hydratrashmeme | Trash Party Dumpster #1

Trash Party Dumpster #1

(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.

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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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

When he was fourteen, all gangly limbs and acne and awkward, ill-timed boners, he found Snow White again. In the process of moving the shelves to make room for a Mötley Crüe poster, the book slid onto the floor, blood red apple on the cover sparking memories. He’d forgotten the book beyond that it used to scare him shitless and he sinks down onto the carpet to re-read it. He didn’t realize he’d gotten hard until the prince kissed Snow White back to life and the pressure started to flag. He threw the book to the wall, then tore it to pieces. And later burned the scraps of the pages.

He didn’t sleep well that night. He was never one to pray, but his thoughts had turned to any deity that would listen. Don’t let me be a sick fuck like that, don’t make me a pervert like that, please God please.

By high school graduation, it was clear God had forsaken him.

College was never an option, no matter how much he toyed with the thought of mortuary school in the dark hole at the back of his mind. He lacked the money and the brains. There were other ways, he knew, he dreamed. Hospital orderly, mortician’s assistant. Church employee, if he really wanted to damn himself. But instead he went to the army, hoping against hope that their structure and discipline could fix the broken, gaping void inside him. He’d never acted on it, never sought it out no matter how badly he ached for it. Sure, he jerked himself to tears with fantasies that would make a decent man sick, but he didn’t do it. He couldn’t, wouldn’t cross that line.

The asset’s skin is chilled and clammy under Rumlow’s hand. He rakes his nails down the man’s chest; the cold makes the asset’s flesh slow to respond and given how quickly he heals, there will hardly be anything in the way of scratch marks. He doesn’t bruise or redden and he barely bleeds. He’s a masterpiece.

“You’re beautiful,” Rumlow murmurs. “You’re perfect.” He rolls a nipple, already stiff from the cold, between his fingers. There’s no shudder through the asset, no slackening of his pretty blue lips.

Rumlow’s achingly hard, already dizzy with arousal. When he hauls himself up on the table, balanced on all fours with the asset below him, his cock drags against the fabric of his pants and it’s all he can do to keep from rutting against the asset until he comes so hard he sees stars. In this state, it would take less than a minute.

But he doesn’t, biting at his lip until he tastes blood. Pain is order and it draws him back from the edge. He runs his thumb over the asset’s mouth, pulling away before the body can breathe and spoil the illusion. “You’re mine,” he says, lying down until he’s blanketing the asset, fingers winding through damp hair. His erection presses into the sharp angle of the asset’s hip. “You’ll never leave me.”

His lips seal around the pale and still throat, sucking desperately at icy flesh. “You’ll never leave me,” he whispers when he releases to breathe. “You’re not allowed to leave me.”

The asset does not move.

The first time he saw a man die, in his tour of duty, it fucked him up. It fucked the whole squad up. But unlike the others, it wasn’t the loss that made him wake screaming in the night.

The one who died, Ellis, he had liked him. Everyone had. Ellis wasn’t especially funny or smart or even that skilled, but he’d been likeable enough. Young, friendly, never had a harsh word for anybody.

Ellis got shot in the head. The bullet blew out the back of his skull but left his face mostly intact. His soiled pants were tented at the front. Angel lust, they called it. It happened with hangings too. Put pressure on the right part of the brain or the spine, and the cock springs right up.

He hadn’t felt anything but shock and sadness until they well were out of the line of fire. Then those sensations began to ebb, giving way to lust. He dreamed of jerking Ellis until the body spilled its very last, dreamed of kissing the acne-scarred face that had never appealed to him before it was slack and lifeless. He woke up hoarse from shrieking and horrified and harder than he’d ever been in his life.

He slides down the asset’s body, mouth working from neck to collarbone to chest. Sucking and biting at one nipple, Rumlow pinches and rolls the other. His free hand slips in the space between their bodies, palming the asset’s limp, cool cock. He doesn’t worry about heating the asset up with his own body; the man holds cold like a freezer.

“You’re perfect,” Rumlow murmurs, spilling a litany of praises against the soft white skin. “All mine you’re so good you’re so still so pretty I’ll never let you go.”

There’s the faintest stir against his hand. He tells himself it’s angel lust, pretends the asset can’t hear. Another session with the stun baton might be in order; it’s fine if the asset gets hard, but if he’s responding to the words, it ruins everything. Rumlow shakes the thought aside, grinding his hips down on the asset’s thigh. Another time. Don’t spoil the moment.

He rocks against the motionless leg again before he sits up, shuffles back. Rumlow swallows the asset’s cock in one smooth movement and grins, humming a little, when there’s no sudden intake of breath.

The rest of the team used to watch, but it wasn’t right with them. He couldn’t suck the asset in front of them, couldn’t tell him how lovely and sweet and cold he is, like the first taste of a snowfall. And their comments—see, he’s hard, he likes it and must be so used to having a cock in his ass—spoiled everything. He’d kicked them out, told them they’d get a turn later. “I worked my ass off to get where I am and I deserve to get off without looking at your ugly mugs,” he’d said.

“You’d last longer if you had to look at ‘em,” one of the men had groused, but no one had fought it. The commander deserved a little privacy and they were probably just jealous they weren’t afforded the same.

Rumlow sucks and licks until the asset’s half-hard. He can’t wait any longer. Pulling back, Rumlow wipes his mouth and smiles down at that perfect form, lying just as it was when he stepped in the door. He presses a kiss to the asset’s cheek, hugs as best as he can without lifting the body. He could sleep this way, huddled up beside him, but the asset would be warm when they woke. The asset would wake.

“Gonna give you what you need,” he promises, steadying one hand on the asset’s hip while the other frees himself from his pants. “You’re mine, I’ll give you everything, I’m all you need.”

And the asset doesn’t argue.

Her name was Amy.

He met her once his tour was over and he was back in the States. She wasn’t gorgeous, but she was cute and witty but not smart enough to avoid a loser like him. They’d spent eight months together, the happiest eight months of his life.

“Let’s play a game,” he’d said, and Amy had arched an eyebrow. He never suggested things in bed, too afraid of what could slip out in the heat of the moment. “I’ll make you feel as good as I can, for as long as I can, but there’s a catch. You’ve gotta hold completely still or I’ll stop.”

“I didn’t know you were into dominant stuff,” she’d said. “Should I choose a safeword?”

“Do you want to play?” he asked quietly, shy.

They played. The safeword was snow.

Amy’s job transferred her across the country. She was gone before he ever worked up the nerve to ask if she’d lie in cold water before they played the game. The bed felt empty and vast. He dreamed of her for months, and in the dreams she was much quieter, much less animated. In the dreams, she’d never left.

He never tried looking for another partner. By the time HYDRA found him, he was developing calluses on his left hand and his dick from jerking off one too many times to “Mary Jane’s Last Dance.” They introduced him to their order and their asset and suddenly, he hadn’t missed Amy so much anymore.

honey if this landfill gets any deeper we'll be dealing with the core of the earth.

For some reason when I read your comment, all I could think of was Jules Verne.

Journey to the Center of the Trash

20,000 Leagues Under the Trash

Around the Trashheap in Eighty Days

The Garbage Country

The Mysterious Dumpster

the mysterious dumpster.

i need this.

i fucking need to know what's in the mysterious dumpster

Spoiler: It's us. That's the twist ending, we were in it all along.

omg spoiler alert!

Oh fuck, this just keeps getting better and more vivid, and I feel so turned on and dirty at the same time. Thank you for this fill. It's better than I could have ever hoped for. Rumlow is one fucked up dude.

He couldn’t suck the asset in front of them, couldn’t tell him how lovely and sweet and cold he is, like the first taste of a snowfall.

They played. The safeword was snow.

True story: I literally cackled out loud at this.

Glad to be of service!

You, author, are a gift. And the title is killing me, omg.

Oh yay, people understand the title! I just realized I forgot to translate it.

For those who don't know, Der Blaubeermund means The Blueberry Mouth. It's an E Nomine song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQHy8nqCtxM

The English lyrics to it are here: http://lyricstranslate.com/en/der-blaubeermund-blueberry-mouth.html

okay, wow, I didn't know about that song - I thought it might've been a play on "Erdbeermund" (which is another song of the creepy/sexy variety, by In Extremo), but that this actually exists is another level of fucked.

Just when you think you've reached the bottom of the barrel, there's always another level.

I didn't know this was one of my kinks. This dumpster must be on wheels 'cause I'm having one hell of a voyage of discovery. Woohoo!

Every time I think I've reached the bottom of the dumpster, I push a trash bag aside and find there's even more glorious garbage to explore.

This is incredible

Thank you!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Trash Party Dumpster #1

[Fill] "Der Blaubeermund" Rumlow/WS, Pseudonecrophilia [2/3]

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