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] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [4/4]

[(Anonymous)]

Stairs.

Between the Soldier and the vantage point lies a flight of stairs.

The Soldier vaguely remembers a performance evaluation in which he was made to navigate obstacles—among them, a flight of stairs—with two broken legs. That test, he thinks, was infinitely preferable to this. Any of the experiments he remembers are preferable to this. Even the one with blowtorch. His entire being is reduced to this stinging, unceasing need.

His pants are wet.

They were damp after the second door, after the commander pressed on his stomach. At the third door the commander’s fingers spidered over the Soldier’s ribs and now his pants are wet. His concentration failed for two seconds. Two seconds was enough to wet the crotch of his pants entirely, as well as a few inches of instep of the left leg. It did not reduce the urges in the slightest. The tension is still increasing by the second.

“On a scale of one to ten,” Rollins says, “how much pain would you say you’re in?”

They have not noticed the state of the Soldier’s pants, perhaps due to the dark fabric or perhaps because they are behind him and from there he is mostly dry. He does not mention it. They have not asked for a status report and he does not trust himself to speak without begging.

But he must speak now. The Soldier bites through his lip again. “Wh—which…’s worst?”

“Ten.”

Ten is what the Soldier wants to say. He is doubled over halfway up the stairs, both hands clenched between his legs, panting. He perceives nothing of his body beyond the pain. But he is already disrupting the research with his failure to control himself, and he will not provide data without proper consideration. Maybe this doesn’t hurt as much as the chair. Maybe this isn’t as awful as the time with the pliers. “Eight.”

“That’s not so bad,” Rollins says. His hand brushes the Soldier’s shoulder. “You’ve got this, buddy. I believe in you.”

The Soldier cannot answer. His face is already wet with tears of exertion—so much fluid providing no relief—but as he blinks, more spills out. He is failing as a weapon, as a test subject, and yet they have not cast him aside. Maybe the mission is not beyond salvaging. He exhales, straightens as much as the pain allows, and carries on.

“How many of these tests are we doing?” Rollins asks. “Total?”

“There’s two more after this,” says Rumlow. “And they might want to redo the first one since they didn’t get all the footage. Plus the control, so at least five. Why?”

“Five tests, five wipes. What are the odds they’ll implement any policy changes based on this?”

“Probably zero. Even if they decide he’s noticeably more effective when he’s about to piss himself, you can’t maintain that on long missions without risking water intoxication. And you can’t just throw him in MAGs for this—he’d have no incentive to hold. So you’d need someone on clean-up.”

“Yeah,” Rollins says. “I figured. How come R&D gets funding when they want to be perverts and STRIKE gets suspensions?”

“Maybe Pierce jacks off to these tapes.”

Rollins laughs.

There’s a pause before the commander speaks again. “Hell, tell me that camera’s not still on.”

“My hand’s blocking the mic. You think I’d have asked while it was picking up my voice? I’m not an idiot. Unlike some.”

“Fuck off,” Rumlow says.

“By some I mean you,” Rollins says.

The Soldier hears nothing of their conversation past that point because he’s reached the second floor.

They are at the opposite end of the facility from where they entered. They are overlooking the first floor lobby, where his target will arrive. The balcony they stand on is lined with Plexiglas partitions and the Soldier leans against one, panting, taking in the area below. The concrete he is standing on is stained.

“It’s that door,” Rumlow says, pointing down at the opposite wall. The door is made of frosted glass. “Here.” He extends the rifle. “They want you to shoot him in the liver, got it? Aim for the liver.”

The Soldier stares at the weapon. He is extending one trembling hand to take it when the realization hits him: he needs both hands to aim the rifle.

He cannot stop holding himself without releasing.

He is frozen, horrified, and Rumlow seems to realize the problem just as the Soldier does. He laughs. “Looks like I’m gonna win this time.”

“You wish,” Rollins says.

The Soldier must take the rifle. The mission will fail, the experiment will be ruined. He must. But he can’t, can’t keep control without using his hands. He has to maintain the pressure. He must—

Struck by inspiration, the Soldier yanks the rifle from the commander’s hand, dropping to his knees. The impact is forceful but he does not feel it, writhing, twisting his body until the left hand, still like a vice at his crotch, is pinned between the concrete and his groin. He props himself up on his elbows, keeping his stomach from pressing down. Pressure. The floor can provide pressure. He can aim and fire through the partition, he can complete the mission, provided he can sustain the necessary pressure when he draws his hand away. The Soldier grinds his hips down, crossing his legs at the ankles. He slides his hand free and it’s not enough and he rocks his hips again, grunting. And again. And again. The floor is insufficient but the friction sends blood flowing where his flesh lies half-hard between his legs and that, that lets him maintain control.

“Holy fuck,” Rumlow says. Then, aside, “Yeah, we’re ready. Send in the target.”

“I don’t know about Pierce,” Rollins says, “but I guarantee someone’s gonna be jacking off to this footage."

The Soldier readies the gun, aiming with the left hand as it is the only part of him that can be still. His pelvis continues to shove against the ground, frantic, arrhythmic. He will bruise. It doesn’t matter. Where is the target? The target should be here, must be here now. The Soldier cannot sustain this. It is a temporary fix, a patch wrapped around a splintering component.

He braces his right hand on the floor for added leverage but his palm is slick with sweat and he slips. The Soldier cannot right himself before his stomach, firm as the concrete beneath him and aching, pushes against the floor.

Three seconds, this time. Three seconds of full force, uncontrolled release. His pants are flooded with heat, the fabric weighing down, dragging against his thighs as it saturates. What blood isn’t caught between his legs has rushed to his face and the Soldier is dizzy. Above all he feels relief, enough that his eyes flutter back in his head, but he has orders and he has a mission and he forces his body to cease with a strangled cry.

There’s an odd crowing of a laugh behind him. It’s the commander.

“

He pissed his pants,” Rumlow said, and if the Soldier’s face goes any hotter, he fears his skin will ignite. “I win.”

“He did not!”

“Look!”

The Soldier resumes slamming his hips against the floor. Every jolt of motion forces breath from him, and his breaths are no longer silent pants. “Ah ah ah.”

“That’s sweat.”

“Are you blind?” There are footsteps the Soldier barely registers, his world centered on the door and the need, and then the commander’s boot is at his knees, nudging his legs apart. The Soldier yelps. A hand brushes his damp thigh. “Fucking look.” The boot retreats. “That’s not sweat.”

More footsteps, and the sound of a scuffle. Rollin’s voice. “Don’t touch me after you just—”

“Admit I won and I won’t.”

“You don’t win unless he floods it all, intermittent leaking doesn’t count!”

“You said he wouldn’t piss his pants,” Rumlow says. “You never brought quantity into it.”

“It’s common fucking sense—”

There is a silhouette at the door, the perfect outline of a body behind the frosted glass. The doorknob is turning but the Soldier doesn’t wait. He aims, fires. The recoil pushes his stomach to the ground again and the Soldier howls, twisting to his side as he brings his hand between his legs. Not enough not enough not enough.

Rumlow is up, hand to his earpiece. Someone is crouching over the body shrieking on the first floor, confirming the hit. The Soldier’s free hand grabs the commander’s ankle. I don’t care if you whip it out and piss right where you make your shot, the commander had said. He’d said. “Please,” the Soldier spits, teeth clenched. “P—please, please—”

“Go,” Rumlow says.

There’s a litany of gratitude falling from the Soldier’s lips as he pulls himself to his knees. Violent tremors rack his being. The world goes white beyond him. There is no mission, no commander, no camera catching every second of his shame. There is nothing save for this horrible urge that will finally, finally be relieved.

The Soldier tugs the zipper and the zipper does not move.

He stares. His mind can’t process the complication.

He tugs again and the zipper does not move.

“Oh.” This morning, the technician tugging at his pants, Rumlow worrying the slider up the twisted teeth. “Oh.” The Soldier hauls himself to his feet, pulling on the damp waistband to draw the fabric taut as the commander had. The belt feels so tight around his body, as if it could cut through him. He pushes at the slider, slow and firm. Another surge shakes him and his hand spasms, yanking. The pull tab rips off in his grip.

The Soldier resolves to tear the zipper loose just as his body gives way.

“Oh!” He feels it before he sees it, a rush of warmth down his legs, pooling in the soles of his boots. The fabric goes dark, then dripping. There’s a puddle growing between his legs, splashing on the already stained floor. His knees are buckling and he thinks he’s going to fall—he can’t hold himself up and his pants are already soaked, so what does it matter?—but the commander has his arms, supporting him. He’s still pissing.

The Soldier is vaguely aware that he is shaking. It’s not from strain anymore; it’s relief. His eyes are fluttering again, his head slumping back against Rumlow’s shoulder. He can’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. “Ohh.” He has no comparison for this sensation. He’s never been allowed pleasure. The Soldier lets his eyes fall shut, the unfamiliar, astonishing feeling washing over him. It lasts forever and not long enough.

“That’s not fair,” Rollins says once it’s over and the Soldier is struggling to catch his breath. “That’s a wardrobe malfunction. He’d have made it.”

The Soldier’s eyes open. He tilts his head, trying to ground himself, and the first thing he sees is the red light of the camera.

The relief is fleeting. Shame, familiar and overpowering, takes its place. The Soldier immediately drops his gaze to the floor, but he’s standing in a puddle and his pants are still dripping. It’s no better of a visual.

“I already won and you know it,” Rumlow says. “Next time, define your terms before you get your panties in a bunch about losing.”

There are tears in his eyes again and the Soldier blinks rapidly to clear them. It was one thing to cry from strain. Humiliation is different, weak. And he’s been weak enough. He can hold this back, at least.

“Come on, Soldier.” Rumlow still has his arms, steering him forward. His body, exhausted and twisting with self-loathing, is slow to respond. “Back to the van. What’s wrong with you?”

His piss is already going cold on his legs. His drenched socks are splashing against the puddles in his boots with each step. “The research,” he says, voice almost too small for his own ears to perceive. “I ruined the research.” He must have. The distressed state his body was in could not have been the intended effect. What purpose would it serve?

For a second the commander only stares at him. Then he laughs. “Well, you can make up for that tomorrow, can’t you?”

Tomorrow. The Soldier will be given another chance to prove himself, to set things right. He will be better tomorrow. He must. The Soldier nods, allowing himself to be led.

“Tomorrow,” Rollins mutters, switching off the camera, “we’re getting him new pants.”

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [4/4]

[(Anonymous)]

"I don’t know about Pierce,” Rollins says, “but I guarantee someone’s gonna be jacking off to this footage."

*yells at imaginary secretary, "CLEAR MY SCHEDULE"*

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [4/4]

[(Anonymous)]

that was AMAZING

Re: [Fill] "Full Capacity, Incremental Intake" Desperation/Wetting/Humiliation FOR SCIENCE [4/4]

[(Anonymous)]

This is... I mean, it's just... how do you...what is...


*claws at screen*