hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire

Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire

Welcome to the latest, greatest, scummiest iteration of

hydratrashmeme. Come on in and please check your sense of shame at the door.

Rules in brief: Don't be a jerk except to fictional characters. Warn if you want, but read at your own risk, because this is emphatically not a safe space. Link your fills on the fill post. Unprompted fills: make a prompt or a header comment and reply to it with the full text. Continuations of fills from earlier rounds: just make sure you link in both places.

What's on-topic: Filthy and perverted twists on all the quality whump served up by Cap: Winter Soldier. Noncon, aftermath, uncomfortably sexualized violence, mind control, inappropriate uses of Bucky Barnes' metal arm, bad guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves.
What's off-topic: a/b/o, D/s-verse, soulbonds, mundane AUs, shippy/romanticized noncon, MCU heroes repurposed into OOC or edgydark delivery vehicles for your fave's suffering. If you've got a prompt for one of those burning a hole in your brain, head on over to

mcu_trash.

[Rules in full] [Round 1] [Round 2] [Round 3] [Round 4] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive] [Round 5 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

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The title was Daybreak.

This is incredible. I would really love to know what happened with Tony, but it feels complete as is.

THIS IS INFINITELY DISTRESSING

(thank you for writing, a!a)

((i need to go read a thousand fluffy fics now))

GAH

I'm sobbing. Legit, full-on, ugly sobbing.

(In other words, great job! Beautifully written and tragically in-character. If you post this to ao3, will you post a link?)

I really enjoyed this!

Unsure of Bucky’s actual stance on the matter, Steve didn’t ask Tony about the cuffs until four days later when he learned Tony had made completely new ones. Two pairs, in fact.

The new magnetic cuffs were definitely not of SHIELD or HYDRA origin. Steve didn't think he wanted to know the thought process behind the result, but he felt it was safe to say no one would be confused about where the cuffs had come from.

They were wider with less potential to bite into skin. The first set was bright blue with little cartoon rainbows and multicolored smiley faces. The interior of the new cuffs was lined with tan suede or something very like it. The outside gave slightly to the touch but was another material and clearly meant to be water-resistant. The second was striped in pink, purple, and blue. The lining was the same purple as the exterior stripes.

"I'd like to be clear," Tony stressed, "that these do not constitute fuzzy handcuffs." He paused. "Or furry ones."

Steve did his best to look confused, but he could feel the blush rising. “Th-anks?” Just to add to his embarrassment, his voice cracked on the word.

Tony Stark gave him a knowing look. “There are a handful of ways to open them. Saying red,” the cuffs opened with with a muffled chh-clunk, “is one of them, but feel free to pick another safeword or multiple safewords. Tell JARVIS what you want.”

“Oh my god, Tony.” If spontaneous combustion was real, now would be a great time.

“I think you mean thank you, Tony.” He smirked. “Sleep, fuck, whatever. These things are safe and comfortable. The sane and consensual parts are up to you two.”

Steve sighed and covered his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I want to hang you up like in Arizona,” said Bucky, like it was a perfectly normal thing to say over lunch. “The anchors for the bags should be able to take your weight.” They’d installed a pair of heavy bags in the spare bedroom, despite the concerns of nearly everyone Steve knew in the tower that he might become a recluse again without a reason to go to the gym.

They needn’t have worried. Bucky had taken vengefully to his old role of making Steve socialize, even if that now made Bucky himself a terrible hypocrite.

“Okay,” Steve said.

“You’re not even gonna ask what for?” Bucky looked more than a little disgruntled.

Steve shrugged and smiled a bit sheepishly. “Not much you could do that I’d say no to, Buck.”

Bucky’s frown deepened. “Yeah, see, if I said that, you’d worry.”

I’m not the one who was brainwashed and tortured. Not for decades.

“I’ll stop you if I don’t like it.” He still wasn’t fully convinced Bucky would do the same, but that was why Bucky had to be the one in control.

“So, if I wanted you to replace the bag?”

Buying time to consider his words, Steve chewed his bite of chocolate cake slowly before swallowing. “I… might actually feel better if you hurt me.”

With a humorless chuckle, Bucky pointed his fork at him. “Haven’t I hurt you enough?”

I don’t think you could ever hurt me so much I wouldn’t still want you.

He didn’t say it, but Bucky caught his thoughts anyway. “Damnit, Stevie. We’re a fucking matched fucked up set. We fucking deserve each other. Why can’t you believe I feel the same way and there’s nothing you could do to change that?”

Steve took another bite of cake instead of answering. Steve had no good answer to that. Steve knew it and Bucky knew it.

“Well,” said Bucky, “I wanna hang you up and do things to you. Not gonna ask me what those things are?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Steve shook his head. “I trust you, Bucky.”

Bucky only scowled.

There were only a few things that occurred to Steve to expect. Bucky had said like in Arizona, and Steve didn’t exactly anticipate he’d be used for target practice.

It was with a heady mix of nerves and arousal that he helped take down the reinforced heavy bags, stripped, let Bucky snap him into the striped cuffs, turned his back to the door, and then waited while Bucky attached the cable to the joining of the cuffs and hoisted them up until Steve’s bare heels were only lightly resting on the carpet.

Still fully dressed, Bucky looked him up and down, lingering briefly on Steve’s half-hard cock. “Comfortable?”

“Yeah,” Steve croaked.

“Good.” Bucky stared at him for a minute in silence, then licked his lips, turned away, and walked past him out of the room.

After a few minutes, Steve admitted to himself that he might have misjudged Bucky’s intentions.

There was a series of loud noises from the kitchen, followed by Bucky’s multi-lingual cursing.

Steve waited.

“You okay in there, Stevie?” Bucky called, maybe ten minutes later.

“I’m fine, Buck,” Steve promised.

About the same length of time passed again before Bucky came back.

“Close your eyes and open your mouth.”

Steve did and listened to Bucky set something on the carpet. He could smell… almost everything they had that was ready to eat.

“Take what you’re given. No…” Bucky hesitated. “No… chewing.”

Oh God, Bucky. Futilely, Steve tried not to imagine the reason for that hesitation.

The first thing Bucky fed him was a square of milk chocolate. It was easy to let it melt on his tongue until Bucky told him to swallow. Next was a section of orange, bright and sweet and clean. Steve used his tongue to press it against his hard palate until it burst. He sucked the juice out and swallowed the remains whole. The cube of cheddar after that wasn’t a challenge. He rolled it around his mouth until it became soft enough to swallow.

Bucky said, “Good,” and continued to feed him. There were crackers with a variety of jams and condiments, more fresh fruit, more cheese, slices of hard boiled eggs, and various desserts from cookies to caramels.

After a while, Steve’s throat hurt a little from morsels that weren’t quite soft enough and he found himself swaying slightly, waiting for...something. The muscles he was using to keep himself in place didn’t burn yet, but they were slowly getting there. He knew Bucky had a thing about making sure he was fed, but this couldn’t be all Bucky wanted, could it?

The frown was clear in Bucky’s voice when he spoke again. “You’re a rotten liar, Steve. No, don’t say a fucking word. You trust me with you and I trust you with me. If we thought we could be trusted with our own damn selves we’d a’been fuckin’ for months.”

Steve struggled against the urge to speak. He hadn’t been lying.

He couldn't say that Bucky was wrong, either.

“I’m gonna tell you some things for about the millionth time and I need you to listen,” Bucky whispered, suddenly close enough to break against Steve’s neck and ear.

Steve shivered.

“I got ‘em written down and everything so you know I’ve thought about it and I mean everything I say. Gonna listen? Let me have what I want?”

Letting himself slump, Steve nodded. This was Bucky’s show. Steve would do whatever he wanted.

“Good.” Bucky kissed him and smiled into it as Steve responded. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna put away the plates.”

LOVE THIS!!!!

different anon, it's been ages and not sure if anyone still cares abt this prompt, but it wouldn't leave my head, so here goes

-----

Brock Rumlow doesn't cry.

He never gave it much thought, and so he wouldn't be able to tell if it's his less-than-ideal childhood or years of military training that made him that way, but fact is, he usually keeps his feelings to himself.

Unless it’s anger. He’s good at being angry, and as much as his superiors enjoy comparing him to a rabid dog when they think he’s out of earshot, it ends up getting him places eventually. Sadness, however, and frustration, grief and anguish and desperate desire, he keeps it all buried deep down beneath tough, scarred skin.

It all changed slightly when Jack happened, all these years ago, handsome and strong and so entirely unpretentious, refusing to entertain Brock's no homo bullshit from day one. Charming in a quiet, reserved manner, confident but never cocky, he somehow made his way through layers upon layers of feigned bravado and practised bad attitude, and by what Brock can only call a miraculous sort of twist of events wasn’t repulsed by what hides underneath. And not like Jack is the most sentimental one out there either, but the aura of quiet acceptance he carries with himself regardless of the situation, his selfless kindness and genuine honesty make Brock understand that maybe letting go every once in a while does not make him weak.

And so Brock cries when Jack touches him for the first time in a way that’s definitely not just friends. It’s nothing lewd, just long, elegant fingers absent-mindedly running up the length of his thigh when they’re alone with bad beer and worse movies, and Brock cries because he wants this so bad but he doesn’t know how, because it’s all feelings he doesn’t have words for besides fag and queer. Jack doesn’t say anything as he takes him in his arms, wipes away his ugly tears, and Brock shuts his mouth before he ruins the moment with something like stop it with this gay shit, Jackie. Instead, he resolves to learn how to be tender.

Months later, he cries when Jack takes an IED to the face, when he's kept in an induced coma and half his jaw is hanging detached from his face and doctors shuffle about with stern expressions and grim prognosis. He cries when Jack comes out of surgery with a thick line of black stitches like barbed wire across his handsome features, and the nurses won't say when he will wake up, and Brock can’t help but think that this is the worst possible circumstances for meeting Jack’s family. He cries into Debra Rollins’ shoulder when she gently pries him away from Jack’s bedside, treats him to briny vending machine coffee and hearty home-made sandwiches and reassures him that it’s all going to be alright.

A few years go by entirely too quickly and Brock cries on his wedding day, in front of the too populous Rollins clan and their STRIKE teammates and whoever else might be there, a little bit tipsy and so fucking in love, Jack holding him in his arms as he no doubt leaves wet stains on Jack's shirt. There’s dancing and toasting and it’s lavish in a simple, homely way that leaves Brock feeling warm and comfortable and so goddamn right, and he doesn’t care when a stray tear or two make their way down his cheek as they walk into the reception, crowd cheering and a flurry of rice raining from the air. He cares even less when the night is coming to a close, when Jack holds him against his chest and presses a kiss into his hair, and he catches Debra’s fond smile over Jack’s shoulder and he knows that finally, this is it. This is family. This is home.

He's crying right now, in his car parked in the driveway in front of Jack's house, which has not been Jack's but JackandBrock's for quite some time now. It’s late, there's a light on in the kitchen and the blinds are drawn so he can't see inside but Jack must be making tea or reheating dinner, finding ways to make this as easy as possible for the both of them. He’s always done that for Brock, diffuse and negotiate when his temper got the worst of him, and this will be no different. They will sit on the couch and talk about it and Jack will be gentle but firm with the way he asks Brock to move out. He will give Brock one last kiss, or maybe he won't, and send him on his way with a neatly packed overnight bag and a set of divorce papers already signed in looping cursive. And Brock will go back to his car and he will cry and cry and cry because it will all be his fault.

There's a sharp slap of skin-on-skin as Rogers fucks into him from behind, vice-like grip of his perfectly manicured hands certain to leave purple-yellow bruises on Brock's hips, ten even circles like ugly, rotting grapes to remind him of his shame. City lights do little to illuminate the darkness inside the skyscraper apartment and the air inside is heavy, heady in a way that’s less like arousal and more like an animalistic sort of frenzy. It smells like unwashed sheets and expensive cologne, like the kind of sex everyone always assumed Brock would enjoy, and he chokes on it as he barks a laugh, just to himself.

He's sprawled on the bedding, ass up in the air and face smothered in the pillows, trying to muffle noises of discomfort. There’s jolts of burning, stabbing pain against the baseline of a steady thrum of tired muscle and this is it, this is HYDRA obedience as its fines. The bedframe bumps against the wall in a steady rhythm and Brock tries to focus on the sound, uses the resounding thump-thump-thump to disconnect from the sensation of feverish hands roaming down his flank and warm breath ghosting down his nape, making him shiver.

Tries to let the steady, insistent noise overtake his brain, hoping it will drown out the background cacophony of Cap groaning and grunting and smacking him on the ass.

Rogers fucks like a porn star, and looks like one too, perfectly hairless and barely breaking a sweat, not a single blond hair out of place, and Brock hates this, hates how much he feels like he's an actor in a cheap smut flick, the two of them playing out a scene for some invisible audience. He hates how filthy he feels, back littered in angry, reddened bite marks and fat droplets of come dripping down the inside of his thighs, a testament to Cap's superhuman stamina. At least it hurts slightly less now, burning stretch reduced to a dull thrum of discomfort, two loads up his ass making up for how little Rogers cares for lube.

Despite his apparent all-American sainthood, Cap sure likes it hard and fast, dirty Brooklyn punk coming out from underneath the propaganda pin-up facade. He’s not cruel, and he doesn’t aim to hurt, it’s just that his definition of pleasure seems to be taken right out of the porn Brock would force himself to watch when all his friends were chasing tail and he found himself lost in daydreams of firm muscle and sharp green eyes. He tries to make it good for him, Brock knows, his brief reassurance that he likes it that way too enough to send Cap on his mission of fucking him through the mattress.

And for all that he hates it, Brock lets himself be manhandled, hoping that if he plays his cards right it might be over quickly.

That's why he pulls Rogers' hand away when two spit-slick fingers push their way into his ass. Why he forces himself to mutter what he’s hoping is a sultry 'C'mon, give it to me' when he knows it's going to hurt like a bitch, why he tries to fake breathy moans and whisper hungry fuck me’s when Cap's dick jabs something inside him that shouldn't feel this painful. Why he rocks his hips back and meets Cap's thrusts when he groans a 'Yeah, you like that, you filthy slut?', humid breath falling directly behind his ear, in that exact spot Jack will touch when he still has something to say but he’s all out of words, and all Brock wants to do is put a black eye on that plastic-perfect face.

It’s why he makes up some bullshit excuse about Afghanistan and explosions and nerve damage when Rogers' hand finds its way to his cock, hanging small and flaccid and disinterested between his trembling thighs, why he forces himself to moan louder as he reassures Cap that he likes it and feels good and c'mon, don't stop.

Because more than anything, he just wants it to be over.

Because all he wants is a different pair of hands on him, rough with callouses from guns and gear and whatever DIY project is in the works right now, but still so soft on his skin. He wants them to touch and soothe, to erase what’s being done, to make him feel beautiful and wanted and good when all he can feel right now is dirty.

When Rogers first touched him, when he took off Brock's shirt and ran his fingers down his chest, bit at his neck like he was a starving animal, Brock tried to think of Jack. To close his eyes and sigh and moan like it's Jack doing all that to him. It feels so utterly wrong though, to think of Jack when he's got his guts full of superhero cum and every second feels like torture despite Rogers' good intentions.

And besides, he wouldn’t be able to reconcile the fantasy with reality anyway, even if he tried.

Because despite his pragmatism and efficiency in the field Jack is one indulgent bastard when they're back home, spoiling Brock with good whiskey and steak dinners and damn good back rubs when they come back from a particularly gruelling mission. Because Jack enjoys it when they take their time, when Brock opens him with his fingers and tongue and that expensive kind of lube that doesn't dry out even when they've been at it for hours. He likes it when Brock fucks him slow and steady, makes him moan and writhe so delicately for a man his size, just because it feels good and there’s no need for shame. And he always holds Brock afterwards, a solid, warm weight at Brock's back as he comes down from the high of his orgasm, making all of his worries melt away with a gentle caress of elegant fingers along his flank.

Face pushed deeper and deeper into the pillows with every thrust, Brock bites his bottom lip and tries not to cry, because he might have just lost all of that.

(They talked about it, when Pierce first laid out his plan, excited, almost giddy as he announced his findings to Brock. He likes boys, you see, dark haired and well-built and good with guns, he said, pleased smirk never leaving his face. And at first Brock didn't realise what that was about, not until Pierce explained in detail what he requires from his best soldier, his most loyal.

They talked and Jack agreed, because anything seemed better than the cost of refusal, Brock demoted to private and shipping out to haji country on the next possible date. And Brock felt that way too, because Jack is too young and too handsome to be left a widower when Brock bites the dust somewhere in the middle of nowhere in jihad land. So they talked about it and talked about it some more, and Jack kissed Brock and held him like this didn't change anything between them.)

Messy hair clinging to a clammy forehead and metallic taste of blood invading his mouth where the skin of his lip must have finally given to relentless teeth, Brock wishes he'd said no, because being six feet deep down in Arlington would be so much better than the endless shame he feels right now.

With one final groan Cap comes, too much muscle and inhumanely soft skin collapsing against Brock's back. He's knocked down into the mattress when his elbows and knees can't hold him up, muscle trembling with exertion. With one last ounce of effort he tries to crawl away, to escape the weight pushing him deeper into the bedding, too much skin-on-skin threatening to make him panic, to break away the façade he’s forced himself to maintain. Rogers is panting like a hunting dog minutes after its teeth sink into its prey, and Brock feel downright sleazy when warm lips kiss their way down his nape. As much as the bulk of flesh pressed against his back will allow, he writhes and twists away, but that only encourages more unwanted affection, and so he resigns himself to closing his eyes and enduring.

It feels sticky and disgusting when Cap pulls out of him with a wet squelch, and Brock doesn't waste a second getting out of bed and into the shower, doing his best to ignore a pair of unsettling blue eyes following him to the bathroom. Rogers look content and sated, city lights below illuminating his dopey smile and relaxed muscle, making Brock feel more vulnerable than any interrogation ever did.

Not even scalding hot water helps him feel any less dirty. He scrubs and scrubs until his skin is raw and red, and then some more, but none of it seems to wash away the shame from his skin. Hair dripping and flattened against his forehead, he picks up his clothes from the floor, ignoring the pain all over his body as he gets dressed. In his frantic haste he doesn’t notice as Rogers peels himself off the bed, tries to pull him in for a hug and a kiss the moment he’s ready to walk through the door. Too tired to keep up the act, he dodges the touch, doesn’t even bother saying his goodbyes.

It's a quick walk to his car and a straight route home, hair a mess, fingers numb and eyes suspiciously wet.

Even if we’ve forgotten the prompt, we still want the fills!

A muttered “I'm sorry” is all Brock can manage as Jack meets him by the door and pulls him into an embrace like Brock is about to collapse.

“I know” Jack replies in that quiet, steady voice of his that always makes things better, except that it doesn't. Not right now. Because Jack is supposed to be angry, upset. He is supposed to ask Brock to leave, but the scenario isn't playing out as Brock anticipated and he's at loss. He wants to ask questions, to do this right, as wrong as it all is, but he chooses to be selfish, to stay wrapped in those strong arms just for a moment longer.

“It's not your fault. I love you” Jack adds, and Brock doesn't understand.

“I love you, and I'm sorry this had to happen. I'm here for you if you'll still have me” Jack continues and Brock stays still, confused and scared and almost definitely leaving a wet patch on Jack's sweater. He still doesn’t get why Jack isn’t blaming him, why he makes it sound like Brock should be the one to decide where they’ll go from here. And some part of Brock wants to choose to decide that they’re fine after all.

They stay like that for a while, just holding on to each other, until Jack steers Brock out of the hallway and into the living room, makes him lay down on the sofa. Brock's t-shirt rides up as he settles down, head propped up on Jack’s thigh and legs curled towards his stomach, and a flash of panic crosses Jack's face when he spots bruises blossoming ugly and dark against Brock's olive skin.

Fingers reach out to touch him, but they still in mid-air, hovering uncertain.

“Did he hurt you?” Jack asks, and Brock wishes there was something he could do to alleviate the resigned sadness in his voice.

There isn’t, so he just catches Jack’s hands in his and brings it to his hip, lets it rest there. Despite the pain lingering beneath the surface of his skin, the touch is soothing. Jack drags his thumb back and forth against the jut of Brock’s hipbone, and Brock wishes he could drift away into sleep like this, and wake up to find all this a distant nightmare. Just another dream to forget over late Sunday breakfast, Jack cooking up something hearty and savoury, accompanied by rich, dark coffee.

Instead he forces himself to stay awake as he mumbles into Jack’s thigh, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Not intentionally, no. Turns out Cap likes it a bit rough, is all.” He tries to downplay it, how much it hurt. How much he hated every second of it. Jack is already tired enough, always picking up Brock’s loose ends, always dealing with his burdens. Brock can’t help but feel guilty for troubling him again.

“You don't though. Why did you let him do that?”

Jack’s fingers move to thread through Brock’s hair as he no doubt spots the bite marks on his nape, and Brock is grateful that he can’t see Jack’s face from this angle, doesn’t have to deal with his solemn expression.

“Figured it'd be over quicker if I do what he likes.”

Jack remains silent. There’s two fingers just behind Brock’s ear, rubbing up and down along his neck, down to the collarbone, and Brock knows Jack wishes he could say something, but he can’t, not right now.

With every tender motion of fingers against his skin, Brock is pulled together and falls apart all at once.

It’s too much, the silence, the weight carried in every minute movement, and Brock can feel the tears brimming and falling, an ugly onslaught like a downpour at the end of an already miserable day. His breathing picks up and he can feel the words trying to escape his throat, a desperate wave of unspoken truths that he knows Jack knows already, probably won’t care to hear, not amidst pitiful sniffling and a trembling voice.

“I'm sorry, Jackie. Never wanted anyone but you, swear to God I didn't” Brock mutters anyway, words growing desperate with every stammered breath.

“Promised you it was gonna be you and me for good and I still want it that way.”

“They made me do it. Wouldn't ever let anyone but you touch me, but they made me do it.”

“I'm so fucking sorry. I fucked this up. I fucked us up.” He knows he’s bawling now, messy and ugly and terrible, like he’s never cried before. He can’t stop, even as he realises that he’s only giving Jack another reason to feel disgusted with him.

Somehow, despite all that, Jack pulls him up into his lap, lets him rest his ugly, wet face in the crook of his shoulder as he embraces him, rubs soothing circles into his trembling back.

“You didn't. I love you” Jack says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like the mess Brock dragged them into doesn’t exist.

Eventually, Brock’s crying ceases. His breathing evens out and an overwhelming tiredness hits him all at once. More than anything, he feels empty.

'They'll make me do it again. And I don't want no one but you touching me. But they'll make me' he says into Jack’s shoulder, into the scent of fresh laundry and home cooking.

'They won't. I'll take care of it. I'll take care of you' Jack reassures, and all Brock wants is to believe it.

After all, he’s always been selfish.

For all Rumlow’s loyalty, he clearly resents the hell out of HYDRA. Great job with the limited POV showing what a mess he is under all the armor.

hydra obedience at its finest wow idek what that has to say about the world as Brock knows it

This is excellent!!!!

You know, I shouldn't be reading this right now. I should be working because my boss doesn't pay me for reading trash. But when I saw which prompt this is a fill for I had to read it immediately!

Hoo boy, what a wonderful fic this is. I love it with all my little masochistic heart <3 Especially the second part - delightfully described and with just the right balance of what is happening in bed and in Brock's head, and I certainly like your version of how Steve is in bed. Thank you so much for writing it!

Oh, sweet mother of all that is good and filthy in this world. Tony with the cuffs, OMG! Steve's feels over being hanged up and Bucky's feels in response to that, OMG! The FEEDING, OMG THE FEEDING OF SMALL NICE THINGS BUT NO SHEWING, OMG! BUCKY HAS THINGS TO SAY THAT HE WROTE DOWN AND NEEDS STEVE TO LISTEN, OMG! Steve, just please don't fuck this up!

Thanks! It would be really interesting to write Tony Stark for once, but I have exactly zero grip on pop culture references (Manchurian candidate who?), so I'm not sure I could do him justice.

Someone doesn't appreciate my take on a happy ending... :p

No honestly anon, roll around in all the fluff!

Will do!
Also, good thing the dumpster is so full of crumpled handkerchiefs, right?

a!a here, it's kinda garbage lmao

Said Bucky Barnes never.

Thank you, anon! <3

a!a here, thank you so much, and yeah that's kinda how i like my rumlow. a high performing barely functional mess who oftentimes (not always but often) resents where life took him but wont do anything about it cuz he's, u know, a mess and also his entire self esteem is built on questionable career choices. like i don't think he resents hydra for its ideology or anything but the mechanics of it and some jobs he's given are a pain

a!a here, thank you!!! youre excellent xx

boss makes a dollar i make a dime thats why do weird stuff on the internet on company time

and honestly thank u so much for your comment. i dont write steve almost at all but i think id be fun to explore that side of him. like so often a lot of fic portrays him as either extra vanilla fluffy or full on leather daddy bdsm kinkster. and i like that middle ground of 'good guy, likes a bit of rough and tumble, likes things kinda dirty but genuinely cares for his partner and doesnt mean to hurt them on purpose' but still does it cuz hes oblivious af lol

now available edited and marginally less of a mess on ay oh three

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16533704

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Page 49 of 68

Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire

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