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.

If you want email notifications for new comments here, sign up for a Dreamwidth account and click the little bell icon at the top of this post. To read new comments chronologically rather than in threads, use flat view.

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

WS, crate training

[(Anonymous)]

In order to make him easier to manage, the Winter Soldier's handlers pick up crate training. At first, he's taught that his cryo chamber is his 'den' - it's a safe, enclosed space where he has his meals, and no one will beat him or yell at him inside. The training proves so successful that they introduce an actual cage for use in the field. (He'll hop into any car if it means he can crawl into his cage and curl up undisturbed for a couple hours.)

Bonus if this causes a problem post CATWS, where Steve/Sam/Natasha have to deal with a Bucky who is terrified of sleeping in 'people beds' and would rather shop at Petco.

Re: WS, crate training

[(Anonymous)]

seconded, thirded, fourthededed, fifded........

Re: WS, crate training

[(Anonymous)]

OH GOD. YES.
I'm love with anything where the Soldier gets treated like an animal. And the fact that he would be comforted by his crate because no one hurts him in there is very believeable.
And the bonus aghgggggh yes yes

Fill: Pedigree (1/?)

[(Anonymous)]

The team’s already packed by the time Brock gets down to the loading dock, which is good because they might leave ahead of schedule, and bad because it means he doesn’t have much left to prep. He goes over the full inventory twice, cleans his best scope and his backup, and signs out the van before he finally can’t put off stalling any longer and goes to check out the Asset.

See, the process could be cool. Go up to a bank teller, show her your “special” key, get taken round the back to the safety deposit room. And your key opens up the janitorial closet, which is itself a full functional elevator. That part’s not bad. What’s jacked is they keep going, until hiding in plain sight is some sort of fetish. The base level is fucking Disney on acid, men in button ups and bow ties and slicked back hair, like a pedo cartoon of the banker from Mary Poppins. They come asking for his ID and one of them is even wearing white gloves, like a fucking mime.

Christ. No wonder the Soldier is a crazy son of a bitch. Which isn’t to say he’s not good at what he does. Brock once watched him drop a guy at nearly two thousand meters, with an active breeze. Didn’t even protest, just framed the shot and took it.

The problem is, the guy’s also been known to drop handlers with equal indifference - and disproportionate violence, depending on who’s telling it. One of the guys from S.T.R.I.K.E. Three said he heard the Asset randomly took out somebody’s kneecap last week. Got hold of a screwdriver and drove it straight through, no warning. Another rumor has it he pulled a dude’s heart out, Indiana Jones style.

It could all be bullshit, but Brock hasn’t lived this long to get his throat cut now. He keeps it professional, keeps to the Soldier’s right, and so far, knock on wood, he’s lived to tell about it.

Another banker-mime appears to take his retinal scan. They look over his credentials for the eighty-billionth time, and now they’re in the truly fucked up part of the vault. For whatever reason, the techs like to work smack in the middle of all the empty deposit boxes, which isn’t at all Frankenstein as fuck. The chair’s out in full effect today, complete with restraints that look thick enough to hold a horse.It’s also conspicuously empty.

“Where’s the Asset? He’s supposed to be prepped.”

“He is. Round the corner,” a mousy chick says.

She’s got a sweet rack, but unfortunately he’s on a timetable. Brock follows her direction into one of the alcoves and -

“What the fuck,” he says, because seriously. What the fuck.

The Soldier is combat ready, all done up in his mask and that kevlar fetish suit the techs think is appropriate -- and curled up at the bottom of what looks like a large wire dog cage. He’s laying on his left side, slumped up against the slats, knees drawn halfway up to his chest.

Aside from the slight rise and fall of his shoulders, there’s no indication he’s even alive.

“What the fuck,” Brock says again, because he has walked in on all types of shit down here, but this is a whole new level of Twilight Zone.

“Agent Rumlow.”

Jesus, Pierce is lucky he knows his voice. He already has a hand on one baton out of sheer adrenaline. No one sane hangs around the Soldier unless they’re prepared to move.

“Sir?”

The Secretary appears from a corner Brock hadn’t even noticed, both hands up in a mocking surrender. He lowers them to adjust his tie - something seasonal, Brock registers faintly. As if this weren’t surreal enough.

“At ease, Agent,” Pierce says, smile a mile wide. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Yes you fucking did, Brock thinks, but doesn’t say, because he likes his balls attached, thank you very much. Alexander Pierce, on paper, isn’t supposed to have stealth training. Alexander Pierce, in real life, hangs out with Director Fury, and there’s a lot of things Fury isn’t supposed to have. They both rank high on Brock’s personal freak-o-meter.

Pierce offers his hand. It feels like shaking an old leather wallet.

“Good to see you again, Brock,” the Secretary says.

That’s the other way you know the guy’s a dick. He likes to put on this ‘aren’t we all friends’ act, call you by your first name. Like Brock could ever get away with calling him ‘Alex’.

“Sir,” Brock says. He keeps his expression very carefully neutral.

Pierce glances over at the cage.

“We’re testing out some new protocols to make the Asset easier to handle.”

Fill: Pedigree (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

The Asset is awake now, it seems. He’s not saying anything, but he’s lifted his head to track Pierce’s movement.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Brock says, opting for slightly informal. Pierce likes it when people play along with the buddy-buddy at least a little bit. “No one briefed me.”

Pierce makes a very long-suffering face.

“I’ll have a word with Charlene,” he sighs. “She should have booked some time on your calendar.”

Training sessions to learn how to...stuff the Asset in a cage. All right.

“It seems pretty self-explanatory,” he says before he can stop himself.

And see, he knew that schtick was bullshit. The Secretary’s gaze is momentarily withering, before he plasters on another smile.

“You ever use a bird dog, Agent Rumlow?”

Pierce takes a few steps closer to the cage. The Asset pulls his limbs in tighter, scrunching up away from the bars.

“No sir,” Brock says.

Pierce lays a hand down on top of the cage.

“When I was a little boy, my father had English Setters. Beautiful dogs. Excellent bird sense. We used to skip school sometimes and hunt quail.”

Oh Christ, this is going to spin into one of his creepy Grandpa stories. Brock bites down on the inside of his cheek.

“The dogs would go out into the brush and track the birds down for us. They flush them out so my brothers and I could take the shot.”

He gives Brock a little nod. Like they’re supposed to understand each other. Brock wonders if this good ol’ boy routine works on his constituents. Maybe city people think hunting is a quaint country tradition that unites all blue-collar kids; well, Brock grew up with a mechanic for a Daddy, and he’s willing to bet Alexander Pierce didn’t get the shit beat out of him in a trailer.

“The thing about a bird dog is, you have a responsibility. It’s not enough that the dog has what it takes. You have to set rules, so they know. how. to. mind.”

He punctuates each word with a light tap on the bars. Inside, the Asset trembles.

“My dad kept his dogs kenneled so they wouldn’t charge at pigeons. You let them run too wild, they start to lose their focus.”

“So we keep the Asset kenneled.”

Pierce nods.

“The Asset is also a highly skilled, specially trained piece of equipment. We need to give him structure so he can focus on what’s important. We’ve been refining the process over the past few iterations, and we think it’s fairly easy to replicate.”

The Asset is barely breathing. Brock has seen headless bodies with more color to them.

“So, we’re going to send him out for a field test. This is a collapsible kennel. It should fit in the back of the van.”

“All right...” Brock licks his lips, considering. Sure, if they rearranged the gun racks...they could probably wedge the cage up next to the jump seats. “What’s the protocol?”

Pierce’s eyes harden. “When the Asset is in his kennel, nobody can touch him. If he doesn’t come out right away when he’s ordered you can drag him out and punish him, but no punishment occurs inside the crate. He should also take his meals there. If you give him a shake, just put it in a Camelbak. And leave the door open every two to three hours. You don’t want him pissing himself inside the kennel.”

“And this will keep him calm.”

“As quiet as a dormouse,” Pierce promises.

Brock has never seen a dormouse, but from the way the Asset is trying to shrink into the kennel floor, he suspects it’s stealthy as fuck.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

CREEPY GRANPA STORIES...

I love love lOVE this!!! Thank you for filling it. Will you give m more in exchange for this leaky rainboot and a pair of black sweatpants with mysterious "stains" on them?

Re: Fill: Pedigree (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

WOW. Wonderful writing style, this is shaping up already to be great.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Damn this is awesome. Your characterization for Rumlow and Pierce are really good too, and the general sense of how weird working for HYDRA is

Re: Fill: Pedigree (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Creepy grandpa Pierce is my favorite Pierce.

I love how done Brock is with all this HYDRA weirdness.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

I LOVE THIS SO MUCH

your style is amazing and so engaging ahhh I can't wait for more

Re: Fill: Pedigree (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

YESSSSS this is AWESOME. I love this Pierce and his faux-friendliness and creepy Grandpa stories, and this Rumlow who just wants to get on with his fucking job. Perfection all around.

*piles up rusty tin cans with interesting bits of rotten food clinging to the insides at your feet*

Re: Fill: Pedigree (3/?)

[(Anonymous)]

“All right. So what happens when he goes off the chain? We got some hiking at Nuevo Laredo.”

“He can still operate independently during a mission.” Pierce waves a hand dismissively. “Although, if it’s a question of transport, he can carry his own equipment.”

He drops into a crouch beside the cage, one hand clinging hard to the top corner. Brock tries not to wince as the old man’s knees crack like Rice Krispies.

“I tell you what, it’s hell to get old,” Pierce calls up with a wry smile. He unhooks the flimsy clip that holds the cage door and lets gravity swing it open.

“Pack it up,” he tells the Soldier’s unblinking, unyielding mask. “You have sixty seconds.”

The Soldier uncoils instantly and pushes up onto his hands and knees. The cage is just barely tall enough to accommodate him on all fours, maybe four centimeters of clearance at the top. He scrambles out so fast he leaves a chunk of hair behind, caught in the junction of two crossing bars.

Jesus.

“If he doesn’t move quickly, he’s not allowed to take it,” Pierce says, conversationally. “As you can see, he’s very motivated.”

The Soldier proceeds to dismantle the kennel in seconds, like his goddamn life depends on it. His hands blur over more latches, then the shorter ends fold in, until the entire thing flattens like a cereal box. He springs to attention with the cage held tight under his arm - the human one, for some reason.

“Good.”

Pierce claps a hand down on the Soldier’s shoulder. The Soldier holds perfect, painfully still.

“Agent Rumlow is your mission commander,” the Secretary informs him. He repeats the instruction in Russian, and German for good measure. The Soldier’s generally good with the first two, but Brock appreciates the extra effort. He’d just as soon have the highest chance possible the Asset won’t be tearing off his face.

The Soldier acknowledges in accented Russian, which is of course, more of Brock’s shit luck. He’s fluent, of course - prereq for anyone signing the Asset out - but he’d be lying if he said he looked forward to Russian days. The fucking rrrrrolled r’s feel like he’s choking.

“Two targets, Level 5,” he tells the Soldier. “Five man team, ground approach. ETA thirty-six hours; we’ll brief on the way.”

The Soldier confirms again, barely intelligible beneath his tight mask. Pierce’s lips are tilting into a frown; well, fuck him. This is Brock’s mission now, and he’ll lead it how he wants it. Even if that means addressing the cyborg like a team member.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Pierce says. “See Charlene on your way out; she should have a pamphlet.”

“Yessir.”

The Secretary gives the Soldier one last, grandfatherly pat and withdraws, lingering at the mouth of the alcove. The Soldier’s grip tightens to white knuckled on his cage.

“Oh, and Brock?”

“Sir?”

“I forgot to tell you, the most important thing you have to teach a bird dog.”

Pierce’s eyes gleam in the low light, flicking to Brock, then the Soldier, then the the cage.

“Whatever they have, it’s not theirs to keep. So anything you give them, you have to take it away.”

----

(help this is rapidly turning into a Thing)

Re: Fill: Pedigree (3/?)

[(Anonymous)]

the cage held tight under his arm - the human one, for some reason.

Nice touch, not that the whole thing isn't grand.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (3/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Thank you :) As a random bit of trivia, Bucky carries the cage on his non-augmented side to offset the weight of his prosthesis.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (3/?)

[(Anonymous)]

This is rapidly becoming one of my favorite things in the trash pile!!! I am glad it is becoming a thing. In fact here are some trash things for you: an empty milk carton, a broken lawn chair, and 18 back issues of Dog Fancy magazine from 1987-1989.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (3/?)

[(Anonymous)]

“Whatever they have, it’s not theirs to keep. So anything you give them, you have to take it away.”

damn that's cold

Re: Fill: Pedigree (3/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Oh god ouch this hurts so good. Damn your writing is amazing anon!

Re: Fill: Pedigree (3/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Please, by all means, let it turn into a Thing.

Your Pierce and Brock voices are fantastic I can't even.

Fill: Pedigree (4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

---

“The fuck is that?” Rollins asks the second they roll up to the loading dock, gaping at the giant mesh of wire cradled lovingly under the Soldier’s arm.

“Don’t ask,” Brock mutters, though that’s a lost fucking cause. Rollins looks like a thug, but he’s one of the most seasoned operatives on their squad. He and Brock go back to initiation.

“Get your shit set up,” he barks at the Soldier. To Rollins, “I’ll explain on the way.”

The Soldier confirms in Russian and leaps into the back in a single, explosive motion. Harper and Mitchell nearly give themselves concussions trying to get the hell out of his way.

“Up against the crates,” Brock orders. The Soldier affirms by whirling his precious package into place. He begins to set it up immediately, a reverse blur of how he’d taken it down, as precise and efficient as you’d assemble a gun.

Brock hangs to the rear bumper, watching for activity, but there aren’t any eyes to worry about. The van is backed up all the way to the loading door and flanked by a dumpster to cover their movement.

See this, this is why the bank mimes are so fucking offensive. They could have just rolled in and out. None of this Peewee ties and butler gloves shit.

“...is that seriously a cage?”

Brock snaps to the inside of the van. The whole back has been gutted to accommodate their gear, and now, the Soldier’s own personal freakshow. Mitchell is rucked up against the back of the driver’s side bucket seat, eyes as wide as saucers.
“I said,” Brock growls. “I’ll explain on the way.”

Mitchell is the greenest of them, maybe twenty-seven. Thinks he’s hot shit cause he’s good at interception; not seasoned enough yet to realize he can’t hack the Asset. He’ smart enough to shut his pie-hole though. He knows he doesn’t fill the hole that Wilkins left, and he’s terrified of pissing Rollins off.

The Asset is already in his little cage, curled up in full gear like the world’s most murderous pound puppy. The front door is hanging open, rattling a little with the thrum of the engine. The other new-ish guy, Harper, is watching every twitch. He’s also young but he came over from STRIKE Two, more than six ops ago. He knows enough to leave well enough alone.

Brock slams the back doors shut on them, one wing at a time.

“Buckle up, bitches,” he tells the blackout windows. “STRIKE, moving out.”

He swings up to claim shotgun and gives the official order to roll out. He and Rollins are the most senior, so they’re taking first rotation up in the actual seats. He turns around to make sure everyone’s settled, though, because he’s not completely unsympathetic to the poor sobs riding bitch.

“You good back there?” he calls out. Two voices affirm, plus the Soldier’s confused Russian. The Soldier doesn’t always parse casual sentences.

“We got a long ride ahead of us,” Brock says. “Twenty four hours to San Antonio, standard four hour rotation. We’re driving straight through, so use the head if you need a pit stop.”

Mostly for the Soldier’s benefit. The Soldier also doesn’t always get the subtleties of civilized human behavior, like not pissing in the corner of the stakeout apartment you’re sharing with three other guys. He’ll bury his shit if it’s upwind, like a cat, but that’s about the best he can manage on his own.

“Mission briefing will come in at 19:00. We should be somewhere outside Knoxville.” Brock nods at the sat phone. “Until then, play with your phones, play with yourselves, whatever.”

“You going to explain the deal with Terminator?”

He should have figured Mitchell wouldn’t let it go. Impatient kid, face only a mother could love. Sort of weasley-pointy, with hair that always looks this side of wet. Didn’t help that he’s taken a Cocktail to the chest at some point, got a mess of scars that he hides with turtlenecks. Rollins calls him “Steve Jobs” when he’s being a prick.

“I was getting to that,” Brock snaps. “But basically? Don’t fuck with him.”

“You don’t want to stick your dick in that level crazy,” Rollins adds, because he’s always being a prick.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

I'm stating this officially.

I don't know who started it, but I am guilty as well...

none of us can write Rollins without him saying -

"The fuck?"

or

"The fuck you doin?"

or

"The fuck is goin' on?"

or

"The fuck is that?"

I love it.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

flanked by a dumpster to cover their movement.

that pretty much describes all activity on this meme.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (1/?)

[(Anonymous)]

this is so filthy and sad and i am literally smacking my fucking chops

Re: Fill: Pedigree (1/?)

[(Anonymous)]

(Author here - just wanted to say thank you to everybody who has commented on this. I have not written in many years and I appreciate how nice everyone has been about it :)

Re: Fill: Pedigree (1/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Thank you for writing this! It's amazing, and I'm thirsty for more.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (1/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Author Anon, you haven't written "in many years"? That's far more sad/bad/wrong than anything that happens to our poor puppy Bucky. You are much too talented to hide your light under a dumpster. Your skill with characterization, tension, dialogue -- it's staggering. I urge you to write a million more chapters of Pedigree, set up shop on AO3, get your own column in the Times, whatever makes you happy -- just don't stop writing!