hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #2: ...'Cause a Hydra Trash Party don't stop

Dumpster #2: ...'Cause a Hydra Trash Party don't stop

Unholy hell-miracle achieved! Welcome to Bad Guys Do Bad Things To Your Faves 2: Electric Boogaloo. AKA the seamy sexual-violence-and-violent-sex underbelly of Captain America fandom, AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. As usual, BLANKET NON-CON AND NSFW WARNINGS apply: just assume going in that everything in this landfill is unfit for human consumption.

Rules in brief: don't be a jerk except to fictional characters, warnings for particularly fucked-up garbage are nice but not required, thou shalt not judge the trashiness of thy neighbor's kinks unless thy neighbor is trying to pass off their rotting banana peels and half-eaten pizza crusts as a healthy romantic dinner for two, off-topic comments may be chucked out of the dumpster at management's discretion, management's discretion decrees that omegaverse, soulbond AUs, D/s-verse, non-superpowered AUs, and dark!good guys AUs are off-topic.

[Round 1] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by

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Round 2 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 3.

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I could...probably write this, but it will take some time and some dancing around what i'm personally comfortable with, but yeah.

Did you want this story to have (graphic) sexual elements, or not?

Author!anon, this story is breaking me so deliciously. I'm in love with everything about this fill, and especially this latest update. I cannot begin to describe how deeply certain scenes gutted me -- Steve after Bucky's flashback, Bucky filling the mattress with bullets. Speaking of which, GOD. The way you used these tiny details to evoke such a horrifying mental image of that cell and what Bucky had to endure in that bed just wrecked me.

I'm going to echo other commenters here and also mention how much I loved Sam ignoring the openings Steve gave him to spill the beans about Bucky's secret, how even though he doesn't agree with it he's still giving Bucky the autonomy to tell Steve on his own terms (if at all, though obviously WE know it's gonna come out eventually). Also Bucky comforting Steve about his guilt in the wake of having to face down one of his personal torture chambers is just SO MUCH. Oh, Buck.

Thank you for this lovely fill; I'm looking forward to the next update!

OP

Im okay with anything! I have very few triggers. Thanks for checking in though

Actually I meant the opposite - do you mind it it's actually low on the sex stuff?

http://archiveofourown.org/works/1763917/chapters/3772553 - The first chapter might be just up your alley, OP.

So I know Rumlow's anxious masculinity is a running joke, but I'd love to see more trash party fic with Bucky and/or Steve grappling with dude-specific issues about being raped. Like not quite realizing what's going on until it's already happening, because it's so far off their radar screen of potential threats--followed by vicious self-blame afterwards, because if they'd realized sooner maybe they could've found a way to stop it. Feeling degraded and emasculated by something that's only "supposed" to happen to women, then horrified because that's an awful idea and they thought they respected women more than that. And shame. So much shame. Refusing to tell a single person because they can barely live with the stigma when it's only in their own head, let alone deal with it from other people. Not having any idea how to even think about it, for lack of available resources or unwillingness to seek any resources out.

Plus the more global range of reactions, heavily filtered into Acceptable Masculine Behavior--unpredictable/misdirected anger, recklessness, fear expressed as paranoia and hostility, violent startle reflexes, over-training as painkiller/assertion of bodily control/rehearsal of what they should've done instead. Stubborn self-blame, because the idea of being able to stop it and failing is infinitely less terrifying than admitting to helplessness. Weeks or months of being aggressively Okay, going about business as usual, and pushing away anyone who expresses concern, until the ever-growing heap of issues gets too heavy to carry around and everything collapses and the pain comes crashing in.

An extra-moldy rat-infested beanbag chair for the nightmarish intersection of '40s internalized homophobia and male-on-male sexual violence, but mostly I just want trashfic focused on the victim's masculinity issues. Slight preference for Steve, but I'm cool with it being Steve or Bucky or both of them.

Steve watches. That's all he really can do.

Natasha can gather that wild black mess of hair into her hands and twist it until strands of it spring out and fall over the sides of Bucky's face. She can pull the brush, hard or soft, all down his scalp, yanking the ponytail this way and that to turn his head as she pleases. She can drag she brush up the nape of his neck and all he does is squirm and mumble something about goosebumps. Then he playfully elbows her knee.

“Are you sure you don't want me to give you a little braid right here?” she asks, twirling a lock.

“Just try it and learn the meaning of the word pain,” he retorts, pulling his hair out of her fingers. He smiles and lets his body fall back between her legs. He's got his back to her, slouching and resting his head against her thigh, every muscle of his body slack and heavy. And she's The Black Widow. “Steve, promise you won't let me fall asleep around this woman. She's already threatened to paint my toenails.”

“Oh, no, I'm not getting between any of you two's love games.”

Natasha gives him a look. “Don't be be jealous, Steve. We can play nice.” She points in front of Bucky. “Come over here and take a seat at the front of the hair train.”

Bucky immediately stiffens and draws up his legs. “Steve don't have have any hair to brush. Put him behind you. Come on, Nat, don't pretend like it'd be the first time you found yourself sandwiched between two guys.”

The hairbrush meets Bucky's scalp with a sharp thwack.

“I'm going to go check on the lasagna,” Steve says, needing a reason to escape.

*

Films like Dr. Zhivago require an attention span Bucky does not have. Twenty minutes in, he's nodding off, and ten minutes later he's snoring softly. Sharon and Steve continue to enjoy the movie for another hour until Bucky begins muttering and kicking in his sleep. Steve fears the worst.

Bucky regularly had night terrors that Steve had knew not to interrupt. At first, when he heard him screaming, Steve would rush to his side, take him in his arms, and shake him awake, calling his name and reminding him that he was safe. Whenever Bucky's eyes recognized him, he would thrash and fight to get away. Steve only needed three midnight punches to the face with a steel fist before he learned to let Bucky scream himself awake.

The kicking gets worse and Sharon looks over. “Is he having a nightmare?” she asked.

“Yeah, he'll be okay,” Steve answers, praying Bucky will settle down.

Steve continues to play it cool until the pitiful moaning starts.

“Steve, you've got to wake him up. Listen to the poor thing.”

“It's really not a good idea,” Steve says. “Trust me.”

Sharon casts him a reproachful glare and moves beside Bucky. Steve hates himself for having even the smallest wish for Sharon to receive the same kind of reaction Steve usually did for doing this. She shakes him gently and whispers his name. He comes to with a gasp.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“You're here, with me and Steve. You're safe.”

Bucky wraps his arms around her and presses his head against her breast. She curls herself around him and rocks him, the movie and Steve Rogers completely forgotten.

Steve sets his jaw and stares at the screen, the moving images passing blankly over his consciousness.

Bucky tugged off his goggles and mask at the same time, dropping the goggles from his right hand and mask from his left. There was a smudge of blood on his forehead, cut off sharply where his goggles had been. He looked dazed, his eyes showing only a narrow rim of blue around pools of black, and for the space of a few breaths he just stared down at Steve staring up at him. Steve grew more and more aware of the cooling mess on his face and the painful tightness in his lungs, until Bucky shook his head a little and reached into his pocket, pulling out an inhaler.

He held it toward Steve's mouth and Steve flinched, turning his face away on reflex. Bucky's face tightened and he put the inhaler to his own lips, releasing a puff of gas into his own mouth with an audible hiss.

"It's okay, it's medicine," Bucky said, and he grabbed Steve's left hand and tugged his cramped-tight fingers open, letting the bell drop to the floor in a weirdly bright clattering jingle. Bucky folded Steve's fingers around the inhaler and pushed it gently toward his face. "Push the button and inhale at the same time, it'll help."

It was Bucky. Of all the things Bucky would never lie to him about, medicine for his breathing had to be near the top of the list. Steve brought his left hand clumsily to his mouth, pressed the button and gasped in as hard as he could. The stuff tasted cool, and he could feel it working almost instantly. His next breath was deeper, and the next one after that hardly whistled at all.

"Good," Bucky said, softly. "That's better. That's airway and breathing, now let's do something about all this blood, huh, pal?"

Bucky knelt up, taking hold of Steve's right hand with his left while he tore open a bandage with his teeth. It was smaller than a combat pressure bandage but about as thick, and Bucky pressed it firmly to Steve's palm, securing the adhesive straps to the back of Steve's hand. He looked down at Steve with a little smile and said, "What were you doing throwing a glass at me? That wasn't part of the plan, Stevie, you weren't supposed to get cut up like this."

"Improvising," Steve said, trying to muster up a smile to match Bucky's. It felt stiffly mechanical, and made him even more conscious of the mess all over his face. "Sorry."

"No, hey, hey," Bucky said softly, lowering Steve's hand to rest on his chest. Steve looked away--didn't want to see that look in Bucky's eyes, kindness or pity or whatever it was, the look he got when Steve came off the worse in a fight he should have known not to get into.

"Steve," Bucky said gently, and Steve squeezed his eyes shut. Something touched his face--soft, kind of smelled like another bandage, but Bucky was using it to wipe off Steve's face. "Buddy, come on, I told you it was going to be scary, I--"

"I need a shower," Steve said abruptly. He didn't have to not fight anymore; he had both hands free again. He pushed back, sliding out from under Bucky and getting to his feet, waving his left hand blindly to ward Bucky off as he jumped up too. His right arm was striped with still-wet blood that had dripped down from his palm to his armpit, and when he looked down it was smeared lividly over his side and chest. "I just--I need a shower."

"Steve," Bucky followed him out of the kitchen. "Hey, don't take off like--"

"It's fine, I'm not mad," Steve insisted, still not looking back. It wasn't even a lie; whatever the tangled mess in his chest was, none of it felt as clean as anger. "I just--I need a shower, Buck, just give me a minute."

"Okay," Bucky said, like he actually had any goddamn say in it now that they were done with this thing. "I'll be right here, okay, Stevie?"

"Sure," Steve said, and then he was shutting the door of his bedroom firmly behind him--his turn to play the maiden aunt, now that it was too goddamn late. He went straight on to his bathroom without stopping and shut that door too. Something made him stop to look--he didn't actually bother closing it half the time, maybe that was why--and he noticed that this doorknob had an actual twist-lock instead of just being invisibly, electronically securable.

He couldn't ask JARVIS for anything right now.

He didn't need to lock the door. It had only been a game, and it had been a game with rules, and Bucky wasn't going to hurt him now (if Bucky meant to hurt him, a locked door wouldn't stop him). Steve didn't need to lock the door, didn't even need to close it. He didn't know why he was just standing there transfixed by the fact that he could lock it with just a twist of his fingers, without having to speak or ask.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and turned away without locking the door.

He shrugged out of his ruined t-shirt and saw the motion echoed in the mirror. He turned his back decisively to the mirror and started the shower, testing the water temperature with his hand even though it always turned on at precisely the temperature that he liked. He stepped in as soon as he was sure, pulling the shower door shut and turning his face into the pounding spray.

He opened his mouth to the water, swishing and spitting it out, swishing and swallowing. He licked his lips and ran more water into his mouth, raised both hands to rub at his face. He opened his eyes at the rough, muffled touch of his right hand--the bandage, right. The pain of the cut had settled into an ache, and he knew it would be nearly closed already, though it would take a few hours to heal fully.

He fumbled the soaked bandage off and looked down at the angry red line on his palm, blood rinsing down over it and then running clear. That was it, that was all he'd gotten hurt. Even that was his own fault--he wasn't supposed to throw the glass, they hadn't negotiated that. He was only supposed to play at struggling. He was supposed to let Bucky hurt him without really fighting back, and he'd failed right out of the gate, and that was why he'd gotten hurt. Bucky might not even have used the gas if Steve hadn't been fighting so hard--he'd done it to scare him, to subdue him.

He'd said, when they negotiated--I will constrict your breathing--and that was what he had meant. He hadn't said I'll put my hand on your throat and choke you, and if that was what Steve had pictured--that was Steve's fault. Bucky had said I'll scare you, you'll hate it, you'll want me to stop and Steve hadn't pictured that at all. It wasn't Bucky's fault. It was his.

The water was still running down hot over him, but his hands were shaking. The healing cut hurt more when Steve clenched his fists tight, but he couldn't make himself let go.

It wasn't Bucky's fault. Bucky hadn't wanted any of this. Steve had asked for it--pushed Bucky into it, even when Bucky was scared of it. They forced me, Bucky had said. He hadn't wanted to hurt Steve. He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone. He had tried to tell Steve what it would be like, and Steve hadn't listened, and that was why he'd gotten hurt. It wasn't Bucky's fault. Bucky shouldn't have to see him--

Some tiny sound made Steve whirl to face the door, the unlocked door--but there was nothing there. He stood there for a long time with the water falling over his right side, fists clenched and body braced as he stared toward the door of the bathroom, waiting for, for--

Nothing was coming. No one was coming. Of course Bucky wouldn't hurt him. Bucky hadn't wanted to, it had been Steve who--it was his own fault, and it was only a game anyway. He'd gotten hurt worse playing stickball when they were kids; he'd taken worse injuries and shrugged them off on a dozen missions. Why couldn't he take his eyes off the door now? Why did he feel so--

Why hadn't he fought harder?

But no, that was stupid, that was--he shouldn't have fought even as hard as he did, he shouldn't have--

He noticed eventually that he was having trouble breathing because he had both fists pressed against his mouth, and a while after that he noticed that he was on his knees, shaking, even though the water was pouring down over him just as hot as ever. He wasn't even hurt. He made himself lower his hands, looked again at the line on his palm--it was only pink already. The blood had all washed away. Pretty soon there would be no mark at all.

He had known he would heal from anything Bucky did to him, and he had been right. He was fine. Why was he--why hadn't he fought?

He could still taste blood and come in his mouth. He spit and spit and then he thought about doing that again--because if Bucky wanted it again he should say yes, he had to say yes. It had been his idea, and Bucky needed it. His stomach heaved a little as he remembered that cock shoving into his mouth--but it was Bucky's, he had wanted it, he would have given anything for it just yesterday, to have Bucky hard in his mouth, getting off on him like that. What kind of asshole was he to ask Bucky for exactly what he got and then feel sick over it? What kind of--weak--why hadn't he--why--

Steve reached up for the soap, found it and dug his fingernails into the soft bar. He shoved his fingers into his mouth, scrubbing over his tongue and teeth even as he gagged a little--from the taste, from the feeling of fingers in his mouth--but at least soap didn't taste like blood or come or gas or his own fucking stupidity. His eyes were watering again from the taste of the soap, but he just turned his face up into the spray, rinsed his mouth and spat and rinsed and spat and spat. He scrubbed the soap over his face, for good measure, down over his throat and his chest, everywhere the Soldier had--Bucky had--everywhere he had been touched.

He jumped at another noise and realized that he was able to hear it because the shower had shut off. He didn't remember that happening. He must have shut it off, although he was still holding the soap in his left hand, gripping so hard it was squeezing through his fingers. He made himself drop it, and a while after that, when he started to feel cold and aware of his nakedness, he made himself stand up and grab a towel.

Steve rubbed himself dry, yanking the door open before he could think about what might be on the other side--but no one was there. It was his bedroom, empty and silent. He got dressed again. He'd just done this a few hours ago, and now he was doing it again, putting on different versions of the same off-duty clothes. He came up short when he put his socks on, remembering that his shoes were still out by the couch, his socks still tucked inside them. He should take these socks off, put those ones back on.

But that would mean walking out of his bedroom barefoot. Steve glanced toward the closet, thought of putting on dress shoes, hiking boots. For a wild, yearning second he was tempted to get his uniform boots, gaudy red armored leather, and fasten them halfway to his knees.

He was tempted to pick up his shield. For a moment he wanted it more than anything, more than air, to shelter behind that curve of metal, to take up that extension of himself that could protect him from anything.

No, that was--he hauled in a deep breath--that was stupid, that was--he didn't need his shield or his boots. He didn't need any of that. He was at home, and there was no danger here. No enemy. He just needed his shoes. They were right outside, he would just get them and then he'd be fine. He just needed his shoes. He wasn't hurt; he was fine. He wasn't mad at Bucky. He just needed his shoes.

great prompt.

POOR STEVE OMG

Christ. I love Steve's response here, mostly the part where it is incredibly, painfully familiar as my response to assault. Clearly Steve has not been able to convince his body that it was all pretend and now this majestic fucking chapter. Sounds like fact that he had a safe word isn't helping him at all, just heaping shit onto the big pile of internalized victim blaming (oh it hits home for me, hits home so hard so good).

This chapter is so awesome!

Does this scenario still have super healing? Rather, IS he actually a mess down there - or does he just think he is?

I hadn't been paying a lot of attention to this story because the scenario really isn't my thing, but despite that you've somehow drawn me in anyway. The writing is so good, the emotions are so real, I'm in so much pain, why is this happening to me?

(Author's note: that was me asking the q's, I tried my hand at it, let's see where it goes. It's pretty short for now, but if this a style you feel you can get into, I'll write more.)

The man who entered the Smithsonian after opening hours, bypassing security and metal detectors, that was 90% Winter Soldier. Calm and composed, focused on his goal, never expecting to fail - but having a plan B anyway, just in case. The only thing unusual about this mission was that it was one of his own choosing.

The man who stood in front of the Captain America display, looking at pictures of a face that was both his and not his - that was 90% Bucky Barnes, though. He felt his breathing go erratic and felt his flesh-and-blood hand shiver in the relative safety of the hoodie's pocket.

He seemed to be safe from Hydra, but his freedom was a double edged sword. Without Hydra, without the chair that could rid him of his memories, his mind was his own greatest enemy. And this - these pictures, these fragments of a once happy life - they were the last straw. It was as if everything came crashing in on him all at once.

He remembered with clarity the skinny boy Steve Rogers once was, taking on bullies twice his size while sporting a bloodied lip.

He remembered his mother's voice and the way it had sounded echoed by the hallway as she sent him off to school in the morning.

He remembered his own reflection in the mirror before he shipped off to war and how he had felt both proud and apprehensive to wear that uniform.

No, these were not the memories of the Winter Soldier; these were the memories of Bucky Barnes, and they were flooding back into his mind like a river that just breached a dam.

The thing was he was remembering everything else, too. He was now two people wrapped into one. Inside his skull he held memories of two lives - and the *other* one was there lurking, creeping up on him, forcing him to recall those parts of him he wanted to forget at equal speed to the parts of him he wanted to remember.

The Winter Soldier, who had killed men, women and children at a simple command and without remorse. Hydra's secret weapon that had been used and stored as any other piece of equipment, not as a human being. A dangerous pet that was tortured, wiped, abused so he could be kept in place. He was inside there, too, scratching at Bucky's insides like an angry, wounded animal.

If he closed his eyes, Bucky could trace back to the last day he had felt truly human. It was not a pleasant day, but he preferred those memories over the flashes of atrocities committed by his own hands.

If he focused, he could still feel the burning pain on his left side when his arm was ripped off, feel the nausea in his stomach as he looked at his bloody stump and saw bones, muscle and flesh exposed. He recalled how the cold had felt as it had nipped at his skin as he was slowly losing the battle against his own heavy eyelids, desperately clinging to his slipping consciousness, knowing what it meant to let go.

Yes, Bucky Barnes remembered dying.

And that was a problem.

Because he was convinced he had to do it again.

God I love how complex and believable Steve's response is here. Really devastating stuff. I hope the boys can make it through this all right :(

OP omg today feels like my birthday thank you so much for this fill this is a fucking amazing start. I loveeeee the interactions you've bought in so far, and the subtetly of Steve's frustration and pain. I can't wait for the rest of this, beautiful anon author!!!

OH STEVE HONEY OH NO oh no

Oh no! I understand where Bucky's coming from, but I can't help feeling super sad for Steve. Having Bucky back but looking like his worst nightmare – that's tough.

Without Hydra, without the chair that could rid him of his memories, his mind was his own greatest enemy.

Ow, that rings very true. Poor Bucky. Hope someone finds him in time.

I have arrived with the next installment of "Various Avengers Getting Yelled At by an Unstable and Traumatized Bucky Barnes, Ch. 3"

*Minor trigger warning for brief mention of somewhat suicidal thoughts*

The next time Bucky left his room, it was because the hunger pangs had grown bad enough to drive him out against his better judgment. Sure he’d dealt with worse pain during both missions and punishments while with HYDRA, but dammit he liked food. As long as Steve wasn’t around making stupid fucking comments and pretending the site of Bucky didn’t make his skin crawl, maybe he could even keep some food down. He crept out of his room in the middle of the night, breathing a sigh of relief when he didn’t see Steve. He hadn’t heard Steve outside his door for several hours, but as previous experience showed, that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t there.

Bucky walked down the hallway, shoulders hunched around his ears and all senses on high alert. As he approached the kitchen area, he heard faint shuffling sounds, and considered turning back. If it was Steve in the kitchen, he would turn back. His stomach had hurt worse than this before. Just because he was a super soldier who preferred heavy meals and really liked food, that didn’t mean he didn’t know how to cope with starvation. Those thoughts began to drag his mind down paths he would rather not tread, however, so he shoved down the same dark hole in his mind as everything else he didn’t want to think about. He crept the rest of the way down the hall on silent footsteps. When he reached the end of the hallway, he peered cautiously around the corner. The sight that greeted him was unexpected.

Tony Stark was in Steve’s kitchen, making himself coffee with Steve’s coffee maker. It made no sense.

And then it did.

Steve must have told everyone that Bucky was acting unstable, so they were taking turns helping to babysit him. Bucky was furious. The fucking nerve of those do-gooding bastards, treating him like he was an unruly child. They probably thought he couldn’t be trusted anymore, now that they knew all of the ways in which he’d let HYDRA use him. And of course it was the fucking useless engineer they sent in to watch him. Probably thought if Bucky was so useless that he’d let HYDRA use him like a toy, then there was no need to waste a member of the team who didn’t need a full suit of armor in battle to keep him from getting crushed on Bucky-watch. There was no way the Black Widow had gotten so bad at spycraft as to think that he wouldn’t choose the middle of the night to get food, so they would only put a suit-free Iron Man on watch if they thought Bucky wasn’t going to be any trouble.

And why should Bucky be any trouble? The others were being condescending pricks and Steve probably thought he was fucking disgusting, but Bucky had been doing just fine. Just cause everyone fucking knew now didn’t mean Bucky wasn’t still fine. It wasn’t like he was gonna throw Iron Man right off the top of his fancy fucking tower or out a window or anything. Anyways, JARVIS’d probably stop him from dragging Stark to the roof, and the windows were almost certainly bulletproof glass that wouldn’t shatter even if Stark were in his uniform. Stark would be fine, because Bucky was just fine.

With that thought, Bucky straightened up and stalked out of the hallway. Stark didn’t even look up at Bucky’s entrance. The bastard.

“Move, Stark,” he growled, upon realizing that with the way the asshole was standing slouched against the counter completely blocked access to the fridge. Stark blinked up at Bucky, and then did a double take. Impressively, he didn’t spill a single drop of coffee in spite of all the flailing he did on the way to setting the mug down.

“Hey,” Stark said, doing a miserable job of trying to sound cheerful while looking anywhere but at Bucky. “I ran out of coffee in the lab and your floor was closer than mine. I, ah, didn’t realize you’d be up and about in the middle of the night.” Stark rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and gestured at the coffee pot with his other hand. Bucky stared at him. If Stark wanted to play innocent like Bucky was some stupid child rather than a master assassin who could read the inventor’s lies a mile away, that was his prerogative.

“Right,” Stark said, when Bucky continued to stare. “Moving out of your way now. Though really, a please would’ve been nice.” He moved enough that Bucky could get around him to the fridge, and then apparently decided that more talking was a good idea, rather than the worst idea Bucky had ever heard. “Y’know, I know people say opposites attract and all, but it’s still pretty impressive how very none of Cap’s all American charming politeness you have, for being his best friend.” Bucky slammed the fridge door.

“Gonna tell me how funny it is that I’ve got none of his virtue and purity, either?” Bucky asked, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. He was pleased at the shocked look that got him. He thought of Steve being all nice and sweet the previous day as he told Bucky that he’d talked to other people about Bucky’s dirty little secret, and felt a wave of viciousness wash over him.

“Steve and I have always been opposites, you know,” he said, clenching his fists at his side. The metal gears of his left arm whirred softly.

Stark raised his hands and said, “Yeah, somehow I don’t think I’m gonna like where this is going, so how bout I just take my coffee and head back to the lab?” Bucky snorted. As if Stark was just going to leave him alone while he was on watch. Even Stark had more integrity than to leave a watch in the middle of it. Barely.

“What’s the matter?” Bucky asked, pulling himself up onto the counter opposite Stark so as to loom more effectively. “I thought you loved talking to people. Don’t you want to hear about how opposite me and Steve have always been?” He ignored Stark’s attempts to answer the question, and kept talking. “Even when Stevie was just a tiny little punk with more heart than brains,” Bucky said, letting a filthy grin twist his lips, “he still always had to be on top, always had to be in charge. Me, on the other hand,” and Bucky dropped his words to a low purr, “I’ve always known exactly where my place is, on the floor taking orders from whoever wants a go.”

“So,” he said, raising his voice back to a normal volume and slipping off the counter, while grabbing a box of cereal that had never been put away, “You can tell all your fucking friends that I’m fine, and go back to not fucking worrying about me.” The final words ended in a nearly feral growl. Bucky pushed past Stark, exiting the kitchen area and stalking back down the hall. Stark would most likely continue to watch him all night, but at least now he knew that Bucky wasn’t about to go throwing anyone off of buildings at the drop of a hat. Not even himself.

I love this story SO MUCH. Fantastic update—you handle Steve's pain and confusion so delicately, it is WONDERFUL and DEVASTATING. (I have. A lot of feelings. About this story?) When Steve thinks about doing it again, how he'll have to say yes, I was like OH NO but also OH GOD YES THIS. Forget saying yes, maybe he'll have to be the one to suggest it—because Bucky won't want to impose, but that silly, Steve's fine, of course he is, it wasn't a big deal. APPARENTLY I AM TERRIBLE AND WANT EVERYTHING TO BE TERRIBLE.

I love this and I love how offended Bucky was that Tony was there

I'll be nicer to him in the next bit, I swear.

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Dumpster #2: ...'Cause a Hydra Trash Party don't stop

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additional question

Re: FILL: between scylla and charybdis [6b/7-ish]

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Re: additional question

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Superhero anxious masculinity

fill 1/?

FILL: Lamb and Martyr 8/?

Re: Superhero anxious masculinity

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Re: Anal/rectal tearing

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FILL: Suicide's not painless (1/?)

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Re: fill 1/?

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Re: FILL: Suicide's not painless (1/?)

Once Upon a Time, [3,?]

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Re: Once Upon a Time, [3,?]

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