hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

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.

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Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.

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When Hydra was raping/torturing Bucky, they liked adding insult to injury by carving the names they'd call him into his skin.

So maybe they'd carve "filthy whore" on his chest, or "cocksucker" on his cheek.

Maybe other stuff, too, like "insert cock here" on his lower back with an arrow pointing down. Really, the filthier the better.

The serum would make it fade, in a few days, but he'd have it on his body long enough for it to make him feel dirty, and to remind him of his rapes for days on end.

Also possible aftermath where Bucky still feels like those words are visible on his skin, even though his skin is unblemished in that way, and just can't scrub clean. He thinks everyone will be able to see he's a dirty whore by just looking at him.

Bonus if one of the guys doing that carving/raping is Rumlow.

I want this to be filled so badly.

The Soldier has no mission today. He’s been removed from Cryo, but he has not been taken to the room where he receives missions. He has not been taken to one of the training centers, or even to the Chair to be recalibrated.

Instead, he is taken to a large, tiled room full of laughing, nervous men. Many of the men must be new; they don’t spark even that not-quite-recognition in the animal part of his brain that remembers the faces that the Chair is supposed to make him forget. The two men who greet the techs that brought him to this room grin shiny grins full of sharp white teeth as he is handed off.

The Soldier knows this room, just as he knows the others.

Already, his skin itches as he catalogues the knives squirreled away in a dozen places on each man. The Soldier has no weapons, nor even clothes. He goes into the ice naked, and he comes out of it naked, and today he has not been dressed. He does not need to be dressed for what will happen to him today. Those knives will dress him in blood and the reminder of his purpose when there are no missions. When he is not needed to shape the world, his Handlers will shape him in any way they please.

He does not cry out when the only Handler in the room pushes him to his knees on the cold floor, nor when his arms are shackled behind him in heavy cuffs that he could break if he wished to.

“Who wants to go first?” the Handler asks, with his sharp white grin. This one, the Soldier remembers. He has been around for many years, handpicked by the Secretary when the Secretary was just a Handler. He loves to watch the Soldier bleed, and he loves to watch the Soldier make others bleed. If the Soldier were allowed to think, he would think this Handler just wants to watch everyone bleed. His second, who stands silent by the door, only ever watches.

That one participated once, his very first time. The Soldier should not remember anything, but he remembers the mess of ruined skin and bruises he was left with when that one participated. He does not think the words carved into his skin on that day will ever fully heal. They are carved into his bones, whispered into his deepest subconscious, ground into the meat of his soul, if a Machine like the Soldier can be said to have something as human as a soul.

The first boy who steps up is cocky, and doesn’t last very long. A few others look away when he comes across the Soldier’s face, but the Soldier keeps his eyes open. He has always been a good judge of aim. With some, he will have to close his eyes unless he is ordered to keep them open. This boy wanted to hit his mouth. He will likely be decent with a handgun, but will never pass for a sniper.

The next one is shivery with nerves, which is likely how he manages to last so much longer than the first. He gains confidence near the end. The first knife comes out quickly, and he carves sloppy letters into the Soldier’s forehead, after looking to the leader for assurance that this is ok.

The Soldier could have told him that it is ok, but no one will ask the Soldier that question. They will ask him if he is a good boy, a dirty cockslut, their pretty little whore, but never if they are allowed to touch him. He is not the one with the authority to make that call.

A string of young new kids follow; the Soldier thinks that none of them will last long. Even the humans who make it in HYDRA must have something of the Machine in them, or they will go out on a few missions and never return. If they are especially bad, the Soldier will kill them himself. Balking at their job, shivering at the sight of the Soldier on his knees for their pleasure, bodes ill for them.

The fifth man has promise. He doesn’t flinch as the man carves COCKSUCKER in blocky letters across the Soldier’s chest, the first O and the final C outlining his nipples in red. The blood stands out stark against his skin, still pale from Cryo. “Ain’t that right?” the man asks, curling his lips back and gripping the Soldier’s hair to force eye contact. “HYDRA’s greatest weapon, but you’d rather be filled with a nice thick cock?” It is an inaccurate assessment. The Soldier does not have preferences. The Soldier does not want.

From there, it is not long until the Handler plants a hand between his shoulder blades and carves as arrow down his lower back, saying, “Come on, he’s got more than just his mouth waiting to be used! HYDRA needs creative Agents; I won’t be able to point the way for you all the time!” Laughter follows the words, and heavy boots walk around in front of him. “You boys made me get my favorite knife all dirty,” the Handler says. He crouches down to the Soldier’s level. There is a dark glow behind his eyes when he presents the blade of his knife to the Soldier and says, “Clean it.”

The blood is coppery and thick when he licks the blade clean, and the Handler holds eye contact until the end. There is blood from a bitten lip on the Handler’s front teeth when he stands up and says, “Well, what are you lot waiting for?”

The Soldier has been on battlefields quieter than what the room turns into at the Handler’s words.

“What a little bitch,” echoes against the tiled walls, mingling with the grunts of the man behind him and the snickers of the one carving, “HYDRA’S WHORE” into his hip. The Soldier and the Handler’s second are the only silent points in the sea of filthy grunts and giggles and lewd suggestions of where to stick a cock in him next.

Extra holes to be fucked have been carved in to the Soldier before. It is unpleasant. He can be a Machine for most of what they do to him, but it hurts when they try to modify him with their own holes.

He whines, low in his throat, when one of them begins to do just that, and the Handler appears in front of him again. The Handler grips his hair and smiles his knife-smile. “Don’t you want to be a good little slut for your betters?” he asks. The Soldier clenches his teeth against another whine as fingers are inserted into a deep gash in the hollow of his hip. He cannot fully control the heaviness of his breathing, but he nods his head as much as the Handler’s grip in his hair will allow. “What’s that?” the Handler asks. The blade in his hand glints dully in the yellow lights of this room.

“I want to be good for you,” he says, voice rough from disuse.

“Good boy,” the Handler says, and then he carves the words into the Soldier’s cheeks as a reminder.

A few droplets of blood drip towards the Soldier’s lips, and he darts his tongue out to catch them. He does not want, but he also does not want the Handler to be angry with him. He will be a good boy.

Two hours, forty-three minutes, and seventeen seconds from when the Soldier was lead into the room, he is lead out of it. For the most part, the words on his skin have stopped bleeding, though a few are still fresh. Most of the blood and semen has been washed from his skin with a hose in the tiled room, but the words still stand out bright on his pale skin. The corridors are primarily full of techs in white coats who avert their gaze from him with frowns of disgust and displeasure. They like to be the only ones to carve into his skin, but they are subordinate, like him, to the Handlers.

The Soldier is lead to a cell rather than back to the techs to be cleaned up and returned to Cryo, where the words will fade in the ice along with his memory of them, leaving only scraps for the Chair to finishing burning from his head the next time he has a mission. The cell means his next mission will be too soon for Cryo to be worthwhile. It also means that recalibration in the Chair will come to soon to take all of today from his mind. Most likely, it will occur before the words on him have even fully disappeared.

He scowls where he sits in his cell, but does not curl into himself. Only his right hand curls, into a fist atop the word FILTHY on his thigh.

He doesn’t want to be filthy. He wants the techs to clean him.

The longer they wait, the deeper the words will sink.

He doesn’t want to be dirty, but he is a Machine, and he is what he is told to be.

This is amazing, I love the Soldier's mindset here!

His mindset, yes, but even more how he gauges their potential to be a sniper by their JIZZ AIM. Brilliant.

I can never seem to write porn without adding in at least a few random, inappropriate thoughts/comments. I'm glad you liked it! :)

Thanks! I'm glad you liked it! :)

OMG! one of my prompts actually got filled! You're amazing!

I'm glad you liked it! :)

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Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

bloodplay, humiliation, rape

Re: bloodplay, humiliation, rape

Minifill: A Rose by Any Other Name

Re: Minifill: A Rose by Any Other Name

Re: Minifill: A Rose by Any Other Name

Re: Minifill: A Rose by Any Other Name

Re: Minifill: A Rose by Any Other Name

Re: Minifill: A Rose by Any Other Name

Re: Minifill: A Rose by Any Other Name