garbage all the way down (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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hydratrashmeme2015-09-09 07:23 pm
trashmod) wrote in hydratrashmeme2015-09-09 07:23 pm
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.
[Round 1] [Round 2] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained bygreenkirtle)] [Round 3 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]
Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.
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] [Round 2] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by
greenkirtle)] [Round 3 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.
FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-25 09:55 pm (UTC)(link)As if to compensate, he keeps up an even steadier patter of Rape Talk. Through a mouthful of toothpaste, after Steve flushes and shoulders Bucky out of the way so he can wash his hands, he says, “Now, where was a toothbrush when I’d just been raped? I tell you, rapists are downright inconsiderate,” and Steve is used to it enough by now that he just rolls his eyes and dries his hands on Bucky’s shirt, and Bucky shouts and spits toothpaste at him.
They’re sitting on the couch with Bucky’s legs sprawled most of the way over Steve’s lap, Steve slouched deep into the corner of the couch and dozing in and out, when Bucky says, “The fucking 3G in this house is reprehensible.”
Steve opens his eyes a sliver to take him in. Hair in a lopsided braid over his shoulder, skin a little dry around his nose, wearing a thick polka dot sweater and scowling at his phone as he uses it one-handed. He looks cute. Steve wants to stick his fingers in his braid and fuck it up.
Instead, he sighs dramatically. “You know, it used to be we had to walk twelve miles uphill in the snow to read e-books on our cell phones.”
Bucky glares at him. “Yeah, well, it used to be I had to get raped twelve miles uphill in the snow to—Wait, there’s no end to that sentence. I just had to get raped.”
And yes, he is used to it, and yes, Bucky’s mostly just being stupid, but every time he’s stupid in this particular way, Steve’s spine runs hot and cold in quick succession. He can’t say it makes him want to cry, because it’s not his business to want to cry about it if Bucky doesn’t want him to, and he clearly doesn’t.
He says, “Raped uphill?” and Bucky smirks at him and says, “Yeah, kind of. It’s hard to explain,” before going back to swiping at his phone.
And then there are things like that, which make it look more and more like Bucky’s not just being stupid, even if he still wants to pretend.
So there’s that, and there’s how much Steve wants to fuck up his braid, and exactly a week to the hour after Steve says, “Give me a week,” Bucky calls to him from the kitchen, “Steve? Yo, Steve, can you come here a sec?”
At the time, Steve’s in his office, though he isn’t getting any work done, playing minesweeper and scratching grounding fingers along the back of his neck. He’s known all along that Bucky would take the week thing seriously. He stands up fast enough to dump his laptop on the ground. Doesn’t even have the patience to make sure it’s fine; he curses and closes the lid with his foot before leaving the room.
Bucky’s sitting stiff-backed in his chair, a glass of water untouched in front of him. Steve’s place has a glass of water too, and his chair’s already been pulled out. He sits, feeling like a doll in a dollhouse.
Bucky’s sisters had a dollhouse made of wooden crates, nicely painted, and with little cloth curtains on the windows. Steve would play with them sometimes, because it was the only thing he could do with younger children without them pronouncing him odd or boring. It made him feel responsible, and like someone Bucky could imagine being a dad someday. Someone legitimate.
As though Bucky ever wanted him to be someone legitimate. What’s legitimacy compared to a retired superhero gagging you with your own knife?
“Is this a job interview?” He takes a sip of his water, and Bucky narrows his eyes and mirrors him, but keeps going after Steve puts his glass down, throat working furiously to gulp all the water away.
He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his sweater, but a few beads still cling to his beard. His lips twist like he’s trying not to smile. “No. Or I don’t know. I know I’m not interviewing you. You interviewing me for the job of Guy You’ll Fuck?”
“I wasn’t really planning on it. Do you have to look so formal?”
“I’m always formal. I even got formally raped.”
“Well, that’s not how you answer a job interview question.” He drinks more water.
“Well, Mr. Manager, I’d say my greatest strength is my ability to look so formal on a shoestring and a smile. That better?”
“Stunning. You got the job. Of, uh.”
“Sword swallower?”
“Yeah. Exactly. Guy I’d Like to Fuck.”
“That’s your worst joke ever.” He runs a metal finger down the side of his glass, and makes himself flinch with the noise. Steve watches, waiting to see if Bucky feels any kind of way about it besides that. And he’s lying; it was a great joke.
Bucky pushes his chair back and goes to stand by the counter. He puts his elbows on it, then lowers his head. For an absurd moment, Steve thinks he’s offering himself up to get fucked right now. It isn’t the least appealing thought he’s ever had, but he’s far from ready to go, so it’s good that after a few seconds, he adjusts and recognizes this as one of the ways Bucky copes with overwhelming emotion. He presses himself into things. He hides without hiding, like a cat that doesn’t think it matters if its tail is sticking out from under the couch.
Steve says, “You good? Is this okay?”
And Bucky rises up, leaning on the counter with his palms instead, neck bent, legs giving the impression of trembling without trembling. He looks like a tree branch knocked over by a storm. He says, “Of course it’s fine. I’m the one who wanted it, wasn’t I?”
“I do too.” He strokes his own water glass, and it doesn’t make a noise worth flinching about. Bucky doesn’t respond, so Steve grimaces and goes to stand next to him, also leaning forward on his palms, so together they take up most of the counter space, and their faces almost touch.
“Hey, there, stranger,” Bucky says, turning his head to grin at him.
“Is it nice over here?”
“Yeah, it’s real peaceful.” Hummingbird-speedy, he kisses the side of Steve’s nose, beard scratching at Steve’s cheek, then about-faces to slouch his spine against the counter in a way that can’t be comfortable. Steve follows suit. It isn’t comfortable at all. Bucky says, “You’re nice over here, for sure.”
“I love it when you talk nonsense to me.”
“Same to you.” Bucky sighs and tugs at his hair with his metal hand. “You’re sure? You’re not saying you can fuck me and then tomorrow you say, ‘Never mind! I’m on my way to get the divorce papers notarized!’ is that the case?”
Steve says, “I don’t believe in notaries,” and then he says, “That’s not happening,” and then he groans and says, “You trust me?”
“I never didn’t. But do you trust me?”
“I never didn’t.”
He isn’t sure it’s true until Bucky says, “Is that right?” and he feels like he’s been goaded to the top of a diving board (a thought that confuses him; this never happened in his past; modern pop culture osmosis, maybe).
“Yes, really. Trust was never the issue.”
“Fine. You trust yourself then?”
“I.” Bucky raises an eyebrow at him. It’s infuriating. “I’d like to.”
“But you’ll fuck me anyway.” Steve opens his mouth, but just makes a scratchy sound. “It’s not a trick question. You’ll fuck me anyway?”
“I’d like to.”
Bucky doesn’t smile exactly, but creases feather out from the corners of his eyes. “Yeah, I heard your wedding vows. So you’re gonna call me a filthy slut?”
“Filthy slut.” He says it primly, and Bucky clutches at his heart.
“Stop, Steve. You’re turning me on.”
“I bet. But to be clear, I’m not fucking you here and now. Let me, uh.”
“Charge up. Like a bull. Like throwing a baseball.”
“What? All right. Charge up, if that works for you. And well.” This is the part that might ruin the whole thing. “I need you to let me be careful with you.”
“I’m not a fucking porcelain tea set, Steve.” He crosses his arms and digs his fingers into his biceps so hard Steve worries for the bones of
the right.
“That’s non-negotiable, Buck. You start complaining about it, we stop.” Bucky still radiates mutiny. He softens his voice. “It’s to protect me as much as you.”
Bucky spares him a smile, closing one eye at him and letting up on his death grip. “Oh, now he wants to protect himself.”
“My thing was a shield. That’s protection incarnate.” The “was” still feels clunky in his mouth.
“Knock knock,” Buck says, rotating planet-like into Steve’s space to knock on the side of his head.
“Who is it?” he calls, loud and carrying as if from the bowels of the house. Bucky snickers and clutches his ears.
“It’s me, a wooden prop shield, and an untrained idiot is carrying me into a warehouse full of Nazis with laser guns! Why, who are you, young man?”
“Shut up.” Steve wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him into his side to dig his knuckles into Bucky’s skull until he yelps and says, “Mercy! Mercy, Christ,” laughing his way through the words.
Steve tells Bucky before bed, “I do want the knife now. Since it reminded you of me,” and Bucky’s like a string of Christmas lights all turning on at once as he takes the knife out of the pocket of his pajama pants. Unlike the rest of his pants, they’re baggy enough to conceal that kind of thing, and it should have occurred to Steve that they might.
“Now I’m really glad I asked for it. Please no knives in the bed.”
“I thought knives in the bed was the point.” He crawls onto said bed to hand it over to Steve, who’s propped up against the headboard, hands flat and sweaty on his thighs even if all he intends to do is take the knife out of Bucky’s hand, blade still tucked away. And that is all he does, sweaty-handed. He appreciates its cool, solid weight for the first time.
“Why do you assume I wanna do it on a bed?”
“I can read your mind.”
“Sure, Edgar Cayce.”
He stashes the knife in his nightstand drawer, along with a small journal, his compass, and the Pictionary drawing of himself that he didn’t recognize. And still can’t.
He knows he can’t bring himself to smack Bucky in the face again, not in light of—Well, who would it have been? Andrews? Dorsey? Someone else? Dorsey was a ridiculous name, and Bucky and Katarina had discussed him mockingly, which could work either for or against the theory that he was the reason for Bucky’s laughter.
It doesn’t matter. The point is that he can’t ever do that again.
And he’s nervous, as ridiculous as he feels being so literal-minded, about the thought of holding Bucky down or tying him up or even fitting a hand around his throat. He has no evidence that those things bring back any memories, but he’ll be the one to freeze up, maybe. To look at Bucky and think, I’ve trapped him here. And worse, in some part of him he hates to examine, he might like that idea.
It would have been okay to like the idea before. Now, with the idea so close to his bones, he might throw up if he likes it.
The knife was something Bucky wanted exuberantly, and it’s small, and it’s beautiful, and he can be careful with it. He can be in control.
On Wednesdays, Bucky gets home from class while there’s still plenty of light out, making Steve feel unbelievably unproductive in comparison. Every day since Steve said he would fuck him, Bucky’s dressed like they’re going on a date. Polished shoes and tucked-in shirt. Today he’s even wearing a cardigan.
Steve has accomplished three things by the time Bucky’s home: He’s put on clothes, he’s ordered a party’s worth of hot wings, and he’s thought the knife through thoroughly. The first thing Bucky says after closing the door is, “Honey, you got wings!” and Steve says, “I also put on clothes,” and Bucky says, “Honey, you put on clothes! But I couldn’t smell those, so I wasn’t interested.”
“You can’t eat them either.” Steve takes Bucky’s backpack from him before he has a chance to dump it somewhere, and slings it over his shoulder. He has a vague notion that it would be incredibly heavy to anyone besides them.
“It’s impolite to tell me my limits.” He starts to slip his cardigan off, and Steve takes that from him too. Bucky steps gently on his foot, loafer on beat-up sneaker. “What else of mine you want, stud?”
“I got some things in mind.” Steve touches his temple, and Bucky’s eyelids flutter to half-mast. Some loose, short hairs are curled there, and Steve twirls his finger around them, pulls, lets them spring back. Bucky bites his lip.
“Your dick?”
“I want my dick of yours? That’s what you’re saying? What the hell are they teaching you in that writing class?”
“Spinning a good fable. Making it all sound true.”
“I thought it was the opposite. Make the truth sound like a fable.”
“You talk a lot about writing for someone who’s s'posed to be fucking me.”
“Supposed to?” He pulls Bucky’s tucked-in shirt out of his dark jeans for the fun of it, and Bucky glares at him and curls his right hand around his wrist before he can pull back. “Yeah, I want to fuck you, if that’s okay.”
“Where do the wings come into it?” Bucky sways into him, putting his arms around Steve’s shoulders loosely like they’re about to slow-dance, rubbing his beard on the ticklish skin of Steve’s neck, and Steve twists around a little at the sensation. He puts his hands on Bucky’s waist and kisses the top of his head.
“I wanna fuck you mid-air, obviously.”
“Sam invited?” He rubs his beard on him again, more insistently, and Steve giggles and then feels irritated at himself. He uses the hands on Bucky’s waist to set him upright, and traces a circle on his stomach with his thumb.
“That sounds a little advanced. Let’s just eat and then fuck by ourselves, I think.”
“What a crazy thought.” Bucky droops forward again and bites Steve on the chin. He licks him there, and Steve squeezes his hip. “I trust you,” Bucky says, and there’s no tone to it, really. It’s an unadorned statement, not made into a fable at all.
“I trust you,” Steve says, and hopes that Bucky won’t ask him, But do you trust yourself yet?
Bucky doesn’t ask. They eat the wings.
Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-26 01:22 pm (UTC)(link)When I read the prompt I really wasn’t sure how someone could pull it off with all the nuance and delicacy required whilst still making it a rich and compelling story, but fuck me if you haven’t done it. My hat’s off to you anon. Really glad to hear you have plans to eventually de-anonymise and post on ao3 so I can love/bookmark/rec there.
Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-09-02 05:11 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-26 02:18 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-26 05:58 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-28 01:44 am (UTC)(link)!!!!!!!
Honestly? I can't even begin to express how much I continue to adore every bit of this. But it's a lot. I am adoring it a whole damn lot. Every time you update, there is a great deal of screaming and rereading and then screaming some more on my end, and this time was no exception.
I'm dying at raped uphill, omg, and also dying (in a different way) at it’s small, and it’s beautiful, and he can be careful with it. He can be in control. because alkdsjfalksdf oh Steve.
*pushes week-old takeout containers in your direction, weeping softly*
Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-09-02 05:16 am (UTC)(link)