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

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

Okay, kids, you know the drill. Don't be a jerk except to fictional characters. Warn if you want, but read at your own risk, because

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.

Link your fills on the fill post, post unprompted fills as replies to a header comment so the wall o' text is collapsible, and let me know if you're interested in helping out with the Pinboard archive.

[Rules in full] [Round 1] [Round 2] [Round 3] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by

greenkirtle)] [Round 4 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

All prompts or fills that contain Infinity War spoilers must go on the Infinity War spoiler post until May 26th. Spoilers in the main dumpsters will be deleted.

Round 4 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 5.

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“Lights out,” the Commander says, and turns them off, tripping once on a kit bag on the way back to bed - the others don’t have the best night vision. This location is on the edge of a small town, and there is very little ambient light through the small windows, making the room almost pitch dark. It seems that they’re allowed to sleep.

Fifteen minutes later, Agent Crabbe is definitely asleep, her breathing steady. Agent Rollins is drifting, probably close to the border of consciousness, where a sudden sound or movement will wake you but your thoughts will creep further and further into dreams. The study of them both occupies his attention, although he is careful not to move. He will not sleep until the rest of them do.

The bunk below him creaks quietly.

The light from the phone is just about visible. It’s not extremely bright, but the angle it’s tilted (away from the two others in their beds) make it noticeable, the way he’s lying. Noiselessly, he shifts closer to the edge. From here, he can see the screen itself.

It’s fairly obvious what the people on it are doing - the same thing that people have always done, except he’s never really seen it in filmed in such vibrant colour and clarity. It must be a feature of modern life, whatever ‘modern’ is supposed to mean to him. He doesn’t know what year it is, and that’s ok. He doesn’t need to know. It might have been a long time - he suspects it has been, so much has changed - but that’s ok. He doesn’t need to know.

He watches the men on the screen, and it stirs nothing in him. Should it? Maybe it used to. Maybe it would work with women. Maybe both. It’s definitely stirring something in the Commander, who (as Agent Rollins predicted) has a hand down his pants. Or under the covers, at least, working at a leisurely pace. There’s no sound other than breathing, and nothing from the phone; the Commander has figured out how to connect the standard-issue comms earpiece, so once again, wires are unnecessary.
(The trick is remembering to switch the source back when you’re done, so your mom can’t call you mid-mission. And nobody monitoring the comms can hear your mom calling you mid-mission.)

The Commander’s face is lined with the light. He bites his lip gently, in response to something happening on the screen, and his hand speeds up. It’s not clear exactly why, which merits leaning over a little further, just to see….

There is a sudden stillness, and he freezes too in response. To do otherwise would be dangerous. The Commander taps the phone screen with one thumb, pausing the footage, and looks upwards, teeth gleaming in a smile.

“Whatcha doin’ up there, huh?”

It is too late to retreat. He hangs on to the edge of the bunk and averts his gaze in submission, in case the Commander thinks this is a punishable offence. Some penalty is surely deserved for interrupting what should be a private moment (no matter that this is not, strictly, a private setting).

“Come down here, ya pervert. C’mon.”

This requires getting out of the blankets, into the cool air, and descending the ladder (quietly) to stand on the floor beside the bed. He faces the Commander neutrally, ready for whatever might happen. Hopefully he won’t make noise enough to wake the others.

“Get your ass in here.”

The Commander throws back the covers and invites him into the space. It’s a close fit with the two of them, but his limbs are arranged to the Commander’s satisfaction. His head rests on the Commander’s shoulder, with a companionable arm across the back of his neck. It’s not restraint; his hair is stroked but not held or pulled. They’re pressed together, side by side. His left arm is pinned between his body and a wall in this position, but he doesn’t move.

The Commander takes the hand off his hair in order to support the phone, and slips the other back under the quilt.

“No no, open your eyes. That’s it.”

It would be quite possible to actually, finally, fall asleep like this, but that isn’t what the Commander seems to have in mind.

“You see this? Look.”

By twisting his neck a little, he can follow the directions and view the screen out of the corner of one eye.

“Good, huh?”

It may well be a rhetorical question, so he doesn’t respond. It isn’t good, or bad. These men could be right here in the room, in front of them, and he would stay neutral unless ordered otherwise. It’s what he does (or rather, doesn’t). Maybe there was a time when it was different. The Commander’s breath is hot on his ear.

“Yeah, that’s it….” Barely a whisper, but enough for him to hear. It’s not addressed to him; he’s lying completely still. All that can be seen on the screen right now is a set of impressively large balls. He watches them swing, although it doesn’t really hold his attention. The Commander’s skin is warm up close, sharp with a light sweat. Nobody usually gets this near to him. It’s a risk even with both hands free, and neither of the Commander’s hands are free. Plus the distraction of the video. He only needs a moment to make the kill. He won’t do it; it’s an unconscionable thought. He kills when told to, and he hasn’t been told to (this time).

“Fuck…” the Commander’s body shudders. Two of the men on the screen are penetrating a third, who looks fairly enthusiastic about the whole affair. “Check that out. I see you watching,” even though that’s obvious; he’s been ordered to, “you like that? We could do that. I’d get some of the guys round, see what they taught you back in Siberia, huh? No hookers on that base, right? Fuck….”

He knows he was trained in Siberia, seemingly for many years. This wasn’t part of it. He remembers, suddenly and with perfect clarity, a room with scattered possessions and a single lonely bed. He was called there, but they didn’t do this. The man was drunk. It was for warmth.

“Would you like that?” The Commander doesn’t wait for a reply before answering. “You’d love it.” It’s barely addressed to him - more to what’s happening on the screen. “Little slut.”

The hand under the covers dives briefly between them, finding his groin. He tenses; it’s a weak spot that no human can ever entirely protect - especially in civilian clothes (or civilian pyjamas, as it is).

“Nothin’, huh?” Sounding perhaps disappointed, the Commander releases him and resumes the previous activity. “Not into dudes?”

He’s about to answer, as he must, without being sure what to say.

“They got your balls as well as your head? Sucks for you, kid.”

That’s not strictly a question, but he feels it’s necessary to respond, the way he always does when a memory bubbles up from the depths. He always tells them. Always.

“They never took them. They said they might; they never did.”

“Huh?” The Commander’s attention is diverted from the screen. “They threatened you?”

“Yes, sir. Said they’d mail ‘em to…” where to escapes his recall. All he knows is they’d go somewhere, without him, and once he found the idea funny - hysterical, but funny. Over the ocean. In a box. “To… I don’t….”

“Shh, big guy.” He quietens instantly, obedient, and the phone shifts just behind his head. “Talk about it some other time. You’re killin’ the mood.”

It’s not apparent what mood the Commander is actually in (aside from the obvious), so he will try not to influence it one way or another. The breaths on his ear are harsh but quiet.

“That’s right….” Again, he’s not being addressed directly. Perhaps if he fell asleep now, it would go unnoticed. “Fuck. Hey… hey.” The arm holding the phone jostles his head. He tenses, ready to obey. “Sit - back, like that….”

He is pushed and pulled, and settles in a position that seems satisfactory - propped on one elbow, body turned mostly sideways. The cold air moves in with the covers disturbed. That doesn’t bother the Commander, who sits up a little, dropping the phone to the mattress to leave one hand free.

“C’mon,” a word exhaled more than said, and his hair is grabbed to drag his face down to a level where -.

Some forgotten instinct makes him shut his eyes, just in time.

It’s warm, and sticky, but by no means intolerable. He’s able to open his eyes; the Commander is laughing, hushed and blissful.

“Don’t give me that look,” - whatever ‘that look’ might mean - so he rearranges his face to be neutral. “Aw….” The Commander stretches carelessly and grabs a tissue, wiping his face clean. “There. Better? Ok, go to bed. I’m not squashing in here with you, you’ve got your own bed. Go.”

Climbing the ladder, he rolls himself into the now-chilled blankets and curls up, deliberately shivering to regain some heat. Below, he can hear the Commander turning off the phone and rearranging the items on the bedside table, taking some water, settling down to sleep. The others have not been disturbed.

He wakes a couple of hours later from a dream of something like tar, making no sound and clawing at his face with his left hand. No damage is sustained, but it makes him uneasy. Maybe in the next place, they will have separate rooms.

Possibly the most heartbreaking porn I’ve ever read. That’s a compliment.

(cross-posted from Ao3 because I accidentally another chapter)
In the next place they do have separate rooms, but then again the rooms are designed for two people each.

He has the top bunk again, which might still be a good thing. In the smaller space, warmer and with better sheets, he stays very still and almost sleeps. Agent Crabbe and Agent Rollins are in the other room. If he was there, he could sleep on the floor beside them.

“Come down here,” and he folds the blankets back neatly and climbs down the ladder, not concerned about waking the others this time. He knows he may be expected to get into the bed, but waits for the order, to be sure.

“What’re you waiting for? C’mon.”

The Commander barely moves over to make space for him. The darkness is nearly absolute, except for the light from the phone. The blankets are thick. He closes his eyes. He hasn’t been authorised to sleep, but neither can he think of anything else to do.

“Hey. Wake up.” A sharp jab in the ribs from the Commander. The screen is showing the same thing as before - not quite the same; the men are different. One of them is small and blond and his voice if they could hear it would be deep for his size, hard-edged with determination and a kind of hidden spite which only disappears when he’s sweet on someone, someone like her, or him.... “How about it, huh?”

It’s not a direct question, so he doesn’t answer.

“Christ you’re useless sometimes. Look, I’ve had a long fucking day,” which is true for all of them, “I don’t wanna do everything around here. So why don’t you help, for once?”

“What should I do?” Because then maybe he will get some instructions. The Commander lets him ask for instructions. He doesn’t have to guess too much. He only gets laughed at, if he gets it wrong.

“Get your hand down there, and help. Clear?” It’s certainly clear where he’s indicating, even in the near-pitch-blackness. “Not like that!” The Asset freezes in place. The Commander sounds almost afraid, which is odd. “Other hand! The other hand, Jesus….”

He understands, and switches to his right. He knows how to do this, but it’s true: he has never managed it with his left hand no matter how much he tried, and the Commander cannot expect him to solve it now, on a different body. The right is softer and warmer. The left used to be - it used to be soft, it was cold, but he doesn’t know when.

“Yeah, that’s it…” the thoughts about his hand have made his pace quite slow, but that’s not a mistake, it’s a good thing. “Keep that up.” The Commander rubs the back of his head, scratches his scalp gently, petting him. “Just like that.” This is praise. It feels quite pleasant. He can just about hear the sounds from the phone, being transmitted through the earpiece, but doesn’t listen too hard. He knows the kind of sounds (and the blond man’s voice is wrong).

A hand closes over his, giving him more direction, which he accepts. The Commander will want things a certain way; he just has to do it. It’s simple.

“Fuck, you’re good at this. Where’d you learn, huh?”

“That’s what you get if you hang out at the docks,” he says, and it’s an icy jolt down deep in his spine and he doesn’t know why, why he said that where did he when did it get so cold…. He knows he’s stopped his task.

“Hey, hey.” The Commander is stroking his hair and guiding him back to work - a grip on his wrist and the touch is enough to ground him. “Don’t leave me hangin’.” Not angry. Not yet. As long as this gets finished, he won’t be angry. That’s incentive enough to continue, if nothing else. “That’s right....”

He isn’t expected to watch the screen, which is better for his neck, and means he can close his eyes and rest his face on the pillow and breathe in soap and clean linen (lines above the streets, all flying in the breeze, harsh froth between his fingers as he scrubs bloodstains) beside the heat of the Commander’s skin. The sense of luxury is almost obscene; almost enough to eclipse the hitch of breath and the slick hot spill across his fingers and the “Fuck yes” hissed into his ear.

The quiet, after that, is good. He lets his hand be cleaned, and doesn’t mind when he’s dismissed back to his own bed. Maybe in the past, he’d have wanted something in return. It seems like a silly concept now. All he wants now is to be left alone, just for while, and to fall asleep thinking of how the small blond man was just somehow not quite right.

Yes for more fill!!! and wait...there is AO3 version too? would you mind to link us so we can save it too?

*setting more used cardboard boxes just in case*

Ao3 work:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/9463586

His head rests on the Commander’s shoulder, with a companionable arm across the back of his neck. It’s not restraint; his hair is stroked but not held or pulled. You are hitting my cute—but awful—but cute aesthetic so hard here, author!anon. I am thrilled.

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

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