garbage all the way down (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
trashmod) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
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.
where the fire burns hot and bright [ 1 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2017-12-08 07:42 am (UTC)(link)--
Bucky twists around from his spot on the couch to check the clock for the hundredth time that day. 5:54. It’s November, and the light sneaking in through the curtains is fading fast. He’s been trying to read for nearly an hour now, but just finds himself scanning the same two sentences over and over again. He sighs, bookmarks his spot, and tosses Slaughterhouse-Five onto the coffee table, where it lands with a thunk.
On second thought - he decides to get up and file it back on the shelf, out of the way. It’s a hardcover, after all, and things always go more smoothly when their apartment is neat, orderly, uncluttered.
He pads over to the kitchen, fuzzy socks soft against the hardwood. The floors are freshly waxed, and he knows he runs the risk of slipping if he tries to run. Like a flash, he sees a vision of himself, tripping and falling and splayed out across the floor - banging his knee, maybe, or his chin; his whole face smashing into the ground - and feels his stomach flip. But he leaves them on.
Where is he?
Bucky retrieves the water pitcher from the fridge and carefully pours himself a glass, drinking it in one go, eyes trained towards the door. Steve has made him promise to stay hydrated and fed before their scenes, and Bucky tries his best to oblige, but it’s hard: he never has much appetite day of, and his throat is often so tight it’s hard to swallow. This time though, Steve’s prepared three high-protein smoothies for him, left in the fridge with a stern post-it note about keeping his strength up. Bucky’s gotten through two and a quarter, which, he feels, is quite an impressive victory.
He pours himself another glass, scanning the room one last time and yes, everything is in its place. There are no dishes in the sink or the drying rack, no pots or pans on the stove, and all the knives have been hidden away in the cupboard. Pictures are bolted to the wall. Rugs are rolled up in the hall closet. The television is tethered into place.
Before, ages ago, they used to do it without these precautions, and it was sometimes - well, kind of a mess. One particularly memorable time, they had been grappling against their glass-top coffee table, and Steve had accidentally succeeded in throwing Bucky face-first through it. Steve had ripped his mask off and stopped the scene on the spot - while Bucky, of course, protested, wiping the blood from his face and pleading for him to continue.
Steve had been pale but firm, setting a new limit - no blood - or at least not that much blood - and Bucky had protested some more, genuinely angry, reminding Steve that he’d had much, much worse (including much, much worse from Steve himself). But finally Bucky caught a glimpse of his cut-up face in the bathroom mirror and sheepishly had to agree that okay, he looked pretty fucking awful, and maybe Steve was right. So now they clear the apartment in advance, eliminate as many random variables as possible.
Besides. Bucky likes it best when it’s just about them, when there's nothing else to worry about. When the rest of the world disappears, and he can go to that secret, shameful, animal place inside himself, knowing Steve has everything under control, Steve will see him through, Steve will carry him to the other side. All Bucky has to do is let go.
Something icy prickles his hand and he jumps. He looks down to discover that he has been pouring water this entire time - the glass is overflowing, the pitcher is nearly empty, and the counter is covered in a small lake. Clean up your mess, soldier. Hastily, he throws some paper towels on the spill, mopping up the bulk of it, then returning the glass and pitcher where they belong.
6:03. This is by far the longest Steve has ever made him wait, and for a second, he wonders if something has gone wrong, if there has been some terrible accident. He wanders down the long hallway into their bedroom, where his phone sits charging on the nightstand. He knows full well there won’t be any new texts from Steve - they have as little contact as possible, the day of the scene - but checks anyway. Nothing.
Bucky glances around the room, eyes falling on his own reflection in the mirror. He’s wearing a thin t-shirt, one he doesn’t care about too much, and which will be very easy to tear. Below, sweatpants and boxers, each with elastic waistbands for easier access. He slides one foot back and forth across the floor a few times, knowing that Steve won’t like the slippery socks, that he’ll probably scold him for it afterwards, but - right now, he’s feeling reckless, ready to be taken down a peg. He imagines, again, tripping and falling, the desperation of being unable to escape, the almost comical humiliation of it, and is suddenly very aware of his heart pounding in his chest.
It’s been a long time, Bucky thinks, since they last did this. Too long. They’ve both been busy, overbooked, schedules butting heads, and it’s hard to put aside enough time to do it right.
But Bucky’s had a rough couple of weeks: An ugly old videotape is making the rounds on the internet, yet again, coupled with a new slew of civilians recognizing him, at the library, at Starbucks, on the bus to therapy, on his own doorstep. He has been numb, going away from himself, now and then, jolting back in the middle of a conversation, or walking in the wrong direction, or over-pouring a glass of water. Bucky closes his eyes, aching with how badly he needs this now - to be brought back into his body, to feel, to remember.
He sits down for a minute on the edge of the bed, knowing he can’t stay here too long. The bedroom is their one off-limits zone. That was Bucky’s one stipulation, back when it all started - that it would never, ever happen in their bed - and that rule has never changed. They keep out of the bedroom entirely, until it’s over. The rest of their apartment is more than big enough to keep things interesting.
6:10 now. The light of day is almost gone. He flips quickly though Steve’s various social media profiles. No recent updates.
The worry creeps back in, and he wonders, wildly, if perhaps Steve has changed his mind. That Steve, somewhere, in his preparations, sat down and took a good look at himself and what he was doing, realized it was crazy, and decided he wanted no part in it. That Steve is out there, walking away, putting as much distance between the two of them as possible. That Steve has finally come to see Bucky the way Bucky sees Bucky, a vile, dirty creature, that Steve -
Bucky shakes himself. He’s catastrophizing. Steve loves him, for Christ's sake. Steve has seen the worst parts of him and loves him still. Steve has always, always been game for this, since day one. Even when it was new and scary and confusing for both of them. Even when things didn't go according to plan, even when coffee tables were shattered and faces were bloodied. Sometimes Steve struggles with playing his part, sure. Bucky can't blame him. But Steve has always listened, and tried, and tried again. He has always made it work for Bucky, and he has always stayed true to himself, too. Bucky thinks then of the smoothies and the note and feels his chest go tight.
Steve would never, ever just walk away. Not from a challenge, and not from Bucky.
Bucky takes one last peek at his phone - 6:22 - and slides it back onto the nightstand. Steve will be here eventually. He just has to trust, and wait. He stands up, takes a deep breath, and decides to take another crack at that last three-quarters of a smoothie.
When he opens the bedroom door, the apartment is pitch black.
Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 1 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2017-12-08 08:56 am (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 1 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2017-12-08 03:21 pm (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 1 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2017-12-08 04:18 pm (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 1 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2017-12-09 07:14 am (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 1 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2017-12-10 01:42 pm (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 1 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2017-12-16 07:59 am (UTC)(link)where the fire burns hot and bright [ 2 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2017-12-20 05:45 am (UTC)(link)There’s a long hallway back to the living room, maybe twenty feet, and the nearest lightswitch is at the very end of it. Bucky gropes for the wall with his prosthesis, splaying his palm flat and making his way forward, step by step. This prosthetic arm is only a few months old - a newfangled contraption, designed primarily to blend in, and which he is still deciding whether or not he hates. He had contemplated removing it all together before the scene, but instead finally decided it would be, if nothing else, good practice to keep it on.
About halfway to the living room, he hears a scuttle, sees a flicker of movement, and stops short. “Hello?” he hears himself say, in an extraordinary lapse in stealth. There is, of course, no reply.
Bucky takes another step forward. Then another, and another, heart hammering in his chest. His eyes are adjusting, little by little, and he’s almost there, he’s almost there, almost to the lightswitch, he knows he is - but something holds him back, something keeps him rooted to the spot where he stands. He watches for more movement through the darkness, finding nothing.
Steve? He wants to say, Steve, is that you? But that’s not allowed. Not according to his own rules.
There is always a moment, at least once every scene, when Bucky is really, genuinely scared. When he feels his stomach go sour and his head start to spin and his blood run cold. When he forgets why he does this, forgets that this is something he has asked for, begged for, planned and prepared for.
When instead, he remembers only the way it felt before. With their hands all over him, twisting his body into strange shapes, using him until he could not be used anymore, and then some. When he was just a thing, a weapon, a machine, an object, a toy, a doll. When he could not, did not, speak nor scream nor beg nor cry, just took it and took it and took it, hovering outside of himself, unfeeling.
And then, he always remembers: This is different. This is now. This is a game, a game he can play however he wants.
He will be afraid, yes. But fear keeps him present. Fear reminds him of his own body: that it exists, that it is his and his alone. Fear reminds him that he is human, he is alive, he is capable of fighting back, capable of feeling, capable of wanting - and not wanting. Fear is the whole point.
Fear wraps its warm arms around him and says, let go, let go, let go.
The light in the entryway flips on.
There is a figure standing there, at the opposite end of the apartment, tall and silent, unmoving. He is blocking the front door. He is wearing all black, head to toe, including heavy black boots, black leather gloves, and a black tactical mask that covers the lower half of his face. His eyes are sharp and blue and serious, trained right on Bucky.
For a long moment, neither of them move. Then, the man begins to sprint, running right for him.
Bucky realizes he is trapped, smack in the middle of the hallway, and sprints forward too, directly at the man. A split second before they should make contact, right as the man is about to tackle him, Bucky dodges towards the right - towards the living room.
Bucky leaps over the coffee table, landing gracelessly, socked feet sliding dangerously for a moment too long before he catches his balance. He risks looking over his shoulder for a fraction of a second - a mistake - only to see the man clearing the table, leaping towards him, too.
The first blow strikes him hard across the jaw. Bucky reels, stumbling, his back hitting the bookcase behind him. The books tremble briefly in their places but do not fall. He sees the man going in for another hit from the left, but Bucky blocks it just in time, seizing the incoming arm and twisting, hard, trying to pin it behind the man’s back.
But the man breaks free of Bucky’s grip and uses his entire body weight to rush him, slamming them both back into the bookcase. This time, paperback copies of Catch-22 and Snow Crash tumble to the ground, missing them by a few inches. Bucky kicks the books out the way; they skitter to the opposite corner of the room.
The man tries to pin him and Bucky tries to twist away, free himself. They grapple against the shelves, back and forth, each struggling for purchase, and Bucky feels muscle memory kicking in as he settles into this old routine.
Violence, even when it frightens, is what Bucky knows best. Violence is familiar, and easy, and warm. And safe, somehow. He doesn’t like it, not exactly. But he understands it. He is good with it. He feels at home amidst it, giving and receiving and moving in time with the rhythm of combat. He appreciates the intimacy, the intricacy, of the dance.
Gloved hands fist in Bucky's shirt, the smell of leather conjuring up a tumble of sensory memories. A slap. A uniform. A black chaise. A mask. Underneath, there are notes of a strange cologne, a faint shampoo, two smells Bucky does not recognize and cannot place. The unfamiliarity disorients him for a moment, sending a fresh wave of alarm through his body, and when he searches the man's face, the familiar blue eyes are closed off, betraying nothing.
The man is so close now that his breath is warm and heavy on Bucky's face. His blonde hair is tousled, out of place, and Bucky, even in his predicament, is suddenly overcome with the urge to run his hands through it, mess it up even more. Adrenaline courses through his body, fear and instinct intertwining with giddy, reckless desire. Bucky feels his mouth twist sideways into a smile, despite himself.
“What?” He taunts quietly, knowing exactly what the consequences will be. He doesn’t usually play the game this way. But today, he feels like mouthing off a little, being an arrogant little shit. He grins wider. “What are you gonna do?” The man’s eyes narrow, flickering briefly over Bucky's mouth before yanking him by the shirt, slamming his head back once more.
Bucky sees stars. In his haze, he feels the man's entire body weight pressing against him, pinning him there, trapping him with ease, like a butterfly against a corkboard. And then - He feels the man’s knee, insistent, between his thighs, inching them apart.
Fear and desire twist tighter inside him, like two wrestling snakes, glowing red-hot in his stomach. “Is that all?” Bucky rasps, voice already shaking. “Is that your worst?” But for all his brass, he can see in his mind’s eye his own future violation, all the bright and colorful shapes it might take: Being fucked right here, against this bookshelf. Being thrown to the ground, his naked body shivering against the cold wood floor. Being shoved to his knees, forced to choke and gag and cry. The possibilities run through him, full-body memories, flashes of things long since past, one after another after another.
The man backhands him so hard Bucky’s ears ring. Bucky hears himself moan before he can bite it back. The man hits him again, even harder. And it’s only then that Bucky notices, with a wave of horror, the heat of arousal growing between his legs.
No, no, wait, he thinks, but it’s too late; he's getting hard already. So soon, so easily, just from being knocked around a little, just from the smell of leather and a knee between his legs. Just from being caught and pinned and slapped. Their bodies are so close that he knows the man can feel it too; Bucky can see it in his eyes.
All the insolence drains out of Bucky’s body at once, disappearing as quickly as it came, giving way to a hot flood of shame.
“Fuck you,” Bucky whispers, finally finding enough strength to wedge his shoulder in between their bodies, knocking the man backwards. The man falters, just long enough for Bucky to make a break for it.
But the man is too quick - he kicks out and trips Bucky, who falls, artlessly, to the ground.
Bucky throws his arm out to brace himself, elbow stupidly locked, knees simultaneously slamming into wood. He barely has time to register the pain before the man is before him, seizing him by his throat, forcing his face upwards. Fingers dig into his neck, first cutting off his blood flow, then his air, too.
Just like we practiced, Bucky thinks, remembering last weekend, on top of Steve, demonstrating how he likes it, while Steve made breathless little jokes beneath him. But now there is no humor, no hesitation from the man choking him. Everything tilts, blurs. Bucky hears the stupid gagging noises gurgling from his throat. He is being wrenched upwards from his hands and knees, face flushing hot with shame and lack of oxygen. He struggles against the brutal grip, but he’s got no traction and everything is going fuzzier by the second.
Then, just when darkness is beginning to creep into the edges of his vision, the man lets go, and Bucky drops to the ground once more. He stays low, gasping for air, as the apartment spins back into view. It hurts to breathe. He can feel the man standing over him, the icy gaze bearing down at him, and he feels small, so incredibly small.
Get up, go, his brain screams, but his lungs are on fire, and he is increasingly aware of the sharp pain blooming in his kneecaps. The man kicks him twice, once in the ribs and once in the stomach, and Bucky collapses again to the floor with a rough, spluttering sound. He rolls onto his back in desperation, like a beetle ready to be stomped, letting the pain wash over him. His eyes lock with the man’s above and he twists his mouth to say please, but - stops himself just in time. It’s far too soon for begging.
You’re out of practice, soldier, Bucky thinks, as he lies there panting, and it’s true. He’s in shape, sure - running almost every day, yoga a few times a week, rock climbing now and then. Healthy, socially acceptable outlets for all the bullshit pent up inside him. But he does not fight, does not spar, does not train. Not anymore. Not outside of this.
Because sometimes the violence starts to feel a little too familiar. He has tried to unlearn it, again and again, with middling success. He has tried to push it away, make it go quiet. To go against his nature, let it out of him like bad blood. But it always lurks, beneath the surface, murky and hot and singing out like a siren to him.
One leather boot finds Bucky’s cheek, turning it away, pressing down hard, and Bucky lets it happen. This flip side of violence - receiving it - is familiar, too. Warm and safe in its own way. It too calls out to him from deep in his bones: the antithetical, inexplicable desire to be hurt.
Not to surrender, necessarily. And not to be submissive, either. He supposes he could call himself a masochist, but the word sounds so dramatic, so overwrought. He simply wants to be hurt because it feels right. He and Steve have tried playing with all flavors of pain and power, and Bucky has found he doesn’t really care for most of them. He doesn't want to crawl and serve and obey. He doesn't want to say yes sir and no sir and thank you sir. At best, he finds it boring and contrived. At worst, it reminds him too much of his old body, of who he was when he was not himself. He doesn't want to have to be good or bite his tongue or hold himself back, not anymore.
But this - this works for him, because he only has to be himself.
"Get the fuck off of me," Bucky spits. The sole presses heavy against his face, and he imagines what he must look like, cheek squished against the ground, ugly. He remembers, from another lifetime, the bitter taste of leather, when he was made to kiss the boots, lick them clean. He shivers as the boot scrapes down his face, slowly, dragging down his chest and stomach. It finds the hem of his shirt and begins to inch it upwards, slowly, exposing his bare, unprotected stomach. Bucky shivers again at how vulnerable he is like this, on his back, flushed and panting. Pathetic. Do something, his brain screams, anything, anything -
Bucky reaches around and finds the pressure point behind the man’s knee. The man doubles over reflexively, and Bucky has time to roll out from beneath his boot. Bucky dives over the couch without looking back and keeps running; when he reaches the dining area, he throws one chair behind him in his wake, then another, roadblocks. He skids into the kitchen, off-balance, slipping, breathing hard, looking around for something, anything to help him.
But there’s nothing, he knows, as the man comes up and grabs him from behind, arms tight around his middle. Bucky struggles against him, flailing, knowing that this is a dead end. It's just the two of them - And no way out.
Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 2 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2017-12-20 04:38 pm (UTC)(link)(If you put this on AO3, please link it here! <3<3<3)
Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 2 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2017-12-20 08:18 pm (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 2 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2017-12-23 09:37 am (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 2 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2017-12-24 10:32 pm (UTC)(link)where the fire burns hot and bright [ 3 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2018-01-04 03:42 am (UTC)(link)-----
The man wastes no time in wrestling Bucky down against the counter, pinning him there by the hips. Bucky tries to throw the man off, tries to gain some semblance of purchase, but the angle is all wrong, he can't get any traction; the man's entire weight is bearing down on him, and -
Suddenly, like this, Bucky can feel the man's cock, hard and surprising at his back.
Bucky twists and struggles, determined to break free, but - all he can really do is grind back into the hips that pin him there, worsening his predicament, driving the cock harder and deeper against him, despite his best efforts. The shameful futility leaves Bucky blushing red, all the way to his ears and down his chest.
The man fists one hand in Bucky’s hair, wrenching his head back. The other wraps tight around Bucky’s exposed throat, choking him. First lightly, barely there, then harder, much harder - then light again. Whittling the air out of him, little by little, until Bucky is gasping for breath once more.
Bucky knows how he must look like this - contorted and wriggling, body bent, caught by the throat. Leather fingers trace over his jugular, slow and deliberate, playing with him, teasing. (He's been thinking for a while about asking Steve to use a knife, and now suddenly imagines what the metal might feel like, cold and sharp along his bare, vulnerable neck.)
Then both hands let go, changing targets. The man tugs Bucky's pants down without warning. Bucky's boxers snag and slip down too, only halfway, an afterthought. Bucky squirms and scrambles, reaching around to cover himself up, but the man catches Bucky's wandering arm, twists it painfully behind his back.
The man's hips snap forward, insistent, erection grinding against Bucky's ass through the layers of fabric between them. Bucky can feel his own cock hardening, pinned helplessly against the cold counter. “Oh,” Bucky gasps, as the man thrusts again, shocked at how quickly desire is mounting deep in his belly, scrambling for a way to twist out of this trap. “No, no, stop -”
But the man does not stop, not for a second. He tightens his hold on Bucky's pinned arm, moving his free hand to Bucky's mouth. Two fingers slip between Bucky’s lips, ignoring the desperate protests spilling forth, the leather earthy and sharp on Bucky's tongue. The fingers force his lips open wide, filling up his mouth, rutting around in there, until a stray dribble of saliva slides down Bucky’s chin.
“Stop, let go,” Bucky chokes, voice muffled around the probing fingers. He knows what he is supposed to do here, suck the fingers down to the knuckle, get them nice and slick, make this easier for himself. But today, he’s - he’s not so sure he wants it to be easy.
“I won’t do it, you can't make me,” Bucky insists, still squirming wildly as the man grinds into him. But his wet mouth closes around the fingers with every syllable, inadvertently sucking them deeper into his mouth. Just take it, whispers his shadow self, something ghostly and half-forgotten inside him. You know how, you’ve done it so many times before, you’re so good at it -
“No, I won’t,” he says again, shakier this time. The man slides a third finger into Bucky’s mouth, sloppy and cruel, wrenching Bucky’s jaw wider until his words are just wet, garbled sounds. Bucky feels drool all down his chin now, hears how pathetic and incomprehensible he sounds, but he can’t stop the words - noises - from tumbling out. “Please, I won’t, I won’t -”
Please. Already begging. He feels himself flush even hotter.
Bucky twists again, tries to throw the man off, but he has no traction, and his bad shoulder is too pinched at this angle, really beginning to hurt. The man is bearing down on him too hard, too close, smothering him, his grip on Bucky’s forearm tight enough to bruise. His breath is hot and heavy against the back of Bucky’s neck. Bucky twists in the other direction, but is only rewarded with a fourth finger breaching his mouth, harsh and deep, almost enough to make him gag.
Fine. Time for another approach, Bucky thinks, and bites down, hard.
Bucky hears a low, angry hiss of pain and the man’s hand snaps away in a flash. The surprise gives Bucky just enough leeway to wrench himself free, out of the man’s hold.
Bucky frantically tugs his pants back up, waistband catching briefly on his half-hard cock. Once covered, he whirls around to face the man, who is - of course - blocking the one way out of the small kitchen, leaving Bucky cornered. He watches Bucky very closely, waiting for his next move.
Without hesitation, Bucky lunges, knocking the man backwards. Enough to make him stumble but not to knock him down. Bucky comes in with a kick from the side, then a punch from the other, then positions himself to rush the man with his good shoulder, wrestle him down.
But the man sees him coming. He dodges just as Bucky dives. Momentum takes over, and Bucky, unable to catch himself in his soft, stupid socks, finds himself tumbling forwards. Shit.
But to his surprise, the man catches him mid-fall. His arms wrap tight around Bucky’s middle once more, dragging him back, back into the kitchen, back to where they just were, back to the inevitable end. Idiot. This is what happens when you fight, the ghost inside him says, as the man throws Bucky roughly against the counter, near the sink this time.
The next few seconds happen very fast.
Bucky notices a small puddle beneath him on the tile, barely visible. He remembers his overflowing glass of water earlier, his poorly-cleaned mess. He also notices the man coming up behind him, gripping the back of his neck, pushing his head down and -
Before Bucky can put two and two together, his face is already slamming into the counter, and the water is already hitting his nose.
His entire body goes cold with panic. Wait, he wants to say, but suddenly can’t. Wait, this isn’t right. He opens his mouth to plead, but no words come out, his whole body freezing up, failing him. The man does not seem to notice what is wrong, still holding Bucky down by the neck, raking his other hand down Bucky’s spine.
Wait, no, please -
Bucky struggles hard then, thrashing around wildly, fighting the man, fighting the sudden burn in this throat, the sting in his eyes. He does not want to drown. No one has made him drown in so long, and he can’t do it, not now, not again. “Please,” he keens, finally finding his voice. He doesn’t want to say the word, doesn’t want this to end, but he can’t, he can’t -
“Please, please - Yellow - ”
Everything stops.
The man immediately lets go of his neck and steps away. Bucky scrambles to right himself, swaying for a moment, lightheaded from the sudden lack of contact. He closes his eyes tight, pressing his palms flat against the counter, focusing on the cold granite beneath them, counting his deep breaths - nineteen - twenty - until he can finally trust himself to speak.
There is a warm touch on his shoulder. A gentle squeeze. “Not - here,” Bucky finally says quietly. He does not turn around. “Not in here this time.” Another squeeze, in assent.
Bucky looks down at the counter and there’s - well, there’s barely anything there, he realizes now. Hardly even a splash, certainly not enough for anyone to fucking drown in, and he is suddenly terribly embarrassed by his theatrics. Sorry, he wants to say, but apologizing isn’t part of the game. So he says nothing.
"Okay." Bucky swallows, does not allow himself any more time to recover. “Okay, green.”
The man is ready. He grabs Bucky by the hair, drags him back to the living room. Bucky kicks and fights the whole way, but the man will not let go. Bucky begins to shout, something newly awakened in him by his panicked outburst. “Fuck you,” he yells, scrambling at the fist in his hair. “Get off of me, get the fuck off of me, fuck off - ”
When the man finally lets go, Bucky is ready, knocking him backwards with all his might. The man stumbles and falls back onto the couch. Bucky dives atop him, straddling the man’s hips, hitting as hard as he can, over and over. But the victory is short-lived; the man wraps his legs around Bucky’s body and flips them both, rather painfully, to the floor.
Dazed from the fall, Bucky feels his shirt being torn from his body with ease, ripped clean down the middle.
“No, no,” Bucky shouts, slamming his fists anywhere they will land, but the man is pressing his full weight down on Bucky’s body, and will not budge. The man throws open the shirt - now in tatters - revealing Bucky’s bare chest. Bucky scratches and hits and struggles and writhes, digs his nails in wherever he can, shouts obscenities between ragged, wordless yells.
And Bucky imagines, fleetingly, his former self. Hardened and unresponsive. Kneeling without hesitation, removing his clothes as efficiently as he could disassemble a gun. No light behind his eyes. He was so good at being quiet. They told him this, many times. He was praised and rewarded for being quiet, given a ration or a sip of water he would have otherwise gone without.
But sometimes, he was not quiet enough. Sometimes, little things escaped. A grunt. A hiss. A moan. And so sometimes, they gagged him: with their belts, with electrical tape, his own underwear.
But there is no gag, not anymore. He is through with being good, being quiet.
Bucky screams then, really screams, a horrible, primal noise, pounding desperately on the man’s chest. “Stop, stop,” he howls, aware that he is wearing himself out, that he is wasting his energy. He is barely even hurting the man anymore, is really only hurting himself at this point. “Stop, no, let me go -”
But the man does not let go. Bucky spits in his face and he does not even flinch, slapping Bucky open-palmed across one cheek, backhanding the other in quick succession. His hands drag down, down, down Bucky's body, undeterred, stopping at nothing until they reach their destination.
He tips Bucky’s hips upward and yanks sweats and shorts down together, leaving Bucky completely exposed, all at once. The vulgarity of this reveal, the cool sudden air against Bucky's erection, his pants lying artlessly at his knees, his shirt still half-tangled around his shoulders - it all makes Bucky’s throat close up, his eyes begin to sting.
“Please, please,” Bucky hears himself say, smaller and smaller, again and again, squirming helplessly. A deer shot full of arrows, bleeding out. “Please, no, I don't want to.”
The man’s fingers are in his mouth again. Bucky realizes that he is sucking them down instinctively before he can stop himself. “No, no,” he moans around them, hating himself for it, fighting back tears of humiliation. He does not want the fight to be over, but he is suddenly exhausted, delirious, limbs failing him one by one.
He can see the edge just before him, the cliff he is about to throw himself off of, into the beckoning darkness beyond. The fear wraps around him so tightly, covers him like a blanket.
Let yourself feel it, the fear says. All of it. Let go.
It’s a long way down.
Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 3 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2018-01-04 06:47 am (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 3 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2018-01-04 03:54 pm (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 3 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2018-01-04 11:44 pm (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 3 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2018-01-05 12:47 am (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 3 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2018-01-08 06:02 am (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 3 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2018-02-10 11:01 pm (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 3 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2018-03-08 01:28 pm (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 3 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2018-03-29 05:06 am (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 3 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2018-07-19 11:37 pm (UTC)(link)Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 3 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2018-10-21 12:04 am (UTC)(link)AA, I love every word of this and if you feel moved to continue I will be here with bells on. It's so, so good.
Re: where the fire burns hot and bright - COMPLETE (!) on AO3
(Anonymous) 2025-03-14 12:26 am (UTC)(link)Seven years later! Something came over me and I got the urge to see this one through. (Note that it now has a new title to avoid confusion with another story with the same name — inadvertent on my part.)
Enjoy!
Re: where the fire burns hot and bright [ 2 / ? ]
(Anonymous) 2018-01-23 04:52 am (UTC)(link)But here's a few:
- "He has tried to unlearn it, again and again, with middling success."
- "Not to surrender, necessarily. And not to be submissive, either. He supposes he could call himself a masochist, but the word sounds so dramatic, so overwrought."
- "Just like we practiced, Bucky thinks, remembering last weekend, on top of Steve, demonstrating how he likes it, while Steve made breathless little jokes beneath him."
- "There is always a moment, at least once every scene, when Bucky is really, genuinely scared. When he feels his stomach go sour and his head start to spin and his blood run cold. When he forgets why he does this, forgets that this is something he has asked for, begged for, planned and prepared for."