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.

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OP here, happy holidays to me apparently cuz this fic is a proper present and I love it so much. Can't wait for the final chapter!

Ooh, delicious Steve pain! I love it!

Thank you :3

Part four: BROCK

The Soldier was already gone when Jack woke up in their shabby safehouse on the Christmas morning. There was a possibility he just went out to get some air, but Jack knew in his gut that wasn't it. Once reassured his debt was paid, he left, even if it wasn't exactly true. Jack would have gladly added more pain to the Soldier's payment, but at that point, it'd be easier to catch the wind than him. Besides, the Soldier was hardly phased by pain after decades of it being actual part of his maintenance, and even if he wasn't, it wouldn't change anything. Brock was still dead to the world, and no amount of torture could change that.

Jack sighed as he leaned against the windowsill and looked out the window. The weather was horrible; it had been raining for days, and the sky was the most depressing shade of gray Jack had ever seen. It was hard to believe it was Christmas. Even with all the preparations, Jack couldn't make himself feel the Christmas spirit. Maybe it was the fugitives' bane.

Maybe it was because he had assumed Brock would have been awake by now.

Just as he was considering drinking himself to sleep, his phone buzzed, and he picked it up to read the text. His face lit up.

"About time."

*

Brock was asleep when Jack entered his hospital room. As the Hydra FBI agent guarding it explained, right after he was woken up from his induced coma, Brock tried to attack the personnel and run, so he was knocked out with sedatives, but he should come around soon. That was even convenient for Jack; it gave him an opportunity to set everything up before he woke up and surprise him.

He sat down in the chair beside the bed and pulled out a small plastic Christmas tree from his bag. He set it down on the nightstand and decorated it with his handmade ornaments. He was about done when Brock started moving and he stilled, waiting for him to open his eyes with his muscles tense. When he finally did and saw Jack looking back at him, he offered a dopey smile that melted Jack's heart.

"Jackie."

And just like that, everything was finally okay.

"Hey there," Jack greeted. "You slept really long. Do you know what today is?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

"It's Christmas."

Brock giggled with childish glee. "You're messing with me."

"I'm not! Look, there's a tree!" Jack brought his attention to the plastic tree, and Brock looked at it with his eyes wide as he noticed it for the first time. It made his blown pupils even more apparent. "I made the decorations myself."

They weren't as pretty as they could have been--Jack hadn't preserved them correctly and they paled--but Brock still recognized the ones that used to be Rogers' baby blues. He tried to reach out to touch them, but he was stopped by the pair of cuffs that was keeping his wrist attached to the bed.

"Get that off," Jack snarled at the FBI agent, who had been eyeing the Christmas tree like it was a two-foot spider. "He's high as a kite, he won't be going anywhere."

The agent tore his eyes away from the tree and jumped to Brock's side to open the cuffs. Brock shook them off like they offended him and gently touched the eyeball that Jack made into a Christmas ornament.

"You crazy psychopath," he said, staring at the tree with wonder.

"Your crazy psychopath," Jack reminded him. "Forever."

They played a little game for a while, consisting of Brock guessing whom the eyeballs previously belonged to. He got Hill's, Romanoff's and Barton's correctly, but he couldn't figure out Wilson's. Maybe he completely slipped his mind.

"Now, do you want to see your gift?"

Brock raised his eyebrows and immediately winced. He raised his hand to the dressed side of his face and touched for a moment, probably wondering about it, before dropping his hand again. "You got me another gift?"

"That's just a tree, of course I brought you a proper gift."

Brock looked at the tree again, but this time he was frowning.

"Love?" Jack prompted.

Brock didn't answer immediately. "What... happened to them?"

"Me."

He cracked a smile. "Well, duh... But--"

"I locked them away," Jack said, not waiting for Brock to finish. Talking was visibly wearing him out. "In that warehouse we've been renting? Well, now I stopped paying for it, the owner will discover them... if they won't break out first... will be hard though, with all of them blind."

Brock didn't say anything, still frowning.

"Brock? Is everything alright?"

He shrugged. "I guess I just expected you to say they were dead."

Jack sighed, reclining in his chair. "They don't deserve to die, love. They deserve to suffer."

Brock raised his bandaged hand to look at it. "As do I."

Jack watched him unhappily. There was some truth to what Rogers had said about that, and even though he had no right to judge Brock, because he didn't know him--he didn't know--Brock still had done what he had.

"And I," he said quietly.

Brock's eyes darted to him. "Are you hurt?"

"No. But I wish it was me instead of you."

"You stop that." Brock slapped his knee. "I'm glad it wasn't you. Fuck's sake. Would never forgive myself." It seemed the drugs were wearing off. He tried to sit up and Jack sprang to his feet to help him and to adjust his pillows. Brock slapped him away again. "Okay, enough of that sappy shit. I want my gift. Gimme."

Yes, the drugs were definitely wearing off. It was almost sad; Jack had been enjoying Brock's dopey glee. He sat back down and opened the nightstand drawer.

"First have this." He handed Brock the broken arrow. "I thought the appropriate way of punishing our archer ex-friend for his betrayal would be shoving all of his arrows up his ass."

Brock immediately dropped the arrow and looked at Jack with reproach. "And you made me touch it?"

Jack bit back an amused smile. "Some of the exploding ones went off. It was a sight to behold."

Brock stared at him with an unreadable expression. "You know what? You are so disturbing sometimes."

Jack shrugged and fished a flat velvet box out of his bag. "It was just a souvenir I wanted to keep. But this I took specifically for you." He hesitated before handing the box to Brock. "I hope you'll like it."

Brock looked a little wary when opening the box, but his lips broke in a nasty smirk when he looked at the star-shaped patch of burned, dried skin lying on the pillow. Jack didn't have to explain; he knew exactly what it was.

"I still can't believe you went after Steve fucking Rogers for me. Do you even realize how risky that was?"

Jack shrugged again.. "He hurt you. He ordered to shoot those fucking ships down, you know?"

"He coulda destroyed you." Brock gave him a hard look. "Or did you forget that absolute disaster in the elevator? You didn't even last half a minute in that fight."

“I had help.”

Brock raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

"The Asset," Jack explained. "He stuck around. Uh... But he's gone now."

Brock kept watching him for another moment before looking back at the star with a soft 'huh'. "You'll have to tell me how you managed to pull that stunt, but maybe later. I'm beat."

"Of course." Jack took the box from his hands and hesitated. "Do you, uh, do you want something to drink? Water maybe?" he asked, cursing himself for not thinking of that earlier.

"Would be nice."

Jack put on his baseball cap and walked out into the corridor. There weren't any water dispensers so he had to go to the cafeteria to buy a bottle. When he returned to Brock's room, Brock was lying back again with his eyes closed, but he opened them when Jack sat beside him. Jack helped him take a drink--he would have to bring straws the next time--and once Brock was done drinking, he laughed at Jack's cap.

"You don't look suspicious at all," he teased.

"My face is all around the news, love."

Brock frowned in concern, but didn't say anything. Jack knew what he was thinking, anyway; then why are you outside?! He didn't ask, because he knew what Jack would've answered. They'd probably end up fighting about it, and Brock was clearly too tired for that. Still, Jack was sure he wouldn't hear the end of this once Brock was properly rested.

Brock closed his eyes again, and Jack grabbed his book from his bag and settled in for a longer stay. He thought Brock was already asleep when he heard his small voice asking, "Jack?"

Jack put down his book and looked at him questioningly.

"Am I still pretty?"

And Jack hated himself for hesitating, but--

Well.

He didn't know.

"You'll always be pretty," he said, finding it more comfortable to return his gaze to his book even though he wasn't reading anymore. He hoped Brock was too sleepy to sense the dubious note in his voice.

Brock didn't say anything more. Jack beat himself up for his doubts. It shouldn't have mattered what Brock looked like--Jack fell in love with the person, not his looks. But he remembered hot oil melting Rogers' face away, and it was not a pretty sight.

He sighed, looking back at Brock who was snoring softly. They went through so much together. That was just another obstacle on their way that they would beat, because they had all the previous ones.

It would be okay.

--

SURPRISE! It was a Christmas fic all along :3
Happy holidays, everyone.

Op here, aw damn this is everything I wanted!! I love my weird torture porn with a side of Xmas cheer <3 for real though, this was so well written and enjoyable and such a good read. The diy eyeball ornaments made me smile (there was a fic on ao3 a while ago where Brock gives an eye in a jar to Jack so it was nice to see a different take on that). Thank you so much for writing this!!

"Let me help," he'd said.

Bucky had been sloppy and let on to how frustrated he was in from of Steve.

HYDRA didn't want their weapon to be distracted by human pleasures like sexual stimulation, but they didn't want to have to bother with the consequences of castrating it, whether surgically or chemically. So instead they had wrapped Bucky's cock in a vented little metal sleeve and pierced the flesh underneath through with crisscrossing pins connecting a hollow sound to keep the cage in place.

And of fucking-course the whole thing had to be made out of an adamantium-vibranium alloy. Seriously. What was the deal with that?

In any case. What this meant was that Bucky hadn't gotten off in 70+ years. Unless you counted a couple of particularly vivid rape-parties over the decades. Which Bucky did NOT do.

After everything, and despite it, Bucky felt rather well adjusted. Partly due to the serum's effect on his brain; allowing him to compartmentalize 'like a boss', as people would say nowadays in the future where he and Steve now lived. And also in part due to the half-a-million-dollar-an-hour therapists that only Stark money could buy. Tony was just the best.

Not that Bucky didn't have bad days. Because there were bad days. But those seemed fewer and and farther in between the good days the longer time moved on.

So you could say that Bucky was moving on. He had even rekindled his relationship with Steve, and it was good despite the damn chastity device. They indulged in the small and tender affections they could never have gotten away with before and during the war. They held hands in public. Bumped shoulders whenever one passed the other in a hallway. Stopped for breakfast and coffee after their joined morning runs around Manhatten.

In bed it was a little bit more complicated but no less fullfilling. After all, sex was so much more than just the act of penetration. Not that they didn't do that either, both of them; Steve for one tended to go wild with Bucky's metal fist up his ass. The kinky fucked.

Nothing felt as good as seeing Steve all spent and happy in Bucky's arms at night. Except for the part were neither of them could do anything about how it ramped up Bucky's arousal to unbearable levels and left him hanging.

But Bucky was fine with that. He had accepted that he would never come again. Steve didn't need to know.

Now Steve knew, and he'd done the typical Steve thing to do and try to fix it.

"What do you mean?" Bucky asked casually like he didn't already know.

"I mean, Buck," Steve responded with a tone that said he knew full well that Bucky knew. "That I want to help you let loose some of that pressure."

"You can't." Bucky deadpanned.

"I think I do." Steve looked sure of himself, like he hadn't had an asthma attack in a week and therefore believed he could run around the block without stopping for breath. Like an idiot. "I did some research."

Bucky sighed in defeat and settled in to listen to whatever mad plan Steve had concocted this time. Carefully not getting his hopes up.

Ever since Steve found him, he’s been telling Bucky again and again that everything can go back to normal between them. As if the fact that he’s been HYDRA’s killer and whore for the better part of a century doesn’t change a thing. It’s nice of him to pretend, though. Steve’s always been a swell guy like that.

All his sweet lies can’t change the big tell: he never lays a finger on Bucky. Won’t even let their hands touch by accident when he’s passing Bucky the paper in the morning—he lays it flat on the kitchen table and slides it over.

Bucky remembers everything now. He remembers how casually Steve used to touch him, grabbing his ass when he passed by or kissing his cheek before leaving the room. He remembers when Steve would make love to him, his voice going all high and desperate as he told Bucky how beautiful he was, how much he adored him.

They’ll never go back to that, of course. Steve doesn’t have to say it—Bucky understands, from the cautious way that Steve avoids even the most accidental of physical contact with him.

He is disgusting, obviously. They told him that, over and over again. He doesn’t know why some small, stupid part of him imagined that would be different. Sure, Steve doesn’t treat him the way HYDRA did. But the other stuff they did to him, the beatings and rapes and mindwipes, those were all to control him, to keep him in his place, to turn him into the perfect weapon.

The disgust, though, that was real. They’d laugh at him or call him names or put a bag over his head for their own benefit, so they didn’t have to see how ugly he was. It wasn’t part of the torture, it was real.

So obviously Steve wouldn’t want to touch him either. Oh, he’s nice about it, he doesn’t point out why he scrupulously avoids so much as an accidental chaste touch, but he wouldn’t want to be closer to Bucky than he has to. Honestly, it’s pretty terrible of Bucky to put Steve in this position where he has to look at his horrible face and deformed body all the time. If he were decent, he’d run away so Steve wouldn’t have to look at him any more.

He isn’t decent, obviously. Not enough to put a bullet through his head as a rightful apology for everything he’s done, and not enough to put himself out of Steve’s misery. Instead he remains, an omnipresent, hideous reminder of all that Steve has lost. It’s cruel to hang around like this, and he knows it, and he does it anyway. Poor Steve, forced to pretend it doesn’t disgust him.

Steve’s never been that good a liar, is the thing. His discomfort with the omnipresence of Bucky, or rather this ugly, unloveable thing that insists on walking around wearing Bucky’s name and looking too much like him and yet not enough, is palpable every time they’re in the same room.

Bucky won’t run, won’t hide. He should, but he can’t bear to. Nor will he inflict himself on Steve more than he has to. He stays in his room most of the time, listening to Steve putter around the kitchen. When Steve is in his own bedroom, Bucky can hear his breathing through the wall. Sometimes he hears Steve touch himself. He knows Steve is imagining handsome Bucky Barnes with him, his strong right hand wrapped around Steve, two boys fumbling toward pleasure together.

Bucky won’t make Steve talk about it, since he obviously doesn’t want to, but he just wishes he could find some way to tell Steve how sorry he is that he can’t ever be good or clean or worthy of Steve’s touch again.

Eventually, Steve figures out the solution to his need to talk. It’s pretty obvious, actually, and he’s a little embarrassed it took him this long to come ‘round to it.

He should talk to Bucky. Right.

He was probably subconsciously avoiding doing that because it makes him pretty uncomfortable, which he is at least able to recognize as a fucking stupid reason to not do what is clearly the right thing and will probably make both him and Bucky feel better about this whole uncomfortable situation.

Therapy has taught him a lot about the best ways to have difficult conversations, so he makes sure to raise it at a time when both he and Bucky are relaxed, at home where they both feel safe, and physically facing each other but not too close so Bucky doesn’t feel ganged up on or pressured.

“So Buck. I was wondering if we could talk for a second.”

“Sure thing.” Bucky puts down his pulp novel and looks at Steve. “What’s up?”

“Uh, I’ve been thinking. About the thing you’ve mentioned a couple of times. You know.”

“You punishing me?” Bucky says, and right away his energy seems to shift. It’s like he’s becoming calmer, more grounded, more focused. His eyes are on Steve, and he’s in the moment, not at all distracted or thinking about the past or anything else that still happens with some frequency.

“Yeah.”

“What about it?”

“Well, um, I’m not saying I’m gonna, or that I think I can, or anything like that. But I figured I ought to at least talk about it with you. Find out why it’s so important to you. I owe you that much.”

“Finally, you idiot,” Bucky says, which makes Steve feel at least a little hopeful that this isn’t all some kind of horrible trauma reaction that proves Bucky is regressing and needs to be protected from a dangerous urge to harm himself. He’s pretty sure Bucky didn’t go around calling his Hydra handlers idiots.

“Sorry?”

“I’ve been waiting for this for ages. Yes, what do you want to know?”

“I want to know why, Buck. Why is this so important to you? I mean, not to bring up painful memories, but you aren’t exactly big on asking for stuff…”

“Nah, it’s a fair question. Um, give me a second, this is pretty tricky to explain.” But Bucky’s voice is steady, and he’s meeting Steve’s eyes. “A bunch of the memories from the stuff that happened to me really mess me up, but most of them I know I need to find ways to deal with. The fact that I tortured people, killed people… that’s gonna stay with me forever, and I know that. I’m okay with that. I’ll deal with the guilt and I’ll do what I can to make it right. But the other stuff is, um, a different story.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, too afraid his words will come out wrong. It’s pretty rare and special that Bucky is talking about his past at all. He knows that if he pushes too much or too hard, he’ll lose this chance altogether, and he doesn’t want that. Luckily, Bucky doesn’t seem to need any prodding.

“I know I shouldn’t feel bad about any of that. It’s not like I asked HYDRA to spend seventy years shoving their dicks in me every way they could figure out how to, you know? Actually, I would really have rather they didn’t. Like, intellectually, I get that it’s not my fault. But I can’t stop feeling it.”

That makes some sense to Steve. He’s read up a lot about trauma and PTSD and sexual assault, and everything Bucky is saying lines up with what he’s learned.

“And the guilt gets worse every time I get close to you, Stevie. It’s like there’s this voice in my head that’ll start screaming that I’m dirty, that I don’t deserve to be with you or talk to you or, especially, touch you. And I’ve tried all kinds of things that might make it better, I’ve tried and tried, but nothing helps. And then I think about how rotten I felt after I messed around with Joe Donaghue, and how much better I felt after you licked me, and I figured, maybe it’d work again. Because I know it wouldn’t really make up for it, but I also know I don’t really have anything to apologize for, and I thought, maybe I just need that kind of… release. And I need it to come from you.”

“Oh,” Steve says, because this is all starting to make a kind of sense to him. It’s starting to be the kind of thing that feels like he could do it and live with himself afterwards.

“Also, uh, I think you’re pretty damn hot when you’re all self-righteous and angry, and I gotta tell you, I like the idea of that all getting directed right at my ass.”

“Huh,” Steve repeats. Because that, well, that he can do. He’s not sure about all the complicated emotions here, but if it’s a sex thing, that makes it a little easier.

“So?” Bucky asks, sitting on the edge of his seat a little. “You gonna do it?”

“We gotta talk about this some more, Buck. What you want me to do, exactly. Where the limits are. What will help you.”

“But—“

“Yeah,” Steve says, smiling at the delight that passes over Bucky’s face. “I’m in.”

this is my favourite flavour of trash, and one that is sadly thin on the the ground these days. thanks for writing!

Wonderful so far! Can’t wait for more!

"I think I do." Steve looked sure of himself, like he hadn't had an asthma attack in a week and therefore believed he could run around the block without stopping for breath.

I love how you described Steve’s stubbornness here with a sense of humor.

So sad in its hopelessness. Poor Bucky!

Well done, Steve XD
Looking forward to seeing them play it out!

The Soldier fails to notice the bucket until the Captain puts it down. More accurately, it might be called a tub but everything looks small in the Captain's unforgiving hands. It sloshes when he places it on the floor, slopping water that hurries toward the Soldier's outstretched arm. Traces the metal with a gentleness that should horrify.

The bucket is very full. The Captain carried like it was nothing.

Traitorous neurons flash the message to struggle--not to get away from the Captain, but from the water--but the Soldier mostly remains still. Looking up at the Captain, he struggles to remember the details of the orders. But when the Captain bends, when his beautiful face comes closer, every order falls away but the truest one.

Be good for the Captain. It supersedes everything, even the barest layers of his programming. The Soldier goes limp when the Captain seizes him by the hair and shoulders. The Captain holds the Soldier just above the surface to stare at a shuddering reflection. Somewhere behind the reflection's shoulder, the Captain waits.

The Captain presses him under the surface of the water and he tries, truly tries, not to struggle. Anything the Captain does is for the good of HYDRA.

If he drowned the Asset, there would be a reason. Despite that knowledge, despite the cringing desire to be good, there are confusing signals: twitching muscles, approaching panic. And the other, deep-laid imperatives: be useful to HYDRA, remain functional unless expressly ordered otherwise.

The Soldier wants so much to be good.

Despite this, he starts to struggle and the Captain pulls him up. He waits for the Soldier to blink away the confusion, catch his unimpressed expression. The captain raps him on the brow--Smarten up, soldier--and pushes him under again.

The Soldier manages to keep still longer this time, but panic blooms like it always does and when the Captain pulls him up again, the Soldier vomits water and cum and stomach acid.

Perhaps that was the point of the exercise: sometimes buckets and water are for cleaning. Except the Captain puts him under again and his hands are unyielding, even to panic. The Soldier starts to claw at the tub, clutching hard enough it deforms the shape, that his fingers--metal and otherwise--scrabble at the floor.

But the Captain just waits.

The Soldier is dimly aware of receding pressure, of the shock of air and wretched, filling lungs. But he is being brought up, away from the misery of the water up to the Captain's chest and held close.

The Captain carries him like that all the way back to their quarters.

But when the Captain bends, when his beautiful face comes closer, every order falls away but the truest one. Be good for the Captain. Okay I'm officially obsessed with this story. It's so good! Thanks for this latest delightfully horrifying update. <3

The Winter Soldier made to do some mundane task (a murder, training, serving drinks, whatever) with a powerful remote-control vibrator up his butt and another strapped to his cock.

Fuck, turns out I have a heart after all. :O
I love this fic.

This is wonderful! I can’t even put my finger on why it’s so sublime but it is! I’m invested.

I continue to adore this fill!

What if The Chair doesn't work the way we think it does? What if instead of erasing Bucky's memories, it just scrambles them. From the interaction with Secretary Pierce, how he has to cajole the Soldier into cooperating and following orders by telling him that his country needs him and that he's one of the good guys, it's clear that Bucky's core values and probably a fair bit of his personality are still intact. Also, we are given only a limited view of the flashbacks Bucky experiences, but he seems to have a lot of pieces of memory, they're just not connected in a coherent fashion. So, what happens if he has a ton of trash memories that get scrambled in with everything else? How does he handle those while held by the perpetrators of the trash, especially if he is constantly remembering bits and pieces out of order and without context? How does he handle them once he is free of Hydra and able to start reassembling the memories and understanding them? Does he know that these are real memories at all?

This idea is similar to an extreme version of the phenomenon of intrusive thoughts (https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/am-i-normal/201110/intrusive-thoughts-normal-or-not). Intrusive thoughts are a completely normal part of how the brain functions, but when misunderstood, they can be disturbing or terrifying. I see Bucky here as living with a constant stream of mental chatter similar to intrusive thoughts, except instead of his brain coughing up violent or disturbing hypotheticals, everything his brain is presenting to him actually happened.

Addendum from OP: What if Hydra doesn't know that Bucky's memories aren't actually being erased? What if they think The Chair is fully erasing his memories? How could they tell the difference, really? They wipe him, then ask him questions to see if he remembers events or information from before the wipe, and Bucky's memories are fragmented and scrambled, so he can't piece together answers to their questions, and they incorrectly conclude that the memories are completely gone. What happens, then, if Hydra realizes that Bucky's memories aren't being erased?

Oh, shit, this is an amazing prompt, I hope someone fills it!

Quiet game.

A children’s game where the players must stay quiet for as long as possible. The last child or team to make noise wins the game. It is usually acceptable for players to make sounds they cannot control.

In retrospect, Bucky should have known something was off before he stepped out of his hut in nothing but a red Shuka and a pair of worn-out leather sandals.

Steve had told him he wasn't coming for another day at least but when he'd heard (what he foolishly assumed) was the soft whirring of the quinjet’s motor and the children's happy cries at the prospect of being reunited with Captain America, he'd thrown all caution in the wind.

He should have known better - but he didn't.

Bucky stepped outside with an easy smile on his face, his body relaxed and sluggish from a few hours of midday nap. He blinked once, holding up his remaining flesh hand to shield his eyes from the setting sun, and froze.

Four men were standing in the middle of his front yard. Their thick ballistic vests and combat boots in jet-black a stark contrast against the earthly colors of the Wakandan countryside. They replaced the ever-present vivacity of the land, the warmth of wood, and soil, and sun-burned grass, with a feeling of all-encompassing dread. Ugly and inappropriate in the burning heat.

The children, a group of local youngsters between the age of 6 and 11, all known to Bucky by their name, age, and a variety of personal characteristics which he had given them silly nicknames for in his head, stood around them curiously, laughing and pointing at the men’s hair, their clothes, and their heavy gear.

Bucky stomach dropped. Maybe he should have grabbed a weapon to fight, to attack them immediately but he was frozen, looking at the seemingly peaceful scene before him with despair.

The kids didn’t seem concerned by the firearms and strange outfits the intruders carried. Bucky reckoned that they had never seen armed men before in their lives, no tactical gear besides Captain America's shield and the king’s cat suit if they were lucky. Not all of them had been to the Golden City yet. They certainly had no way to identify the ugly red Hydra insignia on their vests for something dangerous neither.

No, Bucky's little Wakandan friends didn’t know any better than to welcome every stranger they met with open hearts. They were farmers’ kids from the Mining tribe, well protected and sheltered from the effects of war and tragedy. They knew neither borders nor rules of privacy, carefree and loved by all. The Wakandans cherished their young the same way they charished their vibranium - as a gift from the gods.

Bucky had come to embrace their natural curiosity, even when they occasionally bothered him and Steve at the wrong time. He secretly enjoyed it when they treated his house like a public playground without a lock on the door. Their laughter chased away his dreams of darkness and filled his heart with joy.

'If he fought,’ Bucky thought in a desperate rush of panic, ‘the little kids would die first.’

This can’t be happening.

“Well, well...” one of the intruders said, adressing Bucky directly. He stretched out his arms as if to embrace an old friend. “If it isn’t the famous Winter Soldier.”

Bucky stood stock-still and said nothing, discreetly eyeing their weaponry. He analyzed their positions and team dynamics, counted every second that passed and weighed his options. To formulate a game plan he needed to gather intel, and fast.

“Cat got your tongue?” The strange man asked again, clicking his teeth, and Bucky realized with a sickening lurch that he knew exactly who this was.

“Agent Ward,” Bucky acknowledged with a tight clench of his jaw.

They had history to say the least. Ward was a former handler and famous S.H.I.E.L.D. infiltrator. Brock Rumlow’s best buddy from the academy. They'd been inseparable in training until a week or two before Project Inside was launched. No one knew why he’d left. Some said it was rivalry between him and Rollins, some said he’d simply been undercover too long to be reintegrated into Hydra’s great plan for the future of mass genocide. Everyone, including the Soldier, knew that Agent Ward was unpredictable and also, last Bucky had heard of him...

“I thought you were dead.”

“Well, I was, buddy.” Ward announced cheerfully. “You see, Coulsen, dear Agent Coulsen, choked the life out of me and then I became a Hydra god and... You know how it is. I don’t wanna bore you with the details.”

Bucky gave him a court nod in lieu of a safe way to clock him one. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

As if on cue, Ward gave the others a quick four-finger-sign, ordering them stand on guard. Then he took a lazy step out of their tactical formation.

“You should have realized by now, when your boyfriend and his gang brought you back from the dead... All kinds of things followed. All kinds of people. A lot of them are still loyal to Hydra and itching to make you pay.”

It was almost funny but not quite. Bucky had feared for repercussions when he woke up an entire year and a half after the snap, resurrected like some kind of nightmare version of the Lord Jesus Christ. He'd been ready to take on the consequences head-on but when the gates of hell didn't break open and alien invasions remained a thing of the past, he'd let himself be lulled into false security by Steve's happy tears and open thighs and put his concerns to rest like an amateur. He could have done better than that. If only.

Ward becomed him forward with a waving gesture. “Come here. Give me a hug, like an old friend.”

Bucky just glared across the distance and stood his ground. He didn't move a muscle.

“I said give me a hug,” Ward ordered sharply, pronouncing every syllable. “Don’t be shy now. We don’t wanna upset the children, do we?”

Right. The children.

Bucky's eyes landed on Amwoni. The young boy's little face glowed, his eyes lifted to the men in wonder. They all knew a few words of English, enough to communicate with Steve, to get their meaning across, but it wasn’t enough to understand the intention behind the words. The underlying threat. In that moment, Bucky made a decision.

He looked to Agent Ward again.

“Alright,” Bucky said tightly, his voice wavering with a strange mix of emotions.
“Whatever you want.”

I’ll have you know that the author has no clue how to a) find their own damned prompt to post this to as a reply for proper order b) un-double space this. ;) I’m sorry my garbabe is clogging the trash page.
The fic itself will have at least one more chapter and will be uploaded to Ao3 at some point. :)

You're filling this, yes!

Nice inclusion of Ward. I eagerly await more.

Bucky’s double-spaced nightmare continues.
You can find the fic on Ao3 here:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/17200607/chapters/40472615

Bucky moved slowly, his hand outstretched, palm up in front of his body, like a surrender. He watched the other soldiers wearily. They had turned their full attention on him. Their hands were ready, twitching, one finger on the trigger.

Bucky thought of Steve and what he would do when they found his body.

Do it for them. Keep walking. One foot in front of the other.

A nervous drop of sweat ran down his temple and disappeared under the fine cloth of his undergarmet. Bucky kept his pace, slow and steady, expecting signs that they were going to blast him right then and there every second now but nothing happened. The children didn't seem to notice the tense atmosphere at all.

When he finally reached Ward, miraculously still unharmed, Bucky swallowed hard and gathered all his courage. He couldn’t fight, he couldn’t run, he couldn’t resist. Instead, he took a deep breath, stood tall and gave his former handler a stiff one-armed embrace.

Ward wasted no time. When he pulled Bucky closer, chest to chest, he tried not to recoil from the touch. They were almost the same height. Over the agent’s shoulder, Bucky kept watching the other men like a hawk, unblinking, anxious to keep an eye out for movement at all times. The group seemed tense, on guard, like they were waiting for something. Bucky realized what it was before it happened. Ward wasn’t exactly subtle. His gloved hand slid further down Bucky’s spine, slowly wandering lower and lower, over the small of his back until it unabashedly came to rest on Bucky's ass. Real mature.

He wasn’t surprised. Not really. Hydra’s special brand of facism and toxic masculinity was bound to attract men like Ward - the ones who got off on exerting dominance over their victims. Sexual harassment was a means of control to them. It affirmed the ‘natural order’ of things. Bucky knew not to resist unless he meant to escalate the situation. He couldn’t. There was nothing to be done about the groping except to steel himself against the sickening sense of ‘wrong’ and wait it out until they got tired of humiliating him. The others chuckled and whistled at him while their leader copped a feel. Bucky gritted his teeth and imagined what their corpses would look like when Steve was through with them.

Eventually, Ward stopped squeezing and relaxed his grip. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he whispered hotly in Bucky's ear. “If you comply, maybe I’ll let one of your kids live.”

Bucky flinched in shock, his eyes opened wide. He tried to pull away but Ward squeezed him against his body and kept him in a tight hold, one arm locked behind Bucky's head. “Stay,” the Hydra agent ordered as if he was commanding his lap dog.

Bucky could have broken his arm with ease but he already knew what the consequences of that would be, so he did nothing. Not an option. Unfortunately.

“Don’t—” he hissed at Ward, carefully keeping his voice down, “...don’t hurt them.”

“Oh, you like those little fuckers, don’t you?” Ward whispered in his ear sweetly. The hot breath on his skin made Bucky break out in goosebumps. “You actually care about them, huh? That’s so cute.”

He grabbed Bucky's left shoulder painfully, squeezing the sensitive stump on purpose as he went until Bucky let himself wince. Then he was shoved and turned around to face the children.

Bucky stood stock-still, unresisting and making a show it, while Ward obnoxiously plastered himself to his back, threw one arm over Bucky's chest and rested his chin on his shoulder. He continued to smile unnaturally bright towards the little group as if he didn't know what the real thing was supposed to look like. Almost like Bucky before he had learned how to be a real person again. A joyless wolfish expression that threatened violence and nothing else.

“What shall we do with the little ones, huh? What do you think “Bucky”, wouldn’t they make perfect recruits for Hydra's new army? Look at them. Look! Look how they worship you with these big dumb eyes. You’re their fucking hero.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. It was true. Even now the children watched his every move, suspicious but still unaware of the danger they were in. Their attention had bothered him at first. In Wakanda, he stood out like a sore thumb. His white skin and the missing arm made him an oddity. People looked at him with an even stranger expression then before. He might have worn the asset's mask just as well.

Thankfully, time had worked in his favor. After a while, he’d gotten used to his reputation as the “White Wolf”, the crazy foreigner with the thousand yards stare. The constant presence of his uninvited young guests had helped to ease the way. When the people stopped treating him with fear, Bucky noticed that the sentiment went both ways. After he held Tamia’s fragile body against his own for the first time and swooped her up to dance, no longer concerned that he would clutch her little hands too tight or dirty her with his touch somehow, he was a changed man. Now he was just some funny uncle with a missing arm and a wild herd of goats.

Bucky's eyes dropped to the gun that was pressing at his backside. Ward kept it in a thigh holster, unsecured. It was a dare, a fake opportunity for Bucky to lose his cool, to reach for it and do something stupid that would get them all killed. He couldn't take the shot. He had way too many eyes on him as it was, too many to try anything. Not when the kids were in harms way. The risk was too high. Unless Bucky could take every single Hydra agent at once, the body count was bound to be catastrophic. He wasn’t prepared to pay that price, and they knew it.

“I'm no one's hero,” Bucky said pointedly, gritting his teeth.

“That's right,” Ward drawled. “We’re gonna show them what you really are, won’t we?”

“After you.”

Goon number 2 shoved Bucky backwards through the opening of his hut, following right on foot. Bucky stumbled but managed to catch his weight by clutching to the rattling chains of the old cauldron he used for cooking. He steadied himself and stepped aside so the soldiers could herd the children into his small home as well.

There was an olalem, a beautiful traditional machete on the wall to his right. It was useless to him at the moment. He couldn't get to it and even if he could, he couldn’t do enough damage with it before the kids’ chances of survival dropped to zero. These guys knew what they were doing.

Two men flanked him, gun ready at his head while the others lined the children up against the wall expertly, controlling the space. The guards with machine guns covered the oldest ones.

Bucky called them Number 4 and 5 in his head. Number 2 and 3 we’re covering him and constantly looking to Ward for approval. 5, 6 and 7 also remained by the wall with the children. 8, 9 and 10 were waiting outside, securing the parameter.

Someone had to be a weak link.

“Kids? Everybody stay calm, ok?” Bucky addressed the confused children. They seemed to have noticed that something was going on by now, something bad. Most of them were frowning and sticking together as close as possible. Some held hands or had latched the older kids’ coat-tails.

“Hlala... uphole. Thula,” Bucky repeated in their native tongue. Stay calm. Be quiet. “Nothing bad is gonna happen to us if we do as they say,” he said pointedly, adressing the men rather than the children.

Ward snorted loudly and clapped his hands together. “Alright? You heard the man. Stay calm! Don’t be shy, Bucky. Why don’t you give us a little tour?”

Bucky's eyes darted between Ward and the exit.

“OK. This is where I live. Not much to see.”

“Oh really?” Ward turned his back to him and walked around in a circle, stopping in front the rumpled blankets on the ground. “What’s this, smartass? The marriage bed?” he asked sarcastically, gesturing to the grey wool-blankets on the ground.

When Bucky didn't comment on it right away, Ward kicked the pillows aside and stepped on them with his dirty shoes, messing up the bedding and leaving ugly footprints.

It was true. This was where he slept with Steve, in just about every way a person could sleep with another whenever he took a break from the endless undercover missions with his rogue Avengers and visited Wakanda.

When Bucky had come back from the dead, practically reassembled from the ashes Thanos left behind, Steve had promised to stay, to give up the mantle of Captain America and retire. Cherish the life they could have together, but in the end, there was another crisis and Steve being Steve, couldn’t stand by idly. The same way it had always been.

In the meantime, Bucky took care of things at home and did his best to make everything look presentable. The small hut and what was in it, including Bucky himself, was in for a thorough makeover when he knew that Steve was coming, coming back to him. As if there was any reason to pretend. Steve already knew what is was like to live with him, and what he looked like at his worst, but it was nice to nest, to make a solid effort at looking sharp. Bucky called it being a good partner and keeping the romance alive. When they were together, they stopped picking up after themselves immediately. They never made the bed, forever the bachelors they were before the war. It was too comfortable, time too precious to waste on cleaning up.

Goon Number 2 stepped closer. Bucky barely had any time to brace himself before he got slapped across the face, hard. The sound rang too loud in the enclosed space and Bucky let his body turn with the impact to absorb the shock and hide his face.

One of the children started to cry out. The others gasped and held on to one another, fear settling in.

“The commander asked you a question, bitch!” the guy barked at him.

Bucky focused on breathing deeply. Staying in control. In and out. When he picked up his head and tried to face Agent Ward again, Number 2 backhanded him, hitting the other cheek this time. Hard.

Fine. This, he could handle.

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Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire

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