Back then, the trigger words had been an almost welcome respite. His body knew what to do when they were used, and his mind could lock out. It was like watching himself through glass; it wasn't him doing those things, it was his body. He wasn't even in the passenger seat, he was in the back, gagged and bound, and not even able to fight, just watch in horror.

Sure, things could bring him back, including time, and when he came back it was awful, every time, but it meant for the most part, he wasn't there.

He isn't so lucky this time. He's been Bucky for months now, and whilst the trigger word took over his body, his mind is still very much there.

He hasn't had to be yanked out of bed, he's doing as he's told. He's standing in the middle of the room, faces that he'd hoped to never see again around him. It's still dark, but he knows them, knows them all well. He knows they can't see him all that well but they know he's doing exactly as they ask. He tries desperately not to show his shaking, breathes deeply to avoid his heart rate spiking, despite the terror pulsing through him.

He hasn't been truly afraid in so long, and it feels unfamiliar to him. The Asset had been frightened, and unsure, but this... this is new. He isn't sure what to do with it. God, he was so stupid. So stupid to think he was safe, to think that he could ever be safe. He's got... nothing. There are knives around the room, but he's surrounded by five of them, and his knives are out of reach. He's only wearing sweatpants, because he's an idiot, completely unprepared.

"Kneel," Rumlow's voice pushes through the darkness again, and Bucky *drops* to his knees, his full weight behind it, bones cracking as he does. It sends pain searing up his body and he inhales through gritted teeth. All they had to do was say the damn words and he was... this again.

Light fills the room, someone finally turning on the fucking light.

What surprises him is the choke of laughter from Rumlow. Then sniggers from the rest of them. Bucky doesn't know what they're laughing at, but his cheeks, neck, chest, all burn. He can't look at them, and his metal hand digs into his knees.

"Geeze, thought we were coming for the Winter Soldier. Did you eat him or something?"

Bucky doesn't get it, but everyone is laughing.

"Wouldn't have thought he'd go soft being on the run, but looks like he needs to go for a run!"

More laughter. Bucky... thinks he gets it now... but he's not sure.

Rumlow gets up close, prods him in the gut with his shoe, gently at first; Bucky holds his breath as Rumlow pokes his softer stomach again and again, cackling. Bucky is expecting the kick to the gut, but it winds him all the same. He falls forward a little, but Rumlow grabs him by the hair and yanks him upright again. Bucky is panting.

Bucky's trying desperately not to shake, can't let them see he's scared, but then they have to know. He's too deep under the words, can't even bring himself to breathe too deeply without permission, let alone fight them off. He tries to clench his hand, but he can't. He tries to wriggle his toes, but he can't. It's as if having the break from the control has made it stronger, not weaker like they'd hoped.

What are they doing here? How did they find him? Are they going to take him again? Hydra is coming apart, its main head cut off, but Steve and his friends are still trying to bring down the smaller parts. One head cut off, another two, etc etc. He's heard it a thousand times, and if they manage to get The Asset back... He doesn't want to think of what could happen.

"Christ, I don't even know if I'll be able to get a boner with 'im looking like that."

A rush of heat prickles the back of Bucky's neck. What's... wrong with how he looks? His hair is longer now, but softer, and he hasn't shaved in a few days, but he can't think of what else they might be talking about.

"Do you think we'll be able to get it in past all that fat?"

And then it finally clicks. The rush of heat from before intensifies, and embarrassment starts winding its way through his body. He... may have gained a few pounds. Steve let him eat whatever he wanted; sometimes his eyes filled with tears when he saw Bucky eat something new, and he liked it. But... he's not... he's not... fat... is he? But he can see it now. His face is rounder. His tummy, the one that Steve had kissed his morning before doing down on him, the one Rumlow had poked and prodded with his boot, is softer now, a little squishy with him kneeling on the floor as he is, his shoulders slumped. Steve's sweatpants had grown a little tighter on him, but Steve had just bought him new sweatpants.

He's... he's fat. He's not Steve's pretty boy now.

He's brought back to it all when Rumlow utters another damn word, and against his will, Bucky falls forward, face into the carpet, ass in the air. No. No. God. Not this again. He recovered physically months and months ago, but he and Steve had barely just taken that back, "reclaimed" it as Steve had said.

"Anyone with a dick long enough to push past lardass here?" someone jokes.

He feels his sweatpants being tugged down, and he tries desperately to check out before the pain starts.

He fails.

Miserably.

It hurts, somehow worse than it used to. But then, he used to be drugged to the eyeballs. He'd only ever been half there, at most. Now, he's here, he's all here, and it makes him choke on a sob. At least Rumlow had used lube.

It occurs to him, a cold voice in his mind that Rumlow had never done such thing, and certainly hadn't this time. Bucky doesn't want to think about it.

"Look, guys, he's got tits now! It's not gay if it's got tits!" Rumlow shouts victoriously, as he plays with the tiny spots of softness at Bucky's pecs. They hadn't seemed any different this morning, but right then, he felt he may as well have become a woman, tits the size of grapefruits rubbing against the carpet. Rumlow's nails bite into his skin, and he knows without looking that there's more blood. There's wetness on his face, but he knows that that at least isn't blood, for now.

Rumlow comes quickly, slapping his ass as he pulls out, laughing manically despite his breathlessness. "Fuck me, it jiggles. Guys, you've got to check out the jiggles."

Bucky's just grateful that they haven't made him lift his head out of the carpet. At least they can't see his tears, the shame burning in his face. They can't see him bite his lip, trying to muffle his sobs or grunts of pain.

The next guy is rougher than Rumlow, but at least his cock is smaller. It still burns, semen and blood stinging the torn skin.

"Fuck boss, d'you remember when Winter Soldier was a nice piece of ass. If I wanted to fuck Jabba the Hutt, I wouldn't have come here, that's for sure," the guy manages through his thrusts.

Bucky gets that reference.

Bucky hates that reference.

If Bucky survives this, he's going to burn all of his Star Wars toys.

Rumlow pulls him up by his hair, but hasn't given him permission to use his hands, so his weight is hanging from his scalp, and precariously on his knees as he's fucked. He gasps, clenching his teeth, desperate to put his hands down. Rumlow doesn't give him the pleasure, instead just pressing his cheeks together with his other hand, cheeks and lips squishing unattractively.

He absently notes that Rumlow's face is pretty unattractive right now too, half-melted off, but it's just a vague mention under the screaming in his mind.

"Awww, would you look at that face," he coos, smirking down at him. Bucky tries to look at the floor, not to make eye contact but Rumlow squeezes his face tighter before slapping him. "Look me in the eye, little pig," he snaps. Bucky can't help but do so, even as his eyes swim with pain and shame.

Rumlow drops him on his face again, and Bucky is grateful, because then nobody can see him, and he can't see their faces as they laugh at him. He can still hear them though, and the words don't get any kinder.

"I'm surprised I'm even hard. Look at you, you fat bastard." Another one has finished, a new one starting, and Bucky is finally, blissfully, spacing out. The pain is one thing, but the thoughts, the humiliation, that's what sends him to the blank space he used to spend most of his time.

Even through it, though, he can feel every roll on his stomach, the jiggling of his tits, even his ass now, and somehow it hurts almost as much as the fucking. He's hyperaware of every movement in his skin, the fat bouncing around with every thrust.

"God, I wonder what Rogers sees in you now. At least before you were a hot little thing; bet he just keeps you around because he feels sorry for you now."

That one breaks through the haze of pain, and shame, and fear, and sick. Steve's name. A wave of revulsion swamps him in ways that the pain and humiliation hadn't.

No, no... Steve... Steve loved him. Didn't he? But... Steve was so good, he'd never tell Bucky if he found him unattractive... And just last week he'd asked if Bucky wanted to come running with him... What if that was his subtle way of saying he thought Bucky was getting fat? Steve had always been a precocious and painfully honest little shit, but he knew Bucky was fragile. Maybe he hadn't said anything, and was trying to do it subtly. Maybe he really did just feel sorry for him.

They notice the change in him, he must make a sound or something, because that's when the onslaught really starts. And he thought it had been bad before.

And this time, he can't tune it out. It all blurs together, a stream of how Rogers won't want him like this, how Rogers pities him, how Rogers can't wait to be rid of him.

Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

Jiggle. Jiggle. Jiggle.

His mind screams, screams, begs for him to break free, to kill them, to kill himself. He's never felt so disgusted in himself and he actively bites back bile.

"Hey boss, look at these!" There's more laughter around him, but Bucky doesn't tune in. He doesn't pay attention, feeling nothing except his stomach rocking back and forth as he's fucked into again, by whom, he doesn't know.

He hears laughter, but he's been hearing that all evening.

Something blue, and red, and tiny, and plastic drops in front of his eyes. He's got carpet burn on his cheeks. His eyes don't focus for a few moments, just sees the tiny blue and red shape before him. When they finally focus, he sees a tiny Steve. Another few drop.

No.

No.

"Well, isn't this adorable?" Rumlow grins, gripping Bucky by the hair again, lifting him just enough that Rumlow can be sure he sees the tiny Kinder Surprise Steve's.

He doesn't even build up to it. He just steps on the little toys with his combat boots and crushes them, their tiny plastic bodies warping and snapping under the weight.

And something inside Bucky snaps.

That had happened sometimes. Despite all his trigger words, despite all the wipes, all the brainwashing... Sometimes the Soldier, the Asset, would break free, become destructive. Steve always was his weak spot.

There's no white hot rage, like those times. There's a crystalline peace, a silence that he hopes he can live in forever.

Rumlow's closest. It takes Bucky seconds to flip him, snap his neck.

He takes three of them out before they can even reach for their guns. The final one at least has his gun in hand when Bucky twists his head right around.

Three of the Steve toys survived, their little bodies able to be put back together easily. It calms him and he keeps them wrapped gently in his hands as he gets to work.

He makes it to the bathroom, forces himself to vomit, metal fingers down his throat, as if that can somehow make him more appealing, bring back his old body. He vomits, but he's still disgusting when it's done.

Still naked, he walks into the kitchen, grabs a garbage bag, and promptly empties the fridge, the pantry. He moves quickly, efficiently, as if still under the trigger words, only... he's not. He doesn't think anybody else in the world knows his trigger words anymore. He should feel relieved, but he mostly feels nothing.

He grabs another garbage bag and goes to the shelf with all his toys, and one after the other sweeps them into the garbage bag. They all look so small, and fragile, in the bottom of the huge black bag. He wishes he could join them.

He doesn't want to go back into the bedroom, but he can't take the trash out naked. He manages to find clothes, ignoring the pain in his body, ignoring the way Steve's sweatpants cut into his hips, making his tummy and hips balloon over the top. He presses at it miserably.

He'll have to clean the bodies up when he gets back upstairs. He doesn't know when Steve will be home; it could be soon, it could be days. He doesn't know the correct protocol for getting rid of bodies in Brooklyn...

Through the bedroom window he can see it's dawn, the sky pink with the rising sun.

He isn't gone long, or so he thinks. Maybe when he'd thrown the two bags in the dumpster he'd been caught up in a thousand yard stare. He must, because the sky is a little less pink when he next blinks. His feet are colder. His arms are colder too. He blinks a few times and goes back upstairs.

Steve's there, standing in the living room, still dressed, shield still on.

Steve's seen the bodies. Steve's seen the empty shelf. Steve's seen the empty apartment. Steve had thought he'd gone.

Steve reaches for him, all tears, and relief, and panic.

But Bucky can't let him Steve touch him. Not anymore. Not like this.