#tw; pow captivity

[terrence-silver]

Imagining high school sweetheart!beloved and Terry getting married before he gets shipped off to war and Beloved always sending letters to Terry while he’s away

Bonus: Terry comes back home after the war and finds Beloved’s unsent letters to him that were written when he was M.I.A. and sees how worried she was about him

---

I feel nobody would believe Twig is married because he's, well...Twig!

He's so young! So shy! So wide eyed! Scrawny! The idea of Privates infinitely more experienced and worldly than him only just being in the stage of sharing correspondence back home with their respective sweethearts and go-steady girlfriends while this kid here is already legally married is straight out of the Twilight Zone for most of his fellow soldiers who immediately wrote him off as a sore loser, perhaps with the rare exception of John Kreese who stands up for him and defends him when he's teased and called a liar who just about invented a full-blown Missus for himself to seem cool and less of a wimp in the eyes of everyone else, the letters he receives from beloved deemed fabricated one way or another even though they're actually entirely legitimate, the parcels bearing the seal of the military mail, arriving the same as everyone else's packages do.

''Did your momma write those?''

Someone might cruelly jest right before Kreese gives them a look, telling them to step off.

Gets slightly worse during POW captivity. All the members of Twig's platoon are in the same mess but it doesn't prevent in-fighting and the day-to-day cruelty and microaggressions from continuing even inside of a cage when validly, once communications are entirely cut off and they're trapped deep in enemy territory, there is no way for beloved's letters or anyone's as for that matter to come in and circulate, and the soldiers and even Twig's own Commanding Officer Turner never let him forget that like he's somehow to blame (And in their mind's eye, he is. They feel he's got them all captured through his negligence and incompetence. There will be payback for that. If the Vietcong don't do him in, his own will. For all Turner cares, Terry Silver got them here and pray to God, in the following weeks, he'll make this kid's life so difficult in this cage he'll wish the Vietcong ended him day one, bullet to the brain, same as Ponytail and what better way to utilize psychological warfare than to use the boy's own spouse against him the way he later tries with John and Betsy), finding it an apt pastime to pester one of their own even when facing death, torture and execution from the Vietcong that captured them. It's easier in a weird and very sick sense; poking and prodding at the weakest link in the hierarchy of things to better endure the gravity of the situation and just forget for a while.

You do some pretty awful things under duress.

''Guess the love letters stopped now, eh, Twig?'' Turner mocks.

''Momma back home ran out of ink?''

The older man laughs into his own chin as Twig scoots further back against the bamboo bars of their shared jail, missing beloved so badly he can feel the ache of it in his bones, loathing the fact he has no control of anything going on and John Kreese, witnessing the sight and having stood up for his friend countless times vows that one of these days, he's gonna give their Commanding Officer a piece of his mind even if he ends up court martialed for it after they're released seeing as how John can vouch that if the other soldiers are boneheads Captain Turner has enough intel on his own men to know for a fact Twig never lied and that he is in fact married back home. That beloved's real the same way his Betsy is real. Man has no excuse for the hell he's putting Twig through just because he can. John gets his chance to retaliate for the abuse a few weeks later once the Vietcong force them to fight over an open pit of snakes.

As for Twig?

Once they're rescued from the POW camp, he is finally reunited with the stack of letters beloved's been sending him back at base and it's like being reunited with a missing limb. When he gets home, beloved gives him a package of unsent mail just around the time he was captured and gone missing. Everything he's been made fun of entirely real and genuine; not one word of it a lie or made up. Everything right there, in black and white, written down with beloved's own pen. Every bit of concern. Fear. Care. Of course, it only serves to turn him a little more...well...Terry Silver as we know him. No point in being truthful if he won't be believed anyway, even when he is. Might as well fabricated. Might as well manipulate. Everyone who ever laughed at him died. And he's here. He survived. He is loved. He's won. And he'll keep winning and winning.

He hugs the stack of letters and beloved close to his chest with a vice grip.

The first seeds of something very dark have long been sown.

[nade2308]

The idea for this story was born when I rewatched H50 3x20 for the first time in years, and because of my newfound love for Alan Ritchson I was like "what if Freddie lived?". Alan made Freddie's character more than just the one time character that appeared in one episode.

I hope to work in this AU more in the future, for now this is all my imps had to say about it. I wish to hold and protect Freddie and give him all he missed out on.

Once again, @thethistlegirl was the designated little helper.

@whumptober

[sideroachblog]

Hey y'all here's that AleRoach WIP I promised!!

~4k words. Dry humping at the end (mostly build up), Alejandro being OOC because this was a bit of a daddy issues fic, Size Difference, Unfinished.

There will be TWs under the cut. They're pretty heavy because this is an offshoot from my fic Outside Looking In, where Roach was rescued after being a POW and experienced *severe* trauma. This WIP doesn't go into detail, but it doesn't mince words and it investigates how Roach's experiences are fucking with his current relationships. Additionally, there are heavy spoilers in here for OLI and it reveals more of Roach's perspective of his relationships with the team, particularly Ghost and Soap.

@youredyingthatsallthereis bc I was asked to tag <3

~~

TWs:

1. References to SA Roach endured while captive

2. Roach still being underweight from torture

3. Referenced Cheating

4. Internalized homophobia

5. My awful attempts at Spanish and writing realistic dialogue for someone who speaks English as a second language. In other words: Alejandro sounds corny as fuck. This man on the damn cob.

~~

TRANSLATIONS

Flaquito = An endearing petname. Flaco means skinny and the suffix -ito makes it smaller/cuter/etc

¡Está bien! = It's alright!

Cuate = Buddy/friend/etc

Mierda = Shit

Cariño = Honey/sweetie

No puedo dejar de pensar en ti. = I can't stop thinking about you.

Tesoro = Treasure

--

“Awfully thin for a member of the 141. How do you run drills? I dunno why they brought you here; you don’t even have a call sign yet.”

Roach looked up from the table where his nose was buried in gun parts, one of the team's assault rifles completely disassembled for cleaning. Colonel Vargas filled the doorway.

Before he could stand to salute his superior waved a dismissive hand and said, “Don't bother. Keep the energy, heaven knows you need it. At ease, flaquito.”

The nickname was a surprise when Roach expected to be addressed by rank. No clue what it meant, though. Halfway up from his chair he hesitated, then plopped back down with straining thighs and a groan. He quipped, “Maybe I'm just too good to leave behind, Sir.”

It was impossible to relax again, on edge and unfamiliar with the man’s temper, bracing for an inevitable smoking. He sat stiffly, spine straight as a board.

The Colonel double checked the safety on his own rifle before resting it in the corner then meandered across what was one of the safe house's bedrooms, now stripped of furniture save for folding tables and gun cases. The space was designated for weapons storage and maintenance. A lone yellow bulb hung from the plain room’s ceiling and offered sufficient lighting—enough to complete duties, not enough to help locate dropped screws or runaway pens.

“You’re in danger,” Vargas said matter-of-factly.

Roach squirmed. “Aren’t we all?”

“You especially. The stairs up here winded you. You have thin bird wrists and negative muscle mass like a frail old lady. What if we’re raided?”

He frowned and said, “I either prove my gun skills or perish, I guess.”

“That isn’t a price I’d expect your Captain to chance paying. Sacrificing fresh meat who needs more time to train, especially when you could put others in danger, too. I’m well-acquainted with John and well-experienced weighing risk versus reward.” The man pulled up a chair and settled in on Roach’s right. “Point is, I’d never send someone so underweight on an operation like this one, even if they stay cooped up in here. Not a newbie. Not in a million years. For Price to make that call, he knows more than he’s letting on.”

“What are you getting at, Sir?”

“You don’t have the eyes of a new recruit.”

He monitored the Colonel in his peripheral for any threatening behavior and swallowed hard. “Just joined the Special Air Service, Sir. If you think he’s hiding something, I think he’s the bloke to ask.”

Alejandro Vargas sat there like a brick wall: an athletic, imposing man of great importance to the Mexican Special Forces, more so than Captain Price was to the taskforce. Only now, with broken ribs where a bullet slammed his plate carrier, was he confined to the safe house in brief recovery. Roach felt like chump change in comparison to his weight lifting build, about six inches shorter and only half the kilos, stuck doing upkeep rather than assisting in the field. Even at his peak, before everything, before Makarov’s Ultranationalist animals held him captive, Roach wasn’t nearly as strong. He reminded himself that he was still healing, still gaining muscle, still making progress on top of how far he’d already come.

…So far, he’d only managed to gain about ten kilos. Ten more and he’d reach a ‘normal weight,’ again, still so unbearably skinny, still far from the size and strength his job required.

Their power imbalance seeded discomfort in his abdomen. Their differences in strength only amplified what stemmed from the subservience a sergeant owed a colonel. It was too similar to Russian prison, Roach beaten and abused by guards double his size who commanded him around like a mule. He tensed without meaning to, leaning away when Vargas’ thick forearms rested on the table, muscles rolling beneath their skin as the man fiddled with a hand guard from the disassembled gun.

The sight left him conflicted. Vargas struck fear in his heart, but struck it in other ways, too. He was attractive, certainly Roach’s ‘type,’ especially considering his confident, benevolent demeanor and how he cared personally for each of his men (at least from an outsider’s perspective). Tough love, but love nonetheless. However, the timing of Roach’s trauma was tragic—happening before he had the opportunity to explore his true sexuality. His thoughts were a muddled mess.

“I just cleaned that, Sir,” he stated. “You’re smearing finger grease all over it again.”

Vargas grabbed a damp cloth and wiped his hands down before using it to tidy the mess. “We’re not on an op. I’m not even your colonel. No need for the formalities right now, Smith.”

Smith. Garrett Smith. The new name was still foreign to his ear, so accustomed to ‘Gary Sanderson’ that he nearly corrected people on occasion. He went to say ‘yes, Sir,’ then truncated the title, hissing, “Yess-s—”

The slight lisp from Roach’s missing teeth made it all the more embarrassing. His cheeks turned pink.

“I’m dead serious about those eyes. Have you seen yourself? Permanent dark circles, thousand yard stare. Even now, you look passed me rather than at me.”

“Mm. I hadn’t noticed,” he lied, sounding as unbelieving as possible. “Interesting observation.”

Vargas angled his wide body to watch the Sergeant work. “Yes, very.”

Roach shrunk into his shoulders when the Colonel leaned forward, into the small uniform shirt that hung baggy enough to have him dress-coded anyway. He prayed the man didn’t notice.

No such luck.

“Not everyone in the world is out to get you. I don’t know who taught you we are. Price wouldn’t put you in harm’s way.”

He shuddered at the memory of Shepherd and replied, “I’m well aware there’s people on my side, Sir.”

“I’m one of them. No need to act like a scared dog.”

What if Price was wrong again? What if Alejandro were schmoozing him, attempting to—Roach gritted his teeth, trying to allow his respect for the Colonel to overpower his panic. “I know.”

“Then relax; I won’t bite.”

His legs screamed to bolt before something terrible happened, old pain from Ultranationalist hands resurfacing. Cuts, punches, yanked hair. Having his head shoved underwater until the bubbles nearly stopped.

When he was first captured, their medics begrudgingly treated his burn wounds with as little care as possible (and he had no idea why they didn’t leave him to die). They ripped off the dressings as if peeling stubborn wallpaper, debrided his skin without anesthesia, re-mummified his writhing form as agony lingered. The worst came later, towards the end of his imprisonment. It happened once. Fingernails digging into his thighs, forcing his legs open. Wrists bound so tightly with fraying rope they sustained nerve damage. Bodily intrusions he longed to forget. Thankfully, his attacker was not gifted in certain areas; however, the bastard compensated with violent thrusts that tore through Roach anyway, mentally and physically, leaving a cloud of disgust surrounding his body even months later. Worse still, the fact that Roach had dreamed of those same activities, gentler, involving trusted individuals. These fantasies were tainted, of course. Everything about him felt rotten after his assault was said and done.

He knew that wasn’t true. The thoughts surfaced regardless.

With a deep sigh, he did his best to loosen up.

“Good,” Vargas praised when Roach visibly shoved down the tension. He plucked a rifle scope off the table and worked the cleaning cloth up and down its length in long strokes, wrist twisting as he did.

Roach watched momentarily, then gazed up and found the man already looking back. He said, “You don’t need to help, if you’re busy. I’m sure you’ve more important duties to tend.”

“More important…? It’s break time. I’m striking up conversation. You intrigue me.” A gleam in Vargas’ eye betrayed the true extent of his interest: Roach was a mystery to solve. A broken man still piecing himself together in the line of action, ‘freshly recruited,’ although it was clear the Colonel knew better.

Roach offered a weak smile. “There’s not much to know.”

“Ah. I see. Hate small talk?”

“Always have, S-sir.”

Vargas replaced the scope and began polishing the other hand guard. “There’s beauty in the little things, you know. Much to be learned from interactions you wouldn’t think twice over. Puzzles made from smaller pieces are more intricate by design.”

“They take longer to assemble. Not much time to spare in our line of work, is there?”

“I’ll spare my time for you.”

As sure as he was the Colonel meant nothing of it, Roach’s face flushed anyway. Even though the thought of Vargas picking out the truth made him queasy, his eyes opened wide, dry lips parting delicately.

“Oh,” he chuckled nervously, “thanks.”

The corner of Vargas’ mouth raised in amusement. However slight, the expression managed to reach his eyes with sincerity.

“Of course. We kinda… left you here toiling alone. I wasn’t expecting to be stuck here as well. I can only assume you feel swept under the rug, maybe a little useless,” he said, wiggling one hand like a balance. “I know I do. But you’ve been lightening the load on our shoulders when we return from missions, though. So don’t feel bad. We appreciate having maintained weapons and an organized living quarters after. Your work at the base is invaluable.”

The words struck a cord in Roach’s heart, feeling more understood than he had in ages. With the 141, he was merely doing his best. His accomplishments were stepping stones in recovery. He wasn’t capable of anything more until healthy, and even afterwards his achievements would be overshadowed by the unspoken thought that he managed them despite everything.

Roach became inseparable from his suffering.

He nodded. “No problem.”

The Colonel clapped a massive hand on his bony shoulder. “Don’t be so shy. I appreciate your hard work, lugging around heavy gear and checking ammo supplies. It hasn’t gone unnoticed, and I’ll be sure to mention it to Price.”

Again, he nodded, unsure of whether to give thanks once more.

“You’re doing great, Garrett. You deserve recognition.”

Tears pricked at the corners of Roach’s eyes. He blinked them back but ultimately failed, and two tiny droplets escaped down his cheeks in white-hot rivulets.

Vargas was taken aback. His brain caught up to speed as he exclaimed, “¡Ay, está bien, cuate! Don’t cry. What’s wrong?”

Roach let him rub circles into his upper back, resting his eyelids as the movement swayed his body. Vargas cupped Roach’s jaw in a warm, calloused palm, encouraging him to turn without force, fingers long enough to hit his sideburns. It felt great to be appreciated, even better to be touched without being handled like glass. In their efforts to help him feel safe, the 141 did the exact opposite of his captors. Instead of treating him like rubbish—like a fleshlight—he became a priceless heirloom that would shatter under a funny look. Intentions aside, he still felt like an object.

Alejandro touched him like a person.

“What’s wrong?” He repeated.

“You—you’re so nice,” the Sergeant whimpered, laying a hand over Vargas’ own on his face. “I dunno what to make of it.”

“Are your teammates not nice to you?”

“They are! They are. Just… Not like that. They don’t say things like that. I f-feel like a dead weight.”

“You’re not. And I mean it.”

Roach cried harder. Vargas stood and opened for a hug, which he lunged into wholeheartedly, draping himself onto the man’s chest as those strong, angelic arms wrapped around him. Breaths heaved Vargas’ sturdy pectorals and Roach along with them. It felt secure. His thoughts calmed to a trickle for once.

Suddenly, a warm kiss pressed into his temple, short circuiting his brain. He sighed as safety eased through him. Roach had never been kissed for himself. Hannah kissed him selflessly, mistakenly. She loved him; she wanted to kiss him for their sake, not knowing he'd never feel it as intended but unconsciously aware something was wrong as she floundered to fix things. It was through no fault of her own, having a coward of a husband who feigned heterosexuality to avoid family drama, and she eventually stopped trying. It hurt, seeing her sneak around with Mike. Gary ignored it, figuring she deserved someone able to cherish her entirely.

Gary did love her though, and Roach believed he always would no matter his identity. There was a reason he chose her to marry. Playing the part was easy with her kind heart and dark, witty jokes. She’d been his best friend, high school sweetheart, and first kiss—supposedly his last and only, if not for Simon coming along.

Simon.

Simon kissed him greedily when he needed reassurance.

‘Are you still here with me?’ He asked wordlessly when they were alone, boxing Roach against the wall in one final measure of security. He was aware of Hannah, his kisses selfish, self-aware, and sorry. ‘I need to mean something to you. I don’t care what, lieutenant or lover, just care for me.

Be there for me.’

Gary wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He orbited Simon because of their difference in rank, never falling in love because they were battle buddies and he was a married man. However, he couldn’t let his Lieutenant in as a brother-in-arms—not when he dreamt of holding him each night. Of fucking him stupid in the supply closets. No, Gary acted selfishly, too, devouring the only male attention ever thrown his way and giving Simon false hope, accepting kiss after undeserved kiss. Simon was kind while Gary was awful, returning the gentle reassurance of his lips despite never fully opening up, caught in Cupid’s purgatory where he lied to his commanding officer and wife simultaneously. Garrett could be better, if Simon would have him. If he could bear putting his damaged self on display for someone who loved him when he was whole.

A thumb wiped the moisture from Roach’s cheek.

This was different. Vargas put comfort in the gesture. It was Roach’s turn to be reassured, promised he was welcome in their embrace. Vargas didn’t need anything, didn’t want anything more than to learn who Garrett was now, and it was similar to Soap’s appeal—except Vargas was less skittish and unsure of what he himself had to offer, unbiased by the team’s grief-stricken reminiscing or the knowledge of Roach’s assault. Most importantly, despite all this mushy emotional crap, Vargas’ touch remained impersonal. Impermanent. Roach could safely make mistakes because he'd either die recapturing Los Vaqueros’ headquarters or return to the UK after the operation concluded.

“Colonel,” Roach whispered, pulling back to scan his face.

“Please. No one’s here. Call me Alejandro.”

“I couldn’t—”

“Really, do it. You’re not one of my men. We could be friends at the end of all this. You need more of those.”

“I’ll be too far.”

“I’ll make time to call.”

He hesitated. His arms snaked away from Vargas’ neck until his hands fell to the man’s chest, stabilizing himself on the broad ribcage waiting there, further examining the man’s expression for hints of annoyance. He found none.

Roach’s eyebrows furrowed and more happy tears begged to flow freely as he asked, “Do you mean it?”

“Absolutely, I do,” Alejandro replied. His grip slid to Roach’s hips to accommodate how the Sergeant repositioned. “Christ, Garrett, you’re even skinnier than you look. I can’t believe Price would… Never mind.”

He was right. He engulfed Roach. Only now, rather than make Roach feel lesser, freakish, and scared, it had him weak in the knees. Roach shivered and flicked his eyes to Alejandro’s lips, starving to feel them tenderly elsewhere, ashamed to desire such attention from the first man to give him understanding and selfless touch.

A Russian accent floated through his mind, dark with arousal and aggression. Maybe he was ‘just a worthless whore.’

“Please,” Roach asked, knowing exactly what he wanted yet not how to phrase it.

“Please, what?” It was an honest question, not a flirty tease.

Roach wanted more than friendship at the moment. A relationship wasn’t the goal; physical intimacy was. To get fucked out of his mind by someone harmless.

One of his hands drifted to the back of Alejandro’s neck who, thankfully, took the hint and leaned forward until their foreheads clunked.

“Please. I’m Roach. When we’re alone, I mean.”

He tilted his head and asked, “Roach? Why that?” sounding pleasantly confused yet excited at the prospect of an answer.

“It’s my old call sign. Don’t tell anyone. Not a soul.”

An answer and a secret, and a clue about Garrett’s past. Alejandro’s face lit up like he’d won a hundred quid. “Okay,” he grinned. Then, the serious tone in Roach’s voice transferred to his. “Okay. Sure. Anything you need.”

“Anything?”

“Anything I’m able to do, I will. I’m a man of my word.”

Alejandro was a stranger he’d known less than a month, but his kindness and sincerity were unending thus far.

Roach chewed his lip and said, “Kiss me again. Kiss me more. You did it right.”

He pulled back, gazing at Roach while one of his hands returned to the Sergeant’s jaw. His smile grew until his cheeks squished his eyes into crescents. “Mierda… How could I say no?”

Turning Roach’s head to the side, Alejandro’s lips reconnected with his temple, then stippled across his cheekbone and down the crooked bridge of his nose. Request granted, the Sergeant closed his eyes in contentment and hummed, reaching up into Alejandro’s hair. Heat rushed to his face and coiled in his belly as the Colonel traced kisses along one of his smile lines, planting a final one at the corner of his mouth before pausing.

“Am I still doing this right, cariño?”

His knees were quaking and his hands gripped Alejandro’s shirt for dear life. Even if he let go, he knew he’d be safe. “Yes,” he said, voice wavering.

“Want me to keep going?”

“God, yes. I’ve never had someone do this before.”

Alejandro frowned. “Not ever?”

“No. I’ve only ever been…” he struggled to think of an appropriate term, “…touched by people who wanted it from me. I’ve never had someone do it because I needed the attention.”

“You have mine now. You caught it the second we met.”

“…Why?” Roach asked.

“None of the files about you line up with who I’m holding in my fucking arms. I’ve met a different man than the recruit I approved on paper—I need to have a chat with Price about that. No puedo dejar de pensar en ti.”

“What does that mean?”

Alejandro grinned and whispered, “You’re peculiar. Mysterious.”

“There’s no mystery,” he insisted.

“Whatever you say, Roach. Even if I don’t figure you out, I'll enjoy learning what I can.”

“You’re too much. Shut up and keep kissing.”

He caught Roach’s chin and guided the Sergeant’s lips into his own, making no attempts to part them or shove his tongue in between, maintaining comfortable pressure that broke briefly between smooches. His exhales blew hot. His stubble tickled when he trailed up Roach’s jaw and planted one below his ear.

Roach shivered and moaned behind his puckered mouth, savoring the way Alejandro curled over his body in response, now looking up so their lips remained connected while the man cradled his head and the small of his back. When Alejandro relented Roach groaned in protest, attempting to pull him back by the collar.

He chuckled. “I was going to ask if you’re still enjoying this. I think I got my answer, th—”

Roach cut him off with an open-mouthed kiss, hoisting himself up on tip-toes instead since Alejandro was immovable and took too long closing the gap of his own accord. It elicited a surprised gasp that Roach swallowed whole, using it as an opportunity to press his tongue against the Colonel’s teeth. Fingers tangled in his hair, offering comfortable encouragement rather than balling into a fist and yanking.

Then, Alejandro moaned.

And the sound rolled as deep and powerful as an ocean current,

And it flowed up the arc of Roach’s spine slow and sweet like molasses,

And Roach couldn’t take it anymore.

“My legs are tired,” he complained, limbs shaking, “and my ass hurts from the chair.”

“My lap is pretty comfortable.”

Just what he wanted to hear. He grinned, winded, huffing desperately through closed teeth, “I dunno if can I just take your word for it.”

“Aw, don’t trust me?”

“What can I say? I’m a skeptic,” Roach laughed nervously. Having little experience, flirting wasn’t his forte. “Can we move to that couch in the sleeping quarters so I can find out for myself?”

Alejandro blessed him with a look of surprise that bloomed into a beaming smile. “Lead the way.”

Roach took his wrist (and was allowed) to drag him. They burst through the door, Alejandro flopping onto the aforementioned futon with creaking springs. Roach straddled him immediately and the Colonel’s hands returned to his hips, untucking the baggy shirt from his loose pants, slipping under its hem. It felt electric. It had him shaking like a dog.

“You alright?”

“Just nerves,” he assured.

“Relax. I’ve got you.”

Unbuttoning his own fly, Roach cursed at the pre-cum already forming a wet patch on his boxers.

“Already excited, cariño?”

“Sorry. Y-you’re very attractive.”

Their half-hard cocks throbbed together.

“You’re one to talk,” Alejandro said and lifted Roach’s shirt, mouth gaping at the exposed fuzzy skin beneath.

The shame of having a body surged in Roach’s mind. “I used to have more definition. I was hotter before…”

Those hot, rough hands roamed further under Roach’s uniform, ghosting over his ribs. Alejandro said, “I want you however you are.”

“I’m doing much better than in September.”

“Good,” He replied and leaned in for another slow kiss.

Roach moaned into it as fingers tweaked his nipples. No matter the pleasure, he put his own hands over Alejandro’s and pulled them off. The man detached at the first hint of resistance.

“Hm? Don’t like your chest played with?”

“No, I do! I just… was curious if you’d stop when I wanted.”

Alejandro’s eyes widened. He was intelligent; he read between the lines before Roach finished writing them.

The Sergeant continued. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

Pulling him in tight, Alejandro buried himself in Roach’s neck and whispered, “Tesoro. If you want me to stop, tell me! It would kill me to know I hurt you.”

“I will,” he smiled, leading the man's focus back to his nipples, who immediately resumed toying with them. “You know, for a bloody colonel, you sure do love to follow my directions.”

“A good one knows when to stop commanding and listen. Competent sergeants know what they need. Besides, it’s still break time. I’m just Alejandro. You’re just Roach.”

Before Roach could reply, Alejandro leaned forward and sucked a nipple into his warm, wet mouth while flicking the other, earning a gasp at the tongue teasing it and wriggling hips searching for friction. Their cocks pressed together as Roach ground his pelvis down, then again, driving the rhythm of their dry humping as fast as he could. Unfortunately, in his affected state, this wasn’t that fast.

He growled in frustration, the pleasure simultaneously too much in his inexperience, yet too little.

“What’s wrong, hm?”

“I want it harder!”

Alejandro tested the waters, applying gentle pressure as he bit Roach’s pectoral.

His reply was somewhere between a whimper and yelp. “Nn!~ Not what I meant!”

The man simply soothed it with his tongue, reaching up to caress Roach’s head.

“The grinding, that’s what I mean.”

With a slow grip on Roach’s waist, giving him time to realize and protest if desired, Alejandro used those massive muscles to rock him back and forth.

[sleepdeprivedsimp234]

Another random NY hc that I came up with (basically me rambling bout stupid stuff again):

(⚠️TW⚠️ abuse, alcohol mention, being a POW, and the slitting of throats)

So it’s basically canon that England is an abusive piece of sh*t, like we’ve all confirmed this. And Ben has that neck scar, so I was thinking "How did the states get those scars?" And then my brain clicked and said "NY’s scar definitely had something to do with England."

And now today I decided: "Y’know what? Fvck it I’m giving NY some sort of vocal issues, perhaps damage to his vocal cords/larynx." Then there’s the "How did it happen?". So ofc im like- Oh yeah I still need to find out what England did to give NY that neck scar.

So then I put all the pieces together and:

Basically im thinking two things:

-1. New York was protecting another colony or some other person that England was yelling at, and England grabbed him by the neck, dragged him away, and sl!t his throat, around the area where NY’s larynx (which is basically your voice box) is. It didn’t kill NY, but that’s only cuz Massachusetts found him and patched him up, though after that NY couldn’t speak very well because his vocal cords were damaged.

-2. OR: During the Revolutionary War, when England held NY captive for seven years, he would torture and beat NY to get "information" that York didn’t have. And uh- once the beating got pretty violent (as if it wasnt already-) because England was drunk and ended up doing some serious damage to NY’s neck/voice box area.

So um nowadays, York can’t speak very loudly without physically straining his voice to be loud, and his voice cracks when he does that. His yells/screams are quieter, his voice is quieter, and even his laughter is kinda quiet (which honestly makes it more adorable-).

Sometimes, he’ll be arguing with another state and it’ll get heated and he’ll raise his voice, only to have it crack a bit. Some states feel bad, some feel scared, or others just tease him about it (they usually mean it to be affectionate in a way, but NY acts like it doesn’t hurt him, when in fact it does. A lot.)

He was definitely the kid in school that would always be told to "Speak up" and "Talk louder" when reading. And he would strain his voice to be louder, but it would crack and he would be embarrassed when the class would chuckle about it. Only a few times has he run out of class because of it.

Ok- this part is kinda cute tbh. His laugh, which is very rare btw, is kinda quiet as well. See he’s got this soft squeaky-hiccupy high pitched fox laugh that’s really cute as it as, but it is somehow more adorable when it’s quiet, even though the reason for its quietness is very depressing. He definitely gets affectionately teased for it because nobody would expect a strong stoic moody NE state like New York to be able to sound so cute and sweet. There’s plenty of "Aww~ Who knew the big bad NY could have such an adorable laugh?~" or "Aww~ You should laugh more!~" teases.

Please feel free to add on to my bullsh*t :)

[whumpy-writings]

Hatred

Febuwhump 2022 Masterlist / Of Vampires and Men Masterlist

Febuwhump 2022 Day 1- Head Wound

CW: Vampires, slavery, captivity, pows, beating, blood, alcohol mention

Two guards entered the cell. “Come with us, Byrnes,” one of them said, his eyes bored. Micah swallowed nervously. None of them had left the cell since they had arrived three weeks ago. He got to his feet and followed the guards out into the hall. He lost track of how many turns they made until suddenly they stopped at a dark wooden door. One of the guards knocked before opening the door and leading Micah inside.

“Leave,” Weisman said with a wave of his hand. The guards left, the door closing ominously behind them. Weisman was sitting in an overstuffed leather chair, a glass of wine dangling in his hand.

“Kneel,” he said. Micah got to his knees, all the while keeping eye contact with the bastard.

“Sir-”

“No talking, Lieutenant. I want to enjoy my beverage,” Weisman said, taking a casual sip. It took ten minutes for the captain to finish his drink. Micah’s knees were starting to ache from the hard wooden floor and his heart was pounding. Finally the vampire set his glass down and made his way over to Micah. Micah held his gaze, though he had to crane his neck since Weisman was now standing directly in front of him. The slap came without warning, a flash of bright red pain on his cheek. Micah gasped.

“I hate you Torins,” Weisman growled, grabbing Micah by the collar and pulling him to his feet. “Do you know why?” Micah didn’t respond, he didn’t know if he should. If Weisman wanted him to. Another slap. “Answer me when I talk to you, Byrnes. Do you know why I hate Torins?”

“N-no sir,” Micah said shakily.

“I hate them because they’re weak. Pathetic. Arrogant. You act like you’re better than us because you treat your humans more ethically.” The sarcasm was thick on that last word. “Like the blood bags know the difference. And when we try to get more humans to feed our people what do you do? You attack us. You never learned to share. Think of that, Lieutenant. All of the lives wasted because of Torin greed.”

Micah was silent, even though he bristled at the implication that the Torins had been the ones to start the war. Clearly, the Lucians were the aggressors. He didn’t want to respond though, to risk antagonizing the captain.

“What do you have to say?” Weisman spat out.

Micah licked his lips, stalling for time. “We would have given you humans if you had just asked,” Micah said finally. The first punch drove the air out of Micah’s lungs. The second one hit his jaw and he felt his fangs rip through his bottom lip. Micah tried to pull away but the weeks of inadequate blood had weakened him.

“I’m going to make you suffer, Torin,” Weisman growled in his ear. “I’m going to make you mine.” And with that Weisman slammed his head into a table and Micah’s world went black.

…

Travis’ eyes went wide when Micah was dumped back into the cell. Bruises littered his face. Dark red blood, almost black, ran down the side of his head and his chin. Aleksander had rushed forward and was cradling Micah’s head in his lap.

“Human!” Aleksander called, his voice tinged with fear. Travis had no choice but to approach. Close up Micah looked even worse and Travis felt a stab of worry. Micah was a blood-sucking leech, yes, but he was also kind. He didn’t deserve to be beaten like this.

“The human is right here, Micah. Can you feed?” Aleksander asked gently. Micah groaned and his eyes fluttered open, not quite focused.

“Yeah,” he said.

Aleksander pulled Travis close so he was leaning against him and then held his wrist out to Micah. Travis didn’t resist. He would have just a week ago, when he was still scared and angry. But now he knew that these vampires were just as much prisoners as he was. And as much as he hated to admit it, he was starting to care about them. Micah lifted a shaky hand and gripped Travis’ wrist gently. He brought it to his mouth and bit down. The venom hit Travis’ system and his muscles went limp. Aleksander supported him as Micah fed. He watched the vampire feed, entranced by the way he could see it happening, could see Micah’s throat moving as he swallowed, but couldn’t feel a thing. Fucking wild.

Travis started to close his eyes, the venom’s fatigue pulling him towards sleep.

“Thank you,” Micah said. Travis blinked his eyes open. He hadn’t realized that Micah had finished feeding.

“Didn’t want you to fuckin’ bleed all over the cell,” Travis said, the venom lowering his inhibitions. Micah shot him a wry smile.

“I appreciate that.” He paused. “You know, you still haven’t told us your name. I really don’t want to just call you “human” all the time.”

Travis sighed. There was no point keeping it secret, since he clearly was going to be stuck with these vampires for the foreseeable future.

“My name’s Travis,” he said, “Can I go to sleep now?”

Micah chuckled softly. “Sure, Travis. Sweet dreams.”

Tag list: @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whump-cravings @thecyrulik @neverthelass @michelleswhumpyreblogs @whumpsy-daisy @the-monarch-whumperfly @aswallowimprisoned @secretwhumplair @whumpzone @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @nicolepascaline @susiequaz12 @princessofonwardsworld @puffball-lover554 @itsleighlove @pumpkin-spice-whump @wiwinia @sunflower1000 @whump-blog @that-sapphic-person @melancholy-in-the-morning @pizzasthengym @suspicious-whumping-egg

[whumpwillow]

Whumptober day 13

prompt: cauterization 

characters: generic 

warnings: cauterization, burns, arrow wound, medical inaccuracy, war mention, prisoner of war mention, implied past torture, past captivity, profanity

—

Day 13: cauterization

Fire and fog surround him. Two things that should not be able to coexist, but then again, he has seen many things he should not have had to bear witness to. Has experienced many things, felt them, had them carved wickedly into his skin, into his body and soul and mind mind mind—

He gasps in the smoke. It fills his lungs charcoal black and he coughs, sputters, doubles over. Hands on knees. Shouts in the distance. Dirt on his face on his hands on his clothes in his wounds. He takes a step forward. Another.

Run run run.

Gotta get away before they find him.

He does not want to know what they might do if they catch him. So he runs further.

The shouts and the fire fade into the distance, the encampment’s solid ground turning to muddy swamplands as he goes. The fog replaces the smoke, thick now like soup. He’s practically submerged underwater he can’t see where he’s going it doesn’t matter—

He marches forward, feet sloshing through the mud, a hand on his side trying in vain to hold in the blood that pours forth. He blinks. Slowly, slowly, his vision blurring. Or is it the fog that makes the world so hazy? Everything is white and grey and muted green. He keeps trudging forward. He will not be taken back to the encampment. He will not be their prisoner any longer.

Caught by the wrong side of the war, they kept him in a hastily-dug hole in the ground, a grate of sticks placed atop the entrance. Not the most adept security measure, not by a longshot, but they made sure he was unable to escape in…other ways. They made sure he was too weak to even try.

Whumpee swallows, hiccups, falters. He knows he must keep going, but he is so very tired. His captors had poured water on him from above to keep him awake—sometimes ice cold, sometimes heated by a fire. Whumpee looks at the still-healing burns on his forearms from the splashes of it. He sighs. He continues.

The mud of the swamp squelches under his feet, making his trek even harder. It holds him back, drags him down, grasping and prying and pleading just as he did while begging for mercy he never received. It’s cold and thick and heavy and he is so tired. The fog clouds his vision. He has no idea how long he has to go, how far he’s come, or even what direction he’s really going in. He hopes desperately, in his heart of hearts, that he has not gotten turned around and started heading back toward the prison camp.

He pants for breath and puts his hands on his knees, but he cannot afford himself a break. No rest for now, not until he knows he’s safe. Will he ever be safe? The word has lost all meaning. All he knows is that if he stops, he will fall, and he will never get up again.

Just…keep going.

Slog through the mud. Brush away the reeds that cling to him, try and hold him back. He hears voices and screams and shouts and it is all deathly quiet in the swamp, in the midst of fog that swallows all sound and he is alone. He is alone and he does not know if that is better or worse.

Blood seeps from the wound in his side. His foot hits ground less soft than the mud of the swamp and he rejoices, knowing that he must have come to the forest on the other side. From there it will be an easy escape and he’ll be free.

He just…needs to…keep going…

—

Whumpee awakens to a cold hand on his cheek. He opens his eyes and sees a face above him, but his vision is blurry and his mind is hazy with pain and fear and the effects of blood loss. He jerks back, unsure if this person is friend or foe.

“Don’t—kegh!” he begins to say, to plead, but the words do not leave his mouth.

Only a pained grunt, a reminder of the wounds sustained in his escape. His hands finds the wound on his side instinctively and he presses his fingers onto it, trying to staunch the flow of blood that has not abated even in his slumber.

“Pl—ples—”

He gasps in pain. He blinks to clear his eyes. He hopes the person before him is not an enemy soldier—what if they found him he can’t go back there he can’t he can’t he can’t please—

“Hey,” a voice says. It is not his own. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Whumpee looks up through soaked strands of hair at the source of the voice and sees the person before him is a woman in hunting gear, not a soldier’s uniform. He nearly collapses in relief.

“Hey, I’m Caretaker. I—uh, are you alright? You’re bleeding…”

Caretaker draws near and Whumpee makes an awful keening sound, flinching away and holding his arms up over his face. He hates how pathetic he’s become, but he just waits for a blow that doesn’t come. When the pain he expects doesn’t arrive, he tentatively lowers his arm and sees Caretaker raise her hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she says.

Her eyes are a wide, light-brown like that of a doe, Whumpee notices. In his delirium-addled mind, he doesn’t know why a detail such as that caught his attention.

“You need help,” Caretaker says.

Whumpee nods slowly, but his eyes are already drifting closed.

—

Whumpee experiences a sense of displacement as he opens his eyes, feeling different from before. It takes him a second to realize that he isn’t lying on the ground but standing up. Well, as much as he’s able to with Caretaker’s help. She seems to sense him stir and rubs a thumb over his shoulder.

“Good, you’re awake. I was not going to carry you the entire way back,” she says, and Whumpee feels a pang of terror pierce his stomach.

He flinches back, startling Caretaker and nearly falling out of her grasp. She has one of his arms slung around her shoulders to help him stand, and was half-way dragging him through the woods.

“B-back?” Whumpee questions, his voice small.

He does not want to go back.

“—to my house,” Caretaker finishes.

Whumpee does not relax, but he doesn’t exactly have a choice in where she wants to bring him. He doesn’t see any familiar landmarks, which is a good sign. It means they weren’t headed toward the prison camp and instead further away from it. The journey is long and arduous, but they eventually reach a small cottage with a thatched roof.

Caretaker opens the door and helps Whumpee inside, settling him on a couch made of different scraps of fabric. Whumpee melts into it the second he’s released, but feels a hand on his arm.

“You can’t fall asleep now, I gotta treat these wounds,” Caretaker says. “Especially that one.”

She nudges her chin at the wound on his side caused by an arrow Whumpee had foolishly pulled out during his escape. He didn’t want it to lodge further in his body while running, so he had no other choice but to get rid of it. Bleeding to death wasn’t accounted for.

“Mmh,” Whumpee mumbles in acknowledgement.

He hears sounds in his periphery and blinks, seeing Caretaker setting a fire in the fireplace next to the couch. Whumpee waits eagerly for some semblance of warmth, all too aware of the dreadful cold he’s immersed in. His hair and clothes are soaked from the swamp and the fog. A chill pervades his entire being and his hands are made of ice.

Seeing him shiver, Caretaker takes pity on him and drapes a blanket over his uninjured shoulder and adjusts it to cover that half of his body. It’s thin and threadbare and does nothing to stop the chill, but he’s grateful for it anyway. Just to have the chance to finally rest, to breathe. His head falls back on the couch and his eyes flutter closed. He moans softly in pain and Caretaker pinches his cheek.

He startles, twisting around to look at her, wide-eyed. She has one hand on her hip, the other pointing at him.

“What’d I just say?”

Whumpee grumbles, biting his lip. Caretaker goes back to the fireplace and pokes at it.

“You…”

Caretaker looks at him over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Why are you helping me?” he asks.

He knows he shouldn’t trust just anyone, unsure if she really is helping, but he’s spent so long in the presence of enemies. He is so, so tired of it.

Caretaker just shrugs, then looks back at the fire. She withdraws her poker, yet Whumpee sees she does not put it back in the stand next to the fireplace. She holds it up, flaming red at the end. A glowing ember of heat and pain. Whumpee cowers away, a whimper escaping his lips as she draws near and he realizes what she means to do.

“Please—” he whispers, the syllable coming out as a single hard breath expelled from his body. His body that has been through so much already. “I can’t—please—”

Caretaker approaches slowly at first, then moves with surprising celerity and grabs his injured arm. Whumpee thrashes, trying to free himself from her grasp, but he is too weak and she is too quick. She presses the fire poker to the gaping wound on his shoulder and suddenly everything is white.

Whumpee screams.

Caretaker doesn’t flinch, not even as the blood bubbles and boils, not even as Whumpee’s screams turn to cries, then to whimpering pleas for mercy. Then finally, to nothing discernible at all. Just muted sounds of despair and resignation. That of someone who has gone through this sort of thing before too many times.

She pulls away and throws the fire poker to the side as if it were a disgusting insect. She breathes hard and fast, then runs a hand through her hair, mussing the strands.

“Sorry,” she says.

Whumpee sniffles, then looks at her with tear-filled eyes.

“I had to cauterize the wound.” She bites her lip. Fiddles with her fingers in her lap, stained with soot. “Figured it’d be better if I didn’t tell you first. Anticipation for that sort of thing never helped anyone.”

Whumpee sobs, feeling the burn rage through his entire body. He wanted warmth, to be free of the cold from the swamps, but not like this. Not like this.

He says a single word amidst heavy breaths and broken cries.

“Fuck.”

—

[trope-appreciation-tuesdays]

American officer during Vietnam War tried to rescue influential politician (minister, general etc.) and was captured. POW in the worst camp in Asia. It's not a prison. It's hell. Tortured and humiliated, he was loyal, refused to be broken. The torturers are furious, so they are killing slowly the youngest soldier of team and forced officer to watch. Boy is crying and begging for mercy. His commander still silent. In his mind he is dying of despair, but dignity and honor are the most important.

This sounds familiar. Was it a movie perhaps? Fantastic whump!

[end-o-the-line]

Trying to track the Winter Soldier through both canon and history....god help me....

As a follow up to the First Avenger timeline, insomnia brought us here.

February 1945 - Bucky falls from a goddamn train in the Alps. We've gone over this.

Okay, we know Bucky was in Russian/Hydra hands by early '45. The first thing to look into is Operation Paperclip. You may recognize this from TWS, but it was not made up by the MCU, it was a real thing. In May of 1945, a U.S. Army Major Robert B. Staver sent a telegram to the Pentagon, pushing the idea of capturing and using German scientists toward the war effort in the Pacific. They proceeded to do just that, housing captured scientists in southern Bavaria. So smart, keeping the Nazis in Germany and stuff. By November, the project had been renamed Operation Paperclip. For secrecy?

Most of the early objectives of this operation were to keep the German scientists from emigrating to non-’murica friendly countries and continuing their work. Eventually, the US realized it was just fine for them to continue their work, as long as it was for them. By the end of the war, Germans with 'marketable' knowledge were being 'recruited' through ‘orders’ for their families and such to report to Allied bases; the important ones were then moved to ‘secret’ locations (one was code-named DUSTBIN and it was proooobably in the desert near Los Alamos idk) and ‘questioned’; detained for months at a time.

Some of these scientists were later removed and charged for their war-time actions. Since we know Zola was still part of SHIELD when he built the nightmare computer in the 70's, he obviously wasn't one of those charged with the atrocities he committed. None of the scientists were free to roam until at least '47. That leads us to believe that Zola couldn't have gotten his hands back on Bucky for at least 2 years, likely more. It's possible Zola never got his hands on Bucky again, if you take Bucky's memories as more like amalgams and assume he just uses Zola as the face for any and all faceless scientists he encountered. It's not out of the question.

Moving on. Bucky is found by Russians, and since we've been over that too, needless to say it's highly unlikely that many Russians were deserting the Red Army to go be buddies with a mostly Nazi-associated Hydra operation at the end of WW2. The Russians and the Nazis were not friends, mmkay, Russia lost nearly 40 million people during WW2, and only 9 million of those were in combat. But, by the time the first traces of the Cold War come around, Russians in Hydra would definitely be a thing, just like Americans in Hydra would be a thing. Again, the date 1947 comes into play, as that's a pretty accepted start date of the Cold War tensions. But.

But.

Bucky was found by some very lost Russians and brought in, where they took him fuck knows where to pimp his ride. There's not much we can take from the MCU with the meager flashbacks, but there is a very clear timeline from Captain America: Winter Soldier Vol. 2. I'll fill in what I can from the MCU, since that's what this is focusing on, and rely on the comics for what I can’t.

March 23, 1945 - Bucky's KGB file is created by the KGB branch in Dnepropetrovsk Region, USSR, which in 2016 became known as Dnipro Raion, Ukraine. (**Thanks to Morrighan on AO3 for this translation!) Of note is the giant Dnipropetrovsk Automobile Factory, built by German POWs starting in December of 1945, which was planned by the Russians as a secret military machining plant. It wasn't under way at this particular date, but the supplies for such large industry were, and it stands to reason the future Fist of Hydra would have been brought to a place that was intended to become the center of the Soviet secret weapons think tank.

May 7, 1945 - Bucky dies. Like, literally. The comics are clear on this, that when the Russians found him he was frozen solid, and dead. One of them had been on a mission with the Commandos, though, and after seeing Bucky in action, suspected he had the serum just like Steve (he didn't, he was just a badass), so they thaw him like a Thanksgiving turkey to try to get tissue and fluid samples. When he's thawed, he's dead as a doornail. They revive him, though, and even the scientists are kind of shocked it worked, since he did not, in fact, have the serum. What he did have was the memory of how to kick ass, which they learn the hard way haha, so they sedate his ass until they can get all their samples from him. Having said that, MCU canon directly controverts this. MCU Bucky DOES have the serum, that's been made very clear from several of his feats of strength that did not include the metal arm, and he was obviously not flash frozen in the Alps because he remembers shit. So. Do with that dichotomy what you will, just thought I'd share.

May 21, 1945 - After determining that they can't recreate the serum from him, and that he's gonna kick their asses if they let him stay conscious, Bucky is put into cryo-freeze. Even the scientist making the notes is all IDFK about the order when it's given by Karpov, he's like birch is crazy.

In the flashback scene from TWS where Bucky's metal arm is being attached, the doctor uses a handheld electric bone saw.

The patent for the first hand held reciprocating saw was filed on June 27, 1952. Trust me. You do not want to try Googling that, okay, let me take the hit on those visuals. I spontaneously became a vegetarian. Anyway, it's safe to assume the flashback scene of Bucky getting what remained of his arm cut off was at the least 7 years of captivity later. Since Bucky hasn't aged any more than the Capsicle did, it's safe to assume, and mentioned in those pieces of comics canon, that the Russians essentially said *shrug* and stuffed the half-dead American soldier they found in the fridge for a decade like my grandmother used to do to the stuff she canned every summer.

Since the cryo containment they stuff him back into after he has the metal arm was actually in the operating theater, hence already tested and in use (and mobile, apparently? what did they do push him around on a handcart?? that would be the worst job) it's a pretty safe assumption to make that even MCU Bucky was almost immediately put on ice after being captured because he kept trying to kill folks, and kept that way until at least mid to late 1952, if not later.

Personal tangent? If the Russians/Hydra already had a Cryo tank to conveniently throw Bucky into, one can assume they had a use for it, right? My personal theory is that it was for Super Soldiers, meaning someone had at least theorized that a Super Soldier could be frozen. How many fucking Cold War resources do you think were put toward hunting for that fucking Valkyrie in the Arctic?

June 1954 - The date comes from Captain America: Winter Soldier Vol. 2 again, and it gels with the info above about the arm-attachment so I'm going with it. Bucky becomes the 'Fist of Hydra' and is then put back on ice because the Fist of Hydra tries to strangle his doctor. It would be super easy to split his time and say he was with the Russians until the dissolution of the Soviet Union, then was transferred to Hydra's control, but this Fist of Hydra line makes that impossible. So even though the Russians in the form of the KGB had him, they were obviously still working under or with the Hydrapus. Bucky worked for Department X in the Comics, but that's not an MCU thing, so. That's where the MCU and the comics diverge wildly, and make this a migraine-inducing task. Right after they let him out of Cryo, Bucky escapes, but since he's in the middle of the goddamn Soviet wilderness, he doesn't get far.

1959 - The first page of the file Steve receives from Natasha about the Winter Soldier is probably dated 1959, from the KGB branch in Lvovsky Region, USSR, which is the Lviv Region in Ukraine. The area is super varied in landscape and population, which could have served as a proving ground of sorts for a weapon like the Winter Soldier. This can probably be taken as a pretty clear date for when the Winter Soldier officially became 'active' under the direction of the KGB. That's five years from the metal arm being attached to becoming the Asset, during which you can only assume they were working on the base programming for what would later become the wipes.

1964 - This is technically when the Winter Soldier's kills start being counted, if you take Natasha's 'the last 50 years' literally. So I'm going to ignore pre-64 history, pretty much, and assume that the 5-10 years after June 1954 were spent turning Bucky into The Winter Soldier with mindfucking, training, languages, ect. It's important to note that in the comics, Bucky was never tortured, per se. Not physically, I guess, though the defining line of ‘torture’ here is thin. He was already an amnesiac, so they used a combination of sensory deprivation and 'Mental Implantation' experiments to make him loyal to them. You don't make someone loyal by beating the shit out of them, you know? There's also evidence in the movies in the way Bucky reacts to people; he is clearly in charge of the STRIKE team, not taking their orders; he doesn't flinch when Steve touches him, nor does he mind one bit the Wakandan doctors who are hooking him up to IVs, ect. He does not outwardly behave like a man who was subjected to decades of beatings or what have you.

Look at that cupcake, Jesus.

Since MCU canon is sparse with language info, I'll go with Comics canon on this; Bucky has stated that before Hydra, he spoke six languages. Hydra's own notes state that he spoke four. We'll go with Bucky on this one, since he would know amirite. I can't figure out what all 6 were for sure, but there is solid evidence that he spoke fluent English, German, and Russian. The other educated guesses would add Japanese, French, and Italian to that tally. It's also possible his sixth language was cursing, because even Deadpool is shocked at Bucky's language when he goes back in time and meets him during the War. Those are the most likely, simply because they were the relevant ones to the War effort and where he was deployed. There's a panel with War-dressed Bucky speaking Chinese, but wtf dude I mean....he was too young to be sent to China at any point before the War broke out, and there's no reason the War Department would have taught him fucking Chinese in the 40's when he was up to his ass in the European Theater, so that panel might be an alternate reality thing, idk.

After Hydra, he was additionally fluent in Chinese (probably post-Hydra, fuck that panel), Spanish, Polish, Romanian (MCU canon), and he became passable in Kree. At one point when he is Bucky!Cap, Steve seems to be under the impression that Bucky can also understand a dog barking. I don't know if that's a Bucky thing or a Steve thing, but it's apparently canon that Bucky talks to animals like a crazy cat lady enough that Steve thinks he's understanding them. Idfk dude.

Sooo, TL;DR:

WW2-era: English, German, Russian, Japanese, French, Italian (probably), and foul language.

Winter Soldier-era: Chinese, Spanish, Polish, Romanian, Kree, and dog? Probably a lot more, probably ALL the Soviet Bloc languages, tbh, I just don't have hard evidence of them. Ehhhh.....

.....while I at first assumed he was talking about the other Soldiers collectively in this scene, we could also assume that Bucky is telling Steve and Sam all that info about the other Soldiers because he's listing his own stats. So it's possible Bucky himself speaks upwards of 30 languages by the time he breaks free from Hydra. In addition to the Soviet Bloc, if he also spent a lot of time in Asia, the Middle East, and Africa, all those different dialects could easily add up to 30+ languages.

Most of the 'training' he was given during that proving ground period would basically have been the Russians field-testing him and being all WOO he already knows this, because Bucky was already a Grade A Badass. They would have updated him on new technology as soon as it was available to him, because he can obviously fly SHIELD fighter jets without blinking an eye and is rather fond of commandeering random flying machines . . . I imagine he’d only be able to steal one of those and then realize he doesn’t know how to work it once.

1959-1964 - I got sidetracked. Anyway. There is some chatter in the fandom that Bucky killed Kennedy. If we take the 50 years thing literally and go with the 1964 date, he probably didn't. If we take it almost literally and infer the 1959 date on his file was from his first field test or mission, he . . . really could have killed Kennedy. I do like to mix my movies, though, and imagine that Bucky was sent to Dallas, met up with Magneto trying to stop him, hai there metal arm, and got wrapped up like a burrito in a chain link fence before he could fire a shot.....

Anyway....despite how well-armed the Winter Soldier is . . . jesus I just re-read this and realized I made a horrible pun but I'm not changing it because it made me laugh, most political assassinations are not usually by gun or knife. You can't have plausible deniability if you shoot someone in the face. That's why the Winter Soldier's reputation is as both assassin AND spy.

So I’m going to highlight some real-world events that you could ascribe to the Winter Soldier through the years, if you are so inclined to write these things in stories. Dates and locations are between the spades, for ease of tracking this sneaky bastard's possible real historical movements. Bold dates are confirmed by MCU canon.

♠ September 11, 1973 - Santiago, Chile ♠ The apparent suicide of Chile’s president, Salvador Allende - with an assault rifle – during the Pinochet coup. Being honest, this was probably the CIA, but still.

♠ early December 1977 - Cairo, Egypt ♠ David Holden - a writer, journalist, broadcaster, and possible CIA agent - was the Chief Foreign Correspondent of the Sunday Times, and is shot in still unexplained circumstances just before the peace talks between Egypt and Israel. With his connections, and possible CIA ties, there is no telling what this guy was up to, or who would have wanted him to stop doing it.

♠ April 17, 1978 - Kabul, Afghanistan ♠ Mir Akbar Khyber, an Afghan intellectual and a leader of the Parcham faction of the People's Democratic Party of Afghanistan (PDPA), was killed outside his home. I don't know how. His death led to the overthrow of the republic, and to the advent of a socialist regime in Afghanistan.

♠ December 23, 1978 - Phnom Penh, Cambodia ♠ Malcolm Caldwell, a British lecturer in southeast Asian studies and a Marxist writer who was a vocal supporter of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge, was killed for no apparent reason other than being a douche. This one's interesting because there was a witness: About 11:00 p.m. that night [Elizabeth] Becker was awakened by the sound of gunfire. She stepped out of her bedroom and saw a heavily armed Cambodian man who pointed a pistol at her. (Sounds familiar right??) She ran back into her room and heard people moving and more gunshots. An hour later a Cambodian came to her bedroom door and told her that Caldwell was dead. . . He had been shot in the chest and the body of a Cambodian man was also in the room, possibly the same man who had pointed the pistol at Becker. Three days later, Vietnam invaded Cambodia and ended Khmer Rouge.

In comics canon, the Winter Soldier goes rogue some time in the 70's - I think, I cannot find it - on a job in NYC after seeing his little sister Rebecca on the street. Hydra tracks him down and pets him on the head and takes him back because he doesn't know why he bolted. After it becomes obvious that he's having issues, he shadows the head of the program (Lukin, the dude from Civil War) for two years as his personal bodyguard, then is put back into cryo. It isn't until after this stretch that the mind wipes start, because his behavior is degrading more and more and he becomes harder to handle. There is a ten year stretch here in the late 70′s to mid 80′s, basically, that this could have gone down.

♠ August 17, 1988 - Bahawalpur, Pakistan ♠ President Muhammad Zia-ul-Haq of Pakistan dies in a plane crash, along with 31 others, including a shitload of important politicians I don't want to bother listing. Witnesses report the plane flying erratically, then nosediving and exploding on impact. An investigation concluded it was a 'criminal act of sabotage'. Zia-ul-Haq's most enduring legacy was his indirect involvement and military strategies against the USSR's war in Afghanistan.

♠ November 24, 1989 - Peshawar, Pakistan ♠ Abdullah Azzam, a Palestinian Islamist leader - who Wikipedia claims is also known as the Father of Global Jihad - was killed with his two adult sons by a car bomb. In a narrow street across from a gas station, a bomb that had a 50-metre detonation cord led to the sewerage system where the assailant presumably waited. He literally laid in the sewers waiting, that's hardcore. Anyway, Azzam both controlled the jihadi forces who had fought against the USSR in Afghanistan and opposed the extension of the Islamist war to targets in the non-Islamic world. His protégé was a man named Osama bin Laden.

♠ December 16, 1991 - Upstate New York like a goddamn hipster ♠ Yeah, Mission Report and stuff. Howard and Maria Stark are murrrrrderrrrred in a car. (I have actual real meta that circles around this but that’s for a different bout of insomnia I guess).

♠ December 25, 1991 - Siberia, probably, jesus is anyone still reading this? ♠ The USSR is dissolved. It's likely they moved all their Hydra assets into Pierce's control shortly after this, meaning the Soldier became 'the Asset' and moved to DC like a politician. The scenes from Civil War with the other Soldiers going all Mutiny on the Bounty had to have happened somewhere in December of 1991.

♠ 6 April 1994 - Kigali, Rwanda ♠ The plane carrying Rwanda’s and Burundi’s presidents, Juvenal Habyarimana and Cyprien Ntaryamira, is shot down as it prepares to land, precipitating the Rwandan Genocide and the First Congo War. That's one hell of a precision strike, if you want chaos.

♠ November 11, 2004 - Gaza Strip, probably? ♠ Yasser Arafat dies in a Paris, France hospital, for reasons that are still not clear but apparently began to develop on October 25, 2004. Many believe he was poisoned by polonium laced into his clothing and belongings, which is why this one is sort of hard to place for a Winter Soldier location. I'm assuming he would have at least accessed the home in Gaza City, Palestine?

♠ July 30, 2005 - a mountain range in southern Sudan near New Kush ♠ John Garang, leader of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army (SPLA) and Sudan’s new vice-president, dies in a helicopter crash after the January 2005 peace agreement, which leads to rioting in Khartoum.

♠ 2009 - Odessa, Ukraine ♠ The Winter Soldier visits Odessa so he can shoot Natasha Romanov in her bikini line, plus an engineer dude or something I'm too lazy to go looking for the story tbh, we've all seen the movie.

♠ May 4, 2012 - just outside nuke range of Manhattan, New York ♠ The Battle of New York. If I was Hydra, I'd have my greatest weapon poised and ready to go kick some alien ass if all else failed, kwim, but not so close as to be exploded. You can't rule the world if someone else has already conquered that shit.

♠ within a week of Monday, Memorial Day, May 26, 2014  - Washington, DC ♠ (brilliant date analysis from Katie_P on AO3!) Nick Fury is almost killed, twice. It's apparent that the Asset's home has moved from Siberia in the 90's to a bank vault in DC at some point in the last . . . IDK, 23 years. . We all saw the chase in the street, but the Soldier takes his shot through one of Steve's walls using thermal imaging on his scope, then plays ultimate frisbee with Captain America for a minute before saying fuck it and going back to the bank where they keep him.

Then some moron doesn't read his instruction manuals thoroughly and sends Captain America's dead best friend to kill him without anticipating the inevitable joint Cap/Asset system error.

Anyway. The Soldier saves Steve's dumb ass one more time, then bolts and heads back to the bank to utterly fuck that shit up, but he doesn't kill anyone there. He specifically says he has enough blood on his hands, and lets them all live. Then he ghosts and doesn't resurface until he smells plums two years later. As settled as he was in Romania, he probably spent at least half a year of those two years there.

That's all I got.

Okay Jesus, so that was a lot of work. Comics mentions that I didn't include? Steve and Bucky knew Wolverine during WW2. They fought together several times. And later, the Winter Soldier helps Wolverine escape from the Weapons X Facility, which Wolverine doesn't find out until much later. I don't know when that is and . . . God help me, I kind of don't care at this point? Also, one panel has Bucky claiming that he killed Hitler. If so, good.

[bolbiistroganovsky]

holocaust tw

I just learned that Hitler had a secret plan to exterminate Slavic people in Europe and that 2.8 million soviet POWs died in nazi captivity in only 8 months. Fuckin crazy