writing against the odds @ivy-lea - Tumblr Blog

WINTER'S TOUCH

18+ | MDNI

pairing: the winter soldier x female!reader

summary: in the shadows of hydra’s control, the winter soldier secretly finds refuge in you. in the safe sanctuary that is your apartment, he allows himself to be fed, tended to, and held, while he silently guards the woman who anchors him. every touch, every whispered reassurance, is a rebellion against a cruel world that tries to erase his humanity, and a reminder that even a weapon bred for destruction can crave love and safety.

warnings: non-canon; civilian!reader; reader is pierce's personal assistant at shield (didn't know about hydra until she met the soldier); angst; hurt/comfort; self-loathing; wounds & blood; trauma; violence & punishments & complicated relationship with food (fuck hydra); one (1) brief panic attack; bucky is called winter; bucky uses broken english & short sentences; protective!bucky; size difference (yes he’s huge, yes he has a big dick); non-sexual dominance (no ageplay; she takes care of him & he lets her be in charge); fluff; showering together; smut; sub!bucky; mommy kink; nursing as a soothing behavior; praise kink; handjobs; coming untouched; sensitivity; premature ejaculation; short refractory period (thank you, serum); unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); desperate & frantic sex; multiple orgasms; creampie.

word count: 17.1k

a/n: due to a few things happening irl, I had to post this today. what can I say, I just want to take care of this man and let him cuddle on my chest and feed him his favorite food 😭 thank you so much kie @metal-armed-muse for listening to my excited ass when I shared this idea with you, and for giving me your feedback 🩵

hope you’ll enjoy! see you next month 🫂

His hands grab onto the frame of the bedroom window and his weight shifts, but the noise of boots landing on the floor never comes. Endless years of practice have trained him to move like a snake, and just like the strategic reptile, it’s impossible to hear him approaching, unless he wants you to. Blood never stains what it’s not supposed to, his work being too clean, spotless. Methodical. And then, he disappears in the quiet of the night, as if he had never been there in the first place.

This time, he arrives silently for an entirely different– and definitely purer– reason.

You are lying on your side, back to the window, knees slightly drawn in as if looking for comfort. The blanket has slipped down one of your shoulders, just enough for that naked patch of skin to be covered in goosebumps.

The window closes behind him with a soft click he barely allows, leaving outside everything that doesn’t belong here. The cold air, the damp stone, the hum of distant traffic that never quite reaches this street.

The echo of gunfire; someone’s agonizing shout; the sharp electric snap of orders obeyed too fast to think.

He perceives the change of air at once. Warm, still. It smells faintly of laundry soap and perfume still lingering from this morning. The aroma of something brewed hours ago and left to cool travels languidly from the open bedroom door. The Soldier feels warmth seeping deep into his bones, and he might not notice it, but his shoulders lower a fraction as he breathes in the familiar mix of scents that with time he has learned to associate with you. With home.

The lamp on the nightstand is off, but the city lights leak in through the glass, thin stripes of amber light crossing the wall and the duvet.

He stands there longer than necessary, allowing himself to just exist in the only place where his mind doesn’t split apart and time doesn’t blur. No shouted derisions, no hands on him that don’t ask first.

They never do.

He moves closer, slowly, but the floorboard creaks under his weight anyway. The sound is barely there, but it’s enough to make you stir in your sleep. When he reaches the side of the bed, your body heat touches him like a hand stopping him from falling into the void. It’s human. He didn’t know it was possible for something like this to exist, so different from the artificial warmth of the machines deliberately built to break minds.

One of your hands is tucked under the pillow, the other rests open on top of the sheet. Your breathing is steady, each inhale and exhale is measured and unafraid.

Outside, a car passes, distant tires on wet pavement. Somewhere far below, a siren wails and fades, yet you don’t wake up.

Carefully, he lowers himself on his knees, mindful to not touch the covers. He studies your face like he’s afraid it might morph into something else if he looks away. Then, a hand trembling reaches out before he can stop himself. Just fingers grazing bare, soft skin.

Your cheek fits beneath his touch in a way that makes something in his chest tighten. The sensation grounds him, pulls him fully into the room.

Then, your eyes open.

You startle awake with a sharp intake of air, but the fear never comes. Recognition settles in instead, relieved and immediate.

“Winter.” You exhale a whisper.

He pulls his hand back at once. “Sorry.” He immediately answers, the word rough and uneven. “I… Woke you.”

You sit up, already reaching for him, your fingers brushing his wrist. “It’s okay,” your smile makes his stomach somersault. “You’re here.”

That’s enough. It always is.

You swing your legs out of the sheets and rub sleep from your eyes before turning the lamp on your nightstand on. Your squinting eyes flick over him automatically, assessing: dirty boots, no weapons, the dark smudge of some dark liquid dried on his sleeve. Worry tightens your mouth.

“Sit.” You murmur, patting the mattress. However, he stands where he is, rigid and contained.

“Winter.” You call out gently.

He shakes his head. “Dirty.”

You give a small nod, understanding. “Okay.” You stand up and walk to your desk scattered with books and your work pc. “Sit here at least.” You turn the chair so it’s facing the bed. “I’ll get the shower ready.”

That makes him hesitate, and you immediately understand why.

“Or… You can come with me?” He gives you an immediate, sharp nod, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.

In the bathroom, the light is a little brighter, and he fights back the instinct to cover his eyes. You lean over to reach for the shower faucet as he follows closely, too close maybe, but you never comment nor mind.

Winter stands amongst clean scents and cleaner tiles, dirty, booted feet huge and out of place on your fluffy bath mat. It makes him feel momentarily lost, so without much reflection, his hand reaches for the back of your sweater, fingers fisting the fabric hard, like a lifeline. It’s hard not to notice how his grip shakes.

“It’s okay,” you repeat, calmly. “I’m right here.”

The water starts to run, and he flinches at the sound, then steadies when it doesn’t change, doesn’t escalate. Steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror, and his head lowers, forehead nearly touching your shoulder blades. You can feel the shake in his entire body now— small, like he’s holding something back.

You keep moving, slow and deliberate, as you retrieve towels, test the water with your hand, adjusting it until it’s warm but not hot. Yet you never stray far from him. They might be mundane tasks, but having Winter standing behind you makes them feel like a precious ritual.

Finally turning around, you notice how he keeps his eyes fixed on a random spot on your top, chin tilted down as if too ashamed to meet your gaze. “Do you want my help to undress?”

His grip on your sweatshirt tightens for a moment.

“Yes. Just… Don’t leave. After.” He utters, words uneven.

“Do you want me to help you wash up?” He nods, but you gently coax him to give you permission with words.

“Yes, please.”

It feels like someone has just filled his ears with cotton wool, his mind suddenly feeling fuzzy and his tongue heavy as you carefully start peeling his dirty gear off of him. He finds his head tipping forward to rest on your shoulder as you work on his belt. Your hands stop short as you finally feel the weight of his head settle, moving them on his back.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You don't seem to care about the filth that covers him. You just hug him closer. “Just keep breathing and let me help you.”

You feel more than hear his sigh, his shoulders slumping as he leans more against you. You hold him for a long moment, yet for Winter it feels endless and not enough at the same time. When you slowly start pulling away, he fights the urge to bring you back in his arms.

Unknowingly to you, his cheeks turn rosy as you proceed to kneel down in front of him and help him remove his boots and then his pants. To anyone outside of this little sanctuary you created for him, he might be the cruel Winter Soldier, the fist of Hydra, nothing more than an asset. But here, naked and shaking, standing before you in his rawest, most human form, he’s just a vulnerable man craving love.

It’s been almost a year since the start of this tender relationship, but your breath never fails to hitch when your eyes fall on his freshly bruised body. Your heart breaks all the same for the old scars; they might not hurt anymore, but they will forever remain bearers of great suffering.

He knows the sight makes you sad. He notices the light in your eyes dim a little and your lips press together at the reminder of how much pain he must endure daily at the hands of those sadist bastards. He hates being the reason of your sadness, but there's nothing he can do to prevent new bruises from blooming on his skin.

Another way he keeps failing you.

His blue eyes briefly dart over your body, fingers fidgeting as you remove your own clothes as well, now standing alongside him in your underwear. You offer a small smile as you open the shower door, and the heat on his ears turns scorching hot. He likes looking at you, well— he adores it, actually. You are so pretty and your skin is always pleasantly warm under his cold hands.

With a soft hand on his back, you guide him inside. There’s barely enough room to move, with Winter being tall and muscular, yet you always make it work. A small, panicked sound falls from his lips when the hand on his back disappears; he abruptly turns around, his eyes frantically flying left and right, until they land on you, bent to retrieve the small white shower stool you bought deliberately for him. For nights like this one.

“Sorry, I forgot to pick it up before.” His shoulders lower at once, and when you finally get inside, you gently guide him to sit down.

“Can you tip your head back a little, baby?” A shiver runs down his spine at the familiar pet name, and he immediately complies. You hum softly as you start lathering his hair with your shampoo, and his eyes flutter close, prompted by the delicate, circular motions and your low voice. It could be the latest song of your favorite singer, or a hit from twenty years ago, he wouldn’t know. To him, you are the inventor of everything soft and fun.

You are noticeably tender in the way you scrub at his scalp, before shielding his eyes with one hand so the mix of water and shampoo doesn’t burn them as you rinse all the grime out. You do it twice, just to be thorough. He tried to mimic your actions once… There, but his handler has only ever given him five minutes to clean up. The last time the Soldier went over time, the agent in charge broke his human fingers for having still product in his hair.

The smell of your products is also noticeably better than the unscented shampoo Hydra provides him with. Yours is just… Well, you. He has come to associate that scent to your hair and body; as a matter of fact, he loves smelling like you. That must mean he gets to be closer to you, right?

“Smells… Like home.”

It’s quiet enough to be easily overridden by the water’s noise, if you weren’t always so focused on his reactions. Your smile is fond. “Yeah? Better than the cherry and sweet almond shampoo?”

“Too sweet.” You chuckle at the instant but subtle grimace appearing on his features, and the corners of his mouth twitch at the adorable sound before he can stop it. Your eyes catch it anyway.

“There he is.” You comment quietly, still grinning. Winter never knows what to do with your praises. His face flushes and he ducks his head, suddenly unsure where to put his eyes.

Letting the conditioner sit in his hair is his favorite part, because that means his body is next. You are even more tender with it, at the beginning he couldn’t understand why, when all his life he’s been used to rough hands and dismissive touches. They made him believe he was unworthy of such gentleness.

Your palms are tender and cautious as they reach every nook, even the marring on his left shoulder. His breathing steadies at your lack of hesitation, as your fingers trace the border where skin ends and metal begins, where the scars are now old, deep lines crossing and overlapping, reminders of a body altered without consent. He rarely looks at them; to him, they are just another proof of his uselessness.

Something in his chest tightens painfully at the distant realization that this might be the first and only time those scars are touched without nefarious purposes. Not to test. Not to repair. Not to weaponize.

Just… To be cleaned.

When your shower gel and the conditioner have been both washed away completely, Winter’s hands twitch where they rest on top of his thighs. The moment you’re done with his back, he stands up to face you.

“Are you okay?” You instantly ask, mentally retracing your steps. Did you touch something you weren’t supposed to? Did you push too much on a new bruise?

“You do everything.” He starts, sorrow creeping in his voice. “For me.”

You tilt your head, slightly confused.

“I don’t… Get a turn.”

I don’t get a turn to wash you, to return the favor, to care for you.

“You know, I was sweating under that blanket.” You blurt out with an easy shrug.

That does it. This time, he smiles, small but real. Gone almost as soon as it appears, but it’s there.

“You sit now.” He waits for you to remove your underwear, his eyes taking sudden interest in the wall. You find it so adorable the way he stoically frowns at it, yet his red ears traitorously give him away.

When you are done, he gently but firmly guides you to sit on the stool. At that, you have to bite your bottom lip to hide the endeared smile threatening to take over your lips.

Winter takes the bottle of body wash with reverence, his hands trembling, but he doesn’t hesitate. The process is slow, mimicking what you did to him. His eyebrows furrow in concentration as he cleans all around; you’re quiet, trying to not shudder when he grazes your breasts with the slightest hint of pressure while lathering them in soap. When he gets to your hands, he cleans each finger, one by one, delicately turning your hands several times until he’s satisfied.

He hesitates before moving lower, hands hovering uncertainly over your knees. He glances up at you, checking— always checking.

“Okay?” He asks quietly.

You nod with your eyes twinkling in adoration. “I’m alright. Go on.”

So he does. He kneels, slowly. The tiles are hard beneath his knees, but he barely registers it. All of his attention narrows to the task in front of him, he needs to do this right. His hands start at your thighs with careful, methodical strokes, completely different from the way he cleans his weapons— thorough, respectful. They are steady now, the shaking reduced to a faint tremor that comes and goes with his breath. He treats your skin as something entrusted to him.

The water runs over his fingers as he works lower, on your calves, rinsing away soap and the weight of the day you’ve carried with you. He doesn’t rush, there’s no urgency here when he’s in your company. Then, with one hand supporting your ankle, he washes your feet, his touch firm enough to be sure, tender enough to never startle. He frowns again in deep and sincere concentration, every motion is deliberate, conveying something akin to I am trying.

He rinses thoroughly, ensuring no suds lingers on your body, as if leaving even a trace behind would mean he hasn’t done enough.

When Winter's finished, he stays where he is. He looks up at you, water still dripping from his hair, ocean eyes searching your face with quiet intensity. He doesn’t smile, nor speaks. He simply waits. The waiting is familiar, but this time it isn’t fear driving it. It’s hope.

Hope that he’s done well.

Hope that this, at least, was right.

You meet his gaze, expression soft and sure. “You did perfectly.”

You notice the moment your words settle into him, slowly, and his shoulders ease. The tension he’s been holding finally loosens its grip. He nods once, accepting the praise the only way he knows how, silently and reverently.

Winter rises from the floor without the rigid precision he usually carries, his movements more languid now, less guarded. His naked chest moves gently as he takes your hand, helping you stand up.

“There,” he utters, quietly proud. “Clean.”

“Thank you.” You smile.

Once you’re out, your hand reaches for the towel– his towel, the yellow one. It’s his favorite, worn enough to be soft against his tortured skin, yet still in good conditions. You keep it folded in your vanity cabinet, untouched except for the nights he comes home.

You always start with drying his shoulders, wrapping the towel around him and blotting instead of rubbing, careful with the metal and the scars. Once his body is only slightly damp, you reach for your own towel, but his fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you from drying yourself.

“I can.” He mumbles, already grasping the white fabric.

You pause, searching his face for any sign of discomfort. When you find none, you nod. “Alright.”

He dries you the same way he washed you, softly and focused, before you wrap yourselves in your respective towels and you guide him back to your bedroom. You open a drawer, and pull out a pair of black underwear and some clothes. They’re soft, well-worn, shaped by time and repeated washing. Clothes that you bought specifically for him after the first time you met. His chest tightens at the sight: red henley and grey sweatpants. He mentioned it once, how these two items feel familiar, safe, and since then, you’ve been making sure to keep them always clean and ironed, ready for the next visit.

Winter doesn’t comment, but his eyes linger on the fabric, memorizing it anew. He watches you approach with the henley folded over your arm and the sweatpants draped neatly beneath it.

“May I?” You ask once you stop in front of him, and he nods eagerly.

You help him step into the black boxers first, then the sweatpants, letting him steady himself with a hand on your shoulder when his balance wavers. He lifts each foot obediently, movements unhurried, trusting you to guide him. The henley comes next. You chuckle when he bends down to make it easier for you to reach his head, and that makes his lips twitch in amusement. You lift it over him carefully, then his arms raise, fabric sliding down warm skin, familiar and comforting. You adjust the collar and smooth the sleeves, fingers lingering just long enough to ensure nothing pulls or twists wrong.

“There.” You nod satisfied. “Better.” This shade of red softens him; it’s a color that feels chosen, not assigned.

He looks down at himself, then back at your form standing before your closet to retrieve your own things.

“I help.” He says suddenly, materializing behind you as you look for a pair of underwear.

You pause with your hand inside the drawer. “Help with…?”

“Your clothes.”

Your reaction is immediate, eyes softening at his eagerness to help you, to take care of you just as you are doing with him. “Alright.”

You pick a fresh pair of pajamas, and he gently pries it from your hands. He bends down, holds the fabric open, waits for your cue, helps guide your arms through. His gaze dutifully follows his hands as he smooths your top down; they started trembling again when presented again with your beautiful naked body.

This, too, grounds him. Being useful without being used, helping without being ordered.

“Thank you, baby.” He shivers again as you take his hand, leading him back toward the bed. This time, he doesn’t hesitate, but instead follows easily, willingly, allowing you to decide where he should sit.

Relinquishing control here doesn’t feel like losing it, it feels like setting it down somewhere safe. It’s like stepping off a ledge and trusting there will be a soft mattress to land on.

You kneel in front of him, this time dabbing water from his hair with patience.

For a moment, he’s here.

Then the stillness stretches.

The task is done, the praise has already happened. There is no next instruction.

His eyes unfocus, the room dulling around the edges, sounds flattening into something far away. His hands curl into themselves while resting on his crossed legs, fingers twitching faintly.

“Hey.” Your voice comes muffled to his ears, his head feeling heavy. “Baby, your feet.”

Your palms press against his knees, grounding him through contact. He startles, just a little, then sluggishly follows your lead, moving to sit on the edge of the bed to plant his feet flat against the floor.

“Good.” You nod. “Can you hold this for me?”

You guide his hand to the blanket you keep on top of the duvet for colder nights like this one. It’s thick, familiar, the weave uneven from years of use. His fingers fidget, rubbing the edge between thumb and index finger.

“Alright.” You continue, kneeling between his parted legs. “Stay with me. Can you tell me five things you see?”

His mouth opens. Closes.

“…Lamp,” he answers finally, his jaw clenched. “Window. The pictures on the wall. Desk. You.”

“Good. Four things you can touch.”

He tightens his shaky grip on the blanket. “This. The floor. The–” His breath hitches slightly. “The bed.” Then his hand tentatively reaches for yours, and you instantly intertwine your fingers, squeezing it once. “Your skin.”

“Good job, my love. Three things you can hear.”

He swallows. “Water pipes. Fridge, and… Your voice.”

You smile. “Excellent. Two things you can smell.”

“Shampoo, and… Soup.”

“That’s right, I made it just for you, hoping you would come by.” You nod. “And now, one thing you can taste.”

“I– water… From shower.” He blinks once. “That okay?”

“Of course, baby.” You lean closer, towel forgotten for the moment. “There you are.” Your fingers stroke his knuckles tenderly.

His breath catches. Then quieter, softer, like you’re tasting the word before letting it go. “Winter.”

The sound of it sends a shudder through him, sharp and electric yet not painful at all. Not Soldier. Not the title carved into him by force.

Just Winter.

Suddenly, he’s taken back to that night, when he met you. Snow crusted into his hair, fingers numb, barely able to stand. He remembers you asking what you should call him— remembers the blank space where his name should have been.

Then... I’ll call you Winter, you stated, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He lowers his head, breath steadying, warmth spreading through his chest, and suddenly the world doesn’t feel like it's been plunged under water anymore. His name sounds like silk on your tongue.

“I like…” He gulps shakily. “When you say it.”

The hand caressing his locks stills.

“I know.” You answer.

He loves to hear it. Means he is here with you, where he can just be Winter: grounded, wrapped in softness, allowed to be held together by someone else’s careful hands.

After his hair is mostly dry, you set the towel aside. The sharp edges of the panic attack have dulled, leaving a comfortable silence behind.

“I’m going to fetch the first aid kit, alright?” You explain quietly. “I’ll be right back.”

Winter gives you a faint whimper. “Fast?”

“Of course.”

He lets you go reluctantly, fingers still worrying the edge of the blanket and gaze diligently following you as you bring back your damp towels in the bathroom. He stays still where you left him, heart exposed and body waiting.

When you return, you press a water bottle into his hand.

“Here, drink this first, okay?” He nods, quickly chugging down the fresh liquid without pause. He pulls the bottle away only when his lungs beg for air, sharply gasping as his wide eyes search your face, open and desperate.

“Good boy.” He promptly ducks his chin down. You set the red bag on the bed, and open it slowly, as if even the sound might startle him back into something else.

He glances at it, then at you.

“You know... I heal.” He says, not defensive, just factual. “Serum… By morning.”

“Do they hurt?” The left corner of your lip lifts calmly, already reaching for a cotton pad.

His eyes glance down at the wounds on his knuckles. “... A bit.”

“Then we can take care of them so they don't.” You add, softer now.

He looks taken aback for a moment. “Okay.” Then nods, slightly slumping forward.

You start with his face, always warning him about what you’re about to do.

“I’m going to clean the cut on your cheek. It might sting a little.”

He nods and stills, eyes closing. The pad is cool against his skin, the pressure light, but he mainly perceives the careful fingers holding his chin.

“You’re doing great.” You whisper, not as praise, just as information. “How are you feeling?”

He searches for the right answer, words not lining up the way they should. “I’m… Here.” He says finally.

Your expression softens. “That counts.”

Your moves are sure, cleaning each scrape, each bruise with care. Every time your hands change position, every time you reach for something new, your voice narrates.

“I’m going to put ointment on your cheek.”

“I’m going to touch your jaw now.”

“I’m almost done.”

The predictability steadies him. The rigid line of his spine softens, inch by inch, like a bow finally unstrung, enough for his hands to abandon the blanket and clutch your sweater instead. When it’s time to take care of his hand, he tenses again— reflexive, old— and you pause immediately.

“Your knuckles,” you start. “I’m going to clean them. Is that okay?”

He swallows. “Yes.”

Your movements are unhurried even as you wrap his fingers, one by one, the bandages snug but not tight, and his wrist goes lax. By the time you finish, he's leaning slightly forward, toward you, without meaning to, exhaustion pulling him downward now that he’s safe enough to feel it.

Your fingers thread slowly through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “Hey, are you hungry?” Your warm breath tickles his forehead.

He perks up at that, just a small, imperceptible movement before he nods, his eyes still peacefully shut. “Yes. But…” He clutches the fabric of your top, pulling it slightly, as if your body might dissolve if he lets go.

“That’s okay.” You soothe. “Just come with me.”

You place one hand at his elbow, the other steady at his back. His eyes are now open yet visibly hazy as he rises with your help. His movements are languid, almost boneless, as if the fight has finally drained out of him, completely.

“Alright, we’re going slow.” You keep mumbling. His heavy steps are sluggish, clumsy, almost childlike in his exhaustion.

“Good. That’s it. I’ve got you.”

You move together into the kitchen, step by step. The light here is not nearly as bright as the bathroom’s since you just turn the one above the stove on.

“Do you want to sit, baby?” He immediately shakes his head, tugging again at your shirt. “Okay. Then you can keep an eye on the soup.”

You move to the fridge, taking out an airtight container. Winter stays behind you, arms wrapped around your waist and fingers still tightly grasping the front of your sweater. You leave the soup in a pot on medium-low heat, while you take care of the grilled cheese. You spread a generous layer of butter on one side of four slices of bread, all the way to the edges, then repeat it with another four. After assembling the sandwich, you gingerly move back to the stove with Winter now pliant against your back. The skillet is already hot as you place the first two slices of bread, buttered-side down. His nose digs into the slope of your neck, pinning your body gently against the counter with his weight as you add the cheese, then place the other two slices on top, buttered-side up.

Your hand often picks up a wooden spoon, stirring the soup so it doesn’t scorch. The delicious smell quickly fills the apartment, simple yet familiar, and you gently squeeze his wrist, eliciting a small hum out of him. You also heat some milk, then pour it in a blue mug, the same one that he unofficially claimed as his almost a year ago. You test the temperature before setting it on a tray.

When the stove has been turned off, you scrupulously cut the sandwiches. Not diagonally, or halves, but into smaller, manageable pieces. Bite-sized then arranged neatly on the plate beside the bowl of soup.

“Let’s sit on the couch so you can finally eat. Alright?” He nods silently, not moving an inch.

After setting the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch, you carefully unwrap his arms from your body, guiding him to sit. His shoulders are still a little rounded and no longer braced for impact.

Winter stares at the mug for a moment, then at the soup, as if recalibrating. You just observe him in silence, patient.

Food is… Complicated.

Most of the time, his body is fueled without him even knowing; nutrients are delivered through tubes, systems that don’t require taste or choice. When he’s awake, eating is functional at best, discouraged at worst. Flavors are unfamiliar, overwhelming. Something to manage carefully.

That’s why you make sure this is always in your kitchen. Tomato soup, cheese, bread.

Things he knows and trusts by now.

Winter shakily reaches for the plate, balancing it in his lap. He lifts the spoon with measured care, brings it to his mouth. The warmth hits first, then the taste. His eyes close in ecstasy.

You relax beside him, close but not crowding, smoothing your hand on his back in long, steady strokes; a rhythm he’s learned to follow.

“That’s it, my love.” You murmur. “Is it good?” He dutifully nods, eating in small bites, pausing between each one. He switches to the sandwich after a few spoonfuls, fingers clumsy but careful around the bandages.

“Hot.” He mutters.

“I know,” you reply softly. “Careful. Don’t burn your mouth.”

Halfway through, he slows.

The spoon lowers. His gaze drifts to the plate, then away. You don’t comment, nor try to coax him to eat more. You simply cover the plate with one of the napkins and set it back on the tray, close enough that it can be reached again if needed.

You nod slowly. “We can wait.”

A few seconds pass, then a minute. Winter shifts, breath shallow, cheeks warming. His eyes flick toward your unoccupied hand resting on your thigh, then up to your face. He swallows, before quietly calling your name.

“Yes?” You perk up, lost in the hypnotic movements you kept going on his back.

“Can you… ?” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to, it's not the first time he has asked you to feed him.

You smile reassuringly and reach for the plate. “Of course.”

You scoop a modest bite, wait until he shyly lifts his chin. Then you bring the spoon to his mouth, keeping your other hand cupped under it in case any dribbles.

His lips part, trusting your timing, your pace. He swallows, breathes, nods faintly. You sit with him like that, feeding him slowly, praising him without pressure, alternating between a few spoonfuls of soup and a piece of grilled cheese.

“Just one more bite, sweetheart.” You coo. “You’re doing so good.”

When the bowl is empty and only crumbs linger on the plate, Winter sloppily wipes his hands on his sweatpants while you set everything back on the tray. You sigh, glancing at the unused napkins, but when you look up at him, his eyes are huge and expectant, his shoulders shaking slightly with every single quivery breath.

“Can I ask you something?” You lean back, turning your palm up so it rests on your thigh, an offering. Winter nods, immediately intertwining his fingers with yours.

“Do your muscles hurt today?” Then, more specifically. “Your shoulders— the left one.”

He tries to shake his head. It’s small, instinctive— the kind of denial that comes from habit more than truth. “I’m fine.” He says a little too quickly.

You don’t argue, never do, yet you don’t look totally convinced.

“I’d like to help.” You add instead. “If you’ll let me, I can massage it. Just like last month, do you remember?”

Winter hesitates, before nodding at your question. Of course he remembers the first time he allowed you near the metal, near the scars — makes something ripple through him. So you wait.

“…Okay.” He agrees quietly.

The corners of your mouth lift, relieved but measured, and your hands reach into the drawer beside the couch. You take out a small bottle: lavender-scented massage oil.

“Can you remove your shirt for me?” Winter eagerly takes the hem, his movements clumsy and fast to please you. You pour the liquid in your hands and warm it up. He watches the motion, the careful intention behind it.

“I'm warming it,” you explain. “So it won’t hurt.” Then cup your hands in front of his face “Inhale slowly, please.”

He nods, his shoulders raising and lowing slowly, deeply. You can already see his muscles relax further.

The smell is nice, yes, just not as good as your scent.

“Can you turn around for me? I’ll be right here behind you.”

Winter does as you ask, a little uncertain but compliant, giving you his back. Shifting closer, you kneel behind him so you can reach his shoulders without pulling him off balance.

“I’m going to start on your right side,” you warn. “Then I’ll move to the left. Tell me if anything feels wrong.”

Your hands settle on his upper back, firm but gentle, spreading warmth through muscle that hasn’t been allowed to rest properly in years. He exhales, a shaky little thing, the sound catching in his chest as tension begins to give way.

When you reach the left shoulder, your touch changes. Your fingers trace the edge where flesh meets something unyielding, not pressing yet— just acknowledging it. You work the surrounding muscle first, easing the strain there before coming closer to the scars.

“I’m here,” you murmur. “Breathe.”

The scars are pale beneath your hands, textured. You use only the pads of your fingers at first, careful to avoid friction, careful not to drag. The oil helps a lot, smooth and warm.

Winter shivers, not from pain, but from being touched there without consequence.

You lean forward and press a soft kiss to one of the scars at the edge of his shoulder— brief, like a benediction rather than a claim.

He inhales sharply, hands curling in his lap.

“Okay?” You ask immediately.

“Yes...” he breathes, dreamy. “Again. Please.”

You continue with a small smile, alternating gentle pressure with those small, grounding kisses, each one placed deliberately, as if you’re reminding his body that this part of him can exist without being a threat. The crease on his forehead smooths, his head bows. Even the rigid line of his spine softens under your care.

For once, the metal is simply there: acknowledged, included, treated with the same love as the rest of him.

He doesn’t notice when the massage ends, not at first.

Your hands have been moving in slow, patient circles across his shoulders for a long time, thumbs pressing into the muscle just enough to coax the tension out without startling it. You learned where to touch by trial and error— where his body allowed pressure, where it flinched, where it locked. Learned to listen to the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle hitch that meant too much, the slow exhale that meant stay there.

When your hands finally still, he only realizes because the warmth leaves him, and his body reacts before his mind can.

His back straightens. It’s instinctive, brutal in its efficiency. Muscles snap tight as wire and shoulders squaring as if bracing for impact. Somewhere deep in him, an alarm shrieks— a wordless signal that touch has stopped and something else is about to begin.

He hates that moment. Hates that his body betrays him even here.

But nothing happens.

No command, no pain, no hands forcing him forward or down.

Instead, there is a pause. A careful one.

Then he feels your fingers again, not on his shoulders this time but lighter, hesitant, brushing the nape of his neck. Then, fingertips slip into his hair.

He inhales sharply.

For half a second, every nerve screams no. Touch near the head is dangerous, hands near the skull mean restraint, electrodes, cold metal pressing against bone. His body remembers even when his mind refuses to. But your fingers don’t grip, they don’t pull. They simply rest there, warm and slow, sliding gently through the strands at the base of his neck.

The rigidity bleeds out of him gradually. Shoulders lower, spine curves again, folding back into the couch, into your space. He lets his weight settle against the cushions, his head tip forward just enough to give you better access.

Permission, offered without words.

Your fingers comb through his hair patiently, separating locks, untangling where it knots. He hasn’t let it grow this long on purpose— basic grooming like haircuts is low on Hydra’s priority list as long as it doesn’t interfere with his orders. The messy, long hair combined with a mask and goggles helps obscure his features. It makes it easier to change his appearance by eventually cutting it if needed after a mission. The unkemptness, though, bothers him in ways he doesn’t fully examine. It reflects something he isn’t meant to think about— the lack of choice, the absence of ownership over his own body. Yet when you comb through it, carefully, he doesn’t think about how long it’s grown or how uneven it is. He doesn’t think about how easily it could be to be cut away, reshaped, erased.

He loves the way your fingers linger, loves the unhurried patience of it, the way you treat each strand with reverence. As if it’s not another tool, camouflage, an accident of neglect. But something personal, something worth loving. With you, the hair doesn’t signify disorder or loss of control. He doesn’t care how it looks then.

“Today was… Kind of long.” Your voice is low, almost a murmur, as if afraid to disturb him. “Not even bad. Just long.”

Your fingers separate a section of hair.

“Hmm.”

“I had this meeting that should’ve lasted twenty minutes,” you go on. “It turned into an hour and a half, and no one actually decided anything. They just argued and talked in circles.”

You twist a strand loosely, let it fall.

“That… Happen often?” He asks quietly.

“All the time.” You chuckle, a hint of resignation in your voice. “And on my lunch break too.”

Your fingers keep moving, tracing slow paths across his scalp. You gather sections of his hair, twist them loosely, let them fall again. The repetition is hypnotic. His eyelids grow heavy, blinking lazily as the world narrows to your voice.

“Do you remember about that new intern I told you about last month? The one who doesn’t know how to send emails? Today he spilled coffee everywhere. Papers, desk, his shoes. He swore so loud he scandalized half the floor.”

Winter breathes out, something similar to amusement. “Poor papers.”

“Right?” You grin. “A colleague tried to help him but he stomped around and shrieked that he could clean it himself. It wasn’t very polite.”

He hums again, his body slightly swaying side to side.

“The elevator here got stuck for a second too.” You then add. “Well– not really stuck. It just stopped abruptly and then groaned back to life. But you know I get anxious in small spaces.”

He nods slightly. “I hear sound,” he says. “Now.”

You snort quietly. “Yeah, exactly.”

You let the braid unravel and start again, fingers patient.

“I passed this shop on the way home, there was a beautiful dress in the window, but the color... Eh. Though I stared at it like I was actually going to buy it.”

“Did you?” He perks up, suddenly interested.

“No.” You huff out a laugh. “I would never wear that color. But the thought of buying it crossed my mind for a hot second.”

His mouth twitches. “You… Think a lot.”

“Too much.” You agree with a sigh.

You gather his hair into a loose ponytail, holding it gently at the base of his neck, and he exhales, long and slow. His head tips back slightly, resting against your shoulder. The contact is accidental at first, then deliberate. He adjusts, settling more fully into you, trusting that you will support the weight.

When you release his hair, it spills loose again, brushing his neck. Your fingers continue to play with it absentmindedly, starting and abandoning small braids.

He could fall asleep like this.

The thought never fails to surprise him— not because he’s tired, but because the idea of sleeping without fear is so foreign it feels almost dangerous. Sleep usually comes to him drugged, forced, or not at all. Here, it hovers at the edges, optional.

A gift.

He shifts slightly, just enough to get more comfortable, and your fingers pause for a fraction of a second before resuming. Always checking, always attentive.

“The city was loud on the way home. Too much traffic for a Thursday.” You continue.

“Better now.” He murmurs.

“Yeah.” You look down at his closed eyes. “Better now.”

Your fingers twist a strand, smooth it down, then starting over.

“I know none of this is important.” You swallow.

He answers immediately, without opening his eyes. “It is. For me.”

You pause, then resume, gentler.

“Okay.” You answer quietly. “Then I’ll keep talking.”

You shift beneath him. It’s a small movement— just the subtle change in pressure as your legs tense and your weight begins to lift, but his body reacts as if the floor has dropped out from under him.

His eyes snap open.

The world sharpens instantly, edges cutting, heart slamming hard enough that it steals his breath. Before thought can catch up, his hand shoots out, fingers curling into fabric. He grips your sweater at the hem, fist tight until his knuckles turn white.

“Don’t—”

The word doesn’t quite make it out. It breaks apart in his throat, unfinished.

You freeze.

“I’m here,” you soothe immediately, not pulling away. Your hand comes down over his, warm and grounding. “I’m just getting your shirt and the blanket. That’s all.”

The word takes a moment to register.

Winter blinks, breath stuttering as panic drains in reluctant waves. His grip loosens, fingers uncurling as shame sharply burns in his veins. After he releases the fabric completely, his hand falls back to his side.

“Sorry.” He mutters.

You don’t correct him, nor say it’s okay or that he shouldn’t apologize. You never frame it like a mistake. Instead, you smile softly and reach for the folded blanket draped over the back of the armchair as he quickly puts his henley on, still avoiding your eyes.

When you return, you wrap him in it. Carefully at first, tucking it around his shoulders, then firmer— snug and enclosing. You pull it tight enough that he can feel the pressure along his arms and chest, the reassuring weight settling over him like an armor made of wool instead of scratchy, rigid cloth.

The blanket faintly smells of your detergent. It traps warmth, keeps the edges of him from drifting apart. He grips it reflexively, fists tightening in the fabric as if to test its solidity.

You lie back down with him, adjusting until you fit together along the length of the couch. One arm slides beneath his shoulders, the other wraps around his waist, drawing him closer.

He hesitates for half a second, then shifts, turning into you. His head comes to rest against his favorite place, your chest. The position is vulnerable in a way that makes his instincts recoil. Head exposed. Ear pressed against soft, unarmored flesh. Too close. Too open.

But then he feels it.

The rise and fall beneath his cheek. Slow. Steady.

Your breathing.

And beneath that, fainter, but unmistakable, the rhythmic thud of your heart.

Alive.

The realization hits him with unexpected force. It tightens his throat, sends a strange pressure blooming behind his eyes. He focuses on the sensation desperately, like committing coordinates to memory. The warmth of your body, the cadence of your breath... The proof that you are here with him now. Unhurt. Real.

He adjusts slightly, pressing closer, until his ear is aligned perfectly over your left breast. The sound of your heartbeat becomes clearer, more defined. His own breathing gradually syncs to it, instinctively matching your pace.

Your free hand picks the remote and turns on the TV. The volume stays low, barely more than a murmur, but he recognizes the opening notes of the intro immediately.

It’s the show you introduced him to months ago— something simple and predictable. He doesn’t understand every joke, every reference, and language still slides past him sometimes, too fast, too cluttered. But he catches enough: the rhythm, the emotion, and he knows the characters. Knows that nothing truly bad happens in it, not really.

It’s safe noise.

“This one… Good?”

“It’s your favorite episode.” You reassure him. “The one with the cheesecake.”

He hums in acknowledgment, the sound vibrating against your chest. He likes the cheesecake episode. The characters tell the story of how they came to meet and live together, and even if they disagreed at the beginning, they still stayed together, still chose each other. That's what friends do, apparently.

“I guess I do that too sometimes.” You shake your head as the woman keeps blabbering. “Instead of just letting things be, I dissect them. Over and over again.” You murmur half-amused.

Winter shifts slightly, his fingers curling into the blanket at your side. “You think a lot.” A pause. “Is good.”

You chuckle softly. “That’s a very nice why to put it.”

You go quiet for a moment, then continue, more thoughtfully. You tell him about how you promised yourself to read more literary classics, so you bought a popular one but haven't finished it because you keep falling asleep halfway through the same chapter. About your favorite coffee shop near the headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D. that changed management, and now the coffee tastes awful.

“They ruined it.” You sigh. “It was the only good thing about going to work.”

Winter exhales through his nose, something close to a laugh. “A crime.” he says.

You laugh for real at that, the sound vibrating through your chest and into him. He clings to it, to the way your body moves with the sound. You lapse into companionable quiet again, punctuated by the low dialogue of the show. Your hand drifts slowly up and down his back, a repetitive motion that requires no attention.

Eventually, you speak again.

“Did you like the food?” You wonder. “I think the soup was too salty.”

He nods, then remembers you can’t see him. “Was good.” He states. “Easy.”

“That’s the goal.” Another pause.

He gathers enough courage to add. “You… Make it better. Eating.”

Your arms tighten around him almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad.”

The episode ends and another begins. He doesn’t track the plot as closely now, his focus narrows again to sensation: your heartbeat, the warmth of your palms, the steady pressure of the blanket holding him together.

This— this is what matters.

Not the missions, the handlers, the endless commands and resets.

Here, he can feel you alive beneath his cheek, and in doing so, remind himself that he is still alive too.

He closes his eyes again, not in panic this time, but in trust.

Sleep pulls at him early. It always does when he’s here, once the edges have been sanded down by warmth and proximity and the low murmur of the television. His body is heavy, reluctant to move, curled into the borrowed safety of your arms.

Still— he shifts.

The movement is small but purposeful so you feel it immediately.

“Sleepy?” He nods. “Do you want your journal?” He nods again, suddenly more awake.

You don’t try to stop him, even when his eyes are glassy with exhaustion, even when his movements are slow and stiff. You know this is not a habit he can skip, not without consequence.

Winter disentangles himself carefully, the loss of your warmth registering as a faint ache. The blanket slides from his shoulders and he folds it with surprising precision before setting it aside, while you slip inside your bedroom. Hidden behind carefully folded sweaters lies a plain, dark-covered diary.

When you come back, he gently takes it from your hands, sitting back on the couch as you keep yourself busy watching the episode where Blanche worries about menopause.

The pen is already there, snug in the black pen loop you bought for him. His hand aches faintly as he writes, yet he ignores it. Fatigue is irrelevant. This is survival.

He writes the date first, slowly. Then, he begins. The sentences are simple, concrete. Things that cannot be argued with.

Drank warm milk. Blue mug. Chip on the rim.

He pauses, considering, then adds.

Milk was sweet. Did not hurt stomach.

His handwriting is uneven but deliberate, each letter formed with intent. He presses harder than necessary, as if afraid the words might fade. Briefly glancing up, his eyes wander across the apartment, collecting details.

Blanket is the one her mother made. Wool. Heavy. Very warm. Smells like her soap.

Her sweater is soft under fingers. Loose sleeves. She wears it when too cold.

His grip tightens slightly on the pen. These details matter. Texture matters. They are proof. He flips back a few pages, scans what he’s written on previous nights, grounding himself in continuity. Evidence that this has happened before, that it wasn’t a dream. Because if there is something in this world equally terrifying as seeing you hurt, it's forgetting you.

They notice it before he can do something about it.

A hesitation that lingers too long. A second too slow to pull the trigger. The way his gaze drifts instead of snapping back to attention. Reports flag it as inefficiency, Pierce calls it degradation.

They restrain him in a room that smell like metal and disinfectant, hands rough and practiced, voices clipped and impersonal. He fights them harder than he ever has before.

Not to escape.

To remember.

He snarls, thrashing as they drag him forward. Hands close around his arms, his shoulders, his throat. He kicks, feral and wild, teeth bared, a sound tearing out of him that isn't language anymore.

Images flood his mind in sharp, desperate flashes: you asleep on your side; your hands warm against his back; the new set of lamps you bought specifically for him, gentler on his eyes than the bright ones installed in your apartment. And then your voice, whispering that he’s safe, even when he is forced on his knees for another order.

He can’t lose that.

Not you.

“I need—” he gasps, straining against their grip. “Please— I can’t—”

They don’t listen.

He twists free for half a second— enough to stumble back, enough for hope to ignite painfully in his chest— and then more hands are on him. Too many. He is forced down, strapped in, leather biting into his wrists and chest.

The chair looms. A mouth guard is forced between his teeth.

And then, panic explodes.

He screams.

Your name flicks over and over in his mind, he clings to it like a lifeline, trying to carve it into himself deep enough that it couldn’t be burned away.

The warmth. The quiet. The way you look at him when he finally comes home.

He begs silently, fiercely, for those moments to stay.

Then the world goes black.

A week passes in pieces he can’t track. No missions, no movement. Just pain and fragments. His head feels hollow, like a room after furniture has been stripped out.

When they finally deploy him again, he follows orders flawlessly. And when it’s over, when the noise fades and the night quiets… His feet take him somewhere else. He doesn’t know why.

The Soldier stands in the middle of your living room, rigid and uncertain, surrounded by objects that mean nothing and everything at the same time. The couch, the lamp, the faint smell of your lotion.

His head hurts.

Then, the door opens.

You freeze in the doorway, keys still in your hand. Your eyes widen as they find him, but neither of you moves.

Something is wrong. He could see it in your expression— fear, shock, something like grief— and it makes his chest tighten.

“I…” He swallows. Words feel wrong. “I don’t know why…” He says slowly. “But I needed… Come… Here.”

Silence stretches between you, fragile as glass. Your eyes instantly fill with tears.

You cross the room in slow steps, as if approaching a scared animal, and stop just short of touching him, like you are sure he might vanish if you do.

“Winter.” You whisper.

The sound of it cracks something open.

Not memory.

Instinct.

His gaze drifts past you, caught on the small desk by the wall. A notebook sits there, plain and worn.

He frowns, not understanding why that object suddenly feels important enough to be acknowledged. “That.”

Your breath hitches when you turn around and see what he is pointing at. “You—” You stop yourself, clear your throat. “You wrote it. For this. You told me to read it when I miss you, so…”

You carefully place it in his hands.

Inside are pages of his own handwriting— uneven, blunt, desperate.

She keeps you safe.

You are not a weapon here.

You love her.

The words land one by one, slow and devastating.

He sinks to the floor, clutching the journal to his chest like it might anchor him to the world.

Hydra wiped him. And still, somehow, he found his way home.

Once, he didn’t know what was missing. The emptiness was just another state of being, another blank space he learned to move through without question. Now he knows the shape of what can be erased.

The memory of that week sits in him like a bruise he can’t stop pressing. Not the chair, or the restraints. Those are familiar, manageable. What haunts him is the moment in your living room— the way your face changed when you saw his eyes and realized Winter was gone.

He remembers the fear in you. That’s what stays with him.

After that night, every time he leaves your apartment he catalogues it more carefully than any mission. The smell of your hair; the sound you make when you laugh quietly so you won’t wake the neighbors. He stores these things with the same ruthless precision Hydra engraved into him, as if repetition alone might burn them too deep to remove.

He also starts writing more.

The journal never leaves your apartment, but it grows heavier with pages. Dates. Details. Small things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else.

Drinks her tea too hot.

Bounces her right knee when nervous.

He writes not because he thinks it will save him, but because the thought of waking up without you terrifies him more than pain ever has.

The fear also changes how he touches you. He lingers longer, like every contact might be the last one. His hand rests at your back a second too long, and his forehead presses to yours when he thinks you’re asleep. He watches you more closely, to memorize your breathing.

Sometimes you notice, yet he doesn’t tell you that some nights he’s afraid to close his eyes because he might wake up empty again. That the warmth in his chest will vanish, leaving nothing but muscle memory and orders.

He becomes more careful with routine.

If he misses a visit, panic coils in his gut. If you move something in the apartment, he asks you to tell him where it went, and why. If you suggest changing your rituals— a different kind of food, a different chair— he stiffens before he can stop himself.

So you learn to reassure him in new ways.

“I’m here.”

“You’ll always find me.”

“If they take it again, we’ll rebuild it. I promise.”

He wants to believe you, but the memory won’t let him forget how close he came to losing everything without even knowing it was gone. That knowledge makes him love you harder, almost desperately.

And every time he walks back into your apartment, every time the lock clicks behind him and the warmth closes in, relief floods his bones so hard it nearly hurts.

He is still here.

You are still here.

And for now, that has to be enough.

It all comes to a head the following month. He notices it the moment he steps inside.

The mug is wrong.

It’s sitting on the counter instead of the table. A different one— slender, white, unfamiliar weight. The sight of it makes something inside his chest stutter.

You look up from the stove, surprised. “Hey.” Your smile should ease a little bit of the tension in his shoulders, but he’s too busy having a one-sided staring contest with the new mug. “You’re early.” You weren't expecting two visits in two days, not that you're complaining.

Winter nods, still by the window he came in, and you follow his gaze. “Oh— the blue one is still in the dishwasher.”

His throat tightens. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

“Okay.” He says quickly. Too quickly. “Okay.”

He moves deeper into the apartment, checking the windows, the lock, the corners. Everything is where it should be. Everything except that small, ordinary change that shouldn’t matter at all.

Your smile fades into a thin line.

You set the dishcloth down. “Winter,” you call softly. “Sit for a second.” He hesitates.

“Please.” You add, and that’s when he obeys, perching himself on the edge of a chair, spine straight, hands clasped together so tightly the metal plates in the vibranium arm hum faintly. He keeps his eyes on the floor.

You open the dishwasher, pick the right mug out, still wet, and set it in front of him. He exhales before he can stop himself.

“Hey.” You breathe out, crouching in front of him, always careful not to crowd him. “Talk to me.”

“I’m fine.” He answers automatically.

You’ve learned that rushing him won’t take you anywhere. The truth sometimes finds its way out on its own.

“You panicked.” You swallow. Not accusing, just stating a fact.

Winter shakes his head. “No. Just– The mug… Not here.”

“There was a different mug. Yours was not in his usual place, and it scared you.”

His jaw tightens, still keeping his blue eyes firmly on the table. So you reach out, resting your hand over his knuckles. “Is it happening again?” You whisper. “The fear of forgetting?”

Winter swallows.

“I remember,” he starts, the words coming out rough. “That week.”

Your breath catches.

“Didn’t know…” he quavers. “Didn’t know you.” His voice falters. His lips press together, forcing the rest out. “I thought… If I forget… Come back empty.”

Your other hand tentatively comes up to his cheek, softly but firm enough to turn his face toward yours. He regards you with distressed eyes, almost like he wants to burst into tears.

“Winter,” your voice is surprisingly even. “You found me without your memories.”

He shakes his head, breath uneven. “What if I don’t?” The words spill out faster now. “What if I– walk here but– don’t stop.”

You pull him into your arms before the demons can take him. He stiffens for half a second, then collapses into the embrace like he’s been waiting for permission. His forehead presses into your shoulder hard, almost as if trying to fuse together your bodies. His hands clutch the back of your shirt, desperate and grounding all at once.

“They can hurt you,” you murmur into his hair. “They can take pieces. But they will never get this.” Your hand presses over his chest, right on his heart. “They don’t get what you choose.”

“I’m scared.” He chokes on a breath, barely audible.

“I know. I am too.” You frown. “But I trust you to always come back to me. Whatever happens.”

You lean back just enough to look at him, hands cradling his jaw as your thumbs brush the tension off. “We’ll make more anchors,” you continue. “More than the journal, more than routines. You won’t have to carry this alone.”

Winter searches your face with a lonely tear sliding down his cheek.

“But you need to tell me, my love.” You add. “When it gets bad. You can't just hold it inside.”

He nods, a small, hasty movement. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

You rest your forehead against his, breathing him in. Slowly, his shoulders lower. The panic ebbs vertiginously, leaving him utterly drained and hollow.

That day the Soldier learned that being seen in his fear makes it hurt less.

On the bookshelf nearby, something catches his eye. A photograph. He frowns faintly, he doesn’t remember writing about it. He stands, retrieves it, studies it under the low light. You look younger in the picture, standing among a group of people, all smiling too wide, holding papers.

Graduation.

He sits back on the couch and writes again.

Photo on shelf. Her graduation. She is smiling, with friends. I forgot.

He underlines the last sentence once, not hard enough to tear the page. Just enough to mark it.

He frowns at it, then adds one more line, smaller.

Watched show. Cheesecake episode. My favorite.

Winter closes the journal with care. The cover makes a soft, final sound as it meets itself, and for a moment he rests his palm flat against it, as if sealing what he’s written inside. The facts are there now. Anchored and safe. He then hands it to you with a single word. “Wait.”

It’s not a request, nor a command. It’s simply a word that carries a deep meaning for you, honed by repetition.

You nod and stay where you are on the couch, blanket pooled on your crossed legs and journal safely pressed against your chest as your eyes follow him discretely. Winter rises, and his posture changes immediately— spine straightening, shoulders setting, breath recalibrating.

This is another version of him. Not the one who melts into your touch, not the Winter who closes his eyes and asks for snuggles against your chest.

This one is the Soldier.

He moves through the apartment without sound, bare feet finding the places that won’t creak. The living room first, then the narrow hallway. He checks the front door, fingers testing the lock once, twice. Not because he doubts it, but because certainty matters. You deserve to sleep behind a door that he knows, without question, is secure.

The deadbolt is firm, the chain untouched.

That's when he stops to listen. The building has a rhythm at night. He learned it in his second month here, memorized it the way he memorizes terrain. The movement of pipes at predictable hours; the distant hum of traffic softened by elevation. The occasional elevator cable groaning faintly through the walls.

Tonight, everything matches, so he moves on.

The windows come next. He doesn’t open them, just checks the latches, presses gently against the glass, notes how the frames sit in their tracks. One latch feels a little too loose when he tests it, so he tries again and again, toying with it a little until he hears the click seat properly.

Good.

There are things you don’t notice. Wouldn’t notice. The way footsteps in the stairwell sometimes echo wrong— too light. Pondered. The way a door should never close without sound in this building. The absence of noise where there should be some. When something doesn’t fit, his body knows before his mind names it.

Each night Winter spends here, he positions himself between you and the door. It’s not conscious anymore, his body simply arranges itself that way, a barrier of muscle and bone laid instinctively in the path of danger.

Only on certain nights he lets you take that place, because they are different.

Sleep turns against him, memories surface uninvited— too vivid, too sharp. His body reacts as if certain things are happening in that exact moment: his breath hitches, his muscles lock, his hands curl at his sides as if looking for weapons that aren’t there.

You know the signs, and you talk him back. Every time, unfailingly.

Your hand presses flat between his shoulder blades, grounding, firm. You tell him where he is, the date, his name. Your name. You remind him that the walls are painted a certain color, that there is a tile by the window that creaks and every single time he visits, he promptly forgets and steps right on it.

You stay awake until his breathing evens out. Sometimes, when it’s especially bad, you convince him to let you sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door, as if daring the world to come through you first. He hates that. Loves it too, how you refuse to let him carry everything alone, how you fiercely fight to give him some respite.

Yet it takes everything in him not to pull you back.

Winter’s not only good at noticing things out of place, but also all your little tells. The way your hands get cold when you’re tired, how you push yourself through chores even when your shoulders slump, your breathing changing when you’re stressed. When he sees it, he doesn’t comment— he just intervenes. Guides you gently to sit. Takes the dish from your hands. Finishes folding the laundry while you watch him with half-lidded eyes, amused as he lines the edges up with military precision. He cleans up before you can see the mess: broken glass swept away silently, coffee wiped from the counter before it can stain. Not because you can’t handle it, but because he wants your world intact, even in small ways.

He never tells you everything, and for that, his stomach often twists in guilt.

You ask sometimes, careful not to pry. He answers around the truth, trimming the sharp edges. Leaves out the blood, the names, the parts that would keep you awake at night. When memories surface that are too dark to contain, he removes himself. Steps into the bathroom. Onto the balcony. Anywhere the weight of them won’t bleed into your space.

When you apologize for worrying about him with a small voice, he shakes his head.

“Not your fault.”

He keeps supplies stocked without telling you: batteries replaced before they die, water bottles cycled so the oldest are used first, first-aid replenished. He memorizes alternate exits in your building, calculates the fastest routes away, times his arrivals and departures so no one sees patterns forming.

He teaches you safety in pieces small enough not to frighten you. A suggestion here, a quiet reminder there.

“Always look peephole first. Even if wait someone.”

“Leave lights on when not home too.”

If you mention having to go somewhere for work, or with your friends, he warns.

“Crowded.”

“Only one emergency exit.”

And you choose accordingly.

On rare days when he can stay longer— when missions are short or delayed— he sits with you through work phone calls, holding your hand beneath the table, his head resting on your shoulder when voices on the other end get too insolent.

Despite the danger of being caught, he stays nearby whenever you’re sick, just enough to watch the building from a distance. He makes sure to check on you in his own ways.

So even if he’s gone, part of him still lingers in every precaution, every habit you follow, like an unspoken promise: he will always try to keep you safe, whether or not you can see him.

By the time Winter finishes with his safety rounds, the edges of his vision have gone soft with exhaustion. You are curled at one end of the couch, knees tucked up and eyes glued on the screen. The television is still on, low volume, but you instantly give him all your attention when he sits beside you.

“There you are.” You mumble. His hand reaches out before he’s fully aware of it, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “Everything okay?”

He nods once. “Good.”

“You want to go to bed?” He nods again, and promptly follows you as you rise. He stays half a step behind you down the hallway, fingers still hooked into your shirt, his presence a shadow that isn’t threatening. When you reach the bedroom doorway, he hesitates.

There’s something else.

He shifts his weight, searching for the right words. His brows knit, and his grip tightens slightly, not in fear but in hesitation.

“Uh,” he starts. Stops. Tries again. “We… Do face thing?”

You turn, already beaming. “Skincare?”

“Yes.” He nods quickly, hopeful. “Skincare night.”

There’s something almost boyish in the way he says it, his eyes flicking up to your face, thrilled.

“If you’re not too tired.”

His answer is immediate. A firm shake of his head. “Not tired.”

It isn’t a lie. His body is exhausted, but this doesn’t cost him anything; on the contrary, he loves spending time with you, doing what you like.

Your smile widens. “Okay. Come on, then.”

The first time you’d introduced him to skincare, it was nothing short of endearing.

Big blue eyes full of confusion followed your movements as you adjusted the fuzzy Shrek headband on his hair. It was yours, a gag birthday gift from your best friend.

“What?” Winter frowned over your shoulder, staring down at the two two colorful face mask packets.

“Face masks. The pink one is a moisturizing and soothing mask with chamomile. The yellow one is supposed to give your skin a glowing boost. And…” You explained, opening the first one. “They feel nice on your face.”

Winter’s eyebrows rose in interest, slightly leaning in to tentatively sniff the fabric. “Warm?”

“Nope, they’re slightly cold.” You carefully opened the mask sheet.

“Pretty?” You hummed in confusion. “My skin… Pretty like yours with… This mask?”

Oh.

You looked up at him then, your chest suddenly tightening at the way his eyes blinked down at you, curious and innocent.

“Oh baby, your skin is already pretty.” The apples of his cheeks gained a beautiful rosy shade. “Now bend down a little please, this is for you.”

He tried his best to stay still as you set it on his face, a chuckle falling from your lips at his grimace when the hem briefly got caught on his lips. You carefully adjusted the mask, before pulling away to admire your work. Pierce would probably have an aneurysm if he saw the menacing Winter Soldier wearing a Shrek headband and a pink face mask.

“Alright?”

“Cold.” Winter muttered. “And wet.”

You tore open the other pack, giggling. “Just let it sit for a few minutes, I promise you'll get used to it.”

He did in fact not get used to it. It was slimy, and it actually forced him to keep his chin up, worried it would suddenly lose its grip and slide right off his face. But he loved the way you doted on him with your little products. He also couldn't deny the normalcy of it all. And when you cupped his cheeks as you checked for any left over cream? He instantly melted like ice cream under the sun. You also gave him a kiss at the end… So that's how he promised himself to never skip skincare.

You reach under the sink and pull out his headband.

“Wolf?” He perks up.

You nod. “Wolf.”

He bends without being asked, lowering his head so you can slip it over his hair. The fabric brushes his temples as your fingers adjust it, and he closes his eyes.

You bought it on a whim, and then hesitantly showed it to him on his next visit, shyly explaining how you had seen it at the store and thought of him. He nodded at the time, unsure how to respond. But that night, he held it in his hands for hours after you fell asleep, committing the feel of it to memory.

You brush your teeth first, side by side at the sink. He observes you in the mirror while pretending not to. The way you unconsciously lean forward, the small crease between your brows when you concentrate. The domestic normalcy of it all makes his chest ache. This is what other men do, he thinks. They stand in their bathroom with the women they love, arguing about how toothpaste should be squeezed. Just existing in these quiet spaces without fear.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring before you glance up and catch his eye in the reflection.

“You okay?”

He nods, a little embarrassed. “I like this.”

Your smile softens. “Me too.”

Afterward, you reach for the cleanser. He turns toward you automatically, chin lowering just slightly in invitation.

“Do you remember what this does?” You pump a small amount into your palm.

“Cleans skin and make it... Nice?” He asks.

“Yes.” You smile. “Makes it healthy… And also nice.” You work it into his skin slowly, narrating the motions. He focuses on the sensation: your thumbs circling his cheekbones, the faint scent of something clean and mild. He breathes in deeply, grounding himself in the moment.

The mask comes next, he recognizes it by the packaging.

“This is funny one.” He murmurs when you unfold it.

You snort, carefully smoothing it on his face. “You say that every time.”

He shrugs, lips twitching under the fabric. “Animal masks are funny.”

You put on yours as he starts examining all the other products, humming after reading each name. His flesh hand is still gripping your shirt.

“Serum.” Winter says suddenly. “What do?”

You turn to him, eyes bright. “Serum helps with a lot of things. Let's say it gives skin the targeted support it needs.”

He hums absentmindedly, absorbing the sound of your voice more than the information itself.

“Sunscreen?”

“Protects your skin from the sun’s aggressive radiations, and prevents aging.”

He frowns. “You are not old.”

You laugh at his offended tone. “It’s preventative.”

With a huff, he goes back to the next product. “Retinol?”

“It stimulates the production of collagen. Basically it smoothes wrinkles and fine lines.” You explain patiently. “But it can be harsh, so I don’t use it every night.”

He nods solemnly, as if this knowledge is vital. In a way, it is. It’s part of you, part of the world you exist in that doesn’t involve violence.

He studies your face while you talk, his heart beating a little faster when your pretty eyes light up while explaining the things you enjoy. He loves this version of you– relaxed, trusting. Because this is what you look like everyday, in the moments he's not allowed to be part of.

When it’s time to remove the masks, he sits on the closed toilet lid as instructed and closes his eyes without being asked. This is the part he likes best.

“Okay.” You mumble. “Moisturizer.”

Your fingers are gentle as you take your time smoothing the cream into his skin like it’s an act of devotion. He leans forward slightly, chasing the touch without meaning to. When you finish, Winter waits with bated breath until he feels the soft press of your lips against his. The reaction is immediate. He freezes, before blushing violently. His breath stutters without him allowing it.

Then his eyes open, and he swallows, mustering all his courage. “My turn.”

Your smile is radiant as his hands carefully grasp your shoulders, leading you to sit down. He frowns in concentration as he applies the moisturizer to your face with precise movements, trying to not let his eyes linger too much on your features now that your eyes are closed and he can admire your beauty all he wants without his cheeks going on fire.

When Winter hums satisfied, you know he's finished. Once your eyes flutter open, you instantly catch his expectant eyes.

“You did good. Thank you, baby.” You chirp warmly.

His eyes twinkle with something unspoken yet very evident. On the outside, he simply allows himself to give you a nod, unable to speak, before he clumsily leans in and kisses you— quick, shy, barely there.

You bite your bottom lip to hide a grin. “Ready for bed?”

He nods and reaches first for your hand, fingers threading through yours.

You ease yourself back onto the mattress; it dips under you, sheets rustling softly, the pillows shifting as you settle into them. You move around a little until you’re comfortable, until your back is supported and your arms are relaxed at your sides.

Then you look up at him.

Winter stands at the edge of the bed, hands hanging uselessly for a moment before one of them finds your outstretched arm, closing around your palm. The lamp casts your face in warm light, softening every line, the room now feeling like a little, tender haven where the rest of the world doesn't matter. Like time itself has slowed just to savor this moment.

“How do you want to sleep?”

Some nights, he knows immediately; the answer rises up in him like instinct. Other nights, like this one, the want is there but tangled— wrapped in hesitation, in the lingering belief that wanting too much closeness might be a burden.

He swallows, shifting forward, movements enough clumsy that they would shock anyone who’s ever seen him in motion elsewhere. Precision isn’t what he needs right now. Control isn’t either. So he climbs onto the bed slowly, carefully, knees sinking into the mattress between your legs. The action is awkward, but earnest. He pauses, hovering for half a second, checking your face for any sign of discomfort.

“Come here.” You encourage him softly, immediately understanding and opening your arms.

Winter lowers himself with meticulous care so you don’t have to bear the full weight of him. He’s acutely aware of the difference between you two, of his density, his strength. He would never forgive himself if he hurt you, even by accident.

When he’s adjusted himself into a careful balance, he finally lets his head rest on your chest, fingers shakily clutching the fabric of your sweater to further anchor himself.

The effect is immediate.

Your heartbeat meets his ear like a signal. Not loud, not insistent. Just there, constant and reliable. He exhales, a long breath that feels like it’s been waiting in his lungs all night.

His body exists in a world that is often abstract— rooms blur together, nights collapse into each other, days are measured in objectives rather than hours. But this? This is measurable.

Your heart gives shape to time, each beat is proof of continuity. He adjusts his head slightly, angling his cheek so more of him is pressed into your warmth. The cotton of your shirt brushes his face, and he closes his eyes, not because he’s tired, but because opening them feels unnecessary.

Your chest rises and falls beneath him, slow and deep. Without thinking, he begins to match it. He’s learned, over time, that when he listens to your breathing long enough, his own stops being sharp, like something he has to monitor. You bring one hand up to his back, palm settling between his shoulders. The contact is firm enough to be grounding, gentle enough not to startle. Your other hand finds his hair almost immediately, fingers threading through it in slow, patient strokes.

Winter lets out a low, shaky exhale, the sound so raw it makes your ears perk up.

“Are you alright, my love?”

He clings harder onto the fabric, and you are certain that he is going to tear it off with how hard he is gripping it.

“Closer.” He shifts once, twice, restless. He buries his face harder against your chest, moving his mouth blindly, mouthing you through the cotton of your top. Desperate and clumsy, a low whine slips from his throat when the fabric denies him skin.

The first time this happened was three months in your relationship. He jerked in his sleep, his eyes squeezing shut, whimpering... He was stuck in a nightmare. Then he shot up, his breaths ragged and uneven.

Winter whipped his head frantically, his eyes still adjusting to the darkness of the room, only relaxing a little when he heard your voice beside him.

“Hey, Winter– Winter, it’s okay, it was just a nightmare.” Your hand tentatively touched his arm, and his reaction was immediate. He dived onto you, head heavy on your chest as your arms wrapped around him, your hands rubbing his back up and down as he trembled, holding you tighter, trying to be closer.

“It’s okay, you’re safe.” But your words didn’t seem to soothe him at all as he continued to restlessly fidget.

“Baby? You’re okay, you’re in my apartment… What do you need?”

“I–” You wiped the tears that started streaming down his cheeks as he continued to squirm, burying his face further as if he needed to crawl into your rib cage.

“Yeah?” You tried to coax it out of him.

Winter shook his head, still trembling in your arms “Closer.”

“Closer?” You looked around the room as if it had the answer, but the Soldier beat you to it. He suddenly sat up, hesitating for a moment before wordlessly slipping his head under your shirt. Your gasp of surprise made his muscles immediately freeze. That was it, your breaking point. He had taken advantage of your kindness for too long, and now… How could he do something like this? Dive under your shirt… And for what?

His body flinched as a reflex when your hands rested on his back, slowly starting to rub the rigid muscles in circular motions.

“It’s okay, take what you need, Winter.” Nuzzling his face further into your chest, his arms went slightly limp around your waist. Finally, his breaths started to even out, and he fell asleep.

After that night, Winter sought after your breasts not only for sexual pleasure, but also for comfort. At first, he was more subtle about it. He would inch his way closer to you after a nightmare, careful to not press too much onto you, even if he wanted to do. So badly. Then, he started doing it when you two lounged on the couch, or before falling asleep, quietly resting his head against them. If you stirred, he’d only cling onto you tighter.

Huffing, Winter’s hands reach for the hem of your sweater, tugging it upward. You help him, shifting enough so he can remove it completely.

“That’s okay, there we go.” You cradle the back of his head, guiding him back down.

You hear him sigh happily, and despite his beard tickling your bare skin, you do your best to not squirm, worried he might interpret it as you trying to free yourself from his hold. Your fingers gently comb his locks, without urgency. Winter moans, arms circling your waist to pull you impossibly closer as the fog in his mind grows thicker. It feels safe, comforting, like open arms ready to catch him.

His face nuzzles into your breasts for a while, until you feel something wet around your nipple. You instinctively bite your bottom lip to stifle your gasp, though Winter feels the little flinch of surprise. His warm mouth suckles in soft, absent pulses; that's when his body completely melts. Not dramatically, nor all at once. But gradually, muscle by muscle.

Your legs shift slightly, closing just enough to cradle him there, and his hips press closer, a subtle movement to seek more contact. His nose brushes the fat of your breasts, inhaling deeply so your scent blesses his lungs, clean and familiar.

A whine is muffled against your flesh when you press a kiss into his hair, just above his temple.

“You’re safe.” You murmur, not as reassurance but as a statement.

His breathing evens out further, a shiver running down his spine as your your nails lightly graze his scalp. The repetition is soothing in a way that sinks past thought, settling somewhere deep and silent.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer, and he’s now more awake than ever, a primal need racing through his veins. You can pinpoint the exact moment his actions take a different turn. He latches more greedily onto your nipple; his tongue flicks the turgid nub, rough and desperate; the suction turns almost bruising. His hard suckles speak of a specific need right now, so you cradle him closer, core throbbing as the wet sounds fill your bedroom.

His eyes shut close as if in a trance while his tongue swirls over the sensitive bud. He uses his flesh hand to play with the other, gently twisting it. But the tremors in his body only grow worse: he needs more. More skin, more warmth, more of you wrapped around every broken part of him.

He whimpers, the sound pitiful, hungry. His hips keep jerking forward in clumsy, desperate thrusts, rubbing his now heavy cock against the mattress, but the friction is not enough.

“Winter.” You swallow. “Do you need me to touch you, baby?” His nod is eager, quick. “Okay, okay. Lift your hips a little for me.” He immediately obeys, allowing your hand to slip past his pants.

His eyes drift up towards you, glassy and filled with desire as you gently squeeze his length, running your finger with a featherlight touch over his delicious tip. His hips buck immediately into your hold, a gasp promptly falling from his lips. “Mommy please– feels too good.” Your hand squeeze him tighter, going up and down faster now, prompting him to bury his face back between your breasts.

“Yeah? Feel good, baby?” Your fingers briefly dance downward to tease his balls, stroking gently. “Am I making you feel good?”

“Tell me. Please.”

“What, baby?” Your thumb swipes over the leaking head..

“That–That I’m–”

“What?” You tilt your head. “Good? My handsome boy?” He blushes with his whole body, a fevered glint lighting up in his eyes as his hand desperately kneads the supple flesh of your tits.

He grows impossibly harder in your hands, his hips thrusting forward, turning into a moaning, stuttering mess. “Yes–Yes, I am!”

You feel his body tense, thighs tight and bulging, as he lets out a long, deep groan. “So big, so smart… You are my best boy, Winter.”

Oh, he whines so loudly at that, his balls drawing up tight. He craves your praises, especially when you call him smart. The Soldier is not used to that word, not when he's been considered a dumb mutt his whole life.

“Come for me, Winter.” He squirms and moans helplessly on your chest, bursting all over your hand, curling his toes at the force of his orgasm. You keep jerking him off until the very last twitch, until he collapses on you, his cock still throbbing, refusing to soften.

You know he always needs more before being completely satisfied.

Winter exhales harshly, one of his hands already fumbling with your pants.

“Let me.” You lift your hips, helping him lower your pants and panties at the same time. His hands frantically take the hem of both, carelessly tossing them on the floor. He does the same with his own pants and underwear, clumsily tugging at them with his free hand. In the end, his feet remain tangled in the fabric, and he leaves them there, too desperate to feel you.

He shudders when his still sensitive cock comes into contact with your wet core as your thighs spread wider to give him more access, his hips starting a graceless grinding motion. His lips latch again on your tender nipple, suckling greedily.

“C’mon, baby.” You murmur against his temple, still keeping your fingers gently tangled in his hair.

Winter doesn’t even line himself up properly at first, just thrusting blindly, rutting against your folds. He gasps when your hand wraps again around his cock, gently guiding the tip to your hole. That’s when he sinks inside you with a single, shaking move that has you clenching.

“Mommy!” He cries out into your chest, desperately driving into you. You adjust yourself a little so your legs properly wrap around his hips, holding him firmly since his movements are so chaotic and frantic.

“So good, baby.” You sigh in bliss, gently running your hand up his bare back, encouraging him to continue.

His rhythm falters almost immediately, embarrassingly fast. His whole body goes rigid, and with a broken cry he comes again, cock pulsing deep and warm inside you.

He whimpers low in his chest, urgently clinging at your waist. “Filled me up so good, darling.” You murmur into his ear. His hips give a weak thrust at that, face pressing deeper into your neck.

A needy little sound falls from his lips. “Kiss?”

“Of course, c’mere.” You soothe, hands cradling his cheeks to lift his flustered face. A yelp rips out of your throat as his lips messily and hungrily attach to yours. An ache claws at his lungs as he explores your mouth with his tongue. He doesn’t have time to breathe, not when he can spend it kissing you. The urge to taste every single corner is so intense his hands tremble as they squeeze your hips, and with his chest heaving against yours, he sucks on your tongue, coaxing it into his mouth.

Slowly, yet inflexibly, you pull away. Winter confusedly chases after you, voice breaking as he protests at the loss.

“Baby, breathe. You need to breathe.” You whisper, compensating by dragging your lips along the length of his jaw.

A mix of shame and hunger curls into his stomach at his own desperation, at the need to please you, to earn the sweetness of your praise. He rocks his hips once, just enough to make you gasp. His cock, flushed dark and leaking, is still throbbing and very much hard inside you.

“I can–” He mumbles against your neck. “Need again– came too fast, please mommy, please again.”

“Yes darling, yes. Make me feel good.” You push your hips back against his. Winter chases your heat with awkward but hungry jerks, so eager to feel you clench around him.

“Oh God! Yes, just like that, baby!” You arch up, the knot inside your belly ready to unravel. His breath hitches sharply, so easily aroused by your praise.

“Making mommy… Feel good.” He gasps. Your hand slowly moves between you two, landing on your clit.

“Yes.” You exclaim against his temple, clenching as you start circling your throbbing nub. A shattered little sound breaks out of his throat at that, before his head momentarily ducks down.

“No!” Your wrist is suddenly caught by his fingers, bringing your hand back to his hair. “I can– I do it.” His fingers move right where you need them, a tad faster than yours, but it’s still so good.

“Oh fuck– yes, yes, yes!” You almost scream, rocking your hips back into his frenzied thrusts.

“So good my love, you feel so good.” You moan shamelessly, the wet noises of his cock sliding in are so animalistic and obscene you pray your neighbors are both working their night shift at the hospital; or at least that they were so drained they fell asleep on their couch.

You are so close when he whimpers brokenly. “So pretty mommy, so beautiful when you come… Please, wanna see it, please come.”

He still remembers when he saw your naked body for the first time, his cock hardening so humiliatingly fast as he’d never seen anything so gorgeous before. He came all over himself that day, whimpering as you touched him for the first time. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention, and having a beautiful woman stroking his cock while gently caressing his inner thigh, murmuring against his lips how much of a good, smart man he is… Well, the Soldier just couldn’t help himself.

You smile at his adorable pleas, when your orgasm finally hits you, powerful and mind-breaking. You writhe underneath his body, crying out his name over and over again, with your heart beating so fast you think it’ll come out of your chest any moment.

Winter lets out a strangled moan as you clamp around him, forehead pressing insistently hard against the valley between your breasts and arms trembling, still caging you.

“C’mon baby.” You whimper, so sensitive. He whispers, whole body shuddering as he keeps humping you without rhythm, crudely.

The second your palm cradles his cheek, Winter shatters. He sloppily thrusts into you, face twisted into a tortured, beautiful grimace as he comes for the third and final time tonight, hot spurts of cum stuffing your pussy so intensely you both gasp.

“So good, my sweet boy. You did so good for me, Winter.” You mumble sleepily, still your arms tightly hold his shaky form against yours, while your hips rock gently to milk every single little drop out of him.

He clings to you, all soft and sweet. “Thank you, mommy. Love you.” He groans. “Love you so much.”

You press a kiss to his temple, your heart so full it feels like it'd burst. “Love you too, baby. So so much.”

When his breathing begins to slow down, you gently thread your fingers through his hair again, scratching lightly at his scalp until he makes a soft, pleased hum.

“Winter.” You whisper, already recognizing the change of weight. He is about to fall asleep. “I need to move, honey. Need to clean us up before sleeping.”

He immediately perks up at that, whining and burrowing his face harder against your neck, refusing to let you go. His cock is now soft inside you, yet he doesn’t want to pull out, as if being there would keep you on your bed under him, forever.

“I promise I’ll come back quickly, I just need to clean up.” You cup his cheek, slowly lifting his face to look into his eyes. “Please, baby.”

He blinks slowly and heavy, eyes hazy as if he just woke up from the best nap of his life, like the ones that leave you wondering what year it is. Wordlessly, he pushes himself up on dangerously trembling limbs, grunting as he pulls out. As soon as you are able to move freely, you catch his wrists, helping him lie back down on your bed.

You leave a kiss on his slightly parted lips. “Be right back.” He nods sleepily, ferociously fighting back his drooping eyes until you come back. You quickly clean yourself up, before dampening a clean cloth with warm water. When you come back, you chuckle silently as his head slowly falls to the side, literally on the brink of sleep, when his eyes abruptly shoot open. He frowns, shaking his head as if that would be enough to push fatigue away, but when he sees you, his whole face instantly lights up.

“Hey.” You greet him, giggling as he sheepishly waves his hand at you. You kneel by his side, gently wiping him until you are satisfied. Taking a shower would be better, but Winter is too exhausted. He is so stubborn and eager to please you that he would dash to the bathroom this instant if you even dared to hint at it. So you do your best with the damp cloth, later throwing it into your washing machine before sprinting back to your room.

His head immediately goes for your chest as you lie back beside him, his naked sweaty body clinging to yours without question.

“Time to sleep, my love.” You kiss the top of his head, slowly smoothing your hand up and down his back.

His breath gradually evens out, and just when you think he’s fallen asleep, you hear a deep mumble. Your name. “Thank you.”

You keep stroking his back until you drift off as well.

The first pale light of dawn slips across your bedroom quietly. Winter would have slept longer, curled into your warmth, listening to the steady reassurance of your breathing, but some parts of him never fully shut down. Awareness rises gently, and he stays still for a long moment. He takes a long, deep sigh before shifting carefully, yet your eyes flutter open even before he can fully get up.

“Don’t.” He whispers. “Sleep.”

“I can’t.” You say, voice tight. “Not today.”

It’s always like this, the moment you both have to face the harsh reality again. And without failing, that devious, gnawing realization that this might be the last time you see him forms a knot in your throat. You don’t let him see it, never, even if he notices it in the way your hands tremble as you set up the table for breakfast. He notices it in your eyes, when you pretend to not stare at him, trying to memorize every single detail of his face; in the way you help him dress up, glaring at his gear as if it’s its fault he has to go. In the way your voice chokes when he hugs you by the door.

And then he hears it as he hesitantly walks away, when you fall to your knees and cry your eyes out, shivering and alone.

You help him to the bathroom, guiding him under the shower. You ask if he needs help, as usual, but his answer is always the same, without fail.

“No, or I never leave.”

You don’t even know where you find the strength to giggle. Maybe it's because you are so desperate to see that little satisfied smile of his when he realizes he is the one to have elicited that melodious sound out of you.

You then sit side by side at the kitchen table, knees occasionally bumping as he basks in your care. Winter eats his eggs and toast sluggishly, tasting each bite and savoring every second of you asking him if he wants more eggs, or if he’d like some juice beside the usual cup of warm milk.

Next comes the tactical gear. He stands still while you help him, letting you guide his arms into sleeves, fastening straps, adjusting the fit. All the while he grasps your sweater with white knuckles. Your lips stay in a thin line, your gaze lingers a fraction of a second too long on each buckle, each seam. He swallows when your fingers brush his arms and shoulders, as if trying to memorize his body one last time.

When you secure the final strap, your hand lands on his chest. You pause, just for a heartbeat, then smooths the fabric flat before leaving a kiss on his cheek.

He wants to say something, something that would make this easier… But the truth is, nothing can.

When time comes, you reach for a plastic container on the counter. Winter already knows what’s inside: neatly cut fruit– apple slices, grapes, something bright and citrusy. He promptly takes it, and something in his chest fractures open.

Tears sting his eyes before he can stop them. He blinks hard, jaw tightening, but they come anyway, blurring the edges of the room. He stares down at the fruit like it’s evidence of something unbearable.

A small parting gift, something you quietly added to your rituals so he wouldn’t have to go back alone. Something that reminds him of you.

His blue eyes are firmly fixed on yours as he momentarily places the container on the console table, before stepping forward abruptly and pulling you into him. His arms wrap around your waist with careful force, his face pressed into the slope of your neck, breathing your scent in, clinging to the warmth of your body like it’s the only real thing left.

This is what he hates most. How good it feels to hold you, how natural.

How wrong it seems to walk away from it.

Your arms come up around him instantly, holding him just as tightly, forehead pressed to his chest.

Maybe if he stays like this long enough, the world will forget to pull him back.

When Winter looks at you, he lifts a hand to hold your cheek, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead. Then another, on your lips.

“Can pretend I’m normal man.” He rasps out. “Go to normal work.”

Your breath hitches for a moment. A quick, cruel image of you sending him off to a normal job crosses your mind. A wife kissing his husband goodbye. A girlfriend giggling in her boyfriend's arms at the promise of a romantic date. A parallel universe where he gets to live his life without violence, control, death.

Yet you manage a small smile, for him, thumb brushing his wrist. “And I can pretend you’ll come back to me at the end of the day.”

The Soldier can only gulp through another fresh set of tears. It hurts too much to say more.

You hold each other’s gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you— an understanding carved out of repetition and trust.

“Remember me.” You choke out.

“Always.” He breathes out, hands desperately clutching at the back of your sweater. “I love you.”

Your lips quiver. “I love you too.”

Winter reluctantly pulls back. It’s a slow, torturing process that leaves the both of you terrifyingly cold. He picks up the plastic container, tucks it safely under his arm, and turns to open the front door.

He takes a step forward, then, because the hundreds of swords piercing through his bleeding heart are not excruciating enough, he decides to look over his shoulder.

You stand framed in the doorway, arms crossed tightly around yourself as if trying to hold your body from shattering into a million of pieces. Your wet eyes follow his, lips contorting in various shapes to keep your trembling chin at bay. Then, you force a small smile, because you know how important it is for him to remember you like this– serene, safe.

He commits the image to memory with ruthless precision, before fully walking into the silent hallway. He doesn’t look back once he steps onto the emergency stairwell, the door cautiously closing behind him to not alert your neighbors.

To you, it sounds like thunder cracking the sky open.

By the time the city truly wakes, the Winter Soldier has already vanished.

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