hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire

Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire

Welcome to the latest, greatest, scummiest iteration of

hydratrashmeme. Come on in and please check your sense of shame at the door.

Rules in brief: Don't be a jerk except to fictional characters. Warn if you want, but read at your own risk, because this is emphatically not a safe space. Link your fills on the fill post. Unprompted fills: make a prompt or a header comment and reply to it with the full text. Continuations of fills from earlier rounds: just make sure you link in both places.

What's on-topic: Filthy and perverted twists on all the quality whump served up by Cap: Winter Soldier. Noncon, aftermath, uncomfortably sexualized violence, mind control, inappropriate uses of Bucky Barnes' metal arm, bad guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves.
What's off-topic: a/b/o, D/s-verse, soulbonds, mundane AUs, shippy/romanticized noncon, MCU heroes repurposed into OOC or edgydark delivery vehicles for your fave's suffering. If you've got a prompt for one of those burning a hole in your brain, head on over to

mcu_trash.

[Rules in full] [Round 1] [Round 2] [Round 3] [Round 4] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive] [Round 5 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

I’m going to *try* because Bucky revictimization is the kink I didn’t know I had until just recently haha, I’m just worried my ideas won’t match up well enough to the prompt. But we’ll see!

Don't worry abt matching the prompt word for word, I'm sure whatever you write is gonna be great :^))

(OP) A!A, I seriously love you for this, it's already everything I could have asked for and more, and I cannot wait for the last part <3

I’m so glad you’re still enjoying it OP! Last part coming very soon I promise <3

At first, no one in HYDRA even thinks to touch the Asset.

Then, the Asset begins actively offering sexual favors on the down low to one or two HYDRA goons - in exchange for a necessity like food/water, in lieu of punishment, or for some other reason entirely, writer's choice. The key thing is that it's the Asset's idea in the first place. He remembers sex and flirting - remembers he's good looking/a good lover - or even remembers trading sex before - and comes to the conclusion that sex is an effective way to get what he needs/wants. He knows he has very little else to bargain with.

It's not so bad at first - the HYDRA goon(s) are more surprised/amused than anything else, they aren't too rough with him, and they hold up their end of the bargain.

Then word gets out, maybe one guy gets a buddy involved. More and more baddies start demanding sex from the Asset, and he can't exactly say no. Things escalate until the abuse is out in the open, commonplace, and everyone wants a go.

And this is when/how the trash parties start. Cue all the awful victim-blaming that the Asset brought this on himself, the constant reminders that he "asked for" this, etc.

(I'd prefer more of a person!Asset here who is clever and strategic, despite being brainwashed - he's fully aware of how events are playing out, not blank/confused.)

+ Bonus for all the awful aftermath shame and self loathing from Bucky, reluctance to tell his partner/difficulties being intimate, internalized victim blaming etc (OR being promiscuous and continuing the cycle because he thinks that's all he's good for)

Ooh, yes please.

Love this!!

The asset was trained and treated like a dog, but using good dog training techniques, not unnecessarily cruel ones.

Good trainers use treats or rewards to get their dogs to like putting their muzzles on. They ignore bad behavior and reward the behavior they want with food and touch and approval. They train things like bite inhibition (so the asset knows it must have a soft mouth, especially when certain things are put into it) and comfort with being handled and examined by groomers and vets. When out on walks (or missions) they train the dog to keep its attention on them, and to obey commands even from a distance. They get their dogs to enjoy being put into cages by providing food and entertainment, but make sure to give them all the exercise they need. They use toys cleverly and use the dog's natural instincts (to dig, bark, sniff, explore, etc) in their favour so that training is fun for it. They give clear, firm commands and are generous and genuine with "good boy!" and tummy rubs when obeyed.

Give me the Winter Soldier's earliest days of training with an excellent, highly skilled, gently authoritative, but still deeply evil Hydra handler.

(Had to split it up again because of character limits, but I'll post both parts tonight/this morning ~~and then go apologize to God~~)

When the metal first pricks the skin of at the bottom of the soldier's chest, it’s so quick and sharp it barely even hurts.

The soldier looks down, watching himself as the long red thread appears along his abdomen. It isn’t so bad. It stings, feels exposed and wrong when the blood wells out and hits the air, but it’s not bad. He has had worse—even some of the things the others had done to him earlier had hurt worse. It's an odd thing to do, as well, but he is certain that many others have done odd things when they are using him, even if the soldier doesn’t remember exactly what the things were.

He bites his lip, breathing steady, and just watches as the knife detaches, as Rumlow's hand moves up. Another long, slow downward stroke, and the soldier holds still. The other man’s hands are still on his wrists, tight, and the soldier feels sweat against the skin on his human wrist. The soldier could pull away, but he doesn’t. He could go away in his head already, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t need to. It’s not that bad. There’s quite a lot of blood on his abdomen already, and the soldier has always hated the way blood feels on him and he hates it now, warm and slimy and the smell strong in the air. But it is okay.

Rumlow moves the knife again, and the man behind him makes a disapproving noise.

“Just a little more,” Rumlow says in front of them, and he's looking down but the soldier can see that half of his mouth is still turned upwards in a smile. He moves his free hand down over the soldier’s abdomen, scoops up some of the blood where it has started to pool in the hollow at the top of the soldier's thigh. His hand shifts, his thumb running briefly over the soldier's cock, which is lying limp and completely uninterested, but Rumlow doesn't seem to mind that. His thumb leaves behind a little smear of wet red. The soldier watches.

Rumlow sets the knife down carefully close to where the other man's booted foot is still resting on the bedspread, and then undoes his own pants, pulling himself out. He is already hard, and out of habit the soldier moves his eyes away, over to a blank patch of bedspread. In the corner of his vision, Rumlow picks up the knife again, and then he uses his other hand, the hand still full of the soldier's blood, to—

Blood is not a good way to get your dick slicked up, the soldier knows this from experience. It will dry too quickly, and the friction will hurt both of them, especially since his friend is quite big. But Rumlow shows no immediate signs of wanting to penetrate him: he just runs his hand over himself until his dick is fully coated in shiny red, and then begins to stroke himself. The wet sound of his palm moving reminds the soldier of the sound in his dreams when he stabs someone, although maybe his brain is just reminded of that because of the smell of blood.

“That’s just sick, man,” the man behind the soldier says. "Seriously, Brock, why don't you just fuck him like a normal person?”

Rumlow grins at the other man. He does not seem ashamed to be touching himself like this in front of his friend. He doesn't seem to even care that his friend is speaking to him like this. “Because sometimes it's good to branch out."

“If you have a fuckin' death wish."

“I told you," he says, already sounding a bit breathless. “He's always good."

The man makes an unimpressed noise. “When I got blood all over your carpet, did you jerk off to that to?"

He just laughs, and looks back down at the soldier. His hand is still moving fast on himself. His grip is making the muscles in his forearm stand out. “Don’t listen to him, baby, you’re doing so good.”

The soldier is doing good. Rumlow is working himself like some of the others had done earlier when they were preparing to use his mouth, but he still doesn’t move toward the soldier like that, or try to reposition him. Instead, he lifts the blade in his other hand again and—

This one is deeper, going through the full thickness of the soldier's skin, but it’s still okay. He is still able to stay here. Concentrating despite pain isn’t as easy as it is on a mission, where the soldier always has something else concrete to focus on no matter how much he is hurt, where he always has that wonderful clarity of purpose that his friend Pierce has often praised. But it’s still okay, and the soldier does very well until Rumlow, his other hand still moving on himself, rests the hand gripping the knife close to one of the lines of deep blood on the soldier's stomach, and pushes the tip of his thumb into the wound.

The soldier jerks back in surprise, his back slamming against the man behind him, and the man's hands clamp down on the soldier's wrists and a second later there’s a wet snapping sound as a blow lands across his face.

He had seen the blow coming, of course, and had let it happen, but it still takes a moment for it to sink in what really has happened, even with the new heat and wetness blooming on the soldier's face: Rumlow had hit him with the knife still in his hand, opening a deep slice in his cheek.

The pain is deep, sharper and hotter than any of the other times his friend has hit him. He blinks, gasping, and then Rumlow has the soldier's hair wrapped around the fist of his other hand, wrenching his head to one side. The knife is close to his face again.

“This could be so much worse,” Rumlow says, and his voice is the way it always is when he’s angry: loud but very calm, like he could be smiling but isn't. Something is very alive in those dark eyes, glinting like blood. The soldier feels cold. “Do you understand?”

“I’m sorry,” the soldier says. Blood is dripping into his mouth; the angle Rumlow's holding his face at is causing the liquid to flow down his face, across his nose and his other cheek. It gets onto his lips and his tongue as he speaks. “I’m sorry I moved, sir, I’m sorry—”

“Shut up,” Rumlow snaps, and the soldier feels like he will vomit. The blood is dripping off his chin, now; his nose is full of the sharp violent smell of it. He will be still, he will hold still, but what if he has already—he has been bad, and maybe Rumlow won’t even punish him, maybe he will just go away—

Rumlow lets go of his hair. He smiles again, just a little, but it's enough to make the soldier want to cry with relief. He pats the soldier's cheek, smearing more blood. "No harm done, yeah?"

The soldier doesn't answer, although it takes all of his effort not to start babbling with gratitude. Rumlow doesn't want to hear his excuses; he wants him to focus. He sniffs, bites his lip to keep quiet.

The man behind him makes another complaining sound, shifting against the soldier's back. “Your girlfriend almost crushed my balls just now.”

“Not getting much use anyway, are they,” Rumlow says, but then he takes the soldier by either side of his hips and pulls him forward, managing to hold the blade in a way that he avoids cutting him when he does it. The soldier allows himself to be moved: once he is repositioned, he's only half sitting up against the man behind him, his upper back pressed lower now against the man’s broad chest. The other man, catching on to the new position, switches his grip so he has his arms hooked under the soldier’s armpits.

“Better?” Rumlow asks.

“Not really," the man says, but Rumlow doesn’t seem angry. He’s still between the soldier’s legs, but the soldier is closer to lying down now, spread out exposed in front of him like a canvas.

Rumlow flicks the knife over in his hand, and raises it slightly, and then drags it down the soldier’s front like he’s slicing open the side of a tent.

The soldier makes a loud noise through his teeth. He can’t move. He needs to be still: he has already messed up and made Rumlow mad; but it's so hard when there is nothing else to focus on. He can't help but draw back just slightly, hips pressing down into the mattress and shoulders pushing back against the man behind him, and he wants to shake with terror that Rumlow will notice that he moved and punish him again or just—

He doesn’t. Rumlow's free hand has gone back to his own dick, and the fast slick noises that the movements makes against his skin are at least proof that he is still enjoying this, but it’s no help, the soldier is hot and wet and stinking of metal and then Rumlow drives the knife down in a line right next to the one he had just made, and the soldier won’t move, he won’t move, even when Rumlow sets the knife down again on the bed and now the soldier knows exactly what's coming, his body remembers...

Two fingers, slipping on wet skin and digging in under the lip of the newest wound down to the second knuckle, probing and then twisting, and the back of the soldier’s head is banging against the other man’s collarbone, again and again.

Rumlow takes his fingers out slowly, sucks blood off them. He looks up at the soldier, and the air between them seems to blur, the room greying out. There’s a high, weak sound coming from somewhere, like someone crying, like another sound from one of the soldier's nightmares.

Rumlow is still looking at him, face only half-visible through the blur in the room, and now he pushes those two fingers halfway back in. The nightmare sound gets louder.

“The noises you make,” Rumlow says, sometime after that, when there is a moment of quiet, when the soldier is trying to suck in a breath through air that seems too thick. The soldier can see him better for now: there's blood on his teeth. “And that mouth," he says. "Fuck.”

The soldier tries to answer. He is still here. He hasn't gone away. But he can't form words, as if the blood has made his mouth and tongue too slippery. He tries, and then the other man is saying something behind him. Perhaps this isn't the first thing he has said.

“Nah," Rumlow says in response. "It's not too much for you. Is it, baby?”

It is too much.

The soldier is too hot; his skin is wet even in the places he's not covered in red, sweat covering all the parts of him that are not made of metal. His insides cramp with the heat. His chest is moving too fast under where the other man has slung a forearm across it to keep him steady. His face is dripping, his eyes and nose and mouth leaking fluid just like his gouged-open cheek as the breath slides fast in and out of his lungs. The man's grip on his chest is not tight, but it feels like a vise. He won’t move, and he can’t speak.

Rumlow's eyes move to the man behind him, then back to the soldier. “You gonna keep being good for me?” he prompts.

The soldier will do anything for him. He cannot even begin to make up for all the good things his friend has done for him, all that he has done just tonight, has no other way to express everything the soldier feels for him. The soldier will let him stick anything in there, into the openings he's made on him. The soldier knows, suddenly, very certainly, that Rumlow has stuck other things into him like this before, things that have hurt the soldier even worse. He knows that this is why the other man is here on the bed with them tonight. He doesn't care.

He peels his head up from the man's wet shirt behind it, jerks it forward in a weak nod. It hurts just to do that, makes nausea rise in his throat, makes his whole body want to shudder and break down from the heat and the blood, but still the soldier makes an effort to move again, shifting his heavy body very slightly in front of Rumlow, toward him, and spreading his legs wider.

Rumlow sees this, and he exhales. It's a good sound.

“Brave boy,” he says, and he leans in and kisses the soldier on the mouth. Still leaning close, he shifts his hand down, two fingertips brushing down along the soldier's slippery broken skin, stopping next to one overheated spot where the blood is welling out the most. His breath is on the soldier's face. The soldier doesn't move; the soldier is still here.

In one sharp movement, Rumlow pushes his fingers all the way in.

Things go dark, and there is a lot of noise. The soldier holds still. He holds still for a very long time, until after the nightmare sounds have finally faded away to nothing, and then somewhere the soldier feels the splash of new heat over the skin of his belly, the liquid thicker than blood.

It hadn't been a nightmare, because the blood is coming from the soldier this time instead of somebody else.

“There,” Rumlow is saying from above him somewhere. His hand is on the soldier's stomach, rubbing little circles on the opened skin. “Get it all in there.”

“That’s just fucking disgusting,” says the other man. He is still behind the soldier.

The soldier doesn’t say anything. His teeth are chattering, and if he speaks they will know. They must know anyway; his whole body is shaking as well, the movement obvious next to the steadiness of Rumlow's hands and the stillness of the man sitting behind him. The soldier tries and fails to clench his teeth hard enough to stop the chattering. At some point, Rumlow stops touching him; at some point after that, the man behind him pulls away, lays the soldier down on his back on the bed.

Alone, the soldier turns on his side and curls in on himself as much as he can, even though Rumlow had not told him that he could move. But nobody says anything, and so the soldier allows himself to move a little more, pressing his human hand against the wetness on his stomach and touching, tentatively.

Nothing is outside of him there that is not supposed to be outside of him, but there is a lot of blood.

The other two men are talking off to one side, their voices hardly penetrating over the sound of his own teeth.

“—relax...—heal up right away—”

“—don’t give a shit. That shit was fucking nightmare fodder. There’s not enough whiskey in the world to—”

“—have already forgotten by the time we clock in on—”

The soldier keeps touching his stomach, gently, so gently, with the hand that isn't a weapon. Everything is slippery, and then there's the place closer to the hip on one side where it's so split open, the skin around it hot and inflamed-tender under his fingers. He thinks, suddenly, of other people touching his arm like that, of fingers going into him like that, of blood and bright light and fresh wounds around the metal, of—

The soldier frowns. No. He will think of something else. Rumlow had not been angry when the soldier moved just now, so the soldier probably doesn’t have to concentrate and stay here anymore, either. He can go away now, he can think of—

Something. He tries to think of something. He thinks about when he had been warm in the shower, with Rumlow touching him so gently. Nice. So many people had been nice to the soldier. He has done bad things, he has hurt people much worse than he is hurting now. And he is still allowed to go away and think of nice things, and he can—

But the thoughts slip away out of his head, like the blood and sweat on his skin have somehow made the memories slippery as well, and instead the soldier's mind goes back to the animals from before, the animals he'd kept thinking of, the ones the Russian scientists had used. His hand tightens against his stomach, and he feels sick again, nauseous with a heavy feeling that seems to go through every part of him, his body and his brain as well. For the first time he can ever remember, he thinks:

Those animals hadn’t done anything.

He has done terrible things, but those animals hadn't.

Everything in him goes still. It even feels like he stops shivering.

The soldier feels colder, now, colder all over, but also like he is close to something. Like he is about to step out from inside an overheated stuffy room, into the cool air outside, where—

—where?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he is thinking of, what old memories he's almost touching. But he is close, his brain is so close to something. He isn’t—the soldier isn’t—those animals—HYDRA has kept him like one of those—

But the thought that will come after this is precipitous, dangerous, like a fall into a howling void.

He closes his eyes against it. He can’t finish that thought. He can't take that step outside, wherever that outside is: if he goes outside he will be alone out there, and where he is now he is in awful pain, but he is not alone.

He does good work for HYDRA. They take care of him. They have given him so many things.

The soldier stays on his side, his eyes squeezed close and his head so carefully blank, and eventually he feels a hand that brushes against his human shoulder.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” his friend's voice says, and the soldier lets himself be pushed gently back onto his back. His friend is holding what looks like a small white towel, damp with warm water, and he drags it down over the soldier's stomach. Despite the dampness, the fabric is still rough enough to pull at the broken skin painfully. But the shallower cuts there are already healing, and it's not that bad.

The soldier rests his head back on the bedspread, licks his dry lips. His teeth aren't chattering anymore, and the blood and other liquids have mostly dried on his face. He wants to stay something, but when he moves his eyes to scan the rest of the room, he sees that the larger man is there again as well, standing by the doorway. He is holding the bottle they had been pouring drinks out of earlier. He isn't holding a glass now. The soldier turns his head away from him, and the man says something.

Rumlow stops what he's doing, looks up at the man. “Soldier,” he says. “Our buddy here thinks that you might've had a problem with that nice bit of fun we just had. You wanna let him know what you think?”

The soldier looks back at the man, then at Rumlow. He tries to work up some saliva in his mouth. His throat is raw, even worse than it had been earlier after the other men had used it, but he still speaks after he turns his head back to face the man.

“I liked it,” he says. His voice comes out quiet, broken, but he is sure they can both hear.

Nobody answers, and the soldier flicks his eyes back down to Rumlow. The towel in his friend's hands is almost completely red now, and he is no longer touching the soldier with it. He doesn’t look impressed at the soldier's answer, and maybe he will get mad and get up and go away again, and the stuff that was in the soldier's head will come back and—

The soldier swallows, licks his lips again, forces a louder sound out of his throat. “I liked it. I liked it.”

Finally, the man responds. “Sure you did, kid,” he says, and turns his face away, like he’s disgusted. He lifts the bottle, and takes a drink.

“See?” Rumlow says, even though the other man doesn’t even seem to be listening anymore, and then turns his attention back to the soldier, reaching down to pat his cheek. “Let me go rinse this off, and then we’ll bandage you up all nice.”

The soldier nods up at him, and Rumlow disappears into the bathroom. The soldier closes his eyes. The man hasn't moved from the doorway, but the soldier will ignore him.

“Soldier," a voice says, closer, and even if it hadn't already been obvious who the voice belonged to, he could hear the movement of the liquid in the bottle as the man moves.

The soldier opens his eyes, doesn't bother to keep the annoyance off his face.

The man steps closer to the bed again, close enough now that the soldier can see his neck move as he swallows. “I’m going to be in the living room all night, all right?" he says. "I’m gonna sleep on the couch. If anything happens, if the commander wants to go another round, or do the weirder shit he did last time, or like—even if he doesn’t, and you just wanna—” He stops to brush his hand over his mouth. “I’m right there on the couch.”

The soldier glares up at him. So he had been right before. The man is looking for a chance to get them alone together. He wants to get the soldier away from Rumlow, go behind Rumlow's back, right after he'd been so rude to Rumlow for hours. Maybe he's not even really angry about what the soldier did to the bathroom. Maybe he's just jealous.

Whatever it is, the soldier is too tired now to get really angry, so he just narrows his eyes at the man, then looks away from him without answering.

The man sighs, obviously realizing his plan isn't going to work. There's another soft swish of liquid, and then the soldier hears his steps as he leaves the room.

But the soldier's friend is back very soon after that.

He lets himself drift again, like he had in the shower before when it had all been so nice, although this time he can feel a constant sting as his friend wipes up the rest of the blood, tapes up some of the deeper cuts. It doesn't matter. Rumlow brings the soldier water; he strokes the soldier's hair back as he drinks it. He helps him under the covers when he's done: he doesn't seem to mind that the soldier is still leaking blood, that he's going to get it everywhere and mess up the white bedsheets. He climbs in as well and pulls the bedspread over them both, and then turns off the lamp. Just before the light disappears, the soldier sees that he has laid the knife out next to the lamp on the nightstand. The blade is has been cleaned, but it's not back in its sheath.

Rumlow shifts closer then, his lips moving over the closing cut on the soldier's cheek, sucking at it gently. The soldier makes a noise in his throat that makes Rumlow laugh: he is so close against him that the soldier can feel the laugh in his own chest. He shivers. But Rumlow's skin is very warm, and the bedcovers are soft around them, and Rumlow's mouth is gentle when he moves it to press against the side of the soldier's neck.

Rumlow smells like soap, the same nice way he had smelled when they came out of the shower, and the soldier can hardly taste the blood now. He relaxes, slowly, and soon enough his breathing doesn't feel too fast anymore, and the sickness lingering in his throat fades to almost nothing. He feels good. He is okay. He is tired, and he hurts still, but his friend is here, and it is okay.

His friend reaches his hand down between their bodies, brushes the edge of one bandaged wound with the tip of his thumb. “You did good tonight,” he says, his voice low and close as his lips touch the edge of the soldier's ear. "You always do so, so good."

The soldier wonders if he has ever loved anyone so much.

I LIKE THIS

Disturbing, and i"m here for it!

Oh my, please?

Oooh, rewards as in "good boy!", belly rubs and... fondling the assets cock?

Yes! All the fondling everywhere pretty please. Puppies have to get used to humans in their space and handling all their bits (paws, ears, tail, butt, etc) so they’re calm during checkups etc.

Also creepy in this context is how natural doggy instincts are redirected into rewards by trainers, so they get expressed only when and how the owner wants. Like the instinct to chase becomes the game of fetch, instinct to gnaw becomes directed only at specific permitted chew toys, etc. So maybe there are “escape games” or something that channel any desire for freedom into harmless fun? And then it’s calmly back into your comfy cage and your special bed after that.

Wow.
This rape scene was very different, very disturbing, even though it had nothing in the way of anatomical impossibility: the fact that Rumlow was getting off on the soldier's trust and self-discipline and pain, the fact that he'd planned it out so thoroughly.
Rollins' (?) ineffectual attempts to rein Rumlow in are unfortunately plausible. And the soldier's rejection of Rollins' offer of protection, his persistent bond with Rumlow, was heartbreaking.
I loved the part when the soldier almost questioned the idea that he deserved what was happening to him, because he knew HYDRA abused animals, too. The part where he shied away from the idea because if he didn't deserve it then Rumlow was not his friend, he had no friends, and he was absolutely alone.

This was post 666. And it lived up to it.
May I add, channeling his sex drive into good boy reward breedings (either him with a female or males fucking him) or sperm milkings for artificial insemination. He legitimately thinks he and these other prisoners or widows or whatever, are subhumans. That they are the loyal humanoid guard dogs of HYDRA.

This is excellent! Such horror and heartbreak.

(OP)
Oh, I somehow missed this update!

This continues to be amazing! The casual racism makes me want to crawl under my blankets, and I love that they try to rattle Sam by doubting his friendship with Steve. And the last line, shit. I love this fill so much.

Yay for a possible part 2!!
There's nothing in particular other than Steve's angst at himself. I'd be happy with anywhere you take this.

Why is Jack even friends with Rumlow? Seriously.
I feel so sorry for the Soldier. And that last sentence, somehow it makes the whole thing even more disturbing than it already is. Love it!

(AA)

I assume he didn't know quite how awful Rumlow's proclivities were until this, like he had only heard it talked about and had never actually been forced to watch/participate.

Also, he's not exactly a great guy either! He happily ignored all the earlier rapes and went along with everything until he found it personally disgusting, and after that he like, barely did the bare minimum? He is slightly less garbage than Rumlow but he is still garbage.

Up and complete on AO3 now:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14924147/chapters/34572902

(AA)

Thank you so much for this comment! I didn’t have a beta reader so I was a bit nervous that some of what I intended to show would wind up gibberish that only made sense in my head and I’m glad that it didn’t.

(OP) AHHH I haven't been able to get this story out of my head all day!!! This last scene was so visceral and difficult and so, so good; you built up to it beautifully. Others have already commented on it, but the exploitation of Bucky's loyalty and trust is just so heartbreaking, as is his mindset/realization that he would rather be in pain and "cared for" than alone. His voice was really well fleshed out here, I appreciated his depth/clarity of thought instead of just being blank or childlike. As backwards as his logic may be, it's very clear why he thinks the way he does, why he's reached the conclusions he's reached, why and how exactly the brainwashing/gaslighting has worked. I'm also so haunted by all the little references to other iterations of abuse peppered in - friend Pierce, previous experiences with blood as lube, "the weirder shit (Rumlow) did last time", etc. And the knife not being put away yet! I am emotionally compromised in the best/worst possible way. I could sit here and list all my favorite lines from this but it would just be, like, the whole thing. Thank you so so much for this magnificent trash!!!!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 27 of 68

Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire

Re: No escape from the past

Re: No escape from the past

Re: FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting (5/6)

Re: FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting (5/6)

WS sexual favors/victim blaming

Re: WS sexual favors/victim blaming

Re: WS sexual favors/victim blaming

Hydra used GOOD dog training techniques

FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting (6a/6)

FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting (6b/6)

Re: Steve and Bucky have warped views of "healthy" gay couples

Re: Bucky gets castrated by Pierce after another fruitless escape attempt

Re: Hydra used GOOD dog training techniques

Re: Hydra used GOOD dog training techniques

Re: Hydra used GOOD dog training techniques

Re: FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting (6b/6)

Re: Hydra used GOOD dog training techniques

Re: FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting (6b/6)

Re: Fill: untitled Sam trashing (3/?)

Re: Minifill: Unclench

Re: FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting (6b/6)

Re: FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting (6b/6)

Re: "not that bad" gaslighting

Re: FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting (6b/6)

Re: FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting (6b/6)