daydreaming

You had expected a quiet night’s rest, but instead, you found yourself standing in your pajamas—half asleep and face-to-face with the man you thought had forgotten you after months of silence.

Bucky stood there, bloodied and bruised, one hand braced heavily against the doorframe. He looked like he’d crawled out of a nightmare. His long hair was matted and greasy with a fresh trail of blood trickling down his forehead.

“Bucky?” your brow furrowed as you opened the door a little wider, letting the warm light of your home hit his cold face.

You winced, taking in the dark red staining his skin. His pupils were blown wide—dark and glassy, nearly swallowing his irises. “What happened to you? You look terrible.”

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes lingering on the curve of your neck for a second before he looked up.

“It’s a long story,” he rasped, his voice straining in pain. “I didn’t know where else to go. Please... can you let me in, doll?”

Your heart ached at the sight of him. As much as you wanted nothing more than to pull Bucky into your home and care for him, you knew you weren’t being fair to yourself. He hadn’t spoken to you in months—only ever seeming to need you when it was convenient for him, whether it was gathering intel or needing a place to lie low.

“Bucky, you can’t just... show up at my place in the middle of the night whenever things go south for you,” you said with a sad, incredulous laugh.

You gripped the edge of the door, holding your ground despite how badly your heart was telling you to let him in. “Especially not when you haven’t spoken to me in months. It’s not fair to me.”

Bucky scrunched his face in pain, a low, agonizing growl vibrating in his chest. He took a staggering step forward, closing the distance between you but not yet daring to pass the doorframe.

“No, sweetheart... baby, listen to me,” he pleaded, voice cracking.

He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from your skin, trembling weakly. “I know I haven’t been around much, and I know you don’t deserve this. But I didn’t have anywhere else to go—no one else I could trust with my life.”

He leaned his forehead against the doorframe, looking down at you through his lashes. He looked so much like a wounded puppy that it only tugged at your heartstrings even more.

“I’m hurting, doll. Badly,” he whispered, his gaze dropping back to the pulse jumping in your neck. “Please. Don’t leave me out here like this. Just let me in... and I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

As you parted your lips to deny him—to push him away—Bucky suddenly let out a sharp, choked hiss and doubled over. His hand clutched at his lower stomach as if a fresh shock of pain had just hit him, and when he pulled his hand away slightly, his palm was slick and dark with blood you couldn’t recall being there before.

Guilt started to eat at you quickly as he groaned. His breathing was heavy and ragged, and he looked utterly helpless.

Just one last time, you told yourself, a pathetic lie meant to quiet the warning bells screaming in your head.

I’ll help him tonight, and that’s it.

This is the last time I’ll ever let him in.

You cast a wary glance over his shoulder, peering past his hunched frame and into the darkness of the empty street.

“You’re not being followed, are you?” you whispered, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.

Bucky didn’t look back to double check. His eyes remained locked on you, watching the way your teeth pressed into your lower lip. He let out a trembling breath, his body swaying closer to you, but still not passing the doorframe.

“No,” he rasped, his voice sounding thinner, more desperate. “But I can’t stay out here in the open, doll. Please... I just need to sit down. I’m losing too much.”

He looked so small in that moment, despite his size—so broken that you felt like a monster for keeping the door even half-shut.

“Fine,” you breathed, forcing your gaze away from his broken one. You stepped back, pulling the door open wide to clear a path. “Come in. Quick, before someone sees you.”

Bucky wasted no time.

He stumbled past you, his shoulder bumping yours as he nearly lost his balance. As he crossed the entrance and stepped into your living room, the air suddenly went cold; you couldn’t tell if it was the rush of him moving past you or the outdoor breeze.

You pushed the door shut, the lock clicking into place with a definitive snap.

“Sit down on the couch. I’ll get a wet rag,” you said, keeping your back turned to him as you headed toward the bathroom to fetch the supplies.

You returned to the living room with a bowl of warm water and a clean rag. Bucky was slumped on the couch, his head leaning back against the cushions. As you sat beside him and began to gently dab at the blood on his forehead, you realized the red stains weren’t wiping away as easily as they should with a fresh wound.

“How’d you get these, Bucky?” you asked softly, your eyes searching the messy red smears for the actual cut. “Who did this to you?”

“Uh... just got into a fight,” he mumbled. “Some guys outside a bar. It got messy.”

You paused, the damp rag hovering over his temple. You had seen the aftermath of Bucky’s fights before; you had seen him walk away from a dozen men without a scratch.

“You never look this beat up after a ‘fight with some guys’. You look like you just went through a war.”

Bucky’s eyes looked heavy—like he was not only just tired, but also annoyed. He tilted his head, his dark, dilated eyes locking onto yours so intensely that it made your breath catch.

“Had a rough night, sweetheart,” he rasped, dismissing the question entirely.

Before you could press him further, he suddenly leaned in to invade your space. You were close enough that you should have felt the warmth radiating off of him, but instead, you felt nothing but an unnatural coldness.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, his voice low and hypnotic. “I forgot how good you smell. Like flowers and… something sweet.”

He reached out, his blood stained fingers grazing your jawline and leaving a faint, copper-scented streak on your skin.

“I missed you so much, doll,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips before settling on the side of your throat. “Come here... scoot closer to me. Can I just hold you for a second?”

You were flustered—your face heating up in a way that felt foolish given the situation. It wasn’t just his insistence on proximity that made you shy; it was the way he was talking. Bucky was usually a man of few words, his affection usually hidden until he had you in bed.

This was a man who was hungry—starved for your attention and your care.

This was a man who had no trouble maintaining eye contact while calling you names like ‘doll,’ ‘sweetheart,’ or ‘baby.’

This was not the Bucky you knew.

“Bucky, stop,” you managed to say, attempting to hide the creeping blush forming on your face.

Trying to regain some sense of control, you reached out and grabbed his hand. It felt like ice against your skin, a complete contrast to the warmth burning in your cheeks. You pulled his hand away from your jaw and began to wipe it clean with the damp rag, focusing intently on his dirty fingers so you wouldn’t have to meet his dark, dilated eyes.

“You’re being… a lot.” You murmured, scrubbing gently at his knuckles.

As you scrubbed at his knuckles, the rag started to tint a dark red, but the skin beneath remained flawlessly pale and cold. There were no split knuckles, no cuts, and no bruises.

You froze for a split second, but before you could pull away to inspect it further, Bucky’s fingers curled around your wrist. His grip was firm and unrelenting, tugging you towards him until you winced.

“I can’t stop,” Bucky whispered, his voice deep and gravelly. “I can’t do anything without thinking about you. Every time I’m out there, every time it gets dark… my mind always comes back to you, whether I want it to or not. It’s always been you.”

“Bucky—”

“And sometimes… I find myself getting stuck in these fights just so I have an excuse to come here,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the veins in your wrist. “Just so I can have an excuse to see you, because I know you’d take care of me. I know you’d always let me in.”

He leaned closer, his chest nearly brushing against yours. The wounded slump of his shoulders suddenly turned tense, replaced by a looming, heavy presence.

“Because you want me too, baby,” he rasped, his gaze dropping to the pulse point in your neck, which was now thrumming with a mix of excitement and fear. “I know it. I can feel it. I can even hear your heart screaming for me right now.”

You swallowed hard, unsure of what to say while Bucky held your arm tight in his grip, suffocating your personal space with his heavy presence.

To say that you didn’t miss him would be a lie spilled right between your teeth—and one he would surely catch.

“I... I don’t know what you need from me—”

“I don’t need anything,” Bucky interrupted impatiently.

He could see the fear flicker across your face. Your eyes—innocent and unassuming—widened as you slightly recoiled from the way he had just raised his voice.

Bucky’s breathing grew heavy, coming in uneven pants as he leaned in even closer. His grip on your wrist tightened, holding you in place and forcing you to remain still as he moved his face closer to yours. His lips hovered just a breath away from your own.

“I’m sorry,” he spoke softer, reeling himself back in lest he scare you away. “I just need you.” He whispered against your mouth, the words and their implications sending a violent shiver through your body.

He tilted his head slightly, his nose brushing against yours in a way that should have been sweet, but instead felt like a predator gauging the distance to its prey.

“Tell me you want me too,” he commanded, though he kept his voice gentle.

Your heart was beating so loudly in your chest that you couldn’t have drowned out the sound even if you wanted to.

In truth, you missed him.

The few times Bucky showed up at your doorstep helpless and in dire need of aid were the moments you secretly relished—because it meant you caring for him, and in return, him wrapping you in his large, protective arms.

It had been so long, too long, since he held you.

And fuck, did you miss being held by him.

“I… I miss you, Bucky,” you admitted, the confession feeling like a surrender.

Bucky caught the flicker of resignation in your eyes, and a slow, knowing smile spread wide across his lips.

He had been reaching his limit. If you hadn’t given in soon— if you had kept questioning him and pulling away—he was going to stop the games and simply take what he wanted right here in the middle of your living room.

But this was better.

He much preferred you inviting him in willingly, just as you had unknowingly invited the devil into your home.

Without wasting another second, he closed the already small distance between his mouth and yours, his lips moving with a hunger that made your lower belly pool with heat.

In this new form, every sensation was magnified a thousand times over.

As he lifted his rough hands to cup your jaw with his fingers trailing down your neck, he could feel the frantic, delicate beat of your pulse beneath his fingertips. He knew the exact temperature of your skin and the sweet, dizzying scent of your blooming arousal—how your panties were getting wetter by the second as your mouth was getting violated by his own.

It was an intoxicating rush that went straight to his head, turning his hunger into something far more carnal, and far more dangerous.

He didn’t just want to kiss you.

He wanted to consume you.

Bucky deepened the kiss, his tongue slick and demanding as your breathes merged into one. He wanted it all—your love, your devotion, and eventually, every drop of the hot, copper life force singing inside your veins. He wanted to reach inside, tear you apart from inside out, and pull your very soul into himself until there was no telling where he ended and where you began.

His other hand slid from your wrist to the back of your head, his fingers tangling roughly in your hair to hold you exactly where he wanted you. He let out a low growl against your lips, the sound of a predator who had finally been allowed to feast.

You moaned softly against his mouth, and the vibration of that helpless noise was enough to make him deepen the kiss even further. His body—big and heavy—pushed against you, his hands trailing down to your waist to pin you flat against the couch that was already creaking with your movements. 

The kiss was desperate, hungrier than anything you had ever experienced with him.

You tried to pull back to catch your breath, but as your hands pushed gently against his broad shoulders, Bucky let out a disapproving growl. He tightened his grip on your hips, the sudden rough squeeze making you mewl and wince against his lips.

“Bucky, I—mmph—”

“Don’t say anything,” Bucky snarled against your mouth, watching you with half-lidded eyes filled with a lust and a hunger that shouldn’t be normal. “Don’t even think. Just feel, sweetheart. Just let me in.”

Bucky didn’t dare give you the time to respond before he was over you again, his mouth crashing onto yours with a force that made you whimper and press deeper into the couch. His hands—which had been gripping your hips—began to roam frantically, grasping and groping at the delicate fabric of your shirt.

His fingers curled against your collar, and your breath hitched as he began to pull. You tried to shift against the cushions, attempting to help him navigate the hem, but instead, he simply tugged—hard.

The front of your shirt tore clean through.

The cold air hit your bare chest, and you gasped, the sound choking in the back of your throat.

Bucky had always been careful with you. He had always been the man who unzipped your dress with trembling, hesitant fingers. He had never destroyed anything you owned, and he had never been this reckless.

Terrified, you wedged your hands against his chest and pushed. “Bucky, what’s gotten into you! You’re tearing my clothes!”

Bucky was forced back just an inch, his shoulders hunched over your frame as his chest heaved with ragged, uneven pants. He looked less like the man you loved and more like a cornered animal.

A low, upset growl vibrated in the back of his throat—an ugly sound of pure irritation.

“What?” he snarled roughly, the sound making you flinch.

You stared up at him, your heart fighting against your ribs like a trapped bird. The light from the warm living room lamp caught his face, and your eyes widened at what you caught.

His jaw was hanging slightly loose, and a thick, glistening string of saliva was trailing from the corner of his mouth, dripping onto his chin.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice small and trembling. “You’re… you’re drooling.”

Bucky froze, his eyes widening slightly—looking very much like a man caught red handed. His gaze darted over your face, taking in the fear written all over it, before he forced the tension in his shoulders to ease just slightly.

He reached up, his fingers gently wiping the glistening streak from his chin. He let out a low, breathless chuckle that sounded almost sheepish, designed to lower your defenses.

“Sorry, doll,” he murmured, forcing himself to sit up and lean back on his heels.

He looked down at you—at your lips, puffy and wet from his brutal kisses, and the shirt that lay torn and discarded.

“I… I must’ve gotten ahead of myself. It’s just been so long. I missed you so much, you know?”

He reached out, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. The gentle gesture made you finally release the breath you had been holding, your body losing its rigid tension.

He saw the subtle shift, and he knew he was winning.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he whispered, searching your eyes. “I just can’t help it. Being this close to you… it makes me lose my head. You’re just so beautiful, and you smell so good—I can’t think straight.”

Bucky had always been so controlled when you two made love in the past. To see him this unraveled, this desperate for the mere taste of you, felt like a testament to how much he truly cared.

Shamefully, you had always wanted him to want you. But you had never imagined it would look like this.

“It’s okay,” you breathed, meeting the desperation in his eyes with your own. “I just—I’ve never seen you like this. You never really… drool.”

Bucky watched the flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. He was still breathing hard, his chest heaving as he stared at your mouth, his mind spinning with how effortlessly he could make you submit.

He leaned in closer, his voice a low rasp that made you shiver.

“... Wanna taste?” he questioned, his eyes flicking down to his damp fingers before returning to your lips.

It was a filthy, humiliating suggestion—one that should have made you break eye contact in shame. But under the haze of his hungry gaze, the question only made the heat pool lower in your belly, forcing you to clench your legs together.

“I want all of you.” You admitted quietly.

Bucky’s grin was immediate. Those words were the ultimate invitation; for him, there was no backing out now, even if you wanted to. He reached out, his rough, cold hands cupping your cheeks. He gave them a firm, demanding squeeze, forcing your lips to part as he hovered directly over you.

“Open.”

You whimpered softly, eyes wide and brows furrowed as his large frame completely loomed over your timid one, casting you in shadow. He opened his mouth, letting a thick bead of saliva drop from his tongue directly into your waiting mouth.

It was disgusting, it was primal— and before you could even process the sheer, salivating amount he was feeding you, he leaned back down. He slammed his lips against yours with a needy moan, his tongue forcing you to swallow everything he had given you.

Bucky’s hands left your face and moved downward, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of your pajama bottoms. He tore them away, baring your legs to his hungry eyes.

Another groan shook in his chest, followed by a quick sweep of his tongue over his lips at the sight of you. He lifted your legs, hooking them over his broad shoulders before gripping your hips to pull you flush against his hard body.

You felt completely exposed—your shirt torn, your bottoms discarded—and before you could even think to recoil shyly, Bucky was already descending on your inner thighs like a starving man. He started with soft, deceptive kisses, his lips shockingly cold against your heated skin, but the gentleness was fleeting.

The kisses turned into nibbles, and the nibbles turned into sharp, stinging bites that made you gasp and arch your back against the cushions.

Beneath you, the couch groaned under your guys’ weight. Above you, Bucky was coming apart at the seams.

Every time a soft, helpless moan escaped your lips, his entire body shuddered. To Bucky, the sound of your pleasure was like gasoline on a fire. The scent of your blood, rushing just beneath the surface of your warm skin as your heart raced, was like a siren song screaming in his ears.

His fangs began to ache, pushing against his gums, demanding to be used. It took every ounce of his remaining willpower—every shred of the man he used to be—not to simply sink his teeth into the soft meat of your thigh and drain you empty right there.

“Look at you,” Bucky breathed, running his rough hands up and down your bare leg before giving your thigh a possessive squeeze. “I could eat you right up, doll.”

A dark smile pulled at his lips. He began to rock his hips against you, his length hard and straining against the fly of his jeans.

Small, needy pants escaped him as he began humping against your bare leg like an animal—the rough, abrasive denim grinding unevenly against your skin with a desperate friction that made your head roll back.

You forced your half-lidded eyes open, blinking through the thick haze of your own lust. You couldn’t tell if it was the flickering, warm glow of the living room lamp or the dizziness of your mind, but his canines looked… longer.

Sharper.

Bucky looked like a beast starved just for you—and you wanted to be the very thing that made him lose his mind.

“Then do it,” you panted, your eyes hazy and unfocused with need. “Take me, Bucky. I’m yours.”

His smile grew impossibly wider, and he let out a short, cruel laugh—a dark, mocking sound that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He leaned down until his face was inches from yours, his breath smelling faintly of copper.

“You don’t know what you’ve got yourself into, baby,” he warned, his eyes swirling with a dark, bottomless void.

Bucky’s fingers fumbled with the metal teeth of his zipper. The sound of it sliding down was loud and frantic, and he nearly tore the fabric in his frustration when it snagged against the denim.

He didn’t bother taking his jeans off all the way. He just shoved them down enough to free himself, his skin surprisingly cold as marble against the flushed heat of your inner thighs.

“Jesus, Bucky!” you gasped, arching your back the moment he rubbed himself against your wet, slick entrance. “You’re freezing—”

“Fuck,” Bucky grunted, his eyes rolling back into his head as he poked and probed his throbbing length against you. He dragged himself through your wet folds, gathering your sticky slick over his tip.

“And you’re so wet... so warm. It’s driving me out of my goddamn mind.”

“Are you feeling okay? You feel so cold—”

“I’m more than okay, doll,” he cut you off, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. “I’ve never felt more alive.”

Grabbing your hips hard enough to make you whimper, he pushed his hips forward, sheathing himself inside you in one heavy, unrelenting thrust.

Your breath hitched, a silent scream escaping the back of your throat as your eyes flew wide. The sensation was overwhelming. It was overwhelming enough to strip your senses bare, drowning out every thought until your mind went completely blank.

You gasped, your fingers digging into the couch cushions as you tried to accommodate him.

He felt larger, thicker, and far more needier than he ever had before. It wasn’t just his desperation of the moment; it was as if his new form had altered him physically, making him stretch you out to your absolute limit.

Bucky let out a long, shuddering groan, his head falling back as he stayed buried deep inside you. His muscles were rigid, his cold skin twitching with all the effort of not losing what little control he had left.

“God, you’re so tight,” he choked out, his voice dark and primal. “Feels so much better when I’m like this. I just want to break you open.”

“... this?” you managed to choke out, your head spinning. You wanted to ask what he meant—what he was now—but the question died in your throat.

Bucky didn’t give you the air to breathe, let alone the space to think. He let out a rough, animalistic sound— like a snarl—and began to move, pounding into you with a sudden, violent rhythm.

Each thrust was heavy, jarring shock that sent ripples through your entire body, the couch creaking and crying beneath you as he fucked you right into the cushions.

“Fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his jaw tight as he stared down at where his cock disappeared inside your warm cunt. “You’re so damn tight... it nearly hurts.”

The sensation was unlike anything you had ever felt. Every time he bottomed out, a fresh wave of sparks danced behind your eyelids, your toes curling in the air as your cunt tried to clamp down on the very thing that was stretching you so thoroughly.

It felt wrong, it felt dangerous, but it felt better than anything you had ever known.

For Bucky, it was pure, unadulterated torture and ecstasy.

Being inside you was like being plunged into a furnace. Your warmth was intoxicating, a drug that his dead nerves were screaming for. He felt every clench of your tight muscles, every frantic pulse of your blood through your veins, and it made the hunger in his gut roar even louder.

“You’re making it—” he drew his hips back slightly with a pant, “—so hard—” he shoved himself an inch deeper, your walls restricting him until his jaw clenched in agony, “—to fuck you…” he forced himself to bottom out again with a snarl, “… properly.”

The couch shook, the wooden frame crying for help as Bucky used it to anchor his hips into yours.

“Bucky, careful—ah—wait, th-the… couch—!”

The moment your hands flew up to grab his shoulders for support, his restraint shattered completely. You were mewling, high-pitched whimpers escaping you, your mind so far gone you couldn’t form a single coherent word.

Bucky pounded into you with a force that was almost terrifying. He wasn’t just fucking you anymore, it was like he was trying to merge with you, to bury himself so deep that the coldness of his soul could finally be warmed by yours.

A low, snarl rumbled in his chest, a desperate sound that harmonized with the wet, slapping sound of his hips hitting yours. He was drooling again, thick strings of it falling onto your bare chest and chin, slicking your skin with the result of his hunger.

“So... gh... fuckin’ good...” his mouth was a mess of desperate, broken sounds. He was mumbling against your neck, but the words were incomplete. “… Mine... need to... st-starving...”

“I cant—I don’t know what you’re—oh!”

“Fuck! Gonna cum!” he roared, the words sounding more like a threat than a warning.

He buried his face into the soft, inviting column of your neck, inhaling your scent with a staggering, lung-bursting depth. His teeth began to graze your skin—nibbling at first, then testing the sensitivity of your flesh with his sharp, aching canines.

“Gonna pump you full while I drain you dry, baby,” he panted against your ear, his tongue darting out to wet the skin he was about to break.

“I can’t… gonna—” you squeezed your eyes shut, the sensation of being used so thoroughly by him finally overwhelming your senses.

Bucky felt the way you tightened around him, your walls fluttering in a frantic rhythm as his teeth grazed your throat, sensing how close you were.

A dark, predatory smirk curled his lips, his drool glistening on his chin as he prepared to take everything.

“This is what happens when you invite the devil into your home, sweetheart.”

“W-what was that—?” your voice trembled, not even registering his words entirely.

You forced your eyes to open, blinking back the stars dancing in your vision. When your focus finally landed on Bucky, the man hovering above you looked completely unfamiliar. His eyes were entirely blown out, a terrifying darkness swallowing the blue you once loved, leaving only his pupils gleaming a bright, dangerous red.

He looked down at you with a grin that could only be described as evil, his lips pulled back to fully reveal the unnatural length of his fangs.

“Bucky, what are you—”

The question was cut short as his hips snapped into you one last time, making your body jolt against the couch.

Bucky slammed into you with a growl, his cock filling you so deeply that it left the broken couch groaning once more. As he began to pump his hot, heavy load deep inside you, his head snapped down, teeth sinking deep into your vulnerable neck.

The sting was instantaneous and blinding.

You let out a broken, painful cry as he buried his fangs into the sensitive column of your neck, his jaw clamping shut as he finally broke the skin. The sensation was a terrifying paradox—the agonizing puncture of the bite clashing with the burning hot waves of your climax as he claimed you from both ends at once, draining you and filling you simultaneously.

He groaned against your throat, a deep, vibrating sound of unholy satisfaction, drinking your life force while filling you with his own.

As you cried out, the sound was abruptly stifled by the heavy weight of his hand clamping over your mouth. His palm was ice cold, forcing your scream back down your throat. He pinned your head against the ruined cushions, his fingers digging into your cheeks as he continued to empty himself inside you.

“Mmmph—mph!”

“Shhh,” he hissed against your neck, though the sound was more of a wet vibration than a word. “It’s okay… almost… jus’ take it… s’gonna be over soon…”

Bucky’s voice was a jumbled, incoherent mess, slurred by the overwhelming sensation of climax and the intoxicating rush of your blood hitting his tongue.

He was speaking into the wound he had made, his words lost in the sound of his own heavy swallowing. You could feel him pulsing inside you, a deep throbbing that matched the way your own life was being drawn out of your neck.

You felt your energy quickly fading, the sharp pain of the bite turning into a cold numbness that enveloped your entire body. Your eyelids grew heavy, and your world began to tilt and grey.

The room spun in slow, sickening circles, the ceiling receding as the lightheadedness of the blood loss took over your senses.

Bucky finally slowed, his throat hitching with one last, greedy gulp before he pulled his fangs from your flesh with a wet sound. He shifted his weight, slowly peeling his freezing hand away from your mouth.

“Why…” you somehow managed to croak, the word barely a whisper as your throat felt as dry as sandpaper.

Bucky sat back on his heels, his chest heaving as he licked his crimson stained lips. He reached up, casually wiping a stray smear of blood from his chin with the back of his hand, his eyes still glowing with a faint, satisfied embers of red.

“Don’t worry, doll,” he reassured, though you didn’t feel reassured at all.

He leaned over you, his shadow swallowing your trembling form as he tucked a lock of hair behind your ear with such a gentle care that was never there before.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up,” he promised, a slow, possessive smile spreading across his face.

“We’ve got all the time in the world. We’ve got forever now, baby.”

You rolled over groggily, the world lurching. All you could do was squint up at the ceiling, eyes following the metal curving overhead. It was far too polished and far too close to be your room back at the Thicket— 

Panic jolted through you as sensation rushed back in all at once. 

Your wrists burned, pulled back and bound tightly somewhere behind your back. You sucked in a sharp breath, and your eyes flew open properly this time, blinking hard against the light. Strange bands of illumination traced the seam of the room, casting everything in a cold blue-white hue. It didn’t flicker like firelight or waver like torches. It remained steady and unblinking like the sun up above. 

Your head turned, and the room tilted, vision splintering as your eyes struggled to keep pace. Metal walls pressed in on all sides. Panels lined the walls, etched with symbols you didn’t recognise. Some glowed faintly, others dark and silent. Thin lines—wires, maybe—ran along the surfaces like veins, disappearing into the structure itself. 

But, oddly enough, the air was dry and crisp, nothing like the heavy, damp warmth of the jungle. A bitter tang clung to it, sharp and sterile. It made your nose wrinkle.

Your gaze snagged on a narrow bunk bolted into the wall, a blanket folded neatly at its foot. Beyond it, a cabinet hung open, its contents spilt across the floor. Tools, containers, and weapons. Bullets glinting dully among the scattered pieces. 

Cold fear slid down your spine. 

You tested your restraints again—harder this time—tugging at the rope that bound you in place until the metal beam behind you groaned and thudded in protest. Blindly, you scrambled onto your knees, fighting the bindings until your wrists screamed and your shoulders burned—

The noise stopped, rummaging cut off abruptly. 

A shape moved beneath you; one of the floor panels had been pried up, leaving a gaping hole. A head of dark, tousled hair appeared, followed by the broad, hulking body of your captor as he hauled himself up with a grunt. His metal arm caught the light, and now, even in your foggy state, it was undeniable that this man was Bucky Barnes, the bloodhound hunting Thane. 

“You’re awake,” he said easily. “That’s good. Thought I’d hit you too hard there for a secon—” 

His casual drawl was cut off. 

“Where am I?” you snapped, words tumbling over each other as your gaze darted around the space. “What is this place?”

“Easy there, little lady,” he muttered, unbothered, dragging a stool across the floor with a scrape. He dropped onto it in front of you, legs spread, elbows braced on his thighs as he peered down at you. “You’re on my ship—you know what a ship is, right? You Green Graver’s have ships?”

Your brows knit together, breath coming in short, shallow pulls. “What’s a Green Graver?”

“You—” He sighed, clearly losing patience, and turned his head. “Hey. F.R.I.D.A.Y? Do Green Gravers have ships?”

You flinched, startled as a voice filled the room. It was a woman’s, calm and clear, though utterly devoid of warmth. The scout had mentioned nothing of another bounty hunter working with Barnes. 

“Query acknowledged.” 

You whipped your head around, heart hammering. “Who—who is that?”

“By ‘Green Graver’,” the voice continued smoothly, “I assume you are using slang to refer to the native inhabitants of the planet Ixara Primeria. Intergalactic Fenske Risk Scale classification: R-87.4.”

You looked back at Barnes, who appeared entirely unfazed and understanding of the jumble of unknown words.  

“Planet Ixara Primeria possesses no local technological infrastructure. Native populations have not been exposed to standard scientific developments. Planetary conditions are classified as extremely hostile due to aggressive flora and fauna, and a dense jungle biome—earning it the unofficial nickname of ‘Green Grave’.”

Barnes' brows lifted in vague interest. The harder you listened, the more wrong it sounded. The voice didn’t come from any one place; it seemed to seep out of the walls themselves. It echoed unnaturally, as if it were being projected through the entire ship.

“The Intergalactic Travel Agency advises no travel to R-87.4 Ixara Primeria. No contact with native inhabitants is also advised. Locals are considered primitive and potentially violent if approached or unknowingly provoked.”

“There’s… someone else here,” you whispered, eyes searching the walls, the ceiling, the shadows between panels.

“It’s just the ship’s A.I.,” Bucky said, waving a hand dismissively. He caught the look on your face and snorted. “Just—don’t worry about it.”

You didn’t understand a single thing he was saying, but you decided to take his word for it—except the worrying part. You were very much worried about it. You secretly tucked away the knowledge that a woman might be on board and able to leap out of the shadows to attack you at any moment.

“What is a… Ixara Primeria?” you asked slowly, the word feeling strange on your tongue.

He frowned, eyes scanning your face like he was searching to see if you were joking or not. 

“Hell, maybe I did hit you too hard.” He leaned back on the stool. “Ixara Primeria… your planet… the one we’re on right now?”

It was your turn to examine him to double-check he wasn’t making a poorly landed joke. 

“You are mistaken,” you replied firmly. “This is Khar’eth.”

“Khar’eth?” He huffed a quiet laugh; the pronunciation sounded wrong with his strange accent. “That the local name or somethin’?” 

Despite the casual tone, you could tell it had been rhetorical, because the moment you opened your mouth, he barrelled right over you. 

“Well, sweetheart,” he said, and you didn’t miss the condescension dripping from the nickname.  “Every star map says it’s Ixara Primeria. But if callin’ it Khar’eth makes you feel better, knock yourself out. I ain’t here to argue names.”

That irritated you. 

Maybe it was his tone, the condescension, or the casual entitlement… But his words alone were enough to activate a rage that had lain dormant since you woke. The fear that had wrapped tightly around your ribs evaporated in an instant, burned away by a rising heat that left your body trembling. Anger surged, turning from a simmer to a boil as something within you finally snapped. 

“I know why you’re here,” you snarled, lifting your chin despite the dull throb pulsing behind your temple. “I know what you are.”

That got his attention. 

“I even know your name,” you finished with a sneer. 

His brows lifted, mouth quirking as he leaned back slightly on the stool, posture relaxed in that casual, over-confident way. But you couldn’t help but notice his eyes had become alert. 

“Oh? You do? Well, ain’t that helpful…” he drawled. “Guess we’re on the same page then.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything,” you clarified, jutting your chin to the side in dismissal. 

“I don’t need you to, little lady,” his lips twitched, amused, “got all the information I needed outta that scout. What a screamer he was…”

“I know,” you shot back with a scowl. “I was the one who fixed his shoulder after what you did to him—”

Barnes didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by the vile in your tone, instead sucking on his teeth in thought with a shrug. 

“Huh,” he hummed, thoughtfully. “Guess that tracks. Your village-folk said you was a healer of some kind.”

You swallowed hard, jaw tightening. 

“Be easier for you to kill me now, bloodhound. I’m not helping you,” you seethed. 

His gaze slid over you, deliberately, in an unhurried way that made your skin prickle. It caught on the lines of your body—the way your shirt pulled tight across your chest, the inward dip of your waist before flaring to your hips—and lingered there a heartbeat too long to be accidental. Heat crawled up your spine; it was the kind of look that made you acutely aware of your own body. Bound, sore, and far, far too close to him. 

“I ain’t going to kill you, little lady,” he murmured at last, his voice dropping until it scraped like gravel. “Killin’ women’s bad for business.”

“You already hurt me,” you shot back, anger snapping through the ache in your knees, which were still burning from being knelt cold metal for too long “What’s the difference?”

Something dark flickered through his expression, and his eyes narrowed. “Well, that was necessary to get you—”

You interrupted him. “Untie me then.” 

“No.”

“Then why have you kidnapped me—”

“Because,” he said calmly, cutting you off without raising his voice. He leant forward again, forearms braced on his muscular thighs. Up close, he filled your vision. Close enough that you could feel the faint brush of his breath against your skin. “I know I won’t make it more than a few hundred meters into that jungle without gettin’ pick off by whatever beasts are lurkin’ out there.”

His eyes flicked briefly to your bound hands, then returned to your face. He wet his lower lip with his tongue, considering you. His voice dropped when he spoke again, rough-edged and low enough to settle deep in your chest. “Figured the best way would be to get a local guide.” 

“No.”

“No?” One dark brow lifted, faintly amused. 

“I won’t take you.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you. Up close, you could see the fine lines etched around his eyes—likely from time spent under the sun and a life lived in violence. He was older than you, that was for sure, a decade or so…around Naven’s age. It showed in the way he held himself, unhurried and unshaken. You could make out more scars, smaller, old enough to have faded to the point of minimal visibility. But worst of all, you could smell him, faint sweat and oil and the musk of the jungle. 

“Look,” he said finally, voice low and maddeningly steady. “From where I’m sitting, sweetheart…” His gaze dipped, briefly, deliberately—before lifting to lock onto yours again, cool and certain “...you don’t have much choice in the matter.”

You scowled at him, forcing your spine straight despite the ache in your skull, and your voice came out steadier than you felt. “I won’t take you to him.”

His mouth curved, lazy and infuriating, like he’d been expecting that answer.

“You say that but…I know that you can. You navigated that jungle all by yourself, ‘least that’s what your village folks say.” He paused, a deceptively charming smile on full display now. “Hell, I’ll give you part of the reward if you’re a good girl.”

The words rubbed you the wrong way, and something feral was clawing up your throat, like the way a cornered Morrowcat in the jungle—fur bristled, lips drawn back in a hiss, every warning screaming don’t come closer. Time was bleeding out around you, every second, another handful of soil placed in the graves you were trying not to picture. You were wasting time you didn't have. 

“I don’t want your reward,” you snarled. “I need you to untie me.” 

He exhaled slowly through his nose, fingers tapping once against his thigh. “You’re gonna make this difficult, huh?”

You were wasting time you didn’t have. 

“I need to get back to my village—”

“Just take a breath, sweetheart. I’ll let you go once you take me to Thane—”

“I need to go back,” you insisted, the words tumbling faster now as panic bled through your anger. Naven. The Hall. The rows of bodies. “They need me to heal them—”

“You’re gonna heal them?” Barnes interrupted, incredulous. “You?”

“I promised them I would find a cure.”

“Out there?” A short, humourless laugh left him as he leaned back on the stool, metal scraping softly against the floor. “In that jungle?”

He huffed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Shit, darlin’. Ain’t none of your little… herbs and prayers gonna touch Dry Lung.”

“Dry what?”

“Dry Lung, Desiccation Fever?” His tone shifted. Not mocking now, rather, he seemed troubled. “It’s what they have.”

“You know this plague?” You questioned. 

It took him a beat to reply. 

“Yes,” he said, slowly. And for the first time, he didn’t appear eager to meet your eye; he looked past you instead. Jaw tight, eyes distant… as if something old and ugly had surfaced in his memories. “Yes, I do, so I can tell you you ain’t gonna cure it with anythin’ you can find here.”

“The jungle always provides,” you shot back, grasping for certainty like a lifeline.

That did it.

Whatever had crossed his face vanished, replaced in an instant by the familiar snark, the easy condescension snapping back into place. “Sorry, sweetheart, but that ain’t how it works in the real world. Only cure for Desiccation Fever is RespiraSol.”

The word meant nothing to you. “Respira… what?”

“Hell,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw again. “You don’t know anythin’ do you? The sickness in your village, it ain’t from this planet. And the cure sure as hell ain’t here either.”

“Don’t lie to me—”

“I ain’t lying, sweetheart,” he cut in, voice firm now. “Maybe it’s best you just face the reality that—”

“Stop—”

“ —everyone in that village is either dead or dyin’—”

“Stop it—”

“—and there ain't a damn thing you can do—”

“Stop talking!” you shouted, the sound ripping out of you. Your head pounded viciously as tears bloomed behind your eyes. You squeezed them shut, blinking hard up at the curved ceiling, swallowing back the grief before it could fully rear its ugly head.

Barnes sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. He was already exhausted by you; that much was clear. “And I thought I was ‘posed to be the one runnin’ this shitshow.”

“I’m not taking you to him,” you sniffed. “I need you to let me go.”

“Yeah?” When you tipped your head back down, he was up in your face again. His fingers caught your chin firmly, forcing your face across from his. The pad of his thumb brushed your cheek, smearing away the trail of a tear with an almost mocking gentleness. “And what choice do you have in the matter at this point, little lady? If anythin’ I’m doin’ you a favour—”

Something hot, reckless and ugly seized you. All the fear, all the grief, all the helpless fury accumulating at once. You didn’t think—couldn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You sucked in a breath and spat.

The glob of saliva hit his cheek, just under his eye, and the ship went very, very quiet. 

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then he wiped his face slowly with the back of his hand, eyes lifting to meet yours, all understanding and patience gone now, replaced by something cold. 

“Alright,” he spoke, deceptively calm. “I’m done playin’ nice. We’re headed into the jungle whether you like it or not.”

Panic shot through you.

“I need to go back!” you shouted, desperation clawing its way up your throat. “They need me—”

“Oh, grow up, would you?” he snapped, rising to his feet. “They’re all already marked for death, might as well let it happen ‘fore you catch it too.”

“Fuck you,” you hissed, and he barked a short laugh, stepping close, his shadow swallowing you whole.

“Is that ‘posed to intimidate me?” he asked. His hands reached behind you, fingers working at the bindings. Before you could react, the restraints loosened, only for his grip to tighten as he hauled you upright in one swift motion, your wrists still bound behind your back.

“C’mon,” he growled, steering you toward the exit. “Get on your fuckin’ feet, we’re going for a walk.”

The area where Barnes' ship was located had been unceremoniously named ‘The Clearing’ by Thane. And it was not so much a clearing but rather a wound torn into the jungle. Roughly oval-shaped, made up of trampled earth and broken plant growth, ringed tight by the towering trees. The canopy had been scorched back, branches blackened and stripped bare where ships had burned through on descent. 

The villagers whispered of this place as if it were a legend, not because the land was mystical, but because entry was forbidden. Thane kept it under constant watch, scouts hidden in the trees at all hours to ensure no one wandered too close. The reason, as far as anyone could tell, was simple: it was one of the only places on the entire planet not swallowed by jungle, which meant it was one of the few stretches of open ground where ships could land. 

And ships did land there regularly enough, though no one ever saw them land. 

They came at night, roaring overhead, loud enough to rattle the huts and wake frightened children miles away. Sometimes—before you had left your home to work for Thane—you had stayed awake late into the night, staring hard through the leaves. Just for the off-chance you’d catch a glimpse of them, the distant lights slipping between the branches, gone before your eyes could adjust. 

Now, after living in the Thicket these past years, you knew why those mystery ships came. They came loaded with supplies meant only for Thane. Guns. Ammunition. Strange, off-world items no one else on the planet could obtain. And by guarding the clearing so tightly, Thane ensured that every off-planet arrival was seen, tracked, and reported. Any outsider who came down uninvited was flagged immediately—especially if they posed a threat.

A threat just like Bucky Barnes, whose ship now sat behind you.

It was large in comparison to you, that was for sure, but nowhere near as colossal in contrast with the ruins of the ship the Thicket was made from. Barnes’ ship wasn’t boxy in the same way; it was all sharp angles. Sleek in a way you suspected was for speed. The metal was scorched in some places, scarred and pitted like it had been struck with bullets. Along its side was bold, red text: Howling Commando. It squatted in the Clearing like a predator at rest, ramp already sealing shut with a hiss. 

You barely had time to take it in before Barnes shoved you forward. “Move.”

Your feet slid in the loose earth as you stumbled and managed to regain your balance, your wrists still bound tightly behind your back. The dull, pounding ache of pain still flared from your skull down into your arms, only growing more irritated with every step. You were near certain you had a giant bruise on your cheek and temple, and from the itch along your hairline, likely a fair bit of dried blood, too. 

The jungle swallowed you almost immediately, the moment you were shoved past its threshold. The undergrowth tugged at your shins, broad leaves slick with humidity brushing your skin, insects whirring angrily at the disturbance. 

Although there was a bittersweet comfort and familiarity with the jungle, you still cast a quick, desperate glance back towards the clearing. Please, you thought. Please let one of the scouts be watching. You knew if any of them saw you being dragged off by an off-worlder with a gun, they’d have to act. Or at least report it to Thane—hopefully to your village too. 

Gods, you hoped your village didn’t believe you’d abandoned them—not again. No. You couldn’t run this time. You would save them.

Still, apprehension coiled in your gut. You had the sinking feeling that Barnes wasn’t lying, not about Dry Lung or off-world cures. As much as you wanted him to be wrong, he had nothing to gain by deceiving you about that.

But Thane… he was an off-planeter himself. If anyone on this planet knew of Dry Lung and how to treat it, it would be him. Maybe—if you could worm your way out of Barnes’s grip—you could convince Thane to bring the cure in his next supply shipment. If he treated it as urgent, if the ships came fast enough, maybe it would arrive before Naven and the others grew too weak to fight the disease.

Maybe. Just maybe. 

But all of that didn’t matter now. You needed to focus and make an escape plan. And from the way Barnes was navigating the jungle, you suspected that escape needed to be sooner rather than later. He hadn’t taken you towards any of the main paths. Instead, he cut sideways into the undergrowth, forcing you through growth so thick it slowed your pace to inches at a time. You presumed he wanted to avoid running into any scouts, but those paths existed for a reason. They were well established enough that travel became unquestionably faster, and conveniently wove around to avoid nests, sink holes and the dens of things that hunted by scent and sound. 

And Barnes was making plenty of sound. 

Branches cracked under his boots, leaves tore, and his shoulder clipped vines hard enough to snap them free. It was like he was deliberately trying to leave a path of destruction behind you. The massive rifle strapped across his back bumped rhymically against him, metal knocking dully with every step. 

“You’re too loud.”

“Relax,” he muttered, one hand clamped on your upper arm as she shoved you around a curtain of hanging moss. 

“Everything in this jungle can hear you,” you snapped back with a hiss, breath coming short as you struggled to keep up with the pace, all while dodging and weaving through the undergrowth. Sweat was already slicking down your spine.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah? And everythin’ in this jungle can hear you breathin’ like that.”

You glared over your shoulder, though the motion sent a sharp spike of pain through your skull. The world tilted for a second before righting itself. You gritted your teeth and pushed onwards. 

A couple of hours in, the sun was starting to set; even under the canopy, the golden light shone through, catching on the moisture clinging to the plantlife. Barnes had ensured the brutal pace was kept up, with not-so-delicate shoves as you tried to find the best path through the greenery. Every step fought you, roots twisting underfoot, thorned vines snagging your clothes, insects biting exposed skin without mercy. Sweat plastered your hair to your temples, trickling down into your eyes. Your throat was dry, your entire body shaking from fatigue, and the throbbing in your skull was becoming agonising. 

“How much further?” Barnes asked abruptly, and you hesitated with a sigh, carefully steering around a fallen, half-rotted log. 

“Far enough that you should’ve taken a path—” your snip was cut short as the rope binding your wrists snapped taut. You were yanked backwards, your spine colliding with a solid wall of muscle as his chest came flush to your back.

“Don’t be smart about it, sweetheart.” Barnes breathed into your ear, and you shuddered, acutely aware of the brush of his breath, the faint graze of his lips near your earlobe as he leaned in. “How far?”

The proximity made your skin prickle. As you swallowed hard and turned your head to look at him, you realised he had not been spared by the elements either. Sweat darkened the fabric of his shirt, clinging to his broad frame, curls plastered damply to his forehead. His breathing had deepened with the heat and exertion, chest rising slowly and heavily as he watched you.

“At the pace we’re going…” You started, eyelids fluttering and chest heaving as his breath fanned across your face. “We’ll get there early morning if we’re lucky and push through all night. But it’s impossible to navigate unpathed jungle in the dark without—”

“We keep movin’.” He grunted and shoved you forward. 

You stumbled, feet catching your foot catching on a root you swore hadn’t been there a second ago.

“You slowin’ down on purpose?” he asked. “Thought you Green Gravers were ‘posed to be good at this shit.”

“I—” The word slurred, your balance pitching sharply to one side. White flared behind your eyes, pain detonating through your skull in time with your pulse. You barely caught yourself before your knees buckled completely. 

Barnes swore under his breath and grabbed your arm, steadying you before you hit the ground. He gripped your chin with one hand, as he tilted your head side to side, eyes tracking your pupils, and inspecting the dark bloom of the bruise at your temple. Whatever he saw, he didn’t like the look of it. He muttered something low under his breath that you didn’t catch, jaw ticking as irritation bled into something closer to concern. Reaching back, he yanked his canteen free and twisted the cap off with his teeth.

“Drink.” 

“I can’t—” Your wrists jerked uselessly behind you. 

“I know.” His voice dropped, unexpectedly gentle. His free hand stayed at your chin, tipping your face back as he angled the canteen toward your mouth. “Just… look at me.”

You did. It was unexpectedly intimate, watching his brow furrow in concentration as he poured the water into your mouth. You couldn’t help but let out a little moan, eyes rolling back as the water hit your lips, cold and clean. You swallowed greedily, throat working as it spilt too fast, some of it escaping and trailing down your chin. 

When you opened your eyes, he hadn’t looked away. His gaze locked on the movement of your throat, lingered at your mouth. Slowly, he lowered the canteen. His thumb followed after, the metal digit brushing away the line of escaped water at your jaw with a deliberate, lingering swipe.

Your breath hitched. 

“Enough,” he finally said, his voice rougher than before. He capped the canteen and took a step back, like he’d only just realised how close he’d let himself get. “We keep movin’.”

For once, you didn’t argue.

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You were already packed and moving past the spiked jungle-wood fence, and the half-dozing guards in the watchtowers before the sun had breached the horizon. Only a thin wash of grey light clung to the sky, the last of the night retreating as you slipped beneath the canopy. Insects trilled and clicked around you, their chorus thinning the deeper you went, giving way to the first tentative calls of birds waking overhead. 

You kept a steady pace, feet finding the familiar rhythm along the dirt and roots, ducking low branches without breaking stride. If you kept your pace up and nothing interrupted you, you’d reach Caligo by late afternoon. 

Thane had suggested you take a party of his men. A kind offer from him, all things considered. Though, he had called it travel protection, rather than a helping hand for the horrors you had yet to face. 

Regardless, you’d declined. 

You didn’t need guides through your own jungle. You’d walked these routes more times than you could count, answering the call for help whenever a scout or hunter was injured deep in the wild. But mostly, you’d declined because a heavily armed group would only draw attention. If the scout was truthful, and that bounty hunter, that bloodhound was still lurking… attention was the last thing you wanted. 

You suspected this Barnes was likely smart enough not to venture too deep alone, instead sticking to the more populated areas. The jungle paths between villages were dangerous, yes, but they were carved by generations of feet. The wildlife had learned those boundaries. It kept to the deeper, darker places. Places like where you walked now, or where the Thicket squatted, half-swallowed by the rainforest. It was a type of natural defence, one that kept the Thicket relatively safe from wandering outsiders—at the cost of isolation. The type of isolation that made travel to the true heart of the jungle slow, punishing work—

There was movement, just off the trail. 

Your steps faltered automatically, feet coming down softly as you slowed to a stop. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be too much of a threat. The insects still trilled, their endless chorus only drowned out by the distant flutter of a bird taking flight into the grey dawn. You scanned the undergrowth, catching the faint ripple of motion.

A spineback. 

Its plated hide blended almost seamlessly with the mottled greens and browns of the jungle floor, only the curved ridges along its back betraying it, layer upon layer of bone and leathery skin grown thick as armour, scarred and dulled by age. Its head lifted, deep nostrils on either side of its horn flaring as it tasted the air. The creature shifted its weight, pawing at the jungle floor with a low, grinding sound, its hooved toes pressing deep into the soil. A spilt tongue flicked out between blunt, crushing teeth, its beady, dark eyes tracking the shadows. 

If there was one, the rest of the herd would be nearby. 

Slowly—slowly—you eased backwards, placing your heel where your toe had been, feeling for roots and stones before committing your weight. The herd’s passage was announced by the rhythmic thud of armoured bodies and the crack of felled branches surrendering beneath their weight. You stepped carefully off the path, watching as they passed, their thick tails flattening the undergrowth with careless swings. The smaller juveniles stayed tucked close to the centre, shielded by the bulk of their elders. They were peaceful creatures, herbivores. But, like most things on Khar’eth, no less dangerous when they felt threatened, especially with their young to protect. 

The detour took you closer to the undergrowth than you liked, forcing you into a narrow strip of ground choked with low creepers and twisting vines. You watched your footing closely, eyes tracking the faint sheen along the forest floor until you spotted it—chokevine, its tendrils lying deceptively slack among the moss and soil.

You lifted your foot slowly, placed it down with deliberate care, and moved through without disturbing a single coil.

You kept your body turned slightly away from the herd, movements smooth and predictable, giving the spinebacks a wide arc. One of the adults snorted softly, stamping once, but did not charge. Its attention lingered on you only briefly before returning to the juveniles pressing close to its flank.

This—this—was why no one came. Not because Khar’eth was hostile, not truly. But because it demanded understanding. Because survival here wasn’t about strength or weapons or destruction. It was about knowing when to stop, when to yield ground, when to become one with the jungle…but most of all, when to run. 

Outsiders didn’t have the patience for it, or the time. Years passed between them. Decades, sometimes. Thane was one of the only off-planters to ever settle on Khar’eth, and he’d only survived because he’d hired locals—people like you—to teach him the jungle’s language. Which birdcall meant warning, which silences meant death, and which plants were as deadly as predators. Without that knowledge, he’d been dead in days, if not hours. 

Once you had cleared the herd entirely, you eased back onto the path, boots crunching softly over packed earth. Behind you, the spinebacks moved on, the jungle folding itself closed around them..

Ahead, the trail bent toward Caligo.

You adjusted your pack and continued forward, careful where you placed your feet, already recalibrating your pace to the jungle’s unspoken rules.

Hours later, it was the crunch of sand beneath your boot that stopped you short. You stared down at the ground, momentarily disoriented. You had seen sand before—of course, you had—but never like this, never here. The nearest bay lay miles away, where the jungle finally surrendered to an ocean that stretched unbroken to the horizon. You had only ever seen that great blue after leaving Caligo, called there under Thane’s employ for a job gone sideways. A razortooth had taken one of the Hunters at the water’s edge. It had clamped its jaw around his legs, dragging him screaming towards the surf to be devoured until Ronan put a bullet through the beast's skull. The Hunter had lived, if you could call it that. He walked with a brace now, bones shattered beyond your ability to heal. 

But this—this made no sense. Sand had no business being this far inland. 

You crouched, brushing your fingers through the pale grit. It was fine, almost silky, slipping easily through your hands. It dusted the undergrowth, clung to moss and fallen leaves, and settled in the shallow footprints along the path. You followed the trail with your eyes, uneasy. The closer you drew towards Caligo, the denser it became. Quite literally a path leading home—and you’d noticed it far before you saw the familiar curve of the entrance arch through the leaves, long before the outlines of huts and smoke emerged. It had been tracked through the jungle, carried by the breeze. A sick understanding coiled low in your gut. This abnormal sand, it was coming from Caligo. 

And worst of all, Caligo was silent. No voices, no laughter, no rhythmic clatter of daily life. The village sat ahead of you, perfectly intact, and utterly dead. The dread in your stomach yawned wider, and you passed beneath the archway on unsteady feet, eyes darting as you drank in the scene before you… and stopped dead in your tracks. 

At first, you mistook the shapes in the street for covered lumber or baskets of food. But the harder you stared, the more undeniable the truth became. 

Bodies.

They were stacked in the thoroughfare, piled without care, some half-covered, others left bare beneath the canopy. You braced yourself, braced yourself for the stench of rot. You knew decay, had encountered the cycles of life and death within the jungle. You’d seen plenty of decomposing and bloated bodies of animals and unfortunate souls that wandered too deep into the jungle without a guide. You’d stared at their blue flesh and bulbous eyes, recognised decomposition taking hold. 

But the stench never came. 

The air was warm and humid. Sweat beaded even your brow, your clothes drenched through from just walking, but these bodies seemed to reject the moisture. There was no swelling, no bloating, no mould or maggots creeping across the skin. It was as if nature itself had been shut out—something so wrong, so uncanny it wrung out even your iron gut and made your steady, healer’s hands tremble. 

Their flesh was pale and tight, drawn so thin it had split over elbows and knees, cracked like leather stretched too far. Lips were pulled back from yellowed teeth, eyes left open, shrunken and dry. You took a step closer to investigate, and your breath hitched. 

The bodies didn’t compress the way they should have. Those at the bottom of the piles hadn’t flattened or burst—they had collapsed. Chests caved inward, as if the ribcages had simply…given up. Their bones were reduced to nothing, their skin and muscle hard and disintegrating until they turned to dust… to sand. 

Sand.

The streets were coated in it, that same pale grit you’d followed all the way here. It puffed up around your boots with every step, rising in faint clouds. You lifted a shaking hand and dragged your neck covering over your mouth and nose, bile burning acidic in your throat. 

You were standing in a mass grave.

It was a voice in the distance that finally dragged your attention away from the bodies. A quiet, hoarse voice that you thought you’d imagined at first, until it continued, insistent, calling your name. You finally turned, catching sight of its origin—Lira.

She stood a few paces away, half-hidden behind a leaning hut wall, as if unsure whether she was really seeing you. Her hair had been hacked short in the time since you had seen her last, uneven and jagged around her jaw. Her face was thinner than you remembered, eyes sunk deep into bruised hollows, skin sagging with exhaustion.

Lira, the wife of your brother Naven. Your sister by marriage, though the word sister had always felt odd to say. You had never been close with her or Naven. Being one of your older brothers, he was already a man by the time you were old enough to trail after him. Still—family was family. 

Lira’s face crumpled the moment she recognised you. A broken sound tore from her throat as she surged forward, the force of her knocking the breath from your lungs. You barely had time to brace for her unexpected embrace before her arms locked around your waist, fingers digging in, her face pressed into your shoulder. 

“Gods above,” she breathed, voice raw. “I thought—when the elders said someone was coming—I didn’t think it would be you.”

She was shaking. Not just trembling, but full-body, bone-deep tremors. You wrapped your arms around her on instinct, your hands finding her shoulderblades as you drew her in tight. 

“I thought—we all thought you were gone,” she whispered. “Thought you’d abandoned us for good—”

“I came as soon as I heard,” the words tumbled out of you before you could help it. “As soon as I got the letter, I came to help… I didn’t… I didn’t realise how bad—”

She pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy but fierce. “No,” she cut over you sharply. “You couldn’t have known. None of us did.”

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, slowly easing from her grip. Your gaze drifted past her, back to the street, back to the bodies. The further you looked, the closer you inspected, the worse it got. The sand gathered in drifts, the unbearable stillness in a place once bustling and flourishing—

“How many?” you asked quietly. 

The pained look on her face told you all you needed to know. 

“My family?”

“Gone—I am… I am sorry. They are gone. The children were some of the first to go, then your parents, and your siblings—”

You shook your head. Thane had already said as much, and you thought deep down that you were prepared to face the reality of it, but… maybe you weren’t. There was an undeniably hollow ache opening beneath your ribs that seemed to grow larger by the second. 

“What of Naven and your children?” you asked, almost afraid of the answer. 

“My children are safe, thank the gods, but Naven…” her voice trembled, like a sob was nearly breaking the surface. “He caught the sickness, he is still alive, still fighting but…”

There was a haunted, defeated look in her eye.  “Once they catch it, no one survives.”

You stared at her a moment. “No one? No one has recovered?”

“None last longer than a month. Sometimes less,” she replied softly. “It always starts slow, dry lips, dry throats… They stop sweating, even in the heat—and they are always begging for water, for some kind of relief, but it never helps. It is like the sickness drinks it first.”

Her hands twisted together, knuckles white.

“They grow weaker each day, like something inside is wringing them dry.” She paused, swallowing hard. “Eventually, the body gives up its shape. It breaks apart, turns to sand. Like they were never made of flesh at all.”

A shudder crawled up your spine, and Lira glanced around, as if only now truly seeing the devastation surrounding you.

“We haven’t buried them,” she said, shame and exhaustion tangling in her voice. “We can’t. We don’t have the strength to dig, and when we try to move them, they just crumble—”

Tears brimmed in her eyes, and all you could think to do was rest a hand on her shoulder in comfort, with a solemn, “I understand,” muttered.

“The ones still alive,” she continued, “we’re keeping them in the hall. Those who haven’t….” Her voice wavered. “We’re doing what we can. Anything to ease their passing.”

Your healer’s instincts finally stirred back to life, cutting through the fog of grief. 

In all your years as a healer, you had never known a wound without at least the promise of mending, let alone a sickness without a cure. Nature was cruel, yes, but it was ordered. There was balance. Flesh broke and flesh healed. Blood spilled and blood clotted. You had set bones by torchlight, packed wounds that should’ve rotted a man from the inside out, kept people breathing long past the point the gods themselves seemed to intend. 

So why this? Why your village, why now? Mothers, fathers, children—people who had done nothing but live quietly in the shadow of the jungle’s rule. There had to be something you were missing. Some herb, some ritual, some answer buried deep enough that it simply hadn’t been reached yet. There had to be a solution, an offering to drive this evil from your home. 

And yet, a colder thought followed. What if this was something else entirely? Maybe this was worse than anything you had ever faced, something so unnatural that even the jungle and the gods had no words for it?

You exhaled sharply, chasing the thought away.

If this was beyond your knowing, beyond your skill, then you would learn. If it demanded more than you had ever given before, then you would try and try again—you would try until there was nothing left of you to offer, you would try even if it broke you. Try for the family you had abandoned so long ago, because if all your siblings were dead, if Naven did not recover and your bloodline truly ended here… maybe your father’s worst fears would be realised. 

You alone would be the only surviving heir of Caligo, or at least, what was left of it. 

“Show me.” You said as you turned to face Lira, determined. “Take me to the ones who are still alive.”

Signs of survival clung desperately throughout the devastation. What had once been the village market was now little more than a churned, muddy courtyard. The stalls stood crooked and abandoned, canvas rotted through. Whatever food had been left behind had spoiled long ago, reduced to mould and buzzing insects. 

You remembered how it had been, colour and noise. Life packed shoulder to shoulder. Baskets overflowing with bright, fresh fruit and vegetables. Honeycomb wrapped in leaves, bread still warm enough to fog the air. Cuts of meat hung in the shade, the scent of ale spilling from the tavern. Peddlers would call out, offering shells gathered from the shores miles away, braided baskets woven from river reeds, or the seamstress who would stitch anything you asked for. 

Now, the cooking fires were cold. Black circles of ash left untouched for days. Anything that could be scavenged seemed to be eaten quickly, passed and shared among those who still survived. Marks had been carved into the frames of the huts. Names, tallies, prayers. Some were little more than scratches, others deep enough to splinter the grain. A record of grief, maybe, or maybe a record that at one time, there had been life in this village. Like the fear that this plague would wipe all history of your people had taken hold of those who persevered. 

Those still alive moved through the streets with hollow eyes and bowed shoulders. But when they saw you, they stopped. One by one, bodies froze mid-step. You felt their stares long after you passed, disbelief pressing in from all sides. Whispers of your name rippled through the thin crowd. Uncertain, as if saying it too loudly might banish you again. 

They were considering you as an omen, you realised. Good or ill, they weren’t sure. But you were something. The last of your bloodline, not buried, not becoming sand.

Already, whether you wanted it or not, they were looking to you.

The village hall was the hub of activity now—if what was before you could be called activity. The doors had been thrown wide open to let in what little air could move through the heavy heat. It did little to ease the stench of sweat and healing incense. Mats woven from palm fibre, bedrolls dragged from homes, layered haphazardly with cloaks and blankets. Bodies filled the space wall to wall, arranged in careful rows so the healers could navigate through them. The infected lay unnervingly still, chests rising shallowly, breaths dry and rasping as if each one scraped painfully through their throats. 

Those still standing knelt beside them. Pressing damp cloths to cracked lips. Murmuring prayers under their breath. A few survivors lifted their heads as you entered, eyes widening as they tracked your movement through the hall. You heard your name whispered again, as though they weren’t sure if you were flesh or spirit.

Lira guided you along the edge of the room, her hand light at your elbow, until she stopped near the far wall. The man lying there was gaunt, cheeks hollowed, collarbones sharp beneath stretched skin. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of your movement, and it took you a second to register, to realise that the man was Naven.

“Lira?” he rasped.

“I’m here,” she said immediately, dropping to her knees. “Your sister is, too. She has returned to help us, just like the elders said she would.”

His gaze shifted—slow and unfocused—until it landed on you. Recognition sparked, faint but undeniable. His cracked lips curved into something like a smile.

“Gods,” he breathed. “Death must truly be upon us if even you have returned home—”

You shook your head, shushing him as you knelt, pressing your fingers gently to his wrist. “Save your energy.”

For once in his life, Naven listened.

He swallowed, throat working painfully, and let his head fall back against the mat, eyes fixed on the woven roof above. Lira soaked a cloth and carefully dabbed it along his forehead and lips. You assessed him quietly. His pulse was thin and fluttering beneath your fingers, skin fever-hot and brittle-dry, breath shallow and uneven.

“How long?” you asked Lira softly, as if it were nothing more than idle curiosity. Anything to hide the genuine concern you felt for your brother, who seemed to be withering before your very eyes. 

Before the woman could even answer, Naven let out a faint, humourless huff. “Two weeks.”

Lira stiffened beside you. 

“Two weeks?” you repeated.

The sickness progressed faster than you’d dared to predict—he was already skeletal in appearance, and where sweat should have been, there lay the beginnings of crystallised sand. 

He turned his head just enough to look at you again, the thin skin of his neck crunching. There was no fear in his eyes—only resignation. “I’m not stupid,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “I can feel it. I won’t last much longer.”

“No,” you said immediately, sharper than you intended. You’d never known Naven to be a pessimist; he had always been the cocky, overconfident one in the family. He had always been up to mischief, attempting to ride spinebacks or gambling by eating potentially poisonous wildberries. He’d defied death too many times to be lost now, just when he was truly becoming a man worth looking up to. “Don’t talk like that.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Someone has to.”

His gaze slid past you, unfocused, towards the far end of the hall, as if examining the rows of bodies and the murmuring survivors. His fingers twitched against the mat, as if he wanted to reach for them, but no longer had the strength. 

“They’ll need you,” he said quietly. “When I’m gone.”

Your hand tightened around his wrist, thumb pressing into the fragile beat of his pulse as though you could will it to be stronger. “I’m not ready.”

A faint crease formed between his brows. 

“Then take this time to prepare yourself.” He rasped, throat working painfully. “You can’t go running to hide in the jungle now. These people—this village—is your responsibility—”

“Naven—” 

“They are frightened,” he continued, forcing each word out despite scraping his throat each time. His eyes met yours, unflinching despite the fatigue and fever burning through him. “They will need guidance. I cannot give that to them, sister. You must face the reality of this situation—”

“I’m not going to just give up on you—” The words spilt out before you could stop them, a little louder than intended, but it was Naven’s roar that made your snap your jaw shut. 

“I am dying!” Naven snapped. The sound of his voice cut through the hall, startling those who were lucid enough to hear. Lira bristled beside you, murmuring something you couldn’t quite hear to try to calm her husband before he overexerted himself. 

Naven sucked in a ragged breath, chest suttering as if the shout stole what little strength he had left. 

“I am dying,” he repeated, quieter now. “And there is nothing you can do to change that.”

Something inside you finally cracked. Your vision blurred, hot and sudden, and you dragged in a shaking breath that did little to steady you. 

“I won’t let it come to that,” you said, voice trembling despite your efforts to control it. “I will do anything and everything in my power to fix this. I swear it.”

Naven’s expression had softened—pity, maybe. Or sorrow. 

“I am not what Caligo needs.” You admitted, even if it tasted bittersweet. “They need you to guide them. Not me.”

“I respect your ambition, sister,” he murmured. “But even the gods cannot save us now.”

You exhaled sharply and lifted your gaze, only then realising how still the hall had become. The murmurs had died, the whispered prayers faded into silence. Those who had the stamina left were watching you expectantly. 

You were entirely exposed, a raw nerve naked against the jungle air. And grief was crawling up your throat quickly, anger and fear tangling until you didn’t know where one ended and the other began. Scrubbing a hand down your face, fingers trembling, you stood too quickly. 

“I need some air,” you muttered lowly, and turned away before anyone could see tears form. 

Lira tried to follow you as you staggered to your feet, only to be stopped by Naven’s skeletal hand. His fingers weakly closed around her wrist before she could rise. You barely registered it—your focus had narrowed to one, singular goal: get out. 

You threaded your way through the rows of bodies, fighting to control the sobs of panic that were threatening to rise. You couldn’t carry this death and grief for another second. If you were going to break, you would break alone, where no one could witness your weakness. 

You slipped out the side of the hall and stumbled blindly through the village, past silent huts and abandoned fires, until the dirt gave way beneath your feet and the trees swallowed you whole. The jungle closed in fast, dense and buzzing. 

Your knees hit the ground.

You folded over yourself, crouching low as your hands came up to clutch at your head. Your eyes squeezed shut, and you struck the heel of your palm against your temple—once, twice—as if you could knock the thoughts loose, beat them back into order.

“Fuck,” you hissed into the hum of insects and distant birdcalls. Your breath came in sharp, panicked gulps, lungs refusing to remember how to work. 

In. Out. In—Gods, please.

Tears burned hot against your lashes, spilling free before you could stop them. Your chest heaved as the truth finally caught up to you. Not just that Naven was dying, that basically your entire family was dead, but that the village was looking at you now. Expecting something you didn’t know how to give.

You couldn’t do this, you couldn’t do this, you couldn’t do this—you were a healer, a deserter, barely a woman, and now they expected you to lead? 

You couldn’t—

You couldn’t do this—

A sharp crack echoed behind you. The sound of a branch snapping underfoot. 

It jolted through your spine, dragging you violently back into your body. You twisted around, already speaking, voice frayed and gasping. “Lira, I just need a moment—”

The words died on your tongue, the shock enough to silence the panic blooming in your chest. It wasn’t Lira.

The man standing a few paces away was a stranger—tall, broad-shouldered, built with pure muscle. His arms hung at his side, one unmistakably metal, dull silver catching the fractured light filtering through the canopy. His face was chiselled, marked by half-faded scars along his temple and jaw. Stubble shadowed his mouth. Beneath the disordered fall of dark hair, cold steel-blue eyes fixed on you, assessing and measuring with predatory stillness.

“You look like you’re havin’ a bad day, little lady,” he drawled, voice low and casual, like this was nothing more than an inconvenience. “Too bad it’s ‘bout to get worse.”

“What—?!”

His metal arm moved in a blur, and pain exploded at your temple, white-hot and all-consuming. The world went black before you could even register hitting the jungle floor. 

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The first thing you asked Ronan—who had rudely awakened you by slamming his fist repeatedly against your door, until the rattling had finally roused you from a relatively peaceful, dreamless sleep—was the time. He hadn’t answered your question. Instead, his brows had raised as his gaze slid past your shoulder, landing on the naked man sprawled face-down in your bed. You’d clambered over him while pulling on some clothing just moments beforehand. Awkwardly enough, he was one of Ronan’s fellow Hunters. Snoring softly, entirely unconcerned with modesty or aware of the company now standing in your doorway. 

You couldn’t recall the man's name now, Taren, perhaps? Or was that the one from the week before—no, that one was definitely Jarek. Either way, both men—and countless others—found their courage at the bottom of a glass or three of gods-knew-what from Isara’s bar. They’d swaggered over to your usual corner booth, the one with a bit of cushioning left and fewer springs stabbing through the fabric, where you’d been playing cards with the rookie healers Thane had asked you to train. 

And to your credit, you had fucked them both senseless—Taren and Jarek, that was, not your rookies. The cycle, as ever, renewed itself. That was one of the freedoms you had come to enjoy since leaving your family and village behind four years ago, a good, or at least middling, fuck when you wanted one. You were learning, quickly, the quiet power that came with being desired. 

Ronan gave you a look that could only be described as deeply judgmental. You nudged the door closed another inch until only your face remained visible. And finally, he spoke. 

“It’s one of the scouts, he’s in Thane’s office—”

“What is it this time?” You cut over Ronan with a sigh, squinting at the flickering torch in his hand. 

“Shoulder. Dislocation. And a few scrapes… maybe a broken nose—”

You groaned, maybe a little over-dramatically, and scrubbed a hand down your face. Still, you grabbed your medic-bag, ready to go as always beside the door. Glass vials clinked softly and leafy herbs rustled inside as you pushed past Ronan into the hallway with a huff and followed the spill of his torchlight down into the hallway. 

The Thicket Outpost lay quiet at this hour, sunk into the type of hush that only settled when even the night-shift guards had begun to doze off at their posts. Your footsteps rang out against the narrow metal passage, Ronan’s close behind you. Beyond the walls, insects trilled deep in the jungle, and somewhere ahead, muffled voices cut through the dark. 

The Thicket hadn’t always been a place, of that much you were sure. The ancient metal spaceship sat deep in the wilderness like a fallen god. 

You remembered the first time you saw it, your jaw had quite literally dropped. You’d heard tales of beasts made of metal that roamed the stars, controlled by humans as simple and small as you. But nothing, no tales or warnings, had fully prepared you to see a spaceship for the first time in your life. It was colossal, bigger than anything you had known existed, larger than you could even comprehend. 

You’d stepped through the spiked jungle-wood fence the guards had raised for defence, expecting another village hall, another cluster of huts woven from vine and bark. But that had been your first mistake—expecting Zarvik Thane to be anything like you, or anyone you had ever known. He wasn’t from Khar’eth, no, he was from another planet entirely. And the Thicket, this enormous spaceship you now called home, was the closest you’d ever come to experiencing what the galaxy and beyond had to offer. 

The ship’s hull had split open, its insides exposed and twisted, towering overhead in a way that made your neck ache. Whole sections of its mass lay half-buried under earth and roots, others suspended where trees had grown through open wounds in the frame. You’d wandered inside in a daze, hands brushing cold walls etched with strange markings and bullet holes. Buttons and switches lined panels taller than you, and smooth black plates—screens, Thane called them—stared back at you like dark eyes. You had been afraid to touch them, half-convinced they might wake. 

Thane had once told you the ship was dead, that it had been for decades. He had told you how all the buttons, switches and screens had once lit up, once made noises and had purpose. They were all useless now, ever since the ship had crashed from the skies like a bird felled by an arrow. 

You hadn’t noticed the vines back then, or the moss creeping along the seams. The jungle had already begun to reclaim the wreck, the patient and unstoppable force you knew her to be. That wonder felt somewhat lost now that you lived inside its corpse, like a maggot to rotted flesh. Roots burst through cracked plating, and fungal blooms clung to rusted beams. Whenever it rained, water dripped constantly from the ceiling where the hull had collapsed inward, collecting in shallow basins carved from scrap metal. Wooden walkways had been built over gaps in the floor, torches burned in brackets welded to walls, and candles flickered in alcoves where objects called circuits and wire once lived. 

Bleary-eyed, you tilted your head, squinting up through a jagged hole in the ceiling as you walked. The sky beyond the trees was still dark, not yet dawn. If your record held, you’d be clambering back over Taren and under the sheets before the sun broke the horizon and the birds began to call. 

“How’d he even manage it?” you muttered as you walked. “ It’s the middle of the night—”

“You’ll see.” Ronan cut back, unhelpfully. 

You gave him a scathing look over your shoulder as you reached Thane’s office. It sat deep in the ship’s belly, where the hull had buckled inward and had to be reinforced with scavenged beams. The door was old, metal warped and melted, hinges red with rust. You shoved it open with a little more force than necessary, the metal screeching against the floor as it swung open. 

You’d never been able to pin down how old Thane was exactly. He rarely shared personal details about his life before he came to Khar’eth, but tonight, he seemed older, maybe even paler than usual. A slight strain in his expression, at first glance, you could’ve mistaken it for anger, but the harder you looked, you realised maybe it was apprehension. 

He was built broad and weathered, all hard angles and old muscle. A long, dark coat hung from his shoulders, reinforced at the seams with scavenged plating and stitched repairs, its hem perpetually frayed. Underneath, layered fabrics and hardened leather were cinched tight with belts and holsters, each one bearing a weapon or tool whose purpose you had never dared ask about. His face was sharp, with dark eyes sunk deep beneath a heavy brow. 

He stood behind his desk, palms braced against the amalgamation of metal and jungle wood. Maps were spread across it, hand-drawn charts of jungle paths, smuggling routes, bounty postings and fragments of star maps. Behind him, candles pooled wax over the cracked metal wall, their smoke clinging to the ceiling and mingling with the scent of gunpowder, earth and iron. 

“Explain it to me again,” Thane snarled. “Slower.” 

Thane’s gaze was locked onto what appeared to be your patient. The scout sat slumped in one of the mismatched chairs scattered around the room, cradling his dislocated shoulder like it might fall clean off if he let go. Guards and Hunters crowded the walls—whoever had still been awake at this hour—arms crossed, faces carved into identical scowls.

Ronan slipped in beside the others. You followed suit, lowering your medic-bag by the scout’s chair and dropping to your knees without a word. 

“I was watchin’ the clearin’, had to scare off a few of the village-folk—” the scout started, then hissed, fingers tightening as pain spiked through his arm. 

You didn’t look up, instead assessing the damage by sight alone. The shoulder jutted at a wrong angle, skin stretched tight over bones, the seam of his shirt torn wide enough to expose the swell. Even you had to fight the instinct to wince

“Not that part,” Thane cut in. 

Your hands were moving now, gently feeling the joint as the scout squirmed and flinched. You braced one foot against the floor, wrapping your fingers around his upper arm as you tenderly tested how the tendons felt. 

“A small ship landed, not the cargo you was waiting for—” the scout faltered as a tight sound slipped from his throat before he could stop it, jaw locking hard.  “Came down real quiet and clean, just one man inside.”

That caught Thane’s interest. “Describe him.”

“Don’t fight me,” you murmured, low enough that only the scout could hear. “It’ll hurt worse if you do.”

He let out a breath that was half-way laugh, half-way sob. “Easy for you t’say.”

“I know,” you replied, and shifted your grip. “On three.”

His jaw clenched as you rolled the joint, guiding bone back towards where it belonged. The scout sucked in a sharp breath and kept talking through it, words spilling out between clenched teeth as if stopping would somehow make it worse. 

“He was big, real strong lookin’—” 

You felt the joint catch. Wrong, still wrong. The scout had doubled forward with a sharp gasp, and all you could do was shove him back in place with a determined scowl. You had a feeling this wasn’t going to be your finest work. Five minutes until your return to bed, twenty-six-second record, be damned. 

Thane’s finger drummed once against the edge of his desk. “Go on.”

“Dark hair…. An’ he had a metal arm! On the—on the… left side! An’ he was armed—”

You leaned in closer. “Now,” you warned softly, and twisted.

The sound that followed was sickening—a wet, hollow crunch—and the scout yelped, body jerking and twitching against your hold. Someone along the wall swore, gazes averted. You didn’t let go until you were sure you felt the joint settle. 

The scout gasped, sweat slicking his dirtied brow, but in his glassy eyes, you could clearly see that instant relief. The pain had dulled now, that was for sure, just a tender joint rather than fire licking down his nerves. 

“There,” you uttered, already reaching for a wrap. “Breathe.”

“And?” Thane prompted, and it was only as you cast a glance over at him that you realised he had grown dangerous still. Your hands slowed almost imperceptibly as you began to bind the scout’s shoulder into a sling, your curiosity getting the better of you. 

“He came outta nowhere, hit me hard enough that I don’t even remember hittin’ the ground! I woke up all tied up, my shoulder outta place.” The scout now lifted his eyes to Thane, relief turning to apprehension. “He was askin’ questions.”

“About?” Thane asked.

“‘bout you.”

You tied off the bandage and leaned back on your heels just as the scout sucked in one last shuddering breath. 

“Said he was lookin’ for a Zarvik Thane,” the scout continued. “Said he was a bounty hunter, that there’s a price on your head.”

Thane was deathly quiet for a moment before speaking up.

“And this bounty hunter, this bloodhound—” he spat the nickname out like it was a curse. “Does he have a name?” 

“Said his name was Bucky. Bucky Barnes.”

And for the first time since you’d known him, the practical, level-headed and ever-stoic Zarvik Thane let his mouth curve—just barely—into something that was undeniably a smile. 

Thane continued questioning the scout as you worked, pressing him for more details about Bucky Barnes. His usual style of methodical, relentless observations that circled the same facts. What kind of ship? The scout did not know; he did not know technology as Thane did. So, Thane sharpened his questions. What shape was it, what was painted onto the metal? Were there numbers burned into the metal—and did the scout remember those numbers and what order they were written in? 

And when Thane grew frustrated with that line of questioning or gleaned enough information, he moved on to the next set of questions. What type of weapons did Barnes carry? What size were the guns, what shape? How many were visible on his person? 

What was the exact wording of every question he’d asked after the attack?

At some point, the words began to slide past you. You put your head down and worked through the last of the wounds, hoping to be back in bed before the sleepiness well and truly wore off. Blood wiped clean, grit coaxed from shallow cuts, assessment of the bruised skin half-hidden behind torn fabric. Your hands remained steady even as the scout trembled beneath them, shutting out the tense, low voices of those still crammed into the office. 

You eyed the scout’s nose. Now that you were closer, you could definitely see the break. The flesh was swollen, the bridge bent off-centre, making every breath sound laborious and painful. And before anyone could register what you were about to do—and maybe most importantly, before the scout could draw enough energy to protest—you braced his head between your hands. Your thumbs found the twisted bridge, and with one firm and confident press, the bone slid back into place with a wet, unmistakable crack. 

The scout grunted in surprise, doubling forward and clutching at nothing. Several of the men lining the walls flinched in unison. It was as you were reaching for a clean cloth to wipe the blood from his face that Thane’s eyes landed on you, as if the movement had suddenly drawn his attention to you. 

“Tell the princess about Caligo,” Thane instructed, his chin tipping in your direction. “Show her the letter.”

Your hands stilled. 

You turned so fast that the motion nearly gave you whiplash. Thane’s expression had gone grim, stripped of its usual neutrality. 

Caligo. Your home, or what had once been your home. The village where you’d been raised, where the jungle paths were worn familiar beneath your feet, where you’d learnt to stitch flesh and set bone long before you’d ever held a weapon. The place you’d left the moment you turned eighteen, never once looking back.

In truth, your family had never made walking away difficult. 

Being the chieftain’s youngest child meant being overlooked by default. You’d grown up in the long shadow of lineage—your eldest brother groomed to lead, his children already set to inherit long before they could walk. You were never expected to amount to anything. Useful, perhaps, if you could be married off to smooth over some future alliance, but never essential. Never a priority. And maybe that complexity of your upbringing, of your relationship with your own blood, had turned you somewhat bitter over the years. 

The Thicket had been your escape. Thane, your unlikely refuge. Here, your hands mattered. Here, you had a purpose, one measured in lives saved and wounds mended rather than expectations failed. It didn’t make the nickname sting any less, though. Princess. Or the feeling of dread that sank deep in your bones when your village was mentioned.

What had happened in Caligo?

Your gaze snapped back to the scout, expectant now, heart thudding as you waited for him to speak. 

“I heard–well, there’s…” The scout faltered, eyes wide, his mouth opening and closing while the words refused to line up. His hands fluttered uselessly over his torn, mud-caked clothes, fingers patting pockets in a blind, frantic search.

“There are whispers,” he managed at last. “I heard whispers... ‘bout Caligo.”

Your brow furrowed. “What about Caligo?”

Thane, as if sensing the anxiety crawling under your skin, interrupted. “Take a seat, princess.”

Your head whipped between them, and you hesitated where you knelt, suddenly acutely aware of the room. The men lining the walls shifted, exchanging uneasy looks. The weight of their attention settled on you all at once, heavy enough to press the air from your lungs. You swallowed slowly and planted your palms against your thighs, pushing yourself upright. 

A scraping filled the room as Ronan dragged a mismatched chair closer to you, motioning for you to sit. But as you looked up at him, he wouldn’t meet your eye. Had he known? When he came to wake you, had he already known and said nothing?

“Word is there’s a… sickness,” the scout spoke finally. “Not just in Caligo, but few other villages too.” 

His hands shook as he passed you a narrow strip of parchment. The seal had already been broken, the wax snapped clean through—no doubt Thane’s doing. Nothing passed in or out of the Thicket without his eyes on it first. 

“How bad?” you murmured, though the question felt pointless even as you asked it. Your attention had already fallen to the parchment. The paper trembled as you uncurled it, eyes rapidly scanning the ink.

“Bad.”

You hardly registered his reply, nor the tone he took. You were too busy reading the three sentences before you. You read them once. Twice. Again. And again. The words refused to change, refused to rearrange themselves into something you could make sense of, something you could understand—

A plague has come. They’re all dead. Please, come home. 

Your breath caught, shallow and useless in your chest. 

You didn’t recognise the handwriting. That, somehow, hurt almost as much as the words themselves. It wasn’t your father’s careful, commanding script. It wasn’t your mother’s tight, slanted hand. Had they, had Caligo, not had their own healers? Had they burned through every remedy, every prayer, before reaching for your—their last resort, dragged out of exile only where there was nothing left to lose? Had they truly been so desperate? You’d never been the first choice, gods, you’d never been any choice at all. Third. Fourth. Eighth. None. You were none of them. You were disposable. 

So why now, why after four years of silence? 

Thane, obviously growing impatient with your muteness, interrupted once more. “Your father is dead, princess—”

You couldn’t lift your head, couldn’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away from the words blurring on the parchment. 

They’re all dead. 

“—your mother too, most of your siblings and their children as well—”

They’re all dead. 

The sounds in the office and the jungle beyond thinned into a high, distant ringing, drowning out whatever else Thane said. Your hands had gone numb around the parchment, knuckles white. All you could do was stare and stare at those three sentences—

They’re all dead. 

There was a long moment of silence before Thane spoke again.

“What are you going to do, princess?” He asked, voice low and careful. Careful in the way a man was when he already suspected the answer he would receive. 

Only then did your eyes snap up, finally locking with his. “I am going home.”

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You have given up.

Aimlessly wandering around in the snow without a sense of direction would only make things worse.

So you lie there in all this whiteness, flattened like a surrender flag, arms and legs splayed wide in a snow angel that’s given up on itself just as thoroughly as you have.

Winter presses its cold breath against your neck. Your eyelashes feel frosted shut. The sky is turning the kind of blue that warns you shouldn’t still be out here, but you’ve reached the point where panic has dissolved into a strange, floaty resignation. You imagine your sorority sisters noticing your long absence eventually, preferably before you become some local cryptid whispered about on campfire stories.

Though that would still be a little iconic, honestly.

You inhale a breath of winter so crisp it tastes like a broken sugar glass. Exhale a foggy sigh that melts into the dusky air. You watch it spiral upward. Above you, the clouds in between the snow-crowned trees, sag like heavy curtains ready to fall, and the forest hums a low hymn — branches tittering, wind crooning, the complaint of a bird who’s also reconsidering its life choices out here.

You shift a little in your snow angel, snow sneaking down your collar like a mischievous toddler. It feels like you’re going to get frostbite on your ribs.

There is a crunch.

A footstep.

Another step. Another.

It snags your pulse. You don’t sit up. You don’t open your eyes. If it’s a bear, you’d prefer to die lying down, face relaxed, looking vaguely majestic.

Footsteps crunch closer — quick, driven, unhesitating. Definitely not a bear. Bears don’t move like they have a schedule.

A shadow drapes over you.

“Interesting tactic,” a deep voice remarks, all smoky and winter-warm. He sounds amused like someone who’s been witness to enough wilderness mischief to develop a sense of humor about it. “Most people try stayin’ upright when they’re lost in the cold.”

You blink snowflakes off your lashes and squint up. A face hovers above you. Framed by a beanie pulled low, jaw dusted with scruff and snow, eyes the chilly blue of a river that knows its own power. A uniformed parka creaks when he crouches beside you, the patched emblem reading Park Ranger and his name etched beneath it like it’s daring you to say it out loud.

Barnes.

You swallow. You have absolutely no intention of saying anything out loud. Your vocal cords have fled the scene.

He studies you, head tilting. “You injured?” he inquires, tone wrapped in concern but tied off with humor. “Frozen in place? Dramatic flair? What’s the diagnosis?”

You would sit up if your dignity weren’t already frozen solid somewhere behind you. You lift a hand weakly.

“I’m lost,” is all you can say, partly because he’s looking at you with eyes so blue they could start their own weather system.

A low chuckle rises out of his chest, soft and warmly amused, but holding something sympathetic too. He leans closer, gloved hands hovering near your arms but not touching yet. “Guess that’s why I’m here, doll,” he drawls. “Now, you hurt anywhere?”

His voice and the concern hidden behind the charming grin make your heart thump hard enough to warm an entire zip code.

“I’m— I’m fine,” you breathe, though you feel like a startled squirrel someone tried to politely interview.

His lips twist into a grin that could thaw glaciers. “Well, sweetheart, you’re lucky your friends called before dark. Said you wandered off and didn’t come back. Sounded pretty worried. Rightfully so. This trail can get nasty once the temperature drops.” He helps you sit up, hands bracing your back.

You let out a tiny groan. “They didn’t sound worried when they refused to come outside. I just wanted to make snow angels.”

His mouth jerks up at the side. “And you succeeded. Too well, maybe.” He tilts his head, assessing the wings you carved into the snow. “Honestly? Best one I’ve seen all season.”

You glance at him, suspicious. “You’re humoring me.”

“Nope,” he counters with a grin so roguish it shouldn’t be a thing in national parks. “You’ve got a talent, doll.”

You laugh, unexpected, breathy. He seems pleased by the sound.

“Let’s get you warmed up,” he says, rising and offering you a gloved hand. “Can you stand? Mind if I help you up?”

You slip your hand into his, and he lifts you with an ease that feels like a compliment. You sway a little when he pulls you upward, and his other hand slides instinctively to your waist to hold you tight. Snow cascades off your coat in plumes, and he brushes a bit of it from your shoulder, casual but attentive, like he’s done it for a thousand visitors — but something in the softness of his touch hints he hasn’t.

You blame the cold for the way your breath catches. You absolutely blame the cold.

“Thanks,” you mutter, looking anywhere but his universe-blue eyes.

“No problem,” he replies, voice lowering just slightly. He is close enough that his words brush your cheek.

He guides you through the trees as dusk deepens, his steps sure, yours uncertain, but his presence is constant, a warm orbit you find yourself drifting toward. The air is crisp enough to etch your breath in runes. He checks on you every few minutes. You warm enough? Need water? Doin’ okay? And each time you answer, he gives that faint, crooked smile as if he’s memorizing your voice.

And each time a flush prickles your cheeks that has absolutely nothing to do with the cold.

“So,” he ventures, glancing sideways, “you just went out here alone, huh?”

You groan. “My sorority sisters said they wanted a winter getaway. They meant a fireplace-and-wifi getaway. And, I don’t know, I just pictured something else. I wanted to see some snow. But everything looks the same around here. Didn’t mean to get lost.”

He chuckles and it’s a low and warm and dangerous sound. “Well,” he drawls, nudging your elbow lightly, “you picked a good day to get lost. I was on shift. And I’m told I have a knack for finding people who wander off.”

You laugh and meet his eyes. The sunset paints him in copper and glittering sparkles of the snow. His smile in response looks like he is pocketing the sound for later.

By the time the first cabin lights shimmer through the trees, you’re certain you’ve thawed more from his proximity than from the walking.

He slows slightly, as if reluctant to end the walk. “Almost there,” he says quietly, brushing a few stray snowflakes off your shoulder — an excuse, maybe, to touch you again. It makes your chest flutter. “Your friends are waiting. One of them is stress-eating pretzels.”

You smile and wince at the same time. “That’s Darcy.” You take in a deep breath. “I don’t think I’m ever going to live this down.”

“Maybe not.” His eyes twinkle, and it’s not the reflections of the snow. “But if it helps, I’m free tomorrow. I could supervise any future snow-angel endeavors. Make sure you don’t get lost again.”

Your heart attempts a gymnastic move it did not warm up for. “Is that a professional offer?”

“Mm.” He slips you a lopsided smirk that sends heat straight through your frozen bones. “Call it community outreach.” His hands are sliding into his jacket pockets with faux-nonchalance. You try not to acknowledge the way it is stretched over his shoulders and makes him look as though he can carry entire pine trees.

Your heart flutters — subtle as a snowmelt, warm as a hidden ember.

You smile, slow and genuine. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”

“Good,” he replies softly, giving you a meaningful look, as he opens the door for you. “Hope you do.”

And as the warm air spills out, your sorority sisters swarming you with relief, you glance back at him.

He’s still looking at you.

And the smile he gives you is small, subtle, but enough to melt something deep inside you that the cold never stood a chance against.

You should have known you couldn’t trust your car anymore. Should have taken literally anything else to get to college today.

But now it’s too late.

Snow slices sideways in thin white sheets, needling your cheeks, slipping down your collar. Your breath fogs out in frantic puffs as you stare at your poor, unreliable car — slumped on the side of the road, giving up on life at the exact moment you needed it most.

Your fingers tremble as you tap your phone screen for the hundredth time, as if sheer desperation could conjure a miracle.

It doesn’t, and it won’t.

The tire is flat. Definitely, spectacularly, almost offensively flat. It’s ruined. A sad, sagging pancake of rubber.

And you have an exam in — you check your phone again — 11 minutes.

11 minutes to get across campus. Through the snow. With a dead tire and a heart that feels like it’s trying to jailbreak.

A hollow thud echoes in your ribs. You could try running, but the exam building is half the campus away, and the snow isn’t exactly rooting for you.

You shove your frozen fingers through your hair, pacing beside the defeated car, muttering every curse you’ve ever learned and a few you invented on the spot.

That’s when you become aware of a sound. A bossy, old, familiar growl of an engine turning the corner, a slow-rolling rumble through the snowfall. An old Jeep drives into view, snow stuck to its hood like frostbite jewelry. Its headlights blind you through the white haze, and the grille looks like it’s grinning at you.

You would have calmed in relief at the sight of the Jeep if you didn’t know who’s inside of it.

The world really is mocking you today.

The Jeep slows. Stops.

And behind the wheel is James Buchanan Barnes — Bucky to the entire campus. It’s always him at the worst possible moments.

His reputation precedes him by several miles — college track star, campus flirt and serial heartbreaker, professional ego-wearer. The pretty-boy bastard with a list of hook-ups long enough to require alphabetical indexing. He’s also obnoxiously good-looking in the kind of way that feels engineered to ruin GPAs. He is a constellation of contradictions — tousled and dark hair, smug grin, muscles packed into a jacket that definitely shouldn’t fit him that well.

And naturally, there’s a girl in the passenger seat. Very glossy. Very bored-looking. She’s leaned back, tapping her acrylics against her phone screen, radiating expensive impatience.

The window rolls down, and he leans an elbow out, a slow, easy smirk spreading across his face as though he’s got all the time in the universe and zero intention of using it wisely.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he calls, tone buttery-smooth, warm where the world isn’t. But all you feel is frost. “Car givin’ you attitude? Looks like it’s having a rough day.”

You blink at him. You do not have the emotional bandwidth for this man right now. “Not really in the mood, Barnes,” you snap, glaring at him, breath puffing hard. “I’m fine.” You know you’re clearly not fine. “Just go.”

His brows lift, amusement coming to life like a spark. “Wow. And here I was, thinkin’ the cold was the problem. Turns out it’s you.”

“I said I’m fine. Just leave,” you grit out, losing patience, even though you didn’t really have any to begin with.

“You also look like you’re about to cry,” he remarks, tone annoyingly light, as if pointing out the obvious is some kind of sport he excels at.

Behind him, the girl sighs dramatically. Loudly. “Bucky, can we go? I’m freezing.”

He ignores her. Completely. Like she’s wallpaper.

Instead, his eyes roam over you, your snow-bright hair, the stress in your shoulders, the way you’re almost vibrating with anxiety. And something that isn’t teasing slips into his expression.

You don’t have much time to examine it, because he then puts the Jeep in park, pushes the door open, and climbs out into the snow. Boots crunching on the ground. Hands buried in the pockets of his jacket as though he’s strolling up to a coffee date instead of a roadside meltdown. The cold doesn’t seem to touch him. Of course it doesn’t.

“Move,” he says, and it’s almost soft. “Let me look.”

You bristle. “I don’t need your help.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “Yeah, you do.”

You swallow. “You don’t have to—”

He holds up a hand. “Just let me take a look, doll.”

And before you can say anything else, he crouches by the tire.

You stand there with your arms folded across your chest and your stomach turning in knots. You don’t want him to be right. You don’t want him to be useful. You don’t want his stupid jawline or his stupid smile or the stupid flutter in your chest to matter right now.

He brushes snow away, fingers assessing. Even such an act he does with a confidence he shouldn’t look this good performing. He mutters under his breath. Soft and low. “Huh. That’s not good.”

Your stomach drops. “What? It’s just flat, right? I have a spare.”

“Nope,” He taps the torn rubber. “This tire’s shredded. Like, shredded-shredded. You must’ve hit something nasty. And your spare’s useless without the right tools, which I’m guessin’ you don’t have in this little sedan.”

You blink back something that threatens to become tears. “Awesome. Great. Perfect.”

His head snaps up. “Hey, come on now.” His tone gentles, surprisingly sincere. He stands, brushing snow from his knees. “It’s not a big deal. You’re gonna be fine.”

You look away from him, staring at the snow, arms crossing tighter. “I have an exam.”

“I know.”

That pulls your head up. “How do you know that?”

You didn’t mention it. Other students have exams in other buildings, but yours isn’t a huge one — not a campus-wide event anyone would track. It’s important to you on a personal level.

He shrugs lightly, eyes skimming your face as if he’s reading a page he’s memorized. “Saw you studyin’ for it in the library yesterday. Same professor I had last year. The 8:30 slot’s brutal.”

Your mouth opens, then shuts, because what is there to say? You didn’t think Bucky Barnes noticed anything outside the orbit of sports, parties, and whichever girl he was smiling at.

Talk about the devil, the girl in his Jeep slams her hand on the dashboard. “Are you serious right now, Bucky? We have places to be.”

He freezes. Something shifts behind his expression. Something that looks like annoyance, or the realization that he doesn’t care about her schedule even a little. “Then walk,” he deadpans, not even looking at her.

She gapes at him like he just suggested she wade through lava. “Are you kidding? It’s snowing.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Won’t kill you.” His tone is flat and unfazed, dismissive in a way you notice he’s never used with you.

She huffs, curses, and slams the door as she gets out and stomps down the road like a rattled swan. He watches her go for half a heartbeat, then dismisses her entirely. As though your little flat tire has eclipsed whatever morning plan he had.

He turns back to you. “You’re not gonna make it on foot.”

“I know,” you whisper, the admission aching.

He nods toward his Jeep. “Get in. I’ll drive you.”

You jerk back. “What? I— no. I can’t just leave my car here.”

“You can,” he says simply. “I’ll handle it.”

You inhale sharply. Snowflakes melt on your tongue. “You’ll— what does that even mean?”

“It means,” he drawls, leaning slightly closer, eyes warming despite the cold, “I’ll call my buddy from the auto shop after I drop you off. He owes me a favor. We’ll get it towed, patched up, whatever it needs.”

You stare at him, absolutely dumbfounded. Your chest tightens. Something inconvenient curdles in your stomach. “You’d do that?”

He tilts his head, snowflakes catching in his hair like stars tangled in dark silk. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

You keep staring, unsure.

He raises a brow. “C’mon. I’m not lettin’ you fail an exam because of a tire and some snow.”

You hesitate, heartbeat stuttering. “I don’t— I mean— it’s a lot to ask, I can’t just—”

“You didn’t ask,” he remarks, voice losing all its flirt and landing somewhere honest. “I offered.”

Snow settles on his long eyelashes. The wind picks up, and he steps closer, shielding you from the worst of it. You don’t know if he notices he’s doing it.

“Now, you comin’?” he asks quietly.

After a long, brittle moment, and a heavy sigh, you nod.

He smiles — not cocky, or sly, just warm. Real. “Alright, doll. Hop in. I’ll turn the heater on.”

You slide into the Jeep, the door closing you into a cocoon of warmth and pine-scented air. He pulls off his jacket and simply hands it over to you in a gesture so simple, it shocks you for a moment. “I can see you shaking, doll. Just take it.”

You do.

And for a brief and bright and disorienting moment, you feel the beginnings of something difficult threading through your chest.

He shifts the Jeep into gear and glances at you, sitting there with his jacket on, as he drives off.

And as you two roll through the snow, you stare out the window at the falling flakes, heart doing strange, dangerous gymnastics because James Buchanan Barnes has just surprised you in a way too positive for your body to handle.

“Thank you, Barnes,” you say quietly.

You see his lopsided grin in your peripheral vision. “Think I deserve to be Bucky now, doll.”

Day 1 — Favorite Booth [1.8k]

Pairing: Store owner!Bucky x Babysitter!Reader

Prompts: Babysitting, Holiday market

Moods: fluff, shenanigans

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Day 2

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompts: Gunshots in the cold, cabin in the woods, fever

Moods: angst (w happy ending), whump, mutual pining

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Day 3

Pairing: Ski instructor!Bucky x Ski instructor!Reader

Prompt: Snowed in

Mood: mutual pining

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Day 4

Pairing: College!Athlete!Fuckboy!Bucky x College!Reader

Prompt: Flat tire

Moods: angst (w happy ending), yearning

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Day 5

Pairing: Hockey player!Bucky x Figure skater!Reader

Prompts: Ice skating, unconscious

Moods: hurt/comfort, protective!Bucky

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Day 6

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Witch!Reader

Prompt: Christmas market

Moods: fluff, yearning

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Day 7

Pairing: Security Guard!Bucky x Detective!Reader

Prompts: Gunshots in the cold, love confessions in the snow

Mood: angst (w happy ending)

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Day 8

Pairing: Park Ranger!Bucky x Sorority girl!Reader

Prompts: Lost in the snow, snow angels

Moods: angst (w happy ending), protective!Bucky, flirty!Bucky

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Day 9

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompts: Falling through ice, unconscious

Moods: angst (w happy ending)

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Day 10

Pairing: Body Guard!Bucky x Civilian!Reader

Prompts: Snowed in, cabin in the woods

Moods: mutual pining, suggestive (little bit of smut, 18+)

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Day 11

Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Prompt: First kiss in the snow

Mood: fluff

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Day 12

Pairing: Bandit!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Prompts: Snowbound kingdom, lost in the snow

Moods: angst (w happy ending)

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Day 13

Pairing: Babysitter!Bucky x Babysitter!Reader

Prompts: Santa Clause, babysitting

Moods: humor, domestic/cozy

Ahhh I’m so happy with that little winter countdown y’all ♡ ♡

I’d love to hear which ones you’re most excited for!! 👀

Also, I kept the fics in the same order your requests came in, with one tiny exception. I swapped the last two because the final one just felt so perfect for Christmas Day! I hope no one minds the little rearrangement, I do love both fics, it was purely for the holiday vibes.

I haven’t added the titles yet because I lack creativity in that department lately, and a few of the fics I’ve already written are still title-less or stuck with ones I’m not totally happy with. So bear with me while I find the right names for them.

Wishing you all a cup of something warm, soft snow outside your window, and the coziest countdown to Christmas ♡

Divider by @saradika-graphics ♡

Morgan drags you through the booths.

It feels like you don’t even have control over where you’re going anymore. It’s like this five-year-old is a fully sentient Tesla Cybertruck with a chocolate milk engine and you are the crumpled napkin tied to the trailer hitch.

She’s incandescent, cheeks red and joy-bright, eyes mirrors for every string light in the market. “Look! They’ve got peppermint bark with glitter sprinkles again this year,” she gasps, practically levitating, a neon sign of holiday ecstasy in the shape of a child. Her braids are bouncing.

It’s the first weekend of December. The air is starched and zesty — peppermint-loaded, cinnamon-crazed. Snow is powdering down but in that very expensive movie way. A soft-focus flurry. Just the right amount to feel whimsical and not like anybody’s eyelashes will freeze shut.

You’re trying to keep your coat closed with one hand as Morgan tugs at the other. She’s wearing a pink puffer jacket with starklette bedazzled in rhinestones on the back. She’s basically a brand.

You’ve been to this holiday market every winter for the past four years. A tradition with your friends. A tradition with yourself.

And yes, technically, a tradition of making accidental eye contact with Bucky Barnes, or lingering around his booths like a lost person or just a girl who’s too big of a coward to ask a guy out.

The man owns the hand-turned wooden toy booth and the artisanal coffee booth right next to it, plus the leatherwork booth that sells belts, journals, and hand-stitched gloves somehow.

He’s like a person who just seems to collect micro-hobbies and then becomes elite-tier at all of them.

And you have had a persistent, semi-controlled crush on him for, approximately forever.

But this year is new because you’re not with the girl gang. You’re here as someone’s entirely responsible grown-up.

“Hello, can we go see the wood animals?” Morgan demands like a tiny politician already lobbying for votes. She’s already trying to drag you toward the booth.

And that’s his booth.

And your pulse is a very rude drum at your throat.

You steer her gently in that direction, completely innocent, never mind the fact that you basically talked her ear off about certain animals shaped in wood made by certain hands earlier when you picked her up, successfully making a five year old girl interested. You should feel bad, perhaps. But also, why would you.

The sign is exactly the same little burnt-wood sign from last year. BUCK & BEAM CO.

And yeah. There he is.

Bucky.

He’s wearing a navy beanie and a sweater under a flannel under a jacket. He looks like the human equivalent of a campfire.

He glances up and catches you and something in his expression softens, lifts, rises, poofs, like bread meeting the right kind of heat.

“Hey,” he greets. Except it’s not a casual hey. It’s a hey that ripples. A hey with muscle under it. A hey with recognition.

It hits your bloodstream like a burst.

You try to sound normal. Unfazed. “Hi. We’re- uh- browsing. She just wanted to see some animals out of wood.”

And you just wanted to see him.

Morgan launches forward like she was shot from a glitter cannon. “I’m five,” she divulges to Bucky, which is her favorite icebreaker. “My mom says I’m small but extremely dynamic.”

Bucky’s mouth does a little corner tuck. “I can confirm the dynamic part, kid.”

“This one,” Morgan decides excitedly, pointing to a delicate wooden deer with tiny carved antlers, standing at the front of the row. “He’s got to come home with us. He has antlers.”

Bucky leans forward, elbows braced on the wooden counter, a twinkle in his eyes. “Top-tier antlers,” he drawls, his voice rich with pretend seriousness. “You’ve got great taste.”

Morgan’s cheeks go pink, and you smile.

“And your taste,” Bucky adds, with a brief slide of a look to you, “was excellent last year too. The red cardinal, right?”

You blink. “You remember that?”

He gives the smallest shrug, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. His gaze hovers and his eyes are smiling too, warm and bright. “‘Course I do. Hard to forget.”

You bite your lip. Something tightens in your chest.

Morgan sighs in that middle-aged way children do when the adults become weird narrative poems around her. She turns her big eyes back to you and starts tugging at your sleeve once more. “Can we get cocoa? Please? I want cocoa.”

Bucky lifts a finger, grin on his face. He seems to talk to Morgan but he mainly looks at you. “I make a peppermint mocha that could probably raise the dead.”

Morgan claps like an angelic seal. “Let’s raise the dead!”

You laugh, ruffling her hat to which she giggles. “That would be great, thank you,” you tell him, smiling.

Bucky’s grin widens, delighted. “Hang here. I’ll be right back,” he says, backing away, but keeping his eyes on you for a lingering second. His palms meet the wood beside him with a small thud and then he disappears next door to his coffee booth. “Watch the deer for me, yeah?”

Morgan pets the deer like it is her family. You try to breathe.

Lights are shimmering overhead. Cameo gold. The market jingles with brass carols, string lights, the softness of winter.

When he returns, he hands Morgan a warm cocoa. Kid temperature, and you love him all the more for it. Then he hands you a peppermint mocha in a bigger paper cup with a hand-drawn snowflake on it. His fingers brush your cold ones.

You look at him.

He looks back.

And he’s looking at you with that quiet, thoughtful sort of intensity that feels like standing too close to a fireplace.

Morgan, slurping, watches both of you, then very seriously gets closer to the booth and whispers to Bucky, “This is her favorite booth. She gets shy because she thinks you’re cute.”

Your soul leaves your body. “Morgan-”

Bucky freezes. Then smirks slow. His brows lift for half a heartbeat. His jaw does a subtle clench as though he’s holding something back and failing.

He rests both palms on the edge of his wooden counter, voice dropping low and fond just enough to make the air spark. “Well, would you please tell her I think she’s cute too?”

Your ears ring.

Morgan comes close to you, opens her mouth, but you give her a warning look. There’s no need for you to get embarrassed again. Worse. Your heart is hiccuping, not knowing what to do with the wild flutter of all those butterflies in your belly.

She then starts bouncing on her toes, braids bobbing under her hat as she claps her hands together in a plea, seemingly moving on to the next thought. “Can we go ice skating tomorrow? Pleeeease? He can come too! Then he can hold you when you fall, ‘cause you always fall, like, a lot.” Her giggle bubbles out, light and proud.

You let out a long sigh that fogs the air around you and buys you a heartbeat to recover. More warmth blooms up your neck and spreads under your skin. You try to look anywhere but at him, hoping the blush doesn’t give you away. Somehow, even the winter air feels too thin to hide it.

Bucky lets out a soft laugh, the sound more breath than voice. It’s warm enough to melt snowflakes in the air. His teeth catch his lower lip for a small moment. But he doesn’t stop watching you, an amused glimmer in his eyes that is accompanied by something gentle and soft. For a moment, he just looks at you, the corners of his mouth twitching, a private thought passing through his eyes before he lets it go.

Bucky doesn’t let his gaze move away from you, the laughter still living somewhere behind his eyes. Then he plucks the deer off the display and sets it in a tiny paper bag. “Tell you what,” he offers after a beat, his voice warm twilight, his eyes intensely soft, and thinking under the lights. “You let me gift this to you, and I’ll take you two to the rink tomorrow. A hot toddy for the grown-ups, and marshmallow bribes for the little troublemaker. If it’s alright with Y/n, of course.”

Morgan squeaks delighted, bright smile on her lips, sparkling and pleading eyes turned up to you.

You swallow around the sudden neon of happiness in your chest and that little reaction of your body at the way he said your name. “I’d like that.”

His eyes lock with yours and he doesn’t let you go. “They light up the skating rink around sunset,” he goes on, his tone a soft drawl. “Gold lights, music, the whole thing. If you happen to wander by here around six, I’ll close up early.”

Something inside you loses balance. The words are casual, but the air around them isn’t.

Morgan claps her mittens together, already sold. “We’ll come back at six!” she exclaims loudly.

You can barely find your voice. “Alright.” You give Bucky a smile.

With a grin, Bucky hands you the bag containing the deer. His fingers brush yours again. He has such warm hands, how is that even possible in the cold weather? Static snaps in the winter air and the snow keeps falling and your heart keeps calling out to him.

“See you tomorrow, Starklette,” Bucky says to Morgan, and then quieter, a glimmer just for you, “See you tomorrow, Y/n.”

You nod, heart fluttering like wings against glass. Snow keeps falling as you turn away from his booth. Lights keep shimmering. Morgan takes your hand, triumphant, her cocoa sloshing. “He’s nice,” she declares.

“Yeah,” you whisper, looking back at his booth one last time. “He really is.”

And you feel like the holiday market just tripped into a parallel timeline where the warmest thing in the whole place is the possibility of him.

Most girls’ fathers had—or should have—already taught their daughters how to change the oil, replace tires, and how to jump-start the good ol’ chevy in case of an emergency.

Unfortunately for you, your father hadn’t taught you any of that—nor had you been bothered enough to learn.

You never imagined yourself getting stranded in the middle of nowhere, standing on the side of a deserted road with no signal and a car that wouldn’t start. You began pacing back and forth, kicking rocks as your mind raced—not even knowing where to begin.

“Dang it,” you grunted, directing the frustration at both yourself and your past self for refusing your father’s help and warnings.

You knew you should have listened, but you were a spoiled girl who never got her hands dirty—always having strong and reliable men to take care of things. When there was a concert just a few hours drive away from home and your parents refused to buy you a ticket—you took matters into your own hands. You stole the keys to your dad’s car, negotiated with someone online for a last-minute sold-out concert ticket to meet up with at the venue, and that’s how you ended up here.

Stuck with no concert ticket and a car that wouldn’t start.

So, you did what everybody would tell you not to do.

You stood on the side of the street, one hand blocking the sun, and the other with your thumb out.

You were hitchhiking.

How bad could it be, really? It happened all the time in movies. You had heard stories where people actually ended up where they needed to go in one piece—where they met kind people and went on wild adventures with stories they could recite to their kids for years.

But, of course, there was also the horror stories. You tried not to let your mind wander to that.

Several cars zoomed past, kicking up dust in their wake. Every time one slowed down, it would edge dangerously close to the shoulder—close enough to make you squeal and jump back toward the safety of your chevy.

Each time you thought someone might actually stop, it turned out to be a middle-aged man behind the wheel, lecherous eyes lingering where they shouldn’t. His wife, seated beside him, would take one look at your concert-ready outfit, glare daggers, and snap at him to keep driving.

The longer you waited for salvation, the more your anxiety gnawed at you.

What if no one stopped? What if you never got signal, never made it home—just stayed here, stranded in the middle of nowhere? You should’ve listened to your father. This is what you get for being a spoiled brat chasing a stupid concert.

Maybe if you started walking now, you could make it home in… what? Four days? Five?

You felt your heart thudding faster in your chest as every terrible scenario raced through your mind. Just as you were about to go back into your car to rest your aching feet from standing for so long, your hand paused at the door handle.

In the distance, the sound of a large, heavy truck, like thunder rolling far off in the desert filled your ears.

A long-haul truck—silver cab, a little beat-up, with various worn stickers fading on the bumpers—slowed as it approached. The truck hissed as it finally came to a full stop beside you, the brakes slightly creaking. The window rolled down, and a blast of cooled air from inside hit your sunburned skin.

“Hey, little lady.”

You lifted your head and rose onto your tippy toes, squinting through the harsh glare of the sun to get a better look at the man behind the wheel.

He looked like he had been carved out of the same roughness that the road was built on. A close-cropped haircut framed a strong jaw with days’ worth of obvious scruff. He—and his truck—smelled faintly like cigarettes. His eyes were blue and cold, a contrast to his sun-kissed skin from driving around for days. He must have caught you staring, because he narrowed his eyes, a little skeptical.

“You lost?” he asked, pulling your attention back to him.

You stood up a little straighter. You had your thumb sticking out for over an hour, and not once did you prepare what to say if someone were to actually stop for you.

“Oh, um—” you hesitated. “My car won’t start.”

He blinked as if he couldn’t hear what you said, the softness of your voice barely audible over the music playing on his radio. He turned it down and leaned in a little closer from his seat.

“I see that,” he huffed. “The closest town is about a hundred and seventy from here. You need a ride?”

You shifted on your feet, your fingers tightening on your door handle. You hadn’t expected less from a trucker—he looked rough, the kind of man you wouldn’t approach in any other situation. He was clearly older, with the kind of face that looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

You swallowed, suddenly not feeling as confident as you were moments ago. “I—I don’t know,” you said quietly, taking a cautious step closer to your own vehicle. “Could you just—help me out and try jump-starting it?”

His jaw clenched for a moment, and he exhaled through his nose. His grip on the steering wheel tightened—like he was contemplating just driving off and leaving you stranded once again. Eventually, he sighed, pushed open his door, and climbed down from the cab. His boots hit the asphalt with a heavy thud, and up close, he was even taller than you’d thought.

Without a word, he walked past you toward your car. You trailed behind, keeping a good distance between the two of you.

He crouched beside the front end, his eyes scanning the hood, the tires, and the faint line of oil that had started to pool beneath.

“What’s your name, mister?” you asked, trying to start light conversation.

“Bucky,” he replied, eyeing your Chevrolet carefully. “And yours?”

You gave him your name, and he repeated it back softly, the sound rolling off his tongue as he stared at the car.

Then he straightened, wiped a hand across his jaw, and looked at you.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low. “She’s not going anywhere.”

You frowned. “What do you mean? You didn’t even—”

He gestured toward the car with a nod. “You’ve got a blown gasket, maybe worse. She’s been leaking for a while. You could crank her ‘til sundown, and she still wouldn’t turn over.”

You stood there with a blank face, the words sounding like a different language. “Oh,” you nodded as if you understood, but you didn’t at all.

He watched you for a moment, then checked the sun sinking lower behind the hills. “Look, I’d stick around and help you figure it out, but I’ve got somewhere to be before nightfall.”

Bucky stepped back toward his truck, his hands pausing at the doorhandle.

“I’ll drop you off at a nearby gas station. You can use the payphone to call your ma or pa—whoever it may be—to come to your rescue.” He glanced at you again, nodding his head at the passenger seat.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, the faint rasp in his voice making you hesitate. “I don’t bite.”

You looked down at your shoes—now dusted from the desert sand—bit your lip, and looked back up at him warily.

He seemed kind enough; he’d technically stepped out of his truck and taken the time to at least try helping you. Despite his rough appearance and gruff demeanor, there was something about him that made you want to trust him. He gave off the same steady, dependable energy as the other strong men in your life—the ones who always made sure you were safe, even when you didn’t deserve it.

It was instinctive, almost paternal.

When Bucky realized you weren’t moving, he let out a tired sigh and shrugged.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t have all day,” he said, walking around to the front of his truck to get back into the driver’s side. “I do hope that you find your way back home. Be safe out here—”

“Wait,” you protested.

He paused, the sound of his boots shuffling against the ground as he glanced over the hood to face you again.

“Um—if you don’t mind the company, I’ll tag along.” You said, your fingers fiddling in front of you anxiously. “I just need to—uh,” you hiked your thumb over your shoulder, “grab my stuff…”

Bucky raised his brows in surprise, not actually believing you’d come. “Okay, then.”

He walked back to the side of the road, watching as you quickly scrambled into the backseat of the chevy to grab your belongings.

As he rested a shoulder against his thousand-pound rig, his eyes lingered a little too long, staring at the slight curve of your back as you bent over. His tongue slowly swept across his dry bottom lip at the sight of your hips swaying as you tried to grab something that was out of reach, your legs dangling slightly.

Just a single breeze, or just an extra stretch, would expose whatever was hiding under that deliciously short dress you were wearing. He shouldn’t be eyeing you like this. He was probably double your age—if not more. His own nephews and nieces might even be about your age.

Bucky forced a smile once he saw you gather your things, your hair a little disheveled from rummaging around.

“Need any help there?” he nodded toward the two bags you were holding.

“Yes, please,” you huffed with a smile, raising your arms.

He smiled back, clearly finding it amusing that you needed his help. It was to be expected, really. In his eyes, you were this helpless little thing who couldn’t do anything on her own. Good thing he was here—cause what could you have done without him?

He reached out and grabbed both bags out of your hands, lifting them with ease, and tossing them haphazardly onto the floor of the passenger seat.

Bucky extended a hand, helping you up. “Not too roomy in here, but better than standing out all alone in the desert, right?”

You smiled and grabbed his hand. His hands were rough and calloused—a complete contrast to your soft and dainty fingers. He hauled you up and watched as you wiggled slightly, tugging the hem of your dress down to cover your thighs, trying to get comfortable in the passenger seat before you buckled yourself in.

“Good?” he asked.

You nodded.

The engine started, slowly but surely, as Bucky merged back onto the main road. The sight of your father’s car grew smaller and smaller as you watched it slowly disappear into the distance in the side mirrors. The ride was silent—only the faint sounds of the wheels turning on the road and the low music playing in the background.

You snuck curious side glances at Bucky. He had one arm resting on the window and the other lazily holding the wheel. You were waiting for the part where he pulled out a knife and started stabbing you, or made a sudden right turn off-road and murdered you in broad daylight, but he just kept his eyes on the steady on the street, humming to the music as if you weren’t even there.

“Curious little duck, are you?” he spoke suddenly.

You blinked, his question throwing you off guard. “Sorry,” you mumbled, shyly averting your eyes back to your lap.

He chuckled, a deep, raspy sound rumbling from his chest that only sent a shiver down your spine and made your heart beat faster. “Don’t be sorry, sweetheart. You’ve never been inside a rig before, have you?”

You shook your head. “No… I’ve only seen the inside of these,” you looked around again, “in movies and stuff.”

“And stuff,” he repeated, the corners of his lips tugged up in an amused smirk. “And that bel air back there, that ain’t yours now, is it?”

“No,” you confirmed softly. “That’s my dad’s.”

“He let you drive that scrap all the way out here?”

You shook your head with a frown. “No…. um—I stole his keys. There was a concert I really wanted to go… but my parents wouldn’t let me.”

He raised a brow, his head turning slightly to meet your eyes. “Jesus,” he huffed. “If I was your daddy, I would’ve had you over my knee.”

A little laugh escaped your lips. “Do you have daughters, mister?”

“No kids,” Bucky said. “And don’t call me mister—it makes me feel old. Bucky’s fine.”

“Okay, mister Bucky,” you repeated with a gentle nod.

He snickered, shaking his head. “Just Bucky, sweetheart.”

You nodded again, folding your hands in your lap as the truck rumbled down the empty stretch of road. For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the steady thrumming of the engine, the faint rasp of the tires against the pavement, and the rock music playing quietly.

After a few minutes of silence, he glanced sideways at you. “So,” he said, his voice low over the hum of the radio, “where were you headin’, anyway?”

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts. “Oh—um, there was a concert a few towns over. I was supposed to meet a guy for sold-out tickets. ”

He raised a brow. “Stealin’ your old man’s keys and meeting up with a stranger online,” he made a face. “You’re just asking for trouble, little duck.”

You frowned, your fingers fiddling in your lap as you bowed your head in embarrassment. “I know. It sounds stupid now.”

“Sounds stupid? It is stupid.” He sighed. “Girls like you have it easy—I mean, you look well-fed, you’ve got on a nice little dress—probably drained your parent’s wallet for that outfit, and now you’re protesting because your old man won’t let you go to a concert? You’re a little spoiled cookie, aren’t you?”

Your chest tightened, your face started to feel warm, and you blinked quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the sting behind your eyes. You had already been stranded for hours, burned under the sun, humiliated by your own choices—and now, the stranger who had come to your rescue was reminding you just how foolish you had been.

It felt demeaning. Here you were, an adult woman, getting lectured by a man you didn’t know as if he were your own father. And the only thing you could do was sit here and take it, because he was the only person who had the decency to stop for you and give you a ride. Riding with him and actually getting to a safe destination was far better than standing on the side of the street, getting catcalled by every old man who drove by.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice breaking just a little. “I know it’s stupid. I just… really wanted to go, okay?”

Bucky glanced at you, his expression softening slightly when he caught the little wobble in your voice. You were turned to the window now, blinking hard, pretending to be fascinated by the endless stretch of desert instead of his lecture.

“Hey,” he frowned, his voice softer and almost apologetic. “Didn’t mean to sound like that.”

“It’s fine. I get it.”

He sighed, his fingers tapping the wheel as he looked back at the road. “I just—” he exhaled through his nose, “guess I ain’t the best at talkin’ nice.”

There was another moment of long and awkward silence. You sat stiffly in the passenger seat, still looking out the window, perfectly still with your timid hands in your lap, perched like a proper doll.

Bucky couldn’t take this silence anymore. He found you amusing—too kind for your own good. What could have happened if it wasn’t him that picked you up? What if some other man with no good intentions had swept you off the road? You probably would have been dead by now.

He was drawn to you, almost protective. And now that the ride was nearing an hour, he couldn’t handle sitting here in the tense silence any longer.

He tapped a few switches to grab your attention, pointing them out as he spoke without preamble. You turned a little in your seat, watching as his hand moved to the dashboard.

“This one here controls the trailer brakes. Don’t wanna hit that one by accident unless you’re lookin’ to stop hard. This one’s for the axle lock. That one—” he pointed to a faded red knob, “that’s the parking brake. The whole thing’ll hiss like a snake when you pull it.”

You sniffled quietly and wiped your nose with your finger, hoping he wouldn’t notice. He did, of course—but he didn’t say anything. He just kept talking, hoping to cheer you up.

“And this one—” he continued, nodding toward a small, rusted switch near the radio, “turns on the cabin light. But don’t mess with it too much. The thing flickers worse than a Christmas tree with bad wiring.”

You let out a small, involuntary giggle, and he caught the sound, glancing over with a grin that deepened the faint lines around his eyes.

“What?” he asked, pretending to be offended. “You laughin’ at my truck?”

“No, it’s just…” you chuckled, trying to hide your smile. “Comparing a creaky rig to a Christmas tree is silly.”

He looked over at you for a moment, the light from the sun reflecting in his eyes. “You’ve got a nice laugh, little duck,” he said.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because that’s what you are,” he grinned. “A cute little duck.”

You looked down at your lap, finding the contrast between being in a pretty dress and sitting inside an aged rig amusing. “You make me sound so little,” you shook your head, grinning. “I’m not some fragile little thing, you know.”

“No?” he hummed, clearly entertained. “You might be right. Especially since you were standing on the side of the road all by yourself without a scare in the world.”

He gave you a subtle sideways glance that you didn’t catch, one hand steady on the wheel as his eyes roamed over you. He watched you sitting there, like a princess perched on a dirty seat, how you squirmed a little and fiddled with your hands in your lap, unsure what to do with them.

You were the picture-perfect image of innocence—and for some reason, Bucky wanted to ruin it.

When you’re sitting down all day as a trucker, you don’t get much blood flow in your legs. It’s vital to stop and take breaks to stretch them out, keep the blood pumping. But sitting here next to you, he seemed to no longer have any issue with his circulation as his blood flowed warmly from his core and straight to his cock.

“Shit,” he mumbled to himself, adjusting the growing tightness in his jeans.

You turned to look at him, eyes wide and innocent. “Are you okay, mister Bucky?”

“M’fine,” he grumbled, forcing his eyes back onto the road. “And stop calling me mister.”

“It just feels…” you pursed your lips into a subtle pout, “… impolite.”

It was rare that Bucky felt cuteness aggression toward anyone or anything. He’d felt it with pets, sure. Maybe even with his nephews and nieces. But you? You were something else entirely. You were sickeningly sweet in a way that made his teeth ache. You were so soft and spoke so gently that he wanted to wrap his burly hands gently around your delicate throat to preserve your voice forever.

And throughout the drive, he felt exactly that. Cuteness aggression. Having these vulgar thoughts about a pure, innocent stranger was completely inappropriate. He began making pointless conversation in hopes to get his mind off of it.

“What concert were you goin’ to, sweetheart?” he had asked.

“Heart.”

“Heart?” he raised a brow. “I pegged you for the Olivia Newton-John type. I didn’t expect you to be fond of those Wilson sisters.”

You giggled. “I’m not as innocent as you think I am, mister Bucky.”

He smiled—not a genuine, kind one, but one that almost seemed taunting. “I’m not sure about that, little duck.”

These types of talks were supposed to distract him, to keep his mind occupied with something else, but they hardly dulled the warm feeling that was slowly building in his groin.

As the minutes went on, as an hour turned into multiple, the harder it became for him to ignore the way his cock was pressing insistently against the denim. Your soft laugh after every bad dad joke he threw, the way you would cross and uncross your legs every now and then, fiddling with the ends of your skirt. He grew more tense by the second, his body rigid and tense. He would let out a heavy sigh every now and then, his knuckles nearly going white around the wheel.

You noticed this, but you had been trying your best to ignore it. But after another agitated exhale from his nose, you decided to speak up.

“Mister Bucky?” you started, turning your head to face him. “Are you okay?”

He paused, his jaw clenching slightly. “I’m fine, sweetheart,” he said, though his voice was strained.

You frowned, leaning in a little closer. “Are you sure? If you want, I can take over. Though I’ve never driven a rig before…” your voice trailed off softly.

And there you went again—to Bucky’s demise, you were being aggravatingly adorable.

“No,” his jaw clenched again. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his focus on the road and not the sweet, intoxicating scent of your perfume. “I think I just need a smoke. You don’t mind, do you, doll?”

You pursed your lips together. You were never a fan of cigarettes, always hating how the smell clung to your hair and clothes no matter how many times you washed them. But what kind of position were you in to deny this man’s request—especially in his own truck?

So, you shook your head. “I don’t mind.”

He hummed, shifting his hips to dig in his back pocket for a pack of Marlboros. He opened the box and pulled a cigarette out, waving one toward you.

“Want one?” he asked with a smile.

“No thank you,” you declined with a polite smile.

Bucky shrugged and rolled the window down just barely, lighting the cigarette and taking a deep inhale before puffing it out. The smell already made you gag. Bucky was oblivious as he kept inhaling, exhaling an unpleasant cloud of gray smoke that made you cough and sniffle.

You kept coughing—small and stifled, like you were trying not to make a fuss. Your nose scrunched, eyes watering. And when you coughed a little louder, Bucky finally turned his head to look at you.

“You alright there, little duck?” he asked, blowing smoke out.

“I’m fine,” you wheezed.

Despite your words, he could clearly see that you weren’t fine. You kept blinking rapidly with a scrunched nose, trying not to let the smoke get to you as you sat there trying to be polite—trying to be good.

The sight of your innocence and purity only made his cock twitch in his pants even more. Bucky’s grip on the wheel tightened in frustration. With a deep sigh, he rolled the window down further, letting the cool wind sweep in as he stubbed the cigarette out in the portable ashtray in the cup holder.

“There,” he gruffed, flicking the butt out the window and flashing you a strained smile. “No more smoke.”

Your teeth caught your bottom lip as you looked at him warily. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders were stiff, and he kept shifting around in his seat—as if trying to ease some sort of discomfort. If anything, he looked even more on edge than he did before he took his smoke break.

Now, guilt started to eat at you, and you began to feel like this was your fault. He had picked up a random woman on the street, who was taking up his space and alone time, and he couldn’t even take a proper smoke without you having coughing fits right next to him.

“I’m sorry,” you spoke up suddenly, looking at him. “I feel bad for cutting your smoke break off early. Is there anything I can do to help you?” Your eyes quickly raked over his tense form with a frown. “You look like you’re in pain.”

He made a little grimace, not trusting himself to look at you.

“Stop worrying your pretty head,” he said, trying to sound playful, yet it came out strained. “I’ll be fine.”

You leaned in a little closer, trying to get in his peripheral view. His body stiffened.

“But, you don’t look fine.”

“Don’t push it, little duck.”

“Mister Bucky,” you frowned, leaning even closer. “I feel bad. I want to help you.”

His eyes fluttered shut as he inhaled deeply. The smell of your sweet candy perfume filling his nostrils that are usually clouded by smoke, seemed to be the last and final straw for him. He snapped his head at you, making you shrink back just slightly as he spoke.

“You know what pretty girls like you do to men like me to help ‘relieve stress’?” He asked. “Huh?”

You shook your head, biting your lip.

Bucky continued. “They put their mouths to good use.”

You frowned a bit, sulking in your seat. “Like… sing?”

The earnestness in your voice made him suck in a breath.

Sing?

The words that had just come out of his mouth were filthy, practically an indirect invitation for you to suck his cock right then and there, but it had completely gone over your head.

This only made his patience wear thinner.

“Not singing,” he sighed in defeat. His hand went down to adjust the bulge straining against his jeans.

Your eyes trailed down to his hands—big and calloused—as he subtly tried to palm himself. Bucky’s breath hitched as he gave his cock one good rub against the denim before placing his hands back on the wheel.

He was hard. You knew that for a fact, because your eyes would not leave the tent between his legs, no matter how many times he tried to adjust himself; it almost seemed to be begging for you to notice.

In your desperation to help Bucky in any way you could, you leaned over and reached your hand out. Before you could think, your soft palm rested gently on his clothed erection.

He immediately jumped in his seat, thrown off guard by your sudden action.

“Jesus! Doll, what the hell are you doing?”

You immediately retracted your hand as if you hurt him, looking at him wide-eyed. “I’m so sorry—!”

“No,” he interrupted, his hand coming to circle your wrist and bring it back to his crotch. “Don’t apologize—just… just keep it there.” He instructed quietly, his hand closing around yours as he held you still.

Your face flushed as you felt his warmth beneath your palm. He felt heavy, full, and the way his cock pulsed when you slightly grazed your fingers against him made you sigh softly. Encouraged by his subtle reaction, you rubbed your hand again, watching him carefully.

He sucked in a breath, glancing at you. “Fuck. Do you have any idea what you’re doing—” a small groan left his lips as you squeezed him through his pants again.

“Is this helping you, mister Bucky?”

Bucky shuddered, his hips jutting up slightly to meet the palm of your hand. “Shit,” he mumbled. “It’s helping, doll, but…” his hand wrapped around yours firmly, guiding it up and down harder against his length. “Move your hand like this.”

You followed the motion he instructed, biting your lip as you watched him carefully. You eyed the way his jaw hung slightly as his breathing grew heavier, the way his eyes were focused on the road, though it was obvious he wanted to look at you.

“Like this?” you asked, palming him harder.

“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, rocking his hips against your hand. “Like that. Just like that.”

You continued moving your hand up and down against his cock. He pulsed and throbbed underneath your palm, but he made a face—a look that told you this wasn’t enough. That he needed more.

So, you took it upon yourself to unbuckle your seatbelt, reach over and adjust your knees in your seat as your hands clumsily fumbled at his belt.

Bucky finally looked at you, wide-eyed as you worked at his buckle. “What—sweetheart, what are you—” a shocked gasp escaped him as you started unzipping his pants. “Jesus Christ—you… you’re an eager little duck, aren’t you?”

You batted your lashes at him. “I want to help you.”

“Yeah?” he groaned, lifting his hips up to help you. “Go on, then. Show me how good girls like you take care of men like me,” he said. “And it better not be by singing.”

You dug your fingers in his jeans, your soft hands finding the hole of his boxers and pulling his length out—freeing him from its confines. Immediately, he felt hot and heavy in your hands, heavier than he had against the denim. He was big, too big, and you didn’t know if you could wrap your small hands around him fully.

A soft little sigh escaped you as you hesistantly tried to wrap your fingers around his warm shaft.

He groaned, his head dipping back slightly against the car seat, his cock already pulsing at the sensation of your timid little fingers. He’d been so starved of any female affection out on these lonely roads that just your slight touch and smell were enough to make him bust right then and there.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed. “Keep… keep going. Move your hand up and down.”

Encouraged by his instruction, you squeezed your hands a little tighter, causing him to groan. You started to move your hands up and down and his hips started to shake as he gave your warm palm shallow thrusts, beginning to fuck your fist.

“Is… is this good?” you asked softly.

It was like a bolt of ecstasy flooded his entire body at the sound of your soft and innocent question. He pulsed in your grip again, and you took that as a sign to keep going. You started to pump him steadily, sighing softly at the sight of him trembling beneath your hand.

“That’s… that’s good,” he grunted, forcing his eyes on the road. “…very good. Don’t stop, doll.”

And you didn’t.

Your hand kept pumping him eagerly, your fingers giving his length a squeeze now and then, leaving him trying to contain his grunts and groans. A bead of pre-cum started leaking at his tip, and with a shaky thumb, you swiped your digit over it and smeared his arousal over the head of his cock.

“Jesus, baby,” he groaned. “How would your daddy feel if he found out his daughter was such a dirty little girl? Getting picked up by a stranger and stroking a man who’s twice her age’s cock?”

You chuckled softly. “He’d be very upset with me, mister Bucky.”

Bucky’s body shuddered, a groan rumbling from his chest. Your hands—so clearly inexperienced—made him feel good, sure. But he wondered how well you could do with that innocent little mouth of yours. He wanted to feel the soft, wet, and warm press of your tongue against his cock instead.

He adjusted his seat back slightly. “Come here,” he urged.

You leaned in a little closer, confused, before he grabbed the back of your head, fingers slinking through the strands of your hair as he moved your face down to his lap.

“Closer,” he grunted, his hands tightening around your hair and making you whimper softly. “Sorry, little duck. Gonna need your cute little mouth for this one—think you can give me that?”

“I can try,” you said softly, adjusting yourself. “Though, I never—”

“That’s okay,” he reassured, his voice strained and raspy. His grip on your hair was tight, and you could tell it was taking everything in him to not shove his cock into your inexperienced mouth right then and there.

“Just give it a few licks—a few kisses. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

Your face burned hot at his question. The way he asked it made it sound simple and innocent—though every word that left his mouth was dirty.

But you were determined to please him. After all, he was doing you a huge favor by saving you off the side of the road and giving you a ride.

“I’ll try my best…”

You adjusted yourself in your seat, your knees digging into the worn fabric of the passenger seat as you leaned down, your face barely hovering over his lap. You looked up at him, and his jaw was clenched tight, one hand still laced in your hair and the other holding the wheel steady.

“Are you sure we should be doing this while you’re driving?” you asked hesitantly, your lips tugging down into a pout.

“We’ll be alright, doll,” he soothed. “The road’s empty, and it’s just one straight road for more than a hundred miles. And don’t worry—I’ll finish quick.”

He glanced down at you, eyes wide and innocent, your hand wrapped around his cock and your lips hovering right over his tip. The sight of you like this, innocent as a bunny, only made him want to ruin you further.

He claimed he’d be quick, but even he knew that was a lie.

He was going to drag this out for as long as possible.

“Go on,” he urged. “Give me a little kiss.”

You leaned in hesitantly, your breath warm over his shaft as you pressed a soft and tentative kiss against his cockhead. Bucky’s eyes momentarily fluttered shut, groaning at the feel of your soft, wet lips touching his sensitive length.

You kept giving him the same delicate and shy kisses all over him—each kiss was a taunt, leaving him wanting to defile you more and more. His hand tightened around your hair, and he nudged your face closer. You let out a small yelp as his cock started to rub up and down clumsily against your cheek. He groaned at the feel of your soft cheek rubbing against his sensitive and wet tip.

“God, fuck,” he groaned, rocking his hips up against your face. “Bet you never had a grown man’s cock all over your face like this, huh?”

You whimpered beneath him, squeezing your eyes shut as his cock caressed your face. Deep, shallow thrusts of his cock smeared his pre-cum all over your cheeks and ruined your makeup.

“Go on, baby. Get a good whiff of that.”

Doing as instructed, you inhaled deeply, letting his masculine, musky smell fill your lungs. You’d never been this close to a man’s cock before—the smell and the close proximity of him was enough to make your head dizzy.

Bucky looked down, a devilish grin tugging at the corners of his lips at the sight of your scrunched face.

“Aw,” he cooed, teasing you. “Look at you. What an innocent thing you are. You said you’ve never sucked a cock before?”

You blinked up at him, shaking your head shyly. “No, I’ve never done it before. I’m sorry if it’s going to be bad.”

Bucky sucked in a harsh breath at your words, and he had to stop himself from smiling even wider. You were so innocent, so pure, and you were actually apologizing to him in case you gave him a bad performance.

He didn’t care about that.

He just wanted you.

“Don’t apologize, little duck,” he said, his thumb wiping the smeared mascara underneath your eye. “I’ll be happy with you trying your best.”

A soft, faint blush warmed your cheeks at his words. Most people tossed out lines like that without thinking. But coming from him, it settled differently. People didn’t usually have patience for you and your various lack of experience with… things.

“Okay,” you smiled softly, feeling encouraged. “I’ll try my best.”

With that, you parted your lips slowly, giving his cockhead a slow and shy lick. When he groaned, you took that as encouragement to move your tongue around more, teasing the swollen tip. The taste of his pre-cum that gathered at his slit was unusual, a little salty. But the way he moaned and bucked his hips for more—it only motivated you to keep going.

“Don’t be a tease, babydoll,” he warned raspily.

With one hand around his shaft, you leaned your head down and opened your mouth wider, your soft lips enveloping the tip. You swirled your tongue in an attempt to please him, but it was clumsy, uncoordinated, and you were already drooling down your chin like an amateur.

Bucky laughed softly. Your attempt was cute, but he wanted to test you.

“Gonna push your head down a little, sweetheart,” he gave you a slight nudge, watching in satisfaction as your small mouth stretched around his length.

He didn’t even make it halfway before you immediately broke into a gagging fit, tears springing in the corners of your eyes. You whined and choked around his cock, though you didn’t pull away.

He felt bad, really. It was your first time with a dick inside your mouth, and it was one of this size. But he couldn’t admit he wanted to see you struggle.

“Oh,” he breathed, huffing out a small laugh. “You’re taking my cock like a champ, little duck. Ain’t this hurting you?”

He shouldn’t have bothered asking, because he knew he was not going to get an answer—not when your mouth was stuffed with just half his cock. When you muffled and coughed around his shaft, Bucky loosened his grip in your hair just slightly and gently started caressing your head, as if soothing you.

“That’s it, baby. Don’t try to force it, just take what you can—fuck, that’s it. Gooood girl,” he cooed softly.

One hand was tight on the steering wheel, keeping it steady. His eyes kept flicking back between you and the road—it damn near made him dizzy. “Try bobbing your head up and down a little, baby. Can you try doing that for me?”

You nodded against his dick gently, your head slowly moving up and down, your cheeks hollowing around his length. Your tongue rested heavy against his pulsing cock as you tried your best to take him deeper, and a little bump in the road made his cock hit the back of your throat. You immediately choked and pulled away slightly.

“Shit,” Bucky grunted. “I’m sorry, baby. The road’s a little bumpy. Just breathe in and out of your nose, okay?” He glanced down at you, pushing a stray hair out of your face and running a finger against your hollowed cheek softly.

“You’re already being such a good girl for me.”

You pulled his cock out of your mouth with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cockhead before you swiped your tongue over your lips. You craned your neck to look up at him. “… I am?”

Bucky’s eyes were glazed with lust, lips parted as he looked at your face—makeup smeared, hair a mess, drool painted all over your chin—it was a beautiful sight. “You are, baby. You’re being a very good girl.”

You were no longer the innocent, helpless girl who stood by the road with her thumb out. You were his now, his own little plaything that made him have fun with for the first time in a long time.

If he had a girl like you in his passenger seat for every car ride, he’d be the happiest, and luckiest, truck driver on earth.

“Am I making you feel good, mister Bucky?” you asked shyly, with one hand wrapped around the base of his shaft and pumping him at an uneven pace.

“Y-yes, baby,” Bucky’s breath was shaky. “You’re making me feel more than good. Think you can try taking the rest of me in your sweet little mouth?”

You tried to catch your breath as your hand paused, eyes trailing back down at his length. He was big; you already knew that when you first pulled him out of his jeans. You were only able to take half of him inside your mouth, and that was with you already trying your hardest.

To say it wasn’t painful would be a lie. The stretch around your lips burned, and the ache around your jaw was a type of ache you’d never experienced before. Your own drool and spit were everywhere—even smeared all over your chin. And after that bump on the road, you hated the feeling of gagging.

But even then, there was a building heat that pooled between your legs from the very start.

Despite the ache, you liked this.

You liked knowing that you were able to please a man who was way older than you, with much more experience, even though you lacked it all. And seeing his face—handsomely desperate for an inexperienced girl like you... how could you deny him?

“I don’t know—I mean, I can try…”

“I know, doll. Just show me how much you want to please me,” Bucky encouraged, flashing you a lazy smile.

You blushed softly at his words. Eager to please him, you leaned back down, your soft lips finding the tip of his cock again before your warm mouth stretched around him, slowly sinking your head down further as your tongue dragged along every pulsing ridge and vein.

“Fuck!” he moaned as he felt you go in deeper than you had before, your mouth slowly constricting around his cock as you went deeper.

Tears were springing to your eyes, and you squeezed them shut to keep them from flowing.

“No, baby,” he grunted, his rough fingers tangling in your hair again. “Keep your eyes open. I want you to keep ‘em open while you take every inch—fuck, yesss, that’s it!”

His head thudded hard against the driver’s seat, his mouth dropping completely into an o-shape as he guided your head down deeper and deeper. A tear dripped down your cheek and onto his lap as the size of him started to get too much. Your mouth was not used to such a large object inside, but the filthy sounds that left his mouth were enough to spur you on.

He was more than halfway inside your mouth by now, moving with a gentle slowness that was almost excruciating for him. He pushed, paused and let your mouth adjust to his size, then pushed again.

But the more you gagged and the more his cock rubbed against the walls of your sweet, warm mouth, it made it harder for him to keep control. You were so close to taking him all—you just needed to be a good girl and take one last push.

“God—fuck!” Bucky shouted as he gave your hair one hard tug before pulling your head down in one hard, swift motion.

Your eyes went wide as your nose hit the base of his pelvis. Your hands flew to his thigh for support as you choked and sputtered around his cock. “Mmph!”

His grip on your hair was tight as he held you still, his hips rocking up against your face, fucking your mouth hard and relentless.

“Shit, shit,” he moaned loudly. “I know, baby. I’m sorry—fuck, but I couldn’t hold back anymore. Just… just stay still, okay? I’ll take care of the rest—shit!” He gasped as he felt himself getting close.

Everything was intoxicating.

The thrill of having a pretty, innocent girl’s mouth wrapped around his cock while driving, the wet sounds of your mouth as he slammed his hips up and fucked your face harder than you could take—the way your eyes rolled, your back arching slightly over the console, your dress barely covering your ass as your knees dug deep into the uncomfortable cushions of the seat…

It was more than he could take.

This very moment was everything he could ever dream of, and he knew that the minute he painted your pretty lips white with his seed, every truck ride after you wouldn’t be the same.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, his thrusts sloppy and uneven as he desperately chased his release. “Fuuuck, you little slut!”

A little sympathetic whine left his lips as he heard you mewl and sputter beneath him, choking and crying on his cock.

“Sshh, shh… I’m sorry. I know, doll. I know it hurts—but fuck, you’re taking me so well. I’m close—just…move your tongue a little—”

His body immediately shook, and another loud and almost animalistic groan tore straight out of his chest the minute you—attempted to—rub your tongue up and down along his shaft. You tried to keep in time with his brutal throat-fucking, though you couldn’t keep up.

It was cute, really.

“Shit, shit, shit,” a litany of curses spilled from his lips as he felt his base coiling hot. “F-fuuck, I’m gonna cum—” his balls tightened up, and his face twisted as he felt himself let go.

With one hard thrust upwards, he sheathed his cock completely inside your wet mouth. You coughed and choked around him as warm, thick cum flooded your mouth, making it spill and drip around his length. You tried your best to swallow it all like he would have wanted you to, but with your gag reflex already overstimulated, you didn’t have it in you to choke it down.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, lifting your head up so that you could catch your breath.

Bucky’s cock was released from your mouth, and you immediately started coughing and catching your breath, your cheeks streaked with tears and long rid of its makeup.

His eyes flickered to the road—still empty—then back to you. He released his hand from your hair and clumsily swiped his thumb over your lip, catching any stray drops and sticking his thumb in your mouth.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he panted, giving you a tired and reassuring smile. “You did so well for me. I didn’t hurt you too bad now, did I?”

You coughed, shaking your head and giving him an equally tired smile. “It was a little rough. It was a new feeling,” you admitted. “But I enjoyed it.”

His smile widened, letting out a breathless laugh as he reached out and ruffled your already messy hair. “Good girl. Now, sit back down and buckle yourself in. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt now.”

You scrambled back into the passenger seat, adjusting your dress and putting your seatbelt back on. You pulled the sun visor down and rolled the mirror out, and you let out a shocked gasp at the sight of yourself.

You looked completely debauched. Your hair and makeup—once neatly done for the concert you were supposed to go to—were now smeared and desecrated. You looked like a woman straight out of a porn magazine. Even worse, you looked exactly like the woman your parents would warn you about.

“Oh my god,” you murmured, trying to flatten your hair.

Bucky turned to look at you with a grin, already tucking himself back into his pants. “What is it, little duck?”

You frowned. “My father would kill me if he saw me like this!”

Oh, that.

His smile faltered just a little.

Just a few miles from now, he had to drop you off at a safe location, say goodbye, and never see you again. His grip on the wheel tightened, knuckles going white as he stayed silent.

You looked at him with a frown. “Are you okay, Mister Bucky?” you asked curiously. “Did my… did I not help you feel better? Are you still feeling tense?”

He immediately snapped back and loosened his grip on the wheel just slightly. He turned back to you—the sight of your wide eyes, still innocent and bright despite the brutal face-fucking you took from him just mere seconds ago—it tugged at the strings in his chest.

There it was. That damn cute aggression all over again.

“Huh? Oh, no. I’m fine, babydoll. Don’t worry about me now.” He forced a smile.

You smiled back, genuine. “Okay.”

There was an awkward, very tense moment of silence after that. Your eyes were peeking curiously at the window, and your thighs were clenched tight together. He kept stealing glances at your lap every now and then, and every time he looked, you were squirming and fidgeting. Your hands were playing at the ends of your skirt, and your teeth would catch your bottom lip.

You looked just as tense as he did before you… “took care of him.”

And he realized now how foolish he’d been not to take care of your own needs, especially after how diligently you worked to please him.

“You feeling alright, little duck?” he asked, keeping his eyes casual on the road.

“… I’m fine,” you mumbled.

You were not fine. After giving your first blowjob, your heart had been hammering in your chest with excitement. Your body felt warm, and the area between your legs felt tingly and, well, damp. You were so wet, your panties were practically soaked right through, and Bucky hadn't touched you once aside from the hair tugs and gentle face caressing.

You needed more. Your body ached for him—but you felt like it was too selfish to ask. The blowjob was supposed to be you paying him back for giving you a ride. He had already done too much for your sake.

“Hey,” he nudged you gently in the arm, grabbing your attention. “You hungry? There’s a little diner I know that’s just a few miles ahead. I’ll fill up the tank, and we can grab something to eat.”

You blinked at him. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to be more of a burden—”

Your voice immediately trailed off as he reached over, his hand casually resting on your thigh. You stiffened, and that same tingling, clenching feeling you had came back tenfold. A little whimper escaped you as you felt his rough, calloused hand slowly glide up and tickle past your skirt.

“You’re not a burden, doll,” he reassured, voice deep. “Then after we eat, we can park somewhere… discrete, and just relax. We can continue having some private time to ourselves before you call your daddy to come pick you up.”

Then, he finally looked at you.

There was a glint behind his eyes, a look that told you that he was sensing what you were feeling. It was almost as if he didn’t want to drop you off somewhere safe—but rather keep you here with himself.

After all, you needed a reliable and trustworthy man to look after you—and who better than him?

“How about it, sweetheart?” he smiled. “Spendin’ more time with mister Bucky. Doesn't that sound nice?”

IM FINALLY FINISHED I HAD THIS DRAFT UP MY BUTT SINCE THE BEGINNING NOV but anyway. im finally finished. i honestly dragged my feet for the second half so i apologize for any mistakes.

thank you for reading!! <3