garbage all the way down (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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hydratrashmeme2015-09-09 07:23 pm
trashmod) wrote in hydratrashmeme2015-09-09 07:23 pm
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.
[Round 1] [Round 2] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained bygreenkirtle)] [Round 3 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]
Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.
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.
[Round 1] [Round 2] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by
greenkirtle)] [Round 3 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.
Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade (Hydra/WS Forced Prostitution 5+1)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-01 08:25 pm (UTC)(link)The Winter Soldier may be a living weapon rather than a person, but it actually is allowed to want things. It mustn't get greedy and make too many requests, though; Hydra is already gracious and patient with its outrageous demands for frivolous luxuries such as warm bedding or the privilege of squandering half an hour on "free time." It knows full well that it must pay its masters for everything above and beyond the necessities that they provide.
Or, 5 times Bucky/the Winter Soldier sold his body to Hydra agents for minor things +1 time he tried to pay Steve in the aftermath.
Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 1/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-01 08:27 pm (UTC)(link)Sergeant Barnes had used the words “God-forsaken” plenty of times before the fall but it was Russia that taught him what they meant.
There were no windows to tell the days by, no sun to count the hours. He’d long since given up on keeping track of his breaths – turns out he can’t count that high. At least, not with his one intact arm chained over his head and his feet struggling to balance on the edges of a bucket. He’d given up on listing off name, rank, serial, on screaming, on quiet sobbing. How long would it take for his balance to fail and his shoulder to finish sliding out of its socket?
Did it really matter anymore how long it took?
He didn’t bother praying that he’d held out a few days at least, but he hoped for it pretty hard which is almost the same. Only difference is he’d stopped expecting someone to listen. He didn’t have a whole lot of pride left but he clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him sane in this frozen Hell. Maybe it was. So when the Russians finally came to take him down he did his level best not to cry like a goddamn baby and curl up in an aching ball at their feet. He’d compromise for wet gasps and wobbling on his knees.
These stress-position marathons were all the same in one regard, even if their creativity and cruelty always managed to surprise Barnes: no food, no water, no sleep. His throat was fire from the wet-scabbed cracks in his lips to the desert of his mouth, right down to the angry, empty cramps of his gut. They didn’t want him dead, he was sure of it, so they’d have to give him water soon or risk losing their plaything.
It was the first word out of his mouth. His head was already pounding so hard from dehydration he almost didn’t feel one of the soldiers – agents – whatever – backhand him, even as the blow bowled him over.
“Русский,” the soldier demanded, sneering.
Barnes licked dry lips with a dry tongue. “Вода?” he tried.
Amazing how quickly you could pick up scraps of a new language when you had to.
But then the soldier shoved him back down with a booted foot and asked, «Why?»
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
He wasn’t. Barnes got kicked in the ribs for his trouble.
Fine then. He played along, clumsy as he was with the foreign tongue. «If no water I die soon.»
The first soldier gestured to the others, and one stepped forward and seized him by the hair to pull his head up and back. The third produced a canteen and splashed stale, rust-flavoured liquid down onto him. It was barely a mouthful. Relatively speaking, it was ambrosia.
Something about it set off alarm bells in Barnes’ head to the tune of “That’s gonna make you sick.” Well, better that than dead. All he could really think of at the moment was the need for more. He leaned against the grip on his hair, pushing his face towards the canteen that was already being drawn away.
They snickered at his desperation. «You want more?»
Barnes tried to nod, but the soldier’s grip tightened, making his head throb all the worse. A groan bubbled out of his mouth from sheer nauseating pain, but he managed, “Да.”
The soldiers exchanged a look. «We make deal,» the first one said, or at least that was what Barnes caught of it. «You want more than we give you, you pay. Much water is luxury. For luxury, you pay.»
Barnes tried to swallow. There were those alarms again. This was a trap, one of their tricks. The first soldier reached for his belt and there it was, the thing he’d been praying they wouldn’t do all these months, the buckle opened and they were going to–
He jerked against the other soldier’s grip, grappled weakly at the wrist holding him in place, and lashed out with a foot. His kick missed but his point got across. «Fuck you, no, no deal! Fuck your water!»
«Too bad,» the Russian smirked. A gloved finger ran along his lips. «You will change your mind.»
Fuck that. He bit that finger. The next thing he knew someone was grabbing the stump of his left arm and squeezing, and he heard himself scream and scream until the pain made everything go dark.
#
After blacking out they finally let him sleep where he fell. Barnes woke to inflamed muscles, a howling stomach, and a pounding headache. The thump of boots approaching his cell made him jolt upright. He started shivering violently – an ingrained response after God only knew how much time at the Red Room’s tender mercy.
The same three agents stepped into his cell. He wasn’t sure how he knew, given these goddamn eastern Hydra goons all wore masks like their German counterparts, but he knew even before one of them grabbed him by the hair. «Ready to make a deal, little one? Sell your pretty mouth?»
“Get fucked,” Barnes groaned. «No deal. No sale.»
«Your loss.» They flicked out clubs and fell on him till the world went black again.
#
The ache in his head made it hard to see. The headache throbbed in his eyes. His hands shook.
The soldiers returned.
«The water is good today,» their leader plied. «Cold and sweet.»
They passed a canteen among themselves and made him watch them drink.
They made their offer again, hands on belt buckles ready to go.
When he told them to go to Hell, they beat the stump of his left arm and the soles of his feet. Before they left they poured the rest of their shared canteen on the floor.
Joke’s on them. As soon as they left, Barnes abandoned all pride and lapped what precious little moisture he could get right off the stone.
#
He couldn’t hold out any goddamn longer. There was no God in this place. No rescue forthcoming, not in the foreseeable future. He was in Hell, and these Russian fucks were demons sent to torment him for all eternity. The door opened and the trio stepped inside, and something inside Bucky shattered like a twig under tank tread.
«Okay,» he croaked, «okay.»
«We said you change your mind,» the lead soldier crooned (Barnes didn’t catch all the words, but close enough). «Ready to pay?»
No. Never. He nodded, steadying his breath. «Clean water,» he amended.
The Russian cocked his head in what Barnes imagined was an appraising look. Something about that made him grateful he’d thought to get specific. «This is much to ask for. Make it worthwhile.»
Barnes knelt on the frigid stone floor with his remaining hand rubbing absently at the stump on his left. It wasn’t oozing or smelling of grapes but it still ached. Everything ached, but this was a particular hurt, seeming to come from somewhere below the elbow he no longer had. He didn’t look up at the clink of a belt buckle and buttons. Every second he could hold onto before this happened was precious.
There wasn’t nearly enough time. A gloved hand fisted in his hair and steered him where the man wanted his mouth. The soldier’s cock was halfway hard and slow-motion twitching in interest, but Barnes had his work cut out for him. He opened his mouth and took the damn thing in.
Almost immediately the Russian grunted and tried to guide him by the ears, which made a flash of annoyance flare through him: no goddamn Russkie Hydra bastard needed to teach Bucky Barnes how to suck a dick. His mouth was far too dry to be much good on its own, so he grabbed the base of his jailor’s shaft and stroked it hard in tandem with his suction and his tongue. The faster he could get this sonofabitch off the faster he could drink.
The guy talked an awful lot in hisses and groans. Most of the words Barnes didn’t know yet, but he knew the kinda smut that came out of a guy’s mouth when he’s on the business end of a suck job and figured it must be about the same in Russian as it was in English. The agent came quick enough to shame him. Hot, bitter fluid flooded his mouth and he was so out of his mind with thirst he swallowed once before he could stop himself, though he spat the rest out between the man’s boots.
He knelt there, face burning as he heaved for breath, and thrust his hand up in demand. “Вода.”
“Шлюха,” one of the Russians sneered as they passed him a canteen. He made a note to find out what that word meant; he’d heard it aimed at him an awful lot. None of that mattered for now. He lunged for the canteen and scrabbled backwards till he could put his back against the wall and guzzle every last drop of water they’d given him. He drank till his lungs burned and his stomach felt like it might pop right open and then he drank some more.
«I think he liked that,» one of them was snickering, and it was all he could do not to get back up and spit in the fucker’s face. «Imagine what he’ll sell when he gets hungry enough.»
Barnes curled into the corner where he slept (when they let him sleep) and tried very, very hard not to think about that. He’d already disgraced himself in more ways than he could count. Seemed like Hydra wouldn’t stop until there was nothing left of him to shame.
Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 1/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-01 10:56 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 2/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-01 09:56 pm (UTC)(link)The asset was an imperfect machine. He knew this full well. If he were perfect he would not think of himself as “he” when the body Hydra gave him was only the facsimile of a human male. If he were perfect, he would never suffer boredom, a horrible little secret he knew by some instinct he could never reveal. If he were perfect, he wouldn’t want.
Imperfect as their creation was, Hydra was nothing if not gracious. His masters were patient when he toed out of line with his ridiculous, useless desires. If he was good enough they’d let him pay for the indulgence.
He had been aimed and fired, but already his masters were turning the great mechanism of global politics to send him out again. In the meantime, however, he could only train so much. “Restless,” they would accept as good reason for their Winter Soldier to want some form of stimulation. “Bored,” he knew they would not. Yet the truth – the secret, shameful truth – was it was boredom that led him to kneel before his handler and speak the words, «Please, sir, a request.»
It wasn’t long after that he was stripped bare, braced against the floor on hands and knees, holding still as his handler pushed into him. The pain was inconsequential. There wasn’t much that stood up in comparison to the chair or the arm (the arm...it hadn’t always been there, he was sure of it somehow, and he could only tell by the faint memory of truly unspeakable pain). Taking this man’s cock was nothing – a discomfort, a few minutes of unpleasant burning and spewed filth that would have shamed him had he been a man.
The asset’s handler pawed at his body, grappled his hips, thrusting and rutting like an animal. Here and there a thrust would rub against something that distantly promised pleasure if it would only be touched the right way. Like many others before, his handler said he was made for this, that his ass was made to be fucked. The asset wondered if it wasn’t a little defective, then, that paying for his luxuries kind of hurt yet almost felt a little good. If letting his handlers, his technicians, and his masters use him this was was pleasant, he reasoned, it wouldn’t be a very effective payment.
And he knew, he knew he shouldn’t be bored at a time like this, but the cold truth was that while his handler might have been highly skilled in the field, the man brought little to the table in bed. Or on the floor, in this case. The asset arched his back and tilted his hips forward, chasing that little phantom glimmer of pleasure, and it spurred his handler on to slam into him hard enough to almost make the asset stumble forward. The new angle took the edge off and made the next few minutes – if not good, then at least easier to bear. He ignored the awful names his handler called him for it. He already knew he was Hydra’s проститутка and needed no reassurance of this. It rolled off his back as easily as drops of sweat.
At last his handler buried deep inside him, coarse hairs prickling the soft, denuded skin between the asset’s cheeks and behind his sac, and came. The asset grunted as the man withdrew his softening cock and semen spilled back out. His handler cracked a loud, open-palmed slap against his ass while staggering to his feet and stumbling for his trousers, babbling and pleased with himself. The Winter Soldier, for his part, waited for the stream of jism to slow and inspected the palm of his flesh hand for splinters.
Slowly the two of them caught their breath. Some minutes later, as the asset was cleaning his hole (and wondering at the sensitivity of it – not entirely raw and painful like a wound, but electric if he rubbed softly, and didn’t that just prove his defects?), his handler dropped something by his head. There it was, in glorious red and white: Fal’sifkatory istorii, the indulgence he'd just paid for, one of the most outrageous requests he’d ever made.
The Winter Soldier had no need for reading material but Hydra was merciful and his handler was kind. They taught him order through pain until it was second nature, and graciously reminded him instead of decommissioning him when he acted up. They knew he was an imperfect, wanting wretch at times, but they let him buy the high luxury of a book using the only currency he had to offer.
His metal hand stroked the cover – another of Hydra’s gifts, fast and strong and capable of bringing him into line with extraordinary pain. He wanted to read it slowly and make it last. Who knew how long he had, though? His masters would act as soon as everything was in place, and he would kill for them again, and he’d be put away. When he woke up he wouldn’t remember the book, much less that he’d paid for it already. Did that make reading it now just as pointless? He frowned, then schooled his face; machines were not made for existential questions, even imperfect ones.
He pulled up his pants, settled on his side to keep pressure off his aching ass, and began to read.
Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 2/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-01 10:07 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 2/6
(Anonymous) - 2016-08-01 22:31 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 2/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-01 11:02 pm (UTC)(link)And I also love how you've captured how perfunctory it'd feel if the other person isn't trying to elicit anything from you during sex -- the handler's not really following Bucky's response at all. (Compared to the fics where they want Bucky to come, or to feel pain or fear or humiliation)
Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 3/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-02 01:05 am (UTC)(link)This, the Winter Soldier thought, was undoubtedly the best indulgence he’d ever begged for.
Never mind that he couldn’t really remember anything he’d bartered in the past. Hydra let him remember only what they needed. All the same he couldn’t imagine having scored anything finer than this. Warm, clean water rained down on him from the showerhead, gentle as a summer storm. He’d seen other agents in here before and coveted this the instant he understood that it’s what they used instead of the hose. Even the soap – a bar instead of powder – smelled different. He rubbed suds off his thighs, marveling at how the heat melted away the little stiffnesses and aches in his muscles. He’d paid dearly for this, but it was worth it.
His timing had been perfect. Hydra was so very, very pleased with his work. He’d helped them shape history just days ago, and the entire compound was in good sorts. His masters had allowed him to sit at their feet while they feasted, their very finest weapon proudly on display. And when he was led to the tiled room and readied the hose, he hit his knees and said «Please, sir, a request,» and they’d granted it.
Much went into giving him access to this room. His masters went through a lot of trouble to make this happen for him, and it never would have happened at all had he not done so very, very well in Dallas. It was only right that he make payment to a number of the men who’d made this possible. It had hurt as bad as a bullet by the time the last one finished with him, but the water felt like what he imagined forgiveness must be.
His flesh hand reached back to rub soap on himself again, and he hissed as it touched little tears that hadn’t closed yet. They weren’t bleeding anymore but there was still more seed to clean out. So this is how the agents found him: alone in the showers, carefully fingering himself to clean come out of his ass.
«What the fuck are you doing in here?!» a voice barked.
Instinctively the asset put his right side to the tiled wall and took a ready stance while carefully extracting his fingers from himself. There were two of them clad only in towels, one tall, the other ugly. The asset couldn’t recall their names just then but they weren’t low-ranking enough that killing them would be swept under the rug easily, if it came down to it.
«I paid for it,» he growled back. The Winter Soldier straightened to his full height, and for a moment the display made the agents balk, but the ugly one stared at his hip where rough hands had bruised him.
“Пидорас,” the man spat, and the asset had to hold back a flinch; he was only called that during beatings or payment, especially where the two overlapped. «Looks to me like you didn’t pay enough. Still not satisfied, you slut?»
The tall one seemed to catch on then. «You haven’t paid us yet. The showers are ours right now and you’re using them on our time.»
«You know what to do,» the ugly one smirked.
He did know what to do. The asset’s jaw clenched to keep from speaking. This wasn’t right, he’d already paid – but Hydra’s word was the whole of his reality, and it was not his place to question any price. The water suddenly felt hot as he turned, placed his hands on the wall, and spread his feet apart. He counted his breaths while listening to towels dropping and bare feet plodding near.
For the sixth time that day, a man (the tall one, he noted with only vague interest) settled both hands on the asset’s hips and drove his cock inside. It slid in with little resistance, and he made a low sound at the sting of being stretched back open again.
«Fuck, he’s as loose as an old whore,» the agent swore.
The ugly one laughed and reached up to grab the asset by the hair. «He is an old whore. And he’s barely even a ‘he’ to start with. This thing’s more gun than man.»
The asset had no argument for any of that. A gun might be a less elegant weapon but at least it didn’t have any troublesome desires to get it into situations like this. Obediently, he moved his hands to the shorter agent’s waist and put his mouth where it was wanted.
«That’s right, bitch, suck it,» the ugly one wheezed. «Can’t get enough of it, can you? Bet you’re never happy unless you’ve got at least one dick in you. That’s why you look like such a fucking sourpuss – not enough dick!» (The asset tried his best not to snort at the absurdity of it.) «Don’t worry, little doll, we’ll give you plenty.»
Neither of them seemed to care that they were getting wet all over again. Shallow thrusts shoved the pit-faced agent’s length into the asset’s throat, daring him to gag but finding no reflex there. Something about this sparked a flare of annoyance: no low-level technician needed to show the Winter Soldier how to suck a dick. The man swore even louder and filthier when the asset knocked his hand out of the way and took charge, determined to make this brief: he cupped the agent’s balls with one hand, worked his shaft with the other, and pushed back against the tall one’s thrusts.
The taller one, to his credit, was quieter, which made him less annoying. The occasional «Fuck, it’s so hot in there» or «Take it, bitch» was all the input he had to offer aside from a chorus of grunts and groans. It almost made up for the fact that he was causing more pain: his was not a small dick by any stretched, even with the asset’s hole stretched out already, and there was only water to slick the way. His thrusts were deep and hard, as if he were determined to shove himself three inches deeper than he had length to give. They chafed the asset’s swollen rim and rubbed his insides raw. It hurt, it hurt, he knew the hottest streams of liquid running down the insides of his thighs were blood – but he bounced on the man’s dick all the same, chasing him to orgasm as best he could.
The sticky-hot surge of come flooding his depths was a blessing: it meant that part was done.
The ugly one lasted longer, somehow. His fat cock plowed into the asset’s throat again and again, and the man never seemed to let up on his increasingly-nonsensical stream of verbal abuse. Once the tall one slipped out of his ass, the asset dropped to his knees and bobbed his head in earnest. Almost done, almost done, he chanted in his head.
When at last the agent finished, he held the asset’s head still with two fistfuls of wet hair and pulled out to shoot all over the Winter Soldier’s face. Thick strands of come painted him from forehead to chin, catching on his eyelashes and nose. The agent rubbed the tip of his cock off on the asset’s red, puffy lips and shoved him away.
«Fucking filthy,» the man wheezed. «Clean yourself up, pig-whore. You’re lucky we let you use so much water.»
The agents staggered off to retrieve their towels and carry on their way. Their self-satisfied laughter echoed off the tiles like ghosts of shame. But machines have no shame, now do they.
The asset sat still and leaned against the wall for a long minute after they were gone, letting the water beat down on him in silence. Then he stood, turned his face into the shower, and let it wash him clean.
Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 3/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-02 01:09 am (UTC)(link)Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 3/6
(Anonymous) - 2016-08-02 02:23 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 3/6
(Anonymous) - 2016-08-02 02:35 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 3/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-02 02:14 am (UTC)(link)Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 3/6
(Anonymous) - 2016-08-02 02:27 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 3/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-02 09:26 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 3/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-04 06:48 pm (UTC)(link)help
Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 4/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-02 05:54 am (UTC)(link)The Winter Soldier is an imperfect machine. It tries very hard to be good for its masters, whomever they may be at the time. East or West, it knows that Hydra is above the petty political boundaries of mankind. In time it will sweep the lines away and all the world will kneel.
The Winter Soldier understands kneeling.
This always begins with the same words: «Please, sir, a request,» and it’s on its knees with eyes downcast and empty hands displayed. It isn’t always certain whom to ask when its awful cravings grow too strong to bear. This is a terrible imperfection but each time it awakens it learns the many ways its masters are merciful.
It performs perfectly in the field, or as close to perfection as it can manage. It has killed the dissident, its team has laid the evidence pointed to their catspaw, and its extraction went off without a hitch. Yet it is tired as it has no right to be, and it is listless as it has no business being. Restless. Bored. Flawed. So it kneels and dares to hope it’s chosen the correct person to solicit: either he will help indulge the asset’s imperfect wants, or he will correct them until it no longer desires anything but the ice. Being frozen is a mercy. Everything that leads up to it is order.
The technician – Lyashev, it seemed to recall – that it chose this time looked stunned, even glancing around as if he expected to find someone higher-ranking standing behind him. But no, he was the one. The asset had an instinct about this. Something about his long face and sandy hair said he was the one to trust.
«What is it you want?» The man reached out a hand. The asset braced to have its head yanked around by the hair – then gasped when Lyashev petted him like a hound instead. Oh, oh that was nice. Its masters sometimes did this at parties when they showed it off to their colleagues from overseas. The asset leaned into the touch and the technician watched with hunger in his eyes. This was a good choice. It made its request.
«That will be difficult,» the technician told him, «but I can make it happen if you’re good.»
“Да,” the asset promised. It could be very good. It reached down for its belt, but Lyashev pulled it up by the shoulders and bid it strip starting at the leather jacket encasing its upper body. Ah, he wanted it nude. A tiny frisson of concern crept up its spine but it complied all the same. Trying to predict Hydra was not the asset’s place; obeying was.
Lyashev watched it peel leather and canvas from its skin. He wore his hunger openly, as plain as the asset’s metal arm, and wasn’t that a curious thing? Once it stepped out of its pants, Lyashev’s hands were all over its body, squeezing here, kneading there. It felt...it felt. It didn’t hurt. The asset held very still, hoping this would continue. Perhaps emboldened by this docility, the technician swayed closer, close enough to smell and lick the asset’s collarbone. His teeth came as a surprise but that didn’t hurt either, and that was curious indeed. The Winter Soldier watched him with keen eyes and a cocked head.
«Such a beautiful body,» Lyashev crooned. «You are without a doubt one of Hydra’s greatest creations. Such power, such elegance.» He ran his hands down the asset’s arms, paying special attention to the metal one, and pushed his fingers through its hair – it wanted to purr. «But you are so greedy, little doll. Come, let’s see to your payment, shall we?»
It nodded easily. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, if only Lyashev would just keep petting its hair so nicely. At Lyashev’s direction it bent over a gurney. It counted breaths and focused on relaxing; clenching up just led to unnecessary damage.
It wasn’t expecting to feel the technician’s fingers at its hole, certainly not greased up with some sort of gel. This was so unexpected, to the asset’s chagrin, it straightened up to blink over its shoulder.
«Relax, gosling. I’m only getting you ready.» Lyashev stroked the Winter Soldier’s back and gently pushed it back down. That didn’t make any sense. It was already nude and bent over. Wasn’t it ready enough?
Apparently not for the technician’s liking. A single finger pressed for entry; annoyed, the asset pressed back and took it in one smooth motion. Lyashev groaned, then laughed: «See, greedy!»
That one digit was easy to take, especially coated with whatever that substance was. Soon Lyashev rocked the second one in alongside it, and the stretch finally started to burn. The asset identified an increase in heart rate and respiration; it predicted stress hormones due to anticipation of the fucking to come. But those slim, strong, wet fingers kept on pressing in and out of its ass as relentless as a piston. They brushed against something that felt electric – not the fearsome electric nightmare of the chair, but a static jolt that buzzed in the base of the asset’s spine and tingled through its genitals. Lyashev hummed and rubbed directly on that hard spot, and the asset’s cock twitched, which was enough to short-circuit its brain. What? What?! It hadn’t even thought that part of it worked that way!
It hoped Lyashev would be merciful enough to forgive the noise it made, but Lenin’s tomb, it hadn’t ever dreamed that something could feel as good as those fingers rubbing on that spot. It whined and rocked back, not to try to make it end but to get more, more, «Please, more,» it shouldn’t beg but it had no programming for how to deal with this contingency.
«Patience, little greedy one,» Lyashev chuckled. He kept rubbing its flank and metal arm as one might rub a wolfskin rug. He even pressed his lips to the jagged ring of scars where metal met flesh. Though the asset couldn’t understand what the purpose of that was, it was so nice, so kind.
Once two fingers were met with no more resistance, the technician spread the asset’s cheeks and gave it three. This, at last, felt more like getting fucked, and it waited for the nice to be over and the real fucking to begin. It would be used and filled and flooded like a good whore deserved. And yet – yet Lyashev was gentle still, even adding more of that gel to his hand as he twisted and massaged at the asset’s asshole to coax it open more. He spent as much time stroking the hard electric spot as he did stretching the hole he was overdue to take. Clear fluid drooled from the asset’s cock-tip. On an intellectual level it understood what this was, but it still had a hard time believing it was actually happening. It was growing hard from being touched, a thing it had never considered possible.
«Ready, gosling?» Lyashev murmured into its back. It whimpered as it nodded, trembling, in utter awe that this doctor, this magician had made the asset want to feel his cock instead of merely wanting it to be done. A hand on the small of its back held it steady as the man fed his slicked-up dick into its hole, every bit as slow and careful as he had been with his fingers. The asset groaned and pushed back. It felt full; its skin was light and fire; it truly believed, now, everything other Hydra agents had said about it being made to take a hard cock. Did the others not know how to make it work this way? Or did they not care? Marx’s moustache, they’d all been missing out on this!
After a few deep, languid strokes, Lyashev took a deep breath and pulled out. He wasn’t done, though, oh no. He pulled the asset’s elbow and guided it to flip over onto its back. This position wasn’t unfamiliar; sometimes they wanted to watch the asset’s face and come on its chest. The technician slid back inside and rolled his hips. There wasn’t as much pressure on that spot now, but it was still good, so very good, and the asset was floating dazed as the man began to fuck it. It bucked up against his thrusts and answered his little groans with its own.
«Beautiful,» Lyashev panted. He licked and sucked at a nipple and worried it with his teeth, and at that the asset could not remain quiet. Its hands wanted to reach for him, grasp him, something, but it knew it mustn’t initiate touch lest it be mistaken for aggression. Hydra had made the Winter Soldier so very strong; it had to be careful to only use that gift to serve. So it crossed its wrists above its head and arched into Lyashev’s attentions, with its cock hard and balls growing tight in greater pleasure than it ever would deserve.
«What a...a spendid machine we have created. So beautiful when it’s in pain, so glorious when you’re causing it to others...so beautiful and glorious when it’s pleasure, too.» Lyashev held onto its metal shoulder, and reached down to grasp its cock. It sucked in a loud breath and dared to make eye contact, bewildered and hopeful; the man was beaming at it, blue eyes dancing. No, that wasn’t right. Hazel, his eyes were hazel. Why would the asset expect them to be blue?
«You want to come, don’t you, gosling? Greedy and beautiful beast. Come for me, show me how much you like a good hard dick in your pretty hole.»
He kissed the asset’s chest, rubbed his thumb across its frenulum just above the foreskin, and that was that: the Winter Soldier cried out like it was dying and tumbled into its first orgasm since its creation.
The technician straightened up some and looked thoroughly pleased with himself. Now at last he quickened the pace, strange praise tumbling from his lips as he pounded into the purring, boneless asset beneath him. He didn’t come as much as some, but catching his load deep inside felt like a little victory, like the asset had done something very good.
Even afterward, Lyashev took several lazy minutes to touch the asset’s body all over again before finding somewhat-clean rags to towel themselves off.
«You did so well,» he praised, petting the asset’s hair again. «Now for your reward.»
#
The Winter Soldier sat by a pond that hadn’t yet thawed with spring, a stone’s throw from the facility where it was being kept. A heavy collar rested around its neck connected to three long metal dogcatcher poles held by senior operatives, any of which would deliver a disabling shock if the asset was anything but docile. It had seven minutes of this free time left to look on the pond and birds and fields. Seven minutes before they marched back to the base.
The asset had no intention of being anything but cooperative anyway. Already it was thinking of what else it could get away with asking of Lyashev. It would have to be less dramatic; the technician already had it pegged.
The Winter Soldier was an imperfect, greedy machine.
Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 4/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-02 06:09 am (UTC)(link)Also, love how the dehumanization is increasingly internalized.
Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 4/6
(Anonymous) - 2016-08-02 06:45 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 4/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-02 09:34 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 4/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-02 10:17 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 4/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-02 11:52 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 4/6
(Anonymous) - 2016-08-03 05:50 (UTC) - ExpandUnprompted Fill: Skin Trade 5.1/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-04 03:02 am (UTC)(link)Один | 2006
This is what the asset learned when it came out of sleep and had its head reorganised: its reputation was a layered thing. To the outside world the Winter Soldier didn’t exist. The world of spies and assassins thought he (the fools thought it was a man) was a tall tale. To Hydra at large, it was their fabled secret weapon, a precision cannon that shaped history one bullet at a time. To those who worked with it, it was an unstable and highly dangerous machine to be monitored closely and handled with care, not unlike a tiger on a chain. To its masters, it was their sabre and their whore, a body forged in pain and strength to kill and be fucked as they willed.
Within Hydra, the lines might sometimes blur.
It had trained hard with its team prior to this mission, hard enough to deplete its energy reserves. It knew this by the increased volume of its stomach’s ever-present ache and by the way the smell of cooking drew it to the safehouse kitchen like a moth to flame. The operative manning the stove stepped back as the Winter Soldier padded closer; it could practically smell the man’s flash of fear, but the smell of cinnamon and oats was far more interesting. But. It knew its place, and it knew its feeding schedule, so it stopped short to linger in the doorway. (Knowing did not stop the asset from wanting.)
The operative – Rumlow, relatively fresh with a mere five years under Hydra’s service, but promising enough to serve on the Winter Soldier’s team – eyed the asset warily. “You need something?”
Some defective, defiant, poorly-programmed part of the asset wondered how much this agent knew, thus how much it could get away with. It didn’t answer, but it did look pointedly at the pot.
The agent’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so. You’ve got yours and we’ve got ours. The Lieutenant should be back at 0900, he can do your your freaky nose-feeding shit then.”
He spoke brusquely enough, but the asset knew nervousness when it saw it. Rumlow was nervous, the op leader wouldn’t be back for another three hours, and the asset wanted sustenance now.
It advanced a step. Rumlow’s hand went to his gun immediately, and the asset halted again. It clenched its jaw and took a deep breath. Time to change tack: the asset sank to its knees and said, “Пожалуйста, сэр, запрос.”
Rumlow stared, wide-eyed, and spoke as if he were choosing his words carefully. “You wanna run that by me in English?”
The asset’s voice was as rusty as its insides, but it managed. “Please, sir, a request.”
For a long moment the agent said nothing. Finally, though, he wiped a hand over his mouth, moved the pot off the burner, and stepped away. “Stay right there, I’ll be right back.”
The Winter Soldier did not sigh in frustration. It knelt patiently and listened to the operative phone his superior. Even two rooms over it got snatches of the lieutenant’s side of the conversation as well.
“Sorry to call early, sir, I know. You know that thing you said to call in if the asset said it? Pozhaloosta zaprose-something? Well it said it, what the fuck now.”
The lieutenant laughed loud enough to carry. Make it pay for it and then give it what it wants.
“All due respect, sir, I must’ve missed the part where the asset carries cash. I thought it wasn’t supposed to want things anyway.”
No you idiot, it’s a barter. Oldest trade in the world. The asset has two functions and it’s offering you the second one in exchange for something it can’t normally have.
Rumlow made a noise like something was caught in his throat. The asset cocked its head, only half-interested. “What the fuck, I’m not...like that. Sir.”
Oh unclench, Rumlow, it’s not like the asset is a person. Either man up and enjoy yourself or tell it no and miss out on the only pussy you’re liable to get this month. I don’t give a shit either way. Just make sure it understands–
The operative moved out of casual hearing range, and the asset couldn’t be bothered to hone in on the conversation. If they were saying anything it didn’t already know, then it was nothing noteworthy to begin with.
Rumlow returned looking...conflicted. The asset watched him through the curtain of his hair, giving nothing away. This wasn’t its decision to make. It wasn’t too good at decisions to start with, so Hydra in all its mercy removed the confusion of options, leaving only the clarity of orders and obedience.
“So what, you think I’m some sort’a fag, is that it?” Rumlow growled. He seemed to actually expect an answer to that question, so the asset indulged him.
“Irrelevant.” Why was he so defensive? Usually agents would leap at the chance to exert some extra control over the asset. It wasn’t as though it was bestowing some gift or leveling a challenge.
The agent made a face. “You some sort’a fag? Lieutenant says you ain’t human enough for that but you gotta admit this shit’s pretty gay.”
It didn’t have to admit anything of the sort. It wasn’t as though the asset wanted Rumlow – just what he had. “Irrelevant,” it repeated, a little slower this time.
Rumlow took another moment to pace around, bleeding his frustration into violent gestures that connected with nothing. A lot of wasteful motion. The asset remained still and silent. Hydra had made it much more efficient than a man.
“Get up,” the operative snapped as he marched past – though, the asset noted with something akin to satisfaction, Rumlow pivoted so as not to give it his back. Smart. If the asset wanted him dead it would only change which side of his corpse hit the ground first. But hey, marks for trying.
The asset stood in one motion and followed, quiet as dust compared to Rumlow’s tromping boots. It tailed after him as he picked up a plastic bucket filled with little wood-and-metal clips whose purpose the asset couldn’t ascertain, and then into the room where half the team bunked. There were three men in there already. Their faces paled on seeing the asset enter, so it took no more than Rumlow’s coarse “Out” to make them shuffle out of the room.
Rumlow kicked the door closed and shoved the asset towards one of the abandoned cots. It wasn’t enough to make the asset move; curious, that he was still afraid, and that this fact was satisfying.
Fear made baying hounds out of men, though, sharp teeth and all.
“Down.” (The asset knelt.) “Strip.” (The asset did not clench its jaw. It had no right to hope that only its mouth would come into play – it paid whatever price Hydra saw fit to set.) “Stay quiet. Not a fucking word.” (The asset’s clockwork heart ticked faster, thudding like a drum between its ribs. It knew itself, and it knew words that promised pain. “Stay quiet” always mean “You mustn’t scream.”)
Hunger and hate swam in the darkness of Rumlow’s eyes. A dim memory rose of a longer, kinder face that looked at the asset hungrily too; but that was just an artefact, a defect of its imperfect mind left over from the chair, and it cast the memory aside.
Rumlow backhanded it and it swayed with the blow – but the Winter Soldier didn’t miss the way he drew back the moment it connected. The next time he was bolder, struck harder. “That’s right, you got nothin’ to say. You’re gonna take it like a good bitch. Lotta nerve you got askin’ for shit like that. Fucking lucky Lieutenant says you can have it this time, long as you pay for it.”
The operative stepped back to pulls his belt free of his pants. The asset tracked its motion, and the one that followed to loop it double in the man’s broad fist. Ah. The clips would be the parts that hurt. It understood this and closed its eyes as the belt swung towards its head. Yes, it was correct. The clips scored little cuts into its temple and cheek.
“Fuck, you really can take it,” Rumlow muttered. Was that a surprise? The Winter Soldier was forged in ice and pain far worse than Muscovite autumn and a belt. It settled its eyes on the wall; no sense making eye contact and egging him on.
“Fine. You wanna be a whore? I’ll treat you like a whore. Get down.”
And now they began in earnest. Rumlow shoved the asset over onto a cot on its hands and knees. He cracked his belt across the asset’s back and ass until there were slim cuts and broad bruises from shoulder to thighs. It didn’t hurt that much. It didn’t. It didn’t. The asset’s metal arm was good and true – it didn’t shake like the weak flesh arm or its thighs. Its breath came in jags, but the asset itself was good and true – it didn’t speak, and kept its noises quiet. It let its mind go quiet and contemplated the error of soliciting someone who was so clearly afraid. Humans hate what they fear. It should have accounted for this, but it was impatient and greedy. It deserved this.
As it turned out, Rumlow was not merely fearful and hateful: he was creative. Hydra prized creativity after all. The Winter Soldier let out the breath it had been holding when Rumlow spread its legs apart; surely now they’d get on with the fucking, and with any luck it wouldn’t last too long. Somehow what it got instead was even worse.
It sensed Rumlow shift behind it and cocked its head just in time to be caught completely off-guard by the next blow. The belt came down parallel with the crack of the Soldier’s ass, from tailbone to balls, and it felt like getting struck by lightning. The asset spasmed head to toe. It was not silent.
“Not so stoic now, are you. You wanna get fucked? Want something big and hard in that pussy?” There was triumph in the agent’s voice, as if he were standing over the body of a guard dog he’d shot before it could bite. A hand grabbed the Soldier’s ass, roughly kneading and probing dry fingers against its hole. The asset whimpered but said nothing. Yes, please, get it over with. “How ‘bout an M16, you want that? Fuck you with another weapon like you? Or you dead-set on getting this cock?”
The asset actually considered it. If Rumlow used the barrel that might do less damage to its insides. When it didn’t answer, Rumlow grabbed it by the hair and pulled till the asset’s spine bowed back in an agonising arch. “I asked you a fucking question, slut! You wanna get fucked with the gun first, or you wanna get straight onto my dick?”
Ohh no, meaner men had played this game with the Winter Soldier before, and it knew better. This was a trick question.
“Whatever you want,” it croaked. The asset served Hydra, not itself.
Rumlow made a disgusted noise and let go. Apparently that complaisance was enough to knock the wind out of his sails at least for the moment. He rustled around out of view as the asset caught its breath. Nothing was broken, but its testicles were even more aflame than the backs of its thighs. In a horrible way it was impressive.
“Roll over,” the operative ordered. Obediently, the asset turned onto its back and tried to block out the way the threadbare blanket scratched at its wounds. Rumlow had the bucket in one hand, and one of those wooden clips in the other. They looked like clamps for electrodes but the material made no sense. It soon learned their purpose, though, when Rumlow squeezed the thing open and clamped it right down onto the asset’s nipple.
Now there was a new sensation. It hurt, but also sent a thrill of not-pain through its body – a terribly confusing thing. The asset gasped and stared down at its chest, and then up and Rumlow. The man’s eyes were still a wash of heat, of hunger.
“Yeah, well,” Rumlow said as if the Soldier had spoken, “we’ll see how you like it by the time I’m through with you.”
Another clip joined the first, pinching the asset’s aureola. The third pinched the bottom edge of its pectoral. By the time three more mirrored the first ones on the other side, the asset found being still very difficult indeed.
This didn’t escape Rumlow’s notice. “Hands on the sides of the cot. I want you holding onto the sides and don’t you fucking dare let go.”
That, too, was smart. Of course the asset would obey and keep its basest weapons safely occupied. The agent clipped more pins to the asset’s skin in winding lines of pain leading down to its groin, where its cock was twitching in an incongruous state of alertness. Rumlow’s scowl etched deep into his face when he saw that.
“Sicko queer piece of shit,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ stop that, no one gives a shit about your ugly little clit.” With that, he snapped a clamp right down onto the asset’s glans, and the asset choked out a strangled noise. That solved that problem in a hurry, but Rumlow wasn’t done: he chased the flagging half-erection with clamps and more clamps until there was a dense row on either side of the shaft.
[cont'd]
Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 5.2/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-04 03:03 am (UTC)(link)“Hurts, huh?”
The asset had just enough time to note that Rumlow was finally tenting his pants before he grabbed the clips on its glans and twisted. The world went white for a moment and when the asset could feel more than just pain it found Rumlow’s hand covering its mouth.
“Shut the fuck up, bitch, you fucking asked for this!” He removed his hand and slapped the asset’s face. This time he put at least most of his strength into it. And then he was grappling with his fly, pulling the hard, thick rod of his cock free, spitting in his palm to make it wet (so laughable an effort at lubrication it had to be a taunt). “Who’d’a figured, the Fist of Hydra’s a cock-hungry little faggot whore squirming and mewling to get fucked. That’s what you want, right? This right here.” He rubbed the leaking head of his dick against the asset’s hole before pushing in, not caring one whit how tight and dry it was.
The asset’s metal hand crushed the rod that supported that side of the cot. All too quickly Rumlow was balls deep and pounding away. He pushed the asset’s knees apart, grunting, “Spread your legs for me, slut, that’s right. Yeahh, right there – fuck, Lieutenant was right, this is grade A pussy you’ve been hiding from us.” The asset yelped when he thrust particularly hard, and Rumlow shushed it.
“Maybe should’a used lube,” he chuckled. “Prob’ly make you bleed enough to make up for it though. You don’t care one, do you?”
Risking a glance up at Rumlow, the asset felt itself make a face. Officially it had no opinion but it would have been fucking nice.
Every time it tried to go away in its own head, Rumlow twisted a clamp or put a new one on it. Its skin felt like it was going to split open even if it would only have a few odd bruises to show for it. They would fade, but the memory would be a gaping wound until the next wipe cauterised it. There was no escape from the crushing flame lancing across the asset’s genitals and trunk, the cuts and bruises across its back, and the punishing brutality of Rumlow’s cock tearing into its ass like a battering ram. It was like the chair in that regard, and the similarity wound tight coils of panic through the asset’s chest until it was hard to breathe.
“You take it so pretty,” Rumlow cooed, “you’re a pretty little whore, aren’t ya. ‘Cept for this ugly shit, gotta – gotta do something about that.” He let go of the asset’s knees and closed a fist around its sac, forcing its balls into a taut, shiny globe. The asset whimpered louder, then cried out as Rumlow gave them a savage yank. He stretched and pulled them to and fro without missing a beat in his unforgiving pace in the Soldier’s ass, as if the hairless skin there were a handlebar.
By the time his thrusts grew shorter and started losing their rhythm there were tears streaming from the asset’s eyes. It knew better than to shut them – that never worked out well – so it stared resolutely at the opposite wall as if willing it to collapse and bury them alive. Rumlow chanted a nonsense stream of Yeah bitch take it slut as he drove on towards his orgasm. He tightened his grip on the asset’s sac, swung his other hand high, and brought it down with a world-collapsing SLAP that made the asset howl like he was being wiped. Then another, and another, and another, and Rumlow cackled in unbridled glee as he came.
He pulled out quickly enough to make the asset yelp again, and made a noise of disgust at the mess of blood and come coating his cock. The asset rolled onto its side and shivered like it had just been hosed down or taken off the ice: the deep-body shiver of shock.
Rumlow watched this and rolled his eyes. Grumbling, he yanked the pins off in groups, and finally folded a blanket over the wretched weapon. Warmth. It was so, so grateful for that gesture. After all that, Rumlow was kind, kinder than the asset deserved.
Rumlow tucked himself in and left without another word. The other operatives who’d been listening at the door, wide-eyed and white-faced, gave him wide berth. They stared in at the Winter Soldier. One of them made to enter the room, but another grabbed him by the tac vest and held him back.
“Are you fucking stupid?”
“It’s going into shock!”
The Winter Soldier could survive shock. It knew this firsthand.
“And it could kill you without even trying even like that. Leave it alone.”
“Sick fuck,” the would-be helper muttered. The asset didn’t know whom he meant. It didn’t matter, really. They were afraid. It knew it would not made requests of them either.
#
When the lieutenant returned, he found the asset in a corner with the blanket still stubbornly draped across its shoulders, and it was eating. Not “eating” as in being fed its high-calorie slurry through the NGT, but eating as in huddled defensively around a bowl of oatmeal and fumbling with a spoon like a six-foot cyborg toddler. The asset kept its eyes on the operatives as if expecting to have to fight over that bowl at any moment.
It tasted like...the asset had no words for it. It couldn’t remember tasting anything other than chalk, blood, and semen in its life. Yet it was familiar in the way that spoke of artefacts and brain defects. And by Lenin, it would fucking murder anyone who came between them.
The lieutenant had that look about him, the “why the fuck do you have that thing you shouldn’t have” look, but one of the men piped up quietly: “It paid Rumlow for it. I’m not about to try to take it away, are you?”
“I like my guts where they are,” the lieutenant snorted. The lieutenant was a very smart man. He gave Rumlow a thumbs-up and gathered them all for the day’s briefing. The asset didn’t let its guard down for a moment. If it could want, then it could not-want, and it did not want to pay these fearful men again.
Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 5.2/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-04 04:49 am (UTC)(link)(Also -- so much love for Rumlow mangling the Russian.)
Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 5.2/6
(Anonymous) - 2016-08-04 17:30 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 5.2/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-04 05:45 am (UTC)(link)JESUS yes yes yes this line
Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 5.2/6
(Anonymous) - 2016-08-04 17:37 (UTC) - ExpandUnprompted Fill: Skin Trade 6/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-05 03:54 am (UTC)(link)Ноль | 2014
Bucky Barnes was a broken machine.
He wasn’t supposed to refer to himself as one, but he knew what he was. Sort of. Mostly. The whole “he” and “I” thing was confusing. Steve Rogers, who looked like a ghost and looked at Bucky like he was one too, was confusing. The siren gravity of this man that drew Bucky close and spun him into Steve’s orbit was confusing. Everything used to be so cut and dry.
By and large it was worth it. Being around Steve felt like slowly waking up. The foods that Steve foisted on him were problematic (the techni– doctors said it’d be a while before he could handle anything much richer than rice), but the riot of scent and taste made his scarred brain light up. Steve promised he’ll never go back to the chair, and something about him made Bucky want very, very much to believe it.
But goddamn, he did make things complicated.
So many new rules. So many bizarre expectations. Too many choices: he was not that good at making decisions, and it got exhausting. Mostly Steve asked binary questions, but even these were wearisome. In that one regard Steve seemed to have it out for him: the harder Bucky tried to be good and ignore such questions, the harder Steve tried to get him to answer. Even if Steve hadn’t so much as backhanded him for being bad and responding, it frayed their nerves till both of them were twitchy and ready to tear something apart. Sam-from-the-causeway frequently took Steve and spoke to him in low tones when he got wound up, when he pushed Bucky too hard to act like a person. Bucky learned to tune out these conversations; they were nothing he really wanted to hear.
But it was clear Steve was trying, and he was so very patient, so very kind. He corrected the as– corrected Bucky with words instead of fists or scalpels or shock collars. Any day Bucky expected he might actually stop flinching away from him. They’d both like that, he thought – he’d seen the way Steve crumpled when he cringed away. The Winter Soldier knew what it– he could trust Hydra to do. Being able to trust Steve to do or not do certain things would make their situation less complicated, in time. Until then he had to cling to the little pockets of order that he could, like coming up for air during a long swim.
Their morning run was satisfying: Steve had been merciful and told Bucky they were going out, instead of trying to trick him into expressing a desire one way or the other. No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t a trick. Was it? Everything had been free thus far. Maybe payment would be in a lump sum, and thinking about that made his flesh palm go clammy. There were a lot of things he tried not to think about, these days. Running in the crisp D.C. air made it easier to find some clarity. There was a purity in exerting himself that let his mind go blessedly blank.
Afterward, when they were both sweaty and panting, Steve gave him a long look (hungry, he knew hunger when he saw it) and asked, “You wanna take first shower?”
Maybe it was the calm he’d found in the run that made it easier. Maybe it was the tone or the look in Steve’s eyes; but something clicked inside like a puzzle piece slotting into place. The battered old clockwork of his heart ticked faster. The words Пожалуйста, сэр, запрос were on his lips before his knees even hit the floor.
Steve rushed over – he must have been waiting for this too – and his hands stopped maddeningly shy of touching Bucky’s shoulders. “Hey hey, you alright? You still with me here? I just, I’m sorry, I thought maybe you’d wanna wash up, not...are you okay?”
Was he okay. Bucky squinted up at him. Steve Rogers was a strange man with a lot of strange questions, enough to make your head swim. But Bucky had a mantle of calm draped over his shoulders like a shock blanket, and he knew how to be good.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes I wanna wash up.”
“Okay.” Steve sounded uneasy, but he backed away – and then left the room entirely.
Bucky blinked at the closed door Steve left between them. Okay. Well. That was weird. Putting it out of his mind, Bucky stripped out of his sweaty running clothes and set them in the hamper. Would he be paying for just this one thing, or for everything? If it was everything, would he be able to move enough to shower of his own volition, or would he have to save it for after recovery?
Somewhere in the haze of his memory there was a face, long like Steve’s with hungry hazel eyes, and impressions of being touched carefully enough to feel pleasure. Bucky shivered as he returned to his knees. Would Steve be like that, gentle and slow? He was so patient and touched so lightly; Bucky worried his lower lip with his teeth and dared to hope. Maybe he’d start with his fingers, maybe even lube. Further back in his memory he smelled a New York night and half-remembered himself lying on his stomach, thin hands on his back, skinny hips driving into him slow and sweet. Was that what Steve was seeing too when he looked at Bucky like he was starving?
Surely he’d be gentle, Bucky was sure of it. Steve wasn’t afraid of him, he was...less sure of that. Was he? Bucky frowned and both hands curled into fists atop his thighs. When men were given power over what they feared, in his experience, they usually wanted to make it hurt. What if Steve had just been holding back till now, and now that payment was finally due he’d let it all out – every scream he’d swallowed, every blow redirected to a punching bag?
He was shivering for different reasons when Steve knocked and, on getting no response, opened the door again. Bucky schooled his expression into careful, meek blankness. He looked up, though, when Steve made a squawk of a noise.
“Bucky, what the hell?! Why are you…. Are you hurt?” He took a few steps forward, stopping just inside arm’s reach.
The asse– Bucky cocked its, his head up at Steve and reached out a hand. The flesh hand, the one that betrayed him by shaking. “I’m ready.”
Steve wore an expression that was the facial equivalent of a record skip. He took Bucky’s trembling hand. In a voice far too small for his body, he asked, “For...your shower?”
Did he now know what to do? Steve Rogers, always a spanner in even the simplest works.
“For you,” Bucky replied, keeping his voice low. If he played this right, surely he could come out the other side with minimal damage. “I’m good. I’ll show you. I know I have to pay for it first.”
Slowly, carefully, he pulled on Steve’s hand until the man took a dazed step forward. Bucky gentled him with quiet promises to be good. It was when he started inching down Steve’s sweatpants that the man seemed to shake himself out of his trance and seized both of Bucky’s wrists. Did he want Bucky to use his mouth instead? He could do that. But Steve squirmed away when he tried, wrists held tight.
“Bucky, what’re you doing?! What the hell do you mean, pay for it?”
What a frustrating man. “You can have me, I’m good for it,” he tried again, fighting a losing battle against hysteria. “Wasn’t– It’s just like before, right? Wasn’t I yours, before I was theirs? Weren’t we...this?”
Steve looked at him like he’d run him through, and that panic clawed its way right up into Bucky’s throat. Something was very, very wrong, he’d done it all wrong, he’d fucked it all up and he was going to need recalibrating to be right again–
He didn’t realise he was trembling until Steve thumped down to his knees and threw his arms around Bucky’s shoulders to cradle him close. He whimpered, and that trembled, too.
“Not like this,” Steve said, shaking his head. “Bucky no, no. We didn’t… my God, I’m gonna kill them all, I swear it. No, Bucky, we were…. It was never a matter of ‘payment,’ dear God. And it never will be, not ever. You don’t have to pay me for anything, you understand?”
He did not understand, but shaking his head only seemed to make Steve more upset.
“It’s free, Buck, everything I do for you is free.” Steve drew back; his eyes were wet, his expression wobbly. He cupped Bucky’s face in one hand. Bucky counted it as a win that he didn’t flinch. The hand was warm and good. Who knew hands could feel that nice when they touched? “If we’re ever...that...again, it’ll be because you want to, not because you think you have to.”
Bucky searched his face, and winced in confusion. “But if it’s something I want,” he murmured, “how will I pay for it?”
Steve’s only reply was to hug him harder. That was okay. Bucky understood not having an answer. Maybe Steve Rogers was a bit of a broken machine, too.
[fin]
Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 6/6
(Anonymous) 2016-08-05 04:58 am (UTC)(link)Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 6/6
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(Anonymous) 2016-08-05 02:41 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 6/6
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(Anonymous) 2016-08-06 08:53 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 6/6
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(Anonymous) 2016-08-06 09:34 pm (UTC)(link)Was he okay. Bucky squinted up at him. Steve Rogers was a strange man with a lot of strange questions, enough to make your head swim. But Bucky had a mantle of calm draped over his shoulders like a shock blanket, and he knew how to be good.
GUH ALL THE FEELS. Awesome job and thanks so much for writing & sharing this. (And I really hope you post to AO3 at some point!)
Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 6/6
(Anonymous) - 2016-08-06 22:35 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 6/6
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