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.

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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.

I've been stewing on the potential for public mockery ever since we saw those journals in Civil War. All his most intimate thoughts and memories, just written down like that! Practically begging to be stolen and used against him!

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)

(author nonnie)

I'm still so tempted to write a coda where Steve helps clean Bucky up and get him out of there...but then, why sabotage a perfectly good miserable ending like that? Steve or no Steve, it's going to be a very long time before Bucky is okay again.

(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

OP, I'm so glad you're happy!! <3 I wasn't sure if I crossed a line on the humiliation aspect with the journals and all, but damn, my id was screaming for it.

Thank YOU for the amazing prompt!

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*

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

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

FILL: Home Invasion, 2/2

Re: FILL: Home Invasion, 2/2

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Re: FILL: Home Invasion, 2/2