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garbage all the way down ([personal profile] trashmod) wrote in [community profile] hydratrashmeme2014-12-07 08:43 am

Dumpster #2: ...'Cause a Hydra Trash Party don't stop

Unholy hell-miracle achieved! Welcome to Bad Guys Do Bad Things To Your Faves 2: Electric Boogaloo. AKA the seamy sexual-violence-and-violent-sex underbelly of Captain America fandom, 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] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by [personal profile] greenkirtle)] [Round 2 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

Round 2 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 3.

FIC FILL: Lessons

(Anonymous) 2015-03-10 02:11 am (UTC)(link)
(Written to accompany the art above.)

They left him naked--didn't even bother to hose him off--after the last lesson, so he knows that what comes next will be another lesson, and not a trip to medical or a mission or the ice. He wipes a black mix of dust and sweat from the side of his face with the back of his flesh hand, but he can still taste salt and mud on the back of his tongue when they come for him again.

He is brought back out to the dusty courtyard where the lessons are conducted, and he can still see the marks in the dirt from his own writhing in the throes of correction. There is a long curved groove that matches the dirt caked on his metal shoulder. Various smaller parallel tracks correspond to the dirt under his fingernails and toenails.

"Position," his handler says, and he kneels down in the place where his knees have left faint impressions, not quite at the center of the disturbances. He tends to fall to the left, because he is heavier on that side.

"Hands."

He offers his hands, palm up. Both hands are dusty. The right has mostly-healed crescents cut into the heel by his own fingernails; the left still shines in places and is perfect.

The collar is laid across his palms. It is a tangible weight despite his strength. Most of its visible surface is dark leather, though metal contacts show at three places on the inner curve, hinting at the circuitry that must contribute to its weight.

He bends his head over it, and feels again the nakedness of his shorn hair, cut away to keep it from inconveniencing his handler by catching in the collar. His face is exposed to his handler's gaze, his neck bared completely. Even the touch of air against it feels like a tiny correction, and he is conscious of sweat trickling down the unguarded skin over his spine.

His neck knows the places where the contacts will touch. He is not sure whether the superficial burns have healed entirely; there is no pain at present, but he can feel those places as though they have grown more nerve endings than the surrounding skin. It would not surprise him if his handlers had caused such a growth, to make the lessons more effective.

He is not a good judge, but the lessons seem very effective.

"Confirm active contacts," his handler says. "Verbal confirmation required. Contact one."

He bends his head and raises his hands, touching the sensitive skin of his lips to contact one, which will rest to the left of his trachea. He detects the faint buzz of electrical potential in the metal of the contact--not the full charge of a correction, but the inevitability of a future correction waiting for him. He swallows, breathes, and forces himself to speak clearly and at sufficient volume. By now, after so many lessons, speech requires great concentration, but he must not fail to give it when ordered.

"Active," he confirms, raising his head slightly to remove his lips from the contact point.

"Contact two," his handler prompts, and he lowers his head again, touching his lips to the second contact point, which will rest opposite the first. When both are active they paralyze his vocal cords, making it impossible for him to make any involuntary sounds while being corrected. This is a kind of assistance, he knows; otherwise the corrections might compound on each other until he at last went silent upon loss of consciousness. He feels the potential waiting in the second contact as in the first, a phantom buzz against his lips.

"Active."

"Contact three."

His flesh hand shakes slightly as he brings the third contact to his lips. It is positioned beside the buckle and will rest over his spine. When the third contact is activated, the pain will travel through his entire body, and he will fall and writhe in the dust. He never knows which corrections will include only the front contacts and which will employ the third. It is an effort to bring his lips down on the third contact; his teeth want to rattle against each other. His left hand, which is perfect, stays steady, and reminds him to perform correctly.

"Active," he announces, when he has felt that the third contact point is what it always is, ready as ever to deliver correction.

"Prepare for your lesson," his handler directs.

He straightens up, tilting his chin high and raising the collar to his throat. He grits his teeth together so they will not rattle. The right hand still trembles, more so when the cold metal of the front contact points press against his skin, but he has learned to compensate for that hand's unreliability. There is no hesitation for his handler to correct as he brings his hands around to the buckle, which rests just to the left of his spine. The buckle is a simple device--perforated leather, metal pins resting against a metal frame--and his left hand makes short work of it. His right hand shakes harder as the third contact snugs into place at the nape of his neck, but it does not make a sound in its small vibrations.

He lowers his hands and waits for the lesson to begin.

Re: FIC FILL: Lessons

(Anonymous) 2015-03-10 02:35 am (UTC)(link)
ohhhhhh my god this is so intense

also i have such A Thing for ws bucky with a shaved head & how it makes him seem more exposed

nice work!

Re: FIC FILL: Lessons

(Anonymous) 2015-03-10 03:12 am (UTC)(link)
I LOVE YOU BOTH THANK YOU THANK YOU