thewinterdrafts

[thewinterdrafts]

Say It Back | The White Wolf

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (1st Person)

Word Count: 1,255

Summary: James has known pain. He’s known silence. But nothing prepared him for this—for wanting, for feeling. In one night, he lets go of everything that held him together and breaks open in the arms of the only person who’s ever truly seen him.

Warnings: 18+ NSFW, Self-doubt & insecurity, Trauma responses & PTSD, Fear of abandonment & rejection

A/N: hey fam, i'm still alive (although, barely). i missed writing scenes just because, and so i sat down and done this lil babbling about one very desperate James. i hope you'll like it, happy reading 🤍

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James is inside me, and his pace is unforgiving—not out of cruelty, but because he has nothing left to hold back. Every thrust is deep and devastating, relentless in its rhythm, driven by something that feels older than words, older than fear, older than pain. There is no hesitation in him now, no trace of the man who once flinched from wanting too much. There is only need. Raw, consuming, all-encompassing need that drives his body against mine, again and again, like he is trying to disappear into me, to become part of me, to burn the space between us into ash until all that’s left is us.

His hands are everywhere. They grip my hips with such desperate strength it nearly bruises, not to hurt, but to hold, to claim, as if he’s terrified I might vanish if he doesn’t hold tight enough. His mouth is just as wild, uncontained, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to every patch of skin he can reach—my lips, my jaw, the hollow of my throat, the slope of my shoulders. There’s nothing careful in the way he touches me now. It is all fire. All surrender.

“James—” I gasp, my voice breaking as I clutch at his back, feeling the ripple of taut muscle beneath my palms, the way he trembles with the weight of everything he can’t say fast enough. Every inch of him is shaking, but he doesn’t stop.

And then, just as a broken, almost feral sound escapes him, the words fall out.

“I’m in love with you.”

They are breathless and cracked. A confession and a cry for mercy in one.

He says it again. And again. Like the words have been trapped in him for so long that now they’re pouring out without end, like he has to say them over and over, to make them real, to make sure I hear them, feel them, believe them.

His hands tighten even more, gripping like a drowning man, his breath shattering against my skin. His hips lose rhythm, stuttering with every broken syllable he forces out between kisses.

“I can’t—” he chokes, his forehead pressing against mine, our breath mingling. “I can’t live without you. I—I need you. I need you so much, I—please.”

His voice is raw, shaking with something so much deeper than lust. It’s fear and worship, tangled together in a man who has never been allowed to want anything this much.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, so broken it makes my chest splinter. “You’re mine, you’re everything to me.”

He kisses me like he’s losing his mind, mouth dragging over my lips, my cheeks, my temple, like he thinks he can memorize me with touch alone. “I don’t know who I am without you,” he whispers, barely a breath. “I don’t want to know. I don’t want to remember who I was before this.”

His thrusts are deep now, unsteady, each one weighted with desperation, as if he's trying to make a home inside me. The moment feels infinite, suspended between the ache and the unraveling.

“You saved me,” he whispers, his voice wrecked. “You don’t even know. I was gone. I was nothing. I didn’t feel. I didn’t even want to feel.”

A sob rips from his throat as he buries himself deeper, his hands cradling my face now, trembling fingers brushing my cheek like I’m something breakable.

“I love you,” he says it again, more frantically this time, like it hurts not to say it. “I love you. I love you so much it scares me. I love you so much I can’t—I can’t breathe when you look at me like that.”

His kisses are everywhere again—my jaw, my throat, my lips, like he’s trying to kiss the fear out of his own mouth.

“I can’t exist without you,” he breathes, so quiet it nearly disappears beneath our shared breath. “And I don’t want to. I don’t want to.”

His pace falters, his entire body beginning to come undone, and still he keeps moving, keeps reaching, like he hasn’t quite found the place where we end and begin again.

“I need you to know,” he gasps, lips brushing mine. “I don’t care what happens—I belong to you.”

He kisses lower now, down my neck, my collarbone, my chest—every touch worshipful, almost holy in its desperation.

“Say it back,” he begs, his voice cracked open, utterly undone. “Please—please, say it back. I need to hear it. I need to feel it.”

His hands are shaking as they hold me, fingers digging into my waist like he needs the pain to stay grounded. His forehead presses to mine again, eyes searching, lips parted, waiting for the one thing that will keep him from falling apart.

“I love you, James,” I breathe, and the second the words leave my mouth, something inside him breaks. I feel it like a dam giving way.

A sob tears from his chest, desperate and overwhelming, and his entire body collapses against mine. His arms encircle me as tightly as they can, his face buried against my neck, and I hold him just as tightly, letting him come apart in my arms, letting him belong.

Even as he trembles above me, even as his breath falters in short, choked gasps, he doesn’t stop. He starts to move again—harder, deeper, each thrust sharp and wild with purpose. His hands grip my thighs, spreading me open beneath him, grounding himself in the heat of my body.

His mouth moves over my skin, frantic kisses brushing everywhere—my neck, my shoulder, my chest—and he speaks between the kisses, his voice rough and unsteady.

“Again,” he pleads. “Say it again. Please, baby, please.”

“I love you, James,” I whisper, and he shudders.

His pace turns feral, hips snapping forward with a force that makes my breath catch, his grip unrelenting, his body working like he’s trying to earn my love with every thrust.

“I need you to finish,” he begs, wrecked. “I need to see it, feel it, know I make you come apart. Please—I need it. I need to know I can give that to you.”

His hands are everywhere now—stroking, gripping,—his voice a litany of need and desperation.

“Give it to me,” he murmurs, forehead against mine, eyes locked to mine like he could lose himself in them. “I need you. I need to feel you fall apart for me.”

The pressure coils sharply in me so hard it's unbearable. Every inch of him, every word, every shattered breath pushes me closer, until I am trembling, shaking beneath him, the pleasure crackling through every nerve.

“Please,” he whispers, mouth brushing mine. “Let me have it. Let me have you.”

I break right then. I shatter beneath him, a sob tearing from my throat, my body clenching around him as the wave crashes through me devastatingly. My arms lock around him, pulling him in, and I cry out his name as the pleasure explodes.

“That’s it,” he breathes, shaking. “That’s my girl. That's my girl.”

James follows with a broken moan, his whole body shuddering, his breath punching out of him in ragged gasps. His grip tightens, nearly painful, as if he could chain himself to me, as if this is the only place in the world where he can still exist.

And I hold him as he falls apart in my arms again, because he is mine, and I am his, until the end of time.

[thewinterdrafts]

300 hits on AO3!!!

y'all i woke up SCREAMING when i saw this, i'm so so happy people are finding the story and loving it just as much as me!

the biggest hug for everyone who has been following along Elena's and the Soldier's story, i love you all SO SO much 🤍

and if you haven't already, run and read it right here, i promise it will traumatize you 🤍

[thewinterdrafts]

07 - Disobedience | Frostbite Series | The Winter Soldier

Pairing: The Winter Soldier x Original Female Character (1st Person)

Word count: 5,192

Summary: A tense confrontation forces Yulia and the Soldier into a battle of instinct versus reality. As control unravels, buried truths surface, leaving them both facing something neither is prepared to understand—but can no longer deny.

Disclaimer: This series is extremely dark, touching on graphic violence, psychological torment, and human suffering in all its forms. If you choose to read, proceed with caution.

Warnings: strictly 18+, Graphic medical procedures & surgical descriptions

A/N: i worked 12 hours and fried my brain bringing this to you guys. i hope you'll like it, happy reading!! (hopefully)

❄️ Frostbite Chapters: Part 01 - Severance Part 02 - Incision Part 03 - Containment Part 04 - Recognition Part 05 - Trigger Part 06 - Submission Part 07 - Disobedience - you are currently here Note: The Frostbite series has officially migrated to bigger platforms! Check out the rest on AO3 and Wattpad ♡

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Note: This chapter is written in third person, and all dialogue takes place in Russian, but it has been presented in English for readability.

Yulia’s breath catches in her lungs as she stares at her hands in shock. It's full of blood. Elena’s blood. She looks down at the her like she can't believe her own eyes. She in unconscious. She is dying. They are trapped in here.

She presses down harder on the wound, her own hands shaking so badly she can barely keep them steady. "Come on," she whispers. "Come on, please—"

A sound drags her attention upward—not even a sound. A breath, that could belong to any wild animal.

The Soldier.

His eyes are locked onto Elena’s limp form. His chest rises and falls so fast, he might pass out any minute. Yulia quickly wipes her tears to take a better look at him, but she wishes she didn't, because he's visibly panicking. She's never seen him panic before. The thought should terrify her, but it doesn’t—not in the way it should. Because this isn’t a weapon malfunctioning.

This is a man falling apart.

"I—" His voice is rough, like he's never talked before. The metal cuffs keep him locked down, his pinned arms are yanking against them as he tries to move, tries to reach.

But he can’t, and it's driving him mad.

"No."

Upon hearing the strong Russian word, Yulia flinches so hard she nearly drops the fabric she’s pressing against Elena’s side. "I did everything." Her voice is hoarse. "I don’t—I don’t know what else to do, she needs to—She has to tell me."

His breathing is louder and louder. Everything about him is wrong. The tension in his jaw, the way his body strains against the restraints, the desperation in his eyes. Weapons shouldn't break down. So what's happening with him?

"She’s—" He stops, the frustration flickers over his face. His fingers twitch like he wants to tear through the chains, like he doesn’t understand why he can’t. "She is—"

His voice fails. He doesn’t have the words, because they never gave him the words for this.

Yulia swallows hard. "She’s dying."

The Soldier’s entire body seizes. His throat bobs as he tries to speak, but nothing comes out. Yulia, kneeling on the cold floor, watches with terror as his breath hitches. There's a heavy silence between them, before—

"No."

It wasn't a refusal. It was an order.

His arms pull against the restraints once again with a force so strong, Yulia feels the floor move. He is trying to get to her, but the chains weren't designed to break easily, and his metal arm is still useless. He looks up, pools of desperation in his eyes, as he realizes that he won't be able to break free. 

Yulia grips Elena tighter, pressing down against the wound, trying everything to stop the bleeding. "I—I don’t—She'll die on me."

His jaw clenches. His fingers curl into fists. He's struggling, searching. His head tilts slightly as his gaze rakes over Elena’s still form. He's assessing, like he would on a mission. Like she is just another part that needs to be put back together.

"Repair—" He stops. The word doesn’t feel right.

He tries again. "Put—" Another sharp inhale. His eyes flicker, frustration bleeding through the cracks. "Make it—no, her. Make her—"

He exhales sharply through his nose with his teeth clenching, muscles in his jaw twitching. Nothing sounds right.

"Fix," he finally says. "Fix her."

Yulia’s freezes. He just gave an order to her. She doesn’t dare speak or move. She’s too stunned, too horrified by what’s happening—because this is wrong. The Soldier doesn’t give orders. The Soldier doesn’t act on his own.

But then his voice comes again, this time, with urgency.

"Pressure. Stop—" He exhales sharply, his head jerking slightly like he is trying to shake something loose. The words. They won’t come out right. "Bleeding must stop."

"I know that!" Yulia's voice cracks as she snaps. "It won’t stop! It’s too deep!"

The Soldier’s fingers dig into his palms. His eyes flicker across Elena’s body, taking in the damage, the irregularity of her breathing. It's too slow and too weak.

"Cut."

Yulia’s breath stutters. "I—I don’t—"

"Now." His voice drops lower, ragged, barely holding together. "You must."

"She’s lost too much—she’s not responding—"

The metal clangs violently as the Soldier jerks against his restraints. "No. No failure. No stopping."

"I don’t—I can’t lose her," Yulia whispers.

"You will do it."

Yulia swallows down a whimper. She wants to run. Every survival instinct inside her is screaming at her to get away, to shut the Soldier out, but Elena is still bleeding, still getting colder, and she cannot lose her. Not like this.

She swallows back the lump in her throat. "Okay. Okay, I’m doing it. Just—just tell me how."

His hands flex, straining against the cuffs as his frustration is mounting. He cannot reach her, he cannot fix it himself, and the thought of it alone makes him crazy.

"Cut. Close. Repair—no, stabilize." His voice is cracking now, each word more unsteady than the last. He is grasping for control, and failing.

Yulia presses a hand to her mouth, trying to swallow the fear rising in her chest. Then, she looks down at Elena, who's becoming more and more pale with every passing second. She forces herself to breathe. 

She is not a doctor. She is barely a nurse. But she is all Elena has right now.

"H-her rib—" Yulia swallows. "I—I think one is still out of place—"

"Yes." His voice is cold, but not cruel. It's measured and precise. "Cut."

Yulia freezes. "No. No, I can’t—I can’t do that."

The Soldier jerks against his restraints. "You will."

Yulia shakes her head violently. "She’s barely stable—I can’t just—!"

"Now." His voice is like ice, but the desperation is visibly peaking through the rigid mask.

Yulia swallows thickly as her pulse hammers against her throat. She can’t do this. She isn’t strong enough. She isn’t trained enough. Elena would know what to do.

But Elena is unconscious.

"No, no, no—if I do this wrong—"

The Soldier’s restraints creak violently. "Now."

Yulia jumps in fear, gasping, her heart pounding in her ears. 

She grips the scalpel. Her hands are trembling so hard she can barely hold it straight. She's about to cut into a person. Into Elena. She bites her lip as her vision blurs to the thought. This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong. But if she doesn’t do it, Elena will die.

She presses the blade to Elena’s skin. Her hands shake harder. She can’t do it. She can’t do it. Yet, she moves.

Yulia gasps as she presses down, slicing into Elena’s flesh. She doesn’t breathe. Neither does he. The room is suffocating, like a tomb with no oxygen.

Elena doesn’t react—she is too far gone to react. Yulia is crying now, tears spilling down her face, onto Elena's exposed skin. She isn’t strong enough for this. But the Soldier watches her every movement with his breath sharp, and his shoulders locked so tightly they tremble.

The skin splits. Yulia gags. She wants to vomit. She wants to stop.

"Deeper."

Tears slip down Yulia’s cheeks, but she listens. The incision deepens and the muscle gives way. Blood wells up, hot and dark.

Yulia’s hands shake violently, her vision swimming. "I—"

"Locate the break."

Yulia’s breath shudders violently. "I—I can’t—"

"You will."

She squeezes her eyes shut as she presses her trembling fingers inside. The moment she feels the jagged shift of bone, she nearly collapses. The Soldier inhales sharply.

"Move—move the bone—align it."

Yulia gags, nausea clawing at her throat. "I don’t—I can’t—"

"You must."

Yulia sobs. She doesn’t know if it’s from the horror of what she’s doing or from the terror of knowing that if she fails, Elena will die. With a shaking breath, she adjusts her grip, and moves the rib. A sickening pop reverberates under her fingers.

She gasps violently as her entire body jerks away from the wound. She did it. Yulia slaps a hand over her own mouth, rocking back on her heels as the nausea is crashing through her. She did it, but at what cost?

The Soldier releases a slow, measured breath. He has been holding it.

"More."

Yulia blinks with her vision swimming in hot tears. "What?"

The Soldier breathes harder as his fingers curl into fists. "Not enough. Check... check lung."

Yulia’s stomach lurches. "I—I don’t know how."

"You do." His voice is barely above a whisper, but it is absolute. "She must breathe."

Yulia hesitates, her breath coming in gasps. She doesn’t want to touch Elena anymore. She doesn’t want to make it worse.

"Now."

The order is softer now, but no less urgent.

Yulia swallows her nausea and moves, pressing a trembling hand to Elena’s ribs.

There. Another break beneath her fingers. A sharp displacement where there shouldn’t be one.

"It—it’s bad. If I move it, I could—"

"Fix."

"I don’t—"

"Fix."

Her hands shake harder. "I—I’m not a doctor!"

The Soldier’s breath is ragged. "Now."

She wants to scream. She wants to run. But instead, she presses her palms against Elena’s ribs and shifts the break back into place. The sound it makes—a horrible pop—makes her whole body lurch.

"She—she’s not waking up," Yulia stammers.

The Soldier is breathing hard now, his whole body shaking against the restraints. "Breathe."

"She’s not—"

"Breathe."

Yulia’s hands move on their own, pressing against Elena’s chest desperately.

A beat. Another beat. Then—a gasp. Elena’s body jerks as her breath catches sharply.

Yulia sobs in relief. In terror. In exhaustion.

The Soldier breathes with her.

"Close it."

Yulia hesitates as her pulse is still thrumming in her ears. Her fingers feel foreign and useless, but she forces them to move. She doesn't have time to break.

She grabs the sutures, but her hands are slick— there's too much blood.

"Clean."

She does. She wipes them on the ragged edge of her sleeve, the blood is smearing across the fabric. Her breaths are shallow and unsteady, but she focuses. The stress is so consuming now, that she barely feels like herself anymore.

The first stitch is slow and clumsy. Her fingers tremble, but she forces the needle through flesh, tying off the first suture with a shaky knot. The Soldier watches. Each stitch is a battle against the panic crawling up her throat, against the nausea rolling in her stomach.

Elena still doesn’t move.

The last suture pulls tight. She ties it off. It’s done.

Silence.

Yulia collapses back onto her heels. She barely has any time to ground herself, before the Soldier speaks again.

"Not enough." His voice comes in sharp. "She will freeze."

Yulia blinks, still gasping for breath. "What? No—she’s stable—"

"Cold." The Soldier pulls against the restraints. His movements are jerky and panicked. "She cannot be cold."

Yulia swallows as her heart hammers in her chest. She knows immediately. He is afraid of her freezing.

"She’s—she’s not that cold—" Yulia tries to reason, but the Soldier won't have it.

"Move her."

Yulia frowns. "What?"

"On me." The Soldier’s voice cracks. "Put—put her here." His chest rises sharply. "Now."

Yulia stares at him. He cannot be serious. But oh, he is.

"You—you want me to—"

"Yes."

Yulia flinches. The desperation in his voice—it isn’t like before. This isn’t a command made from force. This is something else entirely, but her mind is too cloudy to figure it out just yet.

She glances at Elena’s still form, then back at the Soldier. He is watching her with his breathing shallow and erratic. His body is shaking. He lost control.

"Too far," he forces out, but his voice is barely a whisper. "Move her."

Yulia’s throat tightens.

"I— I can’t lift her alone," she stammers. "She’s too heavy."

The Soldier jerks so violently against the cuffs that the metal is biting into his skin. "Move her."

Yulia jumps as her trembling hands clench. He is coming apart at the seams. His breath is too uneven, like he’s barely keeping himself from screaming.

"She will freeze. She will freeze." His fingers flex, tugging hard against the chains, but they do not budge. His eyes are locked onto Elena. "Fix it."

Yulia swallows back her own panic and she steps closer. She has never been this close to him—not like this. She can clearly see everything in his eyes, how much he wants to do, but is unable to. She swallows thickly as she watches the Soldier unravel. She needs to do this. Otherwise, he will break.

Her hands shake as she grips Elena’s shoulders. Her muscles are screaming in protest as she tries to lift her. Elena is dead weight. Too heavy.

"I can’t— I can’t just throw her on top of you," Yulia gasps with her arms buckling under Elena’s weight. "I need help!"

The Soldier’s body jerks again. "I cannot." His voice is so raw and broken. "I cannot. I cannot. You must."

Yulia grits her teeth. She has to move. She has to do it. She shifts her grip, her breath hitching as Elena’s body slides limply. She drags her higher as she feels her muscles burning from the effort. The Soldier watches with wide eyes while he is trembling with urgency.

Yulia snarls through gritted teeth, sweat dripping down her face. Elena is slipping.

"No, no, no—" The Soldier thrashes again, and Yulia has never heard that kind of desperation before.

Her breath stutters. "I’m trying, I’m trying—" Her voice cracks as she struggles to lift Elena higher, with her arms shaking uncontrollably.

"Slow. Do not twist."

Yulia nods frantically, adjusting her grip. With the last of her strength, she pulls Elena up and over, pressing her against the Soldier’s chest. The second Elena’s body settles against his, the Soldier shudders violently.

Yulia stumbles back, panting, her lungs burning as she tries to get in as much air as possible. Her whole body shakes in exhaustion. The Soldier's muscles, once locked in unbearable tension, finally relax. His flesh hand moves as much as the restraints allow, finding Elena’s wrist immediately. He grips it gently, pressing two fingers against her pulse.

Once. Again. And again.

Checking. Rechecking. Grounding himself.

Yulia watches, pressing a hand to her chest, still gasping for breath. "You—you okay now?"

The Soldier does not answer. He is not listening to her.

His fingers remain pressed against Elena’s wrist with a light but unrelenting grip. Counting. Checking. Again and again.

His breath still comes sharp, but the urgency has changed. It's no longer the erratic panic from before—now, it is something deeper. His eyes drag over her form, over the way her chest barely rises, how her skin is still too cool against his. Not warm enough.

"Check again," he murmurs. It is not a request.

Yulia hesitates. "I already—"

"Again."

She exhales sharply but obeys. Her fingers press against Elena’s neck, her jaw tightening as she counts under her breath. "Still stable. Pulse is steady. She’s holding on."

The Soldier’s eyes do not leave Elena. His hand tightens slightly over her wrist, as if he's testing the pulse for himself, ensuring Yulia is not lying to him.

She is warm. But not warm enough.

His jaw clenches. Something is wrong. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe it is him.

His free hand, the metal one, remains still at his side, restrained and useless. He cannot assess her properly. Cannot fix it himself.

"Breathe." His voice is low, but commanding.

Yulia’s brows knit together. "She is breathing."

"Louder."

Yulia hesitates, then leans in slightly, listening closer. The sound is faint—too faint—but present.

"It’s there," she says softly. "She’s breathing."

Yulia sits down onto the cold tile floor. Elena is breathing. Alive. She can't take it anymore. This was too much. She needs a moment to stomach the things she's done.

The Soldier exhales, but it is not relief. It is calculation.

He moves slightly—or tries to. The weight of Elena against his chest keeps him grounded with her bare skin pressed against his, the heat of her body barely seeping into his own.

His breath stutters. It's suddenly too much contact. Too much bare skin. He doesn’t understand.

His mind races as he's trying to categorize, to define what is happening. This should be function. Warmth. Stabilization. But it feels like something else, something unknown. He flexes his fingers against her pulse again. Still there. Still steady.

"This is correct," he murmurs to himself. "Positioned correctly. Heat exchange. Circulation."

His voice is almost robotic. Almost.

"Stable. Not cold."

So why isn’t it enough?

His breathing doesn’t slow. His chest feels tight. His muscles coil like something is wrong. There is no threat. No failure. But he cannot let go. He stares at her face and watches the slow, shallow breaths move through her.

"She must not freeze."

The words feel heavier now. He flexes his fingers again. The heat of her wrist against his palm feels fragile. 

His breathing is wrong. He can feel it—the irregularity, the imbalance. His body reacts to something it shouldn’t. Why? He presses his head back against the cold metal of the chair while his fingers are twitching against Elena’s pulse point. Too much heat. Too much sensation. Too much.

But she is still cold. Still too cold.

He shifts slightly beneath her, his restrained arms straining as if to adjust her—to hold her properly. He cannot wrap his arms around her, and the thought unsettles him more than it should. His fingers slide down to her forearm, feeling the soft skin, the fine texture of it. This is different. This is not combat.

"Not necessary," he whispers under his breath. But he does not pull away.

His brow furrows. He has felt human skin before, in training, in kill missions. But never like this. Never… never like something fragile. He forces his breath to steady, listening for hers, counting each shallow rise of her chest. The rhythm is wrong. But it is there.

He does not understand why he keeps counting.

"Alive," he says, his voice hoarse. "Warm."

Then why does it still feel like something is wrong?

His jaw tightens, his fingers twitc as he grips her wrist. He is supposed to let go now. She is stabilized. The task is complete.

But he doesn’t.

His breath shudders as he listens to her heartbeat through his fingertips, the steady rhythm against his palm. It is steady. It is real.

"Alive" he murmurs again.

Meanwhile, Yulia shifts on her feet, exhaling shakily as she wipes her bloodstained hands on her torn uniform. Her heartbeat finally died down from her ears as she grounded herself to reality. Elena is stable now. They did it.

"Alright," Yulia mutters, forcing her exhausted body to move. "We need to get her off of you. She’ll rest better somewhere else."

She reaches forward to lift Elena—and stops.

The Soldier doesn’t let go.

Yulia frowns. "Hey—"

His grip on Elena’s wrist tightens.

She blinks. "She’s fine now. She doesn’t need to be here anymore."

No response.

Yulia places her hands under Elena’s shoulders and tries to shift her weight—barely a fraction of movement—the Soldier jerks. A sharp inhale, a twitch of his metal arm against the restraints—his entire body tenses as if she had just ripped something away from him.

Yulia pulls back, startled. What the hell?

She tries again, slower this time. "She’ll be more comfortable—"

"No."

The single word is hoarse.

Yulia’s stomach twists. She stares at him. "No?"

The Soldier doesn’t even look at her, his focus is entirely on Elena. His flesh fingers remain curled around her wrist, while his metal arm is straining against the cuffs like he’s trying to reach—trying to hold her tighter but can’t.

Yulia swallows as a sudden uneasy feeling flods right through her. What is this?

"She needs to rest," Yulia tries again. "She’ll be safer—"

"Stays."

The sharpness in his tone makes her flinch. She stares at him. "She stays?"

His grip flexes, just slightly.

"You’re… holding onto her," Yulia says, almost to herself. A chill runs down her spine. "She’s not going anywhere. She’s stable now. You don’t have to—"

"Stays."

The exact same word. The exact same tone. Yulia’s heartbeat stutters. This isn’t normal, this isn’t anything she has ever seen from him before. She watches his stiff, unreadable face, as she tries to figure the reason out. This is no longer function. He should let go. Why doesn't he?

She tries to move Elena again, just slightly. The Soldier tenses. Every muscle locks, his breathing turns harsh. Yulia lets go immediately, raising her hands in surrender. 

"Okay. Okay, relax. I’m not—"

He doesn’t relax.

His fingers tighten around Elena’s wrist, as much as his restraint allows, and Yulia swears she sees his jaw tremble.

"Why won’t you let her go?" she whispers.

The Soldier says nothing, but his grip says everything. He's breathing hard now, visibly shaking, with his chest rising and falling too fast. He looks like he is being torn apart.

"Stays," he grits out, and this time, his voice is almost broken.

Then, he does something that makes Yulia startle. 

His fingers, still locked around Elena’s wrist, shift just slightly—just enough for his thumb to move, and he strokes the inside of her wrist. It's soft and subtle, an unconscious movement. She stares at his hand, watching as his thumb moves again in slow, instinctual motions.

She almost thinks she is hallucinating, but then he does it again. A trembling motion—not once, but twice, three times—his fingers brushing over Elena’s pulse in a pattern, like he’s memorizing it. Yulia's breath catches. She looks up at his face, expecting calculation and focus, but instead, she finds him watching Elena. Not as an asset or a mission.

Her mind stumbles over itself as soon as she's hit with the realization.

Oh.

Oh.

"You feel for her."

The words barely leave Yulia’s lips before the Soldier reacts.

His entire body jolts as his muscles lock so tight that it looks downright painful. He panics as hand tightens around Elena’s wrist too hard, almost bruising it.

"No."

The response is immediate. Automatic.

Yulia blinks, startled. "What—"

"No," he repeats, his voice cold. "Not allowed."

She understands it instantly—the panic laced into his sharp breaths, the tension in his shoulders. He’s not just denying it. He’s terrified.

Yulia studies him. "Not allowed?"

The Soldier nods. "It is not permitted."

She exhales. This is his programming speaking. She recognizes it now, the instinct to reject anything that suggests he could be more than a weapon. 

"I understand. You’re not supposed to feel," she says softly.

His fingers twitch. "Weapon does not feel. Weapon does not defy. Weapon does not—"

Yulia claps back immediately. "Okay, then let me move Elena—"

"No!"

The word tears out of him loudly and desperately. His fingers clamp down hard, pulling Elena toward him, protecting her, shielding her. His metal arm strains violently against the cuffs, the metal groaning under the pressure.

Yulia looks at him knowingly. That was pure instinct, just like she predicted. The Soldier stares at her in disbelief, like it is her fault that he reacted in any way. Then, just as fast, panic spreads across his face as he turns his head towards Elena.

"Compromised," he whispers, voice cracking slightly. "I am compromised."

Yulia’s heart clenches. God.

"No," she says firmly. "That’s not what this is."

His chest rises in sharp, quick inhales. "Compromised. Malfunctioning. Error."

"No." Yulia’s voice is steady for once. "That’s not being compromised. That’s being human."

His eyes snap up to her then, wide, dark, terrified. "No."

It comes out as a plea. As if the word was a curse in itself.

"They told you this was weakness, didn’t they?" Yulia presses, taking a careful step closer.

His fingers twitch. He doesn’t blink.

"That if you ever felt anything, you were compromised. That it made you defective and useless."

His throat bobs as he swallows hard as his entire body vibrates with tension. This is the first time he’s ever been forced to confront it, and it's confusing him.

"You’re not defective," she says gently. Then, she looks down to Elena. "Just like she said."

She was right all along.

The weight of the realization settles over Yulia like a heavy, inescapable avalanche. He feels.

She stands there, frozen, as the truth coils itself around her thoughts, forcing her to accept something she never thought possible. The Winter Soldier—HYDRA’s perfect machine—is not a machine at all. And worse, he feels for Elena.

Her chest tightens, and for a brief, ugly moment, something sharp twists inside of her. 

It should have been her.

Yulia clenches her jaw, shoving the thought down before it can take root. No. No, that’s not fair.

She watches him, the way he still clings to Elena’s wrist, the way his forehead remains pressed lightly against the side of her head, as if that single point of contact is keeping him steady and grounded.

Elena always knew. She always believed. And she doubted her.

Yulia swallows hard as her shame is creeping in alongside the jealousy. Of course, it’s Elena. Of course, it’s the woman who never stops fighting, who never stops believing, who stares down monsters and sees the broken pieces inside them. And now, here he is—a man who doesn’t even know what he is feeling, but still holding on like he’ll shatter if he lets go.

Yulia exhales slowly. "She cares about you, you know."

The Soldier doesn’t move but he listens. Yulia can see it in the subtle tilt of his head, in the stillness of his shoulders. He is absorbing her words.

"She’s been fighting for you this whole time," Yulia continues, her voice less guarded now. "Even when it didn’t make sense. Even when everyone—when I—thought she was insane for it."

The Soldier’s fingers twitch against Elena’s wrist, as if he recognizes something in Yulia’s words but doesn’t know what.

She laughs, short and bitter. "I didn’t believe her. I thought she was delusional. And now—"

She doesn't finish. The Soldier’s breathing is slow and measured. Too measured. Like he’s forcing himself to stay still, to take in what she’s saying without breaking apart. Yulia hesitates before taking another step forward. She shouldn’t say this. But she does anyway.

"She wasn’t wrong."

The Soldier finally lifts his gaze from Elena, meeting Yulia’s eyes for the first time. There is something lost in them. Searching.

Yulia watches him carefully now, the sharp edges of her emotions dulling into something softer, almost painful. "You don’t know why you feel, do you?"

The Soldier blinks slowly with his breath unsteady. Like a child hearing a new word for the first time.

"I don’t think you ever had the chance to understand it."

His jaw shifts, his grip still tight on Elena’s wrist, as if he’s holding onto the only thing that makes sense. Yulia looks back up at him, at the way his fingers still ghost over Elena’s pulse; like he’s terrified it will disappear, like she is his only tether to anything real.

And Yulia finally understands. Not just him and Elena. She understands why she was jealous. Not because she wanted what Elena had. But because she wanted to be what Elena was. 

Someone worth holding onto.

She exhales shakily and takes a step back, her voice softer now. "She deserves to know."

The Soldier jerks as if he was struck; his body instantly locking tight as his breathing turns sharp erratic. His fingers clamp down on Elena’s wrist too hard and sudden, while his metal arm strains against the restraints, the sound of groaning metal filling the silence.

"No." The word rips from his throat.

Yulia blinks, startled by the sheer force of his reaction. "She has a right to know—"

"No." Harsher this time. His grip tightens, his body coiling like a live wire ready to snap. "Not allowed. Not permitted."

He speaks like a man reciting something beaten into him. 

Yulia studies him, watching the way his chest heaves, the way his metal arm trembles despite its strength.

Fear.

"She won’t be angry at you," Yulia tries. "She would never—"

"No." His voice fractures, splintering at the edges. "No—no—" He shakes his head sharply, as if he's trying to rid himself of something crawling under his skin. "She—she—Punishment. No."

Realization slams into Yulia like ice.

He doesn’t care about himself. He’s afraid for Elena. 

"The operative will know," she presses gently. "That’s what you’re afraid of."

There's a flicker in his gaze—panic, understanding. His hands shake where they hold Elena, and that's the only movement he makes. He doesn’t confirm it. He doesn’t have to.

"You’re protecting her," Yulia murmurs.

The Soldier doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink. But everything is written in the way he holds her, the way he shields her even now, like he is waiting for someone to rip her away from him.

Slowly, carefully, Yulia reaches out.

Her fingers touch his cold, rigid metal wrist. Just barely, a light press. A reassurance. She doesn’t pull, doesn’t push. Just lets him feel that she is here, that she understands.

"Okay," Yulia says quietly. "I won’t tell."

His breath shudders in relief.

Yulia gives him a moment, then carefully, gently, tries again. "Let me take her now."

His fingers don’t move. He stays locked and frozen, watching Elena.

She waits, not forcing or rushing him. She's letting him decide, just like Elena would. There's a long beat of silence before—finally—his fingers relax. Not much, just enough so Yulia can take her. She doesn’t waste time. She lifts Elena as carefully as possible, pulling her weight off of him. 

The Soldier stays completely still. His hands remain open and empty, like something important has been taken from him. But he doesn’t stop her. His breathing remains ragged as he stares at his own hands, as if they weren't even his.

Meanwhile, Yulia moves, supporting Elena’s weight as best she can, carrying her to the small cot in the corner of the operating room. She lays her down gently, adjusting her so she’s as comfortable as possible in such a place. Safe. Or as safe as she can be.

The moment Elena is settled, Yulia straightens. Her movements are slower now. Heavy. The weight of what just happened still pressing into her ribs.

She turns back to the Soldier.

He hasn’t moved. He sits there, shackled and silent, his hands open, empty, and lost. His gaze remains fixed on Elena, watching, searching—ready to jump.

Yulia hesitates, then steps closer.

"She won’t know. When she wakes up, she’ll never know. I promise."

But the Soldier knows. And as he stares at Elena, he wonders if feeling something is worse than feeling nothing at all.

[thewinterdrafts]

this is heaven for bucky barnes lovers let me tell you

THANK YOU!!! 😭❤️ i try my best!!

[thewinterdrafts]

06 - Submission | Frostbite Series | The Winter Soldier

Pairing: The Winter Soldier x Original Female Character (1st Person)

Word count: 3,395

Summary: Elena’s world narrows to pain and the cold, merciless hands of HYDRA. Stripped of control, she endures as the operative reminds her, over and over, of her place.

Disclaimer: This series is extremely dark, touching on graphic violence, psychological torment, and human suffering in all its forms. If you choose to read, proceed with caution.

Warnings: strictly 18+, Graphic medical procedures & surgical descriptions, Torture & inhumane treatment, Psychological manipulation & guilt

A/N: if you guys hated me for the cliffhanger in chapter 5, you'll have my head for this one 😭 happy reading!! (it won't be happy)

❄️ Frostbite Chapters: Part 01 - Severance Part 02 - Incision Part 03 - Containment Part 04 - Recognition Part 05 - Trigger Part 06 - Submission - you are currently here Part 07 - Disobedience Note: The Frostbite series has officially migrated to bigger platforms! Check out the rest on AO3 and Wattpad ♡

📍Masterlist

"Oh, look at you." The operative's voice slithers through the air, dripping with mockery. "Pathetic."

Pain splinters through me like an unforgiving blade. My body jerks involuntarily as the force of his strike sends me reeling. My knees hit the cold floor with a brutal crack as the metallic taste of my blood floods my mouth. My tongue presses against the inside of my cheek—split open. Not deep enough to be dangerous, just enough to remind me that I am flesh and breakable.

He crouches in front of me with his head tilted, lips curling into something that isn’t quite a smile. It's worse.

"Did you really believe it?" His tone is almost amused, a mockery of kindness. "That you were different? That it cared?"

He leans in, close enough that I can see how much he enjoys this. I want to kill him.

"I bet you thought you were special," he murmurs. "That you meant something, hm?" A pause, savoring it. "How stupid can you be?"

He reaches out and grabs my chin to force my face upward. His fingers dig in painfully, but the real wound is in his words.

"You’re nothing," he breathes. "Just another handler it tolerates. It doesn’t care, little doctor. It doesn’t even see you."

I don’t respond, because that's not true. My breath shudders through my nose as I try to ground myself. He's gonna kill me. If I'm not paying attention to my injuries, this is where it ends.

So I assess.

Fractured ribs, likely two on the left side. Bruising across the abdomen—possible internal bleeding. Split lip, cheek swelling rapidly. Concussion is probable, considering the dizziness.

I keep my eyes forward, staring past the operative, to take my attention away from the ungodly pain. My gaze locks onto the Soldier.

He doesn’t move an inch. 

But his eyes. God, his eyes.

Pools of terror is running behind his glassy blue gaze. He doesn't blink once. His expression remains void of emotion, but I can see everything. The way his pupils are slightly blown, the way his breath is a fraction too shallow. He knows this punishment. I am living it now.

The operative notices where I’m looking and laughs. "Oh, sweetheart. You actually thought it’d do something, didn’t you?" He rises to his feet, pacing around me leisurely. "It’s watching you get torn apart, and it won’t lift a finger. That’s what it does."

Another kick to my side. The pain is instant and electric across my ribs. 

Definitely broken now. Sharp, localized—one of them must be pressing into the muscle. If it punctures the lung, I’ll drown in my own blood.

I gasp involuntarily, and the operative grins. "That’s more like it. All that fire, all that defiance, you’ll break just the same as he did."

The fuck I will.

I swallow thickly. "You’re afraid of me."

His expression darkens instantly. Oh, I've hit the nail in the head.

A fist collides with my jaw, snapping my head to the side. My vision tilts dangerously. 

Mandible trauma, no dislocation. Pain level high, function intact.

My arms tremble as I struggle to keep myself upright.

"You forget your place, Professor," he says, turning his attention to the Soldier now. "That’s cute, isn’t it? She actually believed you gave a damn." He steps closer to the Soldier, whose breathing has turned almost imperceptible. "Посмотри на неё. Слабая. Истекает кровью. Ты что-нибудь чувствуешь к ней?" [Look at her. Weak. Bleeding. Do you feel anything for her?]"

Silence.

The Soldier stares forward, his body like a sculpture carved from stone, but I see the way his throat works, the minute tension in his jaw. He is screaming inside, but nothing makes it out.

The operative shakes his head with mock disappointment. "Оно жалкое, не так ли?" [It’s pathetic, isn’t it?] He exhales, stepping even closer to him. "Ты знаешь, что случится, если ослушаешься." [You know what happens if you disobey.]

The next blow slams me onto my back. White-hot agony lances through my ribs, knocking the air from my lungs. That was bad. The rib is moving. I don’t have much time before I pass out.

Steel boots stop beside me. The operative crouches again, grabbing my jaw in a bruising grip. "Stay down, Doctor. This isn’t your fight."

I can barely keep my eyes open, but I force a smirk onto my split lips. "Then why are you so desperate to make me lose?"

His grip tightens—but then he stops.

The Soldier has moved.

It’s almost imperceptible, just a shift in his weight, a fractional tilt of his head, but it is defiance.

The operative’s expression curdles into something vicious. He releases me and steps back toward the Soldier. "О, оно пошевелилось?" [Oh? Did it just move?]

The Soldier doesn’t react, but I see the way his fingers twitch against his thigh. The operative chuckles. "Так значит, там ещё что-то осталось. Но не достаточно." [So, there is something left in there. But not enough.] He leans in close, voice dropping to something sharp and cruel. "Она умрет. И ты ничего не сделаешь." [She’s going to die. And you won’t stop it.]

Then, just as the Soldier’s breath hitches, the operative turns and drives his fist into his stomach.

The Soldier jolts, his entire body locking up. He doesn’t make a sound, not even a grunt, but I notice how his muscles tremble and his fingers curl against his leg. The blow lands just beneath his ribs—solar plexus, designed to make breathing impossible for a moment.

The operative smirks. "Видишь? Ничего." [See? Nothing.] Another strike—this time across his jaw. The Soldier’s head snaps to the side, his dark hair falling forward, blood welling at his lip.

A beat of silence. Then, the operative draws a knife.

I stiffen. Fucking hell. He flips the blade idly between his fingers in a slow, calculated motion. "You know, Professor, you should be grateful." His voice is almost conversational. "We need your hands working. Otherwise, I’d carve a reminder into you." He presses the tip of the knife just under my chin, tilting my head up. "Maybe next time."

The blade drags over my skin—slow, deliberate—but does not cut. It's a promise and a threat.

Then, he turns, lifting the knife slightly—and slashing it across the Soldier’s exposed arm. The Soldier flinches just barely, and I flinch with him. That must have fucking hurt.

Blood beads along the fresh cut, and he lets it. The operative smirks. "Ты молчишь, как хорошая машина." [You stay silent, like a good little machine.]

With his job done, he finally steps away. A sharp exhale leaves his mouth before I hear his voice again. He's bored now. Dismissing.

"Get out," he orders. "All of you."

There’s a hesitation among the guards, a brief flicker of uncertainty.

The operative scoffs. "What, afraid she’ll crawl away? She’s dying. Let her. The girl’s useless too—she won’t even try." He lets out a low chuckle, pointing at Yulia. "Lock the door. Let them rot."

Heavy boots shuffle as tthey all leave. The door slams shut behind them, sealing us inside permanently. The room feels colder in the operative's absence, as if the violence he carried with him had weight and temperature. I press my forehead to the ground, sucking in short, pained breaths.

I will not fucking die today.

"Elena!" Yulia's voice is shaking as she drops to her knees beside me, hands hovering over my body, unsure where to touch. "Oh God—what did they do—what do I do?"

I blink sluggishly, my vision wavering as I try to lift my head. The pain is a tidal wave crashing through my ribs, but I grit my teeth and force myself to speak. "Yulia—listen to me." My voice is weak. "I need you—to check—my ribs."

She stares at me in horror. "Elena, you need a doctor—"

I let out a hoarse laugh. "I am—the doctor."

Her hands tremble as she presses lightly against my side. The moment she touches the damaged ribs, I suck in a sharp breath, barely swallowing down the scream that threatens to rip from my throat.

"Shit," she whimpers. "Shit, shit, shit. Elena, you need—"

"I need you—to help me," I rasp, swallowing blood. "I have—broken ribs. At least two. One is shifting—could puncture—a lung."

Tears are welling in her eyes. "I don’t—I don’t know how to fix this—"

"I’ll tell you," I whisper, gripping her wrist weakly. "But you have to listen. If we don’t do this, I won’t—" I swallow down the wave of nausea and force the words out. "I won’t make it."

Her breath shudders. She squeezes her eyes shut, inhaling sharply before nodding. "Tell me what to do."

I let my head rest back against the cold floor, my body trembling as I force myself into a controlled, clinical mindset. "We need to stabilize my ribs. Find something—cloth, bandages—anything we can use to wrap my torso."

She scrambles to her feet, frantically searching the small room. Her hands shake as she yanks open cabinets, her eyes darting wildly. "I—I don’t see anything—"

"Use my shirt," I say weakly. "Rip it."

She hesitates for half a second before dropping back down beside me. With trembling hands, she grips the fabric of my already-torn shirt and rips a long strip from it. Her movements are clumsy, but she’s doing it.

"Okay—okay, I have it," she says, voice barely above a whisper. "What now?"

My breath is shallow, every inhale is a fucking struggle. "Wrap it—tight—but not too tight. I need to breathe."

Her hands are warm against my ice-cold skin as she begins wrapping the fabric around my ribs. Every pull sends fresh agony slicing through me, but I grit my teeth and bear it. There’s no other option.

"I—I don’t know if I’m doing this right," she murmurs, her voice laced with panic.

"You’re—doing fine," I assure her, though my voice is barely more than air. "Just—keep going."

Tears spill over her lashes as she finishes tying the makeshift bandage in place. "Elena, you’re—you’re so pale."

"Blood loss," I manage. "Need to—elevate my legs."

She scrambles, gently lifting my legs and propping them up against the metal cot in the corner. I groan as the nausea is rolling through me, but the moment the blood rushes back toward my head, the dizziness ebbs slightly.

Her hands are still shaking as she presses them against my arm. "You can’t—keep doing this," she whispers. "They’re going to kill you."

I close my eyes, exhaustion pressing heavy against my bones. "Not today."

Yulia sniffles, wiping at her face before looking down at me with desperate, pleading eyes. "What else do you need me to do?"

I force my eyes open and meet her gaze. "Stay with me."

Her grip tightens around my arm, as if she’s afraid I’ll slip away. I exhale shakily and try to focus through the pain. "I need water," I whisper. "I’m losing too much blood. My pulse—it’s weak."

Yulia glances around frantically before spotting a metal pitcher on the nearby table. She moves quickly, filling a small cup and pressing it carefully to my lips. The first sip is pure pain, my throat is too raw, but I collect my leftover strenght to swallow.

That's when I see him from the corner of my eyes.

The Soldier is still seated where they left him; bleeding, unmoving, but he is looking at me.

It’s different this time. His expression hasn’t changed, he’s still as a corpse, but his eyes… They’re locked onto me with something sharp and alive. I know what fear looks like. I know what regret looks like.

I swallow another mouthful of water and exhale slowly, trying to keep myself steady. "Yulia," I whisper. "Check my side. My ribs might be stabilized, but if there’s internal bleeding—"

Yulia shakes her head quickly. "I—what do I even look for? How do I know?"

"Press gently," I say. "If I react—if it’s too tender—if the skin turns darker—"

Yulia’s hands hover over me. She looks at my face, then at the Soldier, then back at me. She swallows hard before pressing against my side with careful, hesitant fingers.

A sharp, strangled gasp tears from my lips instantly. I arch away from her touch as the pain is burning through me like wildfire. Well, fuck.

Yulia’s eyes widen in horror. "Elena—"

I nod weakly, gasping for air. "Internal bleeding."

Yulia looks panicked. "What do we do? What do I do?"

My mind swims, the pain is threatening to pull me under, but I force myself to stay lucid. "We need to slow it down," I whisper. "Keep me still. No sudden movements. We need cold—ice—anything to slow the blood flow."

She looks around, frantically searching, before shaking her head. "I don’t—there’s nothing here, Elena! Nothing!"

I squeeze my eyes shut, my breathing unsteady. "Then we improvise."

Yulia’s breathing is panicked. "How? Elena, we don’t have anything—"

I force my eyes open and meet her terrified gaze. "We have you. And me."

She swallows hard, nodding despite the fear in her eyes. "Okay."

My mind is sluggish, fogged by pain and blood loss, but I force it into focus. "First—we need pressure. More fabric. We have to slow the bleeding."

Yulia immediately tears another strip from my ruined shirt with her hands trembling as she presses it carefully against my side. I let out a pained gasp as she applies pressure, my body instinctively trying to twist away from the source of agony.

"Elena—"

"Don’t stop." My voice barely above a whisper. "If we don’t do this—I’ll bleed out."

She nods quickly, pressing harder. My vision flickers at the edges, but I force myself to stay present. Don't die.

"The wound—where is it pooling?" I rasp.

Yulia hesitates, then shifts the fabric, peering closely. "It’s deep," she says. "Lower side. The bleeding—oh God, Elena, it’s not stopping."

I clench my jaw, forcing the medical part of my brain to work through the haze. "If it’s pooling inside, that means—" I let out a slow, shaky breath. "I need to drain it."

Yulia’s eyes widen in horror. "Drain it? What does that mean?"

I lick my dry lips, struggling to keep my voice steady. "We need—sharp. A scalpel, a needle—something."

She looks around desperately, rummaging through the tiny medical tray left in the corner. After a few frantic seconds, she pulls out a small surgical blade, her hands trembling violently. "This—is this good?"

It’s enough.

I nod weakly. "You have to do it."

Yulia freezes. "No. No, no, no—I can’t—"

"You can." I grip her wrist with the little strength I have left. "I’ll guide you. But if we don’t do this—Yulia..."

Tears spill all over her face, but she nods. "Please guide me."

I shift slightly, biting back a cry as the movement sends a fresh wave of pain ripping through me. "Make a small incision—just enough to release the pressure."

Yulia grips the scalpel as she hesiates. "I can’t hurt you."

I let out a breathless laugh. "You won’t. You’ll be saving me."

She steels herself, inhaling sharply before pressing the blade against my skin. The moment the sharp edge breaks through, a white-hot explosion of pain rips through me, and I let out a strangled cry as my body is convulsing.

"I’m sorry—I’m sorry—" Yulia sobs, but she keeps going, just as I told her.

The pain is unbearable, but I manage to choke out the next words. "Now—drain it. Let the blood—flow."

Yulia watches in horror as dark blood begins to trickle from the wound, pooling onto the already stained floor. I fight against the pull of unconsciousness by focusing on her movements. "Good—good. Now—clean it as best you can."

She grabs the last of the clean gauze from the tray and dabs at the wound, her hands still shaking. "Elena, I—what if I did it wrong?"

"You didn’t." My vision is going in and out, but I reach for her wrist, squeezing it as much as I can. "You—you did good."

A shadow shifts in the room. I can feel it before I see it.

The Soldier is watching.

He is no longer just observing—he is staring. His hands are clenched into tight fists at his sides, his body is coiled, as if he is holding back. His gaze flickers between me and Yulia, and I see it again—concen. 

He fears for me.

Yulia finishes pressing fresh cloth against the incision. "Elena—what now?"

I exhale shakily as my body is trembling from the trauma. "Now—we wait."

My body is trembling. I can barely keep my eyes open, but I have to. If I let go now, I might not wake up. And I can't let my blood dry on Yulia's hands. 

Her palms are still on me; pressing, checking, making sure the bleeding has slowed. She’s breathing hard, her own body trembling nearly as much as mine. "Elena," she whispers, voice hoarse from panic. "Stay with me."

I try to respond, but my tongue feels thick, and my body is sinking into the cold floor like it’s trying to swallow me whole. Everything hurts—every nerve, every muscle is screaming in protest. My fingers twitch weakly, barely able to curl around the bloodied strip of fabric still pressed against my side.

"Good," Yulia says quickly, nodding as if trying to convince herself. "That’s good. You’re still with me. Just a little longer."

I want to tell her she’s done well. That she’s saved me. But my hazy gaze drifts—and I look at him.

The Soldier isn’t just staring anymore. He’s breaking.

His breathing is too rapid. His chest rises and falls in quick bursts, and his hands are clenched so tightly at his sides that his entire arm is shaking. He's a tight and fraying wire. His wide eyes flicker over me, taking in every wound, every bruise, every drop of blood smeared across my skin.

He panics. His entire frame trembles, but he doesn’t move. He won’t. He can’t.

His eyes dart to Yulia, to her hands stained with my blood, then back to my face. He wants to move. He wants to stop this. But the chains at his sides remind him every time that he can't.

Yulia doesn’t notice. She’s too focused on me, pressing down harder now, checking the pressure, muttering under her breath as she works. I barely feel her touch anymore. Everything is numbing and fading away.

But I keep my gaze locked onto him. He is watching me die.

My lips part, but no sound comes out. I don’t have the strength to reach for him, to tell him I see it. I see him.

A sound slips from his lips—not a word, but a sharp breath, like something is clawing its way out of his throat before he can stop it. His shoulders shake. He looks like he might explode out of his own skin, like he might lunge forward despite everything he’s been trained to do.

I smile weakly, looking at his fading figure. 

I knew I was right. He's human. He feels. He worries.

"Elena, stay with me!" Yulia’s voice pulls at me, but it’s too distant now. My body is shutting down, my is vision narrowing into a tunnel, the edges blurring into nothing.

"I—" I try to speak, but it comes out like a breath.

Yulia cups my face, her fingers pressing into my cheeks. "No, no, no. You’re not leaving me. Not now."

I feel her shift, pressing harder against the wound. The pain spikes so suddenly that my body jerks, a strangled noise scraping out of my throat. It barely feels like mine anymore.

I see a blur of movement—him.

He flinches.

He looks like he’s about to—I don’t know. Move. Speak.

But I’ll never know. Because the room is spinning, and the last thing I see before everything goes dark is the Soldier’s sky-blue eyes, as he watches me fall.

[thewinterdrafts]

not the chapter 5 cliff hanger!! now i’m just wondering if yulia knows more than she lets on… I love the grittiness of your story and how you’re not afraid to show the horrific conditions bucky experienced. but I also hope everyone gets a little reprieve soon haha!! great chapter!

IM SORRY FOR THE CLIFFHANGER GIRL it pained me too 😭

thank you so much as always, i love you for being so present in the story!! 🤍 i'll hurry up with the next one i promise <3

[thewinterdrafts]

Part 05 - Trigger | Frostbite Series | The Winter Soldier

Pairing: The Winter Soldier x Original Female Character (1st Person)

Word count: 4,395

Summary: Elena fights to keep control, but the walls are closing in. Someone has been watching—waiting. And now, it’s time to remind her exactly where she stands.

Disclaimer: This series is extremely dark, touching on graphic violence, psychological torment, and human suffering in all its forms. If you choose to read, proceed with caution.

Warnings: strictly 18+, Graphic medical procedures & surgical descriptions, Torture & inhumane treatment, Psychological manipulation & guilt

A/N: chapter 5 baby!! now on AO3 too - you can access the story right here. happy reading!!

❄️ Frostbite Chapters: Part 01 - Severance Part 02 - Incision Part 03 - Containment Part 04 - Recognition Part 05 - Trigger - you are currently here Part 06 - Submission Part 07 - Disobedience Note: The Frostbite series has officially migrated to bigger platforms! Check out the rest on AO3 and Wattpad ♡

📍Masterlist

It won’t leave me alone.

I've been lying awake for God knows how long, staring at the ceiling. The word is circling my thoughts like a vulture picking apart something that's already dying. I know it wasn’t a slip. He said it with intention, and intention means thought. Thought means awareness. Awareness means something is still there, buried beneath the conditioning.

That should be a good thing. It should mean hope and I should be grateful.

But I'm not.

It means danger—for him, for me, for Yulia. If the guards had heard him, if HYDRA knew their perfect weapon was slipping, he wouldn’t just be tortured. They’d rip him apart, find the fault, and destroy whatever part of him dared to remember. Don't even get me started on what they would do to me.

I roll onto my side and I press a fist to my forehead, as if I could physically grab the thought and throw it out of my brain. How did he know? It doesn’t matter. It shouldn't matter. I can’t change it. I can’t fix it. I can only do what I’ve been forced to do—keep him alive long enough to keep myself alive, and then... Fuck, who am I kidding? We are most likely going to die here.

Beside me, Yulia shifts for the fifth time in ten minutes. She hasn’t spoken a word for hours and I don't blame her for it. She said she only heard the Soldier speak once, and that was when he abducted her. 

Mission accomplished. That's all he said. And that's all it was for him. 

"Guess you’re special, huh?"

I frown, caught completely off guard. "What?"

She scoffs, still not looking at me. "I mean, he remembered you. That’s gotta feel nice."

There’s something bitter in her voice I don’t like. She doesn't sound like herself. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Yulia finally turns to face me with an expression that almost looks like hate. "Nothing. Just an observation."

"Bullshit." My patience snaps quicker than I expect, the exhaustion pressing against the edges of my nerves. "If you have something to say, say it."

She laughs. "Fine. I was here for months. And all I am is a mission accomplished. That’s it. That’s all I got."

I don’t know what she wants me to say. That I’m sorry? That I understand? Because I don’t. This isn’t about me. Or at least, it shouldn’t be.

"Jesus, Yulia," I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face. "You’re acting like I asked for this. Like I made him—"

"Didn’t you?" she interrupts, her eyes are practically flashing. "You talk to him. You sing to him. You treat him like—like he’s something other than what he is. And now he’s remembering things, and you don’t think that’s dangerous?"

"Of course I think it’s dangerous!" My voice rises. "You think I don’t know that? Or that I wanted this to happen? You think I feel good about the fact that the one thing he remembers is me, fuck knows how?"

"Then maybe stop giving him things to remember!" she snaps back, sitting up fully now, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. "Maybe stop acting like he’s some poor, wounded thing you can fix! He is what he is, Elena! He’s a fucking weapon, and you—you’re acting like he’s a person!"

"Because he is a person!" The words tear out of me, loud enough to make her flinch. "We've talked about this! And I didn’t do anything to make it happen!"

Yulia shakes her head with a smile that has no trace of happiness in it. "No, you didn’t do anything. He just chose you, right? Out of nowhere? You don’t find that a little convenient?"

I stare at her with my breath coming too fast. "What the hell are you saying?"

"I’m saying I was here first," she snaps, and the words ring louder than either of us expected. It silences the space between us as it bounces back off the walls for a few seconds.

I gape at her, unable to process what I just heard. So that’s what this is really about. Not just fear or frustration. Resentment towards me.

I shake my head in disbelief. "This is what you’re mad about? That he 'chose' me and not you?"

Yulia’s jaw clenches. "I’m mad that you don’t seem to get what that means. You think it’s some miracle, some breakthrough, but it’s not. It’s a problem, Elena. And you’re too caught up in whatever this is to see it."

"You don’t think I see the danger?" My voice rises again. "You think I haven’t spent every second since it happened trying to figure out how to make sure it never happens again? I didn’t want this!"

She shakes her head. "Maybe not. But you made it happen."

I laugh, but it’s humorless. "Oh, so now it’s my fault? You think I have some kind of control over what he does?"

Yulia pushes herself up on her elbows. "I think you should’ve been smarter."

That stings.

"Smarter? You mean like you? Keeping your head down, never looking him in the eye, acting like he’s a machine? That’s what you think I should’ve done?"

"It’s what kept me alive."

"Well, guess what? I’m still alive too. And so are you. So don’t act like you have all the answers."

She rolls her eyes at me. "Yeah? For how long? You think HYDRA won’t notice? That they won’t pick up on this? On you?" She gestures vaguely toward me. "You’re drawing attention. You've done it once already. And attention in this place? It gets you killed."

I don’t have a response to that, because she’s right, and I fucking hate it. Maybe I really should've let him be the monster they created him to be. Maybe I complicated things as soon as I saw him as a victim and not a killer. Maybe I'll get us all killed. 

I rake a hand through my hair as my pulse pounds in my ears.

"I didn’t ask for this," I murmur.

Yulia watches me for a moment, then she flops back onto the mattress, sighing sharply. "Yeah. Well. It doesn’t matter what we ask for."

This time, the silence streches between us. There’s nothing left to say. And we don’t speak again for the rest of the night.

Yulia moves around the operating room with stiff, mechanical precision, setting up instruments, checking supplies, doing everything she’s supposed to do—but not once does she look at me. I tell myself I don’t care, that it doesn’t matter. We don’t have the luxury of holding grudges here. But the coldness in her expression lingers, gnawing at the back of my mind, making the already sterile room feel even colder.

I push it aside. I don’t have time for this.

I focus on the X-rays in front of me, my eyes scanning over the damage, the mess of shattered bone and dying tissue. This is what I begged for—proof of how bad it really is. And now that it’s in front of me, I almost wish I hadn’t seen it.

His shoulder is an absolute disaster.

The humerus is splintered, fractures running like spiderweb cracks through bone that was never given a chance to heal. Tiny fragments float near the break line, evidence of old damage that was never properly set. The joint itself is eroded, worn down by years of stress, metal grinding against tissue that was never meant to bear its weight. Fractures in the scapula, some old, some disturbingly fresh. Scar tissue has fused where mobility should exist, thick and unyielding, locking the entire mechanism into something barely functional.

But the worst part—the part that makes my stomach turn—is the nerve damage. Severed connections, tangled endings, necrotic tissue where there should be function. The interface between his body and the arm is failing. The metal isn’t just attached to him—it’s killing him.

If the deterioration continues unchecked, he’ll lose all control of the arm—not that HYDRA would care. They’d either rip it off and reattach it, consequences be damned, or replace him entirely. A broken weapon isn’t worth keeping.

I swallow hard and exhale slowly, forcing my hands to stay steady.

I have to fix this.

First, I need to stabilize the fractures. The bone is weak, brittle in some places, improperly healed in others. I’ll have to reinforce it, clean out any microfractures that could worsen under strain. If I don’t do it properly, the next time HYDRA puts him through something brutal, it’ll shatter completely. He won’t show the pain, but I know he’ll feel it.

Then, the joint. What’s left of it, anyway. It won’t function properly with this much erosion, and if I don’t do something about the scar tissue buildup, he’ll lose what little range of motion he has left. I need to remove the damaged tissue, create space for proper mobility—not that HYDRA cares about his comfort. But if the joint continues degrading at this rate, it’ll compromise the entire shoulder structure, and that will be their problem. So they’ll let me fix it.

And the nerves... I clench my jaw, resisting the instinct to curse under my breath.

The damage is extensive. Some of it irreversible. If I can salvage what’s left, reconnect what hasn’t been completely destroyed, I can slow the deterioration, maybe even restore some sensation. But that’s a best-case scenario, and I don’t get best-case scenarios in this place.

The wiring connecting his nervous system to the arm is barely holding together. Some sections have been crudely repaired before, probably by people with half my knowledge and none of my concern for his well-being. It’s messy, clumsy work—like someone shoving pieces together and hoping for the best. Wires twisted too tightly, nerve endings left raw, metal grating against living tissue in a way that makes my stomach churn.

I shift my gaze from the scans to the restrained, silent man in front of me, who's staring past me like I don’t exist. But unfortunately, I do. And right now, I’m the only one standing between him and whatever worse thing HYDRA will do when his arm finally gives out.

Yulia hovers by the tray of instruments with her arms crossed tightly. She thinks this is my fault. That whatever is happening to him, I brought it on by talking to him, by treating him like something more than a machine.

Fine. Let her be angry. I don’t have time to deal with her feelings.

I reach for my tools, adjusting my gloves as I steel myself for what’s coming next. There’s no room for error and even less for hesitation. I brace my hands against the table, exhaling slowly, trying to quiet the guilt clawing at my ribs.

I’m going to hurt him again.

It doesn’t matter that it’s necessary, or that it’s the only way to stop something worse from happening. It doesn’t matter that I’m trying to fix him, not break him. Pain is still pain. And for the next few hours, I’m going to be the one inflicting it.

I look up at him—at the bruises littering his collarbone, the cut above his brow, the unnatural stillness of his body. He's waiting. He knows.

I swallow hard. "I need to open your shoulder."

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

I grip the table tighter. "I know you can hear me. You should know what’s coming."

Nothing. But I know he’s listening.

"The damage is bad. Worse than I thought," I continue, keeping my voice steady and clinical, like if I make it sound like just another procedure, it’ll make it easier—for him, for me. "I have to stabilize the fractures. Clear out the scar tissue. Try to reconnect some of the nerves."

The words feel like I'm putting together a grocery list. They sound meaningless, like I'm explaining them to a wall.

I wet my lips. "It’s going to hurt."

Still nothing.

I wait, just for a second, just in case, but of course, there’s no response or indication that he cares.

Fine.

I roll my shoulders back, straighten my spine, reach for my scalpel. I can’t hesitate. Carefully, I reach forward, but before I can make contact with his metal arm, his entire body stiffens. His muscles are locking like something inside him has snapped to attention.

"Нет. [No.]"

The word cuts through the silence like a gunshot. Yulia inhales sharply beside me, her breath catching in her throat. My stomach drops.

The guard.

I don’t dare look. I don’t know if he heard it, if he’s paying attention, if he’s even in the room. Please don’t notice. Please don’t notice.

Yulia reacts almost immediately. She lets out a forced scoff. "Ugh, the restraints again," she mutters, moving quickly to the side of the chair, pretending to check the straps. "They’re too tight. You won't be able to operate like this."

I catch on instantly. "Yeah. We should loosen them slightly. If there’s too much pressure, it could cut circulation." My voice is steady and controlled, despite the way my heart is slamming against my ribs.

I risk a glance at Yulia. Her face is pale, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusts the strap, but she doesn’t look at me. I shift my focus at the Soldier's arm again, noting the way his flesh hand twitches, the slight tremor in his fingers. He’s reacting. He really doesn’t want me to touch it.

The problem is, I really fucking have to.

I whisper. "Is it because it’s malfunctioning? The interface—does it hurt?"

"Нет. [No.]"

I shift, slightly annoyed. He's gonna get us all killed.

"Is it because of the cold? Metal conducts temperature—if your circulation is weak, it could make it worse."

"Нет. [No.]"

Yulia grips the tray so hard her knuckles turn white.

I take a step closer. "Then why? Why won’t you let me touch it?"

The Soldier’s face is unreadable, as always. For a moment, I start losing my composure, but then his lips part again. This time, his voice is clearer, firmer, and he's now making sure he's looking me in the eye.

"Свет не должен замерзнуть."

Yulia jerks back, knocking into the tray of instruments. The clatter is sharp, and it's breaking the quiet in the worst way possible. I snap my gaze to the small precision mirror on my table, heart hammering as I track the guard’s reaction. His head snaps up, eyes narrowing in our direction, then—too casually—he reaches into his pocket.

My stomach plummets. He’s going to call it in. He heard something. That’s it. We’re dead.

My hands start shaking, my breath caught somewhere between my ribs, my entire body locking into place. He presses a few buttons and then—the unmistakable sound of a mobile game fills the room.

He’s not calling it in. He’s fucking gaming.

The breath I didn’t realize I was holding stumbles out of me in a silent, strangled exhale.

Oh, thank fuck.

But my relief is short-lived, because Yulia still isn’t moving. She’s staring at him—at the Soldier—like she’s seeing something impossible, something that shouldn’t exist. Her hands are still gripping the edge of the tray as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

"Yulia," I rasp, my voice barely more than a whisper. "What did he say?"

She doesn’t even blink.

I swallow hard, trying to keep the urgency from shaking through my voice. "Yulia. Tell me."

Finally, she barely moves. She swallows, her throat working like the words are caught there but are too heavy to push out. Then, in a whisper so soft I almost don’t catch it, she translates.

"The light must not freeze."

The light must not freeze.

It doesn’t take me long to understand that he meant me. 

It makes sense in a way that I wish it didn’t. He called me "light." Last time he was horrified when I said I hated the cold. And now, somehow, in whatever fractured part of his mind still makes connections, he believes I can’t withstand him. That if I touch his arm—his metal, freezing arm—I’ll be hurt. I’ll break.

The realization is cutting through me sharply. It knocks the breath from my lungs, but fear isn’t what rises in its place. I should be afraid of what it means, of how he sees me, of why I matter at all to him. He shouldn’t be able to care. But right now, all I can think is that I need him to understand.

I take a slow breath, grounding myself in the sound of the mobile game beeping and buzzing from across the room. It’s a relief in a way. The mindless tapping of the guard’s fingers, the chime of in-game rewards—it muffles the talking. It keeps us safe.

"I won’t freeze," I say, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t acknowledge me. Just waits.

I reach for the coldest thing I can find—a pair of surgical scissors left on the tray. Without hesitating, I press the flat edge against the bare skin of my wrist, forcing myself not to flinch. He watches me carefully.

"See?" I say softly. "It’s cold, but I’m fine. I’m not going to freeze."

Still nothing.

I try again, this time reaching forward slowly, toward his flesh hand. He follows every one of my movements, but doesn't stop me. His fingers remain lax as I guide his palm over my wrist, over the spot where I had just pressed the cold metal.

"Feel that?" My voice is barely above a whisper now. "I’m warm. I’m okay."

His fingers twitch. Then, slowly—so carefully it almost doesn’t seem real—he shifts his palm, sliding his hand just a little further up, his thumb now brushing over my wrist.

I freeze. Not out of fear, but because I know what he’s doing. His thumb presses down, firm but not at all painful, right over my veins. And he's waiting. 

I refuse to breathe.

My pulse. He's checking my pulse.

A shiver runs down my spine, but I force myself to stay steady, my body to stay still. If my heartbeat spikes, he’ll feel it. And for some reason, I don’t want him to know what this is doing to me. 

"You won’t hurt me," I murmur. "I won’t freeze. I promise."

He slowly blinks once. Then, without a word, his fingers slide away from my wrist, retreating in a controlled, careful motion. He doesn’t jerk back, just withdraws, as if my warmth has reassured him in some unspoken way.

Before I can react, he moves. It’s slight, almost imperceptible—he must have trained himself not to move too noticably. I can see the shift of his posture, the faint tilt of his shoulder. 

Permission. He’s letting me touch the arm now.

I exhale, barely aware I was still holding my breath. My fingers twitch at my sides, but I don’t move right away. My mind is still catching up, cycling through everything that just happened. He trusts me. Maybe not in a way that could be explained in words, but enough to allow this.

The weight of that realization sits heavily in my chest, pressing down like something tangible. I shouldn’t feel this—whatever this is. It shouldn't mean anything. And yet, it fucking does.

A sharp inhale pulls me from my thoughts. Yulia.

I glance at her, and for just a second, before she notices me watching, I see it. The way her eyes linger on him—not with fear or anger, but something achingly close to heartbreak. Her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something to him but knows she never will. Her grip on the tray tightens as her breathing becomes shallow. It’s not just shock or disbelief. It’s pain.

And I don't understand it. Because why would she care so much?

Before I can make any sense of them, her feelings are gone as fast as they came. She blinks, shifts, and in an instant, she’s back to the same expressionless mask she always wears.

I should say something. But what? What could I possibly say that wouldn’t make it worse?

The moment expands, pressing down on the three of us. The only thing cutting through the weight of it is the repetitive chime of the mobile game from across the room, an absurd, almost surreal contrast to the moment unraveling between us. The tinny music, the tapping of fingers against a screen, the occasional grunt of frustration from the guard—all of it. It drowns out what should not be happening.

I finally look away from Yulia, back to him; to the arm. I lift my hands again, slower this time, giving him every chance to refuse me again, but he doesn’t. He lets me. Something in him has decided that this is okay.

I press my lips together, steadying myself as I move closer, my hands hovering just above the metal. The cold radiates from it, even without contact. I can feel the stark contrast between flesh and steel in the air between us. I finally let my fingers brush against it, and he doesn’t flinch.

Okay, Elena. You need to focus.

My fingers are still tracing the cold metal of his arm, when the door slams open with a force that makes the walls shudder. I barely have time to pull my hands away before heavy boots stomp across the floor, the sharp, purposeful march of someone who already knows exactly what they’re about to do.

Yulia flinches. My stomach knots. And then—him.

The same HYDRA operative asshole who humiliated me in the operating room the first time I was forced to do this. The one with the cruel smirk, who enjoys his job far too much. I can feel the Soldier's entire body tense next to me as soon as he lays eyes on him. As if the motherfucker needed to be any more disturbing, a wicked grin stretches across his face, like he knows something. And by the look of it, he fucking does.

I force myself to stay still, even as my pulse slams against my ribs, but I know—I know—whatever this is, it isn’t good.

He stops just a few steps away from me, standing close enough that I catch the acrid scent of his cologne, of gunpowder, of leather. His head tilts, and his eyes gleam with something sickly amused. He’s savoring this.

"Oh, Professor," he drawls with a playful, smooth voice. "Looks like we have a little problem."

I don’t answer. I won’t play his game.

His grin widens. "No words? That’s a shame. Because you’ve had plenty for him, haven’t you?"

My heart stops.

He knows. Dear God, he knows.

A slow, satisfied chuckle escapes him. He steps closer, crowding into my space, making sure I feel every ounce of his presence. "I told you we are watching you."

I don’t breathe. I don’t move.

"You think you’re subtle, Professor?" he continues, almost amused. "That you can talk to it, touch it, and it won’t mean anything?"

He turns slightly, eyes flicking toward the Soldier like he’s barely worth acknowledging. "No thoughts on this, Soldat? No input? How disappointing. I expected more from a weapon of your caliber."

I feel it before it happens. The tension in the air thickens and the walls seem to press closer. He’s about to hurt me.

I don’t get the chance to react. Pain explodes across my cheek as he strikes me, his knuckles cracking against bone, sending me stumbling backward. Yulia gasps. The tray clatters. I taste blood.

I barely register the sting before he’s in my space again, standing over me as I fight to regain my balance. His fingers grip my jaw, yanking my face upward so I have no choice but to look at him. His expression is gleeful. Hungry.

"Oh, don’t look so surprised," he chuckles, tightening his grip, his nails biting into my skin. "Of course we noticed the way it looks at you, the way it—" he lets out a dark, twisted laugh "—listens to you?"

My stomach churns. They’ve been fucking watching. They saw the refusals. They saw the way he resisted. The way he—The way he let me touch him. They waited until they were sure of it.

We're dead.

I don’t dare look at the Soldier, but I feel his rigid presence behind me. He's motionless, and that’s what terrifies me the most.

The operative releases my jaw with a rough shove. I stumble, but I refuse to fall. I won’t give him that.

"It’s pathetic, really," he sighs, shaking his head as if I’ve somehow disappointed him. "All that conditioning, all those resets, and—" his voice lowers, dripping with amusement "—here you are, getting through to it. Just like the last one."

The words land like a punch to the gut. The last one?

A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face as he watches my expression flicker. "Oh? Didn’t know there was a precedent for this, did you?" He clicks his tongue, feigning pity. "And here I thought you were special."

My mouth feels dry. My brain scrambles for meaning, for who he could be talking about, but of course, nothing comes to my mind.

"Shame how that ended," he continues airily. "But you don’t need to worry about that. You won’t be around long enough to make it that far," he smiles.

I press my lips together, tasting blood, but I don’t let my expression crack. I will die before I give him the satisfaction. He's standing in front of me and hums like he’s weighing his options, then, he raises his hand again. I brace, but this time it isn’t my face he grabs.

Fingers curl around my throat. A sharp squeeze. My breath cuts off. The room tilts. My lungs seize. Panic flares hot in my chest, but I force myself not to claw at his wrist, not to give him any more power than he already has.

He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. 

"Let’s see if your Soldier reacts to this, Professor."

[thewinterdrafts]

I'm on AO3 now!

hey y'all - i've got great news: my AO3 invitation arrived this morning, so i went ahead and uploaded the existing chapters from Frostbite. i'll continue to post everything to both Tumblr and AO3, so everyone can choose which platform they like best :)

You can find Frostbite here on AO3: Frostbite by thewinterdrafts

[thewinterdrafts]

WAHHH CHAPTER FOUR!! Getting to know Elena more and when Bucky spoke!! Both super exciting!! You’re inspiring me to keep writing my own Bucky fic. Also I love Yulia why can I already tell she’s going to break my heart

OMG!!! i'm so so happy you loved reading about Elena and Yulia, i really didn't want it to be boring or anything, but i felt it was necessary we get to know them! and well. there are gonna be TEARS i'm not gonna lie

girl please you're making me cry, YES jump into writing immeditely are you kidding!! we would love to read what you have to say, or i definitely would!! don't let any voice inside your head hold you back, even if English is not your first language (it's not mine either!) you can do anything you want to do. i believe in you, and also i love you so much for your excitement and feedback you're so kindly giving me, you inspire me as well to keep going <3 <3

[thewinterdrafts]

Part 04 - Recognition | Frostbite Series | The Winter Soldier

Pairing: The Winter Soldier x Original Female Character (1st Person)

Word count: 2,630

Summary: As Elena tends to the Soldier’s wounds, an unexpected moment unsettles the fragile balance of their routine. A single word changes everything, pulling her into a memory long buried. Struggling to contain her emotions, she is left grappling with a question that has no clear answer. And for the first time, when she looks at the Soldier—he is looking back.

Disclaimer: This series is extremely dark, touching on graphic violence, psychological torment, and human suffering in all its forms. If you choose to read, proceed with caution.

Warnings: none for this one!

A/N: hey-hey, we're baaack! i figured while we wait for the Oscars, we might as well read. i hope you guys like it :) happy reading!!

❄️ Frostbite Chapters: Part 01 - Severance Part 02 - Incision Part 03 - Containment Part 04 - Recognition - you are currently here Part 05 - Trigger Part 06 - Submission Part 07 - Disobedience Note: The Frostbite series has officially migrated to bigger platforms! Check out the rest on AO3 and Wattpad ♡

📍Masterlist

Silence is a weapon. And right now, I’m sharpening it.

The Hydra operatives stand at the edges of the room with their arms crossed, and their eyes locked on us like we’re lab rats under a microscope. They want to see something—a mistake, a sign, some kind of misbehavior they can report back.

I know they noticed the Soldier's reaction to me not long ago. I felt the shift right away—but if they want a show, they’ll be disappointed. I had a plan as soon as they walked in.

I went quiet. Dead quiet. No casual remarks, no small talk, no unnecessary movement. I kept my focus entirely on the Soldier as if there was nothing else in the world but the sutures beneath my fingertips.

The heavy silence filled the space enitrely.

At first, they watched with interest, expecting something—waiting for me to fidget, for him to flinch, for some tiny thing to break the monotony. But I gave them nothing, and neither did he. I worked at an agonizingly slow, methodical pace, making sure that even the sound of my tools was dull. No sharp clatter, no unnecessary noise, just the rhythmic pull of stitches through skin.

The Soldier remained utterly still, his breathing controlled and unreadable. I didn’t know if he understood what I was doing, but if he did, he played along perfectly.

Yulia, smart as she is, caught on immediately. She stayed motionless unless absolutely necessary, handing me instruments as if it were the most mundane task in the world. The seconds crawled into minutes, minutes into an hour. Still, we gave them nothing.

Boredom is a powerful weapon. At the mark of the third hour, one of the operatives shifts where he stands, exhaling sharply through his nose. Another taps his fingers against his thigh, then clenches his fist.

Good. They are getting tired of this.

I carefully place my sutures, tying it off with deliberate precision, taking my time as though I have all the time in the world. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of a reaction—of anything they could report back on.

Another ten minutes. Another fifteen. Then finally, one of them sighed. "Мы теряем время. [We’re wasting time.]"

The other operative answered right away. "Сообщи. Она просто делает свою работу. [Call it in. She’s just doing her job.]"

I didn't need to know Russian to understand what any of that meant, because Yulia looked at me with a small, devilish smile on her face. We've done it. We've successfully bored them to death.

One by one, they filed out, their boots thumping heavly against the sterile floor. The door hissed shut behind them, and then… more silence.

I wait, listening to their footsteps fade down the hall before I allow myself to exhale. Yulia’s shoulders drop, her hands unclenching at her sides.

"That was… painful."

"But it worked." I murmured, my voice low. "They left."

She huffs out a dry laugh. "Yeah, well. I think they’ll think twice before sitting in on one of these again."

Slowly, I turn my head to glance at the Soldier. 

He is looking at me for the first time in three hours.

Not just observe in passing—he's looking at me deliberately, as if he is acknowledging something neither of us have spoken aloud. The weight of it settles into my chest, stealing a fraction of my breath before I can suppress it. I'm not sure if I am more startled by the fact that he is looking, or by the fact that, for the first time, he made a choice to do so.

I flex my fingers and roll the tension out of my shoulders. I don’t know if he understood what I did. But if he did… he let it happen. Which means he is much smarter than I initially thought.

"You ever get tired of playing assistant?" I ask. I had enough of the silence for the rest of the day.

She startles at the sudden question, nearly knocking over a tray of instruments. "W-What?"

I gesture for the next set of sutures, keeping my tone light. "I mean, this isn’t exactly glamorous work. Cleaning wounds, handing me tools, holding your breath every time I ask for something sharp." I shoot her a glance. "Is this what you wanted to do with your life?"

She exhales through her nose, shifting from foot to foot. "I never got the chance to decide."

She doesn’t sound bitter, just tired, like someone who has long accepted their circumstances. I feel bad for asking her such things, but still, I don’t want to let the conversation die. I need to focus on something other than the way the Soldier’s presence feels different now.

"What did you want to be?" I ask instead.

Yulia hesitates. Then, as if she’s afraid to say it aloud, she murmurs, "A nurse, ironically."

I pause for half a second before refocusing on my stitching.

"You still can be," I tell her. My voice is quiet, but firm. "This place doesn’t get to decide that for you."

She snorts, but there’s no real amusement in it. "That’s optimistic."

"It’s true."

She meets my gaze. "And what about you?"

I blink. "What about me?"

"What did you want to be?"

I exhale through my nose, focusing on my hands. "A doctor."

She frowns slightly. "Not a professor?"

I let out a soft chuckle. "That came later."

"Why?" She tilts her head curiously.

I adjust my grip on the forceps. "Because I didn’t just want to treat injuries. I wanted to teach people how to treat them." I shrug, keeping my voice even. "Surgery is as much an art as it is a science. If you don’t train the next generation properly, then what’s the point?"

Yulia watches me, quiet for a moment. "I think you are a really good teacher."

I offer a faint smirk. "High praise, considering I mostly bark orders at you."

She actually laughs at that. "You do bark orders at me."

"But you listen."

"Yeah, well," she mutters, rolling her eyes, "kind of have to."

I glance down at my work. The stitches are neat and precise. My hands move on their own now, muscle memory guiding each pull and tie. I should be focused on the procedure, but my mind drifts, pulled toward something else—toward him.

The Soldier has not moved. Has not spoken. But his eyes have curiousity in them now.

"You’re serious?" Yulia asks suddenly. "About me being a nurse?"

I glance at her. "Of course."

Her mouth presses into a thin line, and I know what she’s thinking. We may not get out of this. And she may be right, but I'm never going to let her believe that.

"I’ll make sure of it," I say quietly. "When this is over. You'll be a wonderful nurse."

She exhales, shaking her head slightly. "You always sound so sure."

"I have to."

Yulia bites her lip, then hesitantly asks, "Where did you work before all this?"

I glance at the cold, sterile walls around us and shake my head. "A place nothing like this. I worked in a hospital in California, near the coast."

Yulia’s eyes widen slightly. "You lived near the ocean?"

I nod. "Every morning, the air smelled like salt and sunlight." I offer a small, wistful smile. "It was loud, too. People always moving and talking, and I hated it at first. My own head was too loud as well. But after a while… I started to love it."

She looks down, twisting a piece of gauze in her fingers. "I’ve never seen that side of the world."

I pause at that, my chest tightening. "You will."

She exhales, giving me a small, skeptical smile. "If you say so."

A few beats pass in silence before I ask, "How did you learn Russian?"

"Well, I am Russian," she says simply, as if it should be obvious.

I blink at her, taken aback. "You have absolutely no accent."

Yulia smirks faintly, shaking her head. "I worked hard for that. I was always fascinated by English. As a kid, I used to steal old tapes and books wherever I could find them. Any spare time I had, I spent practicing, repeating phrases over and over until I sounded like the people on the tapes."

She glances down at the tray of instruments, idly shifting them into place. "I figured if I ever got out… if I ever had a chance to leave, I needed to sound like I belonged. Like I wasn’t someone who had never seen the world outside a frozen, gray city."

Silence settles for a moment, the steady rhythm of my work filling the space. 

"It took me five years to make my Romanian accent go away."

Yulia’s brows lift slightly. "Five years?"

I exhale through my nose, nodding. "I was twelve when I left. I barely spoke a word of English, and every time I opened my mouth, people knew I didn’t belong."

I pick up a fresh set of sutures as the memory settles in like an old ache in my chest. "I hated it. The way people looked at me when I got something wrong, and they slowed down their words, like I was stupid. So I practiced, like you. Every time I heard a word I didn’t know, I memorized it, repeated it. Forced my mouth to shape the sounds until no one could tell I was different."

Yulia is quiet for a moment. "Did it work?"

My lips press into a thin line. "It made things easier, but I still never felt like I belonged."

Yulia lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, shaking her head. "That’s the thing, isn’t it? You change yourself so you don’t stand out, but no matter what you do, you still don’t fit."

I look at her, longer this time. I never realized how much of myself I see in her—not just in the way she holds herself, but in the way she never truly allows herself to relax. She is always watching, always anticipating the next moment she might have to run, fight, or endure. We are both survivors of things we never asked for and we have both learned to adapt, and fold ourselves into whatever shape keeps us breathing for another day. We have both spent years pretending not to be afraid.

I see it in the way she clenches her jaw before speaking, how her fingers twitch like she’s bracing for a blow that might never come. I recognize it because I do the same. We are different, but we are the same where it matters.

"Yeah," I murmur. "Something like that."

Yulia clears her throat. "You know… everyone here calls you Professor. What's your real name?"

I look at her, then back down at my work. "Elena," I say simply. "It’s Elena."

As I say it, the Soldier moves again. He tilts his head in almost an imperceptible way, just so he can look me in the eyes. My heart immediately jumps into my throat.

"Свет."

I freeze. 

He spoke.

The word lingers in the space between us, soft but sharp enough to carve into me.

Slowly, I turn to Yulia. She is already looking at me, her lips slightly parted, her expression locked somewhere between shock and disbelief. 

I swallow hard, my voice barely above a whisper. "What… what did he just say?"

Yulia blinks, staring at the Soldier like she isn’t sure if she imagined it. Her mouth opens slightly, but no words come out at first. She exhales sharply, steadying herself, then she finally speaks.

"He just said… light."

Everything inside me stops. My pulse. My thoughts. My breath. A memory crashes over me so vividly that for a moment, I’m not in this cold, sterile room anymore. 

I'm curled up in my mother’s lap, her warmth wrapped around me like a shield against the world. The kitchen smells like oranges and fresh bread, the curtains dance lazily in the golden afternoon light. My mother hums as she brushes my hair, her fingers gentle as they work through the tangles.

"Elena," she murmurs, her voice soft but full of something I don’t yet understand. "Do you know why I gave you this name?"

I shake my head. I had never thought to ask. Names are just names. But Mama smiles, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

"Because you are named after the Sun."

I blink up at her. "The Sun?"

"Yes, puiule," she says, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. "Because wherever you go, you will bring light. Even in the darkest places, even when you cannot see it yourself, you will shine."

I frown, thinking. I know the sun is bright and warm and high above everything else. But me? I don’t feel like that. I am small. I am quiet. I am afraid of the dark.

"What if I don’t?" I whisper. "What if I get lost in the dark?"

Mama’s hands cradle my face, her thumbs brushing against my cheeks. Her eyes are warm and endless, the way only a mother’s can be.

"You won’t. Because light does not disappear, it just finds another way to shine."

She presses her forehead against mine, sealing the words inside me like an unspoken promise. "You are light, my love. Make sure you remember."

A breath shudders out of me, and my vision is already blurring. My hands go slack, the sterile white of the gloves on my fingers distorting through the tears I refuse to let fall. He shouldn’t know this. He shouldn’t know me.

I don’t dare lift my head. I can feel Yulia staring at me now, watching the way I fight to keep my face blank, to keep everything locked inside. But the moment is too raw and real to keep them hidden. The first tear falls and then another. Then they just won't stop.

"Elena?" Yulia asks carefully.

I swallow around the lump in my throat, forcing my voice steady even though I feel anything but that. "My mother—she named me after the sun."

Another pause. This one is heavier. I feel more than see the way Yulia processes this, as she shifts uncertainly. I don’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t this.

Then, she asks, "How does he know that?"

I press my fingers into my palms, trying to ground myself while struggling to find an answer that makes sense. But I can’t. I don’t know how he knows. I don’t know if it’s instinct, or memory, or something far more impossible. But I do know one thing: he is still looking at me.

Cautiously, I lift my head. My breath catches in my throat.

He is watching me, not in the cold, vacant way he observes everything else, but with something else entirely. Curiosity. As if he is trying to figure something out, as if the word he just spoke means something to him, even if he doesn’t fully understand why.

I have spent days working on him, being in his presence, tending to his wounds, speaking around him. And never, not once, has he looked at me like this.

My chest tightens as a strange mix of emotions swelling up, something I don’t know how to name. He recognizes something. Maybe not me, not completely, but something about me.

I want to speak. I want to ask him—Why? Why did you say that? How do you know? But I can’t. My voice is gone. The only thing left between us is silence, and his unwavering gaze, steady and searching, holds something I can’t outrun or deny. 

Recognition.

[thewinterdrafts]

Just came across your frost bite series, I’m really enjoying how it’s written, can’t wait for more! Thank you for your hard work :)

you guys are so sweet!! thank YOU for taking the time to read it, i'm so happy you like it <3

[thewinterdrafts]

The Frostbite series is everything to me right now thank you for taking the time to write it!!!! I can’t wait to see where you take the story!!

dear beautiful stranger,

thank you SO much!! you are my first feedback on this series and words can't comprehend how happy you've just made me. i'm so so glad you love it the way i love it <3

also brace yourself because there's gonna be A LOT coming in this series, so don't say i didn't warn ya. ✨

love you lots!!

[thewinterdrafts]

Part 03 - Containment | Frostbite Series | The Winter Soldier

Pairing: The Winter Soldier x Original Female Character (1st Person)

Word count: 3,277

Summary: Elena navigates another brutal day in the facility, learning about Yulia’s past while enduring the mocking praise of a HYDRA officer who sees no difference between healing and torturing. The weight of it all threatens to crush her, but she pushes through, focusing on her work—on him. But then, something happens. A barely noticeable reaction, that is enough to change everything.

Disclaimer: This series is extremely dark, touching on graphic violence, psychological torment, and human suffering in all its forms. If you choose to read, proceed with caution.

Warnings: strictly 18+, Graphic medical procedures & surgical descriptions, Torture & inhumane treatment, Psychological manipulation & guilt

A/N: hello everyone, good to be back! i hope you like the series so far. happy reading!!

❄️ Frostbite Chapters: Part 01 - Severance Part 02 - Incision Part 03 - Containment - you are currently here Part 04 - Recognition Part 05 - Trigger Part 06 - Submission Part 07 - Disobedience Note: The Frostbite series has officially migrated to bigger platforms! Check out the rest on AO3 and Wattpad ♡

📍Masterlist

The room they put us in isn’t a prison cell, but it might as well be. The walls are bare and painted dull gray and green, the same lifeless colors HYDRA seems to love. Against one side of the room is a thin metal bed, the mattress barely more than a padding. The air, as always, is stale, carrying the sharp smell of antiseptic and metal. A small table with two mismatched chairs sits in the corner under a dim, flickering lightbulb. There are no windows. And, of course, the door is locked.

They threw Yulia and me in here after I lost control in the operating room. HYDRA operatives dragged me up from the floor while Yulia was beside me resisting, but they didn’t care. And neither did I anymore.

Now, I sit on the bed, gripping my scalp, my head full of thoughts I can’t escape. My mind is replaying everything over and over—the first incision, the way his muscles tensed beneath my hands. It was so small at the time, something I didn’t even register, and now, it’s all I can see. The truth is unbearable. He felt everything. Every cut, every drill, every suture. He was awake.

And I didn't notice.

How could I have trusted them? I should have known better. I should have checked. I should have asked questions. But I didn’t, I just followed orders, like a fucking fool. And now I sit here, with my eyes barely operating after all the tears I've shed, and there's nothing I can do. I was supposed to heal, not hurt, but the terror I caused him makes me think if I was worthy of anything I've ever achieved during my career.

“You’re tearing yourself apart.” Yulia's soft voice pulls me back from my thoughts.

I look up. She's sitting in one of the chairs with her arms crossed, watching me with an unreadable expression. There’s something tense in the way she holds herself, like she’s waiting for me to wake up from a fantasy.

I swallow hard. “I should have known.”

Yulia scoffs. “And what exactly would you have done? Fight them? Refuse to work? You think that would have made a difference?”

I press my ice-cold hands to my burning temples to try and hold myself together. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “I just—I should have seen it.”

“You act like this matters.”

My head snaps up. “Because it does.”

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. “To who? You? Because it sure as hell doesn’t matter to them. And it doesn’t matter to him, either.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re wasting your guilt on him—on that thing,” she spits. My mouth drops open.

“He’s not a thing, Yulia.”

She jumps on her feet and starts pacing the small room. Her agitation practically radiates off her in waves as her hands clench at her sides shakily. She stops in her movement to look at me.

“You keep saying that, but do you even hear yourself? You’re mourning the pain of the man who dragged me here.”

I freeze. “What?”

“The Winter Soldier. The one you’re so broken up over? He’s the one who took me six months ago. I was walking home from school and then he was there. I don’t remember much after that, just—” She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “I woke up here.”

My pulse pounds in my ears.

“Yulia—”

“No.” She cuts me off with a voice so sharp, it echoes back from the walls. “You don’t get to tell me about humanity. You don’t get to act like he’s a victim. He did this to me.”

I take a slow, careful breath, trying to stay calm. “And you think he had a choice?”

“I think it doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” I stand, meeting her glare. “Because no one deserves what they do to him. What I've done to him. No one.”

She shakes her head, exhaling sharply. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re angry at the wrong person.”

The silence between us is thick, almost suffocating. She won’t look at me, her body rigid, her hands still trembling. I've never seen her so riled up, which is how I know how hurt she must be.

I lower my voice. “I know you hate him. I understand why and I get it. But this? What they do to him? It’s not justice, Yulia, this is just more cruelty. He's just as much of a prisoner as we are.”

She exhales slowly, still avoiding my gaze. “And what are you going to do about it?”

I don’t have an answer. I have seen it—that flicker of something human in his eyes—and I know it isn’t my imagination. There is a person in there. Nobody can convince me otherwise.

Yulia finally looks at me, searching for something I can’t name, before scoffing under her breath. She turns away, dropping back into the chair with a heavy sigh.

“I hope you’re right,” she mutters. “Because if you’re wrong, you’ll be the next one on that table.”

The day begins with the sound of boots echoing down the hall—a rhythmic march that sends a shiver down my spine. Yulia and I barely have time to brace ourselves before the door unlocks, and the guards are there, waiting. There’s no room for protest. We stand, we follow, and we don’t speak.

The weight in my chest grows heavier, pressing down with each breath. The Soldier is exactly where we left him—restrained in the chair, dried blood all over him, like a pig slaughtered. They didn't even bother to clean him. His head is tilted slightly downward, but the moment we enter, his gaze lifts, meeting mine.

Something inside me twists violently, like I’ve been kicked in the gut. I look away too quickly. 

I can’t meet his eyes. Not when I know. Not when I can still hear the buzz of the drill in my mind, feel the scalpel in my hand, picture the way his body had tensed in response to every single thing I did to him. 

Before I can spiral into another nervous breakdown, a voice breaks the silence.

“Well, if it isn’t our star surgeon.”

I know that voice. I hate that voice.

I turn toward it slowly, forcing myself to school my expression. The HYDRA officer leans lazily against a tray of instruments, watching me like I’m something fascinating under a microscope. His smile is too easy and satisfied, and his uniform is pristine, like the cruelty he carries so effortlessly doesn’t touch him at all.

“You really outdid yourself last time, Professor,” he says, shaking his head in admiration. “Truly. It’s rare to find a doctor who can do what needs to be done without all that… inconvenient morality getting in the way.”

Yulia stiffens beside me, but she doesn’t speak. I don’t either.

He sighs, tilting his head toward the Soldier. “Most of your kind break at this part, you know. The realization, the guilt. But you?” He chuckles. “You got through the whole thing without a single moment of hesitation. You cut into the asset like a professional. No hesitation. Clean.”

My stomach twists. I want to protest, to tell him he’s wrong, that I didn’t know, that I would have stopped if I had known. But the words won’t come, because deep down, I know that’s exactly what he wants me to say.

He steps closer, lowering his voice, like he’s sharing a secret. “And the best part?” he smirks. “You actually believed us.”

I stop breathing.

“You really thought we gave you something to help it?” His voice is thick with amusement now, and it makes my skin crawl. “That we spared it from the pain it deserves?”

I grip my hands together to keep them from shaking. I feel sick.

He leans back, watching me with something that almost looks like pride. “But you didn’t stop. That’s what impressed me. You didn’t stop to question it. You just did your job.”

My heart is hammering against my ribs. I stare at a point on the wall, anywhere but him, anywhere but the Soldier. I cannot bare the guilt in my gut.

“Well,” the officer exhales, finally pushing off the tray, “I must say, Professor, we’re lucky to have you. You’re more valuable than you think.”

The nausea rises in my throat, suffocating me. He isn’t done.

“You don’t even realize what you are, do you?” His tone is smooth, sickly sweet. “You’re something special. We’ve had plenty of surgeons pass through here, but most of them… well. They don’t last long. But you?” He tilts his head. “I think you’re starting to understand.”

I shake my head. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to be here.

He smirks. “Keep up the good work, Professor. We’re watching you.”

Finally, he turns, clapping a hand against the doorframe before stepping out. The door clicks shut behind him, and only the weight of his words remains. The silence stretches, and it's so unbearable that it's pressing into my skin. My pulse pounds in my ears as I force myself to breathe, to move, to exist in this moment without crumbling beneath it. 

I won't let them break me. After all I've been through—after all I've overcome, this will not be the place where I die.

I risk a glance at the Soldier. He is still looking at me. Not with blame, anger, or any other emotion in the book. Just watching, assessing. Like he’s seeing something he wasn’t meant to see.

Meanwhile, the guards are moving, rotating shifts. One steps out, another isn’t inside yet. It’s only a moment, a sliver of time, but I see it as an opportunity. I force down the lump in my throat and gather what little courage I have left.

Yulia shifts beside me. I can feel her stare, and hear the sharp inhale she takes when she realizes what I’m about to do.

I step forward. One step. Then another. The Soldier doesn’t move. He doesn’t react, but he watches.

I stop just in front of him, close enough that I can see every bruise, every cut, every dark shadow beneath his eyes. My chest tightens, but I do not let myself falter.

I owe him this much.

I wet my lips, my voice coming out barely above a whisper. 

“I am sorry.”

The words feel too small for what've done, and yet they carry the weight of everything I feel. The weight of every incision, every stitch, every blind moment where I thought I was helping, when all I was doing was adding to his suffering.

Yulia doesn’t breathe. I feel her fear, her silent plea for me to step back and stop, but I can’t. I drop my gaze, just for a second, gathering the strength to say what must be said. When I lift my eyes again, I force myself to hold the Soldier's sky-blue gaze.

“I am a failure,” I admit, my voice steadier now. “I failed you. I failed as a doctor, as a human being. I should have known. I should have seen it.”

My fingers tremble at my sides so I clench them into fists. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect anything. I need you to know that I was blind, but I see you now.”

He doesn't move, or speak, but something shows in his eyes, almost like a mix of confusion and curiousity. He might not have understood me at all, but that doesn't concern me. After all I've put him through, this is the least he deserved from me.

I exhale slowly as I force myself to step back. The guard is returning, I cannot linger. Instead, I take a steadying breath as I prepare the supplies. I need to tend to him. My hands tremble as I reach for a cloth, dipping it into the antiseptic solution. The shaking frustrates me—I can’t afford to be unsteady, not with this. Not with him.

I glare down at my hands, willing them to stop. Get it together, Elena. He’s the one suffering, not you. Do your damn job.

My fingers curl into fists, and my nails are biting into my palms as I inhale sharply. I force the air down, try to smother the frustration clawing at my chest. My hands have to be steady. They will be steady. The Soldier is the one in pain, the one enduring, and yet I am the one shaking? It’s pathetic.

I glance up at him. He’s motionless, but alert. He is always watching, tracking each and every one of my movements, and I cannot help but think it is because he is afraid of me. Of what I am capable of.

I swallow, forcing my voice to remain level.

“I’m going to clean your wounds first.”

I say it because I need him to hear it, and I don’t know if he understands, but I refuse to let him be caught off guard. Not again. Not by me.

There’s no sign that he registers my words. No nod, not even a slight flicker of understanding. I continue anyway, pressing the damp cloth against the dried blood along his collarbone, wiping away the residue of past wounds and violence I have caused. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, feverish even. My brows pull together. 

He’s healing faster than I expected. The stitches I placed before are holding and the swelling has gone down significantly. His body—though still battered—looks a lot better than it did yesterday. Even though the fact that he's healing makes me feel better, I can't help but notice how malnourished he is. His bones stand out too sharply, his skin stretched thin over the ridges of his ribs. It unsettles me. HYDRA needs him strong, yet they are starving him.

My throat tightens, but I push the thought aside. Focus.

“I’m going to remove the stitches now,” I say, keeping my voice soft but clear. “It won’t hurt. Or—” I stop to correct myself immediately. “It might sting. I’ll be as careful as I can.”

I reach for the small surgical scissors as I exhale through my nose. My hands still aren’t as steady as I need them to be. The delicate process of removing the sutures requires absolute precision. If I slip, if I cut too deep—

Yulia shifts beside me. I feel her gaze lingering on my hands.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs.

I ignore her, setting my jaw. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” she presses, her voice lower now. “If you’re afraid of hurting him, just—”

“I said I’m fine,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to. I don’t look at her. I don’t want to see whatever expression is on her face. Pity, frustration, fear—I don’t need any of it. I feel doomed enough without anyone pointing it out.

She exhales through her nose, but she doesn’t push further. Instead, she steps closer, watching carefully as I work.

Stop fucking shaking. Focus. Work. He needs you.

The tension coils in my spine, crawling up my neck, tightening around my throat. My breath is too shallow and fast. My fingers tremble, the scissors too light and unstable between them. My heart beats louder in my ears, like the room is closing in—then, without thinking, I hum.

The tune escapes me before I even realize it. I remember how my mother used to hum it while she worked, cooked, or comforted me when I was sick. It steadies me to this day, even after all these years. Even after I had to fled from home, leaving her behind. 

The melody grounds me so much, that the next thing I notice is how my hands stoped shaking, and the fear eased just enough for me to keep going. I don’t think about it. The song simply fills the silence with something warm and familiar in this cold, rigid, hell of a reality.

The Soldier tilts his head just barely, as if the sound has caught his attention. His gaze sharpens; not in threat, more like in confusion. My fingers pause in their work immediately.

“Am I hurting you?” I ask softly.

The moment the words leave my lips, his expression shifts. Whatever crumb of curiosity had been there vanishes, and his face goes blank again. His posture locks back into rigid stillness, and his gaze slips past me as if I am no longer there.

He does not answer.

I nod once to myself, pretending I hadn’t expected anything different. “I’ll be careful,” I murmur, more to myself than him, and continue my work in silence.

As I move, a sharp chill crawls up my spine. The air in this place is always cold, but today it feels a thousand times worse. The fact that I still have my thin hospital scrubs on—the one I have been abducted in—doesn't help either. The temperature seems to seep beneath my skin, making my fingers ache from it as I finish the last stitch removal.

I shift slightly, adjusting my position to reach the Soldier's flesh arm. That is when my fingers brush against the vibranium, and I flinch at the shock of ice-cold metal against my skin. It’s unbearable—like touching something dead.

“God,” I mutter under my breath, instinctively rubbing my fingers together to shake off the sensation. “I hate the cold.”

My words are barely spoken into existence before something shifts in the air. I can feel Yulia's eyes dart toward the Soldier, so I follow her terrified gaze, and my stomach tightens.

The Soldier lifted his head and turned toward me. 

His face is no longer blank—his thick brows furrow, his deep pink lips are slightly parted. His eyes flick down to his metal arm. Then back to me. Finally, his gaze locks onto the spot where I rubbed my fingers together, trying to rid myself of the cold.

His fingers curl, as if he’s trying to pull the metal away from himself; as if he could make it disappear. The realizations hits me like a thousand bricks. 

He thinks he hurt me.

After everything I've done to him, I never expected my words to cause even more harm. I see the guilt and shame in the way his expression shatters just for a moment, as if the mere fact that he exists—because I flinched at his arm—is something he deeply regrets. 

I barely have time to register everything before he does something I don’t expect.

He moves.

It’s not much—the smallest shift, really—but he scoots away from where my arm usually rests during stitch removal. At first, I think it’s just a reflex, some unconscious reaction his body hasn’t been trained to suppress, but then I see it—his metal arm pulls just a fraction farther from me.

Not in anger. In fear.

Not fear of me—fear for me.

He’s shielding me.

The realization sends a disorienting jolt through my spine. He thinks the metal itself is dangerous, that just being close to me might be enough to harm me. He looks at me with almost a childlike fear as he’s forcing himself to stay still and distant, to make sure I can never touch his vibranium arm again.

My heart shatters into a million pieces with such force that I swear I can hear the pieces falling. 

The Winter Soldier, the most feared assassin in history, is trying to protect me. 

From himself.

[thewinterdrafts]

Part 02 - Incision | Frostbite Series | The Winter Soldier

Pairing: The Winter Soldier x Original Female Character (1st Person)

Word count: 2,383

Summary: Elena begins the grueling task assigned to her, forced to work under impossible conditions. Every wound she treats only deepens the horror of what’s been done to the Soldier—what’s still being done. But exhaustion makes people careless, and in a single moment, something happens that should be impossible.

Disclaimer: This series is extremely dark, touching on graphic violence, psychological torment, and human suffering in all its forms. If you choose to read, proceed with caution.

Warnings: strictly 18+, Graphic medical procedures & surgical descriptions, Torture & inhumane treatment, Psychological distress & breakdown

A/N: i got so lost in this story that i literally had to step out and touch grass to realize i'm not physically in there. with that being said, happy reading!!

❄️ Frostbite Chapters: Part 01 - Severance Part 02 - Incision - you are currently here Part 03 - Containment Part 04 - Recognition Part 05 - Trigger Part 06 - Submission Part 07 - Disobedience Note: The Frostbite series has officially migrated to bigger platforms! Check out the rest on AO3 and Wattpad ♡

📍Masterlist

I wash my hands until my skin burns.

The water is ice-cold, but I don’t care. I scrub harder, my nails digging into my palms, my breath shallow and uneven. My reflection stares back at me in the small, fogged-up mirror above the sink. I don’t have the luxury of breaking down now, even though I am still sick to my stomach. 

The room behind me is as close to being sterile as it can get in a place like this. It smells of antiseptic and metal, with the constant presence of rot in the air. It looks like something straight out of a time capsule from the 40's, or like the setting of the first Saw movie. There’s an underlying scent of blood, lingering even after the floors have been wiped clean. Or attempted, at least.

I square my shoulders, forcing myself to breathe and push down the knot of horror coiling in my gut.

I am a doctor. I fix things. This is no different. However, even though I am skilled, I still only have two hands. And for what I'm looking at, that's not gonna be nearly enough.

"I need a sterile workspace. Proper surgical tools. A fully stocked medical kit, not whatever half-assed excuse for supplies you’ve been using. I also need a nurse."

One of the men scoffs, arms crossed over his chest. "You think this is a fancy hospital, Professor?"

"You think I can fix this with a prayer?" I snap, gesturing toward the Soldier’s ravaged body. "If you want him operational, I need supplies. I need hands."

The room is silent for a beat. They dragged me here, expecting me to do my job. They better fucking deliver then. 

Upon realizing that I will not back down, one of the higher-ranking men—judging by the insignia on his uniform—nods toward another. "Get her what she needs. And assign her someone."

There’s a pause before a hesitant voice fills the room.

"I—I’ll do it."

I blink, turning toward the source.

She’s young—too fucking young. Barely eighteen, if that. Dark curls spill from beneath her poorly fitted medical cap, her uniform is slightly too big for her slight frame. Her wide, nervous eyes dart between the guards and me, but her jaw is set with determination. I quickly realize that she must be a prisoner here, like me.

"You?" The guard beside her snorts. "You barely know how to hold a scalpel."

She swallows, knuckles white where they grip the edge of the doorframe. "I know enough."

I scan her face carefully, noting the shadows beneath her eyes. She’s afraid but resilient, which reminds me too much of myself when I was her age.

The guard looks like he’s about to argue, but the superior holds up a hand. "Fine. Take her." His lips curl. "But if she slows you down, she’s dead weight."

The girl’s breath hitches, but she doesn’t back down. She holds my gaze like I was some sort of savior, and this ignites a sense of protectiveness in my chest. 

I step forward, voice firm. "She won’t be."

The man only smirks. "Then get to work, Professor."

I turn to my new assistant, who silently sneaked next to me in the meantime. Her hands are shaking, but when I meet her eyes, she straightens.

"What’s your name?" I ask quietly. I don't want the guards to hear anything.

Soft as a whisper, she says, "Yulia."

I nod. "Alright, Yulia. The Soldier is dying."

I don’t miss the way the Soldier’s eyes meets mine, and for the first time, they linger. The average person would describe it as emotionless, downright unreadable—but not me. I've seen way too many of these looks from cancer patients, trauma survivors and soldiers who barely made it back from the battlefield. He's in so much pain, his eyes are begging. Pleading.

To let him die. 

The sheer pain on his face startles me so much, my breath catches in the middle of my throat. After all he's been through, death would be the highest form of mercy he could receive from the gods, and for the first time in my life, I wish I could give it to him. I wish I could take it all away.

"I know. I'm sorry," I whisper to him, not even sure he can understand me. He holds eye contact for a couple of seconds before he is back to being a... being.

I take a bit more time to analyze him under all the blood. His face is sharp—strong jaw, high cheekbones, the kind of symmetry that would make him striking if he weren’t marred by exhaustion and suffering. If he weren’t... this. There’s something bitter in the thought that makes my stomach churn. He would be beautiful if not for the violence carved into his existence.

I scoff at myself. I shouldn’t think like this. Shouldn’t look at a man responsible for so much bloodshed and feel pity. But how much of it was his choice? How much of the destruction tied to his name is his, and how much belongs to the people who turned him into this? My hands hover inches from his skin, hesitation burning through me.

He is dangerous. Lethal. But he is also trapped. And if I pretend I don’t see that, I’m no better than the people who put him here.

Yulia's studying gaze between me and the Soldier yanks me back to reality. The last thing I need for her is to be more afraid than she already is. I inhale deeply and force myself to see, to analyze, to calculate.

I start with the obvious.

The stab wound in his side—deep. Way too deep. If the blade had gone a few inches lower, it would have punctured his liver. The bleeding has slowed, but the wound itself is a torn mess that was never treated properly. Someone pulled the knife out without thinking and sealing the arteries. He’s been leaking blood internally ever since. I need to close it. Now.

His left leg is swollen, stiff, and discolored. Fractured tibia. A break this bad should have been treated fucking days ago. The bone has started to heal, but the alignment is wrong. If I don’t reset it properly, he’ll never walk without pain again.

His flesh shoulder is completely dislocated. A deep bruise spreads from his collarbone down to his ribs in a sickening shade of purple and green. They must’ve ripped it out of place and left it. Just left it for him to endure.

I press my lips together and breathe through my nose. Elena, for fuck's sake, you need to keep going.

His ribs are cracked—no, broken. The bruising pattern suggests repeated trauma. Someone must have kicked him or stomped on him with a steel boot to the ribs, over and over again. If there’s a punctured lung, I’ll need to act fast.

His metal arm—I hesitate.

This is why I was taken here. There’s something wrong with it. Not just damage, but something deeper. The plating along the shoulder joint is misaligned, as if someone forced it back into place without realigning the nerve ports. The metal twitches slightly, the hydraulics struggling to engage. I know right away that it will take me weeks to reconnect each nerve.

Don't even get me started on his face.

The bruising along his cheekbone is old, faded into a sickly yellow, but the cut on his brow is fresh. The split lip is fresh. The blood staining the corner of his mouth is fresh.

I don’t want to think about how that happened. I physically can’t, or else I will be sick. Instead, I swallow hard, steel myself and take a step back to look at the whole picture.

He should be dead. With injuries like this, with the kind of neglect he’s endured, his body should have shut down. Organ failure, sepsis, internal hemorrhaging. He should be in shock, actively dying.

But he isn’t, which terrifies me more than it gives me hope.

I turn to Yulia, my voice steady but firm. "We start with the stab wound. Then the shoulder. Then the leg."

She nods, wide-eyed, fingers still trembling.

I reach for the syringe, my grip steady despite the hurricane raging inside me. The vial of anesthetic catches the dim, flickering light as I prepare the dose. It’s the only mercy I can offer him and it does make me feel a bit better.

I position the needle to his skin, but before I can even spot his vein, a hand clamps down over my wrist.

"It doesn’t need that."

I snap my head up, meeting the officer’s lazy stare.

"What?" I grit out, shaking off his hold.

"It doesn’t feel pain like we do." He nods toward the restrained man on the table. "Don’t waste resources."

Cold slithers down my spine.

It.

Not he. Not him. It.

I turn back to the officer with a voice of steel. "Anesthesia is non-negotiable."

The man shrugs, looking utterly indifferent. "Waste of time."

I don’t respond, I just press the needle to his arm before the guard could take the syringe away. The moment it punctures the Soldier's skin, I wait, watching for a flinch, a sign, anything. For what seems like eternity, I see nothing. Then his fingers twitch again as his throat works around a slow swallow. 

That’s all I need to know. He feels this, he’s just been trained not to show it.

The back of my throat burns as I press the plunger, injecting more of the sedative. Please, sleep. Just as I plead mentally, his body slackens and his breathing deepens, the tension in his limbs fading as the drug takes hold.

Yulia exhales a shaky breath beside me. I look at her, and as if she could read my thoughts, she pulls up the rubber glove on her hands while I pick up the scalpel.

I murmur a short prayer under my breath. I don't know if it's more for me, or him. And then, I begin.

The overhead lights are too bright, too artificial, washing the room in a sterile glow that feels almost mocking. My hands ache, fingers stiff from hours of careful, meticulous work. My back is screaming, my eyelids feel like they weigh a ton. But I don’t stop, I can’t stop. Not yet.

Yulia isn’t much better. She’s trembling beside me, sweat clinging to her hairline, her breath shallow and uneven as she hands me the next suture. She hasn’t spoken in hours. Neither of us has.

The table beneath us is slick with blood; the Soldier's blood. It pools in the crevices of his restraints, dark and glistening. My gloves are stained nearly black, my forearms streaked with it, the scent thick in the air.

I press my lips together and refocus, suppressing the nausea curling in my gut. The damage I’ve seen… God.

His right shoulder, nearly torn apart from repeated stress and neglect, had to be painstakingly repaired—each muscle fiber, each tendon, each shredded nerve carefully restructured, piece by piece. His ribs—fractured in multiple places, likely never given time to heal—had to be set, his sternum realigned. The internal bleeding had to be drained, the damaged vessels cauterized.

And then there was his spine. Fuck.

A brutal cocktail of fractures and nerve damage, the result of untold trauma, had left his lower back an absolute mess. An absolute fucking mess. I spent nearly three hours stabilizing his lumbar vertebrae alone, each movement precise, each incision deliberate. If I hadn’t, he’d have lost full motor function eventually—not that HYDRA would have cared. They would’ve simply fixed him up in whatever way was convenient—or thrown him away if he was no longer useful.

But now, after ten relentless hours, we’re finally near the end. The worst of the damage has been handled. He’s stable.

I exhale through my nose, pressing the final suture into place. One last stitch, and then—

Flinch. A barely-there movement.

I freeze.

So does Yulia.

Our eyes snap to the Soldier’s face—absolutely nothing, still lifeless. Maybe it was a muscle spasm—I think to myself—a side effect of prolonged stress on his nervous system.

Maybe—flinch.

Stronger this time. His brow furrows, barely perceptible, but I spot it immediately. A muscle in his jaw jumps, his fingers, the ones still restrained at his sides, twitch.

Something thick and ice-cold settles in my stomach. This isn’t normal. This isn’t right.

I glance at the monitor, trying to search for an explanation. His heart rate is elevated, but not alarmingly so. His breathing is steady. His pupils are dilated—wait. Dilated?

My pulse pounds in my throat. A slow, horrible realization starts creeping in. 

There's no fucking way.

I turn to Yulia, voice dangerously low. "What sedative was I given?"

She blinks at me, confused. "I—I don’t know. They just handed it to me and said it was for deep sedation."

A rush of heat floods through me—anger, panic, horror, sickness all at once.

No. 

No. 

I rip my gloves off as I grab the empty vial I had discarded hours ago. The label is vague, the chemical compound not what I was expecting. I inhale sharply as I read the small letters, my chest tightening like a vice.

This isn’t an anesthetic; this is a fucking neural inhibitor. A drug designed to numb the brain, not to block pain—just to prevent a reaction.

I feel like I’m going to be sick.

Oh my fucking God.

I look at the Soldier again in sheer, blood-freezing horror.

I cut into him. I sutured him, burned and stitched and drilled into him—and he was awake the whole time.

He felt everything.

Everything.

A shuddering breath leaves me. My throat is closing up as I grip the edge of the table so hard my knuckles turn white. Yulia whispers something under her breath in Russian, her face pale as she steps back from the table. She realizes it, too.

My legs give out beneath me, and I collapse onto the cold, bloody tile.

I cried six hours straight that night for him. 

[thewinterdrafts]

Part 01 - Severance | Frostbite Series | The Winter Soldier

Pairing: The Winter Soldier x Original Female Character (1st Person)

Word count: 2,488

Summary: Elena is violently abducted from her hospital, blindfolded, and flown to a secret HYDRA base deep in the Carpathian Mountains. She quickly learns why she was taken—her expertise is needed to “repair” something they refuse to call human. When she finally sees the Winter Soldier, brutalized and broken beyond recognition, she is horrified. But worse than his wounds are the implications—HYDRA doesn’t just use him as a weapon. They use him for everything.

Disclaimer: This series is extremely dark, touching on graphic violence, psychological torment, and human suffering in all its forms. If you choose to read, proceed with caution.

Warnings: strictly 18+, Abduction & Forced Confinement, Physical & Psychological Torture, Implied SA & Exploitation, Violence & Threats, Strong Language

A/N: i am BEYOND excited to share the first chapter with you guys! even though this is dark stuff, i'm having fun with the writing process so far. i really hope you will enjoy it too :) happy reading!!

❄️ Frostbite Chapters: Part 01 - Severance - you are currently here Part 02 - Incision Part 03 - Containment Part 04 - Recognition Part 05 - Trigger Part 06 - Submission Part 07 - Disobedience Note: The Frostbite series has officially migrated to bigger platforms! Check out the rest on AO3 and Wattpad ♡

📍Masterlist

It was supposed to be a regular Wednesday. I was in the scrub room, hands sterile, mentally running through the procedure I was about to perform; delicate spinal reconstruction for a young man injured in a car crash. Standard case, nothing I haven’t done before.

Until the door slammed open. 

Before I could turn, something yanked me back with a force so brutal it knocked the air out of my lungs. A hand clamped over my mouth, another locked around my waist, crushing me against an unyielding chest. Cold air rushed over my skin as I was dragged backward like prey.

The scalpel tray crashed, echoing back a sharp sting against the tiled floor. I thrashed as my instinct was taking over, but I was no match for the iron grip that was holding me in place.

"If you fight, we’ll make it worse."

My heart stopped in its movement. I jerked my head to the side, only to see masked men in black tactical gear, covered from head to toe, impossible to identify. The realization slammed through me like ice.

It wasn't a robbery. Not of an object, at least.

I'm being kidnapped.

My body surged with adrenaline, muscles tensing, legs kicking as I tried to scream, but the hand over my mouth clamped down harder, suffocating the sound before it even left my throat.

That is when something cold and sharp pressed against my neck.

"Quiet, Doctor."

A sting. Then, nothing.

Now, I wake up to complete darkness. They blindfolded me. My head is pounding, my mouth dry as sandpaper, and my wrists ache from the zip ties digging into my skin. I try to move, but my body is sluggish. They drugged me. There’s a sickly smell in the air, something like oil, metal, and rotting. The floor beneath me vibrates faintly while I spot the unmistakable, muffed sound of engines roaring. 

A plane.

I’m on a goddamn plane.

The realization shocks the grogginess right out of me. There's no fucking way. I yank at my restraints, testing their hold, but it’s useless. I can barely lift my hands. My breath is coming in too fast, and I can feel a panic attack forming in my chest, but I take a deep breath.

Stay calm, Lena. Think. If they wanted to kill you, they would've by now. They need you for something.

Just as I manage to regulate myself, I hear footsteps approaching from the front of the aircraft. A chair then scrapes against the metal floor.

"You’re awake, Dr. Mirea."

The accent is thick, Russian or something close. He's calm, almost polite, which makes the situation comical to me. I can’t see him from the blindfold that is strapped tightly around my head, but I can hear the smirk in his voice. 

"Where am I?" I ask, the sound coming out all raspy and dry.

"Does it matter?"

"Since I’m the one you kidnapped, I’d say it does." I force the fear out of my voice. I won’t let them hear me break.

I hear papers rustle in his hands before he sighs, like I’m his 10-year-old child throwing a tantrum.

"Professor Doctor Elena Cătălina Mirea. Thirty-two years old. Romanian immigrant, naturalized citizen of the United States. Harvard Medical School for M.D. and Ph.D. Double board-certified in trauma and neurosurgery. Specializing in combat injuries, reconstructive procedures, and neural damage. Published in at least seven international medical journals. Former consultant for the Pentagon’s advanced rehabilitation program. Shall I go on?"

My stomach twists to the size of a tennis ball. I always knew I had a reputation, but to hear it spoken back to me in a situation like this, in his voice, makes my blood run cold.

"Impressive credentials," he muses, flipping through the file. "The kind that would make a person very difficult to replace."

I scoff. "If you needed a surgeon, there are easier ways to book an appointment."

He laughs, and I swear he sounds amused. "Not for this project."

I lick my cracked lips, trying to swallow the fear clawing at my throat. "Why am I here?"

He doesn't answer for a couple of seconds. I can hear him shifting in his seat, the sound of saliva popping in his mouth as he grins. The motherfucker must be enjoying this.

 "It’s no use pretending you don’t understand what’s happening. You were chosen for a reason."

I grind my teeth. "If this is about money—"

A sharp laugh cuts me off. "This isn’t about money, Professor. This is about purpose." He pauses, then continues in a tone laced with thinly veiled amusement. "You will be saving an asset of great value. An asset that has been damaged and requires repairs."

An asset? Repairs?

"You’re mistaken," I say, forcing steel into my voice. "I’m not an engineer."

"Oh, Professor." A gloved hand pats my knee in a deeply condescending way. "You’ll learn soon enough… There’s no difference."

I stiffen.

"You’re needed to repair it," he continues. "Our most valuable weapon. It sustained extensive damage during a recent mission. Tissue damage, internal injuries. And there are… complications."

I don’t know what horrifies me more—the way he speaks, or the fact that I still don’t understand what the hell he’s talking about.

"What exactly is ‘it’?" I bite out.

He pauses. Then, as if indulging a particularly stupid child, he clarifies.

"The Winter Soldier."

Excrutiating cold creeps down my spine.

I’ve heard that name before briefly, in fearful whispers among government officials and intelligence circles. A ghost story, an assassin that doesn’t exist. Well, at least that's what I've always thought.

"You’re talking about a person."

He clicks his tongue. "It was a person. It is now a machine—one that needs to be maintained, serviced, and controlled."

I shake my head, rage bubbling in my chest despite my fear. "I’m a doctor. I save lives. I don’t reprogram murderers."

"You don’t have to," he says, and though I can’t see him, I can hear the smirk in his voice. "You just have to make sure it doesn’t fall apart before we do."

The plane jolts slightly, and my stomach lurches. I didn't spend fifteen years of my life dedicated to practicing medicine to patch up cold-blooded assassins. I refused so many offers from high-ups asking for the same thing, just to be put on a plane at gunpoint to do the exact thing I swore I will never do. I press my lips together, forcing my mind to stay focused. 

There has to be a way out of this. 

The man beside me shifts, his voice dropping to something almost bored. 

"Make no mistake, Professor. You will do what we ask. If you refuse… well." A deliberate pause, stretching just long enough for my skin to crawl. "We’re quite experienced in making people… cooperative."

A chill scrapes down my spine, but I don’t let it show. I know exactly what he means, of course I do. I've been around men like him before, so I force my breathing steady. I keep my face blank and I decide to stay silent.

For now, silence is survival, and if they think I’ll go down easy, they haven’t done their research properly.

The base I'm dragged into is nestled deep in the mountains, buried beneath ice and stone where no one dares to look. Cold doesn’t even begin to describe it; the air bites like sharp razor blades slicing through my skin; my hospital scrubs are practically useless against it.

My feet barely touch the ground before the air is sucked out of me. My body convulses, shaking so violently that my teeth clatter. Every inhale burns my throat like I’m breathing in the very ice from the surface. I begin to think I'm not even going to make it inside, when someone shoves a bundle of clothing into my arms; a thick, insulated jacket, thermal gloves, sturdy boots. I don’t hesitate—I tug everything on, my fingers already stiff with frost.

The guards nod at one another, exchanging looks of quiet acknowledgment. I’m not shackled, no one is grabbing me, forcing me to my feet. In their eyes, I am an asset, a necessary tool. 

Good. I will try to use this to my advantage.

I feel my body reaching a somewhat healthy temperature as I am being taken more and more underground. The deeper we go, the more guards appear in the corners, next to the doors—they are everywhere. I can't even begin to comprehend what kind of horrors they must be guarding—at least until the door at the end of the corridor groans open, and the world tilts.

I have seen the worst of human suffering. Open chests, shattered skulls, intestines spilling onto the floor. I have peeled burned flesh from bone, held dying hands, seen life leave bodies in ways too violent to be poetic. I have witnessed agony, stitched it together, carved it out, buried it in the hollow spaces of my mind.

And yet.

And yet.

When they drag him in, something inside me shatters.

At first, my eyes can’t process what I’m looking at. A figure barely standing, hunched, trembling, a mass of exposed flesh and metal swaying between two guards who have to hold him up by brute force. He stumbles, his boots scraping against the floor. He's barely conscious. His head lolls forward, making all his damp hair cling to his gaunt, bruised face.

He breathes—or tries to. A wet, ragged gasp leaves his mouth, as if each inhale is a battle he’s losing.

Fucking hell.

He’s dying on his feet.

Mortifying cold sinks into my gut, as sharp as the wind outside. I ignore how my own hands shake and my throat tightens, and before I know it, I’m already assessing and diagnosing.

His skin is pallid, almost gray, lips cracked and tinged with blue—hypothermia. The deep bruising across his ribs, the uneven hitch of his breath—at least one fractured rib, likely more. The way his left leg drags slightly—hip injury? Nerve damage? His metal arm twitches and jerks at his side—malfunction, misfiring signals, nerve trauma in the shoulder.

He lifts his head slightly, which is when I'm met with his eyes. They're unfocused, but not empty—no. They hold horrors so severe it makes my stomach turn.

"Oh, don’t look so shocked, Professor," one of the men drawls. "It’s not like it feels anything."

Laughter ripples through the room. It makes me want to throw up.

The soldier sways, and no one moves to help him. Hell, they laugh at him like he is some kind of spectacle in a circus. My hands twich at my sides as I'm starting to realize what I've got myself dragged into.

This isn’t just suffering. This is torture. Systematic, calculated destruction. 

This is what happens when a body is kept alive not for the sake of living, but for the sake of being used and owned. When the person is carved out, reduced to something that breathes but does not live. I've seen it with assault survivors, people who's been trafficked, but what I'm looking at could never compare to that.

My breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps as my throat tightens, my vision flat out rejecting the inhumane torture I'm witnessing. I don’t even realize I’m moving until a rough hand grabs my upper arm, yanking me back.

I had stepped toward him.

God—I had stepped toward him.

I don’t remember deciding to do so, it is just some instinct that had taken over; something so deeply ingrained in me as a doctor, as a human, that for a moment, I forgot where I was. I forgot who I was dealing with.

He sways again, his whole body trembling with overexhaustion and agonizing pain. The weight of his own existence is too much for him to bear, and still, no one is helping him.

I swallow, blinking rapidly, forcing the burn behind my eyes to stay put. 

Fucking hell, I will not cry. Not in front of them.

A sharp laugh suddenly cuts through the room, yanking me back to my unforgiving reality.

"Oh, look at that," one of them sneers. "Got yourself a little fan, Soldat."

Another chuckles. "Careful, Professor. It bites sometimes," he grins and leans closer to me. "But if you like it so much, it can also be trained to keep its mouth busy in… other ways."

I wrench my arm free from the guard’s grip, my jaw locking as they all burst out laughing. A sickening wave of horror crashes over me and I feel it like a punch to the gut. Good fucking God. My stomach churns so violently I have to swallow against the bile rising in my throat.

They’re still laughing like fucking idiots.

I glance at the soldier, like I need to prove to myself that this is some cruel joke, that this isn’t what it sounds like. But he doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t anything. He just barely exists, silent and still as a corpse, his head slightly bowed, his gaze locked somewhere far, far away. 

A tremor runs through my hands as my heart beats so loud in my ears, I'm convinced my brain is trying to shut out the stress. My vision tunnels and not from fear, but from something sharper, and I know right away that it's rage. Not even rage—it's all-consuming fury. 

I bite my tongue until it nearly bleeds, because what the absolute fuck am I supposed to do? Scream at them? Attack them? They’d drop me in an instant, put a bullet in my skull and find someone else; someone worse. Then he would just stay here trapped and used, in God fucking knows what sick ways.

I feel my breath shake as I force myself to move, to do something before they notice the way my hands tremble. I straighten my back, lock my jaw, and turn to the soldier once more. He's looking at me like I'm glowing.

"How much time do I have?"

The guard chuckles, shaking his head. "Efficient. I like that." He glances at the other men before looking back at me. "How long does it take to patch up the weapon, Professor?"

I clench my jaw, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. My gaze flickers back to the soldier—his body locked in place, his face a mask of empty obedience, but his pain is evident.

"I need a full assessment," I say, my voice clipped. "But from what I can see?" I exhale sharply, shaking my head. "This isn’t a patch job. This is a rebuild."

The smirk falls from his face. "Be more specific."

I lift my chin. "Four weeks. Maybe more."

His expression darkens, clearly unimpressed. "You have three."

A muscle jumps in my jaw. 

"Then you better pray he survives."

[thewinterdrafts]

Where the Wild Things Heal | The White Wolf

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (1st Person)

Word Count: 8,315

Summary: Bucky Barnes is free of the trigger words—but not of his past. One night, when a nightmare fractures his mind, pulling him back into the Winter Soldier, you fight to bring him home. Armed with nothing but a whispered phrase—a line you’ve woven into your happiest moments—you reach for him in the darkness, hoping he’ll remember. Hoping he’ll choose to come back to you.

Warnings: Violence & Physical Harm, Panic Attack & PTSD Symptoms, Mental & Emotional Trauma, Dark Themes of Identity & Control, Implied Past Trauma - but you also get to laugh a lil

A/N: this was NOT meant to be this long, but I got carried away because they were just so precious 🤍 hope you like it, happy reading!!

📍Masterlist

Thump. Crack. Scream.

I am ripped from my deep sleep so violently that the world tilts, my vision whiting out as I jolt upright. My breath catches, heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. The sheets are damp beneath my palms, my skin slick with cold sweat. And then I notice—the bed beside me is empty.

Bucky is gone.

I quicly look at the red digits on my nightstand— 2:38 am. What's going on? My breath catches as I shove the blankets aside, my feet hitting the cold floor with a quiet thud. I can't help but notice how the air feels thick, charged, like a storm is about to break.

Then I hear another crash. A heavy thump, followed by the wet, splintering crack of wood breaking apart.

It's coming from the living room.

I push myself forward, my legs unsteady, forcing me to grasp the bedroom wall for support. The cotton of my sleep shirt clings to me like a second skin, drenched in cold sweat, almost suffocating me. My heart races as I step into the hallway, where shadows stretch jagged, elongated by the flickering glow of the streetlights outside.

I hear a sound of breathing. Not mine. Barely human.

It’s harsh, like an animal just let out of a cage. The unmistakable grind of metal against wood scrapes through the silence, followed by the low snarl that makes my stomach clench. Please don't let this be what I think it is.

I take a deep, wobbly breath, but my lungs feel too tight, too small. My fingers grip the doorframe for stability as I turn, and—Oh my God.

The living room is wrecked—no, annihilated.

The coffee table split clean in half, the jagged wood reaching up like broken ribs. The bookshelf, gone, its contents strewn and shredded all over the floor. One of the kitchen chairs lies in pieces, crushed into the floor like it said something offensive.

And in the center of it all—Bucky.

He’s barefoot, shirtless, standing among the wreckage like a fallen god in the aftermath of his own storm. His chest is heaving, his vibranium arm locked in a deadly grip around the remains of a chair leg. His flesh hand is shaking violently, fingers twitching like they don’t know whether to grab or destroy.

There’s blood on his knuckles. I don’t know if it’s his. And I don't know if it's not his, then whose it is. Deep concern runs through me before I open my mouth to call his name, but then he moves.

His back muscles flex, every inch of him wound tight, ready to detonate. His breathing is so sharp and frantic, it's a miracle he doesn't pass out. And when he turns—slowly, painfully—I almost throw up my heart.

This is not my Bucky. This is the Winter Soldier.

This can't be. Sheer terror floods my body. For one, razor-sharp second, silence hangs between us—then, with the speed of light, he lunges.

 I don't even have time to scream.

A wall of muscle and rage crashes into me, knocking the air from my lungs before I can react. Cold metal and burning skin collide against me as we slam into the couch—my back hitting the cushions so hard my vision goes white.

His hand, his vibranium hand, clamps around my throat—hard.

I gasp and choke as I try digging my nails into his wrist, like it could leave a mark on the vibranium, but his grip doesn’t budge. A burning pressure spreads through my neck, crushing and suffocating, cutting off every desperate gulp of air before it reaches my lungs. The vice around my windpipe tightens, a crushing force, pressing harder and harder—so brutally, that black spots bloom at the edges of my vision.

I try to kick out, my legs thrashing everywhere, searching for leverage beneath his weight, but it’s useless. He’s too heavy and inhumanely strong.

I force my eyes open, even if they sting with hot tears I don’t remember shedding. My body shakes violently beneath him, the lack of air barely keeping me contious, and still, all the physical pain cannot compare to the sight of him.

A single, heart-wrenching sob breaks free from my strangled throat, because the eyes that meet me are unrecognizable. His usual warm, blue eyes—the ones that have looked at me with so much adoration, with quiet, aching tenderness—are completely gone. What’s left is empty. Colder than the surface of Antarctica.

His face is void of emotion and somehow that makes all this so much worse. There is no rage, no cruelty, no satisfaction. No sign of the man who once held me like I was something breakable. There is only precision, like a weapon, a killing machine.

I let out a shuddering, gasping sob, my fingers still scratching, trembling, and begging against his grip—all for nothing. 

But I’ve been warned that this could happen. That one day, the past would sink its claws into him, drag him under, erase the man I love. And now, I am seconds away from being his next casualty.

I have to bring him back before he kills me.

Before he lives with the weight of it.

Six months ago - Wakanda

The library hums with the bright, bubbling laughter of children as we gather for our daily reading. Out of all the moments I cherish as a teacher, this is my favorite. Watching their curious eyes light up, their minds painting the story, like a movie only they can see. Nothing compares to it.

"Alright, what should we read today?" I glance around, expecting eager suggestions, but instead, I’m met with a chorus of scattered chatter and shrugged shoulders.

I smile gently. "No ideas? Looks like I get to choose, then."

That’s when the smallest girl in the class steps forward, clutching a book I don’t recognize. It’s worn, faded with time, its cover barely holding together—a testament to how well-loved it must have been. Gently, I take it from her, my fingers brushing over the fragile, crumbling edges. The title is impossible to read; the cover is too far gone, lost to years of eager hands and turned pages. I flip through the first few pages, searching—and then I find it.

"The Hobbit?" I echo, blinking in surprise as I glance at the worn pages. I hesitate for a moment, unsure if it’s too complex for a group of ten-year-olds. "Well... this one’s a little more challenging than what we’ve read before. But if you all want to give it a try, I’m happy to!"

"What’s it about?" one of the boys pipes up.

I pause, tapping my fingers lightly against the book, thinking of the best way to explain it. How do I sum up dragons, wizards, and an adventure of a lifetime in a way they’ll love?

"Alright, picture this: There’s a tiny guy named Bilbo, who just wants to stay home, eat snacks, and live a peaceful life—"

"Same," one of the kids mumbles, making a few others giggle.

I chuckle. "Yeah, well, tough luck for him, because a wizard shows up at his door like, ‘Surprise! You’re going on an adventure!’ And before he can say no, BOOM—now he’s running from trolls, fighting giant spiders, and stealing treasure from a dragon that could literally barbecue him in two seconds."

A few gasps and wide-eyed stares fill the room. Smiling, I lean in, lowering my voice for dramatic effect.

"Oh, and somewhere along the way, he picks up a weird little magic ring… that may or may not be extremely cursed."

"Whoaaa," they gasp in surprise.

I grin. "So, what do you guys think? Wanna see if our tiny hobbit friend actually survives this mess?"

"Yes!" They exclaim as a collective. 

I look at them like a proud mom, warmth filling my chest as they settle in, eager and excited. Just as I part my lips to begin reading, a shadow moves in the doorway.

My breath catches. For a split second, I see him—tall, silent, barely standing there, like he doesn't want to be seen. I blink once, twice, and by the time my eyes refocus, he’s gone. I shake my head, exhaling softly, pushing the strange unease away.

I must have imagined it.

"So, where was I?" I smile as I carefully put my finger to where the story begins. "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit."

Before I know it, we are on page 63. My throat is aching, but the kids have been hanging onto every word, eyes wide with curiosity. Their quiet, eager faces have left me with no choice but to keep going.

I’m just about to turn the page when the door swings open, shattering the silence, pulling everyone out of their deep concentration. A few kids jump, some snap their heads toward the entrance, and there she is—Shuri.

She stands in the doorway, hands on her hips, with an expression so sharp it could cut through the book in my hands. But I know better. She’s just putting on a show.

"Oh, good. You’re all alive." She nods. "Your parents were about to put up missing child posters."

The kids freeze. Hell, I freeze.

Shuri tilts her head, eyes twinkling with mischief. "What? You think I’m joking?" She pulls out her Kimoyo beads and taps on them. "Go on. Call your mom. Let her know you still exist."

One of the girls shoots up from her chair, searching for the nearest clock. "WAIT, WHAT TIME IS IT?!"

Shuri snorts. "The time where you go home before I have to adopt all of you."

The moment the words leave Shuri’s mouth, pure, unfiltered panic erupts.

"Oh, no, my mom’s gonna kill me!" One of the boys yelps, shoving his notebook into his backpack so fast it nearly rips.

"I thought it was, like, four o’clock!" A girl gasps, grabbing her shoes from under the table. Why her shoes were off is beyond me.

Chairs scrape against the floor, papers fly, and in a matter of seconds, my once captive audience is now a stampede of frantic children, rushing for the door like their lives depend on it.

"Bye, Miss!" "See you tomorrow!" "Thanks for the story!" Their voices overlap in hurried goodbyes as they dash past Shuri, who barely moves, watching them go with an amused smirk.

Once the last kid bolts out, I slump back in my chair, exhaling a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Shuri raises a brow. "What the hell do you feed these kids? I’ve never seen a group of ten-year-olds sit still that long. Are you drugging them?"

I playfully roll my eyes, reaching for my water bottle. "It’s called storytelling, Shuri. You should try it sometime."

She hums, unconvinced, stepping further into the library. "Mm-hmm. Sure. Either that, or you’re a witch."

Shuri walks over to the table, and that’s when her eyes land on the book. She freezes immediately, her teasing smirk fading, brows knitting together.

"Wait."

I glance up at her, mid-sip. "What?"

She points to the battered, old copy of The Hobbit. "Where did you get this?"

I frown. "One of the kids picked it out today. Someone might have left it around somewhere. Why?"

Shuri doesn’t answer immediately. She just stares at it, like it’s something impossible. Then, slowly, she reaches out and flips through the pages, her fingers barely touching the fragile edges. When she finally speaks, her voice is much lower.

"This belongs to the White Wolf."

The second I hear that name, my entire body tenses.

Everyone in Wakanda knows about the White Wolf. It's the name spoken in whispers, in tones of both respect and caution. The name I’ve heard a hundred times, but never thought would have anything to do with me. Not until now.

"He’s never let anyone touch this book before," she continues, but I can barely hear her over the loud, erratic thumps of my own heartbeat. "It’s not just a book to him. It’s his anchor."

I blink. "What do you mean?"

Shuri sighs, closing the book gently. "Bucky doesn’t talk about his past. Not much, anyway. But I’ve seen him with this. When he first came here, when he was still healing, still afraid of his own mind, I’d find him reading it, over and over. Like he was trying to remember something. Or trying not to forget."

She taps a finger against the faded cover. "This is the only thing he brought with him when he left the outside world behind. It’s been on his shelf for years. And I have never, ever seen him let it out of his sight."

I glance down at the book, the pages worn from years of being held, flipped through, read in silence.

Then the realization hits me like a brick—the shadowy figure I saw earlier, standing in the doorway, silent, unmoving. Watching. Listening.

It was him. Bucky was there. And for some reason, he left his most treasured possession behind, in my hands.

"Oh, Shuri..." I say, my voice coming out all wobbly, thick with something I can’t name. "I didn't know, I swear. I never would've touched it if I did."

I swallow, staring down at the worn cover, running my fingers along the fragile edges. The poor man has been through so much, and here I am, taking away the one last thing he cherishes. The guilt sinks deep, clawing its way under my skin. 

"Where is he?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Shuri raises a brow. "You’re serious?"

I glance up at her, feeling the weight of the book in my hands. It’s heavy in a way it wasn’t before. "I need to give it back."

She hesitates. "No one just... visits him."

I know. Everyone knows.

The White Wolf is left alone. By choice, by necessity—maybe both. No one wanders too close to his little cottage at the edge of the Wakandan landscape.

No one risks disturbing him because no one is stupid enough to try.

Except, apparently, me.

Shuri watches me carefully, as if she's waiting for me to take back my words, to laugh it off, to come to my senses. But when I don’t, she lets out a low whistle. "Damn. You really feel bad, huh?"

I nod, throat tight. "He left it here, Shuri. He was listening, and then he left it." I exhale, trying to steady my nerves. "I don’t know why, but... I just can’t keep it. I have to bring it back."

Shuri huffs a laugh, shaking her head. "Well, if you get mauled by a super-soldier, don’t say I didn’t warn you."

That doesn’t help. Like, at all.

I curse the gods—every single one of them—as my feet carry me toward my inevitable doom.

Why did I take this job? Why did I thik it was a good idea to move here, to teach English to Wakandan children, when I could’ve stayed on my ass in Brooklyn, sipping overpriced lattes and minding my business? But no, no. I just had to be adventurous. I just had to do something meaningful. And now, because of some ancient, battered book, I’m marching toward the White Wolf’s isolated den like I have a death wish.

I can already imagine it—he rips the book out of my hands, glares at me with cold, unforgiving eyes, and then... what? Kicks me out? Snaps at me? Growls?

I shudder.

God, what if he’s actually terrifying? What if he doesn’t say anything at all, just stares at me until I crumble under the sheer weight of his presence? Or worse—what if he doesn’t even acknowledge me? That thought somehow feels worse than all the others.

By the time I reach the edge of the village, the Wakandan landscape stretching wide and open, the small cabin finally comes into view. My stomach lurches.

This is it. My last day on Earth. At least I get to go out somewhere beautiful.

I hesitate, standing in front of the small gate that separates his quiet solitude from the rest of the world. I swallow hard, shifting the book between my sweaty palms. I should turn back. I should leave it on the porch and run to the North Pole. But before I can even think about retreating, the door swings open.

My breath traps in my throat. For a split second, I think he must have heard me coming, that he knew I was here, standing outside like an idiot, clutching his book like some kind of offering.

But then, he steps out and stops dead in his tracks. Not because of anything I’ve done, but because he wasn’t expecting me. Or anyone, for that matter.

His eyes lock onto mine, and all my rational thoughts suddenly perish from my mind.

His long hair is tousled, falling just past his jawline, catching the light in a way that makes it look almost golden at the edges. His sharp features—cheekbones cut from marble, a mouth made for sin, a jawline that could kill a person on impact—should make him look unapproachable; dangerous, even. But he's so far from that. His soft, piercing, ridiculously blue eyes aren’t cold like I thought they’d be—they’re just quiet. Unreadable. And so, so warm.

I swallow to relieve the dryness in my throat. 

My dear God. He is excruciatingly beautiful.

"H—Hi," I stutter, and I already feel like an idiot. "I—I, uh—" My throat closes up as I realize that holy shit, I never planned what to say. I came all this way, marched straight into the depths of no-man’s-land, and I didn’t even think about what the hell I was going to say when I got here. "I have your book."

He's just standing there, not moving an inch, while I'm making the biggest fool of myself. His mouth quirks at the corner; the smallest, faintest hint of a smirk—like he’s amused.

I want to die.

"You came all this way... to bring it back?"

His voice is low and steady, a bit rough around the edges. I'm sure he hasn’t used it in a while.

I nod too fast. "I—I didn’t know it was yours," I blurt out. "Shuri told me after the kids left, and I just—I felt bad. I mean, it’s important to you, and I didn’t want you to think I—well, that I stole it. Because I didn’t. Obviously. I mean, I would never steal from you. That would be—" I stop myself.

Oh my god, shut up, shut up, shut up.

He just blinks at me, his smirk deepening, like he doesn’t really know what to do with the shy, stammering girl standing in front of him, gripping his book like it’s her lifeline.  He finally takes a step closer, and when he reaches for the book, his fingers brush against mine—just barely. A light touch. A test. It makes my heart beat so fast, I just know my Kimoyo beads are going to think I'm dying.

"That was brave of you." His voice is softer when he speaks again.

I blink. "What?"

He lifts a brow, glancing down at the book before looking back at me. "Most people wouldn’t come here. Not just to return a book."

I stare at him, heart pounding. I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to explain that I was actually scared shitless the whole way here.

"I—uh, I just—" I swallow hard, heat creeping up my neck. "I felt... bad. Really bad. I mean, I didn’t know it was yours, obviously, but when Shuri told me, I just—"

I shake my head, forcing myself to meet his gaze again. Big mistake.

His eyes are still on me, watching. Waiting, for what I'm about to say, and somehow that makes the words tumble out even faster.

"I shouldn’t have touched it," I blurt out, gripping my fingers together. "I—I don’t even know how it ended up in the pile with the kids’ books. But if I’d known—" I shake my head again, voice pitching higher with every word. "I swear, I wouldn’t have even looked at it. I wouldn’t have let them—"

He doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt, just listens, and for some reason, that makes me even more nervous.

I exhale sharply, shaking my head again. "I just... I don’t think I have the right to have it." My voice is softer now, quieter. "It’s important to you, and I—I shouldn’t have even brought it here, I just—"

The words hang between us, stretching out into the warm Wakandan air.

His face suddenly softens, and it’s so subtle, I probably wouldn't have noticed it if I wasn't panicking. A flicker of surprise, maybe even confusion spreads on his face, before something deeper settles behind his eyes. As if he wasn’t expecting that. Like he’s not used to people caring about how he feels.

I don’t know what I was expecting him to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe some quiet, sharp dismissal that sends me scurrying back down the hill with my tail between my legs.

A small, measured exhale snaps me out of my thoughts, and then he does something that absolutely was not on my list of possibilities.

He hands the book back to me.

I freeze, staring at the worn, faded cover as if it’s suddenly caught fire in his palm.

"What—?" I choke out. "I—I don’t—"

"Finish it," he says simply.

My head snaps up. I must have misheard him. I have to be hallucinating.

"F-Finish it?" I echo dumbly, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky tilts his head slightly, watching me again—this time with the faintest trace of amusement.

"You read to them, right?" he says, nodding toward the book. "The kids?"

I nod, too stunned to do anything else.

"Then finish it," he says again, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "It’s been sitting on my shelf for years. It won’t kill me to part with it a little longer."

I just stare at him, completely, utterly shocked.

I came here expecting frost. Cold dismissal, irritation, maybe even anger. But this? This is something else entirely.

I swallow, fingers curling gently around the book as I hold it to my chest. "I—thank you," I manage. It’s a weak, pathetic response, but it’s all I can get out.

He just nods, and I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me, like he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that I’m still standing here, still talking to him. Maybe it’s the fact that he gave me his book—the one thing he apparently never let anyone else touch. Or maybe it’s just pure insanity, but before I can talk myself out of it, the words tumble out.

"You should come."

"Come where?" His voice is low, a little raspy, as if he’s trying to figure out if I actually meant to say that out loud.

I wet my lips, gripping the book tighter.

"To the readings," I clarify, heart hammering in my throat. "With the kids."

Silence. A long, stretching silence. His expression cracks just for a second, a flicker of something like want, maybe even hope, before it disappears behind his carefully set jaw. His gaze drops. Not to the book—to the ground.

And I feel it before he even says it. The sadness. The fear.

"I can’t," he murmurs. And god, it’s so soft, it makes me want to hug him.

"Why not?"

He exhales, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek like he’s debating whether or not to tell me the truth.

"I’m not good around kids." His voice is flat, even, but there’s something weighted behind the words. Something like guilt.

I take a small step closer, lowering my voice. "But—"

"I shouldn’t be around them." His fingers twitch at his side, like this conversation is already too much. "It’s not a good idea."

"You—"

"I don’t trust myself," he blurts out, and this time, he doesn’t look at me.

And just like that, I get it. This is a man who has spent years convincing himself that he is dangerous, that he is something to be feared. That even now—healing, trying—he cannot risk being close to something as soft, as pure, as innocent… as a child.

That realization hits me like a brick to the chest. I want to tell him he’s wrong, that he’s not the Winter Soldier anymore, and that he never was, but I can’t. Something tells me he wouldn’t believe me.

"Okay," I say softly. "I understand."

He finally looks at me again, but I wish that he didn't, because there’s something so deeply sad in his eyes. Standing here, staring at the quiet, heavy ache on his beautiful face, I realize just how wrong I was.

He isn’t a man to be feared. He’s a man who fears himself. And I despise myself for ever thinking otherwise.

"Thank you again, for the book. See you around", I say as I slowly turn away, and he lets me.

I feel his eyes on my back the entire way down the hill. Not moving, not calling me back. Just watching.

I can’t stop thinking about him all night. Not when I make it back home, not when I try to lose myself in a book, not even when I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. I feel like I swallowed a stone, like there’s a weight in my chest that won’t lift, no matter how many times I tell myself to let it go.

But I can’t, because it isn’t fair. It's not fair that he’s all alone out there. He’s spent so long avoiding people, keeping himself away from warmth, from comfort, from company—not because he wants to, but because he thinks he has to. He thinks he doesn’t deserve it, and it crushes my heart with a force of a building collapsing.

I roll onto my side, clutching the book to my chest.

This story—his story—is about adventure. About finding courage. About leaving behind the safety of what you know and learning that you’re capable of more than you ever imagined. If there’s anyone who deserves that lesson... it’s him.

I make my decision before the sun even rises.

If he won’t come to the reading nights, I’ll bring the reading night to him. No one, not even the White Wolf, should have to be alone.

The moment the school day ends, I’m already moving, practically buzzing with excitement. I sling my bag over my shoulder, feeling the slight extra weight from what I’ve packed inside; snacks, drinks, a small thermos of tea, just in case. If I’m going to make him sit and listen, I’m going to make sure he’s comfortable while he does it. And for some reason, the thought of that? Of bringing him something warm, making him feel normal for even a split second? It makes me... giddy. Like I’m about to do something ridiculous and impossible.

And god, I can’t wait.

The memories of yesterday's walk to his little cottage flods my mind while I'm making my way there again. I can't believe I thought I was gonna die. The only danger that surrounds him is how dangerously beautiful he is, nothing else.

I run up the hill, still out of breath when I finally make my way to his door. I knock once, twice, nothing. For a solid five seconds, I stand there. Just as I consider knocking again, the door swings open so violently that I nearly fling myself into another dimension. And there he is, Bucky Barnes, standing in front of me, looking like I just hit him over the head with a frying pan.

His hair is damp, the scent of coconut and honey practically radiating from him. He is very much not dressed for visitors—he's wearing only sweatpants, no shirt, no metal arm. That's when I realize that he just got out of the shower.

Oh.

Oh, no.

I was not prepared for this. I force myself to keep my gaze on his face, and only his face, because if I let my eyes even think about dropping, I am absolutely going to lose my mind.

"Did I forget something?"

I blink. "What?"

"You’re—" he gestures vaguely toward me. "Here. Again."

"Yeah," I say, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. "Obviously."

He stares.

I stare.

"Why?"

I clear my throat. "I, uh... brought stuff."

More staring.

"Stuff?"

"Yeah. Snacks. Drinks." I lift the thermos. "Tea."

He blinks. I blurt out the rest before I lose my nerve.

"For reading night."

Bucky’s entire face scrunches in confusion.

"For what now?"

I barrel forward, ignoring how my voice is getting higher with every word.

"Since you won’t come to reading night, I figured I’d bring reading night to you. So, yeah. Here I am."

Bucky looks at me. Then at the bag. Then back at me.

"Are you serious?"

"Yep."

He exhales. Long. Slow. Like he’s really regretting opening the door.

"You came all the way out here..."

"Yep."

"With...tea."

I shake the thermos a little. "Good tea, too."

His jaw tenses.

"To read. To me."

"Yep."

Silence. A long, painful, my-life-choices-are-questionable silence. Bucky presses his lips together, staring at me for an uncomfortably long time. Then, so slowly that I know he’s questioning every decision that led him here—

"Are you high?"

"What?!" I sputter, nearly dropping the thermos. "No!"

He tilts his head, suspicious. "Drunk?"

"Of course not!"

"Did Shuri put you up to this?"

"I—what? No!" I groan dramatically, shoving past him into the cabin before he can stop me. "Listen, Barnes," I say as I drop my bag onto the table, pulling out all my carefully packed snacks.

He looks personally offended.

"You—" He points at me. "—just invited yourself in."

"Obviously."

"In my house."

I hold up the bag of Wakandan fruit chips. "Brought snacks."

His jaw tightens.

"To read."

I scrunch the snack bag. "Candy, too."

Bucky drags a hand down his face like he wants to strangle me but doesn’t have the energy.

"I have no idea what you’re doing."

I grin up at him. "Yeah, well. Can’t have you reading alone, can we?"

His brows knit together, like I just proposed something entirely illogical, which, to him, I probably did. His gaze drifts to the book in my lap, then, to the tea and snacks I carefully laid out, and finally, back to me. Something in his eyes softens, just enough that if I weren’t looking so closely, I might have missed it. Without another word, Bucky sighs, grabs his t-shirt from the chair, and lowers himself onto the couch.

Not next to me, not even close—he sits at the farthest end possible. But hey, progress is progress. And so, reading night begins.

He doesn’t relax, not at first. He sits stiffly at the farthest end of the couch, arms crossed over his chest, like he’s bracing for something. It’s not hostility, not exactly—but it’s not comfort, either. He’s tense in a way that says he’s not used to this, not used to someone willingly sitting in his space, talking to him without expectation.

I don’t acknowledge it and I don’t call it out. Instead, I just open the book and start reading.

At first, he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes flicker between me and the floor, his knee bouncing slightly like he’s thinking about leaving. To my luck, he doesn’t. He stays, silent and unmoving, like he’s waiting to see how long I’ll keep this up.

So I do. I keep reading.

Somewhere between the first and second chapter, something shifts. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Bucky stops watching me and starts listening. His knee stills, the sharp lines of tension in his shoulders begin to smooth out, and before I know it, he’s no longer eyeing me with suspicion—he’s watching my hands turn the pages.

By the time I hit an hour, my throat is raw, and I force myself to stop. I close the book gently, stretching my sore neck, and that’s when Bucky snaps back to reality. His head jerks toward me, his expression unreadable, but there’s something almost dazed in his eyes, like I pulled him out of a trance.

"I should go," I murmur, rubbing my throat.

He doesn’t reply right away. Doesn’t tell me to stay, but doesn’t agree, either. He just watches as I gather my things, his fingers flexing subtly against his knee like he almost—almost—reached for me.

But then, as quickly as the moment comes, he stops himself. "Alright," he mutters, voice rough from disuse.

He stands when I do, but doesn’t walk me to the door. Doesn’t move at all, really. He just watches as I pull my bag over my shoulder, lips parting slightly like he wants to say something, but ultimately deciding against it.

I nod at him once, a silent goodbye, and step out. I already know I'm going to be back the next day.

The fire crackles softly, casting warm flickers of light across the cabin. Bucky is sitting at the far end of the couch again, just like the first night, but something is different. He’s not as stiff, not as closed off. His hands aren’t locked in tight fists against his knees, and every once in a while, I catch him watching the book instead of me.

It’s progress.

I keep reading, letting my voice fill the comfortable silence between us. And then I reach the line—

"May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks."

I pause, rolling the words over in my mind. They feel soft, weighty, like they mean something more than just a farewell.

"That’s..." I hesitate, glancing up at him. "That’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?"

Bucky’s gaze lingers on the book for a second too long before he shifts, leaning his forearms onto his thighs. His face is unreadable, but he doesn’t look away.

"Yeah," he says, voice quiet. "It's one of my favorite lines."

It’s not much, but it’s something. A tiny glimpse behind the guarded walls.

I let out a small chuckle, nudging him lightly with my elbow. "That’s the most reaction I’ve gotten out of you so far. Should I be honored?"

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but something close. "Maybe."

I grin and turn back to the book, continuing on, but the air between us feels different now. Charged. Like I unknowingly stumbled onto something important. I don’t know it yet, but that sentence—those simple words—will keep finding their way back to us.

It happens the next time I visit. And the next.

Whenever I reach that line, I glance at Bucky without meaning to. And every time, he’s already looking at me.

One night, after I close the book and get up to leave, I decide to test something. With a teasing smile, I toss the words back at him—

"May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks, Barnes."

Bucky exhales, shaking his head, but I swear I see something warm flicker in his expression. He doesn’t say anything, not that night, but the next time, just as I turn to go—

"Same to you," he murmurs.

I freeze, looking back at him.

His face is carefully neutral, like it doesn’t mean anything. Like he didn’t just return a piece of something that belongs only to us.

I don’t call him out on it, I just smile. I come back the next night. And the night after that.

At first, I tell myself it’s just for the book, just for the kids. But I know better. I’m not reading for them right now—I’m reading for him. And he lets me.

Every night, I find him waiting, sitting on the couch, never asking me to stay but never telling me to leave either. He doesn’t sit quite as far away anymore. It’s subtle at first—his knee a little closer, his arm stretched along the back of the couch, his body angled toward me instead of away.

I pretend not to notice, but I do. It happens slowly.

One night, he’s just near enough that our shoulders almost touch when I turn a page. The next, I can feel his warmth without even trying. And the next, I can hear him breathe when I read.

When I close the book, I always say the same thing. "May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks."

And every time, he waits. He never responds immediately. He lets the words settle, like he’s measuring the weight of them before giving them back.

"Same to you."

That’s how I know he’ll let me return.

It’s been weeks.

I don’t knock anymore, I just step inside. And I don’t sit at the far end of the couch, I sit next to him. Close enough that our knees brush when I move, close enough that I can feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. He doesn’t pull away.

Tonight, his posture is different. Relaxed. His vibranium fingers rest on the couch cushions between us, so close I could close the gap in an instant. I read as I always do, my voice steady, words tumbling into the quiet of the cabin. And I can feel him listening—not just to the book, but to me.

By the time I finish the chapter, it’s late. The fire is low, casting soft, flickering shadows against the walls. I shut the book gently and stretch, sighing.

He watches me. I know he’s watching me, I feel it everywhere. I look at him, expecting him to say something, maybe a goodnight, maybe our thing. But instead, his gaze flickers lower—to my lips, to my throat, to my fingers still resting on the book between us.

And then, he moves.

It’s careful, so much slower than I expect, like he’s giving me time to stop him. He leans in, just enough for me to feel the warmth of him, to catch the sharp, clean scent of pine and firewood clinging to his skin. His lips hover over mine. He doesn’t touch me, not yet, but his breath ghosts over my mouth, and for a second, I swear I forget how to breathe at all.

I don’t move, I don’t blink. And then—he kisses me.

It’s so much softer than I thought it would be. Bucky Barnes is all sharp edges, calloused hands, a body hardened by war. But his lips? They’re gentle. Careful. Like he’s still afraid to take.

The kiss is barely there, just the lightest brush of his mouth against mine, a question more than an answer. And that’s what undoes me.

I exhale, shakily, my fingers curling into the fabric of my own shirt. I should move, should lean in, but all I can do is sit here, drowning in the quiet, aching tenderness of it all. Bucky hesitates, like he thinks he’s done something wrong, like he’s about to pull away, but I don’t let him. I chase after him, my hands coming up to cup his face, to hold him there. And this time, it’s different. This time, when our lips meet, he doesn’t hold back.

A soft, desperate sound rumbles in his throat as he presses forward, kissing me properly now. His hand slides up, fingers ghosting over my jaw, my cheekbone, threading through my hair like he can’t bear not to touch me. The warmth of him spreads everywhere. I sigh against his mouth, and it’s that sound that does it—something in him snaps.

He pulls me in deeper, a hand slipping to my waist, dragging me closer and closer.

I let him have me that night. Because God, how I wanted him to.

"You did what now?"

Shuri’s voice nearly echoes in the vast Wakandan library, her eyes wide with unfiltered shock. I watch as she sets her cup of tea down so slowly, so carefully, like she might drop it if she moves too fast.

I bite my lip. "I... slept with Bucky."

Her expression doesn’t change. She just blinks at me, mouth slightly agape, as if trying to process the words.

"I knew something was going on," she finally says, leaning back in her chair. "The way you were always sneaking off, carrying snacks like a lovesick fool—but I thought, oh no, she wouldn’t do anything reckless."

I shift uncomfortably. "It’s not reckless."

Shuri’s brows lift. "Not reckless? Not reckless? You slept with the most unstable super soldier alive, and you don’t think that’s reckless?"

I open my mouth, but she cuts me off with a dramatic sigh, waving a hand in front of her face. "Wait, wait, before I scold you, tell me... how was it?"

I nearly choke on air. "Excuse me?!"

Shuri smirks. "Come on, I know it had to be something."

I feel my face burn hotter than the Wakandan sun. "I’m not talking about this with you."

She laughs, delighted, but then, her expression sobers. The teasing fades, replaced by something far more serious.

"Alright, alright," she says, studying me. "So, what, you have feelings for him now?"

I inhale sharply, because that’s the real question, isn’t it? The thing I’ve been trying to tread carefully around in my own mind. Even though it scares me, I don’t hesitate when I answer.

"I think... I think I love him."

Shuri watches me closely, fingers tapping against her knee. "Then you need to listen to me. Carefully."

I nod, my stomach twisting at the shift in her tone. She exhales, and for the first time, there’s no humor in her voice at all.

"Bucky’s mind is not safe."

I blink. "What?"

She leans forward. "You know what they did to him. You know what HYDRA turned him into. Just because the trigger words are gone, it doesn’t mean he’s free. He’s still haunted by it. He still wakes up thinking he’s in a cage."

My throat tightens.

"I’ve seen it firsthand," she continues. "Some nights, he wakes up and doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t know who he is. And if that happens when you’re with him, if he snaps—"

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to. A cold shiver runs down my spine.

"I know he wouldn’t hurt me," I whisper, but the words feel fragile, like I’m trying to convince myself.

Shuri tilts her head. "Do you?"

I stare at her, my pulse pounding in my ears. Because the truth is—I don’t.

I’ve seen the way his hands twitch when he dreams. I’ve seen the way his shoulders lock up at sudden noises. I’ve seen the fear in his own eyes when he realizes how much strength he holds in his hands.

Shuri softens slightly, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "I’m not saying this to scare you. I’m saying this because I love you, and I know you love him. But if you’re serious about him, you need to be prepared."

I swallow. "Prepared for what?"

Her expression turns grim.

"For the moment you have to bring him back."

Present day

The world is narrowing.

My lungs burn like fire. Every desperate, gasping inhale is cut short by the unrelenting steel around my throat. My body fights—uselessly, weakly—nails scraping at his wrist, legs kicking out beneath him, but it’s like trying to stop a storm with my bare hands.

His grip is iron.

I can’t breathe.

I’m going to die.

The thought slams into me like ice-cold water, and panic overtakes me. Not because of the pain or the black spots creeping at the edges of my vision, but because it’s him.

My Bucky.

And when he comes back—when he realizes what he’s done—he will never forgive himself.

Tears spill down my temples as I force my lips to move, but no sound escapes. There’s nothing left in my lungs. I’m too lightheaded, too far gone, the world tilting, twisting, breaking apart—

No.

I can’t leave him like this.

I have to bring him back.

My hands shake, my chest heaves, my vision is fading, but I manage to force the words out, a breathless, choked whisper—

"M—may the… wind under… y-your wings… bear you…"

Bucky stiffens. A shuddering tremor runs down his spine, his fingers twitching around my throat—but they don’t let go. I can’t tell if he’s hearing me or if it’s just luck, instinct, or a trick of fate.

I try again, barely audible, but desperate.

"…w-where the sun s-sails… and… the moon…walks."

A violent jerk wracks through his body. His grip loosens, just enough that I suck in a shuddering gasp, the first real breath I’ve had in what feels like forever, but I don’t stop.

"Bucky."

His whole body locks up. His breath stutters, falters. I can feel the tremor in his hands now, the slight hesitation where before there was only brutal, unthinking force.

"Bucky, it’s me."

And that’s when it happens.

His fingers slip away from my throat completely, as if they were never really there at all. He staggers backward like he’s been struck, his vibranium arm swinging wildly before he catches himself against the remains of the coffee table.

His chest heaves. Eyes darting across the room, over the wreckage, over me, and then, they land on his hands.

I watch his whole world collapse.

He lifts his flesh hand first, staring at his fingers like they belong to someone else, like they are something vile, monstrous. But then his gaze drops lower—to my neck. My throat is raw, burning, bruised, I can feel it, but I don’t have time to process it because Bucky sees it too.

And the moment he does, a broken, guttural noise rips from his chest. He stumbles backward, shaking his head, eyes wide with absolute, soul-crushing horror.

"No... no, no, no—" His voice is wrecked, barely a whisper, barely a sound.

I can see it—the way his mind is spinning, unraveling, trying to understand how he got here, what he’s done. His breath shudders, his whole body trembling so violently it looks like he might fall apart right in front of me.

Then, he does. His knees give out. He crumbles, hitting the floor hard, his hands fisting in his hair as he gasps for air like he’s the one being choked now.

"What did I do—" He’s shaking his head, pulling at his own scalp, curling in on himself like he’s trying to disappear. "What did I do, what did I—"

I don’t even think before I move toward him.

"Bucky," I rasp, my voice hoarse and broken, but he doesn’t hear me.

His breaths come too fast, too shallow, his chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged movements. His flesh hand claws at his hair, his vibranium fingers digging into the floorboards hard enough that I hear the wood splinter beneath his grip.

His whole body is shaking.

"I hurt you—" His voice is wrecked, strangled, barely audible through his erratic gasps. "I hurt you, I— I can’t—"

I see it happening. The rapid-fire panic, the loss of control. The way his hands start twitching, like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like they are still weapons. His chest heaves, ribs trembling, body rocking slightly as he folds in tighter on himself, as if making himself small could undo it.

I drop to my knees, ignoring the burn in my throat, ignoring the ache in my body, and I touch him. A gentle, steadying hand against his shoulder.

"Bucky," I whisper, softer this time.

His whole body jerks, like he expects me to flinch away, like he deserves for me to flinch away. But I don’t.

I squeeze lightly, pressing my palm flat against his shoulder blade, feeling the shaking, the unsteadiness, the way he is completely unraveling in front of me.

"You’re safe," I murmur, my fingers pressing against the back of his neck, stroking gently, grounding him. "I’m safe. It’s okay, Bucky. You came back."

His breathing stumbles, like he’s trying to catch it. His fingers twitch against the floor again, but this time, they don’t clench. I see the moment he realizes, the exact second something shifts, cracks open inside him. His gaze lifts, blurry and disoriented, landing on me as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

"It worked." He blinks rapidly, still fighting the storm in his chest, but his eyes flicker, searching, processing. "The words," he exhales, half-dazed, half-stunned. "They... worked."

His expression is a mix of wonder and exhaustion, grief and relief, like he can’t quite believe it, that even through the darkness, I was able to reach him.

I give him a soft, trembling smile.

"Of course they did," I whisper, brushing my fingers through his hair. "I told you I’d bring you back."

A shuddering breath leaves him, his body still shaking, but he’s here. I really did bring him back.

And I know, no matter how deep he falls, no matter how lost he gets, no matter how many times the Soldier tries to take him from me, I will always reach him.

Because these words are his anchor. And I am the one holding the rope.

[thewinterdrafts]

Masterlist

hello beautiful,

you've arrived to dante's seventh circle of hell. i wish i was kidding. you're very welcome to suffer with me through one of my Bucky fics, and i will love you forever if you do.

if you prefer your suffering on AO3, you can find me right here.

if you're more of a Wattpad girlie, you can click here.

happy reading!!

Stories that feature Bucky as The White Wolf - after and during his deprogramming in Wakanda.

ONE SHOTS

01 - Flesh and Metal

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (1st Person)

Word Count: 6,062

Summary: Bucky Barnes is everything you ever wanted—soft, thoughtful, devoted. He loves you with a quiet intensity that should make you feel like the luckiest person alive. But after so many months of being together, he still hasn’t touched you. Not like that. When you finally confront him, you realize the truth is so much deeper. He does want you. He just doesn’t know how to ask. And tonight, for the first time—he’s finally ready to give in. (+18)

02 - Where the Wild Things Heal

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (1st Person)

Word Count: 8,315

Summary: Bucky Barnes is free of the trigger words—but not of his past. One night, when a nightmare fractures his mind, pulling him back into the Winter Soldier, you fight to bring him home. Armed with nothing but a whispered phrase—a line you’ve woven into your happiest moments—you reach for him in the darkness, hoping he’ll remember. Hoping he’ll choose to come back to you.

03 - Say It Back

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (1st Person)

Word Count: 1,255

Summary: James has known pain. He’s known silence. But nothing prepared him for this—for wanting, for feeling. In one night, he lets go of everything that held him together and breaks open in the arms of the only person who’s ever truly seen him. (+18)

Stories that feature Bucky as The Winter Soldier - under HYDRA’s programming.

SERIES

01 - Frostbite - COMPLETE

Pairing: The Winter Soldier x Original Female Character (1st Person)

Summary: Dr. Elena Cătălina Mirea is one of the world’s most skilled trauma surgeons—a reputation that makes her invaluable to the wrong people. When HYDRA abducts her from her hospital, she is forced into a frozen nightmare deep in the Carpathian Mountains. Their demand is simple: repair their greatest weapon, the Winter Soldier.

Warning: This series is extremely dark, touching on graphic violence, psychological torment, and human suffering in all its forms. If you choose to read, proceed with caution. (18+)

Part 01 - Severance Part 02 - Incision Part 03 - Containment Part 04 - Recognition Part 05 - Trigger Part 06 - Submission Part 07 -Disobedience Note: The Frostbite series has officially migrated to bigger platforms! Check out the rest on AO3 and Wattpad ♡