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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I gave it my best shot, with the less common "female villain" take: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20182045

Whoa! You went for it! Please keep going!

holy shit this was so intensely emotional thank you bless

You might like this fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5619853

Because sometimes reverse trash is fun.

The Winter Soldier likes to grab the newest STRIKE member during mission briefings/transit/whatever, haul the unfortunate rookie onto his lap, and then molest the hell out of them while the rest of the team awkwardly pretends not to notice.

Maybe this is something Pierce told the Soldier to do to keep the STRIKE team appropriately afraid and respectful of HYDRA's control over them, maybe it's secretly Rumlow's idea and he's getting off on it while pretending to be sympathetic and helpless to prevent it, or maybe the Winter Soldier's just sexually frustrated and knows there's not a damn thing anyone can do to stop him. Whatever the case, the rookie's ass suffers.

Bonus points for any of the following:
*No one warning the newbie about this beforehand, because how do you bring that up?
*It's not a one-off thing; the rookie is the asset's plaything indefinitely unless somebody else comes along.
*If this isn't all Rumlow's doing, the Soldier maintaining eye contact with him the entire time, silently daring him to intervene.
*The victim being Murphy.
*The rookie being uncomfortably turned on and trying to hide it so the rest of the team won't think they're a sick fuck
*The uncomfortable arousal being interrupted by gah freezing cold robot fingers in the ass

I love this idea of 'What if Winter is the trash-party one, not his handlers/Hydra?'
I second this.

I'm going through Dumpster 4 and instead 'robo beasts' I read 'robo breasts' and... yes.
Hydra giving Winter Soldier big metal titties, so fucking him isn't considered gay anymore. They can be used for fondling, or purely aesthetic reasons, or squeezing him into pretty dresses. Maybe someone fucks them?
Do I have to point out they're not doing wonders for Soldier's back?

Oh, it hurts so beautifully!

No one on the squad could figure out later whether it had been a mistake, a deliberate oversight, or done with full knowledge of the consequences. The plan had been to capture Captain America is advance of Insight so he couldn’t interfere, with the added bonus of giving the Hydra science division something to study. The initial plan hadn’t been bad, considering the very limited time frame they had to work with: collect Rogers in the Triskellion, get him in an elevator where he couldn’t run, cram him in with overwhelming odds, then cuff and subdue him. Science division though, had something to sweeten the pot.

Rumlow had watched, amused, as all of their stun batons got the modification of an injection delivery system.

“What’re they going to be packing, tranqs?” he asked.

“Oh no!” the woman had said brightly, packing a vial of something bright red into each baton. “Or well, not entirely. Some tranquilizer is in the mix, but he’d expect that. The other major component is an aphrodisiac! It’ll keep his mind on other things than fighting.”

Brock had laughed out loud at that, everyone had. The bonus of being able to get back at Rogers for his having to endure his sanctimonious bullshit before handing him over to the higher-ups was very appealing.

But everyone had been so focused on getting Rogers out of the game that no one had paused to think that with a dozen men all swinging their drugged batons in an enclosed space, that no one other than the target was going to get hit. And no one had really stopped to consider what the effects of a tranquilizing aphrodisiac would have on the average Joe.

By the time Brock had desperately injected Rogers in the gut in a last-ditch effort to get him under the influence, he himself was starting to succumb to the effects. His skin was triply sensitive, his muscles were like jelly, and all he wanted to do was lay there and orgasm his last remaining brain cells out. His thoughts were sluggish and he was achingly hard and horny. Everyone else was in the same damn boat, eyes glazed and half-lidded, squirming out of their confining clothes like snakes shedding their skin.

Rogers though… it looked like all the drug had done was replace his indomitable drive to fight with a drive to fuck. His face was sweating and his pants looked fit to burst. He literally tore his uniform off, his shield banging against the wall, and grabbed the nearest person, Mason. He was heavy-limbed and unresisting as Rogers flipped him onto his knees. Moaning like an animal, Rogers’ hand flew over his reddened erection, flushed and huge and sopping wet with precum. He came within a half-dozen strokes, a damn fountain of come spattering Mason’s ass. Rogers barely hesitated, not even going soft for a second, and spent about five second roughly shoving his come inside Mason’s hole with two fingers.

Mason’s eyes were dilated as hell as Rogers reared back and buried his dick inside Mason’s ass with a look of exquisitely painful relief. He thrust another handful of times, then suddenly reached down to grab Rollins, Hudson, and Westfahl. The first two he pressed their faces to his huge pecs and their pert nipples, hard and tight enough now to cut glass.

“Suck,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. Probably feeling as languid and horny and desperate for stimulation as Rumlow, and also knowing they’d probably be next on the buffet line of deep dicking if they didn’t, Rollins and Hudson went to work with sloppy enthusiasm. Rogers shoved Westfahl behind him, right at eye level with his peach of an ass. “Lick.” Westfahl applied his tongue to Rogers’ asshole apparently without a second’s thought, and some part of Rumlow was going to give him all kinds of shit for that later. But right now all Rumlow could do was watch, his body too heavy and sensitive, idly toying with himself with hands that just couldn’t get coordinated enough to give him any real action. All he could do was wait for what he knew was going to happen. He was too hot, unable to really move, and a deep, sick thrill was running through him watching Rogers bend his perfect body to the task at hand with no thought for anything else.

Rogers frantically thrust in Mason’s ass until he came, then pulled out and spilled on the floor, still coming buckets. He grabbed Rollins next, shoving him down as he swept Mason aside and used his other hand to bring Rumlow up to his oversized, perky chest. He didn’t have to say anything, because it was really damn clear what Rogers was going to demand from him. Rumlow wanted to turn his head away, but his skin was starved for any action, any stimulation. Rogers’ perky little nipple slipped between his lips and Rumlow sucked, leaning heavily against Rogers as he prepped Rollins with the same haste and then reamed him frantic thrusts.

Rogers became a fucking machine, pulling men into place to service his body, discarding those who’d been fucked only to grab for them again when his lust refused to be quenched. Rumlow had felt that sick thrill inside of him crescendo as Rogers had shoved him down for the first time, hot cum splashing against his skin, then two thick fingers pushing that heat inside him. There was no way to stop what came next, but when the first powerful, painful thrust of Rogers’ dick invaded his body, Rumlow came harder than he ever had in his life, grunting softly as his orgasm reverberated again and again in his system. The drug made it impossible for him to tense up against Rogers, and things got easier as Rogers plowed him over and over, balls slapping and stinging, pushing against something inside Rumlow that felt so fucking good that he just closed his eyes to enjoy it. He opened them again as Rogers flooded him with heat, then dropped him to the side to grab another unresisting body. Rumlow’s face burned as he laid there, asshole twitching with the remembered sensation, body craving nothing more than to do it again.

Luckily, Rogers didn’t let him wait too long as he worked his way through the whole team, and then just grabbed Mason again, dick still raring to go. Rumlow was privately amazed at how uninhibited Rogers was once you took his moral superiority out of the equation. The science division was going to have a field day with him. Vaguely Rumlow was pissed at the higher-ups for this stupid plan, but he didn’t see the genius of it until Rogers had grabbed him for the second time. He had Rumlow on his side so he could lift up his leg and get some more leverage. It had felt even better this time around, extra big and filling, the way already slicked with plenty of cum. When Rogers gripped him firmly to fuck into him with a slightly different angle, Rumlow managed to say, “I can’t stop you.” He’d meant it as a sort of stupid joke on this whole fucked-up situation, a call back to all those times Rogers had gone off solo on missions and Rumlow hadn’t been able to stop him. Just a lousy quip to pass the time while they were stuck in this drugged Wonderland of fucking.

Rogers’ expression abruptly went haunted, shocked, and even horrified through his need.

“I can’t stop, Rumlow. I’ve tried, but I need it so bad, it burns,” he gasped out. Rumlow abruptly realized that some of the moisture trickling down Rogers’ face wasn’t from sweat.

And suddenly it didn’t matter that Rogers’ dick was rearranging Rumlow’s internal organs while he was being fucked on top of everyone’s spunk-and-sweat-soaked discarded clothing, a discarded boot jamming itself into his spine. It didn’t matter that Rumlow was seeing stars with every thrust and wondering if somehow he could muster up enough energy to sit on Rollins’ dick after Rogers was done with him, just to give him a little more action between the next inevitable round of fucking. What mattered was that Rogers cared what people thought about him. And Rumlow didn’t, not if it served Hydra.

“God, it hurts,” he groaned, letting a wave of pleasure from Rogers’ relentless assault on his prostate turn his smirk into a slack-jawed moan that could have been interpreted as pain. “Stop, Rogers, stop…”

Rollins was lolling on the floor next to him, probably next to be fucked, and stared at Rumlow like he’d lost his mind. No one had asked for this, but everyone in this elevator was feeling nothing but good and they all had the overwhelming desire to come. Rumlow tossed him a brief conspiratorial wink, and Rollins got the play immediately. After all, this whole “attack” was being recorded.

“I can’t stop, oh God…” Rogers’ voice was a sob as he came satisfactorily deep inside Rumlow. He let himself fall to the side as Rollins let himself flop within range, Rogers helplessly grabbing and plowing into Rollins’ ass to stop the relentless pressure building in his balls. Rollins moaned like a dying animal, and Rogers looked utterly devastated. The rest of the team got the idea quickly, adding pathetic pleas to Rogers’ reaming of Rollins. Goddamn tears were streaming down Rogers’ face as he came into Rollins, pulled out, and turned just enough to pull Westfahl onto his dick.

All of STRIKE were weapons to serve Hydra. Whether they were sore from getting beat up by Rogers in trying to capture him, or sore from letting Rogers fuck them to put himself into a nervous breakdown, it made no difference as long as the job was done. If Rumlow could act like a good SHIELD soldier for years, he could play a whiney victim for a few hours if it meant fucking with Rogers’ head.

Rumlow kept up the act as Rogers cycled through the team a third time, letting himself go totally limp and whimpering as Rogers moved his hips at the same, frantic pace, his energy not running out despite this having gone on for hours. Still sobbing with overstimulation and need, as he hadn’t had a single break, Rogers came again into Rumlow with a soft cry. As Rumlow let himself fall, faking a sob, he could see Rogers dick was angry purple and red, visibly throbbing, and his balls were hugely swollen. How many times had they hit him with their drugged batons? At least six or seven times, maybe more. His dick spurted a last few pulses as Rogers shuffled on his bruised knees, openly in agony as he blindly grabbed for another ass to fuck as if it was the only thing that mattered.

Rumlow just laid there and quietly moaned, trying not to laugh, as the great Captain America resumed his animalistic rutting, wondering how fast Sitwell could get the footage ready to destroy Rogers once and for all.

Ao3 Link

I wrote another chapter of this.

--

Brock wakes up wrapped in something warm and soft. As he shifts, the bed dips underneath him like a huge marshmallow. It’s the nicest he’s woken up in a long while, and it makes him groan softly. As soon as the sound leaves his mouth, he feels something smooth pressing against his lips, making his heart jump and eyes open wide in panic. But then a sweet smell breaks through to him, making him realize what it is: a grape. He opens his mouth, and the fruit is pushed past his chapped lips. He lets it sit on his tongue for a few seconds, wanting to make sure it’s real, and when he salivates, he bites. Sweet juice floods his mouth, and he smiles in bliss, his eyes falling close. After he swallows, another grape is pushed against his lips, and then another, and another.

After the fifth grape, Brock’s first hunger is satisfied, so he opens his eyes to cast a look around without moving his head. He realizes he’s in Rollins’ bedroom, lying in his bed, with his warm, firm body pressed against his back. It stings; for a moment there, he dared to hope he was saved. But it’s too good to be true, apparently.

His body starts to wake up, too, and the ever-present pain sets in. His rim smarts more than usual, and memories of Cap fucking him flood his mind. He must have passed out during, because he can’t remember leaving or being brought here. He wonders briefly if they made Cap fuck him when he was unconscious, but the answer must be yes. It must have been even more mortifying for Cap than fucking him when he was awake.

Brock throws the memories out of his thoughts, instead focusing on the green grapes which keep coming. He’s afraid that each one will be the last, but then his stomach feels full for the first time in ages, and Rollins is still feeding him. Brock forces himself to swallow everything he gets, knowing this will be his only food for days to come, but when his stomach begins to ache, it feels more like torture than pleasure, and he wonders if he won’t throw it all up. His stomach must be tiny if it can’t contain a cluster of small grapes.

Finally, Rollins’ hand disappears from his peripheral vision, and Brock feels him lean away. He stays still, breathing a little hard. He tries to brace himself for whatever Rollins has in mind for him next; he’s not here so he can be hand-fed, after all. But he’s feeling lazy, full and warm, and he wishes he could just drift off to sleep.

Instead, he jolts when something cold fills him up; Rollins has squirted lube directly into his asshole. Brock feels his fingers enter painlessly; he must be still stretched wide from Cap’s monster cock.

“You did a great job,” Rollins mutters against his ear. “I watched you. Rogers panicked when you passed out; it was perfect.”

He thrusts his fingers in and out of Brock’s hole, and it keeps being surprisingly painless. The lube soothes the undeniably torn skin of his walls, and it’s—not all terrible. He’s not sure if Rollins is actually expecting him to answer, so he just hums softly in acknowledgement.

Suddenly, Rollins curls his fingers, and Brock jerks in pain. Rollins must misinterpret his reaction, because he doesn’t let up, rubbing Brock inside until he’s tense and sweating—or maybe he doesn’t, it’s not like he has ever cared about Brock’s comfort.

Brock’s so dazed with the pain that he takes a while to understand that what Rollins is torturing is his prostate. Everything hurt when Cap fucked him, but now that the chafed skin has more or less healed, the abuse his prostate went through is so much more apparent. He whines, bites the pillow, and shuts his eyes tight. He should start spacing out soon. Anytime now...

He’s hauled up so suddenly, the fabric slips out from between his teeth. The fingers are gone from his ass, and as Rollins puts him in his lap, they’re replaced by the head of his cock. The sudden upright position makes him dizzy, and he needs to brace himself against Rollins’ bare chest.

“Can we—can we not?” he asks quietly, not quite meeting his gaze. “I’m tired.”

“You can rest, sweetheart,” Rollins purrs. The pet name gives Brock a full body shudder; this shit has been going on for months, but he’s still not used to how creepy Rollins can act. “I’ll do all the work.”

He guides Brock’s head to rest against his shoulder. This close to his neck he can smell his cologne, and it’s the only pleasant thing about this situation, as opposed to his sweaty, sticky skin and the hard, thick cock Brock’s being pushed onto. Rollins keeps his promise and doesn’t expect Brock to ride him; he rather moves his hips up and down, fucking himself like with a sex toy—which Brock supposes he is now. Rollins is one of the bigger cocks he has been forced to take, but even his doesn’t compare to Captain America’s, and for once, sex with him isn’t painful, especially now that he’s not hitting his prostate. Once Brock closes his eyes, his mind is quick to take him somewhere else. It might even be said he’s resting—until the feel of a warm hand on his cock draws a moan from his throat.

“There you are,” Rollins rasps against his ear and sucks in the skin beneath. Brock barely registers it, more preoccupied with the pulse he can feel in his crotch. He shifts his head to look down, and—yes. He’s hard.

He stares at his full, flushed erection in both awe and horror. After months of day-to-day rape, he really didn’t think he’d ever be able to get it up, not to mention with Rollins balls deep inside him. His face burns hot; if he thought Cap seeing him naked, fucked open, wearing pigtails and lipstick was bad, this is a hundred times worse.

He’s not enjoying it. He’s being raped, for fuck’s sake. He feels sick, but his cock doesn’t agree with his stomach, and twitches in pleasure when Rollins strokes it with his big, calloused hand. Another moan escapes Brock’s mouth. He bites his tongue, but it’s too late; it rings loud and clear, and Rollins picks up his pace in both fucking and stroking him. Brock hides his face back in Rollins’ neck, because he can’t look, he can’t be present for this—

As much as he doesn’t want to, he’s hyper aware of his body; of the heartbeat in his dick, and how his hips jerk chaotically under Rollins’ hands; how unsettled his stomach feels because of all the grapes and the movement; how his saliva tastes like bile, and how hot and sweaty he is. Rollins babbles into his ear about how he loves fucking him; how Brock loves his cock; how he loves the sounds Brock makes; how he doesn’t need to hold back and can cum, but Brock’s only paying him half of his attention, too busy trying not to vomit over both of them. Soon though, all his discomfort and even shame fades as pleasure rises in his abdomen. His world narrows down to Rollins’ hand that’s bringing him closer and closer to orgasm. The pace is unrelenting, and he doesn’t last long; he digs his fingers into Rollins’ shoulders and lets out a broken moan as his body tenses up. Rollins murmurs something, but Brock can’t hear it over his own heartbeat. Then, his hips buck involuntarily into his hand, and he’s cumming.

He slumps against the firm, sweaty body beneath him, his ears ringing and his mind floating. He’s uncomfortable, hot and sticky, but for once, he doesn’t care. He’s vaguely aware of Rollins still fucking him, but he can’t feel him cumming; after some time, he’s just removed from his lap and laid down on the bed. As his afterglow subsides, he feels sick again. He hopes that if he lies still for a while, it will pass.

Rollins gets up and moves around, but Brock is too tired to track him with his eyes or even care. A moment later, a glass of water is pressed into his hand, and he takes it gratefully; his mouth feels like a desert. Rollins refills it once Brock empties it, and hands him two pills. That gets Brock’s heart to skip a beat, and he looks up at him in disbelief.

“Sleep... here?” he asks, his voice more croaky than he expected.

Rollins just nods, and hell, Brock will take any bed over the fucking dog crate, so he isn’t about to look the gift horse in the mouth. He takes the pills, waters them down and lies down onto his side. He can feel warm cum drip out of his ass, but then Rollins pushes it back in. What enters Brock’s ass isn’t his finger though; it’s hard and smooth, and—hell, is it a butt plug?

It’s a novel feeling, and while not painful, he can feel it there, and his body wants it out. He shifts his hips, but stills when Rollins rests his hand on his thigh. He knows it’s a warning, so he just grits his teeth and waits for his body to adjust.

Rollins goes to the bathroom for a moment, and when he returns and lies down, Brock’s already drifting off. He cracks one eye open when he feels a hot breath on his face, and then Rollins kisses him.

It’s different from all the other times Rollins has kissed him; gentle, affectionate, and not as gross—or perhaps Brock’s just too tired to feel grossed out. He doesn’t return it, but Rollins doesn’t seem to mind, and when he closes his eyes again, the pills finally knock him out.

When he wakes up, the room is dark, and he can hear snoring beside him. He lies still for a while, staring into the impenetrable darkness as the opportunity he’s presented with fully sinks in.

He’s in a room with a tablet, and Rollins is asleep.

He feels a rush of adrenaline and holds his breath as he weighs the pros and cons of acting now. Rollins might wake up any time after all, and he’s sure he’ll be left alone in his bedroom again. He doesn’t know when that will happen though and if he’ll be free to roam around instead of chained to the bed. Besides, what if Rollins takes the tablet with him? It might be now or never, so with his heart in his throat, he gently places his feet on the carpet and gets up. Rollins is still steadily snoring, so Brock sighs in relief and, goggling to see better, he tiptoes around the bed with his arms outstretched. His fingers brush the chipboard counter, and he stops. He listens in for any sounds that might indicate Rollins has woken up, then feels for the drawer. Once he finds it, he opens it slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. He gently reaches inside, and there it is, his possible ticket to freedom right beneath his fingertips. He takes a deep breath and picks it up, then lights it up. The bright light hurts his eyes, but when he turns it towards the room, it softly illuminates his surroundings.

Rollins is lying on his stomach with his head pillowed against his folded arms, his back rising and falling with his breath. A thought hits Brock that almost makes his knees buckle with its boldness—he could kill him. Drive a knife through his back or shoot him in the head. He illuminates the inside of the drawer, but doesn’t find any weapon. He’s sure Rollins keeps a gun in his bedroom, but as long as Brock doesn’t know where it is, it’s too risky to look for it. Instead, he aims the light at the bathroom door. Now that he can see the way, he walks fast, almost jogs when the door is within his reach. He slips inside, carefully closes the door, and nearly slumps against it in relief.

He sets the tablet down on the counter on its back, so it illuminates the small space around him. His reflection is but paleness and shadows, and he avoids looking at it. He reaches behind and pulls the butt plug out, then winces when he looks at it. It’s nothing special; black and not even big, but it glistens with what he supposes is Rollins’ semen. He drops it in the sink, aware that he’ll need to put it back in. Absolutely gross.

He takes the tablet with him as he goes to sit on the toilet. He briefly thinks back to the times when he took his privilege to use the toilet for granted, but shakes the thought off. He doesn’t know how much time he has, so the sooner he’s done, the better.

He unlocks the screen and with his heart in his throat, taps the internet icon. Sharp, white light makes him squint as the browser loads. His hands shake when he types a name.

Natasha Romanoff

He scrolls through the results. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for exactly. The little he knows about the world outside doesn’t paint a hopeful picture: overtaken and ruled by Hydra, S.H.I.E.L.D. destroyed, Captain America captured and imprisoned. If there’s someone still fighting against Hydra, and Brock can contact them, it won’t be through Wikipedia or Facebook. But he needs to start somewhere.

He taps a random article just to find out Romanoff has been killed during Hydra’s Uprising in the Triskelion. He curses softly and looks for the others. Stark is dead, too. Barton and Hill are hiding and pursued by bounty hunters. Brock can only hope they’re together and forming a rebellion, but other than that, the knowledge doesn’t help him in any way. He lets out a shaky breath, wondering what to do next. He could leave an encrypted message somewhere, but Hydra knows all the S.H.I.E.L.D. codes, and no one can help him if he’s dead. He closes the internet and goes through the apps, hoping for some genius idea to strike him. He stumbles onto the surveillance streaming. He opens a camera view after camera view. His old team is sitting in some cozy looking room and playing cards. The sound must be off, but it’s too risky to turn it up, and besides, Brock doubts he’d learn anything useful from them. The labs are busy with white coats moving around like a colony of bees, but whatever they’re working on doesn’t tell Brock a thing. Then he finds Cap’s holding cell; he’s sitting curled in on himself in the corner, naked. Brock bites his lip. If only there was an app that controlled the cells’ locks...

And then another bold idea hits him: he could break out Cap himself. He can vaguely remember the way, and with the surveillance streaming, he can avoid the agents wandering about. If he can’t find the key, maybe he can pick a lock with something, and then maybe they’d stand a chance to break themselves out—

He shakes his head; too many maybes. Despite how terrible his life currently is (and that’s an understatement), he isn’t too keen on the idea of losing it. He closes the app with a sigh. So that’s it? He stole the tablet for nothing?

He sits there for a while longer, desperately trying to come up with an idea that would have at least half a chance of working and wouldn’t get him killed. If only Cap had told him a name back then... Brock would know trying to contact them wouldn’t be a total waste of time. But he has no names, no ways of contact, and his half-baked plan to breakCap out is doomed to fail. He rests the tablet on his thighs and hides his face in his hand, squeezing his temples and trying desperately not to start crying like a baby. He’s an ex-commander of STRIKE after all, even if currently reduced to a sex slave. His missions didn’t have a 99% success rate because he cried when things went to shit.

He manages to calm down a little and looks down at the tablet again. He has too little intel and no team behind him, but he was one of the best, and he can do it, with a tablet or without it. Even if it takes him a lot of time. He sighs, wipes himself down and winces when flushing because damn, that’s loud in the night's stillness. He listens in for a while, and when he hears nothing, he moves to the sink to wash his hands and the butt plug. He inserts it back and creeps towards the door. He slowly opens it and walks straight into Jack.

He looks up at him with his eyes wide and body starting to shake. “I—I just—” he stumbles, wondering how the hell to even explain himself. He looks pretty fucking guilty with the tablet held right in front of him like a flashlight. He can’t believe he got caught red-handed so stupidly...

Whatever explanation starts to form in his mind, it dies the moment Rollins takes the tablet and checks the opened apps. Brock’s blood runs cold; even if Rollins had any doubts before, now he has proof Brock was looking for information and not, let’s say, using the tablet’s light to find his way to the bathroom (which is an unbelievable excuse anyway). Why didn’t he think of this? He could’ve closed the browser and the surveillance feed and open a game. It would’ve still looked suspicious, but at least Rollins wouldn’t have seen black on white that Brock tried to find out about the Avengers’ and S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives’ fates.

Rollins looks up at him, and Brock doesn’t know if it’s the white light, or if his stare is really so cold it sends a tremor through him. Suddenly, Rollins strikes out, but Brock ducks, and Rollins hits the door right beside his head instead.

“I give you a chance, and this is what you do?” he asks in a dangerously low voice. “Look for your old S.H.I.E.L.D. buddies the moment my back is turned?”

Brock swallows thickly, but when he meets Rollins’ gaze, he does it with a defiant look. He’s just compromised himself anyway, so he might as well stop acting docile.

“Fuck you, Rollins,” he snarls. “You seem to be under some crazy impression I’m here of my own volition—”

He doesn’t dodge a backhand this time. His head flies back from a force of it.

“—be six feet deep,” Rollins’ voice breaks through the ringing in his ears. “They hated you just as much as they did Pierce; maybe more. I saved your fucking life.”

Brock glares back at him. “So what, I’m supposed to be grateful that thanks to you I’m—” His voice wavers, but he takes a breath and for the first time says it aloud— “raped... every fucking day? Killing me would’ve been more merciful.”

Rollins’ response is to shove his forearm against Brock’s throat, pressing him into the door. Brock thrashes wildly as his breath is knocked out of him, but his training kicks in, and his hand flies to Rollins’ throat. Rollins expects it though and catches his wrist.

“I know all your moves, commander.” He grins like it’s a clever insult, and hell, Brock hasn’t felt more ashamed even when called a girl or a cockslut. That word means nothing now, and he should have never let it happen. “You want to die so much? It won’t be a problem. I guess I owe you something after all. What do you say?”

He tries to pull Rollins’ arm away with his free hand, but it doesn’t budge; only presses more into his trachea. It dawns on him what a terrible mistake he’s made. What was he expecting to achieve by his little outburst? Make Rollins feel bad? The only thing he has achieved was letting Rollins know there’s still fight in him. It will definitely postpone his escape.

The room starts spinning, and Brock does what he’s sure Rollins is expecting: he taps out. The pressure against his neck lets up, but his wrist is still held in a vice grip.

“Didn’t think so,” Rollins jeers. He pulls Brock towards the door. “It’s back to the cage with you.”

The corridors are dark and deserted, but the lights above turn on as they pass. Brock can feel his heart jackhammer as he follows Rollins and he’s jolting at every shadow he sees out of the corner of his eye. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop; the retribution for going behind Rollins’ back can’t be just spending the rest of the night in the crate.

They turn a corner, and even in the dim light Brock can see the crate at the far end. Rollins opens it and gestures for him to crawl in, what Brock does without complaint. Rollins shuts the door and walks away. Brock lies in the darkness for minutes, tense, waiting, until he believes that that’s it. That he won’t be punished after all. He lets himself sigh in relief; he doesn’t want to get too optimistic.

He closes his eyes, but after spending so much time in a comfortable bed, he has trouble falling asleep. His legs feel cramped in the tight space, and there’s no way to stretch them. His bones ache from lying on the hard metal. The pressure on the top of his head from the bars is difficult to ignore. He realizes his body’s needs now that he has nothing to distract himself with; he’s hungry and thirsty again, but unfortunately, not tired. After another handful of minutes doing nothing, he also becomes bored.
Groaning, he shifts his body until he’s lying on his back. With his knees up in the air and feet resting against the bars, he would’ve been comfortable if it wasn’t for the hard floor. He reaches for his navel ring and plays with it as he closes his eyes again and imagines he’s somewhere else.

He’s in the house he was planning to buy after the successful launch of Insight. He has a garden with a vegetable patch and fruit trees. Inside, there’s a fireplace and a big couch with a pile of soft blankets on the side. And a rocking chair. He’s sitting in it, watching a movie on a low volume. A dog is sleeping at his feet, a big one trained to bite on command. He’s eating a full meal and watering it down, and as soon as the movie ends, he’ll go to sleep in his big bed with Egyptian cotton sheets—

His spine being dragged over the crate’s threshold wakes him up. His bones pop when two pairs of hands straighten out his body. A choke collar is pushed down his head, and he’s pulled onto his feet.

Warning for blood & gore in the next 2 parts.

--

He’s already walking down the corridor, busier now than at night, when he’s awake enough to recognize the people that lead him. It’s his old team again, but with a pang of alarm, Brock notes the absence of Collins. The fourth agent is Rosenberg which is even more concerning, and to top it all, Westfahl is carrying a rifle. Brock has a bad feeling before he even realizes where they’re heading.

He stops in his tracks when he recognizes the route to the body modification room—or at least that’s what he calls the clean, white room he got forcefully pierced in multiple times. Rosenberg pulls onto the chain leash, and Brock moves on tense legs. It’s been a while since he last was here; he’s thought they already put all the piercings they wanted in him, so he expected another gangbang, but not this.

He also has an unpleasant feeling he’s not here to get pierced this time. Memories of being pinned down to the metal table and having the circulation in his right arm cut off flash in front of his eyes. Feeling light-headed, he stumbles when taking another step and falls onto his knees. He yelps when the pain of the impact takes him by surprise.

“What the fuck?” Rosenberg asks, pulling on the leash again. Metal spikes dig into Brock’s nape, causing white spots to dance in front of his eyes.

Foster scoffs. “He does that.” He pokes Brock’s side with the toe of his boot. “Get up, bitch, we don’t have all day.”

When Brock looks up at him, the spots become bigger, whiting out Foster’s face. A thin sheen of cold sweat covers his body, and his stomach does a somersault when he tries to get back onto his feet. Then, his vision whites out completely, and he feels himself fall.

When he comes to, he’s kneeling on the cold, hard tiles of the white room. He’s kept upright by Foster’s hands—and he really hates the fact that he’s so intimately familiar with the agent that he can recognize him by his touch alone. His chest is braced against the metal table, and his right arm is stretched out on it, held in a vice grip by King. Brock, still sweating profusely and shaking from how cold it makes him, tries to yank his arm away. King isn’t big, but lean in the way that suggests he used to be a swimmer. Brock remembers him being no challenge on the mats, but now, King’s hold is too strong to break. King smirks smugly at him, and Brock ducks his head.

He tries to regulate his breathing to calm himself down, but it’s hard when he knows what’s about to happen. When he sees a pair of boots approaching him, he looks up, his heart feeling like it’s about to burst out of his chest. A wave of relief washes over him when he notices Rosenberg isn’t holding the oscillating saw, but it’s short-lived when he realizes what the hammer is most likely for. He shudders violently against Foster’s bulk. King unfolds his fist and smooths it out on the table.

“Don’t hit me,” he tells Rosenberg as he pins Brock’s wrist down.

Rosenberg scoffs, offended. “I’m a professional.”

Ignoring how he’s hyperventilating, Brock thinks back to his torture training. He never had his bones crushed, but he was forced to withstand a lot of pain. He’s been withstanding a lot of pain since he was enslaved; he’s gotten used to it. It won’t be much different. He closes his eyes, deciding to treat it like just another training.

The hammer falls onto his fingers with a deafening snap. He’s screaming before the pain fully registers, and when it does, it’s so much worse. He doesn’t have the time to recover before the hammer hits his metacarpus. By the time his thumb is crushed, tears and snot run freely down his face, and Brock doesn’t even have the energy to try to stop them. The strong ammonia smell hits his nostrils, and he doesn’t need to look down to know what has happened; his wet legs only confirm his suspicion.

“Fuck, he pissed himself,” Foster says. His big hand grabs the back of Brock’s head and bashes it into the table. Pain flares up Brock’s nose straight to his head. “You got piss on my pants you stupid bitch!”

Somewhere to his right, Westfahl is laughing.

“It’s not fucking funny,” Foster barks at him. “Shut up, or I’ll make you do my laundry.”

Westfahl stops laughing. “Fuck off.”

Foster turns to King. “Hold me or I’ll go and hurt him, I swear to god.”

“I’m already holding one princess down,” King responds.

Brock can sense that Foster isn’t happy about his younger teammates talking back to him, and that there isn’t much he can do about it in the current situation. But he can take his frustration out on Brock instead. He grabs his hair and shoves his face harder against the table. A wet puddle reaches his cheek, and Brock realizes he’s bleeding from his nose.

“I ain’t gonna clean after you.” Foster leans in, his breath hot on Brock’s face. It reeks of coffee and cigarettes. “You’re gonna clean it all yourself to the last drop. You copy?”

Brock tries to swallow, but his mouth is completely dry. “Yes, sir,” he replies, his voice but a rough whisper.

Another powerful hit aimed onto his knuckles draws a long, hoarse scream from him. King lets go of his wrist and Brock looks up at his hand. It’s now twice its size and red-purple. He sobs when he tries to move his fingers and nothing happens. He realizes he would need a surgery to fix bones this crushed, and that no one will provide it. These motherfuckers just destroyed his dominant hand for good.

For that brief moment, he thinks the worst is over, but then King wrenches his left arm onto the table.

“No!” he rasps, fighting against him and losing. “Not both!”

“You don’t deserve your hands, whore,” King spits. “You should fucking thank us for not sawing them off.”

The heat and throbbing of his right hand is momentarily outshined by the excruciating pain in his left. Rosenberg hits every nail, then every knuckle, and Brock screams and screams until all that comes out of his mouth are quiet, rough sounds, and his throat feels like someone put sandpaper to it.

“Anyone else getting turned on?” King asks, adding insult to injury. His words make Brock look up, and through the tears, he notices the tent in his pants. He turns his head away, but at the same time Foster’s hardness presses against the small of his back.

He doesn’t realize immediately when King lets go of his wrist, and Rosenberg stops hitting him and moves away. At first he just thinks he’s lost feeling in his hand, but it still pains more than anything he’s ever went through. He slumps against Foster’s bulk, and the agent lets out a soft rumble when Brock’s ass lands on his lap. Brock ignores it, staring at his useless hands. Tears are still leaking from his eyes, making his vision blurry, but he can see their ugly, purple-dead color.

Then, Foster grabs the back of his neck and shoves him face-first into the puddle of his own piss on the floor. His arms shoot up automatically to hold him up. He would have howled when his hands hit the hard tiles, but he only breathes out air. Piss floods his open mouth, and he chokes on it as he inhales.

“Pathetic,” Foster says as Brock coughs and splutters. “Pull yourself together and clean that up. I want this floor dry when you finish.”

Brock opens one eye as the other is submerged in piss. It slowly dawns on him that Foster really wants him to drink it. When he tries to look up, all he can see are the legs of the agents surrounding him and the dark eye in the barrel of Westfahl’s rifle. He swallows the thick spit that has gathered on the back of his tongue and drops his gaze. Over the side of his nose, he can see the puddle.

It’s not big; with how dehydrated he is, he doesn’t have much water to excrete. But that also means it’s concentrated; dark yellow with a sharp smell that he can taste on his tongue. Wincing, he slowly parts his lips and slips his tongue out.

It’s sour, bitter and reminds him of cheap beer—only if it was beer, it would have been the worst he’s ever had. There’s a hint of metal; he must be still bleeding from his nose, adding to the puddle.

The faster he does it, the sooner it’ll be over, so he closes his eyes and laps it up, swallowing right away and trying not to pay attention to the taste. It’s not all bad; the cold tiles soothe his hands a little, and it’s easy to get lost in his mind. In comparison to having his hands hammered, this is almost relaxing.

Foster moves his head here and there, where the piss traveled farther down the grouting, and he cleans it with his tongue. Finally, Foster lets him go, and he’s hauled up to his feet again. The sour-bitter taste remains in Brock’s mouth as they walk through the base. He twitches nervously when they pass his crate and he realizes the torture isn’t over yet. He slows down significantly when he recognizes the way.

In a main corridor there’s a fuck bench bolted to the concrete floor right in the middle of an intersection. Brock had a dubious pleasure of spending a whole day in it a handful of times. He definitely prefers the casual gangbangs, because those at least don’t last more than a couple of hours; often much less.

Westfahl pushes him forward with the butt of his rifle. Brock grits his teeth and, breathing hard through his aching nose, lets himself be strapped down. He bites down on a whimper when Foster and Rosenberg roughly grab his hands. Agents passing by cheer loudly, happy to have an opportunity for a quick fuck on their break.

Once Brock’s body is fully secured, King wastes no more time. He shoves his pants and underwear down, freeing his full erection. He grabs Brock by the hair and guides his cock to his mouth. Brock can feel somebody remove the butt plug and push their fingers dry into his ass. Some passing agents and lab coats pause to look, some line up behind King. Brock closes his eyes to stop himself from calculating how long he’ll spend here. He’d rather be surprised when it’s over.

He slips in and out of awareness. It’s hard to stay in the dreamland when he’s so uncomfortable; sure, the bench is padded, but he can’t rest his head, and the straps are digging into his skin, leaving burns whenever someone shoves or pulls him too hard.

The taste of cum mixes in with Brock’s pissy saliva, and King pulls out. He zips himself up and walks away. Another agent takes his place. Brock doesn’t open his eyes, but he remembers it was Guldbrandsen who lined up right behind King. Sharp, musky scent hits his nostrils when a damp tip gathers spit from around his mouth and pushes in. Someone in the background is still fucking him dry. The sound of the man’s grunting tells him it’s Rosenberg.

After a while of being pushed and pulled, other agents get impatient. Guldbrandsen hasn’t yet pulled out when two more cocks start rubbing against Brock’s face. The skin under the pleather straps becomes wetter and wetter, stinging bad enough to fight for his focus against the still throbbing hands, the thick cock tearing his ass, and the long one clogging his throat.

Instead, he imagines being comfortable. The image of the table in Cap’s cell briefly flashes in front of his eyes, but that was far from comfortable, even if slightly better than the fuck bench. No, he thinks of a bed. The king-sized bed he would have had if he wasn’t captured. The bed he will have once he gets the fuck out of here.

He’s lying on a memory foam mattress, wrapped in soft, fresh sheets. Warm sunlight seeps through the big window. He can smell the wind, blooming apple trees and freshly mowed grass. It’s quiet, and he can rest his head, and his knees don’t hurt, and his skin doesn’t sting. Fingers slip through his hair, and when he opens his eyes, it’s Rollins—

His eyes shot open just when someone cums on his face. A dribble hits his eye, and he blinks it out quickly, but it’s too late; it stings and waters, adding to the mess on his face. It’s the same eye that got irritated in Cap’s cell; one day, something will blind him.

He opens his mouth for yet another hard, red dick, but with his good eye, he can see the line has gotten shorter. These people aren’t here for fun; they have work, and some of them have resigned. Brock knows they’ll come back later, but for now, he feels a bit relieved. Another person comes on his abused ass, someone else jerks off and shoots all over his back. He can feel it drip down his sides, his thighs, his neck. His hands have become numb, though they’re still warm.

He slumps after the last agent hides his dick and walks away. He’s itchy from all the drying cum and he can’t even scratch himself. It makes him want to howl. Pain he knows. Pain he can handle. Itching is so much more rare and therefore, so much worse.

He jerks when he hears footsteps, but he can’t bring himself to raise his head, even if his back hurts when it’s hanging down. But when it isn’t, it’s his neck—really, neither option is good.

A hand winds into his hair and pulls. Brock’s eye is still leaking, but his vision’s not as blurry. He doesn’t recognize the man in front of him. He thinks he might’ve fucked him before, but he’s not sure. He’s young—so young—so Brock supposes he’s a recruit. New people must have joined Hydra now that they’re publicly known and controlling the world. Or at least America, frankly, Brock isn’t sure.

Far to the left, another stranger circles Brock, also young. Another youngster joins the first one. A rookie team, Brock realizes.

“I’m not sure about this,” says a voice behind him. Four men then. The words bring Brock hope that maybe they’ll leave him alone, but he’s learned not so long ago hope is useless in this place.

“Too filthy for you? You want a tissue?” The second one on Brock’s left mocks.

“You have any?” The fourth one asks, either not catching the sarcasm, or simply not caring.

There’s rustling, and then Brock feels soft fabric prod at his hole. The fourth one wipes his ass and thighs. It helps with the itching. He makes a sound of disgust, and a moment later, Brock’s hole twitches around his cock head. All the cum inside Brock helps it slide in, and it doesn’t even hurt.

Brock doesn’t need to be told to open his mouth for the one with his fingers still in his hair; he does it automatically. The stranger shoves his half-hard cock in and begins fucking Brock’s face right away, grunting. The abuse Brock’s throat has gone through becomes more noticeable and harder to ignore as the tip prods at it. The other two just stand there, watching. Brock doesn’t like the third’s analyzing gaze; it makes him shift nervously, which earns him a smack upside the head from the first one when his cock slips out of his mouth.

“He doesn’t have enough holes,” the third one says, scrunching up his nose.

“Why I prefer women,” the second one says. Brock can hear him open his zipper and stroke his cock. “That and the boobies.”

“Me, too, I’m not a fucking fag,” the third one snaps.

“Hey, no one here is a fag,” the first one pants as he fucks Brock’s mouth.

“There’s lotsa place to make new holes though,” the second one notices and pulls out a knife. The third one cackles.

Brock’s blood runs cold, and he tries to pull away, but the bindings hold him in place. The first one slaps his face with his cock with an unhappy grunt after it slips out of his mouth again. The hands of the fourth one clench around his hips, stilling them. Brock wants to tell them Rollins would never allow this, but he doesn’t manage; the moment he opens his mouth again, the first one’s cock fills it.

The third one joins the second one by Brock’s side, and he loses the sight of him. He can hear them mutter things like, ‘here’, ‘a little to the left’, ‘but not too deep, I don’t wanna fuck his guts’. He can feel the tip of the knife travel up and down his side, making his heart race and his body shake. Finally, it digs in.

He doesn’t feel it at first, and thinks they resigned; that they just wanted to scare him. Then it registers; the sharp pain in his side, and the wetness flowing down his side and pooling between his stomach and the bench. He tries to yell, but it’s muffled. The first one moans as he does. He shakes and jerks as the knife is turned, pushing and cutting his flesh to form a hole.

The first thrust of a dick feels even worse.

Brock has been through a lot of different pain in his life, but this one is comparable to nothing. It’s worse than being stabbed or shot. Worse than a surgery. Fuck, worse than his bones being crushed. It feels like somebody’s fucking the life out of him. It’s so overwhelming he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He loses all the control he still had over his body and—without even realizing it at first—bites down.

He takes a moment to realize why the first one is screaming like a little girl. When he does, he relaxes his jaw. The first one retracts, moaning and crying, and Brock notices blood around his shaft.

He should be scared. Biting means losing a limb. But he’s oddly apathetic about it. As he slumps forward, his head swimming and the pain fading, he realizes that ‘fucking the life out of him’ is quite accurate. He blacks out for a moment, and when he comes to, there’s another dick fucking his face. Its owner squeezes his jaw joints to keep his mouth open. His vision is swimming, but when he finally focuses his gaze on the man in front of him, he notices it’s an entirely different team. He feels throbbing pain in his side, but at least no one is fucking his new hole anymore.

Swallowing another cum shot makes him sick. He can’t tell how many are filling his stomach; he supposes he has been unconscious for a part of it. A new erection replaces the last one. The next thing Brock knows, he’s choking on vomit.

For the next while he’s conscious, no one’s touching him. A few agents that pass by hoot and whistle at him, but don’t stop on their way. The reek of the vomit right below his face makes him sick again, and he throws up more. He feels a little better afterwards, and the vomit—and the cum dripping off him, Brock supposes—is soon dealt with by a janitor. He doesn’t look at Brock as he mops the floor, and Brock lets himself rest.
The next time he’s awake, he’s being unstrapped from the bench. He whines when he moves his numb limbs that were stuck in the same position for hours. His hands flame up again after the blood reaches them. He can’t walk, but the team that’s unstrapped him take it under consideration. They carry him, one guy for each limb. Brock’s too weak to even try to recognize them.

They fold him and push inside the crate. Brock rests his face against the bars and lets himself breathe.

He’s dizzy, but he looks himself over. He’s covered in cum and blood. The wound is still leaking. Brock finds it a little surprising that no one thought to do anything about it. Maybe it isn’t that deep, and he’s so weak for another reason.

He jolts when he hears a bang. When he looks through the bars, he realizes someone just dropped a bowl in front of his crate.

“Dinner,” Woods says happily. He crouches down. Brock would see his face if he looked up, but it feels like too much work right now.

He hears a can open, and something brown falls into the bowl with a wet thump. Dog food. One of the better things he eats here. Normally, he’d squeeze his hand through the bars, grab a bite and eat. But now, he can’t even move his pinky.

Woods stands up. “You don’t wanna eat? Fine. Suit yourself.”

He kicks the bowl away. Brock watches the dog food spray around on the floor.

Woods leaves. The blood is still flowing. Brock thinks there’s a good chance he will die here.

Better here than strapped to the fuck bench.

How about a variation on Bucky's broken dick where he's only comfortable having sex with Steve when he's the one calling the shots? After years of helplessness, conditioned obedience, assorted Hydra bastards taking advantage of his obedience to do whatever they wanted to him sexually, being forced to participate in the sexual abuse while he wasn't in the driver's seat of his own body... he's done. He can't get it up if he has to worry what his partner's going to spring on him next. Not even during fluffy loving sex with Steve.

Luckily for him, Steve's a lot more enthusiastic about following orders as a kink than he's ever been about following real orders. He likes it when Bucky manhandles him, holds him down, or ties him up. And he loses his goddamn mind when Bucky issues detailed instructions on how to pleasure him. So Bucky gets to stage-manage their sex life to his heart's content, and that's how they figure out that complete control is what finally lets him relax enough to get off.

(+1 for minimal, ad-hoc kink negotiation. Do Not Want ritualized BDSM practices or formal kink vocab; DNW D/s arrangements that persist outside the bedroom. YKINMKATO, etc.)

Seconded.

Before he woke to the muted cawing of tropical sunbirds which had taken residence on their rooftop and were currently chirping away happily to greet the new day (with no regard for the human schedule whatsoever), Steve had been dreaming about Europe.

It had been a very nice dream, indeed. He came out it feeling so relaxed that - instead of facing Bucky and the complete mess they were currently in - he decided to keep his eyes closed for a little while longer. Steve had always been known for his special talent to sleep in any position, anywhere, no matter what time of day (even with a war going on around him). The red-ish glow of the morning sun which filtered in through the curtains couldn’t stop him from pretending to be back there either.

The dream hadn’t started with the fun part right away. Steve’s subconscious had modeled the deceptively detailed events after a real mission Bucky and him had been on with the Howlies during the harsh Winter of ’43.

They had stormed a medieval castle, a remote Hydra fortress in every sense of the word after 3 weeks of freezing their asses off in the cold. By then, every team member on their own had discovered that war wasn’t all that glamorous, but this particular mission had been a real test of endurance.

Their meticulous planning and tireless surveillance work had been worth it in the end. After only 20 minutes of silent infiltration followed by not-so-silent heavy artillery fire, victory was in their grasp. The few remaining Hydra soldiers either surrendered or killed themselves by biting on hidden Cyanide capsules implanted in their teeth. Or so they thought.

Knowing what Bucky had suffered at Azzano, Steve couldn’t bring himself to care. A dead Nazi was a dead Nazi after all.

The Howling Commandos’ efficient capture of such an important enemy stronghold would have counted as an all-around success by the books, too, if Bucky hadn’t been shot in the leg by the last entrenched enemy sniper on their way out.

Of course, it was hardly Bucky’s fault that he got shot (not that anyone would have breathed a word about it and lived to tell the tale) but his resulting foul mood turned out in Steve’s favor nonetheless.

The dream had skipped right passed the initial panic he had felt over Bucky’s bleeding wound in the field and brought Steve back to his own personal highlight of the tour:

He had never gotten to fully appreciate the beautiful countryside of France until the whole team was stuck in that charming little bed and breakfast hotel with the chipped green doors that locked from the inside so Bucky could recover.

Somehow, after three sheer endless days of bed rest in his separated room with fluffed pillows and proper heating, Bucky had gotten it into his head that fucking Steve on every available surface was the only sure way to take out his frustration. Not that he minded. No, sir. After all, Steve had gotten spectacularly laid that week.

In fact, he was so distracted by his countless orgasms that he didn’t even notice Bucky’s leg wound healing much faster than normal. A ridiculous oversight in retrospect that could have spared them so much pain if he’d just paid a little more attention...

Steve tried to get back to that wonderful, relaxed feeling from the dream instead of getting riled up about his past mistakes again but it was hard not to come crashing back into the present.

It took him several minutes and intense concentration to get back on track. The first thing Steve did, once he was fully immersed in the dream-memory of the lovely room with the green door again, was to focus on his senses.

His eidetic memory conjured the smell of cigarette smoke in the air that would cling to their clothes like a third lover without doing anything to hide the stink of sex and sweat. They had to take turns, sneaking out into the hall and down to the bathroom.

The Howlies probably suspected there was something going on between the two of them that went beyond brotherly affection long before they dared to show their faces downstairs, two nights and days later, looking hopelessly besotted, but it hardly mattered on a grand scale when every day could be their last.

Neither Steve nor Bucky would have risked getting blue carded out of the army lightly, especially since Steve had become some sort of national icon of American pride and virtue, but they’d decided to make the most of the time they had left.

What came after the war - if there was an after as Bucky constantly stressed - was uncertain. As long as they weren’t neglecting their duties to be together and stayed discreet, they could count on their team to keep the secret.

Steve hadn’t expected to wish himself back to a time in which they were constantly in danger, so the tranquility of the dream caught him off guard. Hell, he wasn’t even sure they’d win the war most days. Why did his mind consider that a good time now? Just because of the spectacular sex they were having? It spoke volumes about where his mind was at.

After everything Bucky had been through, how could Steve lie beside him in bed at night, fantasizing about getting his dick wet with his younger self in some forgotten place half a century ago, wallowing in self-pity instead of helping him pick up the pieces?

Steve wasn’t the fucking victim here just because their bedroom activities were currently on hold. Bucky was.

Comforting him first and then reminiscing about the things they used to have all night wasn’t right.

Of course, he had meant it when he told Bucky that he’d love him either way, but the simple fact was: It wasn’t always easy. Steve missed being together without the constant reminder of trauma hanging over their heads but of course, that didn’t let him off the hook. If his enhanced libido was giving him an especially hard time, so what? He just had to suck it up and deal with it in private like every other red-blooded American until Bucky was ready.

The waiting was familiar. In the beginning, after he had been a nameless assassin without agency for so long, Bucky’s relationship with sex had been a little rocky, to say the least. They’d tortured him in the most twisted ways, used his body against him, made him associate pain and humiliation with pleasure and affection until he wanted nothing to do with it anymore. Steve had seen the files and made himself skim through all the horribly detailed reports no matter how vile because he had to know.

There was a total of three-hundred and seventy-six individual folders of what they had done to him (and what they had forced him to do to others) from his time with the Soviets alone. Steve told himself that he wasn’t going to turn this into an endless guilt-trip, that he was doing it was to formulate a game plan, so he knew how to help. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Bucky to live through these things first hand only to be spit out into the world again, too scared to confide in others and unable to depend on anyone but himself to fix the problem.

Facing that, Steve had realized that if he ever wanted them to be together in that way again, he could not screw up when it came to Bucky, couldn’t ever let himself blur the lines of consent even a little bit.

Steve had been there for all the steps of Bucky’s arduous recovery. Especially the unpleasant ones. There was the total incomprehension of want and consent in the early days. The shame and extreme touch aversion which evolved into a chilling indifference and on to a desperate craving for violent, unsafe sex (Bucky had wanted Steve - or anyone really - to hurt and punish him at that time). When it got better eventually, Bucky started looking at sex like a hobby, something he was mildly curious about exploring - first with himself and then with Steve - and it was fun but it wasn’t all it could be. Finally, after about a year and a half (not that Steve was keeping track or anything), Bucky got what it meant to make love to another person.

It was beautiful. Steve was surprised by his own needs then, his own passion, that he had suppressed for so long to give Bucky enough room to breathe and to heal all parts of himself without pressure. He was unprepared for how good it could be when they were both in it for the same reason - for love.

Steve knew he could count himself lucky that Bucky had chosen him for that. That he had learned to trust him again after everything, to share his life with him, to touch and be touched without holding back.

The horrid gang rape hadn’t brought them all the way back to square one, and in a way, Steve was thankful for that, too, but it was still a huge setback. What had happened with the guard felt like something a different, an earlier, less recovered version of Bucky would do. The one that had wanted to feel all that pain and do something about it.

Steve hadn’t made the mistake to delude himself into believing that Bucky was ok by any means, but he was still shocked by how fast the situation had gotten out of control. It was frustrating. They had come so far, only to have a huge part of their progress destroyed by Hydra again. Bucky had been so happy here, so carefree. They’d both been so happy with their lives and Steve just wanted to get back to that, to share their home and their feelings for each other without Hydra casting a dark shadow over it. It wasn’t just the sex he missed, it was the intimacy that came with being together.

Sometimes, Steve wondered if he was being too careful. Maybe Bucky needed him to take charge, to be strong and assertive, to push back against whatever it was that had almost made him fuck that guard even if it was—

Bucky made a sudden, strangled noise in his sleep, distressed.

Another nightmare…

Steve opened his eyes and sighed. He rolled onto his side slowly, watching the back of Bucky’s head, a mop of dark unkempt hair, buried in a pillow. It was the only thing visible to Steve in the half-light.

“Hey, Buck? Hey there...”

Steve gently put his hand on his boyfriend’s stump under the blanket to nudge him awake, mindful not to grab the other man too hard. He’d made that mistake enough times not to want a repeat.

“Mmm... Wha—?” Bucky mumbled, voice rough like gravel, twisting and pulling away from Steve’s grip subconsciously.

“It’s alright, Buck. You were having a bad dream.”

Bucky stopped fighting. He turned around and blinked at him groggily, eyelashes sticking together.

“No... I...”

Steve could see the exact moment he remembered when and where he was and that what had happened with Mandlakhe the other day was real. It was in his eyes: The shame, and the guilt, a painful flash of complicated emotion before he shut down completely, eyes dropping away from Steve’s, throat working hard.

“Fuck...”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Steve said. “Not right now. Let’s just take it easy for a while. I could start by making breakfast for us and you could… I don’t know… Don’t you have to get up soon?”

Bucky rolled over with a low groan, put his back to Steve again, and pulled the sheets all the way over his head.

“...No.”

Bucky had never been a morning person or an easy sleeper in the same sense that Steve was. Still, he could count the times he’d stayed in bed until after sunrise since he’d become a Wakandan refugee on the fingers of his remaining flesh hand. Structuring every day in tune with nature made for a nice, healthy routine as much as it was a necessity.

Maintaining the farm required him to always get up at first light unless he was prepared to work through the burning heat of the afternoon sun - which in all honesty, he usually wasn’t.

This particular morning though, Bucky couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed. He was so exhausted from crying and breaking down in his boyfriend’s arms the other night that his limbs still weighed him down like lead.

He couldn’t believe he’d stooped this low. What kind of pathetic loser would risk a relationship with Steve fucking Rogers himself just to make a point? Well, Bucky Barnes’ idiot ass apparently. He should have ignored whatever stupid shit Mandlakhe had come up with and been the bigger person. Why was it so hard to keep himself in check lately? Was it that he couldn’t function without Steve anymore or because they still hadn’t found Ward and the others?

Bucky dreamed of the day he’d finally slit their throats, perversely longing for the gurgling sounds their dying bodies would make far more than he worked on his recovery. Maybe that was the real issue. He didn’t want to think about himself as a victim any longer but he also knew that the rape had affected him deeply. Enough to want to hurt anyone who dared to question him about it.

Damn Mandlakhe and his entire clan to hell... He didn’t want to see that guard’s face ever again and if that meant he couldn’t leave the hut, so be it. No one was going to drag him out by the hair anymore - which was exactly what Hydra would have done if the asset had tried to stay in bed for a second longer than necessary. Not that it would have gotten the idea.

Steve wasn’t happy with his plan, but since Bucky had taken to calling his self-imposed depression and shame-filled seclusion a “mental health day” which was a real, valid thing Steve had learned from his therapist aka. rogue Avengers BFF Sam Wilson, he respected it.

Steve (sweet, kind, understanding, boyfriend in a crisis mode Steve) took over and handled everything. He even sent the kids away at Bucky’s request, when they showed up in front of their home, expecting him to join for playtime as usual. Today, they wanted to practice stick-ball. Bucky hated stick-ball. He couldn’t remember why he’d taught it to them in the first place.

Steve had never been a skilled liar, so the excuse he came up with wasn’t creative but it got the job done. He told them that Bucky was coming down with the flu (the fucking flu of all things) and was on strict bed rest because of it. When he addressed the children and requested a few days of reprieve for the poor White Wolf, they didn’t question his story and pledged to pray for Bucky’s speedy recovery instead.

Unnecessary, but heartwarming. Bucky couldn’t appreciate the sentiment.

While his boyfriend had gotten more comfortable with bending the truth a little over the years, Bucky still hated that he felt obligated to do it because he was such a fucking mess. Telling people that Bucky had a common cold or something was as close to the truth as he could handle right now, although he felt that he should do better.

When the children finally left, Bucky sighed and buried his face in the pillows, wishing he could suffocate himself in them. It seemed so obvious that he didn’t deserve the love and trust they put in him despite everything that had happened. He could never live up to their expectations, like a walking, breathing disappointment.

All he’d proven so far was that he was batshit insane.

At noon, when it finally became too hot under the covers to wallow in self-pity, Bucky dragged his sorry ass out of bed in slow motion, feeling his one hundred and six years all at once.

Sweat glued the coarse linen fabric to his back like a hairshirt. It seemed weirdly fitting for a repenting sinner like him. The air was stale and getting worse with every labored breath, but he managed to put some marula tea on the stove regardless. Something to occupy his hands and mind.

Steve came in just as the kettle started boiling and joined his partner at the stove. The space suddenly began to feel oddly cramped for two people inside.

Steve cleared his throat awkwardly.

“So, Nat’s probably gonna be here soon. I’ll tell her to get a hotel room in the city and stay overnight. We wanna brief you when you’re feeling a little more— a little better, I guess,” he announced. “What do you think?”

Bucky shrugged. He sure as hell wasn’t fit for company. Especially the kind of company that was going to drag him through specific memories of his gang rape, kicking and screaming if need be, to get closer to the truth. Natasha wouldn’t back down. Even if Steve and her had found a lead, he wasn’t kidding himself into believing she wouldn’t want to know every little thing. It was just practical to know all about his assailants and how they operated as a team from a tactical point of view, but he couldn’t do it. Not yet.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asked with forced casualness, keeping his voice terribly gentle and low.

Bucky snorted. “What do you think? Does anything about me scream ‘healthy and stable’ to you?”

Steve nodded, resigned. “Ok. So it’s a bad day then. Got it. I’ll let you rest.”

He put his arms around Bucky from behind, pressing a small kiss to his partner’s exposed neck.

Bucky shivered. He felt goosebumps rising on his skin where Steve’s lips had just grazed him. The familiar touch now made his skin crawl and how was that for another letdown? The mere thought that Bucky’s mind was set on destroying all the report the two to them had built together as a couple, made him want to cry. He couldn’t let himself show it though, not without seeming even more pathetic to Steve than he already was, so he squirmed away from the tight embrace.

“I’m fucking peachy,” he uttered into his steaming teacup without looking up and took a zip that burned his tongue.

Steve sighed. “Sure... Sorry, I asked. Well, I’ll be outside if you need me. But listen... Buck?”

“Hm?”

“I’d really like to talk about some other things later. When you’re ready.”

Bucky froze, the cup halfway to his mouth. “Things?”

“Yeah.”

“What... What kind of things?” Bucky asked with squirming dread.

Maybe this was it. Steve had had a whole night to contemplate his future with the crazy cheating mess that was Bucky Barnes ghost and maybe he just couldn’t take it anymore. The sad, pitiful fits of depression and the sudden irrational rage directed at him all the time... Steve’s decision made sense in a way, but Bucky couldn’t help but think that killing him would have been kinder.

“Like I said when you’re ready. I’ll just go and—”

“No, no, wait! Please!”

Bucky put the cup down with a rattling, loud clank that betrayed how badly his hand was shaking.

Steve turned around, confused. “...Ok?”

“Please. I, I feel— I’ll try harder ok?”

“Um...” Steve offered. “Try what exactly?”

“Like, I know I’m not great at sharing, but I should try harder to tell you... I—I feel... Crushed. Yeah, crushed. Like someone just planted the damn Chrysler building on my back and I just can’t— I can’t get back up from under it. Steve... I—”

“No...” Steve’s expression changed from confusion to regret. “No no no, I’m sorry, Buck! I’m sorry... It’s not like that. I didn’t mean to scare you. You don’t have to tell me those things if you’re not comfortable.”

Bucky exhaled shakily, a wave of momentary relief washing over him, but he forced himself to keep going. Just because he’d been hurt, didn’t mean he couldn’t make an effort. Steve was obviously worried and rightfully so.

“But... What I did yesterday, what I— Steve, I feel so ashamed about that. All of it. You deserve better, I know that. My recent behavior, it’s been... Ever since they— Well, since they fucking raped me again, it’s like— like I—”

He threw his hand up in the air in frustration.

“God damn it! You won’t get it, Steve! I can try but there’s no metaphor that fits here, ok? No one fucking gets what it feels like... When it happens... Why I didn’t fight. No one gets that! And why didn’t I— I mean, I couldn’t but that’s not the fucking point! I’m telling you unless you’ve been there, I mean really been there yourself, there’s no way you could know how I feel.”

Steve looked at him with deep sorrow. “Bucky, I understand that. I’m just trying to be here for you. What you did for these kids was brave, real brave, and I’m sorry for saying it wasn’t at first but—”

“But what? All I’m saying is, it’s not so black and white,” Bucky cut him short, eyes wild and defensive, “I know you must be so over me saying that but it’s not. It’s no wonder people don’t understand! If they finally stopped painting me as a martyr because of this, then... Good for them. I get it, Steve! I’m an asshole underneath it all! I get that. I’ve done things. Horrible things... So many of them... But you still—”

“I want you to see a doctor,” Steve said out of the blue, cutting him short.

“What?”

“I really think you need help.”

Bucky bristled in exasperation.

“No... Come on, Steve. We’ve been over this. Talking to some stupid psychiatrist is not gonna help me. I know I’ve got issues, real issues but I tried that. I just— I don’t trust them. I can’t. You know that. All they want is talk about what happened to me and Steve, I just can’t! I can’t!”

“I know. I still wish you would change your mind on that because it could actually help you but, Buck... I wasn’t talking about a doctor for your head.”

“Oh.” Bucky nodded weakly. “Oh… Ok? What for then?”

“What you said to Mandlakhe... About doing you a favor with the spear—”

You can even bring that spear of yours and fuck me open with it...

Guy like me? Who knows... Maybe I’ll like that, too...

Bucky felt his own face grow uncomfortably hot.

“No, I was just... Trying to get to him, Steve. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Yes, you did. Cut the bullshit, ok? I was there.” Steve looked at him with steel in his eyes before his gaze turned warm and kind again. “Something’s wrong and it still hurts, right? The scarring? Hasn’t healed all the way yet?”

Bucky seriously considered denying it for a few seconds but looking back into Steve’s knowing eyes, he gave in eventually and sighed.

Why lie to the only person who could be stubborn enough to try and keep loving him despite his faults? Surely, he shouldn’t give Steve another reason to distrust him.

“Sometimes. Yeah.”

“Then you should get that checked out. Just in case. We both know you’ve got the serum, too, but you’re not indestructible.”

Bucky snorted. “Nope.”

Steve crossed his arms, almost like he had to physically restrain himself not to hug him which to Bucky, seemed a ridiculous impulse to have. “I know you’re struggling right now but I need you to hear me: I love you. I still want you and I’m not gonna leave for anything. I want everything you can give me, whatever it is, and that’s never gonna change.”

Bucky dropped his eyes and nodded his head at the ground. He wasn’t sure if he could say it back without letting his own self-hatred and disbelief shine through.

“Yeah…”

“If it makes your skin crawl, I won’t touch you anymore until you tell me I can, but I don’t think we should make any assumptions on that when you’re having a bad day.”

“I wasn’t making assumptions...”

Bucky’s involuntary reply sounded petulant even to his own ears and Steve must have thought that, too, because he gave him a small smile in return.

“Course not. All I’m saying is, we’ve had good reasons not to go all the way since. Your body and mind are simply not ready for that, and that’s ok—”

Bucky laughed unhappily.

“Is it though? What if I’m too damaged to do anything with you anymore? Like long term? What happens then? It’s not like I’ve been in the mood lately anyhow...”

“You don’t have to be up for it when you’re not, and you’re certainly not ‘damaged’. That’s not how I see it. Even if you didn’t want to sleep with me anymore indefinitely. Even if you were a little— changed... You know, down there, anatomically speaking... I’ll always love you the same, no matter what.”

“You would, wouldn’t you...” Bucky made himself look Steve in the eyes and held his gaze.

“You know I would.”

“Promise me?” Bucky whispered, feeling strangely vulnerable. “Promise you’ll stay?”

At that moment, Buck knew that he couldn’t bear to hear Steve confirm the alternative. Steve knew it, too, so he did his best to make it look sincere, never breaking eye contact.

“I promise you. We’re in this together. Always. We’ll find our own way.”

Bucky ignored the tears that were slipping free and started running down his face uncontrollably instead of wiping them away. He didn’t have to hide. Not from Steve. Not because of this.

“Sounds like a plan,” he croaked out.

“Yeah. So, a doctor. Right?” Steve reminded him of his initial request with a small smile. Like a dog with a bone.

“I would never make you go through anything you’re not 100% comfortable with but I don’t wanna hurt you by accident either. If we get back to doing any bedroom stuff—”

Bucky smirked quietly because, in the end, Steve was such a fucking nerd. ‘Bedroom stuff’… Really, punk…

“— and knowing us we probably will - we’ll adjust our sex accordingly. There’s plenty of stuff I can still do without hurting you when you’re ready for it but I need to know you’re cleared physically. It’s not enough to take sex off the menu and act like it didn’t happen.”

Bucky sighed deeply, defeated.

“Fine, but I’m not going back to the King’s lab. I know Shuri’s got the equipment for proper scans and everything but she blames herself for what happened to me already. She’s just an innocent girl... She doesn’t need to see that.”

Bucky took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. His gaze slipped somewhere far beyond Steve’s reach again as if the mere thought of exposing that vulnerable part of himself was hurting. “It’s too real up close.”

Steve nodded in understanding.

He remembered that there was another, secondary reason, too, but he didn’t feel the need to bring it up right now: The sterile environment of the lab. It reminded Bucky too much of his time in captivity, even on his good days. Something about the bright lights and white walls always brought him right back there, writhing helplessly on their table. In that dark place, the one with the memories the Winter Soldier had safely locked away in his mind, strange hands were still touching his body. Clinical, invasive, relentless. Hurting, poking, prodding, and violating him. He couldn’t handle any more of that right now.

When Shuri had removed the trigger words in his head with the terrifying power to bring out the asset and control him, they had knocked him out with a tranquilizer fit to sedate an elephant. It put him to sleep right before he was moved to the operating room.

Bucky had been shaking with nerves that day, throwing up a few times before they even got started. The only thing that had helped, was trusting Steve to be right there with him.

Steve had taken a day off from the superhero business to hold his partner’s hand through it all with the patience of a saint. In the end, he even administered the drug himself, shooting that strange blue stuff into Bucky’s veins with a fresh needle because he didn’t trust anyone else to do it without pain. They waited up together until it hit.

“Remember that time in 8th grade when you made me sniff paint solvents on a dare?” Steve joked with a devious twinkle in his eyes once Bucky’s speech started to slur.

“No? You see, I was high as a kite when I got home. Payback’s a real bitch, isn’t it...”

“Alright then,” present Steve said, “just as long as you find someone.”

“I’ll ask around,” Bucky agreed. “I swear. Shila might even be able to refer me to a local.”

“That’s great,” Steve retorted, pulling out a chair at their dinner table and sinking down on it in reverse. This time, he wasn’t going to leave unless Bucky asked him to.

He didn’t. Steve watched him work at the stove over the backrest.

Natasha could wait a little longer.

“No really,” Steve said. “I don’t know what your plans are, but I’m telling you, we’re not giving up just yet...”

The weather was perfect of course which annoyed her tremendously.

According to Stark’s unsolicited opinion, people who chose to reside in Wakanda had to be crazy because it was hotter than the devil’s asshole all year around.

This time (as rare as that sort of thing was), Natasha was actually inclined to agree with him.

The sun was burning something fierce when she stepped off the quinjet, wiping the sweat from her brow before the running mixture of acid and dissolved hair dye could sting her eyes.

Her head was shining brightly, blown-out strands the color of an icy blond now, which almost overshadowed her huge cat-eye sunglasses in lovely cherry red. The loose white babydoll that she’d picked out for the occasion fluttered in the wind and hopefully added to her Monroe-esque vibe. Natasha had always been one for the classics.

Her journey had been pleasant for the most part. It hadn’t surprised her that Steve couldn’t share the coordinates to get into the country with her for safety reasons. It didn’t stop her from taking the tourist route though.

The rest of the process had also changed a lot since the last time she’d visited. Where she could have formerly entered without a hitch, there was a password and an identity check at the border now. The guards were thorough enough to impress her, although one of the women had averted her eyes for a short moment when she lifted her skirt so they could search and pat her down properly.

Maybe Natasha shouldn’t have winked so lewdly just to get a rise but ignoring distractions was what professionals were for. She could have her fun before things got more serious.

Speaking of serious, Natasha wondered if Steve had broken the good news to his partner yet. They weren’t exactly at the finishing line, but the progress they had made in Nigeria these past few weeks had brought them several steps closer to finding Bucky’s rapists.

She thought she knew her boys well enough by now to prepare for lots and lots of manly tears and emotional turmoil. That was why she hadn’t told them about her imminent arrival.

If Steve had known she was coming so soon, he would have tried to handle her in typical Captain America fashion, the same way he always did when he wanted to protect Bucky from the world. Natasha understood the impulse but unfortunately, it wasn’t going to get the desired results fast enough to catch up with the bad guys before they flew the nest.

Bucky would have to forgive her harsh words later. He wasn’t going to love being interrogated by the Black Widow (not at all) but hopefully, ripping off the dicks of Ward and his little squid ward circle in the end was enough to make up for it…

Thanks so much for updating! I always enjoy this story.

So, post-Civil War, Bucky's trigger words to turn him into the Winter Soldier have been taken care of. However, the HYDRA cell that has captured him and Steve doesn't know that, and they order him to rape and torture Steve while they watch. He and Steve need to keep their cover and prevent the cell from suspecting anything if they want to get out alive with the intel they need, so they go along with it. They're both on the same page there, but it's still awful.

Bonuses for:

Bucky and Steve both being ruthlessly pragmatic about the whole thing while it's happening (Bucky making calculations about how much damage he can inflict without incapacitating Steve beyond his ability to fight, etc.).

Bucky and Steve aren't actually together at this point (whether they were in the past, or even are interested in it at all, is up to the writer).

+10000 for the pair of them ripping a bloody swath through the facility the first chance they get

I think I’ve read a fic like that! I remember that they told Bucky to rape Steve in Russian and he had to explain what they wanted to Steve. Steve got off on it at one point and they talked about getting off together later but they tried to make it believable for the camera. Anyone else remember this? It might still be in my bookmarks on Ao3 but I’m useless when it comes to searching my own tags so who knows...

Btw, I’d read a million more like this so another fill would be awesome.

Not sure this is allowed here, but I just wanted to let you all know I made a hydra trash party group chat on tumblr. Maybe it could be an alternative to the trash discord server. ;)

He’s breathing hard against Steve’s throat, thrusting into the tight heat of his body and feeling pleasure wind sharp and hot his spine with every breathless groan that escapes Steve’s throat—

And then one of Steve’s hands lands on his hip, grips tight and strokes up his back. Bucky jerks away, flinching like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over him. Steve realizes an instant later and lets go, but it’s already too late: five seconds ago, Bucky was on the verge of coming, and now his whole skin is crawling. He pulls out; he’s already starting to go soft.

“I gotta stop,” he mumbles against Steve’s throat, like it’s not already obvious.

“Okay,” Steve says immediately. The absolute bastard thing of it is, he doesn’t even sound put out. Bucky can hear his heart thundering, can feel the hard ridge of his cock trapped between their bodies, and Steve doesn’t even seem annoyed about it. He never fucking is, and somehow that’s the worst of it.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Steve shifts beneath him, and his cock pulses against Bucky’s stomach, probably from the friction. It wouldn’t take much. He could just lie here and let Steve rub himself off. He can put up with it for that long. He’s not gonna get anything out of it, but that doesn’t mean he needs to leave Steve hanging, again.

Except that Steve is moving away, squirming out from under him to stand, all smooth lines and sweat-sheened skin in their lamplit bedroom. Bucky flops over onto his back to look at him, his sex hair and his hard cock, and Steve says, blushing, “I’m just gonna--take care of this. I’ll be right back.”

And then he’s slipping away into the bathroom and Bucky puts an arm over his face and tries not to think about Steve jerking off in the other room because Bucky is too goddamn broken to have sex with his own boyfriend without freaking out.

It’s a few minutes later when Steve comes back in and flops naked onto the mattress next to him. He’s cleaned himself off, which Bucky appreciates; even the lingering smell of spunk right now is liable to turn his stomach. Steve knows that. They have, unfortunately, done this dance several dozen times already.

“Hey,” Steve says. He’s not touching Bucky, but his posture is open. Bucky makes a face and rolls into his arms, tucking himself against Steve’s furnace-hot body. He feels oversensitive and out of sorts, annoyed at himself and Steve both. It wasn’t even the touch that did it. Steve’s touched him like that a hundred times. It’s that he wasn’t expecting it at that exact moment, and how they hell do they get around that? Kinda hard to fuck a guy without putting your hands on him.

“Hey,” he says eventually. He doesn’t apologize again, only because he knows Steve doesn’t want to hear it, and because he doesn’t want to hear Steve tell him, yet again, that it’s not his fault. He knows that. It doesn’t really help.

“We could…” Steve trails off, his jaw working like he’s rolling his next words around in his mouth, trying to figure out how to spit them out. Bucky braces himself. He’s been expecting it for a while, for Steve to tell him what he already knows: this isn’t working. Maybe we should just give it a rest with the sex stuff for a while, Buck.

It would be the sensible thing; it’s just also the last thing he wants.

“What?” he says. Spit it out. Get it over with.

Instead, what Steve says is, “You could tie me up.”

Bucky lifts his head and stares at him. “What?”

Steve is blushing, a hot flush across his cheekbones that’s redder than can be accounted for by his recent orgasm, but he looks steady enough. Calm and reasonable in the way he is when he’s proposing some balls-to-the-wall crazy plan in the field. “I can’t touch you in a way you’re not expecting if I can’t move. Or you could just tell me what to do. What you want me to do.”

Steve’s crazy plans do have a way of working out. Bucky licks his lips, and there’s a twinge of--something, not arousal exactly, not now, but something. “You want me to boss you around in bed, Rogers?”

“How’s that different than any other day?” Steve asks, and he’s still blushing but there’s the beginning of a smile there. “Worth a try, right?”

“You’re something else,” Bucky says. He presses his cheek against Steve’s chest, listening to the speeding drumbeat of his heart. “Yeah, okay. Worth a try.”

I love this! Bucky’s headspace feels sooo real.

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Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire

Re: Someone who looks up to Cap has to watch him get the trash treatment

Re: Rejectamenta (6/?)

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Re: Hydra takes Winter Soldier's voice box out.

Winter Soldier/Hydra Agent[s], Initiation into STRIKE

Re: Winter Soldier/Hydra Agent[s], Initiation into STRIKE

Robo Breasts

Re: Minifill Re: Bucky only knows what was done to him through muscle memory

[FILL] Use Your Body, Use Your Words

[FILL] Use Your Body, Use Your Words - Ao3 Link

[FILL] Fuck or Die with Steve and sextoy Rumlow CHAPTER 2 [1/4]

[FILL] Fuck or Die with Steve and sextoy Rumlow CHAPTER 2 [2/4]

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[FILL] Fuck or Die with Steve and sextoy Rumlow CHAPTER 2 [4/4]

Steve/Bucky post-Hydra D/s play - Bucky needs to be in control during sex

Re: Steve/Bucky post-Hydra D/s play - Bucky needs to be in control during sex

Fill: The Quiet Game (16/?)

Fill: The Quiet Game (17.1/?)

Fill: The Quiet Game (17.2/?)

Re: Fill: The Quiet Game (17.2/?)

Steve/Bucky, undercover, fuck or die

Re: Steve/Bucky, undercover, fuck or die

no subject

FILL: Touch 1/2

Re: FILL: Touch 1/2