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He can't breathe. He can't hear; it's too quiet, too loud. He feels numb, everything hurts.
What's going on?
This doesn't happen anymore.
He's better. He's good. He's okay. He's dead.
Right?
The Sold-
Bucky gets up, and the loud noises of the bar just outside the bathroom slowly reappear. Someone's knocking on the door.
If it will take much longer?
How long has he been here? He just left for a few minutes to clear his head.
It couldn't have been him. Yeah, it can't be. He's dead. He's been dead for years; Bucky knows that.
Bucky finally gets up and takes a step towards the sink. He splashes his face with some cold water and takes a deep breath.
He must be drunk. That man was just someone who has the same hairstyle as him and maybe happens to wear similar fingerless gloves and combat boots...
Yeah, Bucky is okay.
Bucky steps out of the bathroom, and immediately the feeling is back. Panic? Fear?
No...
He finds an exit and steps outside. He's in a dark, dimly lit alleyway that faintly smells like cigarette smoke, trash, and wet concrete. Bucky leans against the wall and lets his head fall back as he breathes in the cold night air.
He takes a few moments to calm himself down until he reaches into his pocket and fishes out a cigarette. It's his last one. He makes a mental note to go buy new ones. Or maybe he will actually quit this time. Yeah. Probably.
He lights it and takes a deep drag, the smoke filling his lungs. He closes his eyes, and for just a moment the world around him goes quiet.
Nothing...
Silence.
Bucky's eyes fly open when he feels someone touch his hand. He tries to take a step back out of instinct but just hits the wall. When his eyes finally focus on the man standing in front of him, he feels like his throat closes up.
He's going crazy. Insane. Is he hallucinating? Dead... he's dead...
"Jesus...." A voice says.
Was he saying something? Bucky focuses on the man, no, on Rumlow, on his former handler, who's just standing there with that stupid smirk of his, taking a drag of Bucky's cigarette.
"You still that fuckin' stupid?" Rumlow snaps his fingers right in front of Bucky's face.
"I'm fuckin' talking to you."
"What..." is all Bucky can get out, and he winces at how pathetic his voice sounds.
Rumlow rolls his eyes. "The fuck you mean, 'what'?" He rasps out.
Bucky is still frozen in place as he looks at the other man. How does he look exactly the same and still so different at the same time? He's gotten older, and obviously, the scars. But for some reason he's also shorter than Bucky. That's not right, is it? In every single memory Bucky has, it's Rumlow who is hovering over him, looking down at him.
But he's shorter than Bucky. A good few inches shorter.
"Jesus Christ, stop looking at me like that." Rumlow takes another drag of Bucky's cigarette. "You fuckin' useless now?"
Bucky swallows hard. "I don't..."
He doesn't understand.
"You don't...?" Rumlow raises an eyebrow—or, well, what is left of his eyebrow.
Bucky feels someone grab his cheek. Fuck. He's not a child.
"Fuckin' hell, you really are stupid, aren't ya?" Rumlow keeps patting and pinching his cheek degradingly.
"Anyways, not what I'm here for. You're gonna help me." Rumlow states as he takes a small step back, still invading Bucky's space, but at least not basically pushing up against him.
"Help you? Why… why would I?" Bucky finally manages to get out.
Rumlow laughs. Why is he laughing?
"Why?" Rumlow chuckles. "Because I fuckin' said so." His face suddenly turns serious, a slight smirk on his face. "And that's not a question, Soldat."
Bucky feels himself tense at the name. "That's not my name."
Rumlow laughs again. "I don't give a shit; I'm not gonna call ya Brian. Or was it Bobby? Who fuckin' cares?"
Bucky winces. He could kill him.
He should kill him. All it would take is a twist of his hand, and the other man would be on the ground. Dead.
"Bucky." He replies after a moment.
Rumlow snorts. "That sounds even dumber than what I thought." He says. "I ain't calling you that."
Bucky swallows hard. He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to kick and choke and strangle the other man, but he can't. He feels trapped. He feels like he can't move.
He feels a hand on him.
He gasps for air, despite no hand being around his throat. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. Fuck. His mind is racing, but there are no actual thoughts. Fuck. The hand moves down his shoulder, slowly tracing over his chest.
"Please." Bucky breathes out, his eyes closed as Rumlow keeps going.
Rumlow laughs. "Please?"
"Please.... please stop..." is all Bucky can manage to get out. "I don't... please..." He tries to take a deep breath, but something is stopping him.
Rumlow laughs. Again. "Jesus, stop being a fuckin' pussy."
He wants to throw up. He's nauseous. He wants to cry, he wants to break down and kill everyone he's ever known.
He can't cry.
He's not weak.
He doesn't cry.
Rumlow's hand finally pulls back, and Bucky lets out a shaky breath, almost feeling relieved for a second before he hears a zipper being pulled down.
He knows that sound.
He knows that sound.
Bucky's eyes fly open. He watches Rumlow unzip his fly with no care in the world, while his whole world is crumbling.
Bucky is shaking, despite trying to hide it. He can't let him know he's still scared of him even years later.
Rumlow has no power over him. He can't do anything. Bucky is stronger. He is stronger.
He could wrap his vibranium hand around Rumlow's throat, and with just one tiny squeeze, the other man would be dead. Actually dead. It's been long. Really fucking long. Bucky had finally made a life for himself. How could this happen?
Bucky met Paul about 3 months ago, and despite their differences, they became friends. Well, Bucky was his friend; to Paul, Bucky was probably just someone he talked to every now and then.
It doesn't matter.
Paul rented out one of the small apartments in his house, and Bucky actually feels like he belongs there.
Sure, he doesn't exactly have many friends and acquaintances, but it's okay.
Everything is better than his life the last 70 years.
He snaps back to reality when he feels someone is unzipping his pants. His eyes widen. "Please." He gasps out, regretting it as soon as it leaves his lips.
He knows Rumlow.
He knows it's no use to beg him to stop.
He knows Rumlow likes it when he begs him to stop.
Bucky's vision is blurry, but he can see the other man smirking as he shoves Bucky's pants fully down. Somehow it feels even more degrading than when someone just pulls them down enough to free his hole. He feels bare.
He's nauseous.
He can feel the hands on him. He could say no.
He could scream.
He could cry.
He could beg.
He could.
He should.
He tried. It didn't help. The Soldier-
No.
no...
Bucky knows many different HYDRA agents. His memory may not be the best from the countless memory wipes, but he remembers.
He knows. He remembers every single one.
Every. Single. One.
It took a while for his memory to come back, but he fucking remembers.
He remembers many, many HYDRA agents, and none of them were fucking okay. Every single one was fucked in the head, traumatized, and a fucking sadist—or in rare cases, fucking masochists—and weren't good people.
He was used to that. He could handle that.
But Rumlow.
Rumlow.
Rumlow was different. Rumlow was worse. Rumlow was better.
Rumlow was able to push every single button to make Bucky squirm, panic, and cry. Bucky could handle torture. He could handle getting beaten, getting shocked, and getting tortured overall.
Yes. Yes, Bucky could deal with handlers making him suck their dicks or sometimes spread his legs.
He could deal with that. It wasn't that bad. Bucky wasn't weak.
Bucky isn't weak.
"Stop." He croaks out, his throat feeling painfully dry as he places his hand on Bucky's crotch.
Bucky isn't hard, but he knows Rumlow doesn't care.
His former handler's lips are moving, that fucking smirk of his still on his lips as he leans in closer.
He can feel the head of Rumlow's thick cock press against him.
He opens his eyes. Did he close his eyes? When did he close his eyes?
He's facing the wall now. He feels the very familiar hand on the back of his head, and he hears someone spit into their hand. He wants to move. He wants to scream, but he can't, only a fucking whimper escaping his lips, for which Rumlow pushes his face into the wall, making him split his lip.
He feels his handler line-
He feels his former handler line himself up with his hole, the only kind of lube being Rumlow's spit, which Bucky knows is only there for Rumlow's pleasure, not to make it easier for him.
He shuts his eyes, squeezing them shut hard.
He screams.
He thinks he screams.
He feels hands touching him.
Hands? It feels like twenty people are squeezing, scratching, and pinching him, but he knows it's only one person.
The mostly dry head of Rumlow's cock pushes past the rim of Bucky's hole, and he wants to scream. Again.
Despite being used to, and almost numb to, the sensation, he hates it.
Despite having been free for months, no, years, he hasn't really dated.
He feels dirty and wrong when he even looks at a woman and feels like he's lying, even when he's not.
And men... He doesn't like men who are submissive. He doesn't get it.
But then, dominant men are just often either blunt or cruel. They only fuck him to get off quickly, leaving him with a hard on, or maybe jerking him off lazily when they feel nice.
He wants them to hurt him, but he doesn't want them to hurt him.
He can't.
He can't function.
He isn't real.
He wants to cry, scream, throw up, punch someone, and die.
Rumlow starts thrusting in and out of him in a steady rhythm, quiet as always, only a few small pants escaping his lips every now and then when he bottoms out inside of... Bucky...
Bucky can hear himself. Inside, he's screaming. He's kicking, punching, screaming, and defending himself, but in reality he can feel his fingernails dig into the cold stone wall of the back alley, he can feel Rumlow's dick stretch his hole with nothing but a little spit, and he can feel the other man's hot breath against his ear.
He can feel Rumlow whispering small words of praise mixed with degrading words and telling him how he's worth nothing and how this is all he's good for.
He can't hear it. He can only hear his pathetic whimpers, but he knows his handler.
No. His former handler.
He knows him. He knows his definition of fun.
Rumlow pushes his face hard into the rough stone wall, and he feels the blood in his mouth. He feels cold, and he feels his pants being pulled down and hanging around his ankles as the other man keeps fucking into him in the dark back alley of his favorite bar.
He thought it was over.
And despite everything, despite knowing he's gonna throw up and cry for who knows how long, he's hard. He's hard.
He doesn't get hard.
He doesn't deserve to get hard.
He doesn't like it.
He can feel his hard, sensitive dick rub against the wall as the other man keeps fucking into him, shoving his hussy back and forth like a doll.
Bucky is wet. Wet with tears despite not crying. Wet with sweat despite feeling a constant cold in his bones. Wet despite hating this. Leaking despite wanting nothing more than this to stop.
Rumlow's grunts and groans grow louder as he speeds up. It's less painful now. It's less painful with Rumlow's spit, precum, and sweat slicking the way up, and Bucky's hole slowly accommodating his size.
He doesn't feel any pleasure.
It doesn't even feel the slightest bit good, like when he decides to jerk off in the shower every once in a while.
It feels shameful. It hurts. He wants to cry. Fuck, he's pathetic. What if Sam saw him right now? What if Steve saw him right now? Like this? Yes, Steve left, but Bucky doesn't want to disappoint him even more.
"Fuck, still as tight as ever." He hears Rumlow pant. He lets out a sob. Rumlow laughs.
"God, stop crying, you faggot, it's fucking sex." Rumlow pants out.
"I've seen you get cut open without any kind of narcosis; stop being dramatic."
It's true, he can take much. He never cared much for the torture HYDRA put him through. The supersoldier serum made him regenerate faster, and the pain wasn't that bad. Sure he didn't like it? But it wasn't the worst.
But this always got to him.
This kind of 'use' always got to him.
Rape always got to him.
And Rumlow knew that.
No.
Rumlow knows that.
Bucky is hyperventilating by now. He can't breathe, can't see, and can't feel.
Can't feel anything but the hands on him and the cock thrusting mindlessly into him while he holds on to the wall for dear life.
...
Nothing.
Blackness...
Pain...?
Bucky opens his eyes. He's lying on the ground.
He's lying on the ground in a dark back alley. It's cold.
It's quiet.
He's cold. Really cold. Cold in the way he hasn't felt cold since escaping HYDRA.
He's shaking.
He slowly looks down, and a shiver runs down his body. He pulls his pants back up, wiping a bit of sticky mess from his thighs at the same time, gagging a little as he smears it onto the ground.
He stays like that for a few minutes. He doesn't move. Tears roll down his face.
God, he must look pathetic.
.