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, 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!