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

Re: Bladder Desperation -- Fill, 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

Someone gets hit across the face early on in this. It’s not in a sexual context so I don’t think it will hit your squick, but if you don’t want it you can just skip the second paragraph. Also it’s my first fanfic so like... blanket trash apology. I regret everything.

-----

The mission takes a few weeks, and it’s the longest the Asset has been out in some time. This nation, they tell him, is at a tipping point, but it needs to be guided very carefully. The situation is precarious. In practice, this means new kill orders every few days, and between that, a lot of sitting around in safe houses. The strike team eventually gets bored enough to ask him to join them when they play cards, and it turns out he’s good at it. Enough time out, and the occasional smart remark starts bubbling up from the back of his mind, and then past his lips. Enough time out, and he forgets just how close he is to crossing the line.

The strike team thinks he’s funny, but his handler doesn’t. Rumlow waits until the mission is secured and they’re on the tarmac, getting ready to board the small transport home. The Asset makes one smart remark too many, and Rumlow unholsters his stun baton, pulls his arm back, and slams it across the Asset’s face. Of course, it’s not enough to knock the Asset out but it is enough to knock him back on his heels. In the moment of silence afterwards – everyone’s turned to stare at them – Rumlow calmly re-holsters the baton and says, “That’s the last thing I want to hear out of you until we touch down.” The pain doesn’t linger, but it doesn’t have to. The real, implicit message is clear: there’s more where that came from.

The flight will be short, only a few hours. The rest of the strike team are joking as they strap in, looking forward to homes, real showers, wives. The Asset is placed a few seats down from the others just in case, he supposes, he starts feeling like getting familiar again. He tries to tune out the conversation once they’re in the air – it’s not as if he’s going to be joining in, after all, but he snaps to when Rumlow says, “Hey, pass the canteen, will you?” Instead of drinking from it himself, he leans across the aisle and hands it to the Asset who takes it, and waits. Rumlow jerks his chin up, one hand miming holding a bottle to his lips. The Asset hesitates. He’s been hydrating – he knows how to maintain himself, he’s not stupid. Rumlow makes the gesture again, this time moving his other hand to rest on the stun baton at his side. The Asset drinks. Every time he pauses Rumlow jerks his chin up so he drinks again, and again. At one point the taste of lukewarm water and the sudden fullness of his stomach get too much, and he gags. Rumlow’s hand goes to the baton. He keeps going until the canteen is empty. Wordlessly, Rumlow takes the canteen back. The whole exercise seems so pointless, the Asset doesn’t understand. He closes his eyes, reminds himself that it’s not his job to understand. The mission is over, the objective is secured, and now his only job is to sit still and wait for orders.

Re: Bladder Desperation -- Fill, 1/?

[dailyruse]

OP: sweet fucking jesus anon I'm already close to proposing to you.

Re: Bladder Desperation -- Fill, 1/?

[dailyruse]

WELL FUCK I DIDN'T ANON.

helloooooo

Re: Bladder Desperation -- Fill, 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

Filthy fanfiction as courting gift, there's one option I'd never considered! XD

Seriously, though, super glad you're enjoying it. I hope it's what you wished for.

Re: Bladder Desperation -- Fill, 2/2

[(Anonymous)]

But before too long, this gets difficult. When the pressure begins to build he tries to ignore it, but the vibration of the plane makes this impossible. The seats of a transport aren’t exactly built for comfort either, and no matter how he subtly tries to shift his hips, there’s no way to really alleviate it. There’s a head at the back of the transport, but the Asset doesn’t have permission to unstrap himself. It’s just a matter of routine maintenance – but when he imagines opening his mouth and asking his handler, something inside him recoils. Maybe this, like the smart remarks, is another side-effect of being out too long. The Asset tips his head back and tells himself he’ll wait. There’s only about an hour left of the flight. Rumlow will probably notice before then. And anyway, he can hold it. Pressing his thighs together makes things easier.

Soon that’s not enough, though. The Asset tries focusing on his breathing, but soon measured breaths turn into pants. The ache of his bladder is getting worse, and he feels as if his belt, his uniform is pressing directly down on it. He tries slouching slowly down as far as the straps will let him, then finally crossing one leg over the other. This brings the first real relief, and a little sigh works its way out of the Asset, followed by another noise when the feeling returns full force. He squirms his hips first to one side, then the other, forward and back, even up off the seat momentarily, digs his teeth into his lip and the fingers of his left hand into his thigh in an attempt to distract himself. His bladder throbs in time with his heartbeat. Suddenly here’s aware that the conversation has stopped, and the only sounds are the rumble of the transport’s engine and his own punched-out, desperate gasps. He forces himself to open his eyes.

The strike team, the same guys who he’s spent the last two weeks with, who’ve played cards with him and swapped dirty jokes, had his back and taken his orders when they went into combat, are silent at the front of the transport. A few have turned away, pretending to stare at the wall or the ceiling, but most are looking at him. The looks on their faces run the gamut from amusement to disgust. The Asset finally lets out a moan, half discomfort, half from shame, and pulls at the straps again. He doesn’t want them to see this, he doesn’t want – His eyes land on his handler, right across from him. Rumlow, he realizes, has been staring at him the whole time and hasn’t said a word. The Asset moans again, desperate. He doesn’t understand – if his handler knew, why wouldn’t he say anything? He doesn't understand. It’s almost impossible to think of anything except relieving himself – but the image makes it worse as his body starts to respond to the very thought. His heart rate is accelerated, it has been ever since he opened his eyes, and the corresponding rhythmic throb is almost unbearable. A whine escapes from between his teeth, then another one, and between them he manages to grit out “Please!” The Asset circles his hips in the air, he rolls his pelvis, throws his head back, clenches muscles he never even knew he had, but eventually everything he can do is not enough and it breaks through. He can’t hold back a moan this time, either, but now it’s one of pure, involuntary pleasure that lasts almost as long as the stream of relief that floods down his thighs, his ass, through the material of his uniform and onto the seat below him. He sags against the straps feeling spent, the muscles of his abdomen and thighs twitching, trying to catch his breath. Rumlow leans across the gap between them, shaking his head. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to hear anything out of you before touchdown,” he says, sounding disappointed. The Asset remembers the stun baton and there’s more where that came from, but in the moment he can’t bring himself to care. He closes his eyes, tips his head back, and waits.

Re: Bladder Desperation -- Fill, 2/2

[(Anonymous)]

Ngh, nonnie, not only did I love Rumlow being a total asshole - you also made me realize how hot this kink is! Great fill, thank you so much for sharing!