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.

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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.

Comments

Bucky/Winter Soldier, broken beyond repair h/(c?), brain damage

[(Anonymous)]

From capkink

Bucky undergoes one mind wipe which goes awry. You can take this any direction you want.

Minifill: Spilled Milk (I suck at titles) CNTW

[dailyruse]

(Sorry it's so short. Hopefully someone will come along and give you a real fill.)

The machine locks around his head and he prepares himself for the inevitable rush of excruciating pain, the flashes of lightning and the screams. But this time it's different. It hurts, it always hurts, makes him scream until his throat bleeds. But it’s never hurt this much. The soldier hears shouting that is not his own (“Turn it off! Fuck, what went wrong? Turn it the fuck off!”) words that he doesn’t understand before the white hot pain goes blissfully dark and he slumps in the chair like a marionette with its strings cut. ‘Petrushka’ they called him once, is he last thought he has before everything leaves him.

When he wakes again, he’s not really awake, eyes open and glazed and everything feels like he’s watching and seeing it from underwater and he can’t move at all. The voices around him are frantic and words like cerebromedullospinal disconnection and total locked-in syndrome are thrown around and he doesn’t know what anything means. He should be frightened, he thinks, that he cannot move and cannot speak, but there is something comforting about being given an order and not having to follow it. He wants to close his eyes again but those disobey him too and stay open and unseeing. He doesn’t mind so much, the betrayal of his body.

The voices are apologizing now and he knows the face in front of him, knows what his kitchen looks like and his favourite drink and which hand he prefers when he backhands you for not listening well enough. There’s no slap this time and the face looks heavy and disappointed and he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. He wonders if they’re going to freeze him again; this feels a little like being frozen the first time, when he was half-conscious and somewhat aware of his surroundings but unable to move or talk or respond. “Nothing we can do,” he hears, “Irreversible… One too many times…. Brain can only take so much, even with healing like his...” his hearing fades in and out and he doesn’t know if his ears are damaged or if he’s just having trouble focussing on the words.

The face of the man who hits him is very close, looking heavy and disappointed and like he wants to hit him again, but refrains. He thinks he should be apologizing even if his mouth won’t work. Another face, one he thinks he knows too, younger and sharper, hands the first face a gun. The metal of it is cool against his temple, but he can’t lean into or away from it. He knows what’s coming. He isn’t sure if he minds or not. “Such a waste,” the face says, like he is spilled milk on the counter and not a man. It’s the last thing he hears. There is a brief flash of heat and pain and then darkness again.

He doesn’t wake up again.

Re: Minifill: Spilled Milk (I suck at titles) CNTW

[(Anonymous)]

This is excellent! Love how you used spilled milk in this. Thank you for writing this!

Re: Minifill: Spilled Milk (I suck at titles) CNTW

[(Anonymous)]

i want you to know this fuckin ruined me for like an hour. so that is to say, it's good.

Re: Minifill: Spilled Milk (I suck at titles) CNTW

[(Anonymous)]

Aaahhhh!!

*cries forever*