The Desert Wind Howled Like A Wounded Thing, Whipping Sand Against His Face As He Crouched At The Edge

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 .

- John Wick: Chapter 2, 2017

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."

he sat still, shoulders squared, jaw locked, still as death. he'd learned to outlast the worst kind of interrogations, the ones that broke men from the inside out. this wasn't that. not yet. but it smelled like the start of something close. he watched her, his expression neutral and unreadable even was she spoke, words a double edged sword and smile that was all slow edges and dangerous knowing. the silver at her wrist caught the light, a rhythm of movement that should have been casual but wasn't. a distraction maybe. a tell. or both.

he exhaled through his nose, slow. controlled. he didn't answer, something akin to blunt defiance lacing itself into his gaze. if she was fluent in silence then she'd know he had very little intention of bowing under the weight of time.

❝ no one is keeping me, ❞ the man said, voice rough as spent gunpowder, ❝ i'm right where i want to be. ❞ hydra thought they were chasing him. thought he'd slipped, let himself be hauled into the station compliant and docile, an easy target. but while they'd been chasing him, he'd been hunting them. the real fight hadn't started yet, but it would.

❝ what about you? ❞ he asked conversationally, ❝ were you made to be kept? ❞

056: a police station in the middle of the night. -`♡´- › @wintrb0rn

the fluorescent lights overhead hummed with a hollow,  mechanical rhythm,  casting the police station in a sickly,  artificial glow.  clea sat across from him,  legs crossed,  fingers lazily tracing the silver charms at her wrist — just another rhythm,  another pattern.  her hazel eyes gleamed,  not with kindness,  but calculation,  drinking in every micro-shift in his posture,  the way his metal fingers curled,  the tension in his shoulders that never truly left.  ❝you don’t have to talk, ❞ she murmured,  her voice velvet-soft,  but edged with something serrated.  ❝but silence is a language,  too.   &  i’m fluent.❞ the two-way mirror behind her reflected their tableau in distorted light,  an audience lurking unseen.  she didn’t bother looking.  let them listen.  this conversation wasn’t for them.   

it wasn’t the police holding him here.  not really.  the moment bucky barnes set foot in this station,  the real players had taken notice.  ghosts in government files,  voices that operated just beneath the skin of the world — people who didn’t believe in loose ends.  he fit the profile too well: a relic of war,  a weapon out of time,  a mind too dangerous to be left unchecked.  if he didn’t walk out of here soon,  he wasn’t walking out at all.  clea tilted her head,  a slow smile ghosting across her lips.

 ❝they’re waiting you out,  hoping time will wear you down.  but you  &  i both know — time’s never been their weapon.  it’s always been ours. ❞ her voice dipped,  quiet,  sharp.  ❝you don’t have to trust me.  but if you let them keep you,  you’ll be theirs.   &  you weren’t made to be kept,  were you,  soldier?❞

CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLIDER (2014) dir. Anthony & Joe Russo

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.

you pick books like you pick your words, sharp. a little raw, she said. maybe he did. maybe that was how he picked all things, but kara didn't seem to mind it. be let the weight of the book settle, milk and honey wasn't the kind of poetry that soothed—it cut, left its mark, words that bled if you held them too long. he figured it was why it had felt right. some things weren't meant to be easy.

but then she pulled out a tree grows in brooklyn, and for half a second, his breath caught. she placed it in his hands and his fingers closed around it slow, deliberate, as if he was concerned that if he moved too fast it'd vanish. books had a nasty habit of disappearing, being left behind, taken, or like the library, forgotten. it had been a long time since he'd seen this particular book and while it wasn't his old copy, it mattered. a link back to an different time. a ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips, boyish and charming as he turned the book over in his hands and met her eye.

❝ i guess you do, ❞ bucky agreed tucking the paperback into his breast pocket for later, ❝ which means, you get to pick the next adventure. so what'll it be? ❞

kara turned the book over in her hands,  considering it.  poetry.  it wasn’t what she expected,  but it fit in a way she couldn’t quite put into words.  ❝you pick books like you pick your words,❞ she remarked,  flipping through the pages.  ❝sharp.  a little raw. ❞ there was no teasing in it,  just quiet observation,  the kind that sat between them without needing to be acknowledged.  she thumbed through a passage,  letting the weight of his choice settle before she finally looked up.  ❝i’ll take it. ❞

she let the silence stretch,  long enough for the weight of his pick to settle between them,  before she reached behind her,  pulling her own real find from where she’d tucked it away.  the thin volume of poetry shifted in her grasp as she held up the worn copy of a tree grows in brooklyn.  ❝but i did take you for this type, ❞ she said,  softer now,  a quiet triumph in her voice.  the book was old,  its spine softened with use,  the pages yellowed at the edges,  but it was whole.  whole in the way that mattered.  ❝thought you might like to have it again.❞

❝found it buried in the back,  tucked away like someone meant to come back for it.❞ she didn’t say what she was really thinking — that maybe it had been waiting for him.  she placed it in his hands without flourish,  without expectation.  just a quiet offering.  his fingers closed around it,  lingering,  and that was enough.  kara nudged him lightly as she turned back toward the stacks,  a ghost of a smirk playing at her lips.  ❝guess i win this round. ❞

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??

tag dump .

.     connection .     ›     natasha romanoff .

.     connection .     ›     clint barton .

.     connection .     ›     bruce banner .

.     connection .     ›     howard stark .

.     connection .     ›     thor odinson .

.     connection .     ›     the howling commandos .

.     connection .     ›     peggy carter .

.     connection .     ›     allies .

.     connection .     ›     enemies .

what are you seeking ?

—  forgiveness  .

“what  should  i  apologize  for;  what  i  am  or  what  i’m  not?”  //  oh,  little  hero,  how  close  are  you  to  crumbling  under  the  weight  on  your  shoulders?  how  heavy  has  that  heart  of  yours  gotten?  how  deeply  has  the  guilt  burrowed  into  your  bones?  how  permanently  has  the  grief  been  seared  into  your  soul?

you  were  so  tender,  and  the  world  so  cruel.  loss  after  loss  after  loss,  each  another  chip  on  your  shoulder.  because  you  deserved  it,  didn’t  you?  if  you  could  be  better . . . faster . . . stronger . . . smarter . . . then  maybe  it  wouldn’t  have  happened.  right?  the  blood  stains  your  hands,  and  it  won’t  wash  out  will  it?

but  darling,  it’s  never  been  your  fault.  you’ve  learned  to  turn  the  rage  and  the  regret,  the  guilt  and  the  grief,  inwards.  if  you’re  hurt,  it’s  your  own  fault  isn’t  it?  because  then  there’s  a  reason  for  it,  because  it  gives  you  some  semblance  of  control,  doesn’t  it?  what  you  seek  is  forgiveness,  for  your  perceived  wrongs.  but  oh,  little  skeleton,  you  do  not  need  it.  stop  blaming  yourself  for  what  was  beyond  your  control.  let  go  of  the  past.  grow.  and  learn  to  breathe  with  both  of  your  lungs.  stop  choking  on  your  own  self  hatred.  the  weight  will  ease,  i  promise.  i  love  you.

tagged by : nada tagging : @staticveil , @sh1elded , @tcbefearless ( amelia ), @deathcrime & you <3