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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Bucky looks faintly relieved, so he must’ve gotten it right. Mr. Burns’ eyebrows go up, and that’s almost satisfying enough to make Sam forget that he’s sick to his stomach for two whole seconds. A few of the men hoot—man, how’s it feel knowing he doesn’t give a fuck about you—and Sam and Bucky ignore them in blessed unison. Woodruff and Other Woodruff are making alarmingly fast work of Sam’s clothes; there’s a shredded ring of shirt dangling from one arm by the time they drag him to his feet and rip into his pants.

“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.”

OMG this is so good that I'm beginning to get worried about this Package that was hinted at earlier.

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?)

Thank you! The Package will come in time :3 (this is ultimately gonna be a they-survive-this-together fic tho!)

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.)

So...is this on hiatus? As in, will one of the best htp story ever never be finished? Dear author if you’re reading this please reply to answer, then you can take all the time you wish to complete it (or not) but at least it’ll feel less like we’re waiting for no reason ;)

Oh man I only just saw this note, sorry! On hiatus due to starting a real-life full-time writing job and also getting distracted by another fandom; I love you all and I do want to come back to this fic if I can get my brain in gear for it. I am honestly touched that you asked and I'm sorry I am a flaky flake!

On hiatus due to starting a real-life full-time writing job. That's awesome, a!a, congrats! You are prodigiously talented. I'll keep an eye on those bestseller lists... :) Thanks so much for what you've written here.

Happy you updated, this is everything I wished for when reading the prompt, and I loved the idea of Sam superposing Steve’s image to the hydra operative in the rear end^^, keep this up, we need more sam/bucky in this Marvel dump :)

Thank you! I'm stoked to have momentum on this again.

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. :)

My brave snarky bbs.

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My brave snarky bbs. <Torn between wanting to hug them and wanting to wump them some more first.> Great update.

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.

There will be both more whump and hugs, so at least you won't have to decide? :D

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.)

(((op))) OHHHHH WOW THIS IS A LOT. A LOT. I'm dying over how brave and resilient they're both being (keeping each other grounded! focusing on each other!!! just kill me), and dying over how quickly that resilience may very well be snuffed out at any moment. BOYS. The last line has me so worried and so giddy. Also, dying over Sam trying to block out the horror of the situation and think thoughts of Bucky/Steve doing Certain Activities.

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*

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

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