hihi i was wondering if u could write a sam x reader fic where the reader is an angel like cas but is more like joyful and excitable and basically when cas doesn't answer sam's prayers he prays for reader and they like immediately show up?
idk what else to add or explain sorry!!
also luv ur writing xx
⋆｡ ˚ first prayer answered
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ when cas doesn’t answer, sam tries praying to you instead—and you come so quickly it leaves him wondering how long you’ve been waiting to be asked.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x angel!reader ( gn )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 790 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ hurt/comfort
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ injured sam, soft romantic tension, mild blood mention
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
sam doesn’t pray to you.
you try not to take it personally. which isn’t easy, considering you’re sitting on the roof of a closed laundromat three blocks away, swinging your feet over the edge and pretending not to listen while his voice pulls thin and strained through the dark. the prayer has texture when it reaches you. castiel’s name comes wrapped in worry, exhaustion, and pain held between sam’s teeth because he’s too stubborn to let it spill properly.
“cas,” he says again, somewhere below, in the ruined back room of an abandoned house where the wallpaper peels in damp curls. “come on. i need help.”
nothing answers him. not cas. not dean, who’s two towns over chasing the other half of the case. not the ugly thing that slammed sam into a bookcase and vanished through the floorboards before he could salt the room properly. just sam, breathing hard, one hand pressed against the cut high on his ribs. you hear him shift. hear the little sound he tries to bury when pain catches up.
your hands curl against the brick ledge. you could go. you know you could. angels aren’t supposed to need invitations for every act of mercy, and you’ve never been especially good at following the colder rules anyway. heaven has called you undisciplined, impulsive, and sentimental in a tone that made it sound flawed. castiel once said you were joyful as if he didn’t know whether that was a miracle or a curse.
but sam hasn’t called you. not yet.
there’s another long silence, and then his prayer changes. “okay,” he whispers, rough and reluctant. “if you’re listening… i could use you.”
you’re there before the last word finishes leaving him.
the room flares with soft white light, quick as a match strike, and sam jerks back so hard his shoulder hits the wall.
“sorry!” you say immediately. “sorry. too fast?”
he stares at you, hand still pressed to his side, eyes wide and bright with pain. “you came.”
“you asked.”
“i barely asked.”
“i have excellent hearing.”
that earns you the smallest breath of a laugh, which you treasure shamelessly. then his face tightens, and the laughter disappears beneath a wince.
you step closer, all the brightness in you folding into focus. “sam—”
“i’m fine.”
“you are bleeding through your fingers.”
“yeah, well…” his mouth twitches weakly. “not my best argument.”
you kneel in front of him, careful with the broken glass scattered across the floor. he watches you in a way that shows he isn’t sure he deserve tenderness. it makes something in you ache. angels aren’t supposed to ache this much.
“may i?” you ask, reaching toward his hand.
sam hesitates, then lets you move it.
the wound is ugly but not fatal, though pain doesn’t need to be fatal to be real. you press your palm lightly against his side, grace warming beneath your skin, and he inhales sharply as the cut closes under your touch.
his hand catches your wrist before you pull away. “i didn’t know if you’d answer.”
your eyes lift to his. “i always answer you.”
“i usually call cas.”
“i know.” the words come out too honest. a little awkward, sitting between you with the dust and blood and moonlight.
sam’s thumb shifts once against your wrist. “you heard that?”
“i hear more than i should.” you soften your voice, because teasing him right now would be easy, and kindness matters more. “i don’t mind being second, sam. not if you still call.”
his expression changes in a way you can’t read at first. guilt, maybe. surprise. something warmer hiding under both.
“you’re not second,” he says quietly.
your chest goes strangely still. for once, you have no bright little remark to toss into the room so neither of you has to stand too close to what he just gave you.
sam looks down at your hand still near his ribs, then back at your face. “i just didn’t want to bother you.”
you laugh then, soft and helpless. “you are very bad at understanding angels.”
“probably.”
“sam, i was on a roof waiting.”
his brows draw together. “waiting?”
“in case you needed me.”
the confession lands gentler than fear made it seem. sam’s face softens until he looks younger, tired all the way through and somehow still beautiful with it.
“that’s a little ridiculous,” he murmurs.
“yes,” you say. “i’m told that often.”
he keeps holding your wrist while the night stays dangerous. the thing that hurt him is still out there, the case still unfinished, the world still full of prayers that go unanswered. but for this one breath, in this broken room, sam’s alive beneath your hands. and you’re the one he called.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
Summary:
Your brother has always mistaken your loyalty for stupidity.
When his work as a low-level fixer finally catches up with him, he saves himself by putting your name on a betrayal meant for Bucky Barnes, the most dangerous man in Brooklyn.
Bucky expects a frightened pawn. Steve Rogers, his polished and lethal second-in-command, expects a liability.
Neither of them expects you to fight back, flirt harder, and make them both want your approval badly enough to earn it.
Author’s Note:
Mafia!AU. No powers/superheroes, but Bucky still has his metal arm.
This fic's length also got away from me, so this will also be in two parts.
[Part 2]
🦾🩸🥃
Your brother had always thought you were softer than you were.
You could not blame him entirely. Softness had been useful once. You had learned young that people helped girls who looked like they might cry but were trying very bravely not to. Landlords gave you three more days when you stood in their hallways with your hands clasped in front of you and a tremble carefully placed in your voice. Corner store owners pretended not to notice the extra loaf of bread beneath your jacket when you smiled at them like they were kind. Cops looked past the knife in your boot because you said yes, sir, and kept your hands visible. Men who should have known better leaned closer when you let your mouth curve sweetly, and by the time they realized you had taken their wallet, copied their key, or memorized the code they punched into the keypad behind them, you were already gone.
Eli called it charm.
When he was angry, he called it manipulation.
He had never liked calling it survival because that would have meant admitting you had both needed to survive in the first place, and your brother preferred any version of the past in which he came out looking noble. He was four years older than you, which had apparently been enough for him to appoint himself tragic patriarch after your parents died. He told people he had raised you. For a while, you let him. Correcting him required explaining too much, and some lies were cheaper than the truth.
Eli had been seventeen when the accident happened, too handsome for his own good and already beginning to understand that grief made people generous. You had been thirteen and practical because one of you had to be. He screamed at insurance agents. You learned where your mother kept the documents. He punched a hole through the kitchen wall. You patched it with cardboard, duct tape, and a framed print from the living room so the landlord would not charge you for damages you could not pay. He disappeared for three days after the funeral and came back smelling like smoke and someone else’s perfume. You cooked pasta with the last of the butter and pretended not to notice his hands shaking around the fork.
That was family, you had thought then. Not forgiveness, exactly. Something more desperate.
By twenty, Eli had become useful to men who did not reward uselessness. He could make paper behave. Fake leases. Clean IDs. Notarized documents with dead men’s signatures. Shell companies that looked respectable if no one cared enough to peel back the first layer. He worked low enough in Brooklyn’s criminal food chain to pretend he was invisible, but useful enough that people kept his number. He was not important. He said that whenever you told him important men did not have to be the ones who got shot.
“You worry too much,” he told you two months before everything came apart. He was in your kitchen, drinking orange juice from the carton because he had never respected a boundary that did not come with a deadbolt. “Nobody’s looking at me.”
“They don’t have to look hard,” you said. “You leave fingerprints everywhere.”
He scoffed. “That’s very dramatic.”
“You used my old address on an incorporation form.”
His expression changed, but only for a second. Eli had always been good at rearranging his face before guilt could fully settle there. “It was dead paper.”
“It was my paper.”
“It was a closed account tied to a closed lease. Nobody uses that name.”
“I use that name,” you said. “Because it’s mine.”
“You’re making this bigger than it is.”
You remembered the way he said it. Easy. Dismissive. A little amused, as if you were a child standing in front of the stove, warning him that the burner was hot.
That was what Eli did when he was scared. He made you feel foolish for noticing.
You kicked him out that night. He came back three days later with flowers stolen from the bucket outside a bodega and an apology that sounded rehearsed. You took the flowers because they were already yours if he had stolen them for you, but you did not let him past the chain.
“I’m your brother,” he said, softer then.
“I know,” you answered. “That’s why you’re still breathing.”
He laughed because he thought you were joking.
People usually did.
🦾🩸🥃
The night Bucky Barnes found you, rain had turned the city silver.
It was a miserable, needling rain, too cold for late spring and too thin to justify an umbrella. It slicked the pavement outside your apartment building and turned the neon from the liquor store across the street into a red smear in the gutter. You came home with a paper bag of groceries under one arm, your keys already threaded between your fingers, and the distinct feeling that something was wrong crawling up the back of your neck.
The lobby light was out.
That happened often enough that it should not have mattered, but the shadows inside were too still. No music bleeding through from Mrs. Alvarez’s place on the first floor. No stale cigarette smell from the super’s son lurking near the mailboxes. The building had a pulse. You had lived there long enough to know it, and tonight it was holding its breath.
You stepped back before the man behind the door moved.
He was big, but big men were often slow because they trusted their size too much. His hand shot out for your arm. You let him get close enough to commit, dropped the groceries, and drove the heel of your palm up into his nose. Cartilage gave with a wet crunch. He cursed, stumbling backward, and you took the opening, twisting away as another man came out of the stairwell.
“Really?” you snapped, because fear always came easier if you gave it something else to wear. “In this weather?”
The second man had a gun. You saw it in the angle of his shoulder before the weapon cleared his jacket. You kicked the fallen bag hard, sending a can of tomatoes skidding under his foot. He shifted, just enough. You lunged into the space, caught his wrist with both hands, and slammed it against the edge of the mailboxes until his fingers opened. The gun hit the tile. You kicked it beneath the radiator.
The first man recovered enough to grab you from behind.
You drove your elbow back. He grunted but did not let go. He was better than the first impression suggested, or maybe he had learned from the broken nose. His arm locked around your ribs, too high to breathe comfortably. You hooked your foot behind his ankle and dropped your weight. He swore as you both hit the floor. Pain flashed through your hip. You ignored it, slammed your head back into his mouth, and scrambled for the gun beneath the radiator.
A polished black shoe came down on it first.
You froze with your fingers inches from the grip.
Slowly, you looked up.
The man standing over you did not look like hired muscle. That was the first thing you noticed. The men bleeding in your lobby looked like violence that had been paid in cash. This one looked like violence with a tailor. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and blond, his dark wool coat falling open over a suit that probably cost more than three months of your rent. His face was handsome in a way that felt almost insulting under the circumstances, with clean lines, calm blue eyes, and a mouth that did not need to smile to make you wonder what it would look like if he did.
He had a gun in his hand.
He was not pointing it at you.
That bothered you more.
“You must be Steve,” you said.
One of the bleeding men made a confused noise.
The blond man’s expression barely changed, but something sharpened behind his eyes. “And why would you say that?”
“Because if you were Bucky Barnes, they wouldn’t have come in first.”
His gaze flicked over you, quick and assessing. Your position on the floor. Your hand near the gun. The blood on the tile that was not yours. The way you had not made the mistake of moving once he entered the room.
“Get up,” he said.
“Is that a request or are we still pretending this is a kidnapping?”
“It’s an instruction.”
You smiled at him. “That’s less charming.”
The man with the broken nose groaned. Steve did not look away from you.
“Stand up,” he said, gentler this time, which did not make it less dangerous. “Please.”
“See?” you said, pushing yourself slowly to your feet. “Manners cost nothing.”
His mouth twitched. It was small. Almost nothing. It was enough to tell you he had not expected you to be funny, and that was useful.
The man whose wrist you had slammed against the mailboxes reached for your arm. Steve stopped him with a glance.
“Don’t,” Steve said.
The man went still.
Interesting.
Steve picked up the gun with a handkerchief and tucked it away somewhere inside his coat. He did not touch you. That was also interesting, though you doubted it was an act of mercy. Men like him did not need to grab when everyone else did it for them.
“You’re coming with us,” he said.
“My groceries are getting wet.”
“I’ll replace them.”
“That’s presumptuous. I’m particular about tomatoes.”
“You just used them as a weapon.”
“They knew what they signed up for.”
That time, Steve’s almost-smile lasted a fraction longer. Then he looked past you toward the broken-nosed man. “Car.”
The man hesitated, glaring at you through the blood on his face.
Steve’s voice cooled. “Now.”
The man went.
You watched him leave, then looked back at Steve. “Do you always bring men this breakable to an abduction, or did I get the discount package?”
“You were described as low risk.”
“By who?”
Steve did not answer.
He did not have to.
The cold in your chest had nothing to do with the open lobby door.
Eli, you thought.
Your brother’s name settled in your stomach like a swallowed blade, familiar and sharp. It was not surprise. That would have been kinder. It was the ugly, exhausted recognition of a pattern finally reaching its natural end.
You laughed once, quietly.
Steve noticed. Of course he did. “Something funny?”
“No,” you said. “Just realizing I should’ve changed the locks on more than my apartment.”
For the first time, his calm shifted into something close to understanding.
Then he gestured toward the door.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
The car waiting at the curb was black, expensive, and forgettable in the way money could make things forgettable. You slid into the back seat because refusing would have turned the street into a scene, and you were not yet sure how many guns were pointed at you from the dark. Steve sat beside you instead of in front. That was not an accident. He kept enough space between you to be polite and not enough for you to mistake it for freedom.
The doors locked.
You looked at him. “Child safety?”
“Professional habit.”
“That’s bleak.”
“So is breaking a man’s nose in your own lobby.”
“He started it.”
“I saw the end.”
“I’m better in the middle.”
Steve turned his head slightly. His gaze moved over your face with that same careful attention, not lingering anywhere inappropriate, which made the attention worse somehow. He looked like a man who collected facts without asking permission.
“You always talk this much when someone takes you at gunpoint?”
“You’re not pointing it at me.”
“Would that make you quieter?”
You smiled. “Probably not.”
The driver glanced at you in the mirror. Steve did not.
“You know why we’re here,” he said.
“I know who sent you. The why is where it gets tedious.”
“Tell me.”
“Eli did something stupid,” you said. “Eli involved my name. Eli vanished before the consequences arrived. This is a recurring theme in my life, except that usually the consequences are eviction notices, angry girlfriends, or men with neck tattoos who think intimidation is a personality trait. You’re a step up, aesthetically speaking.”
Steve looked out the window for a moment. Rain slid over the glass, breaking the streetlights into gold lines across his face.
“You understand who Bucky Barnes is?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And you’re making jokes?”
“I understand who Bucky Barnes is,” you said. “I also understand that if he wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be in a car with leather seats and a polite blond. So either he needs something, or he wants something. Both mean I have time.”
Steve looked back at you.
There it was again. Not softness. Not approval. Interest, maybe, although he controlled it quickly.
“You’re not what your brother said you were.”
You hated how much that stung. “Let me guess. Sweet? Harmless? A little ditzy but good with people?”
Steve did not answer fast enough.
“God,” you muttered, turning toward the window. “I’m going to kill him before Barnes gets the chance.”
“Bucky might object.”
“Then Bucky can take a number.”
The car turned off the avenue and slid into a part of Brooklyn that pretended money had cleaned the blood from its foundations. Old brick buildings. Private doors. Windows lit warm behind expensive glass. You knew enough about the city to know that respectability was often just crime with better upholstery.
The car stopped behind a restaurant that had no sign on the back entrance and no trash in the alley. That told you more than any name could have. Steve got out first, then offered you his hand.
You looked at it.
“Seriously?”
“I can drag you,” he said. “I’d rather not.”
“That’s your sales pitch?”
“I’ve had better nights too.”
You took his hand because you wanted to feel the calluses.
They were there, across his palm and fingers, hidden beneath the polish of the suit. Not just a man who gave orders, then. A man who could carry them out. His hand closed around yours, warm and steady, and he helped you from the car without pulling.
“You’re prettier when you’re not having people ambush me,” you said.
Steve’s gaze dipped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “You’re more polite when you’re outnumbered.”
“Am I?”
“No.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
That was inconvenient.
Inside, the restaurant was closed and dimly lit, the chairs stacked on tables in the front room, the floor smelling faintly of lemon oil and old wine. It looked respectable from the street, which told you almost everything you needed to know. Respectable places made excellent fronts. Steve guided you through the kitchen, past two silent men by the back hall, and down a narrow staircase into a lower level that had been converted into something between a private lounge, an office, and the kind of room where men learned whether Bucky Barnes was in a generous mood.
Bucky Barnes stood behind a desk at the far end of the room.
You knew him before Steve said anything. Some men carried reputation like a coat. Bucky wore his like a second skin. He was not as tall as Steve, but the room organized itself around him anyway. Dark hair. Dark suit. A face so handsome it looked almost cruel at first glance, all sharp angles and a mouth made for either sin or sentencing. His left arm was metal from below the shoulder, matte black and silver catching faintly under the low lights as he set a file on the desk with deliberate care.
The sound was soft.
Everyone in the room heard it.
Bucky looked at Steve first. Then at the two men behind him, both bloodied in ways they clearly resented. Finally, he looked at you.
His eyes were very blue.
That was irritating.
“This is her?” he asked.
You tilted your head. “That’s a philosophical question.”
Steve moved to stand slightly behind you and to the right. Not blocking the door. Blocking you from seeing the door without turning your head.
“Yes,” Steve said.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your hands, your coat, the bruise beginning to ache along your hip. “She did that?”
“She did,” Steve said.
One of the men muttered something under his breath.
Bucky’s eyes flicked toward him. “Leave.”
The man shut up.
“No,” Bucky said, colder. “I mean leave the room.”
The men left.
The door closed behind them.
You looked between Bucky and Steve. “Should I be flattered or concerned that you dismissed the audience?”
“Concerned,” Bucky said.
His voice was lower than you expected. Not rough. Controlled. A voice that did not need to rise because too many people had learned to listen the first time.
“Mm,” you said. “Honest. I like that in a kidnapper.”
Bucky studied you for a moment.
Then he laughed.
It was quiet, almost unwilling, and Steve’s attention sharpened as if the sound mattered. Maybe it did. Maybe Bucky Barnes did not laugh often in this room.
“You know why you’re here?” Bucky asked.
“I have theories.”
He tapped the file with the fingers of his right hand. “Your name is on a company that moved four million dollars out of one of my accounts.”
“Rude of me.”
“Your name is also on the lease for a safehouse where two of my men were killed last week.”
You let that settle.
There it was.
Not paperwork. Not a stupid scam that could be smoothed over with enough charm and signatures. Blood.
Your face must have shifted despite your best efforts, because Bucky watched you more closely.
“You didn’t know,” Steve said.
It was not a question.
You glanced over your shoulder at him. “Careful, handsome. If you start sounding reasonable, I might get attached.”
Steve’s jaw flexed.
Bucky opened the file and turned it toward you. “Signature yours?”
You stepped closer to the desk. Steve did not stop you. That told you something about either his confidence or his orders.
The signature on the paper was close enough to make your throat tighten.
Eli had always been better with numbers than with hands. He could copy loops, angles, pressure, but there was a stiffness in the line where your writing usually relaxed. A person who did not know you might believe it. A person who knew paper too well should have asked questions.
“No,” you said.
“You looked for half a second.”
“I’ve seen my name before.”
Bucky’s expression did not change. “Try again.”
You leaned over the desk, turning the page with two fingers. “The slant is wrong. He always overcorrects when he copies women’s handwriting. Thinks we’re all supposed to write like birthday cards. The y is too careful. Mine drops lower when I’m signing fast. Also, this notary stamp expired eight months ago, and the address listed here is a building that had a fire in 2021. The top floor’s been gutted since.”
Silence followed.
You looked up. Bucky was staring at you. Steve had gone very still behind you.
“What?” you said. “Did you expect me to faint?”
Bucky’s metal fingers tapped once against the desk. “I expected you to be less irritating.”
“I get that a lot from men who disappoint me.”
Steve made a sound that might have been a cough.
Bucky’s eyes did not leave yours. “Your brother told us you handled some paperwork for him.”
“My brother also told a girl named Marisa he owned a boat. He gets ambitious when he’s cornered.”
“He said you could explain the company.”
“I can explain it,” you said. “Eli forged my signature because he knows my full legal name, my birthday, my Social Security number, my old addresses, my mother’s maiden name, and the answers to every security question I used before I learned better. He used me because dead parents leave clean grief and clean grief makes good paper. Then whatever he built with it got used by someone stupider or smarter than him, and when you came looking, he gave you my name because he thought I’d talk my way out of it.”
Bucky’s face hardened at the mention of your parents, not with sympathy exactly. More like distaste on your behalf.
Interesting.
“You’re certain,” Steve said.
You turned enough to look at him. “I’ve been cleaning up after Eli since I was thirteen. I know the smell of his messes.”
Bucky closed the file. “Where is he?”
You smiled, and this one had no sweetness in it. “If I knew that, do you think I’d be here?”
“Maybe. If you were protecting him.”
“I’m not.”
“You were once.”
That landed because it was true.
You looked back at Bucky. “Once, I believed family meant dragging someone out of every fire they started, even if they were the one who handed you the match. I’ve matured.”
“You’re saying you’d give him to me.”
“I’m saying I won’t stand between him and what he earned.”
Bucky considered you for a long moment. You let him. Men like him liked silence. They thought it made them powerful. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it gave you time to count exits, weapons, habits.
Bucky carried his weight evenly, but the metal arm changed the line of his left shoulder slightly. Not weakness. Adjustment. The prosthetic was not decorative; the fingers moved with precise control, quiet but not silent. Custom work. Expensive. Built for strength and fine motor function both. You wondered who had taken the original arm from him and whether they had lived long enough to regret it.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“Your arm is beautiful.”
Steve looked at you sharply.
Bucky did not move. “That supposed to flatter me?”
“No,” you said. “If I were flattering you, I’d start with your mouth.”
For the first time, you saw Bucky Barnes caught fully off guard.
It lasted less than a second, but you were close enough to see it. A flicker. A slip in the composed cruelty of his face. Behind you, Steve inhaled once, quiet and controlled.
Then Bucky leaned both hands against the desk.
“You flirt when you’re afraid?”
You held his gaze. “I flirt when men expect fear and I don’t feel like being generous.”
His expression shifted.
There he was, you thought. Not the reputation. Not the room. The man underneath, dangerous and intrigued despite himself.
“You’re in a bad position,” Bucky said.
“I’ve been in worse.”
“Not with me.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Barnes, but men have been warning me about men since I was old enough to understand which doors locked from the inside. You’re not special because you’re dangerous.”
Bucky smiled then.
It was not kind. It was not safe.
It made heat curl low in your stomach anyway, which was deeply inconvenient.
“Steve,” he said.
Steve stepped closer. “Yeah?”
“Put her in the upstairs suite.”
Your head turned. “Excuse me?”
Bucky opened the file again, dismissing you with the kind of casual authority that made you want to climb over the desk and bite him. “Secure room. Guard on the door. Food. No restraints unless she earns them.”
“Do all your business properties come with kidnapping amenities?”
Bucky looked up. “Only the successful ones.”
“How generous,” you said. “Do I get a mint on the pillow?”
Bucky looked up. “If you behave.”
You smiled slowly. “Careful. I might take that as encouragement.”
Steve’s hand touched the space between your shoulder blades, not quite pushing. The heat of it went through your coat.
You looked back at Bucky as Steve guided you toward the door.
Bucky was still watching you.
Good, you thought, and hated how satisfying that felt.
🦾🩸🥃
The upstairs suite was nicer than your apartment.
That annoyed you more than the guard outside the door.
It was not a bedroom in any personal sense. No photographs. No books. No clothes in the dresser. Just a queen bed with a gray upholstered headboard, a private bathroom stocked with unopened toiletries, a small table by the window, and curtains heavy enough to muffle the rain. The room had been designed for people Bucky Barnes needed alive, comfortable, and unable to leave.
There were no bars on the windows, but they did not open more than four inches. You checked. The door locked from the outside. You checked that too. The guard in the hallway pretended not to hear.
Steve watched from near the dresser as you made your inspection.
“You always this thorough?” he asked.
“You always watch women test their prison cells?”
“It’s not a cell.”
You turned from the window. “Does the door open?”
His expression did not change.
“That’s what I thought.”
Steve exhaled through his nose. Not quite a sigh. “You’re not being kept here as punishment.”
“Comforting. I’m sure the legal distinction will keep me warm.”
He looked tired suddenly. Not weak. Just less polished around the edges. “Two men are dead.”
That sobered you.
“I know.”
“Bucky doesn’t let that go.”
“I wouldn’t respect him if he did.”
Steve’s gaze held yours.
You had surprised him again. You were beginning to enjoy that too much.
“You knew men like us growing up?” he asked.
“Men like you?”
“Criminals.”
You laughed softly. “That’s adorable.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“I grew up in a neighborhood where everybody knew somebody who knew somebody. The difference between criminals and respectable men was usually tailoring, tax strategy, and whether the cops called ahead before raids. So yes, Steve. I knew men like you. I knew boys who wanted to be men like you. I knew girls who loved men like you and boys who got killed trying to impress them. I knew when to look away and when to look helpless. I knew how to shoot before I was old enough to drive because my mother’s friend kept a .38 in a flour tin and thought grief made children vulnerable.”
His face had gone still.
You sat on the edge of the bed and began unlacing your boots. “My brother thinks I’m stupid because I smile too much. That’s his problem.”
Steve leaned back against the dresser. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”
“No,” you said, pulling one boot off. “You think I’m useful.”
“I think you’re dangerous.”
You looked up.
There was no flirtation in his voice. No condescension either.
Something in your chest softened, just enough to be risky.
You covered it with a smile. “Careful, Rogers. Compliments on the first kidnapping?”
“I’m trying to decide if you’re going to make this worse for yourself.”
“Probably.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Because you’re nice?”
His mouth tightened. “No.”
“Because Bucky told you to keep me alive?”
“Partly.”
“And the other part?”
He was silent long enough that the rain filled the room.
Then he said, “Because you were right about the signature.”
You dropped your second boot beside the first. “That bothers you.”
“It bothers me that we missed it.”
“We?”
“Me,” Steve said.
Bucky’s right hand, then. Not just muscle. Not just charm. The man who checked the paper before Bucky put blood behind it.
You leaned back on your hands. “Did you disappoint him?”
Steve’s face closed.
Oh.
That had hit.
You should have stopped. You did not.
“Is that what all this is?” you asked softly. “You brought him bad evidence, and now I’m sitting in a luxury closet until you figure out whether your mistake got men killed?”
Steve crossed the room so fast you barely had time to stand.
He stopped before touching you, but only just. He was close enough that you had to tip your chin up to hold his gaze, close enough to see the tension in his jaw and the gold flecks in his anger.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“No,” you said. “But I know guilt when it walks into a room wearing a nice suit.”
His eyes searched yours.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then, slowly, the anger drained into something heavier.
“I checked the top layer,” he said. “The company looked clean. Cleaner than it should’ve been, maybe, but Eli had done work for people who knew how to cover their tracks. The safehouse lease had your name and enough matching details to make it plausible. Bucky wanted you brought in alive because something felt wrong.”
“Something?”
Steve’s gaze dipped to your mouth again, then away. “You.”
“You didn’t know me.”
“I knew the file was too neat.”
You smiled faintly. “That’s almost sweet.”
“It’s not.”
“You say that a lot for someone who keeps doing almost sweet things.”
Steve stepped back. The space he left behind felt colder.
“There’s food coming,” he said. “Eat. Sleep if you can. Don’t try the window.”
“You already know I tried the window.”
“I know you’ll try it again.”
You tilted your head. “And if I get out?”
The look he gave you was almost fond, which was dangerous for both of you.
“Then I’ll be impressed,” he said, and left.
You waited until the lock clicked.
Then you smiled.
The guard outside your door was named Peter, though he did not tell you.
You learned it because another man came by at midnight with coffee and said, “Pete, you need anything?” and Peter said, “For this shift to end.”
Peter was young. Too young to be guarding women in locked rooms for Bucky Barnes, though old enough to have chosen it. He stood with his weight on his left leg, favoring the right knee. Injury. Maybe recent. He checked his phone every twelve minutes and tried to hide it. He kept his gun on his right hip, retention strap loose. He was bored by one in the morning and embarrassed by two because you started singing quietly through the door.
“Please stop,” he said.
You paused mid-verse. “Peter, is that any way to speak to a kidnapped woman?”
Silence.
Then, suspiciously, “How do you know my name?”
“You have the energy of a Peter.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Sure it does. Very earnest. Slightly damp. Probably says sorry when someone steps on his foot.”
“I don’t.”
“You just apologized to the wall when your shoulder bumped it.”
A longer silence.
“You saw that?”
“I contain multitudes.”
He did not answer, but you heard him shift.
By three, you had removed the small metal collar stay from the dress shirt Steve had left folded on the chair along with sweatpants and a toothbrush, because apparently Bucky Barnes kidnapped with amenities. By three-fifteen, you had bent it against the bed frame. By three-thirty, you were on the floor by the door, listening to Peter breathe.
Lockpicking a door from the wrong side with a collar stay was neither elegant nor quick, nor wise. Fortunately, you were patient when spite required it.
The lock gave at three-forty-two.
You opened the door half an inch.
Peter was asleep in the chair across the hall, chin tipped toward his chest.
“Peter,” you whispered.
He jerked awake so hard he nearly dropped his phone.
You opened the door the rest of the way and looked at him.
He looked at you.
Then at the lock.
Then back at you.
“Oh, come on,” he said, devastated.
You almost felt bad for him. “I’m not going to tell Steve if you don’t.”
“Mr. Rogers is going to kill me.”
“Probably not. You have such a trustworthy face.”
“Please go back inside.”
“Peter,” you said gently. “No.”
He reached for his gun. You were already moving.
You caught his wrist, stepped in close, and drove your knee into the inside of his thigh hard enough to buckle him without ruining his life. His hand spasmed. You took the gun, dropped the magazine, cleared the chamber, and set the weapon neatly on the hall table behind you.
Peter stared, pale and offended.
“You’re not bad,” you told him. “You’re just too young to be this tired.”
“I’m twenty-five.”
“Emotionally, you’re nineteen.”
“Ms.—”
“Oh, do not start being respectful now. It’ll make me feel worse.”
You left him sitting on the floor and moved down the hall barefoot.
The upper floors of the restaurant were larger than they looked from outside; the original building connected to the one beside it through some interior renovation money had probably made invisible on paper. This was not a home. You knew that almost immediately. Homes had clutter, bad mail, forgotten shoes, a smell that belonged to the people who slept there. This place had polished floors, framed black-and-white photographs of Brooklyn, closed doors, cameras placed too neatly in corners, and the quiet efficiency of a business that expected trouble often enough to plan for it.
You moved through dark hallways, past framed black-and-white photographs of Brooklyn, closed doors, and a stairwell with a camera in the corner. You did not look at the camera. Looking at cameras made people look guilty. You walked like you belonged there and counted seven possible exits before you reached a door at the end of a hall where light cut thin beneath the frame.
Voices came from inside.
Bucky and Steve.
You should have kept walking.
Instead, you stopped.
“Her brother’s gone to ground,” Steve said. “Nobody’s seen him since yesterday afternoon.”
“Someone’s seen him,” Bucky replied. “They’re lying.”
“Probably.”
A pause.
Then Bucky said, “You believe her.”
“I believe she didn’t sign those documents.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Steve was quiet.
You leaned closer before you could tell yourself not to.
“I believe Eli used her,” Steve said. “I believe he’s been using her for years.”
Bucky made a soft sound, displeased. “You got all that from one conversation?”
“I got it from the file before I ever saw her. Parents died. Brother starts forging paper within two years. She’s listed as emergency contact on three arrests that never stuck, two hospital visits, one eviction proceeding. Every time he gets close to consequence, her name shows up somewhere nearby. She’s not his partner, Buck. She’s his cleanup.”
Your throat tightened.
It was one thing to know it.
It was another to hear a stranger lay it out in a room where you were not supposed to be.
“And now?” Bucky asked.
“Now she’s done.”
A beat passed.
Bucky’s voice lowered. “You admire her.”
Steve did not answer.
You pressed your lips together, warmth rising where fear should have been.
Then Bucky said, “So do I.”
The admission was so soft you nearly missed it.
Your breath caught.
Behind you, someone cleared his throat.
You turned.
A man stood at the far end of the hall with a gun pointed at your chest.
For one terrible second, you were not fast enough.
Then the office door opened.
The man’s eyes flicked toward it.
You moved.
You threw yourself sideways as the gun went off. The sound cracked through the hallway, deafening in the narrow space. Pain burned across your upper arm. You hit the floor, rolled behind a console table, and kicked the nearest decorative vase hard enough to send ceramic shards exploding across the hall.
The man cursed.
Bucky came out of the office like a storm.
You had seen dangerous men move before. You had seen men fight drunk, desperate, trained, angry. Bucky was something else. Controlled brutality, every movement stripped down to purpose. His metal hand closed around the gunman’s wrist with a sound you felt in your teeth. The man screamed as the weapon clattered to the floor. Steve was there a second later, gun drawn, body angled between you and the far stairwell.
“Down,” Steve ordered.
“I’m already on the floor,” you snapped, clutching your arm.
“Stay there.”
“Bossy.”
Bucky slammed the gunman into the wall hard enough to crack plaster. “Who sent you?”
The man groaned.
Bucky’s metal fingers tightened.
“Wait,” you said.
Bucky did not look at you.
“Wait,” you repeated, sharper. “His shoes.”
Steve glanced at you. “What?”
“His shoes,” you said through your teeth. “Kitchen soles. He came through the back of the restaurant, not the front. He’s staff or came in with staff. Ask who opened the back door.”
Bucky looked down at the man’s shoes.
Then he smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile.
The gunman started talking before Bucky asked again.
It took twenty minutes for the building to settle.
It did not settle quietly. Men moved through the upper floors with guns drawn. Peter, humiliated and pale, kept apologizing until Steve told him to stop talking. Someone found the kitchen porter tied up in the alley behind the restaurant, alive but bleeding. Someone else found the back door lock bypassed by a code that should have been changed last week.
Your arm needed stitches.
You told them it did not.
Steve looked at the blood soaking your sleeve and said, “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar. I’m just bleeding.”
Bucky stood across the room, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, his metal arm gleaming beneath the office lights. There was blood on his right hand that you did not think was yours. He had not spoken to you since asking if you could stand. You had said yes. He had looked at you as if he did not believe you, then let Steve guide you into the office anyway.
A doctor arrived with a leather bag and the weary expression of a man who had been paid too much to ask questions. He cleaned the wound while you sat on Bucky’s couch, Steve crouched in front of you, one hand braced lightly on your knee as if he expected you to bolt.
You considered it, mostly on principle.
The doctor gave you a local anesthetic and started stitching.
“Hold still,” Steve said.
“I am holding still.”
“You’re glaring.”
“With my face, Steve. Not my arm.”
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh from across the room.
You looked at him immediately.
He was leaning against his desk, arms crossed, gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse misbehave. You should have been angry. You were angry. You had been kidnapped, shot at, and stitched on a couch by a doctor whose name you had not been given. But Bucky Barnes had laughed because of you, and some reckless part of you wanted to hear it again.
“You did well,” you told him.
The room went still.
The doctor, to his credit, kept stitching.
Bucky’s expression did something complicated. “What?”
“With the gunman,” you said. “Fast. Efficient. Very scary. I’d clap, but I’ve been injured in your custody, so that feels insensitive to me.”
Steve’s hand tightened once on your knee.
Bucky stared at you.
“You’re praising me?” he asked.
“You sound suspicious.”
“I am.”
“I can take it back.”
“Don’t.”
The word came too quickly.
Oh.
You looked at him. Really looked.
Bucky Barnes, who had built a kingdom out of fear and favors, stood in front of you with blood on his hand and something almost boyish buried beneath the danger in his face, as if approval were a language he understood but had not been spoken in too long.
Steve noticed too. You knew he did because his thumb moved once against your knee, a slow, absent stroke that he stopped the moment he realized he was doing it.
The doctor tied off the last stitch. “She’ll live.”
“Good,” Bucky said, eyes still on you.
You smiled. “Were you worried?”
“Yes,” he said.
The answer hit harder because he did not dress it up.
Your smile faltered.
Steve stood, removing his hand from your knee as if he had held it there too long. “I’ll walk the doctor out.”
The doctor looked between the three of you and clearly decided survival lay in pretending he had not noticed anything.
When the door closed behind them, you and Bucky were alone.
Rain tapped lightly against the high window.
“You picked my lock,” Bucky said.
“You locked my door.”
“You disarmed my guard.”
“He was sleepy.”
“You got shot.”
“That part wasn’t in the plan.”
Bucky pushed away from the desk and crossed the room. You held still because you refused to retreat on a couch with stitches in your arm, and because the closer he came, the more you could feel the pull of him. It was not just attraction, though there was enough of that to make poor decisions bloom in the back of your mind. It was gravity. He had it. Steve had it too, different but no less dangerous. Bucky drew attention like a blade in low light. Steve drew it like a hand at your back before you knew you needed steadying.
Bucky stopped in front of you.
“You heard us,” he said.
“Some of it.”
“How much?”
“Enough to know Steve thinks I’m cleanup.”
Bucky’s mouth flattened.
“He’s not wrong,” you said.
“He sounded angry.”
“He should be. I am.”
“At him?”
“At Eli,” you said. “At myself. At the fact that two strangers saw it in a file before I admitted it out loud.”
Bucky sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing you. It was such a strangely human thing to do that you almost forgot who he was. Almost.
“Why protect him for so long?” he asked.
You looked at your bandaged arm. “Because after our parents died, he was the only person who remembered what the house sounded like before it got quiet. He knew which songs my mother played when she cleaned. He knew my father burned eggs every Sunday and pretended we liked them. He knew how my name sounded when someone said it without wanting anything. For a long time, I thought losing Eli would mean losing the last witness.”
Bucky’s gaze softened in a way that looked painful on him.
“And now?” he asked.
“Now I think witnesses can lie.”
The silence between you changed.
Bucky reached out slowly, giving you time to move away. You did not. His metal hand touched the edge of your bandage with astonishing care, fingers cool through the gauze.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“It’s not your bullet,” you said.
“You’re in my building.”
“I picked the lock in your building.”
“You shouldn’t have had to.”
That made you look at him.
He did not take it back.
“You’re very confusing,” you said.
“I’m usually not.”
“No, I bet you’re usually very straightforward. Threaten, brood, maim, repeat.”
His mouth curved despite himself. “You think I brood?”
“I think you own several coats designed for brooding.”
“I own several coats designed for not getting blood on my shirts.”
“That’s worse, but I appreciate the practicality.”
Bucky laughed again, quieter this time.
You wanted to put your hands on him.
The realization was so sudden and so inconvenient that you looked away.
Bucky noticed. “You should sleep.”
“You should stop locking doors.”
“I’ll move you to a room with a guard inside instead of outside.”
You gave him a flat look. “Try again.”
“Door unlocked,” he said. “Guard at the hall. Window still doesn’t open.”
“Progress.”
“You’ll stay put.”
“Will I?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
Heat slid through you, slow and unwelcome and entirely your fault.
“If you have any sense,” he said.
“I’ve been accused of many things, Barnes. That’s rarely one of them.”
Steve returned before Bucky could answer.
His gaze moved from Bucky’s metal hand near your bandage to your face, and something passed over his expression too quickly to name. Not jealousy, exactly. Awareness. A tightening thread.
“Doctor’s gone,” he said. “Back entrance is secure. The shooter gave us a name.”
Bucky stood, all softness folding away. “Who?”
“Rumlow.”
You knew that name.
Both men saw it.
Steve shut the door behind him. “You’ve heard of him.”
“Brock Rumlow,” you said. “He runs jobs for people who don’t want their names near the work. Eli used him once, maybe twice. I told him Rumlow was too expensive for what he needed, and Eli told me I didn’t understand business.”
Bucky’s expression sharpened. “Rumlow has Eli?”
“Maybe,” you said. “Or Eli has something Rumlow wants.”
“The money?”
“Money, documents, account keys. Something portable. Eli doesn’t run unless he thinks he has a bargaining chip.”
Steve moved closer. “Where would he go?”
You leaned back against the couch, exhaustion pressing suddenly at the edges of your body. Your arm throbbed. Your hip ached from the lobby floor. Your head felt too clear and too heavy at once.
“There’s a print shop in Red Hook,” you said. “Closed officially. Still runs specialty jobs in the back. Eli used it when he needed seals or old-format licenses. The owner has a niece he used to sleep with and a basement he thinks nobody knows about.”
Bucky looked at Steve. “Address?”
You gave it to him.
Steve typed it into his phone.
“I’m coming,” you said.
“No,” both men said at once.
You smiled slowly despite the pain. “Cute.”
Bucky’s gaze cut back to you. “You have stitches.”
“I also have context.”
“You have blood loss.”
“I have had worse periods.”
Steve closed his eyes briefly, as if praying for patience.
Bucky pointed at you. “You’re not coming.”
You stood.
It was not your wisest decision. The room tilted slightly. Steve stepped forward, hands lifting but not touching until you steadied yourself. That restraint did something awful to you.
“I have spent my entire life being left behind by men who thought they knew better,” you said, looking at Bucky. “I am done being the name on the paper and the girl in the room and the problem someone else solves badly. Eli is my brother. He used me. He framed me. He got your men killed, or he helped cover for whoever did. I am coming with you.”
Bucky’s face hardened. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
“Everything is a negotiation. You’re just used to winning early.”
Steve made that almost-cough again.
You did not look away from Bucky.
At last, Bucky smiled.
There was no warmth in it. There was, however, admiration.
“Fine,” he said. “You stay between Steve and me. You do exactly what we say. You don’t carry unless I give you a weapon.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
“If you run, Steve catches you.”
Steve’s mouth curved faintly. “I will.”
You glanced at him. “You sound excited.”
“I’m trying not to be.”
Bucky looked between you, and something possessive moved over his face before he smothered it.
“You two done?” he asked.
You smiled at him. “Do you feel left out?”
His eyes darkened.
Steve looked down at his phone like a man making a heroic effort to survive the conversation.
You had the sudden, dizzying thought that this was going to become a problem.
fell down a mob!bucky rabbit hole, just curious if that specific AU tickles your fancy?
"What's the matter, doll?" Bucky rumbled, stroking your thigh. You'd been clingy all night. Wanting to be on him. Like if you couldn't share his skin, you weren't close enough. You wanted to burrow into him like a tick.
"Missed you this week," you sigh.
"That all?" he tutted. It had been a long week. He only had time for quick phone calls. Maybe a text. He had shipments not coming in on time. Sam and Yelena at each others throats. Steve and Nat were trying to negotiate with Stark- Trying to end a feud before people started shooting.
"Yeah."
You cuddle closer and wrap your arms around him a little tighter. Kissing the scar tissue on his shoulder where his prosthetic met his skin. And Bucky smiled a little.
"Poor baby," he crooned, "Sleeping all alone in a cold bed-"
"Worried about you all night," you huff, resisting a pout with effort.
"Worried about me?" He tilted your chin up to make you look at him and stroked your cheek, "Not sleepin', very good?" He looked you over, the dark circles he'd not noticed while you were feeding him dinner. The way you didn't sparkle like you usually did. It made a frown pull at his mouth.
You knew what he was- but he kept you out of it. At least as much as he could. Made sure one of his guys was always around if you went out. Made sure you didn't know shit about his jobs. Tried to keep it from touching you.
But some things he couldn't change.
The occasional lonely night. The worry. The way you were always waiting to get your heart broken- shut out or left sitting alone at a table he'd booked for two.
"Not really," you admit. "I try but-"
" 'S not your fault sweetheart," he soothed. "Need me to make you feel safe, huh?" The irony was not lost on him.
His sweet little kindergarten teacher only felt safe at night with a fucking mobster in her bed.
"You're my favorite teddy bear," you tell him, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Keeps the nightmares away."
He kissed your cheeks and brushed hair out of your face tenderly, "You havin' bad dreams again? Honey-" he broke off and kissed you, "why didn't you tell me?"
"You just sounded so stressed and I-"
His eyes narrowed and he smacked your thigh, just enough to make a crisp little snap. Not enough to hurt. "What'd I tell you, huh?"
𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬 𝑨𝑻 𝑭𝑰𝑹𝑺𝑻 𝑩𝑰𝑻𝑬 James “Bucky” Barnes has haunted the world for seven hundred years, cold, heartless and buried since the plague stole his last love. Until you, all warm sunlight and trouble, slammed into his night and woke the monster. Now he’s obsessed. Starving for your scent, your sleep, your soul.
vampire!bucky barnes x fem!reader
word count : 28,5k
warnings 18+ : no use of y/n, somnophilia, oral sex (f recieving), unprotected sex, forced turning, imprisonment against the reader’s will, dddne, graphic violence & gore, brutal murders, dismemberment, skull-crushing, throat-ripping, blood-draining, extreme rough sex (dw there’s soft scenes too), bone-breaking, bruising, bleeding, pain mixed with pleasure during sex, breaking and entering, theft of intimate items, constant surveillance, stalking & obsession, graphic biting, forced blood-drinking, blood-sharing memories, heavy blood kink, murder of the reader’s ex and other men, trauma flashbacks (plague death, war violence), suicidal ideation from bucky, heavy angst and toxic obsessive “love”
author’s note : my BIGGEST thank you goes to the loveliest anon who dropped a vampire!bucky request in my inbox 🫶💞 I’m literally a huge vampire nerd so this + my fave fictional man?? you KNOW I couldn’t keep it a tiny drabble… little heads up before you read… IT’S DARK..... so pls pls read the warnings first and then enjoyyy <33 (and I might be open to writing a pt.2 sooo lmk if you’d want that 👀)
Before the world burned with plague and death, James Buchanan Barnes was the most dangerously handsome bastard in all of plague-shadowed London. At twenty-four, he stood tall and broad-shouldered, with striking steel-blue eyes that could disarm a woman with a single glance, a sharp jawline and an easy, crooked smirk that promised both sin and salvation in the same breath.
His dark hair was tousled from brawls and eager fingers, his body toned hard from years as a mercenary, lean muscle, old battle scars and a swagger so confident it turned heads in every tavern, alehouse and alley from Southwark to Cheapside.
He knew exactly what he was. And he used it without a shred of shame or mercy.
Cocky to the marrow of his bones, sharp-tongued and arrogant as Lucifer himself, Bucky lived as though the world owed him pleasure, coin and willing flesh. By day he sold his sword to the highest bidder. By night he sold his body to any woman bold enough to meet his gaze. Tavern wenches with loud laughs and rough hands, blushing noble daughters sneaking out after curfew, widowed merchants’ wives starved for a man’s touch and painted whores in the stews, he fucked them all. Often two or three in the same night, sometimes all at once.
He never stayed till morning. Never asked their surnames. Never cared.
One humid summer night in a crowded Southwark tavern, he had a fiery red-haired barmaid bent over a stack of ale barrels out back. Her skirts were rucked up around her waist and he was pounding into her so hard the barrels creaked and shifted beneath them. He gripped her hips with calloused hands, lips brushing her ear as he growled low and filthy,
“That’s it, ye greedy little slut… take every thick inch of my cock. Moan louder, lass- let the whole fucking street hear how well I’m ruining this tight, dripping cunt of yers.”
She came with a shaking cry, knees buckling. Bucky laughed darkly, low and wicked and pulled out only to spin her around and shove her to her knees in the dirt.
“Open that pretty mouth,” he ordered, fisting his thick cock. “I’m going to spend down yer throat like the good little cocksucker ye are.”
She obeyed eagerly and he fucked her mouth until he spilled with a satisfied groan.
Two nights later, he found himself in a lavish merchant’s townhouse with twin noble daughters whose father was away on business. The sisters knelt before him in their fine shifts, taking turns sucking his cock while he sat like a king upon their father’s velvet chair. He tangled his fingers in their soft hair, voice low and dripping with filth:
“Look at you two proper little ladies… choking on a lowly mercenary’s cock like common whores in the stews. Share it nicely now- lick my balls while yer sister swallows me down. Good girls. I’m going to fuck both yer tight cunts senseless until ye can’t walk straight on the morrow.”
He took them one after the other on their father’s fine bed, then together, whispering the most depraved things between deep thrusts:
“Does it feel good, feeling yer sister’s slick all over my cock while I’m buried inside ye? Ye like being fucked like cheap sluts, don’t ye?”
The girls moaned and begged for more, and Bucky gave it to them until they were trembling and spent.
Later that same month, he fucked a widowed countess in her own marriage bed, her late husband’s portrait glaring down at them from the wall while he railed her hard from behind. He slapped her ass sharply, leaving a red handprint, and snarled against her ear,
“Bet that cold old bastard never fucked ye like this, did he? Say it, my lady- tell me how much better my thick cock feels stretching this neglected, dripping noble cunt of yers.”
“Better,” she gasped, pushing back against him shamelessly. “So much better- please, harder!”
He laughed, dark and triumphant, and gave her exactly what she begged for.
He never asked. He simply took, with that devastating smirk, those piercing steel-blue eyes and that rough, velvet voice dripping pure sin. Women dropped to their knees the second he crooked a finger and flashed that wicked grin. Word of him spread through the taverns and great houses alike: if you wanted a night you’d never forget, you sought out James Barnes.
To him, life was cheap and fleeting, especially with the dark rumors of a terrible sickness creeping ever closer from the continent. So why not wring every last drop of pleasure from it while he still could? Death was for the weak, the unlucky, the overly cautious. James Buchanan Barnes was none of those things. He felt invincible, already half-immortal in his own mind, a king of fleeting nights and stolen pleasures.
Until the night the plague finally found him in that filthy alley behind the tavern.
James had just finished with a laughing barmaid behind the tavern, still tucking his cock back into his breeches with that signature cocky smirk when the nightmare lunged out of the shadows.
The man was a nobleman once, fine clothes now stained and torn but the plague had rotted him from the inside. Black buboes swelled grotesquely on his neck and groin, his skin slick with fever-sweat and pus. His eyes, however, burned with something far worse than the pestilence. They were mad. Hungry. And his mouth was open, revealing long, sharp fangs glistening with saliva and fresh blood.
Bucky tried to fight.
Even half-drunk and sated, the young mercenary was no easy prey. He swung a heavy fist and caught the creature square in the jaw with a solid crack.
“Get the fuck off me, ye sick bastard!” he snarled, terror spiking through the haze of ale.
The nobleman’s strength was unnatural. He slammed Bucky against the slimy brick wall of the alley with bone-jarring force. The stench of death, decay and rotting flesh filled Bucky’s lungs, making him gag. He kicked wildly, cursed, and clawed at the creature’s rotting face, drawing blood and pus beneath his nails.
“Unhand me, you foul whoreson!”
But the dying vampire was too far gone. With a guttural, inhuman hiss, he struck.
Fangs sank deep into Bucky’s throat.
The pain was immediate and blinding.
James screamed, a raw broken sound that echoed off the narrow alley walls. It felt as though liquid fire had been poured straight into his veins. Every nerve in his body ignited at once. His back arched violently as the venom spread like acid through muscle and bone. He dropped to his knees in the filth and shit of the alley, clawing desperately at his own neck. Hot blood poured between his fingers, soaking his tunic.
“What… what the fuck have ye done to me?!” he gasped, voice cracking with raw terror. “Get off- get off me, ye devil!”
The nobleman collapsed beside him with a grotesque, satisfied smile still twisting his rotting face, finally dead.
Bucky’s vision blurred and doubled. His gums burned as though someone had shoved hot coals into his mouth. New fangs pushed through with agonizing slowness, splitting the flesh, flooding his mouth with the metallic taste of his own blood. His eyes felt like they were boiling in his skull, bloodshot crimson, pupils blown wide with unbearable pain. Every heartbeat slammed against his ribs like a war drum, each one slower, heavier, more labored than the last.
He vomited bile and blood onto the filthy cobblestones, curling into a tight ball as wave after wave of excruciating pain ripped him apart from the inside out. Nothing in his life, no sword wound, no tavern brawl, no brutal fuck had ever come close to this torment.
“I’m dying,” he gasped between screams. “Christ save me… I’m dying…”
Then his heart stopped.
For one terrifying, endless moment there was only silence.
And then a new, monstrous strength flooded his limbs.
The pain crested like a breaking wave and shattered. The fire in his veins cooled into something cold, sharp, and impossibly clear. His senses exploded. He could hear rats skittering through the gutters three streets away. He could smell the fear-sweat and ale on every patron still inside the tavern. He could taste the copper of his own blood like the finest wine he’d ever stolen.
James Buchanan Barnes rose slowly from the filth of the alley a different man.
No longer the cocky mortal who believed himself invincible.
Now he was invincible.
The arrogance did not vanish overnight. It simply twisted into something far colder, darker and infinitely more dangerous. A ravenous hunger gnawed at his insides like a living beast. He staggered out of the alley on unsteady legs, eyes glowing faintly red in the darkness, new fangs aching in his gums. The whole world smelled of blood and opportunity.
For the next three centuries he drifted across Europe like a handsome plague all his own, still devastatingly beautiful, now paired with an immortal predator’s lethal grace. He took lovers by the dozen and left ruin in his wake.
He fucked them hard and mercilessly.
In silk-draped beds of French chateaus, he would take haughty countesses from behind while their husbands slept in the next room. He’d grip their hips hard enough to bruise, pounding into them until they sobbed with pleasure, then sink his fangs into their offered throats as they came. Many begged for it, baring their necks willingly, whispering “Take me, my lord… drink” as he drained them just enough to leave them dizzy and addicted.
In moonlit forests of Germany, he seduced witches who offered their wrists and throats in dark rituals. He’d fuck them against ancient trees or on moss-covered altars, their bare breasts bouncing with every brutal thrust while they chanted his name like a god. He drank from them mid-climax, their blood mixing with their screams of ecstasy as he filled their cunts with his spend.
In the secret royal chambers of Spain and Italy, queens and duchesses summoned him under cover of night. They offered their royal throats like sacred gifts, spreading their legs and begging the beautiful monster to ruin them. He would fuck them on their own thrones or royal beds, merciless and unrelenting, leaving bite marks that they would hide beneath high collars and jewels for weeks.
Even peasant girls in haylofts and smoky inns were not spared. They offered themselves eagerly, wrists, throats, thighs, drawn to his dangerous beauty like moths to flame. He took them roughly against barn walls or on piles of straw, growling filthy promises in their ears as he drove into them:
“That’s it, lass… bare that pretty throat for me. Let me drink while I fuck this tight cunt raw.”
He was never gentle. He fucked like the predator he had become, deep, brutal and possessive. Many women left his bed limping, marked and forever changed, craving the bite of the beautiful devil who had ruined them for mortal men.
And when the hunger demanded more than just sex, he fed.
He drank from wrists held out like offerings, from elegant throats bared in candlelight, from soft inner thighs spread wide beneath him. He never killed them, not unless they deserved it. He left them alive, dazed and addicted, whispering his name in their dreams for years afterward.
Then he vanished before dawn.
No attachments. No feelings. No mercy.
Just blood and pleasure.
He moved from city to city, country to country, leaving a trail of broken hearts, bitten throats and ruined reputations in his wake.
Until the second wave of plague swept through London in 1665… and brought him Dolores.
It was a rain-soaked evening when James first met Dolores.
He was walking the narrow, muddy streets of Cheapside, hood pulled low against the downpour, when a young woman hurried around the corner with a heavy basket of herbs clutched to her chest. She collided directly with him.
She stumbled, nearly dropping her basket. He caught her elbow with gentle, steady hands.
“Forgive me, mistress,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “I was not watching where I-”
Their eyes met.
And she knew.
She saw the faint red glow in his eyes, the unnatural stillness of his body, the way the rain seemed to slide off him differently. She smelled the old death that clung to him like a shadow. Most mortals would have screamed or run.
Dolores only smiled, soft, unafraid, almost tender.
“You’re him,” she whispered, so quietly only he could hear. “The one the shadows speak of. The immortal with the devil’s hunger.”
James froze. For the first time in centuries, he was the one caught off guard.
“And yet ye do not run,” he said, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing. “Most women throw themselves at me for the thrill of the monster. They bare their throats and beg to be ruined. Why do you not scream?”
She looked up at him with calm, intelligent eyes, rain dripping from her lashes.
“Because I see more than the monster,” she replied softly. “I see a man who is tired. Lonely. Carrying centuries of sorrow in those beautiful eyes. Tell me, stranger… does the hunger ever let you rest?”
James stared at her, stunned into silence. No one had ever spoken to him like this.
That night, after she invited him into the back room of her father’s apothecary shop under the pretense of selling him a tonic, she offered him something far more precious.
“I know what you are,” she said softly, standing close enough that he could hear her steady heartbeat. “And I am not afraid. If you wish to drink… you may. But only if it brings me pleasure, not pain. I want to know what it feels like to be wanted by something eternal.”
James stared at her, stunned. No one had ever offered themselves to him like this, without fear or mindless lust.
“Dolores,” he breathed, tasting the name like a prayer. “Are you certain? I am no gentle lover. I have ruined women far braver than you.”
She cupped his face with gentle hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “Then be gentle with me, my James. Show me the man behind the hunger. Kiss me first.”
He kissed her slowly, reverently, as if she were the most fragile thing in existence. When she moaned softly into his mouth, he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against hers while his hands explored her body with aching care.
That same night, in the small room above the shop with rain pattering against the window, he took her virginity.
He laid her down on the narrow bed like she was made of Venetian glass. He kissed every inch of her, slow worshipful kisses down her throat, across her collarbones, over the soft swell of her breasts. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he worshipped her with his mouth until she was trembling and whimpering.
“Easy, my sweet Dot,” he murmured against her slick folds, voice low and tender. “Breathe for me. Let me make it good for you. I want to hear every sound you make.”
He licked her slowly, reverently, sucking gently on her clit until she came with a soft cry, fingers tangled in his hair.
When he finally pushed inside her, he did it so slowly, so carefully, whispering sweet, filthy praises the entire time.
“That’s it, love… breathe. You feel so perfect. So warm and tight around my cock. Such a brave, beautiful girl, taking me so well. Does it hurt?”
“A little,” she gasped, legs wrapping around him. “But don’t stop. I want all of you, James. Please.”
He moved with aching gentleness, rocking into her in slow, deep strokes, one hand cradling her face while the other stroked between her legs.
“You’re doing so well,” he whispered against her lips. “My perfect Dot. Look at you, opening up for a monster like me. I’ve never felt anything like this. Never wanted anyone the way I want you.”
As she neared her peak, he kissed her throat and asked softly, “May I taste you, love? It will feel like pleasure… I swear it on whatever soul I have left.”
“Yes,” she breathed, tilting her head. “Take what you need. I want to feel you.”
He sank his fangs gently into her throat at the exact moment she came. She cried out in ecstasy, not pain, as his venom flooded her veins with liquid pleasure. He drank only a little, just enough to bind her to him while she clenched around his cock, sobbing his name.
“My James… oh God, James… it feels… so good…”
For the first time in three hundred years, the cold, womanizing predator fell in love. Real, terrifying, all-consuming love. Dot became his anchor, his light in an endless night. She made the hunger feel like home. They moved into a small cottage on the edge of the city, hidden behind overgrown gardens. He watched her work by lamplight, head bent over dried herbs and for stolen months he felt almost human again.
He was gentle with her in ways he had never been with anyone. He would fuck her slow and deep on their modest bed, whispering filthy devotion between tender kisses:
“My sweet Dot… so tight, so perfect for me. Look how beautifully you take my cock. I’d burn kingdoms for this cunt, for you.”
She would moan his name like a prayer, fingers buried in his hair, gasping “My James… my James…” as she came apart beneath him, safe in the arms of the monster who had chosen to be gentle for her.
But the plague found her anyway.
It started with a mild fever and a small swelling under her arm. Bucky begged her to stay inside. She insisted on helping the sick in the city “I cannot sit idle while people die, James.” Within days she was burning with fever, black buboes blooming across her neck and groin, coughing up blood.
He took her to the only hospital-like place that would accept plague victims, a filthy overcrowded pesthouse run by overworked physicians and nuns. The air reeked of vinegar, smoke, and rotting flesh. They bled her, applied useless poultices, and prayed over her while she grew weaker. Bucky waited outside in the shadows like an animal, listening to her faint cries through the walls.
When the doctors finally told him there was nothing more they could do “She is in God’s hands now” he snapped. He stole her from the pesthouse that same night, carrying her home in his arms while she shivered and whimpered.
“I’ve got you, Dot. I’m not letting them touch you again.”
Back in their cottage, he took matters into his own hands. Desperate and terrified, he forced his ancient vampire blood down her throat by the cupful. He reopened the bites on his wrists again and again, mixing his blood with herbal tonics she once made, performing every forbidden rite he had learned across three centuries. He even tried to turn her prematurely, sinking his fangs into her throat while she was still semi-conscious, pumping venom and blood into her failing body in a frantic attempt to save her.
It only made everything worse.
His powerful blood clashed violently with the plague already devouring her. The buboes swelled larger and burst. Her fever spiked into delirium. She screamed in agony as her body tore itself apart from the inside, convulsing so hard she bit through her own lip. The vampire venom accelerated the plague’s destruction, turning her gentle decline into a nightmare of pain.
In her final hours she was barely lucid. Bucky climbed into bed with her, cradling her burning body against his chest, rocking her as she gasped for air.
“Stay with me, Dot… please, my love. I can’t do this without you.”
Her eyes fluttered open one last time, bloodshot, fading but full of love. She reached up with a trembling, fever-hot hand and cupped his tear-streaked face.
“My James…” she breathed, voice cracking like glass. “I love you… even the monster. Don’t… don’t blame yourself.”
Then she screamed.
A horrible, soul-shattering scream as another wave of pain ripped through her. She clawed at her own chest and neck, eyes wide with terror and agony, whispering his name like a broken litany until her voice failed. Bucky held her through every convulsion, sobbing blood tears into her sweat-soaked hair, begging, praying, cursing God and himself.
She died just before dawn, limp and cold in the arms of the immortal who had tried everything and only hastened her suffering.
The silence afterward was worse than any scream.
Completely shattered, Bucky remained on the bed where they had been lying together.
Dot was still in his arms, limp and cold against his chest, exactly where she had drawn her last painful breath. He held her tighter, rocking her gently as if that could somehow bring her back. The silence in the small cottage was deafening, broken only by the distant rumble of plague carts outside and the crackling of the dying fire in the hearth.
Tears of blood streamed down his face as he pressed his lips to her forehead one final time.
“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered, voice hoarse and broken. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. Forgive me, Dot… forgive your monster.”
With trembling hands, he gently laid her back against the pillows, arranging her hair and pulling the quilt up to her chin like she was only sleeping.
Then he rose.
He moved through the cottage like a man in a nightmare, pouring oil from every lamp and bottle he could find. He soaked the floorboards, the rugs, the curtains, the herbs and dried flowers she had so lovingly collected. He drenched the wooden beams and the table where she used to mix tonics.
When the entire home was saturated in oil, he returned to the bed.
He stood over her for a long moment, memorizing her peaceful face one last time. Then he struck the match.
The flames roared to life with terrifying speed, greedy and hungry, racing across the floor and climbing the walls. Bucky stayed right there beside the bed as the fire reached them, the heat blistering his immortal skin. He watched the flames lick at the quilt, at her hair, at the body of the only woman who had ever truly loved him.
He didn’t move.
He stood in the flames’ glow, the inferno painting the small cottage in violent orange and red, until the roof began to collapse and the entire structure became nothing but a roaring pyre.
The last remnants of the man he used to be, the cocky mercenary, the arrogant lover, the creature who still believed he could be redeemed, died with her in that fire.
When the cottage finally collapsed in on itself with a thunderous crash, Bucky walked out of the burning ruins and into the night.
He never looked back.
After Dolores burned, Bucky wandered the world like a ghost for nearly two hundred and fifty years, feeding in the slums of Paris, hunting through the fog of Victorian London, drifting across continents with no purpose except to dull the ache in his chest.
Then the wars found him.
In 1914, when the world descended into madness, he enlisted under a false name and threw himself into the trenches of World War I. He fought like a shadow, slipping through No Man’s Land at night, ripping out German throats with his bare fangs while artillery shells screamed overhead. The mud, the blood, the endless screams… they felt like penance. He told himself the carnage was justice for every innocent life he’d taken, for failing Dot. He rarely fed on soldiers, only the cruelest officers and rapists among the ranks. The rest of the time he simply endured, letting bullets tear through him, healing slowly, welcoming the pain.
When the war ended in 1918, the emptiness followed him back across the Atlantic.
He moved to Brooklyn in the early 1920s.
New York felt different, loud, restless, alive in a way Europe no longer was. Brooklyn, with its brick row houses, bustling docks and working-class grit, reminded him faintly of the London he once knew. He bought an old warehouse near the waterfront under yet another alias and made it his lair. For a few quiet decades he tried to disappear into the rhythm of the city: working nights on the docks, boxing in smoky gyms, fucking nameless women in speakeasies just to feel something close to warmth.
But peace never lasted.
World War II dragged him back in.
By 1942 he was operating as a covert Allied operative, a ghost soldier who could walk through enemy lines and leave nothing but corpses. In the brutal winter of 1944, during the Battle of the Bulge in the Ardennes Forest, everything shattered. A German artillery shell landed too close. The explosion tore his left arm clean off at the shoulder in a spray of blood and bone. Vampire healing tried desperately to close the wound but the shrapnel was too deep, the damage too severe. He lay bleeding in the snow for hours before a secret HYDRA-linked unit found him.
They dragged him to a makeshift lab hidden in the frozen woods. There, while he was half-conscious and roaring in agony, they fused a prototype metal prosthetic to the raw stump, cold steel wired directly into his immortal nervous system. The pain was worse than the turning in that London alley. He screamed until his voice gave out as they bolted the arm into place.
When he finally woke, the arm was part of him, unbreakable, unnaturally strong and freezing to the touch. A permanent scar on the body that had once made women drop to their knees.
After the war ended in 1945, Bucky vanished again.
He returned to Brooklyn, the only place that still felt halfway like home. He kept the same warehouse, later converting it into a hidden penthouse high above the city as the decades passed. The metal arm stayed hidden beneath long sleeves and gloves. He fed only on the worst of humanity, mobsters, rapists, corrupt politicians and fucked to forget, never staying longer than one night.
As the years went on, the world changed… and so did the way people fucked.
In the roaring 1920s, flappers threw themselves at him in smoky speakeasies, lipstick-stained mouths whispering filthy promises while they rode him in dark corners. In the 1950s and 60s, women grew bolder, secretaries, housewives, beatnik girls who wanted danger. They offered their throats and wrists in motel rooms, begging him to bite while they came on his cock. By the 1970s and 80s, the sexual revolution turned everything dirtier. Women took him home and asked him to choke them, slap them, fuck them until they cried, sometimes filthier than he had ever been in his mortal days.
He gave them what they wanted. He fucked them hard and merciless in alleyways, penthouse suites and the backs of cars. He drank from them while they screamed in pleasure, leaving bite marks they would hide under turtlenecks and makeup. But it was never love. Never connection. Just bodies and blood to numb the emptiness.
He was the shift.
Many, many years ago, people fucked mostly for love, for marriage, for heirs. Now they fucked for fun, for thrill, for the sheer dirty pleasure of it and Bucky became their favorite sin. They threw themselves at the tall, silent man with the metal arm and the dangerous eyes, never knowing they were offering themselves to something ancient and monstrous.
Yet no matter how many women he took, how many throats he drank from, how many nights he spent buried in warm, willing bodies… the loneliness never left.
Four hundred more years of numbness stretched ahead of him.
A ghost with fangs, a metal arm that never truly felt like his own, and a heart that hadn’t truly beaten since Dolores died screaming his name.
Until one rainy night in 2026, outside a quiet Brooklyn library, a warm-blooded girl with a sunlight smile literally crashed into him… and everything changed.
You’re running on fumes, a broke stubborn waitress working chaotic double shifts at a loud hipster café by day and a quiet night-shift librarian at an old branch library by night. Your Gothic literature thesis is the only thing that still excites you: tragic monsters, obsessive love and beautiful creatures of the night that always end up destroying what they crave most. You laugh at how dramatic it all sounds.
It’s a brutal, pouring rainy night when fate decides to be cruel.
You’re leaving the library well past midnight, arms overloaded with books and thesis notes, your cheap umbrella doing almost nothing against the downpour. Head down, coffee in hand, you hurry down the slick stone steps and slam directly into a solid wall of muscle.
Your coffee cup flies out of your hand, splashing across his dark coat. Your umbrella spins wildly into the street. You stumble backward, nearly slipping on the wet pavement.
“Shit- I’m so sorry!” you blurt, face burning with embarrassment. “I wasn’t watching where I was going, I-”
Before you can finish, a large, surprisingly gentle hand catches your elbow, steadying you with effortless strength.
“Easy there, doll,” a low, rough voice murmurs, laced with an old-fashioned accent that doesn’t belong in modern Brooklyn. “You alright? That was my fault. Should’ve been paying better attention.”
You finally look up.
Holy fuck.
He’s stunning. Tall, broad-shouldered, with steel-blue eyes that seem to cut straight through you, sharp jawline and dark hair dripping from the rain. Danger rolls off him in waves, but his touch is careful, almost reverent.
He releases your elbow only to bend down and retrieve your soaked umbrella from the gutter, shaking the water off before handing it back to you.
You’re still flustered. “No, really, it was me. I’m such a klutz when I’m tired. Here- let me get you some napkins or something-”
He’s already shrugging off his long, clearly expensive black coat. Before you can protest, he drapes it over your shoulders. It’s warm from his body and smells like aged leather, rain and something darkly rich, like old wine and copper.
Your eyes go wide in panic.
“Wait- no, no, no! I can’t take this!” You immediately start shrugging it off. “This looks really expensive. How am I supposed to give it back to you? I don’t even know your name. I can’t just walk off with your coat like some weirdo-”
He places a gentle but firm hand on your shoulder, stopping you from removing it. His eyes soften, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest crooked smirk.
“Keep it,” he says, voice low and smooth. “You’re soaked to the bone, doll. You’ll catch your death walking home like that. I insist.”
“But it’s yours,” you insist, cheeks burning hotter. “What if I ruin it? Or lose it? Seriously, I feel terrible. At least let me get your number or something so I can return it properly-”
He shakes his head, that ghost of a smirk deepening. “It’s just a coat. I have others. You, on the other hand, look like you’ve had a long night. Keep it. Wear it home. I’ll survive.”
You clutch the coat tighter despite yourself, the fabric heavy and comforting against the chill. No one in this city is ever this… chivalrous. Guys your age would’ve already grumbled and walked away. This man is looking at you like your comfort actually matters to him.
“You’re really sure?” you ask softly, still hesitant.
“Positive,” he replies, eyes never leaving yours. “Besides… it looks better on you anyway.”
Your stomach flips. The way he says it, quiet, sincere, a little rough, makes heat creep up your neck.
You manage a flustered, stubborn little smile. “Thank you… really. Most people in this city would’ve just cursed me out and kept walking. You’re… surprisingly nice.”
Something flickers across his face, pain, surprise, hunger but it’s gone in a heartbeat. He hasn’t been called nice in over four hundred years. He hasn’t been looked at like a person since Dolores whispered “my James” with her last breath.
“You stay safe getting home,” he says quietly, almost like a command wrapped in velvet. “And maybe… watch your step next time, doll.”
You nod, cheeks still warm. “Yeah… I will. Goodnight.”
You give him one last awkward little wave and start walking, his coat wrapped around you like a shield against the rain. You can feel his eyes on your back the entire way down the block.
Bucky stands motionless in the downpour, fists clenched at his sides, metal arm whirring quietly under his Henley. Your scent, warm vanilla, rain and that sweet, pulsing blood underneath has already burrowed into his lungs like a drug. His fangs throb painfully behind his lips. He has to fight every instinct not to follow you right now and drag you into the nearest alley.
He waits until you’ve turned the corner.
Then he moves.
Silent as death, he follows you home.
Every step. Every turn. Close enough to protect you from anyone who might look at you too long. Far enough that you never notice the shadow trailing behind you.
By the time you reach your apartment building, he’s already memorized which window is yours.
He stands across the street in the rain, eyes glowing faintly red in the dark, heart dead for centuries cracking wide open with dangerous, all-consuming obsession.
He already knows one simple truth:
He’s never letting you go.
Bucky waited in the shadows across the street like a predator who had already decided his prey belonged to him.
He stood motionless in the pouring rain for nearly two hours, eyes fixed on your apartment window on the third floor. When the last light finally clicked off at 2:47 am, something dark and hungry uncoiled inside his chest.
But he didn’t move right away.
Instead, he stayed where he was, hidden in the darkness between two buildings and watched.
You had left the curtains open.
Through the rain-streaked glass, he saw you clearly. You were still wearing his long black coat. You shrugged it off your shoulders and held it up to your face, pressing your nose into the collar. Your eyes closed as you breathed in deeply, then again, slower, savoring his scent. A soft, almost dreamy expression crossed your face.
Bucky’s fangs throbbed. His cock hardened instantly.
You muttered to yourself, voice quiet but perfectly clear to his enhanced hearing:
“God… why does this smell so good?”
Bucky’s lips curled into a dark, predatory smile. He murmured under his breath, voice low and rough with dark amusement,
“People really don’t close their curtains anymore, do they? They have no idea who could be watching them…”
You laughed softly at yourself, shaking your head, then started changing. You peeled off your damp clothes, letting them drop to the floor without a care. For a moment you stood there in just your panties, stretching, completely unaware of the ancient predator standing in the rain across the street, staring at every inch of your body with black, starving eyes.
Bucky’s metal hand clenched at his side, plates whirring. Drool slipped from the corner of his mouth. He watched the way your breasts moved when you raised your arms, the curve of your hips, the soft sway of your ass as you turned. His breathing grew ragged.
“Beautiful,” he whispered to the night. “So fucking beautiful… and so unaware.”
Only when you finally pulled on an oversized t-shirt and climbed into bed, turning off the last light, did he move.
Silent as death, Bucky crossed the street, climbed the stairs to your building’s front entrance, and picked the cheap lock on your apartment door in less than eight seconds. He slipped inside like smoke, closed the door behind him, and locked it again with the same unnatural precision, so perfectly that no one would ever know he’d been there.
The apartment was small, cluttered and alive with you.
Your scent was everywhere, warm vanilla lotion, faint coffee from your shift, the sweet copper undertone of your blood pulsing just beneath your skin. It filled the cramped space like perfume made specifically to torment him.
Bucky’s boots were silent on the worn hardwood as he walked through your living room. Books and thesis notes were scattered across the coffee table. A half-empty mug of tea sat cold beside them. A worn blanket was crumpled on the couch. The mess should have annoyed the centuries-old soldier in him… but it only made the obsession sink deeper. This was your chaos. Your life. Your little mortal world he was about to invade.
His gaze fell on the open notebook lying on top of the pile. Your neat handwriting filled the page, underlined and circled in places:
Vampires in Gothic Literature
Eternal life vs. eternal loneliness?
Do they feel love or only hunger?
Real or metaphor for forbidden desire? Witches – power, seduction, danger… real?
Bucky read the notes slowly, a low, dark chuckle rumbling in his chest. The sound was soft, almost affectionate, but laced with something ancient and dangerous.
“Only if you knew, doll,” he whispered to the empty room, the corners of his mouth twitching into a predatory smirk. “Only if you knew.”
He lingered there for a moment longer, tracing one finger over your handwriting, before continuing toward the bedroom.
Your bedroom door was ajar.
He pushed it open slowly, the hinges giving a tiny protesting creak that made him freeze. You didn’t stir.
There you were.
Curled up in bed under a messy pile of blankets, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and a pair of soft cotton panties. Your breathing was deep and even, lips slightly parted, one leg kicked out from under the covers. So vulnerable. So warm.
Bucky’s fangs throbbed. His metal hand flexed at his side, plates whirring quietly.
He stepped closer.
Your scent was strongest here, concentrated, intimate, intoxicating. He could hear every heartbeat, every soft inhale and exhale. His cock hardened instantly, thick and aching against the front of his jeans. He hadn’t felt this kind of raw, physical need in decades.
On the floor near the foot of your bed lay a pair of discarded black lace panties, the ones you’d clearly worn earlier that day. Slightly damp from the rain and your long shift. The scent rolling off them made his mouth flood with venom.
He crouched down, metal fingers hovering just above the delicate fabric. The urge to snatch them was almost painful. He wanted to press them to his face, inhale you until he drowned in it. He wanted to wrap them around his cock the second he got home and fuck his fist while imagining burying himself inside you.
But he stopped.
His hand trembled. The metal plates clicked softly.
“Not yet,” he whispered to himself, voice barely a breath. “Don’t scare her. Not yet.”
With a low, tortured growl, he forced himself to stand. He backed away from the panties like they were burning him.
He allowed himself one last indulgence.
He leaned over your sleeping form, careful not to touch you and breathed you in deeply, dragging your scent into his lungs like a dying man taking his final breath. His lips hovered an inch above your neck, right where your pulse fluttered so invitingly. He could hear the blood rushing beneath your skin. His cock throbbed harder, leaking against his thigh.
He stayed there for a long minute, eyes closed, fangs fully extended, fighting every instinct screaming at him to bite, to claim, to take.
Finally, with a ragged exhale, he pulled back.
On his way out, he noticed his coat draped over the back of your couch where you must have taken it off before bed. The fabric still carried traces of both your scent and his. For a moment he considered taking it back… but he left it exactly where it was.
He didn’t want to take anything from you tonight.
Not yet.
By the time he reached his penthouse, he was shaking with raw, barely contained need.
The second the door shut, Bucky shoved his jeans down, freed his painfully hard cock and stroked himself with brutal, desperate strokes. He buried his face in the collar of his shirt, the one that still carried the faintest trace of your scent from when he’d stood so close to you and fucked his fist like a man possessed.
He came hard within minutes, spilling over his hand with a broken, guttural groan.
Even after the release, the hunger didn’t fade.
It only grew sharper.
He didn’t even know your name yet.
And he already knew he’d be back tomorrow night.
And the night after that.
Until simply watching you sleep was no longer enough.
The next morning, Bucky was already waiting in the shadows outside your building when you left just after 6:30 am, yawning, hair messy, clutching a travel mug of cheap instant coffee.
He followed you at a distance, ten blocks through the waking city, never close enough for you to notice. He memorized every little habit: the way you adjusted your bag strap, how you checked your phone at stoplights, the slight slump in your shoulders from exhaustion. When you finally stopped in front of a small, cozy café called “The Midnight Brew,” he lingered across the street for nearly forty minutes, watching through the large windows as you tied on your black apron and started your shift.
Only when the morning rush began to build did he cross the street and step inside.
The bell above the door jingled. You looked up from behind the counter and your breath hitched.
It was him.
Bucky chose the small table by the window, the one with the perfect view of you. A few minutes later you approached, notepad in hand, trying (and failing) to look professional.
“Hi… you again,” you said, a shy, surprised smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon. What can I get started for you today?”
Bucky looked up slowly, his steel-blue eyes dragging over your face like he wanted to commit every detail to memory. His gaze flicked briefly to your name tag.
“That’s a beautiful name,” he murmured, voice low and rough with that old-fashioned accent. “Suits you perfectly.”
Your cheeks instantly burned hot. You weren’t used to compliments delivered like that, slow, sincere and a little dangerous.
“Th-thank you,” you stammered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s… really sweet of you to say. Um, what would you like?”
“Black coffee. No sugar,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “And whatever your favorite pastry is this morning. Surprise me, doll. I trust your taste.”
You nodded quickly, scribbling on your pad to hide how flustered you felt. “One black coffee and a chocolate croissant coming right up.”
When you returned with his order, your fingers brushed against his right hand as you set the mug down. His skin was cool, almost unnaturally so, and the brief contact sent a shiver racing up your arm. You couldn’t help but notice that his left hand remained gloved in black leather, resting quietly on the table, the same glove he’d worn outside. You wondered about it for a split second but said nothing, simply offering him a small smile instead.
“Here you go,” you said softly, still pink-cheeked. “The croissant is still warm. Let me know if you need a refill or anything else.”
You hesitated for a second, then added, “Oh- I actually brought your coat with me. It’s hanging on the rack in the back. I was going to take it to the dry cleaners on my break because it got soaked last night. I can drop it off at the library tonight if you want, or… I don’t know, maybe you could pick it up later?”
Bucky’s eyes darkened, something possessive flickering behind them. He shook his head slowly.
“Keep it,” he said, voice low and firm but gentle. “It looks better on you than it ever did on me. I have more coats than I know what to do with. I insist.”
“But it’s such a nice coat,” you protested, cheeks burning hotter. “I’d feel terrible if something happened to it. At least let me get it cleaned for you-”
“No arguments, doll,” he interrupted, the faintest crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Wear it when you need it. Stay warm. That’s all I want from you right now.”
You blinked, completely thrown by how gently but stubbornly he was refusing. No guy had ever spoken to you like this.
“…Okay,” you said softly, biting your lip. “If you’re really sure. Thank you again. Seriously. Most people wouldn’t have even offered their coat in that rain.”
Bucky’s gaze softened for just a moment. “Most people aren’t me.”
You gave him a shy little smile and hurried back to the counter, heart racing. For the rest of your shift you could feel his eyes on you, steady, dark and unwavering. He barely touched the coffee or the croissant. He just watched you move behind the counter like you were the only thing worth looking at in the entire world.
When the rush finally slowed, he stood up, left a very generous tip folded neatly under the mug, and paused at the counter on his way out.
“See you soon,” he murmured, saying your name like it was something sacred and secret. “Have a good rest of your shift, doll. Don’t work too hard.”
You could only manage a flustered nod, cheeks still warm long after he’d walked out the door.
That night, when he picked the lock on your front door and slipped silently into your apartment while you slept, he stood over your bed for a long time, breathing you in.
He leaned down, lips hovering just above the soft skin of your neck and whispered your name into the darkness like a vow.
It sounded like both a prayer… and a promise.
Over the next several nights, Bucky’s restraint completely shattered.
He came back every few nights, slipping through your front door like a ghost, locking it behind him with that soft, familiar click. At first he only watched you sleep. But the hunger quickly grew teeth.
The third night he touched you.
He leaned over your bed, cool lips pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your throat. He nipped at your skin, fangs grazing but never breaking it, sucking lightly until you whimpered in your sleep.
“Fuck… such a pretty neck,” he growled quietly against your pulse. “Bet you’d look so good with my marks all over it.”
He pushed your nightshirt up, exposing your breasts and buried his face between them with a low, filthy groan. His tongue dragged over your nipples in slow, wet circles before he sucked one into his mouth, moaning like he was tasting something divine.
“So fucking sweet… these tits are perfect, doll. Made for my mouth.”
His metal hand ghosted over your hips, fingertips barely brushing your skin as he fought not to grip hard enough to bruise. You arched unconsciously toward him, thighs pressing together.
The fourth night he went lower.
He eased your panties down your legs and spread your thighs wide, kneeling between them like he was worshipping at an altar. He dragged his tongue through your soaked folds in one long, obscene lick and groaned deeply.
“Jesus Christ… your pussy is dripping for me even when you’re asleep,” he rasped, voice thick with lust. “Such a needy little cunt. You taste so fucking good, baby. I could eat this pretty pussy for hours.”
He licked you like a man starved, slow, filthy strokes of his tongue circling your clit before pushing inside you, fucking you with it. He sucked on your swollen clit with wet, obscene sounds, metal fingers gently holding your thighs open.
“That’s it… grind against my tongue even in your sleep like a good little slut,” he murmured against your slick flesh. “This pussy belongs to me now. You hear me? Mine.”
You came hard on his tongue, thighs shaking, a broken moan slipping from your lips. He licked you through every pulse, drinking down every drop like it was sacred.
The visits only got dirtier.
Night after night he returned. He’d bury his face between your thighs for what felt like hours, tongue-fucking you, sucking your clit, growling filthy praise against your soaked cunt.
“Fuck, you’re so wet… creaming all over my tongue like you were made for this. That’s my girl. Let me taste how much you need me.”
Sometimes he’d slide two cool fingers inside you while sucking on your clit, curling them just right, whispering, “Tight little pussy sucking my fingers in even when you’re dreaming. Gonna ruin this cunt one day. Gonna fill you up and make you scream my name for real.”
You always woke drenched in sweat, thighs slick and trembling, panties pushed to the side or completely off. Fragments of sensation haunted you, cold tongue licking deep, a rough voice groaning filthy things, the faint scent of old leather and blood on your skin. You told yourself they were just extremely vivid, filthy dreams caused by stress and loneliness.
Your body knew the truth.
Every morning you woke up aching and empty, clit throbbing, sheets ruined. And every few nights the dreams returned, darker, wetter, more intense.
Bucky, meanwhile, was unraveling.
He left your apartment every time with your taste coating his tongue and his cock so hard it hurt. Back in his penthouse he would stroke himself raw, snarling your name as he came but it was never enough.
He needed to hear you moan his name for real.
He needed to sink his fangs into your thigh while buried balls-deep inside you.
And he was getting dangerously close to losing the last shred of control he had left.
A few days later, the universe seemed determined to keep pushing you together.
You were halfway through your post-shift grocery run, still wearing Bucky’s oversized black coat because the autumn air had turned crisp. It swallowed your frame, the hem brushing your thighs and you secretly loved how warm and safe it made you feel. Your basket was overloaded with pasta, fresh vegetables, a cheap bottle of red wine, and a pint of ice cream you were definitely stress-eating later.
You turned the corner into the pasta aisle and walked straight into a solid wall of muscle.
“Oh- I’m so sorry!” you gasped, nearly dropping your basket.
Gentle but strong hands immediately steadied you, catching your elbows with careful precision so you wouldn’t fall.
“Easy there, doll,” a low, familiar voice murmured. “You alright? That was my fault. Should’ve been paying better attention.”
You looked up and your heart skipped hard.
It was him, the mysterious, devastatingly handsome man from the rainy night and the café. He was wearing a red Henley under a leather jacket, his metal hand tucked discreetly into his pocket like always. His steel-blue eyes softened the second they met yours.
You blushed instantly. “I swear I’m not this clumsy all the time. I was trying to decide between spaghetti and linguine like my life depended on it.”
Bucky’s mouth curved into that faint, crooked smile that made your stomach flutter. His gaze drifted down, noticing you were still wearing his coat.
“Looks far better on you than it ever did on me,” he said softly, almost reverent. “I’m glad you kept it.”
Before you could respond, he smoothly took the heavy basket from your hands as if it weighed nothing.
“Please, allow me,” he said, already heading toward the checkout. “A lady shouldn’t have to carry all this herself.”
You tried to protest. “You really don’t have to-”
“I insist,” he replied gently but firmly, that old-world chivalry radiating off him. He held the basket in one arm and used the other to open the door for an elderly woman leaving the store, nodding politely to her. “After you, ma’am.”
You watched him, completely charmed and a little dazed. No guy your age ever acted like this.
At checkout, he politely waited while you paid, then immediately took all the bags before you could reach for them. Outside, he positioned himself on the street side of the sidewalk, shielding you from traffic like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The walk back to your apartment was short but felt electric. He carried every bag effortlessly, making easy conversation the whole way.
“Long shift today?” he asked, glancing at you with genuine concern.
“Yeah… double again. I’m exhausted but the thesis won’t write itself.”
“You work too hard,” he said quietly. “A girl like you deserves to be taken care of sometimes.”
When you reached your building, he didn’t hesitate.
“Mind if I help you up with these?” he asked, voice warm and sincere. “I’d feel better knowing they made it safely upstairs.”
You nodded, cheeks warm. “Yeah… sure. That would be really nice, actually. Thank you.”
You let him follow you up the narrow stairs to your third-floor apartment. Bucky carried all the bags effortlessly in one arm, walking just behind you like a perfect gentleman.
Inside your small, cluttered apartment, he set the bags on the counter and looked around with quiet appreciation, taking in the fairy lights, the overflowing bookshelves, and the half-dead plants on the windowsill.
“It’s lovely in here,” he said sincerely, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Warm. Lived-in. Feels like a real home.”
He rolled up the sleeve on his right arm and started helping you unpack without being asked, putting milk and eggs in the fridge, pasta in the cupboard, vegetables in the crisper, moving with surprising familiarity and care.
You noticed immediately that he only rolled up one sleeve. The left arm stayed fully covered, the black leather glove still firmly in place.
You tilted your head, curious. “Why do you keep that glove on? And you only rolled up one sleeve.”
Bucky paused for half a second, then gave a small, easy smile.
“Poor circulation,” he said smoothly. “Old injury from years ago. The left arm gets cold easily, especially in weather like this, so I keep it covered. Doctor’s orders.”
You nodded, accepting the answer. “That makes sense. Must be annoying, especially in winter.”
“Sometimes,” he replied, voice gentle. “But I’m used to it now. Doesn’t slow me down much.”
When everything was put away, you leaned against the counter, suddenly feeling chatty and comfortable in his presence.
“I still don’t even know your name…” you said with a shy smile.
He gave you a small, almost shy smile of his own and rubbed the back of his neck.
“James Buchanan Barnes,” he said. “But everyone just calls me Bucky.”
“Bucky,” you repeated, liking the way it sounded. “Nice to finally meet you properly, Bucky.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, doll.”
You kept talking, gesturing with your hands. “So… what do you do, Bucky? You seem like you have your life pretty together. Do you work around here?”
He chuckled softly, leaning on the opposite counter. “I do some consulting work. Private security, mostly. Nothing too exciting.”
“Private security at your age?” You raised an eyebrow, smiling. “How old are you, anyway?”
Bucky’s eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. “Twenty-four.”
You blinked. “Wait, really? You seem… older. Not in a bad way! Just… more mature. Like you’ve seen some stuff.”
He gave a low, self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve been told that before. Guess I grew up fast.”
You kept talking, comfortable now. “I’m twenty-three. Still feel like a kid half the time. Working two jobs, trying to finish my thesis on Gothic literature. Vampires, monsters, tragic love stories… the usual dramatic stuff.” You laughed lightly. “Do you believe any of that is real? Like, vampires and witches and all that? Or is it just fun fiction?”
Bucky’s gaze sharpened for a fraction of a second before he smiled. “I think there’s more to the world than most people realize,” he said carefully. “Some legends have roots in truth. What do you think?”
“I go back and forth,” you admitted, leaning closer. “Sometimes I think vampires are just metaphors for forbidden desire or immortality anxiety. Other times… I don’t know. The idea of someone living for centuries, watching everyone they love die… that feels too real. Too sad.”
Bucky’s expression softened, something pained flickering behind his eyes. “It is sad,” he murmured. “Very sad.”
You kept going, excited to talk about your thesis. “Exactly! And witches- the way they’re portrayed as powerful but dangerous. Do you have any favorite books or movies about that stuff?”
He listened with genuine interest, answering carefully and making up plausible details while keeping his ancient truth hidden. He asked you questions in return, drawing you out, letting you talk about your terrible boss at the café, your fear of never finishing your degree and how overwhelmed you felt sometimes.
“Do you have Instagram or anything?” you asked, then quickly added with an awkward little laugh, “I’m not trying to stalk you, don’t worry. Just… if you maybe wanted to hang out sometime, or so I could reach out?”
Bucky let out a low, self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m afraid I’m terribly old-fashioned. No social media at all. But I do have a phone number.”
You raised an eyebrow, a playful but suspicious smile tugging at your lips. “No social media? At twenty-four? That’s… suspicious. Are you secretly a spy or something?”
He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Nothing that exciting, I promise. Just prefer real life over screens.”
You saved his number and sent him a quick text. When his phone buzzed, his smile deepened.
“There,” you said, grinning. “Now you can’t vanish on me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, eyes dark and intense for just a moment before he softened again. “You get some rest now. You’ve earned it.”
He walked to the door, then paused and turned back.
“Goodnight, doll,” he said softly. “Lock the door behind me.”
You nodded, cheeks warm. “Goodnight, Bucky.”
He waited outside until he heard the lock click, then disappeared down the hallway with a small, satisfied smile.
But the second he was out of sight, his expression darkened with raw hunger.
Hearing you say his name in that sweet voice had nearly made him snap.
The gentleman act was becoming harder to maintain… and the monster beneath it was growing impatient.
Bucky’s obsession had grown teeth.
After the night he helped you with your groceries something inside him finally snapped. Knowing your name wasn’t enough. Hearing you laugh wasn’t enough. Standing so close to you and still not being able to claim you wasn’t enough.
He needed pieces of you. Tangible. Permanent. His.
So the stealing began.
The first time was the night after the grocery store. While you slept, he moved through your apartment like a shadow. He took your favorite perfume from the dresser, the one that smelled like warm vanilla and something sweet and uniquely you. He sprayed a little on his wrist before slipping the bottle into his coat.
Two nights later, he took the soft cream-colored scarf you’d been wearing the rainy night you first met him. It still carried the faint scent of rain, coffee and you. He buried his face in it the second he got home and didn’t let go for nearly an hour.
The nights had become his sanctuary and his torment.
For the first time, Bucky began invading your dreams like an incubus, silent, hungry, and unstoppable. He would wait until you fell into deep sleep in your own apartment, then slip into your mind with the ease of centuries of practice. You never remembered the full details in the morning, only waking with damp thighs, aching nipples, and a strange, lingering bite of exhaustion.
In the dream he appeared behind you, naked, massive, his metal arm cold against your fevered skin as he pinned you down in a bed that wasn’t quite yours. His fangs grazed your throat while his thick cock rubbed between your slick folds, teasing, never quite entering.
“Shhh, doll,” he whispered into your sleeping mind, voice low and velvet-dark. “Just a taste. I need you so fucking badly.”
He started with your wrist. In the dream he lifted your arm, licked a slow, reverent stripe over your pulse, then sank his fangs in deep. The pull was slow and obscene, wet sucking sounds filling the dream as he drank in long, greedy swallows. Your dream-self moaned and writhed, hips grinding against nothing while he fed.
When he was done, he sealed the punctures with long, filthy licks of his tongue, savoring the last drops. Then he moved lower.
He spread your thighs wide in the dreamscape, burying his face between them like a starving man. His tongue dragged up your inner thigh before his fangs pierced the soft flesh there too. Hot blood flooded his mouth, richer, headier, while his nose pressed against your dripping cunt, inhaling the scent of your arousal. He drank deeply, groaning against your skin, cock leaking steadily onto the dream sheets.
“Fuck… your blood tastes like sin,” he growled into your thigh. “Sweeter when you’re wet for me.”
He sealed that bite too, licking lazily over the twin holes, his cool saliva tingling as it closed the wounds. Only then did he allow himself to grind his massive cock against your soaked pussy, never pushing inside, just rutting until your dream-body came with a broken cry. He spilled across your thighs in thick ropes, marking you even in sleep, then vanished before you could wake.
You always woke up with faint, fading marks on your wrist and inner thigh that you blamed on restless sleep.
But the real collection had only just begun.
Then came the panties.
He started small. The black lace pair he’d seen on your floor the very first night, the sexy ones you wore when you wanted to feel powerful and desired. He took them while you showered, pressing the crotch to his face the second he was back in his penthouse. The scent of your pussy was still faintly there, musky and sweet. He inhaled so deeply his fangs throbbed.
A few nights later he stole the soft silk ones from your laundry basket, still slightly damp. He sucked the fabric into his mouth, tasting the faint traces of your arousal and detergent, groaning like a beast as he fisted his aching cock.
But what truly broke something inside him were the cute ones.
He found them one night while you slept, an entire drawer of soft cotton panties with little embroidered days of the week. Innocent. Everyday. Mortal. The kind of thing that made his ancient, dead heart twist with dark fondness and cruel hunger.
He picked up the pair marked “Thursday” and ran his thumb over the tiny lettering, a low, predatory chuckle rumbling in his chest.
“Mortals,” he whispered into the dark of your bedroom, voice rough with twisted amusement. “Still pretending time matters. Still marking your little days like you won’t eventually be mine forever. How fucking endearing.”
He stole the Wednesday pair that night, along with the Thursday ones for good measure.
His obsession only grew darker.
He discovered the small trash can in your bathroom. Inside were a few used tampons wrapped in toilet paper. The metallic, coppery scent of your period blood hit him like pure heroin. Centuries of memories flooded him, women on their cycles spreading their thighs for him, begging him to drink while their cunts were heaviest, bloodiest, most potent.
He stood there in your bathroom for a long minute, breathing deeply, cock straining painfully against his pants.
“Even your waste calls to me,” he murmured reverently, almost lovingly. “Your blood… every drop of it belongs to me.”
He took one of the wrapped tampons, brought it back to his penthouse, and spent hours with it pressed to his nose and mouth while he stroked himself raw.
Every few nights he added something new to his growing collection: a hair tie with strands of your hair still caught in it, the half-used lip balm from your bag that still carried the faint taste of your mouth, a well-worn hoodie that smelled like your shampoo, your sweat, and the warmth of your skin. More panties, both the slutty lace ones that made his cock leak and the innocent cotton ones with their childish little days.
He kept them all in a locked drawer in his penthouse like a sacred, filthy shrine.
When the emptiness clawed at him too viciously, when Dolores’s screams echoed too loudly in his skull, he would sit alone in the dark, open the drawer, and surround himself with you. He’d press your stolen panties to his face, inhaling the scent of your cunt like oxygen. Sometimes he wrapped the Thursday pair around his thick, leaking cock and fucked his fist with slow, filthy strokes, groaning your name like a broken prayer.
“Fuck… smell so good,” he rasped into the cotton, voice wrecked and desperate. “This little mortal pussy is going to be mine. I’m going to drink from it while you’re bleeding. I’m going to fuck it until you scream. Until you beg.”
Other nights he pressed the blood-stained cotton directly to his mouth and nose, sucking on the fabric while he jerked himself brutally, imagining it was your bloody cunt riding his face. Thick ropes of cum would splatter across his abs and chest as he came with a guttural snarl, over and over, until the drawer was sticky with his spend and the scent of you was mixed with his own.
“You’re already mine,” he whispered hoarsely into the silk and cotton, fangs fully extended, eyes glowing crimson in the dark. “Every pair. Every drop of blood. Every dream. Every breath you take. All fucking mine. Even if you don’t know it yet… you will. Soon.”
He was patient.
He was starving.
And the monster inside him was done waiting.
You, meanwhile, were spiraling.
At first you thought you were simply losing your mind from exhaustion and stress. The perfume? Maybe you’d moved it and forgotten. The scarf? You probably left it at the library. But when your favorite pair of silk panties vanished from the laundry basket and then the soft cotton ones with the little embroidered days of the week started disappearing too, real unease settled deep in your stomach.
Then more things disappeared.
A hoodie you loved. Your favorite lip balm. A hair clip you’d worn the day Bucky helped with your groceries. Even one of your thesis notebooks went missing for two days before mysteriously reappearing on your nightstand.
You tore your apartment apart looking for them. You started keeping a paranoid little list on your phone. You even wondered if you had a stalker… or if the stress was finally making you crack.
Then one evening you came home from a brutally long double shift at the café, feet aching, hair smelling like coffee and grease. You flipped on the light in your bedroom and froze.
His coat was still hanging on the back of your bedroom door where you’d left it days ago.
But something was different.
A single, perfect red rose was tucked neatly into the breast pocket.
No note. No card. No explanation.
Just one flawless, blood-red bloom with a long, elegant stem and sharp thorns that caught the lamplight like tiny blades. The rose was impossibly perfect, not a single petal out of place, fresh dew still clinging to the edges like droplets of blood.
Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt.
You stood frozen in the doorway, grocery bag slipping from your fingers onto the floor. The faint scent of the rose mixed with the lingering smell of old leather from the coat, creating something intoxicating and terrifying all at once.
You knew.
You knew it was him.
Bucky.
The gentleman who had carried all your groceries without being asked. The man who opened doors, insisted you keep his coat, and looked at you like you were the only person in the world who mattered. The one with the old-fashioned manners, the low velvet voice and those intense steel-blue eyes that seemed to see straight through you, into places you hadn’t let anyone see in years.
He had been in your apartment again.
He had taken things.
And now… he was leaving gifts in his own coat, the one still hanging in your room like a claim.
You walked over on shaky legs and carefully pulled the rose from the pocket. A thorn pricked your thumb. A tiny bead of blood welled up instantly. You stared at it, then brought the rose to your nose and inhaled. The scent was rich, sweet, and heavy.
Your mind raced.
How long has he been coming in here? How many nights has he stood beside my bed while I slept? What else has he taken? What has he seen while I was unconscious?
Part of you was terrified. The logical, rational part screamed that this was insane. Dangerous. That you should change the locks right now, call the police, run as far as you could.
But another part, darker, quieter and growing louder every day, felt a rush of shameful heat low in your belly. The thought of him moving silently through your space, touching your things, watching you sleep… it made your thighs press together.
You sat down heavily on the edge of your bed, still holding the rose, and whispered into the quiet apartment:
“…Bucky?”
The silence that answered felt alive.
Like he was still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
The game had truly begun.
And neither of you were ready for how deep, how dark and how consuming it would become.
You couldn’t take it anymore.
It was 2:13 am and you were sitting on the edge of your bed in the dark, phone clutched so tightly in your shaking hands that your knuckles had gone white. Another thing had vanished today, your favorite silver necklace. But that wasn’t what broke you. It was the rose tucked into the pocket of his coat. The pattern. The way everything pointed straight to him.
Your thumb hovered over his contact for a long, trembling minute. Part of you wanted to throw the phone across the room and change the locks. Another part, the terrified, exhausted, furious part, needed answers. You pressed call.
It rang only once before he picked up.
“Hey” His voice was low, smooth, perfectly calm. “Is everything okay? It’s late.”
You didn’t even try to sound normal. Your voice came out raw, trembling with a volatile mix of terror, fury, and betrayal.
“It’s you,” you said, barely above a whisper at first, then louder. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Bucky. The perfume, the scarf, my panties, the necklace, it’s all you. You’ve been in my apartment. You’ve been watching me sleep. You left that fucking rose in your own coat. I know it’s you.”
Silence stretched on the other end.
On the fire escape right outside your bedroom window, Bucky stood completely still in the pouring rain, glowing red eyes fixed on you through the gap in the curtains. His metal hand tightened on the railing, slowly denting the metal.
He tried anyway.
“Baby, slow down,” he said, voice dripping with concern. “You sound really scared. Maybe you’re just stressed from work and your thesis. You’ve been so tired lately. I would never-”
“Stop.” Your voice cracked, but it was sharp with raw fury. Tears burned in your eyes as you stood up from the bed, pacing. “Don’t you dare lie to me right now. I’m terrified, Bucky. I’ve been checking my locks ten times a night. I wake up feeling like someone’s been touching me. And it’s you. You’ve been breaking into my home. Stealing my fucking underwear. What the hell is wrong with you?!”
Bucky’s jaw clenched hard. Drool slipped from the corner of his mouth as he watched you curl tighter into yourself on the bed, tears streaming down your face. His free hand flexed at his side, metal plates whirring.
“I was trying to protect you,” he said, voice low and careful, almost pleading. “I just wanted to be close to you. I’ve been alone for so long and you-”
“Close to me?” you snapped, voice rising in a hysterical, broken laugh that sounded more like a sob. “You’ve been sneaking into my room while I sleep! That’s not protecting me, that’s stalking me! I trusted you. You carried my groceries. You were sweet and gentle and now I find out you’ve been stealing my panties and watching me change? What kind of sick fuck does that?!”
Bucky’s red eyes flashed brighter. His metal fingers dug into the windowsill, cracking the frame with a quiet groan.
“I know it looks bad,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady but you could hear the strain. “But I’m not going to hurt you. I could never hurt you. I just… I need you. I’ve been alone for so long and you’re the only thing that makes me feel alive again. Please, doll. Let me explain-”
“Explain what?” you shouted, no longer caring if your neighbors heard. Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. “How you’ve been breaking in? How you left a rose like some twisted gift? I’m scared to even close my eyes now because I don’t know if you’re standing there watching me!”
You were crying hard now, terrified and furious and completely overwhelmed. Your voice cracked as you whispered the last part.
“I thought you were different… I thought you were safe.”
Bucky pressed his forehead against the cold glass, breathing heavily, fangs fully extended. For a long moment he was silent. When he spoke again, his voice was raw, almost broken, with very little hope left in it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words cracking. “I’m so fucking sorry. I know I’m messed up. I know I went too far. But I can’t stop. I won’t lose you. I won’t. Please… just come to my penthouse tomorrow night. Let me explain everything in person. No more lies. No more hiding. I’ll tell you everything. Just… please don’t shut me out. I need to see you. I need to make this right.”
His voice dropped, almost desperate.
“I know I don’t deserve it… but please. Tomorrow at 8. My penthouse. I’ll send a car. If you still want nothing to do with me after that, I’ll leave you alone. I swear it.”
You were silent for a long, heavy moment, shaking with fear and anger.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hissed, voice rising again. “You want me to come to your place? After everything you just admitted? After you’ve been breaking into my home and stealing from me? You have the nerve to ask me to walk into your penthouse like it’s some normal date? Are you out of your fucking mind?!”
Bucky’s breath hitched on the other end. His voice was quieter now, almost pleading, with almost no hope left.
“I know how it sounds,” he said, the words heavy. “I know I don’t deserve your trust. But I can’t explain this over the phone. I need you to see me. To see that I’m not going to hurt you. Please, doll… just one chance. I’m begging you. Tomorrow at 8. I’ll send a car. If you walk out after I explain, I won’t stop you. I swear on whatever’s left of me.”
You were silent for a long, heavy moment, shaking with fear and anger.
“…Fine,” you finally whispered, voice trembling. “Tomorrow at 8. But if you lie to me again, Bucky, I’m done. I mean it.”
“Thank you,” he breathed, relief and dark hunger mixing in his tone. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some sleep, doll. I’ll be thinking about you.”
You hung up without another word.
Bucky stayed on the fire escape for a long moment, staring at your shaking form through the window. Rain mixed with the blood tears sliding down his face.
He whispered into the night, voice dark and possessive:
“You don’t have to be scared of me, doll. I’ll make sure of that… one way or another.”
He vanished into the shadows, already planning exactly what he would say and what he would do when you came to him tomorrow.
The next day, Bucky moved through the city like a man on a mission.
He hadn’t slept. He doesn’t anymore.
Vampires don’t need sleep the way humans do. The closest he ever came was a kind of cold, motionless trance but even that had abandoned him since you entered his life. Instead, he had spent the entire night on the rooftop of his penthouse, standing motionless in the wind and rain, staring out at the glittering lights of Brooklyn below. Your terrified, furious voice played on repeat in his head like a broken record.
The way you had cried.
The way you had called him a sick fuck.
The way you had still agreed to come tonight even if it was only because you were angry and scared.
Every word cut deeper than the last.
He was going to tell you everything.
No more lies. No more half-truths. Tonight, in his penthouse, he would confess what he really was. And he was going to make it as… human as possible. As normal as a seven-hundred-year-old vampire could manage.
So he went grocery shopping.
He walked into the upscale organic market near the waterfront in the late afternoon, black coat on, sunglasses hiding his eyes, metal arm tucked into his sleeve. The fluorescent lights felt too bright, the chatter of normal people too loud. But he pushed a cart through the aisles with focused determination.
He started with breakfast ingredients for tomorrow, just in case you stayed. Eggs, fresh herbs, thick-cut bacon, ripe avocados, sourdough bread. Then he moved to dinner. He wanted something comforting, something that said “I care.” He picked out ingredients for homemade lasagna, fresh pasta sheets, rich tomato sauce, ground beef, ricotta, mozzarella and basil. He added things for a salad and garlic bread.
His mind kept drifting to you as he shopped.
She’s coming tonight. She’s terrified of me. She has every right to be.
He stopped in the baking aisle and stared at the rows of flour, sugar, chocolate and vanilla. He remembered you mentioning once that you loved chocolate cake when you were stressed. So he grabbed everything he needed, dark cocoa powder, heavy cream, eggs, butter and added a bottle of expensive vanilla extract.
An older woman beside him smiled kindly as she reached for a bag of sugar.
“Baking for someone special?” she asked.
Bucky gave her a small, tired smile. “Yeah… something like that.”
He hoped you would still want anything from him after tonight.
By the time he got back to the penthouse, his arms were full of bags. He spent the next several hours in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up. He prepped the lasagna, made the chocolate cake from scratch, even baked fresh bread. The entire penthouse filled with warm, comforting smells, tomato sauce simmering, cake baking, garlic and herbs.
As he worked, he practiced what he would say.
“I’m a vampire.” “I’ve been watching you sleep.” “I stole your things because I’m obsessed with you.” “I would kill for you.” “I want to turn you so I never lose you.”
Every version sounded insane. Every version made him feel sick with fear that you would finally run.
He set the dining table beautifully, candles, wine, flowers. He even picked out soft music. When everything was ready, he stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the feast he had made, and whispered to the empty room:
“Please don’t leave me, doll. Please… just listen.”
He checked the clock.
8:00 pm was approaching.
And for the first time in centuries, the ancient predator felt genuinely nervous.
He was about to confess everything.
And he had no idea if you would still be his when the night was over.
You arrived at his penthouse at exactly 8:00 pm, fury burning hotter than fear. The car he sent had been silent and luxurious but you spent the entire ride clenching your fists, rehearsing every accusation. When the private elevator doors opened directly into his home, you stepped out with your chin high, jaw tight, eyes blazing.
Bucky stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glittering city sprawled behind him like a dark jewel. The lights were low, candles flickering on the dining table. He looked almost… human. Nervous. Shoulders tense, hands shoved into his pockets.
You stopped a few feet away, arms crossed tightly.
“Start talking,” you snapped, voice trembling with rage. “No more ‘protecting me’ bullshit. I want the truth. All of it. Right now.”
Bucky swallowed hard. “I… I don’t know where to begin.”
“Begin with why you’ve been lying to me.”
He took a slow step closer, then stopped when you flinched. “I’m not who you think I am. Not… not completely.”
Your heart hammered. Something in his voice, the raw edge, the hesitation made the air feel heavier. “Bucky. What are you?”
For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then his shoulders slumped.
“I’m not human,” he said, voice low and rough, almost a growl. “Not anymore. Not for a very long time.”
The lights in the penthouse seemed to dim further. A chill crawled up your spine.
“What the hell does that mean?” you whispered.
His eyes, those beautiful blue eyes you’d trusted, began to change. The color bled away from the edges inward, flooding with a violent, glowing red. Not just red. Blood-red. Like twin embers pulled straight from hell, pulsing with unnatural hunger.
You stumbled back a step. “Bucky-”
His lips parted. There was a soft, wet click as his canines elongated into fangs, long, razor-sharp, gleaming under the candlelight. They looked strong enough to tear through flesh without effort. A low, involuntary growl rumbled in his chest, deep and animalistic.
You pressed a hand to your mouth, breath shallow. “Oh my God…”
He slowly raised his left hand. The plates of the metal arm shifted with a mechanical whirr-click-grind, like a machine waking up. The steel caught the red glow from his eyes, reflecting it back in cold, deadly shards.
“Bucky, what are you?” You asked again, fear finally overtaking the anger.
He took one more step forward, voice dropping into something ancient and broken. “This is what I am.”
The full transformation hit like a nightmare unfolding in real time. His skin seemed to pale further, veins standing out dark beneath it. The red in his eyes brightened, casting eerie shadows across his face. Those fangs, fully extended now, made his mouth look wrong, predatory. When he spoke again, his voice was layered with something inhuman, a resonance that vibrated in your bones.
“A vampire,” he said. “Turned in 1349 during the Black Death. I died in an alley with a nobleman’s teeth in my throat… and I woke up like this.”
You backed up until your legs hit the edge of the couch. “No. No, that’s not- this isn’t real.”
He rolled up his sleeve with deliberate slowness, revealing the brutal fusion where metal met scarred flesh. The seam looked raw, like it had been cauterized with fire and rage. The arm flexed, plates shifting with a menacing hum.
You stared, heart slamming against your ribs. “The glove… the circulation story…”
“All lies,” he admitted, voice raw. “I didn’t want you to see the monster. I thought if I could be James for a little while longer, you might not run screaming.”
He reached out slowly but you jerked away.
“Does it hurt?” you whispered, despite everything.
“Every day.” His red eyes never left yours. “It’s not mine. They tore the real one off and bolted this thing onto me while I was screaming. HYDRA made sure I felt every second of it.”
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Only the distant city hum and the frantic beat of your own heart filled the room.
Bucky’s shoulders shook as he continued, the words pouring out like he’d held them back for centuries. “I was arrogant. Handsome. Thought the world was mine. Then the plague came and a dying man made me eternal. I’ve spent nearly seven hundred years alone. Fucking. Feeding. Leaving bodies behind before dawn because nothing ever filled the emptiness.”
His voice cracked completely. Blood-red tears slid down his cheeks, actual blood, dark and glistening.
“Until Dolores. Dot. She called me ‘my James.’ She knew what I was and still loved me. When the plague took her in 1665, I tried to turn her. Forced my blood down her throat while she was still breathing. She screamed my name as she died in my arms. I burned the cottage with her body inside because I couldn’t bear to look at what I’d done.”
He dropped to his knees right there on the marble floor, arms wrapping around your waist like you were his last anchor.
“I’ve carried her screams for four hundred years,” he choked out against your stomach, blood tears soaking your shirt. “The wars. The mud. The explosion that took my arm. Waking up with this thing fused to me, roaring while they wiped my mind over and over. I came back to Brooklyn. Fed only on the worst people so I wouldn’t have to feel. Until that rainy night outside the library… when you smiled at me like I wasn’t damned.”
You stood frozen, sobbing, one hand hovering over his dark hair.
He looked up at you, eyes glowing like fresh blood, fangs fully bared, metal arm clenched so hard the plates screamed in protest. “I’ve been breaking into your apartment. Stealing your things. Tasting you while you slept. Listening to your heartbeat and praying I wouldn’t ruin you too.”
You shook your head, tears streaming. “You… you drank from me? While I was sleeping? You touched me, took my things like some kind of sick collector-”
“I know,” he whispered brokenly. “I’m a monster. A killer. I understand if you run. I won’t stop you. But please… I’m so fucking tired of being alone. You’re the only light I’ve had in centuries. Don’t take it away.”
The penthouse was silent except for your ragged breathing and his quiet, desperate sobs against you.
You were terrified.
You were furious.
You stood there, trembling, with Bucky’s arms locked around your waist and his face pressed against your stomach. The glow of his red eyes lit the floor beneath you like dying embers. His fangs were still fully extended, brushing against the fabric every time he breathed.
Your hand finally lowered. Fingers sank into his dark hair.
“I should run,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Any sane person would.”
Bucky’s shoulders tensed, waiting for the blow.
“But I’m still here,” you continued, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I’m terrified… but I’m not leaving. Not tonight. Not yet. You’re a monster, Bucky. A real one. But you’re my monster. And I hate how much that matters to me right now.”
A broken sound escaped him, half sob, half relief. He tightened his hold for one heartbeat, then slowly loosened it, as if afraid you’d vanish.
“Thank you,” he breathed against you. “God, thank you.”
He stayed on his knees a moment longer, forehead pressed to your hip like a penitent at confession. When he finally rose, the red in his eyes had dimmed slightly but the fangs still peeked past his lips and the metal arm still hummed with tension. He looked raw. Exposed. Almost boyish in his uncertainty.
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, a shy human gesture that felt strangely out of place on a centuries-old vampire.
“I… prepared dinner for you,” he said softly, a faint flush coloring his pale cheeks. “I’ve been cooking since the afternoon. I wanted tonight to feel… normal. Before everything else.”
You blinked, surprised, still wiping tears from your face. “You cooked? For me?”
He gave a small, almost shy nod. “I haven’t cooked for anyone in… a very long time. I wanted it to be perfect.”
He led you further into the penthouse with gentle care, one hand hovering near the small of your back without quite touching. The long dining table was set beautifully for one, fine china, crystal glasses, silverware polished to a mirror shine. Tall candles flickered in elegant holders, casting warm golden light across the room. A bottle of deep red wine breathed in a decanter. Soft, old jazz played from hidden speakers, something slow and smoky from the 1940s.
You could see into the open kitchen: chopping boards with fresh herb scraps, a pot that had clearly been simmering for hours, an empty wine bottle he must have used in the sauce.
Bucky pulled out your chair like a gentleman from another century, then sat across from you. He didn’t touch his own plate.
The feast was incredible.
Bucky had clearly poured hours into it. A rich homemade minestrone soup steamed gently in a beautiful ceramic bowl, loaded with fresh vegetables and herbs. Next to it sat a generous serving of creamy garlic pasta with fresh basil and shaved parmesan. There was a perfectly roasted vegetable medley glistening with olive oil and sea salt, a beautifully seared steak with rosemary and garlic butter and a large tray of homemade lasagna, layers of tender pasta, rich meat sauce, creamy ricotta, and melted mozzarella that still bubbled from the oven. A basket of warm, golden garlic bread sat beside it, the aroma of butter and roasted garlic filling the air.
On a side table waited three different desserts: tiramisu dusted with cocoa, dark chocolate cake layered with silky ganache and fresh berries with whipped cream and mint.
You took your first bite of the pasta and actually moaned. “Bucky… this is amazing. When did you even have time to do all this?”
He watched you eat with quiet intensity, a small smile playing at his lips despite the fangs. “I’ve had a lot of time to learn things over the centuries. Cooking was one way I tried to feel… human. I started preparing everything this morning. I needed to do something with my hands or I was going to lose my mind waiting for you to say yes.”
You ate slowly, studying him the entire time, the way candlelight danced across his pale skin, the subtle shift of metal plates under his sleeve, the faint red glow still lingering at the edges of his eyes. The silence finally became too much.
“Bucky… why aren’t you eating anything?” you asked gently.
He gave a low, tired chuckle and leaned back in his chair, eyes soft but shadowed.
“I can eat human food, doll. Some of us do it at galas or restaurants to blend in. But it tastes like ash in my mouth. No real flavor. No nourishment. Most of us vomit it up later, or it just sits heavy and makes us sick. If we rely on it too long, we get weak… malnourished.” His voice dropped, dark and intimate. “Nothing, nothing, compares to blood. Especially yours.”
You swallowed hard, heart racing, but took another slow bite of the pasta anyway. The rich garlic and herbs still tasted divine to you, even if they were nothing to him. Curiosity was slowly winning the war against your nerves. “So the garlic in this pasta… it’s really fine?”
He smiled faintly, fangs glinting in the candlelight. “Old folklore. Garlic doesn’t hurt us. It just smells strong. Some of us find it unpleasant, like it stings our nose but it won’t kill me. I actually like cooking with it. Reminds me of simpler times.”
You nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “Can you see yourself in mirrors?”
He let out a soft laugh. “Yes. Always have. The whole ‘no reflection’ thing was invented by Bram Stoker as a narrative device to show vampires lacked a soul. I still shave the old-fashioned way every evening.”
“What about sunlight?” you pressed, leaning forward. “Do you sparkle or burst into flames like in the movies?”
Bucky let out a genuine laugh, the sound low and warm, cutting through the heavy tension in the room. “No sparkling. That one always makes me laugh. I can go out in daylight- it just weakens me. The older I get, the more it burns if I stay out too long. Like a bad sunburn that never quite heals. That’s why I prefer evening dates. Sunsets are my limit on a good day.”
You kept going, emboldened by his patience. “Holy water? Crosses? What about stakes?”
“Holy water feels like a mild burn on the skin, like touching a hot pan for half a second. Crosses do nothing- never have.” He shrugged. “As for stakes… that whole ‘wooden stake through the heart kills us’ idea is mostly modern invention. In the old folklore they were just used to pin us down or immobilize us so we couldn’t rise from the grave. To actually finish one of us off, you’d need to behead or burn the body.”
He tapped his chest with a wry smile. “A stake would hurt like hell and slow me down, but I heal too fast. You’d have to be quicker than me and almost nothing is.”
You set your fork down, studying his face, the way the red glow in his eyes pulsed softly with every answer. “When do your fangs come out? Just when you’re hungry?”
Bucky’s eyes darkened, the crimson flaring brighter for a heartbeat. “They come out when I’m hungry. When I’m angry.” His voice dropped into a rough growl that sent heat and fear twisting low in your belly. “And when I’m aroused. They’ve been out since you walked into the penthouse. Looking at you does that to me. Every damn time.”
Your breath caught. Heat flooded your cheeks. “So right now… they’re because of me?”
“Partly,” he admitted, voice rough with honesty. “Mostly. You walk in a room and my body reacts before my brain catches up.”
You bit your lip, fighting the strange flutter in your chest. “Do you… shape-shift? Like into bats or wolves or anything?”
He tilted his head, a small, dangerously charming smirk playing on his lips. “Some of the very old ones can. Bats, rats, owls, foxes, even wolves. I never learned how. Never needed to. I prefer this form. This body.” His metal fingers flexed slowly on the tablecloth. “It’s served me well for seven hundred years. Strong. Fast. Familiar.”
You nodded slowly, processing everything. “What about needing an invitation to enter a home? Is that why you waited for me to open the door sometimes?”
Bucky’s smirk faded into something darker, almost predatory. His red eyes gleamed with dark amusement.
“That one used to be real,” he said, voice low. “A long time ago. But we figured it out centuries back. Vampires invented welcome mats. Cute little loophole. Put one outside your door and boom you’ve technically invited every vampire in the world inside. Most people have them now without even realizing what they’re doing.”
He leaned forward slightly, watching your face.
“I never actually needed an invitation. I only picked your lock those first few times out of habit… and because I wanted to hear you invite me in yourself. I wanted to watch that sweet, trusting smile when you opened the door for me. I wanted you to choose to let me in.”
A deep chill ran down your spine. The candle flames suddenly felt tiny and useless against the growing shadows in the room.
“So you could just… walk in whenever?” you asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
“Anytime,” he said, eyes locked on yours, unblinking. “Day or night. Rain or shine. Whether you’re awake, asleep, or in the shower. I never have to wait outside again unless you explicitly tell me to leave. And even then…”
He let the sentence hang, the implication heavy in the air.
You swallowed hard, heart hammering.
Bucky’s voice dropped even lower, almost intimate.
“I’d probably still watch from the street… just to make sure you’re safe.”
You tried to push past the shiver of fear. “What about resting in a coffin with soil from your grave? Is any of that real?”
Bucky’s expression turned almost nostalgic, though there was a hint of darkness in his eyes.
“Mostly myth,” he said. “I don’t need a coffin. I don’t actually need to sleep at all- vampires don’t. The body doesn’t require rest the way a human one does. But some of us do sleep in soil from their homeland. It… grounds us. Keeps the centuries from driving them completely insane. I haven’t done that in a long time. The last time was right after the war, when everything hurt too much.”
The questions kept coming, almost like you couldn’t stop them. “Are all vampires pale and beautiful like you? Or is that just in books?”
Bucky gave a dark, low chuckle that vibrated through his chest.
“In the oldest stories, we were bloated, ruddy, purple corpses. Disgusting, swollen things that crawled out of graves smelling of rot, mindless demons driven by pure bestial instinct. No charm, no seduction, just mindless hunger.”
He smiled, his red eyes gleaming with something hungry and possessive. “But after the change… it’s different. The venom rewrites you. Makes you younger. More beautiful. More magnetic.”
“You get this pull, an almost supernatural allure that draws people in. Makes them want to get closer. Makes them easy to seduce… easy to drain dry without them even realizing what’s happening until it’s too late.”
He leaned forward slightly, voice velvet and smoke. “When I turn you, you won’t just be immortal. You’ll be… irresistible. Skin flawless. Body perfected. A face and presence that makes mortals ache to be near you. To offer themselves. To bare their throats without understanding why. That’s how we survive. Not just by strength- but by beauty. By hunger wrapped in seduction.”
You swallowed hard, a shiver racing down your spine at how casually he spoke about turning you. Like it was something he had already decided in his mind. “You keep saying ‘when,’” you whispered. “Not ‘if.’”
Bucky noticed your unease immediately. He reached across the table and gently took your hand, metal fingers cool but careful against your skin.
“You don’t have to worry your pretty head about it right now, doll,” he murmured, voice softening into that velvet tone that always made your stomach flutter. “I’m not going to rush you. I’m not going to force anything. When- if- it happens, it’ll be when you’re ready. I just… I can’t stand the thought of watching you grow old and die while I stay like this. I’ve buried too many people I cared about. I don’t want you to be one of them.”
He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a slow, reverent kiss to your knuckles, fangs lightly grazing your skin in a promise that made your pulse jump wildly.
“You’re already perfect to me,” he whispered against your fingers. “Human or not.”
You stared at him across the flickering candles, heart racing with a dizzying mixture of fear, fascination, lingering anger, and something far deeper. The jazz still played softly. The feast was slowly cooling on your plate. And the vampire who had just answered every terrifying question with surprising patience was still holding your hand like it was the most precious thing in his long, dark life.
“This is… a lot to take in,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper.
Bucky’s red eyes softened. “I know. Take all the time you need. Ask me anything. I’ll answer every question, no matter how dark. And I understand if it’s too much. If you want to run, I won’t stop you.”
You didn’t run.
Instead, you reached across the table and gently touched his metal hand.
“I’m still here,” you whispered, fingers tracing the cool plates. “I won’t run.”
Bucky turned his hand over instantly, metal fingers carefully closing around yours like he was afraid you’d disappear. His glowing red eyes searched your face, raw and uncertain.
“There’s one more thing,” he said, voice dropping even lower, almost ashamed. “Sometimes… I can slip into dreams. Like an incubus. I’ve done it to you. Many times. I’ve made you dream filthy things while you slept. Made you feel my hands spreading you open, my mouth on your cunt, my cock buried so deep you were sobbing my name. You’d wake up soaked, thighs slick, aching so badly you had to touch yourself… and you thought it was just your imagination.”
Your breath hitched sharply. Heat flooded your face and lower, a sudden throb between your legs. “You… did that?”
Bucky’s eyes burned brighter, pupils blown wide. “Every night I couldn’t stay away. Even when I tried to stop myself. I’d stand in the corner of your room, hard as steel and push into your mind just to hear you moan for me in your sleep. I’m sorry. I know how fucked up that is.”
The silence between you crackled, thick, electric, heavy with fear, shame, and dark, undeniable desire. Your pulse thundered in your ears. You didn’t pull your hand away.
The tension finally snapped.
You stood up slowly, chair scraping against the floor. Bucky rose to meet you, chest heaving. The first kiss was slow and reverent, his hands cradling your face like you were made of glass. But hunger took over fast. The kiss turned deep, desperate, tongues sliding, teeth clashing. You moaned into his mouth and he answered with a broken growl that vibrated straight to your core.
He pulled back suddenly, breathing hard, fangs fully extended and gleaming. A thin string of saliva still connected his lower lip to your skin. He looked feral. Starving. Devastatingly beautiful.
You stared, heart pounding with something far beyond fear now. Curiosity and lust burned hotter. You reached up, cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Open for me, Bucky.”
His glowing red eyes flickered with surprise, but he obeyed instantly. Lips parting, he showed you the full, lethal length of his fangs. A low, needy growl rumbled in his chest, submissive and desperate, like he was offering himself up for your inspection.
You traced one fang slowly with your thumb, feeling the razor edge without cutting yourself. “Does it hurt when they come out?”
“Just a dull ache,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough and trembling. “Like an old wound. But right now… fuck, doll, it feels good. Because it’s you touching them.” His tongue flicked out helplessly. Thick drool slipped from the corner of his mouth, sliding down his chin as he fought the urge to bite.
You leaned in, eyes locked on his and dragged your tongue slowly up the length of one fang. The metallic tang mixed with his dark, cold taste, addictive and intoxicating. Bucky groaned deep in his throat, the sound broken and filthy. His metal hand tightened on your waist, hard enough to bruise, hips jerking forward involuntarily against you.
“Fuck… you’re gonna kill me,” he rasped, drooling openly now. Saliva dripped onto your chest as he watched you explore him with wide, submissive eyes. “No one’s ever… touched them like that. No one’s ever been brave enough.”
“Does drinking hurt?” you asked, still licking and teasing the sharp point, sucking gently at the tip.
“Only if I want it to.” His voice cracked into something dangerous and wrecked. “I can make it burn like fire… or feel like the best orgasm you’ve ever had. I’ve learned control over centuries. But with you-” He shuddered hard when you sucked harder. “-I don’t know how long it’ll last. Please… doll…”
You smiled, wicked and curious and took the entire tip of his fang into your mouth, sucking softly. Bucky snarled, the sound purely submissive and lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing. Clothes were torn away in a frantic blur, your shirt ripped down the middle, his pants shoved down just enough. He carried you to the bedroom, metal arm cool and unyielding against your bare back and laid you on the bed with surprising gentleness.
But the second your back hit the mattress, the hunger consumed him.
He worshipped you for what felt like hours. Mouth everywhere. He sucked dark, claiming bruises into your breasts, fangs grazing your nipples until you arched and whimpered. He licked long, messy stripes down your stomach, drooling shamelessly over your skin, leaving shiny, cooling trails. When he finally shoved your thighs apart and settled between them, his red eyes burned up at you with raw need.
“I’ve tasted you before,” he confessed, voice thick with shame and lust, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your inner thigh. “While you slept. Just little sips from your wrist or your thigh. Never enough to hurt you. Never while you were awake, watching me like this.” He groaned, hips grinding helplessly against the sheets. “I’m sorry… but I couldn’t stop. You taste like fucking heaven.”
His tongue dragged slowly through your folds, and the broken, desperate sound he made was almost worshipful. “Let me make it up to you, doll. Please. Let me show you how good I can make it feel when you’re awake.”
Before you could answer, he buried his face in your cunt. No teasing. He devoured you, filthy, wet, obscene sounds filling the room as his tongue fucked deep inside you, curling, thrusting. His drool mixed with your slick, dripping down his chin, soaking the sheets. Two thick fingers joined his tongue while his thumb rubbed tight circles on your clit. You came the first time with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head. He didn’t stop. He sucked your clit between his lips and growled, the vibration sending you over again almost immediately, sobbing his name.
Only then did he crawl up your body, cock heavy and leaking against your thigh. He was massive, thick, flushed dark, the head already glistening with precum and your own slick. You reached down with a shaky hand and stroked him, spreading the mess along his length.
“Bucky… you’re so fucking big,” you whimpered, eyes wide with a mix of awe and nerves.
“I know, baby,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing ragged and hot against your lips. “Gonna go slow at first. Breathe for me. I’ve got you. Tell me if it hurts, okay? I need to hear you.”
He pushed in inch by inch, stretching you open until you felt impossibly full. The burn was intense but perfect, bordering on too much. When he bottomed out, he stayed there, hips twitching, drooling onto your neck as he fought for control.
“Fuck… you’re so tight,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “So warm and wet for me. Taking every inch like you were made for this cock. How does it feel, doll? Does it hurt?”
“A little,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “It’s so much… but it feels good. Don’t stop.”
He stayed buried deep, rolling his hips in slow, careful circles, letting you adjust. “Good girl. Breathe. I’ve got you. If it gets too much, you tell me. Promise me.”
“I promise,” you whispered, legs wrapping tighter around him.
Then he started moving, deep, slow rolls of his hips at first, letting you feel every ridge and vein dragging inside you. The headboard creaked under his metal grip. Soon the pace turned punishing, hips snapping hard, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing obscenely through the room. He fucked you like he’d been starving for you for decades.
“Mine,” he snarled against your throat, fangs scraping your skin. “Say it.”
“I’m yours- fuck, Bucky, I’m yours!”
Your orgasm was building fast, walls fluttering around his cock. Bucky suddenly slowed, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in deep. His glowing red eyes locked onto yours, intense and pleading.
“Drink from me,” he rasped, slicing his wrist open with a fang. Dark, ancient blood welled up instantly. “Just a little. It’ll make everything feel better. So much better. Trust me, doll. You’ll feel like you’re flying.”
You hesitated, breath shaky. “Bucky… I don’t know if-”
“Please,” he whispered, pressing his bleeding wrist closer to your lips, voice desperate and feral. “It won’t hurt you. It’ll heighten everything. Every thrust. Every touch. Every single nerve in your body. You’ll come harder than you ever have. Let me give this to you, baby. Let me make you feel good.”
The raw need in his voice, combined with the way he was still buried so deep inside you, made you cave. You parted your lips and let him press his wrist to your mouth.
The first taste was overwhelming, rich, metallic, and strangely sweet, like dark spiced wine laced with raw power. His blood flooded your tongue and burned down your throat. Almost immediately, fire spread through your veins. Pleasure exploded tenfold. Every nerve lit up like live wires. The stretch of his cock inside you suddenly felt impossibly better, every ridge dragging against sensitive spots you didn’t even know existed.
“Oh my God-” you gasped, eyes rolling back, a broken moan tearing from your throat.
Bucky groaned loudly, hips snapping forward harder. “That’s it… good girl. Feel me now. Feel how deep I am. How full you are. Does it still hurt, doll? Tell me.”
“No- fuck, it feels… incredible,” you sobbed, legs shaking around him. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
He fucked you through it without mercy, eyes glowing brighter, drooling onto your chest as he watched you fall apart.
“Fuck, look at you,” he growled, voice wrecked with feral hunger. “Drinking my blood and creaming all over my cock like a perfect little slut. So fucking perfect. So mine. You okay, baby? Not lightheaded?”
“I’m… I’m good,” you gasped, tears of overwhelming pleasure streaming down your face. “It’s so much- I feel like I’m burning up in the best way.”
He kept feeding you small sips as he pounded into you, each swallow making the pleasure spiral higher and higher until you were sobbing, shaking, coming again and again. The room spun. Your body felt like it was on fire in the best possible way, every thrust, every drag of his cock, every brush of his skin against yours amplified into pure bliss.
“Does it still feel good?” he panted, voice rough and concerned even as he fucked you like a beast. “Talk to me, doll. Tell me you’re okay.”
“Yes- yes, Bucky, I’m okay- don’t stop, please-”
He shifted higher, mouth trailing wet, open kisses up your leg until he reached your calf. Without warning, his fangs sank deep into the soft, sensitive flesh there, right below the knee, where the muscle was firm but yielding. The sharp, burning pain exploded through you, mixing violently with the overwhelming pleasure still pulsing from his blood in your veins.
The combined sensation sent you over the edge one final time, his fangs buried deep in your calf while his thick cock slammed into you with brutal, relentless strokes. You screamed, raw and broken, vision whiting out as your walls clenched violently around him. His hot, endless pulses of cum flooded you at the exact same moment, thick ropes painting your insides until it squirted out around his pistoning shaft with every thrust, slick and obscene. The wet, filthy sound of it echoed through the room, wet squelching, skin slapping, your mixed fluids soaking the sheets beneath you.
“Fuck- take it all, doll,” Bucky growled against your neck, voice ragged and possessive, his metal fingers digging bruises into your hip while his flesh hand fisted your hair. “Gonna fill this greedy little cunt until it’s dripping for days. You’re mine now. Every drop of blood, every fucking inch of this perfect body- mine.”
He kept rutting through his orgasm, hips snapping harder, chasing the last spasms of your climax until your thighs shook uncontrollably. The bedframe groaned in protest under the force, wood creaking dangerously with every punishing thrust. You were a mess, sweat-slick, cum-stuffed, blood trickling from the fresh bite marks on your neck and calf where he’d feasted earlier. The metallic tang of your blood still coated his tongue as he licked greedily at the wound.
Then it happened.
One particularly savage thrust, his cock slamming so deep you swore you felt him in your guts, made the entire bed collapse. The wooden slats snapped with a loud crack, the mattress dropping hard onto the box spring. You both jolted, still locked together.
“Oh fuck!” you gasped, eyes wide, a breathless laugh already bubbling up.
Bucky froze mid-thrust, cock still buried to the hilt inside your fluttering pussy, his glowing eyes blinking in confusion. “What the- did we just…?”
The absurdity hit you both at once. You burst into giggles, the sound bright and giddy even as his cum continued to leak out around where you were joined. Bucky’s serious, post-orgasm face cracked, and he let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated through his chest into yours.
“Shit, doll,” he chuckled, forehead dropping to yours, still half-hard and twitching inside you. “Broke the damn bed. Guess I don’t know my own strength when I’m buried in this tight, sloppy heaven.”
You grinned up at him, running your fingers through his messy hair, feeling the coolness of his skin, vampire cool, never quite warm like a human’s. “Mmm, worth it. You fucked me so hard I’m gonna feel you for a week. My vampire super-soldier broke the bed railing me like a damn animal. Kinda hot.”
He smirked, fangs still partially extended, glistening with your blood. “Animal, huh? Careful what you ask for.” He gave one lazy, deep roll of his hips, pushing his cum deeper, making you whimper. “Still hard for you. Could go again right here on the broken wreckage.”
You laughed softer this time, cupping his face. “Later, Buck. I’m wrecked. But… you’re not gonna sleep, are you?”
Bucky’s expression softened. He carefully pulled out with a wet sound, a gush of his spend following, dripping down your ass onto the ruined sheets. He sealed the bite on your neck first, slow, reverent licks of his tongue, warm and soothing, the healing properties in his saliva already knitting the skin. Then he moved lower, spreading your thighs wide to lap gently at the bite on your inner thigh, tasting the mix of your blood and his cum with a low, appreciative groan.
“Fuck, look at this pretty, used cunt,” he murmured filthily between licks. “All swollen and leaking my load. So damn perfect.” He pressed a tender kiss right over your clit before crawling back up.
He didn’t lie down beside you like a human would. Instead, he sat up against the tilted headboard of the collapsed bed, metal arm pulling you effortlessly into his lap so you were draped over his chest. His fingers, both flesh and metal, traced lazy, soothing patterns along your spine, your ass, the backs of your thighs.
“I don’t need sleep, baby,” he said quietly, voice low and intimate in the dark. “Haven’t in decades. I’ll stay right here, watching over you. Listening to that beautiful heartbeat. After everything… I can’t risk losing you too.”
You nuzzled into his neck, kissing the old scars there. “You’re not gonna lose me, Bucky. I’m yours. I chose this, chose you. The biting, the blood, the way you fuck me stupid… all of it. I’m not going anywhere.” Your hand slid down his abs, giving his still-hard cock a lazy stroke. “Even if you do break every bed we own.”
He let out a soft, relieved laugh, pressing kisses to your temple, your eyelids, your swollen lips. “Good girl. My perfect doll. I’ll buy a reinforced steel frame tomorrow. Maybe bolt it to the damn floor.” His voice dropped, more serious, thumb brushing your jaw. “You’re safe with me. I swear it. I’ll burn the world before I let anything touch you. You’re my light now. My reason.”
You smiled sleepily, body heavy and sated, the buzz of his blood in your veins making everything warm and floaty. “Mmm. Love you, my vampire. Even if you’re a creepy non-sleeper who stares at me all night.”
“Creepy, huh?” He nipped your ear playfully, then soothed it with his tongue. “Keep talking like that and I’ll spread these thighs again and make you scream my name until sunrise.”
“Promises, promises…” you mumbled, already drifting.
Bucky held you tighter, one hand possessively cupping your cum-filled pussy, the other stroking your hair. He stayed awake all night like that, cock half-hard against your thigh, silent blood-tinged tears slipping down his cheeks onto the pillow, heart aching with a love so fierce it terrified him. Your heartbeat was steady and strong against his chest, the last pure thing left in his long, violent existence.
And he’d protect it with every undead fiber of his being.
You woke slowly, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, your body deliciously sore and heavy with the afterglow of being thoroughly claimed. The first thing you noticed was the chaos surrounding you.
The bed was completely destroyed, slats snapped clean in half, the mattress tilted at a ridiculous angle on the broken box spring and white down feathers absolutely everywhere. They drifted lazily through the air like snow, clung to your sticky skin, tangled in your messy hair and dusted the dried streaks of cum and blood that painted your thighs and stomach. Feathers stuck to the dark bite marks on your neck and breasts, nestled in the crease of your ass and even floated gently off the ruined sheets every time you shifted.
The bed was empty. Or so you thought.
“Bucky?” you murmured, voice raspy from screaming his name half the night. A faint flutter of panic mixed with the warm throb between your legs.
Before you could sit up, the most sinful, decadent sensation hit you, a warm wet tongue dragging with deliberate, unhurried laziness up the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Each long, slow stroke pressed firmly against a fresh, throbbing bite mark, the one Bucky had left deep in the throes of last night’s passion. The feeling was possessive, almost worshipful, like he was savoring every drop of you.
A shiver raced through your body and a soft, breathy moan escaped your lips. You looked down to find Bucky right there between your spread thighs, his massive metal arm draped heavily over your hip to keep you pinned open for him. His mouth was latched onto that tender wound, tongue working in slow, reverent circles as he licked it closed, sealing it with his cool venom while tasting the last faint traces of your blood. The sting mixed with pleasure in a way that made your core clench emptily, still aching and leaking from how brutally he’d fucked you hours earlier.
He must have been waiting for you to stir.
When he felt you tense, he lifted his head just enough to look up at you through hooded crimson eyes that glowed with hunger and raw devotion. His lips were shiny, slick and stained vivid crimson with your blood. Feathers clung to his dark hair and broad shoulders like some filthy, fallen angel.
“Good morning, my sweet girl,” he rumbled, voice gravelly and thick. “Found you leaking all over the wreckage. Couldn’t resist cleaning up my mess. You taste even better in the morning- soft, warm and dripping with me.”
You let out a shaky laugh, glancing around at the feather explosion and broken wood. “We really destroyed everything, didn’t we? Feathers in my ass, feathers in my hair… I look like I got attacked by a pillow factory after the world’s hardest fuck.”
Bucky chuckled darkly, dragging his tongue slowly up your slit, collecting the creamy mix of his dried cum and your fresh arousal. “Mmm. Worth every splinter and every damn feather. I woke up hard as fuck just from smelling how soaked you still are. Been down here licking you for ten minutes, waiting for those pretty eyes to open.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. “Bucky… thank you. For last night. For letting me drink from you. It felt… God, it felt incredible. Like every nerve in my body was on fire and singing at the same time. I don’t know how to repay you for something so intimate.”
He crawled up your body with predatory grace, feathers shifting around you both, until he hovered over you. Then he kissed you deeply, hungrily, tongue sliding into your mouth so you could taste the copper of your own blood mixed with his cool sweetness and the filthy evidence of your combined releases.
“You never have to repay me, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips, brushing feathers from your flushed face with gentle metal fingers. “I’d drain every drop I have into you if it made you feel even half that good. Your pleasure is everything to me. You’re everything to me. Don’t ever thank me like you owe me. You’re my girl. My heart. I’d burn the world down just to keep you warm and safe in my arms.”
You smiled shyly up at him, that bashful look that always made his ancient chest tighten. “I still feel lucky. Every single time you choose me.”
Bucky groaned and pressed lingering kisses to your forehead, eyelids and the tip of your nose. “Stay right here in this ruined bed, baby. Don’t move. I’m gonna make you breakfast- you need fuel after I took so much blood and fucked you raw.”
You watched him leave the room completely naked, that perfect sculpted ass and broad back on full display, long angry red scratches running down his shoulders and spine, some deep enough to have drawn thin trails of dried blood. Guilt twisted in your stomach.
When he returned balancing a tray loaded with food, you sat up quickly, clutching the sheet.
“Bucky… your back,” you whispered, voice thick with remorse as he set the tray down on the tilted mattress. “I did that? Oh God, I’m so sorry, Buck. I got so lost in it, scratching and begging like a wild animal-”
He climbed onto the broken bed without hesitation and pulled you straight into his lap, sheet and all, so your back rested against his solid chest. His thick cock, already half-hard again, nestled hot and heavy against your ass. The scratches looked even more vicious up close.
“Shh, none of that,” he murmured, kissing your temple, then your ear. “I fucking love these marks. Every single one. Means my perfect girl lost control while I was balls-deep, pounding that tight cunt and flooding you with cum. Means I made you feel so good you turned feral. You wear my bites and bruises like jewelry… I’ll wear your scratches like badges of honor. That’s how it should be between us, doll.”
You still looked guilty, so he gently tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet those glowing red eyes. “Eat, baby. Before it gets cold. I made all your favorites.”
The tray held fluffy scrambled eggs with fresh herbs, crispy bacon, sliced strawberries and melon, buttered toast and cold orange juice. You relaxed back against his chest as he picked up the fork and began feeding you slow, careful bites, one hand continuously stroking through your feather-dusted hair while the other rested possessively on your stomach, thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin.
Every few bites he’d lean down and kiss your shoulder, your neck, the dark claiming bite marks he’d left. His fingers traced the vivid bruises on your hips and inner thighs with open, filthy pride.
“Look at you,” he murmured hotly against your ear, voice dropping into that low, dirty register. “All covered in my marks like a goddamn masterpiece. These pretty thighs bruised purple from my hands spreading you open while I railed you. This sweet little pussy still puffy, sore, and leaking my cum from how many times I filled you. And these gorgeous tits…” He cupped one gently, thumb brushing the bite right above your nipple. “Marked up so anyone who sees you knows exactly who owns this body. My perfect, filthy girl. So soft and sweet when you thank me for my blood… but you turn into a desperate little cockslut when I’m stretching this cunt open, scratching my back bloody and begging me to breed you deeper.”
You whimpered around a bite of toast, cheeks burning but you pressed back against his hardening cock. “Bucky… you’re making me wet again just talking like that. I can feel you getting hard against my ass.”
He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “Good. That’s what I want. I love how sincere you are, doll- blushing and thanking me even after I’ve had you screaming and creaming all over my cock half the night. It makes the monster in me want to wrap you up and protect you forever… and it also makes me want to bend you over these broken slats and fuck you raw again until you’re crying and begging for another load.”
You turned your head, kissing his jaw tenderly. “I love you. All of you- the monster, the man, the way you take care of me even after you ruin me and break the bed.”
His arms tightened around you, metal and flesh, and he buried his face in your neck with a low, possessive growl. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in centuries, sweetheart. You’re mine. Every moan, every drop of blood, every scratch on my back… it’s all mine. Now finish your breakfast so I can lay you down in all these feathers and lick that pretty pussy until you’re shaking and soaking my face. Then I’ll feed you more. And if you keep thanking me so sweetly, I’ll let you drink from me again while I’m buried so deep inside you that you feel me for days.”
The monster was wide awake, completely, dangerously obsessed and he had never been happier.
The honeymoon phase didn’t last long.
What started as stolen kisses in the library stacks after closing quickly spiraled into something darker, more addictive and far more dangerous. You and Bucky fell into a secret rhythm that consumed both of you. You’d sneak out of your apartment at all hours, heart hammering and meet him in shadowed alleys, on empty rooftops, or in the back of his blacked-out SUV where he’d fuck you until you couldn’t walk straight. Some nights he’d show up at your door unannounced, eyes already black and take you right there against the wall before you could even say hello.
You started wearing high collars, scarves, and heavy concealer everywhere. Fresh bite marks bloomed on your neck, your breasts, the soft insides of your thighs. Some nights he bit you in three different places just because he couldn’t stop tasting you.
“You’re mine now,” he’d growl against your skin, licking the wounds closed with slow, possessive drags of his tongue while drool slipped from his fangs. “No one else gets to see these marks. No one else gets to touch what belongs to me.”
You lied to your friends. You lied to your coworkers. You told yourself you could handle the monster you were falling for.
But Bucky was losing control.
His obsession turned feral.
Your creepy ex Lance, the one who still drunk-texted you at 2 am calling you a worthless bitch for leaving him, was found dead in his apartment four days later. The news called it a “brutal animal attack.” Throat torn out. Body almost completely drained of blood. No forced entry. No fingerprints.
You stared at the graphic photos on your phone until your vision blurred.
Then there was that jerk from the café from two weeks ago, the one who wouldn’t stop cat-calling you, who grabbed your ass when you walked past and whispered what he’d do to you if he got you alone. He was found in the alley behind the cafe the next night. Same story. Throat ripped open. Drained dry.
You knew.
You knew it was Bucky.
When he showed up at your apartment that night, soaked from the rain, you were waiting for him. The printed news articles were spread across your kitchen table like evidence at a crime scene.
The second he stepped through the door, you shoved the papers into his chest.
“What the fuck did you do?!” Your voice cracked with fury and terror. “Lance is dead, Bucky. That asshole from the café is dead. Their throats were torn out. Was that you? Look me in the eyes and tell me it wasn’t you.”
Bucky didn’t even glance at the articles. His eyes were already pitch black, fangs partially extended, a thin string of clear drool slipping from the corner of his mouth as he stared at you like a starving wolf.
“I took care of them,” he said, voice low and rough. “They touched what’s mine. They scared you. They don’t get to keep breathing after that.”
You backed up until you hit the kitchen counter, chest heaving.
“You’re killing people, Bucky. Innocent people-”
“They weren’t innocent,” he snarled, stepping closer. More drool slid down his chin. “Lance sent you death threats. Pictures of you sleeping. The other one had videos on his phone, following you home, jerking off to you. I smelled what they wanted to do to you. I saw it.”
Tears burned in your eyes. Your hands were shaking.
“You can’t just murder people because they looked at me the wrong way! This isn’t protection, this is insanity!”
Bucky’s metal hand slammed into the cabinet beside your head, splintering the wood. He was breathing hard, drooling openly now, fangs fully extended and glistening.
“I would burn this entire fucking city to the ground for you,” he growled, voice breaking. “I already lost the only woman I ever loved. I watched her die screaming my name while I tried to save her. I won’t lose you too. I won’t. I can’t.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
You should have screamed. You should have run.
Instead, you grabbed the front of his wet shirt with both hands and yanked him into a brutal, angry kiss.
He tasted like rain and blood and desperation. He groaned into your mouth, lifting you onto the counter in one motion and shoving your legs apart. His hands were shaking as he ripped your panties aside.
You were horrified.
You were dripping wet.
That night you rode him on your couch like you were trying to punish both of you, nails raking bloody lines down his chest while he drooled against your neck, fangs scraping your skin without breaking it. Every thrust was punishing and worshipful at the same time.
Afterward, when you were both panting and spent, you curled into his lap on the couch, still shaking from the intensity of it all. Your body ached. Your mind was a storm of fear and twisted desire.
Bucky buried his face in your hair, arms wrapped around you like iron bands, so tight it almost hurt to breathe. His chest heaved against your back. You could feel his drool, warm and slick, sliding down the side of your neck from his slightly parted lips. His fangs were still partially extended, brushing your skin with every ragged breath.
His voice was barely a whisper, raw with shame and something much darker.
“I’ve thought about it, you know,” he confessed against your throat, lips moving wetly over your pulse. “Turning you. Against your will.”
You froze in his lap, every muscle locking up.
He kept going, voice cracking painfully, like the words were being ripped out of him.
“I fantasize about it almost every night,” he whispered, the confession trembling. “Holding you down while you fight me. Pinning you with my metal arm so you can’t move no matter how hard you scream. Draining you until you’re weak and crying and begging me to stop… then forcing my blood down your throat while I’m still buried balls-deep inside you. Fucking you through the change until your heart stops and you wake up screaming with new fangs in your mouth.”
A broken, wet sob tore out of him. Drool and blood tears mixed on your shoulder as he pressed closer, almost rocking you.
“I imagine the way you’d hate me at first. The way you’d scream my name in terror while your body burns and breaks and reforms. But I’d keep going. I’d hold you through it. Because then you’d be mine. Forever. Safe. Eternal. You’d never grow old and die like Dot did. You’d never leave me. Even if you hated me for eternity… at least you’d be here. With me.”
His voice dropped into something truly terrifying, low, trembling, unhinged.
“Some nights when you’re sleeping in my arms, bleeding from my bites… I hold my wrist right against your mouth. I pry your lips open with my fingers and imagine forcing it down your throat while you’re still unconscious. I want it so fucking bad it physically hurts me to stop myself. My hands shake. I drool just thinking about it. I have to leave the room sometimes because I’m scared I’ll actually do it.”
You sat there in his lap, silent tears running down your face, heart hammering so hard it hurt. His drool was sliding down your collarbone. His blood tears soaked into you. You could feel his cock twitching against your thigh, still half-hard, like even confessing this horror turned him on.
You didn’t know if you were holding a man anymore…
…or the monster who was slowly going to destroy you.
Bucky’s arms tightened even more, almost crushing you against his chest. His voice cracked into a broken, childlike whimper.
“I’m so fucking scared I’m going to do it one day. I’m scared I won’t be able to stop myself. I’m scared I’ll wake up one morning and you’ll be like me… and you’ll never forgive me.”
He pressed his face harder into your neck, fangs scraping your skin, drooling openly now as fresh blood tears fell.
“But God… I want it. I want it so much.”
You sat there in the dark, trembling in the arms of the vampire who had just admitted he fantasized about violating you in the worst possible way and you still wrapped your arms around him.
You still held on tighter.
And that terrified you more than anything else.
Because deep down, some sick, addicted part of you wasn’t sure you would stop him if he tried.
The sickness came on fast. Too fast.
It started with a scratchy throat and a mild fever you brushed off, just stress from your thesis and late shifts at the café. By the second night in Bucky’s penthouse, you were shaking apart. Violent chills slammed through your body even as sweat soaked the sheets. Your lungs felt heavy, like they were filling with wet concrete. Every cough ripped through you like shards of glass scraping your throat raw. You couldn’t keep anything down.
Bucky watched it all with growing horror, red eyes wide and unblinking.
He turned his sleek, modern bedroom into a nightmare sickroom overnight. Humidifier hissing like a dying animal. Stolen IV bags hanging from a makeshift stand. Bottles of antibiotics he didn’t trust. Ancient herbal poultices that smelled like rot and grave dirt. Cold cloths. Thermometers. Nothing helped. Your fever climbed past 104. Your breathing turned wet and rattling, like drowning on dry land.
On the third night, you were barely conscious, convulsing in his arms as another coughing fit tore through you.
“James…” you rasped, voice barely more than a broken whisper, tears streaming down your fever-flushed face. “Please… take me to a hospital. I need real doctors. Tests. Medicine. I’m scared- I’m so fucking scared. I feel like I’m dying.”
His eyes flashed blood-red, fangs fully extended, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth in thick strings.
“No.” The word came out like a growl from the pit of hell. “No hospitals. They’re butcher shops. They’ll pump you full of poison, poke you with needles and watch you rot under those lights while they pray to a god that doesn’t give a shit. I watched it happen for centuries. I held Dot while she screamed in one of those places. I won’t lose you the same way.”
You tried to push him away, but your arms were limp and useless. “Bucky, please- I’m begging you. I’m terrified. I don’t want to die here like this. Let me go. Let me call someone.”
He didn’t budge. The metal arm wrapped around you like iron bands, cool and merciless, as he carried you back to the bedroom despite your weak struggles. You slapped at his chest, sobbing, screaming hoarsely.
“I’m scared! Bucky, don’t do this- you’re scaring me! Please, I can’t breathe!”
The heavy click of the bedroom door locking from the outside echoed like a coffin lid slamming shut.
You were trapped.
Hours blurred into days. The fever spiked so high the room started to warp. Shadows crawled across the ceiling like living things, reaching for you with clawed hands. You heard Dot’s screams, a woman you’d never met, mixed with your own wet, gurgling coughs. Sometimes you saw her face rotting in the corner, black buboes bursting, whispering that Bucky’s blood had killed her too.
Bucky never left your side for long. He sat like a gargoyle on the edge of the bed, eyes permanently black, blood tears carving constant red tracks down his face. Drool dripped from his fangs onto the sheets as hunger and terror twisted him into something truly monstrous.
He murmured hoarsely, pressing icy cloths to your burning skin. His voice cracked with raw desperation. “Stay with me, doll. Please. I can’t watch you burn like she did. I can’t bury another woman I love.”
When your breathing grew too shallow and your pulse fluttered like a dying bird, he made the choice.
He sliced his wrist open with a fang, dark, ancient blood welling up and forced it against your cracked lips.
“Drink,” he begged, voice shattered and desperate. “Drink for me, baby. Please. I won’t let you die.”
The blood burned like liquid fire down your throat, healing and poisoning at once. It dragged you back from the edge for a few hours but the fever only raged hotter. Your body rejected it in violent chills and vomiting.
So Bucky started hunting.
He locked you in with cameras watching your every shallow, rattling breath, then disappeared into the night like the predator he was. You woke once to the sound of the door and saw him covered in blood that wasn’t his, splattered across his shirt, matted in his hair. He carried thermoses of warm stolen blood, mixing it with his own before forcing it down your throat.
The penthouse began to reek of copper, decay, and terror.
When you finally clawed back enough strength to be lucid, you were still weak, still burning but fury gave you fire.
The second he walked back in with another thermos, blood still dripping from his chin, you slapped him hard across the face with everything you had left.
“You locked me in here!” you screamed, voice raw and cracking. “You imprisoned me like a fucking animal! I begged you, Bucky- I begged on my knees and you said no! I’m terrified of you right now. What the hell are you becoming?!”
Bucky dropped to his knees instantly, metal arm wrapping around your waist like a vice as he pressed his forehead to your stomach. Blood tears soaked through your thin shirt.
“I know,” he choked out, voice wrecked. “I’m a monster. I watched Dot die screaming because my blood poisoned her during the plague. She begged me to let her go and I held her down instead. I can’t- I won’t- do the same with you. Not you. Please don’t make me bury you too.”
You sobbed, fists pounding weakly against his shoulders. “This isn’t love, it’s control! You’re killing me slowly. I’m so scared of what you’ll do next. What if your blood makes me worse? What if I never leave this room alive?”
“I’m scared too,” he whispered, looking up at you with those terrifying black-red eyes, drool and blood mixing on his chin. “I’m so fucking terrified of losing you that I’d rather you hate me forever than watch you slip away.”
You yanked him up by his bloody shirt, tears streaming down your face.
He didn’t give you time to think.
“I need to be inside you,” he rasped, voice desperate and feral. “Right now. My blood, my cock- it will make you feel better. It will heal you. Let me fuck you. Let me fill you. I can make this okay. I can make you okay.”
You shoved at his chest hard, fury and terror giving you strength you didn’t know you had.
“No!” you cried, voice cracking. “Are you insane?! I’m sick, I’m scared and you want to fuck me?! I’m not some toy you can use to feel better about yourself! Get off me!”
Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, eyes wild.
“Please,” he begged, voice breaking even as his cock pressed insistently against you. “Just let me in. Let me make you feel good. My blood is already in you. Let me finish it. Let me heal you the only way I know how.”
You slapped him hard across the face, the sound echoing in the locked room.
“I said no!” you screamed, tears pouring down your cheeks. “I’m terrified of you right now! You locked me in here like a prisoner, you fed me blood, you’re acting like a fucking animal- and you think sex is going to fix this?! Get the hell off me!”
Bucky froze.
For a long, terrible moment he just stared at you, red eyes wide, fangs out, drool and blood tears streaking his face. Then something in him shattered.
He dropped to his knees again, metal arm wrapping around your waist as he pressed his forehead to your stomach, sobbing openly.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, voice completely broken. “I’m so fucking sorry. I know I’m a monster. I know I’m scaring you. I just… I can’t watch you die. I can’t do it again. Please don’t hate me. Please.”
You stood there shaking, still furious, still terrified, but the raw pain in his voice cracked something inside you. You sank down slowly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as he trembled against you.
The fight dissolved into quiet, broken sobs from both of you.
He held you like you were the only thing keeping him sane, blood tears soaking your shirt, drool and fear mixing on your skin.
The city lights flickered outside the soundproof windows.
Inside, the air was thick with blood, sickness, terror, and the heavy weight of a love that might destroy you both.
And you still curled into his chest, listening to the dead heart that beat only for you… wondering how much longer you had before the monster inside him finally won.
The next night, after the fever finally broke and the blood-stained sheets had been burned, Bucky carried you to the roof of his penthouse.
The city sprawled beneath you like a glittering sea of lights, cold wind whipping across the concrete rooftop. He sat on the wide ledge with you curled in his lap, your back against his chest, his metal arm wrapped securely around your waist. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence was heavy, weighted down by everything that had happened in that locked room.
“I’m still pissed at you,” you said quietly, staring out at the city. Your voice was hoarse but steady. “You apologized, but it doesn’t just erase it. You tried to force yourself on me when I was weak and scared. That shit stays with me, Bucky.”
“I know,” he murmured, lips brushing the top of your head. His voice was rough with guilt. “And I’ll keep being sorry for the rest of your life if that’s what it takes. I hate what I did. I hate that I became that version of myself with you. I was terrified… but that’s no excuse. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I scared you. I’m sorry I made you feel like a thing instead of the only person I have left.”
You stayed tense in his arms, anger still simmering under your skin even as you leaned back against him. “Good. You should feel like shit about it.”
He exhaled shakily. “I do. Every second.” After a long pause, he continued, softer. “I want you to understand why I lose control like that. Not just hear the stories. I want you to feel them. All the years. All the deaths. All the reasons I’m so fucking broken that I’d rather force you to live than watch you die.”
You turned in his arms to look at him. His red eyes were haunted, vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache despite your lingering fury.
“How?” you asked.
Bucky pressed his wrist to his own mouth and bit down hard. Dark, potent blood welled up immediately, thick and gleaming under the city lights. He offered it to you, eyes glowing faintly red.
“Drink,” he whispered. “And I’ll show you everything. Please.”
You hesitated but finally brought his bleeding wrist to your lips. The taste exploded across your tongue: copper, power, and centuries of him. The world tilted violently.
Suddenly you were there.
Mud. Endless, sucking mud.
1917 - The Western Front
The stench hit you like a physical blow, rotting flesh, human shit, wet wool, gunpowder, and death. Freezing rain poured down in sheets. Artillery shells screamed overhead and detonated so close your teeth rattled. You felt Bucky’s constant, gnawing hunger like it was tearing through your own gut. He hadn’t fed properly in weeks. You moved like a shadow with him between the trenches, ripping out throats of German scouts under cover of night, drinking just enough to stay sane while the screams of dying men tore at what remained of his soul.
“I hated it,” his real voice murmured against your ear on the rooftop as the memory swallowed you. “But the screams reminded me I could still feel something.”
The loneliness was suffocating. Thousands of men all around, laughing, cursing, praying and he was completely, utterly alone. No one could ever know the monster wearing a soldier’s uniform.
The vision shifted with brutal force.
December 1944 - The Ardennes Forest
Bitter, freezing snow. Gunfire cracking through the trees like whips.
Then the shell.
White-hot agony ripped through your body as shrapnel tore his left arm clean off at the shoulder. You screamed with him, feeling the bone shatter, muscle rip, hot blood spray across white snow. He dropped to his knees in the freezing slush, roaring in pain while his vampire healing failed to close the massive wound.
HYDRA came next.
Straps biting into skin. Cold metal table. Blinding lights. You felt every bolt and wire as they fused the prototype metal arm directly into the raw, bleeding stump. The pain was apocalyptic. You thrashed in Bucky’s lap on the rooftop, whimpering.
“I begged them to let me die,” he whispered, arms tightening around you. “They wouldn’t let me.”
Decades of numbness followed. The metal arm never felt like part of him, just a constant, heavy reminder that even eternity could be mutilated. That even a monster could be broken beyond repair.
The blood-sharing deepened, flooding you with centuries of crushing loneliness in relentless flashes:
Nameless women fucked in candlelit rooms across Europe, then left before dawn because none of them were her.
Standing alone on a cliff in 1803, staring at the crashing ocean, wondering if he should just walk into the sunrise and end it.
Returning year after year to the ashes of that cottage in 1665, sitting among the ruins on the anniversary of Dolores’s screaming death, whispering apologies to the wind.
Feeding on killers in dark 1970s Brooklyn alleys, then returning to an empty penthouse to stare at the wall for days, sometimes weeks, with nothing but silence and ghosts for company.
Wave after wave of isolation crashed over you. Seven hundred years of it. You felt every agonizing second.
When the blood-sharing finally ended, you were sobbing violently in his arms on the rooftop, clutching his shirt like he might vanish. Bucky was crying too, silent blood tears tracking down his face.
“I’m not her,” you whispered fiercely through your tears, cupping his wet cheeks. “I’m not Dolores. I’m not going to die screaming in your arms. I’m choosing you, Bucky. Scars. Metal arm. Fangs. Murders. All the darkness. I see the monster and I’m still here. I’m still choosing you.”
He made a broken, wrecked sound and crushed you against his chest, burying his face in your neck.
“I don’t deserve you,” he choked out. “Especially not after what I did in that room. I keep waiting for you to realize that and run. Every single night I wait for it.”
You pulled back just enough to kiss him, slow, deep, tasting salt and blood and centuries of pain.
“I’m still pissed at you,” you whispered against his lips. “That doesn’t go away overnight. But I’m not running. Even when I’m terrified. Even when you scare the shit out of me. I’m staying.”
Bucky kissed you harder, almost desperately, metal arm holding you so tight it almost hurt. When he finally pulled back, his red eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them.
“You have no idea what you just did,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “You just gave a dead man a reason to keep existing.”
You stayed on the rooftop until dawn threatened the sky, wrapped in each other, the weight of seven hundred years of loneliness finally shared between two hearts, one living, one long dead.
But the darkness wasn’t done with either of you.
Not yet.
The hunters had been watching for weeks.
A group of ex-military contractors turned self-proclaimed “paranormal investigators,” they chased high-paying bounties and conspiracy forums. They’d heard the fragmented stories for months: an ancient vampire with a metal arm operating in Brooklyn, leaving bodies drained and throats torn out in back alleys. Most of them laughed at the vampire part, they figured it was some enhanced super-soldier gone rogue, maybe a Winter Soldier copycat. But the bounty was massive and the rumors were consistent enough to make them curious.
They’d been tailing both of you. Taking photos. Noting patterns.
And when they saw their opportunity: you, still pale and weak from the illness, walking alone to the corner store in broad daylight, they took it.
A black van screeched up beside you. Two men in tactical gear grabbed you before you could scream. A chemical-soaked rag clamped brutally over your mouth and nose. The world spun violently, then went black.
You woke up zip-tied to a cold metal chair in the middle of an abandoned warehouse on the edge of Brooklyn. The air smelled of rust, mildew, and old oil. Your head throbbed. Your wrists burned where the plastic ties cut into your skin. Six armed men stood around you in a loose circle, rifles held loosely, smirking like this was just another job.
The leader, a bearded man with a scarred face and cold eyes crouched in front of you, tilting his head.
“Well, well. Look who’s awake.” He grinned. “If your boyfriend really is some immortal bloodsucker, he’ll come running. If not…” He shrugged. “We’ll still get paid for the freak with the metal arm. Either way, jackpot.”
One of the others laughed, chewing gum loudly. “You really believe that vampire shit? Probably just some juiced-up psycho with a fancy prosthetic. We’ll put him down like any other target.”
Another poked your shoulder with the barrel of his rifle. “Bet she’s just some poor girl he’s been mind-controlling. Pathetic.”
You spat at the leader’s boots, voice hoarse but defiant. “You have no idea what you’re fucking with. Let me go. Now.”
The leader only chuckled darkly. “We’ll find out soon enough, sweetheart. Sit tight.”
Bucky felt it the instant they grabbed you.
The blood bond, the one he had strengthened every time he drank from you, every time he fed you his own blood, snapped taut like a live wire in his chest. Your fear. Your pain. Your confusion. It hit him so hard he dropped the glass of blood he’d been holding. It shattered across the penthouse floor.
His vision went red.
A roar tore out of him, raw, ancient, inhuman, shaking the windows and rattling the walls.
Then the monster took over completely.
He stormed the warehouse alone like judgment day.
The moment the steel doors exploded inward off their hinges, the hunters opened fire. Bullets ripped into his chest, his shoulders, his stomach, his thighs. Blood sprayed from the wounds but he kept walking forward through the hail of gunfire, eyes glowing bright blood-red, fangs fully extended, metal arm whirring violently as the plates shifted and spun.
In front of you, he became something from hell.
The first hunter raised his rifle. Bucky grabbed his arm, ripped it clean off at the shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, and beat the screaming man to death with his own severed limb. Bone crunched. Blood fountained. The man’s screams turned into wet gurgles until his skull caved in with a sickening crack.
The second tried to run. Bucky caught him by the waist, metal fingers sinking deep into flesh, and tore him in half at the torso with raw strength. The spine snapped like dry wood. Intestines spilled across the concrete in a steaming pile. The man’s dying screams echoed horribly as his upper body twitched on the ground.
The third got close enough to fire point-blank into Bucky’s face. Bucky crushed his skull in his metal fist while the man was still screaming, bone fragments and brain matter exploding between the vibrating plates with a wet, disgusting crunch. Blood and gore splattered across your lap and chest.
The fourth and fifth tried to flank him. Bucky moved like death itself, tearing one’s throat out with his teeth, ripping the other’s spine out through his back in a fountain of blood.
The last hunter dropped his gun, stumbling backward, piss staining the front of his pants.
“It wasn’t real- we didn’t think- please God, we didn’t know he was actually a fucking vampire-!”
Bucky grabbed him by the throat, lifted him a foot off the ground, and tore his throat out with his fangs in one savage bite. Arterial blood sprayed across the room like a broken hose as the man convulsed and died.
Then silence.
Only the sound of dripping blood, your ragged breathing, and the wet squelch of Bucky’s boots in the carnage remained.
Bucky stood in the middle of the slaughter, covered head to toe in blood and gore, chest heaving, fangs still fully extended, eyes glowing like twin hellfires. For a moment he looked every inch the ancient monster he was.
Then he saw you.
The monster shattered.
Bucky dropped to his knees in the pool of blood and viscera, crawling to you with shaking hands, fangs still fully extended, red eyes wild. The metal arm moved with terrifying gentleness as he reached for you first, slicing through the zip-ties with one careful claw so they fell away from your raw, bruised wrists.
“Doll- fuck, let me see you,” he rasped, voice cracking. His hands immediately started checking you, sliding over your body with desperate care. He turned your wrists gently, thumbs brushing the deep purple bruises left by the plastic ties. He ran his palms down your arms, your ribs, your thighs, searching for wounds, broken bones, blood that wasn’t from the slaughter around you.
“They hurt you?” His voice was hoarse, almost whimpering. “Tell me where. Did they touch you? Did they- fuck, I’ll kill them again if they-”
Only the angry red imprints from the zip-ties marred your skin. No cuts. No bites. No worse damage. Relief and guilt crashed over him at once.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, pressing his forehead to your stomach, trembling violently. “I’m so fucking sorry you had to see that. But they touched you. They took you from me. I couldn’t- I can’t lose you. I can’t do it again.”
He was covered head to toe in someone else’s blood and brains, gore streaking his face, fangs out, blood tears mixing with the carnage dripping down his cheeks. His massive frame shook as he knelt in the slaughter, clinging to you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
You were shaking too, sobbing quietly, your clothes and skin soaked in warm, sticky blood that wasn’t yours. The metallic stench was overwhelming. The screams still rang in your ears.
You should have been terrified. You should have been screaming.
Instead, that dark, addicted part of you reached for him anyway.
You grabbed his bloody face with both hands, fingers sliding through the gore, and yanked him up into a desperate, blood-slick kiss.
Bucky groaned into your mouth like a wounded animal, raw, broken, relieved. The coppery taste of death coated both your tongues as he kissed you back with centuries of fear and feral love. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you tighter against his blood-soaked chest while his flesh hand cradled the back of your head.
When you finally broke the kiss, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the carnage, you whispered shakily against his gore-stained lips:
“…Take me home, Bucky. Please. Just take me home. I don’t want to be here anymore. I just want you to take me home.”
He nodded frantically, blood tears still falling. “Yeah. Yeah, doll. Home. I’ve got you.”
He lifted you into his arms with ease, cradling you like something precious and fragile among the slaughter. Your head tucked against his neck as he carried you out of the warehouse, boots squelching through puddles of blood, leaving nothing but corpses and the heavy, metallic stench of death behind.
You clung to him the entire way, still trembling, still terrified, but refusing to let go.
The monster had won tonight.
And you were still his.
You woke up every day for three weeks telling yourself this was love.
Bucky had moved you into his penthouse the night after the warehouse massacre. No discussion. He simply carried your exhausted body through the elevator, locked it down with a code only his fingerprints could activate and whispered against your ear in that low, dangerous growl, “You’re never leaving me again, doll. Never.”
Your old life was gone. Your apartment, your friends, your thesis notes, they all gathered dust while your clothes now hung neatly beside his in the massive walk-in closet. Every night you slept naked in his silk sheets, the fabric permanently scented with blood, sex and the faint metallic tang of his ancient hunger. He fed you from his wrist, fucked you until you screamed, then held you like you were the only fragile thing left in his centuries-long existence.
You told yourself you were safe. Cherished. Loved.
Tonight, that comforting lie finally burned to ash.
The hunger had been eating him alive for hours.
You were on your back in the middle of his massive bed, legs locked tight around his waist as he fucked you with those deep, claiming strokes you’d grown addicted to. At first it felt fucking perfect, his thick cock stretching your dripping cunt wide open, dragging against that sweet spot with every brutal thrust, metal fingers bruising your hips while his mouth sucked dark, possessive marks across your tits.
“Fuck, baby… this tight little cunt is creaming all over me,” he growled against your neck, voice thick and raw. “Hear how fucking sloppy and wet you sound? Sucking my cock in like you were made for it. My perfect filthy girl.”
You moaned, nails raking down his back. “Harder, Bucky- please, I need you to ruin me-”
He gave it to you.
Then the flashback hit like a goddamn freight train.
You sitting on that filthy warehouse floor. Limp. Pale as death. Almost gone forever. Your head lolled weakly to the side, skin ghostly white, lips colorless, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. You looked so fragile, so close to slipping away that the sight nearly brought Bucky to his knees.
His control fucking snapped.
His hips slammed forward with terrifying force. The wet slap of skin turned savage, punishing. Pleasure twisted into sharp, stabbing pain that tore through your core like broken glass.
“Bucky- wait! Fuck- too hard!” you cried, voice already cracking. “Slow down, baby, please- shit, it hurts!”
He didn’t hear you. His eyes were wild, glowing crimson, fangs fully extended as thick ropes of drool poured from his mouth onto your bouncing tits. He pounded into you like a rabid, starving beast, driven by centuries of hunger and the primal fear of losing you again.
“Mine,” he snarled, the word vicious and broken, vibrating with pure desperation. “This fucking pussy is mine. You’re never leaving this bed. Never leaving this goddamn penthouse. I’ll fuck you raw every single night until you can’t even crawl away from me, you hear me? I won’t let death take you. I won’t let anything take you.”
Each savage thrust jolted your whole body. His metal arm crushed your hip with a sickening crack. Bone splintered. White-hot agony exploded through your pelvis like fire. You screamed, back arching violently.
“Bucky- stop! Fuck, my hip! It’s breaking- please, baby, please stop! I’m begging you! It hurts so fucking bad!”
He only fucked you harder, lost in the nightmare, hips snapping forward with inhuman power. Another vicious snap and your left wrist, pinned above your head, shattered with an audible pop. The pain was blinding, nauseating, shooting up your arm like lightning. You screamed until your voice broke, tears pouring down your face as you thrashed helplessly beneath him.
“Jesus Christ- Bucky, my wrist! Stop, please! It hurts so fucking bad- I can’t take it! Slow down, I’m scared! Please see me, baby, I’m right here- don’t break me!”
“Look at you,” he panted, drool dripping onto your lips and chin, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. “Taking my cock like such a good little slut. So fucking greedy for me even when you’re ruined. Gonna fill this sloppy cunt up until you’re dripping. Gonna keep you leaking my cum for days, baby. You’re never getting away from me. Never.”
Your ribs cracked on the next brutal thrust, one, two, three, sharp nauseating crunches that stole your breath completely. Blood bubbled up your throat and trickled from the corner of your mouth in dark rivulets. Your body went terrifyingly limp, only weak, wet gasps leaving you as he kept rutting into your destroyed hole like a desperate, starving animal.
“I almost watched you die once,” he growled, voice cracking between raw hunger and bone-deep horror. “Felt your heart slowing in my arms while you burned up with that fucking sickness. You were slipping away from me, right here in this bed. Never. Never again.”
His hips snapped harder, driving deep into you with every word.
“I will keep you here. Fill you. Bind you. You will never leave this penthouse. You will be my eternal companion… my blood, my breath, my only reason to keep walking through this damned night. I’ll drink from you every night until the hunger in me is quiet. I’ll hold you while you tremble and beg, and I will never let you go. You’re mine, my wife, my meal, my everything.”
You could barely speak now, only weak, broken cries leaving you between gasps. “James… please… it hurts… everything’s breaking inside me… I’m so scared… don’t let me die like this… please see me… I love you, just stop-”
He froze only when he felt how deathly still you had become, your body no longer fighting, just a fragile, ruined thing in his grasp, blood leaking from you in steady streams.
Reality crashed over him like ice water.
“No… no, no, NO! FUCK NO!” The roar that tore from his throat was inhuman, shaking the windows and rattling the walls until the glass trembled. He ripped himself out of you with a horrified shout, a flood of blood and slick gushing from your ruined cunt onto the silk sheets. He gathered your shattered body against his chest, rocking you violently as thick, black blood-tears poured down his face in rivers.
“I did it again- I fucking killed you!” he screamed, voice cracking into something ancient and monstrous. His metal fist smashed the headboard repeatedly, wood exploding into splinters, plaster raining down around you both. “I broke my baby- my perfect sweet girl- I crushed you like a goddamn animal! How the fuck could I do this to you?! After everything, after I swore I’d protect you, I still fucking destroy you! I’m a monster!”
In his panic he tried desperately to fix it.
He lowered his head and dragged his cool tongue frantically over the mangled ruin of your hip. Long, desperate licks, reverent, almost worshipful just like he did every dawn to the bite marks on your thighs. His cool venom should have sealed the wounds, should have soothed and healed. But the damage was catastrophic. Shattered bone jutted through torn flesh like jagged ivory knives. Blood poured freely. His tongue only lapped desperately at the crimson flow, mixing his saliva with your lifeblood, yet the wounds refused to close.
“Fuck- why isn’t it working?!” he sobbed, voice raw and cracking. “Heal, damn you- heal! Come on, baby, please heal.” He moved to your shattered wrist, licking over the crushed bones and swollen purple skin with frantic tenderness, fangs carefully retracted. “Heal, my love. My venom has always healed you before. Come back to me. Don’t leave me in this emptiness again. I can’t- I can’t survive without you. Please, don’t die on me!”
It didn’t work. Your ribs stayed caved in. Your insides were ruptured. Blood kept leaking from your mouth and between your legs. He traced every injury with guilty, starving strokes of his tongue, pressing wet, bloody kisses to your mangled hip, your ruined wrist, your trembling lips.
“I’m so fucking sorry- shit, I’m so fucking sorry, doll,” he choked out, rocking you harder against his chest, his entire body trembling with guilt and fear. “I tried- god, I tried everything. My tongue, my venom, my soul- nothing works when the monster in me takes over. I’m a horror. A starving, desperate horror who destroys the only thing he loves. Forgive me… please forgive me.”
Guilt, hunger and obsessive fear twisted violently inside him until his madness crystallized in an instant.
He slashed his own wrist open with a razor-sharp fang. Dark, ancient blood, thick and burning, gushed from the wound. He cradled your head with both hands, pressing your slack mouth desperately against the gash.
“Drink,” he begged, voice broken and trembling with terror. “Fucking drink, baby. Become mine forever. I cannot watch you die. I will not bury you. Take it. Let me damn you if it means keeping you by my side through all the endless nights. Don’t leave me alone again- I’m so scared without you. So goddamn hungry for you. Please… please don’t go. I need you more than I’ve ever needed anything.”
He held your head tighter, forcing the potent blood past your lips. Your body latched on instinctively, sucking with weak, greedy pulls even at the edge of death. The change ignited like liquid hellfire in your veins.
Your broken bones snapped and realigned with excruciating force, each crack wrenching agonized whimpers and jerks from your throat against his wrist. Your organs burned and rewrote themselves in waves of molten pain. Your heart stuttered violently… then stopped completely. The agony was worse than death, pure, liquid fire searing through every vein, every nerve, every inch of your soul as the vampire venom rewrote you from the inside out.
All the while Bucky kept himself buried deep inside your twitching, blood-slick heat. He rocked slowly through your torment, whispering hoarse, broken promises between every shallow, desperate thrust.
“I’m sorry, my everything… but you belong to me now. Eternally. I will hold you through every dark night. I will drink from you while you cry out my name. You will never grow old. Never slip away from me again. I love you too much- too desperately- to let death have you. Forgive me for what I’ve done… even if you hate me forever. This pussy, this body, this soul- it’s all mine now. Forever.”
Your eyes flew open.
Crimson. Glowing. Filled with an ancient, bottomless hunger.
New fangs pushed through your bleeding gums in sharp, painful bursts. You tore your mouth from his wrist, dark blood streaking down your chin and onto your chest, and stared up at him with pure, ravenous starvation.
“Bucky…” Your voice was hoarse, ruined, but dripping with dark, insatiable need. “I’m so fucking thirsty.”
requested by anon : Hi, I love your stories. If you're getting requests, I'd really like to read about vampire!Bucky. The reader would be a normal girl and he a very old vampire who becomes obsessed with her. It has a very dark vibe, but he feels VERY strongly.😭😭
First of all, whoa on the length of the fic. Second of all, this is everything I (unhealthily) want in an obsessive vampire fic. Loved every deranged and psychotic and dark bit of this 🖤
Summary: Your evil stepmother, the queen, has decided to do away with you, so she enlists the Huntsman to complete the task. It turns out the Huntsman is none other than your friend, Jamie Barnes. The real question is if he's going to go through with her command or find some way to save you.
Warnings: parental death mentioned; evil stepmother; unfinished murder plot
A/N: This was another prompt fill for Bucky Barnes Birthday Bingo featuring a royalty AU. I took off with this one in a fairy tale direction, using Snow White as the main inspiration. Well, Snow White with a dash of Robin Hood. This one may or may not also be on a list of stories to expand in the future.
Bucky Barnes Masterlist | Character Masterlist
It shouldn't have happened like this.
You should be back in your castle, in your old room, where you're loved and cherished by your father and mother. You should be happily trying to get out of your lessons while finding solace in your many hobbies. It hadn't been like your mother and father hadn't doted on you.
It'd all gone so wrong, so fast.
One minute, you had a happy family and a happy kingdom.
The next, your mother was gone.
Your father remarried mere months later.
Your new stepmother turned out to be a real witch, complete with magical powers. She'd used them to banish your father to some place unknown. She'd stripped you of your title and tossed you into the servants' quarters where you were expected to earn your keep. She'd transformed your happy kingdom into a sad and dreary one as she hoarded all its beauty and wealth for herself, leaving none for your people.
When you thought she couldn't do worse, she did.
You found yourself staring into the soulless eyes of one of your oldest and truest friends. A boy now turned into a young man. One that has seen war beyond his years and bore the scars of countless battles. His dark hair hung almost to his shoulders, situated just so one couldn't make out more than shadows across his features.
So transformed himself, you almost didn't recognize him.
Huntsman.
That's what he called himself.
He'd bound your hands tight with rough rope before yanking you off your tiny cot. His steps dragged you from the palace and paraded through all those that served you and with you over the years. Your soft pleas to stop went unheard as he kept going even as you stumbled and tripped behind him. Your shame and confusion not once helping with the matter at hand.
"Why are you doing this, Jamie?" you practically shouted once he'd taken you beyond the castle's gates. "Please, you're my friend. Do you hate me this much? My family?"
Icy blue eyes slammed into yours. His hands jerked at the rope until you stumbled right into him. He didn't let you fall though, grabbing you around the shoulders. Leaning in until your faces were mere centimeters apart, his voice, raspy from prolonged disuse, dripped with desperation, trembling with a shaky breath, "I have no choice, princess. The queen has given me no choice."
His answer rendered you speechless for all of two seconds, snapping back, "We all have a choice."
"Not this time," he said, shaking his head and turning his back to you once more. His hand tugged at the short rope and dragged you onward.
You'd lost track of how long you'd been forced to walk. The sun had been high in the sky when he'd first pulled you out of your room with your hands bound. Now, the sun had started its slow descent at the horizon, the bottom already dipping out of sight. The castle, once so majestic with the sun highlighting it, had disappeared from your sight as you traversed the uneven stones and dirt beneath your feet. The same feet that had begun to ache in such a way that you were certain you'd have blisters from the too-tight and overly worn slippers that adorned them.
It wasn't until the sun had dipped completely, leaving only the softest rays to highlight the area, that this Huntsman, your once-sweet Jamie, halted his steps. His gaze surveyed your surroundings with a keenness that had you scooting closer for fear that something dangerous lurked nearby, waiting to attack at its earliest convenience.
You jolted when a low hum escaped him. The noise so unlike any of the grunts and puffed breaths he'd let loose during your long trek. It took you a moment to realize it was a pleased sound.
Glancing around his broad shoulders, you soon discovered why.
A small band of men blocked your further passage along the roadway. They each had a bearing about them that didn't exactly spell comfort in your opinion, but their presence seemed to settle something within your captor. His shoulders relaxed and his breathing smoothed out.
"Thought you'd be late," he said, his voice gruff as he acknowledged the group. "You get everything I told you to?"
The man in the middle stepped forward, giving you the first real glimpse of him.
It took everything in you not to gasp at the man's appearance, so unlike the way he'd looked the last you'd seen him. The possibility of such a transformation should've been impossible, but then so should an evil queen capable of magic.
"Took us a bit, but yeah, we got it," Steve said, his gaze moving towards you. A grin spread across his face upon seeing what had to be a surprised expression on yours. "Ah, wondered if you'd recognize me, princess. Glad to see you haven't forgotten."
"I've never forgotten a single person in my kingdom," you huffed with an indignant tone. "I'm my father's daughter after all."
Steve's smile softened as he regarded you, nodding. "That you are, princess. Silly of me to have forgotten that."
Silence descended briefly between you all.
In that time, Jamie turned toward you, pulling out a large knife. One quick, efficient strike had your bindings falling away. His gaze met yours through his long strands before he shifted to meet Steve's own curious gaze. "Keep her safe. Take her far away from here. The queen must never know what's happened or it'll be all our lives. You understand that, punk?"
"Yeah, I got it." Steve nodded. "We'll take her and keep her safe, jerk."
Apparently satisfied, Jamie allowed himself a final glance in your direction, murmuring, "Take care of yourself, princess."
"Wait," you said, reaching out and grabbing hold of his jacket, "you're not going back there? Please, Jamie, I just got you back."
The corner of his lip curved upward for a mere second before his face turned almost stone-like again.
A sob threatened to rip out of you as you demanded, "At least tell me we'll see each other again. I can't let you go back without that promise."
His stony countenance cracked the smallest bit, a shaky breath working its way out of him. His face twisted as though he'd tasted something bitter as he promised, "We'll see each other again."
The lie rested between you, but that lie gave you some hope that it could become a truth. You would cling to that lie as long as you could. As long as you didn't have proof that something had happened to him. It would be a lie that would lead to your mission to retake everything the evil queen, your stepmother, had taken from you. It would be the lie that liberated your people and restored you to your rightful place, not as princess but as queen.
*****
James Barnes watched from the shadows as you left with Steve and his small band of men.
He'd done exactly as he'd promised he'd do for your father all those years ago. He'd kept you safe from the clutches of your evil stepmother, and he'd keep doing it as long as he drew breath.
With you safely tucked away, he made quick work of the poor creature needed to complete his subterfuge. If his mind kept traveling back to you and how beautiful you'd grown, he couldn't help it. His hands had long since memorized the movements necessary to carry out his work while his mind wandered.
It took mere moments before he filled the sack with the remnants he needed, hefting it over his shoulder and trudging back the way he had come.
Maybe, just maybe, he'd get the chance to see you again.
Of all the lies he's told over the years, this was the one he really wanted to turn into a truth. He wanted to be by your side as you reclaimed everything you deserved and more.
Hello hello! I’ve got this idea stuck in my brain and I was wondering if you could expand on it. I’m just curious to see how someone else would imagine this. Reader and Bucky are getting married. Reader surprises Bucky with a private 40s wedding with just their close friends. She’s dolled up in a vintage dress and has her hair done in the same fashion and everything. Just something fluffy. Much love 💕
this is so precious🥰
---------
The first sign that something is happening comes when you steal Bucky's keys.
He's sitting on the couch polishing his favorite leather boots when you casually pluck the keyring off the coffee table and slip it into your purse like you aren't committing a crime right in front of him. His head slowly lifts, blue eyes following the movement before narrowing with immediate suspicion.
"Doll."
"Hm?"
"You have my keys."
"I know."
"...Can I have them back?"
You can't help the grin that stretches across your face. "No."
He sets the boot aside and leans back against the couch, folding his arms over his chest. "You're being incredibly suspicious."
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
"Really? Because you've been whispering with Natasha all week, Sam keeps smirking every time I walk into a room, Steve suddenly finds every excuse in the world to get me out of the apartment..." He tilts his head, amusement already tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself. "Even Alpine had a ribbon tied around her neck this morning."
You fail miserably at hiding your smile.
"So there is something."
"There might be."
"You gonna tell me?"
"Nope."
Instead, you step between his knees, cup his face, and kiss him until he forgets whatever argument he was trying to make. By the time you pull away, his expression has softened into that fond, hopeless smile that always appears whenever you successfully distract him.
"Just trust me," you whisper. "Be ready by four. Wear the navy suit."
"The expensive one?"
"The expensive one."
His eyebrows rise. "Now I'm even more concerned."
---
By the time four o'clock arrives, Bucky is convinced the entire team is conspiring against him.
Sam arrives to pick him up because, apparently, his fiancée is still refusing to return his car keys, and Steve somehow ends up in the passenger seat despite insisting he "just happened to be nearby." Neither of them will answer a single question.
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
"I've been tortured by professionals with better poker faces than you two."
Sam snorts so hard he nearly misses a turn.
"You're both terrible liars."
"And yet," Steve says far too calmly, "you're still coming with us."
Bucky sighs dramatically and settles back into his seat, crossing his arms.
"I don't like surprises."
Steve glances at him through the rearview mirror, his smile turning gentler.
"I know."
---
Meanwhile, you're fairly certain you're going to throw up before your own wedding.
Not because you're second-guessing anything—God, no. If anything, you've never been more certain of a decision in your life.
You're nervous because you desperately want him to understand.
The ceremony isn't being held in one of the sleek venues every wedding magazine recommended. Instead, it's tucked inside a restored historic building in Brooklyn with polished hardwood floors worn smooth by decades of dancing, exposed brick walls, warm amber chandeliers, and tall windows that let the late afternoon sunlight spill across the room like liquid gold.
Everything feels timeless.
It feels like him.
Months ago, while the two of you were lazily watching an old black-and-white movie curled up on the couch, Bucky had gone unusually quiet during the wedding scene. His thumb absentmindedly traced circles against your hand before he smiled at the television with an expression that looked almost painful.
"My ma always imagined my wedding looking like this," he'd said softly. "Simple. Everybody packed together. Music. Flowers. Nothing fancy."
The conversation hadn't lasted more than a minute before he'd brushed it off, but you never forgot it.
So while he'd assumed the two of you were planning a small courthouse ceremony followed by dinner with the team, you'd quietly spent months piecing together something entirely different.
You searched antique shops until you found lace that looked like it belonged in the 1940s. A seamstress helped recreate a dress inspired by photographs from the era, complete with delicate illusion sleeves and a sweetheart neckline hidden beneath intricate embroidery. You borrowed vintage pearl earrings from an elderly shop owner who teared up when you explained why you wanted them, and your hair stylist spent nearly two hours pinning soft victory rolls and loose curls into place.
When you'd finally looked at yourself in the mirror that afternoon, it hadn't felt like you were wearing a costume.
It had felt like you were carrying a piece of his history with you.
Not because you wanted to recreate the past.
Because you wanted him to know that every part of it, the joyful parts as much as the painful ones, still deserved to be remembered.
---
Steve leads Bucky through the old building without offering a single explanation, and his confusion only grows as they approach a pair of tall wooden doors.
"It's awfully quiet."
Steve hums.
"You know what's happening."
"I might."
"You're enjoying this."
"A little."
Bucky rolls his eyes.
"I hate all of you."
"No, you don't."
"...No."
Before he can ask another question, the doors slowly swing open.
Soft music spills into the hallway, warm and crackling from an old record player tucked into the corner of the room. Fresh white roses line the aisle, candles flicker against the brick walls, and every single one of the people who matter most to him is already standing inside.
Natasha.
Sam.
Steve.
Wanda.
Bruce.
Clint and Laura.
Even Tony.
Their smiles tell him everything before his eyes finally find you.
Time simply... stops.
You're standing at the end of the aisle with your bouquet gathered carefully in your hands, sunlight catching every tiny detail of your dress. The delicate lace sleeves. The fitted bodice. The gloves. The pearls. Your lipstick is the soft rosy shade he'd only ever seen in faded family photographs, and your hair—
God.
Your hair.
He hasn't seen victory rolls outside of museums and old photographs in nearly eighty years.
For one impossible heartbeat, it feels as though every version of his life has collided into the same moment.
Brooklyn.
The war.
Everything he lost.
Everything he found.
Everything standing in front of him now.
His breathing catches so sharply that Steve instinctively reaches for his shoulder.
"You alright?"
Bucky barely hears him.
"No..."
His voice cracks.
"No."
Across the room, your smile falters.
"You don't like it?"
His head snaps toward you.
"What?"
"The dress."
He lets out the smallest, most disbelieving laugh as tears immediately begin filling his eyes.
"Honey..."
He shakes his head over and over, completely overwhelmed.
"I've spent so long trying not to miss that part of my life because it hurt too much."
His voice grows quieter.
"And somehow... somehow you found a way to give it back to me without bringing any of the pain with it."
He walks toward you before anyone can stop him, closing the distance in long, hurried strides until he's cupping your face between trembling hands.
"You look like every dream I thought I'd buried."
Your own tears finally spill over.
"I wanted you to have one day that belonged to every version of you," you whisper.
"The little boy from Brooklyn."
"The young man who danced before the war."
"The soldier."
"The Avenger."
"The man I fell in love with."
"They all deserved to make it here."
That's what finally breaks him.
Not because of the dress.
Not because of the music.
But because for the first time in nearly a century, someone looked at every chapter of his life and chose to celebrate them instead of pretending they never happened.
His forehead falls against yours as quiet tears slip freely down his cheeks, and you simply hold him, surrounded by the family he'd found in this lifetime.
Natasha eventually clears her throat from somewhere behind him.
"If the groom is finished crying, we'd actually like to witness the wedding."
Bucky laughs through his tears, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand.
"I wasn't crying."
"You absolutely were."
"It was dignified crying."
"It was snotty crying," Sam corrects.
"It was romantic."
"It was disgusting."
The room erupts into laughter, the tension dissolving instantly as Bucky reaches for your hand, intertwining your fingers with his.
He doesn't let go for the rest of the evening.
Not through the vows.
Not while exchanging rings.
Not during your first dance beneath warm string lights as old records skip softly in the background.
Hours later, with your head resting against his shoulder and his arms wrapped securely around your waist, he presses a slow kiss against your temple before looking down at the lace covering your sleeve one more time.
"You know what my favorite part of today is?" he asks quietly.
You smile. "The music?"
"You."
"The flowers?"
"You."
"The dress?"
He gently shakes his head.
"No."
His thumb brushes over your wedding band.
"My favorite part is that when I looked at you standing at the end of that aisle..." His voice softens until it's barely more than a whisper. "...for the first time in almost a hundred years, my past didn't make me sad."
His forehead rests against yours as the record spins quietly behind you.
And so, the woman dies. The woman dies so the man can be sad about it. The woman dies so the man can suffer. She dies to give him a destiny. Dies so he can fall to the dark side. Dies so he can lament her death. As he stands there, brimming with grief, brimming with life, the woman lies there in silence. The woman dies for him.
- The Woman Dies by Aoko Matsuda
pairing ۶ৎ childhood best friend!bucky barnes x childhood best friend!reader.
summary ۶ৎ in which, a butterfly flies liberated from its cocoon, absorbing what the world has to offer. it soars through life, but it’s wings gradually grow tiresome, and has no cocoon to safely return to.
warnings ۶ৎ angst, reader has a terminal illness, time skips ( one scene when they’re kids, the rest when they’re adults ), mentions of war, medical treatments ( not completely accurate since i wasn’t alive in the 1940s, but i did some research ), pda, fluff, pet names ( peach, baby—f!receiving, darling—m!receiving ), kissing, allusions to spiciness ( not explicit, just mentioned in a couple sentences and a small convo about it ), timings may have been altered to fit with my plot, reader has hair that can be braided/plaited, reader has a surgery scar on her chest, letters are in italics, no use of y/n.
a/n ۶ৎ there are parts i love, parts i’m unsure about, but either way i’m happy i finished this!! i proofread this really quickly so if there’s any mistakes, i apologise!
word count ۶ৎ 10.4k | divider creds ۶ৎ @/diviniyae
JULY 19TH, 1926
“You don’t have to carry me, Bucky.”
“Yes, I do. I need to show off my strength.”
At nine years old, you’ve learnt not to take life for granted. It’s why, every moment you’re blessed with, you consume everything, snapping a mental picture of the scenery, inhaling the smells, and basking in the company.
The verdant field stretches on for miles, tall grass weaving with splashes of white and yellow: daisies. The sun pulses amongst the clear, blue sky, but your frilly hat blocks it out.
The aroma of fresh floral is welcomed into your senses, a contradiction to the powerful medical scents you’re accustomed to smelling while staring at the same mundane walls. The company you acquire is favourable too. Instead of sick patients coughing away, informing you that could be your fate one day, you’re graced with the crickets of grasshoppers and your best friend who’s carrying you on his back.
You giggle, your little arms around his neck tightening slightly, “There’s no one else around, who are you showing off to?”
“I thought you were smart.”
“I am smart!”
“Then how can you not see I’m tryna show off to you?”
Shyness creeps into your bones, making them feel light and fuzzy, and you bury your face into his neck. A laugh, so childlike and blissful, escapes him. It’s contagious, encouraging a smile to spread across your mouth.
He has no obligation to flex around you. You already comprehend he’s the utmost wondrous person to walk on this earth.
Your parents are at work despite it being a weekend. Your mother a waitress and your father off mining coal. They need the money to pay for medical bills and your diagnosis’s. Your family isn’t poor. You have a nice home with nice things. Your father engraves that into you when the kids at school mock you for wearing handmade clothes your mother stitched herself.
Yet, you’re defective and it’s high-priced.
“Where are we going anyways? Your mom said not to go too far.” You ask curiously as you lift your head, scanning the surroundings. His house is in the distance, and you can faintly view the outline of little Rebecca Barnes through the window, playfully tugging on Winnifred’s hair.
You’re not worried though. You know Bucky will never take you somewhere an adult isn’t able to reach you quickly in case something bad happens.
“It’s a surprise.”
“Bucky, tell me.”
“No.”
“Bucky.”
“Don’t say it like that!” His resolve always crumbles around you, “You sound like a weepin’ puppy and I love puppies.”
“And me. You love me too.” You teasingly quip.
There’s no hesitation when Bucky answers, “More than a dog with its bone.”
“You’re strange.”
Before he can reply with something witty, something to knock the cotton socks off your feet, he reaches the top of the hill and halts.
Your eyes widen.
An oak tree stands, so vast and beautiful it appears as though it’s from a fairytale. Spirally, green leaves wave hello on the thick branches that loop and intertwine with others. Acorns form a group in every nook and cranny while its bark wears age lines. Dandelions sprout from the dirt beside the stump, swaying gently under the shade it’s protected by.
“Cool, right?” You can hear the grin his voice, eager to have shown you this, “Reminds me of the front cover of that book you’re always readin’.”
Cheeks flushing at his memory, you slide off his back and grab his hand, dragging him into the bed of grass and soil.
It’s usually been like that. Wherever your feet step, his does too.
Time passes, the dirt blemishing the hem of Bucky’s shirt that’s become untucked proof. Your fingertips are stained with pollen from linking daisies together, creating a crown.
“Here, lemme…” Bucky gently takes the completed flower chain from you and sets it upon your head, “…there,” he grins triumphantly, “You’re just missing a ring.”
“A ring?” You tilt your head in confusion.
He plucks another daisy, it’s stem tall, and ties it carefully around your finger.
"Yeah. The crown is your veil, and this is the ring. Now, we're married." He says simply, as if it's the easiest decision he's ever made.
Laughter bubbles within your chest, “That’s not how it works, Bucky.”
“Pretend then.”
“Okay, husband.”
“Okay, wife.”
Your cheeks ache from smiling incessantly. You part your lips, words on the tip of your tongue, but your eyes flit towards a low branch that quivers mildly.
A chrysalis stands out amongst the greenery, and a gasp escapes you at the sight of a wing emerging, ocean waves swirling with black accents. The faded blue of the lower wings that appear suddenly glint off the sunlight.
A beacon of new life.
Then, it flies away elegantly.
“Bucky, Bucky, look!” You excitedly exclaim, swiftly rising from the ground.
You don’t give him a chance to turn his head, you just begin chasing after it, ignoring the scuff of his shoes and his worried yell.
“Wait— you’re not supposed to run fast!”
You run through the field, your eyes set on the creature. You laugh as it swirls in the air, and it almost seems like it’s inching closer with each moment. The grass tickles your legs, the gentle breeze letting wisps of your hair dance.
You keep following it like it’ll lead you to a covert cove that’ll unveil a magical world, and, just for a moment, you wonder if this is what it’s like to experience a normal childhood.
“Bucky, come on!” You call back, “It’s… it’s…”
Your words are stolen as your lungs feel as though they’re being stretched then compressed, closing in second by second as your ankles radiate pain, an invisible rope tightening around your skin, leaving a burning ache.
You slow down.
The butterfly soars further.
The ringing in your ears is faint.
Are you coughing?
Your legs give out.
And, through the heaviness of your eyelids, the butterfly disappears.
Before you can hit the ground, arms tuck under yours and gently lowers you with him, your back against his knees. Your heart thumps swiftly. Harshly. You’re sure the organ wants to jump out of your chest and nestle in another body—a healthier, fitter one.
Bucky settles your hat aside so he can see you better, his hands hovering in the air, unsure and hesitant, “Hey, hey, you’re breathin’ funny again. Should I go fetch my Ma?” He tries his hardest to sound calm, but the slight crack in his tone reveals the inner-panic.
No!
If he gets his mother then she’s going to call yours at work and she’ll take you home. You can’t be the reason she loses pay or worse: fired.
You cause her enough trouble already, and you want more time with Bucky.
You shake your head frantically against his stomach, eyes wide and breathing stertorous. Your body is hungry for air, yet it’s not being served.
Until his hands carefully cups the back of your neck, his thumb a feathery motion soothing over your pulse point.
It jumps back into place.
“Okay, okay,” he reassures, “How does it go again? Uhm— relax your neck and shoulder.”
You focus on his touch, his voice, the way his face blocks out the rest of the world as you gaze up at him. His fingers are soft, not hardened by the working universe yet. He’s upside down in your vision, a crease in his forehead that shouldn’t be there for someone so young.
Gradually, your limbs grow slack.
“Good… good. Now, breathe in through your nose for two counts.”
The fuzziness clouding your mind is pierced while you repeat his instruction. You remember what to do, so you purse your lips and exhale slowly through them to the count of four.
Minutes pass, but the air no longer rejects you. Your chest rises and falls into a steady rhythm, your heartbeat returning to as regular as it can be, and all that remains is the fatigue.
The world comes back into motion, and a tranquil silence surrounds it. A peaceful apology for the disruption of your fun.
“That butterfly wasn’t worth it,” Bucky states, breaking the quietness, “Y’know how scared I was for you just now?”
Guilt glazes over your eyes, your bottom lip wobbling. You can bear the weight of your episodes, and you can handle the medicine you’ll no doubt be ingesting tonight instead of cookies and milk other kids receive.
But, you can’t handle him upset because of you.
“Sorry.” You whisper, voice slightly scratchy.
His shoulders lower, the crease hiding away until another moment like this occurs. You witness him soften like snow melting under the sun.
“Just… don’t do that again, okay? Please. I don’t wanna lose you,” he quielty and pleadingly says, “You’re my best friend.”
A beat passes.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
“You reminded me of that butterfly.”
“I reminded you of an insect?”
A small smile graces your face at the amusement in his tone, the atmosphere shifting back into place like nothing happened.
“Not like that,” you softly say, rubbing your eyes gently, “Butterflies represent good luck sometimes. And, when I’m with you, I’m lucky.”
“How’re you lucky?” Bucky questions, the light in his eyes shining as bright as a firefly.
“I can breathe with you.”
SEPTEMBER 21ST, 1935
The autumn air nips at your nose, the bustling noise of cars in the distance intertwining with the sound of a rake scraping against the cobblestone to rid the mahogany nature from being stepped on.
Ten minutes have been swept away, but it‘s akin to a year for you. Everything’s slowed, every little noise muffled. Your eyes are glued to the ground as you’re perched upon a ledge outside the hospital. To anybody passing by, they’d assume you’re watching the earlier morning rain residue that’s stuck between the pavement and the road.
To you, however, you’re thinking. And, right now, alone, that’s a dangerous place to be.
Your mind feels like it’s been split into two, battling against each other to infiltrate every nerve in your system.
One side is a maddening, heavy flurry. It’s concrete crumbling as the hammer swings down on it. Future plans are gone, abandoned in a pile of rubble.
The opposite side is light. A relieving sensation that the carry-on of your body working overtime has finally been identified.
Heart valve disease.
That’s what you’ve been diagnosed with.
The balance between crying and smiling rages within you, but luckily you don’t have to focus on it for too long as a voice, as warm as honey, encourages your head to rise.
“Hey, honey,” Mrs. Rogers, clad in her nurses uniform, greets kindly. Her bouncy, blonde curls frame her features, an angel in disguise that roams through the hospital halls, offering comfort to anyone in need, “Do you need a lift home?”
You choose to smile, because why dampen someone else’s day?
“That’s okay, Mrs. Rogers. I’m just waiting for a friend, thank you though.”
“How long have you known me, hm? Six years and you still call me that. Sarah will do just fine.” She says, voice tinged with a hint of playfulness.
Before becoming best friends with Steve Rogers on the playground, there was his mother. A sweet soul who sat with you when your parents conversed in a hush discussion with the doctors. She would never ask how you’re doing, but instead inquired about your interests and favourite foods, making you feel like an actual human being and not just a patient.
A knowing glint shines in her sky-blue eyes, “Say hi to Barnes for me, will you, hon? And that he owes me a batch of lemon squares.”
The mere mention of him has your heart skipping, a small laugh tumbling from your mouth. The memory of him ‘taste testing’ one lemon square at Steve’s ended up turning into accidentally eating them all, while sneaking their golden retriever some crumbs, is still fresh in your mind.
“Will do, Mrs— I mean, Sarah.”
She gifts you one of those fond, mothering gazes before walking away.
The light at every corner of the earth dims again. Flickering. Waiting.
Yet, the dullness fighting to accompany you loses at the sight of Bucky jogging over. You smile at the sight of his trousers damp at the hem due to working at the docks.
“Did you go swimming in your clothes?” You quip, swaying your legs back and forth gently.
“Hm?” His chin tips downwards at himself, then chuckles, “Oh, right. I was searching for pearls to give to you.” His flirtatious, oceanic eyes meet yours, and everything stabilises.
“Any luck?”
He shakes his head and clicks his tongue at the roof of his mouth, perching beside you, shoulder brushing against yours, “I didn’t look hard enough.”
Are you imagining the hint of disappointment in his voice?
“My mind was too preoccupied with how you’re doing.” He says, tranquil yet worried.
You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s a thick lump in your throat that’s forbidding the words to roll from your tongue.
How do you tell the boy you’ve watched grow into the purest form of a gentleman that you have a life-threatening disease?
It’ll tone down his laughter. It’ll sprout worst case scenarios into his mind until they’re suffocating every cell in his brain. It’ll puncture his amiable heart until it eventually mirrors yours.
…Right?
“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, your silence hurting his ears, “You don’t have to tell me right away, peach. I can wait.”
For the moment, all of the weight you’ve been carrying dissipates, replaced by a gooeyness.
His calloused hand lays upright in the air and you instantly intertwine your fingers with his. Gently squeezing your hand, he tucks them both away into his toasty pocket.
“Peach?” You repeat the nickname he called you, brows raised.
“Yeah,” he nods adamantly, “You’re a little bruised, but the marks on the outside don’t define the sweetness inside. Like a peach.”
A beat passes.
“Couldn’t just stick with ‘doll’?”
“Too common nowadays,” Bucky brushes it off, “‘Sides, you deserve your own nickname.”
You take a moment to just gaze at him.
Raven locks, mussed as though he ran his fingers through them endlessly. You appreciate how he didn’t brush his hair before arriving. That he just let himself be with you. You count the faint creases by his eyes—there from illuminating the world with his smile when the sun hides from the fog.
His lips, a shade of maroon under the golden rays of autumn, are a pair you won’t dare kiss, because they’re probably stained with someone else’s.
Clearing your throat quietly, you slip your hand away from his, goosebumps rising to plead with the bitter air.
“How was your date last night?”
You don’t sound jealous. You have no right to be. However, a sense of longing wraps around your words. A yearning for what you forbid yourself from having.
You force yourself to ignore the way his brows knit together when you pulled away. How his fingers left his pocket and twitched towards you, but stopped.
“It wasn’t great,” he exhales a long breath. “Terrible, really.”
Concern strikes you like a lightning bolt, pupils dilating, “Why? What happened?”
“She wasn’t you.”
She. Wasn’t. You.
Three words that can spark a generator back to life.
But you make it stall.
For years, Bucky has been confessing his feelings for you like it’s the only thing he knows. If he’s not outright saying it, then he’s slipping sweet notes into your bag as he walks you to the Library where you work, or he’s attempting to draw butterflies for you that you stow in your purse.
His love is loud, whereas yours is quiet.
It wasn’t thrusted into your palms, but it was something that brewed throughout the years. Slow, delectable, with time mastering it until your thoughts became enshrouded with him.
Yet, you’ve always shut him down. Guilt gnaws at you, the fabric of yourself growing threadbare. You know you’re letting him down. You’re aware you’re crushing him despite the unruffled demeanour and boyish grin he wears after.
You just can’t condemn him to a life of misery.
You clutch the edge of the ledge tight, “Why do you think they have cobblestone as a path to the hospital?” You ask, changing the subject, “They should really replace it with a flat walkway.”
“You can’t avoid me, this—” Bucky gestures between the two of you with his index finger, “—us forever,” his voice softens, “I won’t let you anymore.”
Frustration becomes your defence despite no attack taking place.
“I don’t understand you sometimes, Bucky.” You mutter, hopping onto the ground and dusting your hands on your coat.
“Why not, huh?” He mimics your movements and falls into step with you as you begin embarking down the path, “I make myself clear everyday how I feel about you.”
“Well, then, maybe you should stop.” You firmly say.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“…Yes.”
He laughs humourlessly, grasping your elbow gently and halting you both, “You’re a terrible liar.”
You falter by his warm touch, but you shrug yourself from his grasp, forcing yourself to put space between you, “I refuse to hold you back in life, Bucky.”
Stilling and shoulders tensing, Bucky blinks in bewilderment, “Hold me back in life? You know I could listen to you for hours, but what are you talking about? And will ya—” his chest rises and falls with a pained breath, “Will you quit pulling away from me, please?”
“You need someone fresh,” your wavering voice betrays the confidence of your tipped chin and feet firm against the pavement, “And that’s not me. I’m a wilting flower. Not enough sun or water is going to keep me alive for long.”
The pain of not merely today, but your past and future, is infused into a singular tear that trickles down your cheek.
“I’d just be a burden to you.”
The sky fades into mesmerising swirls of pink and orange, a dusk worshipping the pumpkin patch behind the nearby cafe. It’s bell hanging on the door dings faintly, muffled noises of greetings flowing into your ears.
And Bucky stands there.
Quiet. Calm.
No fisted hands, no clenched teeth, no darkening eyes.
His breaths are steady and gentle, and a part of you selfishly wishes his oxygen could hug you.
Then, he speaks, his voice a soothing wave that laps at your ankles, inviting you deeper into the ocean. His ocean, “Why don’t we get a drink, okay?”
“Now who’s avoiding talking.” You cross your arms, looking away.
“I’m not avoiding us, peach,” Bucky says, achingly soft, “I just don’t want you standing in the cold anymore.”
You close your eyes momentarily, exhaling through your nose, and nod feebly as the world is revealed to you again.
A brush paints the canvas of his face in relieved colours, and his steps fall in rhythm with yours as you embark slowly towards the cafe, granting you enough time for your head to clear.
Opening the door for you, Bucky follows you inside, warmth caressing your skin and the aroma of coffee wafting into your nose. Muted, checkered tablecloths layer over evanescing, wooden tables that waitresses weave around. A radio poses underneath crinkled parchments of posters hung upon cobweb-collected, brick walls.
Harmonies of jazz plays tenuously in the background, interlacing with Bucky’s voice, “Go sit. I’ll order for us.” He murmurs, but he doesn’t meet your gaze.
He’s lost somewhere.
As thought it’s muscle memory, you slip into the booth by the window, your ankles sighing in relief. They’ve been swelling all day, caged as a prisoner beneath the straps of your shoes.
Not much time passes until Bucky’s returned, setting your favourite drink in front of you, and a black coffee for him as he settles opposite.
His fingers interlock around the mug, pads of his skin tapping against it.
This is unbearable.
“Can you say something, please?” You softly ask.
Finally, his eyes flit to yours. A world of emotions on display, yet the strongest of all is what you’re afraid of.
“Do you honestly believe that I’ll agree with everything you said?” He rhetorically questions. “That I think of you like that?”
He’s calm as he speaks, and you’re beginning to wonder if he brought you here so you’d remain calm in front of others too. Not just for his sake, but for yours also, because arguing with him are like needles pricking under your skin until eventually the sharpness bursts through.
And he knows you’d bleed for him.
You part your mouth to converse, but close it, knowing now is Bucky’s time to talk.
“You’re grieving something—us—while we’re still breathing.”
The truth of his words makes you look down. You won’t deny it. You’ve already picked up a shovel and began digging deep into the dirt, ready to bury dreams and hopes you won’t experience. Maybe one day someone else would uncover it and have it as their own.
But Bucky won’t allow that. He’s taking the shovel from you and guiding you away from the wreckage, with your future still cradled to your chest.
Your vulnerable defences are slipping.
Sitting up straighter, his thumb and forefinger grip you chin, tilting your head up to face him. The hitch in your throat wasn’t unnoticed by him—his eyes momentarily darting down to your neck, and he soothes his thumb under the curved of your bottom lip.
“To me, you are so strong. Storms will pass by but you stay firmly planted in the ground. And that strength is admirable, peach,” he earnestly says, “I want to be by your side throughout it, even on the worser days so you can lean against me. In sickness and in health.”
James Buchanan Barnes’ loyalty is greater than the cosmos. Cowards shrivel up under in his presence, his shine burning them, and other men aspire to be a star like him.
His loyalty to you is locked tight. Nothing can break through it. Not the plans God has, not the course of turbulence expected to come, and definitely not your stubbornness.
“You’re acting as if we’re married, Bucky,” you say, “Not that we could afford that with all my medical bills.”
One last humoured try.
A mix of fondness and miff rolls around in his eyeballs, “For richer for poorer, peach,” he responds, “I’d spend my entire life’s worth of earnings if it means you’ll get better.“
He lowers his hand, grasping yours and stroking your ring finger. Your heart stutters as he traces a daisy, the same one that you wore until it wilted on your finger when you were kids. You never informed him you kept the petals in a small pouch under your pillow.
“I take vows very seriously,” he winks with a smirk, “And, when we were nine, I declared I was going to marry you. Nothing is ever going to change my mind about that.”
Alone in your bedroom, when you’d picture marrying someone, Bucky always sprung to mind. But your coughing would quickly turn your imagination to grey until it disappeared.
Now, it’s glowing bright. Staying.
Your lips turn upwards.
“You’re not proposing to me in a coffee shop.” You state, and he chuckles.
“Of course not, but I am plannin’ on kissin’ you in front of all these people.” He grins, achingly sweet your suprised his teeth haven’t rotted.
Your mug, raised to your mouth, quakes slightly at his sudden declaration.
Probably how you’ll be feeling in a minute.
“Wha—”
Before you can react properly, he sets your drink down and slides out of the booth, wrapping an arm around your waist and gently tugging you up.
Everything moves too fast until it slows down when he quietly asks, “Can I?”
You nod immediately.
His lips connect with yours. Slow and tentative. He’s giving you a chance to pull away.
You don’t.
Your arms snake around his neck while his palm sends ripples of warmth through your clothing. He presses into your lower back, inching you closer, chests brushing.
His lips feel like the finest of silks against your lips, velvety and warm. You yearn to be wrapped in him forever, keeping you safe from the coldest of evenings. The dash of bitterness you taste from his coffee grounds you from getting lost in the moment—remaining with him.
You can feel the thumping of his wild heart, the passion in his movements, the adoration he’s pouring out and into your mouth.
It’s raw and undeniable. A poet’s love confession floating down your throat and resting beneath your ribs, healing where once was an ache.
“Aww’s” from kind voices and “get a room” from grumpier one’s sound out over your mingled, soft breaths, but you and Bucky simply grin against each other’s mouth before parting for air.
Nothing else matters but this.
Your touch soothes the goosebumps that have risen on the nape of his neck, your lovesick gaze matching his, “I love you, Bucky.” You whisper, only for his ears.
He cups the back of your head, fingertips sifting through your hair, and guides your forehead to his lips, his words seeping through your skin and becoming the forefront of your mind.
“I love you too, peach.”
Butterflies dance and cheer in your stomach. They don’t just represent luck, but new beginnings too.
DECEMBER 23RD, 1941
Every night, when you drift off into the realms of sleep, you relive your wedding. It’s not a dream. You’ve done enough dreaming for it to finally come true. It’s Polaroid photos projecting off your eyelids, and you flick through every single one, studying carefully, never missing a detail.
A pathway of petals trailed to the oak tree, bushy leaves parting for golden rays to gleam upon you and Bucky standing front-centre of the trunk. The flowers and grass settled behind, amongst the guests, silently commending.
The neckline of your wedding dress was a scoop, fitting the high-back. Your collarbones were bare, for you desired them not to be marked with jewellery, but the summer air’s congratulations. A waterfall of white cascaded to your ankles—pure, ivory linen with net lace protecting it. You requested your mother to embroider florals around the upper chest and sleeves that reached your elbows.
He didn’t waste a dime on his suit, not a missing piece, needing to be complete. Trousers that fit like a glove, a collar waistcoat, and blazer, all executed in the smoothest of grey fabric, with a white shirt and navy tie. A daisy peered out from his chest pocket too.
His feet were clad in the shoes his father wore when he wed Winnifred ( which were stored away in her attic ). They were vintage and decrepit, not enough polish to make them proper, but they were meaningful, and it reminded you of the tree’s aging bark.
Slicked-back hair you were desperate to run your fingers through, his gaze fixated on you the entire time.
Enamoured, zealous, proud.
You saw him in a different glow, and it was heavenly.
His vows held buckets of emotion it began welling in his eyes. His touch was incredibly tender as he slipped the ring on your finger.
But the kiss? Oh, it was passionate. It felt like pouring every ounce of yourself onto a love letter.
The branches shook their leaves in applause while others clapped, the sunlight burned brighter, failing to out-do you two, and the coldness of his ring against your cheek was a sighing relief against the air’s humidity.
It wasn’t a grand wedding, but it was yours.
Before another moment your sleep-induced mind can spectate, it costively flickers then disappears upwards as your eyes open by a light weight against your head.
Blinking a few times to rid the bleariness of exhaustion, your husband is crouched by the bed, stroking your hair lullingly. The decorative bulbs on the Christmas tree filter through the open door and into the darkened bedroom, enlightening his features.
“You were smiling in your sleep again,” Bucky says, before a teasing lilt takes over, “Dreaming of me?”
You shift so your face isn’t half-covered by the pillow, “Our wedding day.”
“Oh, so you were dreaming of yourself?” He grins, “‘Cause you were the brightest there. No one could even look at me.”
The giggle that escapes you is frangible. If you reached out to touch the sound, it’d crack.
Bed rest. That’s what the doctors prescribed you ever since tornados of dizziness struck you. Black pixels would invade your vision, closing in, making your feet sway until you’ve hit the ground. Yet, overtime, you’ve learnt to carry yourself to the couch.
When you’d return to reality in a cold sweat, a headache would arrive, pounding like an incessant drum within the left side of your head.
You continue carrying on with life, picking up the odd few jobs since you were laid off by your work, but lying in the haven of your bed has been occurring more frequently than not recently.
“What’s the time?” You quietly ask.
“It’s six, baby.”
“Six?!” You spew out too quickly, coughs following soon after that you cover with a frail hand. Bucky rubs your back soothingly, “I’ve been asleep for six hours… I haven’t even started dinner yet.”
“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay?” He soothes, “It’s fine, peach. You must’ve needed the sleep. ‘Sides, we can cook together now.”
He’s so understanding it hurts.
You hum languidly. Then, slowly, your brows knit together.
“If it’s six, you should’ve been home an hour ago.”
A smirk graces his devishly handsome face, “I was doing some last minute shopping.”
“Bucky…”
“I know, I know,” he holds his hands up in mock defence, “You said you didn’t want anything, but I’m going to give you everything you don’t ask for anyways.”
Shaking your head with a feeble smile, you muster the energy you always reserve for him and grasp his collar, pulling him onto the bed and slowly slotting your lips against his as you recline against the pillows. His body hovers over you, and you feel as though you may become one with the plushness of the mattress.
Bucky’s hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your head so he can delve deeper into the velvet walls of your mouth. Meanwhile, you grip his waist, urgent he moves closer, needing him to consume you whole. You don’t care if you lose any air, or if your heart can’t candle the exertion. If kissing him is the last thing you do, you’ll kiss him like you’re marching into battle.
You’re so lost in the precious whirlwind of him, you don’t feel your hair being brushed to the side, nor the sound of something skilfully clipping around your neck until a chilled weight rests on your chest.
Gasping when you break the kiss, you glance down as he tattoos your skin with his lips against your temple, cheek, and finally the corner of your mouth.
“Merry early Christmas, baby.” He whispers against your mouth.
A delicate chain glints off the celestials peeking through the window, and, in the centre, sits a butterfly charm.
“James.” You whisper in awe.
He props himself up with his arm by your head, “You couldn’t catch that butterfly, so I thought I’d buy you one.”
Describing love is tough, because there's not enough words in the dictionary. But you know how it feels. You know that your illness has become bearable, almost forgettable at times, all because of Bucky.
Carefully, as though it’ll crush under your touch, you trace the ridges and lines of the wings.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you,” you whisper, pressing a chaste kiss against his cheek. You lightly pat his chest, “Sit up, I have something for you too.”
Raising an inquisitive brow, he obliges, “Yes, ma’am.”
Your limbs protest as you sit up before he can help you, wanting some form of independence that keeps you sane. After turning the bedside lamp on with quivering fingers, you rummage through the bottom drawer of the nightstand and grasp an envelope, extending it to him.
“What’s that?” Bucky curiously asks, taking it, letting his fingers linger against yours.
“A pigeon,” you sarcastically murmur, “It’s a letter, darling.”
He shakes his head, smiling at your regular self making an appearance.
It’s rare nowadays.
“I know it’s a letter, but what kind? A cheesy love one?”
“No, I only send those to Steve.”
He lightly pinches a space of your calve that isn’t littered with bruises and you yelp.
Inspecting it as he turns it over, noticing it’s already been opened, he takes the paper out, and you nervously analyse how his eyes scan the inked words.
How his breath hitches.
How his fingers grip the paper tighter.
How the world shifts.
“Surgery?” He swallows thickly, eyes slowly darting to yours, a sheen of water glossing over.
“I’ve been put onto a waitlist,” you carefully admit, “They don’t know how long it’ll be, but I have a chance to get better. To be me again.”
His Brooklyn accent is prominent as his voice wavers, “You’ve always been you, peach. You just had some obstacles in the way.”
“…Bucky?”
“The survival rates are low, baby.”
He rubs at his chest like his words have physically injured him.
“Since when did you look on the bad side of things?” You inquire worriedly.
“Since this letter is saying a surgeon is going to jam their finger into my wife’s heart,” concern poisons his words as he stabs his own finger against the parchment, “What if they make a mistake, hm? What if this doesn’t help, but makes it worse?”
“Bucky, listen to me,” you cradle his face in your hands, “There are numerous what-if situations. The only one I’m thinking about right now is what if this makes me healthier? I could finally work again, I could breathe normally, I could live instead of survive.”
Bucky rests his forehead against yours, seeking solace, “You truly want this?” He asks quietly.
“I do,” you honestly, pleadingly, say, “I’m so tired. I can’t walk for more than thirty minutes without feeling like I’m going to collapse. I just want to be normal.”
It’s evident that your words strike a chord in him, coaxing a tear to trickle down his face which you wipe away.
“Okay, baby,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around your waist and gently pulling you onto his lap, “So damn proud of you.”
Relief courses throughout you. He buries his face into your neck and presses a kiss to your pulse point.
“We’re going to be okay.” You whisper, gliding your hand up and down his back, feeling him melt under your touch.
“I know we are, peach. You’ve always been strong enough for the both of us.”
You don’t comprehend how true that is until two days later and Bucky’s own future is being determined by a letter.
Drafted into the Army.
JUNE 14TH, 1943
“Bucky, I’m recovering from surgery, not incompetent.” Your laughter, a sound full of life, bounces off the walls.
Four months has passed since your surgery took place, a scar on your chest to prove the events. Within two of those months, you remained at the hospital for recovery, medication pumped into your system and therapies to coax your body into regular movements flowing.
Every day, Bucky was by your side. Holding your hand and replacing the vase of flowers with fresher ones. He voiced his contemplation of quitting his job just so he could spend more time with you, to which you gave him a firm no as a response.
You can’t be more thankful to have him in your life, to be so lucky that he stayed throughout the whole journey.
You returned home three months ago. The process of healing is long, but gradually, your limbs are no longer bruising, but clearing up. And your heart is beating normally. No more of those random skips, no more of it feeling like it was being dropped from a mountaintop.
For once in your life, you’re happy with your body.
Make-up, hair products and handed-down jewellery are spewed across the bed which you’re perched upon, the bright evening sky casting light into the bedroom.
“I know, but this is my last night until being shipped off, and if I wanna take care of you, I’m gonna take care of you.” Bucky asserts with a cheeky smile.
“There’s a difference between taking care of me and dolling me up.” You joke, smiling knowingly.
You’re aware of why he’s being like this—why he’s determined to ensure you won’t lift a finger right now. It’s not because he thinks you’re delicate, and it’s certainly not because he thinks you can’t do things for yourself.
Bravery is mustered from experiencing fear, and apart of his brave-self, there’s cracks of fear that he won’t have the chance to do anything like this with you again.
So you let him, because he’s entering a place where his life will be risked every second.
He’s done your make-up surprisingly well due to watching you apply it throughout the years. You only needed to touch it up a little, but the lipstick is faded—most likely from him kissing it off.
Next is…
“Hair,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I only know how to braid hair from Becca.”
You shrug, “You can braid my hair.”
Swivelling around, your back to him, you gaze towards the open window, allowing the slight breeze to wash over you. The air is a sweet relief to your lungs, poison ivy no longer tightening around them until its bitterness has bled through.
His fingers entangle in your hair, weaving and letting his fingertips brush the back of your neck. It’s a simple action, but every stroke of his touch feels like he’s connecting to your soul.
“You’re going to be tripping all over my feet.” Bucky teases, his breath fanning the back of your head and encouraging wisps of your tresses to dance.
“Are you doubting my dancing skills?” You ask, feigning hurt.
“Baby, you haven’t danced in nearly three years.” Bucky points out.
A beat passes.
“I have a good memory. It’ll be fine.”
“Hmm, and if my feet are bruised by tomorrow, I’m blaming you,” he lovingly tugs on your completed hairstyle, “There. Now, I’d like my payment in the form of a kiss.”
Facing him, a grin hurting your cheeks, you slowly dive in for a kiss, before swiftly turning and kissing his cheek.
“Tease.” He mumbles.
You rise and approach the tall mirror, admiring your braid and emphasised features, “You could run a salon, you know.” You compliment while beginning to undress.
“And ruin my street cred?”
“Street cred?” You raise your brows, “You mean punching people in alleyways.”
You can recall the generous amount of times he’s returned home with bruised knuckles you’ve cleaned up.
“Punching douchebags in alleys.” He corrects slyly.
Rolling your eyes jokingly, you slip on the dress that was hung on the mirror. You reach around to do the zipper, but fall short, sighing quielty.
“Bucky?”
“Already on it.”
He towers behind you, zipping the back of your dress antagonisingly slow. You watch him through the mirror, watch as he ducks his head and kisses your shoulder, feel how his hand glides across your shoulder, down to your arm, then wraps both of his around your midsection.
“Your wings are growing, peach.” He quietly praises, swaying you both side-to-side in a steady rhythm.
Your body melts into his warmth, your back against his chest, your head against his collarbone.
“We can always stay home if you’re not feeling up to tonight,” Bucky offers, “I’d still be just as happy as long as I’m with you.”
“I know, Bucky. But my body is itching to dance, okay?”
“That’s my girl.”
۶ৎ
Dancing was made for you and Bucky. You spun together like everyone else disappeared into thin air. You laughed together in harmony of the music. Where your steps went, he followed. When your hands intertwined, so did the ocean meeting the shore.
You didn’t dance in the shadows, but front and centre, under the gleaming yellow lighting. You were a whirlwind of starlight, dazzling in every movement, and Bucky was by your side, burning with merriment.
It had been so long since you let yourself be carefree, and you had never felt more beautiful.
The loud of the night fades as you enter your home, shutting the night away as Bucky closes the door and locks it. Immediately, your arms snake around his neck as he turns, crashing your lips against his. He stumbles momentarily, before pressing his hand’s against your lower back, melding you closer together.
Your heart bucks wildly, gallivanting in ways you didn’t think possible. Fingers sift through his hair in rhythm with his sliding across and caressing your waist in burning strokes.
The kind of burn inside of you that you enjoy.
You half expect him to move this forwards as your mouths reconvene the dance your bodies did earlier, but as he departs from the kiss… he doesn’t.
A loving brush of his lips against your forehead and a light, almost apologetic, squeeze of your hip is all you receive, then he trudges off into the kitchen, putting distance between you physically.
Your shoulders slump dejectedly, mirroring the downturn of your lips. You can’t recall the last time he carried you to bed and undressed you with a fervour of lust. Perhaps on your wedding day? It’s not a necessity you’re desperate for—his profound love is more than enough. Yet, as you stand alone while the faint sound of cupboards closing and pill bottles rattling reaches you, insecurities invade your mind.
‘Did I become too sick to be looked at in that sense now?’
‘Is he repulsed by me? Worried I’ll ruin it by having a coughing fit?’
The thick layer of hurt stuck to the roof of your mouth is a harsh swallow, but you do it anyways and venture to where your husband is, desperately needing to quarrel these intrusive thoughts of yours.
You don’t believe them—you’re making yourself not to believe them, but him turning away at any given opportunity is beginning to toy with your head.
Stepping into the homely kitchen and rounding the counter, you poise near the sink, where Bucky is turning off the tap. A light thud and the drip of excess water reverberates after he sets a glass beside your medication.
But those pills can’t help the mental storm brewing inside you.
He parts his mouth to speak as his head raises to meet yours, but his features instantly change at the sight of your hurt expression, “Hey, what’s wrong?” He asks, taking a concerned step closer.
Exhaling steadily, you cross your arms in attempts to appear confident when all you yearn to do is fall into his chest. But you can’t always rely on him. You need to do this for yourself.
“James,” you begin, tone forcefully even, “I’ll respect your decision if you don’t want to touch me, okay? I just need to understand why. Do…” Ignoring his perplexed, widened eyes, you continue, “…do I disgust you? Has my appearance changed—”
"Peach."
"—changed for the worse? Is this something you've been carrying for a while? Do you need my permission to go off with other—"
Before you can feel the tears stinging your eyes, his lips collide into yours, silencing you. The impact is harsh at first, knocking your breath away, but as it achingly softens, your heart restarts.
So does your head.
Your arms grow slack by your sides, and his large hands smooth up them, skating across your shoulder blades and cupping the nape of your neck. His thumbs press into either side of your jaw, tilting your head up further so there's barely any space between you.
"I'm sorry," he whispers against your mouth, nudging his nose against yours tenderly, "I just had to stop you from speaking about yourself like that."
"James." Your voice finally wavers.
Your plea must have flowed into his mouth, because he bitterly chews on it that his jaw trembles and squeezes his eyes shut briefly.
"God, baby, I'm so fucking sorry for putting those thoughts into your head," his voice is thick with guilt and regret, "I've been so busy worrying about how sex might affect you physically, I overlooked how me pulling away must've been messing with this beautiful mind of yours."
His thumb rubs circles into your temple while slowly opening his eyes. They're consumed with emotions a man wouldn't normally share in this day and age, but he does because he isn't like any other man.
He's yours, and with you, he can express himself liberatingly.
"What if it gets too much and your heart can't take it, hm?" The question leaving his mouth breaks into tiny pieces, yet you cradle each one so you can mend the outcome together.
"My heart can't take this distance, Bucky." You whisper, a tear sliding down your cheek.
Bucky catches it with the tip of his thumb instantly, and you turn your face ever-so-slightly and brush your lips against his skin.
The collapse of his shoulders is enough to inform you the guilt of potentially harming you has been haunting him for a while.
Carefully, you cradle his hand and slowly guide it down. You press the warmth of his palm where your heart lays beneath the surface of yourself and feel his fingers expanding to touch more of you.
"It's beating to its fullest potential because of you," you earnestly admit, "Yeah, I had surgery, but I couldn't have survived this long if you weren't by my side."
"Peach..." He trails off, doubt burdening his tone.
"It's true!" You exclaim, the corners of your swollen mouth upturning, "I'm alive because you, my husband, have been my biggest supporter since we were kids. You have been my lifeline, darling, and as long as you're alive and happy, then so am I."
This time, his care for you is expressed in a globule escaping the corner of his eye after blinking. You watch it slide down his cheek before you poise on your tip-toes and kiss it away.
Your lips linger against his face long enough for his breathing pattern to change. It remains steady, deliberate, but peeking between each exhale is a quivering hunger that went into hiding, now coaxed out by your deep devotion.
Pulling back your face, your small and nimble hand covers the back of his against your chest, "You told me my wings are growing, and they are, but they flourish with you.”
"I love you," Bucky confesses for the umpteenth time, though now it’s layered with his insecurities bare and open, "I love you so damn much that I don’t even think the word love is strong enough to describe how damn mad I am over you."
His thumb and index finger pinches your chin, inching your faces closer, breaths becoming one. Both of your cravings are edged further, and you lock your fingers between the gaps of his, trailing his hold on you further down until a heat strokes your lower abdomen.
"Then show me,” honey drips from your voice, sweet and addictive, “Show me how much you love me, Bucky."
Your encouragement beholds an undeniable strength, alleviating the hesitance inside of him. He carries you to your shared room, he cradles you ever-so protectively, and he unveils every pent up desire in caresses and strokes—in edges of lust that are softened with his undying love.
Every sound coaxed from the depths of your chests—breathy and low and extremely unfiltered—have become your new favourite melody. Every passionate movement between yourselves, wrapped in each other’s embraces, is the epitome of comfort and pleasure rolling around together. Every reassuring word spoken, or kiss peppered against your scar, gifts you the most safest crescendo one can possibly experience.
Throaty laughter arrives afterwards, rippling through the haze of serenity. Bucky smoothes his palm over every inch of yourself, leisurely gliding over bumps and crevices, checking for anything amiss, but all that remains is your blissed-out self and his proud grin.
And when the dreaded day of his departure reaches, he disembarks from the very docks he helped build, carry the memory of the night before closest to him.
Because it marks the night you finally started soaring.
AUGUST 2ND, 1943
Two months have slipped by without the warmth of your husband by your side. All that remains is the ghost of his presence wherever you venture, the letters stacked neatly in a wooden chest, and the sneaky, hushed telephone calls.
Closing the front door behind you, you waste no time in tearing the seal apart and unfolding the crisp parchment. His handwriting coaxes a smile on your face, the bold strokes carefully crafted despite his cursive being a tad bit sloppy.
Your eyes begin ingesting the words he’s unleashed from the depth of his soul. The last time you heard his voice, it was muffled through the terrible signal of the General’s telephone.
Now? Now, it echoes clearly in your ears, so close you can almost feel his presence.
My love,
The camp is bleak and pitiful, hope ebbing away the further we advance to the front lines. I try my hardest to maintain morel and uplifting the other soldiers, but even my struggle is becoming noticeable the more I’m away from you.
I wake up on this stiff cot, facing the roof of the tent, and being reminded of where I am. I close my eyes in the few moments I have to myself and picture us sprawled out in the field we claimed as ours. The image of the sun casting golden rays against you remains vivid in my mind. All seasons compliment you, peach, but summer bathes you in a newfound light.
How is Brooklyn’s Summer this time around? Is it warm enough for you? You know I’m not the religious type, but I pray each night you’re able to fall asleep without any trouble. I know how the steam from the scolding roads used to affect your breathing.
You were fighting a war every day, and you came out victorious. It’s your unyielding strength and bravery that encourages me to lead myself and my infantry into battle.
I will win this war, peach. I’m not winning it for my country anymore, I’m winning it for you: my beautiful, one of a kind wife who I love more than a dog with its bone.
Your darling,
James.
Exhaling shakily, you press the paper to your chest, as though the ink will bleed off the page and sink into your heart.
Bucky Barnes has been your crutch for as long as you can remember, and while you’re his too, you just wish it was under different circumstances—not the fear of death looming over him every second he’s separated from you.
Thoughts spark in your mind, each one illuminating another idea of how to make sunshine pour into your letter so his bleak whereabouts will have a bit of shine.
You take a step towards the living room when a searing pain slices through your chest, reopening what was mended.
A pained whimper rips from your throat as your nails dig into your chest instinctively. Your feet stumble. The letter drifts onto the floor as your other hand uses the coat hanger for stability.
Everything rotates fast. You squeeze your eyes shut, denying the dizziness of its foggy, enclosing effects. You’re still standing, two feet firmly planted into the floor.
“I’m okay, I’m okay.” You choke out through laboured exhales.
The technique of settling your strenuous breathing slips back into place with ease, and you familiarise it for a few moments before you’re stable enough to slowly crack your eyes open.
The ache in your chest fades, replaced by a hollow dread. You shove it down immediately. It’s just high emotions physically pulled out from Bucky’s sentimental letter, that’s all….
It’ll pass soon.
Everything will return to normal when he’s home.
OCTOBER 17th, 1943
The campsite is peculiarly quiet this evening, no alarms shrieking nor any barked orders making the weeds flinch. While his comrades have ventured to town, gulping down what could be their last drink, Bucky stayed behind.
Something off has been accumulating in the pits of his stomach all day.
It could be nothing. It could simply be the enemy inching closer each day, as that’s become the normal nowadays, but his mind wanders to you and your most recent letter.
Shoulders hunched and perched on the edge of his cot, he grips the paper firm enough so the gust of wind drifting through the tent won’t snatch it.
It’s still your enchanting words, each stroke of ink letting him in on a glimpse of warmth. However, overtime, your handwriting has grown noticeably shaky, no longer appearing neat and barely readable.
He manages too, anyways, because he’d be damned if a letter of yours isn’t deciphered like it’s full of important codes.
Determining he’s just overthinking, he sighs and shakes his head. You’re a woman made of iron that's been hammered and molded into something even stronger.
He swaps your letter on the rickety nightstand for the polaroid of you he’s kept close. The glow of the lantern illuminates your gorgeous features, but a photo can only do so much. It doesn’t capture the playful melody of your teasing, and it doesn’t play your dance movements.
Luckily, every moment spent with you was unforgettable. A picture can only do so much, but it can also evoke memories that stretches a smile across his mouth.
In a feather-light motion, his thumb traces every curve and crevice of yourself, worshipping you even when your physical self is nowhere in sight. The entrance of the tent flaps in defence of the force of nature picking up, but if he just pinpoints his focus on the image of yourself, he can almost hear the thrum of your heartbeat.
Almost.
Quickly replacing it is a rough clearing of a throat, though Bucky’s brow perks up at a second one following. Softer, perhaps sympathetic, trying to override the first one.
He lifts his head and straightens up at General Smith entering. A solemn expression is written into his face, rubbing out the typically guarded one he equips.
Bucky rises to salute him, but is stopped halfway by a slow raise of Smith’s palm, “Sit, Sergeant.” He orders calmly.
For a man who usually reeks of confidence, hesitance conflicts Bucky’s senses as he slowly sits back down.
“Sir?”
Marching the front lines seems dauntingly in front of him.
“Bucky… hell, there’s no easy way to say this,” General Smith sighs and shifts uncomfortably, “Your mother-in-law rang.”
Rocks have piled onto Bucky’s tongue, his next three words managing to slip out through the cracks, “Is everything alright?”
“No, son,” he replies in a fatherly tone, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you…”
Bucky pales.
“Your wife passed last night.”
Those five words don’t reach his ears correctly.
They’re blocked out, muffled by the pounding of his heart while yours apparently lays still.
No.
Nonononononono.
He watched you wave him off at the docks. He listened to you converse about your day through the phone. Your heart was fine then. Cracked from his departure, but thumping healthily.
Speaking suddenly feels like the most strenuous action he can do, “She— ah…” his voice breaks, “She had a successful surgery. She can’t… she can’t have…”
A life without you doesn’t make sense.
Pain shoots through his chest, but he can’t see any bullets flying around.
His vision blurs with unshed tears. His lungs are too tight to accept breath properly.
The General’s voice remains a faded cadence, fragments piercing Bucky’s soul deeper.
‘Failed surgery.’
‘Couldn’t retain enough oxygen.’
‘Wasn’t alone.’
Head hanging low, eyes reddening swiftly, a broken noise is tugged from his throat. It doesn’t reach the sound-waves just yet, trapped in the confines of his aching self.
“It’s not true. It’s not true. It’s not true.” He mumbles repetitively and brashly cards his fingers through his hair.
The hollow pit inside his stomach fills with nausea.
You were suffering and he was unaware.
Angels recruited you and left him behind in the trenches… a place fit for a guilty man like him to be buried in.
OCTOBER 26TH, 1943
Rage never correlated with Bucky Barnes. His emotional intelligence didn’t let it simmer for long, but you were the one feeding him knowledge. Without you, the fury arose to the extremity of public humiliation.
At the time, he didn’t care when he stormed into the hospital, a body functioned by grief spitting at the ones who should’ve done more to save you.
Because they failed you.
He failed you.
No one flinched at his outburst, except for your father who heartbreakingly dragged him outside. To the medical workers, it was if that’s an every day occurrence and your death’s just another percentage in the charts.
He’ll go back and apologise later, comprehending how unfairly he directed his blame onto them. It takes the remains of his willpower not to blame you either for your stubborn mouth that was sealed tight throughout the months of his departure.
A weekend off was granted to him to get his head ‘straight.’ His teeth grind at the thought of returning to a place with hollowed men and no one yelling his name during mail-calls anymore.
Being drafted stole the time he had left with you, so a weekend to himself is a generous gesture.
Except, no one writes a manual on how to grieve properly. He’s transitioned into a new part of life without his permission, leaving him utterly lost and unable to cope.
Bucky’s legs forbid him from entering the Barnes home. The closest he reached was the door, thudding his bag to the ground in sync with the collapse of his knees.
An unopened letter of his, curled at the corners and dampening from his downpour of tears, taunted him from the welcome mat.
Now, he ventures where his heart navigates.
The oak tree slouches on the faded hill, silently battling against the invisible pollution that’s accumulated due to the war. The leaves are paralysed and the acorns have sorrowfully dropped, buried beneath layered of time and dirt. Weeds surround the stump like soldiers guarding their barracks, forbidding anyone from trespassing.
His boots are heavy against the cracked soil. A thick lump shapes in his throat and he forces it down. A ghost of vows and daisies flicker before him, but the grief rips it apart.
Bloodshot eyes roam the aging tree, noticing the lines in the bark have grown profusely. Maybe if his heart were to be x-rayed, there’d be jagged strikes too.
A sudden gust of wind pushes against him, or perhaps it’s trying to envelope him in a hug he’s unconsciously rejecting. The tickle of the breeze coaxes a twitch from his reddened nose, and his eyes drop to the ground as something featherlight sways in the air.
Immediately, Bucky glances upwards to the branch you once gazed at with child-like wonder, then drops his eyes to what’s fallen before him.
An envelope.
Shaky cursive writing.
James.
His hands tremble beside him.
You knew he’d visit.
He crouches down to pick it up, but it slips from his grasp.
“Shit,” he curses, vigorously wiping the specks of dusty soil off it.
When he’s sure it’s safe in his grasp, he slowly lowers himself to the ground, the bark brushing against his back like a reassuring pat.
After rubbing his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger, clearing any tears so he can read clearly, he expels a forced, steady breath. He doesn’t wish to have a heavy conscience when your literacy can float inside his chest instead.
My darling James,
A choked sound claws from his throat already.
He looks away, the taste of salt poisoning his lips as trails of pain dampen his face. It takes every bit of strength in him to return to reading.
My darling James,
I remember when you first introduced me to the oak tree. I had never felt so special in my life. I had already felt rejected by the world, barely scraping by, but you carried me outside and showed me there’s still hope and beauty out there.
That’s a feeling I’ll never be able to repay, no matter how much you say my love is enough, and I’m so sorry for the heartache I’ll leave behind when I’m gone.
I couldn’t tell you the surgery had failed. Selfishness took over; I didn’t want our final months together to have the impending grief looming over us. I was terrified it’d affect your sanity out there, and I needed you focused so you won’t lay to rest like me.
I lived longer than I expected. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I know loving you gave me a purpose and I was clinging onto that for as long as my heart could. Being with you made the pain bearable. I even forgot it at times when you’d hold my gaze with eyes the colour of the butterfly I chased.
You never left me, but I’m afraid if you’re reading this, I have left you. Butterflies are doomed with a small lifespan. I can relate to that a bit too closely.
When I pass, I will no longer experience that crushing sensation in my lungs. I’ll be light, soaring with my fully-grown wings, only feeling the comfort and safety you gave me.
I know it’s a lot to ask—you’ve done so much for me—but please keep that bravery inside of you pumping. Please live for me as I lived for you.
I love you with my entire being.
Goodbye, James.
Your love, peach.
Everything’s quiet.
The word has stopped to mourn you with him.
Yet, something foreign flushes throughout his body, lulling his aching bones. Closure’s arrival isn’t loud; it creeps in, slow and steady, and will take time to grow, but it’s a brave start, and he promises to forever be brave in your honour.
A slow, fluttering melody drifts into the environment. Landing on the parchment, littered in tiny damp splotches, is a butterfly.
A butterfly.
For the first time in days, Bucky’s lips curve upwards.
Of course I reach the angst at midnight, when I usually encounter and read the good tear-jerking fics. 😭😭😭 For a second I hoped it's HEA. But I still love it. ♥️
HENRY CAVILL as SHERLOCK HOLMES
ENOLA HOLMES 3 (2026)
"And then one day, I was sat by the fire, finishing some work of my own...and he appeared with a cup of tea". — John Watson
Summary : Of course, out of everyone in the universe, you had to fall in love with a soldier from Brooklyn.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Guardian of The Galaxy! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Will they, won’t they trope, one night stand to lovers, fluff, angst-ish with a happy ending! grief/mourning, sexual content (including semi public sex, no anatomical detail as per usual). Childhood abuse/neglect, trauma dumping with Bucky, Reader is a humanoid alien described to have non-specific markings on her skin. Reader is described to have two hearts but looks like a human female otherwise. Reader is the daughter of Ego (half siblings to Star Lord and Mantis). Described the plot of GOTG vol 2, Infinity war, Endgame, GOTG vol 3, and a little bit of lead up Thunderbolts. Earth is referred to as Terra. Food. (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 13.7k
Note : This has been in the works for like, 6 months now, and I’m finally happy with how it turned out! The title is taken and inspired by “Let Me Down Easy” by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!
You told Peter Quill you would never live on Terra when you were thirteen years old.
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of a Ravager ship with grease streaked on your cheek and a stolen ration bar in your hand. You had the confidence of a little girl who had never once seen Earth and had already decided it was not fun at all.
“You said your planet still uses wheels,” you said, horrified.
Peter looked up from where he was painting a blue stripe on one of Yondu’s old shoes because he thought it looked cool. “Wheels are useful,” he shrugged.
“They are primitive.”
“Cars are cool.”
“Cars are slow.”
“They have music.”
That, unfortunately, made you stop dead in your tracks, because Terra did have good music. Peter made sure everyone knew that. He had his cassette player and he treated it like the planet lived inside that little plastic box and those stupid orange headphones.
Still, you lifted your chin. “Fine,” you rolled your eyes. “One point for Terra. I’m still never moving there.”
Peter threw a bolt at you. You caught it without looking.
From the doorway, Yondu laughed,“Both of you kids are idiots.”
You grinned. Peter grinned. Yondu scoffed and pretended he didn’t love either of you.
Back then, you and Peter were just Ravager kids. You grew up with rooms under engine bays, learning how to steal and squeeze into tight spaces before you learned how to talk about feelings.
You called Peter your brother as a joke. He called you his sister, too, when he was annoyed with you, which was often. Mostly because you stole his snacks, rewired his blasters, and told alien girls he cried during Footloose (the girls would be so confused and ask what is a loose foot?).
Neither of you knew, until years later, that the joke turned out to be true.
Why would you even think that? You looked so different.
By the time you learned you were both children of Ego, everything was already falling apart. You and Peter both stood there with celestial light in your veins and heartbreak deep in your stomach.
Ego looked at you and Peter like you were not his children at all. To him you were not people, not family. You were not kids Yondu had fed, clothed, shouted at, protected, and raised in his own terrible way.
You and Peter were… batteries.
And then Yondu died.
What were you supposed to do then? How were you supposed to process the fact that your father was a monster and your daddy was fucking dead?
That grief changed you. It changed Peter, too.
For a while, neither of you joked about anything.
Yondu’s parenting hadn’t always been… healthy. He had been mean, loud, unfair. He pitted you and Peter against each other because he said it “builds character”. He taught you to steal, lie, shoot, and run,
But he had also taken you in. He tried his best and loved you, even if he never knew how to show it properly.
The Guardians became your family after that, making space for you the way that they made space for Peter.
And it didn’t take long for you to realise why your brother was so fond of them : no one really knew how to leave each other alone.
Rocket complained about everyone while making sure everyone had weapons that worked. Groot wrapped little branches around your wrist when he thought you were upset. Drax gave you advice that was almost always terrible and occasionally devastatingly profound. Gamora understood what it meant to be made by a monster, and yet still wanted to be better. Mantis, newcomer to the group, too, touched your hand one night and whispered that your sadness felt like a dying star.
The Guardians didn’t fix that grief, they could not. They filled that hollow emptiness with arguments over music, bad plans, worse jokes, emergency repairs, and shared meals.
You had been a Ravager first, but with this rag tag band of freaks, you became more than Ego’s child, more than Yondu’s ward. You were a Guardian of the Galaxy, with all the terrible decisions and accidental tenderness that came with it.
For a while, that was enough. What more could you ask for? Your family was insane and the galaxy kept trying to kill you in increasingly creative ways, which honestly felt normal enough. You had missions and people to annoy. You had Peter to bully whenever he got too sentimental about Terra. You had a place to stand. You had a reason to stay.
Then came Thanos, and Titan.
Titan was dead in a way that made your skin crawl. It was huge and orange and silent, a ruined sky stretching above you like the planet itself had given up long before you arrived.
The fight came back to you later in flashes, though your brain still struggled to fill in the full picture: You remembered Tony Stark bleeding into the ground and Stephen Strange looking at everything like he already knew the ending. You remembered Mantis holding on to the Mad Titan’s sleep with everything she had, small but braver than almost anyone gave her credit for. Peter Parker, an arachnid boy to the best of your understanding, had been fighting for his life. You remembered throwing yourself at him, blades in hand, the remnants of power burning beneath your skin. You hated the way it reminded you of Ego. You hated the way it made you feel like his daughter. But in that moment, with your chosen family around you and that monster in front of you, you used it anyway.
You were a guardian; and guardians didn’t have to be healed to fight for each other. You didn’t have to be whole.
But it was not enough.
The plan almost worked, which just made it worse. For one breathless second, it felt like you might actually pull it off. Mantis had him under and the gauntlet was right there. Everyone was moving, shouting, straining, almost winning.
Then Peter found out about Gamora, and grief did what grief always did in your family: it broke.
You couldn’t even blame him, really. Later, maybe, people would.
Maybe they would say he ruined everything. Maybe they would say he should have held it together.
But you knew Peter. You knew that kind of loss. If someone had stood in front of you mentioning Yondu’s death like it was necessary, you weren’t sure you would have been any smarter, any less reckless.
Neither you nor Peter had ever learned how to grieve quietly.
Then Thanos was gone, and you never knew silence would get worse than the fight.
At first, you thought the dust on your hand was from the planet. Titan was full of it, after all. But then your fingers started to break apart, coming undone, and grey at the edges, scattering into the air before your mind could make sense of it.
You stared at your own hand, as if you looked hard enough, you could force it to stay.
Peter saw it happen.
One second he was Star-Lord, heartbroken and still trying to understand what he had done, and then he was just Peter. Your brother, the boy from the Ravager ship, the idiot who used to throw bolts at you.
“Hey,” he said, and there was panic in it immediately. “No. No, no, no—”
You tried to reach for him, but your arm started disappearing halfway there.
That was when the fear finally hit you like a child reaching for light in the dark. You looked past Peter and saw Mantis fading too, eyes wide and wet, her hand stretching toward you even as her own body betrayed her. Drax was already gone. The battlefield was emptying itself one person at a time, and all you could think was that your family was scattered across the galaxy and you had not said goodbye to any of them.
You had spent your life acting like leaving was easy because Ravagers left. Guardians left. People like you learned how to walk away before anyone could see what it cost. But this was not leaving. This was being taken. This was the universe reaching into your chest and ripping you out before you could choose a final word, a final joke, a final insult about Terra just to make Peter laugh.
Peter lunged for you, hand outstretched, desperate to catch what was left, but he… started disappearing, too.
Then you were both dust.
—
And then, five years later, you woke up in what felt like the middle of the end of the universe.
One second, you were dust on Titan. The next, you were gasping air back into your lungs, stumbling through a portal with Peter shouting and Mantis grabbing your arm like she needed to make sure you were real. There was no time to understand or ask what had happened, where you had been, or why everyone looked like they had spent years grieving you.
There was only Thanos standing across the battlefield like the galaxy had not already suffered enough because of him.
So you fought him again, and this time, you won.
Earth, as it turned out, was not boring.
Earth was loud and muddy and actively on fire, which was frankly more personality than you had expected from Peter’s stupid little wheel planet. Earth had witches throwing red light from their hands, sorcerers opening glowing doorways in the air, flying men in metal suits, a giant green Terran who looked like someone had inflated a nerd with steroids, and at least one god with an axe. There were soldiers with wings, tiny insect people, archers with no self-preservation, and a man dressed like a flag who kept throwing a shield like he had never heard of blasters.
Earth also had Bucky Barnes.
Rocket introduced you to him two days after the battle, when everyone was still sleep-deprived and trying to figure out what the fuck had happened in the five missing years. The Avengers had put the Guardians in a motel, which was… an interesting choice. The bed was too soft, the ceiling was too low, and everything on Terra smelled like detergent and old carpet. You were sitting on the floor because it felt less ridiculous than the springed-cot thing they called a mattress when Rocket kicked the door open without knocking.
Rocket had been introducing “Terran freaks” to you, which mostly involved dragging various Avengers to the motel and describing them in the least respectful way possible. He had spent five years coming back and forth from Earth, apparently, which meant he met most of the important ones. And those he hadn’t met yet, he already knew about through stories.
“This is Green Monster Man,” Rocket said yesterday, showing Banner around to the guardians.
“That’s Bug Guy,” Rocket said this morning, taking Scott Lang on a tour of the motel, showing him off like a show-and-tell presentation.
Of course, this time, he had a new guy to show around.
“Hey,” he said, jerking one thumb over his shoulder. “This is Metal Arm Man.”
You looked up.
And fuck.
Metal Arm Man was beautiful, in the way some Terrans seemed to admire. He was not shiny, like a Sovereign. In fact, he was quite the opposite. He looked like a man who had crawled out of several consecutive wars. He had tired blue eyes, dark brown hair tucked behind his ears, a jawline carved by old gods, and a black-and-gold metal arm— so it made sense why Rocket had taken a liking to him. Or. y’know. His metal appendages.
He stared at you too, and there was nothing polite about it. His eyes moved over the faint shimmer under your skin and the Ravager leathers you had refused to trade for Earth clothes. He looked at the bruise healing along your collarbone, and the knife strapped to your thigh.
Rocket looked between the two of you and made a gagging sound. “What the hell are you two doing?”
The man cleared his throat, like he had remembered manners halfway through staring at you. “My name’s Bucky.”
You blinked. “Bucky?”
His mouth twitched. “Yeah.”
You stared at him for another second, genuinely trying to decide whether Terra was playing some kind of joke on you. “Is that even a real name?”
From somewhere in the hallway, Peter shouted, “Don’t make fun of Terran names! You’re embarrassing me!”
You ignored your brother. Bucky, to his credit, didn't look offended. If anything, he looked amused, which only made him more annoyingly attractive.
“It’s um...” He scratched the back of his head with a human arm. “It’s short for James Buchanan Barnes,” he said, as if that made it any better.
You frowned. Why are earth names so unnecessarily long and complicated? “That’s worse.”
Peter, who apparently had still been listening in, made a noise from the hallway. “Can you be normal for literally one minute?”
“No,” you and Rocket said at the same time.
Bucky actually smiled then.
And you, who had spent most of your life insisting Terra was primitive, boring, and overrated, had the unfortunate thought that maybe you had been wrong.
—
You ended up on the motel roof that night because Earth rooms were suffocating.
It wasn’t exactly difficult. Terran buildings were hilariously easy to escape from. All it took was one window, one rusted ladder, a short jump, and you were on the roof with your back against a humming vent and your knees drawn up to your chest, looking out over a planet you still didn’t understand.
Earth was strange at night. The fire and smoke from the battlefield were gone from here, replaced by yellow streetlights, blinking towers, the rush of wheeled vehicles dragging themselves along roads like they had nowhere better to be. The sky was weird. There was too much light from the city and not enough stars visible. You could barely see anything past the haze, and for someone who had grown up under infinite darkness in a space pirate ship, that felt almost cruel.
Your fingers moved absently over your arm.
The markings there were faint tonight, but still visible. Thin lines of soft, light trailing from your wrist toward your elbow, glowing under the skin like someone had hidden stardust in your veins. Proof, if you needed it, that you were not human. These were markings of your mother’s species, but it didn’t really matter, did it? Your mother’s planet was a dead one. You had no true home.
Behind you, the roof access door creaked.
You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. “You’re still here, Metal Arm Man?”
You heard a pause, then a huff that might have been a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Still here.”
Bucky Barnes stepped onto the roof like he was trying not to startle a wild animal. He was wearing the same thing he was earlier: dark shirt, dark jacket, dark boots. The metal arm reflected the weak rooftop light as he walked closer, black and gold lines shifting with him.
He stopped a few feet away, giving you space.
“Your brother cornered me downstairs,” he said.
You finally looked over at him. “Pete?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “He wanted to talk to me about Captain America collectible trading cards.”
You blinked. “About what?”
“That was pretty much my response.”
You tried to picture Peter, still freshly returned from being dust in his home planet, cornering this beautiful and haunted-looking Terran soldier in a motel hallway to discuss little paper images of a man in a flag suit. You had no idea what trading cards were. You had no idea why Captain America needed collecting. You had no idea why Peter was like this, except that unfortunately you knew exactly why Peter was like this.
“He’s very embarrassing,” you said.
Bucky’s mouth twitched up. “He seemed excited.”
“He gets like that when Terra is involved. The planet does something to his brain.”
“Pretty sure he was asking if I knew how much the 1944 set was worth.”
You stared at him. “Do you?”
“No.” This time, he did laugh. It was a startled sound that seemed to slip out of him before he could stop it. The sound suited him too much. It made him look younger for half a second, less broken from war and more like someone who might have once been very good at smiling.
He walked closer after that, though still not too close. “Mind if I sit?”
You looked back out over the city. “It is your planet.”
“Not sure that means much.”
“No?”
“No.” You could hear him being flat and careful. There was something he wasn’t really saying.
So you shrugged, and Bucky sat beside you with a polite amount of space between your shoulder and his. For a while, neither of you spoke. Somewhere in the building, you could hear Drax laughing. And in a nearby home, you could hear a young voice crying quietly enough that they probably thought nobody could hear. But you could, your hearing was better than human hearing.
You did not feel better than human that night, though. You… felt tired.
Bucky’s eyes moved to your arm. You thought he was looking at your species marking. But then he asked, “does it hurt?” and you knew he was talking about something much more… sensitive.
You glanced down at your arm, turning it over to show the deep scarring line that never quite healed from your battle with Ego. “No. Not usually.”
“What is it?”
You flexed your fingers, watching the light shift faintly beneath your skin. “Proof that my planet-sized narcissist father tried to kill me.”
Bucky turned his head toward you.
You smiled without humour. “My biological father is a living planet. He made many children across the galaxy because he wanted to use us as batteries for his expansion plan.”
Bucky stared at you for a second, then looked out over the city again. “That’s a lot.”
“Yeah,” you leaned back, “I have been told my childhood is not a good first-date topic.”
His mouth twitched again, but it was kinder this time. “This a first date?”
You looked at him, and the rooftop seemed to tilt slightly. “I don’t know. Is sitting on a roof after a universe-ending battle a date on Terra?”
“Usually no.”
“Usually?”
“I’m old. Dating got weird while I was gone.”
While I was gone.
Huh. Another little door with some probably horrible backstory behind it. You wondered how many of those he had
So you pushed your door open first.
You just started talking because the city sounded too alive after all that death, and because Bucky Barnes gave you the kind of comfort that made people say things they didn’t mean to say yet.
You told him about Ego first, because that was the biggest part of the story on paper. But he was not the part that hurt the most.
You told him how mother’s home planet had already been dying when Yondu found you. The sky had been the wrong colour for so long that you thought all skies looked sick. You remembered your mother’s hands, or maybe you had invented that memory. You remembered being small, hungry, angry, and too tired to cry properly.
Then Yondu came. He got you out because that was what he did.
Bucky listened without interrupting. He didn’t rush to relate, though you suspected he might’ve been able to. He sat there beside you on the motel roof, one knee bent, metal arm resting still against it, and let the words come out.
You looked down at your hands.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky said eventually.
People said that a lot, and you usually hated it. But from him, it didn’t sound empty. Maybe, it was because his voice already carried so much sorrow that it knew how to make room for yours.
You swallowed. “The funny thing is, Yondu threatened to eat Peter and me so many times. But at least he was there. I might have Ego’s blood, but Yondu gave me a home.”
Bucky sighed. “Blood doesn’t mean much by itself.”
You looked at him.
His eyes were fixed on the city, but he was not really seeing it anymore. The streetlights reflected faintly in his face, illuminating the tired slope of his mouth and the shadows beneath his eyes. “I had a family once. Parents, a sister, everything.”
And just like that, Bucky pushed his door open too.
Maybe it was easier to trauma dump to a pretty alien girl who he’s pretty certain he won’t see again.
He told you about war, handing you broken parts of himself and trusting you not to cut yourself on them. He told you about leaving home, about falling, about waking up in the hands of monsters. He told you enough that your stomach turned cold.
You had known there was something wrong in him. It made more sense now that you knew they had taken a living thing apart and put it back together with instructions missing.
You looked at his arm again, even though that wasn’t the arm. Then, you looked at his face. “Oh,” you said, after he told you about HYDRA. “They made you a weapon.”
Anger rose in your stomach, a real, hot, familiar anger. It was the kind of anger you had learned from Ravagers. It was actionable. It was pure and feral.
“Are they dead?” you asked.
That made him look at you.
You blinked. “What? It’s a reasonable question.”
Bucky studied your face, and he looked almost amused behind the exhaustion of his eyes. “Most of them.”
“Most is not all.”
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
“Do you want help?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I am very good at killing people,” you added, because honesty, that seemed polite.
Bucky stared at you for half a second, then laughed again, this time with more breath in it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You smiled despite yourself, then looked away before it got too real. You had known him for less than a day, properly, and the rooftop felt smaller than it should. His shoulder was not touching yours, but you were aware of the space between you.
Bucky seemed aware of it too.
“So,” he said after a while, voice lighter in a way that felt deliberate, “do aliens have one-night stands?”
You turned to him slowly. “Do we have what?”
“One-night stands.”
You stared.
He seemed to realise he had lost you and shifted slightly, almost embarrassed. “I uh… Casual sex. You know… two people spending a night together because they want to.”
“Oh.” You considered that. “Yes. Obviously.”
He exhaled a laugh. “Obviously?”
“You thought Terrans invented casual sex?”
“No.”
“That would be a very Terran thing to think.”
His smile lingered, and so did yours.
The air changed then, and it had been changing for a while, probably from the moment Rocket shoved him into your orbit and called him Metal Arm Man like he was doing you both a favour. But now there were no Guardians yelling in the lobby, no brother to embarrass you with trading cards. Just the two of you on a motel roof, talking your asses off about monsters who called themselves fathers and creators, grief, and sex like any of it belonged in the same conversation.
Maybe it did.
Maybe this was what survivors did. Maybe they took the worst things that had ever happened to them, laid them down between each other, and then reached for each other anyway.
“So,” you said, because you were suddenly very aware of your own two heartbeats, “is this you asking?”
His eyes flicked back to yours. “Maybe.”
“Maybe is a coward’s answer.”
That did something to him. You saw it in the slight shift of his jaw, the way his gaze darkened, the way his human hand curled loosely against his knee. Still, when he spoke, his voice was careful.
“I’m asking,” he said. “But only if you want that.”
You didn’t answer immediately, though not for being unsure. You were very, annoyingly sure, actually. You wanted him in a way that felt too quick and too simple after a lifetime of things being complicated. You wanted his mouth and his hands and the sadness in his eyes. You wanted to forget the battlefield for a few hours. You wanted to feel alive in a way that didn’t involve fighting for it, for once.
You leaned closer anyway.
“On my planet,” you said, “we do not call it a one-night stand.”
“No?”
“No,” you shook your head with a chuckle. “Mostly because I don’t have a planet. But if I did, I would call it a very reasonable use of a night.”
Bucky’s smile was small and devastating. “That so?”
“Yes.”
You were close enough now to see the tiny flecks of grey in his blue eyes and the faint scar near his mouth. Yet, he held himself like he was giving you every chance to change your mind.
You didn’t.
Instead, you touched the metal fingers resting beside him. The vibranium was cool under your hand.
“I want that,” you said. Then, because you had never been good at masking kindness, you added, “And I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Bucky’s face changed, but not with pity, thank the stars. You would have left immediately if it had been pity.
Instead, it was recognition.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me neither.”
When he kissed you, it was careful for all of two seconds.
His mouth pressed yours once, soft and hesitant. His human hand hovered near your waist before settling there, warm through your shirt. His metal hand stayed braced against the rooftop beside you, like he was holding himself back from touching too much too soon.
It was infuriatingly sweet.
So you fixed it.
You leaned into him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, and kissed him back harder.
Bucky made a small sound against your mouth, and his hand tightened at your waist. His mouth opened under yours, and the kiss turned deeper, messier.
You had kissed people before. You had kissed in back rooms of spaceports, against ship walls, in the dark corners of bars where nobody cared about names. You knew what casual was.
This did not feel like that.
Bucky kissed you like he was trying to remember how, and somehow that made it worse. When your fingers slid up into his hair, he exhaled against you.
He was a little rough at the edges. He was careful, then hungry, then careful again when you shifted closer and his metal hand finally moved to your hip.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead nearly touching his.
Bucky’s eyes opened slowly. His pupils were dark, his mouth swollen.
“Sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I’m a little rusty.”
You blinked at him. Then you looked very deliberately at his metal arm.
“You don’t have rust.”
For a second, he just stared at you. Then he laughed. “No, I don’t.”
You traced your fingers down the front of his shirt, feeling his breathing change beneath your touch. “You don’t need to apologise.”
His eyes dropped to your hand.
It should not have been so attractive, how kind he was. So you kissed him again.
By the time the two of you made it back inside, laughing under your breath, Bucky nearly knocked his shoulder against the frame trying not to let go of you.
It was still supposed to be simple. That was what you told yourself when he kissed you against the wall. That was what you told yourself when your hands found the edge of his shirt and pulled it over your head. That was what you told yourself when he paused, forehead against yours, and asked again if you were sure.
You were.
So for a few stolen hours, neither of you had to be a weapon.
You just made each other feel good.
—
In the morning, someone knocked on your door.
It was a determined knock, followed by a pause, followed by another knock that was weirdly polite.
You opened your eyes slowly.
For a second, you had no idea where you were. The light coming through the curtains was thin and grey and Terran. Then you became aware of the warm body behind you, the weight of an arm across your waist, the steady rise and fall of Bucky Barnes breathing against the back of your neck.
Oh.
Right.
The knocking came again.
Beside you, Bucky stirred awake. His arm tightened around you for half a second before he seemed to remember where he was, who you were, and what had happened the night before.
“I am Groot?” came a muffled voice from the hallway.
You closed your eyes.
Bucky’s voice was sleep-rough when he whispered, “Is that…?”
“Yes,” you whispered back. “That’s Groot.”
“He okay?”
“He’s asking about breakfast.”
“I am Groot,” Groot said again, more insistently this time.
You dragged a hand over your face. “What the hell is an IHOP?”
Bucky blinked, then made the mistake of laughing.
It wasn’t particularly loud, but you felt it against your shoulder and immediately wanted to do several stupid things, including staying exactly where you were and never opening the door. Unfortunately, Groot knocked again, and then someone in the room next to yours opened their door.
“I am going to kill both of you” Nebula called to you from the hallway.
You sat up so fast Bucky almost got elbowed in the chin.
Oh, shit.
Bucky sat up beside you with his hair a mess, eyes wide, mouth pressed tightly together like he was trying very hard not to laugh and make this worse.
You put a shirt and trousers on, panicking, making bucky put his boxers on, too.
Nebula continued, voice flat and merciless. “Some of us were trying to sleep. Some of us didn’t need to hear whatever Terran mating ritual you were performing in there all night!”
Your entire body went hot.
“You heard?” you opened the door to peek outside to see a crowd of guardians already converging there. You weren’t opening the door fully yet. Obviously. Bucky was still trying to find his shirt.
Nebula scoffed, “It was impossible not to.”
From the hallway, Rocket’s voice cut in. “I just put a pillow over my head.”
You dropped your face into your hands.
Bucky’s hand touched your back as he made his way to look for his socks, still shirtless.
“I still don’t know what IHOP is,” said Mantis, because apparently, she was there too.
“A breakfast place,” Bucky said, loud enough for everyone to hear. To be fair, Bucky had never really been there either. It was only a thing after the war, so all the knowledge he had about chain restaurants came secondhand from Sam’s stories and Shuri’s travels.
Drax, answer loudly from the hallway. “Why is it called that?”
“It stands for International House of Pancakes,” Bucky shouted back, looping his belt through. You stared at him, and he looked almost apologetic.
Before Bucky could answer, there was another voice in the hallway.
Peter.
“Why is everyone standing outside—” His voice cut off into a silence, which meant Peter Quill had looked through the half-open door, seen Bucky Barnes half-dressed, and experienced several emotions at once, most notably disgust and awe, which you were unaware could coexist .
Then he shouted, “YOU HAD SEX WITH A HOWLING COMMANDO?”
You froze. Bucky froze.
You stared at Peter through the gap in the door, genuinely exhausted. “I have no idea what that means.”
Peter looked like he hated that he knew something about his sister’s sex life, but was amazed you bagged a historical figure he learned about in school. “It means he’s a war hero!”
Bucky, looking increasingly like he regretted being alive, said, “Quill—”
Peter opened the door a little wider. “No, no, no, no, I’m not judging. Sir, I respect you very much.”
“Oh my god,” you said.
“Don’t call him sir,” Nebula said from somewhere out of sight.
Peter ignored both of you, because Peter had never once let good advice stop him. “Bucky, sir, would you like to join us at IHOP?”
You turned to him in alarm. “No.”
Bucky looked between you and the doorway.
“No, please,” you said, smoothing your stupid borrowed human shirt that said I ❤️ New York. “Bucky. Just go.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
You immediately realised how that sounded a bit aggressive and winced. “Not like that. I mean— before they make this worse. Before Peter starts asking you questions about ancient Terran history or Rocket asks if your arm has detachable components.”
“I was building up to it,” Rocket said, looking a bit pissed.
Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. You could see the smile fighting its way onto his mouth despite everything, still unfairly attractive. He finally found his shirt under the bed, while you looked very hard at the wall and pretended you were not noticing the way his back moved.
Bucky pulled his shirt on, then his jacket, then paused by the bed.
Rocket was still muttering about pancakes, Groot was making curious little noises, and Peter was whispering something that sounded like “World War Two Legend” under his breath. But inside the room, between you and Bucky, there was a pocket of silence.
“I’ll see you around?” you said.
“I hope so.” Then he smiled like he wanted to say something else, but then Peter coughed very loudly in the hallway, and the moment snapped. Bucky gave you one last look, then stepped out into the corridor, where Peter immediately straightened.
“Big fan,” Peter said.
“Pete!” you groaned.
Bucky, because he was apparently kind even under extreme psychological pressure, just nodded. “Thanks.”
Just like that, he left with a kiss on your temple.
Peter spent the entire walk there explaining World War Two to you.
Rocket and Drax collectively ordered too much food. Nebula threatened three different utensils. Groot liked the syrup so much he tried to drink it straight from the little container. Mantis, still not fully adjusted to Earth mornings, asked if your “night of physical bonding” had helped with your sadness, which made you put your head down on the table while Peter choked on his coffee.
By the time you got back to the motel, you saw a small Terran phone on the nightstand that you hadn’t noticed when you left.
It had one number saved: Bucky.
—
You were supposed to leave Earth after a week.
It had been the initial plan. It was only supposed to be one extra week on Peter’s weird little wheel planet, just long enough for Rocket to patch the Benatar, insult several Earth scientists, establish reliable interstellar communication, and call NASA a hobby club with delusions of grandeur.
Unfortunately, the Benatar was more fucked than anyone wanted to admit.
Earth, being a backwater planet with no shortage of paperwork, five years of stagnation, and parts that apparently could not just be stolen without “causing an international incident,” made repairs painfully slow. Rocket had to source pieces from Stark warehouses, Wakandan labs, old S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra storage, and one aerospace facility where he bit a man for calling him a raccoon.
So one week became five months.
And of course, you had to pass the time somehow.
Bucky Barnes was a very, very good way to pass the time.
The phone came in handy, because every time you weren’t helping a guardian with an annoyingly administrative task, you were lonely. So, you would call him.
It might not have been a one night stand anymore, but it was still casual.
It was so casual you fucked him every time the two of you were alone for more than seven minutes. You did it in his temporary apartment, your motel room, the roof, his kitchen, the backseat of a borrowed car, after he made the mistake of telling you the windows were tinted.
Huh. Maybe this contraption on wheels wasn't as useless as you thought it was.
Bucky had survived many things, including war and brainwashing, but apparently nothing had prepared him for you, wearing Ravager leathers deciding she wanted him immediately and treating Terran public decency like a loose suggestion.
There was the bar incident, which he still could not talk about without going pink in the ears. See, Bucky Barnes had not expected to be getting a blowjob from an alien girl in a cubicle of a newly reopened dive bar bathroom.
But there he was.
Things happened.
There was also the alley behind a Brooklyn diner, where his metal hand ended up in your folds, and you learned, very quickly, that Terran technology was not always primitive.
There was the temporary compound supply closet, where you had gone in looking for a power converter and came out with your hair ruined and knees weak, and Bucky looking like he had seen god in a storage room full of printer paper. There was the motel laundry room at three in the morning, where the machines rattled so loudly that you thought no one could hear you, until Drax walked past the next day and told you he sincerely wished his “pounding” would produce “strong children.”
You looked like you wanted the planet to split open and swallow you whole.
It was filthy and stupid. It was fun. It was definitely casual.
That was what you kept saying, anyway.
Calling it casual meant it didn’t matter that his metal arm felt good. Casual meant it did not matter that his human hand felt just as good. Casual meant it didn’t matter that he figured out exactly when you wanted him to be gentle and when you very much didn’t, that he could make you forget every insulting thing you had ever said about Earth with his mouth on your neck and that Brooklyn rasp in your ear.
Casual meant you could leave when you had to.
Bucky made that harder by being annoyingly charming outside of bed. He introduced you to human food like pizza, bagels, and pancakes. He taught you how to tell real New York pizza from the “modern stuff,” even when you were still struggling to eat the flimsy-foldable bread thing in the first place.
“You like it,” he said, watching you steal a pepperoni from his box.
You shrugged, but didn’t deny it. He smiled at you like you were funny, which was dangerous because you liked his smile far too much.
Then one afternoon, he told you he was from Brooklyn, and you sat up so fast you nearly kicked over the coffee table.
“Brooklyn,” you said. “As in No Sleep Till?”
Bucky blinked, then laughed. “Yeah. Shuri made me listen to that.”
“Pete loves that song.”
“Of course he does.”
You nodded solemnly. “It is one of the only respectable things about this planet.”
He leaned back, smiling into his coffee. “Brooklyn?”
“No. Music.”
He looked so offended you had to kiss him.
That was the problem with Bucky. He was too easy to kiss, too easy to want, too easy to crawl back to after a long day of Rocket screaming at wiring diagrams and Peter trying to explain why Earth malls used to matter culturally. Bucky made you food and started leaving space for your knives on his temporary dresser like that was a normal thing to do for someone you were only sleeping with.
The Benatar was fixed eventually.
Rocket announced the news to Avengers and Guardians and Asgardians and Wakandans alike, over breakfast like it was good news, because it was. Your family could leave, because the ship could fly.
Bucky didn’t say anything.
He just looked at you across the table, and you realised with a sick little twist in your chest that casual had become the biggest lie you had ever told.
—
The night before you left Earth, you found yourself on top of Bucky Barnes again in his makeshift New Asgardian tent.
It was getting increasingly harder and harder to pretend your chest didn’t hurt every time he looked at you like you were a treasure he had found in the wreckage and wanted, desperately, to keep.
His hands were on either side of you, your knees pressed into the cot on either side of him, your palms braced against his chest, your hair falling around your face while you rode him hard enough to make the frame knock into the fabric.
“Fuck,” Bucky breathed, head tipped back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded and wrecked. “Baby—”
You hated when Terrans called people that. Well. You hated it until he did it.
When he did, it made a warm pool in your stomach, made both your hearts kick faster, made you grind down harder just to hear him lose his breath again.
His metal hand tightened on your thigh. His human hand slid up your waist, warm and rough, thumb pressing into the place beneath your ribs like he was checking that you were still there.
You leaned down and kissed him because you couldn’t stand his face.
You could not stand his beautiful, sad, earnest face. You couldn’t stand that he had kissed you on the temple in a motel hallway once and therefore ruined your life forever. You couldn’t stand that he had made Earth feel less like Peter’s stupid planet and more like a place with someone waiting for you to come back.
Bucky groaned into your mouth when you moved again, taking him until your thighs shook.
“Christ,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down your throat, the place where your pulse was too fast. One pulse. Then the other. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Good,” you said, breathless. “Then I don’t have to leave you.”
It was meant to be a joke. It didn’t feel like one.
You were leaving in the morning, and earlier today, Drax had asked if Bucky would be joining you and then said that he hoped so because Bucky seemed like he had “excellent reproductive prowess.”
You had kicked Drax under the table.
Bucky had not laughed much after that.
Now he looked up at you, hair messy against the pillow, mouth swollen from kissing.
After you rode out your high and drawn out his at the same time, you collapsed next to him.
“Stay,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if he had been holding it in for weeks and it had finally slipped out
“Bucky...”
“I know,” he said quickly, and his hands slid up your back, holding you against him. “I know. Pete’s out there. The Guardians are out there. I know that’s your family.”
You swallowed hard. “You could come with me.”
His face changed. There it was, the conversation you had been circling. You knew in reality, that this was nothing more than a ridiculous, impossible fantasy you had been trying not to build.
“You could,” you said again. “Thor’s coming.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, but it broke halfway through. “Yeah, well. Thor doesn’t exactly blend in here either.”
“You don’t blend in anywhere.”
“That’s fair.”
You tried to smile.
Bucky’s hand came up to your face, metal fingers careful against your cheek. The cool touch made your eyes sting.
“I haven’t been home in a long time,” he said.
“I know.”
“I don’t even know if New York is still home,” he admitted. “But I think I need to try.”
You nodded, even though it felt like swallowing glass.
You understood. Bucky had been dragged through so much. He had only just been handed a life that belonged to him. For the first time in a long time, this was his chance to figure out who he was when nobody was using him.
How could you ask him to leave that?
And how could he ask you to stay?
Your only tether to anything like family was Peter and Guardians.
Earth had Bucky.
Space had everyone else.
You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re breaking my hearts,” you whispered.
His breath hitched, kissing the edge of your lips. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” you said, wiping at your cheek angrily. “And they’re both beating quicker than they should be.”
He laughed then, and you laughed too, even as tears slipped hot down your face and fell onto his skin.
He kissed them off your cheeks.
You kissed his lips then as if you could press every unsaid thing into his mouth and make him understand. I’m sorry. I want you. I have to go. Come with me. Stay safe. Wait for me. Don’t wait for me. Please wait for me.
Eventually, Bucky rolled you beneath him with one smooth shift and you gasped against his mouth.
For a second, you thought he only meant to hold you there.
His weight settled over you, his hair fell around his face, his breath still uneven from what you had done to him not long ago, and yet when his hips pressed between your thighs, you felt him already hard again.
You blinked up at him.
Bucky froze, because in all honestly, his uncontrollable evidence of wanting you had made him feel like a perv. It was almost funny, really. This man had survived unspeakable things, but apparently getting hard again too quickly in front of the girl leaving his planet in the morning was what made him look embarrassed.
Your lips parted.
He let out a rough little breath, eyes flicking away for half a second. “Sorry.”
You stared at him. “Why are you apologizing?”
He was embarrassed and wanting and so painfully Bucky that it made your chest ache. “Super soldier thing,” he muttered. “I can, uh…”
You raised an eyebrow.
He looked down at you, cheeks faintly flushed now, and that was worse than all the filth you had done together in the last five months. “…go again,” he finished.
Then, you laughed, but not because it was funny.
But because of course James Buchanan Barnes would be hovering over you on your last night on Earth, looking sweet and apologetic for the fact that his body still wanted yours after you had already wasted him half to death.
He laughed too, quieter.
“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “I just— I want you. But you don’t have to.”
You reached up and touched him. His stubble scratched against your palm. His eyes closed for half a second like he was trying to memorise that too.
It was your last night, with his sheets tangled around your legs, with his body over yours.
You were tired and sore. But you wanted him again so badly it felt dumb.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Bucky opened his eyes.
You hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him closer. “Yes. Please.”
He kissed you first, like he was saying thank you into your mouth. Then his hand slid down your side, over your hip, between your thighs, touching you with careful fingers until your body reacted to him all over again.
He pushed into you again, slow enough that you felt every inch and stretch until your back arched.
His forehead dropped to yours.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
He moved slowly at first,one hand tangled with yours against the sheets, the other braced beside your head. It was not the frantic, filthy kind of sex the two of you had gotten so good at. It was not trying to see how fast you could make him come apart before someone noticed you were missing.
This was him fucking you like he wanted you to remember exactly what leaving felt like.
Every thrust pushed the air from your lungs, and every drag of his body against yours made your thighs tighten around his waist. You dug your nails into his back and he groaned into your neck, hips snapping harder for a second before he caught himself again.
“Don’t,” you gasped.
He lifted his head. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t hold back.”
His eyes darkened.
Your voice cracked around the next words. “I want to miss all of it.”
Bucky kissed you hard, and then he gave you exactly what you asked for. He fucked you into the mattress with the kind of hunger that had been hiding his mouth at your throat, his hands on your hips.
You let yourself have it.
For once, you didn’t try to make it funny.
You just let him have you.
And when you came, it hit you so hard you cried out against his shoulder, bones trembling. Bucky followed after, burying his face in your neck with a broken sound, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.
Good.
You wanted it to fucking ache.
For a long time afterwards, neither of you moved.
The room smelled like sweat and sex and Bucky’s laundry soap. Your skin was damp against his. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, steady precious.
Eventually, you whispered, “I’m going to miss this.”
His hand stilled in your hair.
You closed your eyes. “I’m going to miss you.”
Bucky pressed his mouth to the top of your head.
“I’m gonna miss you, too,” he said.
You wanted to be brave about it. Still, your throat burned.
You shifted enough to reach for the little device on the makeshift nightstand. It was small, flat, and ugly, because Rocket had built it from three different communication systems, one stolen Stark component, and another thing he claimed was “probably not radioactive anymore.”
You placed it in Bucky’s hand.
He looked down at it. “What’s this?”
“A communicator.”
His brows lifted. “This works in space?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“Some parts of space are unreachable,” you said, defensive because Rocket had already explained the limitations six times and you understood maybe half of them. “There are dead zones, black-market relay issues, Kree interference, and weird cosmic nonsense. Also Rocket said if you press the red button too many times, it may get hot.”
Bucky stared at you.
You sniffed. “But it works.”
His thumb moved over the edge of it, careful. “Yeah?”
“Yes. So reach out, please.” Your voice went low. “Even if I don’t answer right away, even if it takes a while. I’ll answer when I can.”
Bucky looked at you then, and the naked hope in his face nearly killed you.
“I’ll visit,” you said quickly, because if he looked at you like that much longer, you were going to do something embarrassing like stay. “From time to time.”
“From time to time,” he repeated.
You winced.you knew that sounded terrible, as if you didn’t want to give enough effort. “I mean I will come back,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “I mean it. I don’t know when. I don’t know how often. My family attracts disasters like Drax attracts confusing conversations, but I will come visit.”
Bucky’s hand turned under yours until he could lace your fingers together.
“I’ll be here,” he said.
Then Bucky sat up, reaching toward the floor where his jeans had been abandoned hours ago. He searched the pocket and pulled out a thin chain tangled around his fingers.
He looked almost shy when he handed it to you.
You took it, frowning at the two small metal plates hung from the chain, stamped with Terran letters and numbers you didn’t fully understand.
“What is this?”
“My dog tags.”
You stared at him, then thought of the only other dog you know of: Cosmo. “You’re not a dog.”
He laughed, soft and pained. “No.”
“Then why are they called that?”
“I don’t know. It’s an Army thing.”
You turned the tags over in your palm. “They have your name,” you said, before looking up.
His smiled.
Oh.
“They’re important,” you realised.
Bucky nodded once. “They’re from… before.”
And just like that, you understood. Your fingers closed around the tags.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
He shrugged like it didn’t matter, which meant it mattered terribly. “Figured you should have something.”
You looked down at them again, and your vision blurred. “I don’t have anything like this to give you.”
“You gave me a space phone that might explode."
You laughed. Bucky smiled, but his eyes were wet too.
You leaned forward and kissed him gentler, before he slipped the chain over your head. The tags settled between your breasts, cold against your skin, right between your two stupid, breaking hearts.
Bucky watched them land there, and the look on his face made heat curl through you all over again.You touched the tags. “How do they look?”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“Like mine,” he said, then seemed to realise what he had said.
You went very still.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” you said.
He looked at you.
You crawled back into his lap, the chain shifting against your bare skin, the communicator forgotten on the bed beside you. His hands came to your waist automatically.
“Good,” you whispered.
Then you kissed him again.
By morning, your body ached everywhere.
When you finally stood in the doorway with your bag over your shoulder and his dog tags hidden beneath your shirt, you and Bucky looked at each other like you both wanted to ask again.
Stay.
Come with me.
Both of you were too kind to say either out loud.
You kissed him one more time before you boarded the Benatar.
—
You visited Bucky Barnes four times in the next three years.
Four times sounded almost generous if you didn’t think about all the days between.
Still, you messaged him when you could.
Sometimes the communicator worked, and sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes your voice arrived through the little device in his palm three weeks late, half-swallowed by static and distance, saying, “—Rocket says if this thing starts beeping, that's technically your fault—” before cutting out entirely.
Sometimes Bucky sent you a message and had no idea whether it reached you.
Still alive?
That was his most common one. It looked and sounded casual. It was anything but.
You usually answered with something stupid, like: Unfortunately. Or Yes. You?
Or once, after apparently being shot at by pirates, chased through a collapsing space station, and nearly eaten by something Peter insisted was “not technically a worm”, you texted back: Define alive.
Bucky read that one in his kitchen at two in the morning and was scared shitless for your life.
Then he looked out of his window.
Brooklyn never showed enough stars, but some nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he went up to the roof anyway. He stood there with his jacket pulled close, metal hand resting on the ledge, eyes lifted to a sky that hid you from him.
He wondered where you were.
He wondered if you were safe. He wondered if you were injured and pretending you weren’t. He wondered if Peter was annoying you. He wondered if Rocket was taking care of you the way he promised to. He wondered if you ever looked out into the dark and thought of him, too.
—
The first time you came back, it was only for two days.
You told nebula to land on his roof, because of course you did. Bucky had already learned that you considered swinging, hinged doors a Terran inconvenience because you stubbed your toe on one once.
He had been waiting there for twenty minutes, when your little shuttle appeared above the building, and Bucky forgot every reasonable thing he had ever planned to say.
You jumped down with a bag over your shoulder, boots hitting the concrete like you had never once doubted you would land on your feet. For a second, you just looked at him. He looked at you, too. Eight months sat between you awkwardly, until you smiled.
“Your planet still smells strange,” you said.
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Hi to you too.”
He kissed you, and it wasn’t frantic at first. It was worse. His hands came up to your face like he was checking that you were real, thumbs brushing your cheeks, before you made a small sound and pulled him closer by the front of his jacket.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said quietly.
You swallowed, suddenly irritated with him for sounding so grateful. “For two days.”
“I know.”
“It’s not enough time.”
“I know,” he said again.
His apartment was exactly like him in the worst way. There were books stacked beside the couch, a blanket folded over the arm, mugs drying beside the sink, and a little space cleared on the dresser where, after one hour, your duffel bag somehow ended up.
You walked around slowly, inspecting everything. Bucky followed you like he was trying not to look nervous.
“It’s very square,” you announced eventually.
He leaned against the kitchen counter. “You said that about the motel too.”
“Terrans love boxes.”
He laughed and spent the days showing you his neighbourhood.
That night, you didn’t do half the filthy things you had promised yourself you would do on the way there. You had thought you would make the most of the short visit, but instead, you ended up under his blankets, your back against his chest, his arm around your waist, your body so tired from travel and space jumps that you fell asleep before you could even make a joke about his mattress.
Bucky stayed awake.
He couldn’t help it. He had spent eight months imagining you in this apartment, and now you were here. His dog tags rested against your chest beneath one of his shirts. He could feel the little metal plates when his hand settled over your ribs.
“You still wear them,” he murmured.
You weren't fully asleep. “They are important.”
“To me.”
“To me too,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion.
Bucky’s breath hitched.
You seemed to realise what you had said a second later, because you shifted and cleared your throat. “Also, they’re useful identification in case I misplace you.”
He huffed a laugh into your hair. “In case you misplace me?”
“Yes.”
“Where would you misplace me?”
“I don’t know. Your planet has many streets.”
A long silence passed as your fingers found his hand over your waist, and instead of moving it away, you threaded your fingers through his.
After a while, Bucky said, “You know, this feels like one of those old war movies.”
You turned your head slightly. “What does?”
“This. You showing up for two days and leaving again.” His voice was light, but trying too hard. “Like you’re a sailor being shipped out.”
You blinked in the dark. “I am the sailor?”
“Yeah.”
“And what are you?”
You felt his smile against your neck before he said, very seriously, “The damsel.”
You chuckled sleepily. Bucky chuckled, too, arms wrapping around you properly when you playfully tried to twist away from him. “Oh, you poor thing,” you said. “Do you require rescuing, princess?”
“Every few months, apparently.”
You laughed again, quieter this time.
Then the humour faded, because every joke with Bucky seemed to have a cliff beneath it.
—
The second time you came back, it was for five days.
Rocket needed Bruce Banner for something involving gamma signatures, and deep-space interference. You came with him because someone had to stop Rocket from biting another scientist.
Also because Bucky was there.
Not that you said that.
You invited him to the ship and while Bruce was there, too. Rocket gagged. “Not in my lab.”
You didn’t make it to dinner before you ended up in Bucky’s apartment.
This time, the urgency was there. Five days was longer. You could do more than cuddle in five days.
Bucky kissed you against his front door with one hand at your waist and the other braced beside your head. You laughed into his mouth when he almost tripped over your bag, and he muttered something about you being a menace before kissing you harder.
Afterward, as your skin cooled beneath his sheets, Bucky went quiet.
“What?” you asked, turning your head on the pillow.
He stared up at the ceiling, one hand resting on his stomach. “I went on a date.”
He looked like it had been eating him alive. He looked like he hated himself for it.
Against your better judgement, as you took in the absurdity of the conversation, you laughed. It came out a little too bright.
“Oh,” you said. “Okay.”
Bucky looked at you. “Okay?”
“Yes. Okay.” You pushed yourself up on one elbow and tried to look mature. “That’s good.”
He didn’t answer. He almost would rather you shout at him, even if you never said you were exclusive and had no reason to assume so.
You kept going because silence was dangerous. “You live here. You should date. You should have… Terran meals and Terran walks and whatever else dating is.”
“I had dinner where she worked,” he said quietly.
You looked at him for a moment, then asked another question because you were stupid and cruel to yourself. “How was she?”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Nice.”
“Nice is good.”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty?”
He turned his head toward you, and he looked hurt now. “Don’t do that.”
Bucky seemed to regret saying it as soon as he did. He looked away again, but you had already seen too much.
You swallowed. “It is not like we’re in a relationship.”
“I know.”
“You can date.”
“I know.”
“Then how was it?”
“She…” he gulped, knowing it went nowhere, knowing he would never see her again because it felt so wrong, he felt nauseous afterwards. “She’s not you.”
Oh.
You didn’t know what to do with that.
You wanted to tell him not to wait for you, but the thought of him not waiting made your breath hitched. You wanted to tell him to date someone else, but not her. Actually, not anyone. You wanted to say you were sorry, or that you loved him.
Instead, you reached for his hand.
He let you take it.
“I don’t want you to be lonely,” you said.
“I know.”
You looked at him. “But?”
Bucky squeezed your fingers once. “But I still am.”
—
The third time, you visited, you stayed for a week
That time, Sam invited you to a Wilson cookout at his sister’s house.
Bucky asked badly as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sam’s having a cookout. Sarah’ll be there. The boys too, but… we don’t have to go.”
You stared at him. “Do they know about me?”
“Yes.”
“What do they know?”
He looked uncomfortable.
You narrowed your eyes. “James Buchanan Barnes.”
“Oh, now it’s the full name?”
“What do they know?”
“That you visit.” He smiled faintly, but it faded quickly. “I… I just wanted you there.”
So you went on the short flight to New Orleans with him.
The Wilson’s Louisiana house was warm and smelled of grilled food and salt air.
You stood beside Bucky, as kids pointed out your markings, and suddenly became very aware that you didn’t know how to be introduced.
Sarah solved that immediately by smiling at you like she had already decided she liked you.
“So,” she said, handing you a plate, “you’re Barnes’ long-distance girlfriend.”
Bucky froze. Sam took one sip of his drink like had been waiting all day for this.
You laughed at once. “That’s not what this is.”
Sarah’s eyebrows lifted.
“It is more like…” You glanced at Bucky, then away, because his face had gone blank. “What you Terrans call an intergalactic booty call.”
Sam choked.
One of the boys immediately asked, “What’s a booty call?”
“Ask your uncle,” Sarah said.
Sam looked betrayed. “Why would you do that to me?”
You wanted to take it back.
You wanted to say, actually, no, that was wrong. Actually, he’s not that or I cross galaxies for him.
But you didn’t say any of that.
Later, while Sarah’s boys asked you increasingly strange questions about space, you caught Bucky looking at you from across the yard. He was leaning against the railing beside Sam, who was saying something to him. But Bucky was not really listening. His eyes were on you like a lost puppy.
You mouthed, stop.
He smiled faintly.
Three days later, you begged for his spare arm.
Bucky said no before you even finished explaining.
“It is for Rocket,” you insisted.
“That makes it worse.”
“It’s for Christmas!” You told him, leaning across his kitchen table. “He’s my best friend.”
Bucky leaned back, looking at you. You were wearing one of his shirts again, hair still damp from his shower. His apartment looked both wrong and right around you, as if you had always belonged there and were always about to leave.
“Fine,” he said at last.
Your face lit up. “Really?”
“Yeah. But I want something.”
You immediately narrowed your eyes. “I don’t make deals with soldiers.”
Bucky smiled, but it was fragile. “Just come back soon, yeah?”
Oh.
He didn’t look away, even though you could tell he wanted to.
Soon.
As if soon was easy, as if your life was not a mess of missions, emergencies, broken engines, family obligations, cosmic disasters, and Peter doing stupid things with massive diplomatic consequences.
“Bucky…”
“I know,” he said. “I know you can’t promise me anything.”
You swallowed.
“I know,” he repeated, but his voice was rougher now. “Just… try.”
You could have fought a demand or mocked a plea. But this…
You reached across the table and took his hand.
“I’ll try,” you said.
—
The fourth time, you came back two months later.
He opened the apartment door and just stood there, staring at you like he couldn't quite believe you were here.
You held up a bag, because apparently, you had taken a detour on the way to his apartment. “I brought bagels.”
His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to your face.
You lifted the bag higher, because you couldn’t survive much more of that look. “Bread circles, Bucky. Are you going to let me in or do Terrans eat in corridors now?”
He let you in.
The bagels were forgotten on the counter within minutes.
You told him about Mantis on the second night.
You were in his bed, his arm around you, the room dim except for the weak city light through the blinds. The dog tags rested against your bare sternum, rising and falling with your breathing. Bucky’s fingers had been tracing absent shapes along your side, soothing, when he asked about how Christmas in Knowhere went.
So you told him that Rocket loved the arm, but you also told him the bigger revelation.
“Mantis is my sister,” you said.
Bucky’s hand paused for a second. “Your sister?”
You nodded, staring at the ceiling. “She’s one of Ego’s, too.” You said with a smile. “She was already family. I mean, before. She was already one of ours. But now…”
“Now it’s different,” Bucky said.
“Yes.”
He shifted slightly to look at you. “How do you feel?”
You took a long breath. “Happy. I want to kill him again, but he’s already dead, so...”
Bucky smiled faintly. “I’m glad you have her.”
You believed him.
And he was telling the truth. He was glad, and Bucky would rather jump off a bridge than ever be cruel with your happiness. He never made you feel guilty for having family beyond him, never treated the Guardians like a competition, never asked you to shrink your world until only he was left in it. He loved you too much for that, even if neither of you had said the word.
But mantis being your sister, when all you ever wanted in life was family, meant that you’ve got another reason to stay up there.
Every piece of family you found among the stars tied you tighter to a life Bucky could only visit through broken messages and sparse wondering.
And what did Earth have?
One soldier in Brooklyn.
And later, after you fell asleep, Bucky laid awake beneath you and looked toward the window.
He wondered where you would be in a month.
He wondered if the communicator would work or if Rocket would be stripping it for parts again in an emergency.
He wondered if one day you would stop coming back and he would still find himself on the roof, looking up, waiting for you.
Then he looked down at the dog tags resting against your chest. For a few days, at least, the universe was small enough to fit in his bed.
—
Months later…
Rocket almost died, not in the abstract way all of you almost died every other cycle, either.
Rocket actually almost died.
You could still see it when you closed your eyes: his body on the table, fur matted, chest refusing to rise like a normal raccoon.
For a second, you thought your best friend had gone somewhere none of you could follow.
Then he came back.
Against all odds, Rocket lived.
The High Evolutionary was gone, his ship was wreckage. The children and the animals aboard the ship were safe. Knowhere had become both an ark and a home to many, many new faces.
Everywhere you looked, there was evidence of survivals. There were kids sleeping in corners because they hadn’t yet learned beds were safe and strange animals blinking under unfamiliar lights.
And now, your family was changing.
Mantis said she wanted to go. Although it felt like your sister was abandoning you, she reassured you that she wanted to see the universe without Ego. She wanted to find herself without the guardians breathing down her neck.
Which was fair
But she was your sister. You had barely gotten to have that before this. And yet, you understood.
Then Peter said he was leaving, too.
He was leaving for Earth because he wanted to see his grandfather again.
Peter tried to say it casually, but he was terrible at it. When he said it, he was not Star-Lord. He was not the idiot who had danced in front of Ronan, or the man who had lost Gamora, or the brother who had thrown bolts at you across Ravager floors.
He was just Peter, a little boy who had been taken from home, finally admitting there was still someone there he needed to go back to.
And maybe because everyone else was saying the brave thing out loud, you did, too.
“I could come with you,” you said.
Peter blinked at you. Then his face scrunched up in immediate disgust. “You can’t come live with my grandpa with me.”
You smacked him upside the head.
“Ow!”
“No, dumbass,” you rolled your eyes, "I'm not gonna live with you.”
Peter rubbed the back of his head, wounded and hurt, but then his eyes dropped to the chain beneath your shirt.
His eyes changed.
“Ohhh,” he said.
You looked away at once. “Don’t.”
Peter’s mouth opened wider. “Ahhh.”
“Peter.”
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t.”
But he was already grinning, all mischief and brotherly cruelty. “I see now.”
Drax leaned forward, deeply alarmed by being left out of something. “What? What are we seeing?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
Nebula folded her arms, finally catching up, “Guess who else is on Terra?”
Your face went hot.
Drax’s eyes widened. “Ah.”
“I am not going because of him,” you sputtered out, clearly lying through your teeth, “maybe I just want to learn of Terran music!”
The pretense was paper thin, and even you knew it.
Rocket made a rude little noise from his seat.
You turned. “What?”
He lifted both paws. “Didn’t say anything.”
“I am Groot,” Groot said mildly from beside him.
Rocket nodded. “Exactly.”
You looked at Groot in betrayal.
Groot only blinked at you with those gentle eyes.
Mantis smiled softly. “You do touch the metal necklace every time someone mentions Terra.”
“I don’t.”
“You are touching them now.”
You dropped your hand like the metal had burned you.
“This is amazing.” Peter looked delighted. “My sister is moving to Earth for that old robot. We’ll practically be neighbors.”
“He’s not old.”
Nebula finally looked up.
Peter held up a finger. “He fought in World War Two.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“It means old.”
“He looks fine.”
Rocket barked a laugh. “Oh, she’s got it bad.”
“I don’t have anything”
Drax nodded with grave certainty. “She has been claimed by the metal warrior. He gave her necklace plates.”
“They are called dog tags.”
“You are not a dog.”
“That is what I said!”
Nebula smiled a little, which for her was basically hysterics. “You cross galaxies to crawl into his bed and wear his military identification around your neck.”
Well, when she said it like that…
Mantis leaned closer. “He makes you less lonely.”
Finally, everybody shut the hell up.
Because yes. He did.
Right.
Rocket looked away first.
He was picking at a seam in his jacket, claws worrying the fabric until the thread started to pull loose. His ears were low, though he was clearly trying to make them not be. His mouth had twisted into that flat line he wore whenever feeling like he wanted to bite.
Mantis was leaving. Peter was leaving. You were leaving. The children of Ego, all drifting off in different directions like the dead bastard pleft cruelty in your blood.
Rocket scoffed. “Great. Real touching. Everybody’s got somewhere better to be now.”
Your hearts felt hurt. “Rocket.”
“What?” he snapped, too fast. “It’s good. It’s great. Everyone’s got somewhere to be.”
Rocket didn’t look at you.
He had almost died. He had woken up into a universe where he was finally captain, and now his family was peeling apart.
“Family’s still family,” you said, “Even when we’re spread out.”
You looked around the room at the only family you’d ever really known, and here was Rocket pretending not to be sad.
The raccoon looked up at you three, and this time, he looked… okay.
“I am groot,” Groot said, finally.
I love you guys.
—
Bucky wasn’t expecting a knock on a random Tuesday.
He should have been, probably.
That was his life now: he always had knocks at weird hours, which was usually campaign staff with clipboards. Sometimes it was Sam showing up because apparently “boundaries” were optional during election season. Other times it was someone from legal, or from security, or an intern from the press being brave enough, or stupid enough to knock on the former winter soldier’s door at 8AM.
He had only just started his campaign for congressman, and already his personal life felt less personal the more people tried to pry open his head with a crowbar.
So when the knock came, he thought someone had leaked his address.
He thought this must be a reporter. His life must be blowing up.
He set the mug down, rubbed a hand over his face, and walked to the door trying to make his expression less like it belonged on a wanted poster.
Then he opened it and the entire world stopped.
You were standing in his hallway.
You.
You were actually there, clothes damp from rain, hair windswept, a duffel bag hanging from your shoulder, his dog tags tucked beneath your shirt.
Behind you, Peter Quill stood near the stairwell, a respectful amount of distance, but probably a reminded that he was still your brother. He gave Bucky a small thumbs-up before scurrying down the stairs. He had already said goodbye in the car and given you his address in Missouri after driving you here, obviously. You didn’t know how cars worked. Yet.
Bucky barely saw him, mostly because he couldn’t stop looking at you.
You looked nervous, which was so wrong it almost hurt to see. You had fought gods, monsters, armies, and living planets. And now you were standing in his doorway like you were afraid he might say reject you.
“Hi,” you said, voice smaller than usual.
Bucky’s hand tightened around the edge of the door.
“I’m here to stay,” you said. “If that’s okay.”
For a second, nothing existed to Bucky, not even the campaign or reporters or Earth or space. Just you.
Then Bucky stepped forward and pulled you into his arms.
Your duffel slipped off your shoulder and hit the hallway floor, but neither of you cared. His metal hand spread across your back, gentle even when the rest of him was shaking. His human arm was wrapped around your waist as buried his face against your neck.
You went still, startled by it, and then folded into him without any resistance whatsoever.
Bucky closed his eyes.
His throat tightened so suddenly he almost couldn’t get the words out.
“How long?” he asked.
Your fingers curled into the back of his shirt. “For the foreseeable future.”
Oh.
Oh, stars.
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.
Your eyes were watering. His probably were, too, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have room to care. You swallowed.
“I should’ve asked you first,” you rushed out. “I know. I just wanted it to be a surprise, and Pete thought it might be a good surprise, so I’m—”
Bucky kissed you.
He couldn’t stand to listen to you ask permission to be wanted. Because of course you were wanted.
Yes.
Yes, stay.
Yes, here.
Yes, with me.
You made a broken little noise into his mouth, and Bucky’s hand slid into your hair, holding you there like he was anchoring both of you to the same planet.
When Bucky finally pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then you whispered, “Good surprise?”
Bucky let out a laugh, but it broke. “Yeah,” he said, voice wet. “Yeah, sweetheart. Good surprise.”
You sighed then.
Bucky bent down, picked up your duffel, and stepped back into the apartment. You crossed the threshold, eyes moving over the campaign papers on the table, the tie abandoned on the couch, the books stacked by the window, the stupid square Terran box of a home you had to teased every time you visited.
—
And then life kept going.
You stayed, and the world didn’t collapse.
Bucky still had campaign meetings and reporters still asked questions that made your fingers twitch toward knives you were no longer allowed to carry in certain government buildings. Peter sent too many messages after getting you both a smartphone. Rocket called every once in a while, calling Earth “a bureaucratic sinkhole.” Bucky tried to teach you how primaries worked, and you told him Terrans had made voting sound more complicated than interstellar smuggling.
He won anyway.
By the time Mantis visited Earth months later, Bucky Barnes was now Congressman Barnes, which still sounded fake to your alien brain.
The news loved it, obviously. They wrote all sorts of headlines:
Former Winter Soldier wins historic congressional seat.
James Buchanan Barnes sworn into office.
Congressman Barnes has an alien girlfriend.
That one was your favourite.
You framed it.
Bucky came home one evening, saw it hanging in the hallway of your new DC penthouse, and stopped dead with his briefcase still in his hand.
You were sitting on the floor nearby, sorting through a box of your things and pretending very hard not to watch him notice.
He stared at the headline.
“You framed it,” he said.
“Yes.”
“In the hallway, where guests can see it.”
“That is usually why people hang things in hallways, is it not?”
Bucky sighed, but he didn’t take it down.
The penthouse had been a compromise, which was to say Bucky had wanted something secure and reasonable, and you had wanted the biggest house with the biggest windows.
You’re still not used to Terran skies, but from high up, DC was lovely. You could see glowing roads and monuments with headlights and ridiculous little wheeled vehicles dragging themselves around.
Bucky said the place made sense for security.
When Peter visited for the first time, he looked at the glass walls, the high ceiling, the guest rooms, the kitchen big enough for a small diplomatic crisis, and said, “Oh. So you guys are rich rich now.”
“It’s practical,” Bucky said, even though rich wasn’t a place he’d use.
“It has what? Two walk in closets ” Peter said, and guessed right.
“I wanted a third one for all my knives,” you said. “But I had to compromise.”
Bucky looked at you like he loved you and regretted encouraging you at the same time.
And slowly, it became yours.
You had your weird human boots by his polished shoes. You had strange little space trinkets on his shelves, and your faux fur jacket thrown over the back of his very expensive chair.
When Mantis visited, Peter visited, too.
He was still arguing with security about his blasters when she stepped into the penthouse and looked around with wide eyes.
“Oh,” she said softly. “You live very high.”
Bucky was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, opening pizza boxes.
“Your sister likes windows,” he said.
He said it like your wanting mattered enough to explain the whole place.
Mantis smiled.
Bucky glanced at you, then slid a box toward all three of you. Eventually, Peter sat on the floor like he owned the place. Mantis sat cross-legged beside him, studying her slice with concern. You curled into Bucky’s side on the couch, his arm along the back of it, his knee against yours.
Mantis took one bite and her eyes widened. “This is amazing.”
You looked at Peter, your brother, who had once thrown bolts at you across the floor of a Ravager ship and now sat eating pizza in your living room. You looked at Mantis, your sister, free and alive and choosing her own way through the universe. You looked at Bucky, the man who had once been a one-night stand in a motel room, but now, he was your home in every sense of the word.
And tonight, the universe was small enough to fit in one living room.
Mantis leaned back, pizza balanced carefully in both hands.
“I like Earth,” she said.
You looked at her, then at Peter, then at Bucky.
“Yeah,” you said, leaning into your lover’s side. “It has one or two good things.”
—end.
Extra note: I think this reader would make a wonderful Thunderbolt. Thoughts?
