hydratrashmeme | 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

I am an anon of simple tastes, fellow trashbabies. I want someone forcing someone else to appreciate their footwear. Bucky with a handler, a HYDRA agent demonstrating loyalty and obedience to a superior, Steve captured and with a hostage in the balance, I don't care who, just give me some bootlicking please!

http://cassandrexx.tumblr.com/post/84248844131/your-mouths-been-in-dirtier-places-i-have-no

that is from Kings

Mmmmm, I have seen that delicious thing around... :D

RTYI: http://hydrapartyfavor.tumblr.com/post/87255760101/not-a-hard-sell-characters-the-winter-soldier

/fans self

"Look," the Hydra team leader said, holding up a finger now smeared with mud. "It'll make you way too traceable."

The Winter Soldier stared down at him, expressionless. The agent was suddenly aware of his position in a way he hadn't been when he'd knelt to test the orange clay that the Soldier had tracked in. "If it matters, clean it," the Soldier said, in the same flat voice of command he had used since he'd been released for the mission.

The handler shivered. He knew - with exquisite intimacy - exactly how vulnerable the Soldier was, even in that moment, towering over his handler; he'd seen him being prepped for the mission, seen him being maneuvred as docile as a kitten, seen him mewling and blank; he'd been drilled in all the necessary code phrases before he was trusted with this assignment. And yet, now, all he could think, when he looked up at that massive figure in black armor, was command. In the field he moved with a confidence that filled the space around him; in every twitch of a finger was deadly control, absolute ease. "We're on a timetable, Agent," the Soldier added, somehow sounding both bored and masterful, his metal hand toying with his knife. "Clean them or don't."

The handler gulped, and patted his pockets helplessly. He had nothing on him to clean with - the hope of a handkerchief or wet-wipes magically appearing in a tight pocket had been ridiculous - and yet in that frozen moment with him knelt at the Soldier's feet (between his feet almost, the agent thought, he stood like he was straddling the world) there could be no thought of getting up, walking away to find something.

Even if he wasn't half-afraid in his reptile brain that the Soldier would shoot him if he moved.

He tried, helplessly, to wipe it away with two fingers. He managed to clear most of it that way - it was only a few inches above the soles; the Soldier was meticulous - scooping up blobs of wet mud and then shaking it off onto the floor of the safehouse. It was horrible and disgusting, with a damp, sticky, chalky feeling, like the mud would be ground into every line of his fingerprints, like at any minute he might feel his fingers press into something even more horrible. It was shameful and demeaning, and he wiped every crevice of the boots with a single-minded focus until he'd reached the limit of what he could do with his fingers.

He ran one last finger along the crease between sole and boot. They weren't clean - they were still smeared with a thin film of mud, marring that pure black. He looked up, finally. The Winter Soldier looked down, expressionless. He was impossible to read. He could have been a thousand miles away; he could have been prepared to crush the agent under a heel if he stopped before they were spotless.

The handler looked back at the boot. Well. There was one way. Using the resources currently in reach. He leaned down even farther, feeling his knees press his body armor into his chest, and slipped his tongue out from between his lips, wet.

God. Right. The boots were Velcro, because the Winter Soldier couldn't always reliably summon the dexterity and concentration for ties or buckles. He was still totally doing this. He screwed his eyes closed and leaned even further down to lick.

The clay tasted chalky, with a metallic bite almost like blood. The boots underneath tasted like leather and Kevlar and machine oil. He groaned, and kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to see if the Soldier was reacting. (He didn't want to see if he was cleaning them properly.) (He didn't want to see the Velcro.) The erection that had rapidly gone from half-hard to insistent was due entirely to the adrenaline. The fear and exhilaration of any mission in the vicinity of the soldier, pumped up to eleven. (Oh, Christ, don't think of "pumped." Don't think of any pump-like motions.)

He kept his eyes closed until he'd stopped tasting clay, only plastic and leather and oil; he imagined how it must look, the boots being restored to a perfect factory-new shine under his ministrations, like the Soldier just activated for a mission.

When he finally opened his eyes, the boots were just sort of kind of smeary, with spit mixed in with the remains of the clay. Fuck it. It would have to be good enough. It was good enough for mission purposes. He couldn't--

He straightened back up to his knees, and then belatedly realized that the change in posture was revealing rather more than he'd like of his reaction, under the loose BDU pants. He pressed one hand down over his dick in a reflex of concealment, and he must have been more turned on than he realized, because just that pressure, against the rough texture of his zipper, was enough to set him off. It wasn't even pleasurable, quite - fast and hard and almost painful, he curled back around himself and came with one practiced gasp.

There was no sound from above him. Maybe the Soldier hadn't realized - it was always a crapshoot what he recognized and what he didn't, mission to mission. The agent stood up, and wiped his hands down the front of his trousers. Businesslike. Yes.

"That should take care of the trace evidence," he said, going for confidence, which was like a pebble in front of the immovable mountain of the Soldier's presence.

He was still expressionless, unreadable. He nodded in the general direction of the wet spot on the handler's pants and said, "That's extremely traceable." His voice was still flat, and yet for the first time he sounded

****

"What is this?" Agent Sitwall asked, carrying the sheaf of papers by one corner, gingerly.

"It's my mission report. Sir," the handler said.

"This," replied Sitwell, dropping the papers onto his desk, "is not a mission report."

The top one caught some lift as it fell and fluttered away. The handler saw a few lines of text, blanched, and gathered up all the papers. "No, sir, you're right, that's not my mission report. That's, uh, something I confiscated from one of the junior agents. There must have been a mixup."

Sitwell stared at him, unimpressed, unreadable. The handler tried very hard to to be reminded of the Soldier. Or to let his adrenaline response run away with him. "I need the actual mission report," he said. "By this afternoon."

"Yes, sir," he said. Sitwell nodded and left. The handler could have sworn he heard him muttering something like "Goddamn infested with goddamn fanboys, I swear to God---" as he left.

at first I was like "hmmmm..."

then I was like "hnnnng"

and then I was like "HAHAHAHAHA"

A+ trash and A++ twist, anon.

:D :D :D
oh man I love all the little details
also now desperately need more Adventures of the Winter Soldier Fanboys, seriously.

"and yet for the first time he sounded"

He sounded ..what? Is the sentence meant to be like that? In any case I really liked this.

Sitwell either stops reading at that point, or the handler had stopped writing it.

Trash Party Dumpster #1

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