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

[trashmod]

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 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.

Comments

Fill: Reunion Tour (3/3.5)

[(Anonymous)]

Brock laughs, can’t help it. They’d done such a good job pretending the asset had something in there they’d gotten the asset playing along with it too. The asset half-flinches at that like it did from Rogers. Mouth tense, half a blink.

“They tell you that?” Brock asks, knowing the answer full well. The look that passes over the asset’s face tells Brock he’s right. He laughs again, because of course they hadn’t. Rogers would have beaten Brock’s face in if he’d known. “Course not. You got all that back on your own. Good boy,” Brock smiles, and the asset visibly shudders and drops its eyes, half turns away expecting the blow even from this distance, like Brock’s not handcuffed to a pipe. One shoulder hitches up and the asset watches the floor in front of Brock’s feet, looking for movement without looking him in the face. Brock doesn’t have to move because the asset’ll come to him. “Rogers, Wilson,” Brock says slowly, watching the asset tense up like it knows exactly where this is headed, “Romanoff, Barton, Hill, Coulson, they only know what’s in the files and the files always left out the good parts, didn’t they?”

The asset takes a couple of shuddery breaths and takes a step back. Doesn’t try to answer, because Brock and the asset both already know.

“You remember that time in Vientiane?” Rumlow asks rhetorically, since the asset either does or doesn’t and it’s not like it matters either way. If Rogers has the asset playing at shit like dignity and shame, Brock’ll use it for everything it’s worth. “I dug a bullet out of your thigh in that shitty little hotel and you told me to fuck off then, too, until I let you finish my warm Beerlao. Looked like it hurt like a bitch but you took cock from the whole team like a champ all night after that, just for another half a shitty Asian beer. Think Rogers wants to hear about that when he gets back here?”

The asset’s mouth twists and works like it’s trying to find words for something, but nothing happens. Nothing to say.

“Get over here,” Brock says again.

There’s a long silence that stretches out as the asset’s breath hitches and comes short, but Brock’s always had a soft spot for the asset and it’s going to take the cavalry a while, so he can afford to be patient.

The asset takes one heavy step towards him and then another, and like gravity it turns inevitable the closer the asset gets until the asset’s standing right in front of him. Brock rattles the handcuffs and the asset presses a thumb to the fingerprint lock, hands warm and eyes down. Brock tucks the handcuffs into his pocket and puts a hand on the asset’s face, cupping jaw and the back of the asset’s neck. The asset’s clean shaven, not even the shadow of stubble under Brock’s hand, and the earrings are pretty cute, just round little steel studs. Cap doesn’t have such bad taste after all.

Brock runs his thumb over the asset’s cheek, and the asset turns into it just a little, same as always. So easy. Brock finally tosses away his own coat and undoes the buttons of the asset’s. Now that Brock knows who the asset’s supposed to be, the coat’s a good ringer for the one in the Smithsonian. More of Cap’s useless sentimentality. Brock pushes it off the asset’s shoulders, and all the asset’s got on underneath is a goddamn hipster v-necked black tshirt, tight enough that the asset’s nipples and scar tissue around the arm stand out under it.

And fucking hickies. Dotted all up and down the asset’s throat where they’d been hidden by the stand collar of the coat and—yeah. Brock moves the collar of the shirt aside with one finger as the asset shivers even though Brock can feel the heat and smell of sweat radiating off it, and the hickies disappear down the asset’s chest below the tshirt.

There’s one right on the roll of the asset’s shoulder, big and dark and right where it can only mean someone was fucking the asset from behind when they put it there. “Cap’s not such a virgin after all, huh?” Brock says, watching the asset wince as Brock squeezes its shoulder over the bruise. Brock brings a hand up to cup the asset’s cheek, running his thumb over the asset’s lips thoughtfully. Still pliant and warm as ever, the asset half chases it when Brock drags the asset’s lower lip with his thumb. “Down,” Brock says, and the asset’s mouth twists but doesn’t move a muscle otherwise.

“Go to hell,” the asset says finally, but it’s faint and the asset’s still got its cheek pressed to Brock’s hand, eyes down. Brock watches the muscles around the asset’s eyes and mouth tighten—like—like the asset’s trying not to cry. That’s pretty cute. Brock smiles and backhands the asset against the wall.

The asset stumbles back, boneless and breathing raggedly, cheek red around the blush where Brock slapped it. Hard as fuck too, no hiding it in skinny jeans, and that’s some Pavlovian shit. Brock steps into the asset’s space and puts a hand back on the asset’s face.

“Christ, you’re pathetic,” Brock says affectionately. He runs a hand through the asset’s short hair; still long enough to grab, and the thought of Rogers doing this gets him harder. “Bet this would hurt like a bitch when it got torn out,” he says, and gives the asset’s earring a little tug. The asset’s eyes squeeze shut, but the asset doesn’t move otherwise and still leans into Brock’s other hand in its hair.

The asset doesn’t flinch or move away as Brock drops hands to the asset’s belt and makes quick work of the buckle and fly, because this has been inevitable since the asset got on the plane and they both know it. The asset’s breath quickens as Brock shoves it around face first against the wall and starts shoving down the asset’s pants.

“What the fuck is this?” Brock says, and Rollins would have a good laugh at the way Brock’s stopped practically cupping the asset’s tight ass, but that poor bastard’s dead. But someone’s put the asset in goddamn panties, or one step away anyway, faggy black boxer briefs with little pink and blue flowers across the ass. “Cap pick these out? Or Wilson?”

“Fuck you,” the asset stutters against the wall, voice unsteady as Brock digs fingers into the asset’s hips. “I don’t need to hurt people to prove my masculinity.”

Brock laughs because it’s such a goddamn boyscout thing to say he can practically hear it in Rogers’ voice. Doesn’t matter anyway who put the pretty little panties on the asset because Brock’s shoving them down and—shit. Brock kicks the asset’s feet wider because not only has Cap or Wilson put bite marks all down the asset’s neck and back, but over the asset’s ass and inner thighs too. Brock runs a hand up the inside of the asset’s thigh and laughs under his breath because Cap eating out the asset is beyond even Brock’s dirty fantasies.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” the asset says, voice rough and choked. Brock ignores it and pulls his cock out, putting a hand on the asset’s neck with fingers tight over the asset’s thready pulse jumping as Brock spits on his hand.

The asset shivers agains the wall but doesn’t move a muscle otherwise as Brock steadies himself in. It’s good, really fucking good, the asset’s still tight as a virgin even though Brock’s seen Rogers in the showers enough to know exactly how wrecked the asset should be. Always was one of the nice things about the asset, tightened back up no matter what happened.

The asset breathes ragged and sharp through teeth and nose, like getting ready for the chair as Brock fucks into the wall harder. The asset always managed plenty of pain, just never very quietly.

There’s a brief moment where the asset struggles against the wall, but Brock yanks the asset’s head back by the hair and bites the asset’s shoulder, in a perfect mirror of the one on the asset’s other shoulder, a little calling card for Cap to see who else was here.

The asset gasps wetly and stiffens, practically collapsing against Brock. He laughs because nothing changes much and the asset comes with ragged little breaths against the wall and gets even fucking tighter, and keeping the asset pulled backwards by the hair and pinned against the dirty wall is about the only thing keeping the asset upright as Brock finishes.

Brock doesn’t last as long as he’d like, and it’s over for him when the asset moans weakly, sweet tight ass fluttering with aftershock as Brock snaps his hips twice and then grinds as he finishes. The asset’s skin is almost too fucking hot to touch and Brock’s got the smell of Old Spice, sweat, metal and come on him, but fuck was it worth it. He bites at the asset’s pretty little earring just to feel the asset shudder one last time before pulling out.

He tucks himself away before putting the asset back together, spinning the asset to get the faggy boxer briefs and belt back up over the asset’s still half hard dick. Just like old times, getting ready for a covert op, and Brock smiles at the asset practically nostalgic.

“Down,” Brock says again, and the asset crumples easy as anything, knees landing on the concrete with a satisfying crack.

Brock stands there for a minute, admiring his work. Thinks about handcuffing the asset and taking it with, but they’ll be too identifiable together once Brock makes it back to street level. Connecting with whatever part of the cell here is holding out is out of the question with Cap and the rest clearing out the building. He thinks about handcuffing the asset to a pipe just for the poetic justice of it when Rogers gets back, but that’s almost too easy. And it’s better without, because if it’s good knowing that Cap and friends will find the asset like this, it’s even better knowing that all Brock had to do was give the order. Let them doubt what else the asset might still do on Hydra’s orders.

Brock grabs his own coat and picks up the asset’s to fish the earpiece out, and Wilson’s voice crackles out right on cue. “Bucky? Bucky, come on, check in, what’s your status?” Someone, Rogers probably, is making a shit ton of noise in the background. Brock tapped the earpiece back into the asset’s ear and patted the asset’s cheek.

“Tell Cap I said thanks,” Brock says. Runs a thumb over the asset’s swollen lips. Pity he didn’t have time for anything else.

The asset looks up at that, eyes red and throat working. Definitely crying, as much as the asset can cry, a weird attempt to mimic emotions with dry eyes and that unsettling stiffness even in its choked breathing.

“No,” the asset says.

“Bucky?” Rogers’ voice says through the earpiece before the others break through, loud enough that the asset winces, eyes squeezing shut. “Bucky, are you okay? What—“

Brock sighs. “Don’t know why they bother having you play pretend,” Brock says, running a hand through the asset’s hair. The asset shudders but leans into it anyway, same as always. “Not like you’ll ever pass for normal.”

Brock turns to go, because he’s got shit to do and the asset’s not on that list anymore. The door at the bend in the corridor opens for him, and it’s not the server racks, but it does look like Brock remembers it. There’ll be a stack of burner phones, unmarked bills and some passports hidden in a ceiling tile in the shitty little custodian’s office off the underground garage if Brock’s good luck keeps up.

“Burning wreckage was too good for you, Rumlow,” the asset says quietly to the floor. Brock throws a smile over his shoulder and shuts the door between them, whistling Cap’s theme song.

Re: Fill: Reunion Tour (3/3.5)

[(Anonymous)]

(OP)

I knew it was going here because of your content warnings on AO3, but I was wondering how on earth Rumlow would possibly incapacitate Bucky: a trigger word? threats? wizardry?? No -- it just turns out Bucky, despite working so hard at recovery, and having reclaimed so much of himself, and being so capable of verbal defiance, is still too firmly in the grip of his conditioning and trauma to fight back. Wowww. That is a lot of pain you just put me in. Of course Bucky would feel shattered by this.

The violation Rumlow enacted on Bucky goes so deep. The rape itself is a horrific declaration of Bucky's lack of power and lack of humanity, but everything surrounding it feels super gross as well, like Rumlow (literally) uncovering all the evidence of Bucky's personhood and independence -- panties, hickies -- and dismissing it. Or not just dismissing it, but judging it, and ascribing all of it to someone else's choice. Watching Rumlow carelessly push past all those meaningful, important, personal details to rape Bucky feels like the thesis statement of this fic, and it's powerful, and awful. And you made me very happy by making me very sad.