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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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!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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

FILL: Home Invasion, 1/2

Re: FILL: Home Invasion, 1/2

Re: FILL: Home Invasion, 1/2

Re: FILL: Home Invasion, 1/2

Re: FILL: Home Invasion, 1/2

Re: FILL: Home Invasion, 1/2

Re: FILL: Home Invasion, 1/2