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

[FILL] Order [2] (rumlow gangrape)

[(Anonymous)]

Rumlow receives his lesson on his knees.

They take him to the training facility to do it in the conference room with its blaring fluorescent lights. Rumlow hadn’t tried to fight; a soldier always follows orders. and, honestly, he can't figure anything else to do. He can't leave Hydra; he can't just stop being himself. He desperately seeks direction. They seem willing to give it to him.

Vorges stands apart, feet planted firmly and arms crossed, at the front of the room, while Davis kicks the back of Rumlow’s legs. He can’t help the angry growl that escapes him; he hasn’t been so manhandled since he was a dumb rookie kid. He wonders how fast he can divert the gun now pressing itself to his temple. Pretty fast, but—

Rumlow strains his eyes without moving his head when the door opens again. The Russian enters, flanking a Suit like a particularly imposing shadow, a one-man bodyguard team. The Suit is—

“Sir,” Rumlow greets through teeth clenched and chewing on his humiliation.

Alexander Pierce smiles blithely and takes a seat just in front of where Vorges is standing. The unnamed man waits by his side until Pierce waves a disinterested hand. Only then does the soldier plant himself on the edge of a chair.

“Good evening, Agent Rumlow.”

“Whose idea was it to muzzle that thing?” Rumlow asks insolently, jerking his head at the soldier, whose face has been covered with a black mask. In response, someone strikes him across the face hard enough that he tastes coppery wetness. He’s not sure who did it, as the team is mostly lined up behind him, but he’d like to know. He’d like to know upon whom he should spit the blood. “Just saying,” he continues with no small amount of snark, “It was a good call.”

Pierce simply chuckles as if humoring a nephew. “You like it?” He waves his hand at the soldier without really looking at it. “It’s very valuable, you know.”

“I can imagine.” He can: what must it cost for a weapon both flexible and devastating? Though it’s a shame America is still pilfering from other nations.

“Of course,” Pierce says, “you’re very valuable, too, Brock.”

Rumlow clamps down tightly on the sudden emotions making his stomach flip and face twitch.

Pierce leans back comfortably in his chair. “I’ve read your file. I’ve gotten reports from your superiors. I’ve seen footage of you in action, even. There’s a reason you were selected.”

Rumlow ducks his head and swallows just to clear his throat.

“You’ve come this far. And we certainly don’t want to lose you. You could be something greater, you know, you could be exactly what we need. We live in a chaotic world, and men like you could be strong enough to bring it to order.”

“Sir,” Rumlow says quietly. He tries not to let the full extent of his gratitude be heard, lest it be taken by the others as a sign of weakness.

“But you‘ve been faltering,” Pierce says, voice dropping ten degrees. He folds his hands together and sighs, the very image of a scholar figuring a puzzle. Rumlow doesn’t let himself consider any platitudes to offer. It’s Pierce’s decision what to do with him now. After a moment, Pierce asks, seemingly unrelated, “Were you afraid?”

“Sir?”

Pierce gestures. Rumlow lets his eyes rove over to the unnamed soldier. The soldier had been glaring holes into the ground, but, sensing Rumlow’s gaze, he glances up, and his stare feels to Rumlow like a shock of cold water. Pierce looks between the two of them and then chuckles softly. The sound of the team behind him shuffling nervously is a bit of a shock; he’d almost forgotten they were there.

Then Pierce stands, straightening out his jacket casually. As smoothly as if he were reaching into his own pocket, his unholsters the gun from the soldier’s shoulder— a move which the soldier himself does not contest. Pierce ejects the magazine with a soft click and then, turning smoothly back to Rumlow, thumbs out a bullet that arcs and then drops with a small ping against the floor. It rolls to a stop to the left of Rumlow’s knee.

“Are you scared of that?” Pierce asks lowly. Rumlow says nothing; he thinks he understands. Indeed, after pausing for effect but not an answer, Pierce makes his point: “Because it’s the same thing. This is my weapon. It shoots where I say shoot.

“It was forged by the hands of many, and it is governed by the lesson you must now learn. That order comes from pain. Stand up, Rumlow.”

Rumlow stills his nervous fingers, keeping them from clenching into fists just yet. The gun pointed at his head disappears as the team backs away and Rumlow rises.

Pierce replaces the magazine. For a moment, Rumlow thinks Pierce really might shoot him— but it turns out worse than that. Pierce tucks the gun into his suit pocket without chambering a round and takes his seat back. Then he turns to the unnamed soldier and says, “Have at him, champ.”

Rumlow barely has time to brace himself as the soldier leaps up like he was on coiled springs and pounces. Rumlow can’t dodge him— he’s too fast —and neither can he block, for when he tries, the soldier asserts a strength akin to a machine. It isn’t unlike the time Rumlow was mauled by the neighbor’s dog when he was ten: it happens so fast and so savagely that one blow is the same as another until he can’t count how many times he’s been hit or discern from where he is bleeding. And though he manages a handful of vicious returns on his own, the soldier’s animal countenance keeps on fighting regardless, not conceding even the smallest of inches.

A kick to the chest sends Rumlow crashing into the wall, and then the soldier comes crashing in on him. Rumlow wheezes under what could be broken ribs.

The soldier’s fist stops mid-swing.

It takes more than a few seconds for Rumlow’s head to stop swimming and for him to belatedly realize that Pierce had called for a cessation. He takes a few heavy gulps of air, tries not to pant in fear, and watches the soldier’s eyes.

“You see,” Pierce says, and then he stops, considers himself, and visibly fights a smug smile. “The one you should fear is the one with his finger on the trigger. Like so: Break his wrist.”

And the soldier grabs Rumlow’s hand and snaps it with the barest twitch of mechanical muscles. Rumlow screams inside of his own tight throat.

“And that’s good,” Pierce continues smoothly. “I’m the one causing you pain right now. I’m the one to fear. Brock, this is the basics of discipline. This one has been taught already, taught to perfection. He knows pain, and so he knows order. Order to this degree... Would you like to see?”

This time Pierce is addressing Vorges, who had, all this time, stood as still as a statue. She is unsmiling as ever, but Pierce’s grin only grows.

“How about the rest of you?” Pierce says to the team at large, sweeping his body grandly back and forth, voice raised and jovial. The team responds, partly anxious, partly enthralled, murmuring ascent.

Pierce takes hold of his weapon with the power of his voice and fires with this: “Have at him, dear.”

Re: [FILL] Order [2] (rumlow gangrape)

[(Anonymous)]

OP here and oh my, nonnie, this is so, so great! The bits of backstory, manipulative!bastard Pierce who of course knows exactly what to say, the casual breaking of bones... ngh.

Re: [FILL] Order [2] (rumlow gangrape)

[(Anonymous)]

Oh this is great, moar please!

Re: [FILL] Order [2] (rumlow gangrape)

[(Anonymous)]

your writing is AMAZING omg shit this is so plausible and terrifying and shit my heart’s beating really fast!!!