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mournthebird · 12 hours ago

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Knots.

summary: You help the soldier with some self care.

a/n: Bit of a short one, but I thought helping him shave would be nice <3 And maybe trim his long hair a bit too. Two more chapters to go and I think that will be it for this series. I wrote this quick so please don't mind any errors. ;; wc: 3.1k

"Your hair has grown a bit."

Your voice cut through the air, startling him out of his previously zoned out mindset where his thoughts had been drifting aimlessly through memories and half-formed ideas. He blinked several times, slowly turning to look over at you with slightly unfocused eyes that gradually sharpened with awareness. It was then that he truly noticed his hair, for the first time in what felt like forever - the weight of it, the way it fell across his vision, the unkempt state it had fallen into. He hadn't really paid any attention to how he looked since he...well, he couldn't remember when. The days and months had blurred together into an indistinct haze.

"...sorry." He mumbled, the word coming out soft and uncertain, not exactly sure what else to say in response. You didn't sound like you were upset or berating him, which was a small comfort, but old habits died hard. He never got to tend to himself before, he wasn't allowed to - personal care had been a luxury far beyond his reach. You never asked him to look after himself either, so he wasn't sure what he could've done to avoid your comment, leaving him adrift in unfamiliar waters of self-care and personal autonomy.

"It's alright, don't apologize," your reassurance was nice, washing over him like a warm blanket and helping to ease some of the tension from his shoulders.

You gently reached out, your fingers carefully threading through his dark, unkempt hair. Over time, he had grown increasingly comfortable with your gentle touches, no longer tensing or pulling away when he knew your hands were approaching. The progress had been slow but steady - though he would still occasionally flinch if caught unaware by sudden contact, the reflexive response born from years of conditioning never failed to go away completely. In those moments, you would always take extra care to reassure him with soft words, reminding him that he was safe.

"I can trim it for you, if you want." You offered softly, studying the way his hair had grown past his collar. Your hand drifted downward, fingers ghosting along his jawline where several days' worth of stubble had accumulated. "And shave some of this," you added, feeling the rough, prickly texture beneath your fingertips. The soldier's own hand rose hesitantly to mirror your gesture, touching his jaw as he swallowed thickly, considering the offer.

"...if you want to." His voice was quiet, uncertain, still struggling with expressing his own desires.

"Do you want to?" You emphasized gently, wanting him to make the choice for himself.

"...yes." The word came out barely above a whisper, but it was decisive.

The ceramic sink gradually filled with warm, gently bubbling water as the fragrant soap and rich shaving cream created a luxurious foam inside it. You swished the gleaming razor through the water, the metal catching the bathroom light as you turned back to face the patient soldier. He sat perfectly poised on the wooden stool in the bathroom, his big blue eyes gazing up at you without much of an expression.

"Keep still alright?" You spoke in gentle, soothing tones, bringing the well-honed blades up to his stubbled cheek and carefully drawing them down to his defined jaw in smooth, measured strokes. Of course, Soldat remained absolutely motionless, like a masterfully carved statue perched on that little wooden stool, his posture relaxed yet perfectly controlled. He allowed you to delicately adjust his head to whatever angle was needed as you continued shaving his face, your movements precise and unhurried to make sure every swipe was perfect.

"Doing okay?" You asked gently, pausing to check in with him about halfway through the intimate ritual. The soldier lifted his gaze to meet yours, his expression almost innocently vulnerable, making your stomach suddenly flip with unexpected emotion. In all your time together, he had never looked at you quite like that before - with such openness and implicit trust.

You took a moment to admire his features in quiet appreciation - the strong, defined angle of his jawline that spoke of nobility, the soft pink hue of his perfectly shaped lips that almost held a permanent, precious pout, and those remarkable eyes that drew you in. Those eyes, windows to his soul, held such warmth and vitality that it made your heart ache. Despite all the pain and suffering he endured, despite every obstacle that could have dimmed their light...his eyes remained steadfastly, beautifully bright.

"Almost...done." The words left your lips in barely more than a whisper, gentle and soothing as you finished your careful ministrations. You took a warm, soft cloth and delicately dabbed his face dry, making sure every spot was attended to. You reached for the aftershave, applying it with gentle strokes across his smooth skin.

As your hand came to rest on his cheek, you found yourself lingering there longer than strictly necessary - drawn in by the warmth of his skin, unable and unwilling to break this moment of connection.

Your heart fluttered as you observed how he responded to your touch - the way he ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, pressed his cheek further into your palm, seeking more of that tender contact. It was a small gesture, but one that screamed at you in the quiet of the bathroom.

Focus, focus.

"Now let's see what we can do about that hair." You reluctantly pulled your hand away from his cheek, watching as his expression shifted - his brow furrowing deeply and lips turning downward in a small, almost imperceptible frown that tugged at something deep within your chest. The warmth of his skin lingered on your fingertips, a sensation you tried desperately to ignore.

No, you couldn't feel like this. It was wrong.

Moving behind him, you took to brushing out his hair first. Your hands worked with practice having to do this with your own hair, gently running the brush from the ends and gradually moving higher to ensure the least amount of discomfort when working through the stubborn knots. The methodical strokes seemed to calm you both. He sat perfectly still for you, but you could sense there was more he yearned for in your touch - an unspoken desire that radiated from him in waves.

He wanted you to hold him, to continue the gentle ministrations with his hair just as you were doing now, to show him that tenderness wasn't just a distant memory. Every careful stroke of the brush seemed to remind him of a truth he had long forgotten: that touch doesn't have to hurt, that it could be soft, nurturing, healing instead of harmful.

The man yanked its hair with savage force, causing sharp pain to radiate across its scalp. "I told you not to miss," the handler spoke with a familiar malice that it became familiar with. The spot where its hair was continuously yanked developed that persistent, throbbing ache that it desperately tried to push from its consciousness, knowing any reaction would only make things worse.

It couldn't flinch, wouldn't dare to show even the slightest reaction. HYDRA had made it clear what happened to assets that showed weakness, that dared to respond to discomfort. Even the smallest involuntary movement could result in severe consequences.

A gentle tug of the brush running through his hair pulled him abruptly from the dark memory, your soft and immediate apology working to ground him in the present moment, reminding him he was safe now. "Sorry, just found a stubborn one in here..." your caring voice helped chase away the lingering shadows of the past.

As he sat in the silence of the bathroom, his mind began to wander yet again, drifting through the corridors of his fractured memories like a lost ghost. His thoughts scattered like broken glass, shards between gentler memories with you - moments of peace and quiet understanding - against the more vicious ones that lurked in the shadows of his consciousness. Their dark tendrils constantly tried to wrap around and forcefully pull away all the lighter, precious memories he desperately held onto, attempting to corrupt them in classic HYDRA fashion.

Even still, it held onto him, refusing to let him go.

The soft, ambient light illuminating the bathroom in a gentle, warm glow caught his metal arm at just the right angle, creating a mesmerizing play of shadows across the surface. He found himself caught in an almost trance-like state, meticulously tracing the intricate grooves and carefully engineered plates with his eyes, his gaze tiredly half-lidded as he tried to focus his scattered thoughts by counting how many precise lines were drawn against his titanium forearm.

This handler was different from the others it had in the past.

He was unpredictable in his actions and reactions, displaying a volatility that made every interaction an exercise in cautious observation. It found this characteristic particularly distressing, as it undermined any attempt to establish reliable behavioral patterns.

The man exhibited a jarring duality in his demeanor - he could be loud and openly sadistic one moment, taking visible pleasure in displays of unnecessary cruelty, while in the next breath he would transform into something completely inverted.

His manipulation took on an almost hypnotic quality, reminiscent of a serpent's mesmerizing sway, as he would speak in soothing, honeyed tones while orchestrating harm with calculated precision. Like a constrictor coiling around its prey with deceptive gentleness, he would wrap his victims in a façade of care and comfort, all while administering his particular brand of venom - a poison that worked through words and actions rather than fangs, but was no less deadly for its subtlety.

A snake. That is how it described this man.

Sometimes beautiful to look at, but knowing the true nature of his scales, it knew better.

Then why did it fall for his sweet tone, why did it fall for the gentle touch?

Soldat blinked slowly, struggling to maintain focus on your gentle hands as you carefully brushed through his tangled hair, but he found his troubled mind inevitably wandering back to darker memories.

He ran his calloused fingers through its matted hair, feeling his way until he discovered the painful knot hidden at the base of its skull. His fingertips were uncomfortably warm and sticky with blood, but he purposefully ignored that sensation. He quite liked it, but held his tongue. As he roughly prodded at its injured head, examining the wound, the slight involuntary flinch it gave in response only caused his cruel smirk to grow wider with satisfaction.

He struck without warning or mercy. Like a perfectly trained rattlesnake that had been patiently coiled and waiting for precisely the right moment to unleash its deadly strike.

The handler's iron grip suddenly seized its hair, violently yanking backward with such unexpected force that it actually cried out in genuine pain this time, unable to maintain its usual stoic silence.

Why did it feel so much more vulnerable and powerless with this particular handler?? How did he possess such an uncanny ability to draw out its voice when others could not?

"Goddamn, babe. You're bleeding quite profusely now, aren't you? What did we discuss earlier about this situation, hm? No crying whatsoever. We simply cannot afford to keep weak assets in our organization - you understand that, don't you?" He maintained that eerily gentle tone he typically used when offering comfort to the thing, a purposeful torture that only intensified its mental confusion and emotional distress.

The asset writhed in discomfort, experiencing an excruciating burning sensation across its entire scalp that made it desperately yearn for solitude and rest. Sleep called to it like a siren song, but given its handler's current temperamental state, it knew that such relief would likely remain frustratingly out of reach.

The night before, it had been tasked with cleaning the entire arsenal belonging to the agents - a task that consumed countless hours just to achieve the required gleaming finish on each weapon. Even after completing such an exhaustive task, the asset wasn't granted even the briefest moment of respite, ordered to remain awake as punishment for a small misdemeanor it couldn’t even recall.

It harbored an overwhelming desire to beg for mercy. Every fiber of its being wanted to plead desperately with its handler for some small measure of compassion. However, such displays of weakness were strictly forbidden and promised a horrible punishment.

The soft, rhythmic snip of the scissors cutting through his hair acted as an anchor, helping to ground him in the present moment. You moved with care and gentleness, working to trim his hair back to that familiar length - the same as when you met, falling just shy of his shoulders. Your hands moved with a focused steadiness, fingers carefully carding through the strands while the comb followed in their wake, creating a gentle, repetitive pattern before the precise, delicate snip of the scissors would break through the quiet once more.

He made a conscious effort to focus on the floor tiles now, trying to count the individual squares, to trace their patterns with his mind. But there was only so long he could maintain that fragile concentration before the memory's dark tentacles began to wrap around him, inevitably dragging him back down into those depths he fought so hard to escape.

The comforting rhythm of the snipping gradually faded away, growing distant and muffled, as the harsh, commanding voice of his last handler in HYDRA took over, flooding his consciousness with unwanted recollections.

Hand after hand, yank after yank, a relentless rhythm of violation and control.

A different flavor of foul tasting fluid spread along its taste buds as the asset was kept down on its knees, forced into submission. The men surrounding it formed an impenetrable wall of bodies, barely giving it any room to move or breathe, pressing closer and closer until the weight of their presence crushed against its consciousness. It felt - wait…no. It quickly corrected itself - it didn't feel.

It didn't feel.

Bad asset. Disobedient asset. Failure of an asset.

It deserved this. This was necessary for its conditioning and punishment for ever developing feelings. It wasn't supposed to feel humiliation or be opposed to anything they do.

Assets don't have preferences.

Assets don't have desires.

Assets simply obey.

It licked their boots, it let them insert themselves without resistance, no matter how painful it was, no matter how much its body tried to reject the intrusion...it didn't feel. It couldn't feel. Assets don't have the luxury of feelings.

It did feel.

Somewhere deep inside, buried beneath layers of conditioning and denial…it did feel.

The soft shudder that rippled through his broad shoulders suddenly broke your careful concentration, the final decisive snip of the scissors having just been completed moments ago. Your attention immediately shifted from the scattered clumps of dark hair on the floor to his hunched form, noting with concern how he seemed to physically withdraw into himself while perched uncertainly on the weathered wooden stool beneath him.

Despite his imposing physical presence and considerable stature that normally towered over your own frame, he had a peculiar way of carrying himself - shoulders drawn inward, head slightly bowed - as if he were trying to occupy as little space as possible.

"Soldat?" You asked softly, carefully making your way around to face him, your heart clenching at the sight that greeted you. His nose was red and running, skin mottled and blotchy, fresh tears carving glistening tracks down his trembling face. He remained frozen in that tense, hunched position on the stool, head bowed so low his chin nearly touched his chest, eyes squeezed firmly shut as if to block out the world around him.

"Hey, hey...what's the matter? Did you not want me to cut your hair?" You asked with gentle concern in your voice, reaching out with to brush aside the newly shortened bangs that had fallen forward to hide his eyes from your worried gaze. The dark strands were still slightly damp from the earlier wash, sliding easily between your fingers as you tried to establish some sort of connection with him.

You remained in patient silence, giving him the space and time to express himself naturally without any sense of obligation or hurry. Your fingers moved with gentle, soothing motions through his hair in a repetitive pattern, while your other hand occasionally lifted to tenderly dab away the moisture from his flushed cheeks and reddened nose with your sleeve. To your surprise, he accepted these gentle touches without any resistance or signs of discomfort, allowing himself to be comforted by your presence.

"...Н-Нет [N-No]," he finally managed to vocalize after several long moments, his voice emerging fragile and unsteady, trembling with each syllable. Though he had slipped back into his native Russian tongue, you found comfort in recognizing the simple word.

"Can you tell me what it is?" You inquired carefully, your hands moving to cradle his face between them. You made no attempt to direct his gaze upward, instead letting your palms rest against his skin with gentle reassurance, offering silent support through your touch.

He kept his eyes tightly closed, focusing intently on your hands as they rested on his face while your thumbs gently stroked back and forth across his cheekbones. They felt so different from what he had grown accustomed to - gentler, warmer, filled with an unfamiliar tenderness that made his breath catch slightly in his throat.

He remained silent, something you had come to expect from these sessions, though you couldn't help but wish he had grown comfortable enough to open up by now. Still, you quickly pushed aside these thoughts, knowing it was not your place to feel these selfish things when he was still so deeply hurting. No matter how well and gentle you were with your ministrations, you knew this kind of deep-seated pain and suffering wouldn't simply vanish overnight. These wounds needed time to heal, perhaps more time than either of you initially realized.

Your attention was suddenly drawn back up as his trembling hands wrapped around your smaller wrists, the contact unexpected but not unwelcome. The soldier finally opened those glistening eyes - pretty, baby blue eyes that seemed to hold a sea of unspoken emotions within their depths...

"I...I just...want to feel you." He whispered, the soft admission tumbling from his lips like a secret, making your heart equally speed up and ache all at once. His gaze was pleading and gentle, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw, as several strands of his disheveled hair fell into his face when he raised his head to look at you better. "...Пожалуйста [Please]."

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

Cover image from Pinterest. I do not claim as my own.

Let me know if you'd like to be added/unadded anytime.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier x you #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x you #captain america the winter soldier #catws #bucky barnes angst #blythewrites⛓

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moonlitdesertdreams · 3 days ago

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Shake the Frost

A/N: I have no comment other than thank you to the Thunderbolts trailer for putting me back into a Bucky Barnes phase.

Relationship: Bucky Barnes | Winter Soldier x Reader

Tags: bucky barnes x reader, bucky barnes x y/n, The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, James Buchanan Barnes, Winter Soldier!Bucky, hurt/comfort, fluff

WARNINGS: mentions of flashbacks, PTSD, brainwashing

Summary: Inspired by the song 'Shake the Frost' by Tyler Childers. After a year on the run with Bucky, you think he might finally be opening up to you. All it took was a little honesty. And a healthy dose of yelling.

Word Count: 1.5k+

You’d spent an entire year on the lam, hiding a brainwashed assassin who could barely remember his name.

And after a year, the Winter Soldier- Bucky- still turned a cold shoulder to you when the memories became too much to bear. One minute he would sit with you on the couch in your little cabin to watch a movie, and the next he’d be trudging through the Montana snowfall, wandering the remote mountain ridge in an apathetic search for clarity.

It had been the tune of your relationship since the beginning, though the past couple of months had seen some improvement. Bucky was more human, seeking you out for comfort after nightmares and flashbacks or even requesting different food items when you deemed it necessary to run into town for groceries. You weren't sure if it was him actively looking for help or just trying to tamp down on the mounting frustration caused by his constant cold-shoulder.

Tonight, he had surprised you by grabbing the TV remote while you flipped aimlessly through a limited supply of channels. The cabin, tucked deep into the Montana Rockies, belonged to your maternal grandparents and had the barest of cable packages.

“Wait, wait.” His sudden movement had scared you half to death, metal fingers gently encircling yours on the remote. “Can you go back?”

You balanced a half-eaten plate of rehydrated mashed potatoes on your knee and nodded. “Uh, yeah. Can I have my hand back?”

Your comfort level with him had been fairly steady, as you weren’t in fear of him killing you in your sleep anymore. With that said, any sudden contact still made you wary. You knew what he was capable of when provoked, and didn’t wish to bring it on yourself, even if it was an accident

“Sorry.” He released you at once, the prosthetic whirring as your wrist was freed.

Bucky’s keen gaze turned back to the old TV as you clicked back a couple of channels, stopping on an old rerun of M*A*S*H. His head tilted at the uniforms, eyes hardening as he discerned the setting. You swallowed a forkful of potatoes, not sure if this was the best thing for a recovering super-soldier assassin prone to PTSD to be watching. The rest of the food was nudged around your plate nervously before you pressed the button to go to the next channel, twangy country music flooding the room instead.

“Bucky, I don’t know if M*A*S*H is the best-”

He stood abruptly from the couch, walking towards the front door. Nothing of note had happened before you switched the show off, but this was how he worked. Some unknown, unseen trigger would send him spiraling into silence, and you’d be left with no explanation. A year had little effect on his habits.

This time, you weren’t having it. “Hey!”

Ditching your plate on the couch, you chased him to the entryway where his boots were already on. Bucky wouldn’t meet your eyes, focused solely on getting out the door. You grabbed his hand just as he had minutes ago, soft flesh meeting titanium on the doorknob. He shook you off and pulled the door open, tossing a Russian command over his shoulder in your direction.

“Bucky, wait!” You jammed your feet into the closest shoes and grabbed your coat, hustling out into the blizzard without a thought.

Soft light emanated from a lantern on the porch, highlighting the figure standing only a couple feet from the bottom step. Powdery snow climbed halfway up his shins, evidently acting as a barrier between him and his usual route. You walked up behind him slowly, stopping on the last stair.

You were normally patient with his traumatic past and memory issues, but it was mounting into frustration as time passed by. “Bucky.”

He didn’t answer.

“Bucky, what’s wrong?”

The Winter Soldier remained motionless. You grit your teeth, anger rising.

“Soldat.” You intoned in the same manner you’d heard his handlers speak. “Otvechat [Answer].”

Painfully slow, he turned back towards you. You gulped, steeling yourself for a blow or outburst of anger. Instead, his face was blank. Blue eyes bore into nothing, haunted and cold. You ducked your head to meet his vacant stare, hoping the commands hadn’t forced him into some sort of fugue state.

“Talk to me.” You said, almost pleading. “For once, tell me what’s going on.”

A stream of Russian followed, growing more desperate the longer he talked. The extent of your Russian was the few simple commands barked out by HYDRA guards and nothing more, and you were lost after the first two words. His switch between languages wasn’t uncommon, but came frequently with stress.

You held up your hands, shushing him. Bit back your frustration in order to get an answer. “Bucky, I don’t speak- I need English, please.”

He stopped, chest rising and falling erratically. Blue eyes focused on your face, cheeks already tinged red from the cold.

“The p-program made me remember something, but I don’t know what it was. It was there and then it was gone.” Another hitched breath interrupted his words. “It was gone so fast. Like a dream.”

Dreams had been a constant for him, to the point you’d went out of your way to buy him a journal and pen to write them down as soon as he woke up.

“Well, maybe you’ll have to keep your journal-”

“I don’t want to rely on a book!” He cried out, “You tell me to write down dreams, but how am I supposed to remember things that happen so fast? I can’t pull out a journal and write it down!”

Though it was angry and loud, you stood your ground. Any sort of real emotion was preferable to the stoic Winter Soldier who’d shown up beaten and bruised in your hotel room so long ago.

“Maybe I’d have an answer if you ever talked to me! These things happen and you always disappear!” You steadied your voice, trying not to fly completely off the handle. “I don’t know how you’re supposed to pin down a memory if you’re too busy trying to run away everytime it comes up. I want to help you, Bucky.”

“I just…” A shiver wracked his body. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Frustration fizzled away into sympathy. “You’ve never…”

“And I would never know until it’s too late.” He growled, sounding more like the Soldier than Bucky. “They controlled me with words. What if I remember them too clearly and I hurt you? You’re the only person who’s ever helped me.”

“You won’t.” You reached out with a tentative hand, setting it on his right shoulder. “You’re in control. You can keep working on your memories, but you can’t do it alone. So let me help you. Please.”

Face angled towards the ground, he nodded. “I’m sorry for taking off again.”

You shook your head. “Don’t be sorry. Just come inside, where it’s warm. We can talk there.”

Once inside, you fought to shuck off your boots, one lace knotted in a manner that prevented escape. You bent down to fix it, cussing until the damn thing came loose. Upon standing, you came face-to-chest with a nervous-looking Bucky. Mellow guitar notes floated to your ears from the abandoned television.

“Oh. Hi.” You said awkwardly, craning your neck to make eye contact. “Everything okay?”

Bright blue eyes, full of pent-up emotion, shined with what you thought might be tears. He chewed on his lip, a nervous tick you had spotted only when he thought you weren’t looking. It was a vulnerability that the Winter Soldier half of him couldn’t allow.

“Yeah. Thank you.” His mouth opened and closed a few times. “I think… I think I’d like to talk more. If you’ll listen. I don’t want to hide things from you.”

The admission was frank, full of honesty. It was the sort of thing you’d been expecting when he’d woke you up in the middle of the night, only to be met with silence and the unspoken request for company.

“We can talk, Bucky, whenever you want.” You grabbed his flesh hand, squeezing calloused fingers. “I’ll always listen.”

There was a beat of stillness before you were yanked forward into his chest by the same hand. It took a minute to process the movement, but your arms encircled his torso. Warm air rushed past your ear, his exhale heavy on your scalp. It was the most physical he’d ever been, outside of the random protective stances he’d taken in situations perceived as dangerous. Your own body melted into the embrace, unable to resist the primal desire for touch and closeness that it had lacked for months. Even pinned against him by a metal arm, the embrace was comforting. You ran your nails up and down the length of his spine, trying to stave off the tremors that plagued him. Wintertime did Bucky no favors, especially with a cybernetic appendage that conducted the cold straight into his bones.

Eventually, you felt his mouth move against your hair. He spoke so low it could barely be called a whisper.

“Thank you.”

From the living room, music continued softly.

‘So if it'd make you stay-

I wouldn't act so angry all the time-

I wouldn't keep it all inside-

And I'd let you know how much I loved you every day-

So darlin' will you stay right here and shake this frost off of my bones?’

Thank you for reading, much love ❤

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