For the prompt, "The Winter Soldier's conditioning makes him experience pleasure as pain." http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/1634.html?thread=4430690#cmt4430690
"Can I—?" Shy. The Soldier nods. And it's nice, actually. Pressure, warmth: neutral sensation. Then the Captain's hand describes a soft circle against his back, hurting him, and the Soldier tears himself away.
"Not safe." Stupid, to be surprised. The Soldier nearly killed this man, and now the Captain has run him to ground. He'll want revenge. And the Soldier won't fight, the Soldier's done fighting, he's tired, but he can't—the Captain can't ask him to keep still, unaided, for this sort of touch. His stomach twists at the memory of a handler's gentle fingers carding through his hair. Agony larger, hotter than his body could contain. She'd been a tiny thing; his fist had shattered her jaw. The terror of remorse, even as they'd strapped him down and smoothed soft things across his skin, felt and fur and their own kind hands, until he screamed himself hoarse. They pet slick fingers over his hole until his body yielded, effortless, excruciating, and worked a heavy ridged toy against his prostate until he passed out. Months later, when her injury healed, his handler tied him again and punished him herself. He begged for her forgiveness as her small pink mouth closed delicately around his cock, coaxing him to hardness. He begged for mercy, and finally, uselessly, for help.
"Bucky," the Captain says. Who? "You know me. You're not going to hurt me." He reaches out again, one large warm hand settling lightly on the Soldier's arm. Not hurting, not yet, but the Soldier feels the promise of pain in that careful touch. "Come home with me, Buck. Please. Come home."
Re: Any trash drabble
http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/1634.html?thread=4430690#cmt4430690
"Can I—?" Shy. The Soldier nods. And it's nice, actually. Pressure, warmth: neutral sensation. Then the Captain's hand describes a soft circle against his back, hurting him, and the Soldier tears himself away.
"Not safe." Stupid, to be surprised. The Soldier nearly killed this man, and now the Captain has run him to ground. He'll want revenge. And the Soldier won't fight, the Soldier's done fighting, he's tired, but he can't—the Captain can't ask him to keep still, unaided, for this sort of touch. His stomach twists at the memory of a handler's gentle fingers carding through his hair. Agony larger, hotter than his body could contain. She'd been a tiny thing; his fist had shattered her jaw. The terror of remorse, even as they'd strapped him down and smoothed soft things across his skin, felt and fur and their own kind hands, until he screamed himself hoarse. They pet slick fingers over his hole until his body yielded, effortless, excruciating, and worked a heavy ridged toy against his prostate until he passed out. Months later, when her injury healed, his handler tied him again and punished him herself. He begged for her forgiveness as her small pink mouth closed delicately around his cock, coaxing him to hardness. He begged for mercy, and finally, uselessly, for help.
"Bucky," the Captain says. Who? "You know me. You're not going to hurt me." He reaches out again, one large warm hand settling lightly on the Soldier's arm. Not hurting, not yet, but the Soldier feels the promise of pain in that careful touch. "Come home with me, Buck. Please. Come home."