hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #4: I Don't See How That's a Party

Dumpster #4: I Don't See How That's a Party

Okay, kids, you know the drill. Don't be a jerk except to fictional characters. Warn if you want, but read at your own risk, because

hydratrashmeme is about as far from a safe space as you can get. Garbage we like: noncon, whump, aftermath, violence, mind control, inappropriate uses of Bucky Barnes' metal arm, bad guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves. Garbage you should find a different trashcan for: a/b/o, D/s-verse, soulbonds, mundane AUs, OOC evil!good guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves, rotting leftovers dressed up as a romantic gourmet meal. Nothing wrong with 'em, but this isn't the crowd you should be pitching to if you're trying to sell Brock Rumlow as anything but a human dumpster fire.

Link your fills on the fill post, post unprompted fills as replies to a header comment so the wall o' text is collapsible, and let me know if you're interested in helping out with the Pinboard archive.

[Rules in full] [Round 1] [Round 2] [Round 3] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by

greenkirtle)] [Round 4 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

All prompts or fills that contain Infinity War spoilers must go on the Infinity War spoiler post until May 26th. Spoilers in the main dumpsters will be deleted.

Round 4 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 5.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

The missions continue. Jack hears whispered speculation about too long. About erratic behavior. The Soldier seems the same to him: ruthlessly competent and permanently pissed off, like a guy whose bad fucking day has lasted half a century.

The game continues. The Soldier doesn't make him beg again, and Jack holds on hard against a rush of gratitude that threatens to send him to his knees with no help at all from the open-handed blow to his cheek, the neat punch to his gut. It's different, a little, being scared—but any sane person would have been scared of the Soldier to begin with. When the Soldier orders him to strip, his hands go so clumsy he's afraid the Soldier will laugh. The Soldier only waits, though, until Jack is naked and trembling, teeth clenched to keep the useless entreaty (don't do it again) from tumbling out. Then the Soldier steps into his space and wrenches one arm up behind his back, twists it hard, and it's all right. It's good. It's what he needs.

I know what they do to you, Jack had taunted, recklessly goading, cruising for violence. A miscalculation, in the event, but not a lie: he does know, more or less, because stupid fucking frat boys like to brag. Jack might not rate an invitation to the parties, but they're hardly secret: and even if they were, he thinks, even if he'd never heard so much as the breath of a boastful rumor, he'd still have an educated fucking guess, because the Soldier is a demon in the field but a slave nonetheless and people are the way they are. So he can't say why it takes him by surprise, the day he goes looking for the Soldier and finds him crumpled like a rag doll on the floor of his cell, his back clawed to ribbons, his thighs a mess of blood and stinking come. It shouldn't, but it does.

The Soldier moans at the sound of footsteps, and pushes himself a few pained inches further from the door, his right arm braced beneath him as he tries to crawl. The left drags like a dead thing at his side.

"Jesus fuck," Jack says. After a long numb moment, he crosses the few feet of space between them to kneel by the Soldier's savaged body. "Did you fight them, you crazy bastard?"

The Soldier's eyes are closed, his face disfigured with bruising. Jack thinks his nose is broken. "Hey," he says, when there's no response. "Hey. Look at me."

Flinching at his tone, the Soldier obeys, peering up dazedly at this new tormentor. This is what it's like, Jack thinks, and then he sees recognition dawn, sees the wary expectation fade from the Soldier's face.

"Oh," the Soldier says. Then: "Don't be stupid." His eyes drift shut again. "I'm always—" He makes a low, choked sound that Jack realizes, after some delay, is meant to be a laugh. "Always good."

What did they do to you, Jack almost says—but he can see what they did. Whipped him, and raped him, and beat his face in. More drugs, too, he thinks, unless the torture alone has produced this docile, sleepy confusion. "What did they do to your arm?"

The Soldier rolls a little, demonstrating the limb's useless weight. Fresh blood oozes from his lacerated shoulder. "Disabled." His lips pull back from his teeth. "Cowards." When Jack says nothing, the Soldier's grin fades. He sighs, and settles his cheek against the cold floor. "Your turn."

"Yeah," Jack says. "Yeah, my fucking turn." He pushes himself to his feet. Apart from the bed, the little cell is depressingly bare. He pulls his shirt off, and watches the Soldier's human hand curl slowly in on itself, gripping at the concrete as though it might tilt out from under him. He wads the cloth in his hands, and steps across to the corner with the metal sink and toilet to wet it under the tap.

He's afraid to touch the Soldier's back. The Soldier heals fast, even Jack knows that, but those wounds need disinfectant and clean bandages, not his own ineffectual pawing. The rest of it, though— He kneels again, and draws a slow breath, and nudges the Soldier's legs apart to wipe at the sticky leavings between his thighs.

"No," the Soldier says. Jack ignores the rasping whisper. Again, gathering his voice: "No. I fucking told you not to touch me. Take what you're owed, or get out."

He sits back on his heels, the soiled rag dangling from one hand. "You want their filth on you?" His chest feels tight. "You want me to leave you like this?"

The Soldier sighs. "I want you to go away," he says, and Jack thinks again about drugs, because his tone has lost its tension, wandered back to mildness. He sounds, Jack thinks, rather gently drunk. "They find you playing nursemaid, s'last thing I need." He coughs out another painful laugh. "Last thing you need."

"Fine," Jack says, and stands. He pulls the blanket off the cot and considers a moment before draping it over the Soldier's lower body. The weight would be agony on his torn back, but Jack can cover that much of him.

The Soldier has another thought. "They give you trouble? 'Bout being—" He pauses, but diplomacy fails him. "So fucked in the head?"

Jack shrugs. "Not really."

"Well, good." He shivers a little under the blanket's warmth, and quiets. "Kill them all," the Winter Soldier says comfortably, and falls asleep.

*

Jack swings by the grocery store on his way home, and empties his overstuffed mailbox before climbing the five crumbling flights to his one-room fire hazard of a flat, and when he tosses the envelopes on the table—ads, mostly, and bills, and one or two magazines—he sees another of the letters waiting for him. Notice of prosecution: some sad fat fuck, probably, in some town Jack's never heard of, with his right hand and his hard drive for company. Or maybe not: hell, maybe the feds caught the fucker at dinner with the wife and kids. Jack puts away the bread and eggs and milk and then he shoves the letter in the drawer with the others. Won't open them, can't throw them away.

He'll take a shower, he thinks, and have a beer and a sandwich in front of the TV, and then he'll go to bed, and in the morning he will still be here, will be in fact one day deeper into the improbable future, and maybe—who knows?—it will even be the day he tips the contents of that drawer into the sink and sets the lot on fire. But the noise in his head rises, a churning, hissing tide, eating at the edges of awareness. It drowns the tinny voice of the radio, swallows the sound of the shower's spray. He digs his fingers into the fading bracelet of a bruise, remembering the grip that had tightened and twisted until he cried out, certain the slender bones would break. It's not enough. It's been days since he had what he needed from the Soldier, and his skin itches for it, his body aches. He towels himself dry and steps into a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and then he strips them off again, clumsy as he'd been under the Soldier's sardonic gaze, and pulls on low-slung jeans and a tight black t-shirt. Fuck the TV dinner and the awful expanse of the evening, fuck the night rushing up to meet him, alone in his bed and awake awake awake with the roaring in his skull and the dark pressing down around him: he is going out. There's a club he knows where they won't look too close at his shitty fake ID, won't ask too many questions of a boy who wants to get hurt, get fucked, get quiet. Last time he'd gone—months ago, he thinks, as he shoves his keys into his pocket, and stills a moment in surprise—he'd let two men do it together, two friends, one holding his wrists while the other forced him open, and he'd liked their low familiar laughter, the easy way they touched and spoke and shared him between them, liked the thought, even, of having a friend like that himself someday—and then they'd finished with him and another man had pulled him up by the hair and raped his mouth and beaten him until he crawled—

No you fucking don't. The memory of the Soldier's voice cuts cold and clear across the clamor of his thoughts, certain as a stone sinking through water. Jack stops with his hand on the doorknob, leans his ringing head against the heavy wood. It's been days, will be days more before the Soldier heals enough to hurt him again, and he needs it, he needs— He thinks of the Soldier, his movements stiff, his left arm hanging lifeless—how long before they repair it, Jack wonders, how long until they're brave enough—lifting his human hand to touch Jack's face, fingers brushing feather light over fresh bruises. Who did that. He'll have no answer, of course—he never bothers to learn their names—

Fuck this. He turns from the door, staggering a little, and weaves an unsteady course to the kitchen. There's a bottle of vodka in the freezer. He retrieves it, and takes a long pull, and curls up in the tattered chair in front of the blank TV with the icy bottle in his fist. Where, eventually, morning finds him.

*

The Soldier heals, but the missions are over. He should have guessed, Jack thinks, from the extent of the injury, that the higher-ups had finished with their weapon, and wanted a toy. They will play with him for a little while, and then they will put him away.

Then it's the last time, and Jack writhes under the Soldier's blows and begs for more until the Soldier forces two fingers into his mouth to silence him, making him gag. He moans at the rough thrusts, a simulated fucking, and then he moans again, suddenly frantic to speak, and shoves at the invading flesh with his tongue, and the Soldier takes his hand away. He grips Jack's hair to pull his head back, subjecting his face to critical examination. "Yes?"

"How much," Jack says, and has to stop for breath, his eyes watering. "How much will you remember? After the ice."

The Soldier regards him flatly. "That's for the Secretary to decide."

"Can you—I wish you could—" The Soldier tightens his grip in warning, and Jack gasps. And still the words tumble out, a wave of senseless, hopeless longing. "It's stupid, I know it is, I know, but I wish you could—leave yourself a reminder, somehow." Stop this, he thinks, and forges on. "Like, note to self: this dumb kid likes to get kicked around, just say yes or he'll make an incredible nuisance of himself." He laughs, or tries to. The Soldier's expression doesn't change.

After a moment, the Soldier says, "Give me your knife."

"What?" Jack says, but he is already slipping it free, handing it over. The Soldier lets go of his head and plants a booted foot against his chest, shoving him hard, and Jack topples from his knees onto his back in an ungainly sprawl.

"Off," the Soldier says, touching his own belt, and Jack feels the usual flare of fear as he opens his pants, shoves them down around his thighs. Then the Soldier kneels above him, trapping Jack's body between his legs.

The Soldier strokes the flat of the blade thoughtfully across the smooth, taut skin at the front of his right hip. Jack shudders. For a long minute, the Soldier studies his face. "I don't think," he says at last, "I will remember you."

Jack shuts his eyes. He nods.

"Look at me." When Jack obeys, the Soldier says, "Do you want this?"

As if he knows what the fuck this is. "Yes."

"All right." He drops his gaze to Jack's hip, his face intent. "It will hurt. Hold still."

When the Soldier begins to carve, Jack feels the air rush from his lungs. He will not cry out, he thinks, but it is a shocking, searing pain, and before long the first sounds escape. The Soldier ignores him. He holds the whole of his mind to the next breath, and the next, and he doesn't move. Then there is a pause, while the Soldier considers his work, and when the blade comes down again, Jack flinches badly.

The Soldier's eyes flick up. "Hold still," he repeats. "If you move again, I'll—"

"You'll stop," Jack says, panting. "Fuck you, I know." Before the Soldier can begin again, though, he cranes his neck, peering down his own body to see the mark. When he drops his head back to the floor, he is smiling.

"Stop," Jack begs, when cutting turns to flaying, and the screams pile up in his throat. "Stop it, please, it hurts. I can't." He doesn't move. The Soldier doesn't stop. Tonight, Jack thinks, the knowledge unfolding slow and dreamlike within him, tonight he will burn the letters. He will do it with perfect calm. He will not be afraid.

And tomorrow, he will stand naked in front of the mirror. He will not be afraid to do that either. He will look at his own naked body and see the Winter Soldier's fucking star on his hip, red and angry as a brand. Will see it there, inches from his dick, for the rest of his goddamn life.

"You might, though," Jack says, when it's done. "You might remember. The Secretary might decide—"

The Soldier rolls his eyes, and cups his metal hand gently against Jack's cheek, touching him without hurting him for the first and last time. "Grow up."

"Oh," Jack says, tired but sincere. "You can fucking count on it."

*

And he does.

So, at some point before he fell (pre-war, during his first captivity, on a mission with the Commandos) Bucky was raped. Steve knew about it & did his best to help him through it, but that was about all the support system they could risk-- back then, male rape wasn't a thing that was ever acknowledged. It wouldn't even have really been an option for them to open up about this awful thing that happened to anyone else, even the Howlies.

So when Steve wakes up in the future and finds out about all these organizations supporting and advocating for rape and abuse victims, he thinks it's absolutely amazing. He starts getting involved, speaking publicly in support of victims, and talking about his strong, brave, wonderful friend Bucky who had to go through this all alone, and how great is it now that there's all these people who are willing to stand up against sexual violence? It's a little bit of a violation of Bucky's privacy, but he doesn't think Bucky would mind too much if it helps others in the same situation. And besides, he's dead and this can't hurt him anymore.

...Oh, wait.

Meanwhile, the WS actually isn't used like that, but now that the idea's there...

And all the lovely awful aftermath of accidentally causing Bucky to be abused again

“Lights out,” the Commander says, and turns them off, tripping once on a kit bag on the way back to bed - the others don’t have the best night vision. This location is on the edge of a small town, and there is very little ambient light through the small windows, making the room almost pitch dark. It seems that they’re allowed to sleep.

Fifteen minutes later, Agent Crabbe is definitely asleep, her breathing steady. Agent Rollins is drifting, probably close to the border of consciousness, where a sudden sound or movement will wake you but your thoughts will creep further and further into dreams. The study of them both occupies his attention, although he is careful not to move. He will not sleep until the rest of them do.

The bunk below him creaks quietly.

The light from the phone is just about visible. It’s not extremely bright, but the angle it’s tilted (away from the two others in their beds) make it noticeable, the way he’s lying. Noiselessly, he shifts closer to the edge. From here, he can see the screen itself.

It’s fairly obvious what the people on it are doing - the same thing that people have always done, except he’s never really seen it in filmed in such vibrant colour and clarity. It must be a feature of modern life, whatever ‘modern’ is supposed to mean to him. He doesn’t know what year it is, and that’s ok. He doesn’t need to know. It might have been a long time - he suspects it has been, so much has changed - but that’s ok. He doesn’t need to know.

He watches the men on the screen, and it stirs nothing in him. Should it? Maybe it used to. Maybe it would work with women. Maybe both. It’s definitely stirring something in the Commander, who (as Agent Rollins predicted) has a hand down his pants. Or under the covers, at least, working at a leisurely pace. There’s no sound other than breathing, and nothing from the phone; the Commander has figured out how to connect the standard-issue comms earpiece, so once again, wires are unnecessary.
(The trick is remembering to switch the source back when you’re done, so your mom can’t call you mid-mission. And nobody monitoring the comms can hear your mom calling you mid-mission.)

The Commander’s face is lined with the light. He bites his lip gently, in response to something happening on the screen, and his hand speeds up. It’s not clear exactly why, which merits leaning over a little further, just to see….

One dynamic I love in noncon fic, and don't see as often as I'd like, is characters (especially male characters) not realizing what's about to happen to them even as it's happening. The sudden, devastating destruction of the notion that rape is something that only happens to other people, something they've never thought about in relation to themselves. The point-blank failure to understand what's going on because the thought is so incompatible with their normal worldview.

So, throw a virginal Steve Rogers into the mix. He gets captured by Hydra and he's fully expecting to be tortured or killed, isn't all that surprised that they want to humiliate him first. But even as his captors start descending into outright sexual abuse, he's thinking in terms of humiliation, expecting to be pissed on or kicked in the balls, having never even thought of his body as something that could be fucked. Even when he's being held facedown and feels something get shoved up his ass, his first reaction is that they must be trying some particularly sick form of torture--and then he realizes it's a man's dick, he's being fucked, his body's being used for someone else's pleasure, and he freaks the fuck out. Precisely because it's so wrong and unexpected, it fucks him up in a way straight-up torture never would've.

Bonuses:
+ extra distress when the rapist(s) call his ass a "cunt," or even just "hole" (as in "hole to be fucked") and talk about repurposing it for their pleasure, using his body in ways nature never intended, etc
+ just the fact of being raped is so confusing and unthinkable that Steve doesn't think ahead to the end, and gets a horrifying shock when the guy comes inside him and leaves a sloppy mess behind
+ to keep him from checking out/dissociating, they jerk him off to a forced and extremely unwilling orgasm... and then keep fucking him while he's raw and ultra-sensitive and every thrust is overstimulated agony

+++ Natasha is the one who finds him, and Steve is even more ashamed of how bad this fucked him up because he knows she's been subjected to worse. He knew it happened, he just never figured it would happen to someone like him.

I love this prompt - if I could have more than one firstborn I'd offer them all.

O.M.G. This is such a good end to this amazing fic. <3

Oh god Steve would be c r u s h e d if his attempt to use his best friend's memory in a positive way to inspire other male rape victims to get the help they need and heal results in actually not-dead!Bucky being raped again.

And the poor WS wouldn't even have any idea what was going on. My heart.

Yes Please.

aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAA I LOVE THIS FIC SO MUCH. I WANT SO MUCH MORE.

I just have this idea of a hydra agent tied up to a chair after being captured by the avengers -read:all the avengers, most importantly Steve, Tony, Sam and Natasha- they’re waiting for him to spit some important information, but the guy is tight-lipped as it comes, and in strides Bucky, who was otherwise occupied securing the perimeter or whatever, and seeing him just breaks the dam, a total flood, the biblical kind, except, he’s not exactly spilling the data they’re looking for, he’s afraid of the winter soldier, so he panics, because he actually HAS some trashy past with said winter soldier, which Bucky was blissfuly unaware of up until now, which the agent doesn’t know, he figures Bucky knows and wants to make him pay-dearly- to the last dim for every gory details, thus on and on and on he sarts babbling and *explaing* how it:

"wasn’t what it looked like, it wasn’t really *him* man, you have to understand, Larry had this thing with necrophilia, and well, you have to admit you looked pretty dead when they defroze you, so he took a turn, and Dan, but that was just a blow job, I mean, he loved your dick, shriveled and limp like that, HIS WORDS not mine, christ, I swear to god I didnt get a go until,what, the fitfh time? I didn’t even touch you, just jerking off, honest, I did it because of Mick, he was a new recruit, still blue, still getting his bearings, felt pretty bad when he blew his load on you, t’was working him up, it affected his performance, see? I had to cheer him up, he looked up to me, had to show him there was nothing wrong with what he did, I mean, It was wrong, of course, awful thing, I’m really sorry mate, gotta believe me, but he was just a boy, y’know, it’s what boys do right? You see a sweet lady in the street, you wanna jump that pussy, err, not..in general, not talking about you, I mean, you’re not a girl obviously, too tight for that, hum...okay, so maybe I did more than some self-actualization, but again that was ONE time, and not my idea too! Charlie, we were all high strung from the mission, but poor guy, he was really feeling down, he was being stranded by his wife, they had a huge row the night before, s’what he told me, he needed to vent off a bit, loosen up, I wasn’t gonna leave him alone, it was a quick shag too! In and out, it was over in five, we were on a schedule, there wasn’t time, you didn’t even mind!, we made you feel good, remember...."

Meanwhile, Bucky’s getting greener by the second, Tony’s gone through 47 shades of wtf expressions, Steve’s still processing, digesting, regurgitating, someone else may be having a fit of nervous giggling, there’s a stream of swear words in the background and everyone’s too dumbstruck to react and shut the fuck out of the agent.

I want this to be a crackish fic, and even better, a post cw reunion where’s no issue has been laid off still, they just met in the battle field and fought together and now they haven’t even debriefed, they just crowded this so called prisoner waiting for him to confess a location or names or whatever, and now they’re all just waaay over their heads, especially Bucky which I’m dying to read his thought on the whole situation :)

but of course, artistic liscence and all that, feel free to do whatever you please with the prompt :)

The Asset is really happy with Hydra, it feels accomplished when a mission goes well. It doesn't really remember what normal food is like, but it is happy with what Hydra feeds it. It's handlers are the best, they are really efficient and know how to properly use The Asset. They even let the Asset come sometimes.

Basically, I want the winter soldier so completely brainwashed that he loves all the horrible things Hydra does to him and believes everything they tell him. He's happy but only because he doesn't know better.

seconded pls

Oooh seconded!

Anon needs trash/noncon with lots of focus on knifeplay and marking cuts all over and bleeding. Can be Hydra roughing up their Asset, or Hydra or their Asset roughing up a prisoner/target, who could be Steve.

THIRDED.

I need this.

There is a sudden stillness, and he freezes too in response. To do otherwise would be dangerous. The Commander taps the phone screen with one thumb, pausing the footage, and looks upwards, teeth gleaming in a smile.

“Whatcha doin’ up there, huh?”

It is too late to retreat. He hangs on to the edge of the bunk and averts his gaze in submission, in case the Commander thinks this is a punishable offence. Some penalty is surely deserved for interrupting what should be a private moment (no matter that this is not, strictly, a private setting).

“Come down here, ya pervert. C’mon.”

This requires getting out of the blankets, into the cool air, and descending the ladder (quietly) to stand on the floor beside the bed. He faces the Commander neutrally, ready for whatever might happen. Hopefully he won’t make noise enough to wake the others.

“Get your ass in here.”

The Commander throws back the covers and invites him into the space. It’s a close fit with the two of them, but his limbs are arranged to the Commander’s satisfaction. His head rests on the Commander’s shoulder, with a companionable arm across the back of his neck. It’s not restraint; his hair is stroked but not held or pulled. They’re pressed together, side by side. His left arm is pinned between his body and a wall in this position, but he doesn’t move.

The Commander takes the hand off his hair in order to support the phone, and slips the other back under the quilt.

“No no, open your eyes. That’s it.”

It would be quite possible to actually, finally, fall asleep like this, but that isn’t what the Commander seems to have in mind.

Bucky protested throughout the surgery, but his voice became softer and his movements more erratic as the weak dose of morphine took effect. He seemed to think he was still being tortured by HYDRA, which was bad enough, but he also seemed to think Steve was helping them torture him, which was worse. Steve wasn’t sure how long it took, but it felt like hours later when Morita finally sat back, blood on his hands and sweat dripping from his face.

“Did- ?” Steve gulped. “Did it work?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Morita answered heavily. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

Steve forced himself to look between Bucky’s legs as Morita bandaged the area. Dark, jagged stitches held Bucky’s scrotum to the underside of his limp cock, and the coloration was all wrong, far too pale. Steve shuddered and hoped.

They bundled Bucky up and carried him out on a stretcher. Dum Dum held up the front end, Steve the back, so he could watch Bucky’s face. He couldn’t remember when Peggy had handed him his shield, but he vaguely remembered her doing it and there it was, secured to his back. A fat lot of good it had done him, or Bucky.

They were driving away in an armored car when Peggy whipped out her radio.

“We’re clear.”

Steve heard the massive explosion behind them, and turned to watch the HYDRA facility erupt in a fiery inferno.

“We salvaged everything we could while we were looking for you two,” Gabe said behind him.

“Good,” Steve said, trying to mean it. “Great.”

Bucky moaned as the car hit a bump, and the Commandos went silent. The silence lasted for the duration of the trip.

*

An SSR doctor delivered the grim news to Steve a few hours after they’d arrived back at base camp. The reattachment hadn’t worked, and they were going to have remove the dead organs and flesh before gangrene set in, otherwise Bucky might lose his penis, too. Steve only half-heard him. The roaring in his ears as his hope died was deafening. At least there was enough morphine here.

“It’s my fault,” Morita said dejectedly. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s my fault. You heard the doctors. They were impressed with your work. It- it was my call.”

Jim took another swig of beer and said nothing.

*

In the following days, while the doctors insisted that Bucky remain isolated and sedated, Steve found himself drifting farther from his fellow soldiers and friends. It was hard for him to look any of the Commandos in the eye, and even Peggy’s company grated.

“You need to talk to someone, Steve,” she told him. “One of the psychologists.”

“What the hell for?” Steve snapped. “Nothing happened to me.”

“That’s not true.”

He knew she was right, but he didn’t want to talk to anyone about what he’d been forced to watch happen to Bucky. About how powerless he’d felt in his failure to protect the person who meant the most to him in the whole world. If he talked about himself, it was like he’d suffered more than Bucky, and that was selfish and absurd. He couldn’t even tell a psychologist the whole story, the full significance of what had happened, because he wasn’t allowed to love Bucky the way he did.

“They’re gonna send him home, Peg,” Steve’s voice cracked.

“Yes,” Peggy said sadly. “They will.”

“That’ll kill him.”

“I suspect he’ll need to talk to someone as well.”

He clammed up after that, and she left after a few unresponsive minutes. He was so angry, with her, with himself, horribly, unfairly, with Bucky. He was so angry, but he missed Peggy’s presence as soon as she was gone.

*

“Hey, pal,” Steve said gently, the first time he was allowed to see Bucky. “How- how’re you holding up?”

Bucky lay on a cot, his legs spread wide, the damage hidden underneath thick bandages. As soon as Bucky registered Steve’s entrance, he closed his eyes and turned his head away, his cheeks burning.

“Leave me alone.”

Bucky’s voice was flat, an undercurrent of anger stabbing Steve’s heart with ice.

“Bucky.”

He had nothing to follow his lover’s name, said in a supplication to which Bucky didn’t respond until Steve tried again.

“Bucky, please.”

“They’re sending me home,” Bucky spat at the wall. “Honorable Discharge. I get to wait out the War in my sister’s apartment while real men like you finish it.”

“Buck, no.”

“You should have let me die, Steve,” Bucky sounded so tired, and Steve wanted to rush to his side, cling to him, but he restrained himself. “You should have left me there and let me die. Woulda been better, for everybody.”

“Don’t fucking say that!”

“It’s true, isn’t it? Shit, you should hear some of the- the side effects of getting your balls chopped off. Like my Ma, God rest her soul, when she hit fifty. Mood swings, hot flashes, and that ugly Jerry was right, probably gonna grow some tits on top of everything else.”

Bucky laughed hysterically, choking on what sounded like a sob immediately afterward. Steve’s fist clenched.

“I don’t care about any of that. You’re still my guy, Buck. You’ll always be my guy.”

Steve meant it. It didn’t matter what happened, Bucky would always be his everything. He just had to convince Bucky of that.

“Go away, Steve. You saw what they did to me. You saw all of it. You know what I am. Just go away.”

“Bucky- ”

“Get out!”

Steve conceded. He didn’t want to force anything on Bucky before he was ready. He paused in the door before he left.

“I love you.”

Steve saw Bucky tremble, but he said nothing in response.

my heart hurts. as much as bucky's ass probably does.

“You see this? Look.”

By twisting his neck a little, he can follow the directions and view the screen out of the corner of one eye.

“Good, huh?”

It may well be a rhetorical question, so he doesn’t respond. It isn’t good, or bad. These men could be right here in the room, in front of them, and he would stay neutral unless ordered otherwise. It’s what he does (or rather, doesn’t). Maybe there was a time when it was different. The Commander’s breath is hot on his ear.

“Yeah, that’s it….” Barely a whisper, but enough for him to hear. It’s not addressed to him; he’s lying completely still. All that can be seen on the screen right now is a set of impressively large balls. He watches them swing, although it doesn’t really hold his attention. The Commander’s skin is warm up close, sharp with a light sweat. Nobody usually gets this near to him. It’s a risk even with both hands free, and neither of the Commander’s hands are free. Plus the distraction of the video. He only needs a moment to make the kill. He won’t do it; it’s an unconscionable thought. He kills when told to, and he hasn’t been told to (this time).

“Fuck…” the Commander’s body shudders. Two of the men on the screen are penetrating a third, who looks fairly enthusiastic about the whole affair. “Check that out. I see you watching,” even though that’s obvious; he’s been ordered to, “you like that? We could do that. I’d get some of the guys round, see what they taught you back in Siberia, huh? No hookers on that base, right? Fuck….”

He knows he was trained in Siberia, seemingly for many years. This wasn’t part of it. He remembers, suddenly and with perfect clarity, a room with scattered possessions and a single lonely bed. He was called there, but they didn’t do this. The man was drunk. It was for warmth.

“Would you like that?” The Commander doesn’t wait for a reply before answering. “You’d love it.” It’s barely addressed to him - more to what’s happening on the screen. “Little slut.”

The hand under the covers dives briefly between them, finding his groin. He tenses; it’s a weak spot that no human can ever entirely protect - especially in civilian clothes (or civilian pyjamas, as it is).

“Nothin’, huh?” Sounding perhaps disappointed, the Commander releases him and resumes the previous activity. “Not into dudes?”

He’s about to answer, as he must, without being sure what to say.

“They got your balls as well as your head? Sucks for you, kid.”

That’s not strictly a question, but he feels it’s necessary to respond, the way he always does when a memory bubbles up from the depths. He always tells them. Always.

“They never took them. They said they might; they never did.”

“Huh?” The Commander’s attention is diverted from the screen. “They threatened you?”

“Yes, sir. Said they’d mail ‘em to…” where to escapes his recall. All he knows is they’d go somewhere, without him, and once he found the idea funny - hysterical, but funny. Over the ocean. In a box. “To… I don’t….”

“Shh, big guy.” He quietens instantly, obedient, and the phone shifts just behind his head. “Talk about it some other time. You’re killin’ the mood.”

I LOVE THIS. You convey so much (painful!!) nuance with such economy. I adore the way Bucky's observation of his team offers (terrible!!) glimpses of his own experience and mindset, like:

It’s apparently a punishment

the Commander has a first and last name, like all the rest

a permitted item, for her

And then, my trashy favorite: “I’ll break both your fuckin’ wrists,” Agent Rollins says, but doesn’t do it. As if he just as easily might have; as if the WS is that inured to violence.

The last two lines = HOW DARE YOU. Also, sorry, but...

“I like how you’re still ok with the wedding.”

“I’m fine with the fuckin’ wedding."

...*whispers* Agent Rollins and the Commander are SUPER CUTE.

His head rests on the Commander’s shoulder, with a companionable arm across the back of his neck. It’s not restraint; his hair is stroked but not held or pulled. You are hitting my cute—but awful—but cute aesthetic so hard here, author!anon. I am thrilled.

I can rec you a fic:
"The Winter Army" by gaudior. It is on ao3 and one of the best fics I read in 15+ years of fic reading.

It features most things you are looking for. Bucky developed multiple personalties and the avengers are trying to crack the winter soldier programming.
It is more a ploty drama than porn, but the "murder while sex" atempt is there.

I have never seen this anywhere.

I am mainly looking for sexually frustrated Steve fucking a rubber doll (inanimated object, not a person pretending to be a sex toy) or another sex toy and feeling dirty about it. Maybe because he views using a toy as "unnatural" or "deviant" or he feels guilty because of the fantasies he has while doing it. Maybe thinking of Peggy, Natasha, Bucky, whatever.
Maybe Brock and his follow trash dwellers send him the toy as a cruel joke or to gain blackmail material.
Go crazy! Do what you like with this.

Just give me desperated Steve thrusting into silicone.

You know, You know Bucky comes across articles and interviews of Steve talking about this in the wake of the Smithsonian exhibit.
Just imagine Bucky in the after credit scene walking through the exhibit and past a stand with pamphlets of the help organisation Steve choose to support.

Oh Brock, you personification of our collected soul-garbage. Bless you straight to hell.

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Page 62 of 205

Dumpster #4: I Don't See How That's a Party

Little Victories [4/4]

Speaking out just makes it worse

Bunk Bed Porn - Fill 2/?

steve was expecting torture but not rape

Re: steve was expecting torture but not rape

Re: Little Victories [4/4]

Re: Speaking out just makes it worse

Re: Little Victories [4/4]

Awkward trash past reveal

The Asset Loves Hydra

Re: The Asset Loves Hydra

Re: Awkward trash past reveal

Knifeplay/bloodplay

Re: Awkward trash past reveal

Re: Speaking out just makes it worse

Bunk Bed Porn - Fill 3/?

Fill: Undone (6/?)

Re: Fill: Undone (6/?)

Bunk Bed Porn - Fill 4/?

Re: Bunk Bed Porn - Fill 1/?

Re: Bunk Bed Porn - Fill 3/?

Re: Bucky loves Steve and the Winter Soldier wants to destroy him

Steve fucks a rubber doll (or a fleshlight or whatever)

Re: Speaking out just makes it worse

Re: Hydra trains its dogs to rape people