Tavros: Struggle with the waistband. Perhaps you can wiggle out of your pants in time.
After a few more extremely intense moments, the desperation subside enough that you feel you can bring your hands away from your crotch (even if you’d sort of like to keep them there). Taking a few deep, controlled breaths, you try to keep yourself calm. There’s got to be a solution to this. Sure, these jeans are small enough that just bending over was making them dig right into your bladder, but with some serious contorting you’ll be able to slip them right off.
After about half a minute of shimmying your hips and shoving at your waistband, you’re feeling completely ridiculous and pretty sure this isn’t going to work.
You shove your hand into your pockets–for some weird reason, that always seems to help–and leave your room, heading off down the hall. The door of the ablution chamber is open, and the sight of the load gaper serves to tease your bladder even more. You’re biting at your lip by the time you’re standing in front of it, shifting your weight from foot to foot again as you reach to flip the seat up–stupid Tinkerbull and his stupid house rules–open the button of your fly as quickly as possible and tug, a little jerkily, at your zipper, more than ready for a nice, relieving pee.
Your zipper, unfortunately, does not comply.
You tug harder. No luck.
You grip your waistband in one hand and yank as hard as you can at the zipper. It doesn’t give even a millimeter.
You give a little gasp and both hands shoot to your crotch. Your bladder was expecting momentary release and the complaints it’s sending you at being denied are enough to make you have to squirm in place, clutching yourself, just to keep everything in. You let your head flop down, whining softly in the back of your throat.
Your name is TAVROS NITRAM and you’re getting bored of Fiduspawn, which is a pretty rare occurrence for you.
You let your hand of cards fall to the floor in front of you and heave a sigh. From across the room, Tinkerbull gives an annoyed little huff that you’ve added to the already considerable mess in your room, but you get contrary when you’re this bored and you don’t move to clean the game up. Your lusus would probably be more sympathetic to your room’s state if you were in some sort of four wheel device and incapable of getting at certain spots, which is a ridiculous thought to be having since you’re a perfectly able-bodied young man, and as such he whirs his wings warningly at you as you push yourself up from the ground.
“i’LL DO IT LATER,” you lie through your teeth, then sigh again as you look around your room. In all honesty, there really isn’t much else to do but clean. You’ve got a few Pupa Pan books you’ve been meaning to reread, and your husktop is flashing with messages from friends you’ve put off answering, but that’s about it.
Standing up makes a small twinge go through your bladder, and you’re reminded of the half-empty Faygo bottle standing on your bedside table. You didn’t expect to like the stuff so much, and you’ll have to thank your bro for sending it. The sensation in your abdomen isn’t too strong, but if you don’t have something to do soon you might visit the ablution chamber just to alleviate the ennui.
Your eyes fall on the meager collection of movies squeezed in next to all the Pupa Pan books on your bookshelf. Intriguing. You walk over and stand in front of it, scanning titles with your eyes.
After a moment, you start shifting your weight just slightly from side to side. After another few moments, you shift all your to your right leg and wrap your left ankle around behind your right one, putting a hand out on the shelf for balance. You know, just to get a little more comfortable.
Romance? No, not feeling sharp enough to keep up with all the n-drangles. Pupa? You almost reach for it, then remember how Tinkerbull was treating you earlier and retract your hand. You’re not a wriggler.
Huh. You haven’t watched one in a really long time, not since that Rainbow Drinker one that came out when you were 4 and a half sweeps old. It has that scene where the little brownblood kid is wandering through the abandoned hive, and when the Rainbow Drinker jumped out at him you got so scared that you…
You turn sharply away from the movies, as if trying to hide the deep embarrassed blush you can feel spreading across your own face even thought there’s no one else there to see it. Nope, no need to think about that particular event, none at all. The sense of humiliation and the specifics of the memory seem to send a sharp squeeze to your bladder, one that almost propels you forward across the room towards other things to do.