HEADCANON : War Letters , 2 / ?

the desert wind howled like a wounded thing, whipping sand against his face as he crouched at the edge of the excavation site. it was crawling with men, not mercenaries. not common grave robbers. trained, conditioned, battle hardened. hydra personnel moved differently than most professionals, there was always a cold lick of obsession, of mad superiority that stuck to them like a bad smell.

and that was when he saw her. a woman, dark curls, sharp brown eyes, and barely restrained contempt. a civilian, a hostage or prisoner, either way, she didn't belong there.

bucky was already moving, switching objectives quickly as he shattered the distance between himself and her, a shadow against the sand dunes he avoided the floodgate lights, skirting patroling guardsmen unseen and unnoticed. he reached her in seconds, crouched behind a half-buried obelisk and spoke in a whisper. ❝ don't react. ❞ he said as way of greeting, ❝ can you run? ❞ // @disasteregyptologist , semi - plotted starter .

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.

HEADCANON : war letters , 1 / ?

Dear Home : The Lost Letters of Sgt. James Barnes

Discovered decades after World War II, these letters—written by Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes—offer a rare and intimate glimpse into the heart of a soldier. Though history remembers Bucky Barnes as war hero, these letters remind us that before the legend, there was a young man writing to the people he loved. This collection invites you to read not just history, but memory.

March 18th, Somewhere Sandy

Dear Becca,

First things first: yes, I'm alive. Yes, I still have my limbs. No, I haven't run off to join a Bedouin circus. I'm writing by lantern light with sand in just about everything—my boots, my rucksack, even this envelope. If it gets there looking worse for wear, consider it a souvenir from my time on the front.

We've been pushing through a lot of desert these past weeks. It's dry, endless, and hot as hell, but the stars at night more than make up for it. You wouldn't believe how clear the sky gets out here. The boys in my unit are solid. Tough as nails, loyal to a fault. There's a kid from Kansas who swears up and down he can fix anything. I told him he ought to start with the coffee—it tastes like it lost a war of its own, probably with a boiled boot.

How are things back home? Don't let Mrs. Kaminsky rope you into babysitting that howling menance of hers again. You're too polite to say no, and she knows it. Keep up with your schoolwork, even if it's dull.

Take care of yourself, and check in with Steve for me.

All my love, James

P.S. If you must send cookies, no raisins. That's not a cookie—it's a betrayal.

capmeme: eight quotes [2/8]

↳ "Is this a test?"

the shooter wasted no time, moving with complete certainty, dragging the man to the nearest car like a sack of meat, knife already out, gleaming in the light. the tire hissed, the car sank a little, and the man, still bound by bucky's makeshift restraints, thrashed like a worm on a hook.

he made no move to stop him then either. bucky watched with an almost morbid curiosity, and an even darker compliance, listening as the man descended from defiance, to anger, to desperation, to fear. screams dissolving into tears. he'd been here before. only he'd been the one holding the knife then.

the car sank lower, the man sobbed, and bucky twitched the same time frank pulled the man out from under the car by his leg. bucky stared as frank asked if he cared if any were left alive. he didn't know. he couldn't tell if the guilt he felt was because it was wrong—or because a part of him understood exactly why it wasn't. ❝ i don't care what you do. but they aren't going to keep those people alive if they don't have a buyer. ❞

bucky made a face. something akin to anger, or disgust as the shooter explained who they were up against. ❝ then we better get moving. ❞ bucky said, walking briskly towards one of the dealers cars—a stereotypical black suv, ❝ hit them hard and fast, make sure they have no time to kill or use them as hostages. you know where this warehouse is? ❞

Frank doesn't say much, just walks over to whoever got pointed out and starts dragging them towards the nearest car. A knife gets quickly taken out from his vest and he punctures the tire; resting the man's head underneath the car. A small hiss is let out as the vehicle moves slightly and the man starts struggling with him; just bound arms swiping at him to get away. The car looming over them as it slowly moves down.

"Where are they? They were supposed to be handed over to those assholes at the Crossroads church and they didn't make it. What happened!" He barked at him, holding him in place as the 'boss' struggled with Frank.

[Fuck you!]

Frank takes the knife out and makes another puncture in the tire, the car moving even more now. "You think your head can survive the weight? You know you'll feel every inch of it happening. The car slowly crushing your fucking head as it bursts open finally crushing your damn brain. You know you survive 15 minutes after?"

[Fuck you! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!]

The man screams before crying as the car moves closer and closer.

[I don't know! I don't know! They didn't show up! We stashed them at our warehouse with our merchandise! We had nowhere else to put them, they fucked us over!]

Frank punctured the tire again and watched as the car slowly descended down on the man, his screams filling the air before he pulled him by his leg away from the car.

"—You care if any of them are left alive?" He asks the stranger, looking at the way he moved, he had a feeling he didn't. It's not like they had the time to be fucking around anymore.

"I'll take you up on your offer,too." He added, knowing he meant he'd help with the women when they found them. "We get them to safety and find out more later. This church," Frank shook his head, his jaw set tight. "They start indoctrinating low tier drug offenders, give them the salvation speech and then have them do shit like this to prove their loyalty. If those assholes didn't show, it means something went wrong on their end."

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SEBASTIAN STAN as THE WINTER SOLDIER CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER (2014)

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 .

i just think bucky deserves the john wick treatment

his pace didn't change, but he heard the shift in her tone—the careful attempt at something lighter, the way she tests the weight of conversation like someone checking for weak ground. he understood the instinct. the city moved around them, alive but distant, separate from them almost, but still, his mind catches on her question. did he like reading? before?

before is a loaded word. before the war? before hydra? before he'd become something other than himself. there's too much ground to cover, and he still wasn't entirely sure where he was supposed to land in it anymore. but he doesn't mind the question. it's not one people usually ask him.

❝ yeah. i did. ❞ he remembered that brooklyn in the '30's wasn't much for distractions when one was barely scraping by. books were an escape, something that didn't ask anything from you except time. he remembered carrying a copy of a tree falls in brooklyn while on the frontlines. ❝ life stories. coming of age. adventures. ❞

her smirk caught his eye, that teasing lilt in her voice pulled the corners of his mouth upward—just barely, but enough. ❝ i bet you wrote your own, ❞ he teased in return, ❝ none of the other poets could explain it like you. ❞

the city pressed in around them as they walked,  the night thick with the scent of rain on pavement,  the distant hum of traffic,  the whisper of wind through alleyways.  kara fell into step beside him,  hands tucked into her coat,  shoulders drawn inward against the cold.  the weight of their last words lingered,  heavy but not unbearable.  survival,  she had learned,  was rarely about victory — just endurance.   &  endurance was easier when silence did not demand to be filled.   

still,  she broke it.  ❝did you like reading?❞ her voice was quiet,  more observation than idle talk.  ❝before,  i mean. ❞ books had been her refuge,  history her constant.  the past never betrayed the way people did — it only revealed itself,  page by page.  she wondered if he had something like that,  something to tether him before the world made him a ghost of himself.   

she glanced sideways,  a smirk curling at the edge of her mouth.  ❝something tells me you weren’t the poetry type. ❞ a pause,  then something almost teasing,  almost warm.  ❝or maybe you were.  brooding soldier with a book of sonnets tucked into his jacket.  wouldn’t be the strangest thing i’ve seen. ❞ the corner of her mouth twitched,  the words easier,  lighter.  maybe not normal — but something close enough.