Trash Party Dumpster #1

[trashmod]

(Will be continued in a Dumpster #2 post if by some unholy hell-miracle this post hits the 5000-comment limit.)

Filthy anon dumpster for sad hobos to fling moldy pizza crusts, raccoon eye makeup tips, and garbage about their sad trash kinks at each other.

AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. One hundred percent Hydra Party Favor Bucky Barnes, Is It Sexy Violence Or Violent Sex?, and Bad Guys Do Bad Things To Your Faves: Winter Soldier Edition. BLANKET NON-CON/DUB-CON WARNING, not safe for work, not safe for life, not safe for anyone, read at your own risk of becoming one of us.

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, etc. are off-topic.

Organization: hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive maintained by greenkirtle. If you fill a prompt, drop a link at the fill post. Discussion threads now have a chatter post.

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GO TO TOWN, TRASHBABIES.

Unholy hell-miracle achieved! Round 1 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 2.

Comments

[FILL] Order [7] (rumlow gangrape)

[(Anonymous)]

It’s getting claustrophobic with three more men kneeling close. He can’t see with Cook’s red, heavy cock in his face, but he can feel the hands on him again, violating him in new ways. A thick, calloused hand pumping his soft dick, trying to get it up again. A different hand teasing the rim of his spasming anus. Yet a different set of fingers pushing past the teasing set and plunging inside. Those clever, long fingers— who has long fingers? He can’t remember— crook just right, stroke Rumlow’s prostate again. But as they hook, they push out little globs of semen; Rumlow feels it dripping thickly down his skin.

Cook licks his lips, twisting his head to see the action and enjoying it. Soon he follows suit, alternating his free hand between slapping Rumlow’s face and pinching his nipples. Rumlow purses his lips and holds down his unwilling noises until he feels his head go hot.

Rumlow can’t close his legs; there’s a body between them. He can’t twist away; there’s a body on top of him. There are men on either side, and then there’s the damn Winter Soldier above his head, still holding him by the arms, seemingly unaffected. Rumlow feels his entire body aching and tight and straining and stressed— and now his cock is stirring against all odds. It’s painful. In shame, Rumlow tries to look anywhere but at the team— but if it isn’t Cook and his cock, then he’s seeing the flanks of either man on the side, and if it isn’t them, he’s looking up into that dead expression of the unnamed one. Rumlow choses to squeeze his eyes as tightly shut as his mouth. Slap. His face hardly moves with them anymore.

The drawback to closing his eyes is that he can hear so much better. He didn’t realize it before, but people are chattering in the background: Browning, noticeable for his distinctly irritating voice, and some others, possibly the other two not yet involved. He doesn’t know what they’re saying beyond deducing from the tone that it’s something filthy. He doesn’t hear Mathers, but he might be faintly smelling tobacco. He hears the slick plunging sound of the fingers dipping into his asshole. He can hear, too, the thick panting of four of the five on him, and— (“Shh.”) —the fleshy twist of Cook’s fist.

And he can hear himself, whining just below the layer of noise, panting and groaning and grunting internally. Like an animal. Like a slut.

“Hold still,” Cook grunts quietly, trying to keep control over a voice wavering with the strength of impending orgasm.

Slap. Then that stinging hand cups his jaw strongly, squeezing— trying, like the Winter Soldier before him, to pry open Rumlow’s mouth. And he succeeds.

Cook is a man of few words until he’s blowing his load on Rumlow’s face. He calls Rumlow things that Rumlow himself likes to call the girls he meets for hookups. He’d always found the crassness to be sexy, to be primal and powerful. Rumlow knows exactly how good it feels to have your cum mark their face, to have them beneath you and open. Cook must be feeling that power now at the expense of Rumlow's weakness.

The worst bit is that it gets in his mouth, just like Cook wanted. He works his tongue madly to spit the foul taste back out, cum and drool sliding down the side of his face, but he can’t help but reflexively swallow some small amount. He feels it on his forehead, too, and is afraid to open his eyes. Cook groans at last, finished, and wipes his dick on Rumlow’s chest. When Cook lets go and his weight has lifted, Rumlow turns his head to try to wipe the rapidly cooling streaks off on his shoulder.

He's cold. He's tired. He's in awful pain. The hands around his wrists have faded into a background numbness. Somewhere above him, there's a conversation happening about who gets to rape him next and how. He can't summon the energy to close his legs. And somehow he's sporting a semi— he could almost laugh.

Okay, as he thinks about it more, he can laugh. Lowly, bitterly. No one acknowledges it, and so he feels safe to carefully peel open his eyelids.

The Winter Soldier stares back down. Rumlow senses he's about to make noise again—

"If you hush me one more goddamn time," Rumlow growls with all the violence in his heart. It's not much of a threat, but he feels it deeply. He can even work up enough strength to spit onto that hateful muzzle, and the saliva is thicker than usual, whiter than usual. A deep crease appears between the soldier's brows and his eyes flicker with light in a way Rumlow hadn't seen from him before. He almost seems confused. Did he perhaps not realize...?

The soldier retracts his grip at last, leaning back and shuffling away, but Rumlow's flesh feels the ghost of his strength still. His wrists feel like they weigh a ton, and he doesn't move them. He just lies there, waiting.

Frederick does not leave him alone for long, having apparently won the little argument. He announces his presence by giving Rumlow's waning erection a little slap. A startled shout answers. Before he can cross his legs from the pain, however, Frederick dives between them, covering Rumlow's body with his own, and Rumlow's legs close around the man's waist in a terrible mock of a lover pulling one closer.

A very strong wave of revulsion curdles Rumlow's stomach. Frederick is buck-ass naked, and the feeling of a man's body against his own... Frederick is all hard muscles to mirror Rumlow's; wiry hair scratching his pecs, his stomach, his pelvis; dick pressed to pained dick— and then that ugly hairy mug is burying itself in Rumlow's neck, pressing wet licks up his throat.

"Enjoying yourself?" Frederick asks, hand slipping between them to squeeze Rumlow's cock too tightly. "Sorry to leave you waiting." And then he laughs, derisive and loud, making Rumlow's temples throb. Rumlow bites his tongue and lets his gaze drift elsewhere— just lets the sick fuck do what he wants to Rumlow's exposed neck. Frederick sucks bruises into his collarbones, along his veins, upwards, behind his ear. Down again, all the way down, to suck on sensitive nipples. He seems to have an insatiable need to wag his stupid fucking tongue.

Frederick grinds down on him, engorged cock dragging itself along Rumlow's own. Long fingers— those fingers! —reach up to trail along Rumlow's biceps, tickling his armpits, almost soothing when they take off higher, softly alighting to cup Rumlow's sore wrists. Rumlow can't help but to start squirming, but that presses his dick more firmly up into Frederick's skin.

"That's right," says a different voice. It's Davis, who looks down on the both of them with a controlled sort of amusement. "You ain't gotta fight. Just take what we give you. Control yourself and it won't hurt so much—"

"Fuck you," Rumlow says through a sigh on pure reflex.

"You're doing well, though—"

"Please," Rumlow says. It's a mindless accident. He clicks his tongue at himself.

Frederick chuckles his response. "You got it, babe. Turn over."