Chapter Text
Bucky had fought, at first. Of course he had. Even with the stump of his arm throbbing, even when struggling restarted the bleeding, even when he grew lightheaded from the pain, he’d made them pay for every time they touched him.
It made no difference.
Every day, twice a day, so regular he used it to keep track of time, they dragged him out of his cell, took him to a brightly lit, white-tiled room, held him down, and raped him. The only part of the routine that varied was the particular Hydra soldier splitting Bucky open on their cock.
The first time they’d brought him to the room, he’d been expecting torture. He’d faced capture before, and he held his name, rank, and serial number ready behind his teeth in case he couldn’t stay silent. But when they stripped him and pinned him on his belly, when two men held his legs apart and a third lay down on top of him, he discovered a level of fear even Zola hadn’t uncovered. The soldier pushed his cock into Bucky, heedless of his screaming and thrashing, as if the man’s body were a weapon: a strange, particularly messy instrument of torture to open Bucky up and make him bleed.
They didn’t ask him any questions.
He fought harder when the soldiers began using vaseline to slick the way, even though it made the pain almost bearable. The day that one of the soldiers—the skinny, rat-faced one—fucked Bucky with two long, bony fingers until his cock was painfully hard and leaking against the tile, Bucky summoned up his waning strength and fought wildly right through his orgasm. No one took any notice of his struggles.
The routine lost its novelty after a few weeks. Bucky thought it was a few weeks; beneath his dirty bandages, the sutures in what was left of his arm had begun to heal. Even though Bucky still felt a stab of panic each time they pinned him on his belly, he couldn’t muster the same outrage that had fueled his struggles at the beginning. He didn’t want another squid soldier to kneel behind him and slide his cock into him as easily as holstering a gun. He didn’t want to smell their sour sweat as they pounded into him, or hear their ugly grunts of effort as they picked up speed. He didn’t want to feel their warm jizz sliding from his stretched-out hole. Then again, he didn’t want to sleep in a musty pile of straw and eat bread and beans twice a day. He didn’t want his left arm to be missing. He didn’t want Steve to think he was dead. He had no power to change any of those things. Nothing he did made any difference.
One morning, Bucky didn’t fight. He lay still and gritted his teeth while Hydra goon number eight—the one with a scar on his chin—humped into him. Afterwards the soldiers tugged him to his feet as usual and hauled him back to his cell. Bucky tried to feel defeat, or shame, or anger, but he couldn’t quite muster the energy.
That night, when they dragged him into the white-tiled room, a man in an officer’s uniform was waiting.