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.

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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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not the person who said they would write before, but i wanted to take a crack at this anyway bc goddamn this is my flavor of trash. save him. (also on ao3 http://archiveofourown.org/works/10209650 )

He doesn’t know what’s happening.

Sure, he’d talked back a few times, he tried to distract the guards from the younger ones—when he said something a little too snappy and one of those nazi bastards dragged him out of the cell, he assumed he was gonna get roughed up a little, beat up to set an example or something.

Instead, the guard had looked him up and down all slow and blatant, glanced back at a few of the others and said something in German. He’d thought he saw Jones start out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t have time to think about it when he was being tossed to the floor, landing hard.

He scowled, glaring up the the asshole and bracing himself for a kick or a punch. It didn’t come. Instead, the guard dug a hand into his dirty hair and yanked him up onto his knees, pulling him forward, level to his…crotch?

“What the fuck—?” He started, trying to jerk away.

The bastard yanked his head back to look him in the eye. He’d looked him up and down again, lingering on his lips in a way that made Bucky uneasy, made him wish they’d just kick him and get it over with.

He said something in German again, and then tilted his head to the side and, “You have a pretty mouth,” he had said in heavily accented English. Bucky blinked, because okay. Was he supposed to say thank you?

And now—he didn’t know what was going on. There had been a lot of German thrown around and they finally had kicked him when they’re stuck two fingers in his mouth and he bit down—a few yells of protest from the boys, Dugan throwing in a few fuck offs and yeah, bite the bastard.

The one who shoved the fingers in his mouth had unzipped his uniform pants and pulled Bucky against him, a rough “open up, pretty,”

And Bucky didn’t—doesn’t—know what was going on. He knows what a blowjob is, of course he knows, he’s just—well he’s never—he’s not a fairy, is the thing (even if maybe sometimes he wants to kiss Steve right on the mouth, would drop to his knees for him in an instant if he asked) and maybe he’s had a vague curiosity about it but he’s never done it, never even had it done to him. He was waiting for someone special. And now a Nazi dick is being forced down his throat with a hand tight tight tight in his hair and there are guards jeering at him and the men looking uncomfortably on, mutters, Dugan and Jones cussing out the bastards and steady stream of German from the man holding him that he doesn’t want to understand and he doesn’t??? Understand??? He doesn’t know why this is happening he doesn’t want this to be happening this has never happened before why is it happening to him why—

The man thrusts so hard it has reflexive tears gathering in Bucky’s eyes.

The man jeers at that, and Bucky wants to say ‘fuck you, fuck you, I’m not afraid of you’ but he is afraid, he’s suddenly so so afraid, he wants this to end he wants to not be here he wants his men to stop watching he doesn’t want them to see this he doesn’t—

The man holding his hair groans unabashedly and suddenly there’s something warn and wet shooting down his throat and he’s choking—the man holds him tight and says swallow and Bucky has to. The man pulls out and Bucky coughs, sputtering for breath.

A hand in his hair again and a thumb dragging over his lips and a laugh when he flinches away sharply. It strikes something in him, that laugh, and suddenly he’s much more aware of his surroundings—the concrete under his knees and all the people watching him gasp; he can’t meet any of their eyes, flushing in humiliation.

It’s over now, he thinks, at least it’s over now.

It’s not over now.

He’s twisted around and shoved forwards onto his hands and knees, concrete scraping his hands. He scrambles to get up, but there’s a boot on his back forcing him back down against the cool floor.

Hands on his hips, yanking them up. Panic shoots through him and he kicks out blindly, “Don’t touch me,” he snarls, hating how desperate he sounds, how terrified, “get off me, fuck you, fuck y–”

His dirty pants are yanked down—exposing him, baring him—and there’s something thick and warm prodding against him and he barely has time to say ‘wait’ before it’s forcing it’s way inside and he screams—

He’s yanked up by his hair again, back forced into a painful arch, and there’s a jagged “whore” before his mouth is stuffed full again.

The tears aren’t hair reflexive this time because it hurts—god it hurts so bad, feels like he’s being split in half, torn apart, it hurt it burns and he’s choking and he’s gonna die, his men are gonna watch him die, his men are watching him get fucked like one of those boys who stand on street corners, watching him get dragged back and forth between two Nazi fuckers. They’re watching him cry, watching him choke, why aren’t they looking away why aren’t they trying to help, god.

He thinks he maybe blacks out at one point, comes back coughing and blinking and passed on to someone else and he’s gasping out “stop, don’t, please don’t,” but no one listens, no one listens.

He keeps his eyes shut tight. Manages to almost block it out until his hair is yanked so hard his eyes snap open—he makes direct eye contact with one of his men—Dugan maybe, or Johnson, he can’t tell through the haze—who looks away quickly, like he’s embarrassed, like he’s disgusted, and Bucky’s stomach rolls with shame, he feels like he’s gonna throw up.

It goes like that for a while. He doesn’t know how many men go through him, all he knows is how sore his throat is and how messy his thighs are—vaguely, he wonders why he never thought it would be this messy when he finally did this with someone. It’s messy. He feels like he’ll never be clean again.

Eventually, they must get bored. Someone spits on him, maybe. Someone drags him back to the cell by the collar of his shirt, someone else helps yank his pants back up.

No one says a word. No one touches him after that. He sits with his back against the bars and shuts his eyes and shakes and shakes and no one can meet his eye for more than a few seconds. He can’t meet their eyes for more than a few seconds.

He’s taken out of the work line by the same guards a few days later.

This is terrific!

This is my trash song, anon, and I love how you've executed it!

That ending. Thank you ;_;

Holy shit, thank you for this!

Oh, does this ever delight my black little heart! And to make matters worse (or, in fact, better... *evil cackle*) poor, sweet, innocent Bucky has feelings for Steve!
(Seriously though: this was gorgeously written - oh, that bleak ending! - very nicely paced. You made Bucky's confusion, him being overwhelmed, his shame, the horror very clear ~~and please, now someone hug him and comfort him?~~.)

The writing style perfectly compliments this story. Kudos!

This is gloriously heartbreaking. Oh my HEARRRT.

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

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