Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

[trashmod]

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.

[Round 1] [Round 2] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by greenkirtle)] [Round 3 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

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

Comments

Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 2/6

[(Anonymous)]

Четыре | 1956

The asset was an imperfect machine. He knew this full well. If he were perfect he would not think of himself as “he” when the body Hydra gave him was only the facsimile of a human male. If he were perfect, he would never suffer boredom, a horrible little secret he knew by some instinct he could never reveal. If he were perfect, he wouldn’t want.

Imperfect as their creation was, Hydra was nothing if not gracious. His masters were patient when he toed out of line with his ridiculous, useless desires. If he was good enough they’d let him pay for the indulgence.

He had been aimed and fired, but already his masters were turning the great mechanism of global politics to send him out again. In the meantime, however, he could only train so much. “Restless,” they would accept as good reason for their Winter Soldier to want some form of stimulation. “Bored,” he knew they would not. Yet the truth – the secret, shameful truth – was it was boredom that led him to kneel before his handler and speak the words, «Please, sir, a request.»

It wasn’t long after that he was stripped bare, braced against the floor on hands and knees, holding still as his handler pushed into him. The pain was inconsequential. There wasn’t much that stood up in comparison to the chair or the arm (the arm...it hadn’t always been there, he was sure of it somehow, and he could only tell by the faint memory of truly unspeakable pain). Taking this man’s cock was nothing – a discomfort, a few minutes of unpleasant burning and spewed filth that would have shamed him had he been a man.

The asset’s handler pawed at his body, grappled his hips, thrusting and rutting like an animal. Here and there a thrust would rub against something that distantly promised pleasure if it would only be touched the right way. Like many others before, his handler said he was made for this, that his ass was made to be fucked. The asset wondered if it wasn’t a little defective, then, that paying for his luxuries kind of hurt yet almost felt a little good. If letting his handlers, his technicians, and his masters use him this was was pleasant, he reasoned, it wouldn’t be a very effective payment.

And he knew, he knew he shouldn’t be bored at a time like this, but the cold truth was that while his handler might have been highly skilled in the field, the man brought little to the table in bed. Or on the floor, in this case. The asset arched his back and tilted his hips forward, chasing that little phantom glimmer of pleasure, and it spurred his handler on to slam into him hard enough to almost make the asset stumble forward. The new angle took the edge off and made the next few minutes – if not good, then at least easier to bear. He ignored the awful names his handler called him for it. He already knew he was Hydra’s проститутка and needed no reassurance of this. It rolled off his back as easily as drops of sweat.

At last his handler buried deep inside him, coarse hairs prickling the soft, denuded skin between the asset’s cheeks and behind his sac, and came. The asset grunted as the man withdrew his softening cock and semen spilled back out. His handler cracked a loud, open-palmed slap against his ass while staggering to his feet and stumbling for his trousers, babbling and pleased with himself. The Winter Soldier, for his part, waited for the stream of jism to slow and inspected the palm of his flesh hand for splinters.

Slowly the two of them caught their breath. Some minutes later, as the asset was cleaning his hole (and wondering at the sensitivity of it – not entirely raw and painful like a wound, but electric if he rubbed softly, and didn’t that just prove his defects?), his handler dropped something by his head. There it was, in glorious red and white: Fal’sifkatory istorii, the indulgence he'd just paid for, one of the most outrageous requests he’d ever made.

The Winter Soldier had no need for reading material but Hydra was merciful and his handler was kind. They taught him order through pain until it was second nature, and graciously reminded him instead of decommissioning him when he acted up. They knew he was an imperfect, wanting wretch at times, but they let him buy the high luxury of a book using the only currency he had to offer.

His metal hand stroked the cover – another of Hydra’s gifts, fast and strong and capable of bringing him into line with extraordinary pain. He wanted to read it slowly and make it last. Who knew how long he had, though? His masters would act as soon as everything was in place, and he would kill for them again, and he’d be put away. When he woke up he wouldn’t remember the book, much less that he’d paid for it already. Did that make reading it now just as pointless? He frowned, then schooled his face; machines were not made for existential questions, even imperfect ones.

He pulled up his pants, settled on his side to keep pressure off his aching ass, and began to read.

Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 2/6

[(Anonymous)]

This is so good! Even though it's probably bc I'm a horrible person the line "machines were not made for existential questions, even imperfect ones." made me laugh?

Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 2/6

[(Anonymous)]

OP/filler here: Considering pt 2 is pretty much WS literally lying back and thinking of Mother Russia/"oh my god you're no good at this, are you done yet?!" I do not at all begrudge you the laughter. ;D

Re: Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 2/6

[(Anonymous)]

I love how bored WS is with this whole sex thing ... and that he's far more worried about forgetting that he'd already paid for the book in the future, than the actual payment.

And I also love how you've captured how perfunctory it'd feel if the other person isn't trying to elicit anything from you during sex -- the handler's not really following Bucky's response at all. (Compared to the fics where they want Bucky to come, or to feel pain or fear or humiliation)