By the time they're finally released, Steve feels wrung out but somehow stuffed full. Swollen and put through the wringer. The tentacles leave their orifices and set them down face up, almost gently, in the shallow water.
Bucky sputters out some water, slowly turning to his side and propping himself onto his elbow. Feet from him, Steve is whimpering and trying to curl into a ball on his side. He's not succeeding very well.
Bucky’s not sure how, but he manages to stand. Feeling a sickening sort of deja vu, he grabs Steve under his arms and drags him over to the stairs, propping him up so he doesn't drown. Bucky wonders darkly if dragging Steve through water to prevent said drowning while they're both nearly dead is going to become a thing. He eyes the silent, deep pool in the middle of the room suspiciously as he gathers up what he can find in the water - Steve's shield, their boots, a couple of his knives, his rifle -
He decides the rest can go to hell and staggers back to the stairs.
Steve has his eyes shut and is panting through pain as he tries to sit up properly. With the sudden intensity his memories sometimes have, Bucky is abruptly reminded of his mother birthing his sisters at home. The panting breathes, the swollen stomach - he tries not to think of it.
"We got to go," he rasps out.
Steve's eyes open, pupils wide. It takes a moment for his eyes to settle on Bucky, but the moment he does he looks the way he always did after getting knocked on his ass in a fight - like come hell or high water, he was going to pull his pride together the best he can.
"Of course. You’re right, yeah.” He stumbles to his feet with a sort of jaw-clenching determination that Bucky admires, considering the blood running down his thighs.
They manage to get out, to blow the base sky high. Maybe they don't get any intel, but Bucky officially vetoed it when Steve made a mumbled attempt to argue that they look around.
Steve, against historic odds, didn't fight him on it.
Later, they'll find out that between the time they entered Squiddy's room and Bucky hustled their carcasses out, it had been about seven hours. Not record breaking for Bucky, but then again, he was pretty sure he’d never had the same kind of treatment from Squiddy that Steve got.
Under the cover of night, two men in nothing but boots and a very small armory sneak back into their rented room.
Steve immediately goes to curl up on his bed, cradling his stomach and not even bothering to take off his boots.
He looks so beat, so damn abused. The bruises all over him from the tentacles, the dried blood on his legs, the slimy vomit still stuck to his forehead and hair.
Bucky really doesn't want to do this next part. There was always someone to take care of this part for him, always someone to take of the details of Squiddy as a punishment.
"Steve," he starts, not knowing how to continue. He starts gathering some clothes.
"I'm so sorry that they did that to you," Steve says, still curled up facing away from Bucky. It is a testament to Steve's utter Steve-ness that his voice is sorrowful and completely sincere as he lays huddled in pain from his own extremely rough inter-species rape.
"Jesus, Stevie," Bucky chokes out, feeling immensely fond for the dummy across the room. And also dreading what he needs to say. He takes off his boots and starts dressing.
"Look it was my goddamn fault, I knew it was - I just couldn't say it -"
"It's not your fault," Steve cuts in sternly, twisting his head to look over his shoulder and frown at Bucky.
"Yeah, okay," Bucky pacifies. He finishes dressing, sits down on the other bed and starts retying his boots, "look, I have to tell you something -"
"It's okay, Buck, it wasn't your -" Steve says softly, and it makes Bucky want to add to the bruises on his neck because he needs to shut up for a second.
"No, it's not. We're not done," Steve looks confused and also like he's going to start talking again so Bucky rushes through, "the stuff it pumped us full of isn't just like, squid sperm," he rubs his meat and blood hand over his exhausted face, "it's like some kinda - it's eggs. That's what they told me."
"What?" Steve has ponderously turned over onto his other side and is staring at Bucky.
Bucky adjusts his belt, which is digging into his swollen stomach, wincing, "they always flushed me out afterwards. I guess they let the eggs gestate in some guy once and it was - remember when we watched Alien?"
Steve's face would be fuckin' hilarious if the whole situation wasn't so awful.
"How long do we have?" Steve asks incredulously.
"I have no idea," Bucky answers honestly, "they always did it as soon as I was taken out of... there."
"How do we - "
"I'm gonna go break into a pharmacy or hospital and steal us some catheters and enema bags - and whatever the hell else I can find, " Bucky says bluntly.
-
There was a minor fight about Steve going instead, but Bucky had won by being already dressed and literally jumping out the window before Steve could stop him. His body regrets his choices immediately, but he's been through far worse and walked it off
He ends up hitting up both a pharmacy - which has the enema bag but nothing else - and an elderly care facility.
-
By the time they're stripped and sitting on the bathroom floor while Bucky heats water over a portable burner, Steve is sitting upright under his own power with little more than a pale, queasy expression. Bucky would make a joke about Coney Island rollercoasters - but he remembers that those got soured roughly 70 years ago for them.
"The heat isn't good for them, but the soap kills them," Bucky explains as he pours liquid soap into the pot. He doesn't say: I'm not exactly sure about this recipe, I was mostly lying there with my brains dribbling out my ears while Hydra agents talked over me. That’s not the kind of thing that inspires confidence.
The first part's easy enough, they drink a quart of hot soapy water, wait around on their right sides for a bit - Steve explains that it helps the soap reach further into their organs, while Bucky had just assumed it was one of those weird rituals technicians sometimes had - and then vomit it up. Repeat. Bucky watches the familiar slimy translucent eggs slip out and plop into the toilet with a vindictive satisfaction.
Meanwhile, Steve is a little disturbed by how many of the little dime sized things keep coming out of them.
Without the gluey pressure of the thick eggs sitting in his stomach, Steve feels a lot better. Sure, he's got soapy bile burning the raw edges of his throat and his colon and bladder are still so stuffed he feels like he should be pissing and shitting himself right now - but overall the feeling is less lay-down-and-die and more determined-flushing-of-rape-spawn.
Bucky helps administer the soapy warm enema into an oddly pliant Steve, bent over on his knees and elbows. But they run into a bit of a problem.
"You got to hold it in, Steve," he whispers, feeling oddly like he's breaking a vow of silence as he stares down at Steve's raw, swollen hole. It keeps twitching and gaping around the nozzle.
"I'm trying," Steve grits out. His fluttering torn rim dribbles out a bit more soapy water before Bucky clamps the hose and sets the enema bag aside.
He is so glad Steve's face is pressed against the tile with his eyes squeezed shut. Bucky is pretty sure he is going to hell for the way his heart is pounding and his raw, tentacle-fucked dick is managing to get hard.
"I'm gonna - I've got this other kind, it's what they always used on me, anyway," Bucky says hesitantly.
Steve just grinds his teeth, flushing red around his bruises, "just do it."
Steve gasps when Bucky pumps the double balloon nozzle up, locking it snug in his stretched hole.
Bucky is half hard as he fills his best friend up with a couple pints of hot water. He pinches his own glans viciously, because Steve is hyperventilating over the pain and he's not that fucking sick, okay -
"We'll have to do it a few times, like the stomach," he says, practically voiceless. He clamps the hose shut and sets the bag aside.
"Do you need help?" Steve grits out.
Bucky nearly fumbles the nozzles he was about to insert into himself, "nope," he squeaks out.
There's a long moment where Bucky is filling his own ass up, concentrating on how the soap stings on the raw insides of his chafed colon, how part of the immovable mass inside him is starting to shift, dissolving with the enema. He has to remember, Steve probably is feeling far worse. This is literally the worst time to think about how Steve's ass felt on his fingertips when he helped stuff him full of hot water -
"Thanks, Buck," Steve says quietly.
Straight to hell, Bucky thinks, his guts roiling with guilt and far too much content.
Re: Fill: The Lonesome Tale of Squiddy (3a/3)
Bucky sputters out some water, slowly turning to his side and propping himself onto his elbow. Feet from him, Steve is whimpering and trying to curl into a ball on his side. He's not succeeding very well.
Bucky’s not sure how, but he manages to stand. Feeling a sickening sort of deja vu, he grabs Steve under his arms and drags him over to the stairs, propping him up so he doesn't drown. Bucky wonders darkly if dragging Steve through water to prevent said drowning while they're both nearly dead is going to become a thing. He eyes the silent, deep pool in the middle of the room suspiciously as he gathers up what he can find in the water - Steve's shield, their boots, a couple of his knives, his rifle -
He decides the rest can go to hell and staggers back to the stairs.
Steve has his eyes shut and is panting through pain as he tries to sit up properly. With the sudden intensity his memories sometimes have, Bucky is abruptly reminded of his mother birthing his sisters at home. The panting breathes, the swollen stomach - he tries not to think of it.
"We got to go," he rasps out.
Steve's eyes open, pupils wide. It takes a moment for his eyes to settle on Bucky, but the moment he does he looks the way he always did after getting knocked on his ass in a fight - like come hell or high water, he was going to pull his pride together the best he can.
"Of course. You’re right, yeah.” He stumbles to his feet with a sort of jaw-clenching determination that Bucky admires, considering the blood running down his thighs.
They manage to get out, to blow the base sky high. Maybe they don't get any intel, but Bucky officially vetoed it when Steve made a mumbled attempt to argue that they look around.
Steve, against historic odds, didn't fight him on it.
Later, they'll find out that between the time they entered Squiddy's room and Bucky hustled their carcasses out, it had been about seven hours. Not record breaking for Bucky, but then again, he was pretty sure he’d never had the same kind of treatment from Squiddy that Steve got.
Under the cover of night, two men in nothing but boots and a very small armory sneak back into their rented room.
Steve immediately goes to curl up on his bed, cradling his stomach and not even bothering to take off his boots.
He looks so beat, so damn abused. The bruises all over him from the tentacles, the dried blood on his legs, the slimy vomit still stuck to his forehead and hair.
Bucky really doesn't want to do this next part. There was always someone to take care of this part for him, always someone to take of the details of Squiddy as a punishment.
"Steve," he starts, not knowing how to continue. He starts gathering some clothes.
"I'm so sorry that they did that to you," Steve says, still curled up facing away from Bucky. It is a testament to Steve's utter Steve-ness that his voice is sorrowful and completely sincere as he lays huddled in pain from his own extremely rough inter-species rape.
"Jesus, Stevie," Bucky chokes out, feeling immensely fond for the dummy across the room. And also dreading what he needs to say. He takes off his boots and starts dressing.
"Look it was my goddamn fault, I knew it was - I just couldn't say it -"
"It's not your fault," Steve cuts in sternly, twisting his head to look over his shoulder and frown at Bucky.
"Yeah, okay," Bucky pacifies. He finishes dressing, sits down on the other bed and starts retying his boots, "look, I have to tell you something -"
"It's okay, Buck, it wasn't your -" Steve says softly, and it makes Bucky want to add to the bruises on his neck because he needs to shut up for a second.
"No, it's not. We're not done," Steve looks confused and also like he's going to start talking again so Bucky rushes through, "the stuff it pumped us full of isn't just like, squid sperm," he rubs his meat and blood hand over his exhausted face, "it's like some kinda - it's eggs. That's what they told me."
"What?" Steve has ponderously turned over onto his other side and is staring at Bucky.
Bucky adjusts his belt, which is digging into his swollen stomach, wincing, "they always flushed me out afterwards. I guess they let the eggs gestate in some guy once and it was - remember when we watched Alien?"
Steve's face would be fuckin' hilarious if the whole situation wasn't so awful.
"How long do we have?" Steve asks incredulously.
"I have no idea," Bucky answers honestly, "they always did it as soon as I was taken out of... there."
"How do we - "
"I'm gonna go break into a pharmacy or hospital and steal us some catheters and enema bags - and whatever the hell else I can find, " Bucky says bluntly.
-
There was a minor fight about Steve going instead, but Bucky had won by being already dressed and literally jumping out the window before Steve could stop him. His body regrets his choices immediately, but he's been through far worse and walked it off
He ends up hitting up both a pharmacy - which has the enema bag but nothing else - and an elderly care facility.
-
By the time they're stripped and sitting on the bathroom floor while Bucky heats water over a portable burner, Steve is sitting upright under his own power with little more than a pale, queasy expression. Bucky would make a joke about Coney Island rollercoasters - but he remembers that those got soured roughly 70 years ago for them.
"The heat isn't good for them, but the soap kills them," Bucky explains as he pours liquid soap into the pot. He doesn't say: I'm not exactly sure about this recipe, I was mostly lying there with my brains dribbling out my ears while Hydra agents talked over me. That’s not the kind of thing that inspires confidence.
The first part's easy enough, they drink a quart of hot soapy water, wait around on their right sides for a bit - Steve explains that it helps the soap reach further into their organs, while Bucky had just assumed it was one of those weird rituals technicians sometimes had - and then vomit it up. Repeat. Bucky watches the familiar slimy translucent eggs slip out and plop into the toilet with a vindictive satisfaction.
Meanwhile, Steve is a little disturbed by how many of the little dime sized things keep coming out of them.
Without the gluey pressure of the thick eggs sitting in his stomach, Steve feels a lot better. Sure, he's got soapy bile burning the raw edges of his throat and his colon and bladder are still so stuffed he feels like he should be pissing and shitting himself right now - but overall the feeling is less lay-down-and-die and more determined-flushing-of-rape-spawn.
Bucky helps administer the soapy warm enema into an oddly pliant Steve, bent over on his knees and elbows. But they run into a bit of a problem.
"You got to hold it in, Steve," he whispers, feeling oddly like he's breaking a vow of silence as he stares down at Steve's raw, swollen hole. It keeps twitching and gaping around the nozzle.
"I'm trying," Steve grits out. His fluttering torn rim dribbles out a bit more soapy water before Bucky clamps the hose and sets the enema bag aside.
He is so glad Steve's face is pressed against the tile with his eyes squeezed shut. Bucky is pretty sure he is going to hell for the way his heart is pounding and his raw, tentacle-fucked dick is managing to get hard.
"I'm gonna - I've got this other kind, it's what they always used on me, anyway," Bucky says hesitantly.
Steve just grinds his teeth, flushing red around his bruises, "just do it."
Steve gasps when Bucky pumps the double balloon nozzle up, locking it snug in his stretched hole.
Bucky is half hard as he fills his best friend up with a couple pints of hot water. He pinches his own glans viciously, because Steve is hyperventilating over the pain and he's not that fucking sick, okay -
"We'll have to do it a few times, like the stomach," he says, practically voiceless. He clamps the hose shut and sets the bag aside.
"Do you need help?" Steve grits out.
Bucky nearly fumbles the nozzles he was about to insert into himself, "nope," he squeaks out.
There's a long moment where Bucky is filling his own ass up, concentrating on how the soap stings on the raw insides of his chafed colon, how part of the immovable mass inside him is starting to shift, dissolving with the enema. He has to remember, Steve probably is feeling far worse. This is literally the worst time to think about how Steve's ass felt on his fingertips when he helped stuff him full of hot water -
"Thanks, Buck," Steve says quietly.
Straight to hell, Bucky thinks, his guts roiling with guilt and far too much content.