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: Rank Has Its Privileges 1/??
The first thing he does is bury himself in paperwork. He needs something to pass the time, and he doesn't want any deadlines to distract him once the soldier comes for him. It's only that incentive that allows him to focus. He hasn't touched himself in two days, waiting for this.
But the stack of reports starts to dwindle by midday, and there's no still sign of him. Despite the freezing, the soldier's body usually reminds him how long it's been as soon as he warms up. He’s had time to be fed and checked by the technicians by now, so he should be on Rumlow's carpet now, and he's not.
It's lunchtime anyway, so Brock leaves the office and wanders down to the rec area. The soldier would have been finished with Medical before ten and, according to the schedule, there are no other procedures he needs to report for. Brock finds him in the gym, with the treadmill turned up to a twenty-degree incline. He isn't even sweating.
But he ducks his head when he sees Brock, keeps running with his eyes fixed on his feet. He's in one version or another of his combat uniform—apparently the most useful thing for him to train in—and they all look the same to Brock. He walks over and leans on the handrail of the treadmill and watches the soldier's breathing fall out of rhythm at his proximity.
When he gets no other reaction, Brock reaches out and turns off the machine. The soldier stops when it does, turns and stands at attention, but he doesn't get off the treadmill and he doesn't even squirm.
Rumlow wants to knock him down and take him right there, but he knows better. This is always sweeter if he plays by the same rules and lets the soldier beg for him. The soldier's face is still impassive, staring off above Brock's head.
'Don't forget your weight training,' he says lightly, and the soldier nods, but doesn't even blink. Rumlow clears his throat pointedly.
'Yes, sir,' the soldier says, the catch in his voice almost inaudible, but mollifying enough. It won't be long.
So Brock turns away and goes back to his office. He doesn't want to be patient when he feels like this—and when it's been two months since he's touched the man—but he can be. It will be worth it.
He checks the fold-out table on one wall of the office, puts the parcel into the same drawer as the scissors for easy opening, and starts another report on team performance.
The soldier appears in the doorway just after three o'clock, with his hands folded behind him and his head high. Brock puts down his pen and waits.
'Sir,' the soldier starts and pauses for a moment as though considering. 'Please will you touch me, sir?'
He's perfectly monotone, disinterested.
Brock takes the package out of the drawer and slices it open, letting the contents fall onto his desk in a pile of black leather.
'Come here,' he orders.
The soldier stops on the other side of his desk, looking warily at the collar and leash. He gets that faraway, lost look in his eyes, like he’s trying to remember something. Brock watches him like a hawk for any reaction but, honestly, it probably wouldn’t hurt to have the soldier wiped again anyway after the way he’s acted. Resistance just doesn’t suit him.
Brock lets him stew while he signs off the page he was working on, then looks up again.
'Do you want to wear these?' he asks, and it's not an order. An order would be too easy.
'No, sir,' the soldier says quickly, with more vehemence than Brock has heard from him in years. His expression is the one Brock last saw on him when he missed an agent in a training session and ended up with a stun baton at his throat. Brock nods and makes himself look understanding. He can see the shape of the soldier's erection in the front of his fatigues.
'Then I won't touch you now. Come back later and see how you feel then.'
There's a flicker of vulnerability in the soldier's eyes as Brock packs the collar back into his desk, but he turns and leaves the room without saying a word. Brock stays in the office until eight that night, but the soldier doesn't come back and he goes home feeling cheated.
Brock doesn't come in to work until ten o'clock on Tuesday, fully expecting the soldier to be waiting on the floor by his desk. The room is empty, and there isn't even paperwork to distract him.
He tries the gym again, and swears he sees the soldier sliding out the other door. He goes to the mess and someone disappears into the ventilation shaft two rows over. Eventually, Brock stalks down to Medical to glare at the staff and wait for the soldier to arrive for his evening meal.
The soldier arrives by a door Brock had thought led to a storage closet and stops dead when he sees the commander. He stares at Brock blankly until one of the doctors takes his arm and ushers him into the examination room. Brock follows them and leans against the inside of the closed door, never taking his eyes from the soldier. The young tech looks nervous, but she doesn't dare speak to him unasked.
She sits the soldier down in an uncomfortable-looking hospital chair and hands him a large bottle of green liquid. It looks disgusting, but the soldier opens it and starts drinking mechanically. The tech asks him how he's feeling and if he has any pain in between swallows and the soldier answers in monosyllables.
He doesn't look at Brock, but his body language is poised to run and Brock knows he's paying attention.
'Everything normal, doctor?' he asks, and she almost falls over, knocking her stethoscope to the floor.
'Yessir!' she says quickly. 'Of course, sir, nothing wrong, no indications of moving the next wipe up. He's, um, functional for, um, whatever you might want.'
Brock smiles and doesn't bother to correct her obvious assumption, though he wouldn't be caught dead actually fucking the soldier. He holds out his hand.
‘Please, call me Brock,’ he says in his friendliest voice. She relaxes, but Brock is watching the soldier and catches his flinch. Good. Sometimes he needs a reminder that he’s the only one in the room who isn’t a real person.
Brock will have him in the collar by midnight, no questions. The tech gives him a relieved smile and shakes his hand.
'Janine,' she says shyly, and the name on her shirt says Cooper. 'Did you need anything?'
Brock keeps smiling.
'Does he give you any trouble?' he asks, and watches the soldier's jaw clench. She laughs, a little nervously.
'Oh no, he knows his routine and he sticks to it,' she says. 'I just report anything out of the ordinary to my supervisor.'
'Well isn't that good of him,' Brock says slowly. 'You should be proud.'
The doctor—Brock wasn’t listening to her name because who cares?—is still smiling and her cheeks start to flush. The soldier finishes his shake and returns the bottle to the bench, not quite looking at Brock.
'Well, I'm done with him,' the doctor says. 'He's yours if you want him.'
Brock smiles at the accuracy of the comment, and beckons the soldier over.
'Come on,' he says. 'Thanks for your help, Jamie. Keep up the good work.'
The soldier follows him out of the room, staring at the floor every step of the way.
Brock takes the soldier back to his office and shuts the door behind him. He doesn't sit down, but steps closer, putting himself directly in the soldier's personal space. God, he can smell arousal in the soldier's sweat. He ought to be gagging for it. The soldier doesn't move, but his expression softens at the closeness, just short of the physical contact he craves.
'Do you want me to touch you?' Brock asks generously.
'Yes, sir,' the soldier says, his voice rough with more than just disuse.
Brock takes in his perfect blue eyes and those pretty, pretty lips.
'Do you want to wear the collar?' Brock presses and the soldier's spine stiffens.
'No, sir,' he says, but shakily.
Brock shakes his head, giving the soldier a disappointed look that makes his lip quiver.
'Do you want to sit under my desk for a while?' he says, as gently as he can. The warm closeness will melt the soldier's resistance faster than anything, Brock knows, and he will win this one.
'No, sir,' the soldier says miserably, and Brock gets angry.
He never ever touches the soldier unless he begs for it, and it has always worked perfectly until now. Brock commands a goddamn STRIKE team and one of the highest positions in Hydra’s field division, and this one soldier, lower than a dog, is going to get the better of him? Oh, no. Absolutely not.
He's not going to lay a hand on him until he's crying, not for love nor money. Brock Rumlow is nobody's fool.
'Are you breaking the rules?' he says sharply. 'Open your trousers and show me.'
If he's started touching himself, Brock's going to put him in a damn chastity cage and throw away the key, going to castrate the little bitch, he's going to—
The soldier pulls his fatigues down and Brock nearly swears aloud. The soldier usually doesn't reach that angry, leaking shade of red until Brock has had him tied down for an hour or more. It looks like it hurts, and the soldier's shaking hand confirms that.
'Geez,' Brock says, almost apologetically. 'Aw, geez, don't you want me to fix that?'
The soldier nods, but he doesn't lift his eyes from Brock's feet.
'C'mon, buddy, you don't have to put up with that. If you put the collar on, I'll make you feel really good, you'll see.'
And the soldier shakes his head firmly, his shoulders tensing for a blow.
'No, sir,' he chokes out.
Brock sighs, disappointed.
'All right, then. Dress yourself and you can go. You just come back and tell me when you want me to help, okay?'
The soldier is a pitiful sight, obediently fastening his trousers and trying not to accidentally put pressure on anything. He leaves walking gingerly, and Brock sits down on the edge of his desk.
After all, everyone has limits. It's just a matter of time and leverage.
But when Brock finally jerks off, alone in his own bed that night, it's more of a disappointment than anything.
--
Re: Fill: Rank Has Its Privileges 1/??
(Anonymous) 2014-11-03 08:31 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Rank Has Its Privileges 1/??
Re: Fill: Rank Has Its Privileges 1/??
(Anonymous) 2014-11-03 08:37 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Rank Has Its Privileges 1/??
Re: Fill: Rank Has Its Privileges 1/??
*offers a gift of one cracked glass jar full of congealed bacon fat*
*waits in the trash for more*
Re: Fill: Rank Has Its Privileges 1/??
by which i mean hi! and i'm glad you like it so far! and i think you're rad and i will treasure this bacon fat for ever and bathe in it.
hope the collaring was satisfactoryRe: Fill: Rank Has Its Privileges 1/??
Re: Fill: Rank Has Its Privileges 1/??
you know what i'm posting chapter three let's go dira is happ i'm happy everybody gets fic
Re: Fill: Rank Has Its Privileges 1/??
Re: Fill: Rank Has Its Privileges 1/??
(Anonymous) 2014-11-03 04:49 pm (UTC)(link)Pet play isn't usually my thing, but holy hell. I am all over this.
Re: Fill: Rank Has Its Privileges 1/??
Re: Fill: Rank Has Its Privileges 1/??
(Anonymous) 2014-11-04 06:17 am (UTC)(link)A trash gift for you (the first of MANY): A pile of stained blankets and two empty cocoa cups
Re: Fill: Rank Has Its Privileges 1/??
thank you for the trash gifts! they are much appreciated and much at home with me. i have almost two thirds of the fic up now :D thank you for (re)reading!
ilylrlb~~~