.
"Nat what do you think you're doing he did nothi-"
"Let me handle this Captain." She said calmly, her voice level, but enough threat behind it to make him fall silent.

"I got injured. I was meant to protect myself but I didn't."
"To protect Rogers?" She clarified, and he nodded, knowing it wasn't enough of an excuse. Her lips pressed together, and he awaited sentencing. Of course it would be Romanoff who decided. She knew how to break men. But he couldn't help hoping it wouldn't be Rogers.

When she moved it was almost too fast for him to see, and he registered the stinging pain in his flesh arm before he realised he had been hit. He glanced down to see a small red handprint on the skin, thin red crescents of blood where her nails had dug into him. He felt momentarily disorientated, before she cleared her throat and he looked back at her.
"That was your punishment." She said, and her voice was almost cautious, as though she was testing to see if it had passed – but that didn’t make sense. It was the team's decision how to punish. One slap was nothing, but then it was their choice. It was never Bucky's role to argue. "That is standard punishment now. Be more careful of yourself in future."

"Now that's done, I'm checking on Barton." She stood and walked away, as Bucky leaned into Steve's arms, and Steve stroked his hair.
"You thought I was gonna-"
"It's standard..." Bucky tried to protest, not wanting to be seen as a failure by Steve. Steve pressed his lips together and nodded.
"Not any more. I'm sorry I scared you."

Bucky closed his eyes and let Steve guide him to his room, laying on the bed. Knowing he had already been punished, he could allow himself to cuddle up.

When Bucky is being broken into the Winter Soldier, but still retains some of his memories and personality, after being tortured and starved, he finally just becomes exhausted of fighting and hurting, and agrees to be good for a medical examination that will lead into proper Winter Soldier training. The Hydra doctors, of course, take this and run with it into the trashiest medical exam they can manage.

Things that would be awesome:
++It starts out nicely enough: he's stripped, which is awkward, but then they clean him with soft clothes all over, and that feels shockingly good.
++As things start getting trashier, Bucky trying desperately to retain the sense of calm and relaxation he got from being washed
++He manages to convince himself that it's still just a routine medical exam even when the speculums come out, but the sounding rods and nipple clamps are where he really starts freaking out
+++++The doctors keeping up the charade of Totally Normal Doctor Visit even after the speculums and sounding rods and nipple clamps come out.

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Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Re: Fill continuation: not so unsullied anymore pt. 4b

Re: Fill continuation: not so unsullied anymore pt. 4c

Re: Fill continuation: not so unsullied anymore pt. 4d

[Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [2/?]

Re: [Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [1/?]

Re: Fill continuation: not so unsullied anymore pt. 4d

Re: [Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [2/?]

[Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [3/?]

Re: [Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [2/?]

Re: [Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [2/?]

Re: [Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [3/?]

[Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [4/?]

Re: [Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [3/?]

Re: [Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [2/?]

[Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [5/5]

The Time Hydra Kidapped Natasha

Re: [Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [5/5]

Re: [Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [5/5]

Re: [Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [5/5]

Re: [Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [5/5]

Re: [Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [5/5]

Re: [Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [5/5]

Re: [Fill] "Between Thy Rosed Lips" Mute!Bucky [5/5]

Fill: His First Mistake (4/4)

Bucky/Hydra doctors, medfet, gaslighting