hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #4: I Don't See How That's a Party

Dumpster #4: I Don't See How That's a Party

Okay, kids, you know the drill. Don't be a jerk except to fictional characters. Warn if you want, but read at your own risk, because

hydratrashmeme is about as far from a safe space as you can get. Garbage we like: noncon, whump, aftermath, violence, mind control, inappropriate uses of Bucky Barnes' metal arm, bad guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves. Garbage you should find a different trashcan for: a/b/o, D/s-verse, soulbonds, mundane AUs, OOC evil!good guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves, rotting leftovers dressed up as a romantic gourmet meal. Nothing wrong with 'em, but this isn't the crowd you should be pitching to if you're trying to sell Brock Rumlow as anything but a human dumpster fire.

Link your fills on the fill post, post unprompted fills as replies to a header comment so the wall o' text is collapsible, and let me know if you're interested in helping out with the Pinboard archive.

[Rules in full] [Round 1] [Round 2] [Round 3] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by

greenkirtle)] [Round 4 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

All prompts or fills that contain Infinity War spoilers must go on the Infinity War spoiler post until May 26th. Spoilers in the main dumpsters will be deleted.

Round 4 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 5.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

dear dumpster, I am a trashbaby with simple needs. I just want a tiny short thing where the Asset is repeatedly filled with cum and plugged up in-between with a large uncomfortable buttplug. The Asset goes on missions with the plug, and then comes back to get fucked again. Humiliation or objectification would be greatly appreciated.

(if you really want to make it a longer thing, feel free to consider a recovery!Bucky who feels empty without a plug, and begs someone to fill him properly.)

Yes please

They’d shoved it into him after they’d finished using him, just before mission prep started. A reward, they'd said, though the Asset had not yet completed the mission; something to look forward to later, but now the mission is complete and the Asset has been wiped down and here he is, strapped down to the table again, the restraints on his ankles holding his legs spread wide apart, his knees bent almost to his chest: on display and exposed for all the room to see.

The Asset keeps his eyes firmly shut, trying to focus on---on---there’s something----his face feels hot, like the aftermath of a burn, the flush spreading down to his chest at the feel of so many eyes on him, watching him twitch and shudder around the reward’s implacable thickness. The dull ache of before - when they first pushed it into him, after the seventh handler had spent themselves inside him - has sharpened into something worse, a strange kind of not-pain that intensifies with every slight movement that makes the reward shift inside him; completing the mission with it moving inside of him with every step had been a lesson in agony. The last few minutes have produced a new and unexpected reaction: hot fluid dripping out of the hard flesh between his legs. Wounded, he thinks, but the coppery smell of blood is absent and instead of pain there’s only this strange unfamiliar not-pain and he needs---he needs----

The next moment gloved hands are on him, touching him -- relief -- fingers spreading him apart to expose where the reward presses up into him; a weapon sheathed inside him, causing inexplicable damage that he’s struggling to quantify. Knuckles tap the base of it and he trembles at the sensation of it shifting deep in his gut, too-much and not-enough and hurting all at once, another thin blurt of fluid spilling out of him as it moves, smearing wet on his belly.

The sound of laughter - a handler, more than one - ripples over him as his hips jerk forward once, and then again, traitorous, when a new hand closes around the reward’s base and uses the grip to ease it out slowly, making a show of it for the others, watching the Asset’s body fluttering around its width, clutching at the thickness of it.

When it’s almost free they press it back in, the solid width of it stretching him wide, wider, and he’s pinned in place, he’s tied too tightly to do anything more than writhe and gasp as they push it in deeper despite his struggles, filling him up. The flesh between his legs is throbbing, now, drooling another thin stream of fluid. When the reward rubs roughly over that aching spot inside, the Asset grits his teeth against the metal bit in his mouth and moans; whatever extremity of sensation they're driving him towards, he's rapidly approaching it.

On the next slow pump the reward pulls back until it’s just the tip resting inside him, his body spasming around it. Gloved hands spread him apart, a finger dipping down to trace over the swollen edge of his body where the reward has stretched it raw. A murmur, half lost beneath the deafening rush of blood in the Asset’s ears: “Yeah, that's right; suck it in deeper”, and then more laughter, a vicious flick of a nail against the hard flesh between his legs when it jerks in response, and then again when someone shoves their fingers roughly in alongside the reward. It hurts. Another bead of fluid pearls at the tip of the hard flesh between his legs; the Asset watches, transfixed, as it drips slowly, connecting to his lower stomach with a string of clear fluid.

“Think it’s about ready for the next one,” someone says. Noises of agreement, and then hands are on his thighs, another trailing down from the hard flesh to squeeze at the tight flesh below--the Asset shudders, unable to keep his hips from jackknifing forward before he gets himself under control and keeps still--and then lower still, gripping at the reward’s base.

He’s supposed to---do something, but the reward is being tugged free with a slick noise and he was good, he tried to be good, please, give the reward back because warm fluid is already beginning to drip out of him where the reward forced him open, blood or his handlers’ spendings or both, and he’s disobeying. They’d filled him up with their fluid before the mission - “So it knows that it’s ours” and told him to keep it inside, but he couldn't, his body made loose by the succession of handlers, refusing to obey even when the sting of the stun baton make him seize; and the Asset had nearly whined with relief when instead of punishment he got reward, the broad length of it pushing in slick through the fluid, keeping it safe inside.

And now the reward is gone and he’s disobeyed, the muscle between his legs spasming uselessly, fluttering around the emptiness as more fluid trickles out of him, unable to close. A handler takes pity: a gloved thumb gathers up the fluid dripping down his thighs and shoves it back into him with a series of sharp movements, before pulling back with a noise of disgust that makes the Asset shudder as a rush of sick heat overtakes him, his face burning with it. He’s disobeyed. Now the punishment begins.

(op) OMG BLESS YOU, FILLER! I'm flailing my hands here at the concept of the plug as being a reward, for poor confused Asset. (It helps keep the cum in! Because he's a good asset! He's trying so hard!!)

Also crying tears at the thought of the Asset being dismayed by the fact that *not even the stun baton* can make him tighten up enough.

<3 <3 <3

Did Christmas come early? This is an absolute delight. Poor creature, he's so mixed up! He just wants to be good!

[WHALE NOISES]

This is beautifully evil.

UNF. The plug as a reward because it helps him keep the cum inside? You're an evil genius. Also, I will never not be trash for Bucky not having words/concepts for parts of his body that aren't used for maiming. Please sir can we have more?

A/N: Sorry for taking like...a year to post this next part. There'll be one final Sam/Bucky/Steve recovery part coming soon-ish.

They press something into him. His eyes are clenched shut, but he can feel it, can feel the way his body accepts it easily, swallowing each cool inch of it until the handler’s grip on it presses up against him. It's thinner than the reward, but longer, more solid, uncompromising. This is going to hurt, some part of him registers, a thread of understanding unspooling from somewhere deep within him, he doesn't—he doesn't want—

Pain lights him up from the inside and burns everything to ash.

He comes out of it gasping, trembling with the aftershocks. Gets five short seconds of respite before they shock him again, and then again, but it’s no use: between the succession of handlers and the reward keeping him stretched open, his body refuses to tighten up now.

Noise is punched out of him when someone wrenches the not-reward free and it tears at something deep inside, a strangled cry torn from his throat when they press its sparking tip between his legs. Three more insistent shocks there, and he seizes up, gasping around the metal in his mouth as the hard flesh twitches, spitting a thin stream of white over his belly that splashes hot on his skin like blood.

Betrayal, like a knife to the gut; he didn't mean to--he’s not supposed to---but the handlers around him are laughing, which means---he doesn't. He doesn’t know, and he flinches at the feel of a new touch trailing down his chest. Punishment, his mind supplies, bracing for more pain, but instead the gloved fingers just swipe through the mess on his skin, gathering it up. The next moment they're raising it to his mouth, fingertips tapping against his stretched lower lip, and the Asset can do this, the Asset knows this: the Asset tips his head forward and licks the fingers clean.

The handler makes a pleased noise. “Something's hungry, huh?” Noises of agreement from the other handlers. Someone laughs: “Got plenty more where that came from.”

A lone finger trails up the wet length of the flesh between the Asset’s legs--still swollen and aching with not-pain--and rubs viciously over the slit at the tip, smearing the last few droplets that remain before pulling back and moving lower.

“Jesus,” a handler says, as fingers trail through the mess on his thighs. “We ask it to do one simple thing,” the fingers slide in, all four of them slipping in without resistance, “and it can’t even do that,” because more of the handlers’ fluid continues to drip out of him, the sound of it slick around the handler’s pumping fingers. He tried to be good - tried to follow the order - but it’s no use.

“Guess there’s only one thing for it,” another handler chimes in.

“What d’you say, Asset?” The first handler asks, pulling their fingers free with a wet noise. “Want us to fill you up some more?”

The Asset shudders with relief: he can still be good. He won’t have to be punished. He hasn’t been given permission to speak, but he can still—he tries to spread his bound legs wider, the metal table groaning beneath him, keeping him in place.

The handler sighs. A jolt of fear-pain shivers up the Asset’s spine - he must have disobeyed - the thud of blood in his ears nearly drowning out their next words.

“You know, Asset,” the handler says. “This isn’t easy for us. If we’re gonna help you,” they press in closer, adjusting the restraints keeping the Asset’s ankles in place until the Asset’s thighs scream in protest as he's folded nearly in half, “we’re gonna need you to show a little more gratitude.”

A grip on his hair tips his head back, exposing his throat. Something smears slickly against his cheek, his jaw, his lower lip. It slides over his tongue, into the loose clutch of his throat, pulling back and then pressing in deeper until he’s spitted between both handlers. After a few moments the gloved hand in his hair tightens, wrenching his head back and forcing his spine into a sharper angle, the sharp sting of sensation as nails bite into his hip reminding him of his place, of his purpose here; on the next thrust he drags his tongue against the handler in front, and uses the little leverage he has to press back against the handler behind.

That seems to do the trick: the bruising grip on his waist tightens, first working him back and forth, and then just holding him in place, keeping him there as the handlers’ rhythms begin to unravel. The one in front is first, pausing between his parted lips and then pulling back to paint wet stripes across his face, into his hair, some dripping bitter into his open mouth. The sight seems to spur on the handler behind as they pick up their pace, slamming into him again and again, panting harshly.

Another handler pushes in smoothly through the metal ring in the Asset’s mouth. When they bump up against the back of his throat he gags once, and then again, body fighting the intrusion before he forces it to submit and lets them slide in deeper until they're buried to the hilt. When they pull back he chases them with his mouth, dragging his tongue against them until he’s rewarded with the first blurt of fluid. He can be good. He can do this.

Fingers trail down his chest, pausing to flick at the raised nub of flesh on the right side. When the Asset shudders at the bright flare of not-pain, the touch turns into a vicious pinch matched on the left, the jolt of sensation dragging a ragged noise from him that gets muffled by the intrusion in his mouth. The handler seems to like that, their hips stuttering against him. He repeats the sound, drawing it out and clenching his throat around them. Then another handler is taking themselves in hand and smearing themselves in the fluid on his inner thighs and pushing their way in between his legs, and he doesn’t have to force the noise out any more; it happens anyway.

His body lets them in easily, his throat clutching at the handler in front when they get a grip on his hair to hold him in place and begin to thrust, their hips battering against his face with bruising force. The sight must urge the handler behind on; before long they're gripping the Asset’s hips tightly and slamming harshly into him, and the other handlers are crowding in closer, hands on him again, spreading the Asset apart to watch the stretch of his body as the handler sinks into him again and again, more hands on his thighs, his arm, sliding down to stroke over his heaving chest, too many to count. All of it too much, but---he disobeyed before; he needs to be good now.

The Asset loses track a little, after that. Lets his body take over and do all the things it knows to do: tonguing and laving at the succession of handlers that take his mouth, swallowing down the bitter fluid when it hits the back of his throat, tongue already outstretched for the next. It’s harder with the handlers that shove between his legs and fill him up, to replace what he lost - some like him to lie there limp, some like him to arch into their touch, some like him silent and some like him to make noise. Some like to make it hurt, jamming in fingers alongside the rest of them, or worse, with the punishment-pain that stabs into him when they pull out to spurt wet over his chest and thighs and the twitching place between his legs, because that means he’s failing, letting it drip out of him when he should be keeping it inside.

When fingers move to unclip the restraints at his ankles he shudders, choking around an aborted sound of protest, because that wasn’t—he wasn’t—he can still do this, still be good. All the breath leaves him in a shuddery exhale when the next thing he feels is hands on him, tipping him over onto his front and manoeuvring him until his feet are planted on the floor. His legs are spread, ankles re-cuffed to the solid metal of the table’s legs as he’s pushed down until his torso is flat against its surface.

A tremor runs through him when a hand trails down his spine, and then lower, reaching down between his spread thighs to ease the flesh between his legs free from where it was trapped against the table, tugging it free until it’s as exposed as the rest of him.

It aches, swollen with pulsing blood that throbs harder when they run their fingertips over the length of it, a jolt of heat sizzling all the way through him, lighting him up from the inside. The feeling only intensifies when they line themselves up and begin to sink into him, his body spasming weakly around them as they slide all the way in to the hilt in one smooth wet glide. Filling him up again.

This time he doesn’t have to force a noise: it comes out on its own.

“Yeah, you like that, huh,” the handler jeers, to a smatter of laughter, as they drag their hands from his waist, easing him up from the table a little, and they’re reaching down for the flesh between his legs, closing their fingers around the hard flesh standing stiff there. His hips jerk forward violently against his will, driving him further into the tight circle of their hand.

“Good little slut,” and it’s too much, all of it: the handler’s sweat-slick body rolling against his own, the thick length of them forcing him open again and again, their hand on him, driving him towards some extremity of sensation where he can only rut forward into their tight slick fist.

“Greedy little slut,” and the Asset writhes, and gasps, and lets his eyes flutter shut as sensation finally overwhelms him, pain and not-pain driving out everything else. He barely registers the wash of heat as the handler pushes in a final time and goes still. He trembles, a little, when the handler finally pulls out; trembles more, when the first drip of wetness begins to trickle out of him.

But in the end the handlers don’t leave him like that for long: something presses against him a few moments later. Not the blood-hot touch of a handler, but something smoother, broader, stretching him open wide as it sinks into him: the reward. But no, that’s not right, he realises as it settles all the way inside him like before- and then keeps going. It’s not the reward at all: it’s better than that. Filling him up more than the handlers ever could, keeping all their own smaller rewards inside him that soothe his aching insides even as his body struggles to accommodate the thickness of this new reward. But the handlers are inexorable, patient even in the face of the Asset’s disobedience.

By the time the flared base is flush against him his breaths are coming out in short ragged gasps, pinned beneath the growing throb of punishment-pain as it sinks in that he made a mess of the handler’s fingers and the table below and his own heaving chest, before. He shudders through it, and then it’s over, and the handlers pull away, and let him rest.

He drifts, for a while, distantly aware that a handler is speaking from somewhere behind him. He’s been tuning most of it out, knowing the words are not for him but for the other handlers. But now there’s no other distractions, something in him sensing that he’s nearing the end of this mission. He drags his focus back, letting the sound of their voice wash over him even as his head throbs dully at this small quiet disobedience.

“ —sending us out again.”

“Damn. We got time to hit the showers?”

The handler grunts the affirmative. “Someone’s gonna have to clean that up, though,” and the Asset’s eyes clench shut tight at the prospect: all that hard work, only for his newly-earned reward to be taken away.

“Nah,” another handler says after a moment. “Hose it down, get it geared up, we’re good to go.”

“You hear that, Asset?” A rustle of movement, and then there are fingers on him, tracing a line around where the new-reward is stretching him open. “You like that sound of that?” The other handlers laugh as they begin to file out, until the room is empty.

The Asset considers the new reward, its slow, deep ache inside. It had not been an easy mission, but it’s in him, now, filling him up all the way. The plates of his arm shift and resettle in a slow, silent whisper of movement. His fingers curl into a fist.

He earned this.

He should be grateful.

I forgot how deliciously fucked up the whole reward thing is in this.

OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOD

This is so miserable and hot, I LOVE IT

this is gorgeously fucked up and perfect, author!anon. I reread part 1 before moving to part 2, and it's even more deliciously brilliant than I remembered. Even as he's thinking things like "a weapon sheathed inside him" about the plug, he still views it as a reward, something helping him be good, and he still *wants* it. Part 2 continued the glorious trash with more glorious trash, and I am just heart eyeing all over your work. I'm almost glad there was the year long wait, because it means I was reminded of this now and got to reread part1/read part2 now.

different anon echoing the previous comment. i had to re-read the first part and was reminded of how glorious it was...and then the second. holy WOW. *__* what good, good trash. very much looking forward to what you have planned next!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Dumpster #4: I Don't See How That's a Party

fucked and plugged

Re: fucked and plugged

[FILL] All Filled Up (1/?)

Re: [FILL] All Filled Up (1/?)

Re: [FILL] All Filled Up (1/?)

Re: [FILL] All Filled Up (1/?)

Re: [FILL] All Filled Up (1/?)

Re: [FILL] All Filled Up (1/?)

[FILL] All Filled Up (2/3)

Re: [FILL] All Filled Up (2/3)

Re: [FILL] All Filled Up (2/3)

Re: [FILL] All Filled Up (2/3)

Re: [FILL] All Filled Up (2/3)