Today’s Lectionary Texts—acts 5:27–32, Psalm 118:14–29, Revelation 1:9–11a, 12–13, 17–19,

it literally wraps around earth

at this point the avs might wanna try playing with their eyes closed. couldn't hurt right?​

avs win and i can finally exhale🙏 genuinely was about to start writing my will if they lost. LET’S GO!!!

Bucky who’s really good at calming u from bad dreams cause he gets them all the time himself🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ he knows all the tricks

aerial u literally sent this in yesterday and I already wrote it .. um I may have gotten a lil excited oops

bucky barnes x fem!reader, 1.1k words

Bucky has had his fair share of nightmares. For years he suffered through them alone — every night without fail, he’d wake trembling and sweating, swallowed up in the pitch black, his heart thudding so loud it was all he could hear. He’d either stay awake until morning or force himself back to sleep only to relive it all over again.

These days he has you, and it’s better. The nightmares haven’t ceased, though they’ve lessened significantly. And on the nights when he does wake up with his heart in his throat, you’re always there, either peacefully asleep next to him or half awake, reaching for him in the dark like you can read his mind. Sometimes you’re awake enough to rub his back or give him a half asleep hug. It helps more than Bucky would ever admit to you.

Tonight’s different. Bucky wakes up not to his own trembling, but to yours instead. You’re sitting up in bed, stiff as a board but shaking like a leaf. Bucky, a light sleeper at the best of times, is on you like a hawk.

He says your name and rushes to sit up, giving himself a wave of vertigo for a few seconds. He blinks it away, eyelids heavy and body heavier. His hand finds your back in the dark. “Honey, are you okay?”

It’s a dumb question. You’re shaking all over and he thinks he can hear you crying, though he can’t properly see your face. He feels you turn towards him and manages to find your arm, wrapping his hand around it.

“Sorry,” you whisper. Your voice trembles, too. It splits Bucky’s heart clean in half.

“What’re you sorry for?” He murmurs, not expecting an answer. He rubs your arm, not harsh but rough enough to help with your shakes. He gives your bicep a squeeze. “Bad dream?”

Your silhouette nods. “Yeah,” you say thickly.

Bucky hums. “Okay,” he says softly. The quiet fear in your voice panics him, but he keeps his head for your sake. “You’re okay, I’m here. Do you want to talk about it?”

He’s pretty sure talking about it helps, or at least it has for him, though he knows the feeling of wanting to forget the dream ever happened, rather than having to relive it by talking about it. He lets you decide.

“Um,” you swallow hard and scrub at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Not right now?”

Bucky wants badly to take your face in both hands and wipe your tears for you, but his other arm is on the dresser across the room, the dim moonlight reflecting on the smooth metal. He doesn’t feel like getting up, not when you’re this upset. Instead he pushes his good hand over the hill of your shoulder and finds your jaw.

His thumb slips over the apple of your cheek where he pushes away a few rogue tears. “Okay, that’s alright, doll. Do you want a hug?”

You nod viciously. “Yeah, please.”

Bucky gets his hand on your shoulder and tugs you towards him, pulling you into his chest. You push your arms around his waist, screwing your hands into his shirt like he’s your lifeline. He sure tries to be.

You press your cheek to his collar and mumble something that sounds like, “Thanks.” Bucky would ask what on earth you’re thanking him for, but you’re still trembling and he’d rather deal with that first.

He rubs your back diligently. Up, down, and up again, over and over until you’re not shaking anymore. It doesn’t take long — by now he knows exactly how to calm you down, knows exactly what works best. He slots his chin over the top of your head and holds you tight to his chest.

He’s completely willing to stay like this all night, until dawn slips through the gap in the curtains if that’s what you want, but it’s only a few minutes before you’ve stopped trembling. He’s about to ask if you want some water when you speak up.

“It was the same as always,” you say, so quiet he barely hears you.

Bucky guessed as much. Your nightmares nearly always consist of the same thing and they all revolve around him — he gets hurt, he dies, somebody comes to take him away, he disappears and you can’t find him anywhere. He hates that your brain is cruel enough to conjure up such scenarios, hates that it scares you so much, and hates that there’s nothing he can do about it.

He rubs your back some more.

“Yeah? M’sorry, honey.” He untangles himself from you and gets his hand on your jaw again, cupping your cheek. He studies your face though it’s partly obscured in shadows. You’re still beautiful even half swallowed up by the dark.

“Nothing’s happened to me,” he tells you firmly. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’m safe.”

You nod like you’re trying to convince yourself. “I know,” you say feebly.

The fear still lingering in your voice makes Bucky’s chest ache. He strokes your cheek, still damp with tears. “I promise, okay?”

He doesn’t know how many times he’s promised the same thing, more than he can count, but he intends to keep his promise. Nothing’s going to happen to him (or you for that matter), he intends to stick around as long as he can.

You nod around his hand, “Okay.”

Bucky pushes his fingers up into the space behind your ear and tugs you forward, palm to your pulse point. He ducks his head to press his mouth to your forehead and holds you there for a moment, breathing you in. He can smell your apple shampoo and the soapy laundry detergent scent that clings to your pillows. You take a deep, shuddering breath under him and then your shoulders go lax.

“Do you want some water?” Bucky asks after a long beat of silence, still half-kissing your hairline.

You shake your head no. “Just wanna go back to sleep. Will you keep hugging me?”

Bucky’s heart gives a tug, not unfamiliar but it aches anyway.

“Of course, doll.” He encourages you back into bed with him, laying down with your head on his shoulder and your arm draped over his stomach.

You curl into him, so close he can feel your heartbeat where your chest is pressed to his arm.

“Sorry for waking you,” you whisper, tilting your face up towards his neck.

“Don’t,” he murmurs. Sleep is overrated. Plus, he wants to be woken up when you need him. He’d rather lose sleep than know you’re suffering alone. “Nothing to be sorry for, doll.”

He pulls his arm round your waist and dips his head to kiss your hair again. You fall silent, and not long after, your breathing turns steady. Bucky stays up for a little longer, watching you in case you have another nightmare, though he won’t tell you that in the morning.

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed 🤍

- 'I gotta deal with the fact that now I know you.' - 'Well, you don't really know me.' - 'Doesn't matter. I know you enough.'

there has never been a game where this image is more applicable

btw i’ve decided michael afton wears glasses. he doesn’t like wearing them. in fact, he’s self-conscious about it. and he only wears them occasionally to work and when he’s alone with you!

see drabble below ↓

the clock on the wall ticks past 2:45 am when you hear the faint sound of the door creaking open. michael’s home. you don’t need to ask how work went; the tired shuffle of his boots is enough to tell you it’s been a long night.

you’re sitting on the couch, a worn-out book in your hands that you’ve probably read a hundred times already. the house is quiet, save for the distant hum of a fan, and the way the dim light from the hallway filters into the living room. the air feels heavy. when michael steps into the room, you can tell he’s exhausted. his hair is messier than usual, his shoulders a little more slumped, but what catches your attention immediately is the pair of glasses perched on his nose. the same glasses he rarely wears outside of when it’s just the two of you. he looks... a little too good in them. "hey," you say, glancing over the top of your book. “haven't seen those in a while.”

he gives you an unreadable look, but you can see the subtle awkwardness in the way he gently pushes them up his nose, like he's trying to make them disappear. "yeah, well, i don’t really like them," he mutters.

you raise an eyebrow, setting the book down in your lap, "they're cute."

he doesn't respond. crossing the room, sinking heavily down onto the couch next to you. you can smell the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and sanitizer on him, his technician’s outfit looking a bit rumpled. he keeps his gaze fixed on the carpet, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. “long night?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. he sighs heavily, slouching back against the couch. he rubs at his face with one had, glasses pushed up onto his forehead. “the longest,” he mumbles.

you hum sympathetically. he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, his gaze flicking over your face. "how was your day?" he asks, though his words are more of a formality than a genuine question. you know the day doesn’t really matter to him, but you tell him anyway. about work, about the book you’re reading, the mundane errands you ran, whatever pops into your mind. michael sits there quietly, just listening. he’s been so tired lately; it’s been weighing down on him heavily. “you doing ok?” you ask abruptly but gently, after a long pause. he gives a noncommittal shrug, still looking at the ground. “m’fine,” he mutters, though he’s anything but. you study him closely, and you can see that the bags under his eyes are more prominent than usual. his shoulders are tensed. you set your book on the coffee table, shifting your body and kissing his cheek.

michael leans a little into the touch. the tension on his expression eases just a little, though there's still a frown on his face. he glances at you. “that all i get for coming home so late?” he says, his voice teasing. you laugh breathily, almost like a sigh. kissing the corner of his mouth. he can’t help but crack a small smile as you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, the action so familiar to him. he lifts a hand, gently brushing your cheek with his thumb. “missed you,” he murmurs, the words slipping out before he can stop them. "mm. missed you." you kiss him in a slow way, a lingering press, more comfort than passion. he lets out a soft sigh as your lips meet his, he kisses you back, gently and unhurried, as if the world outside the walls of your home didn’t exist. he tastes faintly of nicotine. he deepens the kiss, his mouth moving against yours in a familiar rhythm.

he shifts on the couch, angling his body towards yours, and pulls you closer. he kisses you a little harder this time, his hands skimming over your hip. he’s always been affectionate when he’s tired, and the exhaustion from his shift just makes him all the more needy. he breaks off the kiss, his forehead resting against yours. he’s so close that you can see the tiny freckles across his nose, the tired bags under his eyes. “stay with me,” he murmurs against your lips, hands finding their familiar place on your waist. his thumb rubs idle circles on your body. he sounds tired. “i don’t want to be alone right now.” you pull away slightly, your thumb tracing his cheekbone as you study him closely. he can’t bring himself to meet your gaze, eyes averted, and you can tell there’s something weighing on his mind he’s not telling you.

(okay this is a sidenote but omg imagine the SL ending when mike opens his eyes and he has glasses on...... like he just got scooped but i #needthat....... i think i'm ovulating.)

From Batman #9, Feb-Mar 1942. Fred Ray pencils, Jerry Robinson inks.

Info from Grand Comics Database.

the KINGS are really OILing up the oilers rn