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: Butt Stuff 1/maybe?

[(Anonymous)]

When the soldier had stopped shivering and passed the basic tests of his senses, coordination, and cognitive function, he was taken into a room with a steel table and a drain on the floor. The technician waiting there was wearing short-sleeved scrubs and blue gloves on her hands, and he knew what was coming next even before he saw the supplies waiting. He climbed up obediently onto the table and rolled onto his left side--facing her--and curled his legs up a little.

He shivered again as he did it.

"Westfahl." The tech in scrubs--Mercer, he knew, just like he knew what was going to happen next, with no memory of how he knew--gestured to one of the security agents escorting him. "Spot me while I check his temps."

Booted footsteps and a certain displacement of the air followed this command, and the soldier knew a burly man had come over to stand directly behind him. Mercer's first check was only the movement of her hand by his ear; for the second he watched her swipe thick lubricant over a narrow probe. He drew his right leg up toward his chest, and Mercer flashed a quick, dazzling smile at him.

"You remember the drill, don't you? This part isn't so bad."

That was true. This part wasn't so bad. The penetration of the probe into his anus was slightly chilly but slick and almost painless. He barely had to try to steady his breathing and heart rate while he waited for Mercer to finish checking his internal temperature.

"Warm enough," Mercer announced, pulling the probe back out of him, a slippery uncomfortable sensation that was only a hint of what was coming. "Should be nice and hospitable for your new friends."

The soldier didn't take any notice of her words--people weren't really speaking to him when they used that tone of voice, just going through the motions for their own entertainment. He only needed to listen for commands.

Behind him, Westfahl said, "New friends?"

"Tiny, very important friends," Mercer agreed, reaching into a warming container and drawing out a bag of fluid, already attached to the hose with its nozzle on the end. She hung the bag on a stand and moved around to the soldier's back, standing beside Westfahl. The soldier heard another set of slick sounds as she lubricated the nozzle.

"Cryo-storage kills most of his gut flora," Mercer explained briskly. "They're necessary for digestion, particularly for the production of certain nutrients that we don't get directly from food. If we don't want him developing nutritional deficiencies, he has to have a proper suite of gut flora. So we culture them while he's in storage and top him up once he's warm enough for them to survive."

The nozzle wasn't really that big, but he still made a high-pitched noise in his throat--a whimper--when Mercer pressed it against his anus, forcing it into him.

"Relax, now," she said, setting her other hand on his hip as she wiggled the nozzle inside him, making sure it was correctly place. He couldn't help clenching tight around it, trying to resist even when it was already inside him. "It hurts less when you don't fight it."

He made an even smaller noise then, drawing his right fist up against his mouth to try to silence himself.

"It's all right if you need to make noise," Mercer added, as he felt the first warm rush of liquid into him. "You're allowed during procedures."

He kept silent for several seconds. The fluid was warm, and it felt strange inside him but not painful, almost good in an unsettling way. He relaxed a little into the not-hurting of it and Mercer's hand rubbed rewardingly on his hip.

But the rush of fluid didn't stop, and the mounting pain of over-fullness sharpened suddenly into a cramp like a knife in his gut and the certainty that he was about to shit himself. He curled slightly around his belly, letting out a strangled moan, and the fluid still didn't stop, filling him impossibly. The cramps pulsed through him, freshly stabbing again and again, and he rocked a little, flexing his legs, trying to get some relief even as he held himself tightly closed around the obstruction of the nozzle, desperate not to empty himself here in this clean room in front of the pretty tech and all the watching guards.

Mercer's hand shifted down from his hip to his belly, and he sobbed out loud at the first press of her fingers.

"Please," he gasped. That was a word he was allowed to say, he knew. Stop and no and don't were forbidden, but he was allowed to say please when he couldn't help shaping his cries into words.

Mercer moved around to his other side, leaving the nozzle in place, fluid still pouring into him. She pressed her whole hand to his belly, rubbing where the pain was the worst, and he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his cheek hard against his metal wrist to keep from shaking his head, chanting hopelessly, "Please, please, please," against the stuff pouring into him and Mercer's hand touching it through his skin.

"His abdominal muscles have enough tone to resist distention, which creates terrible internal pressure," she said, just noises somewhere above him. Her fingers pressed harder. "Relax, now. You need to relax or it hurts much worse. Let your belly push out a bit, the fluid has to go somewhere. Look where my fingers are--" her tone sharpened into clear command at that, and he opened his eyes and looked, saw the perfect curves of her nails under the blue gloves as she pressed in against his belly.

"These muscles, you must relax them," she insisted. "The fluid wants to make your belly pop out, you have to let it."

He concentrated, whimpering, on doing what she ordered despite the pain, and watched in sickened fascination as his belly swelled visibly under her touch. She went back to rubbing gently with her whole hand, and the pain did ease a little, the cramps leveling off. He realized that he couldn't feel any more fluid pushing into him; he was filled up.

Mercer reached into the warmer and pulled out another bag, passing it across to Westfahl, and the soldier closed his eyes again as he listened to the small sounds of it being hooked up.

The next rush was warmer and hurt even more. He couldn't hold it all in, he knew he couldn't, and Mercer was still pressing against his belly, moving her fingers in some purposeful pattern now, pushing everywhere it hurt. He wasn't making words now, just animal noises of pain, drooling against his metal wrist because he couldn't close his mouth, couldn't stop crying out.

"There, you've taken it all," Mercer said, flashing him another shining smile as he sobbed, trying to hold still for her probing hand. She moved around behind him, and he felt her fingers against the nozzle and let out a high-pitched wordless sound.

Not a word. He wasn't allowed to say no or don't. He wasn't allowed to tell her that if she took the nozzle out he wouldn't be able to hold all that fluid in, that he would empty his guts over her hands, making a mess of her and himself and everything else.

"Tsk," she said. "Don't cry now, you can do it, just hold on."

He shut his eyes and concentrated, clamping down tight around the nozzle as her fingers twisted it out of him. He felt an ominous wet trickle, but no more, and then Mercer came over to prod at his belly again with her gloved hands.

He couldn't help squirming more now, and he knew vaguely that he was allowed, now that there was no nozzle to risk dislodging. He tried to twist onto his back, but Mercer said sharply, "No!" and he froze, still on his side.

"You can turn the other way if you like," she told him, and he took her offer, rolling belly down and dragging his curled legs under him to keep from actually pressing his swollen gut to the table. He let his head hang down as Mercer moved around him.

"Up a little more," she directed, and he pushed up on his knees until she could reach easily under him, pressing against his oddly rounded belly from below, setting off another wave of stabbing cramps.

The soldier whined, hunching his hips in as he clenched tight, fighting the urge to release, trying to relax the muscles of his belly while he held tight everywhere else.

He heard the snap of Mercer removing her gloves, and she came around to his head. She brushed a hand over his ear, as if taking his temperature again, and then touched the back of her hand to his cheek where it was wet. He was crying, he realized, tears streaming uncontrollably from his eyes. His cheek felt fever-hot, too, flushed bright from the effort of not letting go in front of everyone. The skin of her bare hands was soft.

"There, there," she said. He didn't look, but he knew she would be smiling that pretty smile again. "Now all you have to do is wait. Twenty minutes should be sufficient for good absorption."

He sobbed again at the thought of waiting twenty minute. He wasn't sure he would make it through the next twenty seconds. He rocked a little on his knees, but the cramps only got sharper, and he keened and tensed against the threat of letting go.

"Westfahl," Mercer said. "You stay and keep an eye on him. Call at once if he springs a leak; we'll have to start all over if he loses more than ten percent before time is up."

"Ma'am," Westfahl agreed, and the soldier watched through a fresh wash of tears as Mercer and two of the guards left. There was only Westfahl watching him now. Only Westfahl to see if he lost control.

A thick finger tapped lightly again his tightly-clenched anus, still slick from the nozzle.

"Twenty minutes," Westfahl repeated thoughtfully. "Huh."

Re: FILL: Butt Stuff 1/maybe?

[(Anonymous)]

Fuuuuuck this is a kink I did not know I had. And that last line is so ominous, it deserves a rotten banana peel all by itself.

Re: FILL: Butt Stuff 1/maybe?

[(Anonymous)]

OOOOhhh such quality trash! I celebrate this rubbish! We need more whimpering, shivering, crying soldier trash around here. I LOVE the hydra medical science (tm) and MERCER! She's perfect here. Thank you for sharing this!!

A trash gift for you (wild fermentation edition): a sorely neglected kombucha project, tempeh purchased eighteen months ago in a failed attempt at meatless mondays, a half bottle of winter ale gone flat, and three used vaginal yeast abatement applicators

Re: FILL: Butt Stuff 1/maybe?

[(Anonymous)]

Oh wow pefect, yes please more!

Re: FILL: Butt Stuff 1/maybe?

[(Anonymous)]

Oh boy! Enemas are not usually my thing but this is GREAT. And I love your excuse for it. And, as Mercer's creator, bless you for putting her in this.

Re: FILL: Butt Stuff 1/maybe?

[(Anonymous)]

OP: Oh my god yessssssssss, this is everything I've wanted and imagined, thank you! I can't want for the next part!