garbage all the way down (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
trashmod) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hydratrashmeme2014-05-30 05:23 pm
trashmod) wrote in hydratrashmeme2014-05-30 05:23 pm
Trash Party Dumpster #1
(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 riskof 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 bygreenkirtle. 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.
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
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.
Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2015-01-20 01:14 am (UTC)(link)The interstate is dark and lonely and their nighttime HUD has kicked in by the time the next update lands. Gives Brock a decent reason to be awake. Logically, they’re far enough into Mitchell’s shift he should be taking advantage of the break. Doesn’t matter what time the clock says: you want to roll STRIKE, you learn how to stay at peak functionality. If that means you sleep from 20:00 to 04:00, fine. If that means you stay up the next two days, great. He’s got both their stash of caffeine and the thrum of a well-tuned engine. He should be able to work with that. Maybe he’s just getting fucking old.
The Soldier’s cage clatters as the van catches what feels like a rumble strip. Rollins’ eyes pop open half a second, then drop right back off. Lucky son of a bitch. He was out cold the second his ass hit the deck, curled up next to the rifle rack like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Harper is asleep too, passed out in the passenger seat.
“Sorry, possum,” Mitchell calls back. The van lurches back into the lane fast enough to slide the cage into Brock’s fucking leg. The Soldier squeaks and jerks his head toward it.
“It’s fine,” Brock says. He shoves the crate back in place with his foot. “Keep going.”
The Soldier is stretched out on the floor of the van, up on his toes and human elbow in a tense one-armed plank position. Sweat is beaded all along his neck, but he hasn’t so much as twitched his metal arm back toward the ground. Its metal fingers are at the Soldier’s temple, held at a stiff left-handed salute.
“And get your ass down,” Brock tells him. Once the core fatigue sets in, the natural tendency is to tilt the pelvis back, use the quads to hold you up.
The Soldier makes the softest of grunts and flexes his hips forward, but he doesn’t complain again. Brock’s starting to think the crate is like the painting in that one old novel; the Soldier doesn’t age or tire, but you hurt the cage, you apparently hurt him.
“He still planking?” Mitchell asks.
“Yeah,” Brock says.
“Damn.”
Brock shrugs. It hasn’t been that long. Most of STRIKE can hold a plank at least fifty-five minutes; forty minutes is the minimum. Course, that’s in straight-armed position, without an extra sixty pounds of metal. Still.
“You know the world record is three hours or something,” Mitchell says, all too casually.
“He’s not holding this for your entire shift,” Brock warns. Once he does get to sleep, Mitchell and Harper get to be de facto in charge of the Soldier, which is a slightly frightening thought. “You don’t want him worn out before we get there.”
Though the bastard might be able to do it, for all the fuck Brock knows. The records say they’ve got the Soldier on some kind of daily multi-hour core training to maintain his trunk strength. Apparently even super cyborgs don’t get to skip ab day: if he weren’t so jacked, his arm might literally rip out of the moorings in his torso. Which, yeah, puts Brock’s fitness into perspective.
He goes back to his phone and flicks through the latest missive, and the resultant timetable update. They’re going to hold at a campground outside San Antonio tomorrow, cross the border under cover of night. Official word is that SHIELD’s stringing AIM along, pulling all the posturing bullshit that Costa would expect -- stalling Costa into thinking AIM is fighting for her. Which gives their guys on the inside time to set up clearance for a few brand new mercenary hires, and shiny all-levels access cards.
Seriously, it’s almost laughably simple. Brock wonders sometimes how much of the world they’ve conquered not by recruiting the biggest baddest muscle, but highly competent and underpaid human resources directors. Also why HYDRA doesn’t skimp on proper team building or initiation. Nobody would ever fuck up STRIKE by showing up with unexpected ‘new recruits’. AIM keeps 25% of their talent freelance? They might as well have signed their own death warrant.
He supposes that’s why it’s worth it putting his time into these new assholes, even if it pisses him off to be on newbie duty. Hell, this whole trip is probably Pierce’s fucked up idea of team bonding. Goddamnit. He’s going to report back to weird bullshit about family road trips in a BMW, isn’t he.
“Google says the world record’s four hours and twenty six minutes,” Mitchell calls suddenly. Which, what the hell.
“Are you fucking Googling and driving?” Brock snaps.
“Jesus Christ, there’s nobody for miles!”
Okay, never mind. Newbie duty: still awful. “You get us pulled over I am personally going to beat your ass.” Phone screens are bright as shit, and cops love to chase easy money.
“I’m just saying, he could beat it.”
“Soldier, push ups,” Brock growls. “On your knuckles. Give me a hundred.”
The Soldier shifts immediately into position, balls up his human fist and drops his nose all the way to the floor. Sweat splatters down to pool beneath his face. At this rate they’re going to have to mop the van to keep it from smelling like a gym.
At least they provided the Soldier with a proper set of gym clothes. The entire crate fiasco had Brock worried about the rest of the Soldier’s gear, but it turns out it’s mostly regulation. Aside from the Soldier’s tac suit, which is one part Kevlar and three parts leather fetish, his kit seems to contain weapons, holsters, and a standard week of clothing: t-shirts and boxers and grey workout pants. No leashes or puppy costumes or any other sick shit. Brock’s uncomfortably aware of his own ‘dog tags’ against his skin, but that’s worlds away from what it would mean to put a collar on the goddamn Winter Soldier.
The Soldier doesn’t even have tags, as far as he’s aware. Some people say if he ever goes down, his arm is rigged to blow.
“One hundred,” the Soldier says quietly in English. Still holding that perfect push up form. Fuck it, Brock’s exhausted, whether his nerves want to let his body sleep or not.
“Sit,” he orders, and the Soldier springs back into an obedient squat. Brock doesn’t know if they taught him to crouch like that, or if he’s too afraid of being caught off guard to let his ass completely touch the ground. Brock rummages through the hygiene crate and tosses the Soldier a towel and a pack of DryBath. They’ll give him a real shower when they’re parked at the campground. For now, the waterless alcohol cleanser should strip off the worst of the funk.
“Clean yourself up,” Brock tells him.
The Soldier blinks. For a long, horrible moment, Brock wonders if the Soldier remembers how to wash. Swear to God, if they recalibrated him so he doesn’t know how to wash his own balls, STRIKE’s next mission is cracking some eggheads.
Thankfully the Soldier is standing up to strip a second later. Brock looks down at his phone before he catches an eyeful of dong.
“Don’t check the rearview,” he warns Mitchell.
“Already got a rear view,” Mitchell says. “Thanks for nothing.”
Brock holds up a very professional middle finger, in case Mitchell is still perverted enough to be watching the back. The Soldier’s sweaty clothes hit the floor as a small pile. Brock notices they’re folded out of the corner of his eye.
“You ever wonder what they made him from?” Mitchell says a minute later.
“No,” Brock lies.
“He’s got - there’s scar tissue all the way round his shoulder. Like he’s gotta heal like a person.”
“Sort of. He’s enhanced,” Brock says. That much is cleared to share within teams. “He’s got some version of the super-soldier serum.”
“But he doesn’t Hulk out like Banner.”
“Banner got a different version. Nobody knows how that one works.” Or how the fuck conservation of mass works, anymore. If Banner was really smart he’d hole up somewhere and figure out where Einstein went wrong. Then maybe he’d be valuable enough not to shut up in a cage. Brock’s thought about moonlighting for the bounty on that one, but he values his limbs staying attached to his body.
“...you think he’s like Robocop?”
Brock draws in a deep breath. Every green kid asks eventually. It’s the fucking STRIKE equivalent of ‘where do babies come from’.
“I don’t know. Don’t have clearance for that one,” he says. “Some people says he’s a cadaver. Some people say he was a volunteer.”
“So more Six Million Dollar Man.”
“I guess,” Brock says. “Never watched it.”
“Come on! Steve Austin? It’s where we get the whole word ‘cyborg’.”
“Unlike some people I didn’t get beat up in high school.” He hopes that’s still an insult. Fucking Tony Stark’s made being a nerd popular.
“Fuck you, I was an offensive tackle.”
“Did you suck at it?” Brock asks, sincerely curious. Mitchell’s cut, everyone on his team is, but he’s not exactly proportioned like a Mack Truck. He can’t imagine that kid playing football.
“We took second in state my junior year.”
Brock snorts. “No one gives a shit about the second place team.”
“Did you make it to state?” Mitchell sneers.
“My school gym was condemned,” Brock says. “So no.”
The Soldier’s towel hits the floor, joining the rest of his stinking clothes. It’s twisted into a perfect space-saving roll, as if he expects to use it again. The empty DryBath follows after, folded into a neat little square.
“Get some clothes on,” Brock tells him, ignoring whatever Mitchell is saying about sour grapes. Brock doesn’t need a green techie from West Point to tell him about how ‘hard’ state bowls are. Brock throws a clean t-shirt and some boxers in the Soldier’s general direction.
The Soldier dresses in a series of soft rustles, then goes silent. Brock risks a glance up to find him standing at perfect attention, holding himself tight and upright despite the sway of the van.
“At ease,” Brock tells him. “Or good boy.” Whatever. Fucking dog commands. “I’ll get your treat.”
The Soldier drops once more into an eager crouch, watching Brock’s every move as he gets into the rations.
“Here.” Brock chucks a package of peanut butter-lard bar into the Soldier’s cage. He figures the guy could use something more substantial after working out. The Soldier scrambles to stuff himself in after it, either excited about the food or the chance to shut himself up again. He tries to drag his clothes with him, unfortunately - both his tac suit and the pile of stinking workout clothes.
“Hey!” Brock says. The Soldier freezes with his face mashed against the far side. “No. Give that shit back.”
“What’s he doing?” Mitchell asks.
“Stealing the goddamn laundry,” Brock says. He’s got one hand on a baton, just in case. The Soldier’s not been disobedient, not beyond the initial potato chip disaster. Brock’s starting to think the Soldier just forgot about trash. His sad little Subway napkin is tucked next to his mask, like he thinks it’s all part of his gear.
Brock is tired as hell, but especially of being afraid.
The Soldier reluctantly backs out of his crate, still clinging to an armful of Kevlar and sweatpants.
“You don’t keep dirty clothes,” Brock tells him. “Or wrappers. Give.”
The Soldier goes to his hands and knees, curled with his pile of crap underneath him. He unfurls each piece of clothing one at a time, lays it out wrinkled in the floor in front of Brock. If it were anyone else on the planet, he would swear the Soldier is sulking.
“Tac gear too,” Brock says. “You don’t need that in there. And the napkin.”
The Soldier’s eyes dart back and forth, frantic. Lock onto him with an intensity like deep glacial ice. Brock clicks on the charge to the shock stick, holds that gaze with everything he’se got.
“You okay back there?” Mitchell asks.
“Yeah. Just cleaning house,” Brock says. Every muscle in his body is tingling with tension. “C’mon, bitch. Give.”
The Soldier makes a tiny, wrecked noise, but reluctantly he reaches in to retrieve the remaining items. It looks like it costs him a tooth to lay out his last possessions: the wrinkled Subway napkin. His face mask. His field goggles.
Brock taps a finger toward the field ration. “You can keep your PlumpyNut. Your treat. But you throw the wrapper away when you’re done. Got it? People don’t hang on to garbage. You get an attitude about it again, there’s gonna be consequences.”
An aeon ticks out between them, and then slowly, deliberately, the Soldier lowers his body to the floor. Rolls onto his back, with his head twisted to the left.
“Yessir,” the Soldier whispers, and damned if he doesn’t bare his fucking throat. Brock can feel his heart shaking through his chest.
“I got it,” Mitchell says, somewhere far off. “He’s not Robocop. He’s Terminator.”
“Yeah well, I sure as hell didn’t sign up to be John Connor,” Brock calls back. There’s air in the van again, so much his head is spinning with it. “When we get back, I’m writing this the fuck up. They wanna send him with a cover, I shouldn’t have to teach him how to find his ass with his hand.”
The Soldier eats his PlumpyNut outside of his cage with his belly still to the ceiling. Brock decides he can let it slide this once.
Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2015-01-20 05:06 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2015-01-20 05:50 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2015-01-20 12:52 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2015-01-20 02:03 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2015-01-20 05:15 pm (UTC)(link)Your STRIKE banter is glorious. I love that "where the Soldier comes from" is their equivalent to the birds and the bees talk.
Also, this is devastating. Just. Everything hurts. The napkin. I am broken. You are amazing.
Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2015-01-20 05:23 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2015-01-21 01:28 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2015-01-21 02:12 pm (UTC)(link)OMG BLESS YOU
This line makes me feel physically uncomfortable in my clothes. I ADORE the fact that the Soldier has apparently decided Rumlow is fit to be his alpha/master/whatever, this is SO dirtybadwrong in the best of ways.
Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2015-02-17 02:58 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2015-07-07 03:09 am (UTC)(link)"The Soldier goes to his hands and knees, curled with his pile of crap underneath him. He unfurls each piece of clothing one at a time, lays it out wrinkled in the floor in front of Brock."
Im still screaming. Really, how can you be this evil? Have never seen such subtle malice in this place of rotten things.
You deserve a throne of depleted uranium, autor!anon.
But, Have my thanks instead xD
Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2015-07-29 11:18 pm (UTC)(link)I just binged the whole fill so far and was in a state of constant delight. The prose itself is amazing, but so is the voice, your characterization, dialogue, the specificity and detail choices that make the team feel absolutely credible (ALL SO GOOD), the gallows humor balanced with a pervasive sense of tension... I could go on. Smart, entertaining, and most gripping of all: our dear sad Soldier. He's funny and terrifying, strange and heartbreaking -- you've hit my favorite fandom combos right on the head with this one, and balanced them beautifully. This characterization really does it for me.
I would happily read several hundred thousand more words of this, and have found myself fantasizing about how you'd write the Soldier in other scenarios, or post-CATWS. I love this kinkmeme, but only a few fills have lingered in my head afterward, and I'm grateful to have found another one.
During lunch, I adjusted my route to drop by a Subway so I could pick up some napkins. This fill gave me Subway napkin separation anxiety, I cannot believe it.
Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2015-09-11 01:02 pm (UTC)(link)OR CROSS POST IT TO AO3 SO I CAN BOOKMARK AND SAFELY LOVE IT FOREVER!! I'm terrified that I'll lose the link to this brilliant fic!
I'm utterly spellbound by how hurt you made me feel after making the Soldier give up a freaking subway napkin. All his worldy possessions amount to the clothes on his back and the trash he manages to scrounge away.... *sobs*
Bloody brilliant writing and I'd love to see more
Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-03-30 06:38 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2017-06-27 02:49 am (UTC)(link)