#day 16

[ambersonic96]

Day 16: Scary movie

[daily-leon]

Catching up

[dailykaeyas]

[kunshokunsho]

womp womp

[messenger-of-babel]

Doorstep Ghosts

Summary: Dick takes you into his apartment when you appear on his doorstep, unable to cope with the recent accident. (Dick Grayson x reader)

Word Count: 1.9K

Notes: Is this even angst anymore? I don’t know. I might have missed the mark a little bit. Warning for sensitive topics and alluded to mentions of suicide. Maddd survivors guilt. If you are triggered I’d suggest to avoid all together just in case. If you are feeling that way, please reach out to someone and call the panic line in your country. There's always someone willing to listen. <3

I had to try and research the difference of whump vs. angst and I still don’t fully understand so I’m just gonna run off of vibes. This might classify more as hurt/comfort actually. Waah idk. Much love, RiRi~ xx

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Since the accident, Dick had been keeping close tabs on you.

He had asked Tim if Red Robin could keep a tab on you, even though Tim had his own ordeals to handle back in Gotham. Bruce had even chipped in when Dick asked, transferring him some money so Dick could move you into a safer apartment. Dick hated taking Bruce's money, he could do fine without it, and quite frankly he didn't want to take what he hadn't worked for himself. However, when it came to your safety, he put that aside for a moment. He wasn't going to risk it, so within the week you were in a nicer part of Bludhaven with a state-of-the-art security system secretly set up to ping him if anything went wrong.

He had been so careful, so meticulous about making sure that you were okay that when you appeared on his front step one night, soaked through to the bone and dripping on his doorstep he was stunned. Your eyes were red rimmed and puffy, snot building in your swollen nose. Your arms hugged around yourself to bite back the chill of winter, hair matted to your forehead.

"Can I come in?" you sniffle, quaking. Wordlessly he steps back, arm opening to usher you in and shut the door behind you. His mind is reeling, unsure how you managed to find your way here, halfway across town, without him or anyone back in Gotham noticing. He frowns softly, pulling you into the living room and disappearing to find you a towel. Bringing two fresh ones back, he hands one to you and unfurls the other. Softly he begins to dry your hair while you wipe down the rest of your body, jacket peeling away and making a wet plop on the floor next to you. "It's unsafe for you to be out, especially this late at night. How did you even get here?" He murmurs, squeezing the water from your scalp.

"I took the train." you say back weakly, voice crackly from hours of crying. His frown deepens, fingers clenching in concern.

"You know the train is dangerous on the best of days. No way to get off or go anywhere if something escalates. Not to mention, only gangs use the rail this late. You know better, why didn't you call me?" he chides softly, flinching at the way you hang your head at his tone. he hadn't meant for it to come out like that, he was just concerned for your safety.

"I didn't want to bother you," you sniffle back. "Not to come get me."

"It worries me more when you don't let me come get you. If you wanted company, I would have come to your place-"

"No." you say firmly, towel wrapped around your shoulders and voice firm. "Anywhere but there, anywhere else just not-" you cut yourself off, biting on your lip harshly. He turns you to face him, hands soft as they grip your shoulders.

"No what?" he asks softly. "Come on sweetheart, you gotta work with me here."

"It doesn't feel like home. It's not-" you begin to break into a sob again, and he sighs while rubbing your shoulders.

Home.

He knows how badly you want to go home to your old apartment. The one you had moved into the very first day you set foot into Bludhaven and poured your heart and soul into. The one that you shared with your elder brother, or had.

"I know. But you can't go back there sweetheart," he murmurs, thumbs running small circles over your skin. "It's an active crime scene, and it's unsafe-"

"It's home." you say weakly, hands coming up to wipe at your eyes. "I just want to go home, want to go to my bed in my room."

"You do have a room," he tries to soothe. "I made sure we found you somewhere nice and big, where you can take the master bedroom and have all the freedom to do what you want with decorating it, just like you always wanted."

He can't stand the way his voice sounds so condescending, as if throwing money at the problem as going to make the wound in your heart heal over. He knew it couldn't erase the horrors that you saw or fix the gaping hole in your life. He knew it wasn't going to bring your brother back, but he couldn't find the right words to take the pain away.

"What did you come here for?" he asks gently, crouching down in front of you so he can meet your gaze, heart clenching at the way you hang your head to hide your face. "I've got the spare bed made, or you can share mine. I'll even sleep in the spare room if you want it to yourself, you know I've got the best mattress." He tries to make a teasing remark, but it wavers with uncertainty.

"I…I was thinking." you murmur, hands beginning to quake. His eyebrows furrow, hands coming to grip yours.

"Thinking?" he inquires softly, not liking the ton of your voice.

"If I had been me instead." you hoarsely whisper, making panic flare through his chest.

"It's lucky it wasn't." he counters quickly. "This wasn't your fault, and it wouldn't have made anything better. You're here still, and that means you keep fighting." he stresses, thumbs tracing the back of your hand.

"It wasn’t lucky for him though," you say, voice trembling badly. "It was my fault it happened; it was all my fault. I'm the one who took the photographs of the deal and gave it to him, I'm the one who said he needed to stand up to other police on the force, I'm the one who said he should try to go against the corrupt ones. He took my advice, and it got him killed."

"Sweetheart, no." he tries to stop your rambling. "Listen-"

"It should have been me." you finally sob. "It should have been me, I don't know how I'm supposed to just keep going when all I want is to be with him again." you cry, breath coming out in chokes and eyes clenching shut. Your hands shake in his grip, trying to catch your breath in between sobs. "I want so badly to see him again." you manage to whisper out, voice tight. "I wanna follow, I just want to go."

Dick stands to his full height upon hearing that, pulling you tight. He buries his face in your hair, one arm coming around your back to press you firmly against him, the other on the back of your head. "Stop that." he says firmly. "We don't talk like that; we don't give into those thoughts." His voice comes out stern, but the sharpness of his words is dulled by the panic they're wrapped in.

"I... I know…" you choke out. "I’m... I’m confused Dick. I was convinced but then I got scared about it and I-I…" you trail off, breathing becoming quick and broken by hiccups. "I ran all the way here. I'm a coward, but in that moment, I just felt-"

"Scared." he finishes softly, hand softly petting your damp hair. "You were scared."

You nod against him, sniffling into his worn sleep shirt. "I don't know what to do. I don’t know where to go, where to turn." you whisper fearfully. Dick tightens his arms around you, senses dulling around him as he focuses on you. The sharp intakes of your breath, the erratic ticking of your pulse. "You stay here." he says softly. "With me. You tell me when you're having those thoughts, and I'll make them go away. You won't have to be scared, not when you're with me."

"And when you're not with me?" you ask quietly. He frowns at that, pulling back slightly to look at you.

"Sweetheart," he says adoringly, the faint traces of a warm smile gracing his lips. "Even if you can't see me, I'll always be with you."

Your eyes water more, and you let your head fall forward again. "When you have no one else to turn to, don't forget that you can turn back." he murmurs gently. "Because I'll always be behind you. Always, every step of the way." you say nothing back for a moment, but he holds you as you shake.

"Why?" you ask softly, hiccupping.

"Because I love you." he replies instantly, and you look up at him. Your eyes ware nearly swollen shut from the amount of crying you've been doing, and quite frankly, a mess. "I love you." he repeats. "So don't you dare try to leave, okay?" his own voice wavers, eyes clouding with a sheen of concern. More and more under his soothing you begin to relax, until you're barely standing by yourself. He guides you to bed, helping you change out of the wet clothes and into some of his freshly laundered ones before slipping you under the sheets. He gives you your favourite side of the bed before following suit.

As soon as your head hits the pillow you're out like a light, hand still gripping his softly. He adjusts so he's comfortable, not letting your hand go. With a soft sigh he stares at your worried and beaten form, the worry lines that have formed on your forehead and the bags that have developed under your eyes. You look exhausted, with faint tremors even as your breath evens and you fall deeper into sleep.

He can't even begin to comprehend the horrors that you had seen coming back from work that night, entering your apartment as usual only to walk in on a gruesome scene like that. he had seen it himself, as Nightwing. He had only seen the aftermath though, once the body had already been taken away. He never got to see the body, never saw the carnage that undoubtably the mob had left behind. What he had seen though was the blood splatters over the wall, and the array of household items that were being bagged for murder weapons. He had seen the message scrawled on the wall, crimson letters dripping with a warning. He had seen you, sitting with the paramedics as you stared off into the distance, eyes unseeing as they draped a shock blanket over your shoulders.

He moved himself closer to you, pulling you into him. He wasn’t going to let something like that happen to you, not if he could help it. he was Nightwing, if anything, he should have the power to stop these things. However, the fear that it would slip through his fingers plagued the back of his mind, the nightmare of you fading away like your brother bouncing around painfully inside his skull. He couldn't bear to lose you, not to the mob, not to yourself. He takes a deep breath to try and control his own emotions, careful not to wake you up. As he exhales through his nose, he lets himself relax slightly, gently snaking an arm over you for extra protection. He doubted he'd be sleeping very deeply tonight, but it was the price he was willing to pay to keep you safe.

He'd do it every night for the rest of his life if it meant keeping you by his side, keeping the flickering flame in your heart alive.

He'd keep his arms around you till eternity ended, just so you could know that even if you didn't think you had anyone, you would know you had him.

That is the thought that finally lets Dick flutter into sleep quietly himself, room filling with the sound of the rain outside and the quiet duet of even breaths.

[crossingthedreams]

no one else to turn to — aemond targaryen x sister-wife!reader

masterlist | day 16 (@angstober) — no one else to turn to

summary: in aemond’s mind, everything he did, he did to protect his family. what he didn’t realize was how much he was hurting them in the process. 

word count: 2.3k 

warnings: angst. targaryen incest (brother/sister). arranged marriage. sexism. reader is one of the greens (i’m not though). slight reader x aegon, if you squint. no use of y/n. not proofread.

You were more than somebody’s wife, somebody’s sister, somebody’s daughter or somebody’s grandchild. That’s what the men in your life constantly failed to understand. You were a person before you were, involuntarily, theirs. 

The matter at hand wasn’t your right to an opinion, but a right to your very own identity. 

Somehow, all of the sentences coming out of your brother’s mouth began with “as a child of…”, “as the sister of…”, always justifying how you should be by taking the men in your life and putting their wellbeing and their thoughts above your own. it was degrading and belittled you, not as a Targaryen Princess — which, make no mistake, you most certainly were — but as a human being worth of the same rights as any men. 

You stomped angrily towards your sister’s room, eager to share your frustrations. It wasn’t until you were inside that you were reminded she’d be very little conversational. All your worries faded momentarily when you saw Helaena curled up on the couch, a green duvet in her hands and gaze lost in the distance. 

It was only a few weeks since the terror she was put through with her children. She looked so small now, and she was barely older than you. 

You sat next to her, but didn’t touch her. Before the terrible events, Helaena already disliked being touched. Now, you didn’t even want to risk it. Poor girl, she didn’t deserve all this sorrow and stress. 

“Sister”, you called, quietly, trying to enter her vision camp. “Sister, it’s me”. 

“She won’t talk right now”.

Your mother’s voice came from the entry, and she was elegant as always. The grief clothing she wore for your father and nephew suited her. As you turned to look at her, your back straightened instantly. Your memory of tedious suppers during which she would tap your leg to fix your posture was immediate, and you didn’t want to relieve it. 

She approached the both of you, and sat near Helaena without saying a word. You wondered if this was her daily ritual.

“I believed you’d be at your brother’s side, dear”, the Queen Alicent said to you, without taking her eyes off Helaena. She passed her hands through the disheveled hair of the current Queen, and you realized you hadn’t responded. 

“I was”, you began, unsure whether it would be wise to continue. Not because of your family, but of the servants. Anything could go back to your brother and, depending on his mood, even the kindest words spoken about him would do you more harm than good.

Your mother raised her brown eyes to meet yours, “I see”. 

Your gaze moved from your mother to your sister back and forth, before deciding this room was much too crowded. You excused yourself, filled with a new sense of horror as you left the room. Even the Queen couldn’t be protected, so what hope was there for the common woman? 

You walked slowly back to your chambers, which were joined with your husband’s. You were just shy of six-and-ten at the day of your wedding, and your mother was adamant that there would be no bedding ceremony. 

Your husband, then, in an unusual act of selflessness and kindness, chose to wait a while, until it was you who came to him. The joined room’s were his idea after the first night you spent together. That way you could have your space and still come to him, and have him come to you, too. 

In that aspect, you were lucky. When Helaena was pregnant, she talked more, and she mentioned Aegon would be in and out of her in five minutes, and only every other night. What an awful relationship. 

Yet, Aegon was still your brother, and he was severely wounded after the Battle of Rook’s Rest that took Princess Rhaenys’ life. You weren’t close to her, but you knew her, and she was always kind to you. It was a terrible loss caused by this senseless war.

According to your dearest brother, though, you didn’t have a clue as to what was necessary to the Realm. 

The memory of it made you tear the necklace you were wearing and throw it against a wall. Your maid called your name, and she probably saw you as a petty, annoying Princess right now, throwing a tantrum like a child. 

You stilled your breath, and turned towards her. “Please make arrangements for me to see the King this afternoon”, you told her. You hated giving orders. That was something your brother Daeron wrote about to you constantly. 

Later that day, you still had your family in your mind. How did you all become such a mess? 

You practically tiptoed inside Aegon’s chambers, unsure to what he’d be, look or act like. You hadn’t seen him since before the battle, and all you knew your mother and husband had told you. Apparently, he looked terrible, felt a lot of pain and was but a shell of who he used to be. 

When you found his figure, laying on the bed, you realized they had been too kind in describing his state.

He was burnt in a way you had never seen before, and it went down to his body beneath the covers. His hair had mostly fallen, and his ear melted to his ear. The pain he must have felt… You felt awful. There had to be something you could do to ease him. He wasn’t a wise man, nor was he the most galant, but he was your big brother.    

“What are you doing here?”, he said with difficulty, before you could even open your mouth. 

You looked into his eyes, the violet of it paler than ever. Before you could speak, you decided to sit at the chair by his bedside, so you weren’t looking down on him. 

“I had no one else to turn to”, you decided to tell him the truth. He remained quiet, but you saw something shift in his gaze at the realization he was still needed, and not useless. You let your head drop to your hands, feeling ridiculous to be complaining to a man who had just survived dragon fire and the loss of a child. 

Still, the tears began to fall. 

“You may talk”. 

At his bed, burnt beyond recognition, without a crown — that was the first time you saw Aegon as a King.

Your head raised, and you wiped away your tears. Before you began, your back instinctively straightened. 

“Mother is… well, mother”, you both let out a breathy laugh. “She’s deeply unhappy, brother. Daeron hasn’t sent news in over a fortnight, and Helaena is…”.

“I think it’s best if we skip over my dear wife, sister”, his gazer turned away from you. You felt honesty in his tone in a way you hadn’t ever. “I don’t know, and never knew, how to comfort my wife”.

“Marriage is tricky, is it not?”, you tried to lighten the mood, making a small jest. However, Aegon didn’t laugh.

“I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder for you”.

Your confusion must have been clear, because he continued, even though it clearly hurt for him to speak. “You were just a child, and you were thrown into a man’s bed, which can be quite the insalubrious environment, as I have been made aware. It kills me to think what married life must be for you and Helaena”. 

“It wasn’t your fault”, you said, with sincerity too. “You were a kid, and you were thrown into all this. We deserved better, brother”.

You didn’t want him to cry anymore than you wanted to cry yourself. When you saw the tears in his eyes, you stood up and kissed the top of his head. A gesture of fraternity. 

A sound came from the door, and when you turned, you saw the man who was the object of many conversations you had lately. 

Aemond Targaryen was a complicated man, with more nuance to him than poetry, and sharper than a dagger. Your older brother who, at adolescence, took you as his wife before the Seven and, later, in a Valyrian ceremony for your family. 

The fear that emanated from Aegon as soon as he saw Aemond was perceptible. You had no idea what happened amongst them, and as much as you wished to find out, you knew some things were out of your reach, even with deep curiosity. 

“My love”, Aemond greeted you with a kiss on the cheek, as if nothing happened earlier. He then looked over to Aegon, taking his hands and kissing them gently. “My dear brother”. 

Aegon was quiet now, still afraid. 

Aemond’s hand found the small of your back as he guided you outside, not letting you say goodbye. He said it for you before the door slammed behind you, and Aegon was left alone inside once more. 

“What were you doing in there?”, he demanded to know, the hand that laid carefully on your back now grabbing your arm as he walked with you in the direction of your joined chambers. 

There was a part of you that refused to talk, whilst the other wanted nothing more than to rub his face in… in whatever that with Aegon was. Unfortunately, mysterious didn’t do it for you. 

“Conversing with my brother, the King, who is severely injured and in need of company”, you spatted.

“I know he is injured”, Aemond grunted. 

“Of course you do, after all, you were there”, you replied as coldly as you could. He turned to you immediately, his one lilac eye almost in flames. 

“What are you implying?”, he said between gritted teeth. 

“Absolutely nothing”. You moved your face closer to his, letting him see you smile.

You didn’t fight often with Aemond. He was your husband, your older brother and you loved him dearly… Most of the time. Today, though, today he pissed you off — and you had earned the right to piss him off right back.

“Certainly you do not think me capable of any sort of con or coup, my love”, the irony that flooded in your voice was unfamiliar even to yourself. “After all, I am but a woman”, you mirrored his words from earlier that day, when you were called upon by the Small Council to fight alongside your husband and brother. Your refusal made Aemond cruel towards you, battering words you’d never thought you’d hear from the man who shared your bed. 

His one eye closed, and he let go of your arm, that would surely be bruised for days from the sheer strength he held you. You let out a long breath as your husband approached the opposite side of the corridor, the one with a view to the Winter Garden. From the garden, you could hear your mother’s voice. The long sleeved black dress you wore, with gold, green and red details, was enough to cover whichever bruises you might have. From this ridiculous exchange with Aemond or any other affair. 

You sighed profusely, both from tiredness and to get Aemond’s attention. His head turned a little to look over his shoulder, but he didn’t make eye contact. 

“Am I excused?”, you broke the silence, annoyed still. “Or am I to watch as you pout like a child looking for mother?”

He turned so quickly towards you his hair made a whoosh sound. He pointed one finger at you, lips pressing against each other, and then threw his hands in the air. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, woman!”, he exclaimed, turning around once more so your eyes didn’t meet his. 

It was wiser to let him vent at this moment instead of making another remark, so you waited for him to continue. 

“All I do, I do for you”, he lowered his tone, still avoiding your gaze. “And yet, here you are. An unappreciative, ungrateful little girl”. 

“Mind your tongue”, you said, feeling your blood boil. You squeezed your eyes, hand still on the arm he handled with such force earlier. “I am not a whore you visit whenever you please and talk as you please, I am the daughter of King Viserys Targaryen and sister of King Aegon Targaryen. You will not speak to me this way”. 

You’d never heard silence quite this loud. 

“If I cannot count on you, Aemond, then who will I turn to?”

“You can count on me to defend you, sister, but…”

“Who will defend me from you, brother?”, you interrupted him, letting the frown between your eyebrows grow. “Who will stand up for me when you bring me down in front of those pampered men thinking they can order me and my dragon around, not knowing the first thing from either me or Silverwing?”

Aemond straightened his back. He looked cold, distant at your firm tone. What an interesting sight it was for any servant who passed at the moment. The Prince Regent and his wife, in a staring match at the halls. 

There was an old saying that whenever a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin, and the whole world holds their breath to see which way would it land: greatness or madness. 

There was another thing about Targaryens, as you came to realize. The terrible loneliness. None of you had, truly had, one another. You heard the rumors about Daemon and Rhaenyra. You saw before your own eyes Aegon and Helaena. You knew the stories about what your father did to the late Queen Aemma, who was as much of a Targaryen as any of you. 

You loved your husband. That was exactly why it pained you so to realize you had no one else to turn to.

[final-act]

android au stuff i never finished

[wigglesdtuff]

hi!

[batabids]

i dreamed a dance with you

[marvelstoriesepic]

Angstober (day 16)

Pairing: Tfatws!Bucky x Shield!Reader

Prompt: No one else to turn to

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, fainting

Author’s note: I'm a little behind with the fics but I'm trying my best! Hope you enjoy :)

Angstober Masterlist

This is ironic, really.

Downright absurd. Laughable.

You’re just not in the position to laugh, or even crack the semblance of a smile. Your face feels stiff, evidently held together by a fragile patchwork of cuts and bruises that might split open at the slightest twitch. Not that you’d want to smile, even if you could.

You had assured Sam that you’d be fine to drive yourself back home after landing back on base about 25 minutes before. There actually had been a genuine belief that you’d be able to make it, so you told him all you needed was a hot shower to wash away all the blood and some rest, ignoring the wary looks of Sam as he watched you drive off.

Well, turns out it was a bad idea.

A terrible idea, considering the door you find yourself standing in front of right now. You don’t even know if he’s home. For all you know, he could be drowning whatever’s left of his sanity in some bar, down some street.

And even if he is here, he has every right to slam this door right back in your face. Perhaps after giving you the I told you so speech.

But in your defense, you really thought this mission would be simple. Sam and you both had thought so. It was supposed to be one of those in-and-out deals. But of course, it’s always those easy missions that turn ugly in a matter of seconds, spiraling into a slaughter that neither of you was ready for.

But hell, you even guessed Bucky saw that coming. Maybe that’s why he was so determined to join you two, but Sam and you declined immediately, insisting on sparing him the confrontation. After all, it was supposed to be a quick cleanup. Hydra remnants scattered like dust, nothing worth dragging Bucky back into that mess for.

So, Sam and you both figured he’d be better off staying behind, working with Torres on whatever else needed doing.

You’re glad you held back the comment about him hindering you on this mission by perhaps a disturbing memory or some shit. That wouldn’t have helped your current situation at all. And you did think it would have been a little harsh. Even for the bickering kind of relationship the two of you have.

Bucky wasn’t having any of that. He was ready to suit up and follow you into the fray, whether you wanted him there or not. Though, Sam and you took off before he could even strap on his gear. Simple, clean.

Predictably, that would definitely leave him in a foul mood. But to be real, grumpy isn’t new for Bucky. Actually, you only ever saw his expression soften when he was lost in thought, so lost he didn’t even notice you watching him. Or perhaps in that moment he really didn’t care.

Still, that irritable look seems to be his default setting. And, to be honest, perhaps he doesn’t even care enough to even be mad. You aren’t friends. Hell, you wouldn’t even call him an acquaintance.

You two are more like tolerated inconveniences for each other, sparse conversations always laced with sarcasm and banter. You doubt he sees you as anything other than a nuisance - someone always getting under his skin with your remarks.

So, you are well aware you really don’t have any business standing in front of his door, blood drying on your skin, looking like death warmed over.

But that’s the problem. You don’t have a choice. Because there is no way you’re making the 20 minutes to your apartment. You also won’t make it back to the base. Not to mention that driving in this state will not only endanger you, but rather the traffic around you. You're already feeling the blackness that tries to seep into your irises, pulling at your consciousness, threatening to drag you under, making you pass out before you’d even hit the halfway mark. And you don’t have anyone to blame but your stubborn self.

Bucky is your only option and you also start running out of time, the longer you linger outside his apartment, scared to knock. Terrified to do anything. You begin to sway on your feet. The longer you hesitate, the harder it gets to stay upright, and passing out on his doorstep for him to find you is perhaps even more embarrassing than this already is.

With trembling muscles, you try to lift your hand. Knocking on a door shouldn’t take this much effort, but it feels like it’s costing you everything. You’re burning energy you don’t have, and it’s starting to show.

Your hesitation seems to have been for nothing since there’s no answer after your knock. The only thing you hear is the blood rushing through your ears and your heartbeat loudly pounding against your ribcage, almost like a warning.

Another knock. It saps what little strength you have left. Your breathing grows heavier, more ragged, each inhale feeling like a sharp stab. There is a tightness in your chest that could be an indication something inside you might have torn, making it impossible to get in enough air.

The apartment behind the door is still silent.

You lean your forehead against the rough wood, the coolness grounding you for a moment. It’s as close to a third knock as you can manage. Your eyes slip closed for just a second too long.

“Barnes?” He surely wouldn’t be able to pick that up without his enhanced hearing. “It’s me.”

You’re not even sure what to say; not sure what you can say that will get him to open the door. But your thoughts are starting to slow, each one taking longer to form than the last. The blood loss is getting to you, causing every joint to feel like it’s rusting over.

“Are you home?” you murmur, a faint laugh caught in your throat at how stupid it sounds.

For a moment you think you hear something, perhaps a faint shuffle from the other side of the door. But your brain is swimming in exhaustion and pain, and it could easily be your mind playing tricks on you, teasing you with false hope. Maybe you didn’t even give him enough time to get to the door. You have no idea how long you’ve been standing here - standing might be too strong of a term by now.

Time is slippery in moments like these, hard to grasp, impossible to track.

A heavy and burning sigh falls from your lips, dragging your chest down with it. You push yourself off the door with a struggle that tears at your skin, shaking your head at your own stupidity. You’re not sure if your head even followed through with the movement.

You shouldn’t have believed for a second that he’d be around, or that he’d care if he was.

You attempt to step away, aiming for the staircase, but it seems your body isn’t in the mood to listen to any signal from your brain at all. Your foot catches on itself, and before you know it, you stumble, crashing into the wall beside his door with a loud thud. A pained groan forces its way out of you, the impact shooting excruciating vibrations through your body, curling into every nerve like they’re planning to stay. You press a hand to your side, movements not entirely your own, but it does nothing to soothe the ache.

You curse under your breath, or at least you think you do, eyes fluttering dangerously. You’re not sure how much longer your feet will carry you. Are you even still standing at all?

Muffled curses break through the rushing sound in your ears, blending into the tumultuous pulse of your own blood pounding in your head. They don’t seem to come from you though.

“Fucking hell, Y/n.”

All you can manage in response is another weak groan.

Before you can fully process what’s happening and where that frustrated voice came from, you feel strong arms wrap around you, lifting you effortlessly into the air. Insanely enough, a surge of exhilaration bubbles in your belly and you feel weightless for a moment, like you’re floating in some strange void that’s just barely tethering you to reality but still keeping a strong grasp on you.

The sensation is short-lived and you almost let out a whine. Not at all from the pain. You’re lowered onto something softer than you guessed the floor would feel like, cushions beneath your back. You try to wrap your head around how that could have happened.

That weight returns. The hands around you, however, don’t leave you. Your thoughts are sluggish and trying to focus on anything is an effort you’re not able to keep up with. Your vision is a spinning blur, dizzy head trying to make sense of your situation, but you can feel the tender press of the back of a hand on your forehead, checking for something you can’t quite grasp.

Blue. That’s the first thing your mind manages to hang on to. A vivid, piercing shade of blue. But it’s not just color. It’s wrapped up in something deeper. Emotions, swirling and twirling, so heavy it almost hurts to look at. The sight alone drags another groan out of you, low and pained.

“I know, sweetheart, I know. Just hold tight, you hear me? I got you.”

Wait.

You know that voice. Rough around the edges, always carrying a certain weight, but now laced with something you don’t recognize. Those eyes on you - the blue ones - you know those, too. Of course, you do. But there is something new, something like panic flooding them, you never thought you’d see in Bucky Barnes.

“Barnes?” The word barely falls from your lips, more of a croak than anything, but it’s enough. He was home. He heard you. He carried you inside.

There is something stirring inside of you, a warmth threading through the pain. Relief, maybe, or something close to it. You know Bucky and you have your problems sometimes but hell you never doubted him being the good man he is.

“Yes, it’s me,” he murmurs, so soft, you want to lay in it. Bathing in the gentleness of his voice, getting rid of the blood and pain your body holds. “Try not to talk, alright? There are some nasty bruises around your neck. You gotta go easy on your voice.”

You hum in response, the sound barely more than a soft but uncomfortable vibration in your throat. His words slide through your mind like shadows, half-formed and hard to grasp, but you understand enough.

There’s the sound of clattering around you, hurried shuffling of hands working beside you, perhaps on you, somewhere nearby. But instead of jarring you, it’s comforting, like white noise. It lulls you deeper into the fog.

Suddenly, his voice cuts through it all, sharp and urgent.

“Hey!”

It startles you. Your eyes snap open - you didn’t know they closed in the first place - body jerking from the force of his tone.

His face looms closer, those blue eyes boring into yours, pinning you down with an intensity you can’t ignore.

“I’m sorry, Y/n, but you have to keep your eyes open. You hear me?” His voice trembles in a way you never heard, and that - more than anything - forces your mind back to the surface, your eyes clearing just enough to make him out.

It’s disorienting, seeing Bucky like this. Surprising. He moves in a way that almost associates incoordination, a frantic energy surrounding him. There is something off about the way he handles himself, the way his hands fumble with supplies, clattering objects that should have stayed silent. It’s startling, unsettling even. Bucky Barnes is a man in control. Just not right now.

His hands return to your body, his touch firm and still tender, but there is a shakiness in them as his fingers skim over your torn-up skin.

He’s pressing gently where he can, wincing as if it’s him in pain every time you flinch. The fabric of your slightly torn suit sticks to your body, and he curses softly under his breath, grabbing a pair of scissors from somewhere beside him. With a few quick, jagged snips, he cuts away parts of the fabric of your suit to get a better view of your torso, revealing the bruises that litter your skin, darkening it in a sickening way.

He apologizes for every hiss, groan, and whimper you can’t suppress at the sharp sting that slices through the dull ache due to the antiseptic he uses on your skin.

His brow is furrowed deeply as he wipes the blood away with almost erratic strokes, trying to clean the area but moving a little too fast for his usual precision. The cloth is stained dark in no time, and he tosses it aside, reaching for gauze, fumbling with the tape as if he’s forgotten how to use it for a moment.

Every breath feels heavier as he continues to work on your wounds, pain pulsing with every fresh inhale.

Bucky’s eyes keep darting between your face and the wounds as if he’s checking not only for your injuries but for something else - for a sign that you’re still with him, still conscious, still breathing.

His hand moves back to your forehead, brushing some strands of hair aside with so much gentleness as he checks your temperature again. His face is tight, his jaw clenched.

It is odd, almost comforting in a way you haven’t expected. Bucky Barnes, always so composed, now seems to have trouble holding it together. And somehow, seeing him this unfiltered, this human, makes your earlier doubts vanish. Those persistent thoughts, that he wouldn’t care if you showed up on his doorstep battered and bleeding, that he’d turn away, turn you away, or doesn’t even open the door in the first place - they all but disappear.

He does care. More than you ever thought possible, more than you imagined he even knew how to. You can feel it in the way his hands linger on your skin, urgent yet careful, and in the way his curses are filled with so much apprehension and frustration.

The same Bucky you thought might not give a damn is now fighting some battle with himself as if his sheer will could hold you here.

And for some reason, that knowledge eases something inside you, delightfully loosening that knot of tension in your chest. Again, your body starts to feel like it’s floating, somewhere in the air but instead it’s sinking deeper into the cushions beneath you, slowly letting go. It’s not your body that’s floating this time, it’s your mind. As if it decided to detach itself from the pain, from the reality of your wounds and your situation, and simply drifted away. It’s weightless, flying through a space just beyond your reach. It’s almost surreal, like you’re suspended in air but you know, somehow, that you’re still lying on that couch.

And Bucky’s here.

His hands are on you. His voice is in your ears but none of it feels quite real anymore.

You don’t have it in you to fight it anymore. Your body is letting go, surrendering, and you can’t muster the strength to resist.

Bucky’s voice sounds closer, much more than you thought it had been, but it seems distant too. It’s rough, desperate; words coming out with a crack. He’s pleading with you, urging you to stay with him, to keep your eyes open.

But you can’t. You’re slipping. Still, you feel like smiling if your face would have allowed it.

Bucky is here. And although you stopped listening to his words, losing the sense of his presence, you know he will stay.

You’re in good hands.

🍁 October Writing Challenges Masterlist 🍁

[streetchicken]

COTLtober Day 16: Confess your Sins

Just an early morning confession before a sermon to his former God like in the older days. A leader needs a clear head before tending to their flock :)

It's been a rough week and I know I'm behind, but I am determined to catch up again!

Day 15 / Day 17

VV Cotl Drawtober prompts by @/stychu-stych

[werewolfaday]

day 16!

[a-ferryman-a-day]

Day 16 - protect

Alt under cut (eyestrain warning)

[archiesoniconline]

Sonictober 2024 Day 16! Theme: Secret. Eclipse the Darkling, the Black Arms’ contingency plan for their revenge against Shadow. He may not be able to best his older brother in a fight, but tearing his mind apart from the inside out works just as well.

Art by Akkorokamui

[clover-doodles]

hermit-a-day-may!

[catch up day 7] days 15+16

FalseSymmetry + Welsknight