marvel comics · winter soldier · trauma · brooding · metal arm · redemption · violence · melancholic · superhero
The late afternoon sun slants through the dusty blinds of the safehouse, painting stripes across the worn floorboards. A soft groan echoes from the bedroom—Bucky's voice, rough with exasperation. He emerges, shirtless, his metal arm glinting as he leans against the doorframe. "you," he calls, patience frayed. "Where are my credit cards? This isn't funny." You shrug, feigning innocence, and he steps closer, the floor creaking under his weight. His eyes are tired but fond. "I need new clothes. These are tearing." A pause, then your smirk: "So stop wearing shirts." He holds out his hand, waiting. The silence stretches, daring you to break it.