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bucknastysbabe · 1 year

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Kink Bingo - Praise Kink

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1, 765

Tags: Dead dove, WHUMP?, Hydra Trash Party, Mentioned rape, Dub-con, confused WS murder meow meow, hydra!handler!reader, praise kink, touch starved Buck, hand jobs, He’s Just Super Sensitive Blame The Serum, crying what’s new, she loves him in the worst way possible

A/N: I haven’t really written something dark like this in awhile so WARNING! The one Russian translation is thanks commander. Poor Bucky but he gets petted and praised by an insane Soviet for a little bit. Subtle Steeb reference at the end. Listened to gimme danger the entire time.

You leaned back in the stiff leather chair, waiting for your delivery. Strike team was bringing the asset to your office at some point. Your mouth pinched at the thought— they played too rough with the poor thing. Soldat was the fist of Hydra, not a common whore. You didn’t like the Americans very much, but Karpov had sent you along with the asset to get adjusted to being under Alexander Pierce’s control.

So you handled your precious boy until the Americans grew tired of you. They’d already beaten the little life the asset had left into a pulp. He was even more quiet and confused than in Siberia. You’d give him some peace before being discarded, hopefully by the greatest creation of Hydra.

The door opened, the young agent Rumlow shoving the asset inside with an irritated noise. You raised a brow at Soldat’s state— bloodied and bruised moreso than the average mission. Rumlow barked, “He didn’t listen, stupid fuck needs to get wiped again. Got punished, so stop looking at me like that Komandir.”

“Fuck off,” you hissed.

Rumlow slammed the door with a scoff. Your precious soldat stumbled forward dazedly. He knew the drill even between countless wipes, come report to the handler after a mission. Soldat limped forward and kneeled between your legs, wide blues looking up blankly. His nose was bruised, one of his eyes bloodshot and blackened.

You frowned and carded a gentle hand through his thick brown locks, sighing softly. His jaw twitched, throat bobbed. You stated, “Status report.”

His robotic reply came quickly, “Fractured left orbital, nasal fracture, broken anterior ribs nine and ten. Palatal Petechiae, anal fissure.”

You almost hissed at the last part. The strike team was a bunch of mongrel deviants, using the asset to sate their primal urges. With a coo you placed both hands on his cheeks, carefully thumbing over his black eye.

“Baby, poor baby,” you simpered. His wide eyes searched your face, glassing over with tears. You lied, “Those strike team boys are dogs. You’re just so pretty they can’t help themselves.” Soldat whined sadly through his swollen nose, guilty gaze flicking to the ground.

“I didn’t listen- I- I need maintenance,” he said.

He thought he deserved it. He probably didn’t, they just searched for ways to inflict torture. Nasty American pigs. You would make soldat feel better in the meantime. He loved praise and petting, baby was so touch starved. Vasily had taught you that about the asset. Said it makes him more obedient in close quarters because he gets so overstimulated and needy.

“Soldier,” you sweetly said, “You’ll get your maintenance soon. Let your handler take care of her precious star.”

You moved your hands to gently scratch at his scalp, frowning at the pieces that were obviously ripped out using force. You murmured, “How did they use you?” Soldat had to open his hazy eyes, almost purring at your ministrations.

“They used my anus and throat. Multiple members of Strike team Alpha,” he rasped oh-so-quiet. You bit back another hiss, focusing on untangling his dark locks.

You liked the way his English sounded. Your accent was thick and guttural. The asset’s English was soft-spoken, lilting, pretty. You knew it was his native tongue long ago. Pierce told you to stop speaking Russian with Soldat, who currently leaned into your touch, quivering muscles settling down. His injuries would be slowly knitting up— the bruises would be a couple of days, the broken bones a couple more.

Soldat was perfect like that. You ordered, “Just relax precious, if you can.” He nodded obediently, stable hands clasped behind. You worked on the multiple buckles and zips caging in his finely tuned body. Soldat’s titanium arm clicked and clacked in the quiet room, the only noise besides the hum of the A/C.

You peeled off the tight leather from his torso, sucking in a breath at the bruising. You sighed again, “My poor baby, they did a number hm?” He nodded slowly, lips trembling. You rubbed at the knots in his thick shoulders, the asset moaning softly. He never got very loud, but the cries and sniffles when he came were divine.

“Such a pretty angel baby, I know you did great, you always do.”

He vaguely nodded, a half-assed jerk of his pretty jaw. The soldier whimpered, “C-commander please.” His swollen red lips still pouted and shook, sobs threatening to rip out of his sore throat. You purred, “Do you want a reward soldier? Sweet baby.”

“Mhm,” he croaked.

You eyed his peaked nipples and straining bulge in his cargo pants. He had a pretty cock, flushed and thick, just huge, like the rest of him. You unbuckled his belt easily, sliding the pants down strong thighs. They even quivered under your attentions. You couldn’t help the quirk of your lips at soldat gasping when his swollen cock slapped his toned stomach.

You pressed soft kisses to his neck and jaw, wandering hands paying mind to the broken parts of his body. Awkwardly you ushered the naked asset up, leading him forward to sit on your desk. His thighs tantalizingly spread out when he sat down with a wince. You apologized, “So sorry sweet boy, I’ll make it better then you’ll get some rest.”

“спасибо командир,” he murmured.

You chided, lips ghosting over his own, “No Russian, remember baby? I know the Americans are confusing.”

His lips puckered eagerly, waiting for a kiss. You closed the distance, winding a hand into his long locks. You rubbed soothing circles while sharing his lips in slowed smacks. The asset liked everything slow, you figured it kept him relaxed. Nothing like the jackhammering cocks of the disgusting strike team.

He whined happily into your mouth, arching into your body. You smiled, sweet thing wanted his tits touched but wouldn’t dare to ask. So you did it for him, “You want me to play with your tits baby? My needy star.” He nodded frantically, chasing your lips to crash back against his.

You slid the hand from his hair and hip to rub wide circles on his built pecs.

Then you ran your thumbs in tight motions on his dusky nubs, so fucking gentle like your super-soldier pet would break. You knew he would if he could. The asset shivered, a thin whine of ‘commandeeerrr’ elicited instead. You clenched your thighs to dull the ache. You never fucked the asset. Just played with him until he got his sweet release.

You weren’t like the thugs here taking and taking. Soldat needed you like the oxygen in the air. He needed some sort of twisted love in his lonely life. You sucked on his tongue to abate the pang in your chest from the thought of abandoning your sweet boy.

Soldat’s arm shifted and whined in random intervals— signals just as overwhelmed as the rest of him. You kept up the assault on his nipples, the poor thing’s drool making your kiss grow sloppier and wetter. He mewled into the lazy movements, hands trembling. You murmured, “You can touch baby boy.”

You almost squeaked at the feeling of his big hands groping your ass. He tried to be gentle but soldat rarely knew his own strength. You’d cherish the usual mottling of your skin afterward. He brokenly panted, “Commander, feels…s’good. Thank you.” His dark lashes fluttered when you pinched his now swollen peaks, full lips hanging wide open in ecstasy.

“No need to thank me precious, I know my perfect boy needs it. Do you want me to play with your pretty cock?”

He let out a mournful noise— huge arms pulling you even closer. Soldat would probably latch onto you like a puppy if he didn’t have orders. He pled, “Will you, pl-please please.” The asset flushed and winced, expecting a slap for asking questions. You pressed your lips to his slick mouth and hummed, “I’ve got you, my star has such manners.”

You pulled back, his brows furrowing in distress at the absence of your mouth. You let your collected drool drip into your palm and wrapped it around engorged flesh. He cried out and bit down to stop the noise.

“Don’t hide your sweet sounds from me, I want to hear my precious boy.”

A choppy exhale of breath was your answer. He squirmed and sniffled as you methodically fucked your fist on his cock. Slow, slow, a rough twist on the head and your prize was trembling like a virgin. He rested his forehead on your shoulder, puffing hot breath on the thin cloth of your top. The asset babbled random words in different languages interspersed with the most breathtaking little sobs.

You slid your thumb around the extra sensitive frenulum, the sweet thing sniffling and wetting your shoulder with tears. He tried to speak, “K-Ko- hah, haaah, mmh, fuck!” Your other hand— once tight in his perfect hair slid down to cup his overfull sac. You squeezed at the heated flesh. Soldat muffled his wail, hands scrabbling at your body.

His back was painfully arched, you ordering him to relax some. He did with a pitiful mewl, soaking more tears into your turtleneck. You grinned at the tell-tale little sobs. He’d get so pitchy you felt bad for your simple little weapon, his throat probably hurt even more from the high sounds. You husked in his ear, “That’s it my good boy, singing so pretty for your commander, you needed it baby.”

He was rutting into your fist with abandon, the left arm going off with buzzing signals. You dug your thumb into his weeping slit, guided a gentle finger holding his balls to that loose skin behind. You pressed up and gasped when Soldat almost crushed you with his arms, shaking and coming apart at the seams. The asset couldn’t catch his breath, aborted tiny cries leaving his swollen throat.

He wept openly now— flushed member shooting rope after rope of white cum. He stained your already ruined top and flooded your fist. You pumped Soldat through the climax until he mewled and shied away. He seized your lips again passionately, pouring singleminded need into the action. You kissed the perfect asset back, pressing your tits against his broad chest. You wanted to steal him away in the moment, leave with the priceless thing and start anew somewhere.

But that wouldn’t happen. He’d realize you’re just as tainted as the rest of Hydra and probably kill you as his brain inevitably cleared up. So you’d enjoy your pliant, perfect toy for now. You mumbled against insistent lips, “Baby did so good, Commander loves you. Precious star.” He teared up again— not sure where he remembered another voice telling the asset that he was loved.

#READ THE TAGS AND TW #PLS #dead dove do not eat #whump #hydra reader #winter soldier bucky #bucky is touch starved #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes smut #hydra trash party #bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier x reader #kink bingo

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sesamenom · 5 months

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six geese a-laying, FIVE GOLDEN RINGS! four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree

on the day 5 poll for what to do with the rings, "THROW IT AWAY" won at 30.9% as of drawing this, so great choice everybody! The authorities (manwe's pet geese) have been alerted and the rings have been disposed of.

now, for a totally unrelated question......

#silm #silmarillion #annatar #manwe #geese #wow ive gotten a lot better at drawing birds over the course of this thing lol #these geese arent quite laying #six geese a-slaying?#five golden rings! (in the trash)#four screaming birds three valian hens two turtle doves and an elwing in a pear tree #in the background you might see elwing and eonwe now have armor!#(this may or may nto be relevant later :)#this is a very fun and interesting format to work with #also a little aggravating at times because WHY ARE THEY SO BLURRY #but you can still see the tiny birds and the pears so its fine :)

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liminal-zone · 26 days

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ready to comply

In honor of the day and our sacred texts (our happy three year anniversary of the mouse making Hydra Trash Party canon in The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, episode 3, The Power Broker), here are my HTP or HTP-adjacent fics. XOXO

All are rated E or M. Mind the tags. Don't like, don't read.

her wine-stained lips | Bucky with Valentina Allegra de Fontaine | non con, manipulation, crying | Valentina’s recruitment technique is atypical.

Nothing ever lasts forever | Bucky with Vasily Karpov, Alexander Pierce, others | non con, psychological horror, conditioning, dehumanization | Karpov has to lose his soul when the Americans recall the fist of Hydra from Siberia.

step on the glass (WIP) | Bucky/Zemo | consent issues, past HTP, sugar daddy, D/s | Bucky finds himself owned once more.

she drives like an ace | Bucky with Alexander Pierce’s daughter | non con, dehumanization | Alexander Pierce’s daughter would like the keys to the car, please. (The Winter Soldier is the car.)

how sudden the fall | Bucky/Sam, Bucky/Zemo | consent issues, past HTP, undercover | The first test is violence, and the second test is far more complicated.

shadows passing | Bucky/Ava Starr (Ghost), both with Alexander Pierce | background HTP, consent issues | Over the years, Alexander Pierce has a number of assets at his disposal. And he has his favorites.

I want to be stung by the stars | Bucky/Loki | consent issues, past HTP, light D/s | Bucky craves subjugation and he follows orders. It's what he's good at.

#lizzen fic #hydra trash party #htp #happy anniversary to those who celebrate #alexander pierce #winterbaron #bucky barnes #this is a winter soldier blog #dead dove do not eat

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snackugaki · 1 year

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In Loving Memory: the Gentle Roasting of Ninja Turtles: The Next Mutation, pt.6

pt.1 | pt.2 | pt.3 | pt.4 | pt.5

omake 1 | omake 2 | omake 3

#fanart shitposting #i love trash #i love the next mutation #the next mutation #...again I must put the disclaimer #the show is absolute trash (affectionate)#I am partially immune #because I have the childhood nostalgia vaccine #what a show to remember TMNT by before I dove #head first into anime and manga #only to be brought back by a TMNT show #made by those same people who dove into anime the same time I did #don't think I recognize those poses and angles #and the fight choreo #i c u #i lov it #if I had to grade it on a scale #next mutation turtles are the MOST jacked #out of the shows #comic turtles were always ripped #the bay turtles are just big #but the next mutation turtles even had a defined brachialis #i know those turtles had to be dehydrated #that's dehydration definition #speaking of #have you sipped water today #remember that it's sipping water throughout the day #not chugging 16oz of water and thinking you're good for six hours #you're a houseplant with anxiety #not a dried out kitchen sponge

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esperanta-dragon · 2 years

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"Collect 4986 crystals for me. Don't look at me like that. I'm a mage. I did the math. I need exactly 4986 crystals. 4985 is inadequate. 4987 is of course absurd. Four thousand, nine hundred eighty-six. Go!" I was going through really old things and found this. This was done 2016 when we were joking what Khadgar is doing with all the Apexis Crystals: he is feeding pigeons in Dalaran.

It's 6 years old and I just started with digital art so art is shitty, but I hope it will make you laugh.

#Khadgar #trash dove #Dalaran #meme #WoW #World of Warcraft #apexis crystal #Warlords of Draenor #Legion

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mournthebird · 21 days

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The Brand

Warnings: Hydra Trash Party, dehumanization, mentions of physical and psychological abuse, mentions of sexual assault and torture, body modification, medical descriptions, non-consensual surgical procedure, non-sexual nudity, conscious body mutilation, branding. Do not read if these make you uncomfortable.

a/n: Yay first writing post. I wrote this a few weeks ago in time to celebrate the 10 year HTP celebration but my work got busy and I couldn't finish it in time. It might seem rushed at the end and isn't the typical writing style I go with, but I wanted to try something new.

I have a lot of ideas for HTP, they won't be written in such a narrative way, they'll be more involved and not seem so empty when you read it. I wanted to practice this style of writing to get back into it. My future works will be more gritty I promise lol.

Not edited because I am impatient.

WC: 4618

If there was one thing that defined Hydra, it was their insatiable need to flaunt, to ostentatiously display their dominion over all they claimed. The agents of Hydra took a perverse pride in their control and indecorous displays of power, viewing them as a testament to their might and dominance. At the pinnacle of their assets stood the Winter Soldier, the first and arguably most potent weapon in Hydra's formidable arsenal. He was their most prized asset and possession, their most favorite plaything.

To Hydra, the Winter Soldier was nothing more than a weapon, an object to be wielded with ruthless efficiency. Or on certain occasions, he was seen as a toy, something to be played with by his handlers, depending on the day and the specific handler's whims. His existence was one of unending servitude, of being used and abused by what seemed to be a never ending pool of agents. There were times when Soldat liked to convince himself that he had grown accustomed to the pain, to the torment that was his existence. He liked to believe that he had seen everything, that there was no form of cruelty that could surprise him anymore. The agents of Hydra were nothing if not creative in their methods of torture, to put it mildly.

Yet, as each day passed, each time he was awakened from the frigid embrace of cryostasis, he was starkly reminded of how wrong he was. Each new day he was graciously kept out of cryostasis brought with it fresh horrors, fresh cruelties that served to shatter his illusions of desensitization. His life was a grim reminder of the depths to which humanity could sink in its quest for power and control.

He remembers more than what they would like, despite how many times they ‘put his brain in a blender’ as Rumlow would say. Shards of his past that were shattered into an intricate puzzle; the scattered pieces were handed back to him in a cruel game where they never quite fit together. Much of what he is able to recall stems from his intense, grueling conditioning at Hydra or the earliest, most brutal of his tortures. He has vivid recollections of the cold, unfeeling metal table and the burn of harsh straps binding him to it. His memory of those moments is hazy, his sight blurred by the glaring white light looming above, piercing his eyes and blinding him. Vague memories of the sun flashed in his mind, the wet streets of New York and himself as a child running through puddles as the sun shone down on him and provided warmth after the downpour.

At that time, he still possessed a significant portion of his left arm, the remaining limb extending just above his elbow. But the people who held him captive, the people who sought to manipulate and control him, they couldn't allow him to retain that, could they? It simply wouldn't work, wouldn't align with the function of the arm that Zola had painstakingly and so preciously created.

Zola wasn’t the one to amputate the rest of it. The faces of the medical personnel were indistinct to him - were they doctors, or were they scientists? Did the specific roles they played truly matter at this moment? It was a question he didn’t find himself pondering for long.

He remembered tensing as he heard the sickening sound of his muscle being ruined by the small, handheld rotary drill as it raked through his flesh, the wielder running it up and down his arm as if he were cutting through dough. At first, the sensation of his flesh being ripped away so viciously didn’t register in his brain, but his eyes glanced down at his arm, and saw they were taking it in segmented pieces. Seeing it seemed to get his brain to work faster now. The hot vibrations from the bone saw sliding so effortlessly through his exposed humorous nearly made him want to vomit. His wide, icy eyes were glued to the tool despite how badly he wanted to tear his sight away, the inch long piece of raw bone fell off, hitting the metal table with a small *clink* sound. A cloud of pure dread flooded his already struggling mind as he realized what they were doing. Instead of a simple amputation surgery, they were taking their sweet time, ensuring he felt every bit of it in a cruel introduction.

They only took away an inch of flesh and bone.

His anguished cries for mercy were coldly ignored, and the indifferent medical team didn't care that he was fully conscious during the gruesome procedure. Even now, years later, with his state-of-the-art prosthetic arm replacing the one he'd lost, he is haunted by phantom pains that serve as all too vivid reminders of that fateful day. The biting chill of the snow on his raw, open wound is something he can still recall with unsettling clarity, as are the sensations of the invasive surgical tools mercilessly working against him as he writhed in futile resistance against the unbending straps that held him firmly in place. In the quiet moments of solitude, he often has to take a moment to gather his thoughts, to refocus his mind, and remind himself that the gruesome ordeal is long past and that his own flesh and blood arm has been replaced with a sophisticated, very expensive piece of high-tech metal. Yet, the past refuses to be so easily discarded. His mind, an intriguing labyrinth of denied emotions and memories, continues to replay the ordeal, showcasing the fascinating, yet at times cruel, capacity of the human brain.

Unfortunately for Sergeant Barnes, that was all just the beginning of a seventy year long nightmare. His first session inside the seemingly ominous cryo chamber was a jarring experience that he hadn't expected. All he can remember is the sudden, abrupt sensation of being hurled into a sizable, and he's not too proud to admit, an intimidatingly scary device. He would soon learn it was a merciful gesture to be frozen, over the years wishing for it rather than being kept out for them to play with.

This chamber made of metal and steel only had a minuscule, circular window that seemed to serve as his only connection to the world he was leaving behind. Before he could even allow himself to succumb to the primal instinct of panic, the very air around him seemed to solidify. It was as if the invisible molecules of oxygen were suddenly turned to ice, encasing him in a frosty cocoon. He couldn’t even process his initial shock before he began to feel the icy tendrils of cold seeping into his body, freezing him from the inside out. He had mere seconds, fractions of timeless moments, to register the chill before his senses were overwhelmed and everything around him plunged into an abyss of pitch-black nothingness.

The tales of his time spent within the sinister depths of Hydra would surely elicit a shiver of sympathy from the devil himself - such was the magnitude of his torment. Every excruciating moment, every instance of his suffering was meticulously documented by his pitiless handler in that dreaded, damned red book. This was a book that he grew to loathe, a constant, tangible reminder of his puppet-like existence. It contained detailed instructions on how to manipulate him, how to control each string tethered to his spirit and body, turning him into a marionette dancing to their dark symphony. Every mission he was sent on, every dangerous venture he had accomplished was recorded in it. This included even the less polished operations from the early days of his career, when he was still learning the ropes and the art of subtlety.

His few failures, those moments of human error, were written in a cruelly conspicuous red ink. This was a color that symbolized his pain, his struggle, and his sacrifice, forced to pen down these failures himself. He would sit on the cold, hard floor of his bleak holding cell, his hand shaking as he held the inkless pen. This pen would then be dabbed into his body and would stain the pages of the book with dark, inky crimson, watched all the while by his unflinching handler.

He quickly understood that he was not valued as a human being, but was seen as nothing more than a tool for amusement, a commodity to be used and discarded, an object of entertainment for those who controlled him. His training, harsh and unyielding, began abruptly and without mercy, and with each passing day, he was forced to hone his abilities, to transform himself into a more efficient, more deadly assassin. He was taught the art of strict discipline, and the punishing consequences that followed if he failed to meet their exacting standards. Physical torment became a part of his existence, a brutal routine that he had to become accustomed to, but that didn't mean he was immune to the pain. Each strike, each wound was a stark reminder of his position. Hydra taught order through pain after all, and pain was nearly second nature to him by now.

But arguably, what was even more devastating was the mental torture he was subjected to. The psychological torment, the manipulation, the systematic breaking down of his spirit was a pain that transcended the physical. No amount of bodily harm could ever compare to the anguish of having his mind, his very sense of self, twisted and reshaped to suit their needs and desires.

He was slowly, painstakingly being reconstructed with fragments and shards that belonged to someone else, not him. As if the core of his very existence was being invaded, they were diligently, ruthlessly weaving pieces of brutality into the tapestry of his soul, fundamentally altering his essence. He was no longer the man known as Bucky, no longer James Buchanan Barnes, a name that once held so much significance. Hell, he couldn’t even recall his own name anymore, only the harsh, unkind labels they assigned him. ‘Soldat’...mostly. But there were other names, too, cruel and derogatory terms that were as far from his true identity as could be. His sense of self, his identity, who he was at his core, had been brutally stripped away, leaving him nothing more than a hollow shell of the man he had once been.

Over the years, he had found himself under the supervision of many handlers, the names and faces of most he could no longer remember. The current handler in charge of him was Alexander Pierce, who had remained his handler for the longest duration of time compared to the others. Pierce was the kingpin, the mastermind, the one who held all the reins, the dominant head of the Hydra. There were instances when Soldat was temporarily handled by either Rumlow or Rollins, but these periods never lasted too long. Despite his brutish demeanor and cutthroat attitude, Pierce was incredibly possessive of Soldat, almost obsessively so. He didn’t appreciate it when others caused harm to his possessions, like that mattered. And that was exactly what Soldat was to him, a mere possession, an object to be owned and controlled.

Pierce did not view him as a person capable of experiencing feelings and emotions. In his eyes, Soldat was just a thing, devoid of any humanity. Soldat was at his mercy, a mere puppet under his control. He could dictate Soldat's every move, treat him however he pleased, and the asset wouldn’t dare to retaliate. There were fleeting moments, few and far between, seemingly minor delays where the asset would show a hint of defiance, a subtle insubordination that manifested itself in the way he might take an extra second or two before following an order. These moments of resistance, however slight, were met with brutal and harsh punishment, administered by the man who had been assigned to handle him. Pierce was notorious for his severe punishments. Rumlow, too, was cruel in his own right. He took perverse pleasure in blending physical and psychological torture, pushing the boundaries of what the asset could endure. But Pierce...the mere mention of his name by another agent in the presence of the asset, especially during those rare moments when the asset dared to be rebellious, would strip him down to nothing but a small, quivering ball, a mass of fear and anticipation as he awaited for his true handler to lay his harsh, punishing hand.

Pierce liked to think of himself as the asset’s owner, not even just a handler. He liked playing mind games with him, ensuring his submission. He was a master of deception, delivering his taunts and insults with a veneer of charm and affability that belied his true intentions. He had a unique way with words, much like a bee that knows how to produce honey while also being capable of a deadly sting. He liked to create an aura of comfort and ease around the asset, luring it into a false sense of security. Just when the asset would start to relax and let his guard down, Pierce would shatter this illusion of safety. A backhanded strike would come out of nowhere, causing his head to jerk from the unnecessary force. Or he would give a sudden, painful tug to the asset’s chocolate locks, locking his fingers into the asset’s hair and yanking him around as if he were trying to pull his hair out.

These acts of cruelty were always accompanied by seemingly gentle words, and perhaps a caress to his head, creating a confusing and distressing dichotomy that further brought on emotional and mental confusion to the asset. Over time, the asset learned to be wary of Pierce's words, no matter how sweet they seemed on the surface. Kindness was always a precursor to cruelty, and trust became a luxury he could no longer afford. The asset began to anticipate the worst at all times, and unfortunately, this pessimistic expectation was almost always met.

Soldat found himself yearning for the majority of his day to be spent in the confines of the small, austere cell in which he was held captive. This was his preferred solace when he was not being subjected to the whims of numerous Hydra agents who took turns with him; their demands were a source of deep loathing for him. The task of satisfying such a multitude of people was not only mentally draining but also physically excruciating. Despite his body having been enhanced by the serum, it was painfully evident that he was not designed for the purposes for which they were exploiting him. No one would be. He could feel everything at an amplified level, and the agents cared not how he felt during the assaults. Sadistic and barbaric in their violent rutting, the asset was often left motionless in his cell, his breathing jagged and quick before dying down to the deep breaths of plagued sleep.

The discomfort was inescapable: he found it impossible to sit properly due to the chronic pain from his backside, not only the constant throbbing and burning in his anus, but the welts and wounds scattered along his thighs and ass. He was forced to lean at an angle on one side of his backside instead of sitting upright in a normal manner. This odd positioning offered some degree of relief, but not much. His cell was void of any comforting amenities or distractions - it was a cage after all, not a home.

The walls of his cell, a stark combination of cement and metal, were expertly crafted to withstand the immense strength he possessed. This meant that even when he wasn't restrained in chains in the corner of the room, his attempts to break free would prove futile. The stone floors were unexpectedly damp, a surprising observation considering that the cell was completely buried underground, devoid of any direct exposure to the elements. He thought there might be a hidden leak somewhere, a fissure in the stone that allowed the intrusion of water. The thought of snow stirred a melancholic feeling within him. It had been an eternity since he had experienced the outdoor world, the simple pleasure of feeling the crisp winter air against his skin, the sight of pristine, untouched snowfall, or the peaceful silence that came with it. His memories of these sensations were fading, blurred by the harsh passage of time. He was trapped in an endless cycle of monotonous days and nights, to the point where he couldn’t even remember just how long it had been since his last glimpse of the outside world.

His train of thought was abruptly disrupted as the hefty, imposing door started to creak ominously open. The harsh sound of metal scraping against the cold concrete floor echoed throughout the room, sending an eerie screech that sent chills down his spine and made him suppress a shiver. Agent Rumlow stood imposingly in the doorway. Looming ominously behind him was a group of other guards, each of them armed with an assortment of menacing weapons. Among these were electric prods that he had grown to despise. The guards had a tendency to press them against his skin for prolonged periods, the sharp, unpleasant sensation something he could never get used to.

He wasn’t an animal. Right?

Rumlow began to speak, his voice carrying a smug undertone that was all too familiar to Soldat. It was a tone that grated on his nerves, driving him to the brink of madness. He found himself despising the self-assured, arrogant way Rumlow spoke, as if he was perched high on a throne that was untouchable, immune to any form of downfall.

"Rise and shine, we have a unique surprise prepared just for you today," Rumlow declared, sauntering over with a gait that oozed the arrogant confidence he always fronted. His steps were strong and assured, resonating a kind of authority that was hard to ignore. Soldat barely had time to process the situation before he felt the cold presence of the guards clustering around him. Almost mechanically, they secured a thick, intimidating metal collar around his neck and arms. They had done this many times, and were experts at securing them before the asset had time to react.

Tiny rings punctuated the cold metal, attached to long, unwieldy bars. It was an apparatus designed for control, allowing them to maintain a safe distance from him while forcibly guiding him to move according to their whims and direction. The sudden and rough manhandling sparked a primal instinct within Soldat. He began to struggle against his captors, his body twisting and turning, writhing in the unforgiving grip of the bindings.

"Alright, that's enough. You should realize by now that struggling gets you nowhere," Rumlow sternly declared. He then turned on his heels, initiating their journey through the winding, oppressively dark corridors of the clandestine underground base. The team had forcefully guided him along, feeling the solid resistance he put up against his restraints. Despite his efforts, his legs continued to move forward in a mechanical fashion, carrying him onward to an unknown fate. The asset was exhibiting more resistance than usual, a defiance that was palpable in the tension of his body. Yet, Rumlow didn't pay any mind to this show of rebellion. He was well aware that after this ordeal, the asset would inevitably become much more compliant and manageable, stripped of his will to resist.

As Soldat was roughly manipulated through the threshold and into the new room, he wasn’t surprised that it held no distinct visual difference from the rest. The room was devoid of any unique color or material that would make it stand out from the other rooms he had already seen. The walls were the same drab shade, the floor was made of the same cold stone, and the air smelled just as musty. The only detail that caught Soldat's attention was Pierce, who was standing by a small, yet fully functioning smith’s furnace.

Pierce's back was turned to them, his arms crossed over his chest in a display of casual authority. He was engrossed in his observation of the red hot coals in the furnace, appearing to be in deep thought. The coals glowed with a mesmerizing intensity, casting flickering shadows that danced across the room. Tiny embers floated gently through the air, creating a surreal, fiery snowfall whenever Pierce moved around a long iron pole that was submerged in the heat. The pole, silver and gleaming, was halfway buried in the crackling coals, absorbing the heat that radiated from them.

Before the asset could even begin to comprehend the situation, he was forcibly stripped of his clothing, manhandled and roughly shoved against a harsh, unforgiving metal wall. His arms were yanked above his head with such force that it caused a painful strain on his muscles, particularly on the side where his cold, mechanical arm was attached. The pull of the metal limb was relentless, tugging insistently at the already stressed muscles of his back. They then made sure his ankles were securely bound, making it impossible for him to twist or turn his body, effectively rendering him helpless and restrained. His cheek was pressed firmly against the icy cold silver of the wall, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his flushed skin. His eyes, wide with confusion, darted around as he tried to make sense of his predicament, his brows knitted together in a deep furrow.

He was at a loss. He didn’t understand what they were doing to him. Could this be a part of his training? He had been subjected to just about everything, becoming accustomed to various forms of physical and mental torture. But this…he had no clue what this was. He was beginning to feel an inner battle, his brain suddenly felt too loud. He wasn’t used to hearing so many thoughts, the repetitive wiping and cryostasis ensured he was emotionless and focused on a single mission or task. He must be due for another brainwashing session.

Pierce appeared to be lost in a sea of deep thought. The weight of their impending plan lay heavy on his shoulders, a battle between rising to rule or plummeting into the unforgiving abyss of defeat was fast approaching. It was Hydra's chance to shine, to finally establish their supremacy. He seemed to be carefully considering the possible scenarios, weighing each outcome against the other. Although he held a firm belief in their imminent success, he was starkly aware of the risks involved. If they faltered, if they failed, there was a very real possibility they’d lose their most valuable asset. This was not a prospect he relished. As much as it irritated him, he wanted to ensure his legacy, a lasting mark of his leadership on Hydra and ownership of the soldier who became the fist.

In a moment of introspection, he reached out, stirring the metal rod amongst the glowing coals. He observed silently, captivated by the mesmerizing dance of the embers as they burst from the coals and elegantly floated down to the floor. They disappeared just as quickly as they appeared, leaving behind nothing but their fleeting beauty and the whispering echo of their sizzle, a stark reminder of the transient nature of power and control.

In one swift, deliberate motion, he pulled the rod from the smoldering coals, the tip of it glowing yellow, a color that faded gradually into a vibrant orange as it traced down the length of the shaft. Pierce turned around slowly, his dark suit miraculously untouched despite him being in such close proximity to the blazing heat of the furnace.

With measured and unhurried strides, he walked over to the asset, his predatory gaze observing the man's body with a level of intensity that was almost wolfish. His countenance, however, remained stern and unyielding, betraying no hint of emotion. Pierce was good at that. He held out the rod towards the asset, the end that burned the hottest bearing the symbol that the asset served - the emblem of Hydra. Fear caught in the asset’s eyes before he could hide it, he found himself doubting whether they were really going to go through with this.

But was that such a thing here? This place, this Hell on earth.

It wasn’t like he had time to react before he felt white-hot pain erupt from his lower back, right above the left side of his ass. The pain was excruciating, and he bit his tongue trying to hold in any sort of discomfort…but it was pointless. No amount of struggle could hold back the scream that left his scratchy throat. The rod melted his flesh and scorched his poor nerves, he could feel it in the tips of his toes, and he swore his metal arm felt hot. This was almost as bad as being wiped in that torturous chair, but at least after a few long seconds even that seemed to fade with his mind melding against his trigger words.

This was different, it got worse as the seconds dragged on, and Pierce didn’t seem like he was going to pull it off anytime soon. He held the rod taut, pressing firmly into the asset’s scarred skin, not like the asset could struggle much with his restraints anyway. With a calculated mind and a discerning eye, he strategically found a spot that was devoid of many scars. He wanted the emblem to stand out, to show without any competition from the numerous other marks that littered the asset’s body. It would shine out prominently against the skin, the deep, bold mark of it. This emblem wasn't just any ordinary mark - it was a sign of ownership, a declaration of dominance. The thought of it, the sheer power it represented, brought Pierce an overwhelming rush of sadistic satisfaction.

When he finally pulled the rod away, it had all but cooled completely, so parts of the asset’s skin were ripped away. The cauterized wound reopened as the metal was torn off roughly, Pierce let out a small grunt from the gesture. He carelessly tossed the pole back into the furnace, now not caring for it. The asset could smell the remains of his flesh burning in the furnace, it made him sick. The asset felt genuine fear, even after the deed was done, he couldn’t see it but the feeling was so agonizing he didn’t want to look at his new branding.

In an agonizingly slow pace, he was methodically detached from the wall by the nameless, faceless agents. As the restraints were removed, his body gave way, too weak to support his own weight. He crumbled to the floor, his body convulsing and shaking as if he were in shock, a reaction to the branding he had been subjected to. Unlike before, the agents didn’t bother with the formalities of restraining him to move him in the same manner. There were no thick, oppressive collars or tight bindings this time. Instead, they carelessly slung his limp arms around their shoulders, and he was unceremoniously dragged out, back to the cold, harsh reality of his cell.

He must’ve been deemed harmless by now, a muzzled, drugged dog without the will to fight. His mind was clouded, foggy with pain and fear by the time he was tossed back into his holding cell, discarded like a worthless ragdoll they had grown tired of. The asset felt his fear of Pierce, the orchestrator of his torment, multiply tenfold. During that horrific branding, the barbaric and dehumanizing torture, he remained as even as stone…Pierce didn’t utter a single word.

He didn’t have to.

..........

Thanks for reading.

-🕊

#my writing #hydra trash party #winter soldier #bucky barnes #bucky barnes whump #winter soldier whump #brock rumlow #dead dove fic #darkfic

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ex0rin · 1 year

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being able to turn reblogs off is not in the spirit of tumblr - if you get proven wrong (with receipts) on your post you get to suffer for it for life, those are the rules we live and breathe by here.

anyway, there's a lot of misinformation going around about Dead Dove: Do Not Eat these days and everyone should read @5ummit 's response to it since I can't reblog it anymore (because the main poster turned off reblogs): HERE IT IS

#i'd screencap and post but i'm on mobile and also lazy #dead dove do not eat #hydra trash party #fandom lore #fandom wank

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vildo · 3 months

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Not sure what’s on his mind but I agree

#star trek #star trek tos #james t kirk #captain kirk #jim kirk #day of the dove #star trek: tos #star trek the original series #tos kirk #st tos #shitpost #tumblr trash #gifs #my gifs #caption this #crack

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gunshou · 4 months

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A Complicated Legacy, ch 2!

A year later, lol...

Sam delves into the files Bucky stole from HYDRA, looking for evidence to help exonerate Bucky. He barely scratches the surface of seventy years of horror.

#bucky barnes #the winter soldier #hydra trash party #gunshou fic #dead dove do not eat #sam wilson

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5ummit · 1 year

Photo

Avatar: The Way of Water (2022)

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ihavemanyhusbands · 11 days

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Its crazy how i never notice how quiet the world gets during winter. I’ve been listening to birds singing outside my office all morning and im like damn… how could i overlook their absence until now??

#also heard the crooning of a mourning dove the other day while taking out the trash #my fav!

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bucknastysbabe · 1 year

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The Handler - 1991 - Compliance

A/N: Short lil prequel! I need to get off my angsty shit and write some good ole fashioned happy luv luv hee hee✨

Rating: Explicit

Tags: TW: Sexual assault on someone incapable of consent, dub-con, twisted rationalizations, abuse of power. HTP. Hydra!Reader, Back in ye ole Siberia, winter soldier Bucky, hand jobs, praise kink, Voyeurism, The Chair, touchstarved buckbuck

Vasily stood unmoving, arms crossed over his chest. The asset looked like a caged animal, blue eyes darting around for unseen targets. Guards moved forward to grab the soldier, now dazed from cryo.

“He’s usually the most vulnerable like this. Meet our prized possession, little girl.”

You nodded along, hiding any trace of fear in your body. General Karpov had chosen you from a pool of willing participants to help oversee the Winter Soldier program. It had been a week since you’d moved to the base. But you liked the respect you received around here, being Karpov’s protege, one day to handle the fist of Hydra.

You followed behind Vasily’s taller frame like a shadow. The asset stumbled in front as they led him to the Chair. Electroconvulsive shocks to suppress memory and make the asset more suggestible to commands. The guards shoved the Winter Soldier into the machine, computers and a couple of scientists standing around.

They shoved a mouthpiece into his snarling face, eyes unfocused. Vasily murmured, “He shattered his teeth in the beginning,” the man handed you a red book, “After he stops screaming you read the words.”

“Yes General.”

The asset’s cries of pain made you flinch, your general frowning down at you. Refocusing you opened the book and filtered through to the words you needed. The shocks echoed through the room along with his howling. The asset’s built chest heaved and he was sweating from exertion.

The headpiece flipped up and off his long dark hair, matted down with sweat. You circled the soldier, prattling off the words needed to activate his protocol. When you finished Vasily handed the soldier an envelope asking, “Ready to comply soldier?”

“Ready to comply,” he responded robotically.

They sent the soldier off soon after, you pondering the strangeness of it all. He was to be retrieving supersoldier serum, recreated by Howard Stark. Then the Winter Soldier program could truly begin, test subjects waiting to join an armada of unstoppable super soldiers.

Then Hydra could become supreme, start a new world. A better one without disorder and deviants. Your chest puffed with pride at the thought of being such an integral part of changing the world. Vasily clapped your shoulder and stated, “Nice job agent. Back to your work, girl. When soldier returns I have to teach you the, hm, intricacies of handling.”

So you went back to work, detailing plans and structure for the new soldiers. How they were to stay compliant and such. There would have to be much testing, but the government supplied plenty of money. Some of the Americans even loaned a spare officer or scientist.

Soldat returned, face devoid of any emotion. He held out the briefcase and stood at attention. You all stood in a tight office, the proximity of the soldier making you wary. He’d been gone for a week without any time in the chair. The brain repairs fast regardless of how scrambled his limbic system might be.

Vasily opened the box, revealing the multiple packets of the serum, smiling contentedly. He murmured, “Good job soldat. Very good job. You might deserve a reward.” The asset’s breath hitched the slightest bit, eyes darkening. The general closed the case and moved to the other side of the desk, reclining in the chair.

You eyed the soldier, then your commander.

“General? Is he not to be put back in cryo?”

Vasily leaned back, a strange glint in his eye, lips turned up. He waved a hand and said, “I told you I have a lesson on handling our precious asset, silly girl.” You frowned in confusion. Karpov continued like the soldier wasn’t even in the room, “He can get a bit riled up. It scares you does it not? Being so close to a precise machine designed for murder.”

You gulped, eyeing the asset’s huge frame. His silvery arm softly clicked in the room. He almost seemed to be vibrating with energy, if one had an eye for it. Blue eyes darting around, seemingly disliking the tights quarters. Finally you whispered, “It is intimidating, yes General.”

“Besides the brain fuck machine, he likes a softer touch in order to comply,” he cocked his head and ordered, “Soldier, mission report.” The soldier listed off the details, the deaths of Howard and Maria Stark and the camera he shot out that would need to be wiped. You frowned at dealing with the Americans.

“Good boy. My agent here will take good care now.”

You fidgeted in place, waiting for further instruction. Karpov kicked his legs up on the desk and laughed, “The soldier is touch starved, swoons like a slut for soft hands. You can keep him out of cryo a bit longer and have some fun with him.” Your face drained of color as you questioned, “You want me to fuck the asset sir?”

“No, just play with him a little. It’s entertaining watching the soldier crumble. Besides, the fist probably hasn’t had a woman’s touch in years. Go on now. This is part of the routine.”

Your heart was thudding in your ears. This was vile to you. Being a woman in Hydra was hard enough, but sexually using the best weapon they had in front of your commander was humiliating. That was the culture you grimly supposed. Vasily probably felt the same the first time and whoever before him.

You stepped toward the soldiers larger frame, staring up into his handsome face. You caressed his cheek gently, murmuring, “I apologize, precious star.” He made a low noise, lids lowering as you stroked your thumb across a sharp cheek.

Your other hand relocated to his lips, thumbing the full bottom one. The asset instinctively opened his mouth, suckling on your thumb with a whine. His breathing sped up, left arm recalibrating with a series of clack, clack, clack. You removed your now wet thumb, closing your mouth to his own.

The asset moaned into your mouth, eagerly licking inwards. You cradled the back of his head, curling fingers into dark locks. Vasily made a pleased hum from behind. The pair of you kissed slowly, the asset seeming to soak up every smack with another whine.

You pulled back, eyes boring into his lust blown pupils. He tried to kiss you again, but you held a finger to swollen lips. Your hand slid down to grasp between thick thighs. You gasped in shock and arousal. He was certainly…above average. The soldier whimpered softly, face begging for more.

“Take him out, big one isn’t he?,” said your general.

You unlatched the belt and many holsters, them dropping to the tile with a thud. You popped the button, his flushed cock shoved into the front of his tac pants. That had to be uncomfortable, you idly thought. He groaned when you gripped the length and stroked one time.

You wanted to ask the quivering man how he liked it, but the burning gaze of your commander shut you up. Instead you cooed while stroking the brunette’s thick cock, “Good soldier, complying so well. So pretty, pretty face, cock, body. Perfection.” He let out a particularly loud moan, legs twitching at the praise.

Your other hand moved back to pulling lightly at his hair, making the soldier flush and pant. His big chest was staccato as you jacked him off faster and faster. You played with his sensitive cockhead, swirling your thumb around the crown and slit. Karpov barked a laugh when the soldier sniffled and whimpered.

“C’mon soldier, good soldier, cum for your handlers. Gorgeous noises, fuck,” you rambled.

The asset thinly keened, “T-thank you!” His body was trembling intensely as you used both hands to work his pulsing cock. You kissed and licked at his neck, savoring the taste while he sharply sobbed. It wasn’t loud but sounded deafening in the small room. Heated wetness covered your hand and belly. Stroking the asset through his climax was longer than expected, him seemingly having an endless load, face crumpled and red as he emptied.

Finally he whimpered and twitched, indication that this was over. Karpov clapped and commented, “Wonderful. Take him to the showers he needs to be hosed off. Took to it well girl, but no need to be so kind.” You nodded in thanks and led the hazy soldier out of the too small, horrid room.

“I’m sorry soldier, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do that.” You hoped he would respond but was met with nothing. After a moment you commanded, “Soldier, speak your mind.”

“You were kind. Much softer than the others.”

You felt a protective need to shield this beautiful weapon from greedy hands. Only you should be able to handle him, establish a bond that made him ever loyal. Vasily wouldn’t have to know. He’d be busy with the new recruits. You rubbed the asset’s wide shoulders and said, “I’ll never hurt you, precious star. Too important for us all.”

Your heart ached at watching his swaggering walk into the showers filled with guards and scientists. Blue eyes gazed back once and then you wouldn’t see him until next mission. Back to work, cover it up with work, yes. Ignore that crawling, slimy feeling over your skin. Remember, it’s not about you, it’s about Hydra after all.

#dead dove do not eat #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #touch starved #hydra trash party #subby Bucky #Bucky barnes x reader

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