
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8987128.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, Other
  Fandom:
      Captain_America_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Clint_Barton/Wanda_Maximoff, Wanda_Maximoff/Sam_Wilson, Scott_Lang/Wanda
      Maximoff, Pietro_Maximoff/Wanda_Maximoff, OMC/Wanda_maximoff, Wanda
      Maximoff/Vision
  Character:
      Wanda_Maximoff, Scott_Lang, Sam_Wilson_(Marvel), Clint_Barton, Steve
      Rogers, Prison_Guards
  Additional Tags:
      Rape_By_Proxy, Gang_Rape, Sibling_Incest, Implied/Referenced_Incest,
      Drugged_Sex, The_Raft_Prison_(Marvel), Post-Captain_America:_Civil_War_
      (Movie), Implied/Referenced_Character_Death, Restraints, Homophobic
      Language, Racist_Language, Misogyny, Suicidal_Thoughts, Team_as_Family,
      Civil_War_Team_Captain_America, HYDRA_Trash_Party, Eventual_Happy_Ending
  Collections:
      Hydra_Trash_Meme_anon_fills
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-12-24 Words: 6947
****** Out Of The Night ******
by Anonymous
Summary
     Wanda knew this was coming.
     (Also, see end of story notes for prompt)
Notes
     This is the same story as "illusion Spin Her Net" but listed
     elsewhere.
See the end of the work for more notes
     
**** Work Text: ****
Wanda is floating until they haul her down.
The advantage of the drugs, injected into her throat twice a day, is how they
fuzz out details and blur out time. Wanda's floating on a high, awash in
limitless darkness, dreaming of Pietro's heartbeat, when her scalp catches fire
under a rough hand jerking her hair. She yelps and a too-tight grip brands her
shoulder, hauling her forward, bumping her across the floor.
Her men are yelling. Her teammates, Sam, Scott, Clint, they're yelling, muffled
behind their cell walls as they pound and protest uselessly, uselessly, as if
they've never been caged, any of them. Wanda just laughs, thick and garbled in
her mouth, as she's dragged an unmeasurable distance and thrown over a plastic
crate, its edge pressing into her belly. She's been caged before, trapped with
her brother, alone in the dark. She's been expecting this every day and night
since Stark left them to Ross's hard-handed soldiers. She knew, she knew.
Hard fingers raking down her backside and air over her bared skin, her pants
and panties jerked away, her teammates screaming harshly as lower laughter
cackles around her, as broad hands crush her down on the crate. She laughs into
a scream, she kicks in a daze, a punch slams her forehead into the box, comets
arc across her sight. Wanda knew this was coming.
Hard hands pressing the air from her lungs as they pin her, shoving her legs
apart, landing flat-palmed smacks to her inner thighs. Rough cloth-covered
thighs between hers and Wanda howls from her gut, echoing off the ceiling. This
is how they broke her open and released her power, long years ago. She knew it
was coming.
The first man makes the mistake of sliding his hands up under the
straightjacket as he grips her waist, nudging his penis against her ass, lining
himself up --
--she is drugged and unfocused but with skin against skin she doesn't need to
aim. She slams agony into him, digs a thousand hooks into his psyche and
wrenches every bad memory to the surface. He falls back howling, the others cry
out curses, and blows hammer down on her, fists, sticks, boots. She rolls side
to side, choking on bursts of pain, laughing, laughing, laughing. This is how
she stopped them then. This is why they won't dare now.
A shout and the beating pauses. Another as a fist resumes its grip on her hair
keeping her tethered. She coughs and spits garbled curses in Sokovian, daring
the next, the next, the next. Daring them to touch her again.
Perhaps they'll beat her to death instead. Mayhap Pietro will come for her.
And then a full-chested voice rings out and the prison, the world, goes silent.
Echoes die away as Wanda belatedly comprehends. "Make one of those bastards
breed her. The little bitch won't attack her fellow traitors. Probably."
For the first time fear wakes within her, cold coils squirming in her belly.
Not her teammates, her friends, Clint who took her in, Sam who's steadied her,
Scott and his enduring cheer. "Ne," she moans, "no no no," until she can force
her teeth to dent her lip, pinning her foolish mouth closed. But the guards
heard her useless cry, their laughter booms over her head as a glove-smooth
hand smacks her rump and boots clamp down on her aching ankles and she must
stop thrashing. Stop, she tells herself, stay still, but it's not until she
uses's Pietro's voice that she can collapse, limp over the crate, her scalp and
calves burning from useless effort.
Wanda remembers, wavering like sight through tears, how she and Pietro were
forced to intimacies, in the second group home as the price for staying
together, under Strucker's watchful eye as he wondered aloud if they'd breed
true. She remembers his hands, gentle even as they fumbled, his mind focused on
their love within the flickering rage. She remembers, her eyes pressed shut,
her cheek seamed by the crate's edge, how she opened her mind and let him in
like no other.
Wanda had wondered, haltingly, cautiously, secretly to her own soul, if she
might with Viz, what it would be to wrap herself in the warm metallic silk of
his mind and the warm android smoothness of his body. She had wondered. She
should have known better. She should have known.
"Line 'em up by dick size," crashes through her thoughts. Men have been
shouting around her, laughing, protesting.
Socked feet drag on the textured metal floor. " -- can't shoot any of us," in
Clint's voice..
Further back, a gun cocks. "The General will be so sad," says the loud clear
voice, "so very disappointed, to hear former Staff Sergeant Wilson tried to
escape."
"And got his coon ass shot," a reedy voice puts in. Clint snarls wordlessly,
Scott makes a sharp sound of dismay, Sam is ominously silent.
"What's'a'matter, Barton?" jeers a third voice. "Little bitch's young and
fresh. A bit skinny but nice ass," as another slap reverberates through Wanda's
bottom. "No one's that married."
"That right?" from the loud clear voice. "Thinking of your family? Maybe you
don't have to take a turn if you let us know where they are." Wanda chokes as
panic stabs through her, the farmhouse rising white surrounded by green in her
memory, blackened burnt sticks in her fears. "You know the General needs to be
sure your kids aren't being neglected. Considering their traitor dad."
The voices settle to snickering and heavy breaths. Wanda's heart pounds between
her spine and breastbone. If she had any other secret to offer, to spare Clint
this...
...he says nothing. Another voice says, "C'mon, sir, not even this asshole
wants to fuck his own wife." The guards' coarse laughter rises again,
sandpapery in her ears and down her flayed nerves. Shut up, she wants to snap,
and grits her teeth together, swallows around the lump in her throat, takes as
deep a breath as she can pressed down to the crate. This is going to happen,
inevitable as a battle, and all she can do is get herself and her teammates
through it.
Stumbling footsteps and swirling air, and Clint's "Get your damn foot off her,"
comes from behind. Despite her efforts at calm, Wanda tenses all down her
spine.
The mocking laughter's unsurprising but least the boots don't press harder on
her ankles. "Get to it," booms in the clear voice as thinner cloth brushes her
legs, and Clint thumps down. "Let's see that famous aim."
Clint growls low, as if restraining a snide reply, and the tiniest bubble of
pride pushes against the heavy blanket of her fear. "Get off her hair," he says
instead, his hands settling lightly on her jacketed waist. "Let me turn her
over."
"Nice try, Barton," is the answer, and Clint huffs softly, as if hit. "Like
we'd let you get at those straps. This little witch-puppy stays in her jacket,
and you'd better stop dawdling or we'll see if a Maglite fits up her little
cunt."
"And shoot Wilson," adds the reedy voice, directly overhead. Its owner really
seems to dislike Sam. Wanda is beginning to especially dislike him. She blinks,
seeing only her own hair and a blue-black blur beyond. If she weren't drugged
and disoriented, she could focus, pull his feet out from beneath him, pull his
firearm from his hands--
Clint's hands shock her out of that thought, his callouses whispering along the
skin of her hips. His mind washes up against hers, drenched in sadness and
simmering with banked fury, and under all else, dark and sticky, his self-
directed rage. She's his windfall, his young teammate to protect, not to
desire, not to hurt, and he thinks he's failed --
"Clint," Wanda manages, though she slurs and her cheek drags along the tacky
plastic. "Hey."
"Hey," he answers, voice thick. She can feel his throat tight, his eyes
burning, like her own. He leans in over her, pressing to the seam of her lower
lips, and she can feel him, neither fully hard nor limp, she can feel the
formless apology in his mind.
She would touch his wrists if she could. She would pin all their tormentors to
the ceiling and rip the roof open to set them free, if she could. She exhales,
and goes limp, and does her best to enfold him in forgiveness, in acceptance,
like her red radiance.
Someone makes an impatient throat-sound. "I didn't say rub off, Barton," booms
the clear-voiced leader. "I want to watch you nail her, and you better not pull
your punches."
Wanda winces, remembering her own words, thrown back at them now like
vengeance. She feels Clint wince above her, pressed to her, as Natasha's red-
framed beauty washes through both their minds on a tide of regret. She feels
Clint's pained noise, deep in his throat, overlaying her own sob caught behind
her teeth. "I'm sorry," he murmurs to her, taking his draw hand from her skin
to grip the crate, and she can hear the rest as clearly as if he'd said it,
Sorry, so sorry, wanted to befriend you, give you a family, not torapeyou...
"With me," Wanda chokes out. Words are difficult, all the more so under the
heavy drag of the drugs, but she presses them into his consciousness, one by
one. Raped with me. By them. We're together.
Clint's arms tremble, his fingers shake on her skin. A sob rips through his
next breath like paper tearing. But Wanda can feel him understand, just before
he lets go to stroke himself. She can feel him feel her.
Clint grips her hip again and Wanda feels his sorrow tempered with fondness. He
presses forward so slowly he trembles with it, nudging her open millimeter by
millimeter, and the vile audience whoops and cheers, voices falling on her like
blows. Together, Wanda reminds herself, clinging to Clint's mind as she once
clung to Pietro's, struggling against herself to relax and let him in.
Clint feels her wince, and pauses with just the head between her nether lips,
thinking of pulling back altogether. His hand slides forward, down, fingertips
along the margin of her belly. "I could..." he murmurs low, letting her figure
out the rest. He could try to please her, make it better, for her sake,
therefore for his.
Wanda pulls her mouth into a deliberate smile, though her cheek drags against
the crate. She pulls her thoughts together, finding words to reassure him --
"Hey, what's the holdup?" booms over them, shivers through them both; Wanda's
gasp crushes her chest on her arms, Clint's hand spasms on her hip. No, she
mouths to him, thinks to him. It wouldn't work, would only prolong this pain.
It's okay. No.
"Not okay," Clint grits out between his teeth, but he pushes forward, and
someone whoops, and Wanda feels her blurry eyes stretch wide at the shoving,
tugging sensation of being entered dry and unwilling. An aching moan rises in
her throat and she bites her lip to drive it back, to overshadow one pain with
another, squeezes her eyes shut and flexes her fingers inside their gloves.
Clint exhales long and shuddering, thinking even as he sinks to the root that
he's uncertain he can even complete this if all Wanda can do is endure him.
Perhaps she can speed this. Not bothering with words, Wanda offers Clint all
the illusion she can produce, safety and a soft mattress, familiar sheets and -
-
He flinches from the thought. "No," he growls, and again, gently, "no,"
refusing her offer as she refused his.
"Uh, yeah!" calls the soldier pinning Wanda's left ankle. "Enough sweet
nothings! Let's see some fucking!"
Could use a good example flickers through Clint's mind, defiant snideness
followed hard by guilt, and Wanda lays the ghost of her hand on his. I'm here
with you, kid, he thinks, with the same warmth as the first time he hugged her.
Together.
Together, Wanda agrees, and braces as Clint tugs himself out, and breathes as
he gets to it.
He sets a measured pace, and she keeps hold of her breathing and control,
though her brain sloshes in her head and red lights flicker behind her leaking
eyes. She watches him blank his mind with focus on pure physical movement,
pushing away the jeers and hoots outside their tiny dented bubble, and digs
herself in as best she can. But his movement is inside her and she can't not
feel it, the uncomfortable cycling edge of a rising burn. She can't not feel
the crate sticking to her wet face as she's shifted back and forth, back and
forth. Shouts and curses and the pressure on her ankles batter at her attempted
calm.
At least she's unsurprised. Orphanage or Hydra or these American soldiers,
hostile aroused audiences are all alike.
But even as Clint drives himself closer and closer to the edge, they're getting
to him too, denting his composure with their disgusting noise. He absently pets
her hip to soothe them both until he realizes what he's doing, and self-
conscious shame drags his head down, hanging over her almost close enough to
see through her tumbled hair. A hoarse shout of, "Put your back into it!"
sparks a memory of sly joy that slices through him now, and cuts Wanda open
too. He curses under his breath, thinking so clearly how he can't, just until
he realizes with mounting horror that he can, he will.
Clint's control breaks, his last few thrusts wild enough to thump her
bruisingly against the crate, and as he comes with wet spurts inside her he
sobs aloud over her, just once but too many, tears pattering one two three four
into her hair.
Wanda would speak but can only gasp. It's sticky and it hurts and Clint
shudders like he's seizing and she can't comfort him anymore, she's too shaken
herself, shivering as they rip him away from her and cool air washes into the
ragged gap. She can't reach Clint, she's lost her composure, her teeth would
chatter if she didn't clench them together; her chest heaves uncontrollably
between her own weight and her arms pinned against the crate, as she gasps
airlessly and tears stream from her eyes, soaking into her hair.
The times before were horrible but at least she hadn't been this helpless. At
least she'd had Pietro, her twin, her life. She shouldn't want Clint back but
at least she wasn't alone.
The soldiers are jeering, mocking Clint as "a crybaby" and "so tender", and
Wanda doesn't hear him at all. "Hope Lang'll give us a better show," gets a
yelp from Scott and heavy footsteps stumbling towards her, and a fresh cold
sweat breaks out down Wanda's back. She wants to scream no, to squirm away and
hide in a crack, to scour every soldier's mind with a sheet of red fire.
She can do none of these. She is helpless. She swallows hard on a sob, choking
it down to quiet, and the hand in her hair shakes her. "You awake there,
bitchpuppy?" asks the booming leader, and Wanda defiantly presses her lips
shut. "Relaxing between turns?" She holds herself still, until a sudden blow to
her waist makes her cough up a cry.
"Stop that." Scott's voice wobbles, he falls with an "ow" between her thighs,
landing on her back, jamming her belly against the crate's edge. Wanda gasps
between pain and searing pain, and Scott babbles out, "Sorry, sorry, I'm so
sorry," and if skin could just touch bare skin at least they could connect.
Waves of pain rippling through her composure, Wanda squirms beneath Scott's
struggles, towards him, away, and the guards laugh all around them. "Oooh,
little cunt's eager!" calls the reedy bigot. "C'mon, Lang, give her what she
wants!"
"None of us want -t-!" Scott's fingers brush Wanda's thigh, she grabs for his
mind, he stutters as he feels her there.
Shh, she tries to tell him, and where to put his hands, which flutter
uncertainly over the jacket, over her skin, until he presses one lightly on the
small of her back. Over them, the leader says, "Sorry, jailbird, you don't get
to put it up her ass," and Scott snorts.
"Meatheads," he says clearly enough to echo off the walls around him, expecting
to be hit for it, imagining ridiculous chivalry such as shielding Wanda with
his body. A moment's footsteps and his pride congeals into dread, alarm
flaring, and Wanda dizzily glimpses Clint through his eyes, shoved into his
cell at rifle point.
"Get it up, Shrink Boy," says the leader, "or we'll redecorate your room with
the inside of Barton's head."
"Wow, sexy," Scott mutters over nausea Wanda shares. "Maybe that kind of thing
gets you off," as he gently rubs his thumb over Wanda's spine, an apology in
his strokes, "but we normal people enjoy stuff like consent and comfort and a
lot fewer guns."
That's met with some snickers and some snarls and a boot tightening on Wanda's
ankle as the leader says, "Well, we real men enjoy stuff like the kind of
shapely ass this little bitch's been sitting on, and apparently her cunt made a
grown man cry, so let's see what you think of it."
"I think this is shitty inmate management all around," Scott mutters, but he's
looking down at Wanda as she shivers in pain, trying her best not to cry out.
"Oh," he shouts, looking around, dismayed anger clenching in his chest, "okay,
okay, ease up! You don't have to hurt her, all right! Or him! I'll do it. Just
don't hurt anyone." There's nasty snickering as the boot releases its pressure,
and Scott leans in, whispering, "Hey, hey, okay?"
Okay Wanda tells him, though her thoughts wobble like a voice and she feels his
answering grimace. His hands are softer than Clint's, clumsier as he pets her
hips, but just as earnestly gentle. His regretful apology overflows all around
his sorry, and she tries her best to send him acceptance and manages at least
enough fatalism to win an easing in his chest, a sad little chuckle in his
thoughts as he reaches to stroke himself hard.
This is hopeless, slides across his mind, over a deeper wish for Hope, and
Wanda hears the name in the thought. The soldiers yell, her ears and ankles
hurt, and she's dizzy and aching and tired, she wants this over. She amplifies
Scott's thought of Hope, tall and slender with dark hair swinging around her
chin and sparkling eyes, letting him see what she's doing, not that she could
hide her mind's clumsy lurches. Wordlessly, she offers him the option.
Sucking in an eager breath, Scott grasps the mirage, grabs hold of her, pushing
into Wanda with his mind full of Hope. Flesh smacks against flesh and the
expanding ache ripples through Wanda, pushing a cry up her throat, rattling her
teeth against each other. She clings to Scott's mind, to his dream, but he's a
thousand miles away with a silky head pressed to his shoulder and velvet skin
shifting against his. He's left her alone with the shouting guards, in her
wracked body. She's alone after all, alone and invaded and crumbling thrust by
thrust, and she can't, she can't ...
She scrabbles after an escape, trying to twist her strapped-down hands, to
wring out her sodden brain. But even at her best it was difficult to trick her
own self, profoundly wrong to call up an image of Pietro. And now, so far from
her best, every pounding slam in shoves her against the crate's edge and every
drag out pulls the fragments of her composure further apart. The sobs swell
until she can't hold them back any longer, each one ripping out of her, tearing
little bits from her insides, scouring its way out of her throat.
Worse and worse, as Scott's fantasy fades around the edges, as he has to fight
back against the knowledge it's a dream, he chases it desperately, digging his
fingers into Wanda's waist, snapping his hips as he gasps and the guards cheer
over her. Soreness rises to searing pain, her throat burns as harshly around
screams, and she desperately fights her own longing to keep from shoving him
away, her fellow hostage.
Scott breathes, "H--?" as his orgasm overtakes him, sweeping the crumbled dream
from his mind. He comes to himself flickering hot and cold all over with Wanda
shivering under his hands, sobbing her heart out, his most cruel prison waking
yet. And all Wanda can do is sob from her depths, as Scott babbles in dismay,
shoving himself away from her as he gasps out apologies and useless
reassurance, until the guards drag him away and she's alone with nothing but
enemies and pain once more.
Noise ebbs and swells around her, and then she hears, horribly clear through
her own crying, the reedy voice shout, "Whoa Wilson! So eager for that white
puss-ay?"
"My teammate," Sam says, even more clearly, measured and slow, "is hurt, and
needs medical attention. I am a medic. Let me help her."
The guards have a never-ending supply of jeers, but Sam thumps down beside her,
not between her pinned legs. Wanda blinks open her blurry eyes, sobs still
hitching through her, and she can't see anything but a warm dark blur between
cold dark blurs, until the bright flash of Sam's smile.
"I'm gonna touch your head, okay?" and his broad hand settling light as a
butterfly on her cheek, her ear, her tumbled hair. He brushes her hair back
gently, not tugging even where it's stuck with tears to her face, and thinks as
clearly as he said, I kinda think you can hear me like this too, huh?
Wanda can't stop crying. She can't even see, her eyes blurred into uselessness
with drugs and weeping. But she can think her assent to Sam, can reach out for
the connection he's wise enough to extend, can catch hold.
He checks her over, thinking to her each place he'll touch before he does,
murmuring softly when he's not touching her skin. Wanda starts to sniffle down
to calm, around the aches in her chest and between her thighs, the pains in her
head and heart.
She starts, but the guards chatter over them and she can't shut her ears.
"C'mon, sir," one says, "three for three."
Sam's hand is steady on the small of her back, but he shakes inside, furious,
worried. Wanda thinks her hand in his, the comfort of twined fingers, and he
pats her gently. Clean you up? he thinks softly to her, but there's so much
doubt beneath he can't hide though he would, though he's trying.
Wanda wavers, wobbling, and then the reedy voice falls between them. "I dunno,
sir, it might come out looking like a monkey."
Sam tenses down to the ends of his fingers.
"Do you ever shut up?" in the booming voice. "Anyway, we're not breeding her
for her looks, though they're not bad, at that."
Wanda's heart jacknifes in her chest. This isn't just mere cruelty, how captors
treat prisoners. They intend for her to conceive. They want her baby, she can't
have a baby, she can't breathe inside this jacket, she's not even twenty-one,
she can't breathe, she can't breathe!
A hand settles on her face, lighter than the wind. "Shhh," Sam murmurs, hums,
thinks. Shhh. It'll be okay. Steve will get us out. Somehow.
Wanda is not so certain. They don't even know if Steve and Barnes survived. But
Sam is certain, and she grabs hold of his faith, steadying herself against her
own shuddering terror.
"What's up, pussycat?" asks a guard, pressure tightening on Wanda's ankle, and
Sam blazes inside. Have to try, he thinks and she feels him look up.
"Get your boot off her," Sam says in that same quiet clear voice. "You too. I
need to turn her over."
"Oh, please," is the response, and joint-creaking pressure until she gasps, hot
pain radiating up her legs. "We've already let you have too much foreplay."
"I don't think Lang wants another hole in his head," puts in the reedy voice,
and there's a distant dismayed shout from Scott. "Do you?"
"She's our teammate," Sam answers. "We'd all die to protect her." Wanda's heart
flutters in shock to hear it said aloud, so calmly, so surely. "I need to turn
her over. So let her up."
"So you can untie her jacket?" challenges the reedy voice, and Wanda feels
Sam's suppressed flinch from the muzzle shoved into his face. "Want us to see
if your brains are brown too?"
"Shooting me here doesn't really fit with that attempted escape narrative," Sam
replies. Wanda lets her body go limp and struggles up through Sam's mind to
look up through his eyes at the flat-faced owner of the reedy voice, sneering
down at him but with uncertain eyes.
"Back off, guys," booms the loud leader from behind them. The guards step back,
getting off her ankles, and the absence of pain surges through Wanda's blood
like ecstasy, making her sob deep before she can be silent again. "Wilson,
finish up," he adds. "Little bitch's doing fine, and you're going next." Sam
has a calmly defiant response to that, but the leader forestalls it with,
"Because we've got your teammates at gunpoint, and you'd do anything to save
their lives too, wouldn't you?"
Something small but important snaps inside Sam, Wanda can feel him sag under
the inevitability. She thinks her hand in his till he can feel it instead of
her skin, thinks her acceptance, and he thinks back in regretful gratitude.
"You and your goons are a disgrace to the uniform," Sam answers, but it's just
a brave surrender.
"Ah, the power of friendship." The leader laughs, all the guards snicker. "I
bet you're piss poor at poker," he tells Sam. "Flip her over if you want, but
don't even think of untying her. Just get to it."
Wanda's limp legs don't want to cooperate, muscles twitching randomly, but Sam
gathers her up and leans her back against the crate, and she draws as deep a
breath as the jacket will let her. "I'm sorry," he murmurs as he skims his
hands up her calf to curl light, investigative fingers around her sore ankle.
"Does this hurt?"
Wanda's heavy head lolls sideways as she does her best to let Sam feel what she
feels from her ankle only. He can feel it's undamaged, but other sensations
bleed through and he winces and she feels all the more raw. "Shh, it's okay,"
he tells her, gently pushing away before the feedback loop drags them down into
each other's pain.
Someone groans as Sam tends to her other ankle. "Got a foot fetish?" an
impatient voice demands.
"I dunno," someone else answers, "she does have pretty feet."
"Not the point!"
"He just wants to see that big black dick in action," says Reedy Voice, and
that makes Sam flinch, inside where they can't see, but all the same. Wanda
especially hates Reedy Voice, infinity upon infinities. Cautiously, careful to
avoid the previous feedback loop, she shares this with Sam, and feels the
bright ghost of his smile.
Then, as she catches the glimmer of his small plan, his hands leave her. She
hears a whispering scrape of cloth on cloth, and an outraged shout of "Hey,
that's government property!" as a ripping sound snarls.
"Taxpayers got cheated," Sam says as he reaches around and behind Wanda, and
cloth briefly brushes her cheek.
"Good think -- uh!" Clint calls over thunks of blows. Curling his hand behind
her nape and his arm around her waist, Sam lifts Wanda back onto the crate and
she feels the fabric beneath her bare bottom, thin but welcome over the hard
surface.
Radiating regret and protectiveness, Sam gathers Wanda's knees over his elbows,
cradling her hips with his hands. Ready/okay/all right? he thinks, and she
sends him assent, letting her head tip back over the crate's edge, trying to
give in to gravity again. He nudges her, horribly intense, she tenses all over
and he swears under his breath, stroking soothingly with his thumbs, and enters
her as gently as he can.
Again it hurts to be pushed into, now with bruises stretching, the sheer rising
ache momentarily drowning out the nasty cheers falling like grenades all around
them. Flailing for something, anything else to notice, Wanda grabs hold of that
helpful deafness and does her best to hold it over both their ears, and Sam
puffs a breath, thinks gratitude and asks, how would be best? Slow and easy?
Fast?
Get it over with, Wanda tells him, struggling not to hear, to ignore what she
feels, to breathe.
Need a little help, he tells her ruefully, and hang on, as he starts moving, a
steady pace but too fast to keep from jostling her. Each thump threatens to
shove a scream up Wanda's throat but she pushes down on it, concentrates on the
light gentleness of Sam's hands, sends him that warm comfort back. It might be
kinder to send him a full fantasy as she gave Scott, but she can't bear to be
left alone again.
Maybe the thought bleeds over, maybe not, but Sam murmurs, "No one else, baby
girl. Just you and me here." Wanda's eyes flash open in shock, though all she
can see is blobby darknesses, and Sam reaches for her, thinking or saying, come
here. The move folds her in half but the increased discomfort is nothing to the
warmth of his hand curling behind her nape and his forehead resting on hers.
Several more thrusts, smooth though speeding, until he shudders through his
orgasm. For a moment it feels almost, almost...
Pietro flickers through her thoughts, and Sam's breath brushes her cheeks like
down, and Wanda's tears this time are warm rather than scalding.
But she loses her hold and the horrible audience rushes back in, cooing
sarcastically around them.
Bracing himself, Sam pushes up and hoarsely snaps, "There's your damn show." He
gathers Wanda up against his chest as he eases out, her cheek over his heart as
he kneels back. "Now get her some water and let me make sure she's okay."
"I'm sure such tender loving didn't hurt her at all," says the loud leader.
"Didn't even wake her up," put in Reedy Voice, and Wanda opens her eyes just to
glare. "C'mon, playtime's over." Hands descend on them, then, and though Sam
grunts with effort they peel his arms away from her, grab her around the waist
and chest and rip her away from him, limp as a sack in their indifferent hold.
"Get him a new shirt," orders the leader. "Hey, prisoners! Just remember, the
next shift won't believe you, so don't even bother tattling. As for you," as
the wall hits Wanda's back, as rough hands drag trousers up her legs, as the
roughest of all grabs her clothed crotch and squeezes until the radiating ache
pushes a gasp out of her, "there we go." The loud leader lets go, his voice
rising as he stands. "Nice and juicy. Tomorrow you'll treat all my boys as
nicely as your criminal pals there, and we'll keep it up until you give us a
gifted baby we can raise the American way. You get all that, Maxi?"
After everything he's just had her put through, his words wash over Wanda,
horror leaving its reservation to return later. Slumped half-upright against
the wall, she rocks her leaden head back; her vision wavers in and out of
focus, and she catches an impression of a jowly face, snub nose, the particular
glint of unsympathetic eyes.
She'd spit at his feet if she had the moisture to spare. Deliberately, with
what strength she can summon, she presses her lips together and pokes out her
tongue at him.
He just laughs. She didn't expect anything else. "Don't give me ideas," he
says, and pushes shut the glass door of her cell.
Wanda slumps sideways into a heap on the floor, limp and blank and so very
tired, aching from her sinuses to her ankles and so many places in between. She
lets the shudders come and go, unresisting, drifting.
Eventually thoughts float through her mind, memories of Clint's trembling voice
and Scott's earnest hands and Sam's steadiness, how each of her teammates tried
to help her, pulled like gems from muck. Eventually, as the lights are dimmed,
night brought to them, she scrapes together some coherence, even a few warming
scraps of defiance.
Almost dispassionately, all her pains seething low, Wanda considers tomorrow.
So the leader thinks she'll submit to his men, that she'll let them breed a
miracle child from her. She lies on her side, wept dry, and shifts her fingers
side to side in their rigid gloves. The jacket and the drugs keep her powers
fenced into her body, but she still has them, has herself. All her life she's
fought to survive, but perhaps now is the time to unmake herself, especially if
she can bring one of the guards to oblivion with her. Hopefully the reedy-
voiced one, or the loud leader.
Hopefully in a way to spare her teammates, her friends, her companions in these
ordeals. They would die for her, Sam said. Perhaps she can die for them.
Perhaps she might see Pietro again.
It's a grim plan, but it's something more than waiting like an inert object.
Wanda lets thoughts go again, sinking away from herself into sleep, and dreams
of swirling red.
                                      ***
As it turns out, the next day Steve comes for them.
                                      ***
It took Steve 128 hours to return for his team and seventeen minutes to fight
his way through the Raft to find them, and in that time something terrible
happened to them in here. Scott's silent and pale, Clint's eyes are sunken, and
as soon as Sam's checked both of them over he turns and slumps against Steve's
side, as if all of the gravity he's ever defied has found him here to weigh him
down.
And Wanda... She sits on the floor, head bowed and hair lank, wrapped in a
straight jacket and overly large pants, her feet bare and her ankles bruised
red. Anger swells in Steve's chest -- she's a kid for God's sake, and none of
them deserved being thrown in this dungeon -- and he takes a couple slow deep
breaths before he pushes open the cell door and kneels beside her.
Her head barely shakes when he calls her, she looks almost completely out. He's
considering lifting her when Sam says low, "Touch her."
"Huh?" Steve looks up at Sam leaning against the doorway. At least he's folded
his arms, an echo of his usual alert stance.
"Her cheek," Sam advises. "Skin on skin. They drugged her, but..."
"Yeah." Steve got a briefing from Natasha -- ironically, SHIELD developed the
cocktail used to restrain 'individuals with abilities' -- but it didn't include
the cruel restraints. Steve wonders if she knew. He wonders if she knows
whether Tony knows about his recent teammates being thrown in an oubliette. If
he had a hand in this.
Steve stops wondering. He's let Wanda into his mind before, since he decided to
trust her, during training. He swallows hard against the slight hesitant squirm
in his belly, slides his hand gently beneath the curtain of her hair, and
settles his palm to her cheek.
She fills his mind with warm red, like a sunset or a sunrise, with his name,
with the feeling of a smile as her cheek curves a little beneath his hand. You
came for us.
"You betcha," he tells her, trying not to ooze guilt everywhere, trying to
smile. He feels a brush of fingers across his, and a sense of effort, and
Wanda's head flops back on her neck, her eyes cracking open enough to show a
glint of awareness between her lashes.
Her cheeks are red, too, and her eyes are puffy. She looks like she's been
crying. Steve wants to go back, wake up one of Ross's guards, and pummel out
the details of whatever they did to his team. Too late he remembers to tamp
down on his violent thought, but Wanda doesn't flinch. Her eyelids flutter,
shut and half-mast and shut and open, and she looks at him, even if with hugely
blown pupils. "Natasha got me an antidote," he tells her, and though she blinks
slowly her presence flutters in his mind, a translucent red butterfly in his
head. "Here, I just --"
She's here? Wanda thinks before he lets go.
As he pulls out the syringe he nods vigorously. "Yeah, in the jet, and --"
Forgave? meets his next touch, his hand wrapped behind her nape.
"We're all friends," Steve ... oversimplifies. "Nothing to forgive."
Wanda looks at him, with all her imperious disbelief, and he has to smile a
little. Do it, she orders before he can start his canned explanation, so he
shuts up and looks to Sam.
Sam just waves him on. In the background, Scott is standing very still while
Clint methodically stomps apart a yellow plastic crate. Time to get Wanda on
her feet and everyone out of here. Steve uncaps the needle and carefully pushes
it through the thick canvas into her arm, counting to twenty as he slowly
presses down the plunger.
Wanda inhales like she hasn't breathed in a week, and blinks rapidly, and says
in a rusty voice, "I want this jacket off."
"Okay," Steve says, capping and stashing the syringe, "Lemme just --"
"Never mind the fastenings," Sam says from the doorway. "Just rip it." Wanda
tips forward, and Steve brushes her hair aside, grabs hold, and tears the
jacket down her back --
--revealing no shirt, not even a bra, nothing but pale, bare skin. Steve yanks
his hands away -- she's naked under the jacket, what the hell, how dare they do
this to a prisoner, a girl? -- but Wanda's tugging and shaking, trying to push
her arms forward as she gasps, "Off, off."
Sam steps in, reaching for the jacket with one hand and his shirt collar with
the other, but Clint's right behind him, blue over-shirt already in hand. "My
turn," he softly tells Sam, who turns and looks at him with those eloquent
eyes, and nods.
Clint kneels at Wanda's other side, tugs the jacket from her arm and helps her
into his shirt so efficiently Steve sees nothing blush-worthy. He helps pull
the jacket away from her other arm, Clint helps her into the other sleeve, and
Wanda grabs his shoulders as he stands. "Thanks, Cap," he murmurs, slowly
looking up over her head, finally meeting Steve's eyes.
The words still hit like body blows. "Not Cap anymore," Steve answers. "But it
can wait. Right now we need out of here."
Wanda turns and wraps her arms around Steve's left. Sam slots in behind him,
taking his right hand. "I can walk," she tells them. "Let's go."
                                      ***
The fastest way out is through the control room, littered with unconscious
guards. Nat's stingers are pretty effective on non-enhanced humans. Every so
often Scott or Clint step on rather than over someone, but Steve figures they
have their reasons.
Sam stops. Wanda stops. So, Steve stops. They're looking down at a particular
guard with a particularly nondescript yet unpleasant face. Wanda looks back
over her shoulder, where the shift chief lies slumped in the doorway; then she
unwinds her arms from Steve's, reaches back, and makes a little high grunt of
effort.
Steve decides not to watch. "I just want everyone to know," he says as lightly
as he can, "I went to a lot of trouble not to kill anyone on my way in. " He
looks at Sam instead, into his clear brown eyes, edged with new stress lines
and the purplish remains of a bruise.
Sam looks steadily back at him, their fingers interlaced, as they listen to the
sound of a prone body dragging across the floor, as Wanda huffs a few more
times and red flickers at the edge of his vision. "We appreciate it, Steve,"
Sam replies, and gently squeezes Steve's hand, palm to palm.
"All done," Wanda says almost brightly, a little wickedly, and Steve looks.
No one's dead. The guard who drew their attention lies face to face with the
shift chief, their hands tucked through each other's belts, a glint of steel
between their zippered flies. "You handcuffed them together by the balls?"
Scott asks, the first Steve's heard him speak.
"Nothing they can't handle with the power of friendship," Wanda says, too
brightly, and Steve looks over at her. She stands with her head high, little
flickers of red light ruffling through her hair as she trembles, looking down
at the two guards she clearly has a very good reason to have a grudge against,
and the curve of her mouth is almost entirely unlike a smile.
Scott steps up beside her and hesitantly offers her his hand. She looks at him
for a moment, reaches out and folds her hand into his. Clint comes up on her
other side and she tucks her arm through his as well. They walk forward
together out of the control room, Steve follows with Sam down the hall and up
the ladder, and when they reach the hangar Wanda pushes open the irised
ceiling, letting in the sunlight.
End Notes
     https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/
     2271.html?thread=4810719#cmt4810719
     Text of prompt: Wanda in The Raft Baddies at The Raft - secretly
     Hydra, gross random guards, morally bankrupt Ross, whoever - want to
     breed Wanda. To see how she'll react they start things off by making
     the rest of Team Cap take turns. Not picky about details but having
     some or all of our guys crying would be A+. If you can work in that
     this has happened before (with her brother?) I have a nice plate of
     moldy cookies to offer you.
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