hydratrashmeme | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

*taps mic* Is this thing on? So, hey, I'm not a cool kid and I crave external validation, or at least to be told if I'm being totally boring and should just go away. Please someone tell me something?? Either way, this is the second to last installment.

The days pass grindingly slowly. Zola returns at intervals that Bucky guesses are each a day long, but his cage is windowless and it’s not like anyone has offered him a clock to judge the passing of the time. For all he knows, it’s been only hours. For all he knows, it’s been years. Every time Zola presents him with the raw cuts of his own rotting meat, he claws up the courage to refuse, buying himself another night of shivering hunger pangs and restless sleep.

The only bearable part of the whole thing is Steve’s constant presence at his side. Currently, Steve is drawing his long artist’s fingers through Bucky’s filthy hair, murmuring quiet nonsense in his incongruously deep voice. He’s wearing his lounging around clothes – the coat from his father with more patches than coat and the pants that are constantly slipping down his hips, but that he keeps because they’re soft and it doesn’t matter if he splatters paint on them and wipes charcoal all down the seams – there’s no need to dress fancy for comforting a starving madman in a prison cell.

A rough laugh tumbles out of Bucky’s mouth, along with a string of blood and drool. “Something funny?” Steve asks, and the hand in Bucky’s hair stills. He pushes against it like one of the stray cats he used to drive his mother mad with. (She’d called Steve one of his stray cats, too, once. Bucky had only thought of how Steve would spit and snarl at the comparison, and smiled).

“I think the end of the line is coming up,” Bucky said. Steve sighed, tracing his hand down the knobs of Bucky’s spine, and around the scarring on his shoulder where it connects to Hydra’s monstrous arm. The skin there is an angry red, inflamed from the surgery and from the days of starvation that have followed, making a mismatch between the bulk of the metal and the starving flesh.

Bucky stretches out for Steve’s fingers to continue their path, down the bumping lines of his ribs and into the hollow of his stomach. They trail through the coarse hair around his soft cock, sending a shiver of want through Bucky’s stomach that is swiftly consumed by the ever-present hunger. “I think you’re right,” Steve finally says. Bucky stares.

“Well,” Steve continues, fingers trailing lightly along Bucky’s naked skin, “look at you.” Bucky cringes, curling back up against the stone floor and adding more scrapes to the patchwork of blood and bruising on his skin. “It’s not just that you’re ugly,” Steve hastens to assure him. “I mean, I could handle it if you were just ugly.” He smiles softly at Bucky, and Bucky knows that smile. It’s the smile Steve wears when he’s pretending his heart isn’t breaking, that something horrible is going to be just fine.

He wore that same smile the last time he spoke to his mother.

His fingers circle back to Bucky’s ruined shoulder, stopping short of the metal arm. “This, though?” he says, staring at the thing he refuses to touch. “You’re a part of them, now. It’s the only part of you that’s not weak anymore, a piece of Hydra technology grafted to your brittle bones. Do you think they’ll cut off more of you, once you give in? Replace you bit by bit with their tech, while you power it with the rotten stuff they’ve hacked off of Bucky’s body?”

Bucky shivers. He misses Steve’s hand in his hair, but he can’t deny the truth of Steve’s words. There’s been a monster growing inside his belly ever since Azzano. Here in a Hydra cell, hallucinating Steve while his real best friend lies dead in the ocean, the monster has grown to term and birthed itself inside of him.

He’s sick, with ugly things in his head that gained a mirror in the ugly thing Hydra attached to his side. He’s holding onto a principle that means nothing. He hasn’t belonged to himself in so long, would it really be so wrong to cannibalize the dead meat of Bucky Barnes?

The circling thoughts in his head are halted by footsteps. Zola is back, but there are more guards with him. Men in shiny suits with guns pointed at Bucky’s head as Zola unlocks the door of his tiny cell. One of them swings his gun over his shoulder and hauls Bucky out of the cell, snapping cuffs around his wrists before he can figure out what’s going on.

The cuff around the metal arm must be keyed to the arm somehow. It goes dead as soon as the cuff closes. The weight throws Bucky off balance, but strong, merciless hands catch him before he can hit the ground.

“I grow tired of waiting for you to come to your senses, Soldier,” Zola says to him, pivoting away back down the corridor. Bucky is dragged along behind, silent and confused. He thinks he might fall asleep on his feet when they reach a door, unmarked and indistinguishable from the rest of the doors they’ve passed to Bucky’s eye.

“I will have obedience from my creations,” Zola says, voice sliding around Bucky as they enter the room. There’s nothing in it except a table, a heavy chair with equally heavy cuffs, and on the table, the plate that Bucky has so far refused every time. Even knowing what it is, Bucky’s stomach growls at the smell of it.

He wants to puke again, but he has a horrible sinking feeling that something sick will be going inside him rather than coming out before he leaves this room.

Oh, it's on. This is just so intense that I, at least, have to gird my metaphorical loins before I can read this.

Thanks for commenting, at least! With the total lack of feedback, I was getting a bit nervous that I'd just gone totally off the rails and lost my head entirely with this, or something. The last part shall hopefully be up soon, and it's good to know there will be a few people reading (though feel free to take as much time as you need girding your loins first; if all goes well writing-wise, it will only get more intense). :)

[DISTRESSED WHALE NOISES]

[EVIL CACKLING]

Thanks for leaving a comment! :)

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

Re: Canibalism, Body Horror - Fill: Dead Meat [3/4]

Re: Canibalism, Body Horror - Fill: Dead Meat [3/4]

Re: Canibalism, Body Horror - Fill: Dead Meat [3/4]

Re: Canibalism, Body Horror - Fill: Dead Meat [3/4]

Re: Canibalism, Body Horror - Fill: Dead Meat [3/4]