Chapter Text
Ashton is no stranger to discomfort. Honestly, their entire life has pretty much been one uncomfortable sensation after another. That’s why, they suppose, they ended up like this. Normal people don’t just get off on the agony of a full bladder, or the humiliation of piss running uncontrollably down their legs. But Ashton was never “normal people” in any sense, so he takes it mostly in stride. Mostly.
That is, until he’s got himself all wrapped up in this stupid fucking costume, covered from head to toe in buttons and ties and for fuck’s sake, he has to piss.
It’s been like an hour of them sitting at one of these fancy-ass tables with ornate centerpieces and long tablecloths, waiting to be noticed by one of the assholes who brought the Nightmare King in to wreak havoc on his city. To be honest, he didn’t think it would take so long. Call them cynical, but they kind of thought more people here would be in on this. Maybe they all just have great poker faces.
Speaking of poker faces, Ashton is glad that his mask means he doesn’t have to put one on, because he’d probably fail at it anyway. They’ve never been so good at schooling their expression into something more palatable or less revealing, and it’s been even harder since their brain got scrambled. They can feel themselves grimacing.
They shift in their chair, trying for all the world to look comfortable and confident and not at all like they’re squirming with need.
The open bar got the better of him, it seems. He’s not totally stupid – he didn’t drink enough alcohol to actually be compromised. That would be asking for problems. But they did, in fact, forget to factor in just how fast a few beers and some liquor would make its way through their stomach and blood, through their kidneys, and right into their bladder.
He shifts again, crossing his legs and then immediately uncrossing them as the top of his thigh nudges the bulge in his lower abdomen that’s he’s sure would be visible if it wasn’t concealed just under the purple-y black material of his fancy fucking jacket. His poor bladder gives another pang, and he winces. Under any other circumstances, they’d be headed for a bathroom, or behind a rock, or, fuck, maybe they’d lock themselves in their room at the Krook house and pace around, shoving the bulge of their bladder against edges and corners until their poor, overworked muscles allowed all that warm piss to spray out of their cock and all over their clothes until they were sitting on the floor in a puddle, wet and relieved. The thought makes his cock stir, and he groans. He’s experiencing a truly fucking unfortunate combination of arousal and irritation. He wonders if he can even get the fucking costume off.
“Hey, Ashton.”
Ashton jumps about a foot into the air, whipping around to see Orym standing behind him. His bladder protests the movement with a healthy jab of pain and a threat to give up right then and there. Jesus Christ, maybe they are compromised. How in the fuck did they get snuck up on?
Orym smiles a little, his amusement showing in his eyes. “I’m surprised that no one’s decked you yet. Where are all these assholes?”
Ashton snorts, shifting in his seat just a little. “Yeah, I really thought they’d be all over this shit. I don’t even want to move because they’re probably planning to jump me. And frankly, I’m getting sick of this fucking outfit.” They gesture to the expanse of black and purple fabric that covers their entire body. “This shit sucks.”
“Seems like it.” Orym sits down in (or, rather, gets up into) the chair next to Ashton and ends up almost totally hidden behind the human-sized table. “Honestly, I think the others have the ring situation handled, and you’ve got a good idea with the sitting and watching. I can’t see much in the crowd. Mostly just people’s butts,” he chuckles. “Mind if I join?”
And good gods, Ashton does fucking mind actually, because yeah, they’re a freak, but they’re not about to squirm and whine and piss themselves under this table with Orym sitting right the fuck there.
Wait. Hopefully they won’t piss themselves at all. Gods, what the fuck are they even thinking. This whole thing is scrambling his brain. He feels another twinge as what he hopes is the last of those stupid fucking beers makes its way into his already-full bladder.
They’re pretty hard now, and they wonder distantly if the costume will hide it when they stand up. An experimental stretch of the legs says that the material hugs pretty tightly to their crotch. Another jolt through his bladder reminds him that he can barely fucking move without the threat of turning the floor into a lake. Fuck. Shit. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Hey,” Orym says, somehow startling Ashton again. Holy fuck, they’re so off their game, this is so bad. Ashton turns slightly towards Orym, still pretending to scan the room as they try to cope with the fucking rock-hard (ha) sphere of their bladder sitting between their hips, pressing, begging, needing...
“Hey!” Orym says again, and Ashton realizes that he never responded at all. Fuck.
“Hi, yes, what’s up?” Ashton says in what he hopes to gods is a neutral, unwavering voice.
“Are you okay? You seem a little… off.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Against his wishes, Ashton finds himself squirming just slightly in his chair. He immediately switches to tapping his foot. Yes, impatience, that’s what he’s feeling. Not at all like he’s about to piss himself in the middle of the most important, high-profile event in all of Jrusar. Absolutely not. That’d be ridiculous. “Just, really hot in this fuckass suit,” he lies.
Honestly, he doesn’t even really know why he’s lying. He’s never been shy about this sort of thing before. The Nobodies as a whole had effectively no boundaries. He’d pissed in front of them an uncountable number of times. So why is this different?
Orym frowns, unsatisfied. “You seem very distracted. Is it really that hot in there? Do you want me to get you something cool to drink?”
And at the very mention, Ashton’s bladder spasms. Before they even know what’s happening, their hand is pinching their dick through their pants, desperately trying to stop themselves from leaking piss all over the chair. He’s at his fucking limit. He’s still kind of hard. And, oh gods, fucking Orym –
Ashton turns his head to look at Orym. “It seems like I got a little too caught up in making this costume look good at the expense of… practicality. And then I had some beer. And I honestly don’t know if I can get this fucking thing off by myself right now.” Behind the mask, Ashton’s face is burning. “I have no fucking idea why I didn’t… I just didn’t want to miss anything, and I thought they might try to confront me while I was alone, and it happened so fast, and now I just –”
“Ashton,” Orym said, cutting them off. “Look, I know it’s not ideal, but if you do need help…”
Ashton wants to say no. Pissing in front of someone casually is one thing, but this is… different. This is pathetic, intimate, embarrassing. But then, his bladder fucking convulses and oh gods he’s fucking leaking, dribbling piss into his dress pants, despite the hold he has on his cock. They gasp and clamp down again, stopping the stream just fucking barely. Fucking Christ, their hand is wet. It’s well and truly time to get the fuck over it.
“Yes, okay, fucking whatever, just… gods, where even is the bathroom?”
Orym nods to a doorway in the corner of the room and begins to stand up.
Ashton groans in relief as he realizes that it’s on this side of the dance floor. They open their mouth to say something else, but then they feel warmth and wetness soak their hand as more piss forces its way out of his aching bladder. The front of his pants is quickly becoming noticeably damp. With great force, he manages to make his failing muscles behave one last time. Shit, he must be such a spectacle right now, squirming in his seat and crossing his legs with his hand in his crotch. He doesn’t dare look to the crowd to see if anyone’s paying attention.
“You gonna make it?” Orym asks, a gentleness to his voice that honestly feels more like pity to Ashton at the moment.
Ashton grits his teeth, staring firmly at the floor. “Well, I can certainly say that it’s now or never, leaning more towards never with each passing moment.”
“Shit, okay. C’mon, I’ll talk to the guards.”
Ashton somehow manages to stand without completely losing it, although he does leak another few spurts on the way up. They don’t want to admit it, don’t want it to be true, but they know themselves. They’re no stranger to how quickly their bladder gives up after the first breach of its hold. If they’re being honest, they have about a minute of slow leaking left before their fucking shoes will need to be thrown away. His bladder is protruding and heavy and sore, and it rewards his every step towards relief with another wave of hot piss dripping uncontrollably out of his cock. It’s starting to run down his thighs a little. This is so fucking bad.
He doesn’t even notice Orym speak with the guards, but by the time he makes it to the door, it’s open and Orym is leading him through it. They keep their gaze locked straight ahead, not even willing to look at the guards. He thinks he hears one of them laugh, and he can feel his face heat all over again.
The second he steps past the guards and around the corner, he starts leaking again, and this time, it won’t stop. It’s not more than a slow trickle, but it’s constant and fucking gods, he’s well and truly wetting himself in the middle of a ball. Just his fucking luck. And despite all the piss that’s now soaked into the front of his pants, he still needs to go worse than he thinks he ever has before in his life.
Holds in his room are so low-stakes. They’d always end up kind of letting it happen. It was the end goal anyways, so why delay the pleasure? But here, now, he’s clenching every muscle he has and squeezing his cock with his hand and begging gods he doesn’t believe in and it still won’t stop, and he’s still so full.
Orym is walking briskly in front of them, leading them down the hall a few hundred feet and opening a door. Orym turns to face Ashton, and the look on the halfling’s face tells them all they need to know about the visibility of their accident. God fucking dammit.
Wordlessly, Ashton hobbles by Orym and into an empty, predictably fancy bathroom. All the better for them to destroy with their fucking piss puddle, they suppose. At the very sight of the place, their weak and exhausted bladder muscles contract violently, and they make a truly embarrassing moan-whine noise as a huge gush of piss just sprays full-force into their pants. Frantically, they realize they have about ten seconds before total disaster. And as hot as the concept of uncontrollably pissing themselves in the middle of a public place is, this certainly isn’t the time or the venue. Just his shitty fucking luck.
“Orym, I’m gonna be honest, we’re approaching total disaster here. Can you please –” he cuts himself off with another moan as, for fuck’s sake, the pressure of his stream is fucking audible as piss shoots out of him and splatters against the inside of his already-saturated pants. No longer trusting himself to stand, he sinks to his knees in front of a drain in the middle of the floor. “Orym, please –”
And then he feels Orym’s nimble fingers lift the back of his jacket. “I’m not exactly sure what all of these clasps and zippers go to, so I’ll just undo them all, okay?”
Ashton doesn’t respond, just focuses every ounce of remaining energy on keeping some piss in their fucking bladder. They’re clenching their cock between their fingers so hard it hurts, and they can feel the piss pushing against the blockage as Orym unsnaps, unzips, unbuttons, and unties as best as he can without dislodging Ashton’s grip.
Orym steps back, replacing Ashton’s jacket. “Okay. I think I got everything you wouldn’t be able to reach. Do you think that you can manage the rest?”
And dear gods, Ashton knows full well what’s about to happen. That no amount of finesse will be enough at this point. Not with the fastenings on the front of his pants soaked, not without moving his hand, which is the only thing keeping him from peeing himself. No, there’s really only one way out of this: be fast.
Ashton takes a deep breath and lets go of his cock. He fumbles for the buttons with one hand while pushing the entire garment down by the waistband with the other as he fucking pisses himself, full-force, muscles completely shot, just draining his fucking bladder into his pants. He finally manages to get his cock out, pants rucked down to mid-thigh, and shit, he can’t even really aim, just pisses hard on the floor in front of him, hoping loosely that he’s in the drain’s vicinity. Lost in the relief, he fucking moans with it, and the sound bounces off of the sterile walls of the bathroom. Vaguely, he can hear his piss splashing and splattering in the otherwise silent room.
As his stream slows, he starts to come back to himself. The first thing that he processes is how fucking gross and wet and cold his pants are, all the way down to his knees, and gives a brief moment of thanks to the Nightmare King for wearing all black. If he was wearing grey, he just might die on the spot.
The second thing he notices is that he’s hard. Like, entirely harder than he thought would be possible. And it’s at that point that his brain switches back on to full power, and holy shit, he has his hard cock out in front of Orym, and he just fucking wet his pants, at the ball, in front of Orym. Ashton yanks his pants back up over his cock, the cold, damp material uncomfortable against his skin. They scoot back from where they were kneeling, watching the last of the puddle make its way down the drain.
“Feeling better?”
Ashton covers his face with his hands, groans, and sighs. “Yes. Thank you, Orym. Now let’s never ever speak of this again to anyone.”
Orym laughs. “Of course. I won’t tell a soul.” He frowns. “Although, Imogen could probably prestidigitate you dry if you –”
“Dear Christ, absolutely not,” Ashton laments, bracing themselves against the wall as they stand on shaky legs. “I would rather catch a fucking cold, thank you very much. Entirely too many people know about this already, and I might not survive another.”
“Fair enough.” Orym shrugs. “Either way, you should, uh… clean yourself up, as fast as you can. Remember what you said earlier about them waiting to confront you alone?” He glances the door over his shoulder. “I’ve got the same worry.”
Ashton spends a few ungraceful moments trying to remove the worst of the wet sheen from their pants with paper towels. He also gives the remnants of the puddle on the floor a wipe. Y’know, to be polite. The guards snicker as Orym and Ashton pass them on their way back to the main hall.
And later, when Ashton gets knocked out by General Ratanish, he takes solace in the fact that it was only the second most humiliating thing that had happened to him that night.