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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They always touch the Asset as little as possible.

It has vague memories of intercourse before it was turned into this, of gentle hands and soft lips, touches and whispered words of praise. It’s not sure whether any of that is real, though it hopes it was.

The reversal of all that: slaps instead of caresses, insults instead of tenderness, “I love you” replaced with “fuck, look at its nasty face, someone hand me a bag I don’t want to look at that shit while I’m trying to get off”. That was one thing.

But worse was the absence. The lack of touches, the silence while they fucked its body, punctuated only by the occasional grunt.

It is beneath even their hatred, it knows. Who would bother to even disdain an object? You just use it, and then discard it when you’re finished. And that’s what the Asset is. All it has ever been, regardless of its traitorous memories. A thing. A toy.

“I cannot stand listening to this fucking thing cry,” one of its superiors says to another.

“Every time. The whining is pathetic.”

“I know how to shut it up,” says a third voice, and there are cheers as someone starts to fuck the Asset’s mouth. It tries not to think of what’s happening, of the choking fullness in the back of its throat, of the salty, foul taste of an unwashed cock thrusting over its tongue, of the sound of them all laughing at it.

When they’ve finished, it hears them talking about it. It’s pretty sure they don’t realize that it can even understand them when it’s like this, bloodied and beaten and trembling. It always listens, though, in the hopes that it will learn something useful, something that might please them enough that they don’t need to hurt it as much sometimes.

Something that might make it less disgusting.

“Why do you think it always cries like that? Shouldn’t the techs have fixed whatever glitch that is?”

Through half-closed eyes, the Asset sees its handler shrug. “You’d think they would have found a way to stop it from making those ugly faces.”

“Or fixed the arm.”

“Takes real devotion to HYDRA to be able to get it up for that freak, honestly.”

There is a sick twisting in the Asset’s stomach. It tells itself that this is because it has learned nothing of any use.

Damn, I love this! The Asset crying, yes...

Ooh yes yes yes, beautiful!

"It is beneath even their hatred." OH NO. This hurts in the best way.

It always listens, though, in the hopes that it will learn something useful, something that might please them enough that they don’t need to hurt it as much. I love this version of the Asset!

OP here. Loving this so far!

a/n: this is going to be a 5+1 format, as in "five times steve declined to punish bucky (and one time he did)", because i love negotiation more than is good for me. thank you for all the feedback, do let me know if there's anything you particularly want from future installments!

Bucky brings it up again after another three months.

He’s been making steady progress. The doctors are amazed with how far he’s come in a relatively short amount of time. His brain is healing much faster than they expected. Outside of the strictly physical, he’s also doing better and better emotionally and mentally. He has fewer nightmares, and lately almost never one of the terrifying (for Steve, anyway) dissociative periods when he can’t remember where he is or what’s happening to him. He’s started joking again, and every so often sounds just like his old self—not, as Steve often reminds him, that he’s under any obligation to go back to his old self at all. Whenever Steve says this, Bucky will roll his eyes and remind Steve that he wants to, wants his life back, which makes Steve feel better, although he can never entirely erase the fear that he’s coercing Bucky into doing things that he doesn’t really want to do.

Which is why, under no circumstances, will he be punishing Bucky for having been raped, Jesus Christ, he can’t believe he has somehow found himself living in a world in which that’s a sentence he has to even think. But it is, and it’s for Bucky, he reminds himself, whenever he starts to feel too sorry for himself. It’s for Bucky. There’s no higher purpose in Steve’s life. So he’ll just have to swallow his own discomfort and get through this conversation.

Bucky’s hot new coping mechanism is extreme frankness, which in theory Steve approves of. In practice…

Well, it’s not like Bucky needs his approval. Which is a good thing. Because he can’t possibly give it, not to this.

“I want us to be together again,” Bucky declares. “Like we used to be.”

Steve’s heart is leaping in his chest long before he’s able to be sensible or ask questions or anything, because Bucky wants to be with him. How could anything else matter?

Except that, of course, there will always be something that matters more, the one thing that matters most.

Bucky.

“What do you mean?”

“I want to be yours. And before you start, Steve, I don’t mean like the way the asset belonged to Hydra. I mean, like, the way Bucky Barnes used to belong to that little punk Steve Rogers way back in Brooklyn. You understand?”

“I understand.”

“You want that too, yeah?” Bucky asks, and there’s something in the casualness of his voice that Steve knows is anything but casual. He’s not sure—and how could he be? Steve isn’t either, when it comes down to it. It’s been so long for both of them. How could either of them be sure again, that things will ever go back to normal? They still trust each other, of course, but they don’t know each other with the same silent confidence that they used to.

“Of course I do, Bucky,” he says, straight away, no hesitation, no worrying. Bucky shouldn’t have to wonder.

“I want it to all go back to normal. Just like how it was before. Do you think that could ever happen?”

“Maybe?” Steve says, because honesty, honesty, even when it’s hard. That’s what he owes Bucky, and that’s what he’ll give Bucky. “But if it can’t, I do think it can go back to being really good. Maybe even better.”

“You want to give it a try?”

“If you do.”

Bucky nods, once, and then sets his jaw. “Right. We can do that. Share a frank down at Coney Island, walk the pier tryin’ not to let anyone catch us holding hands, make love all night. All the stuff we used to do. Only, you gotta do one thing for me first.”

“I’d do anything for you.”

“You gotta do what I asked, Stevie. You gotta punish me.” Bucky’s accent is coming out strong now, but he’s not dancing away from Steve’s eyes. He seems, if anything, more solidly himself than usual.

Steve draws a breath, which is apparently Buckys’ cue to attack.

“I know you’ve done it before. I remember. You caught me flirting with Joe Donaghue down at the docks, and you told me to follow you home and I did, ‘cause I couldn’t say no to you, and you made me bend over the bed and took off your belt and gave me a proper licking and with every stroke I had to tell you I was sorry for being such a stupid slut and promise I’d never forget again that I was yours.”

Bucky says all of this in a faraway, dreamlike voice, but it doesn’t stop Steve’s traitorous cock from getting hard in his pants, of course.

“It’d have to be more than your belt now, of course. I did a lot worse than make eyes at Joe this time. But I’d take it for you, Stevie, and then I’d be all yours again. However you want me.”

Steve looks at Bucky’s wide, pleading eyes, and does the thing he promised he’d never do to Bucky.

He runs.

Oh, he makes an excuse before he stumbles out of the room, but it’s definitely fleeing, and they both know it. Alone in his room, the door closed and, foolishly, locked (as though Bucky couldn’t break it down if he wanted to), Steve stares down at his erection, willing it to disappear.

He can never do this. More than that, he can’t want it.

But Bucky asked…

For something Steve shouldn’t give him. That’s the end of that.

Love this installment so far! Steve’s awkward boner and Bucky’s determination to get punished are perfect.

For something Steve shouldn’t give him. That’s the end of that.

Sure Steve, sure. Tell that to your shameboner.

...although he can never entirely erase the fear that he’s coercing Bucky into doing things that he doesn’t really want to do.

This entire fill has been some of my favorite, delicious trash jam. Steve afraid and ashamed of what he wants from Bucky. Bucky being reasonably okay and knowing exactly what he wants from Steve. Both of them trying to rebuild the intense bond they used to share.

They still trust each other, of course, but they don’t know each other with the same silent confidence that they used to.

I'm loving everything about this so far, AA!

The Asset doesn’t mind wearing the bag, really. It’s dark and quiet underneath, and this way, it doesn’t have to worry about trying to avoid making disgusting, ugly faces that will distract its superiors while they’re trying to make use of it. Better to be hidden away, where it can’t disappoint or disgust anyone. There’s less chance of punishment that way and besides, whatever they may say, it really does try to be good.

A good asset would be pretty and silent and not covered in repulsive scars. It wouldn’t have a nasty useless cock that sometimes gets hard and drips fluid that lets everyone know what a pathetic slut it is. It can’t ever seem to be good, no matter how hard it tries. In fact, the harder it tries, the more they tell it how much of a failure it is. It disgusts them even more, it knows, with its efforts. Better to be under the bag, where no one can see it try and fail.

Usually, they cut a hole in the bag so they can still fuck its mouth, but once in a while, like today, the Asset is lucky. It heard its handler, who is in charge even of the people on the team, say that he doesn’t want to risk getting a glimpse of its ugliness, because it couldn’t stay hard through looking at that. Everyone will just have to wait for a turn with its cunt, because its mouth is staying under the bag for today.

That makes it a little hard to breathe, sure, but it also means that no one can fuck its mouth, which actually makes it a lot easier to breathe, since it’s not choking on anyone’s cock. It also doesn’t have to see the expressions of untempered disgust and animal want on their faces as they fuck it. Nothing they do to it—not what they say, not what they make it say, not the bag over its face—reminds it how revolting it is as much as the way they look at it, full of scorn that they don’t trouble to hide (and why would they?).

The way they look at it makes it impossible for the Asset to forget what’s happening when they fuck it. It is being used. Orgasm is a biological need, and fucking it provides some measure of physical pleasure. And that is all it is good for, when it’s not in the field. The only reason anyone would ever touch it is to get off. How they would mock it if they knew it was even imagining that there could be any other reason.

It feels wet trails on its face, and its nose is stuffed up. It often ends up crying while it’s being fucked, though it doesn’t understand why. It tries not to, since it knows the noises and the faces disturb its handlers. It’s safe to cry a little bit under the bag, though, where no one has to look at it.

They’ll probably fuck it for a long time. There were half a dozen men lined up, which is above the critical number—the first will be ready to go again by the time the last has gotten his turn. That means more than one round. It tries not to feel frightened or resentful or anything else. There is no point, as it has its orders. Be still, be silent, be good. Hide under the bag so no one has to look at it. Go away inside and be a nice hole for them to use.

Maybe it can at least do that right.

Bucky stops asking, after that, and moves on to a different plan. Steve wishes he loved someone a little less stubbornly determined, because the whole thing has grown a bit exhausting.

Because now, Bucky isn’t asking. He’s attempting to seduce Steve.

Steve is pretty easily seduceable, especially when it comes to Bucky Barnes. Bucky only has to lean on him while they’re watching TV, or casually sling an arm around his waist while they’re walking, or smirk at him in that bright, knowing way he always used to, or card his fingers through his now-long hair, or… basically do anything, come to think of it. Yeah, Steve is basically putty in the hands of Bucky, and Bucky knows it.

And then he’ll smile at Steve, or lean in closer, or wink, and he’ll whisper in Steve’s ear, blowing warm, wet breath across the sensitive shell of Steve’s ear, “You want me, right?”

“Yes,” Steve will answer, too far gone to demur even if he would want to lie, because he wants Bucky like a fire wants to burn, and there’s no point in trying to hide it.

Bucky will pull away, smile at him again, no, smirk, and then he’ll say, “Well, you know what you have to do.”

Obviously, Steve isn’t going to let his desire for sex get in the way of doing the right thing for Bucky. He has to admit, though, that it’s getting harder and harder to remember why this is the right thing, with Bucky continuing to insist that he wants Steve to punish him, with the pleasant memories of past games so fresh, and, okay, with all of the blood rushing distinctly south of his brain on a regular basis.

He wishes he had someone to talk to about all of this, but he doesn’t think he can bring himself to do so. They’d always kept it a secret—even with their other queer friends, back in Brooklyn, guys who could understand what Steve and Bucky were to each other, they didn’t tell anyone about the games they’d play in the bedroom, or the way in which they sometimes felt like more than just games. Steve was always a little ashamed of how much he liked it, and Bucky didn’t want other guys thinking he was easy just because he was easy for Steve.

The future has changed in a lot of ways, and people talk about all kinds of things that used to be pretty private, but Steve’s still pretty sure he shouldn’t go around telling everyone, or anyone, that Bucky used to get on his knees for Steve and call him ‘sir’ in bed and liked to get tied up. That’s no one’s business but his and Bucky’s. Unfortunately, not being able to talk about that means not being able to explain his dilemma.

Then again, maybe it doesn’t change things that much, because that has nothing to do with this, right? Bucky’s asking Steve to hurt him because of some twisted sense of guilt that HYDRA forced into him, because of the brainwashing and the trauma and everything else.

He barely formulates that thought before he can basically hear Bucky’s response in his head, clear as if he were speaking. ‘What, now I don’t get to know my own mind because of what they done to me? You know that ain’t fair.’ And he’d be right, too.

It isn’t the shameless flirting changing Steve’s mind, not really, but he has to admit it doesn’t help that Bucky is bending over right now to retrieve something he’d accidentally-on-purpose dropped, which of course brings his ass right into Steve’s line of sight.

Steve is getting a headache. Damn serum was supposed to prevent that, but it wasn’t counting on the exhausting and infinite charms of Bucky Barnes, Steve supposes.

steve falls off the train with bucky and they both end up with hydra. as part of his torture, steve is forced to watch/participate in trash parties.

+ participation being presented as a reward for good behavior
++ Bucky's reward for good behavior is - you guessed it - participating in a party with Steve as the favor

(OP) AHH I am so very excited this is getting a fill, especially one that's so lovely so far!!!!! I love Bucky's steadfast determination and Steve's awkward boners. I also really love all the negotiation and the anticipation that grows w it!!

Love it! Bucky seducing Steve to punish him is my new kink.

(very kindly beta'd by dance. Thanks, dance!)

The Captain understands tactics, but he doesn't understand people. That's why he doesn't scream.

The Soldier, on the other hand, understands the importance of perceived suffering, so he screams as much as their handlers want. Cries. Writhes. While the Captain huffs his pain through his teeth as if unimpressed.

Put less generously: the Captain is stiff-necked even in slavery, because there is something their owners could not burn out of him, something the Soldier gave up to the Chair years ago.

Weakness is not without its advantages. The Soldier is much better at suffering, so when it amuses them to turn them on each other, sometimes as punishment, sometimes as reward, it is usually the Captain hurting the Soldier. The Captain's broad hands around his neck, the Captain's knee in his back, the Captain's piss in his mouth.

The Soldier would not have it any other way and it is essential that their owners never discover this. The Captain's usefulness wouldn't stay their cruelty; it never does.

Tonight: reward. The Captain oversaw the disposal of the car and its two occupants—embroidered though the plan was by their handlers' stupid stipulations. The Captain's plans are almost always successful, but he shines during extended missions—their support teams become squadrons and cities fall in a night. Even the handlers look at the Captain with something like awe when they're out in the field.

The looks change when it is time for rewards.

Tonight, the Captain must watch as the ranks take their turns. The Soldier has been thrown to the foot-soldiers—although they certainly didn't do any of the goddamn work. The Captain planned the operation and the Soldier did the grunt work.

The Captain has been ordered to drink beer and watch as they proceed.

The higher-ups are the first with the Soldier, at least those interested in breaking him in for the night. Anyone who survives HYDRA long enough gets bored of the Soldier eventually. Everyone but the Captain. Still, they get the best screams; they're the most likely to notice if he doesn't put in the effort.

The mid-level operatives follow. They take the longest: they're experienced enough to know exactly what they like from the Soldier without rushing it. This is when the injuries start to heal even as others accumulate. It's a confusing kind of pain: the feeling of bones mending is no good for his focus tonight. They're starting to test his stamina. What's worse, they crowd him so he can't watch the Captain.

Now, he's dealing with the least of them. Some of them have never even gotten their hands on the Soldier before and go off like teenage boys. They're nothing. His biggest enemy here is time.

The Captain will go last.

The Soldier chokes on the cock in his mouth because it'll hurry the man along, and the shudder lets him see the Captain, just for a moment. There's another behind him, in him, but the Soldier's in so much pain at this point that it barely registers. Blunt fingernails scrabble at his hips as he risks another shudder, another split-second look at the Captain, who watches him with a beautiful, blank face.

It is tempting, sometimes to look at the Captain's impassive face and imagine that he does not care about the Soldier's suffering. That it does not pain him. But the Soldier knows it does. On long operations, the agents who enjoy the Soldier's dramatics the most are the ones that disappear, sooner or later.

Even handlers and those above them are not fully immune to the Captain's displeasure. There was a coup that killed off a commander who liked to torture the Soldier, who kept him out of the field. The Captain left the commander to the mercy of men eager to prove their devotion to his usurper. It took days.

The current commander is much more interested in consolidating HYDRA's grip on the world than torturing the Soldier. He consults with the Captain, keeps him out of the ice to provide his expertise.

It is a strange thought that the Captain's slow, patient justice has made HYDRA a more effective force in the world. The exact reason behind its strangeness is not entirely clear. Like the Captain's rare mercy, its provenance is unknown.

Sometimes they give him to the Captain to use alone. The experience is not that much less violent, but one man's abuse—even if that one man is the Captain—can't compare to the endless evenings. The Captain only demonstrates kindness when it cannot be seen. And when isn't someone watching?

Nights like this one have been rarer recently. This time the gagging is real as the operative shudders into his mouth. That sets off the other—perhaps they're friends? Not that it matters—and soon the Soldier collapses on the floor. Drool and cum leak out of him, and he gargles something in the very back of his throat that's gummed by the accumulation of mucus. A fine sight for the Captain, who finishes his drink as the few remaining onlookers cheer.

If the Soldier had the energy to hate, he'd hate the ones that stay until the very end to shout orders at the Captain. They think he's following their directives, when really the unimaginative cruelties they shout out just happen to match what HYDRA expects the Captain to do anyway. The really creative thinkers are all too high-up to bother with this.

The Soldier can't see, but he knows the Captain is looking at him, ignoring the shouts. Blue eyes like ocean-depths, hiding luminous monsters.

The real orders were casually dropped much earlier. The handler that waved the Captain to his reward didn't even stay to watch the orders carried out.

If the Soldier had to guess, he'd suspect that handler isn't going to live much longer. The likeliest replacement grew up following the Captain—ageless warrior, angry god—and treats him like it.

The Captain's boots are heavy on the floor before he rolls the Soldier flat on his back with the tip of a tread. It's the gentlest he'll be with an audience. The Soldier's gaze swims as he tries to look up at the Captain. He's a blur of black and red.

He won't have to act for the Captain. Never could.

OP here OMG THIS IS BEAUTIFUL THANK YOU I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE IF THERE'S MORE

This breaks my heart. I love it.

Wow, I love this!

MY HEART, omg, wonderful. (Horrible)

This is so good! Really heartbreaking. I like how the Captain shows mercy only to an extend and only when no one is watching closely. I just want them to be alone somewhere so the soldier can be treated gently for once. Please and thank you.

(Un)Holy god, this is amazing!! The way you have the Soldier narrating is perfect, and his descriptions paint such a painfully beautiful picture.

Blue eyes like ocean-depths, hiding luminous monsters.

Chills. I love this fill, can't wait to see where it goes!

Wow, this is REALLY REALLY GOOD; I read it twice through the other day and haven't been able to get it off my mind since! I love this world you're building and I can't wait for more!

Part three: ROGERS

Jack hadn't been worried about Hill, Wilson, Barton or Romanoff. He had been sure the Winter Soldier could handle his mission, and he had been right. But they hadn't been the main course.

Jack was worried about Rogers. He had managed to break the Soldier's programming in the past after all, and Jack knew he couldn't beat him alone. But it was a risk he was willing to take. For Brock. He ignored the voice of reason that was telling him Brock would need him alive if--when--he wakes up.

It was too late to back out the moment Jack sent that text from Romanoff's phone, anyway, or even before that--Rogers would go after him the moment he learned what Jack did to his precious Sam Wilson. Truth was, Jack had set himself on a path he could not turn from, no matter how risky it was becoming.

"Whatever happens today," he told the Soldier as they were preparing for their last mission, "remember you're in debt to me and Commander Rumlow."

The Soldier looked at him seriously and nodded. It had been two weeks since his last wipe; Rogers had broken his programming after just a few hours. Jack knew he couldn't rely on that. He had seen Pierce use psychological tricks on him long enough to know what to do, but then, he wasn't Pierce. He lacked his charisma and manipulation skill. He had to work with what he had, and it had to be enough.

In the end, everything went more or less smoothly. Rogers came to the diner at night just how Jack had instructed him to in the text, thinking he was looking for Romanoff. Then he was attacked by the Soldier. Jack remained hidden in the shadows, ready to bolt should things go wrong. But they didn't, and Jack was convinced it was due to Rogers' own stupidity. First of all, he refused to fight back. He tried to talk to the Soldier, calling him Bucky--what a ridiculous nickname by the way--and for a moment there, Jack really worried his revenge mission was about to go to shit. But even though the Soldier definitely recognized him--Jack distinctly heard him say 'Steve'--he didn't stop pummeling his face until, finally, after long seven minutes, he managed to knock him out. He dragged his body to the kitchen, threw it at the row of metal counters and secured him there with the electromagnetic cuffs. Jack approached him, laying his hand on his shoulder.

"Good job, Soldier."

The Soldier turned to look at him. "Will my debt be paid after this?"

Jack studied his face. It was clear the Soldier wasn't happy with his current task. He might've even had doubts if he was doing the right thing. Jack's answer could determine how the rest of the night would go.

He nodded. "Yes, Soldier. What would you like to do after we're done here?"

The Soldier stared off into the distance for a moment. "I am not sure."

"It's alright. You'll have a lot of time to decide."

Jack patted him on the back and stepped towards Rogers. Considering his face was punched repeatedly with a metal fist, he didn't look bad; split skin here and there, little bit of blood, one eye slowly swelling and darkening. Jack wouldn't have much of a face after such treatment.

Super soldiers.

Jack's backhand slap rang loud in the silent diner, but Rogers' eyelids didn't even twitch. Well, at least Jack got to slap him. Actually, a few more backhands wouldn't hurt... not Jack at least.

He stopped when he got annoyed with Rogers' lack of reaction. "Bring him around with some water," he ordered the Soldier.

The Soldier filled a glass and emptied it onto Rogers' face. It worked; Rogers frowned, cracked his eyes open, then blinked the water away. Jack waited for his gaze to focus on him before he greeted him with, "Long time no see."

Rogers didn't react at first as he still tried to figure out what was going on.

"The last time I saw you, the muzzle of my rifle was pressed to the back of your head," Jack continued, taking his knife out of his pocket and flicking it open. "Definitely one of my fondest memories. I keep wondering, what if... Brock didn't like you well enough to not want to have you killed." He caressed Rogers' face with the blade, and Rogers flinched away from it. "And you sent a helicarrier straight into his face..."

"I didn't..."

"But it was your order, wasn't it?" Jack asked, raising his voice. "To shoot down the ships? What was the point, I wonder, if you could just safely land them instead?" He pressed the knife into Rogers' throat; he could kill him right then, just slit his throat. It would have been the easiest thing in the universe. But Rogers didn't deserve the easy way out. "Not spectacular enough for you?" He leaned in. "You think you're such a hero, so much better than all of the bad guys as you think of us, but you don't care what happens to the ones you fight with. Do you know how many times I witnessed you kill a person just because they were on the opposite side? You, Captain America, are no different from us."

Rogers was becoming more aware of his surroundings. He must have recognized the electromagnetic cuffs as he jerked his arms, trying to break free, but they held. With both his wrists and ankles cuffed, Rogers wasn't going anywhere.

He scoped his surroundings next, and that was when he noticed the Soldier, standing stiffly behind Jack's back. "Bucky."

Jack turned his head to check on the Soldier. He was frowning, looking troubled, and he returned Jack's gaze, clearly seeking guidance. Jack offered a soft smile and grabbed the back of his neck, rubbing slightly.

"You're doing so good," he crooned, and the Soldier visibly relaxed, even though it wasn't something that was done to him often. It was more of a show for Rogers than anything else. "Go back to the truck, get yourself a treat."

Rogers enjoyed the show, judging by his more determined attempts to detach the cuffs from the metal counter. The Soldier kept glancing at him when walking past towards the backdoor, but didn't change his mind.

"It's a wonder, how much a guy can do for a dog treat, huh?" Jack said after he left. It was a blatant lie; there weren't any dog treats, but chocolate chip cookies in the glove box.

"You will pay for this," Rogers snarled.

"No," Jack replied calmly, pressing his knife against the collar of Rogers' t-shirt, "now, you will be doing the paying."

He cut through the t-shirt, leaving a red line across Rogers' chest. Rogers clenched his teeth, but his slowly swelling face must have ached more than the shallow cut.

When Jack yanked Rogers' pants and underwear down, he was surprised to see Rogers' cock's interest in his ministrations. He looked up at him with his eyebrow raised, noting the blush rising in Rogers' cheeks. Rogers looked away, struggling against the cuffs again, still believing he was strong enough to break out, unaware that Jack had already tested them on the Soldier in that setting.

"I knew you had a crush on me," Jack said, not hiding his disgust, "but really, Rogers? Just from me undressing you?" He caressed Rogers' hard cock with the flat side of the blade, and it earned him an aborted little gasp. "Oh well, I guess you haven't been getting any action recently. Were you saving yourself for me? Is that it? How sweet and delusional of you." He flicked the head, making Rogers jerk. "Take that dick outta my face, you nasty slut. You're just as bad as Romanoff, practically begging me to fuck you despite knowing I'm a married man. And people think you have morals."

Rogers was obviously thinking of a good comeback, but when Jack mentioned Romanoff, he remembered why he was there in the first place. "Natasha. Where is she? What did you do?" he demanded.

"The worst is behind her now," Jack replied in a mockingly soothing voice. "Don't worry about her. Worry about you. Because I didn't get you naked to make love to you, Rogers."

He turned around and walked over to the deep fat fryer. He grabbed a ladle and dipped it in hot oil.

"Do you know what he said when I asked him if he knew what it was?" Jack asked conversationally, knowing it would rile Rogers up and that he'd be unable to do anything about it. "'It's for burning people,' he said. I honestly don't think he remembers french fries exist." He approached Rogers again, holding the ladle up. "But he was right in this case, so I scratched him behind the ear."

Rogers didn't have a chance to get properly angry as Jack tilted the ladle making the hot oil drip down onto the Rogers' neck and chest, drawing a howl of pain from his throat. The atrocious smell of burning flesh almost made Jack gag. He watched the oil bubble and the skin beneath redden, listened to Rogers' screams and waited…

Sure, it was satisfying to give Rogers what Rogers did Brock, and to be the one that made him scream. But Jack had expected something more. He thought that once he did this, once he made everyone pay for shattering his and Brock's happiness, everything would be... better. But Brock was still comatose in the hospital, and that, Jack realized, was fixing absolutely nothing.

It didn't mean he was gonna stop though. Maybe it didn't magically make everything better, but Rogers still deserved it.

"You may think you don't deserve this," Jack said, filling the ladle again. "I imagine in your head, I'm doing bad things to you because I'm a bad guy who likes hurting the good guys like you. But you do deserve this, Rogers."

"Maybe I shot the ships down," Rogers hissed, "but he was the one who launched them in the first place."

His words made Jack want to throw the ladle at him, but he managed to contain his rage. Instead, he slowly tipped it above Rogers' chest, making his skin sizzle drop after drop. Rogers' face broke in sweat as he struggled to suppress his screams--and it was a view to behold, to see him sweat--but he couldn't stop himself from letting out a pained growl every once in a while.

"Victim-blaming, Cap?" Jack snarled. "You know, after years of watching how much of a good man you really aren't, I'm not even surprised."

"I'd say I was sorry," Cap said between huffs of breath once the ladle was empty and Jack turned around to refill it, "but by launching those ships, he condemned hundreds of thousands of people to death. So no, even if the very ships killed him, I wouldn't be sorry. You may think he didn't deserve that, but the way I see it, he really did."

Jack tightened his hold on the ladle's handle. He closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to calm himself down. He was doing that for Brock, he reminded himself. It was Brock's gift. He couldn't just lose his resolve--how could he face him after if he did?

"You're a lot like Romanoff," he said, turning back with the ladle at the ready. "She, too, expected sex, and she, too, tried to make me angry once she found out I wasn't gonna put my dick inside her." He positioned the ladle over Rogers' face this time. "And I'll tell you what I told her: not a smart idea."

As he watched the skin of Rogers' face melt away, and the oil drip down Rogers' throat as he screamed, he thought of Brock. Up until then, he could only imagine what his face looked like since it was covered in dressings, but seeing the red bubbles rising and popping on Rogers' handsome face now, he was getting a good idea. The difference was that the super soldier would heal, and after a while, there wouldn’t be a mark left. Jack would never be able to look into his husband's face again.

Once the dressings came off, would he even be able to look at what was left of it?

"I preferred working with your black friend, what was his name?" he continued, trying to push his worries away. "Winston? He knew what was good for him and cooperated."

"Sam," Cap said in a shaky voice when Jack turned to refill the ladle again. "What did you do to him?"

The satisfaction at the sight of a fearful realization that Romanoff wasn't Cap's only friend Jack had gotten to in his eyes was bleak, but still there, and took away from his anger.

"The worst's behind him. He's with Romanoff now." Jack tipped the ladle above Cap's chest, and Cap shut his eyes again, his jaw muscle jumping as he clenched his teeth not to let out any pained sounds. "You'll join them, eventually. Once I'm done with you. This will last a while, though. Do you know how long Brock had lain under that wreckage?" He paused, genuinely waiting for an answer, but it never came. "I don't either, but I imagine it was quite a while before they found him. I just want you to really understand what he went through, Rogers. He lay there in absolute darkness, unable to move, hot oil dripping down on him, and he had no idea when that would end. Perhaps he was already looking death in the eyes. It's not the same for you, of course, you know you'll survive this. You'll heal." Jack almost sighed, looking Rogers' body over. "At least you lost that disgusting boner for me. I hope the next time you think of me, this will be the only thing that comes to your mind."

He went quiet after that; he had never been a talkative person, and he ran out of things to say. Rogers was also mostly silent excluding the pained growls he would let out every once in a while. He also tried to break free again once or twice before entirely resigning himself to his punishment. It was a little unnerving, as it wasn't his style. All this seemed to had gone too easily. Maybe Rogers thought burning was all that would happen to him. He wasn't expecting the cherry on top.

Once he was satisfied with the state of Rogers' face and chest, Jack put down the ladle and picked up his knife again.

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Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire

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[Fill] Jack Rollins + team cap, torture, Hydra husbands (3/4)