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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The men in the room all smile: a whole pack of grinning vultures with their hands loose and easy on their guns. The nearest one slings his rifle over his shoulder long enough to unzip his pants.

Four more men. Fine. Steve can do this. Just a small number of obstacles in his way, and then he’ll be done with this. They’ll have had their fun, and Steve will be able to move on with the mission. He’d known there would be a price for getting this information, and now that he knows what it is, he just has to pay it.

As Steve crawls to the next man, he places his hands down carefully, feeling the cold concrete under his flesh hand and only the vague sense of firm pressure against the metal hand. He concentrates on the strangeness of that sensation so he can ignore the leaden tightness in his gut, the thick, salty taste at the back of his throat, the buzz of adrenaline urging him to fight.

The next guard loses patience and snatches a handful of Steve’s hair to drag him closer. He gets his mouth open even before the man presses a thumb against his jaw to make him open up. From there, it’s not difficult. In fact, the motions come as if by instinct. Open his mouth, look up at the man using him, ignore the drool leaking from the ring of his lips.

Steve tries to count the guns. Rumlow, watching from the side, has two—no, three—and the man in the back corner has a weapon slung over his shoulder that Steve can’t see from this angle. Probably a Colt M4A1, but he’d need a closer look to know for sure. There’s enough hardware in the room to fire hundreds of rounds per second.

Another guard grabs Steve’s hand and pulls it up, momentarily throwing off his balance. He manhandles Steve’s fingers to wrap around his half-hard cock. Without waiting for Steve to get with the program, he folds his own hand over Steve’s and strokes himself. The rhythm is distracting, asynchronous with the man thrusting into his mouth, and Steve loses count of the weapons.

“That feels better, doesn’t it?” Rumlow says. “Bet you missed this.”

Steve doesn’t look at Rumlow. If he looks at Rumlow, he won’t be able to keep from attacking him. He tries to make his face go blank, to be the perfectly obedient soldier they expect. When he closes his eyes, he can feel the hard floor beneath his knees, the heavy weight of his metal arm, the invasive bulk of a man's cock filling his mouth. He opens his eyes.

Someone steps up behind Steve, and he braces for a kick or a punch, but instead one of the other guards sinks down to kneel behind him. He wraps an arm around Steve’s waist, holding him tight, the way Bucky had last week, both of them standing in the elevator, dead on their feet after a marathon training session. Bucky had rested his chin on Steve's shoulder and breathed against his neck, and somehow when the elevator had arrived at their floor they'd found the energy to tumble into bed together.

"Is that true?" The hand around Steve's waist rubs over the front of Steve’s pants—Bucky’s leather combat gear—and pushes against the outline of Steve’s dick. “You enjoying yourself?” The man pulls the metal arm up behind Steve's back and holds it there while he keeps rubbing Steve through his pants. Tucked up close behind him, the guard leaves Steve nowhere to move as one man fucks his face and the other jerks himself off with Steve’s hand.

Steve looks past the man thrusting into his mouth to examine the room. There’s one exit: the metal door they came through. It’s hard to breathe, pinned in place with a cock jammed down his throat. No, two doors. There’s one on the opposite wall, with a security pad next to it. The slick slide of flesh under his hand is not under his control; it may as well be happening to someone else. He can feel the man's fingers tangled with his. The wall next to the security pad is probably a two-way mirror. Are they watching this? Recording? He could smash the glass. The metal arm is more than strong enough for that. The man behind him is rocking his hips against Steve’s ass, and he can feel the hard outline of the man’s erection even through their clothes. His hand on Steve’s cock is relentless. There’s an air vent in the floor. Six screws holding it in. Gray and a little rusty. He could texture it with pencil, if he had to draw it.

“Fuck!” The man Steve’s sucking thrusts in brutally hard, slapping his balls against Steve’s chin, and then pulls out slowly, spewing globs of come onto Steve’s tongue, then against his lips. The guard behind him humps against Steve, jolting him forward so that he chokes on the last of the man’s come, sputtering and gasping for breath as he spits.

In an instant, Rumlow is charging towards him. “Hey! Bad dog!” The other guards pull away as Rumlow grabs Steve by the neck and shoves his face down to the floor. “You know the rules. Vasquez was nice enough to give you a treat, you swallow it all.”

Steve lands with his hands flat on the gritty floor and his ass in the air. He can see light from the hallway underneath the door. He can still remember the route they took to get him here from the entrance. He can get out anytime.

“I’m talking to you.” Rumlow’s boot lands on the back of Steve’s neck, smashing his cheek against the ground. “Use your tongue, idiot.”

Drops of semen litter the floor in front of Steve’s face. The mission is moving along as planned. This is just another tactical necessity. Steve pushes out his tongue to scrape against the floor, tasting salt and dirt.

Above him, Rumlow chuckles. “Good boy.”

Steve keeps going until he can’t see anymore white, and his tongue feels fuzzy and raw. When Rumlow takes his boot off Steve’s neck, Steve pushes back onto his knees. Vasquez has zipped his pants back up, but the rest of the men are still eyeing Steve hungrily.

“Hey.” Rumlow snaps his fingers to get Steve’s attention. “Strip. Bend over the table. Park, give me that.” He turns away to one of the men who’s still fully clothed.

Steve looks at the table: waist high, bolted to the floor, leather restraints fixed at intervals along the side. If they try to tie him down, he can break out. He can still run. But he won’t. He’s come this far already, and the mission hasn’t changed.

“Since when are you so slow? Your brain need a fresh jolt?” Rumlow pats him on the cheek, too lightly to be a proper slap. “Get moving, soldier.”

hnnnnrg I love how Steve tries to remove himself from his current situation. And OF COURSE cum has to be licked off the floor, Steve. *sits down gleefully for the assfucking* :D

Well of course. What other purpose does the floor serve?

No, Steve, don't back out now, that would be just AWFUL.

We wouldn't want THAT! :D

Aahhh, yes, the old "I've come so far already" - poor Steve.

The only way out is through! I can do this all day! Nothing can hurt me! Oh, Steve.

OP

YESSSSSS. Face-stepping, intrusive memories of intimate moments with Bucky, Steve considering his sunk costs and refusing to back out even when it's literally his ass on the line: all of these are my kinks. But my favorite detail?

Steve identifying and counting the weapons. What's happening to him is utterly dehumanizing--he's being treated like a mindless toy and/or a convenient set of orifices, and it's easy to think of someone in that position as incapable of calculation, of anything except direct reactions to the fact that they're being raped. Steve sitting there going "probably a Colt M4A1, but I'd need a better look to be sure" is a display not just of general competence, but of skill and expertise, which doesn't magically disappear just because he happens to be choking on dick at the time. Same with looking at the air vent and thinking "I could draw that": it's a random dumb thought, but it's an assertion of who he is. ♥

New anon-

The airvent especially resonates with me as a particular kind of dissociation that makes all of this read as very real. Well done.

Thank you, nonny! -aa

Steve considering his sunk costs and refusing to back out even when it's literally his ass on the line:
I try to hit all your kinks, m'dear. But Steve does not know the meaning of the phrase back down.

What's happening to him is utterly dehumanizing--he's being treated like a mindless toy and/or a convenient set of orifices, and it's easy to think of someone in that position as incapable of calculation, of anything except direct reactions to the fact that they're being raped.
I think submitting like this is so utterly foreign to Steve that he absolutely must have something active to do. He has never just laid back and taken it in his life, and if he's doing something productive, that must mean he isn't now. He's still in control. He is still himself. Oh, STEEEEVE!

a display not just of general competence, but of skill and expertise, which doesn't magically disappear just because he happens to be choking on dick at the time.
Indeed! What's different about this experience from the Winter Soldier's experience is that Steve KNOWS this is not his function. Winter was going through this thinking this is a big part of what he was for. So I guess, pick your poison as to which was worse?

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Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

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