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

[trashmod]

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.

Comments

FILL: Daybreak part 11b Re: Identity Porn in captivity

[(Anonymous)]

“Don’t look,” Rogers said as soon as he darted his eyes up at the Soldier and away to the far wall. “Just. Somewhere else, please.”

He sat against the wall in front of Rogers, angled away slightly to keep Rogers in his peripheral only. For a while, the only sound was Rogers’ heavy, focused breathing.

Rogers was tense, of course, but he also frequently tried to look over his shoulder toward the door, and eventually the Soldier realized why. It wasn’t just the compromising position. This changed the stakes. Before there’d been a pattern, been a rhythm, and this said that things were changing and anything could happen anytime. Call Me Jimmy time was safe time for Rogers, and now it wasn’t, and … Shit, he was probably humiliated, of course, but his primary concern must be that they weren’t finished. That whoever was assaulting him would come in and finish the job with Call Me Jimmy still present. Rumlow’s taunt was probably still fresh in his mind.

Something wound very tight deep in the Soldier’s chest at the bitter reassurance he couldn’t give that Rogers was, ironically, safer with him in the room. Rogers was waiting for a specter that wasn’t coming, had already arrived, but the Soldier had no way of telling him that.

There was an untouched tray by the door. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but he knew that he’d had time enough to shower, eat, be examined, and train between his last visit and this one.

“I know you want space,” he said with all the weight of a speculative weather observation, “but you have to drink something.”

Rogers laughed, and it was impressive how much he almost sounded like himself. Well, himself as the Soldier had known him, at any rate; he had no way of knowing who Rogers had been before this whole thing had begun -- a captain who opposed Hydra and watched a shocking variety of movies, more or less -- but even the Soldier knew that these were far from normal circumstances. Someone whose mind hadn’t been birthed into this life had to be changed by it.

“How do you suppose I do that?”

He didn’t answer right away, considering his options. “I’ll help you,” he finally said.

Rogers looked straight at him. His face scrunched in confusion. “What?”

“You’ve been feeding me this whole time. I could return the favor.”

“Setting aside the question of logistics for a moment…” Rogers squirmed, wincing. His fists were clenched in front of him, nails biting into his palms.

The Soldier thought about all the times he’d seen Rogers carefully avoid being on his knees for more than a moment, how much he obviously hated it. The Soldier hadn’t put him there, but it was hard not to feel responsible with Rogers writhing around the blunt weight in his ass that he had put there, the heavy chain between his clamped nipples swinging freely with every wriggle.

“Look,” he continued, voice surprisingly level, “this isn’t like that.”

“No, it’s worse. And I know this is different, but I didn’t exactly enjoy being hand-fed like a baby either”-- and that was a lie because of course he hadn’t appreciated it for the most part, but there were times when he hadn’t minded -- “and I’m telling you, you’ve gotta drink something.”

“So I can piss all over myself later, then.”

The Soldier winced at the possibility. He wasn’t wrong. They had no way of knowing how long they’d be there. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” he said, already moving toward the tray. He squinted in thought for a moment before kneeling down to grab the rim of the cup in his teeth and carry it back. He set it on the floor by his feet and sat beside Rogers.

“No.” Rogers was firm, uncannily so for a man in his position. “Whatever you have in mind, no.”

“Okay.” He breathed deeply for a few heartbeats. “I can respect that. Now, here’s the thing, though. It’s your business what you want to do, but me, see, I’m only touching half of this. So what happens to the rest is up to you.”

Rogers waited a moment, then another, staring at him with his face totally unreadable, and then he suddenly dropped his head and sobbed a laugh that rocked his entire body. “That was good,” he said as he finally settled back down, a slight wheeze in his voice. “Son of a bitch, that was good.”

He waited. “Fine. Fair enough. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, first, I was thinking I could take care of those.” He nodded toward the chain glinting beneath Rogers.

Color flushed high on his cheeks, but he didn’t say anything as the Soldier slid his foot under his chest to hook it on the chain and pause. When Rogers nodded, he jerked. The clamps came away cleanly, with barely a twitch on Rogers’ part despite how much it must have hurt. Perspective, he supposed. He tossed them away to the side.

It was awkward, and it took a bit of maneuvering and a very awkward explanation to a deeply skeptical Rogers, but he once again clenched the rim of the cup in his teeth to lift it, and then he carefully opened his lips and tipped his head back to slurp some water into his mouth and hold it there. He shuffled closer to Rogers and leaned down.

He’d never been so close to his face before. It was all he could do not to stare, but Rogers was uncomfortable enough without drawing this out. Rogers tilted his head back as far as he could in that position, straining his neck, and the Soldier quickly slotted his lips over Rogers’, waited for them to part, and opened his own to release his mouthful of reciprocity. It was a bizarre feeling, and a not inconsiderable amount trickled past the weak seal of their lips to run down Rogers’ chin.

They kept up like that until the cup was empty, with the Soldier dutifully taking a sip for Rogers and then a sip for himself, the process slow but engrossing. Under other circumstances, Rogers probably would have noticed that the Soldier was only pretending to swallow each mouthful he took for himself, in actuality leaving the entire cup for Rogers.

When they were finished, he glanced back at the tray and asked if Rogers could eat, but when he shuddered and turned him down flat, he didn’t push the issue.

The Soldier started up a conversation, mostly about how he’d fix the plot holes in some of the movies that Rogers had described. Rogers didn’t respond much, but he relaxed slightly, at least as much as he could.

-

It became clear that Rumlow was still visiting Rogers. Probably not every day, but with the marks adding up across his body, definitely more than once. He didn’t pull another stunt like that day on the platform (and it scared the Soldier how he must have underestimated Rumlow’s standing, if he’d been able to orchestrate that), but the Soldier had no idea what was happening.

Once, black and blue from the waist up, Rogers had gone to piss and suddenly laughed, saying, “I thought that felt like a kidney shot.” He started to ask the Soldier questions about Rumlow, but he didn’t have answers, only questions of his own. That night, he’d stolen a tube of analgesic cream left unattended in the lab and applied it to the worst of the bruising. He didn’t know if it would do much considering Rogers’ enhanced physiology, but it was worth a shot. The more chances he took, the more he stole, the more he realized the techs had become so accustomed to his presence that they were getting sloppy.

“He can’t kill me,” Rogers finally said. His certainty was chilling. “They need me for something. If they could kill me, they’d have done it already.”

-

Rumlow pressed an envelope into his hand, yanking his arm back like he’d tried to pet a snake and suddenly come to his senses. “This is from the research lab. You put one on the back of his neck, make sure it’s flush, and the other between his shoulders. The lab guys say it’s more potent on the neck, but the other one’s for backup in case he gets the first one off. This’ll keep him in his place. He’ll stay down.”

His usual handler looked on carefully, eyes narrowed as though he wasn’t sure how the Soldier would respond.

He nodded and turned toward the door, waiting to be led back to the round room to complete this new task. The unease that slithered through his guts was nothing new, but he wondered whether they were leaving this to him for their own safety or as another test of his compliance.

He waited to open the envelope until he was before Rogers, strung up back in the usual position. There were two patches inside, each giving off an acrid, chemical smell that burned his sinuses. He peeled off the backing and applied them as instructed, then worked steadily as usual when nothing happened.

The next morning, Rogers was pale and sluggish, but he kept up his end of the conversation. There was a palpable anxiety under his skin, though, that the Soldier hadn’t seen before, a helpless urgency with no way to fix it.

The next night, his posture loosened in his chains.

By day four, Rogers could barely sit up. From the moment the Soldier was tossed into the room, Rogers had already been hunched over the drain vomiting stomach acid.

If their goal was to extract information, they’d failed. Nothing useful could come from this. If their goal was to weaken him and make him suffer, they were succeeding in spades.