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INJURIES + AID.

a collection of prompts in which sender comes to receiver for help with an injury, focusing on trust, vulnerability, and a little bit of embarrassment! various situations included, cw for injuries, implied self harm, and nsfw content!

add +reverse as needed, or specify extra details! in no particular order:

[ 01 ] sender comes to receiver with a wound they have been keeping secret and has become infected.

[ 02 ] sender comes to receiver for help with a wound they swore they could take care of alone.

[ 03 ] sender comes to receiver with an unrelated injury but happens to be covered in marks from a recent sexual encounter.

[ 04 ] sender comes to receiver with an injury they got during sex.

[ 05 ] sender comes to receiver with an injury they got while doing something the receiver warned them not to attempt alone.

[ 06 ] sender comes to receiver with an self-inflicted injury from unwise sword/bow/weapons practice.

[ 07 ] sender comes to receiver with a self-inflicted injury from a silly domestic (cleaning/cooking etc) accident.

[ 08 ] sender comes to receiver with a self-inflicted injury for which they provide no excuse.

[ 09 ] sender comes to receiver with an injury in a location they cannot easily reach.

[ 10 ] sender comes to receiver with an injury they do not remember getting.

[ 11 ] sender comes to receiver with an aggravated old injury they knew they needed to be careful of.

[ 12 ] sender comes to receiver having re-opened a healing wound.

[ 13 ] sender comes to receiver having ruined the dressing of a recent wound.

[ 14 ] sender comes to receiver with an injury in a sensitive/intimate location.

[ 15 ] sender comes to receiver with an injury in a location that reveals an embarrassing/secret tattoo.

[ 16 ] sender comes to receiver with an injury in a location that reveals scars that are not usually seen.

[ 17 ] sender comes to receiver with a problem that reveals an old injury they need to explain.

[ 18 ] sender comes to receiver with a problem they have had before, but has been previously shoddily cared for.

[ 19 ] sender comes to receiver with an injury they're sure was a deliberate attack on them, though they have no evidence.

[ 20 ] sender comes to receiver needing care for a recent tattoo.

[ 21 ] sender comes to receiver needing care for a recent piercing.

[ 22 ] sender comes to receiver needing care for another recent body modification.

[ 23 ] sender comes to receiver with an injury that has been inflicted upon them as punishment.

[ 24 ] sender comes to receiver with a long-term injury they've finally decided to address.

[ 25 ] sender comes to receiver with an injury that reveals a long-kept secret.

the nights in gotham weren't just dark—they drowned in shadow, swallowing men whole and leaving nothing but a cold whisper behind. he'd worked in cities like gotham before—berlin, moscow, madripoor—but gotham was something else. a different kind of beast with different kind of monsters.

he moved through the warehouse like a ghost, boots silent against concrete, a black silhouette against the night. hydra had been quick to use gotham as their backdrop, smuggling weapons, money, and other nastier things and he had no intention of letting them remain.

the floor is a maze of steel crates, some marked with shell corporation insignias, others left blank and unidentifiable. overhead, a single flickering bulb swung slightly, casting long, jagged shadows, and that was when he saw it.

a man, swinging from the rafters by his ankles. he hadn't done that. footsteps to his left alert him to a patrolling agent and bucky slipped quickly around one of the steel crates, raising to his full height to wrap his arm around the agent's and cut the weapon from his body in a single motion. he took him down quietly, but the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. a warning that he wasn't alone. // @bruz3r , a semi - plotted starter .

Archives of HYDRA

April 1st Theme: HYDRA @catws-anniversary

❝ i think we've found enough books for one night, ❞ bucky said, ❝ we can always come back. this place doesn't look like it's going anywhere anytime soon. ❞ he added. her second option had bucky releasing a breath that wasn't quite a laugh but had the shape of one, something easy, something light.

❝ reckless, huh? ❞ the word rolled past his lips with ease. he leaned in just a fraction, a movement that wasn't meant to intimidate, but to tease.

❝ you want me to read to you, palamas? ❞ his voice was low, edged with something almost smug, but warm all the same. the tease came almost effortlessly, easier than it should've. a year ago, hell, even a few months ago, he would've let the silence settle there, but not now.

❝ if we're gonna do this, you should know—i don't do voices. ❞

kara watched the way his fingers curled around the book,  the deliberate care of it.  like he was holding something fragile,  something that mattered.   &  maybe it did.  maybe it was more than paper  &  ink,  more than a story — it was a bridge,  a tether to a past that hadn’t been entirely stolen.  she didn’t say anything,  just let the silence stretch,  let him have the moment.  some things didn’t need words.   

but when he looked at her,  something different flickered in his expression — lighter,  a ghost of something unburdened.  it made her chest ache,  just a little,  the way it always did when she caught glimpses of what could have been,  what still might be.  he tucked the book into his pocket,   &  she tilted her head,  considering his challenge.   

❝next adventure … right,❞ she exhaled a quiet laugh,  glancing around at the hollowed-out remains of forgotten stories.  ❝well,  we could always stick around,  find the weirdest book title in the place. ❞ her gaze flickered back to his,  something warm beneath the teasing.  ❝or i know a rooftop,  one of those places no one’s supposed to go but everyone does anyway.  good view,  bad idea.  but we could read there,  if you’re feeling reckless.❞

the rain had turned the alley into a maze of shallow rivers, a forensics nightmare as it swept away any evidence that might have been left behind. he'd promised his neighbor to look into their missing kid. twenty-one, barely more than a name on a grainy photo, and gone without a trace. bucky crouched beside the warehouse door, the padlock was new, but the scratches around it weren't. someone had forced their way in before.

bucky grasped the lock and it shattered like plastic in his hand. it was the smell he noticed first as he slipped inside. the air was thick with the scent of oil and metallic—machinery or blood. a single work light hummed in the far corner, illuminating a table stacked with what looked like documents and some kind of ledger. he reached for the ledger just as he heard a pair of footsteps behind him.

he froze, gloved hand hovering over the ledger as he took in the sight of the stranger at the door he'd just broken into. // @d4ughter , a semi - plotted starter .

❝ it never does, ❞ he said. he had been here before. the emptiness, the obsessive need to set the world right, to avenge himself and all those he'd been forced to hurt, forced to kill. but there was no setting it right, no making things the way they had been before. there was just this : the dissatisfaction of a trigger pulled and that hollow nothing only growing wider.

he ached at seeing that same emptiness reflected back at him. wished he could take it all into himself, unburden her of the injustice and wipe her slate clean again. but that was only his ego talking. tell me it gets easier, the words dug the knife deeper. no sooner had she said it, kara tried quickly to deflect it. cover up the moment of vulnerability with the carefully trained operative leaping from one objective to the other.

bucky stopped her, gloved hand raised to keep her where she was. standing over a body, standing in front of possibly the only man left who could understand what she was going through. ❝ but it does get easier, ❞ he said, expression hard as he tried to reach out, tried to be more than the ghost hydra had made of him. ❝ but not like this. stopping people like him, it's easy . . . but it's not enough. we need to . . . help people. make it so their faces are clearer than the ones we hurt. ❞

the weight in her hands was gone,  but it hadn’t left her.  the cold press of metal had burned itself into her skin,  into her bones,  just another ghost among the many she carried.  the body slumped against the wall wasn’t the first,  wouldn’t be the last,   &  yet — for a fleeting second — she had let herself believe this one might mean something.  that this act might carve out a sliver of silence in the relentless noise of her mind.  but there was no quiet.  just the same gnawing emptiness.  ❝it should have felt like justice, ❞ she murmured,  voice devoid of triumph.  ❝but it doesn’t feel like anything at all. ❞

she exhaled,  slow  &  measured,  as if she could breathe the moment away.  the tremor in her fingers betrayed her,  though not from fear.  fear had been stripped from her long ago,  torn out  &  rewritten into something colder.  something sharp.   &  yet,  as her gaze flickered to bucky’s outstretched hand,  to the space where the gun had been,  she felt the weight of his silence.  heavy.  understanding.  like he had already seen the road she was walking  &  knew exactly where it led.  ❝tell me it gets easier,❞ she said,  though she already knew the answer.   

but she wasn’t ready to acknowledge that.  not yet.  instead,  she let her hands fall to her sides,  fingers curling into fists as she looked away.  the blood on the concrete would dry.  the body would be removed.   &  she would keep moving forward because there was no other choice.  ❝let’s go, ❞ she said finally,  voice quiet,  resolute.  ❝before i start thinking about it too much. ❞

he smiled, tight lipped and still slightly grim, but it was a smile nonetheless. he watched her go, only once she was out of sight did he turn his eye to the shelves of books. it took him longer than he would have liked to admit to really pay attention to what he was looking at. he picked his way through, trying to remember the last time he actually read a book for leisure at all.

eventually, she returned to him and bucky arched a brow as she presented him with her find. the teasing was gone now, but he knew the feeling well—the hesitation before offering a piece of yourself. he took the book from her hand and blew out a breath, the velveteen rabbit. his expression softened, thumbing through the pages absently.

❝ okay . . . i'm impressed, ❞ bucky admitted, ❝ i didn't think this place would have it. ❞ he turned the book over in his hands before presenting her with his own find. milk and honey by the poet rupi kaur. what is stronger than the human heart, he'd read while thumbing through the pages. ❝ we might need a third opinion. ❞

kara stepped further inside,  the dim light filtering through cracked windows,  tracing the curve of her cheek as she smirked over her shoulder.  ❝oh,  you’re on, ❞ she said,  voice laced with something playful but edged in challenge.  her fingers trailed along the spines of forgotten books,  their titles half-erased by time,  their covers worn soft like well-loved things.  there was something about places like this — untouched,  abandoned,  yet still breathing with the weight of words left behind.  ❝winner gets to pick the next adventure, ❞ she added,  glancing at him as if daring him to up the stakes. 

she disappeared into the stacks before he could answer,  moving through the rows with an ease that came from years of seeking refuge in places like this.  a quiet sanctuary,  where no one asked who you were before or what you might become.  her fingers stopped on a book with a cracked leather spine,  its gold lettering dulled but still there.  the velveteen rabbit.  she exhaled softly,  thumb brushing over the title.  a story about being loved into something real.  a story about survival.  about what it meant to endure. 

when she found him again,  she held it up without a word,  her gaze steady.  a moment passed between them,  something unspoken stretching in the quiet.  ❝i think i win, ❞ she said finally,  but her voice had lost its teasing edge.  there was something else there,  something weightier,  as if she was offering more than just the book.  a piece of herself,  maybe.  a quiet understanding,  waiting for him to take it not knowing that behind her back she held yet another surprise. ❝ you find anything?❞

he'd seen cold before, brooklyn in january, the hudson iced over, boots soaked through with slush, hands stuffed into too-thin coat pockets. but this wasn't just cold. it was something meaner. it gnawed at the edges of a man, not content to freeze him but intent on hollowing him out from the inside. his nose was already raw, bright and angry form the constant drag of his sleeve across it, and his fingers had gone stiff hours ago, turning a ruddy pink that throbbed beneath layers of blood and dirt. even the gloves he'd scrounged up from a dead german didn't do much more than hold the cold in place.

bucky's mouth twisted into something caught between a grin and a grimace. eugene looked about as good as bucky felt. eyes sunken, lashes rimmed with frost, lips cracked. red nose, red hands. dirt and blood both clinging to him like a second skin, and still, he managed to toss that dry wit like it was nothing heavier than a smirk. ❝ can't blame a guy for trying, ❞ he said, stepping in closer. the pews were gone. cots now lined the nave filled with the wounded, the sick, the dying. it stank of blood, sweat, and desperation.

❝ no morphine, just a bullet with a nazi's name on it . . . and this, ❞ he dug into his pocket, came up with a half-eaten bar of chocolate, and slapped it gently into the good doctor's palm. his fingers lingered a second longer than they needed to—maybe for warmth, maybe because he hadn't touched another human being that wasn't screaming in what felt like years. then bucky stepped back, squinting when eugene spoke around his cigarette and chattering teeth. in war, morphine made you the wealthiest man on the battlefield.

❝ i'll ask around and keep an eye out, ❞ bucky said, ❝ word is we'll be heading out before sunrise. maybe i'll get lucky. what else you need? ❞

nose is poised in the center of face, a bright shade of red, skin angry from the continual rub of sleeve to combat the persistent sniffling that lingers in a climate only growing colder. his hands are the same way, dusted with a shade of pink that cannot be avoided, darkened only by dirt and blood encrusted beneath nails and in cuticles. fingers are stiff as they work to roll scrapped sheets collected from the village nearby that had turned their church into a place for the wounded ... and while their supplies weren't much more generous than the dwindling stock of the other men, he wasn't one to complain.

besides, anything was better than nothing at this point; torn sheets, scrapped linens, medical supplies picked off surrendered germans - long as it did the job.

x ❚❙❘ how about a kiss before i go ?

❛ ah, sergeant barnes, 'fraid i'm all outta those. ❜ he shifts stare out toward @wintrb0rn from beneath the wide-mouthed brim of well-worn helmet. tired eyes & doe-lashes set idle on the other man as if he isn't damn near freezing and plenty in need of a good night's rest ( a good year's rest at this point ). the humor isn't lost on him, he welcomes it's chattering nature with a sort of fondness. when men were laughing, they sure as hell weren't screaming - a trade-off he'd give up damn near anything for all things considered. stained sleeve rises, it wraps tight in his fingers, hot breath blooms around the corners of mouth as he wipes at flesh before fingers move on to seeking the comfort of lucky strike poised behind ear.

❛ outta an awful lot of things, actually. ❜ cigarette roles between frigid figures; he hangs it betwixt lips, paper clamped lose between teeth. sure doesn't make him easier to understand, not that such seems to impede most of the men he works beside in making out what he's saying. ❛ you bring me some morphine, and maybe i'll find a spare. ❜

seven deadly sins manifestation .

[ WRATH ] — he's always embodied wrath most naturally, before Hydra and before even the war, he has always been filled with fury towards those who abuse their power, who bully and belittle, and who harm. His wrath has only grown and become harsher, more precise and more person. He doesn’t just fight; he punishes. His control can slip, and the Winter Soldier’s brutality can emerge. Beneath this is another kind of anger—self-directed. He hates himself for what he did and for what he became.

[ SLOTH ] — he struggles with motivation, not because he doesn't care, but because caring hurts. There are days when he feels numb, when the weight of his past makes getting up and existing unbearable. He tries to force himself to act, to fight, but he rarely lets himself live. His sloth manifests in how he avoids emotional connections and vulnerability. He keeps people at arms length, afraid to form bonds, convincing himself he's better off alone to avoid the pain of attachment. At his lowest, sloth manifests as self-neglect—skipping meals, avoiding sleep, refusing to take care of himself because, at times, he doesn't see the point.

[ GREED ] — he doesn't and has never sought material wealth, his greed manifests in hoarding whatever peace he can find. He doesn’t trust easily, so when he does find something safe—a quiet corner of a city, a person who doesn’t look at him with fear, a cafe he feels comfortable—he clings to it. Similarly, he clings to sentimental objects and items, carries remnants of his past life as if letting go of them would erase what little he has left. His dog tags, Steve's old notebook and vinyls, letters from his sister stolen from the Smithsonian.

[ PRIDE ] — his pride is a double-edged sword. On one hand, he refuses help, believing he must atone for his past alone. He resists leaning on others, convinced that his redemption is his burden alone to carry which manifests in his lone-wolf vigilantism—he doesn’t want others involved, fearing they’ll get hurt or that they’ll see him as beyond saving. On the other hand, he struggles to accept kindness because, deep down, he doesn’t believe he deserves it. He seems constantly at odds with himself, proud of his skills and his abilities but ashamed of how he learned them.

[ ENVY ] — he struggles with envy. Feels it for those who live ordinary lives, who haven't experienced war, who retain innocence and optimism, who hold true to idealism and believe in humanity, kindness, love. He feels removed from these things, undeserving, robbed of being capable of it all and it can taint his interactions with people. He doesn't resent them, but there's a deep ache in him, a longing for a life he feels he'll never have.

[ GLUTTONY ] — isn't about food or indulgence with Bucky, instead it's about excess as a coping mechanism. He pushes himself too hard—training until his body aches, throwing himself into fights as if pain can make up for the past. He overindulges in isolation, in punishment, in guilt. He engages in violence not just for justice but because, in the heat of a fight, he feels something. His gluttony is about extremes—pushing himself too far, taking too much responsibility, refusing to allow himself balance.

[ LUST ] — It took a long time for Bucky to remember what desire really felt like, and even longer to let himself feel it without resistance. Lust for Bucky is about craving connection but fearing it at the same time. He wants closeness, but intimacy requires vulnerability, and vulnerability is dangerous. He yearns for it but when faced with the chance, he pulls away. His lust, then, is suppressed, redirected. He fights instead of embracing. He runs instead of reaching out. And in the rare moments he allows himself closeness, he does so like a man expecting it to be ripped away.

tagged by : @sangiusd3vil ♡ tagging : @memuntos ( zahra ), @staticveil , @disasteregyptologist , @kenosky , @d4ughter , @executiioner , @ru5t , @skiesfield and anyone else that would like to do it ♡

i just think bucky deserves the john wick treatment