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.

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

[(Anonymous)]

He observed Rogers through his bangs as he gathered himself, rolling to his knees and then up onto his feet. It was unclear if Rogers was even aware that he was there until he leaned into the wall beside him and slid down to the floor, close enough to feel the fever rising from his clammy skin; from which sweat poured so freely that it had actually managed to partially dissolve the crust of filth that perpetually covered him, revealing in its wake wide swaths of sickly paleness and patches of mottled rash. The urge to lay a hand across the back of Rogers’ neck swelled and burst -- it would be stupid and not possible even if he had the use of his hands. He nudged Rogers’ foot with his own instead.

Rogers startled badly, falling onto his shoulder with a grunt and a grimace as he tried to whip around.

Completely unnecessarily, the Soldier could only say, “It’s me.”

“Course it’s you.” His laugh was discordant and scratchy. It made the back of the Soldier’s neck buzz and prickle.

Rogers started to sit up, but his arms shook so badly that he gave up and dropped heavily back onto the floor. His eyes were squeezed shut, hard breaths moving his chest irregularly. It was pitiful to watch.

The Soldier wasn’t sure how to proceed. Nothing useful could come from this meeting, and yet he couldn’t leave. But he didn’t really want to leave, when it came down to it. He could admit that to himself. The idea of leaving Rogers alone like this shot a powerful wave of unease through him, powerful enough to cut through the denial he’d been cloaking his Rogers-related desires in. He shouldn’t have to suffer alone. Dwelling on that ache couldn’t distract him from the knowledge of what he would be forced to do to Rogers the next time he saw him. As soon as he left this room, it was only a matter of time before they ordered him to return and fulfill his other obligation.

He’d do it. He’d follow his orders and continue his mission. For the first time, though, the feelings that simmered in his gut when he thought about this organization were coalescing into a glowing coal of hatred. The anger was good, though. It kept his hands steady while he worked. But here it did nothing, served only to make him restless.

He slid closer to Rogers as quietly as he could, but he doubted it mattered. Rogers was in his own little world of misery, and the longer he watched, the more tenuous Rogers’ grasp on reality seemed. His shivering had become violent spasms, the chains rattling constantly and leaving new bruises where they fell across him. His chest moved rapidly, dragging in desperate, shallow breaths and wheezing out harsh puffs.

He knew intimately the kind of damage Rogers had endured in this place. In all this time, he hadn’t really acknowledged his discomfort, laughing it off the few times he’d come close, even when the Soldier knew it had to be severe. Some of the things he’d done would be debilitating to a normal person. Some had proven temporarily debilitating to Rogers. Seeing him like this was alarming.

When Rogers started to choke, body bowstring tight and face ashen, the Soldier couldn’t take it anymore. He nudged Rogers onto his front with his foot, rolled to his knees beside him, and leaned over his back. With his arms bound, he supported himself with his chest on Rogers’ shoulders, trying to do so as lightly as possible.

Rogers protested, unwillingness in every angle of his body, every weak shift of his limbs as he moaned his resistance. He was right to protest, of course. A strange calmness wrapped its way around the Soldier at the thought that this was the first time he’d even been able to. Every time the Soldier had tormented him, he’d already been bound and waiting. He couldn’t beg, or bargain, or scream. He couldn’t even glare his hatred through the mask. He was effectively an object for violence without even the option to attempt defiance, a fighter denied the dignity of a fight. Even breaking the Soldier’s nose didn’t count for much, all things considered. But now, with the Soldier’s weight on him from behind and finally the ability to put up a struggle, to choose and have a voice, he did.

And failed, too weak to push away the nightmare now that he had his chance.

He didn’t try to soothe Rogers. Whether he felt betrayed at Call Me Jimmy’s apparent actions -- or wasn’t cognizant enough to understand more than how badly he didn’t want what usually followed someone pressing against his back, or maybe was just reacting purely on instinct -- was unclear, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that this would be unpleasant and invasive for Rogers no matter what and Rogers was too far gone to agree to it, so he tried to work quickly.

When the Soldier’s lips touched his neck, Rogers shuddered and cringed. The Soldier scraped his teeth against a corner of the patch, tasting salt from Rogers’ skin and the pungent bitterness of the poison. When it finally pulled slightly away, he clenched it in his teeth and carefully peeled it off, trying not to take too much skin with it. By the time he’d removed it completely and spat it onto the floor, his lips were tingling and he was lightheaded, a headache pulsing behind his eyes and nausea stirring his stomach. All from being in contact with the active side of the patch for just a few minutes.

Rogers had been wearing it for days.

He took a few minutes to collect himself, shuffling away to give Rogers space in the wake of that necessary violation before he had to do it again. The one between his shoulder blades was trickier, the angle worse, but Rogers seemed to realize by now that he wasn’t being taken advantage of in this vulnerable state. He continued to squirm and pant, deeply uncomfortable with the Soldier straddling him from behind to reach the awkward spot, but he didn’t try to pull away. The skin exposed to the patches looked raw, like a chemical burn.

If he pushed the patches into the drain, they would likely be found. One patch they might assume was Rogers’ doing, but the one between his shoulders was intentionally positioned in such an awkward place, with the patch extremely thin and difficult to grab and the adhesive exceptionally strong. In this state, in these chains, they would be suspicious at the idea of Rogers removing it himself. But if they just disappeared, that would be suspicious as well. In the end, he used his feet to maneuver them into the inside cuff of his pant leg, hoping that he wouldn’t be searched when the gas rushed in and he was extracted. If it wasn’t found, he’d dispose of it then and hope they didn’t realize, and if asked, he’d be forced to explain that he could extract nothing useful from Rogers in this state and had taken the matter into his own hands.

It took some time for Rogers’ chest to finally slow, still gulping air but not as desperately. His muscles twitched but no longer jerked. He was almost still.

The Soldier sighed.

“C’mere,” he murmured. When Rogers didn’t react, he shifted closer until he could slip a knee under Rogers’ shoulder. “Scoot up. I can’t pull you.”

Rogers wrapped an arm over the Soldier’s leg to haul himself across his lap from the shoulders up. It looked tiresome and arduous just maneuvering himself, let alone dragging the chain up, but it struck the Soldier, as Rogers shifted to get comfortable and rest his head, that it happened very quickly. Without protesting or even considering, Rogers had listened. He’d allowed the Soldier to touch him and even brought himself closer. He wasn’t exactly standoffish the rest of the time, but with the context that the Soldier had, and what he’d just had to do, it really showed the compromised state he was in.

For a while, they rested like that, motionless and silent. Rogers was boneless with fatigue and bleeding heat through the Soldier’s pants, sweat and filth soaking into the dense fabric. They’d been close before, shared strangely, intensely intimate moments, but it was a careful intimacy, not a comfortable one. Rogers’ mind never slowed, and there was a deliberateness to his every action, his every move. They were at arms’ length and always slightly wary and unsure, forced together only by necessity but otherwise in their own space. The only other times the Soldier had been this close to Rogers … well, they’d been as close as possible, but with a rigid and unwilling victim, the line was clear.

Rogers collapsed across him, head pillowed on his thigh so close to his dick that the friction of his pants made him twitch, was utterly unlike those times. He didn’t deserve this, this trust, and Rogers deserved this betrayal even less. His stomach roiled with something he thought might be shame, considering only briefly pushing Rogers away, but in the end, the decision was easy.

It was tricky to bend his leg and get his foot up high enough to rub whatever part of Rogers he could reach, but when he shuddered with relief and sighed, the Soldier knew it was worth it. He dragged his toes over Rogers’ knee where it was bent forward, down his leg, over the top of his foot, down and up and down and up, just to give the man some skin-on-skin contact that wasn’t trying to destroy him for a change. He kept it up after his leg started cramping, until Rogers’ breathing finally evened out enough that he might have been asleep.

The Soldier stretched his leg back out carefully, trying not to jostle him, and tipped his head back into the wall. He closed his eyes, but when Rogers started mumbling and shifting, they flew open.

“Buck,” he was saying, slurred and slow, breaths pushed tightly past his dry lips. “Buck … hurts.”

A dull rushing filled the Soldier’s head. His fingers flexed in the sleeves of the jacket. The seams creaked in warning, the sound sending visceral sparks up his spine.

“Hurts how?” he said. His voice drifted out of him like smoke, barely there and nearly as silent. He felt about as solid.

Rogers heard him anyway, so close and so quiet. “Everywhere. Everything. Just hurts.”