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

[trashmod]

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.

Comments

Sam/Bucky fuck or die

[(Anonymous)]

Sam/Bucky HYDRA-made-them-do-it fic.

In typical tropey fashion, both of them have previously unannounced/unrequited ~feelings~ for the other, which of course come to light in horrifying, inadvertent ways.

Would be overjoyed if Sam did the fucking, because you never see that. But Sam getting fucked is good by me, too, if that's what speaks to you.

Would also love if like, their snarky back and forth is maintained throughout the act? Like, one of them is inside the other, they have guns at their backs, people are watching, all these awkward unaired feelings are accidentally coming to light and the two of them are still bickering like children.

Re: Sam/Bucky fuck or die

[(Anonymous)]

i skreeeed at this so loud that my cat skreeeed along, seconded seconded

After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Thing is, Sam had already started to wonder.

He really, sincerely hadn’t wanted to. He’d taken three quick looks at the file Steve was hunched over, two years ago in those raw days after shit went down in DC, and made an executive call. Put up a boundary. Because Steve was gonna drown in it. Steve had that wide-eyed, earnest heartache of an Americorps volunteer on their first day out. Well, maybe first month. Guy’s not entirely hopeless, he’s spent years on the battlefield, but this Winter Soldier business is some next-level shit. And Sam’s not arrogant enough to pretend that he wouldn’t be a compromised, empathy-bleeding wreck if it had been—his friend.

But it wasn’t. Bucky was a photograph in a history book and a black shadow ripping his wing off, and Sam went and sat cross-legged in the close-shorn grass in front of Riley’s grave for hours, and then gave his life to looking for a guy he didn’t even properly know because it was the right thing to do. Can take the guy out of the PJs but can’t take the PJ out of the guy, or something.

So Sam helped. But Sam didn’t dig. Sam didn’t read the files. Sam has absolutely no delusions about what bullshit could’ve been committed in seventy years by a bunch of white guys who say things like order only comes through pain, but it wouldn’t do any of them any good if he lost himself in it. Not his own stupid ass, especially once he gave up his token protests and joined the super-friends full-time. Not Steve, who so desperately needed somebody to balance him, anchor him.

Not, he realized the moment Redwing scanned that dingy flat in Romania, Bucky himself. Two years alone on the run, and yeah, sure, there wasn’t a bedframe, there were three different go-bags hidden behind the woodwork, butcher paper over the windows. But there were also a few crackle-spined cookbooks, jars of flour and sugar, an old-fashioned laundry board like an outsized cheese grater in a bucket. Books of history, books of notes, the four most popular and by consequence shittiest biographies of Captain America with pages ripped out. A half-used bar of soap by the sink with enough caked-up white under it to show that he’d been there for a while. Dude was putting himself back together. Last thing he needed was some stranger coddling him, that was downright insulting.

And he was an obnoxious little shit who owed Sam a steering wheel.

So Sam acted like not a damn thing had ever happened to him, and if the faint undercurrent of relief Bucky showed around him even as they bickered in that microscopic punch-buggy warmed some corner of Sam’s heart, well, that wasn’t particularly relevant. There was Steve and the mission, and then there was the Raft, and then Wakanda, and then scuttling around on the run while T’Challa’s scientists painstakingly reprogrammed Bucky’s brain, which was all well and good, but still. On the run. Steve wouldn’t leave Bucky and Sam wouldn’t leave Steve, so there they all were in a whole different dingy flat in the Dominican Republic, three outsized twitchy men who count all the exits the moment they wake up.

Sam couldn’t help but notice that Bucky was twitchy in whole different ways. Sam couldn’t help but notice that Bucky never wore less than two shirts at all times, even in the vacationland heat. Sam couldn’t help but notice the painfully circumscribed space between two lifelong friends and, he’d suspected, once-lovers. Sam couldn’t help but notice that Bucky doesn’t exactly protest being touched, but he tenses, he has to breathe a little deeper, his eyes go half-mast like he’s focusing very hard on being okay, even as he leans into it a hair’s breadth like a starving beast.

Sam also couldn’t help but notice that Bucky liked cooking, could get around like a pro one-handed, had an utterly disarming smile, picked out melodies on the counter sometimes like it was a keyboard, moved like a dancer in the rare moments when he didn’t move like a soldier or a wounded animal, treated stray cats and dogs like gods descended amongst humanity, binge-watched cheesy science fiction shows, liked to pick sickening insights about world politics and dirty jokes in French out of the ravaged corners of his mind, was kind in tiny and helpless and understated ways, put everyone else first, carved out tiny slices of agency for himself whenever he could, and managed his shit with painful, grim dedication. Which was all very nice. More than nice. So Sam kept holding his boundaries, rationing his kindness, and burying his face in Steve’s tits when he needed to shake off the Raft and Rhodes falling like a rag doll and everything else, because being Bucky’s asshole friend was fun, and good for him, and worth holding himself on the edge of that whirlpool of trauma and hard-earned affection.

Which was all to say, in a very roundabout way, that when the two goons dragging Sam kicking and writhing down the hallway stand him to a halt, slam him to his knees, tighten their grips on his painfully cuffed arms, and pull the heavy black bag off his head, the first thing he sees after the sear of sudden light isn’t particularly surprising. Hits him like a chill stone sinking in his gut, but doesn’t surprise him. Bucky, also on his knees, stripped naked, littered with bruises and blood. Two burly men are holding his single arm, fingers digging into his flesh, and he sags off it a little, hair hanging in sweaty strings across his face, mouth slack. There’s a heavy, electronic-looking collar locked around his neck, and the skin under it is red, and Sam really doesn’t like the look of that.

But the last nail in the coffin is the weary resignation in Bucky’s eyes. The sort of look you see in twenty-year field doctors and retail workers on Christmas Eve. The sort of look that says, yup, it’s Tuesday, and I stopped being able to notice that Tuesday sucked years ago. And Sam wishes he was shocked, but well, he’d already started to wonder.

And that look drains along with the blood from Bucky’s face as he focuses on Sam. “No,” he whispers on one ragged gasp as his metal stump twitches. “Fuck,” like he’s actually scared. “Not Sam,” like this isn’t Tuesday anymore, like he—

Like he cares.

Which will probably make this worse.

Steve and the rest will be here soon enough, Sam tells himself firmly. He can handle this. He’s gonna have to handle this.

“What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this,” Sam mutters. “They don’t even have anything good on tap.”

And, god bless him, Bucky makes a cracked noise that’s almost a laugh. “Staring at your ugly mug, apparently.”

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

I love this.

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Thank you!

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

[EXCITED WHALE NOISES]

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

[GRATEFUL KEENING]

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

FUCK this is SO GOOD. I love the voice you give Sam here. The little details are so telling, and so poignant: the way he visits Riley's grave before throwing himself into the search for Bucky, the way his heart is warmed by the relief Bucky shows around him, the way he rations his kindness. And then we get this tender, luminous portrait of Bucky through Sam's eyes, Bucky who liked cooking, could get around like a pro one-handed, had an utterly disarming smile, picked out melodies on the counter sometimes like it was a keyboard, moved like a dancer in the rare moments when he didn’t move like a soldier or a wounded animal . . . . The pivot from there to the dehumanizing, degrading violence of captivity is brutal! I can't wait to see where this is going.

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Aaahhhhhh, thank you so much! I am so glad you're enjoying it and enjoying Sam's feels.

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Oh man this is amazing. God. I love the way you write Sam's voice. So spot on with how I see him. And poor Bucky, being dragged back in after working so hard.

Cannot wait to see the next part of this!!

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Thank you, thank you! This is my first time writing Sam, he's so satisfying, he's got so much depth.

Bucky is one of those characters for whom hope is a four-letter word. :(((

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

This is so fucking good, I adore your characterizations!

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Thank youuuuu I am glad you are enjoying this!

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

OH MY GOD I can't even articulate how excited I am right now

[WHIMPERING. SO MUCH WHIMPERING]

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

I AM EXCITED THAT YOU ARE EXCITED, TOGETHER WE SHALL WHIMPER thank youuuu

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

burying his face in Steve’s tits and The sort of look you see in twenty-year field doctors and retail workers on Christmas Eve this Sam is so good, that irreverence over how deeply fucked he is in life generally and in this moment right now, that is some high quality Sam Wilson right there, I'm very excited

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

PROMPTER HERE. FREAKING OUT. THIS IS VERY VERY GOOD AND UR CHARACTERIZATION IS A DREAM OMG

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

I love this so much! <333 Especially that Sam is a very specific guy who has problems but chooses to be nice, and not a generic nice camp counselor type. Looking forward to both the sad sex and the witty repartee!

After Every Hit... [2/?]

[(Anonymous)]

“Oh, don’t worry too much, soldier,” drawls a cultured tenor voice with a trace of an accent Sam can’t place. “Mr. Wilson has only replaced you in Captain America’s affections, not ours.”

“Nah, he can’t replace me, I’ve got the childhood blackmail material.” The chatback comes a little slow, almost hesitant, like Bucky’s trying out something brand new, and it earns him a boot to the ribs and a rustle of background noise.

“Share or I’ll cut your pancake ration,” Sam says.

“Nope.” There’s something profoundly smug about how he wraps his bruised lips around the o, and Sam can catch a hiss of whispers between the men holding him.

“Thought he wasn’t allowed to say no.”

“Grow a brain, man, he’s not saying no to us.”

Sam wrinkles his nose, tests his cuffs for the hundredth time, pushes through his nerves, and cases the place. One exit, dismal concrete walls, bank of fluorescent lights in the ceiling, one each of steel table and chair and cabinet, drain in the floor. If you could call central casting for gutted interrogation rooms, he’s pretty sure this is what you’d get. Two guys holding him, two guys holding Bucky, all of them sporting earpieces and assorted hardware. Another guy holding up the wall, assault rifle in hand, pointed vaguely in Bucky’s direction. One last on a camp stool, the only other seating in the room, a bland-looking white guy in his forties in a slightly rumpled and bloodied suit with a shoulder holster peeking out, holding something black plastic and smartphone-sized in one hand and a pair of pliers that drip red in the other.

Suddenly the bloody spots scattered along Bucky’s body come into unpleasant focus, and Sam aggressively shelves his immediate concerns of infection risks and reminds himself that supersoldiers regrow skin disturbingly well. It had been two lefts and a right to get here from the entrance, and Sam couldn’t recall hearing anyone else for at least the last forty paces, so there’s that. If they get an opening and can clear the room, they should have a moment to breathe before pushing out. Assuming the cavalry doesn’t get here first. And there will be cavalry; Sam can’t afford to think otherwise. That got him through the Raft. This’ll probably be worse. Same principle. There is officially too much torture in Sam’s life these days if he’s developing principles about it.

“I see you two get along as well as we’ve observed,” the guy in the suit adds. He has a Hydra lapel pin and seems to be both in charge and obnoxiously pretentious. Sam immediately decides that his name is Mr. Burns.

“Your new friend talks too much,” he points out to Bucky.

“Yeah, well, he just got promoted, you know how smug some guys get.” Bucky gives a rolling shrug which jostles the collar a little, and is maybe also a test for the two guys holding his arm. Unfortunately it’s a test which gets him a gun barrel grinding into his temple, which barely gets a reaction out of him. Sam, on the other hand, has to clench his jaw against a stab of fear. He is not gonna watch Bucky get himself shot before they get out of here. Not before they can have a proper pie bake-off. None of these assholes even have any trigger discipline to speak of—they keep waving guns around like this and they’re going to shoot their prize assassin by accident, and he’d be happy to present them the Darwin Award personally if it wasn’t Bucky.

“Soldier,” Mr. Burns says, a little sharply.

Bucky lolls, eyes wandering over the room.

“Soldier.” Mr. Burns lifts up the plastic thing he’s holding, and his thumb twitches with a faint click, and then Bucky’s collar lights up with a hissing crackle of blue. Bucky screams, raw, animal, shameless. It takes him full-body like a grand-mal seizure, thrashing like a puppet on one strung arm, so violently that Sam worries he’ll dislocate his shoulder. Feels his mouth twist, sickened, forces himself to watch calmly because freaking out isn’t going to do Bucky a damn bit of good.

“Bring him here,” Mr. Burns says, when he turns the wretched thing back off, and Bucky’s nerveless in their arms, bare legs scraping against the concrete as they drag him, too busy taking great heaving breaths and shaking in the wake of it. They pin him down on his knees at chief asshole’s feet, in profile to where Sam’s stuck, and Mr. Burns takes him by the hair almost tenderly to turn his face towards Sam for a long moment. “Do you remember, soldier, the punishments for lying?”

Watching that sink in is, honestly, way worse than watching the shock collar. It’s like cracks all the way down to the bottom. Sam had never quite realized how damn expressive his face could be—he must be holding so much back, day in and day out. They didn’t flatten his affect at all. Instead he looks naked, transparent, because they fucked him over so profoundly that he doesn’t get to hold back a single shred of his mind from them, and Sam is fresh out of sass and feels his face twist in disgust as he rattles against the guys holding him down. Gets a few blows to the head for his trouble, and barely even notices them, because the despair dripping into Bucky’s eyes is worse.

Mr. Burns takes him by the chin to turn his face back, up, studying him, and he goes docile and broken with a nudge of his knuckle, and Sam burns with homicidal rage. “Good boy. Don’t forget. So tell me, truly, from the bottom of your heart. What would you like us to do to him?”

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

By all the Gods of Porn I adore this from the spot on Sam voice to the beautiful image of Bucky to the absolutely everything.

Re: After Every Hit... [1/?]

[fivedeadweasels]

Omg I am girding my loins and bracing myself. I am pretty careful about what I read over here - mostly due to a certain author You Know Who You Are You Horrible Brilliant Trash Genius. But your Sam and Bucky characterization is JUST SO GOOD. In I go...oh god, chap 2. Please don't hurt me (I know you're gonna hurt me) *holds nose, jumps off cliff into landfill*

BONUS FILL: Sam/Bucky fuck or die

[(Anonymous)]

I hope other filler!anon will forgive me for dropping in here - I'm loving their version to death, but I so badly wanted to see Sam being the one to get raped and, well, this happened:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/8042302/chapters/18419512

The more trash the merrier, right?

Re: BONUS FILL: Sam/Bucky fuck or die

[(Anonymous)]

This be other filler!anon here to say OH HELL YES THERE IS NOTHING THAT NEEDS FORGIVENESS. :D The more trash the merrier and I really really like your take. The most punchable voice. I am laughing and cringing in equal measure, and excited for more!

Re: BONUS FILL: Sam/Bucky fuck or die

[(Anonymous)]

GOD, thank you, this is my jam

Re: BONUS FILL: Sam/Bucky fuck or die

[(Anonymous)]

(op) UMM this is WONDERFUL and I will be VERY EAGERLY tracking it!