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Author's Note: Takes place sometime pre-Captain America: Winter Soldier. Idk if any of you are familiar with the Hydra Trash Party subgenre but like, I guess this is technically HTP-adjacent. Comments are appreciated. 
 
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The radio buzzed. Pierce. I'm stuck in traffic, he said, voice crackling over the static airwaves. Tell the asset the rules still stand until I come back.

Rumlow glanced over at the asset, who was standing quietly in one corner, slightly bent at the waist. Into the radio he said, How long's that gonna be, sir?

Burst of static. Pierce must have sighed. I don't fucking know, he said. Just tell him if he pisses himself it's gonna be bad fuckin' news for him. 'And for you' went unspoken as an addendum. But Rumlow knew it's what Pierce meant. He said all right, because what the hell else was there to say. Then he disconnected the radio and walked over to the asset.

The asset's eyes snapped up to his. He wasn't showing any emotion, it had been too long programmed out of him, but there was a definite desperation in every line of his body which was not normally there. He was normally at parade rest at all times when not in the field or in cryo. Normally he was very, very good at standing totally straight and still.

But normally he didn't also have seven full bottles of water plus two half-pints of iced tea sitting in his bladder. Super-soldier bladder, super-soldier dose of liquid, Pierce had explained, handing the asset the bottles at the start of the mission. The asset had drained them all dutifully on the ride over, metal hand denting the plastic. When they'd arrived at the base Pierce had said he'd be gone for four hours. That the asset's secondary mission was to hold his urine until he (Pierce) had returned. This was apparently not the first time Pierce had done this shit but it was the first time he'd included Rumlow in it. Wasn't the fucking first rule of BDSM supposed to be that you didn't include other people in your own shit without their permission?

But you didn't argue with Pierce, so when Pierce told Rumlow to reinforce this rule and make sure the asset's pants stayed totally dry, Rumlow just said yes, sir. Pierce handed him another bottle of water and said that if the asset leaked, Rumlow had to give him the bottle as punishment. Rumlow opened his mouth, thought better of it, said okay again, and watched Pierce get back into his car and drive off. In the four hours since Rumlow had watched the asset take down his targets swiftly and accurately; he'd watched his posture slowly start to go fucked the longer his bladder filled; and he'd watched when the asset, after a furtive thirty seconds of glancing around, reached between his legs to grip himself with his flesh hand.

And now this.

Rumlow was pretty sure (not positive, but pretty sure) Pierce wasn't really stuck in traffic. Likely he was sitting at home with his wife and his daughter and the housekeeper having dinner and laughing and pretending he gave a shit about his daughter's schoolwork and his wife's charities and his housekeeper's green card renewal. He was probably going to radio in in another few hours and tell Rumlow the traffic had finally eased up, when what he meant was he was just getting into his car after his wife had finally fallen asleep. It was just gone six in the evening now, and Rumlow really didn't expect to see Pierce again before midnight.

He looked at the hunched, miserable form of the asset. He'd added his metal hand between his legs and both hands were twisting at the tough fabric, and his teeth were sunk into his lower lip. There was sweat beading out over his forehead. He was squirming, shifting his hips upwards in a desperate, vain attempt at getting friction. Rumlow thought if he wasn't so well-trained he'd be moaning.

"Soldat," Rumlow said, and his voice came out softer than he'd expected. It made the asset wince, for some reason, and the motion made him dig his fingers in harder. Rumlow could see the fabric of his pants wrinkling up where the metal fingers were creasing it. He reached out -- projecting intent -- and when the asset did not shrink away he touched his jaw.

"Where -- " the asset cleared his throat. He must have been in a bad way; Rumlow hadn't given him permission to speak. This seemed to register with him a moment later and his eyes snapped up to Rumlow's, frantic, scared, and so, so desperate. There were tears clinging to his lashes now. "I'm s- I'm sorry," he whispered, "I spoke out of turn -- "

"It's all right," Rumlow said, still softly. He stroked his thumb down the asset's cheek. He wondered if the asset remembered him from before. "What do you need, soldat?"

The asset's knees were bowed inwards. He was alternating between holding himself in a vice-grip and dragging his fists down his thighs. He was trying to press into Rumlow's touch but his body wouldn't stay upright. Rumlow couldn't imagine what his bladder must feel like; he could see the shape of it rounded out against his tac gear.

"I want the Secretary," the asset whimpered. "He -- I need -- " Then he did moan, hands plunging between his thighs, eyes squeezing shut. He was stepping frantically from foot to foot and Rumlow was close enough to him he could hear the soft rush of liquid in his pants.

Hell.

"No, no, no, no, no," the asset sobbed, gripping himself, twisting his metal hand around his cock. It looked painful, almost as much as the obvious effort it was taking him to shift his weight, though shifting it was something he clearly needed, his bladder extended out as far as it was, shoving his flesh palm down his thigh again and again, teeth sunk into his lower lip, turning the skin around it a pretty rose color. "C- Commander, I -- I'm being so -- I c- I can't -- "

Rumlow hoped Pierce choked on whatever the fuck fancy-ass dinner his housekeeper had cooked for him. Maybe she'd finally laced his with poison and he'd slump over his plate dead with one glassy eye turned up towards the ceiling, his tongue slithering out into his rice, vomit staining his tie. He shifted his hand down under the asset's chin, tilted his face up. The asset's eyes were squeezed shut; he was huffing out through his mouth like a frustrated animal. After a few seconds Rumlow heard another gush of liquid; he glanced down, and he saw the asset's tac gear shining where he was wetting himself.

"Hey," Rumlow said, and in spite of his anger at Pierce his voice still managed to come out gentle and quiet. The asset actually looked up at him -- tears streaking down his cheeks -- and Rumlow said, "It's all right, soldat. It's okay. He's stuck in traffic; he won't be here for a long time."

Panic flared across the asset's face and he began to babble again, but Rumlow slipped his thumb over his lips, and the asset went totally, totally still. (Well, except for his hips, which had not stopped rocking, but Rumlow wasn't going to count that.)

"He's stuck in traffic, and I'm gonna take the fall for whatever happens, all right?" With his other hand he smoothed the asset's hair back from his face. The asset whimpered at the touch; Rumlow heard liquid pattering on the ground at his feet. "You can't hold it for that long, okay? You can't. It's okay."

The asset made a broken, sobbing noise in the back of his throat. "W- What... what will... I..."

"Let me worry about my own cover story," Rumlow said gently, but the asset still looked uncertain. He was clutching himself and shifting, legs double-crossed over his hand, teeth gritted; there was piss on the ground at his feet, Rumlow could see it streaked down his thighs even through the dark, heavy fabric of his pants.

"I'm having an accident," the asset whispered, as his pants shone with fresh liquid. "I c- I couldn't -- it's an emergency, I -- "

"I know, sweetheart." Rumlow leaned in and kissed the asset's forehead, and the asset whined. "I know, it's okay. I promise. I'm not mad. You let me deal with Pierce. You just let go now, honey. Okay?"

But though Rumlow heard more liquid rushing out into the asset's pants the asset did not relax, nor did he let himself go all the way. After maybe five seconds he managed to cut the stream off. Rumlow sighed. He walked around so that he was on the asset's side, and slipped an arm around his shoulders.

"I've never told anyone this," he said, very, very softly, even though they were still totally alone, just the two of them, the way Rumlow liked it best. "But I wet myself in high school once."

The asset went still against him; his eyebrows furrowed over his nose. Rumlow could see where his flesh hand was still white-knuckling against his cock and he said,

"I was in tenth grade. Wrestling team. My stepdad and the coach -- " He paused, scoffing, feeling his face trying to heat up. He had no idea why he was embarrassed; it was just the asset, it wasn't like the asset would ever tell anyone this, it wasn't like the asset would want to tell anyone, even if he was capable. Hell, the asset wouldn't even remember this story after this mission. But it took him a second to force the rest of it out, and in that time the asset's death grip on his own crotch was relaxing just slightly.

"My stepdad had served in Vietnam with the coach," Rumlow said. "So they were both hardasses and they fuckin' hated me."

The furrow deepened. "Why?"

"Dunno. Just -- my stepdad was a fuckin' jackass. But anyway, the coach got me on the team and he said it was 'cause he saw potential but really he and my stepdad had this big plan to fuck me over, and during the first match of the season right before I went on the mat the coach gave me this huge fuckin' thing of water. Said I had to drink it all before the game to stay hydrated."

At the word hydrated the asset moaned again. Piss ran down his legs, pooling on the ground. "I can't -- Commander, I can't stop it -- "

"Shh, it's all right, honey, I told you." Rumlow kissed his temple again, reaching out to rub at his swollen bladder. He winced a little when he felt how fucking hard it was. The asset was still whining, dancing, obviously trying to cut his stream off, so Rumlow kept talking:

"They put me on last, and they put me up against this guy who took for-fucking-ever to complete his rounds 'cause he wouldn't stay pinned. By the time I actually went out on the mat my bladder was fucking aching, I had to go so, so bad -- "

The asset sobbed.

" -- but I couldn't ask for a break, 'cause the coach had told me to drink the water and I knew he was just setting me up for humiliation, him and my stepdad were watching from the stands so I just started doing my thing, could barely do any moves, just kept having to keep my thighs real close and hoping to fuck that no one noticed how I couldn't stay upright -- "

"Commander, please," the asset gasped out, and Rumlow paused, looking at the side of his face, but the asset didn't look upset (at least, not more so than he had been this whole time). He was holding himself and the fabric of his pants was completely sodden, and Rumlow leaned in, nosing at the space beneath his ear. He folded his hand over the asset's flesh one, pressing down on his cock. He murmured,

"Yeah, that's right, baby. You piss for me now, it's okay,"

and the asset let out a shuddery gasp, more sob than relief, but more relief than he'd expressed all afternoon, and then he was pissing full-force against their joined hands and into his pants. Rumlow could feel the heat and the wetness of it splashing out onto his fingers, but he kept himself still, kept softly kissing the asset's skin, finished the story as the asset moaned and leaned harder and harder into him:

"Pinned my opponent eventually. I was supposed to try and get up but he got me down on my stomach and the move was so sudden -- I wasn't paying attention, really -- I started fuckin' flooding my uniform. I tried holding it but I couldn't make it stop once it started and I just pissed myself and the mat and the guy. Everyone was so fucking mad, my stepdad hit me until I passed out when we got home, the coach kicked me off the team. Couldn't transfer schools 'cause we didn't have the money so the kids made fun of me until I fuckin' stabbed a couple of 'em behind the gym a few weeks later. Put 'em in the hospital for a while."

The asset huffed out a breathy, unsteady laugh. He was still pissing; Rumlow was taking most of his weight, but he didn't mind.

"I never had an accident again after that," he said, after a while. "But fuck... shit stays with you." He kissed the asset again, softly, but when he started to pull away the asset whined, shaking his head, and Rumlow stayed. He had always had a lot of trouble telling the asset no.

The asset pissed for a long time. Rumlow didn't think to time it but it must have been over two minutes before the stream finally slowed to a trickle, and then a few spurts, and then he was empty. After, Rumlow stayed next to him for a while, holding him, holding his body against his, holding onto his cock, nuzzling his nose against his neck. He was rocking the asset back and forth and humming to him. The asset had gone totally limp in his arms.

Eventually Rumlow coaxed the asset into taking off his soaked tac gear and putting on fresh pants. He shoved the tac gear into a bucket of soapy water while the asset wiped his thighs and his feet. Then they sat the two of them and Rumlow gave the asset a nutrition pack and stroked his hair -- the asset settling down between his legs, head on his chest, half-asleep -- until at last, close to midnight as Rumlow had predicted, Pierce showed back up. The asset tensed at the sound of his car, shrinking into himself, but Rumlow stepped smoothly in front of him as Pierce advanced, holding out one hand.

"My fault, Secretary," he said, his heart giraffe-kicking in his throat. "I just loved watching how uncomfortable he was. I know you said not to give him that extra bottle but -- "

Pierce's eyes flashed with irritation, but his mouth was twitching like he was amused. "You overfilled him?" he said, and Rumlow nodded. He'd made sure to empty the extra bottle beforehand in case Pierce checked, but Pierce just laughed. He reached out and stroked the asset's cheek, then slapped him a little.

"You stupid slut," he said, shaking his head. Then, to Rumlow: "Well, Commander -- next time, follow my orders. This is my game. I like it played a certain way. I don't like deviations. You understand?"

Rumlow nodded. He understood. The asset nodded too, and then Pierce led them both to his car. They slid together into the backseat. Pierce told the asset he had to stay awake the whole ride as punishment for fucking up the secondary mission, but Rumlow kept his hand tightly wrapped around the asset's metal one, squeezing every time his head dropped back against the seat, and letting the asset catch more than thirty seconds of sleep every time he could see Pierce was focused on the road, instead of the careful defiance going on behind him.

Edited by astralis (see edit history)
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  • 11 months later...
1 minute ago, astralis said:

deadass idk lol but thank you!! you’re very kind; it means a lot ❤️

I guess i first found u commenting on some dystopia and then about Batman.. what i love...dystopia and well written (like yours)... Sadly at tw*itter not much writing thought i try to cooperate with visual myself lol

Rn at some addicted to desp fiction mood lol 

Thanks a Lot by this writing

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3 minutes ago, eucoloco said:

I guess i first found u commenting on some dystopia and then about Batman.. what i love...dystopia and well written (like yours)... Sadly at tw*itter not much writing thought i try to cooperate with visual myself lol

Rn at some addicted to desp fiction mood lol 

Thanks a Lot by this writing

wah ;; thank you again, friend

you can also see my works over on ao3 under the name itallstartedwithdefenestration if you’re interested 

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