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.

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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.

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Partially inspired by the “gang rape in sad apartment” prompt, but with a different slant.

A recovering Bucky, who either lives alone or with Steve and/or Sam (not picky), is raped at home by a team of HYDRA baddies (again, not picky.) He’s alone when it happens, probably doing some mundane task (reading on a lazy Sunday etc), and taken completely by surprise.

The apartment has become a safe, comfortable space for him. The bigger emphasis on this better because - well, not anymore! All of those nice memories and belongings and his sense of safety/comfort are completely shattered. They trash the place. If he lives with someone else, they taunt him about the relationship. They taunt him for trying to be a normal person. They rape him in his (soft, comfortable) bed. Would love it if the rape is littered with Bucky recalling positive memories of certain items/objects/locations, maybe doing so in an attempt to ground himself.

SUPER BONUS (I will give you my firstborn for this particular flavor of trash): They find his stash of sex toys/kink gear and use them on him during the assault.

Someone coming home and finding him like this would also be two thumbs up.

Basically, like, give me the setup to a sweet, fluffy, all-is-almost-well aftermath Bucky and then tear it the fuck apart.

Oh god pLEASE let this be filled. I'll give my left arm for it.

This is the most deliciously painful prompt, I'm in love.

(Thanks so much for the encouragement, nonnies! Prompter anon, I'm so glad you were happy - I do hope this second half lives up to the wait. <3)

--

“I am.” No hesitation, no ceremony. The next guy unzips his fly, straddles Bucky’s hips, stuffs his cock in and it starts all over again. Bucky’s nerves feel raw and inflamed, and a pained sob rises in his throat as his insides clench up against the intrusion. He bites it down and tries desperately to focus on something else, anything else. But there’s nothing left around him to focus on; the whole place is trashed. Someone has pulled the radiator off the wall, and cold air is gusting in through the broken window, and the stump of his arm is aching like it never stopped.

“Listen to this,” laughs one of the guys by the bookshelf. They’re paging through the contents, knocking books off the shelves as they go, and … oh god, they’ve found his journals. “The nightmares are coming back again. The sleeping pills don’t stop them – they just stop me from waking up. I told Christine – who’s Christine, Soldat? Is she your girlfriend?”

Another guy snorts and snatches the book. “As if he has a girlfriend. She’s his therapist, look. I told Christine it just makes things worse, talking about old memories all the time. She said it’s a good thing I’m starting to feel angry and scared again instead of just numb. Jesus Christ, I gotta stop reading, this is pathetic. My balls are gonna shrivel up.”

The entry is from about a year ago; Bucky remembers it well. It was one of the big turning points in his therapy, though it didn’t feel that way at the time – the first time it really occurred to him that ‘numb’ and ‘fine’ weren’t as synonymous as he’d thought.

“Do you think we’re scaring him again?” the guy on top of him says, with a particularly hard thrust that jolts all the way up Bucky’s spine. The pain is spreading: his stomach is cramping up, a sharp ache flares in the base of his skull. “You gonna need some more therapy, huh?” Another hard thrust. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. He won’t cry out. Everything, his whole life, is in their hands; his silence is literally the only thing he has left for himself.

“You should never have run,” the man says, gripping Bucky’s hair tight and grinding his face deeper into the pillow. His face is buried in an indent the perfect size of his head; it still smells like him. “You should have kept your stupid bitch feelings in check, shouldn’t you? Then we wouldn’t have had to do this to you.”

“Oh, I dunno, I’m glad he’s making us do it,” says another. “Hurry the fuck up, I want my turn.”

They keep on coming. The next guy is bigger, thicker, the stretch is like being split in half; cum dribbles out of Bucky’s ass every time they pull out, trickling down over his balls, staining the bedsheets. Surely he must be bleeding by now. Another cock replaces the last, and this guy hauls his hips up off the bed and holds him there like a wheelbarrow, slamming into him over and over while his dick slaps on his belly and his neck feels like breaking from the amount of body weight against it. The next guy hangs him upside-down off the bed while he fucks him, and the blood rushes to his head until his brain feels sodden with it. They’re enjoying themselves, tossing him around like a ragdoll, and he’s too weak and limp to do anything about it. Upside-down guy comes, another steps up to take his turn. Christine was wrong. Numb wouldn’t be so bad right now – numb would be heaven.

They’re not stopping. He’s lost count of how many men have fucked him. His hole spasms around them when they push in and gapes when they pull out. Some of them have had two, three turns. They’re not getting tired. Low, involuntary moans are starting to spill from Bucky’s mouth. He can hear them as if they’re coming from someone else, but he can’t make them stop.

“I think he wants something to plug up his pie-hole,” says one of the men.

“Well I ain’t sticking mine in there,” says another. “He’s still got teeth, doesn’t he?”

“Holy shit, boys, I’ve hit the jackpot. Look at this.”

Someone has pulled open the drawer by Bucky’s bed. It’s where he keeps the few small, personal items that have no use anywhere else in the apartment, the ones he doesn’t want anyone to see; the rummager turns to face the group and in his hand is a beanie bear, a stupid, childish, pointless thing Steve gave him when they went to Coney Island.

Gave? More like attacked him with it. Steve won the thing at the milk bottles, and he and Bucky spent the next half-hour pegging it at each other’s heads, the kind of senseless, idiotic game that made perfect sense at the time. Somehow it ended up in Bucky’s hands when the game was over, and it’s been in that draw ever since, smiling goofily up at him whenever he opens it.

A round of nasty laughter goes around the room. “Let him suck on that,” says one of the onlookers. “It’s nearly as good as a binkie.”

They stuff the beanie bear between Bucky’s teeth. It tastes dry and sticky, with a faint trace of old cotton candy in the fur. For a split second it’s like being back on Coney Island, laughing with Steve as the carnival lights gleam all around them. At least it’s doing something to muffle the sounds. All his plans of silence and defiance have gone right out the broken window.

But there are worse things left for them to find in that drawer. The man throws another journal on the floor, tosses aside a wad of old receipts and a couple of clean handkerchiefs, and Bucky scrunches his eyes shut and bites down hard on the bear and tries to brace himself for the new impending humiliation.

In the back of the draw, along with a bottle of lube and a couple of optimistic condoms, Bucky keeps a small black dildo with a flared base and a silky silicone knob on the end. It’s slender and a little springy, the perfect undemanding size for him. It was an impulse buy, a curiosity – mostly he was just taken aback to learn that you could buy things like that in the twenty-first century.

Then he fucked himself with it for the first time and it stopped being quite so silly. The orgasm blew everything else out of the water.

With his head ringing and one ear mashed into the pillow, he can still hear the howls of laughter as his precious, intimate secret is revealed to the room.

“Well, will you look at that.” It’s the voice of the ringleader – the eerily familiar man who kicked the whole ordeal off. “And here I thought we were punishing you. You like it up the ass, don’t you, you filthy little fag?”

Another round of guffaws. Even the guy fucking Bucky has stopped. He’s barely hard anyway – he’s been at least twice already. He’s only still there out of spite. Somehow the thought is more humiliating than if he were there for the pleasure of it.

“Flip him over,” says the ringleader. “If this is how he likes it, who are we to say no?” Oh, god. Rough hands grab Bucky’s shoulders and roll him onto his back, and the man is kneeling on the bed in front of him, still in full black armour and balaclava, clutching the dildo in his fist like a knife. Bucky’s hole is so sore that it barely even registers that no one’s fucking him anymore. He’s gaping and sloppy, spasming around thin air. The beanie bear is still in his mouth, puffing out his cheeks. Tears are leaking from the corners of his eyes. Anger is flaring again, hot and sick and suffocating. It’s his dildo, his one private personal indulgence, and he feels like he could deal with all the rest, if only they would leave him that.

They’re not going to leave him anything. “Here you go,” says the man, and shoves the dildo into him, pumping vigorously in and out. The curved tip hits Bucky’s battered prostate in a way that makes him want to cry. “Is this how you like it? Is this how you fuck yourself every night, right before you cry yourself to sleep over your mean old therapist who makes you take your sleeping pills?”

The first time he fucked himself, he did cry afterwards. He wasn’t even sad – it was like opening the floodgates on a dam he didn’t even know was there, and after he’d mopped up and dumped the used toy in the sink he just lay there for a while in his warm, cozy bed and cried himself to sleep over nothing. He wrote it down, the same way he writes down all his memories – it’s somewhere inside one of the journals currently being trampled under dozens of heavy black boots.

“He loves it, fucking hell, look.” Maybe the pain and shame have driven him past the threshold of sanity; maybe his body is just taking over on its own through sheer force of habit. But the dildo is pounding into his prostate at the same angle he always does it, harder and more brutal than he’s ever dared, and Bucky is getting hard. His stiffening cock is hot against his stomach, a final brand of humiliation.

“Of course he loves it.” With the hand not working the dildo, the attacker grabs Bucky’s cock and starts to stroke. “God, you’re a pathetic fucking mess, you know that? I told you, we fucking own you. Do you get it yet? Hydra owns you, and you love it.”

They’re circling around him, closing in. Some of them are pulling their dicks out again, jerking it over him, kneeling above his head, balls dangling right down close to his face. He shuts his eyes and bites down harder on the bear. Another hand joins the one on his cock, spit-wet, rubbing over the head. He’s too exhausted to care anymore. They’ve taken everything; there’s nothing left for them to find. The air reeks of cum and blood, and the first hot splash that hits his face barely even registers. They come in is hair, all over his chest, pooling in his belly button.

He’s going to come too. It’s surging up inside him way too fast, he’s in some kind of shock state, his body doesn’t know what’s happening anymore. His guts are clenching and his ass is burning and he’s going to come, with his favourite toy pounding in and out of him and a room full of enemies looking on and laughing.

In the end it’s not even an orgasm so much as a wracking, gut-wrenching shudder as the cum spills out of him. The beanie baby absorbs most of the noise he makes; the laughter drowns out the rest of it.

The dildo slips right out of him once the handle is released. His wrecked hole can’t hang onto it. “Drug’s gonna wear off soon,” says one of the men. It feels like he’s been lying here helpless for hours, days, his whole life. It’s hard to remember what muscle control feels like. “We done with him, boss?”

“Not yet.” The ringleader unzips again, and pulls his cock out, and leans right in close to Bucky’s face. “I told you at the start – once you’re all used up, I’m gonna fuck you one last time for good measure. And I always keep my promises.”

What’s one more cock after everything he’s taken? It doesn’t matter anymore; Bucky’s head is spinning, he’s starting to float away. The sick squelch and the one last pounding barely register. The guy pulls out right before he comes, and yanks away the beanie bear and squirts all over Bucky’s mouth.

And then – impossibly – it’s over. The men are leaving out the window, one by one. Bucky flops his head to one side and spits out bitter cum all over his pillow. It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it matters. He can feel his muscles start to re-engage, but he can’t bring himself to try and use them. He just lies there, cum drying on his skin, guts aching like they’re going to fall right out of him. Hell, maybe they will. He’s gaping enough.

Time passes. He manages to roll onto his side and curl up. Maybe he’s dozing off, or maybe he’s going into shock. It’s hard to say. He doesn’t care enough to try and decide.

There are footsteps in the hall. A key turns in the lock, and the door is creaking open, and suddenly Bucky cares very, very much, after all – but it’s too late. Steve stops dead in the doorway and stares, a carry bag hanging limply from his hand.

“I … I brought you some soup …” Steve says.

THREADFAIL, ugh. Oh well, nothing to be done now. Hopefully the titles make things clear enough.

OH GOD.

. . . a room full of enemies looking on and laughing. This is so painful, and your beautiful writing only makes it hurt more. My poor heart.

Re: FILL: Home Invasion, 2/2

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-06 10:53 (UTC) - Expand

THIS HURTS SO GOOD. I love the well-paced escalation!!

(Now I'm off to imagine Steve giving him much-needed support, and maybe he moves somewhere safer)

Re: FILL: Home Invasion, 2/2

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-06 10:48 (UTC) - Expand

(op)

Forgive me for being so late to reply but SLKGJFDSG OH MY GOD this is everything I wanted and so much more. All the little details are so good. The bear, the story behind the dildo. Also, crying forever at them reading through his journals out loud. Thank you for this glorious piece of trash, I will treasure it for all time <3 <3 <3

Re: FILL: Home Invasion, 2/2

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-06 10:50 (UTC) - Expand

This was amazing from start to finish. Just when Bucky has gotten some semblance of a life back Hydra has to come in and smash it all to pieces.
The ending, with Steve showing up with soup, just killed me.

That last fucking line *gutted me*

As apartments go, it isn't much. The lease said pre-furnished; the rickety bedframe, rickety dining chair and rickety card table all came with. Bucky has since acquired a mattress, a couple of storage boxes and a small bookshelf that slides in neatly under the windowpane. It's all that fits. It's all he needs.

He knows every square inch of his space, and everything he owns has a home somewhere inside. On the bookshelf, his battered little library of shitty dog-eared sci-fi and old journals and glossy cookbooks he keeps meaning to learn from. In the pantry, an emergency stash of canned foods and a half-dozen bottles of raspberry preserve from nice old Mrs Barton down the hall. In the cupboard by the door, his body armour and main weapons stash. In the drawer beside his bed, a handful of miscellaneous personal effects and his current journal.

Everything is set up so that he can access whatever he wants at a moment's notice, one-handed, with ease. He could find his way around with his eyes closed. If someone ever came rummaging while he was out, he'd know about it as soon as he crossed the threshold.

Bucky locks the door carefully behind him, hangs his keys on the nail by his door and slides his bags off his forearm onto the kitchen counter. He braved the local markets this morning, and his coat has a damp sheen from the misty rain that started up on his walk home. The clouds have settled in and the streets outside are a dull, dreary grey.

Technically he’s supposed to be going back out for a run with Steve. But now that he’s home, Bucky doesn’t really want to leave. Inside is warm and dry and comfortable, and the last thing he wants to do is to waste the rest of his morning sloshing through puddles on their boring old jogging track. He pulls his phone from his pocket and taps out a white lie: Think I’m getting sick. Raincheck on our run today.

His phone beeps moments later. You okay man?

Yeah. Resting up.

Social obligations disposed of, Bucky has the rest of his Sunday clear. It’s a nice thought – and a rare one, these days, now that Steve’s back in his life. He can spend the whole day just enjoying the peace and quiet in his apartment. He starts with a long, luxurious shower to wash the cold morning air off his skin. He changes into comfy track pants and a sweater. He packs away his groceries, turning over his to-do list in his mind – maybe for lunch he’ll try that omelette recipe again. Cook up a batch of pasta sauce to freeze. Take a load of laundry down to the basement. Scrub the bathroom. If he gets restless later this afternoon, he’ll do some circuit training. Might as well use his downtime productively.

But for now he’s feeling lazy and relaxed, and all he wants to do is crack open one of Mrs Barton’s jams and curl up on a cushion by the radiator with a few slices of toast and a book. The cold makes him ache around the stump of his missing left arm. He leans his body against the radiator and lets the heat work its magic.

The soft white noise of rain drumming on his window helps block out the world outside, and his novel does the rest of the work. Bucky loses track of time, which is another luxury so new and so pleasant that he still hasn’t learned to take it for granted. He hears creaking in the hallway, and tunes it out with ease – it’s just one of his neighbours taking out their laundry, nothing worth breaking a sweat for. He reads a chapter, and another. The kid downstairs has his stereo turned up too loud again, but the dull bass thump just blends in with the rain. On another day the noise might freak him out. His therapist calls it hypervigilance – a constant state of anxious arousal, where every unexpected sound or movement sends him careening into survival mode.

It’s worse out on the streets, surrounded by strangers and unfamiliar sights. It’s taken a long time to learn how to switch off when he’s at home. But he knows this apartment inside out. He knows who his neighbours are, and what their movements sound like; he knows what to expect. For as long as he’s home, it’s safe to drop his guard.

He reaches the end of another chapter and gets up to stretch. The floor is comfortable for the first little while, but his next investment is definitely going to be an armchair. Or maybe a beanbag that he can shove under the bed when he’s not using it, to maximise floor space –

There’s a shattering sound and a sharp, stabbing pain in his neck, and Bucky’s first, irrational feeling is irritation because the shock made him fumble his book and now he’s going to have to pick it up off the floor and find his page again.

And then his brain catches up with him, just in time for his body to collapse as the poison dart in his neck hits his bloodstream.

Armoured, masked bodies are streaming into the tiny room through the shattered window. The drug has spread through Bucky’s veins as quick as blinking, a paralytic of some kind, maybe – all the strength has left his muscles, and he can barely lift his own head to watch the hit team advance on him. Everything feels surreal, separate from him somehow. Years of running and fighting and surviving against impossible odds, and now he’s going to die helpless on the floor in his own home and he’ll never find out how his novel ends.

“Get him up,” growls a voice that sounds semi-familiar. After the initial breaking of the window, the attackers have been almost perfectly silent. The stereo downstairs thuds on. The apartment is running on its own separate time, everything unfolding at impossible speed while the rest of the world enjoys its leisurely Sunday. Gloved hands seize Bucky under the armpits and drag him over to the bed. Through the weird haze of shock and disconnection, he feels a tiny bubble of relief. If he’s really about to die, at least he gets to do it in the comfort of his own bed. People always say that’s the best way to go.

He lands with a gentle thud on the mattress and one of the attackers follows him, weight bearing down on the back of his thighs. He hears the soft snick of a knife leaving its sheath – messier than a bullet to the brain, but if they do it right he won’t have to care for long. A ripping sound and a sudden chill of air on his skin.

They’re cutting his clothes off. And it’s then, only then that it clicks into place: they haven’t come here to kill him.

The bubble bursts. Reality comes rushing back in, and all at once everything feels vividly, terrifyingly, agonisingly real. He tries to fight back, but his body won’t respond, he’s as limp and helpless as a ragdoll and he can hear the zip of a fly being undone. Some of the men are watching; others are casing the apartment, jostling past each other in the tiny space, opening cupboards and knocking things over and sticking their heads into everything, and Bucky can hardly tell which one feels like the bigger violation.

And then the man shoves his fat, hard cock inside him and there’s no question anymore.

It hurts like hell, but the eerie silence of the attackers is contagious; he can’t let old Mrs Barton hear what’s happening in here. Anyone who comes to his aid is in as much trouble as he is, probably worse. There’s absolutely nothing he can do. Can’t fight back, can’t run – where would he even run? He’s home, this is his only safe place, there is nowhere else. It feels like his insides are being torn open, and the man is fucking him hard and fast, and the onlookers are jeering quietly, tramping their filthy boots all over his clean soft carpet, pulling all his gear out of the cupboards, subjecting every inch of his space to their invasion.

“You thought you got away from us,” the man pants in Bucky’s ear. “Thought you could fuck us all over and get away with it, didn’t you?” The voice is familiar, but he can’t place it, doesn’t want to place it. Another vicious thrust. He bites his lip against the pain. “Bitch, we own you. We’re done with you when we say we’re done. And you’re gonna remember that for the rest of your pathetic life.”

He pulls Bucky’s hips up off the bed, forcing his head down and his ass up. The new angle makes the pain worse, from a dull ache to a sharp, lancing pain every time the cock pounds into him. With his face buried in the pillow he can barely get enough oxygen. Maybe he’ll black out, and then he’ll be oblivious to whatever they decide to do to him. It’s the only escape he can hope for.

“I’m gonna fuck you like the bitch you are,” the man growls. He’s pushing in deeper, so deep that his balls slap against Bucky’s with every thrust. “And then every man in this room is gonna fuck you, one by one. And then, when you think your ass can’t take another second of it, I’m gonna come back and fuck you again.”

“Look at this,” says someone else. One of the agents has picked up his novel. “The Dragon Rider’s Thrall. What the fuck is this shit? Are you a dragon rider now, Soldat?”

There is a round of guffaws. Bucky’s cheeks burn. He knows his books are stupid – that’s the point. They’re fun and light and low-stakes, and Steve’s always ribbing him about his trashy taste but it’s no one else’s business what he reads in his down time.

“I think he’s embarrassed.” The man on top of Bucky grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back so that everyone can see his face. His spine feels like it’s going to break from the angle. “Are you embarrassed, Soldat? You didn’t want us to know that this is what you do now? Decades of the best training Hydra could give you, and all you want to do is sit around reading this geeky shit about dragons.” Another thrust, and another, and another. “You must be bored out of your fucking mind, aren’t you? You must be so glad we’re here to liven things up for you.”

The other guy drops the book with a snort of laughter, and kicks it across the floor.

Bile is rising in Bucky’s throat, and every thrust makes his stomach lurch. The rhythm is starting to falter now, the man’s getting close; he comes with a quiet grunt of satisfaction, and when he pulls out Bucky can feel something warm and sticky dripping down his thighs.

He lets go of Bucky’s hips and Bucky flops back down onto the mattress. He’s panting for breath, hole burning, guts aching. “Who’s up next?”

(OP has to go out now to a much less fun kind of party, but promises to return soon with all the broken memories and rapey vileness she can fit in the comments box!)

OH NOES (oh yesssss)

It's probably because I've been in this trashpile too long, but... I can't decide what is worse, them violating Bucky's home or them violating Bucky's ass.

I love how calm and happy Bucky was in the beginning, and also the pervasive silence of the invasion. <333

1. This is so good. And by good I mean sci-fi nerd Bucky is totally my headcanon and it really breaks my heart that they would make fun of that.

2. I'm kinda new here, is it okay to post more than one fill for the same prompt? Because I was also writing something for this.

Not OP - but multiple fills are allowed! The more trash, the merrier.

God bless you. My poor Bucky, I can't get enough!

(prompter anon)

AHHH

I am equal parts giddy (about the fact that this is getting such an amazing fill) and heartbroken (about, you know, pretty much everything going on in said fill) in the absolute bestworst way right now. This is fantastic; all the little details from the sci fi to the neighbors are just killing me, and I eagerly await being killed even more in part two. So good!

So I decided to post the first part of this because I'm kind of a slow writer, and having it posted is going to motivate me to write faster.

---

It's the flowers that give it away. Steve likes to keep flowers around their apartment, for painting and because his ma used to like them. Bucky likes to care for them. He's working his way up to a dog, now they don't have to worry about another mouth to feed, but doesn't trust himself enough to care for a living thing just yet.

The sunflowers on the center table are on the floor, the vase broken. Steve would never leave them there, and there is nothing that could have made them fall.

Not too long ago, his senses would have been immediately on edge as soon as he entered a room. But he's grown lazy, soft (careless). He's coming home from class, and it's a Thursday. The sun is shining and he has bought strawberries to welcome Steve home with a pie. It takes him 2.63 seconds to react.

It's enough time for them to disable his left arm. It's a new one, Stark technology, but still metal and wires, and still susceptible to electric currents in just the right place, just the right intensity. It hurts, the aftershocks running straight through him as the groceries fall to the floor, and he has to resort to the place inside his brain he thought he wouldn't need anymore to help him ignore the pain and fight. They know what they are doing, though, shoot him with something and he only has time to punch two of them away before he's swaying on his feet.

Bucky doesn't think a lot of time has passed when he wakes up, but he is face down on the couch, his wrists bound behind his back and his ankles shackled to a spreader bar. Oh. They're not here to kill him. Or at least not immediately. Still, he thinks, maybe this is just the way they devised to keep him immobilized. Maybe they don't really mean to...

He can hear them moving about the apartment. He tries to pull against the restraints, but it's good stuff, HYDRA, of course, and his limbs still feel sluggish, his brain fuzzy.

"Hey, boss, he's up", someone says. Bucky recognizes the voice, though he doesn't remember the man's name: an agent from the STRIKE team, one of Rumlow's. Bucky tries to turn his head in the direction the man spoke, because it can't be Rumlow, Rumlow is dead.

It's not Rumlow.

Oh my god, bless you! -happy tears-

Yay another fill!!! I can never have too much of this type of trash, oh my goodness. I am so excited, great start!

Kulich is older know, his light blond hair mostly silver, deep lines on his face. He's eating one of the strawberries, and for a second Bucky thinks, stupidly, that there won't be enough for the pie, before Kulich yanks his head back by his hair.

"Привет, солдат", he says, his voice as raspy as Bucky remembers. His face is so close that Bucky's vision starts to blur, and he can smell alcohol beneath the strawberry. "Glad to have you with us". His accent in English is still as thick as it was in 1994, when Bucky was handed over to the Americans (to Alexander Pierce). "Nice little place you've got here. Or, should I say, you and your boyfriend?"

The other men laugh. There are four around them, but Bucky can hear three others moving in the kitchen, opening the cabinets. Something breaks. Kulich continues. "It's pathetic. HYDRA's fist playing house with Captain America."

"My 8th grade history teacher said there were 'grounds for a homoerotic interpretation’ of their relationship", the STRIKE team agent says. "They've been fucking since the war."

"Did you let the other soldiers fuck you?" another agent, older, Russian too, says. "Did they take turns like we're going to do? I bet they used that pretty mouth..." He tries to push his thumb inside Bucky's mouth and Bucky bites it. It earns him a punch to the face. "He needs to respect his superiors."

Kulich smiles at Bucky before he begins. "желание. ржaвый."

With each word, Bucky feels a shiver down his spine. He knows it won't work, can't work. T'Challa's scientists removed the triggers from his brain and he burned the Red Book, but he still can't help thinking they might make him HYDRA's again. He tries to fight it, struggles against the bonds (but, just for a second, thinks it might be a relief to get away from himself now, to escape from this, if only for a while). By the time Kulich gets to грузовой вагон, Bucky is sweating and breathing hard, but his mind is still his own.

Kulich realizes this, disappointed. "Pity. Still, it would be better for you to comply, солдат. I'm going to do what I want whether you do or not. "

He lets go of Bucky to walk to the bookshelf. Bucky has arranged the books, by subject and by author. Kulich pulls them one by one, lets them fall to the floor as he takes notice of the covers. "Art, philosophy, engineering... To think there was a time you couldn't wipe your own ass if we didn't say so."

He liked to talk. Bucky can remember that. He liked to tease him, call him a блядь and list all the things he would like to do to the солдат, if only Karpov didn't insist in being civil to it (at least as civil as HYDRA could be to its attack dog). Bucky can only hope he doesn't intend to follow through with all of it.

Kulich’s foot comes up against Bucky's book bag, thrown away as Bucky defended himself from the agents. He picks it up and rummages through it, pulling out Bucky's pencil case, his books, and finally his notebook.

"You are studying difficult things, солдат", he says, dropping everything else on the floor and opening the notebook. "You think you're smart? You think you can go to university?"

"They only accepted him out of pity", an agent coming out of the kitchen says. He is drinking the orange juice that was on the top shelf of the fridge. "Because he's a war hero."

His voice is mocking, and despite everything, Bucky feels his cheeks flush. It is true the university accepted him even though he finished school almost a hundred years ago, but he had an interview with the director of the Engineering Department to make sure he could actually keep up with the classes. He started slow and he's actually good. Of course, saying this would only make them laugh harder.

Kulich tears away a page from the notebook, and then another, and another, like a child plucking the wings off bugs. Bucky's notes scatter through the floor, and even though it's silly, he feels an almost physical pain. He is not the best student in his class, but he's the best note taker. He prides himself in his notebooks, written in careful handwriting, color coded, and he forces himself not to slip into another language because his classmates usually borrow them when they miss class. His right wrist is getting raw from rubbing against the handcuffs and the metal plates on his left arm, but the restraints won’t budge.

“Hey, boss, the time”, says the agent closer to Bucky’s head, nodding at the clock on the wall. It’s three-thirty. These fuckers are organized, they know about his schedule. They know Steve is only coming home after six. Which means they need to save time for… the next part.

“Fine, then”, Kulich sighs, and drops Bucky’s notebook. “No more foreplay.”

I AM VERY EXCITED. Also aww Bucky babe :( at the part where his notes get ripped up I was like "shit no he needs those!!" And then I was like wait priorities here, that is definitely not the worst thing that's gonna happen here

Re: A house is not a home [1/4(?)]

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-08 18:26 (UTC) - Expand

Re: A house is not a home [1/4(?)]

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-17 21:27 (UTC) - Expand

The radio was playing Adele, Send My Love. Bucky was on his back, breathing in the smell of the cleaning supplies they stored under the bathroom sink, squinting up at the pipes and wondering if he should go grab a flashlight or something. He and Sam had had a half-fight about whether to call the landlord or do it themselves which had ended with Sam throwing up his hands and announcing that if that was how Bucky wanted to spend his afternoon on a beautiful day like this, far be it from Sam to stop him. So when he had the apartment to himself Bucky had rinsed out his coffee mug, grabbed the tool kit and a bucket, turned up the radio, and gotten started.

The sudden sting on his thigh made his whole body jerk.

Even as Bucky moved to get out, get ready, he knew it was too late. He could feel his body seizing up muscle by muscle.

Bucky didn’t get a good look before he flung himself at them. His legs locked up and he fell forward, grabbing at the nearest one. It was clumsy, but his weight pulled them down. His torso was spasming, then his chest. He went for the throat with his left hand, clenched down and squeezed. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. His right arm was starting to go.

It took as long for the drug to reach his whole body as it did for the other man to die.

When they rolled him over he stared up at them. Three guys in anonymous clothing – carpenter jeans, gray hoodies, ski masks, gloves. Bucky was looking from one to the other, looking for details to hang onto when the one on the left said, "You're gonna be sorry about that." He picked up the radio from off the toilet lid and threw it on the ground. When it kept playing, he stamped on it until it stopped.

The one on the right had split off. From the corner of his eye Bucky could see him tear open the bathroom cabinet and start throwing things off the shelves. He stopped at one – orange with a safety cap, it had to be Sam's prescription bottle – made a noise that sounded like a laugh, twisted it open, and tossed it so that the contents scattered across the room. Little white pills on the tile floor, on the bathmat, on Bucky’s face.

Bucky named them by height – One, Two, Three. Thee was sweeping everything off the shelves behind the mirror. Two put one booted foot on Bucky’s stomach and leaned in so that he filled Bucky’s field of vision.

“Hi, Barnes.”

It was a good thing, Bucky thought, that he had never hoped this was all a mistake, because that would have killed it. But they’d come with something that could tranq even him, so the chance they’d meant to go to the neighbors’ was pretty much zero. Unless everyone in this building was leading a double life.

Two kicked him in the side and said something to One that sounded like, “Knock-off Captain America here.” Bucky wanted to ask, You boys from an organization, or are they renting you by the hour? but he couldn’t speak. Actually, he could hardly breathe. It was like there was a 500 pound weight on his chest, and if he didn’t think about it he really would forget to keep breathing. His whole body hurt, sharp and hot and cold at the same time, and he felt dizzy just lying here. Or maybe that was the breathing thing. Two grabbed him by the front of his shirt and dragged him into the main room.

Their apartment was small, at least according to Sam. Bucky thought it looked pretty great. There was one long main room that stretched the whole length, kitchen half walled off in the front. A pass-through between the bedroom and the bathroom that housed a washer-dryer – living in the future was incredible – and what Sam tactfully called “work equipment.” A little balcony off the main room with enough space for a chair and a handful of plants. And the deciding factor, a tub instead of just a shower cubicle, because even now, after two deprogramming and years of living free Bucky still had days when he was weird about water on his face.

It wasn’t the house that Sam couldn’t admit he wasn’t getting back, but it wasn’t one of those glass luxury cubes that claimed to be apartments and made Bucky feel like maybe he wasn’t cut out for the future anyway, or the kind of secretly-a-military-base installation that some people, mostly named Steve Rogers, lived in because they were idiots who thought that when something makes you uncomfortable that means you need to keep doing it.

Two dropped Bucky and all of them – the Gruesome Threesome? The Terrible Trio? Three’s a Crowd? Bucky couldn’t find a snappy name – fanned out. From where they left him Bucky had a good view of the ceiling, but he could see a little of the kitchen if he rolled his eyes up and right and the main room if he rolled them left. One took a moment to glance around, then grabbed something – the toaster? – and slammed it into the glass stovetop. There was a ripping noise from somewhere he couldn’t see.

If Bucky could speak, this was when he’d says something like Now hang on fellas, there must be some mistake. We never called a decorating service! If he could make any kind of fucking sound at all. If he could breathe right.

Two looked down at the table for a moment before sweeping everything – place mats, mail, leftover plate, Sam’s sunglasses, Bucky’s keys – onto the floor. He paused again, and if Bucky could have smirked, he would have. Good luck buster, we bought the sturdiest one we could find. Then Two unholstered his gun and fired.

The shots came at almost the same time the stovetop shattered. Three was still going at the couch like he was searching it for drugs. Bucky could feel his pulse picking up, and the more it did the more his head swam, the more he fought for air it felt like he couldn’t get. He remembered Steve when they were young, breath whistling and chest heaving as he gasped, “I can’t –” and kept running out of air before he could finish the sentence.

Things were breaking in the kitchen. Two was pulling books off the shelf and throwing them here, there. Three stepped over Bucky’s body and there was a clattering sound as he, what, pulled the shower curtain down? What the hell is going on here?

He was still wondering that when Three and One grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him through the wreckage. Two was waiting to kick the bedroom door open.

They shoved him onto the bed in a heap, sideways, head twisted half under him.

Now hang on, fellas –

Two climbed up, mattress dipping under his weight, and manhandled Bucky onto his back. He straddled Bucky’s chest and reached for the pocket of his jeans.

There must be some mistake –

Two dangled something in front of his eyes. It took him a moment to recognize it, and Bucky had just enough time to think Is that our – when he was twisting the catches on the back of the picture frame and pulling the pictures out.

It was them. Each of them, sixty – sixty-what? Bucky couldn’t count – years apart, both in their dress uniforms. Sam before Bucky ever knew him. Bucky so long ago he hardly knew himself. Sam in color. Bucky in black and white. They kept it on the side table with Sam’s family photos. Two must have grabbed it – when? Bucky had missed that.

Two dropped the frame and held up the photos together, and ripped them in half. Then he reached for the fly of his jeans.

Buckywoke up like this sometimes, his body paralyzed and his heart pounding, fighting to breathe. Looked around this same bedroom and drowned in waves of meaningless terror. He knew how to break out of it. All you had to do was wiggle your fingers and toes and stay calm. He sang the Battle-Hymn of the Republic in his head when he had to get his breathing under control. But it didn’t matter now, because he couldn’t move his fingers or his toes, and he wasn’t calm, and he wasn’t getting out of this.

Aw, no, Bucky :( Loving this so far - and I like the little hints of Sambucky, too! Excited to see where this goes.

Two jacked his cock lazily. Bucky watched the flared head push in and out of the black-gloved fist like it was gonna push into him when – When –

He leaned forward and all Bucky could look at was his hard cock coming closer to his mouth. But just as he thought this was it, Two was pulling back. They kept a pump bottle of lube by the bed, right out there on the nightstand because this was the 21st century and no one, including Bucky, had any shame. Two’s palm came back glistening with it, and he gave himself one long stroke before reaching out and smearing most of it across Bucky’s forehead and into his hair.

The bedroom was dark with the lights off and the blinds still drawn. The main illumination was the yellow light spilling in from the open door to the bathroom. Bucky could smell the sheets, cotton and conditioner and laundry detergent and the smell two men leave behind after a night in the same bed, both of them and neither at the same time. He should be waking up, like this. Should be feeling himself melt into the mattress instead of like he was pinned to it. Should be able to turn on his side and press his cheek into the pillow, turn towards the light and see Sam standing in front of the mirror fussing with his beard like a vain asshole, hear the hum of the clippers and sound of running water, the squeak of the faucet turning on and off.

It took four hands to turn him over. One of the men, not Two because Bucky didn’t know his voice, grunted and swore and Bucky wanted to crack A little more than you can handle? but it wasn’t funny because they were gonna handle him just fine, they were gonna –

He told himself it wasn’t like this was the first time someone had cut off his clothes.

Two’s gloves were leather. Of course they were. As they dragged the strips of his jeans down his thighs Bucky thought about all the noise, the shower curtain rod coming down, the dishes breaking on the floor., the shots in the tabletop, and how maybe someone, somewhere had heard them. He liked their complex because it reminded him of home. Plenty of people who were new to this country. Families. Kids that rode bicycles or scooters between the buildings in the evening. Neighbors who knew them to see in the hallway but nothing more, except Mrs Valdez in 205, who knew his name was James and thought he was a computer programmer. On a Thursday afternoon the building would be mostly empty, kids at school, adults at work. But maybe someone would be home anyway because they worked nights and call the cops. At least, he hoped they’d call the cops and not the building super. And not walk over and bang on his door themselves.

When Two’s finger pressed at his hole Bucky made a sound, something between a hiss and a whimper. It sounded like the noise Sam made right before he work up from a nightmare. Sometimes he would lie there and say, once he’d had a moment, “Feels like I should have been screaming,” and now Bucky knew the feeling. It left his chest like a scream and came out of his tight throat pathetic and tiny with no one to hear and wake him up, even here. His face was pressed into the gap between his own pillow – one of them, one of the things Bucky loved about the 21st century is that you can have two of everything and they’re both great – and that foam rock Sam slept on because he said everything else was too squishy. Bucky was on his front in his own bed and there were three men in the room and it felt like he was watching a movie, except it was the kind of movie that Bucky secretly thought shouldn’t get made because decent people should know better and he wanted to turn it off. Turn it off, get up, stretch, go out to the balcony, check the plants, nip the dead ends off with his metal fingers and stick his soft hand against the soil.

But instead he was here, getting his legs bent up and shoved under him by too many fucking hands. There were three men in the room and only one thing that was leading to. Bucky had felt like this when he was younger. Had looked at men and sometimes all he could think about was their bodies, how somewhere under there was a cock promising to get hard and big, thrust and take, and it had made him feel excited and scared, but now there was no excitement, and he felt worse than scared.

Two’s fingers shoved into him, slick with his own lube, and the leather felt weird and wrong but there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t keep a set of rent-a-creeps out of his apartment, he couldn’t stop them from tearing everything up right in front of him, he couldn’t even clench his own damn asshole. And when Two’s cock followed it felt too big, too hot, too real. Bucky wanted to scream, wanted to scream I don’t want to over and over like it made a difference. He wanted to scream Sam’s name, like him being there wouldn’t have been the only way this could be worse.

He had to have been making the noise again because a voice, not Two’s, drawled “Why don’t you shut the fuck up and bite the pillow like a good boy.” Someone’s hand shoved Bucky’s face down into the mattress. His mouth was open, drooling onto the sheet. It was even harder to suck air in this way. Maybe he would pass out.

As Two fucked him, and Whoever shoved him down, Bucky wished he’d made it with someone else back when they were still just hooking up, just once, because if he had then maybe he wouldn’t have to think about Sam, and all the stupid jokes Bucky had made about You’re lucky I don’t know any better or I wouldn’t put up with you and Sam shooting back If you knew any better you wouldn’t even be here, while Two pulled at his asscheeks so that Bucky’s hole stretched and burned around his shaft and he pumped in and out and didn’t feel like he would ever stop.

He thought about their couch. Bucky liked their couch. They bought it new, one of the first things they got after Sam admitted that maybe, just maybe, he was gonna have to wait a little longer than he’d thought to get his stuff back. Because it was the 21st century you could put your stocking feet up on it like you were raised in a barn and stretch out, lean against your 21st century boyfriend hip to hip, chest to chest and Bucky slept on it sometimes, because Sam had times when he couldn’t get to sleep or stay asleep for anything so Bucky took himself off and settled down on it, tucked himself against the back and pulled the blanket over him.

Blanket’s gone. Couch is gone. Bucky’s –

home invasion, raped in a safe/familiar place

Re: home invasion, raped in a safe/familiar place

Re: home invasion, raped in a safe/familiar place

FILL: Home Invasion, 2/2

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FILL: Home Invasion, 1/2

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ANOTHER FILL: A house is not a home (1/?)

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Re: ANOTHER FILL: A house is not a home (1/?)

Re: A house is not a home [1/4(?)]

Re: A house is not a home [1/4(?)]

No Saltwater Lake (1/?)

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Re: No Saltwater Lake (2/?)