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 [3] (rumlow gangrape)

[(Anonymous)]

Okay like I said, I combined the two prompts. But don't worry, OP, it turns to gangrape later on.

The unnamed man takes hold of Rumlow’s shirt, and Rumlow tries to mentally prepare for another beating. It isn’t quite what he expects, but the soldier is anything but gentle as he gets his foot under Rumlow’s legs and swings him down. They hit the ground, smacking Rumlow’s breath loose. It feels like fire.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, there’s the sound of ripping, and Rumlow’s abused chest is cold. He lets out a light-headed, disbelieving laugh— “What are you about to show me, big guy?” —but really, by now he should be believing. There are a few small answering laughs in the crowd. They are not laughing with him.

The man’s flesh hand lands on the top of Rumlow’s throat more sweetly than Rumlow thought him capable. His fingers manage somehow to be colder than metal in this brief respite between destroying things. Rumlow hisses as those fingers slide with mechanical, practiced grace down the column of his neck, squeezing dangerously at the base. But it does not throttle him— it’s more like a warning— ‘do not move’.

Rumlow moves anyway. It’s simply in his instinct to fight back. And it’s in the Russian soldier’s design to quell struggle.

The mechanical hand closes around Rumlow’s broken wrist and pins it above their heads. Rumlow chokes on the pain but won’t stop just for that. The unnamed soldier takes the hard kneeing to his side with remarkable stoicism, but at length seems to grow frustrated with it, and punches Rumlow in the softer flesh of his inner thighs. From there he moves back to grab hold of Rumlow’s ankles and holds them aloft with ease until Rumlow’s hips and lower back leave the floor.

Rumlow tries to struggle, to twist his way out of the harsh grasp of those inhumanely tight hands, but the soldier counters his every move in efficient little bursts. His hands pop off Rumlow’s boots, scraping his ankles and swelling his toes. Then those hands clench into the fabric of his pants and begin to tug.

“Fuck off!” Rumlow forces out, rough and wild. He ignores the pain of his wrist and grapples with the unnamed man’s hands, but the soldier swats him aside as easily as one might do a child. The soldier deftly unbuckles Rumlow’s belt and wedges his hand in the waistband to tug trousers and underwear down in one fell swoop.

Rumlow feels his head and neck throbbing red-hot embarrassment in time with his bounding heart. Already there are spots on his arms and thighs and torso turning into raised bruises. He can only imagine what his bloody pulp of a face looks like now.

He gets what’s happening, even if he can’t— doesn’t want to —fathom how far it will go. And he’s ashamed, deeply humiliated: he should be stronger than this, strong enough to fight one other man; he shouldn’t feel ashamed that he’s been bared if it's against his will, and that he feels shame when he shouldn’t only leads to more of the same. He’s never felt so powerless since he joined the military at age 18 and they trained him to conquer. Now he is being conquered. That’s the point, he knows, as his eyes wildly cast around the room, taking in the satisfaction of Pierce, the quiet disapproval of his commander, Vorges, and the sickly amused laughter of his teammates.

“Fuck off!” Rumlow screams again. It isn’t really Pierce he’s angry at, but the rest of them— The fury rushes in his ears like a pounding waterfall. “Fuck you all!” He lifts his hips, thrusting his dick limply into the light. “That what you wanna see, you freaks? Fuck—”

As he shouts himself hoarse, the unnamed soldier drags Rumlow’s trousers around his knees, and there tightens the belt again, cinching it until Rumlow knows the circulation to his feet is compromised. He tugs at the ends painfully a few times, checking just how far it needs to go, and then folds it back upon itself and through the metal loops, effectively tying the restraint. That done, Rumlow is flipped over like a sack of spuds, ass in the air. He flings out his arms to crawl away, but he’s dragged back into place roughly.

The soldier is on him, then, heavy with metal and muscle and thick layers of unshed leather, the straps and bits of which dig into Rumlow’s back uncomfortably. Rumlow is crushed beneath his might, pressure stealing breath from his damaged chest. He flails his uninjured arm backwards, pounding weakly at whatever bit of the man he can reach, but it does nothing. Then he shimmies his hips, trying to wrangle free of the belt, but all it does is rub his ass against the rough fabric of the other’s pants.

Rumlow squeezes his jaw tightly shut at that— it shouldn’t be any different from any other type of hold, he tries to convince himself; but it is. The soldier’s knees are planted on either side of his own, shins cupping shins, and the bowl of his hips curves around the swell of Rumlow’s ass. Something very feral about it all makes itself known. Rumlow notices how quickly he is breathing— can hardly notice anything but his own body now.

The unnamed soldier wraps his arms around Rumlow, strong and unforgiving as the restraints of a thrill ride. Rumlow’s arms are pinned to his side, his chest now under a constant state of distracting burning. Rumlow’s vision goes white for a moment with the pain of it, and when he comes back, he finds himself rocking back and forth from dry little animal humps, and there are two metal fingers shoved uncomfortably under his tongue.

The fingers are not affected when he attempts to bite down; rather, the whole hand grips his face now, forcing open his jaw. He can’t gulp, he can’t suck up the saliva-- as he is rocked, more is knocked loose, and it comes dribbling out of his mouth, over the metal fingers and down his chin. Rumlow lets out a wordless growl, and, startlingly, the soldier replies with one of his own. When he seems to be satisfied with the wetness of his digits, the soldier shoves Rumlow away, and Rumlow’s cheek hits the floor, resting in a puddle of his own making. He feels that hand trailing down, nudging his cheeks...

"Stop." Rumlow hates his own voice. It sounds weak. The metal hand does not comply, burrowing its way into his body, forcing him open. “Stop,” he demands quietly of the floor.

The soldier leans forward heavily, groin pressed against Rumlow’s side. His breathing sounds harsh through the facemask, but with his unoccupied hand, he reaches up to tip the mask off. The rush of air puffing against Rumlow’s hot face is not entirely unpleasant. The flesh hand comes back down to pin Rumlow’s arm again.

The unnamed soldier whispers to him. It’s English. “Shush. Be good.”

His hair stings at one of Rumlow’s cuts. He’s much too close— face pressed to Rumlow’s face—

He brushes his red lips behind Rumlow’s ear, so slightly, so very delicately.

“Good.”

Rumlow chokes back an undignified sob and violently turns his face away. He presses his forehead to the ground as if that will distract him from the sensation below. It takes its spotlight over Rumlow’s pain for its sheer novelty. The fingers are writhing, stroking inside of him. He knows he isn’t split, but it stings like a papercut at his entrance. That minor pain melts quickly, overshadowed by the probing deeper inside.

He only realizes he should have expected it after it comes: like a bolt of electricity straight from those fingers to the tip of his dick— The soldier curls his fingers downwards, towards the front of Rumlow, and finds his prostate. It’s almost too sensitive, and Rumlow squirms.

The rustling of the team becomes more noticeable as Rumlow’s breathing changes. It’s thicker, headier; the crowd takes tiny steps forward, interested. Rumlow glares through the many pairs of circling legs; Pierce, the absolute bastard, is barely paying attention. He glances up every now and then but otherwise is steadily typing something into his PDA, relaxed in his chair with his ankle crossed over his knee.

Re: [FILL] Order [3] (rumlow gangrape)

[(Anonymous)]

the soldier fingering rumlow's mouth for saliva-lube is goddamned gold

Re: [FILL] Order [3] (rumlow gangrape)

[(Anonymous)]

author: lmao, always be weary of saliva-lube in fics but when the hand is metal, how could any trashbaby resist??