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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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.

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It does not take half an hour to reach the facility. It takes twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes is more than long enough for the ache within him to progress from dull to sharp. His body cannot be still and Soldier’s heartbeat and rate of perspiration continue to increase. He is exhausting himself before the mission can even begin but his handlers do not seem agitated. They appear almost happy and the Soldier cannot decipher that. He doesn’t try to. He is preoccupied.

He is able to stand when they reach the facility and the Soldier cannot tell if that makes the pressure better or worse. He is more aware of it now that he is supporting his own weight, and he wouldn’t have thought it possible to be more aware of that throbbing, persistent need.

The Soldier does not stand as much as he writhes, hips shifting involuntarily, rocking his weight on his feet. He bites his lip until he tastes blood and halts abruptly: not for concern of damage, but for fear of swallowing anything more.

Rumlow is carrying the Soldier’s rifle and communicating with the researchers via headset. “Yeah, there’s duress…I’d say thirty minutes ago? No, not the whole time, but it’d be about identical to the footage from yesterday…”

The heat in the Soldier’s face increases. He is burning, shaking, and briefly he wonders if prolonging this state could have adverse physical effects. It doesn’t matter. He has a mission and his own functioning is secondary.

“Turn on the camera,” Rumlow instructs Rollins. “Just keep filming from here on out, they said.”

They usher the Soldier to the entry door, the first electronic lock he is meant to disable. The system’s panelboard is to the right of the doorframe and its own door has been recently replaced: the paint does not match and there are fresh gouges in the metal of the board, presumably where hinges were torn away.

“Wait,” Rumlow says when the Soldier extends his hand. “We’re timing this.” He readies his watch. “Go.”

The Soldier does not check to see if the board is locked; he twists his left wrist and the door crumples back like tissue paper. His eyes dart over the wiring inside and he fights the compulsion to tear it all away to save time. It would disable the lock but also trigger the alarm, and that is not his objective.

His right hand, the more precise of the two, is flying through the wiring and circuits, moving more on muscle memory than conscious thought. His left hand is at first braced against the wall, steadying himself, but a sudden and all-encompassing wave of need strikes him and his fist instinctively drops down to press against his groin.

This is a mistake. His left hand is kept at a temperature just above freezing to best maintain its circuitry.

The Soldier whimpers, tugging his hand away, clenching twice as hard to compensate for the loss of support. His stomach is taut. He can feel the abdominal guarding even through the layers of leather and Kevlar.

There is a click as the lock disengages. The Soldier opens the door with such force that the handle breaks off in his hand.

“See, it increases his speed but the property damage—” Rollins begins.

The Soldier doesn’t hear past that point. The entryway is guarded. Three men, combat gear. The briefing said no fatal injuries.

There’s no use in throwing a knife: their attire will stop any blade beyond a close stab wound. He still has the door handle—dented with the imprint of his fingers—and he throws that, striking the nearest of the three in the face. There’s a crunch and a splatter of blood. A broken nose will not put the man down for the count, but it does buy time.

He kicks the nearest assailant. The Soldier kicks very hard and the man goes flying into the juncture of the wall and ceiling with enough force to shatter the concrete. Fractured vertebrae. Possibly fractured pelvis, judging from the angle of impact. Out of commission.

The Soldier failed to take into account the strain of a kick. No amount of abdominal guarding is enough to overcome the white hot agony that pulses through him and he doubles over as the third assailant swings. The blow glances his shoulder. He straightens, punches, delivers a second kick to the side of his opponent’s knee. The man crumples and the Soldier tries to steady his ragged breathing. Nothing matters but the mission. His body will wait, must wait.

There are arms wrapping around him from behind. The first man, the one with the broken nose. His body is jolted; the man is trying to slam him against the wall. Teeth gritted—can’t hold it can’t can’t must—the Soldier throws his head back, trying to strike the injured face again. The man must have anticipated such and shifted accordingly, because the Soldier hits nothing but air.

The third assailant is back up. The Soldier kicks out but the man sidesteps the blow, driving his fist into the Soldier’s stomach.

For a second the Soldier is blind. He is deaf. He feels nothing but burning and the burning whites out his vision, rings in his ears. There’s a noise far off, a miserable howling. His throat aches and he realizes the sound comes from him. The second lasts an eternity.

Then it’s over. The Soldier throws himself forward, flipping the man along with his body into a roll. He is trembling, eyes blurring from exertion, but the man’s grip loosens upon impact and the Soldier’s hand is free. He grabs a knife, arcs it back. He strikes somewhere in his opponent’s face and hears shrieking. The third man is over him, aiming a kick at his ribs, but the Soldier launches himself into the leg still planted on the floor, knocking the assailant off balance. The Soldier grabs the leg that would have kicked him as the man staggers, slicing through the boot and into his Achilles.

He collapses onto the ground. He won’t be able to walk but the Soldier arcs his knife twice more, severing the tendons of the man’s wrists to be sure of the incapacitation.

The man with the broken nose has gotten to his knees and grabs the Soldier’s throat, hauling him back in. The Soldier drives the knife into his gut. His left hand connects with the man’s face and the jaw snaps under his knuckles.

Three down. The Soldier does not rise. He doubts his legs would support him. He is doubled over, hands pressed to his groin, heart pounding in his ears and between his legs. The flesh under his hands is hard, erect from the pressure ever-growing, pulsing need within him. His head rests against the floor, the concrete cold against his burning skin.

Rumlow’s watch beeps.

“Good news,” says the commander. He sets the Soldier’s rifle on the floor as he unzips the pack. “Last water bottle.”

The Soldier stands. He does not think to protest: his mind has gone to static. He drinks, retching once. He forces himself to swallow it down before even a drop can slip from his mouth. He thinks, absurdly, that this is what drowning feels like even though he has drowned and he knows it isn’t. His eyes are watering from strain and a tear runs down his face. The sensation of sliding water does not help in the least.

The commander is pressing a hand to the earpiece of his headset. “Got it,” he says, stepping closer to the Soldier. “You disconnected the transmitter on the heart monitor,” he says, undoing the first of the straps on the tactical vest. “We have to reconnect it before we go on.”

It cannot possibly take hours for Rumlow to open all of the straps, but that is how it registers in the Soldier’s current perception of time. Perhaps the commander would be quicker if the Soldier could be still, but that’s beyond him. He lacks the control and his face burns with that knowledge, but there’s no changing it.

“Status report,” the commander says, sliding his hand under the Soldier’s sweater. His skin is slick with sweat and it’s cold now that there’s air hitting his stomach, further fueling his trembling.

“F—fu—functional,” the Soldier stammers, teeth clenched.

“That so?” Rumlow withdraws his hand and begins refastening the straps. “Then why are you crying?” He steps aside, glancing to Rollins. “You’re getting this, right? In close-up?”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you crying?” the commander repeats.

“Pain,” the Soldier says. His right hand is clutching his flesh and he’s not beyond shame but he cannot stop.

“You injured?” Rumlow asks.

“N—No.”

“So what hurts?” There’s a light in the commander’s eyes, a twist to his mouth that makes the Soldier grind his teeth.

“I—I need,” he says. He’s overstepping his bounds and he ought to be severely punished, but he has no more control over his mouth than he does the rest of his wretched, shaking body. “Please—I can’t—I—”

Rumlow smiles, strokes the Soldier’s hair. It’s as drenched with sweat as the rest of him, plastered to his fevered face. “What did I tell you in the van, Soldier?”

“P—p—permission denied.”

“Listen,” Rumlow says. “If you’re good and you finish the rest of the mission without whining, I don’t care if you whip it out and piss right where you make your shot. But if you complain again then I will make you hold it until we get back to base, got it?”

The Soldier nods. His throat is dry and tight and he cannot speak.

“Good. Now get moving. We’re almost done.”

And they are. All the Soldier need do is disable two more locks and then take aim. He does not even need to search for the target; they tell him the man will forced into the Soldier’s line of fire once they arrive. The test is of his accuracy in making the shot, not his tracking abilities.

It’s very simple. Or would be, if the Solider could move.

His steps are hobbled by need, small and ginger. His hand remains pressed against his swollen flesh, struggling to impede the growing flood rushing through him. He feels moisture against his thighs and freezes before realizing it’s perspiration. His eyes are still watering and he’s bitten through his tongue; his body is releasing every fluid save for the one sending flares of pain through him.

It takes ten minutes to reach the second door.

“Wait,” Rumlow tells the Soldier, pressing his hand to the earpiece again. “You want what? For the whole time’s he’s—seriously?” A pause. The commander glances at the Soldier and sighs. “Fine. But my dry cleaning better be in your research budget. Rollins, you’re timing this one.”

The commander walks up behind the Soldier. There is less than a foot of space between them. He settles his arm around the Soldier’s hips, steadying. “Your mission is to disable the lock,” Rumlow reminds him. “Nothing else. Understood?”

The Soldier nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“Go.”

The Soldier rips back the door of the panelboard. He has just enough time to register that this lock has a different arrangement than the first door.

Then the commander’s other hand is pressing against his stomach.

The Soldier thrashes. Broken, panting moans force their way from his mouth. He wants to strike Rumlow, wants to scream, wants to release. He wants more than anything. But he has orders. He has a mission. So the Soldier stills himself as much as he is able, both hands yanking at the wiring as the commander’s hand massages relentlessly against his bladder. He is sobbing, writhing, and it’s too much. He can feel wet heat trickling out, he can feel his body giving way—

The lock clicks. Rollins calls the time. Rumlow steps away.

The loss of contact, the incremental lessening of the agony, is such a shock in and of itself that the Soldier nearly loses control. He doubles over, head pressed against the wall, steadying his shaking body. The crotch of his pants is damp. But he’s holding. He doesn’t understand how, but he hasn’t failed yet. Not completely.

“Come on.” The commander ruffles his hair. “Let’s go.”

When they reach the third door, a lifetime later, the commander pauses again, hand on the headset. “What? No, I don’t know if he’s ticklish.”

And they find he is.

I SAID GODDAMN

goddamn

In the good way, I hope.

Now I'm really rooting for the Soldier.

He could really use some support.

this is amaze

Thanks!

But wouldn't tickling the poor guy skew the precious, precious data?

What's more important, scientific progress or making the asset cry? I mean, he's extra pretty when he cries.

I'm sure they have a big long report drawn up just to justify this kind of crap if Pierce ever asks what the hell they're doing with their research grants.

I love how everyone involved is both clinical and evil--and how Bucky sesnses that they're fucking with him but is not quite sure how. This is the distilled escence of hydra trash and you should feel gleefully ashamed of yourself.

Distilled essence of HYDRA trash sounds like some sort of secret weapon. I must only use this power for good!

Wait, no. I must only use this power for filth.

my headcanon is that as a result of these tests, after he comes home bucky waits until he is squirting into his briefs before remembering that he doesn't need permission and making a run for it

and steve pretends not to notice but quietly thanks god for swiffer mops

I think there is a fill somewhere wherein HYDRA destroyed Bucky's ability to determine when he needed to go and he kept having accidents on Steve's stuff.

If you find a link for that, I'd be much obliged!

http://archiveofourown.org/works/2347031/chapters/5176154

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Trash Party Dumpster #1

[Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [3/4]