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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I have ALMOST written this exact thing, only the rape is averted because the WS can't get it up and the captured agent makes her escape in the fracas that ensues.

DA: I'd still read this.

(Here we are in that case. ;) )

Outside Surgut, USSR, 1968

Marta Vesik was not a fool, but she’d been foolish. An overestimation here and an underestimation there had led her into a trap. It was far too easy to get into the Red Room base because they’d expected exactly this sort of infiltration, even if they weren’t quite expecting her.

Getting out was going to be much trickier.

Especially given they had her strapped down to a table, propped up at an angle.

She lifted her head at the sound of boots approaching, several pair. The door creaked open and five men squeezed themselves into the room: two armed guards, followed by...Mother of God. Followed by none other than Evgeny Volkov himself, trusted lieutenant to Vasily Karpov, leading the next man by a chain attached to a thick metal collar. Volkov looked just like the photo from his file: tall, ferrety, with a thick moustache clearly modeled after Comrade Stalin. Of secondary interest was the collared man, who kept his head lowered so that a curtain of brown hair hid much of his face; he was dressed all in black leather, save for the curious metal armor on his left arm. The last man looked far happier to be there than the others. Carrying a stout briefcase with him, he wore a bloodstained apron and a beard grown wild.

Well then. She had expected torture. She hadn’t expected such an audience for it. She told them as such with all the flippant confidence she could muster. Volkov’s face didn’t so much as twitch.

It was the standard fare, as far as interrogations went. Volkov started with frank questions the burly man started with blunt instruments. They switched things up with sharp ones and raised voices. Marta would not be moved. She spat in the interrogator’s face. This pain was nothing. She was better-trained than that.

An hour or two surely passed during this first phase. Volkov watched impassively, and the collared man snuck glances at her. Eventually, Volkov grew impatient enough to hold up a forestalling hand. Marta panted for breath as the interrogator stepped away, taking a toenail with him, but she held Volkov’s eye with all the venom in her heart.

“Whatever you do to me will never compare to what becomes of you,” she sighed, twisting bruised wrists in the cuffs. “You will fail, and you will fall, and you’ll beg for Siberia.”

“Your confidence is admirable, if misplaced. I do not feel our enemies are so creative.” He smirked, and that’s when she actually started to worry.

Volkov held the chain steady with one hand and slid the other up its taut length to unclip from its collar. The man’s eyes snapped up to Volkov, now sharp as flint. The metal plates of his armor moved like a snake’s coils. Was that armor?

“Strip yourself, and then her,” Volkov ordered. The man blinked slowly and obeyed. Once his leather jacket was off she saw the terrible truth of that arm, ringed in jagged scars: the metal was a mechanical limb grafted directly onto his body.

Then he stepped forward to rip and peel the bloodstained bodysuit away from Marta’s skin, and panic started to close her throat. She had been trained to withstand cold and pain, even some poisons, but this...not this. The female operatives all knew this was a possibility, living and fighting in the world of men. Knowing was not the same as being there.

The man stood there staring at her shoulder. Volkov asked, as he’d asked many times already: “Who do you work for?”

Marta pressed her lips shut tight and shook her head. They’d get nothing from her. Not even through this.

“Fuck her. Make it hurt,” he ordered, as casually as one might order a sandwich at a shop.

A whimper escaped from her then. She slid down the table in an effort to close her thighs, but the straps on her ankles held her legs apart. A whimper turned into a short scream when the collared man pressed his body against her. He was still soft, but she cried out anyway, ashamed of the hot tears carving down her cheeks.

A metal hand raised to her face, and though she tried to flinch from its cold, unnatural touch, it swiped away a tear.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered low enough for her and her alone. “They make it worse when you cry.”

He rolled his body against hers and she yelped, tugging with all her might against the straps that held her down, though she was already bruised there from resisting torture. The violation she feared never came. She sucked in a breath and steeled herself, reaching for the most vicious part of her.

“Can’t get it up?” she taunted.

The metal-armed man simply looked dismayed. Volkov snarled and seized him by the hair; his expression checked out completely, lifeless as a doll. “I gave you an order, Soldier. Get yourself hard and do as you’re told.”

The man stared into the middle distance and did just that...or tried to, anyway. His cock remained lifeless in his hand. (Marta dared to hope. She continued to struggle as well.) Finally he turned that despairing look on Volkov and opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and shook his head.

Volkov lost his patience. He flicked a furious glance at the interrogator and handed over the chain, which the bearded man accepted with glee. “Are you defying me, Soldier?”

The metal-armed man – the Soldier – shook his head immediately and stepped back. “I can’t,” he panted, “I can’t complete the order, sir, I don’t–”

Volkov gestured to the interrogator, who fell on the Soldier like a lion on a rabbit. He caught the Soldier directly in the face with the chain and brought down blow after blow, raining insults (faggot and weakling and more) to match. The metal-armed man yelped like a beaten dog; he made no move to defend himself other than to curl up and protect his face, and he made no plea for mercy.

It was the perfect distraction for Marta to finish slipping her cuffs.

Even the guards were distracted. There were no guns in reach, so she made do with the wrench the interrogator had left out. She went for Volkov first, taking him out with a single blow to the back of the head. Next were the guards. They put up a fight, but she had the element of surprise and adrenaline-fueled speed. By the time the interrogator knew what was happening it was too late for him. She tossed the wrench aside and took Volkov’s sidearm. It had a bullet for each unconscious man’s skull. That only left the Soldier.

She raised the gun: she should take him out too. Cuts and bruises as terrible as Marta’s were blooming on all that pallid skin. They made eye contact for a moment; he looked away to Volkov and back twice, as if waiting for direction from a corpse.

Marta’s aim faltered till she lowered the gun altogether. He wasn’t Hydra, not really. He couldn’t be. This wasn’t a Hydra operative. This was an animal: captive, scared, forced to hurt others to avoid being hurt. She dressed quickly in one of the guards’ clothes, tucked the pistol into her new belt, and took up a rifle. The gunshots would bring more guards soon. She was contemplating this when the Soldier finally spoke.

“Left, left, straight, right, up two flights, right, right.”

“What did you say?” She trained the gun on him again.

“Kuznetsov” (he glanced at the interrogator) “punished me to the point of unconsciousness. That’s why I couldn’t stop you,” he explained steadily. “Repeat it back. Hurry.”

He was letting her go free. He was giving her the way out.

She repeated the directions back to him twice before he nodded and sank back down to the ground, lying as he would had he truly been knocked out.

“You need to disappear,” he told her from the floor. “They’ll send me after you. I won’t get to make this choice a second time.”

Marta nodded, tightened her grip on the gun, and got the Hell out of there.

I feel like I've read this before on this trashmeme??? Or maybe on AO3? I mean, I love it then, too. Just trying to source this, is all.

A!A: The only way you'd have read this particular thing before is if I've shared the Gdoc with you, lol. It's part of a much larger thing that is also not yet published.

ah! nevermind, then! ^^;;;;;

(OP here)

That was incredible, I loved the narration and how badass she was. Thank you so much for sharing it!

Poor Bucky trying to look for orders after his handler is dead oh my broken heart

I wonder if they ever tried again after that, or just put it in the file to avoid from then on?

(A!A) Yay I'm glad you liked it, even though it wasn't quite the prompt! Nope, after that they figured he was useless for that particular type of work.

Well that’s something I suppose. I’m glad it had a happy ending for her and like... as close as it’s possible to get for the poor soldier in that scenario!

Oh, this is magnificent!

This is very well written!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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

Re: Female POV Noncon

Re: Female POV Noncon

Sort-of Mini Fill: Spies Don't Cry (Excerpt) 1/1

Re: Sort-of Mini Fill: Spies Don't Cry (Excerpt) 1/1

Re: Sort-of Mini Fill: Spies Don't Cry (Excerpt) 1/1

Re: Sort-of Mini Fill: Spies Don't Cry (Excerpt) 1/1

Re: Sort-of Mini Fill: Spies Don't Cry (Excerpt) 1/1

Re: Sort-of Mini Fill: Spies Don't Cry (Excerpt) 1/1

Re: Sort-of Mini Fill: Spies Don't Cry (Excerpt) 1/1

Re: Sort-of Mini Fill: Spies Don't Cry (Excerpt) 1/1

Re: Sort-of Mini Fill: Spies Don't Cry (Excerpt) 1/1