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

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

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

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This might be a little too close to a moldy happy meal trying to pass for a romantic dinner, so mods please freeze away if so.

So: The Winter Soldier has some flashes of personality in the movie--that "who the hell is Bucky?" hurts for me because it sounds a lot like the old Bucky. So what if the wiping process blanks out all the memory, but leaves the personality intact, and what the Winter Soldier is, is Bucky stripped of all identity and all reason for compassion (Steve). What I'd like to see is off-duty Winter Soldier with some of Bucky's charm and flirtiness, or maybe just being a snarky asshole.

And Strike teams loves him for it, especially Rumlow (this is the part that might need freezing), who puts the Soldier in situations where he can't possibly give meaningful consent. Rumlow's his commanding officer, the Soldier is put in a position to feel like he has to say yes because Rumlow has been a Nice Guy, the Soldier knows that if he doesn't say yes it'll happen anyway, so it might as well happen on terms he can tell himself he controls, etc.

+ a box of crusty old Uncrustables if Rumlow is well aware of how abusive the situation is, but the rest of Strike thinks nothing of it or down plays their own discomfort with it because of how flirty WSBucky is
++ some caked mascara tubes and a grocery bag full of cat hair if this is how post-recovery Bucky acquires all the triggers for nice things mentioned by an anon above, because Rumlow and Strike include the Soldier in beer/whiskey/cigar having and it gets associated with situations where any possibility of saying no is completely shut down

Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.

So, I'll try and make this short; I watch a lot of Dateline and other true crime tv. I like to think I know a thing or two about sick fucks.

A lot of HTP trash is along the lines of "and then everybody raped him and kicked him and used the stun-baton in his you-know-whats," which, don't get me wrong, I love! But I feel as though it's not a true portrayal of the depths of human depravity, even for a terrorist organization like HYDRA.

I believe that, while HYDRA may attract a lot of unsavoury people, they wouldn't all sink to those depths. And those who are fucked up enough to sink that far would go WAY deeper. Sure, he's beaten and abused, but that's to keep him in line. The really sick stuff is way rarer, and way sicker. 'Sides, only the really, really high-ranking folks with really, really weird shit would want time alone with TWS, rihgt? People who absolutely cant find a consenting partner, or their reputation would be ruined if they did.

So, maybe framed as in-recovery flashbacks, Bucky's experience with;
-A kind, gentle woman who fed him fresh fruit and gave him all the milk he could drink. She pats him on the head then goes on her way. Comes back an hour, hour and a half later decked out in full latex and makes him drink syrup of ipecac and he throws up all that nice food she brought. She then proceeds to hardcore dom him, face-sit him, make him eat his own vomit, all kinds of vomit play.
-A fat, squat business man who flays small pieces from Bucky's ass and eats them, forces Bucky to eat them.
-A dude who jams a knife between the soldier's ribs and the fucks the wound (he is probably severely punished but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )
-obligatory "i love you never leave me my precious" necro-fantasy Rumlow

you get the picture.
I KNOW this idea seems really specific but I've had it stewing in my head for a long time and I'm just not a good enough/confident enough writer to do it "justice" and bring the true horror it deserves. So I leave it in your capable, filthy hands, Trash Party. OTL

How about one for the ladies? :)

http://archiveofourown.org/works/2658320

After knocking Peggy out, Dottie takes her back to her (Dottie's) room for her own private Leviathan Trash Party.
Please to be handcuffing Peggy to the bed with the handcuffs Dottie sleeps in?

yesssssss as soon as the non-con kiss happened I was like I NEED HELLA TRASH FOR THIS. Plus! You've got the added tension/horror of all the SSR agents searching the building for her! What's worse -- that they never find Peggy? Or that they walk in on this?

Seconded so so strongly I'm gonna hurt my ingers from typing so hard

THE WOUND FUCKING ONE wow love it tbh

THe minute they revealed that Dottie still cuffs herself to the bed to sleep it was like "wow, they just gave people plausibly canon potential for trash".

Possibly RTYI, but there was an unprompted fic in Round 1 called Jewelry that might do it for you? http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/587.html?thread=482123#cmt482123

Hiya - seems when I said rough list of upcoming chapters, I meant "that's how I planned it to work out but once I'm actually writing it, things might turn out differently". Which in this case means "longer than I anticipated", so the above list is no longer entirely correct. Just a heads up!
- author!anon

07 Bucky

Back in his room, Bucky stores his price in the closet.

Between the desk and the window.

In the sleeves of a jacket.

No, no, no.

In the end, he lines up the bottles on the desk, in plain sight, energy bars right in front of them. By now, he’s almost sure there’s only audio surveillance in the room – but even if he’d manage to pry loose some floorboards, the hiding places are limited. They’d find it anyway, and he’d only look pathetic.

Bucky gives the table a last, thoughtful look. Stuff’s looking nice piled up like that, all shiny and colorful. A feast. But he can’t treat himself, not now. Not with what he’s planning to do.

He exhales slowly, then steels himself. When he’s done and the water’s still there, he’ll allow himself to have as much as he wants to wash the taste away.

It’s a good thought, it almost makes him smile, but he knows damn well chances are high that when he returns, everything will be gone. He can’t stop them, but.

Bucky tears a corner off a bottle’s label, just a tiny shred, and pockets it. They can take it all away, but they won’t get to convince him he never had it in the first place. Not this time.

He nods grimly and makes himself continue preparing for battle. It helps to think of it that way, makes him feel like a soldier rather than –

Makes him feel like a soldier.

And it’s going to be a fight, in a way. He’ll take some punches, to his body and to that burning feeling that keeps flaring up in his chest lately; the one that makes him want to bare his teeth and go for their throats. The one that makes him say no.

Bucky snorts. There’s not going to be any no for him tonight – but if he returns with Wilson’s permission to join the mission training tomorrow and manages to stay in a condition to actually attend, well. Joke’s on them.

Briefing’s scheduled for 0800, which leaves him with just a bit over nine hours from now.

He’s mapping out all the injuries that’ll heal in time and those that won’t. Wilson doesn’t seem to be the type for broken bones, he’s no classic brute. But Bucky antagonized him, and now it’s personal. (Stupid stupid stupid.) He’ll want to set the hierarchy right again, and one way or the other it’s gonna hurt.

Bucky finds that as long as it’s not overly cruel, he prefers physical punishment. Kick him, burn him, flog him red and raw – he’d rather push through it twice than having to do the whole groveling thing.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, he’ll do his best to steer the punishment in the direction that will leave his body in the best condition for tomorrow. He’ll drop his gaze and fall to his knees, let the shame wash through him until he can breathe again. They always liked him kissing their feet, right?

And then, from down there, he’ll. He’ll tell Wilson what he wanted to hear at dinner, about his other purpose. He can do it, yes, he’ll make himself do it. And if he’s really convincing and dwells on all the juicy details, maybe Wilson will come in his pants, just like that.

Yeah, okay, maybe not. It’s his secondary function for a reason – he’s admittedly not very good at it. (He doesn’t want to be good at it, he shouldn’t have to be he doesntwanttogo)

Focus. He needs a plan.

There’s no doubt Wilson will order the dreaded 'Show me' sooner or later, and as it’s unavoidable anyway, his best shot is to take control of it. He’d rather have trouble speaking than walking tomorrow, so he’ll try to get things settled with his mouth. They’ve said before that his lips are just made for it, right? So if he plays his cards right…

Maybe Wilson won’t be able to get it up a second time, and then goodbye and good night, see you tomorrow at 0800.

But. He knows the other outcome is far more likely than getting away with quick suck. And he’s worried Wilson won’t want to do it alone. What’s the point of reclaiming your power over someone if there’s no one around to watch?

Maybe he can talk him out of it, ramble some shit about exclusivity or something. If not, whatever. Still doesn’t mean things need to get out of hand. As long as he keeps it together and doesn’t fucking panic again, his injuries might be kept to a reasonable level.

He reminds himself that it’s statistically extremely unlikely that tonight’s one of those nights where they’ll fuck him up for real. (Those memories have been coming back with a vengeance; when he lies in the darkness waiting for them, drifting in and out of fitful sleep. He thinks by now he remembers every single time things seriously escalated – and honestly, for how long he’s been there, it’s almost negligible. At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself over and over again when he wakes with a start and can’t get enough air into his lungs and his heart tries to burst out of his chest.)

He feels his pulse spike up even now, and he knows it’s a vicious circle. If he can’t keep himself from struggling, they’re going to use force for sure. Bucky licks his lips, eyes flickering to the nightstand. He could… but it’s for emergencies, for nights when that one memory won’t leave him alone and the fear eats him up from the inside, clawing its way out until he’s retching.

Maybe it’s time for an exception.

He rummages through the drawer and pulls out a carefully wrapped bottle. One of the doctors officially gave it to him, gesturing at his shoulder and saying something about scars. As if he’d ever waste it on this.

Bucky’d gambled. He’d thrown the bottle back at the doctor and told him if he couldn’t whip up something unscented he could save both of them the time. It’d been risky, but he was lucky and now he owns this, it’s slick and it doesn’t even burn, and best of all: without the persistent smell it’s almost untraceable if he applies it right.

If he’s lubed up well enough, whatever they do hurts a lot less, and that alone helps to keep the panic at bay. He can tell himself even if they’d decide to shove some stick or baton in dry, they won’t be able to do that much damage again.

He coats his fingers with the slick balm. He doesn’t lie down, doesn’t drop his sweatpants, just hides his face in the crook of his elbow as he braces himself against the closet door, slipping one hand down. The plan is to get it over with quickly, but when his fingertip brushes against the soft flesh of his anus, his stomach makes a sick flip. What a cruel joke that anything about him should be soft.

The ring of muscle gives way with a wet sound that might or might not be just in Bucky’s head, but he grits his teeth and continues. He dug a bullet out of a gunshot wound at least twice, and if he could do that, he can do this. He keeps fumbling mechanically for a while, not allowing himself to slow down until he decides he’s sufficiently prepared.

There, done. Done. He wipes his hand and reminds himself that this serves a greater purpose, and that it’s worth every indignity he’ll have to suffer to get there.

Tomorrow at the mission training, he’ll show them again how invaluable he is; how strong, how fast, how very, very useful. Make sure he’ll be allowed to attend every time, learn all there is to know about the mission and if – when – somebody has to drop out, he’ll be the natural replacement.

And then, hah. Once he’s upgraded again, he won’t have to be on edge all the fucking time, jumping at every footstep, waiting for them to use him whenever they want.

No. There’ll be rules. There’ll be times when he knows he’s untouchable, when he can rest. He won’t spend every night on duty and even if he does, he can cling to the knowledge that they’ll need him to fulfill his primary function again at some point, and they won’t be allowed to do permanent damage. (And if anybody toes that line again, brings him back with blood dripping down his thighs and babbling numbers over and over, HYDRA – no, SHIELD – will make them disappear forever. They've done it before, and maybe next time he’ll ask for permission to do it himself.)

Yes, definitely worth whatever Wilson can dish out tonight.

Bucky’s almost at the door when he turns back and puts on his combat boots. It feels a bit like armor.

He gets up, takes a last deep breath and leaves for the guest floor.

OH BUCKY. All of his machinations, anticipating the abuse, this BREAKS MY HEART.

God, this one is just ... Wow. Can't wait for sam's reaction!

Oh my gosh, this is fucking amazing.

1)that the water might get taken away
2)that he's not very good at it, which almost sounds funny and then slides right into panic
3)everything with the lube, that he did it and how much doing it freaked him out and reminded him of DIGGING A BULLET OUT OF A GUNSHOT WOUND
4)BABBLING NUMBERS OVER AND OVER!!!!!!! they broke him down really far!
5)everything else

This is just great, wish I could be more articulate, but I just love everything about the characterization and the writing and just aaaaaaaaaaagh

nooooooooo this fic hurts so much I love it. The gunshot wounds, I can't

!!!!!!

I'm not sure if I've left comments on this before, which is SHAMEFUL because I am loving it so very, very much. Seriously, I think this may be the first trashfill I've remembered the title of? Because I go around going "OH MAN I REALLY HOPE WINDMILLS WILL UPDATE SOON" and then it did, so I am glad.

Gosh, I just love this a lot. His careful planning of his approach to Sam. HIs assumption that they're going to gaslight him. OH MAN. The lube "for emergencies."

I'm glad he's going to Sam because I want the truth to out (for the delicious fallout!) but I dread/anticipate/make grabbyhands at how it's going to go down.

"It feels good." "Keep going." "Steve, I want you to, please."

Bucky's smile at Steve was genuine, his kiss utterly sincere, and he had wanted Steve to fuck him. Steve wasn't brutal but didn't treat Bucky like he was made of glass either. He was considerate, solid, warm, and enthusiastic, kissing Bucky all over like every inch of him was wonderful and worthy. And Bucky did like feeling Steve inside him, the heat and stretch and more importantly the closeness and feeling Steve lose control made him feel wanted and desirable.

Which had made Steve going for a reach-around only to find Bucky limp and dangling, his soft cock bouncing between his thighs in rhythm to Steve's thrusts intensely awkward.

Steve had paused, balls-deep, and even without turning around Bucky knew Steve was flushing red with embarrassment. And for the first time since they'd gotten back together, Bucky was the one to offer a boatload of assurances.

"It's all right, you feel great." "Steve, don't worry, it's nothing about you." "Sex wasn't really a thing while I was with HYDRA. I love you, you idiot, and that's what matters."

Bucky hated lying to Steve, but better that then the alternative. Not about his affections: he'd never cared about anyone the way he cared about Steve, but about the sex. No, no one from HYDRA had ever had sex with him. But that didn't mean they hadn't used it against him.

--

Bucky had expected torture. After the stress of recovery from the fall and surgery hadn't made him as suggestible as they wanted, he expected bare rooms, horrible tools, more of the needles and hallucinations that had kick-started his personal horror show at Zola's hands. While he had woken strapped to a table with a bright light shining in his face, as expected, no one arrived to hurt him.

Instead, Zola had arrived to talk.

“HYDRA was built on the concept of order through any means. Order through pain,” he said meditatively, looking at Bucky strapped down on the table like he was a vaguely interesting insect. “And you will have to learn that order. But I think we can try something more effective than just lashing you until you break. I am a scientist; I experiment.”

Zola's little smile was chilling, and he nodded at his assistants to wheel over some contraption that arced over his groin. It was covered with sick, dangerously-looking protrusions, thick tubes, some kind of round sheath, and dangling electrodes.

“Now, we shall make our first attempt. What is your name?”

“James Buchanan Barnes-!” Bucky choked off his serial number into a scream as one of the techs at his head swung down the hated metal halo around his temples and turned it on. Screaming pain thrilled through his head, lightning dancing across his eyes, and his could feel his voice tearing through his throat in endless shrieks of pain.

It stopped, and Zola's was the first face he saw.

“You answered incorrectly. You do not have a name. You are The Asset. Now, what is my name?”

Bucky desperately tried to run through the facts of his life in his head, his name, hometown, parents' names, siblings' names, friends' names, teachers, priests, neighbors, and could feel the fringes of his life unraveling as names and places danced, elusive, on the tip of his tongue. Every time they used that halo on him, he remembered less and less. He couldn't stand the thought of losing another piece of himself.

So he didn't answer how he might have liked to, some smart-ass remark about Zola's name being “Potato Boy” or “Red Skull's Bitch” or anything else clever.

“Arnim Zola,” he said instead, with every ounce of contempt he could muster.

Zola smiled warmly. “You answered correctly, so you get a reward.”

He nodded to the techs, and the bizarre contraption swung into action. Fear had kept Bucky half-hard with pure adrenaline, and the thick sheath had no trouble sinking over his dick. It was warm, slick, beautifully snug, and as the techs taped electrodes down to his cock and balls, Bucky came fully erect.

Then one of them flicked a switch. It felt like his orgasm exploded up out of him, every nerve lighting up in perfect sequence, sucking pressure and envelopment and touch and things he couldn't even name all going on at exactly the right time. Bucky's head went back as his body soared, coming and coming and coming and oh God, he couldn't stop. He barely cycled back down before he was coming again, harder and harder, his body boneless in between crippling bouts of pleasure. The protruding arm, slick with something wet, suddenly twisted low slid into Bucky's defenseless ass, and pressed on something inside him that brought his next orgasm to a shattering climax that lasted even longer.

And they did it again, and again, and again, until Bucky was a limp rag, head lolling, body practically melting into the table, spent beyond words.

“What is your name?” a voice asked him.

He had to think about that for a long time. “B-Bucky,” he managed.

“That was wrong, your name is the Asset,” someone said patiently. “The Asset. You answered wrong, so you will get a punishment.”

Pain shrilled through Bucky's skull, but he was so limp, so exhausted, that he couldn't fight, could only endure as the lightning and terror ripped through him.

When it stopped, Bucky tried to reach for any fragments of himself, but felt them slipping through his fingers like sand.

“What is my name?” a voice asked. Bucky blinked, and saw a name tag a few inches in front of his eyes.

“Zola,” he read almost mindlessly, trying to find some equilibrium again.

“You answered correctly, Asset, so you get a reward.”

Waves of orgasms began to batter him again, surging pleasure rising to wash away the sand.

After the fifth round, he couldn't remember his sister's name.

After the tenth, he lost count of how many rounds they put him through.

Beyond that, things receded into the murky gray cloud of The Asset's mindless, obedient perfection, accepting the mouth-guard and chair when he didn't perform to expectations, the contraption when he did.

–

“Are you sure?” Steve asked for the eighty-fifth time. Bucky reached back to take Steve's hand and place it firmly on his hip.

“Yes,” he said, as unambiguously as possible. “I love watching you come apart. Come on, Steve.” And he smiled as Steve delved into his body, held him as he rocked inside him, whispered stupidly sappy sentimental things in his ear, and clenched tight when he felt Steve come, petting down his back.

“That was perfect,” Bucky whispered.

Perfect, because nothing Steve could do could even get him aroused. Perfect, because Bucky would never lose control. Perfect, because Bucky would never come. Steve couldn't possibly get him off, not with how his nerves had been trained by HYDRA's pleasure machines.

For him, orgasms could only come from those machines, and every orgasm was a little slice of death, a little more destruction of his sense of self.

“Are you-?”

“I'm fine,” Bucky insisted. Because he couldn't tell Steve that if he ever found a way to get him to come, he might as well follow it with a bullet to Bucky's brain. “That was perfect.”

AWESOME (and awesome title)

I LOVE IT

And yeah, talk about psychological horror … what a nightmare scenario for Bucky. :(

Oh my god please

this story is killing me i love your attention to all the sad little details

i love how smart and calculating bucky is but also so so so in the dark :(

*Whispers.* This kills me. I'm gonna write this.

YES DO IT

*glues together banana peel pom poms*

You don't want to know how many times a day I check for updates, haha.

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Page 48 of 222

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

WS with Bucky's personality but no memory

Re: WS with Bucky's personality but no memory

TW FOR VOMIT, GENERAL FUCKED-UPEDNESS

Re: Trash podfics

[AGENT CARTER E06 SPOILERS]

Re: [AGENT CARTER E06 SPOILERS]

Re: twink!bucky de-aging/underage (warning for pedophilia)

Re: TW FOR VOMIT, GENERAL FUCKED-UPEDNESS

Re: [AGENT CARTER E06 SPOILERS]

Re: ws + nipple piercings

Re: Windmills, Fill 6/? (aka Bucky's sense of tmi is faulty)

Windmills, Fill 7/? (aka Bucky's sense of tmi is faulty)

Re: Windmills, Fill 7/? (aka Bucky's sense of tmi is faulty)

Re: Windmills, Fill 7/? (aka Bucky's sense of tmi is faulty)

Re: Windmills, Fill 7/? (aka Bucky's sense of tmi is faulty)

Re: Windmills, Fill 7/? (aka Bucky's sense of tmi is faulty)

Re: Windmills, Fill 7/? (aka Bucky's sense of tmi is faulty)

FILL: Little Deaths

Re: FILL: Little Deaths

Re: FILL: Little Deaths

Re: bucky + tattoos

Re: Windmills, Fill 7/? (aka Bucky's sense of tmi is faulty)

Re: bucky + tattoos

Re: bucky + tattoos

Re: Windmills, Fill 7/? (aka Bucky's sense of tmi is faulty)