garbage all the way down (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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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: "Protocol" (Rumlow/WS/misc)
(Anonymous) 2014-10-24 08:55 pm (UTC)(link)Disclaimer: This is not the fic I intended to write when I promised a fill. This is not even the fic I intended to write when I started to write this fic. IDEK. Looking back it seems almost fluffy for the standards of this charming dumpster, but I hope it's still passably filthy. It also devolved into a fic involving bootlicking, rather than about it, so... enjoy?
Brock Rumlow was a man of simple pleasures. In fact, right now he was enjoying himself immensely - sitting back and relaxing after a long day of bloodshed, savoring the satisfaction of a successful operation, a bottle of beer in his hand, and observing his men reap their own post-op reward.
The soldier was kneeling on the floor. He was naked, had been since the technician had confirmed his continued functionality after returning to base. He was also surrounded nine of the men who had been on today's mission, and who were in various states of undress and arousal. All of this was good, because all of it was part of the soldier's protocol. Still, the soldier was, for lack of a better word, upset. He was not performing ideally, and it bothered him like a persistent itch (if an itch came with the promise of severe punishment if one didn't figure out how to scratch it).
The Commander had been satisfied with him. He'd been the first to make use of the soldier, while the rest of them had stood back, and then setteled in a corner of the room. This, too, was part of the protocol, and it was good. Protocol meant order. And order meant purpose. The Commander knew this, and the soldier knew what was expected, how to please, and that if the parameters changed, the Commander would make it clear enough. Order was important. Order allowed the soldier to perform optimally.
The men around him, and this was what set him on edge, didn't seem willing to give him that security.
Rumlow smiled into his beer. Introducing a batch of new guys to this side of Hydra's most versatile weapon was almost worth the headache of having worked with them on a mission first. Just like all the ones before them, these men were obviously torn between two reactions; uncomfortably aroused (wether by the prospect of power over this legendary, deadly creature, or by the body itself, modified and pushed towards physical perfection and then some, well, who knows), and scared shitless (only reasonable, after what they'd witnessed in the last twelve hours).
The result of this was an awkward little dance of wanting to touch, but hesitating, reaching for the soldier, but flinching away when he moved to respond. Such skittishness, even after he'd graciously led by example, just wouldn't do - but reaming out the newbies came later. Now, the he was busy watching the soldier go to pieces from the mixed signals he was getting.
Normally, the soldier wouldn't dare let his focus slip from his mission, not for a second, whether it was an assassination or getting these losers off. But now, and that was as good a sign of distress as sobbing and pleading from anyone else, his eyes kept flitting over to the corner where Rumlow was sitting. And hell if that wasn't a bigger power trip than killing a man with your bare hands - having the Winter Soldier not only at your command, but him seeking you out, needing it. A pleasant heat spread through him, making his toes curl and his cock twitch in a way that made him wish for a much younger man's recovery time.
In the middle of the room, yet another one of the men had officially failed to get over themselves and was shooting off (from a safe-feeling several inches away) in the direction of the soldier's face. Not that Rumlow was judging, painting a face (or ass, or tits - whatever's pretty and available) white was a fun thing to do. As a cherry on top of a good fucking, usually. After nothing but your own hand on your dick? Well. Maybe he was judging after all.
The soldier was relieved. Significant portions of his face and torso were covered in semen, and none of the men had expressed anything to the contrary, so despite his earlier confusion his performance seemed to have been satisfactory. When the Commander signalled him with a gesture, more of his tension fell away. This was easy. This was something the soldier knew. Knew for sure that he was meant to crawl, and where he was to kneel (in front of the Commander, facing him, at arm's length), even though his handler wasn't even looking at him.
"Look, boys, I know you're not really used to how things work around here, but this was a fucking embarassment. Maybe once you have your dick out you forget that you're a soldier. But you are, and now that you've chosen Hydra, Hydra owns your sorry ass. Hydra has no use for soldiers who get twitchy around a weapon."
Behind the soldier, all sounds associated with movement, even the rearrangement of clothes, stopped dead at the Commander's sharp tone. To him, his handler seemed in an exceptionally good mood, but the other men obviously knew that didn't make him any more lenient. Most of them, anyways.
"Well I wouldn't put my dick down the barrel of a gun either!"
"Oh yeah, Davis? Even if I told you to? Made it an order? What, are you afraid? Of the gun in your hand? Of the gun that gives you cover? Of course not, you dumb fuck, even you know, if anything, you gotta be afraid of the guy who's pointing the gun."
With that, his eyes flicked down to the soldier who was watching him with the usual rapt attention, and addressed him curtly, but without bite.
"Boots."
His eyes immediately went back to the fidgeting rookie asshole, knowing without looking that the soldier wouldn't disappoint. Davis (who really should have learned not to sass an unhappy CO a long time ago, because he might be new here, but Hydra didn't take amateurs) had gone increasingly pale over the last minute, but the look on his face now was priceless. Despite his best (pitiful) efforts at holding Rumlow's gaze, his eyes kept darting to where the rest of the men was unabashedly staring.
Rumlow couldn't fault them. Right now, he only saw the soldier at the edge of his vision, crouched low, with his hands clasped behind his back, muscles shifting in small, measured movements, but he knew what they saw. He could just barely feel the ghost of pressure through the sturdy material, but he could picture it vividly - the soldier'd been taught well, to start by kissing the tip of the boot, then carefully (not too much spit, don't leave it wet) run his tounge over the spot. Move on to another place, rinse, repeat. Don't stop, don't falter. Keep your head down and your hands away.
He didn't suppress a satisfied smirk when he felt the soldiers head press against his leg, quick but unmistakably deliberate. He'd always been more of a dog person, but having a tiger for a house cat was growing on him.
"A weapon is only dangerous if you're on the wrong side of the guy who's holding it, or in your own hands if you don't have what it takes. Either way, it means you're a liability, and if you don't know what that means to Hydra you're all even dumber than I thought. Get your shit toghether. Get out!"
After the room had emptied, the soldier felt the Commander's focus to himself, but diligently kept at his task. The taste of dust and leather was drying his tounge out, but when the Commander sank back with a sigh, letting his legs fall further apart, he knew he was doing well. Confident in his performance, he shifted to start on the other foot when the Commander spoke up.
"Now that won't do."
He looked up sharply, awaiting orders, and was relieved to see his handler smiling down at him.
"Look at that mess. You spread the shit on your face all over me, and I really don't need come stains on my boots. I know you can do better than that."
Refractory period, Brock Rumlow thought, was what you make of it.
Re: Fill: "Protocol" (Rumlow/WS/misc)
(Anonymous) 2014-10-24 09:44 pm (UTC)(link)Please accept my tribute of an entire garbage pail full of wet diapers, which are beginning to smell quite strongly of ammonia.
love,
the anon who posted right before you
Re: Fill: "Protocol" (Rumlow/WS/misc) - author
(Anonymous) 2014-10-25 08:47 am (UTC)(link)Anyways. Hmmmmm, ammonia! Thank you so much.
Re: Fill: "Protocol" (Rumlow/WS/misc)
(Anonymous) 2014-10-25 11:59 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: "Protocol" (Rumlow/WS/misc)
(Anonymous) 2014-10-26 01:45 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: "Protocol" (Rumlow/WS/misc)
(Anonymous) 2014-10-25 12:37 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: "Protocol" (Rumlow/WS/misc)
(Anonymous) 2014-10-26 04:06 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: "Protocol" (Rumlow/WS/misc)
(Anonymous) 2014-10-30 06:51 am (UTC)(link)