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.

If you want email notifications for new comments here, sign up for a Dreamwidth account and click the little bell icon at the top of this post. To read new comments chronologically rather than in threads, use flat view.

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

Re: Up Close Ache 5.8/5+1

[(Anonymous)]

The asset drops its head and grinds into Rollins’ thrusts. When Cross sets the saucer beneath the table of its limbs, it turns its head away, panting and swallowing the rush of saliva triggered by the scent of food – meat its body requires.

Cross rubs her thumb over its leaking slit. She’s still blushed down past her neckline. “You need to come for me, pup.”

The asset is shaking now. “Please,” it moans. It rocks back and forth in the compulsive tempo of anxiety rather than lust. Drips more precum. “This directive isn’t – can’t. Can’t come. Already here.”

The crowd explodes into laughter. Of course it does. The burst of amusement jangles Brock’s nerves, but as it drags on, their frantic giggling drains the knot of tension that had been shadowing the room since Shwartz and his crew first rolled in.

The asset does not share their relief. Wide shoulders bunch and it curls further in on itself until it’s staring at the erection that hangs heavy between its thighs, its forehead lined in confusion. Shame. And pleasure. Simple, stupid pleasure and too much stimuli. Its lashes flutter shut.

“Now, you know that ain’t what I mean. I said, come on,” Cross commands. She swivels her fist around the head of its cock, and this time it obeys. Cross jerks it until it spills soft involuntary trills – more sound than they could ever coax from it with a beating. The asset clamps down around Rollins, and just like that they’re coming and lurching together, the asset crying out while Rollins looks a dying martyr.

“Fuck it all the way through, Jack,” Cross breathes. “I want the whole serving. Give me everything.”

The flush spreads from its face, spilling down its back in a cape. White skin goes rosy under her claw marks until the red of pleasure and pain disappear into one another, and the asset sinks to its elbows as Rollins pounds every drop from its prostate.

Kildare follows. He’s rolled off the condom, but he’s afraid to touch the asset directly again and most of his orgasm dribbles onto the divan. The flecks he manages to get on the soldier’s face are lapped up immediately. It keeps its mouth parted for more, until it is allowed to feed.

Brock’s suit is becoming uncomfortably warm, even with the ice behind him radiating cold from the back of his scalp to his calves. The contrast is feverish. He watches Cross drag the asset back up to all fours so she can fish the plate out from beneath it. He’d forgotten about the stupid morsel of a bird. At Cross’ order, the asset lowers its mouth to the saucer like a giant housecat. It devours the bunting whole, still wet with its own seed, no change in expression.

The first bite releases a rich honeyed-brandy-bloody scent Brock can almost taste. The aroma is nauseating. He’s close enough to hear tiny bones crunch between the soldier’s jaws, and feels outside of himself. Like he’s watching a movie. The blissed-out way the soldier licks the porcelain clean after makes him feel disoriented and a little ill, that something so basic and grounding as sex could be infected with so much bullshit. Brock abruptly loses interest. Actually feels his dick wilt.

His nape itches with the clammy sweat he’s been threatening to break into for half the night, but his queasiness looks like boredom from below. Or it probably does to any bystander that cares to notice beyond their rush to stick something in the asset next. Hide weakness. Order through pain. Brock pretends to focus while blurry agents make the Eiffel tower over HYDRA’s most infamous assassin. Boost team morale, get those endorphins pumping with the old wobbly H.

Rollins comes to stand at Brock’s shoulder once he’s got his suit and hair back in order. That’s good. Rollins will catch anything Brock might miss while he’s getting his shit together. He’s just tired, is all. What Brock wants most is to curl up in designer sheets on a mattress that cost more than his first car. But not right now. He closes his eyes for a second, exhales slow through his nose. Refocuses from sex to power.

Right now he’s in charge, he’s the center of the room. He’s watching eight hands with a minimum combined 200 hours of field experience pin the weapon, their weapon, by the throat and wrists and hips and ankles and shoulders. It’s making noises; they choke it quiet. He’s frustrated and he’s hungry, he’s fucking it, he’s not even touching it but he’s fucking showing it, he’s the man.

Until a soft voice says: “Attention, Soldat.”

The asset stands. It unfolds and rises just like that, so effortless, shrugging off every hold. Bodies fall off of it and out of it like chaff in the breeze. Brock follows its attention to the doorway.

Alexander Pierce does his sunshine smile.

The asset melts. It cringes. Brock can relate.

There’s a woman on Pierce’s arm. She releases his elbow to stride ahead in a floor-length ivory gown, familiar in a way Brock can’t quite place. She’s clearly older than Brock, but she’s kept her hair dark chestnut and her arms tight above the strapless bodice that clings to her waist before flowing out into a full, queenly skirt. Each whisper of fabric sounds like money. As usual, Pierce hangs back and takes his time, preferring to see what others do first. Watching, calculating. His companion, however, marches across the room like someone who expects to be accommodated. She isn’t wrong. The sea of black suits parts for her like she’s Moses.

She walks right up to the soldier and gives it a long look. Brock takes a step to the side to get a better view: this petite, mature woman in her white satin and pearls – cat-boned wrists and five and a half feet at most in her heels – staring up at the hulking, naked expanse of the Winter Soldier – chained and cuffed in silver, muscle shining with sweat, lube, spit, and spent come. After a moment of study, she beams. “Oh, this is excellent.”

“Yes?” Pierce strolls up behind her, and by now all of the agents have fallen into attention. “I’m so happy it pleases you.”

“Always.” Still smiling, she circles the soldier, inspecting it by running the tips of her fingers across its jaw, its collar, the twin dimples over its buttocks. “Unbelievable,” she says. “Hasn’t aged a day.”

“Neither have you, Madame Ambassador,” says Pierce, which explains how Brock recognizes her.

The Ambassador snorts. “Except now I’m a grandmother.” She tests the soldier’s half-hard cock against her palm. “Please. We both know exactly how old I am, Secretary. It’s right there on my Wikipedia page.”

“Regardless, your presentation is always fantastic.”

“Well, yes. But I’ll give some of the credit to my personal trainer.”

Pierce’s laugh has half the room grinning automatically. Actual expressions of pleasure, not the cheerless rictus they use on one another. Even Brock feels his eyes crinkle. Brock, who knows Pierce as much or more than any of them.

The Ambassador is laughing too when she locks eyes with him over the asset’s shoulder. “Excuse me, dear. Rumlow, isn’t it?”

He’s been in the game too long to blink, but what the fuck. Brock nods.

Her smile is beatific. “Wonderful. Rumlow. Could you hand me one of those flutes on the table behind you? A pink one, please. I’m running a little dry.”

Brock turns around, and sure enough, one of the many trays orbiting the ice sculpture is lined with champagne flutes bubbling in amber and pink. He likes to think he can be pretty smooth when he turns up his game, but he might as well be a bumbling, pimply sophomore when he passes her the stem of a fresh glass. Her fingers brush his in the exchange, and her nail varnish matches the champagne so perfectly it’s uncanny. Then she winks at him. His face goes hot.

The Ambassador turns her attention back to the asset. Its hips twitch involuntarily when she strokes over the scarred seam of its enhancement. “Hmm. ‘The perfect soldier, more obedient than any man,’” she recites. “Well, that’s certainly true, if not very difficult.”

“Don’t be a chauvinist, dear Catherine.”

“Tch – don’t you pout at me, dear Secretary. I’m being sincere. You’re not. All this art, all this power, and yet…” She walks her fingers up the silver chain to its throat. “HYDRA’s first instinct is to mold every masterpiece into a weapon. What a stunning lack of creativity.”

Pierce isn’t pouting anymore. “Violence is its nature.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment.” The Ambassador scratches under its chin, as if it weren’t a head taller and stark naked. And damn if the soldier doesn’t lean into her touch. “You’re a great sweet creature, aren’t you?” she coos. “Big sweetie?”

Brock wonders if seeing the soldier rip a living man’s jaw off a few hours earlier might alter her opinion. He doubts it.

“All the things I could command the Fist of HYDRA to do,” she says, “and what I want most, I think, is to sit on that sweet face.”

Fuck yes, this has to happen. Brock moistens his lips. Except then he glances down at the divan, stained with everything coating the soldier and more. Dandelion puffs of upholstery float where the asset’s fingers have punctured the velvet cushion over and over.

“This isn’t quite the queen’s chair you deserve,” Pierce says, because he’s looking too. He sees what Brock sees, and he sees what Brock sees next.

There’s a loveseat against Pierce’s nearest wall, containing one Agent Graves (Almost: Graves is crouched in front of it like the goblin he is, high as absolute fuck – a detail which will no-doubt be documented by superiors), and one ermine throw. Throw is an understatement; this thing could probably cover a King size mattress. Brock can’t quite picture an ermine beyond that they’re long-bodied and rodent-y, but not a rodent. More like a weasel. Whatever they are in the flesh, he’s looking at what must be hundreds of their pale, silky skins.

Ever gallant, Pierce drapes one end of the throw over his arm and drags it toward the sofa, even though all that fur must be heavy as shit. Graves is too strung-out to notice when the expanse of ermine flops over him, and he briefly becomes the lone inhabitant of the world’s most luxurious blanket fort. While Pierce arranges the throw on the divan, Brock makes himself useful by wiping down the asset with a complimentary heated towel so it doesn’t spread any second-hand mess.

Soon as the asset’s passably clean, Pierce has it sinking into the folds of ermine with a gesture. Not a verbal command, just a gesture. An eloquent motion of the wrist and expression and stance that the asset is a hundred times more receptive to than Brock’s hands on its flesh. Not for the first time, Brock swallows a rush of frustration and admiration. Pierce has the attention of the asset, the room, Catherine.

She covers her mouth while considering the spread. “Mars in furs.” Her eyes sparkle like a schoolgirl’s. “I love it.”

The Ambassador steps out of her heels, curls her pedicured toes into the Burj carpet, and does a little wiggle that Brock thinks is cute until a scrap of lace puddles around her ankles. The sheer bundle is startlingly black against her full white skirts, and she steps out of her panties as dainty as a gazelle.

And it’s just. He wasn’t expecting it, is all. Which is phenomenally stupid of him. His dick is back on board, then she grabs his elbow for balance, and it’s a hundred times worse as she maneuvers herself down onto the divan and the asset and the furs, and he feels her grip through the worsted wool of his jacket and the cotton of his suit, down to the tender skin between bicep and forearm. The Ambassador’s dress spreads around her like creeping frost. The folds cover everything until the picture is almost demure: she, upright as a dancer, champagne flute lifted up and away; the recent filth of the divan disguised under drapes of fur; the asset’s limbs and silver cuffs barely peeking beyond her gown.