hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #4: I Don't See How That's a Party

Dumpster #4: I Don't See How That's a Party

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hydratrashmeme is about as far from a safe space as you can get. Garbage we like: noncon, whump, aftermath, violence, mind control, inappropriate uses of Bucky Barnes' metal arm, bad guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves. Garbage you should find a different trashcan for: a/b/o, D/s-verse, soulbonds, mundane AUs, OOC evil!good guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves, rotting leftovers dressed up as a romantic gourmet meal. Nothing wrong with 'em, but this isn't the crowd you should be pitching to if you're trying to sell Brock Rumlow as anything but a human dumpster fire.

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heyhey -- it's taken me a while, but here is some 4F!Steve/HYDRA. They're probably going to be a small collection of vignettes.
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Sarge worries his lip for the fifth time in as many minutes. "Are you sure about this, Rogers?"

Steve nods, putting as much conviction into it as he could. He's certain he wants to do this. He's not certain if it'll work, or if he'll come out of it alive. But that's never stopped him from picking fights with bullies back in Brooklyn. It didn't stop him from enlisting, for that matter. "It's just going to be fifteen minutes. Just the length of a normal session back at the London pro station."

Sarge looks unconvinced by his bravado. Oh no. Steve didn't fight so hard to get here, just to lose this chance. Steve ducks out of their hiding place before Sarge has a chance to issue a different order.

Of course, this means that he trips and falls flat on his face as he emerges from the bushes. Steve feels his cheeks burn as he gets up. They're probably snickering right now, laughing at how a runt like him would even think to come to the front lines like this. The fairy's getting uppity, as the guys back home would say.

Well, joke's on them, because that was a great way to get the attention of the HYDRA guards without raising their suspicions. Steve picks noisily through the last few feet of underbrush towards the small clearing where the men are guarding the base. He feels their eyes tracking him, and he stops to pick his nose before looking up and pretending to suddenly notice the guards.

One of them, the squad leader, judging by his insignia, yells out a short "Hey boy, what are you doing here?" in German.

Steve tries to look as innocuous and stupid as possible as he replies, "Hello, sir! I think I'm lost. Do you know where I can find my mom?"

His French isn't great, since he learned most of it from library books. But he's been listening to Jones and Dernier, and practicing when he does his prep in the forest. That, and he figured their French is probably worse. It must pass muster, because the guy turns towards another guard and says, "What's with this kid? He stupid or something?"

The other guard chuckles, then addresses Steve in rudimentary French. "Hey, boy. What's your mom like? Maybe we'll help you find her."

Steve looks around. The other five guards are still focused on scanning the trees for potential enemies. A silly lost boy is not enough to attract the focused attention of all of them. On the other hand... Steve says a small internal apology to his ma and the girls back at the London station before starting in on his story.

"My mom is really pretty. So pretty that I have lots of dads who spend time with her. Will you help me find her? She wants me to help her make all of my dads happy."

The guard laughs and ribs the leader. "You hear that, Franz? His mom's a whore." His eyes turn predatory. "He might be one, too."

The guard pulls out his cock, and says in crude French as he waves it at Steve, "Hey boy, know what to do with this?"

Steve nods and gets down on his knees. Takes a deep breath as he surreptitiously checks the guard's cock for signs of disease. Down here, a cock is just a cock, and Steve lets habit take over. It's not fully erect, so he gives it a few pulls before taking it in his mouth. He works the cock up and down, uses his tongue to accent the sensation, and in a few moments, he feels gloved hands grab his hair. After that it was just a matter of holding on as the man rutted into his mouth. Steve swallows, since it's easier and cleaner than the alternatives, and for a moment, everything feels like a normal workday.

Then he looks up.

The other guards are all gathered around him, in various stages of pulling out their cocks, cold lust on their faces.

This was what Steve was angling for the whole time, but he couldn't help the tendril of dread clenching his stomach. He's not in a back alley fight in Brooklyn, where he mostly had to contend with knives. These guys all had guns that could vaporize someone with a single hit. And this isn't pro station work, either. These guys aren't about to sign his log book or follow any protocols. This could go bad, very quickly. And he has to keep their attention for 15 minutes so that the Howlers could slip into the base.

It's one thing to make plan while carefully prepping his ass in the quiet of the forest. It's quite another to feel hands yank his butt up and pull his pants down. The process pops off a button, and Steve is too busy trying to check out the sanitation status of the dick being thrust into his mouth to track where it went. He barely has time to properly wrap his mouth around the new cock when the man from behind pushes into him in one stroke.

Despite all the prep, Steve still feels something split back there, and with a cock in his mouth, he couldn't bite down on the yelp of pain that escapes from his throat. He hears several chuckles around him.

Steve focuses on the laughter as they begin to pound him on both ends. These are bullies who get off on other people's pain. And he's met plenty of those. Never been fucked by bullies before, but this isn't him losing the fight. This is him winning the fight. He's keeping seven squids busy so that the Howlers can take down the base. He used to get split lips and bloody knuckles from fighting bullies, and a bloody asshole is no different. Steve calms himself and works to breathe around the cock in his mouth.

Sarge and the others just need fifteen minutes. Sure, there's more guys and they don't care about his wellbeing, but as he told the sarge, fifteen minutes is one session. And it's not like Dugan hadn't gotten impatient in the middle of the night before.

The man in his mouth pulls out and comes on Steve's face, smirking as he does it. The others hoot, and the forms around Steve shifts as another takes his place. The other man is still pounding him from behind, which makes it hard to line up with the man in front of him. The man yanks at Steve's ears to position him, and the sharp sparks of pain distracts him from the pounding in his ass. Steve lets out a yelp, and hears more chuckling. The man that had just finished reappears to Steve's left, smoking a new cigarette and casually palming his cock. Good. Keep them focused on him, not on the Howlers sneaking into the base.

The guy behind him finishes, and another takes his place. Steve ignores the blooming bruises on his hips and gets to work on the cock in his mouth. He's always wanted to do his part fighting the Nazis, and if the US government thinks his ass is the only part of him that's fit to serve ... well, Steve's making the best of it.

[HAPPY WHALE NOISES]

Thank you, whale!anon!

It was just a few shots and grunts, when it finally happens -- and suddenly all of the squids around him and in him are slumped down on the ground. It was over so quickly Steve barely had time to bite down hard on the guy in his mouth before he is buried under a pile of dead squids. Dimly, he hears Sarge give efficient commands for the others to do a final check in of the base and surrounds. Steve is filled with a surge of admiration for them. Maybe, if he worked hard, he'd one day be able to ... A hand reaches out and pulls him free of the guy weighing him down. It's the Sarge, with blood spatter on his face and boots.

"You okay, Rogers?" The Sarge doesn't seem happy to see him, eyebrows creasing into a frown.

Steve hurries to pull his pants back up and his shirt back down. "I'm A-okay, Sarge. Gimme a sec to clean up, and I'll be ready for night shift." Drat, there's still that button missing, and his pants won't stay up properly.

Sarge grimaces at Steve's face. Oh, that. Steve wipes the semen off with the back of his sleeve. Can't do anything about the black eye, though. He glares at Barnes. "Sarge, I said I can do night shift. Your guys don't need to look at my face for that, do they? My mouth works just fine."

"Yeah, Rogers, I can tell your mouth works just fine." Oh shoot, he's giving lip like he was back in Brooklyn, forgetting that Sarge is his commanding officer. This sort of thing has gotten him dismissed from so many clerking jobs.

But Steve isn't good at apologizing, so he just stares sullenly up at Sarge. Daring the Sarge to send him back to London.

It's the Sarge who breaks eye contact first. "I was just asking if you're okay. I saw some bruises, wondered if you'd need Jones' med kit."

Oh.

Steve hadn't had someone be concerned about *his* health in so long that he'd forgotten that was a thing.

"Um.... I should be fine. No broken bones, no..." And then a thought hits him, and he scrambles to check the cocks of the four squids who'd fucked him. Safe. Safe. Safe.

The last guy was lying face down, where he'd fallen on top of Steve. Steve strains to roll the guy over, but then an arm reaches over him and flips the guy easily.

"He hurt you." Sarge was frowning at the guard's cock, still tinted red from fucking Steve's bloody ass.

Steve shrugged, "That doesn't matter. I need to check if he's clean or not. If he isn't..." They'll have to send him home, and not just to London. *Home* home. The tiny bare room with the one chair, for when Arnie stops by. Where all he can do is twiddle his thumbs while everyone else went to war.

Steve heaves a sigh of relief when he discovers that the guy is also safe.

"You want to stay in the war that bad, huh?"

Steve looks up to find the Sarge giving him an odd expression. "You shake off all the stuff that they did to you, and only panic when you think you might'a caught something."

Steve is saved from having to explain as the other guys return from their perimeter check. Better this way -- Steve hates the look of pity he gets when folks hear about his ma.

Morita claps him on the back, and Jones smiles at him. As if getting fucked by 7 squids was some sort of accomplishment. Steve finds heat rising to his cheeks, and busies himself with getting stuff ready for the march back to camp.

His pants are still falling off, and it's going to be hard to find a single brown (or green or red) button in all this debris.

"Here." Sarge rips off one of the buttons on his jacket. "Use this."

Steve fingers the button, hesitant. From what he could tell, Barnes liked to dress neat. To rip off a button like that...

"Think of it as earning your stripes," Sarge mutters before moving to the front of the line.

Well then. Steve can't help a small chuckle as he rushes to catch up. Appropriate that his first stripe is something to hold his pants up.

OH STEEEEEEEVE OH MY HEART

a non-porn interlude for Thanksgiving. *shrug*

------

"Sarge, I have a problem."

Barnes looked over at Steve from where he sat, writing his reports for the missions they just finished. "What is it, Rogers?"

Steve hesitated. He didn't like bringing up this sort of thing when he's sharing a tent with Sarge -- it felt like he was taking unfair advantage of their physical proximity. After all, a normal pro-boy would have to go through proper channels. He's in the tent to sleep and be fucked, not to mess with the chain of command.

Barnes raised an eyebrow. "Rogers?"

Steve sighed. They were due back at base tomorrow, and he'd procrastinated enough.

"Sarge, I need to get my log book stamped when I get back to base, and ... well, I have been doing some things off the books this time around." Off the books like getting fucked by half a dozen non-authorized personnel.

Barnes nods solemnly. "Rogers, I'm gonna try filing a report, maybe ask for..."

Steve rushes to cut in, "'Scuse me, Sarge, but maybe you could... not? I mean, I know I'm supposed to report when I engage with non-authorized personnel, but they won't take kindly to fraternizing with the enemy." If he were back in Brooklyn, he'd be raging about the coded language of the army. How all of the individual action is erased in words like "engage" and "fraternize." How everything needs to be regulation, when there are god-damn people behind each standardized helmet. But out here, he just wants to stay with the Howlers. Jones who thanks him for cooking and cleaning, Morita who sometimes laugh at his jokes. Dernier who lets him watch while he fiddled with explosives. Sarge who let him do what he can to help with the missions. And that means erasing everything non-regulation about himself from the reports.

But Sarge said he was going to ask for a transfer anyway. Steve feels a cold knot in his stomach, so he deals with it the only way he knows how. He clenches his fists and plows forward. "Sarge, I don't think you should ask for a transfer just because I got some HYDRA dick in me. I mean, I made sure they're clean -- you were there. And I know the team wants a pro-girl instead of me, but ... I can work more shifts. I can't eat half the stuff that's in my rations anyway, so that's more food for everyone else..."

"Is that why you do that thing where you trade your chocolate for cigarettes that you don't smoke?" So Sarge's noticed. Maybe Steve wasn't as subtle as he thought when he passed his cigarettes around the campfire.

Steve flicked his pro-boy tag and looked at Sarge's elbow. "I'm allergic to caffeine, sir. It's not on my tag because it's not relevant to me getting my job done." Or rather: he didn't put it on the form, because he saw the way the enlistment nurse's frown deepened with every new ailment he listed. He had too many non-regulation diseases. Thankfully he didn't have any of the regulation ones, due to him being a virgin and all.

Steve felt a warm, solid hand on his shoulder. "Rogers." Barnes was suddenly next to him, and Steve once again feels the transgressiveness of him, unranked, sharing a tent with the sergeant. "Rogers," the Sarge continued. "We're *not* trading you in. Just the opposite. I'm writing a report detailing all the extra work you've been putting in, what with the cooking and washing. You're a pro-boy, so you can't get promoted, but maybe I can get them to stop docking your medicines from your pay. Let you send more money home. And I'll make sure to keep your -uh- mission assist off if you think it'll be detrimental."

Steve swallowed the laughter of relief that threatened to bubble out of him, and didn't bother pointing out that he doesn't really have anyone to send money to. "Thanks, Sarge."

Barnes gives him a smile, and Sarge's usually gaunt face is suddenly all warm curves. Steve answers with a smile of his own.

I love this

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Dumpster #4: I Don't See How That's a Party

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