He Leaned Back In The Booth, The Vinyl Creaking Under His Weight And His Gaze Steady On Her As She Studied

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.

---

it was a jarring thing to be seen. she was looking at him the same way people looked at a wreckage after the smoke cleared. not horrified. not curious. just . . . seeing it for what it was. he'd spent years perfecting the art of being unreadable, it was strange to have her open him up to the right page so quickly. he didn't flinch, but his gaze flicked—just once—to the window beside her, tracking nothing. an old habit. ghosts didn't show up in glass, but that didn't mean they weren't watching.

❝ i had to relearn everything, ❞ he said, voice low and worn. he wasn't talking about muscle memory, knives, guns, languages that came back faster than his own name, those things were easy. but other things. how to sit without waiting for orders. how to want something without being punished for it. how to tell if he liked or disliked something and making decisions based on that instead of necessity. now drinking shitty coffee in an aging diner and remembering how to talk to people who weren't trying to kill him was a victory.

❝ simple life isn't so simple for people like us, ❞ bucky said, ❝ but it's a start. ❞

kara watched him,  really watched him,   &  for the first time since stepping into that diner,  she saw it — the same war-torn silence beneath his words that echoed inside her.  he wore his survival like old armor,  battered  &  ill-fitting,  but familiar.  the kind that didn’t protect you from everything,  just enough to keep moving forward.  she’d been so focused on her own fracture that she hadn’t remembered he had the same cracks mirrored in him.  different names,  different ghosts,  but the same kind of ruin.  the kind that teaches you to doubt your hunger,  your wants,  your worth. 

she looked down at her hands,  then back up at him,  quiet for a beat.  ❝you’ve had to relearn this too, ❞ she said softly,  not quite a question.  ❝all of it.❞  there was no accusation in her voice,  only recognition — a kind of dawning understanding that pulled the sharpness from her edges.  she hadn’t been alone in the dark after all.  he’d just learned how to live in it longer.   &  maybe that was what he was trying to teach her.  not how to escape it,  but how to carry light in the meantime.  a flicker.  a match struck against the inside of the ribcage. 

her fingers tightened around the mug.  ❝that’s why you brought me here. ❞ not to fix her.  not to promise something clean  &  untouched.  but to show her what survival looked like when it wasn’t being measured in missions or obedience.  to show her the messy,  ordinary way forward.  the healing that didn’t look like victory but like two people arguing about breakfast in a booth that smelled like grease  &  time. 

---

but what if i wrote war time letters that bucky sent to people that went up in the smithsonian ( until he stole them back post-tws )??? what then??

---

she was a walking, talking contradiction. all softened edges and harmless eyes, but the way she said they, as if she wasn't tethered to them, like she wasn't still reading from a script handed to her in some cold room lined with glass and clipped words and invisible chains, and always with that look—like she knew him. like she understood.

❝ they never are. ❞ he said dryly. he'd lived through countless conflicts and they were always the same. led by men and women with too much power sending other people to die so they can get more. ❝ you can tell whoever sent you here, i'm not done either. ❞

he watched her watch him, two oposing forces pushing and pulling against each other. whoever she really was, and whoever she really worked for, bucky didn't think it mattered in the long run. ❝ you say you're not here for a weapon, but you talk like you're taking inventory. ❞ the bracelet. the carefully measured breath. the way she looked away right before the real line—i don't want to be next. that was the hook. the hunted always made the best bait. ❝ if that's true, what's stopping you from taking care of the problem yourself? ❞

clea didn’t flinch.  the edge in his voice didn’t faze her;  it was familiar,  expected.  she'd read the file,  sure — but it was the man in front of her she’d come to see,  not the myth.  the myth didn’t smirk like that.  the myth didn’t ask the real questions.  she leaned back,  slow  &  deliberate,  the corner of her mouth tilting just slightly — not a smile,  not exactly.  something more like recognition. 

❝of course you could walk out, ❞ she said easily,  her tone light,  but not dismissive.  ❝ &  they know it,  too.  that’s why they sent me instead of someone with a badge  &  a speech about cooperation.❞ her fingers brushed the bracelet at her wrist again,  idle,  thoughtful.  ❝they,❞ she echoed,  with the faintest lift of a brow,  ❝are like the ones you already suspect.  the ones who like their monsters behind glass.  same people who tried to own you,  rewrite you,  leash you.  they're not finished.❞

her gaze held his,  steady,  even as her voice softened,  dipped just enough to shift the rhythm of the room.  ❝&  no,  i don’t need you to kill anyone.  or topple anything.❞ she paused,  letting that land.  ❝i’m not looking for a weapon. ❞ another breath.  ❝i’m looking for someone who understands what it means when the wrong people start collecting ghosts like us. ❞ she looked away,  briefly,  as if it cost her something to say it out loud.  ❝you want to know what’s in it for me?❞ her eyes returned to his,  sharper now,  more honest.  ❝let’s just say … i don’t want to be next. ❞

---

the docks reeked of salt and rust, the brine curling in off the water and tangling with the sharp scent of oil slicks and cigarette smoke. bucky was midway through unloading a shipment when he saw him. limping slightly, a welt blooming ugly and purple along his cheekbone, just shy of his eye. a split lip, dried blood crusted at the corner. jacket dusted with grit and knuckles raw. bucky swore under his breath, setting the crate he'd been carrying down and ignoring the curious looks his coworkers shot him as he met him on the quay.

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

❝ for chrissake, steve! ❞ bucky all but growled once he was close enough he wouldn't have to yell, ❝ i told you to wait for me. ❞ his fingers twitched—tempted to grab him, shake him, maybe slug him once for good measure. they'd heard about the harrisons through the usual gossip on their block. moved in a few weeks ago, two floors below his and steves. mrs. harrison was as sweet a girl as anyone could ask for and pretty as a doll, but mr. harrison was a stone cold drunk with a tendency to talk with his fists.

❝ how bad? ❞ bucky asked, lips pressing into a grim line because he knew. knew that if steve confronted the man half-cocked and alone then something had to have gone very, very wrong. // @sh1elded , injuries + aid prompts .

---

he watched her as she studied him, expression unreadable, eyes sharp but not unkind. bucky couldn't be certain what it was that she saw when she looked at him but she looked at him like he had the answer to an unspoken question. maybe he did, and maybe he didn't. the blood at their feet was already beginning to set, thick and dark, and it would stay there for a while longer but eventually, it would disappear as all unclean things did.

bucky nodded, stepped past her and over the body, out of the shadows and into the cold, neon-lit street. he led the way out of the crime scene, keeping a casual pace and walking through side streets and back alleys as if it were second nature. they walked for a long time before his destination came into view.

the diner was nothing special—chrome-rimmed stools, and faded vinyl booths—it smelled like burnt coffee and cheap bacon grease, but bucky liked it for the same reason most people overlooked it: it was steady. real. a pocket of normal.

he slid into a booth near the window with a clear line of sight to the front and rear entrances. ❝ what d'you see? ❞ bucky asked when she joined him, nodding to their surroundings with an expectant glance.

kara exhaled slowly,  watching the blood spread into the cracks of the concrete like veins beneath fractured skin.  it would dry,  flake away,  be washed into the gutters until only the memory of it remained.  but the act — the choice — would linger,  another mark upon a soul already worn thin.  she had spent years telling herself that she was beyond redemption,  that the things she had done,  the things that had been done to her,  had calcified into something immovable.  but then bucky spoke,   &  the certainty wavered,  just slightly,  just enough to let in the smallest sliver of something else.  try.   

she turned her gaze to him,  searching for something she wasn’t sure she would recognize.  he knew — knew what it was to be made into something unrecognizable,  to wake up in the ruins of a life he could barely call his own.   &  yet,  he stood before her,  not unbroken,  but whole in a way she had never believed possible for herself.  if he could come back from it,  then maybe — maybe — she could too.  the thought was terrifying in its own way.  it was easier to be a blade,  a weapon with no need for softness,  no need for hope.  but hope,  she realized,  had already taken root the moment she had let him pull the gun from her hands.   

her fingers curled into fists,  then released.  there was no erasing what had been done,  no undoing the ghosts she carried,  but perhaps there was more than just this.  more than the endless cycle of blood  &  consequence.  when she spoke,  her voice was quiet,  but steady.  ❝then let’s start. ❞ not surrender,  not absolution — but a step.   &  for now,  that was enough. 

---

he'd taken the sentries out first, moving in quickly before the two groups could notice their missing men, by the time he'd stepped out into the fray, there were only six men remaining. the fight was almost entirely one-sided as bucky moved between them with devastating precision, incapacitating his enemies with brutal efficiency until a shot whizzed over his shoulder.

the bullet penetrated the throat of a man that had snuck up behind him. bucky snatched a hold of the mans jacket before he could fall, using him as a human shield as he turned to stare at where the shot had come from.

a beat. two. nothing. not aiming for him then. a good shot, an expert marksman, evidently not a member of either of the groups attempting to trade guns. bucky dropped the body unceremoniously to the ground, stepping over him as he gargled his last futile breaths. there wasn't much else he could do except wait for the shooter to join him, so bucky secured the scene instead. disarming and binding the survivors of the gun deal before he moved to inspect the equipment while he waited.

@wintrb0rn

April 19, Las Vegas, Nevada.

Somewhere far from the strip, a meeting between two groups of dirt bags in the desert is happening. Frank is quietly watching from far away, his scope on one of them as he gets ready to pull the trigger. Before his finger can even twitch, there's a blur of a man punching the shit out of them. Small pops of gunfire go off; he can see the light from their muzzles in the dark.

Frank's jaw is clenched tight. "Micro, who is that?" He taps his radio, but he hears nothing but static before a voice cuts in.

[Don't know. Can't get a good read on his face. Maybe a hitman?]

He looks into his scope again, and quickly fires a shot at one of the men creeping up from behind with a gun. Nothing but blood flies into the air as the bullet goes through the man's throat. "Not a hitman. He wouldn't be attacking both groups, and now he's got my position." He says, looking at the man turn his head towards him in the hills.

"Guess, we'll see what his deal is. I didn't see blood splattering everywhere. He might be one of those 'I don't kill' types. Fucking, Saints, everywhere."

---

snowfall slicked the rooftops and turned the streets below into a dull smear of neon reflections and black ice. his target—allison daws, a former operative now in bed with the enemy—had hunkered down in hells kitchen, hoping to disappear. a standard job. he'd done it a hundred times, but something felt . . . wrong.

it was too quiet. no patrols, no sentries. just the low hum of a faulty streetlight and the distant wail of a siren that never got closer. the soldier stared down his scope, watching the safehouse window where the blinds had been pulled for movement. all it would take is for his target to pass by. one quick, clean shot and it would all be over.

a whisper of movement behind him, too smooth for a mercenary and too measured for a common killer. the soldier turned quickly, primed to defend. // @kenosky , a semi - plotted starter .

---

listened to boots on repeat for too long and now my brain is

---

more random dialogue prompts ,

“why do you have that look on your face?”

“finish what you’re doing, we have to talk.”

“what have you done to yourself?”

“did you do something different with your hair?”

“it doesn’t do any good to get worked up.”

“when was the last time we had a real conversation.”

“are you in the witness protection program, or what?”

“there’s something wrong with me.”

“no, i don’t hate you.”

“hey stupid.”

“we’re aren’t them.”

“looks like i’ll live long enough to make you pay.”

“you know you’re wrong.”

“i don’t understand, why are you doing this?”

“now, before i say anything, promise me you’ll stay calm.”

“what makes me so special?”

“you have no idea what i’ve been through.”

“you really don’t have to do that, not for me.”

“did you really think you’d get a second chance?”

“how about we don’t do that.”

“i have a lot going for me, but humility is not one of them.”

“you’re the worst.”

“i don’t need you right now.”

“don’t just stand there, looking at me.”

“i thought you were supposed to call me.”

“take my hand.”

“i need you.”

“you’re allowed to need help sometimes.”

“for someone who doesn’t like to feel things, you sure feel a lot of it out loud.”

“when this is all over, i want it to be you and me.”

“why won’t you tell me what happened?”

“you don’t know what this means to me.

“i know it doesn’t make sense.”

“i’m trying really hard to keep it together.”

“i know you’re new, but we do things a little differently here.”

“your voice is putting me to sleep.”

“did you find what you were looking for?”

"you knew and you didn’t even warn me?”

“well, i guess that’s broken.”

“i thought it was part of the act.”

“you think u don’t know you’re only here because they sent you?”

“you promised to call me if you didn’t know what to wear.”

“you can keep a secret, can’t you?”

“how could you do this to me?”

“put the gun down, dearest. i have news!”

“i know you don’t have any reason to trust me, but you need to know something.”

“if you’re here to tell me what happened last night, someone beat you to it.”

“people think i’m weird.”

“i think i’m losing myself again.”

“you can’t be here.”

“i wish you’d come to the funeral.”

“do you know what today is?”

“so, you broke my favourite mug… and you’re breaking up with me?”

“i need to get out.”

“it’s like i’m cursed or something.”

“you are remarkably well-behaved tonight, what have you been up to?”

“you gonna eat that?”

“sir, the pony rides are for children only.”

“i don’t want you to worry about that anymore.”

“we’ll never make it in time.”

“you’d be late for your own funeral.”

“you should have seen it coming.”

“oh, good, you’re here! hold this.”

“why can’t you just be happy for me?”

“on a scale of one to ten, how do you feel about nachos right now?”

“is this how you flirt with everyone?”

“how much longer till we’re there?”

“what have you done?”

“it’s time for you to repay that debt you owe me.”

“where did you get that? who gave it to you?”

“what kind of mother has thoughts like that?”

“i know I haven’t been what you needed, but i’m here, and i wanna help.”

“i never want to hear you say that again.”

“you’re all i have.”

“i know it’s not perfect, but i did follow the recipe this time.”

“i was doing so well until you showed up.”

“don’t eat that! i made it ‘specially for our guest.”

“it’s not that i don’t like my life, it’s that i don’t have the energy to enjoy it.”

“how can you stand this place?”

“don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t exactly blend in.”

“you need to stop.”

“i don’t like that look, what happened?”

“is that seriously your password?”

“what’s your problem?”

“you had no right to use it without asking.”

“oh, wow, you weren’t kidding.”

“i couldn’t trust my own parents to protect me.”

“i’m surprised you haven’t been arrested yet. wait, no, i’m not.”

“why do you want to help me?”

“ten bucks for that piece of crap?”

“we have to hurry, they’re coming!”

“hey, look what came in the mail!”

“do you want to get a drink or something?”

“please tell me you didn’t eat that.”

“the worst part is you didn’t even notice.”

“if i wanted help, i would have asked.”

“wanna tell me what’s going on with your grades?”

“you need to leave.”

“talk to me, okay? i need to know what’s going on.”

“i do blame you.”

“sometimes life deals you a bad hand, but you can still play your cards right and win.”

“you’re no longer useful to me.”

“i’m not good with sarcasm: if you don’t like me, just say it.”

---