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

Unprompted Fill: Skin Trade 5.1/6

[(Anonymous)]

[A/N: This one is the longest yet! On top of the typical trash warnings it contains fetishistic sexual sadism, homophobic & misogynistic slurs, verbal feminisation, mentions of sexual gun play, CBT, and Rumlow's fragile masculinity. Like the rest of the series it's unbeta'ed so if I fucked up, I fucked up. Enjoy! :D]

Один | 2006

This is what the asset learned when it came out of sleep and had its head reorganised: its reputation was a layered thing. To the outside world the Winter Soldier didn’t exist. The world of spies and assassins thought he (the fools thought it was a man) was a tall tale. To Hydra at large, it was their fabled secret weapon, a precision cannon that shaped history one bullet at a time. To those who worked with it, it was an unstable and highly dangerous machine to be monitored closely and handled with care, not unlike a tiger on a chain. To its masters, it was their sabre and their whore, a body forged in pain and strength to kill and be fucked as they willed.

Within Hydra, the lines might sometimes blur.

It had trained hard with its team prior to this mission, hard enough to deplete its energy reserves. It knew this by the increased volume of its stomach’s ever-present ache and by the way the smell of cooking drew it to the safehouse kitchen like a moth to flame. The operative manning the stove stepped back as the Winter Soldier padded closer; it could practically smell the man’s flash of fear, but the smell of cinnamon and oats was far more interesting. But. It knew its place, and it knew its feeding schedule, so it stopped short to linger in the doorway. (Knowing did not stop the asset from wanting.)

The operative – Rumlow, relatively fresh with a mere five years under Hydra’s service, but promising enough to serve on the Winter Soldier’s team – eyed the asset warily. “You need something?”

Some defective, defiant, poorly-programmed part of the asset wondered how much this agent knew, thus how much it could get away with. It didn’t answer, but it did look pointedly at the pot.

The agent’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so. You’ve got yours and we’ve got ours. The Lieutenant should be back at 0900, he can do your your freaky nose-feeding shit then.”

He spoke brusquely enough, but the asset knew nervousness when it saw it. Rumlow was nervous, the op leader wouldn’t be back for another three hours, and the asset wanted sustenance now.

It advanced a step. Rumlow’s hand went to his gun immediately, and the asset halted again. It clenched its jaw and took a deep breath. Time to change tack: the asset sank to its knees and said, “Пожалуйста, сэр, запрос.”

Rumlow stared, wide-eyed, and spoke as if he were choosing his words carefully. “You wanna run that by me in English?”

The asset’s voice was as rusty as its insides, but it managed. “Please, sir, a request.”

For a long moment the agent said nothing. Finally, though, he wiped a hand over his mouth, moved the pot off the burner, and stepped away. “Stay right there, I’ll be right back.”

The Winter Soldier did not sigh in frustration. It knelt patiently and listened to the operative phone his superior. Even two rooms over it got snatches of the lieutenant’s side of the conversation as well.

“Sorry to call early, sir, I know. You know that thing you said to call in if the asset said it? Pozhaloosta zaprose-something? Well it said it, what the fuck now.”

The lieutenant laughed loud enough to carry. Make it pay for it and then give it what it wants.

“All due respect, sir, I must’ve missed the part where the asset carries cash. I thought it wasn’t supposed to want things anyway.”

No you idiot, it’s a barter. Oldest trade in the world. The asset has two functions and it’s offering you the second one in exchange for something it can’t normally have.

Rumlow made a noise like something was caught in his throat. The asset cocked its head, only half-interested. “What the fuck, I’m not...like that. Sir.”

Oh unclench, Rumlow, it’s not like the asset is a person. Either man up and enjoy yourself or tell it no and miss out on the only pussy you’re liable to get this month. I don’t give a shit either way. Just make sure it understands–

The operative moved out of casual hearing range, and the asset couldn’t be bothered to hone in on the conversation. If they were saying anything it didn’t already know, then it was nothing noteworthy to begin with.

Rumlow returned looking...conflicted. The asset watched him through the curtain of his hair, giving nothing away. This wasn’t its decision to make. It wasn’t too good at decisions to start with, so Hydra in all its mercy removed the confusion of options, leaving only the clarity of orders and obedience.

“So what, you think I’m some sort’a fag, is that it?” Rumlow growled. He seemed to actually expect an answer to that question, so the asset indulged him.

“Irrelevant.” Why was he so defensive? Usually agents would leap at the chance to exert some extra control over the asset. It wasn’t as though it was bestowing some gift or leveling a challenge.

The agent made a face. “You some sort’a fag? Lieutenant says you ain’t human enough for that but you gotta admit this shit’s pretty gay.”

It didn’t have to admit anything of the sort. It wasn’t as though the asset wanted Rumlow – just what he had. “Irrelevant,” it repeated, a little slower this time.

Rumlow took another moment to pace around, bleeding his frustration into violent gestures that connected with nothing. A lot of wasteful motion. The asset remained still and silent. Hydra had made it much more efficient than a man.

“Get up,” the operative snapped as he marched past – though, the asset noted with something akin to satisfaction, Rumlow pivoted so as not to give it his back. Smart. If the asset wanted him dead it would only change which side of his corpse hit the ground first. But hey, marks for trying.

The asset stood in one motion and followed, quiet as dust compared to Rumlow’s tromping boots. It tailed after him as he picked up a plastic bucket filled with little wood-and-metal clips whose purpose the asset couldn’t ascertain, and then into the room where half the team bunked. There were three men in there already. Their faces paled on seeing the asset enter, so it took no more than Rumlow’s coarse “Out” to make them shuffle out of the room.

Rumlow kicked the door closed and shoved the asset towards one of the abandoned cots. It wasn’t enough to make the asset move; curious, that he was still afraid, and that this fact was satisfying.

Fear made baying hounds out of men, though, sharp teeth and all.

“Down.” (The asset knelt.) “Strip.” (The asset did not clench its jaw. It had no right to hope that only its mouth would come into play – it paid whatever price Hydra saw fit to set.) “Stay quiet. Not a fucking word.” (The asset’s clockwork heart ticked faster, thudding like a drum between its ribs. It knew itself, and it knew words that promised pain. “Stay quiet” always mean “You mustn’t scream.”)

Hunger and hate swam in the darkness of Rumlow’s eyes. A dim memory rose of a longer, kinder face that looked at the asset hungrily too; but that was just an artefact, a defect of its imperfect mind left over from the chair, and it cast the memory aside.

Rumlow backhanded it and it swayed with the blow – but the Winter Soldier didn’t miss the way he drew back the moment it connected. The next time he was bolder, struck harder. “That’s right, you got nothin’ to say. You’re gonna take it like a good bitch. Lotta nerve you got askin’ for shit like that. Fucking lucky Lieutenant says you can have it this time, long as you pay for it.”

The operative stepped back to pulls his belt free of his pants. The asset tracked its motion, and the one that followed to loop it double in the man’s broad fist. Ah. The clips would be the parts that hurt. It understood this and closed its eyes as the belt swung towards its head. Yes, it was correct. The clips scored little cuts into its temple and cheek.

“Fuck, you really can take it,” Rumlow muttered. Was that a surprise? The Winter Soldier was forged in ice and pain far worse than Muscovite autumn and a belt. It settled its eyes on the wall; no sense making eye contact and egging him on.

“Fine. You wanna be a whore? I’ll treat you like a whore. Get down.”

And now they began in earnest. Rumlow shoved the asset over onto a cot on its hands and knees. He cracked his belt across the asset’s back and ass until there were slim cuts and broad bruises from shoulder to thighs. It didn’t hurt that much. It didn’t. It didn’t. The asset’s metal arm was good and true – it didn’t shake like the weak flesh arm or its thighs. Its breath came in jags, but the asset itself was good and true – it didn’t speak, and kept its noises quiet. It let its mind go quiet and contemplated the error of soliciting someone who was so clearly afraid. Humans hate what they fear. It should have accounted for this, but it was impatient and greedy. It deserved this.

As it turned out, Rumlow was not merely fearful and hateful: he was creative. Hydra prized creativity after all. The Winter Soldier let out the breath it had been holding when Rumlow spread its legs apart; surely now they’d get on with the fucking, and with any luck it wouldn’t last too long. Somehow what it got instead was even worse.

It sensed Rumlow shift behind it and cocked its head just in time to be caught completely off-guard by the next blow. The belt came down parallel with the crack of the Soldier’s ass, from tailbone to balls, and it felt like getting struck by lightning. The asset spasmed head to toe. It was not silent.

“Not so stoic now, are you. You wanna get fucked? Want something big and hard in that pussy?” There was triumph in the agent’s voice, as if he were standing over the body of a guard dog he’d shot before it could bite. A hand grabbed the Soldier’s ass, roughly kneading and probing dry fingers against its hole. The asset whimpered but said nothing. Yes, please, get it over with. “How ‘bout an M16, you want that? Fuck you with another weapon like you? Or you dead-set on getting this cock?”

The asset actually considered it. If Rumlow used the barrel that might do less damage to its insides. When it didn’t answer, Rumlow grabbed it by the hair and pulled till the asset’s spine bowed back in an agonising arch. “I asked you a fucking question, slut! You wanna get fucked with the gun first, or you wanna get straight onto my dick?”

Ohh no, meaner men had played this game with the Winter Soldier before, and it knew better. This was a trick question.

“Whatever you want,” it croaked. The asset served Hydra, not itself.

Rumlow made a disgusted noise and let go. Apparently that complaisance was enough to knock the wind out of his sails at least for the moment. He rustled around out of view as the asset caught its breath. Nothing was broken, but its testicles were even more aflame than the backs of its thighs. In a horrible way it was impressive.

“Roll over,” the operative ordered. Obediently, the asset turned onto its back and tried to block out the way the threadbare blanket scratched at its wounds. Rumlow had the bucket in one hand, and one of those wooden clips in the other. They looked like clamps for electrodes but the material made no sense. It soon learned their purpose, though, when Rumlow squeezed the thing open and clamped it right down onto the asset’s nipple.

Now there was a new sensation. It hurt, but also sent a thrill of not-pain through its body – a terribly confusing thing. The asset gasped and stared down at its chest, and then up and Rumlow. The man’s eyes were still a wash of heat, of hunger.

“Yeah, well,” Rumlow said as if the Soldier had spoken, “we’ll see how you like it by the time I’m through with you.”

Another clip joined the first, pinching the asset’s aureola. The third pinched the bottom edge of its pectoral. By the time three more mirrored the first ones on the other side, the asset found being still very difficult indeed.

This didn’t escape Rumlow’s notice. “Hands on the sides of the cot. I want you holding onto the sides and don’t you fucking dare let go.”

That, too, was smart. Of course the asset would obey and keep its basest weapons safely occupied. The agent clipped more pins to the asset’s skin in winding lines of pain leading down to its groin, where its cock was twitching in an incongruous state of alertness. Rumlow’s scowl etched deep into his face when he saw that.

“Sicko queer piece of shit,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ stop that, no one gives a shit about your ugly little clit.” With that, he snapped a clamp right down onto the asset’s glans, and the asset choked out a strangled noise. That solved that problem in a hurry, but Rumlow wasn’t done: he chased the flagging half-erection with clamps and more clamps until there was a dense row on either side of the shaft.

[cont'd]