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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 (16b/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-12-06 02:57 am (UTC)(link)Bucky sits at the table and clasps his hands in front of him. He makes his face very serious, but breaks into laughter in seconds. “Come on, you said you wanted to ‘figure out’ how to fuck me. Figured I’d get us in a strategic mood.”
“That's what this is?”
“Or I think nostalgia’s funny. Who can say for sure? You wanna sit down?”
Steve dries his hands on his khakis and sits across from Bucky. He traces the outline of Italy with his fingertip. Bucky’s in blue, with bruises under his eyes, and Steve does, it turns out, feel nostalgic. And it is, it turns out, funny, like a shadowy presence in his stomach, gobbling him up from the inside.
He says, “Shouldn’t we have game pieces here? To represent us?”
“Yeah, you wanna make the top hat and the wheelbarrow fuck on top of France?”
“Well, who wouldn’t?” The joke hangs limply in the air. Bucky frowns at the map. Maybe it was supposed to make everything clearer. But Steve finds it in him to start, “What if. What if we had tried having sex differently? Without me being an asshole.”
And Bucky looks back up at him. “But I don’t like that kind of sex. Do you?”
“I. Uh.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean. Maybe I could?”
“Not really relevant if I can’t.”
“No. It’s not.” Relief rushes into his whole body like a physical shock of bracing cold. Like waking up early in the winter for a run, trembling and exhausted and alive. Bucky knows that his own boundaries matter, and Steve didn’t even have to remind him.
Now Bucky’s cracked open, making minuscule tears in the edges of the map, rushing through his words. “I still want you. I still want you to—” He swallows. His cheeks sink in his face with the force of it, and Steve can hear his saliva moving. “To do those things to me. I want it, Steve. This isn’t something I was taught. It wasn’t tortured into me. It’s me.”
“I know that. Intellectually. I know. What kind of things we did.”
“Remember that time you Scotch-taped me to the floor?” Mirth seeps into Bucky’s voice. He rubs his thumb and forefinger together, an old, anxious habit in a new arm. “You got some of it on my hair and I bitched at you for days because eleven hairs got torn out.”
“Yeah.” Steve feels his mouth twist into one of his uglier—and therefore more real—smiles. “It was eleven exactly. You kept the tape in your jacket pocket to pull out and glare at whenever you got grouchy.”
Bucky doesn’t even complain about being called grouchy. “And while I was down there?"
While he was moaning and trying not to rip the tape up? Of course Steve remembers his tensed muscles. The shiver in his legs. His face turned to the side so Steve could see any tears. “Yeah. I hit you all over with a folded-up jump rope.”
“Didn’t even hurt enough.”
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, crybaby.”
“Right. And you called me that. And small. And pretty.”
“Little and pretty and helpless.” It feels like reading from a script, but a script he’s seeing for the first time, bright-eyed and fast-hearted, excited to know how it ends. Not something taped to the back of a prop shield.
“Yeah. And then—” He cackles, pitching forward—“you started babbling about the price of groceries!”
“They were expensive that week! I was broke.” Really, Steve can’t remember if that’s true or not, but he has to defend his younger self’s embarrassingly clean-cut dirty talk.
“Probably because you bought a fucking oak bookcase or something against my advice.”
“Where the hell would I have put an oak bookcase? The moon?”
“Sure, exactly. The moon.” Bucky’s face grows serious and focused, like he’s trying to find the bookcase through a telescope. Then it clears, and he looks like he’s having fun again as he continues the story. “Anyways, then you jerked off on my back and smeared it on a welt.”
“Please. Buck. It didn’t hurt enough but I left welts? Someone needs to get his story straight.”
“It was just the one welt.” The left side of his mouth curves up and he looks over his shoulder. Right at the Keebler elves painting, framed by the living room doorway. “And you looked at that welt, and you said, ‘I know what to do with that. I’m gonna rub my goddamn come on that thing.’” He snorts.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.” It just flew out of him, like a sneeze. Not for the come on the welt, but maybe for everything else in the world.
“I wanted it.” Bucky stares him down. “I want it now.”
“I know you do.” It comes out more certain than he feels. “But it makes you slip away.”
“Is that all that bad?”
“Yeah, Buck. It is. It’s where I draw the line. I want to fuck you. Not your body.”
“What’s the difference?” He sounds like he’s joking, but barely. Like he realized at the last second that it would be better-received as a joke.
“Everything, Buck. It’s everything. You’re—” He can’t finish, but it’s obvious enough what he was going to say. He’s always been a repetitive person.
“And what’s my body, chopped human flesh?”
Steve laughs. “It’s okay too. A good head of hair. A nice nose.”
“Not like your monstrosity.”
“Fuck off. You’re the one who broke it!”
“Once!” Bucky holds up a finger and shoves it toward Steve’s face. “Only once. And it was an accident. I swear to god it was an accident.”
“I’ll bet you a quarter that’s the time that fucked it up worst.”
Bucky smiles and looks down. Pokes his tongue out between his front teeth, then reels it slowly back in. He says, “What happens now, then?”
“What do you want to happen?” Bucky raises his head. “Let’s talk hypotheticals. You thought we weren’t having sex anymore. What would have happened? In a universe where fucking’s off the table.”
Bucky knocks on the actual table, and Steve rolls his eyes at him. “What if. Fucking weren’t off the table.”
“Bucky, it’s hypothetical.”
“Hear me out, Steve, come on. If you don’t want to, we won’t, but I have an idea, all right? What if we just—were more exact about fucking.”
“Like what if we used a yardstick?”
“Let me finish. What if we did that again?”
“Did what?”
“You coming on a welt.”
“Oh, a disembodied welt?”
“Sure. I’d pay to see that.”
“Why?”
“Seems funny. But really, what if it were just. Stuff I can only associate with you. Because we’ve done it exactly the same before.” He directs his gaze to the painting again.
Ever since Bucky started down that particular block of memory lane, Steve’s been trying to ignore the blood headed to his dick. And now he’s imagining taping the Bucky in front of him to the floor, either using stronger tape or using the same tape so he’d have to say extra still, either laying the tape over a larger portion of hair or carefully fixing his hair in an up-do. And having to modulate his strength to leave exactly one welt, taunting Bucky with not enough pain on the rest of his skin.
He stops picturing it, and focuses on digging his fingernails into the bridge of his own nose. “That could be a colossally terrible idea.”
“It could be a tiny terrible idea, or a colossally amazing one.”
Steve purses his lips and glares at him around the fingers still pinching his nose. “Come on, now you know what it looks like when things go south, right? So we can just, you know, be on the lookout for those things.”
“You mean I can be on the lookout. You can’t be on the lookout for not being able to be on the lookout.”
“I sort of can. It’s not—It doesn’t happen all of a sudden, does it? It isn’t fucking falling from a—You know. It’s just like going down the slide at a playground.”
“Inevitable.”
“No, dummy. Gravity’s not always—You can grab onto the sides, right? If you don’t want to slide down the slide, you just grab something. And now I know that it’s a bad thing, so I’ll do that.”
“What do you mean that now you know it’s a bad thing?”
“I mean what I said. I didn’t know it was a bad thing, but now you’ve explained it to me. I won’t go down the slide, Steve. Scout’s honor.”
Steve goes to a toy store and buys a jump rope. When he left the house, it seemed smarter than going to an athletics store—That kind of store might call attention to his body, which might call attention to his identity. But of course this is a terrible theory, because the toy store has a whole aisle of Avengers merchandise. Some of the Captain Americas are Sam, but some are him, and he tugs his knit cap further down his face and buys the jump rope in a rush and hits the road, feeling like his chest is too tight to be worth having.
That night, more relaxed, in the process of getting ready for bed, he shows Bucky the jump rope. It’s an electric blue striped with black, the plastic handles flecked with glitter. The kind of thing Bucky would find beautiful.
But Bucky, in the process of taking his pants off, stops with them halfway down his thighs and says, “What’s that supposed to be?”
“You know what it is, Buck. It’s a jump rope. For, you know.” He uses his free hand to mime cracking a whip.
Bucky giggles at him. “That’s not a jump rope. Maybe that’s the shit they call a jump rope nowadays, but look.” He twists his metal arm behind him to ruck his shirt up at the back until most of his skin is revealed. The scars around his arm are still changing with time. The line Steve cut into his hip has been gone for ages. “Smack me with it. Just a quick one. I’ll be fine.”
Steve frowns at the jump rope. He pulls off the plastic strips binding it into a tight loop, and reshapes it into a much larger loop. Then positions himself like he’s getting ready to hit a foul ball, and cracks the rope through the air as lightly as he can to land across Bucky’s shoulders.
Bucky shudders. He breathes in, out, loudly. He grunts and puts his shirt back down. When he turns, he looks fine, smiling and present. He says, “Yeah, see, that didn’t feel anything like last time. What the hell is that thing made of?”
“What? It’s rope, Bucky. They had some kind of rubber and some kind of rope, and I knew we didn’t want rubber.”
“We do want rope.” Bucky runs a flesh finger over the rope, then rubs it with his knuckle. “But this is some synthetic shit.”
“You love synthetic shit.”
“I do. And I love you for getting this, but we need the genuine artifact. Real-live rope. Let me handle it.”
Steve can’t help but feel that it’s not the material of the jump rope that disrupts the illusion, but the amount of thought they’re putting into the material of the jump rope. Before, he would have picked up the jump rope to hit Bucky because it was sitting around their apartment, because Bucky used it to keep limber for boxing.
“How into this are we getting? Roleplaying ourselves. Should we have you up on a platform so I seem shorter?”
“Can’t we just chop a couple feet out of there somewhere?”
“Less than one foot. I was less than one foot shorter.”
“Okay, so we’ll chop off less than one foot. Do you really use your calves for much of anything?”
“Kicking the ever-loving shit out of you.”
“Aw, no, that’s a different old-timey roleplay I want to do. Keep the calves; I don’t think your height’s important. Suspenders maybe. Pushed off your shoulders. Just hanging there. And a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.”
“Are you getting turned on describing my clothes?”
“Of course. That was a good look on you. I always felt real small when you looked like that. Like you’d come to put me in my place.”
“That’s good. Because I had. And I’m going to a—again.” He rakes a hand through Bucky’s hair, and scratches very lightly at the exposed skin of a thigh. It doesn’t matter how much thought they put in. Maybe. He prays.
They were twenty and twenty-one and drinking on the fire escape. Some time deep into the night; some time warm, Steve thinks. Bucky said to him, “So what if I was tied to the railroad tracks?” and Steve said, “Well, I guess you’re getting run over.”
There would have been other voices out still, other people leaving bars and rattling around and living their lives. Other people’s cigarette smoke, and trash left out in the sun, and lights on in scattered apartment windows.
Bucky grunted and mussed Steve’s hair. “All right, try this on for size: what if I was tied to the railroad tracks and you were there?”
Steve shrugged. Gulped his shitty beer. “I hope I’d untie you, but you know how my joints are.” He dangled the bottle between his fingers and tried to smile, but his mouth puckered small instead.
Bucky jabbed him in the chest with one finger. His left leg was thrown across Steve’s lap, their bodies catty-corner. “Try this: what if I was tied to the railroad tracks, but the train was still a long way off. You’re gonna untie me just like that? Not gonna do anything else first?”
“Trains are unpredictable. I’d untie you immediately.”
Bucky looked away from him, training his eyes on a storefront across the street. Tight jaw and slumped shoulders, knowing Steve was being difficult on purpose but disappointed anyway. Steve bumped his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder and continued, “And then I’d take you home and teach you a lesson about letting yourself get kidnapped and tied to the railroad tracks in the first place.”
Bucky made a small, almost-giggling noise, then self-corrected and said, “Hmm.” Still not looking at Steve, which maybe meant it wasn’t the right answer or maybe meant Steve had sounded as casual and confident as he meant to and gotten Bucky flustered. It must have been that one, because then Bucky said, “Well, you better make the punishment fit the crime.”
They didn’t have railroad tracks, but they had enough tape, and enough floor, and they got the job done. Probably Steve did get off talking about the price of groceries, making this as ordinary as anything, as safe and stable and good to have: Bucky trapped on the floor for him, waiting for a train to mow them both down.
“Did I really leave a welt?” It seems harsher and harsher, the more he flips it around his head. The tape and the jump rope and making him feel small, sure, but the welt doesn’t gel with how he pictures himself having been.
Bucky’s bustling around their bedroom, putting away laundry through the circuitous process of first taking every article of clothing out of the closet and drawers so that it can all be folded and organized in the same fashion as the clean, warm new stuff. The room looks a mess at this point, clothes thrown into piles all over the floor, and Bucky pauses in the eye of the hurricane. Gives Steve, who’s leaning in the doorway, a skeptical once-over.
He says, “You ever had come rubbed on a welt? It’s memorable. I promise.”
“And you’re not—“
“Crazy? Delusional? Sure, but not about that.” He kicks at a pile of red cloth. Steve inches further into the room.
“I wasn’t going to say those. I just don’t remember.”
“Huh. That’s a fun change of pace.”
“I know. I’ve got the brains of two jellyfish, I guess.”
“So still zero.”
“Ha ha.” He looks hard at Bucky, who tilts his head to the side, face impassive. “You’re joking.” Bucky shakes his head. “They’re not plants.”
“It’s fucked up, right?” He makes a ring with his forefinger and thumb. “No brains at all. Like us.”
Steve comes further into the room and flops backward onto the bed. The small amount of already folded clothes bounce next to him. “I hate the ocean.”
“But honeypie, it’s the outer space of Earth.”
“Yeah, and I hate outer space. And the Earth.”
“Zero adventurous spirit, I tell ya.” Bucky comes and bends over him but doesn’t touch. Just peers.
“Of course. Zero adventurous spirit. Zero brains. I’m pretty much an all-around zero.”
So Bucky sticks his fleshy fingers in Steve’s mouth, prying it open and round. Steve smacks him on the back of the hand. His mouth is returned to him. “Stay out of there,” he says. The particular laugh that comes over Bucky reminds him of the Keebler elves. They kiss, sloppy-good.
Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (16b/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-12-06 03:13 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (16b/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-12-09 09:06 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (16b/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-12-06 07:02 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (16b/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-12-09 09:10 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (16b/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-12-09 06:29 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (16b/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-12-09 06:36 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (16b/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-12-09 09:14 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (16b/?)
(Anonymous) 2017-02-07 02:43 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The True Repairman Will Repair Man (16b/?)
(Anonymous) 2017-03-01 11:05 pm (UTC)(link)