hydratrashmeme | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Her father was a CIA operative, though, so she'd understand."

Steve couldn't decide if he thought it was funny or annoying that Natasha kept trying to set him up. "Thanks, but that's not really what I'm looking for," he said.

Natasha threw him a look around the bandage that she held to her cheek. She wasn't going to scar, she'd assured him. "Or she has a brother," she said, like she was offering tea instead of coffee.

Steve sighed. It still got to him, sometimes, that these days he and Bucky could've actually, legally gotten married if they'd wanted to. But then he'd never have let himself look at Peggy, and that didn't bear thinking of. "Natasha," he said, and trailed off.

She waited until it was clear he had no idea where he was going with his sentence and said, "You know it's legal now. Think of the inspiration you'd be."

Steve's jaw set. "Did it ever occur to you that I'm tired of being an inspiration?" he snapped, and got to his feet. It wasn't like there was much room to stalk off into on a Quinjet, but he did his best.

*

By February he'd stopped actively looking; God knew his collection of pictures, pornographic or otherwise, was enough to keep him going for a while. But in the first flush of enthusiasm he'd joined a few mailing lists.

Saint Valentine's Day wasn't a holiday Steve had paid much attention to back in what he persisted in thinking of as "home"--as if making his way back to Bucky and Peggy and a world that smelled right were a matter of finding the correct subway stop. But in the 21st century it was a much bigger deal. Steve dealt with the deluge of red, pink, lace, chocolate, and diamond commercials by staying in his apartment as much as possible and watching porn, and therefore on the day itself he was in front of his computer when the free email address he used for these things went absolutely wild.

There were five threads started by five different people within seconds, but they all boiled down to "There are more film clips of 70s Man." Steve thought even as he was following one of the supplied links that he should just leave it alone.

The new film clips were actually shot on videotape, having been made during the 1980s. 70s Man didn't look much older as far as Steve could see, but it was hard to tell because he had a new accessory, a black leather mask that covered the bottom half of his face like a muzzle. It was on him almost all the time; the others in the videos removed it only when they wanted him to suck someone off.

Steve didn't like these videos nearly as much.

The 70s ones had been sex--rough, but sex. These...well, people still had orgasms, so he supposed they technically counted as porn, but every single one was at least as bad as his least favorite of the originals, and most were worse. In the originals, even in the bad one, it had been possible to tell himself that 70s Man was a willing participant. In these, it simply wasn't.

Steve had done some reading; he was aware of the concept of "kinky", which seemed to be the fancy name for "likes to play rough". He still couldn't believe that anyone would volunteer for the things that happened in the new videos.

One of the people on his mailing list used the phrase "torture porn", and Steve agreed wholeheartedly. He didn't need to watch a man scream until his voice gave out, no matter what else was happening at the same time. It restored some of his faith in humanity that everyone who commented said the same thing; the closest anyone got to actual approval was the person who said, "Whatever they're paying that dude, it's not enough."

Steve deleted his copies of the original films and sat before his computer, thinking.

The next morning he woke up hard, stood in a cold shower until he was shivering, and went out running.

*

His new routine was far less pornographic, but he figured it was probably better for him. Not that he expected to actually go blind or anything so dramatic--every man he'd ever met would need a white cane if that were a real risk--but it wasn't really healthy to spend so much time thinking about sex anyway.

He had to sprint to work up anything resembling a real sweat, which sometimes got him some looks, so he took to varying his route every week or so. By the beginning of April he'd worked his way around to the Reflecting Pool, which was beautiful in the pre-dawn.

The first time, he politely excused himself as he went by. It didn't dawn on him till he heard the grumpy, "Got it" on the second pass that the guy thought he was showing off. The third time, Steve couldn't resist; he sped up just a little and kept his voice totally deadpan as he said, "On your left" again.

I like where this is going!

ooooo! Nice transition! This means that in a day or so Steve's gonna be like "shit that was real Bucky porn D:"

da

*rubs hands*

Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

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