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)]

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P l e a s e!!!!

A/N: This is my first time writing torture, and I'm a little self-conscious. Please, let me know if you liked it!

WORMWOOD
Part one: WILSON

Winter Soldier pushed his gun between Maria Hill's trembling lips.

"Yeah, take it all in," Jack crooned mockingly. "We will play nice if you do."

She glared at him across the room. With her hair tousled and in her torn nightgown, it was less than impressive.

They had surprised her in her home while she was getting ready for bed. Tying her to a chair in her dining room had been a child's play; perhaps Jack didn't need the Soldier's help that night at all. Still, it felt good to have him around. Jack always worked better with someone by his side. Having control over someone else made keeping himself in check easier.

The Soldier slightly retracted the gun, and Maria's glare focused on him instead. The Soldier was equally unimpressed with it. He pushed the gun in again, the sight pulling on her lip and the metal clanking against her teeth.

Jack and Maria went way back, and he had gotten to know her quite well. He knew she was trying not to blush once she realized what that must have looked like, but it wasn't something she had any control over; she went red in her ears and high in her cheeks as the Soldier fucked her mouth with his gun.

"Yeah..." Jack said in a low voice. "Do you feel how hard it is? If you keep sucking on it real nice, it'll cum."

She glared at him again with pure hatred, but there was fear hiding behind it. The flush slowly faded, leaving her sweaty face unnaturally pale. Jack knew that feeling; knew what it was like to feel that weight, taste the metal on his tongue, and expect death. He waited for some sort of satisfaction upon seeing the same terror he once had felt mirrored on her face, but he had never been more hollow. He sighed.

"He won't stop until I tell him, you know," he said conversationally and, having finished drawing all the blinds in the room, sat down in a chair across from her. He rested his elbows on his thighs, leaning in. "He got an order and he always follows them. He knows bad things happen when he doesn't."

His eyes left Maria's pale face to scrutinize the Soldier's. They had lost the half-face mask somewhere even before the Battle at the Triskelion, and it still felt weird to watch his blank face as he tormented his targets. It was good it was blank though; any emotion was a sign of an impending malfunction. Jack wasn't expecting any yet; the Soldier had been treated in the Memory Suppressing Machine just the previous night, right before the Bank was plundered by what had remained of S.H.I.E.L.D. that moved the Machine somewhere else.

Satisfied with the Soldier's status, he looked back at Maria.

"He'll just keep fucking your face if you won't cooperate," he continued. "He'll do it for hours until he, well... can't hold it in anymore and shoots off."

When the Soldier pulled the gun out again, she managed to lean back for long enough to ask, "What do you want?" before the Soldier grabbed her hair with his metal hand and snapped her head back in place.

"Answers."

The gun clanked against her teeth in the silence that fell, and, finally, her chin trembling, Maria slightly nodded.

*

Wilson was surprisingly easy to find, and even easier to get to. Pretty dumb of the man to make himself so available. Didn't he know he had enemies?

Well, Jack thought to himself as he watched Wilson struggle against his desk in his small office at the VA, pinned down by the Winter Soldier, he did now.

He grabbed a lone chair standing against the wall and dragged it across the carpeted floor in front of the desk, bringing Wilson's attention to himself. He stopped struggling for a moment, his dark eyes tracking Jack's moves. Jack turned the chair around and sat astride it.

A few moments passed in silence as they just watched each other, calculating, both wondering what was going on in the other's head. Jack then lost interest and pulled a bundle of rope out of his jacket's pocket. He reached for Wilson's wrist.

"No," Wilson choked out, the Soldier's hand pressing down between his shoulder blades not letting him draw enough air into his lungs. The struggle started anew; Wilson's sweaty wrist slipped out of Jack's grasp as he pushed back against the Soldier, but he didn't budge.

"Asset," Jack said, and the Soldier grabbed Wilson's wrist with his metal hand. Wilson grunted as his arm was stretched painfully across the desk towards its front leg. Jack tied his wrist to the leg, and then the procedure repeated for the other one.

Wilson was panting when they were done, standing up on his toes to accommodate his arms, his ass up in the air. Excellent. Jack beckoned the Soldier over, and he picked something up from behind the desk before complying. He handed it to Jack, and Jack raised it for Wilson to see. Wilson frowned in confusion at the sight of his broken, mangled wing.

"I hear my friend here tore it out of your little jetpack," Jack said. "You could have died. Shame." He handed the wing back to the Soldier. "Maybe if you did, he wouldn't have been held up. Wouldn't be fighting for his life right now."

"What the--" Sweat gathered on Wilson's forehead as he struggled to understand who Jack was talking about. Jack could pinpoint the exact second he figured it out as his eyes widened in horrified understanding. "He survived?"

Jack scoffed. "I guess it doesn't matter to you if a so-called bad guy kicked the bucket because of you, does it?" He shook his head. "You good guys are full of shit."

"So what," Wilson spat, "you're here to kill me now?"

He was obviously addressing Jack, but his eyes kept nervously flicking to the Soldier. Jack contemplated his answer. He hadn't planned on telling Wilson anything apart from the reason why; he had wanted to surprise him, to keep him guessing. But now he wanted to tell Wilson exactly what he had in mind and see the look of horror on his face.

"There's one thing I want to do and see where it will take me," Jack admitted quietly, "so murder isn't exactly off the table." He glanced at the wing. "It's quite simple: I wanna shove this up your ass."

Wilson let out an aborted, nervous snort. Then, upon realizing Jack wasn't joking, his eyes widened. He looked from the wing to Jack in disbelief.

Jack wasn't ready for the wave of disappointment that hit him. The idea seemed to be too shocking for Wilson to get properly terrified. He swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth, stood up, and circled the desk, stopping in front of Wilson's ass. He reached around to undo his pants, and that must have been when Wilson fully realized that yes, that was happening.

"Wait, fuck--what?!" he choked out. "Are you--are you crazy?!"

He stopped talking when Jack pressed his finger to his delicate asshole. Jack figured he was simply rendered speechless.

"Looks tight," Jack said quietly, as if to himself. He then looked at the Soldier and gave him a slight nod.

The Soldier broke off one of the metal parts with ease, sending screws flying in the air; the carbon fiber tore like silk. He handed it to Jack. Seeing that, Wilson pulled at his bindings with a shout. Frowning, Jack hit him with the part of the wing across his ass, and Wilson let out another strangled yelp.

"I advise you to shut up," Jack said in a cruel voice, "because if anybody hears and decides to check on you? The moment they open the door, they're dead." Bracing his hands against the desk, he folded himself down over Wilson's back and, with his mouth close to his ear, lowering his voice, he added, "We're here only for you. So if anyone else gets hurt? It'll be entirely on you."

“Fuck you.”

"I'm a reasonable man, Wilson," Jack continued as if he didn’t hear the unimaginative comeback. "I can help you keep quiet. Do you want me to?"

Wilson was panting angrily against the desk, his sweaty back brushing Jack's front with every rise of his chest, and now Jack regretted not seeing his face. He could hear Wilson's teeth grit and the rope squeak as he tried to pull his wrists free again, but only hurt himself in the process.

"I used to be a sailor, you know," Jack added conversationally. "If I'm good at something, it's tying knots."

He leaned back, shifting his focus to the metal in his hand. It was thin, but long, not unlike a rod. Too long for forcing it all in to be possible. Not that it mattered. He looked up at Wilson's ass, grabbed one buttock, and pulled it to the side to inspect his hole again.

"Are you a virgin?" he asked in a professional tone, as if he was leading a job interview and asking about Wilson's qualifications. "You look like one. Don't worry, you're in good hands. I know how to make the first time memorable. I don't wanna brag, but my methods are known to make my partners scream, so you might wanna bite your tongue."

"Fine!" Wilson spat out the word like it was an insult. Quieter, much quieter, he added, "Gag me."

"Sorry?" Jack asked, unable to stop the nasty grin that began to split his lips. "Didn't catch that."

Wilson's body must have been shaking mainly from anger and discomfort, but Jack liked the thought it could also be fear. He couldn't wait for it to be pain, too.

"Gag me," Wilson repeated louder, his voice dripping with hatred.

Jack nodded at the Soldier. Without a second thought, he grabbed a couple of papers from Wilson's desk and crumpled them into a ball.

"You don't have to listen to him," Wilson said when the Soldier crouched in front of him. "You can beat him."

"Why would he?" Jack asked flatly as the Soldier forced the paper ball into Wilson's mouth. "We're friends."

The Soldier looked up at him, and the faintest hint of a smile showed up on his face for maybe half a second before it was overcome by that blank look again.

Or maybe it was Jack's imagination playing tricks on him. It didn't matter.

He adjusted his grip on the metal and, without any warning, he shoved it in the exposed hole before him.

Wilson screamed. God, how he screamed. Jack was suddenly grateful for the paper gag muffling it all; a crowd of concerned people showing up in Wilson's office would have surely put an end to the revenge mission he gave himself.

He forced only about seven inches in before he was met with a distinct resistance. Wilson must have been clenching pretty hard. His muscles were pulled taut, his arms and legs shaking. Blood pooled around the rod and dripped down straight into Jack's hand.

Jack waited. He waited until Wilson stopped screaming; until he started gasping for air around the mouthful of paper, sniffling. Until his legs gave out and he slumped against the desk.

Nothing.

Wasn't revenge supposed to make him feel good? Ever since he learned about what had happened to Brock, he had been fantasizing about hurting the people who caused it. He wanted to give them as much pain as Brock had been forced to endure under the burning rubble of the Trisk. But now, as he was doing exactly that, he felt nothing. Maybe he was a little grossed out.

Maybe it was because he was just starting out. There was plenty of the wing left to shove up Wilson's ass after all.

He pressed his finger against Wilson's stretched, torn hole, causing more blood to pour out and stain the classy cream carpet. Wilson clenched up instinctively with another pained sound escaping his throat. It didn't stop Jack from prodding his hole, and he was rewarded with a grunt that was verging on a growl. When he managed to force his finger in, Wilson screamed again.

"Who would have thought? There's place for another one," Jack sneered, pulling his finger out and throwing the Soldier a meaningful look.

The new metal part was shorter and thicker this time, and Jack thought forcing it in would really take effort. He didn't mind in the slightest. He pushed one end between Wilson's ass cheeks, forcing them apart.

It took longer this time around. Jack had to be slow and help himself with his fingers to stretch the bleeding hole even further. Wilson started his screaming anew before Jack even worked the tip in, and despite the paper in his mouth, it was becoming too loud.

"Shut him up, will ya?" Jack prompted the Soldier flatly.

The Soldier pushed the soaked in saliva ball farther into Wilson's throat, and he choked around it, thrashing against the desk, making the metal piece's tip slip out of his ass. Jack cursed under his breath. He tried to force it back in, but it seemed that small victory brought back Wilson's fight; he kept thrashing and kicking out and tugging his wrists. Jack stepped back with a deep sigh to avoid his heels that were aiming at his shins. He glared at the Soldier.

"What are you waiting for?"

The Soldier dropped his gaze as if in shame. He got up to his feet and closed Wilson's shoulders in a vice grip. Wilson still kept kicking out, but after a few more seconds, he gave up again. He let his body slump, coughing and wheezing around his gag. Jack reclaimed his place behind his ass.

"This is happening, Wilson," he said, forcing the wing piece back inside Wilson's hole. "Fight all you want, but if I were you, I'd invest that energy into keeping alive, because best case scenario? You end up in a diaper for the rest of your life."

When the piece was finally forced seven inches in beside the other, Wilson lost his voice. He wasn't even standing on his feet anymore, letting the desk support him. He was shaking and bleeding and suffocating.

"Now, maybe," Jack said, poking his ass cheek with another piece ripped out by the Soldier, "maybe you're feeling some of the pain and fear he had felt."

Of course, the two situations weren't at all similar, but the feeling of helplessness and impending doom stayed the same regardless of circumstances, of that Jack was sure. And yet, he still felt nothing.

Maybe he should have included fire in his revenge. Something to think about for the next one.

He sighed to himself. "Well, this ass isn't gonna fuck itself."

He prodded the profusely bleeding asshole with his finger again. It didn't even look like an asshole anymore, but something grotesque from the most hardcore porno. Jack poked it around until he found an opening at the very bottom.

He only began working the third piece in, when Wilson slumped further on the desk, and stilled. A sharp smell of urine reached Jack's nose. He looked down at the rapidly expanding dark stain on the carpet. Wilson pissed himself.

Jack looked at the Soldier with his eyebrows raised. "Did he just die on me?"

The Soldier pressed the fingers of his flesh hand to Wilson's neck. "Unconscious."

Jack pursed his lips. "Pathetic." Now, with Wilson's muscles lax, he had less trouble forcing the third piece in, but it didn't go further than three inches. "That wasn't fun at all." He dug a teaspoon out of his jacket's pocket. "Alright. One more thing."

Seconded! I’m not sure how I’ll like the blood aspect of it yet (funny how I can still discover new varieties of trash) but I’m sure I’ll love it since I’m 100% on board with the rest. I’m excited to read whatever my fellow trashies come up with.

OP here, holy fuck I thought this prompt was completely forgotten. Like really wasnt expecting a fill happening anytime soon. Now this. This is excellent. It's creepy and gross and I absolutely love how you write Jack not having much fun with what he's doing (is it cuz he's too worried about Brock or simply cuz he has Issues, big time. Maybe both. Can't wait to find out). Anyways I'm just gonna camp out here stoked af for more of this, dont mind me.

please please please I am in love with this

I'm so glad you're still around and enjoying this, OP (: Thank you!

OP here: I think I'd be okay with that! As long as it's a horrible chore that the Hydra agent really doesn't want to do I'm happy. :D

Hey, so I kicked a few bucks towards making

hydratrashmeme a paid account. Call it a present for the winter holiday of your choice, or a small consolation for the Tumblrpocalypse.

This means if you go to the main https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org page and find the search box in the sidebar, you can now search the full text of every comment ever posted here. Happy dumpster diving.

If you want to pay it forward, use it to dig up an old prompt that hits a bunch of your kinks and write a few hundred words of porn for it. Everyone gains! ~~...except Bucky and Steve, probably.~~

This is amazing! Thank you so much!

Wow, thank you! <3

Awesome! Thanks so much!

What a lovely gift! I will try to pay it forward when I'm in a writing sort of mood :D

(A!A) It took me a long time to get the next part to a satisfactory ending.

I've extended the chapter count on AO3 to 115, so this would be 112 now, but I'm going to keep going with letters here.

The anticipation was… difficult. Steve was sorely tempted to open his eyes, even if he'd kept them closed so long now the lids felt heavy. He shifted and tried to alleviate some of his increasingly uncomfortable tension. When Bucky returned, he wasn't trying to move quietly. His tread and the whisper of paper in Bucky’s hands helped Steve to focus.

"Huh," said Bucky. "Nod if you're okay or shake your head if you need me to let you down."

Steve nodded immediately. This level of discomfort was nothing really, but it was nice to know Bucky had noticed.

"It's been about an hour and twenty. Got any idea how weird it feels that you're letting me do this? I'da done myself an injury by now in your place."

Steve started to shake his head and then stopped, concerned that Bucky might thing he was asking to be freed.

“Okay then. Here goes." Bucky cleared his throat. Paper rustled. "Steve. I know I love you and you love me, but I also know you're scared about being together. Being together sexually. I want to be clear. The fact that I can and want to and do consent now, and I'm sure you want to too, in no way alters what happened in the past. Multiple people, including me, choose not to hold either of us responsible. But.”

There was a long pause filled only by the quiet crinkling of paper. But what, Buck? Because there was no way Bucky didn't have any reservations. Steve had had enough for both of them and no matter what he tried it still felt like they were on opposite ends of a see-saw. As Bucky's confidence rose, Steve retreated, and then as soon as Steve's confidence rose, Bucky retreated. There had to be a reason they couldn't get on the same page for more than few minutes.

Bucky cleared his throat and continued. "What happened between us under HYDRA was not consensual. I don't mean to upset you, but I wasn't the only one who couldn't freely consent. Our superiors had life and death power over us. They could do or make us do just about anything. We had no options other than compliance. You can tell yourself that you could'a refused or fought or left, but those weren't real choices you could'a made, Steve. You tried, didn't you? Compliance was the least bad choice."

That's what everyone kept telling him. Steve was still working on believing it. He might even have argued if he hadn't been holding his tongue for Bucky.

"Any idea how hard I worked to seduce you? You were my fucking official secondary mission, straight from the Secretary."

Steve inhaled sharply, mind racing. He hadn't known that. He might have expected it, but he hadn't known.

"Yeah, that's right. Compromise Captain Rogers. Half the time, I didn't even know how that could be possible until Rumlow introduced you. You were supposed to be fucking dead. No way were you in front of me, talking to me, touching me, looking at me like I might be the person I'd fantasized about one day getting to be. You looked at me like we were more than a story. I'm not a fucking Black Widow, Stevie. A honeytrap isn't in my goddamn skillset these days. Orders were orders, though, and I was supposed to make you want me so bad you'd get stupid. I didn't know how to do that, so I tried what I knew worked on me and took advantage when you were stupid anyway. I told you before. I drugged you to get you through that first time. I don't know why that first time is one of the clearest, but I was fucking proud of myself. I fucking dream about it now and it's not a damn nightmare until I wake up and think about what I did. I helped them rape you, rape us, and I'm sorry, but I did it."

That wasn't right. That couldn't be right. Putting it that way make it sound like Bucky had had a choice and there was no choice at all.

Isn't that what Bucky just told you? He pushed the thought away. It wasn't the same at all. There was no comparison.

Bucky waited, maybe to see if Steve would try to argue. When Steve stayed still and silent, there was a faint noise like Bucky had shifted position- nodded maybe. The paper rustled against skin and metal. Steve tried to picture it in his head. Was it a whole page, a half-sheet, lined or unlined? Handwritten? Typed and printed? He didn't smell printer ink, but there was no telling how long ago Bucky had finished-

Steve' desperate attempt to distract himself from the actual content of Bucky's words shattered as Bucky said, "I know it's a hell of a lot to ask, but can we try to forgive and move on? Try to stop actin' like guilt is an Olympic sport you gotta constantly train for? They don't get to take our future as well as our past. I. I." For a long moment, Bucky broke off speaking and shuffled his feet. "I want our future. I want us. As a fuckin' couple, fucking pun intended. Fuck HYDRA. They don't get to stop us from having our happy ending and the only happy ending I want is with you. HYDRA didn't tell me to want that. They only cared what I thought so far as it affected my behavior. They couldn't take you out, so they had to convince me they'd put you in. They had to work with what was already there and what was already there was you and me, pal."

God, I want that to be real. Please let it be real. His eyes burned and he struggled against the urge to blink.

"So, you gotta know, Steve. The reasons I would try to make you happy weren't the same as the reasons I would try for the Commander. I might have been afraid, but not of you, not like the others. There was always more to it. You didn't have to get to me. I was yours for the asking since sometime in the mid '30s. My biggest regret about us isn't what we did under orders. It's what we haven't done on our own."

Liquid ran down Steve's face, dripped off his chin onto his chest. He tried to tell himself it was only sweat, but he wasn't under that much physical strain and he still wasn't a good enough liar.

“You should know-" Bucky continued, but Steve couldn't take it anymore.

"Kiss me, Bucky," he gasped, then reflexibly recoiled. Fuck, I gave him an order and...

The thought trailed off as cool metal settled on his hip and warmed flesh and blood fingers skimmed over his shoulder to cup the back of his head to draw him forward into the press of lips. Steve throat emitted a breathless broken sound and he couldn't even be embarrassed at the fresh burst of tears now wetting both their faces.

"Shh, Stevie. I'm right here. I'm with you-"

"I know. I love you. I'm sorry."

"Steve." Bucky sounded desperate, disappointed.

"Yes," said Steve, as firmly as he could, which wasn't very at the moment. He turned his head, coughed to clear the lump in his throat, and said it again. "Yes, Bucky."

There was a long silence filled only by their mutual breathing.

"Okay, then," Bucky whispered thickly. "Look me in the eye and say it. I love you, I forgive you, I still want to be with you. Your turn. Let' hear it."

"I love you, I. I forgive you," Steve repeated, staring into those perfectly Bucky-blue eyes and only stumbling over the second vow because he still couldn't imagine blaming Bucky for any of it. "I still want to be with you."

"No more begging. Let's have sex," Bucky supplied brightly, both hands now on Steve's hips, thumbs making gentle circular motions.

Steve worked his jaw a moment. He let his eyes dart around the room. The paper, a single unlined handwritten sheet, brushed his toes where it had fallen between them. "No more begging. Let's have... Right now?"

Bucky smiled, and Steve realized that somehow the asset's small smile had become Bucky's too. He stepped back and then dropped gracefully to one knee to retrieve the paper.

"I'm not saying no," Steve tried to explain, but then Bucky was down on both knees looking up at him and the familiarity left the rest of his words caught in his throat.

"Well, that's good," said Bucky, "because I have the rest of this written out on goddamn paper. And it's different because I'm the one wearing clothes and you're naked and tied up, so you can tell whatever second thoughts you might be havin' to take a fuckin' hike while I go down on you."

A hard swallow and Steve nodded. "Okay. Please, I-"

The cuffs opened, Steve's knees buckled, and only the Winter Soldier's reflexes saved Steve's genitals from an unfortunate encounter with Bucky's left arm.

There was a heartbeat of shocked stillness as Steve found himself abruptly relocated to Bucky's lap.

"Shit. Guess I oughta said I added another safeword. No more begging."

"Please?" Steve repeated, incredulous. Though, as he thought about it, it only felt more and more appropriate.

They stared at each other until Bucky ducked his head, more happy than sheepish, and then both of them started to laugh, tension evaporated.

"My biggest regret about us isn't what we did under orders. It's what we haven't done on our own." Oh, I love this!

(A!A) Thank you!

I'M CRYING BECAUSE MY HEART IS FULL OF RAINBOWS

Also DAAAAAAAAAAAAAMN BUCKY at that reveal that HE was the one responsible for the sex pollen gas!!! Or that the Asset was, anyway. Brilliant!

omg Bucky is so sweet in this! his prepared speech adkjfadhal jdf

(A!A) In terms of responsibility, I think Bucky is doing more equivocizing(is that a word? I think that might not be a word) than he should, but I’m kind of stuck in Steve’s POV.

(A!A) hopefully worth the wait!

How would you feel about this written with Sharon Carter? and the aftermath of someone finding out negatively affecting her as well (though a focus on Rumlow, of course)? Love this prompt, and I really like the idea of writing it with Sharon and have a few ideas, but if not I could maybe use Maria Hill instead!

“I want,” Bucky says, steadily, carefully.

Steve holds his breath. Bucky making any kind of request is still rare, half a year after their happy ending and Bucky’s recovery. He can see the effort that goes into this, for Bucky, and he doesn’t want to make any kind of noise or gesture that might scare him off. But Bucky continues, undaunted, and his bravery stirs Steve’s heart. After everything, he is still fighting to get his life back. It’s a courage like none Steve’s ever known.

“I want you to punish me,” he concludes. He’s been staring at the ground, but he wrenches his eyes up to meet Steve’s in a nearly violent motion, as if forcing himself to confront the judgment that will lie there.

There is none, or at least Steve hopes there isn’t. Inside him is a war of fears and terrors, but he tries to school his face to a mask of calm. It’s not his job to judge Bucky’s needs in recovery, just to meet as many of them as he can. Which probably doesn’t include this one, but he can listen, at least. “What do you mean, Buck?”

“I was yours. Before?” His voice carries a hint of questioning, like it always does when he’s talking about Brooklyn, about anything before the war. One of a thousand reasons why Steve would never—but it’s time to listen to Bucky now. He’ll get his chance to talk soon enough.

“We were together, yeah.”

“No,” Bucky says, a little stronger now. Steve doesn’t remember the last time he’s heard Bucky say no to him. “I was yours. Belonged to you. Not—an asset. A…” He trails off, unable to find the right word for what they were to each other. And Steve freezes.

He hasn’t been keeping this from Bucky, not really. One of his central rules has been to never, never lie, no matter how uncomfortable the truth makes him. Bucky deserves better than to be manipulated again, even by someone who thinks he’s acting in Bucky’s best interests. On the other hand, it also probably wasn't good for Bucky's incredibly fragile and new recovery to have Steve try to bring up the fact that he used to like it when Steve tied him up and called him names, that in fact they'd both wanted that, gotten off on it. He figured that, with everything Bucky has been through, the last thing he needs is confusion about Steve dong some of the same physical acts to him that his rapists had, or trying to explain how it could have meant something so utterly different. But it seems like Bucky already remembers, and has been struggling to make sense of it on his own, and he deserves Steve’s honesty. “It was a game, Buck,” he says, but that isn’t quite true, and he regrets it at once. “It was… it was fun. We did it because we liked it, you—“ Steve goes searching for words that aren’t asked for it because he doesn’t want Bucky associating that with memories of fear and violence and painful sex, even if it’s the truth.

“There weren’t words, but I was yours,” Bucky says, like an echo out of the past. It wasn’t so long ago, on Steve’s personal timeline, that Bucky was whispering that to them across the inches that separated them in their Brooklyn bed. I dunno how else to say it, Stevie, but I’m yours.

“Yes,” Steve says, simply, fighting back the stupid, possessive urge to insist that Bucky is still his, only his, no matter what that might mean now.

“I was yours when they took me. Aren’t you mad?”

It’s so simple. There’s something childlike in Bucky’s voice, the simplicity of the words he uses to describe his own torture, his own rape. Steve has to be so careful here. “Never at you.”

“You should be,” Bucky says. “I didn’t stop them.”

They’ve had this conversation before. “Buck, nothing you ever say will convince me it was your fault what they did to you. And even if you wanted it, even if it had been consensual, you didn’t remember who I was. You had no obligation to—“

Bucky actually interrupts him, and Steve would be jumping for joy at the progress he’s making with self-advocacy were it not for what he’s advocating for. “I should have. It should have been the most important thing. I’m not explaining it right, my brain is still all… confused. But I want this. Please, Stevie.”

For the first time since Bucky’s return, Steve says, “No.”

Steve has to be so careful here. I love this! Bucky is so brave to ask. Can't wait to see where it goes!

The first part is now on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17002947/chapters/39971523#main

Part two: ROMANOFF

"Stop messing with it," Jack hissed at the Winter Soldier who kept adjusting his baseball cap. The Soldier pouted and dropped his arm.

Jack rolled his eyes as they rushed down the hospital corridor. More emotions had started showing on the Soldier's face; for now it was mostly pouts and one horrifying instance of a goofy grin. It was still too early for the Soldier to start causing problems, but leaving him on his own would have been unwise which was why they were visiting Brock together.

Damn those S.H.I.E.L.D. agents for stealing the Machine.

They reached the room guarded by an FBI agent, and Jack nodded at him.

"Hail Hydra," he murmured.

The FBI agent moved aside to let them in. There was only one bed in the room, surrounded by various buzzing machinery. Jack took off his own baseball cap and smoothed out his hair without even realizing what he was doing. He approached the bed and sat down in a hard plastic chair. The Soldier stayed at the wall. The agent eyed him for a second before closing the door. Jack paid them no mind, too preoccupied with the bandaged man lying in bed before him.

"I hear you're healing fast," he said softly. "That's good."

He knew Brock couldn't hear him, but he still in some way believed that it would help him heal somehow, in the same way talking to plants helped them grow. Maybe it was silly, but Jack didn't care.

Or maybe it was him who needed to talk to Brock.

"Brought you something for when you wake up." Jack bent down to dig out a broken arrow out of his bag. "A little souvenir. I'll tell you all about it; you'll die laughing."

There was a pair of handcuffs and Brock's dog tags lying on the nightstand. Where his ring went, Jack had no idea. He couldn't exactly go and ask. There was dead skin still stuck to the dog tags in places where the doctors had to cut it out of Brock's melted chest.

Jack put the arrow inside the nightstand drawer.

"Do you remember him?" he didn't look at the Soldier as he asked, but he could sense the change in the air, could feel the Soldier's attention on him.

"Yes," the Soldier croaked out eventually.

"He has third-degree burns over twenty percent of his body, including his face." Jack kept his voice emotionless. "Second-degree over twenty-five percent. That's a lot of pain, Soldier." He paused, waiting for some sort of reaction, but the Soldier kept quiet. "Do you realize it's your fault?"

A strained, "I do."

"Of course you do," Jack sneered, throwing him a sharp look. There was sadness glinting in his eyes--or maybe it was Jack's imagination again. "I punished you for it." Jack's gaze returned to Brock, to his beautiful face covered in dressings. He watched his chest rise and fall steadily for another moment. "Not that a few stun baton pokes were a proportionate punishment. Now, people we've been visiting? Theirs was. Do you understand?"

An even more strained, "I do."

"Means you have a debt to repay." Jack reclined in his chair with a sigh. "For letting you off so lightly."

It wasn't fair, but Jack needed his help to go after the Avengers, especially the ones stronger than him. Even Wilson and Barton could have caused him more problems if he had been on his own. It was important to keep the Soldier on his side, and Jack needed him strong and focused. He could always add to his punishment later.

He rested his hand atop of Brock's bandaged one. "I'll be back," he said softly and stood up. "Come on," he addressed the Soldier, "we have more people to punish."

*

Jack usually liked watching two people go hand to hand, but the Soldier playing nice with the Widow was starting to bore him.

Or maybe he only liked it when Brock was one of the fighters. Who knew.

He took a long drag of his cigarette, leaning back against a sleazy wall of an abandoned chapel.

"Stop playing," he barked at the Soldier. "We're on a tight schedule."

They weren't really, but Jack wanted to get the hell out of Poughkeepsie as soon as possible. He was already mad he had to leave Washington to get to Widow in the first place, and he hated every second he spent in that place more and more.

The Soldier threw Romanoff into the row of benches with an angry shout. The bench she fell against moved back an inch with a horrible screech, but it was solid enough not to topple over. The Soldier didn't wait for her to get on her feet; he grabbed her by the throat, lifted her up and shoved her onto the altar. Jack put out his cigarette on the wall and slowly walked over to the struggling woman. She glanced at him as if he was only a minor inconvenience before her focus returned to the Soldier. Clearly, she hadn't yet realized who was dealing the cards here.

"You could at least recognize me," she choked out. Her words were ignored.

Jack casually pulled her phone out of her leather jacket's pocket, typed a text, found the right contact and tapped send. Then he put it back in her pocket. He could tell it made Romanoff more nervous than the Soldier slowly depriving her of air.

She stopped struggling. She was still conscious, but her limbs were limp when Jack tied her arms to the altar. When he was done, the Soldier loosened his grasp, letting her pull in a lungful of breath before he squeezed again. Jack walked around the altar and stopped in front of her legs. This time, she kicked out when he undid her pants and worked them off her hips, but he was expecting that; she managed to kick him hard in the chest with her left foot, but he caught her right one, and as soon as she ran out of breath, they went limp again. When Jack finished stripping her from waist down, the Soldier let her suck in another breath.

She raised her head to look at Jack. "You're mad that I knocked you out in one hit?"

Jack only raised an eyebrow in response. Was she trying to piss him off? Not a smart tactic. She knew why he was here--if anyone on STRIKE had known about him and Brock, it would have been her.

The Soldier squeezed again and, knowing better this time, Jack waited for her to stop kicking out before he tied her ankles to the altar's legs, leaving her open for him. She raised her head when the Soldier let go again.

"You think rape will phase me in any way?" she spat.

Jack cringed. "I wouldn't touch you with a two-foot pole." He smirked then and walked towards the wall he had been leaning against to recover a broomstick. "Which is why I brought a three-foot one." He turned around. Romanoff wasn't tracking him, but staring at the ceiling that was as sleazy as the walls. "Well," he said, looking at the stick in thought, "I guess technically you could call it rape."

He walked back to the altar. The moment Romanoff started pulling at the ropes, the Soldier closed his metal hand around her throat again. Jack didn't wait for her to go limp this time; he wanted her to feel it, and the more she would struggle, the more it would hurt.

He wasn't expecting much. Sex was one of Black Widow's tools when working for the KGB, and he was sure S.H.I.E.L.D. had continued to use that to their advantage. Still, the fact that she was just lying there, taking it, was deeply disappointing. He had thought a broomstick would have made a difference, but apparently he wasn't the first one to use something else than a penis.

Still, he kept fucking her, shoving the stick a little deeper each time, traces of blood showing on it. Jack thought back to how much blood there had been with Wilson; here, he wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't paying close attention. But then, a polished stick was going in easier than a mangled, metal piece, and Romanoff had a luxury of providing lubrication of her own. The obnoxious smell of her sex hit Jack's nose as the end of the stick became wetter.

"Are you actually enjoying this, Romanoff?"

Her eyes tore away from the ceiling to glare at him. "You don't know much about female biology, do you?"

Jack shrugged. "You got me there."

He pulled out the stick and inspected the tip, not bothering to hide his disgust. He wiped it against her thighs and pulled a flask out of his jacket pocket. He poured a hearty amount of alcohol onto it and then peeked inside the flask with his good eye--there was still a sip left, so he shrugged and downed it. He recognized concern in the press of Romanoff's lips as she eyed the stick, and that, finally, made him feel a spark of excitement. With a badly concealed smirk, he put the flask back in his pocket just to pull out something else--a lighter.

"I always wondered if a wet cunt can put out a fire," he said as he lit the stick up. "That's a lie, I only started wondering last week."

She wasn't looking at him; her eyes were fixed on the ceiling again. She at least didn't try to talk the Soldier out of this. She was smart, Jack had always known that; she knew she wouldn't have achieved anything with that.

"Have you ever burned alive?"

She didn't respond, but Jack didn't need her to. Shoving the burning stick up her cunt finally made her scream, and that was more satisfying than any answer she could have given him. Perhaps that was the reason why his little session with Wilson hadn't made him feel anything--the guy had been screaming from the very start. How disappointing.

When he pulled out, the fire was gone, a wisp of smoke rising into the air. Romanoff's cunt was as red as the side of her face he could see as she had turned it away from him.

"I believe it's not a third-degree burn," Jack said, throwing the stick away and walking around to look at her face. She was avoiding his gaze, but she couldn't hide how wet her eyes were.

"Which is a shame, since the second-degree ones hurt more. See, I learned a lot about burns in the last weeks."

He crouched in front of the altar, so their faces were on the same level. He let her avoid his eyes; it didn't matter, anyway.

"I'd like to see how long it'll take you to heal. I'd like to see docs trying to graft that." He reached out to the Soldier. A spoon was placed in his palm. "But I won't, and neither will you."

“Yes,” Steve says, simply, fighting back the stupid, possessive urge to insist that Bucky is still his, only his, no matter what that might mean now.

This is beautiful, AA!

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