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

Up Close Ache 4.3/5

[(Anonymous)]

“Uh. Protect,” it croaks. “You said.” Its swollen lips work to form sentences. “Strength is a gift, that we might shield the weak. Keep them safe, give them voice. Strong is for carrying.”

Fuck.

He hadn’t thought it was actually listening to him. That it even could, brain-damaged as it is. Fuck.

The first backhand whips its head around. Pierce knows to land under the cheekbone (could lay it open to the bone if he wears certain rings), and the soldier leans into the corrective blow, like this time it might finally take. Only one of them is allowed to make corrections. It crumples halfway to the tile before hauling itself back upright.

“I believe,” Pierce says, "that you’re mistaken.”

It looks at him. Seems to think about this. “No.”

The next slap is like hitting concrete. The soldier does not acknowledge the strike. For just a moment, the soldier is more unyielding than a wall. Pain lights up Pierce's knuckles and courses into his arm.

The weapon says, “No.”

What flits through Pierce’s mind is not a thought: a sound. The memory of a coughing roar just audible under the jungle’s squall, in the darkness before the sun rose and the dogs began to scream. An ugly moment when Pierce’s hindbrain reduced him to prey.

This is worse. The eyes turned on him do not belong to some big cat, but a creature that knows itself in a mirror.

Cold seconds pass. Pierce schools his features to pleasant blandness and chooses a tone very, very carefully.

"There, there. You know how you get when you’ve been awake too long." He makes his sigh sound like exasperation, though not unaffectionate. No big deal. Hints of that sunshine smile break through, always the Friend. "You know how you get."

Pierce folds one leg of his pajama bottoms and wipes the drool from its chin with merino wool. Its eyes track his face, not his hands. Gray-green, teetering. He clucks and whispers nonsense like he’s talking down a thoroughbred, big thoroughbred gone twitchy and dangerous when the power running through it swells too large for even its marvelous flesh to contain. And then.

Then it withers under his palm at last. Pierce has never been in a fire fight, but he can recognize a bullet dodged. There's not a moment to waste.

"Climb into papa's lap, hmm, silly kitten?"

When Pierce takes it by the throat, the soldier leans into his touch desperately. It’s huge-eyed and grimacing. A rare thing, for the soldier to wear fear, but it doesn’t pull away while Pierce leads it upward. It knows what it did. It knows, and it all but falls over itself to obey, clambering into the wide chair with none of its usual grace. Most of its weight stays propped awkwardly on one arm rather than on Pierce, and the rattan groans under two hundred extra pounds of assassin.

Its dick is still at half-mast. Pierce takes a moment to marvel over the heat of it -- accelerated metabolism, he reminds himself -- and with a few strokes the soldier is fully hard again. Responsiveness has never been an issue.

“See,” Pierce purrs. “Isn’t that better, isn’t that nice?”

The bright spots over its cheekbones could be the product of shame or Pierce’s knuckles. It frowns down at its knees, shoulders hunched, unable to meet his face. The soldier grunts when he tightens a fist around its erection. He can feel its heartbeat accelerate.

No clear recordings of Steve Rogers’ voice remain on record, so Pierce is making a guess when he rumbles, “There ya go, buddy. This’ll set you right.” He slides its foreskin slowly over the swollen head, back down again, slower.

A whimper gets choked off before it can escape; the soldier holds its breath. He thumbs at the leaking tip, and the sinew of its belly flexes in a rising wave. So easy to imagine how it would feel -- being inside the soldier -- when he can see its torso ripple with the precision of perfect muscle definition. Pierce can admit he’s past his prime, though not by much, yet even when he’d been at home among the young golden gods, his body had never been like this. He still had his Olympus, but the soldier is a Titan.

He smooths his other palm over the white column of its thigh, tracing each of the three distinct outer muscles of its quadriceps. “Now you try. There, just like before.”

The cybernetic arm is a functional sculpture, but its limp hand takes some guidance. Its hunched posture is tiresome, so Pierce hauls its head back by the hair on its crown. "Nothing to be shy about," he purrs.

Better. Its throat is bared, spine curved, meat open to him. Bowed mouth gaped open in silence. It doesn't panic anymore, not for decades. It doesn’t flinch or pull away. What’s the point?

Pierce knows what goes on when he's not around. He knows some of its handlers don't see the point of lubrication, or simply prefer to go without, but really. He’s not a barbarian. A tube drawn from the pocket of his robe does the job quickly enough. He slicks himself while the soldier paws at his own dick a few inches away, trying to mimic Pierce's technique.

“Now, why don’t you tell me more about what I said. The first time. You remember that day, don’t you?”

The soldier nods at him stupidly while he adjusts its hips.

“Report.”

“I, I uh.” Its gaze turns inward and uncertain. “You said much, you--” It breaks off in a wordless cry when Pierce enters it.

The Winter Soldier is nothing if not durable. Its clenching is… intense. Combined with the thrill of a near miss still thumping in his chest, Pierce has to take a moment to steady himself. The molten core of it threatens to overwhelm.

The soldier is shaking all over even as its body sinks down to envelope Pierce like a glove. Dozens have died in the sights of its rifle, but how many have seen the sniper's eyes roll back like this? How sweet it is to throw those regimented breaths off time, make the scarred chest heave. The kid’s a natural. Knows how to be fucked even when it doesn’t. Especially then.

“I’m sorry, didn’t quite catch that. You were saying?”

Bruised lids flutter closed in concentration. “Then, you were--huhhh.”

Pierce thrusts up twice and is rewarded with a stifled sob. Each time, it rocks down to meet his hips. Pierce wonders if the soldier is aware of how it bares its teeth.

“So angry.” The Winter Soldier still has its eyes squeezed shut. Its head lolls back, and the grimace slackens closer to pleasure. "So angry that day. You seemed… it was you, but bigger. Not on outside, but you: the important parts. All of you huge and lit up, on fire. Beautiful,” the soldier gasps. “Mad as I’d ever seen you. Thought you were gonna sock me one right in the mouth, best day of my fuckin’ life.”

"Tell me."