garbage all the way down (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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hydratrashmeme2016-08-20 05:45 pm
trashmod) wrote in hydratrashmeme2016-08-20 05:45 pm
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 bygreenkirtle)] [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.
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.
After Every Hit... [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-06 03:31 am (UTC)(link)Mr. Burns tilts his head, disapproval heavy on his face, and then straight-up bitch-slaps him, open-handed. Bucky takes it without protest, nothing except his breath coming faster. “Don’t. You dare. Lie to me again.”
Sam watches Bucky’s face crumple, like he’s not even sure whether he’s allowed to protest that it’s true, and goddamn, can he get any more pissed. “Asshole can eat my leftovers all on his own, you know.”
“You fucked with my Netflix queue,” Bucky croaks, and Sam’s heart leaps in his chest like he’s just won the fucking lottery.
“You were voluntarily watching Lexx, I’m not responsible for my actions.”
“I liked Lexx,” mumbles the guy with the assault rifle, slightly sheepish.
“I need to know if Stan ever gets laid,” Bucky says, voice a little stronger. “I have a bet.”
“Well, it’s not your fault if you lose our pie bake-off because you’re too busy watching softcore porn.”
That actually drags Bucky’s eyes off Mr. Burns; he looks over to Sam with kicked-puppy confusion. “We’re not having a…”
“Oh yes we are,” says Sam, low and dangerous. “And you’re going down.”
Mr. Burns, typically, ruins the moment with another slap to Bucky’s face, backhanded, and he makes the tiniest wretched noise in the back of his throat this time. “Soldier.”
Bucky looks back up at him, bare belly fluttering as he takes short, uncertain breaths. Almost risks a glance at Sam out of the corner of his eye, seems to think better of it. “Sir,” Bucky whispers.
Mr. Burns grabs a pinch of skin on Bucky’s chest with the pliers and turns on the remote, and Sam realizes about a second beforehand what’s going to happen. Which doesn’t exactly prepare him for watching Bucky tear another swatch of his own skin off in the helpless rictus of electrocution. Sam doesn’t even realize he’s tried to buck to his feet again until a blow to his head leaves him reeling. Bucky blurs a little in his vision, shaking in the aftermath, and Sam watches, stunned, as Mr. Burns wipes up some of the dripping blood with his fingers, as the raw flesh clots with uncanny speed.
“You will tell me what you really think of Mr. Wilson. I know you can regrow half your skin. You’ve done it before. So why don’t you save us both some time?”
Christ. Sam’s gonna have nightmares about that for a week. Bucky’s silent, reeling a little on his knees, and more than anything, as he lists to one side to turn his face to Sam, he looks tired. So profoundly tired.
“I’m sorry,” he mouths. There’s barely any sound in it.
Sam clenches his jaw and shakes his head. “Don’t sweat it,” he mutters. Like he’d believe that it actually matters what Bucky tells this creep. Mr. Burns’ll use it as an excuse to hurt Sam no matter what, it’s just mindfuck theatrics. “Tell you what, I’ll give you a starting advantage. Let you pick the filling.”
He can see the confusion in Bucky’s eyes, the gears turning, the gratitude that melts into his face when he realizes what he’s talking about. “Don’t need your charity, birdman,” he whispers, almost tenderly, just as Mr. Burns raises his pliers. Doesn’t even react when he grabs another pinch of skin. “I don’t hate him,” he says, looking dead at Sam, and then finally cracks and drops eye contact. “Sir. I don’t hate him at all.”
Mr. Burns cocks his head, and pulls, and Bucky’s skin stretches, and Bucky doesn’t make a sound. He lets go, finds a new spot, wandering idly as Bucky starts spilling, head bowed. “He’s the—kindest guy in the world, and we jerk each other around and it’s—it’s fun, it’s good, it makes me feel like I’m. Real again. It’s. He doesn’t. He doesn’t treat me like I’m…”
“Broken?” Mr. Burns asks pointedly, and closes the pliers around one of Bucky’s nipples. Bucky’s very still, Sam can’t see his face at all behind the shag of his hair now, just that he nods. “He must not know you very well then,” Mr. Burns says, smug.
“Dude’s not without his damages,” Sam sighs, trying to ignore his heart beating faster. “He has a manbun sometimes.”
Bucky catches his breath, tender, and picks his chin up a little, looking up at Mr. Burns. “I’m not lying, Sir,” he whispers, humble.
Mr. Burns makes a contemplative noise, and gives one squeeze and twist with the pliers, and Bucky sucks in air, soundless. Then he lets go, frees up a hand, and gives Bucky another ringing slap across the face. “Do you care for him, soldier?”
Bucky lets it rock him, and Sam’s starting to wonder if that’s a trick these douchebags’ve been using on him for a while—it seems to hit him deep, break him down, well conditioned. “Yes,” he says, sounding more numb than anything.
The backhand comes around, and knocks his head to the other side, facing Sam. “Do you love him?”
Sam’s pretty sure his heart skips a beat. Bucky struggles, laid open in that awful forced transparency, tongue darting over his lip, breath coming fast and painfully shallow. Sam tells himself about twenty times in two seconds, as Bucky’s eyes flicker over his face, that the answer doesn’t matter, that this has jack and shit to do with where they are with each other on the outside, that this is just mindfuck theatrics and Bucky would have every right to never do anything with this if they make it through this shit.
“Probably,” Bucky whispers, so hesitant that it can’t come from anywhere but his guts, not daring to meet Sam’s eyes. There’s a scatter of low, vicious laughter around the room, and Mr. Burns looks smug as a fly in shit. Sam feels his belly flip-flop, has to squeeze his eyes closed for a moment. Same, he wants to say, it’s hitting him like a ton of bricks. Same. He’s not going to give them that. Fuck.
“Mr. Wilson?” Mr. Burns drawls, insidious. “What about you?”
“Man, I don’t have to tell you shit,” Sam mutters. Bucky’s sagging again, hiding in his hair, and it occurs to Sam that this is probably a brand-new humiliation even for him, and it feels like he’s rushing up to a cliff’s edge. Just like that. Sam vaguely remembers reading about the psychology of prisoners a while back, during his really depressing books phase, about how eventually people stop thinking about the future, about the outside, because they just can’t handle it; about how their worlds shrink to one hour they need to endure, one blanket they need to earn, whatever it is that gives them some tiny shred of humanity, and everything else goes out the window. Trying to deal with the fact that he’s just watched Bucky grit out a love confession under torture, for him—he doesn’t know how to handle it, shit, he just doesn’t.
Sam feels like he’s in freefall. Sam sucks the slowest breath he can through gritted teeth, and it comes in jolts because his chest is clenching, and he holds it for a pounding second, lets it out through his nose. Sam can feel Mr. Burns studying him like the world’s creepiest shrink, and okay, he still has his damn pride, he’s not gonna show his cracks. He’s got his pride, he’ll do the best by Bucky that he can, rest goes out the window.
One long long breath is also about all the time Mr. Burns lets him stew before asking, all slick false civility, “Any interest in giving him a last meal before our package arrives?”
Bucky twitches, and his eyes slide over and lock on Sam, raw and desperate, as the room devolves into some profoundly ugly chatter. Making them fuck at gunpoint seems to be pretty much unanimously on the menu. Sam feels like there’s ice in his veins, like the world is glassy. Their package, he doesn’t know what the fuck that could be, and it’s probably worse. His voice comes out flat, a little strangled. “I don’t know, what’s in it for me?”
Mr. Burns jerks his chin. Sam knows the sound of a sidearm clearing its holster very, very intimately. Safety clicking off. Barrel grinding sharp into his temple. It’s the guy on his right. Fear whets the glass right back off the world, makes everything painfully sharp.
“You fuck him or we shoot you right now,” Mr. Burns says, without even raising his voice. “Or he fucks you. Either way.” His eyebrows are arched, mild, his gaze piercing. “You going to buy another few hours of life?”
Sam can feel their eyes on him, strains at his cuffs until his arms ache and his wrists burn. He’s always figured that knowing when guys are undressing you with their eyes is a figure of speech, but right now it’s very, very literal. He’s pretty sure he owes some women he knows apologies, somehow. The broad weight of one of the guy’s hands between his shoulderblades suddenly seems a lot more insistent. Right. This is happening. His fucking life. Go jogging around the capitol, he’d said. It’d be fun, he’d said.
“Plums, birdman,” Bucky says. His voice is rough, a little weak, but there’s something terribly insistent in his eyes. “An’ I’m gonna kick your ass with them.”
If Sam hadn’t already fallen in love with him, that’s it, he’s gone. It’s like punching through a cloud into the bright open sky above, vision clearing and ice-cold damp sheeting off his skin. Mr. Burns calls his name, and the gun barrel grinds into his temple so hard it feels red-hot, and he does not even give one fuck. Sure, it’s a shit choice. He can see the trap—making him party to it, making him feel like he chose to play this sick game. But it’s no choice at all, because dead men don’t make good pies.
“Well,” he says. “When you put it like that, I suppose I could pencil in an appearance.”
“Good choice,” Mr. Burns says, one corner of his mouth curving in a rather sharp smile. He rests the remote on his knee for a moment to thumb his earpiece, almost absentmindedly. “Falcon’s probably expecting rescue. Fortify the perimeter. Do not allow the package to be compromised.”
Bully for him, Mr. Burns has half a brain. Steve knows somebody who can throw cars with her brain. Whatever. Sam ignores him, ignores the guy who’s holstering his gun and pulling a knife instead. He’s got eyes locked with Bucky, even as the men holding him tug him back and forth a little as they start cutting off his shirt, sawing through the thick stuff he likes to fly in. The room splits into an argument about who tops worthy of a college classics seminar.
“Oh, come on,” Sam mutters. “If even Hydra does shit by committee, what is the literal point of you?”
“Woodruff,” Mr. Burns says with a jerk of his chin. Woodruff, apparently is the guy on Sam’s left, and between him and good old Brock, Sam is seriously starting to wonder whether the trauma of stupid white baby names is contributing to the Hydra epidemic.
Woodruff also, apparently, has a shock-stick.
The world sparks white-hot and it feels like someone’s ripping half the skin off his back and Sam howls and rides it out with his whole body spasming and the handcuffs hot against his wrists. It’s bone-grinding and he’s glad he didn’t eat too soon before the screwed-sideways mission that landed them both here, and it leaves him staggered against the line of Woodruff’s leg as the argument plays on. One of the guys holding Bucky is holding forth on the virtues of watching the asset take big black dick, and Sam rolls his eyes hard as he tries to remember how to breathe.
“Well, what do you think, Mr. Wilson?” Mr. Burns leans forward, chin on the back of one hand. The bloodstained one, pliers dangling beneath. “Do you love him back? Do you pity him? Do you want to spare him that much? Let him take you instead because you couldn’t bear to hurt him?”
Sam looks between Mr. Burns and Bucky crumpled at his feet, and sees Bucky’s mouth moving, silent, slack on a u and spreading on an e, eyes pleading, and damn it, his heart just about skips a beat. He can’t tell whether it’s the martyr card or the old hand card or the no pity card or what, but if that’s Bucky’s play—well. Sam really hopes he’s reading this right because like hell he’s angsting about it for that asshole’s benefit, even if his gut’s churning like he’s going to throw up. “Nah, I’m calling shotgun, he can take it. Come on, uncuff me, get his ass over here.”
(a/n: nothing personal against Lexx, I remember it being trashy fun from what little I saw. I just needed something for Sam to rag on and it was the first thing that came to mind)
Re: After Every Hit... [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-06 04:49 am (UTC)(link)But anyway, wow amazing update again! THE PLIERS omg. The confession of love. Sam refusing to play the game. The dumb-ass debate about who they want to top (and Sam getting shocked for interrupting!)
I... I can't figure out what Bucky's saying at the end?? "fuck me"???
Re: After Every Hit... [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-06 05:32 am (UTC)(link)No central casting torture room is complete without gross pliers, after all!
Re: After Every Hit... [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-06 06:28 am (UTC)(link)Re: After Every Hit... [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-16 08:28 pm (UTC)(link)Letting the terrorists win, I am sporfling. So true though. Things Sam doesn't do. His respect for Bucky is like the cornerstone of their relationship for me, it's what makes them so great.
Re: After Every Hit... [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-06 04:10 pm (UTC)(link)SAM OH MY GOD SAM YOU ARE SO PERFECT AND SO GOOD I LOVE HIM THANK YOU A!A FOR GIVING US THE SAM WILSON WE NEED
Re: After Every Hit... [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-16 08:38 pm (UTC)(link)Re: After Every Hit... [3/?]
Re: After Every Hit... [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-16 08:45 pm (UTC)(link)Writing this has brought me to love Sam Wilson in all new and glorious ways.
Re: After Every Hit... [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-11 05:54 am (UTC)(link)Re: After Every Hit... [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-16 08:45 pm (UTC)(link)Re: After Every Hit... [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-13 06:23 pm (UTC)(link)More seriously, I feel like this is gonna be one of my favourites htp fics soon, the torture with the pliers and electroshocks was beautifully cruel, and the back and forth between Sam and Bucky is brillant, please do continue :)
Re: After Every Hit... [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-16 08:48 pm (UTC)(link)I am continuing! Life and my non-HTP WIP be eating me but continuing soon. :)
Re: After Every Hit... [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-16 08:35 am (UTC)(link)Re: After Every Hit... [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-16 08:48 pm (UTC)(link)After Every Hit... [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-16 09:17 pm (UTC)(link)“You know,” Bucky mutters, “his clothes are so baggy you could probably just shake them and he’d fall out.”
Sam snorts. “Did yours just fall apart on their own before they even brought you in?”
“Not on their own, my muscles did them in.” His voice is thin, like he isn’t quite sure how to handle shit getting this technicolor either, but there’s a shadow of a smile on his mouth.
“Sure, like you’re the only beefy guy in the world, Steve and I at least pick shit without holes in it.”
Bucky’s eyes dip down in lieu of a comeback, and Sam realizes that they’ve done away with his pants. And underwear. He’s pretty much bare-ass naked with all their eyes on him, and, well. It’s about then that Sam realizes the major hiccup in this strategy: the fact that his chances of getting out of this alive now rest entirely on his dick. Which is, pretty understandably, trying to go AWOL into his guts. And sure, he’s sympathetic, but the private has duties now. Freaking front-line mission. Good to know the thrill of imminent death only gives him battle boners when he’s flying?
The mockery from their audience isn’t exactly helping either. Especially the “What, don’t you want him?” from one of the guys holding Bucky.
“Unlike you,” Sam mutters, “I don’t have a thrilling career in gang rape, so sue me.”
He’s worried the moment it leaves his mouth that he’s gone a little far, but Bucky actually snorts. “Hydra benefits package is pretty shitty overall, they gotta make up for it somehow.”
The other of Bucky’s pair of attendant Woodruffs grabs him solidly by the jaw, shoving a thumb into his mouth. “You remember how to handle this, soldier.” That spurs a round of ugly Woodruff chuckles.
“Don’t bite,” says another. They give Bucky a hefty shove, sending him sprawling on the bare concrete in front of Sam. He catches himself hard, sags low and off-center as he pushes himself up to his knees one-handed, stump twitching.
“Totally bite,” says another. Bucky rocks back on his heels and looks up at Sam, blowing a string of hair out of his face, and they share one, strangely calm look of mutual acceptance.
“I dunno, man,” says the auxiliary guy with the assault rifle—Stan, definitely—in an entirely reasonable tone of voice. “Kinda defeats the point if it doesn’t get his dick going.”
Sam locks eyes with Bucky and does his best to let the world fall away. Clenches his still-cuffed hands and relaxes them very, very deliberately as he breathes. Bucky scoots closer like bare knees on concrete is old hat for him and splays his big warm hand on the meat of Sam’s thigh, and the barrel of a gun digs into Sam’s thoracic spine, and by the time Sam manages to force in a full deep breath, Bucky’s straight-up nuzzling his limp cock, eyes turned up to Sam’s face. Painfully earnest, and Sam isn’t sure whether he’d be saying I’m sorry or I got you if it wasn’t for the peanut gallery—though it’s academic, they wouldn’t be in this ridiculous position at all without them. The drag of his stubble is nice, and Sam feels his breathing slow, tries to block out the background chatter of Woodruffs grumbling about how they’d never seen him be that sweet. Sure. This is happening.
Bitch of it all is that Bucky’s good. Attentive as hell, reading Sam’s responses like a book, even though Sam isn’t exactly willing to let it all hang out under the circumstances. By the time he cradles Sam’s balls feather-light in his fingertips and wraps his mouth full around his dick, blood-hot and swirling, there is an honest-to-god tingle heading southwards even with a gun on him. Sam finds himself wondering if he’s done this before, coaxed some in-over-his-head rookie Woodruff into the line of shitty duty. Sam finds himself wondering if some of that wet heat dragging on his cock is blood. Sam closes his eyes with a tingle and a shudder and focuses on Bucky’s mouth, because if he keeps wondering shit like that, his dick’s never coming back from the hills, and then this won’t work.
Bucky works him like a pro. Sam’s dick comes back slow as a green kid jumping at scorpions, but it comes, and he’s making faint noises in the back of his throat in spite of himself and the audience. Somewhere in there, somebody finally undoes his cuffs, with a routine grinding of gun barrels and threats about funny business, and Sam rubs out his pinched wrists and lets his hands ramble a touch through Bucky’s hair. Not deep, not his face, he can feel him tense around his dick and suck air through his nose when he does. Bucky deep-throats him with horrible ease, once he’s hard enough for it to be relevant, and Sam keeps his eyes closed long as he dares, lets his mind wander to Bucky rattling around the kitchen, Steve doing handstand pushups with bare heels dragging up and down the ceiling moldings, the way Bucky sharpens his knives so attentively so that they cut carrots on a whisper with no second hand to steady them, the way Steve’s eyes soften when his smiles actually reach them, the way Bucky eats like it’s a full-body experience and drips when he gets out of the shower and, and…
Bucky starts groaning, low and guttural, throat working around Sam’s mostly-hard dick, and Sam makes the mistake of opening his eyes. They’ve dragged him to hand and knees—a precarious balance and a horrible angle for his throat—and Mr. Burns is working something into his ass. A nightstick, maybe, with brutal twists of his wrist and no glint of lube that Sam can see. He looks over at Sam with a sharp, toothless smile, casual as if he’s switching channels back to the game.
“You’re apparently a kind man, Mr. Wilson. I’d assume you want him ready.”
“Well, you’ve got a shitty working definition,” Sam mutters, and goes right back to ignoring him. His voice comes out a little higher than he’d expected, shaky, because it’s a whole new kind of awful that Bucky’s groans of pain are vibrating nicely around his dick, but damn it, they are. His hindbrain, in some warped attempt to be helpful, vividly swaps Steve into the rear seat, a nice empty bedroom instead of this shithole, Bucky moaning in pleasure instead of pain.
Bucky makes some choked noise which might, he’s not quite sure, be laugher. Sam digs his fingers into the metal plates of his stump to steady him. He’s normally a too-much-eye-contact-during-oral-sex-gets-awkward kind of guy, but no, it’s actually the least awkward alternative. Bucky looks like he hasn’t taken his eyes off Sam’s face the whole time. Bucky’s looking at him like he’s a lifeline, turned-up eyes artificially widened and pleading in the way people get with a mouth full of dick, and this really would normally be a nice way to shut the little shit up. Sam wants to brush the hair out of his face and watch his walls come down and his expressions open up the good way, the safe way. Sam wants to wreck him, slow and inexorable and consensual-thank-you-very-much, until he’s a panting mess, see if he still talks back, see if he begs—the desire hits him like creeping fire in his belly, and there’s some thread of common sense in the back of his brain saying that he damn well shouldn’t come into things with expectations, not with a guy who’s been through what Bucky has, but there’s no room for common sense right now. It's raw id leakage that makes his dick twitch, that’s all that matters now, and the corners of Bucky’s eyes crinkle and he gives a well-targeted swirl of his tongue that makes Sam groan outright.
“You ready down there,” Sam pants, “or do you need some time to play catchup?”
It’s not like he’s going to be anything approaching properly ready either way. Not with that bullshit going down behind him. Bucky pulls off his dick almost languidly, a long string of the back-of-throat thick stuff gleaming between his lips and the head of Sam’s cock, and says, voice a little wrecked, “Thought you’d never ask, Mr. Can-Only-Keep-Up-With-The-Wings-On.”
“Oh, you are asking for it—gimme that.” Sam slides a hand down his back—mostly unmarred, Mr. Burns must’ve liked looking into his face while playing with pliers—and gropes his ass, trying to pull him forward and away from the baton’s unwelcome attentions. There’s a rustle of alarm and hardware, and Sam feels a second gun barrel join the first. Now that he’s ridden that gust of fear and his cock’s in gear and Bucky is pretty much the entire world, the guns feel oddly extraneous. “Cool it, guys,” he snaps. “You want us to fuck, we’re gonna fuck. Going nowhere fast if I don’t have his ass.”
“Aw, Sam, be nice, Hydra likes giving a home to the slower end of the curve.”
“So magnanimous,” Sam mutters.
“Careful, soldier,” Mr. Burns says, and yanks the baton out and cracks it against Bucky’s flank, hard enough to jolt a groan out of him. It leaves a smear of something thick and dark that’s probably at least half blood, and then he flicks on the shock collar to boot. Sam grits his teeth and latches one hand around the base of his dick because, damn it, he needs to hold onto that. Some guy hooks an elbow around Sam’s throat from behind, holds him as a few others kick Bucky’s spasming form around on the concrete. On his knees, ass to Sam, a boot on his head to grind his face into the floor, which leaves him wide open as he gasps for air after they’re done shocking him. Sam can see a smear of blood around his asshole, and yeah, no sign of lube.
“Don’t suppose the new world order believes in condoms and lube,” Sam says.
“Oh, come now, Mr. Wilson,” Mr. Burns drawls. “He’s gotten you plenty wet.”
Sam rolls his eyes. Okay, sure, there’s tons of the thicker kind of drool, but that stuff’s never enough. Doesn’t last. Guess he knows why Hydra keeps losing, if they’re all running around with permanent cases of dick-chafe. The guy holding him lets him go, and Sam sinks into position on his knees, and bare concrete sucks. Supersoldier healing, gotta be the only reason why Bucky still has knees at all. Or much of anything else. “Let go, lemme flip him over,” he snaps, waving at the guy stepping on Bucky’s head within even looking up at him.
Somebody settles a gun barrel at the nape of Sam’s neck, and there’s some stirring, until Mr. Burns says, “Yes, I think we’ll all enjoy watching his face.”
Re: After Every Hit... [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-17 12:31 am (UTC)(link)And also: oh man the Woodruffs and Mr. Burns really doesn't like it when sex *might* be enjoyable for Bucky, eh? Ugh HYDRA power trip.
(Curious: will you be putting this on AO3 when you're done?)
Re: After Every Hit... [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-17 12:55 am (UTC)(link)But it's just so fun watching him in pain~
(I will! When I finally finish it...it is turning out to be monstrous but w/e I have chunks of the rest of it done, tbh the World's Awkwardest Blowjob was the biggest missing part.)
Re: After Every Hit... [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-10-10 02:23 pm (UTC)(link)Re: After Every Hit... [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-12-31 07:53 pm (UTC)(link)Re: After Every Hit... [4/?]
(Anonymous) - 2017-04-29 18:26 (UTC) - ExpandRe: After Every Hit... [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-17 12:46 am (UTC)(link)Re: After Every Hit... [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-17 01:01 am (UTC)(link)Sam's doing what he can, and will probably feel gross about it later, but such is life. And agreed, Sam/Bucky adorable hatebros is like my new favorite thing. :)
Re: After Every Hit... [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-17 10:43 am (UTC)(link)Glad to hear you'll be posting this on AO3. Totally up to you of course, but if you'd consider posting as a wip it'd be really convenient to get to subscribe.
Re: After Every Hit... [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-17 04:21 pm (UTC)(link)I am going to hold off on posting until it's done, sorry. :/ I want a chance to make final edits before archiving (I'm posted raw unbetaed draft here, bc I'm like that, always have been >.>) and this is pretty much all one long scene of fuck so it's gonna be a long one-shot and not a chapter fic. Or maybe like one long chapter and a shorter three-days-later chapter idk. (Maybe by then the babies-who-don't-understand-AO3-tags wank will have died down too, but that's not the primary factor, really I just like going over stuff more before smacking it on the archive.)
Re: After Every Hit... [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2016-09-17 08:44 pm (UTC)(link)UM, ALSO
Bucky’s looking at him like he’s a lifeline, turned-up eyes artificially widened and pleading in the way people get with a mouth full of dick, and this really would normally be a nice way to shut the little shit up. Sam wants to brush the hair out of his face and watch his walls come down and his expressions open up the good way, the safe way. Sam wants to wreck him, slow and inexorable and consensual-thank-you-very-much, until he’s a panting mess, see if he still talks back, see if he begs
*closes eyes, covers mouth, tries not to scream*