garbage all the way down (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
trashmod) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hydratrashmeme2014-05-30 05:23 pm
trashmod) wrote in hydratrashmeme2014-05-30 05:23 pm
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 riskof 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 bygreenkirtle. 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.
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
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.
Re: FILL 8/? to burn your kingdom down
(Anonymous) 2015-04-26 02:53 am (UTC)(link)They tear the wings from his back, two guys in full body armor holding guns on him while two more go to work on the harness with rough hands, and even looking down the barrel of an M16 it takes everything Sam’s got not to turn and take a swing.
The full kit is a good sixty pounds, and when they lift it away from his body the shirt beneath it is sticking to his skin with sweat. He feels light and suddenly, horribly vulnerable without it, even moreso than when they took his guns. Without his guns, he can still fight. Without his wings, though--
“Move,” says the guy that Sam has mentally designated Asshole In Charge, on account of the fact that he seems to be the only one capable of speech. “Or we will shoot you.”
“Yeah, I got that loud and clear, thanks,” Sam says and starts walking before they can jab him again with the rifle. He keeps his head down so that they can’t see him looking around, assessing the environment, not that there’s much to see. They’re taking him to a different building than the one where the prisoners were held; the same one the man in the suit disappeared into ten minutes ago. He doesn’t know yet if that’s good or bad.
When the door swings shut behind them, he re-categorizes that to ‘bad’. Very bad.
This building isn’t a rat’s-warren of narrow hallways and locked doors like the other one. Whatever equipment was originally here has long since been torn out, leaving only twisted wall mounts and dangling wires in its wake. The space is vast and echoing, well-lit by old-fashioned industrial hanging lights. There’s a long table at the far end, the man in the suit lounging like a king in--incongruously--a plush leather office chair, uniforms crowded around him.
Kneeling at his feet, handcuffed, naked, and bloody, is Steve. There are three guns trained on him from a safe distance away, but he isn’t trying to fight. His spine is curved, his head hanging.
“What the hell,” Sam says, and he’s yanking his hand away from his captors without even thinking about it. “What the hell did you do to him--”
The butt of a pistol cracks across his face, and he stumbles back, reeling. It takes him a long, dizzy moment to find his feet, and when he does, Steve’s head is up. He’s staring at Sam with an expression of unadulterated horror. It’s too far away to hear his voice, but his lips shape Sam’s name.
He’s in rough shape, Sam observes, stumbling forward under the impetus of rifle jabs, allowing cold, professional training to take over while the rest of him is babbling in panic. Pale, clammy, sweat standing on his skin even though it’s cold as hell in here. No bruising--Steve doesn’t bruise, not for any length of time, no matter how hard you hit him--but that’s definitely a gunshot wound in his upper right pectoral. From this angle, it’s impossible to tell whether it’s a through and through or if the bullet is still lodged inside. Either way, he’s got to be in agony.
His eyes are clear, at least, and there’s no fresh blood-flow, which means he’s probably not going to die of hypovolemic shock in the immediate future. Small blessings.
The look on his face is a whole different story. “Sam,” he says again, once Sam is close enough to hear him. His voice is a thready whisper, and there’s blood on his lips. “Sam--”
“The others are clear,” Sam says, and it’s worth the painful jab in the middle of his shoulders for the ghost of relief on Steve’s face.
“You came back.”
“Yeah, well.” Sam shrugs, or tries to. His muscles feel stiff and cold, and not just from the temperature in here. “More guts than brains, that’s always been my problem.”
Steve closes his eyes, and it looks like his mouth is trying to smile but can’t quite manage it. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
“Well,” says the man in the chair. “This is all very touching, of course.”
Sam looks up at him. He has the soft, bland face of any middle-aged, mid-level bureaucrat, totally unremarkable but for the glint of cruelty in his eyes. Some part of Sam--the part that grew up reading comic books by the dozen, probably--still thinks that monsters ought to have horns and claws, but in his experience they mostly look just like anyone else.
He feels like his heart is going about a million miles an hour, but when he speaks his voice comes out surprisingly calm. “He needs medical attention. If you don’t want him to die--”
“And what makes you think we do not want him to die, falcon-man? The captain has been most troublesome to us.”
“You would have killed him already,” Sam says, hoping like hell it’s true.
“Perhaps,” the man says pleasantly. “Or perhaps we simply wished to see him suffer first.” He reaches down and--oh hell fucking no--digs his fingers into the open wound in Steve’s shoulder.
Steve’s back arches, his face coming apart in a silent scream, and Sam is moving without conscious intention, with no thought of the consequences, there is nothing in him that can watch this and not move--
There is a gun in the man’s hand. He doesn’t point it at Sam; instead, he rests the muzzle against Steve’s temple.
“You will keep still,” he says, still in that quiet, pleasant voice. “Or I will put a bullet in his brain. I think even his remarkable healing powers will not save him from that.”
“Please,” Sam says, and it’s a strangled whisper of a voice that doesn’t sound anything like his own. “Stop it.”
The man lets go. Steve slumps forward until his head almost cracks on the concrete floor. His breath rattles in his chest. There’s fresh blood seeping from the wound.
“Steve,” Sam says, still in that thick, strangled, unfamiliar voice.
Another shuddering breath, and then Steve lifts his head. His face is gray with pain and it takes a moment for his eyes to focus, but he meets Sam’s gaze.
"Very well," the man in the suit says. His voice seems to be coming from a great distance. "I think we are ready to begin."
Re: FILL 8/? to burn your kingdom down
(Anonymous) 2015-04-26 09:08 am (UTC)(link)This. This is everything..
Re: FILL 8/? to burn your kingdom down
(Anonymous) 2015-04-26 09:08 am (UTC)(link)This. This is everything.
Re: FILL 8/? to burn your kingdom down
(Anonymous) 2015-04-27 12:35 am (UTC)(link)THIS IS EVERYTHING
Re: FILL 8/? to burn your kingdom down
(Anonymous) 2015-04-27 09:21 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL 8/? to burn your kingdom down
(Anonymous) 2015-04-27 11:47 am (UTC)(link)*clutches face* Yessssss. Steve and Sam, in it together? Oh godddd.
(Bland, bureaucratic-looking villains are the creepiest. Especially since I always end up imagining them with John Simm's face.)