tagging @sluttyhenley and @redbelles since you guys asked about it to AND ALSO
bell you're getting called OUT 😈
sooo this is actually the first thing i started writing for mota and it was an unclog-the-pipe kind of idea and is self-indulgent with regards to wanting more bucky whump. i may actually never post it in totality for... a couple reasons, but i actually did a fuckton of research into how the stalags were run and kriegie culture inside of them, so it was a good exercise on a lot of levels even if it never sees the light of day. because it's sort of backburnered, that means i feel more comfortable posting BIG CHUNKS OF IT 🎉 but uh, that said, this one IS going under a cut because in addition to there being a lot of it, it's. dark.
cw noncon and psychological torture, you can probably guess where this is headed. the structure i settled into with this one is gale POV for the first part, wherein Something Is Wrong With Bucky:
Bucky shrugs, a quick, smooth shuffle of his shoulders that’s as big a lie as what’s coming out of his mouth. “Krauts get a little rough sometimes. Nothing anyone else didn't get.”
“They didn't do anything to me,” Gale says, every word feeling heavier than the last, pulling him down. “Just asked me some questions.”
Two things happen then. Something in Bucky’s face twitches, a flinch stealing over it so quick Gale barely catches it. But his shoulders drop, just a bit, some tension leaving him. Gale for the life of him can’t make sense of it.
“‘Course not, Buck,” Bucky says, light, easy, like Gale doesn't have a pit the size of the Atlantic opening up in his gut, cold flooding in. “Who'd wanna damage that pretty face of yours?”
From any of the boys, there might be some bitterness in it—it’s not like Gale doesn't know some of the goons cut him a break, ’cause of rank or coloring or whatever else. From John there’s just… relief. It feels wrong. The pit yawns wider, and the water gets higher. “Roughed yours up, though,” he says, the words feeling distant as he remembers the black eye John was sporting, that first day. The way John had grabbed his chin, tilted his head around, looking for something. Something like the beating he got, maybe.
That's what Gale had thought at the time. Now he’s not so sure that’s where it ended.
Bucky’s eyes go dark again, as distant and near-drowned as Gale feels, so he claws his way back. Tries, anyway. “Yeah, well,” John mutters, “better me than you.”
and what's wrong is not only was bucky sexually assaulted post-interrogation, but the guards told him they did the same to gale when he passed through the dulag, and he spends months beating himself up about not being there and being able to take it instead of gale, until he says something about it and gale's like ??? and bucky realizes it WAS instead but now gale KNOWS. second part's bucky's POV of the assault, so it's not chronological, and maybe it doesn't need to be shown/written at all but i wanted to because i like whump.
He’s got a headache the size of Texas, blood—his own, his own, not some kid in a cart’s, they let him wipe that off, so what's left is just his own, thank Christ—itching as it dries behind his ear, and a pit in his chest every time he thinks about Bremen and London and Russelheim and the way the woods smelled when he was running through them, clean and green and endless—
The door slams open, and Bucky gets two seconds to berate himself for jumping, for being so in his own head he didn't hear them coming, before one of the goons grabs his arm and yanks him up, spinning him to face the wall. Turns his head to the window on instinct, but the light spilling in catches him off guard and sends a new wave of pain spiking through his skull.
“Heya, fellas. Couldn't get enough, huh?” He shoots over his shoulder, hands up but grinning like nothing’s wrong, like he’s back at Thorpe Abbotts joking with the boys.
(Later on, he’ll wonder if that was what did it. If he’d just kept his eyes forward, his mouth shut, if they’d have—)
and the third part's gale POV again, after their little yard spat and is........ kind of recovery? inasmuch as one is capable of recovering while still stuck in a POW camp and going crazy with fear because no one takes your warnings about needing to get the fuck out seriously, and also your best friend punching you in the face is the most normal you've felt in almost a year:
“I’m sorry.”
The noise that comes out of Bucky’s bunk is barely human, a snarl more suited to Meatball, or the Kraut’s dogs. “You’re sorry,” Bucky snarls. “You are a real piece of work, Buck.”
He rolls over, kicks his legs out of the bunk, boots on, to glare up at Gale. “Saint Cleven,” he sneers, and he’s just pissed and it's nothing Gale hasn't heard before, but it still stings a bit. “I pick a fight and you’re the one who's sorry.” His eye’s already swelling up, purpling a bit at the edge. Again. Gale’s stomach roils looking at it. “It’s not bad enough that’s the first time you’ve treated me like normal—”
“Hittin’ you ain’t normal,” he bites out, before he can stop himself. He scrubs his hand over his eyes, just for a second, and when he looks back John's anger has dimmed a bit, banked coals instead of the inferno.
“It’s better than whatever the hell you’ve been doing the last few weeks.”
How’s that?” Gale says, sharper than he means to. Whatever he means, there’s nothing better in hurting Bucky. Not when he’s already had plenty more than his fair share.
“You won't touch me, Buck!” It’s hissed through John’s teeth but it hits him with all the force of a baseball bat to the face. It sits between them for a moment, heavy.
“That's not true,” he mutters, but there’s no strength in it, and John barely dignifies it with a scoff.
He tries again. “I didn't think you’d want…” He trails off, feeling stupid even as the words come out of his mouth. Bucky can't go ten minutes without slinging his arm around a pal’s neck, a clap on a shoulder, an elbow in someone’s side to get their attention. He couldn't, anyway. Before all this
“The hell d’you know about what I want,” Bucky snaps, like he doesn't wear every thought on his face clear as day. “I'm damaged goods, I get it, but I’m not some china doll—”
“You’re not damaged goods,” Gale shouts, the words bursting out of him like water from a burst pipe and loud enough to make John flinch back, shock all over his face.
sooo yeah! that's stalag shit! if i do ever get it done, i think it'll need some revisiting on the characterization, but honestly probably not that much. it is however the only purely-clegan wip i have, which means it would probably do better than alllllllll my other stuff even WITH the caveat that it's dark content. which is very funny to me in a bitter sort of way.
I was tagged by @nicijones @cha-melodius and @justabigoldnerd to make my own Christmas tree! Basically you can click on it and leave a message that I won't be able to read until Christmas Day <3
Decorate Friend's Tree for Christmas🎅
Here's my tree, go leave me a message if you want <3
Tagging (no pressure, of course): @imgoingtofreakoutnow @huggiebird @set-phasers-to-whump @sensitivehandsomeactionman I'm late, as usual LOOOOL, so pretty much everyone has already been tagged, but here! Of course, if you want to do this feel free to tag me <3
For the first impression vs impression now: I rly can’t remember but now you’re calling me a gremlin constantly even though it was you dragging me down into the cmbyn hell. -.- lol love you
... i’d like to say i’m sorry, but i’m not ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
