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

[trashmod]

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.

Comments

Fill: There Is A Line (8/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Clint would have spat at the man strapping him down if he wasn't afraid they'd blind him for the infraction.

They'd broken his fingers for calling out rather creative things about their mothers, after all, and that had just been angry words from a man in a cage. Although, Clint always had been rather cutting with his words when he was angered, so perhaps he'd brought the broken fingers upon himself.

Either way, he didn't like the way he was being so carefully and meticulously restrained. They were likely about to do something to him that would cause an incredible amount of pain, so much so that they didn't want to risk him thrashing around at all.

And he wasn't looking forward to that in the least.

His entire backside still ached from where one of the guards had rather enthusiastically fucked him the day before, the man's friend standing with the toes of his boots on Clint's broken fingers, waiting to rock his weight forward and crush them if Clint struggled at all.

A little shift in position brought the ache back up to the forefront, piercing deep inside of him like jagged fire, and Clint winced.

"Stop moving," the guard spat, hauling the last of the restraints tight with enough force to bruise. "I'm already pissed enough at you."

He was tall and wiry, with dark hair and a darker scowl, and Clint shot him a cool, dismissive look as he finished strapping him down. The guard, however, had already turned away.

"Stupid bitch..." he was muttering. "Not like I'm the only one with any medical experience here. Why couldn't she have gotten Harvill to do it?"

Clint raised an eyebrow as the guard crossed back to his side with a handful of what looked like finger splints. The man dropped them on the little tray beside Clint's chair, pulling up a seat for himself.

"I could be downstairs having fun with Maximoff, but nooooo, I have to patch up your sorry ass," the man complained, and Clint tried not to let himself go rigid at the mention of Wanda.

"Yeah, well, if you'd stop fucking us up, you'd have less work," Clint muttered, and the guard responded by grabbing one of his broken fingers and yanking it out straight. Clint howled in agony, straining up against the ties that held him, but there was no give.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I don't give a shit what happens to any of you," the guard said, carefully lining up Clint's finger in one of the splints and making sure the bones were seated properly before taping it into place. "If I had my way, I'd tear all of you apart, bit by bit, just to watch you suffer, and then leave you to die. But the General was mad that we broke all his toys," the man sneered, "so now we've got to fix them all."

Clint yelled in agony as the man yanked another of his broken fingers straight, seemingly taking pleasure in putting pressure on the digit, shifting it around to check that it was "properly aligned" before he began to bind it tight into a second splint.

"General Ross comes in here with his fuckin' bleeding heart, decides that Maximoff is gonna be his bitch, wants us to patch the rest of you useless fucks up..."

"And I'm sure you lot just love being told 'no'," Clint panted, trying to coax more info about Wanda, but the guard simply yanked another finger straight in a fiery burst of agony.

By the time the pain had ebbed enough for Clint to think clearly, the man was moving on to his other hand, scooting his chair across the floor with an unpleasant screech that rattled in his teeth and made him wince. The fingers of his first hand had been bound in a little pointed bundle, wrapped up tight and useless.

Another sharp yank shattered his thoughts into splintering agony, and Clint was left gasping desperately for breath as a yell lay low and heavy in his chest, waiting to erupt.

By the time the guard grabbed for the bandages, Clint's chest was heaving with breath as he tried to manage the pain without screaming.

He'd been trained to withstand torture, of course. All high-level SHIELD agents were.

But this wasn't like that.

With torture, there was a goal. Information that Clint could hold like bait, and protect with his pride even if his pain tolerance failed.

Here, there was no incentive. This was nothing more than a bunch of sadistic bastards having fun at the expense of their prisoners.

The guard made quick work of bundling all his fingers up in the bandages, broken or not, so that he no longer had use of his hands. Clint tried to keep a scowl from his face - he didn't need to give this man any more incentive to hurt him.

Once that had been done, Clint expected to be released and hauled back off to his cell, but apparently the man wasn't finished with him just yet. Clint watch warily as the guard checked his restraints a final time before he moved over to the counter, fiddling with something out of sight.

"I figure while I've got you here, we'll take a few...medical measures, to ensure your future health. Keep the General from having to worry about you."

Clint's blood ran cold when the man snapped on a pair of gloves.

The guard turned back around, crossing back to the chair to hang a bag of fluid off a hook by him, and Clint swallowed hard as he watched the guard thread the tube up from the bottom of it.

"Here we are," the man grinned, holding up the end of the tube, water dripping from a needle at the tip. "Bit of saline, to make sure you don't get dehydrated."

But to Clint's horror, the man didn't move to grab his arm.

Clint could do nothing as the man hauled his pants down and scooped his balls out into the air, settling them on the fabric with false care.

"I think this little sac of yours should hold half a liter or so, don't you?"

Clint spat a curse at him, and the man just laughed, pinching up a little fold of the loose skin on his balls and lining the leaking needle up before slowly pushing it in. Clint jerked in pain at the sting, but the restraints held him still.

Once the needle was in place, the man shifted the saline bag to a higher hook, forcing the water to flow more quickly into his balls. He hadn't pierced either of his testicles - thank God for small miracles - but the water was quickly pooling in the loose skin, and Clint shifted in discomfort as the sac began to swell.

While the water drained down into him, the HYDRA agent cleaned up the room, putting away all the bandages and medical supplies.

Clint looked down, taking deep, slow breaths to keep himself calm. It rather felt like someone was grabbing his balls and squeezing them - just enough pressure to be uncomfortable. Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back against the chair, trying to focus on the sound of the guard moving about behind him to distract himself from the feeling of the cold water forcing its way into his sac.

For a few minutes, it worked.

And then the pressure got to the point where it was a constant, dull throb, pulsing in time to his heartbeat and overpowering all other thought, and he simply couldn't ignore it any longer.

With a groan, Clint raised his head once more to see what was going on.

His balls were about twice their normal size.

He could see the skin starting to get taut, filling out with the fluid. But it wasn't just inside the loose skin...he could feel it seeping in. The actual tissues in his sac had begun to absorb the saline, swelling with the fluid, and it was starting to feel a little numb as a consequence of that. Clint grit his teeth, tipping his head back once more as his breathing got heavier.

A glance up at the bag of fluid showed that it had barely dropped at all, and Clint let out a carefully controlled breath.

Christ, the psychopath was going to pop his balls...

On the plus side, he and Laura already had all the kids that they wanted, he reminded himself in bitter humor, trying to shift into a slightly more comfortable position as his thighs pressed painfully against his swelling sac.

He couldn't help but tense as the guard crossed back over to his side, leaning over him with a wicked grin.

"Comfy?"

He gave a little grunt in reply, not trusting himself to actually comment, and the man straightened up.

"Wait right here, Barton," the guard ordered, bundling the little medical kit up in his arms before leaving the room. "I'll be right back."

Clint let his eyes close, and began to count the seconds to try and distract himself from the dull throb and the tight strain of skin from between his legs.

It was nearly seven minutes before the man returned.

"You didn't faint, did you?"

Clint glanced up as the man crossed to his side, glancing up to see how much water was left and blanching in horror when he realized that he had barely taken half the bag's worth.

His sac was already swollen to an enormous size, no longer two distinct balls so much as one big round one. The skin was stretched out with the liquid, shiny with how taut it was, and his veins were spider-webbing clearly just beneath the surface.

There was no way he was going to be able to take the whole thing without bursting.

Thankfully, the guard had apparently run out of patience, and stepped close to yank the needle from Clint's sac and slap a little piece of medical tape on the puncture.

The archer could do nothing but moan in helpless agony as the other man prodded at his balls, testing them for firmness and size.

"Well lookie there, Barton, I can actually see them now."

"If you double the fluid, you might be able to see your own," Clint shrugged breathlessly through gritted teeth, unable to resist a little jab in retaliation. He was rather promptly rewarded for daring to speak - the guard's icy hands cinching around his sac and crushing down until Clint screamed - and the man began to unfasten Clint's restraints while he gasped in shocked agony.

He didn't even get a chance to consider running.

The man had hauled Clint to his feet and marched him across the room, over to a wide wooden table that was covered in various dark stains.

Clint let out a holler of protest as he was bent over the table, his hands useless in their splints. The guard was quick to thread a belt over his middle, pinning him in place before hauling it tight.

The guard's hand plunging between his thighs and closing around his swollen balls choked a gasp from the archer's throat, and Clint didn't get a second to so much as catch his breath before the guard was pulling his balls out behind him, cinching a strap tight around his thighs and pinning them together so that the sac poked out behind him, round and straining.

"What's wrong, Barton? Feeling a little exposed?" the man questioned, prodding at his testicles, and Clint grit his teeth together at the feeling of strain on his over-stretched skin.

He bit his tongue to keep himself from making a smart comment - he was in no position to be riling up the guard right now - and listened as the other man moved around for a moment behind him, opening and closing drawers. After a moment he let out a curse and left the room with a command to Clint to "stay right there" as if he was able to simply get up and walk off.

The second the door swung closed, Clint started thrashing against the restraints. He couldn't get his hands at the proper angle to his mouth to pull the bandages away, however, and the belt around his middle was too sturdy to even consider breaking.

He had nothing to do but wait for his tormentor to get back.

When the man finally returned a few long minutes later, he was holding a little strip of wood in his hands, and as he stepped up close Clint realized it was a disposable coffee stir.

The guard held the stick down on the table, pressed flat where Clint could see it.

As he watched, the man drew the tip of the little coffee stir back, letting it snap firmly down on the wood, and Clint's stomach dropped in sinking horror as he realized what the man planned to do.

"No...no, no, please, oh fuck-” he begged as the guard moved around behind him and he felt him line the little stick up across his over-swollen balls and draw it back.

The agonizing smack of the stick connecting was enough to make Clint see stars, tearing a scream out of his throat as his body tried to curl into the fetal position out of instinct but was prevented from doing so by the strap around his middle and the cold table beneath him.

It took a long few minutes before he had his breathing under control once again, the pain throbbing at a low burn as he blinked tears from his eyes and trembled against his restraints.

The guard had moved to stand in front of him during that time, and was looking down at him hungrily as he tried to cope with the pain. Clint shot a watery glare up at the man as soon as he could scrape his composure back together, but the dark-haired man just smirked.

"You know," the man started, leaning over to wipe a tear off of Clint's cheek before licking it from his finger with a sick smile. "You might be just as fun as Maximoff after all."

Clint could only sob out a helpless curse as the guard picked up the coffee stir and circled around behind him once more.

Re: Fill: There Is A Line (8/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Holy shit, this part was amazing! Such twisted ball torture, I love it.

Clint trying to hold his reactions in, being a smartass and fighting back, using dark humor to try and get through it...

And then he's broken. By a disposable coffee stir.

Thanks for sharing!

Re: Fill: There Is A Line (8/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Oh man, this ball torture is so deliciously evil and I love it!