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.
[FILL] Permission [9/12??]
(Anonymous) 2014-09-23 12:01 am (UTC)(link)Steve shrugs. “It’s still early. I’d have time to wash them anyway.” Then he makes the tiniest grunt and turns to open his bedside table’s drawer. “Here.”
A tube of slick lands in Bucky’s lap. It’s half-empty already. Bucky can’t help it— he laughs— and Steve joins with him. (And if they laugh a little too much, well. It isn’t the most comfortable situation.)
“The dateless duo,” Bucky forces out through helpless giggles. Steve wheezes a little harder and hides his bashful grin behind his big fist.
“No big deal,” Steve affirms as they wind down. Not to himself, really, but aimed at Bucky. Bucky nods minutely, a tight thanks.
Steve places a box of kleenex on the bedside table, too, and then his hands flitter nervously. He clears his throat as if he’s about to say something, then snaps his mouth shut and reaches for the paperback that he always keeps close to his bed. He opens up to a page number he simply remembers (he always remembers what page he’s on without ever marking it, like magic) and settles well in his seat. At last he looks up, unsurprised to see Bucky’s anxious gaze peaking over the edge of the pillow.
“You go ahead, Buck,” Steve says, voice low and gravelly. “You take care of yourself like you want, like you need. You don’t gotta feel like this is wrong. I swear to you this is good. You just… just help yourself, and when you need me, you let me know.”
Bucky nods. Steve nods. And then Steve gives him some smidgen of privacy by turning his attention to read under the strip of warm light streaming in through the gap in the curtains.
The thing is, Bucky’s brain has temporarily short-circuited. Something as simple as this, and, startlingly, he’s forgotten how. It’s not like the rules have changed just because someone is sitting close by… He sinks a bit further into the bed, hands at his sides, and contemplates the ceiling until his stupid brain recovers. There’s nervous sweat on his palms, and so he wipes them off on his jeans— and he supposes he might as well start there.
He takes a few deep breaths to steady himself, then begins moving his hands over his thighs again.
Pause. “Uh, Steve… this might take a while.”
Steve barely glances up from his book. “Take as long as you need.”
“But the ballgame—“
“We can rewind it to the beginning.”
“...it’s live, though.”
“Yup.”
“Huh.”
Bucky lets the conversation fade for a few seconds before he resumes his tentative stroking. It’s difficult to really focus— Steve isn't even looking at him, but he still feels on the edge of being exposed. He waffles about it, but makes a decision: the comforter gets shoved down into a U shape, piling up into something of a cradle that makes him feel that much safer. Now if only he just didn’t care about the quiet stillness and how he was about to break it…
“Steve.”
“Yeah, Buck?”
“Uh. Do you have headphones?”
Steve blinks in confusion. Bucky slips his cellphone out of his jeans and waggles it as an explanation. Steve still doesn’t seem to get it, but pulls a set from his drawer anyway. They look well-loved; Bucky’s the opposite in that he doesn’t like to block out his environment. He inserts a single bud, still wanting to be able to hear, just— just not as much, and painted over with something… more appealing.
It isn’t until Bucky is halfway through typing in the address on the web browser that Steve exclaims, “Oh!”
Bucky chuckles a little. “What, you mean you don’t…?”
Steve scratches his neck and averts his eyes. “No. No, I usually— uhm. Nevermind. But… aren’t they… rude?”
Rude, he says. That’s cute. True, though. Even the most fucked up videos Bucky’s had the misfortune of accidently viewing are simply ‘rude’ compared to what he’s gone through nonconsensually. But Steve probably didn’t mean it along those lines.
“Most of it,” Bucky agrees. “Not all of it.”
Steve accepts this without any more comment. It’s obvious to Bucky that he’s fighting a wicked blush. Bucky aborts a chuckle— no more dilly-dallying; it’s time to get on with it before he loses what little nerve he has mustered.
Bucky calls up a video he’s used in the past. He watches it for a few minutes: the man and woman know each other, are passionate without crossing the line into hurtful— more like, desperate to be together —and the room is bright but cozy. The woman grins cheekily when the man mouths her breasts.
He eventually props the phone against the bedside table, freeing his hands to roam. He traces himself like the woman, having taken control, traces her man: with sure, slow strokes up the thighs, the sides, the shoulders as she leans forward over him, breasts hanging free and brushing against him, and then as she pulls back to straddle his lap, her hands run over the front of him, his pecs and abs and the front of his jeans. Bucky follows this path as best he’s able, one hand warm but his own, the other cold but properly foreign.
He breathes as slowly as the faint, pulsing music. Relaxed yet focused, the rest of the room becomes dim and distant. He’s still aware of Steve— how could he not be? —but the more he breathes, the more he moves— the more time passes without Steve objecting or changing his mind —the less ludicrous the whole ordeal becomes. Indeed, even when he pulls the edge of his shirt up to his armpits, baring scarred flesh, Steve doesn’t even bother to look up from his novel, and this emboldens Bucky greatly.
Re: [FILL] Permission [9/12??]
(Anonymous) 2014-09-23 06:53 pm (UTC)(link)Re: [FILL] Permission [9/12??]
(Anonymous) 2014-09-24 02:29 pm (UTC)(link)Re: [FILL] Permission [9/12??]
(Anonymous) 2014-10-05 05:57 am (UTC)(link)Re: [FILL] Permission [9/12??]
(Anonymous) 2014-10-08 08:04 pm (UTC)(link)Re: [FILL] Permission [9/12??]
(Anonymous) 2014-11-19 05:54 pm (UTC)(link)