hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Holy shitballs, look at us go. Welcome to Captain America fandom's resident wretched hive of scum and villainy: ROUND THREE. AKA Bad Guys Do Dirtybadwrong Things To Your Faves, 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.

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Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.

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Basically what it says on the tin.

There's a lot of stuff Bucky does not remember...dates, times, places, people...rapes.

Slowly it all comes back to him, but it's rather confusing. Maybe in the beginning he's not so sure. Maybe after that he thinks HE was the rapist and beats himself up over it. Until he finally realizes that he was the victim - and that is had happened many times, often, in the most brutal of ways.

Mostly what I'm looking for is the sheer horror/shock of realizing this has happened to him, and having to relive it. Maybe added in with a dash or denial, disbelief, and feelings of inferiority, self-blame, and emasculation. Pondering on why he didn't fight them (he was strong enough!) or on how he's less of a man for what happened to him are bonuses.

If he's in a relationship during this trainwreck, I prefer Steve if it's m/m and Nat if m/f (OT3 also works) - but I'm perfectly fine with stuff just being platonic with the Avengers and him suffering flashbacks on his own,scared of what his friends will think.

Obviously extra bonus points if everyone finds out. Extra bonus points if someone inadvertently says/does things that make it worse.

I see a lot of fic (not here, obviously) where Steve is portrayed as the epitome of whatever's the current SJW doctrine on each and every topic. Bear with me, I don't doubt that Steve's got a good heart, but if you're slapped through time right from the 40s, you're not gonna start off with the exact same opinions as someone who has grown up now and seen all the developments and shifts of public opinion about so many things.
(take for example Comic!Steve threatening to spank Bucky for misbehaving, etc, etc)

Anyway, what I want is, for lack of a better word, *problematic* Steve struggling with his recovery from trash stuff even more because his own internalized shit gets in the way. Or, even worse, he accidentally steps on Bucky's (or Sams) toes as he tries to be be helpful in their recovery.

Wow, I really like that!

My needs are simple: Bucky endures a rape where his rapist's goal is to make it mindblowingly good for Bucky. The rapist is very skilled and Bucky ends up having the most shockingly pleasurable sex of his life. Except! The entire time this is going on, the rapist is also subjecting Bucky to horrible verbal and emotional abuse. Shaming him for his reactions, calling him a slut, belittling and degrading him, objectifying him verbally, blaming him for the rape by saying he's irresistible and asking for it, etc. So as tears spill down Bucky's cheeks, we have to wonder: is that from pleasure or from shame?

+ Bucky ends up being unable to restrain his reactions to the pleasure; flushing, writhing, moaning

+ Bucky being very vulnerable to the insults hurled at him, believing and internalizing them

+ crying

+ this might work well with Bucky early in his captivity, before Hydra wiped him, where pleasure was scarce and he knew exactly how ashamed of himself he should be

I was just thinking about prompting pretty much the same thing. absolutely seconded

I am 100% into this.

Holy shit yes please. And (I dunno if the op is into this or not), but the trashy mental after-problems could be so good! What if he feels so much shame about that, that he feels horrible whenever he acts like he enjoys sex, because he's such a "slut"

(OP) My heart belongs to trash aftermath. Imagine Bucky being kinda quiet and blank in bed -- he can't get over the feeling that he'll be shamed if he shows pleasure.

DA

well hnnngh

Imagine Steve working so hard to wring noises and reactions out of Bucky, but the more he succeeds at pleasuring him, the more he reminds Bucky of the rape

uuh okay okay but as Bucky hasn't told him, Steve doesn't know what happened, so imagine him succeeding to wring noises/reactions out of Bucky and thoughtlessly commenting on them in a way that makes Bucky feel 300% worse

DA: What if Bucky used to be really vocal in bed, and Steve's been so worried all this time that he wasn't remembering right what Bucky liked, or maybe Bucky can't enjoy it anymore, so he's really relieved to get a reaction.

What if Steve accidentally used exactly the same phrasing.

Oh my GOD pleeease pleeease pleeease.

This chapter is turning into another monster—it’s probably going to end up having 6 parts. I’m hoping to post the rest over the next couple of days.

---

5(a)

Here's a thing about Steve: he's always there—at Bucky’s shoulder, at his back—even when he's not.

He’s in Bucky’s head, watching over him and guiding him, gently—whenever Bucky is muddled, when he doesn’t know what to do, when the world gets too overwhelming, too fucking confusing. When simple things like reset sessions with a handler get all convoluted somehow, get complicated with unwanted, unfamiliar feelings like guilt and shame—when nothing makes any sense anymore.

Bucky thinks about the long sleeved shirts Stark has been wearing all week; he thinks about the mottled bruise on Stark’s side that’s somehow still there, against all medical probability.

He paces, again, feels like he’s already worn a long, frantic path in the carpet that stretches fretfully from his bedside to the chest of drawers at the far side of the room.

Finally, Bucky stops, makes himself crouch down to open the lowest drawer, the one on the right. He pulls out the medical-grade restraints—reinforced with adamantium to withstand his enhanced strength—and looks at them, weighs them in his hands.

There’s nothing inherently frightening or scary about the things. They look ordinary, familiar, utilitarian. Useful. He’d used them on himself before, many times, before he’d finally gotten the nightmares under control.

He looks up, thinks about what Steve would do. It’s obvious—of course, Steve would put the other person’s safety, his comfort, over his own. Bucky stands up, slides the straps and cuffs into the small carrying bag that the doctors had given him along with the custom-made restraints.

Bucky drops the bag near his door, resolutely, then turns to get some long-delayed sleep.

The next time Bucky goes to Stark, he’s prepared, equipped.

He waits until Stark waves him into his bedroom, tiredly, waits until Stark has had his requisite drink and has come to the bed, has pulled off his shirt, then—Bucky drops the small, nondescript black bag on the bedspread near where Stark is standing. He stands still, waits.

Stark stops undressing and looks with wary eyes at the bag, at Bucky. Then, with an air of resignation, of inevitability, Stark slowly lowers himself onto the edge of the bed and opens the bag, draws out the gleaming, lined metal.

Stark sits, for a long moment, looking at the things on his lap, in his hands. He runs the pad of his thumb along the inner edge of one cuff, where the nylon padding meets the dulled line of metal. He turns it over to inspect the small, quick-release trigger that sits over the inside of the wrist, where Bucky can press with his finger to get free.

Stark could disable that feature pretty easily, but Bucky thinks—he hopes—that won’t be necessary, won’t be required.

“What the fuck is this,” Stark says, finally, lifting his head. His gaze stops somewhere around Bucky’s shoulder, doesn’t want to go any further up. That’s not really the question Stark’s asking, Bucky knows—because it’s fucking glaringly obvious what Stark is holding in his hands.

“You need to restrain me,” Bucky says, flatly, “You need to protect yourself. I’m causing damage. Injuries.” He slides his eyes down Stark’s chest, skimming over bruises and marks—he catches the quick tightening of muscles as Stark stiffens, sets his jaw, mulish; he sees the twitch in his arms as Stark suppresses an urge to—hide something, or… cover himself? It doesn’t make any sense. Bucky has seen it all before. Has—inflicted it.

He thinks for a second, then adds, “I’m sorry.” It seems like the right thing to say.

But Bucky’s not sorry, not really—

He sure as fuck regrets Stark’s injuries, but—. They’re not his fault, it’s not his responsibility to look out for the welfare of the handler—that’s on Stark: Stark is supposed to be monitoring himself, monitoring Bucky. Stark is the one who’s supposed to be directing him, and—correcting him when he makes mistakes, punishing him, when needed, to discourage further bad behavior, or—at the very least—restraining him so it’s not possible for him to hurt Stark, by mistake.

Bucky knows he’s being unjust even as he thinks it, but he’s pissed off and it’s not fair of Stark to put this burden on Bucky, to make him think of everything, to ask for restraints, for correction. He’d thought Stark would be better than this.

When Stark looks at him, finally, his eyes are narrowed with resentment, with anger.

“Fuck you, Barnes,” he snarls, “I’m not going to fucking tie you to the bed while I ra—,” he stops there, cuts himself off, breathes heavily. He heaves the things, with a jerky gesture, off his lap and onto the ground between them.

Bucky looks down at the pile of metal-and-nylon that snakes out between his feet, irritated. He knew, he just knew that he was going to have to go twelve rounds with Stark on this, like with every other fucking thing. Stark can never resist the urge to complicate things that should be easy, goddamn obvious—

But then… a new thought slithers into his head:

Maybe Stark is trying to make him ask on purpose. Not just to be his usual, contrary self, but—maybe he wants Bucky to beg. It’s not anything he’s shown a predilection for before, but… he’s been fucking Bucky for well over a month now, he’s probably ready for something different.

Fine, then. That’s easy enough—Bucky knows how to put on a show when it’s required.

Bucky takes a slow breath, then lowers himself to his knees in front of Stark, slowly, keeping his eyes on the floor.

He takes his time, reaches down to gather up the tangled straps of the restraints. He tilts his head slightly, exposing the side of his throat, as he stretches out a hand for the cuff that's slid between Stark’s feet. He shuffles forward, a little, on his knees, still under the guise of reaching—until he’s close enough to touch—then Bucky bends his neck, turns his head to lower his cheek onto Stark’s thigh.

He presses his face against it, keeping his body soft, languid, his eyes lowered. He slides his hands up behind Stark’s calves, gently, brushes the sensitive flesh there through the thin fabric of Stark’s pants. Stark’s body is still and stiff as a corpse under his cheek, under his hands—completely unresponsive—but Bucky’s not worried. These kinds of games take some time.

He tilts his face into Stark’s leg, nuzzles there, soft and shameless, turns to brush his lips against Stark’s inner thigh—just above the curve of his knee—and whispers, breathes: “Please… please do this for me—”

A low, strangled sound is all the warning Bucky gets before Stark shoves at him, forcefully, violently—

Bucky relaxes into it, lets it happen, allows himself be flung backward until he’s sprawled at Stark’s feet. He was ready for it—already half-anticipating a slap, a kick: in his experience, it goes this way about half the time.

As he falls onto the polished marble floor, hard, Bucky feels himself reflexively freeze for a second, brace for the usual sneers, the abuse: —you’ll spread for anyone like a whore, won’t you—, —fucking slut, I knew you wanted it all along—, —yeah, beg me for it like the little bitch you are, I’ll give you what you need—,

Bucky shakes it off, quickly—inapplicable, he thinks—and then,

Slowly, deliberately, Bucky pushes up onto his elbows, hunches his shoulders, lowers his gaze. He lets his knees fall apart, sprawling, lewd. He wets his lips and leaves his mouth open, just a bit—just enough so that Stark can see the wet tip of his tongue resting on his lower teeth.

Then, when he’s fully posed—when he knows he’s showing himself to the best advantage—Bucky lets his eyes dart up, quickly, haltingly, to catch a glimpse of Stark’s reaction, to gauge his response.

Stark looks—shaken, stunned. His jaw has gone slack with shock, his shoulders tight.

Bucky’s pose falters a little. It’s not the response he was expecting, anticipating, and Stark’s continued silence makes Bucky uneasy—but he’s come too far now, and Stark hasn’t actually told him to stop, so Bucky barrels on, nervously, recklessly: “Please, I need it—I need to be tied down, strapped to your bed—”

“Barnes, what are you—,” Stark says, finally, and his is voice high—choked—but he stops abruptly when Bucky reaches to pull up one of the cuffs, to snap it around his flesh wrist. The thin, metallic click of the closing latch seems to echo loudly in the silence of the room, and from the edge of his vision, Bucky sees Stark flinch at the sound, his lips pulling back with… some emotion.

Bucky’s unease grows and twists—he tries another track, wildly, frantically:

“I—I want it... I’m a slut,” he says, he begs, “I want to be held down and spread open for you, please.” He sucks in an unsteady breath, doesn’t dare to look up at Stark again as he continues, trying to remember the things he’d been taught to say, before, “I—I want to pull against the cuffs—to struggle, and… feel them tighten, hold me immobile under you. Please, please say you’ll do it, that you’ll… teach me my place—that you’ll—”

“Barnes, stop,” Stark says. There’s a jagged, broken edge to the sound of his voice that makes Bucky fall silent, look up.

Stark is staring at him: his eyes are wide and dark like gashes against his bloodless face.

“Please—please stop what you’re doing,” Stark says, croaks, “I’ll—I’ll do it. You win. Whatever you want. Just—just don’t do… this, anymore.”

Bucky pushes himself up on his hands, carefully, cautiously, slides his legs back together. He looks at Stark, trying to see what he’s missing, trying to understand the trick—

“You’ll… use the restraints?” Bucky asks, slowly, in his normal voice.

Stark drops his gaze, bends his neck. His hands are clenched rigidly on the mattress at his sides. His shoulders are hunched, his body half-twisted in on itself—as if Stark is in pain, as if he’d been punched in the gut.

He nods, minutely, doesn’t lift his head.

5(b)

Stark sits there for a long while, doesn’t touch the restraints, doesn’t touch Bucky.

Finally, woodenly, he starts to pull off his clothes and climb back on the bed. It takes him a long time to get hard enough to fuck, even with Bucky’s hand on him, stroking, coaxing. When he’s finally ready, Stark doesn’t avert his face, for once, as he pushes into Bucky’s body—his eyes are wide open and staring and the strange, blank look in his gaze makes Bucky want to turn away, uncomfortable.

Bucky feels himself pull, reflexively, against the cuffs at the first unrelenting press at his hole, as his body yields, stretches to accept Stark’s cock.

A cold thread of something like unease—or dread—uncoils through him at the sharp, intractable sensation of the chains pulling taut, holding him in fixed position under the moving body above him. Bucky pushes the feeling away, violently; this is nothing he can’t handle, nothing he hasn’t done—that hasn’t been done to him—a thousand times before.

Bucky breathes, focuses on keeping his body loose, on not clenching against Stark’s thrusts. He focuses on the physical effort it takes, without the use of his arms, to keep his legs spread apart and up, to keep his hips canted as much as possible, holding himself open for Stark.

It takes Stark a long time to come, despite all of Bucky’s efforts, even longer than it had taken to get him hard.

By the end, things are starting to chafe, and they’re both covered with sweat from sheer exertion. Bucky almost tells Stark to close his eyes, think of something else, or at least use some more goddamn lube—he’s got to be hurting his own dick by now, which probably isn’t helping—but he’s afraid to say anything, to distract, to break Stark’s concentration and prolong things even more.

So Bucky just wraps his hands around the reinforced straps of the restraints, holds on, focuses on keeping the discomfort, the distress from showing on his face.

When it’s finally, finally over, the wet, salving feel of Stark’s come against his sore inner walls is almost as much of a relief as the clarity in his head.

After, Stark hurriedly reaches up to hit the releases on the cuffs, to free Bucky’s wrists, even before he’s fully pulled out of his body. His sweat-slick body presses and slides against Bucky’s in his haste, and Bucky cringes at the feel, at the sense memory; he turns his face away, stiffening before he can stop himself.

He’s not sure if that’s what makes Stark push off, quickly, and slide away across the bed until there’s enough space for another body between them—maybe two. Stark throws an arm over his face and is silent, unmoving, for a long moment.

Bucky uses the time to even out his breathing, to relax his muscles, one at a time, to roll his shoulders and clench and unclench his hole, trying to make everything feel normal again—okay.

“Barnes, listen to me,” Stark says, finally, “I can’t do that again. I can’t.”

Bucky freezes.

“You can say whatever you want, whatever awful, degrading thing you can think of—,” Stark continues, picking up speed, “You can elbow me with that goddamn arm until I’m black and blue, you can—you can tell the others, tell Steve, what I’ve been doing to you, you can expose me to the world, hang me from the Tower balcony and spit on my corpse—but I will not fucking tie you down, ever again.” Stark’s chest is heaving with effort, with agitation, by the end. He’s still got his eyes covered with his arm.

Bucky breathes again. He waits a minute to make sure Stark’s done, then, “Alright,” he says, softly.

Strangely, shamefully, he’s mostly relieved. The restraints hadn’t worked the way he’d planned, anticipated. They hadn’t done it for Stark, obviously. And… Bucky hadn’t thought a little fear, a little pain would shake him so much, not after everything.

But—the Asset is dead. And Bucky is weak.

It still leaves the problem of Stark’s injuries, though, and Bucky hears himself sigh, in confusion, in frustration. Sessions had never been so complicated, before. He was used to the handler doing the heavy lifting, figuring things out, fixing issues when things went wrong—telling Bucky what to do, making corrections…

Bucky looks up, wonders if Stark will tolerate another… idea, suggestion.

When Stark doesn’t say anything more for a long moment, Bucky decides to risk it: “If you don’t like the restraints, maybe—,” Stark looks up at him, warily, waiting, “Maybe you could punish me—correct me, when I do something wrong. When I… cause injuries.”

Stark recoils, his lips pulling back in a snarl, “Barnes, are you fucking kidding me—”

“Just listen to me,” Bucky interjects, agitated, trying to make Stark understand, “I know you don’t you don’t get off on it, on hitting me or hurting me, I know that—but this is different,” he puts his hands out, palms to Stark, placating, “It’s just—I’m… I’m used to being corrected when I make a mistake,” he continues, hurriedly, “I’m trained to respond to that. So if you could do something… something light, even, like a slap or kick, then… it’s helpful. It helps the—my body, to remember what’s okay, what’s not.”

Stark twists his body around, turns so he’s faced away, completely.

Miscalculation, Bucky thinks.

He watches the tight, contracted muscles of Stark’s back for a couple of moments until the man finally speaks again.

“This is why… I’m afraid to even talk around you, Barnes,” he says, sounding exhausted, worn-out, “Every time we have a conversation—every time you open your mouth, it all gets worse,” Stark’s voice cracks a little, then picks up as he goes on, as if he feels some compulsion to spit out the words as fast as possible, get them out of himself, even if only for himself to hear, even if he knows there’s no point in saying them.

“You make it that much clearer how unbelievably fucked up you are,” Stark continues, low and intent, “And how much of a twisted fuck I am to be… to be doing this to you. To have done this to you for so fucking long already,” Stark stops, swallows before going on, his voice falling to a hoarse whisper—

“Jesus fucking Christ, I’m no better than the HYRDA fucks that hurt you… that tortured you and raped you and beat you and carved you up, and—and fucking got off on all of it. Fuck, I’m worse than the worst of them because… because I’m supposed to be better,” he hisses out, almost breathless at the end.

Stark falls silent, then, stares into space with blank eyes.

Bucky doesn’t know what to do, what Stark expects from him. Commiseration? Consolation? Sometimes handlers had liked it when the Asset stroked their backs, petted them, pressed himself against them, comfortingly, when they were stressed or agitated but not in the mood to take it out on his body.

But—Stark doesn’t like it when Bucky touches him.

“You’re wrong,” he says, finally, hesitantly, “You’re—,” the best handler I’ve ever had, not the worst, Bucky wants to say, to convey, and he wouldn’t be lying: it’s taken him a long, wary weeks to gather enough data to recognize it, but beneath Stark’s prickly surface and his touchy, moody silences in bed, Stark is the best.

Stark doesn’t hurt Bucky. He does the resets as often as Bucky needs, even when he’s not in the mood. He doesn’t ever treat Bucky badly or crudely, inside or outside of his bedroom. He doesn’t get clingy or possessive of Bucky’s body when they’re around others—the way a lot of long-term handlers had tended to get. In fact—except for a bit of extra stiffness around his spine, a bit of added wariness in his gaze—he treats Bucky exactly the same as he did before, with the same casual arrogance and intermittent rudeness he shows anyone else around him.

But—he knows that’s not what Stark wants to hear.

“You’re fine,” Bucky finally concludes, lamely, when it feels like the silence has stretched for too long, is starting to prickle at his skin, “I’ve had much worse.”

Heavy silence for a beat, then—

“Jesus,” Stark says, again, and he drops his head into his hands, rubs agitatedly at his eyes, “Well, thank you very much for that oh so characteristically nut-shriveling piece of assurance, Barnes, I feel so fucking much better now.”

He’s still pulled away from Bucky, though, muscles tight, face averted, unhappy.

It’s not fair—Bucky wishes Stark would just tell him what he wants, what Bucky should say, do. He’d already done his best tonight at guessing, at anticipating Stark’s needs, at seeing to his physical safety, his comfort, even—but somehow Bucky had made it worse: he feels even more guilt, more shame, than he did before this whole mess with the injuries, the fucking restraints.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He thinks for a second, then adds, “You don’t have to—to punish me, not if you don’t want to. It was just a request. It’s completely up to you, of course.”

But Stark just flinches again, pulls his shoulder up to hide—to shield—his face even more. Bucky watches as his chest rises and falls a few times under heavy, controlled breaths.

“Just go, Barnes—please just fucking leave now,” Stark says, finally: an instruction, at last.

Bucky is halfway back to his own rooms before he realizes that he’d never gotten hard, tonight, that Stark hadn’t made him come.

There really isn't enough of this around anymore. People are probably confused as to how to write it but it'd be cool to see more if done evenhandedly and subtly.

Jesus. I feel SO BAD for Tony. Like at this point there's almost no point in stopping he's already been doing it for so long might as well keep going. But he's so fucking miserable. Tony's level of self-hate is pretty bad on a normal day I cannot even imagine the level of self-hatred that he's got going on right now.

Poor fucking guy I bet he regrets his choice so much right now. And poor Bucky too. like I swear this is the most miserable consenting rape I've ever read. But somehow it's still SO FUCKING HOT??!!! I have no clue why, but Tony fucking Bucky and coming even though he's miserable and hates it just slams my kink buttons.

I'm seriously hoping the secret comes out soon I would love to see the reactions to their situation. Like talk about a pile of mixed feelings on a subject. lol.

well done!!

The truly amazing thing about this fic is that I can't even decide who's dubconning whom. Is there such a thing as mutual dubcon? THEY'RE BOTH SO FUCKED UP.

oh man, I love all the bits where you show the difference between Bucky and the Asset -- sure, the Asset has had much worse before, but Bucky isn't the Asset anymore, and some of this is triggering as hell. I cried big gobby tears at "the Asset is dead, and Bucky is weak." T___T

And poor Tony, getting a front-row seat to all of Bucky's broken-ness and trying so hard to be a good person about it. I feel like he's near the breaking point.

Hey there dumpster divers,

Cap 3 is almost upon us, and you know what that means: SPOILERS. Official trashmeme spoiler policy: no Cap 3 prompts/fills in the main dumpster until June 6th, a month after the North American release. A separate post for extra-spoiled garbage will go up shortly and you can put all your Civil War stuff there.

Also, since

trashmod is going to have to wait for the North American release, this is an official request for a temporary mod willing to keep an eye on the spoiler post until May 6th. Email hydratrashmod@gmail.com if you're interested, and let me know what your Tumblr/LJ/DW/trashchat username is, just so I know I'm not handing the place off to one of those weird anti-HTP trolls or someone who's left a trail of wank and devastation in seventeen consecutive fandoms. Hopefully it shouldn't get too crazy--I just need someone to keep the spoilers corralled and freeze any subthreads that get wanky. Decisions about what's on-topic in a post-CA:CW world can wait.

So now that Tony's seen -- will it be harder or easier to keep his eyes closed? :0

(Also, OF COURSE the trashy part of my brain has Bucky offering to let Tony replace the HYDRA logo with Stark Industries lol)

DA
OH MY GOD

Having thought about it, OP would like to add + orgasm denial, + multiple orgasms, + this entire ordeal lasting for hours so Bucky is basically broken from pleasure by the end

I'm in Europe and will be able to see the film around april 27th, so I technically could temporarily mod after seeing it, but I don't want to anytime before, and might just go mostly offline the last few days before Civil War.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 139 of 215

Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Bucky doesn't know he was raped...until he starts remembering.

The 40s are calling

Re: The 40s are calling

making Bucky feel physically good and emotionally terrible

Re: making Bucky feel physically good and emotionally terrible

Re: The 40s are calling

Re: making Bucky feel physically good and emotionally terrible

Re: making Bucky feel physically good and emotionally terrible

Re: making Bucky feel physically good and emotionally terrible

Re: making Bucky feel physically good and emotionally terrible

Re: making Bucky feel physically good and emotionally terrible

Re: making Bucky feel physically good and emotionally terrible

Re: making Bucky feel physically good and emotionally terrible

Fill: Come Round Full Circle (5a/6)

Fill: Come Round Full Circle (5b/6)

Re: The 40s are calling

Re: Fill: Come Round Full Circle (5b/6)

Re: Fill: Come Round Full Circle (5b/6)

Re: Fill: Come Round Full Circle (5b/6)

Re: Fill: Come Round Full Circle (5b/6)

Cap 3 spoiler policy + request for temporary co-mod

Re: Fill: Come Round Full Circle (3a/6)

Re: Fill: Come Round Full Circle (3a/6)

Re: making Bucky feel physically good and emotionally terrible

Re: Cap 3 spoiler policy + request for temporary co-mod