hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire

Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire

Welcome to the latest, greatest, scummiest iteration of

hydratrashmeme. Come on in and please check your sense of shame at the door.

Rules in brief: Don't be a jerk except to fictional characters. Warn if you want, but read at your own risk, because this is emphatically not a safe space. Link your fills on the fill post. Unprompted fills: make a prompt or a header comment and reply to it with the full text. Continuations of fills from earlier rounds: just make sure you link in both places.

What's on-topic: Filthy and perverted twists on all the quality whump served up by Cap: Winter Soldier. Noncon, aftermath, uncomfortably sexualized violence, mind control, inappropriate uses of Bucky Barnes' metal arm, bad guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves.
What's off-topic: a/b/o, D/s-verse, soulbonds, mundane AUs, shippy/romanticized noncon, MCU heroes repurposed into OOC or edgydark delivery vehicles for your fave's suffering. If you've got a prompt for one of those burning a hole in your brain, head on over to

mcu_trash.

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If OP doesn't mind I will fill on the other meme- if this is something OP wants from me- otherwise ehh I can go fill other things.

OP here. I'm in this for the degradation and supremely awkward forced voyeurism of a human becoming a zoo exhibit and the embarrassment of being made to fuck while scientists are all up in your business. I love the idea of Peter as one of the visitors!

I'd be equally happy to have either an omegaverse fill, or the standard attempted-mpreg-due-to-mad-science scenario. If you'd like to move it to the other meme or end up having to because of restrictions here, that's perfectly fine with me. Thanks for considering filling this!

This is so spectacular, I can't wait for more!

I love friend Pierce and friend Rumlow! These parts made my skin crawl.

Oh Steve. You were meant for more than this, you know.

(If you somehow integrated this line into the story I would cackle with delight.)

*sniffs* I'd read it

Rumlow and co. wanna fuck steve but hydra is above rape, obviously. So they strip him of his clothes, water him down and put him out in the freezing cold. Cue flashbacks to being frozen alive :)
But he can come inside to the cozy, warm cabin. He just needs to consent to being their little fuckdoll

+ if the fucking itself is filmed

+1000 if while inside they make him reaffirm that he wants this, reminding him of the cold when he hesitates

(this general idea was prompted by someone last last dumpster, im pretty sure, but I don't have the link and I don't think it was ever filled)

Holy SHIT anon the actual milking Steve like a cow thing - fucking beautiful imagery right there. Literally treating him like an animal that they are entitled to touch as they please. Steve moaning and whimpering loudly through the gag but them completely ignoring him as they would a braying cow. Complete lack of embarrassment at touching his genitals and intimate areas as though he's not even human, as though it's no different from touching his elbow. Complete lack of sexualisation in the process at all - literally they are pumping him until they get what they want, and then doing it again and again, just like if they were churning butter or something. The best part is I'm imagining Steve LOVING it cause it feels so good and it's such a relief on his poor swollen balls, but underneath it all he's embarrassed and ashamed at the way he's twitching his hips and willing them to touch him harder

Well now I'm picturing some bored intern being in charge of the fucking machine or manual milking (cause maybe they have to give him a break from the machine every now and again? Maybe it's too harsh and is wearing out his genitals idk) and literally just jerking Steve off, listening to the radio or looking at his watch waiting for lunchtime cause his wrist is getting tired. He'd know that when Steve starts making certain noises and his cock twitches that bit more and throbs in his hand he needs to get the collection jar ready, and pretty soon Steve will be squirting into the jar while the intern runs his hand down his cock, squeezing every drop out while Steve goes cross eyed

Oh my gosh this is pure evil i’m in love w/ it

I really hope this gets filled!

I am always here for supersoldiers being forced to "consent" to the trash treatment.

*sets up camp*

Two parts instead of one today, because DW thought the comment was too long and I had to split it.

**

He knows the route to Rumlow’s house well, even though it’s dark and he can’t remember when he has traveled here in a car before. The soldier could get to the house on his own, if he needed to. It wouldn’t be hard to steal a vehicle.

The larger man, Rumlow’s friend—he remembers his name, vaguely, but it’s after the mission so it’s not important—rides in the back seat with the soldier while Rumlow is driving. The soldier knows Rumlow often likes having this man around, although he can’t remember why. They had not interacted much on this mission, and the soldier can’t remember the man being particularly nice to him, or particularly cruel. For most of the ride he expects that the man will say something to him, and that maybe it will trigger a more definite negative or positive feeling, but instead the man spends the entire drive playing a game on his phone.

The soldier watches him for a while, frowning, then looks back out the window. The car has stopped on one of the dark streets, waiting for a light to change color up ahead. His head hurts. Something has been building up slowly, like a weight in his stomach, since the two of them took him out of the building through the largely unused exit people always use when the soldier is with them. It’s not—it’s not anger, not now. But it’s something, something that makes his whole body feel tense, like he is still in the cold room with the technicians instead of sitting on a soft leather seat inside a car. A very long time ago, back when the scientists had all spoken Russian, they had sometimes tested substances on small animals before they tried them out on the soldier. They wanted to see if the soldier would survive, and he always did. The animals had been closed off behind glass so that the gases and liquids they used on them would not hurt the scientists. The animals had died, and some of them had scratched at the glass first. Now he is with his friend and he should feel safe, but the soldier keeps remembering the animals. It’s like there is an animal like that inside his head, scratching at something in there, painful.

It doesn’t make sense. There is no immanent danger. He is not badly injured. He is not around the others anymore. He should feel safe. So why does his head keep getting worse?

Across from him, the larger man’s phone game dings loudly, and he makes a satisfied snorting noise. The phone's screen is glowing bright in the dark interior of the car, lighting up the man’s face from underneath. The soldier looks away from that, back out the window, and soon the light changes color and the car speeds up again. The something-like-scratching in the soldier’s head doesn’t go away.

Rumlow waits until the automatic garage door has closed itself behind them before he turns off the engine, and then he looks up at the soldier in the rearview mirror and smiles before opening his door. The soldier doesn’t move: he knows, somehow, that right now he is expected to wait here instead of getting out of the vehicle by himself. Sure enough, Rumlow opens the soldier’s door and grabs him by the human arm, his hand clutching him just above the elbow. Rumlow says something across the soldier to his friend, who holds up a finger to indicate that he’s still busy with something on his phone. Rumlow shrugs, and pulls on the soldier’s arm. The soldier stands, Rumlow's hand gripping tight through his clothing as if the soldier is so hurt that he can’t walk, even though he isn’t.

The door out of the garage leads, oddly, into something like a small laundry room, with tiles on the floor, and a bright overhead light that Rumlow turns on—he remembers this room, but he still can’t help but be surprised: why do people have houses now that lead into laundry rooms? He doesn’t ask, of course, just waits silently near the small set of shelves next to the washing machine as Rumlow puts down his keys, as he undoes his boots and kicks them off. Then Rumlow is in front of him again, tilting the soldier’s head down slightly to get a better look under the light.

“Christ,” he says, and he whistles softly. “They really did a number on you.”

The soldier doesn’t react. His injuries do not seem worse than usual. There’s a tight soreness over his right cheekbone that feels like a still-healing cut, and his throat still hurts when he swallows, and he aches down his left leg from an awkward fall during the mission, but mostly he is already repaired. The only thing that's bothering him is the odd pain in his head, which seems to have already gotten worse since they entered the house.

Something about it must show on his face, as well, because now Rumlow frowns at him. He leans a little closer, like he is about to say something, but then there’s the sound of someone loudly clearing his throat from the doorway.

Rumlow’s friend must have finished with whatever he’d been doing with his phone. He steps into the small room and shoves the door closed behind him with a loud thud, like he’s deliberately trying to make a lot of noise. “Hi,” he says. “So sorry I interrupted.”

“You’re free to leave,” Rumlow says to him over the soldier’s shoulder, but his voice is light. “I’ll call you a ride, even.”

“You know I can’t,” the man says. The room is narrow and he is big, but still, when he hits Rumlow’s shoulder with his own on his way past them, it seems deliberate. “Pierce says you’re not allowed to keep him overnight without supervision anymore,” he goes on. “He’s worried about you getting carried away again.”

Rumlow has to turn away from the soldier to look at him now, and the soldier can’t see his expression. “Whatever,” he says. “But watch your boots. You tracked blood all over the carpet last time you were here.”

“It’s dried already,” the man says and shrugs, and Rumlow turns back to the soldier. He is smiling.

The soldier’s head is really hurting. The tone of the conversation had been wrong—it was as if everything they said was part of some joke between them, but if Pierce had really told the man that, why were they both treating it like it wasn’t serious? People were supposed to do what Pierce said. If the man had been joking, why is he really sticking around? And—

Rumlow’s hand is on his human arm again, tight. “Come on,” he’s saying to him, and the soldier follows him out of the strange entranceway with the laundry machines, out through a living room and down a hallway. Rumlow doesn’t seem worried about him tracking blood, even though there is quite a large amount on him from the mission. They go into a bedroom, and the soldier’s head feels even worse, but they don’t stay: Rumlow pushes open another door and pulls him by his arm into a bathroom, flicking on the lights on the way.

The soldier looks around. The room is bright white and small: a sink and toilet along one wall, and beyond that a shower with a glass door. The soldier had been at another house recently where the bathroom had been much bigger, although he doesn’t remember whose house it was.

Standing behind him slightly in the doorway, Rumlow reaches over and flicks another switch by the door: the lights had already been on, but now the room gets even brighter. The soldier allows his eyes to dart upwards to look at the four glowing glass circles set in the white ceiling, arranged between the normal lights.

Rumlow smiles when the soldier looks back at him. “It’s a heater, see? Makes it nice and warm in here.”

The soldier nods, the movement stiff. His whole body aches and feels light, like whatever has been going wrong in his head is spreading out all the way through him. Rumlow leads him forward two steps so the soldier is in front of the sink, and lets go of his arm, moves away to turn on the shower. Then he is back in front of him, close enough for the soldier to smell cigarettes on his clothing, and the smoke and blood and sweat from the mission.

“Let’s get this gear off,” he says over the new noise of the water hitting the tiles.

The soldier lets him, standing with the edge of the sink at his back. Rumlow begins with his boots, kneeling down on the clean tiled floor and helping the soldier step out of them, then stands up to start on his vest. The soldier isn’t injured, and he could do all of this himself, but—many people take his clothes off and put them on. It is okay. The air is cold on his skin where the clothing has been removed. Rumlow is very near, and the sink is close up against his back. Rumlow reaches for the fastenings on his pants and he—

“Hey,” Rumlow snaps and the soldier flinches. “Hold still. It’s me.”

The soldier had shrunk back, just a little, without meaning to, and he can’t miss the flicker of raw annoyance on the other man’s face.

I’m sorry, he wants to say, but it won’t come out. He takes in a breath, and moves his hands to grip down on the lip of the sink behind him: this way he can brace himself against shifting backward. The surface is smooth and cool under the fingertips of his right hand; his left hand can feel the hardness if not the temperature. It is okay.

He is being childish. He has been acting stupidly since they came here, since he got in Rumlow's car. He knows where he is, he remembers this place, he is safe; he is being stupid. It is okay. Everything is okay.

The soldier breathes in again, steady now, and he doesn’t move at all when Rumlow starts again on his pants.

“There you go,” Rumlow says, pushing the fabric down over the soldier’s thighs. The air is still not quite warm enough even with those heaters on, even with the steam from the shower slowly filling the room. “Lucky I make the others keep your gear on,” he says, and he is pulling down his underwear as well, sliding it down over his hips. “Above the neck only with everyone else, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.” He is trying to steady his breath, which for some reason has escaped him again.

Rumlow leads him to step out of the last of his clothing, straightens himself up in front of the soldier's naked body. “Not like it used to be, huh?” he says.

The soldier doesn’t answer. With his own boots off now, the difference in height between them has decreased, and Rumlow’s smile is very close. Steam is everywhere now, lit up in the glare from the lights overhead, but there’s not enough steam in the room to make it this hard to breathe. He doesn’t know why he can’t breathe.

“Better this way than before, yeah?” Rumlow prompts. This time the soldier makes himself nod. The noise from the shower is very loud. It is so bright in here. Everything is—his head—

“Now hold still,” Rumlow says, loud, and he is still looking at the soldier but the soldier sees that now he has his hands on his own belt, undoing the buckle, and he—the soldier has to hold still. He must not seem like a threat. The person who used to be in charge of the soldier had explained this to him. The soldier is frightening, he had said. He had explained everything very carefully. The soldier’s arm is frightening. The soldier is always too angry. The soldier looks like a monster.

He closes his eyes. It is dark. He is not here. The person who used to be in charge of the soldier is here. He is saying it now. They’re not scared of you after they see you cry, the man in charge says, and it is okay. It was harder back then before the rule about his neck, but it was good that the soldier’s team was not scared of him unnecessarily. It was part of the soldier’s work with HYDRA. The soldier had cried a lot when they were all in that house together, and it had been difficult, having them do that to him on that mission after they had all been working together for so long. But the man in charge had been right, and the others weren’t scared after that. They had made him walk the next day when he couldn’t walk. The soldier was angry, but they were not scared. It was good. It was—

“Hey. HEY.”

The loud voice makes him snap back: it is bright everywhere—his eyes are open, the sink is behind him, and something has snapped off in his hand.

He looks down, dumbly, at the metal palm of his left hand, at the chunk of white ceramic that used to be part of Rumlow's sink. He blinks.

Blank with terror, he looks up again at Rumlow’s face. The nauseating fear rising in his throat recedes a little when he realizes that the man doesn’t look angry at all.

Rumlow says: “Fuck, that’s never happened before,” and he sounds almost impressed, and then he laughs.

The soldier stares at him. He isn’t angry?

“Oh, baby,” he says, and his tone is concerned now, as if he’s comforting a small child, although he is still smiling. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” His hand is at the side of the soldier’s head, firm, cupping his skull. “It’s okay. You're okay,” His breath on the soldier’s cheek, his jaw. “You’re here with me now, yeah? I got you. Everything's fine.”

Rumlow isn’t angry. The soldier is okay. He is here, and he is safe. The knowledge is so overwhelming that it almost drowns out the shame he feels at acting so horrifically. He had started thinking about other things, about people that weren’t his friends—the fact that he had done such a thing inside Rumlow’s house is already unforgivable, and then he had lost focus and damaged his property—

—but somehow he has forgiven him, and it’s like everything inside the soldier is lighting up again and glowing.

(Note: There may or may not be more after this, but I wanted to at least share what I've got, so let's call it a minifill for now.)

"C'mon, Steve. Let me do this for you. Been too long, huh? Just relax and let me in. Let me take care of you, OK?"

Steve takes a few deep breaths and manages to unclench his teeth. The rest of him stays as tense as ever. "Too long" isn't the half of it. He hasn't even had his own fingers up there since before... well, before. No wonder Bucky's aren't making much headway.

This is for Bucky, he reminds himself sternly, and tries to make himself go limp and pliant. It's not easy--there isn't a single pliant muscle in this body. Sure makes a world of difference from last time they did this, when everything about him had been frail and readily manhandled into place. He's pretty sure he's not going to be weak enough to enjoy it this time.

It's okay, though. It's what Bucky wants. And offering up his body to give Bucky what he wants isn't exactly Steve's idea of a hardship.

"Sweetheart. Relax." Bucky's frowning at him now, trying to figure out what's got him so wound up. He's teasing Steve's hole with the warm fingers of his human hand. Pushing halfway in and then tugging at the rim, spreading him open a tiny bit at a time, like he wants to expose the hidden center of it for inspection. It's a move that used to drive Steve wild back in the day--Bucky slowly turning that secret, shameful part of him into something to be desired. Something to be fucked. Except now, even as it works, it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. This body isn't something to be fucked.

Maybe that's how they've got to do it for the time being, with Bucky still going somewhere else when Steve sucks him off and shaking through white-knuckled nightmares afterwards. But it's not something Steve's going to enjoy the way he used to.

At least, he hopes it isn't.

"Just stick 'em in, Buck. Stop teasing." Not like he hasn't taken worse.

A moment later, Bucky's probing finger pushes all the way inside him. The sensation's shockingly familiar even after all this time, countless evenings spent goading Bucky into fucking him till his knees gave out. Steve pushes aside the dull shame--the refrain of "what kind of a man lets someone do that to him? how could the guy fucking him have any respect for him at all?"--and tries to focus on the enjoyable memories. Because the other one is there too. The showers at Camp Lehigh. And Steve isn't going to think about that one, because Bucky deserves better than to have a lowlife like Hodge polluting their sex life.

"Steve, if you don't unclench a little, I don't think we can pull this off without breaking my dick." Bucky's exasperation still sounds fond, but he must've guessed by now that something's off.

"Sorry," Steve rasps, his voice coming out unexpectedly hoarse. "I, uh... kind of got a muscle upgrade since last time we did this. Gimme another minute to adjust, OK?”

“Sure, ‘cause you’ve done so much adjusting since we started.” Bucky strokes his metal hand through Steve’s hair to soften the sarcasm and starts working his finger in and out. A long drag that feels like it’s pulling Steve’s insides with it, an inexorable push back in like being penetrated all over again. Bucky adds some more lube and starts to thrust. “How’s this? Any of it coming back to you? You used to love this, doll--used to love getting fucked.”

Steve flinches.

Of course it’s too much to hope for that it’ll go unnoticed. Bucky isn’t stupid. He pulls his fingers out entirely and pushes Steve over onto his side to face him. Mostly he still looks puzzled, but the suspicion must already be lurking, because the look in his eyes is a little frightening. “Okay, seriously,” he says. “Steve, what the fuck?”

Rumlow pulls him closer, hand tangled in his filthy hair as he makes shushing noises next to his ear, and the soldier even dares to lean forward a little, letting the broken piece of sink drop out of his hand to hit the floor with a clunk. He wants—maybe his friend will keep touching him, keep petting his head like that. Rumlow doesn’t, but he does take the soldier’s human arm again and lead him toward the shower, which is even better.

Rumlow had gotten his own clothes off at some point—the soldier doesn’t remember when—so he is able to get right into the shower with him, positioning the soldier under the flow of water from the silver showerhead. The space is tiny once the clear glass door closes behind them, and the water on his back and neck is so hot it hurts, but it’s so nice that he doesn’t even try to shrink away from it.

His friend is so close to him, smiling, and his teeth are very white and his fingers are pressed strong against the back of the soldier’s head, and this is too nice. Nothing this nice should exist. He didn’t know anything like this could exist, not for someone like him. He is trembling, the hot water against his back cutting into him like it will overload his nerves. He feels like he will melt into a puddle.

“There,” Rumlow says. “Don’t you feel better now?”

He nods. He is safe now, so he lets his eyes close. The heat and the warm air are taking up so much of his head that he doesn’t even remember why he hadn't felt better before. He doesn’t want to remember. There is only the two of them and this tiny warm space.

Rumlow is still looking at him when he opens his eyes again. He pats the side of the soldier's head, then gives a strange little smile, his eyes distant. “Every time,” he murmurs, quietly, like he's talking to himself.

The soldier doesn’t know what he means, but it doesn’t really matter, because now his friend is touching him, hands on his wet skin. One hand cupping the soldier's chin while the other runs over a bruise on his thigh, strokes up over his hip. He even leans in and kisses the soldier on his left shoulder, on the worst part of it, brushes his lips along his scars there next to where the water is hitting them. The soldier does not know the look on his own face when Rumlow does that, but whatever is there must make his friend happy, because when he pulls back to look at him he’s grinning even more. His face is wet now: the soldier watches through the steam as little droplets of it run down his jaw.

He keeps touching, and the soldier lets himself drift again. Rumlow has a washcloth, covered with that liquid soap people use now, and he starts washing the last of the blood and muck off the soldier’s face, his neck, running the washcloth down the rest of his body, and it’s so nice he wants to cry. The cold that’s always there, always down to his bones no matter how long he has been out of cryo, has receded to a faint background numbness. When Rumlow reaches past him and shuts off the water, he can’t help the little hiss that comes out of his mouth at the sudden lack of warmth.

Luckily, his friend ignores it. He steps out of the shower and then hands the soldier a towel, allows him to dry himself down and to wrap the towel around himself, and then they’re back out in the cooler air of the bedroom. Rumlow puts on some of his own clothes, and then leads the soldier back out down the hallway, this time with an arm around his shoulder. His fingertips where they touch the scars on the soldier's shoulder are rough, and colder now than the hot skin there.

The leading him doesn’t seem so strange now. Rumlow doesn’t believe that the soldier is hurt—he is just helping him. The soldier doesn’t know what he’d been so upset about before. His friend is extremely nice to him.

The other man is still there, sitting on one of the high stools that are set behind the very clean countertop in the kitchen. There’s an open bottle of brownish alcohol in front of him, and a mostly empty glass. He looks up, glances between them, and then rolls his eyes.

“Shut the fuck up,” Rumlow says, even though the other man hadn’t said anything.

The man takes a gulp from his glass and raises his eyebrows. “Got your usual plans, then?”

“None of your fucking business,” Rumlow says. He reaches across the shiny countertop to grab the bottle.

“I’m in your fucking house, it’s my business.”

Rumlow doesn’t answer. He holds up the bottle and looks at the soldier, who nods, and Rumlow gets two more glasses from one of the cupboards.

The drink has no effect on him, of course, but the taste is familiar in a way he doesn’t understand, a way that’s completely unconnected to any memories—it feels like the kind of thing he would drink if he had not killed anybody, although of course the men here with him are also drinking it, and they have killed people. The surface of the glass is cold against his human fingers, but the drink feels warm going down his throat, in his belly. He swallows all of it, and his friend pours him another. The other man reaches over to grab the bottle back, refills his own glass again.

“Hey,” Rumlow says. “That shit’s expensive.”

“Then why the fuck are you wasting it on him? ‘Sides, it’s my fucking compensation for tonight.” The man’s voice is a little louder than it should be. Despite his size, despite the fact that they could not have spent that long in the shower away from him, he seems to be slightly drunk already.

Rumlow doesn’t answer him. He takes the bottle back and pours the soldier a third drink.

The other man looks up at the soldier then, eyes running over him, staying for a long moment on his metal arm. The soldier doesn’t flinch, and the man puts his glass down, and pauses a second, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and burping softly. Then he looks back at Rumlow. “It’s fucking sick, man, what you make him do.”

The soldier feels his hand grip down on his own glass. He is not sure why. But he is feeling better now, and the glass doesn’t break. Nothing breaks.

Next to him, Rumlow smiles, even though the other man is not smiling, and doesn’t seem to be joking at all. “I’m not gonna make him do anything,” he says.

The other man looks at him, then looks at the soldier, and then reaches for the bottle again.

Sorry this isn't porny, or sexy in the slightest. Hope it kind of fits what you were after? Also, I have another three or so ideas related to this prompt so don't be surprised if you get more fills on this... But I just wanted to write something.

***

Bucky hadn't meant to hope, but it was an insidious little bastard that had wormed its way inside of him. He'd always believed in that little punk, and that belief was going to be the death of him.

When they'd found him, through the haze of pain, he'd thought that maybe they were there to rescue him. But the voices had been unfamiliar, and the uniforms unfamiliar, and then there was a voice that was *very* familiar. The pain hadn't stopped. He didn't even have the strength to scream that first day, but in the fog in his mind, he kept hoping, kept *believing* that Steve would come and rescue him.

But then a day had passed, and Steve wasn't there. The pain was deeper, and his mind sharper. That horrible familiar voice and the man attached to it did things to him. There was mind-clouding agony, over and over again. Still, he held on, and he fought, knowing that any hour now, Steve would be there. He'd done it before, and he'd do it again.

A week passed, nothing.

A month, maybe, he'd lost track of days, and nothing.

He was starting to lose a little of that hope, and he knew that everyone could sense it. He fought back harder, tried to escape, to save himself. But it only lead to more pain, pain so bad that he vomited over himself, that he passed out.

Like a mantra, he clung to his name, his numbers, mumbling them over and over. His first real mistake was verbalising Steve as his last hope; he hadn't meant to, but somewhere in the depths of his mind, he kept believing that maybe Steve would come for him. That traitorous voice had opened its fucking mouth, literally, begging for Steve for find him, and everything had stopped.

The scientists, the guards, everyone in the room stopped.

The pain paused.

The whir of machinery continued, dull in the background.

Bucky had fucked up, but he didn't know how.

And then, there had been laughter. Laughter at him. Laughter because Captain America had perished weeks ago. Furiously, breathing heavily, holding on with every last vestige of strength, he didn't believe it. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

It took several more weeks, months even, before Bucky believed it. But once he did... it was endgame really. Steve wasn't coming for him. And Steve was dead.

He tried, desperately, not to let them see how it affected him. But they knew. They had prodded, and pried, and torn him apart just to see how he worked. And they knew Steve was his weakness.

The guards didn't mind the screaming. They didn't mind the fighting; they liked it when he fought, liked that they could hurt him physically, without having to hold back. They seemed to enjoy the struggling.

After that, it was easy. The mind control, the torture. They were one thing, but it was after the scientists had left that the real horror always began. They didn't care how long it took his body to regenerate, what kinds of things his body could do. But they were impressed with how quickly he healed after the things they did to him each night, breathing in his ear about how it was like he was a sweet little virgin again.

His main handler was the worst. He didn't care about him feeling like a virgin each night, and he was even gentle at times. Well, as gentle as a person could be with a gun to his head. Physical violence was his style; but the soldier could handle that. It was the mind stuff that really fucked him up.

It was the whisper in his ear of Captain America perishing at Hydra's hands. How he'd tried to save the soldier, how he'd come for him, how he'd screamed for his friend, and how they'd made him suffer. His handler loved to regale him in details of the things they'd done to Captain America, the tortures they'd made him endure, how they'd raped him until there was nothing left, all while he screamed for Bucky.

His handler said he liked it when the soldier cried, loved the little sobs that would shake his body, make him that much tighter. Captain America had been the same, he promised, but with even more fight than the soldier. That was why they'd had to kill him, but slowly, so they could test the limits of his super soldier body.

After, his handler would lick his tears, clutching the soldier's face with one hand, and dragging the tip of his tongue up his cheek. And somehow, that felt dirtier than every abuse against his body.

The soldier tried to fight it, knew that each time he broke he was giving his handler exactly what he wanted. But every time, his handler found the right spot to push. And soon, all it took was seeing his handler for the tears to start, the sobs to shake his body.

*

When the soldier had an episode and killed his handler, he thought maybe that was the end of it. The physical tortures would continue, but at least the mind torture could finally stop.

As with his hope of being rescued; he was wrong.

*

Now that they knew the limits of his body, his handlers got worse. He didn't know how he knew that, couldn't remember his last handlers, but he just... knew. These were worse. Way worse.

They knew how to hurt him in ways he didn't even understand. They locked him to the floor, limp and broken, and then they'd take turns in seeing who could make the soldier cry first. They liked physical pain, which was a welcome relief. He didn't remember the mind pain, but he knew he preferred the physical.

On the cold floor of his cell, three handlers surrounded him. He didn't know what they used, just that he screamed until his throat felt like it was burning. They'd add insult to injury by fucking his mouth, making him gag and drool over himself, his eyes run. They laughed, but the soldier never understood what was so funny. They called him names, but he never understood what they were saying.

They used his body for hours, making him bleed, making him scream, making him cry. They always laughed when he cried, sniffing and sobbing into his upper arms, his arms always pulled taut in front of him.

He always tried not to, begged them to stop, begged them in every language he knew, told them he'd do anything, please just stop, please just stop. He always started silent, hoping that maybe, maybe if he didn't react, he'd be okay and it would be over with. But they liked to keep going until he was sobbing, clenching around their cocks with each convulsion of his body.

Sometimes, he even enjoyed what they were doing. They laughed when that happened too, and just hurt him until there was no way for him to enjoy it anymore.

*

The soldier learned not to cry alone, because crying always brought them in, and bringing them in meant pain.

*

It had been years. The soldier *knew* it had been years, lots of them, too many to count.

So when Captain America... Steve... found him, the soldier had wondered if this was a new experiment to try and break him more. It was going to work. Sobs broke from him almost instantly; Steve was still his weakest point. He had known painpainpain was going to come after this, but he hadn't been able to stop himself.

And then Steve had touched his face, and the experiment had felt so real, more real than any experiment the soldier had been through. Steve had brushed the tears off his face and didn't shove him into the floor to take advantage of his ugly crying, and that was the first hint that Bucky had that this might not be an experiment.

Instead, Steve cried too.

!!!!

the showers at camp lehigh!!!

reference to https://archiveofourown.org/works/11673849 and https://archiveofourown.org/works/11085660 ????

So, it's common knowledge that CW Bucky got a lil chubby. What if things go a bit differently, Bucky comes back home with Steve, and finally he can eat what he wants and doesn't have to stress about being in peak physical condition. Like he doesn't full on let himself go and go all overweight or obese, he just has a bit of a tum instead of washboard abs and a rounder face and he likes it that way. Steve likes this Bucky too, with his dad bod and long hair and beard and a newfound love for flannel.

It all goes to shit when Bucky's old friends (HYDRA ofc) show up when Steve's not home and aim for a good ol' trash party, just to find out that Bucko looks a lot different now.

Cue humiliation, fat shaming, HYDRA goons faking disgust/being genuinely disgusted yet still fucking Bucky, degration, shame shame shame etc etc.

+++ HYDRA friends tryin to get to Bucky by suggesting that Steve must be grossed out by him too / 'wondering' why Steve still puts up with Bucky

Holy shit anon, I'm so fucking glad this is still being posted, I'm not exaggerateing when I say this is my favourite prompt and fill ever on the trashmeme, and I thought that it would be forever a WIP when I found it - can't wait for more!!

Hoooooooly shit I love this!! Poor Bucky feeling suddenly disgusted at himself when he was so happy before, and even more disgusted at the fact that his rapists can make him feel this way - that he would care whether they find him attractive or not. Steve, who was probably absolutely fucking in love with Bucky's new softness and chub and how healthy he looks, seeing Bucky drawing into himself, looking more and more ashamed with each new taunt from strike and not being able to do anything about it

This is so awful and so amazing, it gives me the chills!

This is fantastic! Would love more!

That bonus OMG. There is not enough “bad guys capitalizing on post-WS Bucky’s insecurities” in this dumpster

i LOVE

The deprogrammer Natasha had sent to the Tower tapped his pen against a pad of paper. “Can you tell me in your own words why you made this appointment?”

Intensely uncomfortable, Steve said, “I didn’t. Natasha made it for me.”

“Hmm,” he said. When Steve didn’t say anything more, he asked, “So why am I here?”

Steve grit his teeth. “I thought she told you.“

“It’s important that you articulate it.”

Swallowing, Steve tried to put his thoughts in order. They kept being scattered by the wild anxiety of having Bucky out of sight. “I’ve been undercover with HYDRA for the last several months. I’ve been working to infiltrate them since shortly after the Chitauri invasion.”

”And? Why are we here today, Steve?”

“Can’t I just talk to Natasha about this stuff instead?” How could he ever tell this complete stranger what he’d done?

“I’m not here to judge you. This isn’t a debriefing. I’m here to help you.”

Yeah, right. Easy to say when he didn’t know what there was to judge Steve for.

This wasn't going to work out. He'd promised Natasha he would give it a try, but it was too much like talking to the doctor who came to the Retreat. Natasha must have known he wouldn't be comfortable with this. Maybe it was some kind of test?

The first week went from painful and awkward to hellish. Both supersoldiers were anxious and paranoid. Steve’s time as the asset’s handler gave him some experience with the traps in the Barnes protocols, but it was easy to spiral into panic over the uncertainty of Bucky’s beliefs.

The asset’s stable duration out of stasis isn’t ten days, Rumlow had said.

Steve had seen that for himself. At least he could avoid most of the violence he had accidentally triggered at the Retreat, but there was no avoiding the confusion, agitation, and mood swings. Bucky was on a hair trigger and definitely wasn’t hiding the sexual interest he was trying to present, but he wasn’t aggressive even when clingy. He offered himself. He didn’t try to initiate touch without permission. Steve hated that he couldn’t trust his own judgment as to what was conditioning and what was true.

And was before Natasha arrived from DC to remind him that truth was not all things to all people all the time. Followed by Barton who showed up later in the week to help himself to breakfast and deliver a horrifyingly insightful yet excruciatingly awkward speech about how long-term survival in the power of psychopaths meant subscribing to whatever reality those with the power were selling.

The main reason Steve didn’t tell him to stop talking was that Bucky had nearly beaten his face in again that morning and he didn’t want to aggravate anything. Well, that and his current desperation for a distraction.

Bucky wasn’t with him because Bucky was down in Bruce’s lab, sedated with one of the formulas Steve had stolen from HYDRA, while Bruce and Tony consulted an actual medical doctor about removing the few trackers Tony had been able to deactivate but not remove the night they had arrived.

He had half-expected to need to convince Bucky to let them sedate him, but Bucky had simply complied without argument, clinging to Steve's hand as he turned his head from the needle and closed his eyes. Bruce and Tony weren't the tech team, but Steve was sure the compliance had very little to do with having hurt Steve. Not long after that, Tony had told him to get out before his hand-wringing provoked a Code Green. Steve wasn’t much good at cooking anything that didn’t need boiling, but he could operate a toaster and scramble some eggs. He had started making food in supersoldier quantities to distract himself and ended up making breakfast for everyone after the assassins turned up.

"The Soldier was in for, what, all the way since '44, '45?"

"'52," contributed Natasha through a bite of toast. She was paging through a file in Russian that Steve hadn't been allowed to look at yet. "They really started working on him in '52. Cryo before then."

A year ago, Steve might have shuddered. Now, all he did was push his own plate away. "Buh ee dosn wi me," he protested.

"Promising sign," Natasha said, but she didn't sound happy about it. "But right now, that means no one is in full control of him and his sense of reality is breaking down."

Clint nodded.

"Expect things to get worse before they get better."

"Way worse," Clint confirmed.

Wonderful. Steve resisted the urge to put his head in his hands only because Bucky had fractured his cheekbone that morning.

"By the way," said Natasha, tapping the edge of the file against the table to straighten the papers before setting it down.

Steve made an affirmative grunt. Maybe she would tell him something he could really use to help Bucky, but he didn't really expect much.

"Have you eaten anything today?" She cast a concerned look at his untouched eggs.

He could feel his face twist, but he shook his head.

"Nothing?"

He shook his head again.

She sighed and tossed him a silver-packed block. "Remember what Bruce said?"

Steve sighed and opened the package. Three quarters every other day this week, half next week, and a quarter the week after, he remembered, making a face at the cloudy yellowish block. Apparently, all of the full-time food department had been HYDRA. Certain agents, Steve included, had been chemically manipulated as a matter of routine. The effect was that they grew antsier and antsier the longer they were away from work. It reinforced dependence and decreased the chance of forming stable relationships outside of the HYDRA coworkers. Of course, Steve's general level of anxiety had been high enough his pre-serum self would have dropped dead from stress a dozen times over. It was hard to tell how much effect the drugs had had on Steve, but Bucky needed to be weaned off them too, at much higher dosage, so they might as well both do it the easy way. Added to that, Bucky had been sharing his higher dosage drugs with Steve almost anytime they shared food on missions.

"That stuff is so weird," Clint said, watching Steve swallow chunks of drugged oily calorie bar. "It looks like something people put out for birds in the winter. Suet? Just without any seeds."

It would be better with seeds. "Don thin they designed for taste," Steve mumbled. It hurt to talk, but it hadn't been his jaw and it was probably only a hairline fracture by now.

"Oh, they probably did," Natasha corrected, "just not to be tasty."

Glancing at the clock on the microwave, Steve moved to get up.

"Stay in that chair, Steve. You have fifteen more minutes," Natasha said without looking. "You won't do anyone any favors showing up like that."

The drugs were already kicking in, fast like he remembered from the first time he'd had any on an empty stomach at the Lockbox. Without consciously deciding to obey, he dropped back into his chair and slumped back. There was an enormous bowl of scrambled eggs in front of him. As much as he wanted to get the taste out of his mouth, he didn't think he could stomach anything immediately after choking down the drugged rations.

"I just..." He stared at the ceiling and tried to speak without moving his face too much. "I wish he'd stop offering himself up. Sexually, I mean," he clarified with a wince that had nothing to do with his physical pain.

"Is it better or worse because you wish you could take him up on it?" Clint asked shrewdly.

"Way worse," Steve said, absolutely certain. Maybe I can fire the deprogrammer and just talk to Clint?

Neither supersoldier slept well or deeply, even though they slept better together. On the eleventh night since leaving HYDRA, Steve woke to Bucky gasping his name. His body was tense like he was struggling not to move and he was breathing heavily.

"Steve... Please... Don't... Steve. I. Steve..."

Steve sat up. There were limited phrases he could safely use to reassure him without being attacked. Not that he didn't deserve anything that happened as a result of waking Bucky from a nightmare about him.

"Bucky. Wake up. You're dreaming, Buck. Open your eyes. Bucky, c'mon, pal. Wake up."

“Steve,” Bucky gasped, lurching upright as he opened his eyes. His eyes landed on Steve's face and he collapsed toward him and... tried to kiss him?

Shit. Not that kind of nightmare. "Buck, no." Steve leaned away until he almost fell out of bed. "You were dreaming. We're not..."

Bucky curled back in on himself, eyes down but a scowl on his face. "We could be. Don't tell me we're not on my account, Steve. I don't remember much, but I know I'm yours. You say you're mine. Why isn't that enough? You fucked me before. Wasn't it good?"

"I... Give it time, Buck," Steve said weakly. "You never chose to be with me as anything but a friend. One of these days, you'll remember that. I won't take advantage of you like this."

"Just a kiss? Please?"

Steve hesitated. He hated saying no to Bucky and a kiss wasn't so bad, right?

No. He couldn't start down that path.

"Try to go back to sleep, Bucky," he said (ordered) and turned over on his side, facing away.

After a time, Bucky did.

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Page 23 of 68

Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire

Re: Supersoldier panda breeding program

Re: Supersoldier panda breeding program

Re: Fill: Good to the Last Drop (7/?)

Re: FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting 2/?

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ice ice baby

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Re: ice ice baby

FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting (3/?)

Minifill: Unclench

FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting (4/?)

Fill: Weepy, Steve/Bucky

Re: Minifill: Unclench

Fat shaming

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Re: FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting (4/?)

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Fill 102/110: Undeniable Plausibility - On to the aftermath!