Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

[trashmod]

Holy shitballs, look at us go. Welcome to Captain America fandom's resident wretched hive of scum and villainy: ROUND THREE. AKA Bad Guys Do Dirtybadwrong Things To Your Faves, AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. As usual, BLANKET NON-CON AND NSFW WARNINGS apply: just assume going in that everything in this landfill is unfit for human consumption.

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, and dark!good guys AUs are off-topic.

[Round 1] [Round 2] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by greenkirtle)] [Round 3 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.

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[Fill] "Everything Stuck to Him" Bucky aggressively owning his bodily autonomy [4/5]

[(Anonymous)]

AN: This part and the next both feature drug abuse.

--

Steve stopped running.

He let Sam’s calls go to his voicemail. Eventually, the phone stopped listing any new messages, and Steve assumed the voicemail was full. Sometimes there were knocks on the door, but Bucky just turned his music up louder.

Sometimes Bucky left the apartment, returning with cigarettes and liquor. He never mentioned seeing anyone they knew, and Steve assumed that if he had, he’d come back laughing, telling Steve how he flashed them and told them to fuck off.

They smoked together. When Bucky pressed the cigarette butts against his arm, he never tensed. His face went slack, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.

Steve never stopped biting back a cry of pain when he did the same. For every wound Bucky made on his own body, Steve tried to match it. It was only right for Steve to start feeling all the pain that Bucky did. And seventy years’ more besides.

Not that they were going to live seventy more years, probably.

One night, Bucky went out and returned with a handful of little pills. “It’s called ecstasy,” he said. “Take it with me, Steve. You never fucking smile.”

Steve had smiled. He’d ended up lying on the floor giggling as Bucky had found the dildo in his closet. He wasn’t sure in the morning if Bucky had ridden the damn thing or not. There didn’t seem to be any new blood on it. Maybe Bucky’s body was just looser.

The thought made Steve vomit. He’d done a lot of that lately.

The next time, Bucky brought back heroin. Steve tried it and found himself unable to piss for hours after. Bucky called him a stick in the mud, and said he’d heard the high was even better with injections.

“Is that safe?” Steve asked.

“The fuck does safe mean?” Bucky wiped at his nose. He settled back on the couch, his eyes all black. “I haven’t been safe since I fell off the goddamn train, Steve. I’m like a fucking animate corpse. I ought to be in the ground. But it’s my body now, and I can choose the poison I put it into it.”

The next night, Bucky begged Steve to come out with him.

“You never go anywhere,” he said. Bucky was wearing the sort of skirt that belonged on a Catholic schoolgirl, presumably with the waistband rolled up under his shirt, because Steve could read the words he’d carved on his inner thighs earlier that day: FUCK up the right, and OFF down the left.

“What do you want me to write on you?” Bucky had asked hours ago, staining the couch as he sat down. There was heroin on the tip of his nose.

“Failure?” Steve had offered.

Bucky said no, because that didn’t split evenly, and had drawn snowflakes and stars instead.

“Please, Steve,” Bucky was pleading now. “I wanna try shooting up. And this place is fucking disgusting.”

“You’d be coming back to it,” Steve said.

“It’d be a break.”

“I don’t want to go out.” Steve shifted, tugging his sleeves down to cover his cuts. “I don’t want people to look at me.”

“Fuck people,” Bucky said. “We can get food. There’s nothing in this shithole. Besides, you want me to shoot up for the first time alone?”

That was how they ended up in a booth at McDonald’s, Steve hiding his face from the staring cashiers as Bucky shoveled down French fries, his eyes black. “You should try Special K,” he said, talking a mile a minute. “I’m serious, you’d like it, and it’s like a tranquilizer for horses or some shit so it would definitely work on you. You’d be happy.”

Bucky’s hair was limp and greasy, the makeup around his eyes smeared. The sleeves of his shirt had brown blotches where blood had leaked through, and stains down the front from the last time he ate. He looked like an addict.

Steve must have looked just as bad, and that seemed fair. “Okay,” he said.

There were voices behind them on the walk home, laughter and slurs. A group of teenagers, it sounded like. Steve drew his shoulders up, walking faster, but Bucky spun around, charging their way.

“Something you want to say?” he shouted, and getting a good look at him made them scatter.

“Bucky,” Steve said when Bucky seemed prepared to give chase. “They’re just stupid kids.”

“I know that,” Bucky snapped. “I don’t care what they think, Steve. I don’t care what anyone thinks. Hey, DC!” he shouted, throwing out his arms. “I’m the Winter Soldier!”

Steve grabbed his metal wrist and dragged him away.

Bucky only laughed, leaning against Steve’s shoulder as he was pulled. There were tears glistening in his eyes. “I am so fucked.”