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.

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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 13a Re: Identity Porn in captivity

[(Anonymous)]

(A/N: Btw I know this fill has kind of differed from the spirit of the prompt somewhat, but I'm curious if OP is still around?)
--

Sleep eluded the Soldier. It happened only rarely, a fluke in that stretch of time between his body’s tolerance of the drugs increasing and the techs noticing. He’d grown accustomed to the ambient sounds and smells of the lab in much the same way: hushed conversations, isopropyl, the soft hum of equipment, the latex from their gloves …

The musky aftershave and rattling keys were out of place.

“So you got him a pet.”

It took him a moment to match the voice to Rumlow, and when he did, he very nearly gave up the ghost. He hid the abortive motion and the way he’d almost opened his eyes by rolling over and fluttering them, as though deep in a dream.

“I don’t follow.”

“He ain’t gonna do it. He’s soft with Rogers, and you know it.”

“The Soldier’s progress reports differ from yours significantly.”

“He’s lying.”

“The Soldier doesn’t lie. He isn’t capable.”

A disgusted scoff. A booted toe nudging his prone form. “I think he’s capable of more than you think. I think you’re getting scammed. Just let me handle this.” Knuckles grazing his cheek. A thumb tracing his lips.

He bit his tongue.

“You don’t know what we know. If you did, you would see the beauty of this.”

“The only beautiful thing in this plan is Rogers on his knees. Everything else is going to hell. He needs to be taught a lesson. Both of them. And the Soldier ain’t gonna teach himself. Take a look at Rogers after the Soldier’s done with him. Take a real look. It’s all just smoke and mirrors. He’ll still fight you. Was that in your plan this far out?”

There was a long pause before the other voice responded, during which the Soldier’s heart was lodged in his throat. “We have ways of dealing with the Soldier when he gets … unruly.”

Heavy footfalls led out of the lab before he could hear more.

So his superiors still weren’t confident in his conviction. They still had doubts. Rumlow was circling them in the tall grass. They’d stopped sending him out on missions already. They didn’t bother to hide their knowing glances or thinning patience. He wasn’t surprised, not really. He had known this would come.

The specter of the chair had loomed over him for as long as he could remember, but the lead ball his stomach became when he thought about it was now met by a more acute terror. If they put him in that chair, what would happen to Rogers? Who would they send in his place? Would someone else gain his trust only to break his heart while the Soldier continued to slip in and terrorize him at night? Would they wipe him every time?

He couldn’t tell which thought frightened him more, but it left him no choice. He needed to see Rogers again, and dire as Rogers’ situation was, he was still better off in the Soldier’s hands.

He’d put this off because he hated doing it, even to the other prisoners, even when he’d been a machine, but he knew what he had to do. The satisfaction on their faces when he requested the supplies he would need said it all. He’d made the right call.

As always, Rogers looked like hell when he walked in. He took a moment to breathe, to think. To prepare.

It was a relief that he had just enough lube left for this, but he’d be out after tonight. He didn’t dare ask for more. Not with the way the winds were shifting.

He flattened his palms over Rogers’ hips the same way he did every night, still feeling for his condition. Maybe he was was putting off the inevitable. What he really wanted was to run his hands down his back, down his thighs, search out all the soft places and shield them.

Rogers didn’t want to be touched, though. Not really. Not even with kindness. Perhaps especially not with kindness. Definitely not by him. What Rogers wanted mattered very little, really. But it mattered to the Soldier. Just because he had his orders didn’t mean he should indulge his ridiculous desires as though by virtue of having power, he also had the right.

He didn’t. This was wrong. It was wrong. Nothing the officers claimed could justify this. Not anymore. But it was where they were. There was no easy or obvious way out. Only through.

He pulled on the thick rubber glove first, all the way up to the elbow. It was tricky to tug over the plates and ridges of his arm, especially without tearing it, but he managed. When it was in place, he poured the last of his lube over it.

It was remarkable, really, the capacity of the human body. Truly remarkable. Rogers struggled in his bonds when he realized what was happening, but it didn’t change anything. He went slowly, but that didn’t mean he eased Rogers into it.

When he’d gone as far as he dared, his free hand drew the stun baton from his belt. He started at Rogers’ feet and worked his way up. The pressure sensors of his arm told him how effective the shocks were. Before long, sweat was beading on Rogers’ neck and he was jerking in the chains.

He went long past the point where he thought he’d done enough. If this didn’t prove this job belonged to him, then there would be no point in having done it at all. He had to get it right the first time.

God, he didn’t want there to be a second time.

By the time he was done, Rogers’ muscles had tensed so badly from the repeated shocks that sliding his hand out was an unpleasant struggle. He sighed. With a swift jerk, it came free. Rogers tried to curl in on himself, barely making it more than an inch.

So much for doing minimal damage.

He swallowed bile and counted to ten before he opened his pants.

Nothing happened. He stroked himself, rubbed off on Rogers’ back, spit in his hand and tried again, and … absolutely nothing.

Not even a twitch.

For maybe the first time since they’d begun using the Soldier for this purpose, or at least the first time in a very long while, he couldn’t get hard. Looking at Rogers only made it worse, made it feel like he’d never achieve a satisfactory erection ever again. It didn’t seem like the worst prospect, honestly. He’d be able to rest. He wouldn’t have to do this anymore. To anyone.

Would they know? If he didn’t finish, would they realize? Rogers’ ass was a mess. He was covered in burns. Surely that was enough. Did he really need to use him on top of damaging and degrading him?

He knew the answer was yes. They’d know. Somehow, they’d know. And if they suspected that he hadn’t been able or had refused to perform, then they might suspect why, and then this, once again, would have been pointless.

He swore, loud and long and vicious, until he could collect himself. The Soldier wasn’t prone to bursts of emotion, but he’d done so many things he wasn’t prone to because of this man.

He blew out a hard breath through his nose and tried again.

After a couple of fruitless minutes, he realized that making him wait like this, knowing he wasn’t alone, wondering what came next and when it would end, was probably crueler than the alternative. He slid the baton inside him, not with purpose or overt force, more as a placeholder. A silent message that, no, he wasn’t done, more was coming, but the hard part was over.

Desperation made him dig deep. Steve against him, hot and solid, almost got movement, but he’d been so sick and miserable. He couldn’t ignore that for long. A brief stirring, but nothing substantial. He sighed. Steve under him, then. The velvety feel of his dick, his hands cradling the base of his skull, the intense way he’d stared at him before he’d let his head fall back.

The way he’d cried, devastating in his silence, his quietly understated wretchedness, with the Soldier’s lips still stretching wide around him. Cried and waited for it to be over for who knew how long before the Soldier had noticed.

Damn it. Damn it.

Okay. Fine. He hadn’t wanted to do this, but if that’s what it took …

Steve’s mouth around him was seared into his brain. There was nothing complicated about that, right? Nothing but the obvious. He’d ignored it at the time. He could ignore it now. His tongue working with more skill than the Soldier had been able to muster, firm and confident. He’d done that before, clearly. Hopefully in better circumstances.

Rumlow had wanted his mouth.

Fuck.

He couldn’t stop himself. Before he even realized what he was doing, he’d rested his forehead between Steve’s shoulder blades, above the patch. It was so many levels of wrong to draw comfort from him because he couldn’t get it up, even though it was, perversely, in Rogers’ best interest that he manage to. Probably even worse than using the memory of his mouth to work himself up to fuck him against his will.

He flopped onto his ass and leaned against Rogers’ side, still idly stroking himself without much expectation. If Steve almost willingly between his legs wasn’t getting it done, it stood to reason that nothing would.

God, the way Steve had looked at him just before he’d opened his mouth, the ghost of something --

-- sharp humor in his eyes, like he was in on a joke that only he understood; soft blond hair flopping forward over his brow. It had dried wrong and was sticking up everywhere. He reached out to run his fingers through the clean, fluffy strands, and Steve let him, tilted his narrow, angular face into his hand like a cat, eyes closing with languid pleasure. His other hand went to Steve’s taut lips, to graze his thumb over them, under his chin, over his throat.

His hands. His warm, soft, flesh hands. Both of them.

He panted, shaking and frightened. That -- Steve had lost weight, but he wasn’t that skinny, wasn’t that clean, that careless and joyful and free. And. His hands. His hands.

He didn’t have to give it any more thought for the moment. He swallowed a few times, collecting himself.

He was hard.