Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

[trashmod]

Holy shitballs, look at us go. Welcome to Captain America fandom's resident wretched hive of scum and villainy: ROUND THREE. AKA Bad Guys Do Dirtybadwrong Things To Your Faves, AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. As usual, BLANKET NON-CON AND NSFW WARNINGS apply: just assume going in that everything in this landfill is unfit for human consumption.

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, and dark!good guys AUs are off-topic.

[Round 1] [Round 2] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by greenkirtle)] [Round 3 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.

Comments

FILL: Til I Wanted to Change, 3/?

[(Anonymous)]

He follows the tech down into the basement, the smell of disinfectant growing stronger in his nose. He says yes, sir and no, sir and green, sir to the tech's questions as appropriate.

When he's standing on the cold tile floor in the room with the drain and the steel table, he's distracted for a moment by the sight of a washer and dryer along one wall. There are brightly colored towels and t-shirts in a laundry basket on top of the dryer, and when he looks again at the man in scrubs, he sees not a tech but a civilian pervert he found on the internet.

He takes a deep breath and remembers: he is choosing to do this. He can choose not to, but this is the only way to make himself good for Steve. He needs this.

The civilian is watching him with a mild, patient expression. When Bucky focuses on him, he says, "Okay? You followed the prep instructions I sent? Ready to get started?"

Bucky already answered this question at the door, and it's simultaneously reassuring and unnerving to be asked again. He doesn't want more chances to back out. He needs this to be done to him, so that he only has to endure it.

He nods sharply. "Yeah. Green."

The civilian nods back. "Clothes off, then. No more dawdling."

Bucky obeys the order, peeling out of his hoodie and the layered t-shirts beneath in one motion. The sleeve on his left arm stays securely in place, and he doesn't let himself check on it, unbuttoning his pants at the same time he's toeing out of his shoes. He get his jeans and underwear off in a quick shove, peels his socks off and drops them with the rest of his clothes.

He's been aware of the civilian moving around during the few seconds it took him to strip, but he still feels the shock of it in the pit of his belly when he looks up to see that the lower half of the man's face has disappeared behind a sterile mask. He's pulling on a matching cap over his hair while Bucky watches, and he jerks his chin toward the table.

"Go on, hop up and lie down."

He obeys. The table is cold under him, but he makes himself stretch out at length on it. His cock lies shrunken and limp over his balls where his thighs are pressed together, as though he can hide himself.

The tech comes to stand at the side of the table. His hands are gloved now, his eyes hidden by a plastic shield with a light on it. The asset averts his gaze so that he won't be blinded by it, and keeps his breathing even through a series of impersonal touches. The technician's fingers press against his throat, drag up his eyelids and tilt his head from side to side. There is a cool press of metal against his chest and belly, a stethoscope being put to use.

Bucky's attention sharpens for a moment, watching the stethoscope's progress; if for some reason the pervert tries to check a pulse in his left arm, he may discover what's under the camouflage, or at least ask awkward questions.

He apparently recalls that Bucky labeled armpits as a no-go area, though; the stethoscope stays near the midline of his chest.

When he reaches Bucky's groin, he says, "Knees apart, please."

Bucky obeys, raising his gaze to the ceiling as he parts his thighs. He can feel the looseness of his hole already.

The tech doesn't look there yet, though. He takes Bucky's dick in his gloved hands, feeling down his soft length in impersonal prodding touches. It's the same when he has Bucky's testicles in his hand; he squeezes gently, touching everywhere, checking for damage or abnormalities.

"All right," the tech says. "So far so good. Now let's get to the main issue."

He moves around to the end of the table, raising the metal stirrups into place. "Heels here and scoot down to the end of the table."

Bucky shifts himself down, fitting his feet into place and letting his thighs fall wide open. The section of the table he's lying on is freshly cold under the small of his back and the top of his ass. He can feel air on his exposed hole, and his face burns as he pictures how it must look, gaping open, filthy and obvious.

The tech presses his thighs apart still further and scoots him slightly further down the table, and then there are gloved fingers tracing the stretched rim of his hole before pushing in. He's barely aware of the reflex to soften, relax, allow the invasion.

"God, you really are loose, aren't you. I thought you were exaggerating about it being an emergency, but this filthy hole definitely needs some attention."

The tech saws his fingers in and out, probing his rim and the walls just inside, and Bucky expects to feel blood and come dripping out at any moment. When he does feel wetness he's only surprised that it doesn't hurt more.

"Definitely much too loose to leave untreated," the tech murmurs. Bucky's legs and abdomen are rigid with the effort of holding still despite the anticipation of pain, though the only muscles that matter stay slack and soft. The tech's fingers open him him wider, and the sloppy sound of his hole makes his face heat and his eyes sting.

He can barely hear what else the tech says--thorough examination--over all the remembered voices, the handlers complaining that he's too broken to be any use to them, the techs exclaiming with horror or amusement over the wreck of his hole. He barely feels the speculum sliding into him, the pressure of it being opened wider and wider to give the tech an unobstructed view of the damage to be repaired.

"Oh, my," the tech says, touching the stretches of Bucky's rim between the cranked-open blades, and the fresh sting on torn flesh feels far away and close. His breath is coming fast, anticipating more pain, hoping the techs won't want to make too much more work for themselves. He feels the chilly touch of water sprayed into him, cleaning away blood and filth. He whines in his throat, though this isn't the part that hurts. The next part will be worse, and he's already struggling to keep still.

The water stops, and a pause stretches long enough to make him aware that something is not quite right. He hears the snap of a glove being stripped off and starts to whine on every breath, anticipating whatever worse thing is coming without knowing what it is.

But when the touch of bare fingers arrives, it lands on his cheek. He can feel wetness where the fingers touch, and realizes that he's crying. He bites down on his lower lip to quiet himself, but he can't stop the leaking tears.

"Hey, hey, look at me."

He drags his gaze down from the ceiling to the technician, who has shed his eyeshield and mask, and is looking at him with a slight frown. Bucky opens his mouth, prepared to apologize with words or whatever else the technician wants, just to get this over with.

"Deep breath," the technician says. "In--in--in--" Bucky breathes as commanded, and stops when the technician's instructions stop, holding his breath until the technician says, "Out, out, out, good. That's good. In again," and this time there's an audible ragged gasp to his breath, and he can feel more tears spilling down his cheeks.

It's always worse when one of the technicians tries to be kind. Someone always feels compelled to make up for it: sometimes the same technician, sometimes a different one, but kindness is never, ever a relief.

"Color?" The technician prompts. "James, what color?"

His vision blurs with more than tears for a moment, reality reshaping itself around him. The technician--Bucky darts a look past him, glimpses the laundry in the basket on top of the dryer--the civilian pervert is watching him with concern. Bucky had had to give him a name, and James had been simplest. He had said he didn't want to be called by it during the procedure, but he hadn't made it a strict limit.

The civilian pervert is trying not to scare him. If he seems too scared, the civilian pervert will stop, and Bucky will have to start over with someone else, and there's no time. Bucky drags his gaze back up to the man's face and says shakily. "Green. Please, Doctor. I don't--don't mind if--I just need it, please, I'll do anything, I'll--"

"Shh," the technician says, pressing his fingers over Bucky's mouth to stop him.

That's familiar at least; when he slips his fingers into Bucky's mouth, that's even more familiar. Bucky closes his eyes and concentrates on sucking them. The faint taste of sweat and the bitterness of the sterile gloves is soothing somehow.

"That's enough for now," the technician says, but he doesn't tug his fingers free until Bucky stops sucking and opens his mouth to release them.

"Please," Bucky repeats, but when he opens his eyes he finds that the technician has pulled his cock free of his scrub pants. He's hard, stroking his thick, veiny cock with the fingers Bucky got wet for him, and Bucky feels dimly reassured. This is the part where he pays for what he needs, and that means he just might get what he asked for.

"If you're ready to proceed," the technician says, stroking himself slowly, letting Bucky see how hard he is, how big, and exactly how he intends to make use of the asset. "Then we'll move on to the next diagnostic test for your condition."

Bucky nods, and repeats, "Green, sir."

"Keep breathing," the technician orders, and then he walks back down the table, and after he puts his mask and eyeshield and glove back on, Bucky hears him add one more piece of sterile protection.

***

Re: FILL: Til I Wanted to Change, 3/?

[(Anonymous)]

Oh my goooood
I've been look

Re: FILL: Til I Wanted to Change, 3/?

[(Anonymous)]

Ignore the above please, damn phone posted before I was ready.

I've been looking forward to this updating so much and OH MY GOD I was not disappointed! The balance you strike between hot objectification and disturbing trash memories and sadness and compassion and pathos is just PERFECT. You blend it all together so well. Poor Bucky. Poor Craigslist guy.

Also did I mention HOOOOOOOT

SO HOT

Thank you!

Re: FILL: Til I Wanted to Change, 3/?

[(Anonymous)]

Yayyyyyy, there is more of ALL THOSE THINGS in part 4! Thank you! :D

Re: FILL: Til I Wanted to Change, 3/?

[(Anonymous)]

jfc this is amazing

Re: FILL: Til I Wanted to Change, 3/?

[(Anonymous)]

Thank you!

Re: FILL: Til I Wanted to Change, 3/?

[(Anonymous)]

this is INCREDIBLE

Re: FILL: Til I Wanted to Change, 3/?

[(Anonymous)]

Thank you! :D