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BUCKY BARNES // THUNDERBOLTS* — dir. jake schreier

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THUNDERBOLTS* 2025, dir. Jake Schreier

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SEBASTIAN STAN and WYATT RUSSELL as BUCKY BARNES and JOHN WALKER

THUNDERBOLTS* (2025) dir. Jake Schreier

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Florence knows Bob best!

Most Googled Questions about Thunderbolts*

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Florence knows Bob best!

Most Googled Questions about Thunderbolts*

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THUNDERBOLTS* 2025, dir. Jake Schreier

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THUNDERBOLTS*

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marvel's disrespect towards sam wilson needs to be addressed (again). first they put zero effort into promoting brave new world, then the psc of thunderbolts* starts by dragging his name through the mud and demeaning his intellect & authority.

from there, people who were already sam wilson antis became even worse, saying even louder than before that walker should have the shield. and to that, i say fuck no and fuck off.

i don't think people understand the point of steven grant rogers giving sam the shield. "not a perfect soldier, but a good man." sam literally talked about how being black and not a super soldier has really beat up his own perception of self-worth and image. how he's not the conventional, idealistic choice, but his values make him worthy. bucky knows and agrees with this wholeheartedly, even if they did argue during the 14-month time skip.

so. fuck you, marvel, and fuck anyone who hates on sam wilson.

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SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY BARNES THUNDERBOLTS*

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#how it feels talking to younger generations at work about major past events

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IRON MAN (2008) IRONHEART (2025)

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THUNDERBOLTS* (2025) dir. Jake Schreier.

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some short imagine here and there? maybe yes 

bucky need something cuddles 🤭🤭

The door creaked open just after sunset, hinges groaning softly in the quiet apartment. You didn’t even have to look up from your book to know it was Bucky, no one else entered so quietly but still managed to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. Boots dropped by the door. Keys clinked into the little ceramic dish you insisted on keeping by the entryway.

Then silence. No greetings. No dramatic honey, I’m home. Just silence. You peeked over the top of your book. “Hey, Buck.” He looked tired, really tired. His hair was slightly damp from the rain, his hoodie clung to his broad frame, and his expression was unreadable, as it often was after a mission. He didn’t answer, just crossed the room in a few long strides and collapsed beside you on the couch with a huff, resting his head heavily in your lap. Your book was forgotten instantly. “You okay?” you asked softly, fingers brushing his hair back from his face. He closed his eyes, exhaling like he hadn’t taken a real breath all day. “Didn’t get my cuddle quota today.”

You smiled gently, continuing to card your fingers through his hair. “That’s tragic. We can’t have a deficit like that.” He shifted, turning his face into your stomach, arms wrapping loosely around your waist like you were the only solid thing holding him together. “They made me talk in a debrief for three hours,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “With people who use too many acronyms and smile like they’re gonna sell me a car.” You laughed softly, warmth blooming in your chest. “I am a poor baby,” he agreed with zero shame, tugging you closer like a living teddy bear. “You’re the only thing keeping me from snapping.”

You bent forward, kissed the crown of his head. “Well, I’m right here. You can cuddle me until you feel human again.” He sighed again, softer this time. Safer. “Don’t let go for a while.” You hugged him tighter. “I wasn’t planning to,” you whispered. And in that quiet, Bucky finally let himself breathe.

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taste like home

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader (y/n) Genre: Slow-burn romance - hurt/comfort (a little) - fluff Word count: 1855 Summary: Bucky slowly began to open up to Y/N, the only one who treated him right since the beginning. Eating together is a great way to start

It was late autumn when Bucky Barnes first walked into the Avenger's communal kitchen and found you dancing barefoot on the tile floor, humming a tune too old for someone your age to know. He stopped in the doorway. You didn’t hear him at first, too focused on stirring something in a pot that filled the air with the scent of garlic, onions, and roasted tomatoes. The sleeves of your sweater were pushed up to your elbows, and your hair was pulled back in a loose, hurried bun. Music played faintly from your phone, Billie Holiday's voice filling the room. Bucky hadn’t heard her voice in decades. It stopped him cold.

You turned when you finally noticed him and offered a warm smile, like he wasn’t the former Winter Soldier, like he wasn’t the man who still woke up screaming at 3 a.m.

“Hey,” you said casually, as if you'd been expecting him all along. “You hungry?” He hadn’t meant to stay, he only came down for some water. Something about the scent of real food, not just protein bars and green sludge Steve always pushed at him, had drawn him like a memory he couldn’t quite place.

“…I guess,” Bucky replied, voice cautious. You smiled wider, reaching for another spoon. “Come here. Try this.” He hesitated before stepping forward slowly. He looked down at the steaming red sauce you’d been tending. You lifted the spoon and gestured for him to lean down. He did, reluctantly. The moment the flavour hit his tongue, sweet tomatoes with basil and a hint of wine, it was like a small explosion of warmth in his chest. He blinked.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just… tastes like Sunday.” Your brow furrowed, confused but not pressing. “Well, sit. You’ll love the rest of it. I made fresh pasta too.” He sat.

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Two weeks later the kitchen became your shared space. No one really commented when Bucky started lingering near the stove when you cooked. Or when you started making extra portions without asking. The others were too busy with missions or tinkering in labs. You and Bucky found peace in something simple: food, and the quiet moments that came with it. He learned you were a telekinetic but still preferred to use your hands when chopping vegetables. That your mother was Italian, and your grandmother had taught you to cook by feel, not recipe.

“You’re the first person I’ve met who uses touch as much as I do,” Bucky said one night, holding up his metal hand after you accidentally brushed it while handing him a fork. “Most people… they flinch.” “I don’t flinch from people I trust,” you replied easily, your gaze soft but steady. He looked down at the pasta. “You shouldn’t trust me.” “I think I should be the judge of that.”

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The others noticed how close you were getting. Natasha, the first one to notice, raised a brow the first time she saw you slide a plate toward Bucky before sitting down yourself. Then Steve gave a small smile one morning when Bucky accepted a homemade croissant from you, still warm, and mumbled a quiet, “Thanks, doll.” Even Tony, who’d taken the longest to accept Bucky after everything happens, commented dryly, “Barnes smiles now? Must be the apocalypse.”

But no one said anything more, because it was clear Bucky was healing. Slowly, but meaningfully. And you were a part of that.

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One night, in the quiet of the kitchen, it was past midnight and Bucky found you sitting on the counter, knees drawn to your chest, eating leftover risotto straight from the container. You looked up at him sheepishly.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you said, covering your mouth.

He nodded, understanding. “Me neither.”

You held out the spoon. “Want some?”

“Do you ever wonder if you’ll feel normal again?” he asked after a while with hoarse voice, accepting the spoon.

“No. I don’t think I will. But I’ve found things that make the pain quieter. This place… the people. You.”

Bucky’s eyes met yours, shadowed but open in a way they never were before. “You make it quieter for me too.”

You reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away.

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When the winter turned into spring by March, Bucky knew the names of every spice in your cabinet. He could make your grandmother’s marinara by memory, though he never did unless you were in the room. He said it didn’t taste right without your voice in the background, humming old jazz songs. One afternoon, he asked if you wanted help making gnocchi. You raised a brow in surprise.

“I thought you hated the dough part,” you said.

He smirked. “You said it was about the feel, right?”

So, you taught him. Your hands brushed often his cold vibranium fingers, surprisingly gentle as he pressed and rolled the soft potato dough.

“I like cooking with you,” he said quietly.

“I like everything with you,” you replied, not even trying to hide it.

His smile was small, but real. And that night, for the first time, he kissed you. It was hesitant, reverent, as though he couldn’t believe he was allowed this kind of softness.

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The kitchen smelled like espresso and warm pastry when you walked in, rubbing sleep from your eyes and wearing one of those oversized sweaters Bucky always secretly stared at. Steve and Sam were already seated at the counter, each with a massive mug of cappuccino in hand and chocolate croissants on their plates, flaking golden crumbs onto the marble surface as they laughed about something you couldn’t quite catch. And then there was Bucky. He sat stiffly, a spoon resting in a bowl of sad, pale porridge that looked like it had been steamed directly from a 1943 army ration pack. No butter, no sugar, no fruit—just bland, flavourless mush. You blinked, baffled.

“Bucky,” you said cautiously, stepping closer. “What… what is that?”

He glanced up, caught off guard by your question. Sam froze with a croissant halfway to his mouth, and Steve went suddenly still, eyes flicking to Bucky with quiet concern. Bucky gave a sheepish shrug, avoiding your gaze. “Oatmeal.”

“That’s not oatmeal,” you said, inspecting it like a suspicious lab sample. “That’s punishment.”

He chuckled humourlessly. “It’s healthy.”

You crossed your arms, not buying it. “And?”

Steve opened his mouth, but Sam subtly nudged him, eyes warning. They both fell silent, watching their friend closely. Bucky sighed. “My—uh, this girl I used to see… she said I was getting soft. Around the edges.” You froze, the words sinking in like stones in water. “She got on me about my diet. Said I needed to cut sugar, carbs, everything. So… I did.” He stirred the sad porridge absently. “She’s not around anymore, but I guess the habit stuck.” The silence that followed was heavy. Steve looked down at his cappuccino like it had betrayed him. Sam grimaced, muttering, “That’s rough, man.”

But you?

You didn’t say a word.

You turned, calm as ever, and reached for the saltshaker. Without hesitation, you sprinkled a few generous shakes into the porridge—too many to be accidental.

Bucky stared. “Y/n—?”

“Oh no, how careless” you said pretending to be sorry.

“This,” you gestured vaguely at the bowl like it had personally offended you. “This is self-inflicted oatmeal prison.”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“I know you didn’t,” you said gently, already pulling out ingredients. “But I want to.”

“But—”

You raised one hand without turning around, a subtle shhh gesture that shut him up faster than Hydra trigger words. He watched as you moved with confident ease—whipping together flour, eggs, cocoa, and melted chocolate like you were born doing it.

The griddle hissed. The room filled with the warm, intoxicating scent of chocolate chip pancakes—real ones, thick and buttery, the kind meant to heal.

Steve and Sam exchanged a look behind you. It was unspoken, but clear: She’s the one.

Sam smiled into his mug. “You know, I suddenly feel spiritually connected to this pancake intervention.”

Steve chuckled softly. “She’s got good instincts.”

When the first stack was done, you slid the plate in front of Bucky, topped with a pat of butter and a drizzle of maple syrup. You said nothing. Just nudged it toward him and went back to the stove to flip the next batch.

Bucky stared at it for a long moment.

“I don’t deserve this,” he muttered.

You glanced back at him, soft but firm. “Maybe not. But you need it.”

His chest tightened.

He took a bite.

It was warm. Sweet. Comforting. Real.

And in that moment, Bucky didn’t know whether it was the food or the fact that someone cared enough to fight for his breakfast, but something in him cracked open. He looked at you, standing barefoot at the stove, hair messy, humming off-key, and he smiled for the first time that morning. Steve caught it and nudged Sam with his elbow. Sam grinned, eyes twinkling. “He’s so gone.” And Bucky? He didn’t even deny it.

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The tower's rooftop garden bloomed in July, and Bucky surprised you by waking you at sunrise.

“Come on,” he said, a mischievous light in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. “We’re cooking outside today.”

You blinked sleepily. “What?”

He handed you a basket. “I found tomatoes. Real ones. They’re perfect.”

So, you went together and made bruschetta, grilled vegetables, and the simplest pasta dish he could find.

You sat on a blanket under the morning sun, eating and laughing when Bucky got olive oil on his nose.

“You’re different now,” you said, watching him.

“I feel different,” he admitted, watching you back. “Like I can breathe. Like I deserve to.”

You leaned in and kissed him again. “You do. You always did.”

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You were soaked from a mission gone wrong. Bucky helped you strip out of your wet gear, wrapped you in a towel, and pulled you into the kitchen. The power was flickering, and you were shivering. Without a word, he made you soup. Just like you’d shown him. It was clumsy, slightly too much salty but you ate every bite, heart aching with something tender and strong. He sat beside you, his hand on your back, his eyes dark and full of something fierce.

“I love you,” he said, like a vow. “Not just for the food. But because you made me want to live again.” You cupped his cheek, tears warm on your face. “I love you too, Bucky. You don’t have to be perfect. You just must stay.”

“I will,” he whispered. “As long as you’ll have me.”

They would say Bucky Barnes, the man who once lived as a ghost, found his way back to life through you.

And he’d say it started with a spoonful of tomato sauce.

But you knew better.

It wasn’t the food, not really. It was the way you saw him—broken and whole, lost and found. And how you loved him, quietly, patiently, until he learned to love himself, bite by bite, day by day.

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three words

post-tfatws!bucky barnes x established!fem!reader | drabble

content warnings: references to past trauma and PTSD, anxiety, brief mentions of nightmares

word count: 1k.

blurb: you help to ease Bucky after a nightmare

author's note: a deleted scene from always a woman, to me part two - can be read as a stand-alone blurb

Bucky leans his weight on the kitchen counter. The room is bathed in the darkness of night. Through the window, New York silently moves: fluorescent store lighting and street lamps glowing. His head hangs like it’s weighted with stones and his eyes are closed. Sweat slicks his skin. He’s concentrating on his breathing. In…hold…out. It’s working. Slowly, but surely. It always works. Eventually. Another shaky breath in through the mouth. A shiver runs down his back. His eyes squeeze shut and he clenches his fists. Like aftershocks of an earthquake, fragments of the memories flicker on and off behind his eyelids. His senses are heightened as if on high alert; he hears the rustle of bedsheets from the bedroom and the soft padding of feet. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know you’re standing in the doorway. He’s always aware of your presence. 

“Hey,” you softly greet. Bucky doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. Instead, he just takes another slow, steady breath. You venture over until standing beside him. You smell like your moisturiser and the fabric conditioner from the bedsheets. It eases his anxiety somewhat. “Can I touch you?”

He gives a barely-there nod. Your hand splays out on his back, atop of his white vest, and you rub his back with a feather-light touch. His vest is wet with sweat but you don’t seem to mind. 

“Another one?” you ask after a moment of quiet. His jaw clenches tighter - a silent answer. Nightmare. They were less common now but would find ways to sneak up on him like a stealth operative. When Bucky felt like he was keeping his head above the water, a current would come out of nowhere and pull him back under. It was like the universe was taunting him. ‘Don’t get too comfortable,’ it would say as it shattered his sleep with terrors. ‘Don’t forget who you are.’ “Before, during or after?”

“During,” he croaks. His voice sounds like he’s gargled glass. You step away and Bucky hears the methodical steps of getting him a glass of water. You place it near him on the counter and he waits a moment before lifting himself upright and taking it. It helps. 

“Wanna talk about it?”

He shakes his head and you don’t push or pry. Instead, your fingers tentatively reach out for his. You let him clear the distance and intertwine his with yours. Bucky opens his eyes - bloodshot with unshed tears - and looks down at you. Your hair is slightly askew and there’s the crease of a pillow mark imprinted on your cheek. Your eyes are heavy with tiredness but your smile is kind and coaxing. You guide him wordlessly to the loveseat; sit with his head in your lap, his large body probably looking comedic in how it curls like a child hiding under covers. He never felt ashamed of it with you. It was like some part of him knew you were safe - even when the lines of now and then were blurred. He regresses almost, pretending he’s small and fragile like he was in his youth.  Your fingers slot into his hair, the tips rubbing soothing circles into the skin of scalp. He sighs and feels himself soften slightly in your hold, grounding himself in the sensation of you. He can feel the warmth of your skin radiate against him. You’re like the sun. Breaking through his clouds and guiding him back to the path. Eventually, Bucky rolls onto his back. His head remains in your lap, eyes closed, hands resting on his stomach. His knees are bent to fit. Your fingers change course onto his forehead. A gentle, welcoming pressure as you massage just above his eyebrows. It is as if you are ironing out every wrinkle with a softness like steam. Bucky involuntarily sighs. 

“Good?” you whisper. He hums. You continue. Ease down to his cheeks, pushing the skin gently upwards. His breathing has long since evened out. The clutches of the nightmare lessen like a cat’s claws retracting. Identifying the now was easier. Your movements pause as you lean down and press a lingering kiss to his forehead. “I love you,” you tell him quietly against his skin. Then, your fingers return to his hair. 

“You know I’d never let anything happen to you, right?” Bucky hears himself say into the blanket of night. 

“I know,” you reply. 

“I’ll always keep you safe. You know that, right? I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“James,” you say, voice firm but not cruel. “I know.”

He nods. “Sorry for waking you up.”

“You didn’t. I just woke up for some reason and realised you weren’t there,” you say. Then, “I wish you’d wake me up though.”

“I feel bad,” he murmurs. It’s easier to confess these things with his eyes shut. “It shouldn’t be your job to deal with this.”

“Enough of that,” you tut gently. “You don’t have to feel bad for needing support. God knows I’ve leant on you more than enough.”

“S’different.”

“Is it?” You continue playing with his hair as you say, “this is what love is, James. We take the good and the bad and we love them both equally. That’s what you do with me, right? So why is it hard to believe that it goes both ways.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. Your words are like medicine: tough to swallow, but effective in remedying his worries. Time loses meaning as the two of you sit. Sleep offers itself to him again, tickling at his closed eyelids. You must be tired. The rhythm your fingers had at the start has begun to wobble. 

“I’d never hurt you either,” you say delicately. “You’re safe with me - always. I can promise you that. You can tell me anything: I mean it.”

His right hand comes up to catch your wrist. The gentle thrum of your heartbeat presses against the pads of his fingers. Bucky opens his eyes into yours. “I know. I trust you.”

Your breath visibly catches in your throat. You smile, nervous but certain, and nod. He guides your wrist to his lips and kisses the interior. The perfume you’d been wearing that day lingers on your skin, like water on streets after rain. The three words that feel as natural as breathing come next. “I love you.” 

Your thumb reaches out and brushes lovingly at the scruff on his jawline. “C’mon,” you smile. “Let’s go back to bed.” 

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[buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger]

𝑺𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓 𝑷𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒔 | 𝑾.𝑺

𝒑: 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝑓!𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝒔: 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑠𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑑.

𝒘: 𝑆𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒 18+ 𝑀𝐷𝑁𝐼 & 𝐹𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓 | 𝐵𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑓 𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑃𝑇𝑆𝐷 | 𝐵𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑓 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝐻𝑌𝐷𝑅𝐴 | 𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑦 𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 | 𝐿𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑏𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔/ℎ𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑦𝑠

𝒂/𝒏: 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑝𝑜𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑐 𝑏𝑦 𝐹𝐴𝑅. 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑖 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑡 11𝑘+. 𝐼 ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑖 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑡, 𝑖 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙. 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝐶𝐴:𝑇𝑊𝑆. 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑙𝑦 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑅𝑢𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑎𝑛, 𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑓 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔. 𝐿𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑑. | 𝒘𝒄: 5.8𝑘

It was so awkward.

Everyone sat frozen in place, their eyes locked on the imposing figure of the Winter Soldier as he towered behind you, his piercing blue eyes methodically scanning the room and studying each occupant with an intensity that made them shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"Absolutely not!" Tony was the first to break the suffocating silence, his voice sharp and decisive as he beat Steve to speaking by a mere second. There was absolutely no way he would even consider allowing the fist of HYDRA to take up residence in his tower, treating him like he was nothing more than some lost stray that needed sheltering. "He's not staying here, no way in hell - this isn't a halfway house for reformed assassins."

"Tony, come on. HYDRA is gone, their control over him is broken," you reasoned desperately, your voice taking on a pleading tone as you gestured toward the silent figure behind you, "He's been surviving on his own for weeks, barely getting by. Just look at him...he's exhausted, malnourished, and clearly needs somewhere safe to stay and recover."

"Uh, how about no?" Tony fired back, staring at you like you had grown a second head...or like you had a towering sleeper soldier looming behind you.

Tony wasn't your favorite person in the world, but he was usually somewhat reasonable.

"There's absolutely no way that he's staying here. Have you completely lost your mind? What if he suddenly snaps or loses control and goes completely berserk, hm? What if one night those sleeper triggers buried in his brain suddenly activate and he takes us out one by one in our sleep?" Tony added, his hands gesturing wildly in the air as he attempted to visualize the gruesome scenarios playing out in his mind.

"Your state-of-the-art security cameras can't give us a heads up before that happens?" You asked with dry sarcasm, your tone deliberately flat and unimpressed, clearly making a joke while you tried to find some kind of middle ground that would get the agitated, self-proclaimed playboy to calm down and think rationally.

"No chance in hell, sweet cheeks," he folded his arms and glared at you with sternness that etched across his features. "Too dangerous."

"He's staying, whether you like it or not," you replied in the same unwavering tone, standing your ground with resolute conviction. "He's hurt, weak, completely vulnerable. There's absolutely nothing he could possibly do in this state. He needs somewhere warm and safe to stay, especially since he's been struggling to survive out on the streets for weeks now. Besides, winter is coming fast and there’s no way he won’t get hypothermia or something." You added with concern, knowing full well that while the soldier hadn't been entirely helpless during his ordeal, he certainly hadn't managed to secure any kind of stable shelter.

His temporary refuges consisted only of cold spaces beneath bridges, dark corners tucked away in forgotten alleys, or the remains of abandoned buildings - not a single place where he could truly let his guard down or feel protected from the harsh elements. With winter's rapid approach and already light dustings of snow, the temperatures would only get more brutal as the nights went on.

“He was put in cryofreeze, he can handle New York’s bite.” Tony crossed his arms and all but glared at you, stubbornly determined not to allow this assassin refuge in his tower. “I own the building, and I’m not allowing for any strays to stay.”

“He’s not staying outside. He is staying here. I’ll look after him. I’ll take full responsibility if something happens, but he isn’t going back outside. It’s already getting close to zero at night.” You snapped back, your own stubborn persona reeling its head. It was clear that you had come to an impasse.

You continued to argue with Tony, Steve butting in every so often, luckily siding with you, desperate to have his old friend somewhere safe. It was a long, frustrating argument that lasted much longer than need be.

Earlier that day, while you had been making your way down the frost-covered street of New York's downtown district, his eyes had caught sight of your familiar form as you passed over open alleyways. Something deep within him told him to follow you, a magnetic pull that he couldn't explain. It had been the first time since his escape that he felt the urge to do something without order. He obeyed the instinct, trailing silently behind you all the way back to the tower.

When you finally became aware of his presence, he was thoroughly drenched from the steadily falling snow, his cheeks and nose having turned a bright, rosy color from the biting cold as he tried to suppress the constant shivering his stressed body gave off.

The moment you made your sudden turn to look at him, he visibly startled, immediately taking a defensive step backward as his mind raced through all the possible scenarios and potential threats. His eyes darted across your face with obvious wariness as you looked him over, his entire body subtly shifting its weight from foot to foot, muscles tensed and ready to bolt away.

"It's okay...you look cold..." You spoke softly, your voice a whisper among the fallen snow, trying not to startle him as you took in his disheveled appearance. The soldier, the one whose face had practically been plastered across every news channel, the same one Steve had spoken about with such raw emotion in his voice.

You remembered how Steve had mourned his best friend, utterly confused and devastated about why he had been saved from the river, while Bucky fell to what should have been his death. How he survived, what had been done to him in HYDRA, Steve held onto that grief, that guilt, like a lifeline. He held onto it so desperately, clinging to the faintest hope that a sliver of Bucky was still somewhere deep inside the persona of the Winter Soldier.

Looking at him now, you couldn't see any trace of the man from Steve's stories - the soldier's eyes were too wild and wide, filled with fear and confusion.

But despite everything you'd heard, despite the destruction you'd witnessed on the news, despite the intense warnings from everyone in the tower, there was something about his presence that didn't trigger your fight or flight response.

He didn't make you feel unsafe.

He looked absolutely beat down, exhausted to his very core, his shoulders slumped in a way that made you wonder when he'd last had a moment's rest. You weren't even sure he could take you down if he tried in this state, though you knew his reputation suggested otherwise. He was shaking from the cold air as it blew in a stinging breeze, his metal arm gleaming dully in what little light remained, while the incoming winter storm brought with it a thick haze and countless tiny pinpricks of needle-like snowflakes that cut through the air.

"Come inside with me, I'll take care of you." You offered quietly, your voice gentle and reassuring as you extended your hand towards him. Your body language remained open and non-threatening, shoulders relaxed and posture casual to help put him at ease and to show him you felt no fear.

After a few silent moments where his piercing blue eyes studied you through the thick haze, he finally shifted his weight forward and took a step in your direction.

The water in the shower had set a steady steam in the bathroom, the mirror had fogged and the tiles sweat below your bare feet.

You could hear the gentle splashing of water against the bathtub as he cleaned himself. The mechanical whirring of his metal arm caught your attention, hopefully that thing was waterproof, but it must be, right?

You heard him grunt in frustration, seeing his silhouette use a worn rag to harshly scrub at the grooves between the plates, scratching old what looked like rust - smelled like it too - but it was just old blood he couldn’t rid himself of. He never had the chance until now, letting the hot water soften the chunks clinging between metal before the cloth aided in pulling them free.

After setting out a fresh towel and clean clothes for his use, you quietly excused yourself to provide him with privacy. The state of his current attire was awful, every piece was thoroughly saturated and carried an unmistakable stench that made you wrinkle your nose. The clothes were in such poor condition that you couldn't help but wonder if they had been scavenged from someone who no longer needed them.

You wouldn’t put it past the soldier to steal from a cadaver.

His shower routine was notably brief, years of conditioning taught him to minimize the time spent on his personal care. Upon finishing, he emerged from behind the curtain and dried himself with the provided towel. His gaze fell upon the fresh clothes you had thoughtfully placed by the sink, while his previous garments had been discreetly removed.

The soldier hesitated momentarily before donning the clean outfit. It wasn’t anything fancy, a pair of grey sweatpants emblazoned with the Avenger's logo along the side and a simple yet comfortable black tank top. When he finally emerged from the bathroom to face you, his body language betrayed his uncertainty as he stood there, not sure what to do now. Comfort was completely foreign to him, and care was a dream away.

"Tony finally gave in," you replied softly, your voice sounding in the quiet stillness of the bedroom. "He said you could stay here with us."

He remained motionless, his expression blank and unreadable as he stood there, offering neither response nor the slightest hint of acknowledgement to your words. You weren’t sure what to expect but that seemed pretty in character for him at the moment.

"You'll be staying in my quarters since no one else is comfortable having you in their space just yet...but don't worry too much about that," you reassured gently, though you could tell from his demeanor that others' opinions held little weight in his mind. "They'll come around after some time, I'm sure of it."

His gaze fixed upon you then, his brow creasing ever so slightly with an unspoken question as he began to move. Each step was measured as he crossed the room, closing the distance between you until he stood directly in front of you, close enough that you could see the water droplets from his freshly washed hair beading at the ends and falling onto the fabric of your top, leaving dark spots where they landed.

He smelled so much better after he was cleaned.

"Everything's going to be fine," you reassured once again, trying to ease the tension in the air. "Why don't we head to the kitchen and get you something to eat? You must be hungry." You offered, hoping to bring some normalcy to the situation.

The soldier shadowed your every movement, following closely behind like a faithful companion who refused to stray from their master's side.

Upon entering the kitchen, you made your way to the industrial-sized refrigerator, searching through its contents for something suitable to offer him. The kitchen was perpetually stocked to the brim with an array of foods, snacks, and ingredients - practically anything one could imagine or desire. It was like having a private, fully-stocked grocery store.

Though a ravenous super soldier with enhanced metabolism, the mighty Asgardian god whose appetite matched his status, and Banner's surprisingly hulk-ish consumption…the team still depleted their food with an efficiency that would put a pack of famished wolves to shame.

"Hm...what should you have...do you want anything specific?" You turned over your shoulder to address him, but he maintained his characteristic silence. Unmoving, and completely stoic, like an old statue in an overgrown garden.

"Нет [No]," came his quiet response, the Russian word rolling off his tongue deeply. He remained perfectly still, observing with careful attention as you continued your search through the refrigerator's contents, trying to determine what would be most appropriate for him to eat. Your mind was working quickly, knowing you wanted to avoid anything too time-consuming to prepare. You wanted to get some food into him sooner rather than later.

"How about...I could make some soup real quick? Tomato and grilled cheese might be a safe option for you. Shouldn't upset your stomach too much if you haven’t been eating a lot, and it will warm you up if you're still feeling cold." You turned back toward him once more, studying his features carefully for any hint of reaction or preference to your suggestion, any subtle change in his expression.

But, he didn't provide even the slightest indication of his feelings.

You decided on tomato soup and grilled cheese anyway.

Although you typically prided yourself on preparing meals completely from scratch, this particular circumstance called for something different. You assemble the sandwich, buttering the bread before placing it in a heated pan to get a golden-brown crust while keeping a watchful eye on the pot of soup simmering beside it, occasionally stirring for even heating.

Once everything reached the perfect temperature, you transferred the meal onto clean dishes, relieved it didn’t take too long. You presented him with the steaming bowl of soup and perfectly grilled sandwich, watching as the soldier awkwardly took his place at the counter, his eyes fixed intently on the rising steam from the bowl before him.

You watched him, noting how his entire body remained unnaturally rigid and motionless, as though every muscle was locked in place and braced for something. His lips bore a slight sheen of moisture, like he had licked them at some point when you weren't watching. Yet despite his obvious hunger, he hadn't made even the slightest attempt to reach for the food. His eyes held intense longing and hesitation, briefly meeting yours before quickly darting away, as if making eye contact was somehow forbidden.

"What's wrong?" You asked with growing concern etched across your features, "You're hungry aren't you? I can tell you haven't eaten in a while. Especially not anything warm, at least. I know it can be hard out there, all by yourself…"

His response came in the form of an almost imperceptible nod, his gaze remaining firmly fixed on the bowl and sandwich before him, as though they were the most important and most dangerous objects in the room.

"So why aren't you eating? It won’t be as good if it cools too much. Did you want something else?"

"Я не могу совершить действие без приказа. [I cannot perform an action without an order]," the soldier responded in barely more than a whisper, his voice carrying the weight of years of conditioning.

You stood there, completely lost in the language barrier between you. Your limited knowledge of Russian extended only to the most basic words - 'да' and 'нет' - leaving you clueless by his response and worried about the implications of his behavior.

You didn't want to wake Natasha, even though she would certainly understand what he was saying in Russian, but disturbing her sleep for something as simple as a quick translation seemed unnecessary and might put her in a bad mood. Instead, an idea popped into your head that would avoid an angry widow. You reached for your phone and placed it on the smooth counter surface, navigating to a translator app before looking up at him again. "Can you repeat that?"

The soldier's eyes flickered briefly to the phone screen, taking in the sight of the translation app with what seemed like recognition, before his gaze returned to the untouched food laid out before him. "I cannot perform an action without an order," he stated in perfect, albeit mechanical English this time.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden switch to English when he had been persistently speaking Russian up until this point. "Okay...well...eat then, you can eat freely here, you don't need an order to do that." You slowly tucked your phone away into your pocket as his right hand gradually lifted from where it had been resting in his lap, reaching out to pick up the sandwich.

You weren't sure what you were expecting, but he wolfed down his food within a minute, that sandwich was gone within maybe three bites. The soup swallowed just as fast.

God, he was starving, and the realization made your heart ache.

"Better?" You asked gently, to which he only nodded, swallowing the last of the food in his mouth.

He looked up at you, avoiding your eyes, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked like he wanted more, his stomach growled with surprise at the sudden amount of food. You noticed, and you offered a small smile.

“I’ll make you another one.” 

This became routine, the soldier stuck by your side like a duckling imprinting on its mother.

He followed you diligently around every corner of the tower, his protective instincts activated as he positioned himself like an ever-vigilant guardian. His eyes constantly scanned the surroundings, noting how others would cast uncertain and sometimes suspicious glances in his direction.

These looks made him increasingly self-conscious and anxious, as though he were some exotic creature put on display at a zoo for others to gawk at. But in your presence, he seemed a bit more at ease. He genuinely liked being around you.

Gradually, the rigid tension that had constantly existed began to melt away, and he started allowing more intimate gestures of care. He let you gently brush his unruly hair into place, carefully wash his face with warm water, or trim his growing stubble.

He accepted these tender ministrations without the slightest resistance or complaint, though a nagging worry lingered in your mind that his compliance stemmed from years of conditioning to submit to others' wishes. Each time you worried about that, you’d see genuine contentment in his gaze rather than submission, showing you that he truly found comfort and pleasure in your gentle touch.

It was evening, the room reflected the warm glow of festive holiday lights emanating from a miniature Christmas tree nestled in the corner. The soldier found himself transfixed by the small decorated tree, his eyes lingering on each twinkling light as their vibrant colors danced and shimmered. The sterile, monotonous walls he had grown accustomed to during his confinement were nothing compared to the colorful lights. The gentle play of red, green, and gold seemed to awaken something long dormant within him, he almost wanted to plant himself in front of the tree and just stare at it. 

You wondered if he’d like the multicolored lights you chose to set aside in favor of the warm white ones currently on the tree. 

Tony may have allowed his stay, but that didn’t mean there weren’t restrictions. He was stern about where and when the soldier could go anywhere with you, and he demanded that he not leave your room afterhours. It wasn’t hard to follow, the soldier showed reluctance to leave your room at all, having been so accustomed to being kept in a single cell for who knows how long. 

You didn’t push him, but you felt bad for him because he was missing how the tower had been decorated for the holidays. So, you got a smaller tree for the bedroom to provide some kind of festive look for him to take in.

You emerged from the bathroom, wisps of steam following in your wake, your damp hair leaving little droplets on your shoulders as you continued to towel it dry with scrunches. He remained motionless on the edge of your bed, his attention immediately shifting as he turned and blinked up at your approaching figure.

His icy eyes traced a path across your form, which was barely concealed beneath the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, the hem teasingly brushing against your mid-thigh with each step forward. "I am beat," you sighed heavily, your voice carrying the weight of the day's festivities. The marathon of holiday’s continuous activities had clearly taken its toll, leaving you thoroughly drained. The tower often held an array of things to do because Tony loved to show off what he could afford, and it wasn’t like anyone else would object to indulging in luxuries they otherwise wouldn’t experience..

He observed with rapt attention as you made your way onto the bed and settled back against the pillows, releasing a deep exhale that seemed to melt away the day's tension. His unwavering gaze remained fixed on the rhythmic, hypnotic motion of your chest rising and falling with each breath.

You felt the bed shift beneath you as he moved, his weight causing the mattress to dip and creak softly. He crawled over to where you lay, his arms positioning themselves on either side of your body, caging you in. Your eyes fluttered open to find him hovering directly above you, his presence overwhelming in its proximity. 

This was something new…he had always maintained somewhat of a distance before, never daring to position himself so intimately over top of you. Sure, brushing his hair or helping him shave were intimate acts in itself but nothing like this.

"Я скомпрометирован. [I'm compromised]," the soldier spoke in a hushed tone, his voice carrying that distinctive gravelly pitch that made you feel tingly. The tension between you had become damned near impossible to ignore. What had started as a subtle pull had grown into an overwhelming force of attraction that seemed to draw you both together like magnets.

Still, you forced yourself to hold back, maintaining that last thread of restraint. You had no way of knowing the depth of his emotional capacity, if he was even capable of genuine feelings, or wanted to experience them at all after everything he endured.

"Soldat...?" The whispered word escaped your lips as you noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor, the way his muscles tensed as he remained suspended above you, perfectly still. "You know I don't understand -"

"I am compromised," he repeated, switching to English this time. His voice had dropped even lower, carrying an edge of frustration that vibrated through the minimal space between your bodies.

"Comprom..." You sat up slowly on your elbows and shook your head in confusion, your brow furrowed as you tried to process his words. That’s what you’d say about a machine or computer, not a man. "What are you talking about?" Your eyes wandered downward, suddenly drawn to a very obvious tent in his fitted briefs that became obvious from your new viewing angle, causing you to freeze in place as your breath caught in your throat.

So, he could feel things.

"Oh..." You felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you as you remained frozen in place, your cheeks growing warm. "I think I understand now...you're feeling a bit pent up, aren't you?" You weren’t sure about what was happening, why you felt like your body was reacting faster than you could speak. 

His metal arm whirred softly, the sophisticated machinery humming as he moved to adjust his hand placement. "Да. [Yes]," he responded in a low voice, his gleaming titanium fingertips delicately ghosted across the bare skin of your thigh, just barely grazing beneath the hem of your thin sleep shirt. Goosebumps erupted along your body in response to the contact, the cool metal sudden against your flushed skin.

"Мне не нравится делиться вашим вниманием. [I don't like sharing your attention]," he muttered with an undertone of possession, his lips curling into a slight frown as he gradually leaned closer to you. His silken hair delicately tickled your face as he slowly lowered himself, the tips of your noses barely grazing against each other in an intimate gesture. His lips parted ever so slightly, revealing a glimpse of anticipation before he dipped his head down, warm lips pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your jawline.

You swallowed reflexively, your breath catching in your throat as you felt his warm, steady breath caress your sensitive skin, sending a visible shudder of growing excitement through your body.

He continued his gentle exploration, encouraged by your acceptance and the absence of any resistance. He pressed a trail of soft, purposeful kisses along the curve of your jaw, each one more intimate than the last, before gradually working his way down to your neck. He carefully followed the rhythmic flutter of your pulse beneath your skin, his tongue peeking out shyly to touch against you.

"Ah -" You voiced softly, feeling him settle on a particularly sensitive spot, right against the delicate side of your neck. It was nestled perfectly between the graceful junction where your neck connected to your collarbone, the skin there warm and inviting, holding a faint trace of blood flow from the intricate network of smaller veins positioned just beneath the surface.

He kissed there so many times with increasing intensity, clearly finding this spot ideal for his attention. The soft, tentative pecks gradually became more passionate, open-mouthed kisses as each one was placed. His tongue began gently pressing against your skin with each lingering kiss, the pressure slowly growing in need. You felt your cheeks flush with warmth when he finally latched on, your eyes widening in surprise as the soldier's strong arms held you a little tighter.

Soldat began to suckle a mark, his ministrations gentle and teasing at first, but quickly growing in force and intensity as his skilled tongue swirled expertly around the trapped skin between his lips and teeth. The sensation drew a breathy moan from deep within you, making your entire body feel as though it were engulfed in flames of desire. Though you were completely helpless beneath the assassin, you had absolutely no intention or desire to push him away.

This felt too damned good.

Without thinking, your leg came up and hooked around his hips, drawing him closer until your bodies were flush against each other. The heat between you grew and you felt his painful erection trapped in his briefs, straining against the fabric as his arousal was staining them. Soldat exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening possessively, but he did not let go.

His suckling grew increasingly intense, the sensitive skin tingling and starting to sting and burn with each passing moment. Still, he didn't release the bruised skin just yet.

Instead, he bit down harder, ensuring the mark he left would last for days. You moaned loudly, your fingers gently tangling in his thick hair as your pleasured sounds encouraged his attention. He became more attentive when your little sounds of pleasure turned into sharp, quiet hisses - clearly indicating that the sensation had crossed from pleasure into discomfort, silently telling him to ease off.

When he did finally relent, he pulled back to admire his handiwork, looking down at the deep purple mark blooming on your neck. His breath came in heavy pants through his parted lips as he stayed quiet, watching intently as you struggled to catch your own breath too. The sight of you beneath him, disheveled and vulnerable, with flushed skin and labored breathing, was enough to draw him right back in.

He dipped back down with renewed hunger, his metal hand slowly threading through your hair before gently fisting it at the base of your skull, though his careful control ensured it wasn’t painful, just firm. He tugged just enough to guide your movement, encouraging you to expose more of your neck to his hungry gaze.

"E-easy..." You whispered, a note of anxious anticipation in your voice. You wanted more, god you wanted more, but his sudden change of behavior was a bit surprising for you.

"Понял. [Understood]," he whispered against your skin, pressing a soft kiss of reassurance to your jaw before returning his attention to your neck. Those soft kisses began again, trailing along your skin, but his restraint didn't last long as he quickly sought a new canvas for another mark. He latched onto a spot just a little bit higher on your neck, alternating between sucking and carefully controlled bites to gradually darken and bruise the sensitive flesh.

You felt bite after delicious bite, hickey after possessive hickey.

He marked the tender flesh of your neck in several deep, purple marks that bloomed like violent flowers across your skin...each one throbbing with a sweet ache when he pulled away. His tongue always swirled over the mark with care to soothe the sting of it, making you arch into his touch as you fell into a complete daze.

"S-Soldat," you muttered breathlessly, cheeks flushed crimson and eyelids heavy with desire. Your pupils matched his own - completely blown with hunger and desperate need. Those bermuda swirls meet yours as he continues a torturously slow trail of hot kisses down your chest, nipping your collarbone with just enough pressure to make you gasp before following the gentle dip of your sternum.

He paused deliberately, pulling up so he could lift the thin sleep shirt over you and expose more of your bare chest to his hungry gaze, giving him better access for his heated kisses and teasing nips. Once your top was discarded somewhere on the floor, his hands gently but firmly held your sides, trailing up with reverent touches until settling against your ribcage. His larger hands completely encompassed your torso, making you feel small but protected.

The soldier was absolutely transfixed at the sight of your breasts, eyeing the soft mounds and peaked nipples as they hardened in the cool air, growing increasingly sensitive and rosy with your mounting arousal. The fucking Winter Soldier, the most dangerous assassin in history, stopped dead in his tracks at the mere sight of your bare breasts.

You felt in charge now.

"What is it? Do you like them?" you purred softly to the soldier, your body swaying in a teasing motion that made them gently move. His eyes remained fixed, drinking in the sight before him as his lips parted ever so slightly. Slowly, his head tilted down again, surrendering to the moment. He let his face nestle against your chest, his lips trailing a constellation of unhurried kisses across your skin.

He began to nip and suckle the tender skin of your breasts, his mouth working to create deep, purple love bites on that delicate flesh. The bruising blossomed easily beneath his touch, almost like they were eager to show themselves.

His lips would find a promising spot, then he would begin lapping at the skin with gentle strokes of his tongue until he felt you squirming. The soldier took the sensitized flesh carefully between his teeth, rolling the captured skin while his talented muscle swirled and sucked.

Your chest displayed his passionate handiwork when he finally drew back to admire his creation. The plum-colored bruises created an intimate pattern across your skin, their rich hues made even more striking by the soft glow of the holiday lights that danced through the room, highlighting each carefully placed love bite until they seemed to shimmer like twilight stars against your flesh.

"Soldat...I think you covered enough surface area," you breathed, feeling overwhelmed by the intense throbbing that radiated from each mark he'd left. The sensation pulsed in waves across your skin, making it difficult to focus. Your neck was thoroughly covered in the passionate marks, and now your chest bore an equally impressive collection.

The soldier gazed down at you intensely, his eyes taking in each little sugar plum bruise that decorated your skin like a masterpiece. Though they were scattered without any obvious pattern, the overall effect clearly pleased him. You lay there looking thoroughly affected by his attention, hair mussed and breathing uneven, cheeks beautifully darkened with a dust of blush, just from his careful application of bites alone. The sight of you in such a state, marked so thoroughly, brought deep set satisfaction in his gut.

"Моя теперь. [Mine now]," he muttered softly, his warm breath ghosting across your skin as his lips hovered mere millimeters from your own. The almost-kiss was delicate, just the faintest brush of contact that sent electricity dancing through your nerves. He almost seemed nervous to close that final distance, his confidence faltering despite the passionate trail of marks he had already left scattered across your skin.

He drew back slightly, seemingly snapping out of a trance, and you could see the vulnerability written plainly across his features as that nervousness flickered in his eyes. Shifting his weight, he settled back onto the bed, his right hand finding your knee and tracing gentle, soothing circles there with his thumb. The tender gesture matched his hushed voice as he spoke, "Я не хочу идти дальше. [I don't want to go any further]," the words carrying a hint of apology.

Your brow furrowed deeply as you struggled to understand what he was trying to say, the confusion evident in the slight crease between your eyebrows and the questioning tilt of your head. You really needed to study Russian. "Do you not want to continue?" You asked softly, focusing more on interpreting the subtle nuances in his tone rather than trying to parse the exact words he was using.

His facial expression held hesitance and uncertainty, the slight downturn of his lips and the way his eyes wouldn't quite meet yours telling you what you needed to know. Body language was his primary mode of genuine communication, and you had become very good at reading these silent signals he unconsciously broadcast.

"It's okay, we can stop," you replied with a reassuring tone, making sure to keep your voice soft to help dissipate any lingering tension he might be feeling. "Let's just lay here, okay? We can cuddle without any kind of pressure to do anything else, if you want." You offered with a warm smile, wanting him to feel that his comfort and boundaries were completely respected and that there was no expectation or obligation to continue.

This was a lot of good progress with him, you typically just cuddled or he kept to his side of the bed but he had shown you a lot of sweet affection tonight, and you loved it, it meant he was growing more confident in himself and your relationship. The evidence of his passionate yet tender attention remained visible in the form of gentle, plum-colored marks that decorated your neck and chest as you lay beside him, watching as his silent form trembled slightly beneath the heavy warmth of the thick blankets that enveloped you both.

You opened your arms, offering him a warmer space, and he quickly scooted forward, tucking himself against you. Prone to being cold, he liked being under many layers of blankets, so you made sure to provide plenty for him to not only feel warm but secure. Plus...having you to hold him always helped.

Without the worry of being a soldier, he could rest easy like this.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑹𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆.

[buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger]

5 moments where you help bucky

You help Bucky, always. 

With his coffee. He hated moments like this. The coffee mug slipped, again, and shattered on the kitchen floor. Bucky stared down at the shards, jaw clenched, metal fingers curling into a fist. His arm felt too heavy, too stiff, too foreign. “Goddammit,” he muttered, turning away from the mess. His hand twitched, still not used to the morning stiffness the prosthetic sometimes gave him. He could lift a car but couldn’t hold a damn cup without crushing it or dropping it. You appeared in the doorway a second later, drawn by the sound. You didn’t say anything at first, just took in the sight of him, tense and brooding, with ceramic scattered at his feet. He didn’t look at you. “I’ll clean it.” But you stepped around him gently. “I know. But let me help.” He sounded defeated. “Don’t.” His voice was low. “I’ve got it.” You knelt anyway, carefully gathering the broken pieces, your fingers nimble and quick. “I know you can. But you don’t have to do everything alone, Buck.” He flinched a little when you said that—like it hit deeper than it should’ve. Once the floor was clear, you straightened and stepped closer, reaching for his metal hand. He didn’t move. You cupped it like it was precious. “Your arm is part of you,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over the cool plates. “Not a weakness. Not a flaw. Just… something you’re still getting used to. And that’s okay. “His throat worked around something unsaid. “It doesn’t feel like me,” he admitted. You smiled softly and raised his hand to your lips, pressing a kiss to the knuckles. “Then let’s keep reminding you that it is. Little by little." He looked down at you, eyes softer now, and nodded once. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. You felt it in the way he threaded his fingers (metal and all) through yours and held on tight.

Shaving. He stood in front of the mirror, razor in hand, his metal fingers awkward and unsure. His left hand didn’t have the same finesse as his right once did. Not for delicate things like this. You stepped into the bathroom quietly. “Want some help?” He grunted, not looking at you. “I’ve got it.” The razor slipped just enough to make a small nick on his jaw. He hissed, reached for a towel. You moved behind him, gentle but firm. He met your eyes in the mirror reluctant, vulnerable but he gave a small nod. You took the razor from his hand and guided him to sit on the closed toilet lid. You knelt between his knees, one hand steadying his jaw as the other swept the blade slowly across his stubbled skin. His eyes stayed on you the whole time. You were close enough that he could feel your breath, smell your shampoo. Every stroke was slow, careful, like you were shaving something holy. When you finished, you wiped his skin with a warm cloth, then kissed his now-smooth cheek. “Perfect,” you said, smiling. “Now don’t go brooding it back in five minutes.”

Buttoning His Shirt. Later, you found him in the bedroom, struggling with a navy button-up. He could get the cuffs and lower buttons, but the ones near his chest? They took precision he just didn’t have right now. “Hey,” you said softly from the doorway. “Want a hand?” He sighed through his nose. “I feel like a damn toddler.” You walked over, brushing his hands away gently. “You’re not. You’re a stubborn grown man with too many muscles for this poor shirt.” That made him snort. “It’s the arm, not the muscles.” You stepped close, fingers working the buttons one by one. “Then let me help the arm. It’s part of you. I love all of it.” He went still. You didn’t realize what you’d said until his eyes locked on yours. You didn’t take it back. When you finished buttoning the last one, your fingers stayed against his chest for a moment. His voice was quiet. “You really mean that?” You nodded. “Every word.” He kissed you then, soft and slow. Grateful.

Holding a Book. That night, he lay on the couch, his head in your lap. His metal hand rested, warm from being close to you, still reluctant to move it much. He used to love holding books and touching the paper, turning the pages. Now, every little task felt clunky. The pages would stick together, tear, or shift too fast. So you read aloud instead. Your voice was soft, calm, threading through the silence of the apartment like music. You cradled the book for him, angled just right so he could see the words, too. Every so often, he’d comment on a line or hum in agreement. You’d pause to smile down at him, run your fingers through his hair. At one point, he reached up and touched your cheek with his metal hand. Just a brush. Careful. Tender. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For not treating me like I’m broken.” You leaned down and kissed his forehead. “You’re not. You’re healing. And I’m right here with you.” He closed his eyes then, breathing steady, safe. Wrapped in words. In warmth. In you.

The Cufflinks. He stood by the full-length mirror, shirt now buttoned thanks to you, the sleeves rolled down neatly. He looked sharp. Navy against his skin, collar crisp but his focus was on the small silver cufflinks in his palm. His metal hand gripped one a little too tightly, the edges digging into his skin. “These things are damn tiny,” he muttered, frustrated. You walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your chin on his shoulder. “They’re also ridiculously old-fashioned,” you teased. “But you look so handsome in them, I won’t complain.” He let out a quiet, breathy laugh. You slid around to face him, holding out your hands. “Here. Let me?” He gave you the cufflinks and extended his arms. You started with the left, his flesh hand. Easier. Your fingers worked quickly, sliding the small metal through the fabric, locking it in place with a click. Then came the right. His metal arm stayed unnaturally still, wrist hovering awkwardly as you guided it closer. You glanced up. “Relax. I’ve got you.” He nodded, watching you. There was something reverent in the way you held his wrist not afraid of the strength beneath, not tiptoeing around it. Just gentle. Familiar. You eased the second cufflink through the buttonhole, pausing when it caught for a second. You didn’t huff or curse or make a face. You just tried again, slower, patient. “There,” you said, finally clicking it into place. “Perfect.” Bucky looked down at his sleeves, then back at you. “You always make the hard stuff feel simple.” You smiled and brushed his hair from his forehead. “Because it’s you. And nothing about helping you ever feels hard to me.” He leaned down and kissed you slow, warm, grateful. Outside the room, the world waited. But for now, it was just you, a pair of stubborn cufflinks, and a man who was starting to believe he was more whole than broken.