Summary: It’s been months since they’ve had a break due to group or solo missions, but the moment a little time opens up for both of them, Bucky doesn’t hesitate to escape with you to a beach.
Tags: MNDI!, +18, Smut, Post-Thunderbolts!, Tanned skin, Porn with a bit of plot, p in v, butt kissing (no rimming), unprotected sex, somnophilia, oral (f! Receiving), doggy style, spanking, squirting, a bit of breeding kink, creampie, desperate Bucky, Bucky moaning (because every time a man moans, a fairy is born), no corrections (I wrote this without power, and now I only have 13% battery left)
Masterlist.
It had been far too many long months.
Months in which exhaustion had settled deep into your bones, your muscles, even behind your eyes. You were worn out, stressed, and constantly sore. Bucky, on the other hand, could only claim two of those things. The serum ran through his veins and didn’t allow him to truly experience exhaustion; sleeping little or spending days on missions didn’t knock him down the way it did everyone else. But pain and stress… those still knew how to find him.
The past few months had been filled with too many team meetings, too many group missions, too many solo operations, and too many nights trying to rest on the stiff mattresses of safe houses that never truly felt safe.
Moments for just the two of you had become rare.
And when they did appear, they were simple. Small.
Ordering Chinese food at midnight.
Turning on some random movie on the TV.
Curling up together on the couch.
Movies you almost never finished.
It always happened the same way: one of you would fall asleep first, the other soon after… and the screen would end up illuminating an empty room until some emergency alarm tore you both out of your rest.
But finally—miraculously—a small break appeared.
Four full days.
Four days without missions, without reports, without strategy meetings.
Bucky didn’t give you a chance to argue. He simply appeared in front of you with that calm expression that always came right before a decision he had already made.
He took you straight to the hangar, the two of you climbed into one of the quinjets, and you were airborne before you could ask too many questions.
The destination turned out to be a quiet beach somewhere in the world that you never bothered to identify. You didn’t ask about the country, the city, or the island.
You simply decided to enjoy it.
Now, two days later, you could say with certainty that you were still tired and sore… but in a completely different way.
You had spent the last forty-eight hours swimming in the ocean, riding in a small rented boat, walking barefoot along the shoreline, trying—with little success—to learn how to surf, and diving around the nearby reefs while Bucky watched you with that constant mix of patience and amusement.
The stress had disappeared.
All that remained was the pleasant exhaustion of an improvised vacation, the warmth of the sun on your skin, and the simple happiness of spending time with your boyfriend.
That afternoon, when you returned to the small hotel by the sea—decorated with local crafts and light wooden furniture—you barely made it through the door of the room before collapsing face-down onto the queen-size bed.
A long, exaggerated groan slipped from your throat as your body finally sank into the comfort of the mattress.
The door closed behind Bucky with a soft thud. You stopped paying attention until you heard the familiar sound of something dropping onto the floor: the woven bag you had bought from one of the artisans at the market.
Then his footsteps approached.
You groaned again, softer this time, when you felt two light swats on your backside.
“Darling, you’re going to fill the bed with sand.” His voice carried that amused tone he always used when he knew perfectly well you weren’t going to listen.
You whined softly, forming a small pout while Bucky’s large hand gently moved a few strands of your messy hair aside so he could see your face.
“I’m going to die, Bucky. I can’t feel my legs,” you murmured dramatically.
You heard his quiet laugh as his fingers began to gently massage your scalp.
"Hm, five minutes ago you told me you were going to die of hunger."
"I will."
You opened your eyes lazily and narrowed them accusingly when you noticed the teasing smile on Bucky’s lips.
"What kind of boyfriend lets his girlfriend die twice in a single day?"
You heard his short laugh as he stood up and pulled off the shirt that had grown damp from sweat and the salty sea breeze, reaching into his bag to grab a dry one.
You only shifted slightly on the bed so you could watch the small show he was unintentionally putting on.
You couldn’t help biting your lower lip as a stupid smile spread across your face while you looked at his sun-tanned skin, the color highlighting the shape of his muscles. Your eyes drifted lower when his pants slipped down an extra inch, revealing that sharp contrast in skin tone along his hips and lower abdomen.
You were just about ready to start drooling and ask him to join you on the bed when the fabric of his shirt covered his skin again.
"I won’t be the terrible boyfriend who lets his girlfriend die twice in one day. I’ll go get us something to eat."
Before you could say anything, Bucky leaned down over the bed and placed a soft kiss on the top of your head.
You sighed quietly and closed your eyes as you heard him pick up the room keys and slip his sandals back on.
You were already preparing to take a small nap when your boyfriend’s voice rang out again, making you open your eyes.
"Don’t forget to shower." He teased when he saw you about to fall asleep.
You only groaned dramatically once more, burying your face in the pillow as you heard the door close behind him.
☆
"I'm back, baby. It took them a while to get the ord—"
The sentence died on Bucky’s lips the moment he looked up.
You were fast asleep.
Face down on the bed, your body barely covered by a white towel that wrapped lazily around your figure, as if it might slip off at any moment. Your hair was still damp from the shower and fell messily across your back and the pillow, slightly darkening the fabric beneath it.
Bucky quietly closed the door behind him.
He slipped off his shoes in silence so he wouldn’t wake you and walked over to the small table in the room, placing the takeout bag on top of it. The warm aroma barely escaped through the paper, but even that wasn’t enough to pull you from the deep sleep you had fallen into.
When he looked back at you, a soft smile settled on his face.
He approached slowly, almost reverently.
The warm light of the afternoon filtered through the curtains, drawing golden lines across your skin. Your breathing was slow and peaceful, your back rising and falling gently. Your eyelashes fluttered faintly, a sign of some dream he wasn’t part of.
For a moment, he considered letting you sleep.
Maybe stepping out onto the balcony for a while. Calling Yelena or John to see how things were going at the tower. Making sure the world was still running without the two of you for a few days.
But instead of moving, he stayed there.
Watching you.
It had been far too long since the last time he had truly allowed himself to look at you like this.
Far too long since he had admired your body slowly, without hurry, without alarms sounding in the background, without the constant urgency of the next mission.
Far too long since the last time he had truly worshipped it the way it deserved.
Bucky let out a quiet sigh, almost imperceptible, as he carefully sat down on the edge of the bed.
The mattress barely dipped under his weight.
His hand brushed softly against the back of your thigh, barely a touch at first, as if testing whether that small gesture would be enough to wake you.
It wasn’t.
His fingertips began to move slowly, tracing light strokes across your warm skin. Little by little, the gesture grew more confident, more familiar.
His metal hand joined the other—cold at first, but surprisingly gentle as it began to press carefully into the sore muscles of your legs.
The massage was slow. Patient.
His thumbs pressed softly, easing the tension left behind by hours of swimming, walking, and clumsily falling off a surfboard.
Bucky swallowed when a small sound slipped from your lips.
A soft, barely audible moan.
Your legs shifted in your sleep, parting slightly as your body unconsciously responded to the relief of his hands.
His gaze darkened just a little.
Not with urgency.
But with that dangerous mix of tenderness, desire, and something deeper that always surfaced whenever he saw you like this… vulnerable, relaxed, trusting him completely even while you slept.
And yet, his hands didn’t stop.
His hands moved higher, until his fingertips brushed the top of your buttocks. He hesitated for just a second before withdrawing his hands and slowly, gently removing the white towel.
He let out a soft, nasal chuckle as he looked at the thin lines of your bikini hugging your hips and that fine line disappearing between your buttocks.
His hands returned to gently massaging your legs, occasionally moving up to your buttocks to squeeze the soft skin between his fingers, just to hear soft sighs and moans escape your lips.
Bucky’s mouth was starting to water at the sight before him: you, so desirable and exposed for him.
He swallowed hard before leaning toward you, pressing his lips slowly and reverently against your rounded skin. His breath caught as he took in the fresh, clean scent of soap lingering on your skin.
His kisses grew wild, filled with tongue and teeth that left shiny trails of saliva and the soft scratches of his teeth against your tanned skin. It was only a matter of minutes before he found himself panting and breathing heavily against your skin, while an unbearable pressure built up inside his pants thanks to your soft moans and murmurs against the bedsheets.
“James…” you murmured.
Hearing you call his name in that sweet tone, and knowing that you thought of him even in your dreams, was enough to take things a step further.
His metal hand spread your legs a little wider, then both hands moved to your hips, lifting them off the mattress so he could see your folds in all their glory.
His hot breath brushed against your skin, and then he caressed your slit with the tip of his nose, filling his lungs with your warm, sweet scent that invited him to take you.
That hot, wet muscle was the next to caress the center of your folds as his eyes closed and he stifled a moan in his throat. His slow, delicate, adoring licks gradually took on a confident rhythm as your hole began to tighten around nothing and drip with your arousal.
You moaned a little louder now, and your legs barely moved. You weren’t aware of what was happening, but it would undoubtedly be a pleasant surprise to wake up with your beloved boyfriend devouring your pussy just as he loved to do.
His lips closed around your clitoris, sucking hard enough to make your hands grip the sheets and your lips part just enough to let out a lewd moan.
Bucky knew you wouldn’t be long in waking up, judging by the way your breathing quickened and your eyelashes fluttered more than before, so he didn’t want to waste any more time. The tip of his tongue traced your entrance a couple of times before eagerly penetrating that wet, hot hole.
He could only moan against your folds as he savored you fully with his tongue, and his hands gripped your hips lightly while he enjoyed your heat and arousal for a few seconds before beginning to lick your inner walls, which pulsed around him. He felt you squeezing him, wanting and needing more of him.
Your eyelids began to open slowly and heavily, as if you’d just woken from a restful sleep, but your eyes soon closed again as you let out a long moan of pleasure, feeling Bucky’s hard work between your legs.
You could hear the wet, obscene sound of licking and sucking, along with Bucky’s ragged breathing and muffled moans against your wet center.
“Bucky… Baby…” you murmured, barely catching your breath.
You heard him hum against your flesh, then pull his tongue out of you and suck on your sensitive mound, the tip of his nose pressing lightly against your opening.
“You’re awake, baby,” he said in a hoarse voice, then licked his lips, which were coated with your taste. “You were sleeping so beautifully, and I needed to taste you.”
It didn’t take him long to get back to the job of eating your pussy.
His tongue circled your clit with rough, wet licks while you barely regained control of your legs, propping yourself up clumsily on your knees. The scratch of his stubble against your folds was enough to make your legs tremble.
“I need you. I need you so much, baby.” He moaned desperately as he rose up behind you.
His hand slapped your butt—a signal you were used to, one he used to order you to lift your ass and press your chest and face against the mattress. And you did it without hesitation while he hurriedly stripped off his clothes.
Your toes curled, and you pushed your hips back as you felt the thick tip of his cock rubbing between your folds, teasing you and soaking up your wetness. Your breath caught in your throat when the tip began pressing against your clit.
“Fuck me, Bucky…” you murmured into the sheets.
“Fuck, fuck, baby…” He bit his lip as he positioned himself against your entrance. “You’re so wet for me.”
Your lips parted to let out a trembling moan as you felt your entrance slowly stretching under his thrust. You’d missed and needed that calmness during sex, that exquisite, gentle heat of his large member slowly entering you, letting you savor every inch of him and hear Bucky’s shameless moans.
His hips gently slapped your butt as he sank completely into you, and his hands went to your buttocks, spreading them just to see your entrance stretched and filled with his cock, glistening with your fluids.
“Oh, God,” he moaned as he slowly slid out and then thrust back in. “This… This little pussy loves me… It was made for me.”
The thrusts started out slow and deep, enough to build the heat inside your bellies and the need. Every movement let you feel every ridge and every vein. Your hips began to rock toward him, taking him even deeper into your wet, throbbing heat.
The moment the head of his cock touched that spot, you let out a lustful moan—enough to encourage Bucky to pick up the pace and ravage that tender spot inside you. You were so lost in the pleasurable sensations that his name began to escape your lips in the form of moans. Trembling, pleading moans.
Bucky’s hands left your hips to wrap his right arm around your neck while his left arm hugged your waist, pinning you against the mattress with his weight as his cock withdrew until only the tip remained inside, then plunged back in all the way, letting his testicles slap against your folds, causing that slapping of skin.
Your vision was blurred, and thousands of sensations assaulted your body as you neared orgasm. One of your hands clung to the disheveled sheets while the other gripped Bucky’s muscular arm, digging your nails into it slightly as you moaned, completely overwhelmed by his cock.
“O-Oh, baby. I’m close, I’m close,” Bucky said with effort between moans as he continued to thrust mercilessly inside you. “D-Do you want it inside? Do you want my babies inside?”
Your pussy tightened with desire around his length, drawing an obscene moan from your boyfriend, who pressed his sweaty forehead against your shoulder.
“Bucky! P-Please, please. Give it to me.” You begged breathlessly as your legs trembled.
“I love your greedy pussy, always craving my cum. I can’t wait to see it dripping.”
The intense heat and tingling in your belly had you on the verge of delirium. The pleasure of having your boyfriend fucking you desperately was too much; his cock relentlessly pounded the right spot while he pressed open-mouthed kisses against your tanned skin.
Finally, you screamed your orgasm as your pussy fluttered and tightened around him. Your hips went through a few spasms as your squirt left a wet stain on the sheets.
Bucky, consumed by desire and feeling his limit, held your trembling, limp body tightly as he continued to thrust hard and without mercy until his own cock began to throb violently, releasing his hot, thick essence between your sensitive, tight walls.
You were breathless, moaning with delight as you felt that exquisite heat inside you spreading and seeping out of you, and above all, exhausted.
Bucky’s legs gave way little by little, letting you lie back on the bed while his arms loosened their grip on you until you were finally lying down, your bodies still pressed together. The sound of your heavy breathing was the only thing to be heard in the room until your stomach growled, and then you moaned in embarrassment while he let out a soft, exhausted laugh.
He found it amusing to see you just as you were when you returned from the beach: completely exhausted and hungry.
Pairing: Post Thunderbolts! Bucky Barnes × Female! Reader.
Word count: 2k
Summary: The super soldier serum running through your beloved husband's veins had slightly affected your baby, causing him not to cry from hunger in the early hours of the morning... or perhaps it was a white lie from your husband.
Tags: Established relationship, Domestic Bucky, Bucky and reader just had a baby, baby's name is Stevie (in honour of Steve Rogers or Stevie Nicks, you decide), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Bucky is a responsible man and father, reader cannot produce milk (why? script stuff), Stevie looks like you, Bucky telling white lies, mentions of Bucky's abilities as a super soldier, Stevie spitting up, Nicknames (princess, sweetheart), Bucky with short hair, No y/n, My native language is not English (I apologise for any mistakes).
Notes: The first of my WIPs that I'm publishing. I wanted to publish something before getting busy with my university exams this week.
I thought about giving Stevie a different name, but I like the headcanon that Steve and Bucky promised to name one of their children after each other.
Masterlist.
You shifted as you usually did in the middle of the night, moving closer to the side of the bed that belonged to Bucky, searching for his warmth and intending to tease him a little by pressing your cold feet against his legs. Instead, you found only the faint, almost nonexistent trace of the heat his body had left behind in the sheets.
Sleepily, you opened your eyes, fighting your way out of your drowsiness, only to confirm that Bucky wasn’t beside you. You slowly turned toward the nightstand and glanced at the clock: 3:24 a.m.
It wasn’t the first time you’d woken up and found him gone at that hour. You’d always assumed he was simply in the bathroom or reviewing data on upcoming missions the team was preparing for. After all, because of his paternity leave—and its extensions—he only helped from a distance, designing strategies and analyzing information.
Closing your eyes again sounded far too tempting… until, in the absolute silence of the early morning, you heard a barely perceptible murmur coming from the baby’s room.
You frowned slightly, confused. Was Bucky with Stevie? They only went into her room at night when she cried—because of a dirty diaper, being too cold or too warm, or the simple—and powerful—need to be held. And, strangely enough, she never cried from hunger.
During the first two days of your daughter’s life, you had been terrified, imagining every catastrophic reason why Stevie didn’t cry from hunger in the middle of the night. It was Bucky who, with an almost absurd calm, convinced you that maybe his DNA had influenced something as basic as the baby’s nighttime appetite.
As silly as it sounded, you ended up believing him… especially since Stevie was growing a little more than other babies her age.
Curiosity began to gnaw at you, even more so because you hadn’t heard your daughter cry at all. Without hesitation, you swung your legs out of bed and walked barefoot, with deliberate slowness, toward her room. With each silent step, the murmur became clearer, until it was undeniable: your husband was talking to Stevie.
“You’re a baby with a big appetite, aren’t you, princess?” Bucky murmured, his voice laced with affection.
You heard a soft sound from your baby—more of a sigh than a cry—followed by the gentle rhythm of sucking.
“Shh, princess. Let’s not wake mommy. She already does so much during the day.”
When you reached the doorway, you saw him from behind. His flesh arm held Stevie carefully, while his vibranium arm seemed occupied with something else.
The black and gold metal gleamed softly under the warm light of the small lamp, while confusion flickered across your face.
“James,” you murmured, a hint of severity in your voice.
You noticed his shoulders tense immediately, and the soothing murmurs stopped for a few seconds. Bucky had been so absorbed in feeding Stevie—so focused on her tiny face and quietly adoring the small, unmistakable similarities to yours—that he hadn’t heard you get out of bed or walk down the hall.
Slowly, he turned around, caught red-handed. In his vibranium hand, he held a baby bottle, while Stevie remained blissfully unaware of everything, calmly sucking on the formula.
Bucky opened his mouth as if he were about to say something right away, but no words came out. His blue eyes moved from Stevie to you, and then to the bottle, still held with a natural ease that betrayed him.
His ears had warmed slightly with embarrassment at being caught, even though outwardly he still radiated that calm that had always undone you.
“I…” He fell silent for a few seconds, searching for the right words. “I just wanted to make things easier for you… You already did so much for nine months.”
You crossed your arms without realizing it, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe, watching Stevie continue to eat with solemn concentration, as if the entire world had narrowed down to finishing the contents of the bottle.
“You told me she wasn’t hungry at night,” you said slowly, without raising your voice. “You told me it was… genetic.”
Bucky lowered his gaze for a second. Just one. It was enough.
“I didn’t completely lie,” he murmured, not fully convinced by his own words. “I just… left some parts out.”
He rested his hip lightly against the crib and adjusted Stevie against his chest with almost reverent care. The bottle dipped slightly when she made a small sound of protest, and he reacted immediately, repositioning it with a precision learned quietly, in secret from you.
“She does get hungry,” he continued. “But not always. And when it happens… I wake up as soon as she starts fussing, right before she cries.”
You pushed away from the doorframe and took a few steps closer, finally entering the room. The warm light softened the dark circles beneath his eyes—ones he’d always had, but which now made it clear this hadn’t happened for just one night. There was routine in his movements. Practice.
Now those nights of complete calm in your bed began to make sense, as did Stevie’s occasional nighttime cries. He only let her cry after her stomach was full, just enough not to raise suspicion about your daughter’s midnight snacks—or her lack of hunger cries at night.
“Have you been extending your paternity leave so you can keep an eye on Stevie?” you asked.
Bucky hesitated for a few seconds before finally nodding softly and taking a step toward you.
The air caught in your chest. Not from anger—not entirely. It was a strange mix: tenderness, confusion, a soft sting from having been left out… and a deeper one when you realized how much he had been carrying on his own.
Your husband wasn’t a man of many words; at times, expressing his feelings and worries didn’t come easily to him. But his actions always made his love for you unmistakably clear.
“James…” you said again, but now your voice held no severity. “You could have told me.”
“I know,” he replied immediately. “But I know how demanding babies are. I remember when Rebecca was one. And Stevie…” He looked at the baby, who was now blinking slowly, satisfied. “She’s a calm baby, but even so, I don’t want you to feel overwhelmed.”
Stevie released the bottle on her own with a tiny sigh, and Bucky smiled without realizing it. That private smile he showed no one but the two of you.
You took the last few steps closer and reached out, gently brushing your hand over your daughter’s head, feeling her warmth. Then you looked at your husband.
“Next time,” you said softly, “don’t decide on your own.”
Bucky let out a low breath as he looked at Stevie and nodded slowly. Then he stayed still for a moment, as if afraid to break something fragile with one movement too many. Carefully, he removed the now-empty bottle and set it down on one of the white pieces of furniture near the crib. Then he shifted the baby’s position, resting her against his chest and patting her back gently—patient, attentive, focused on helping her burp.
And then you understood with a soft, overwhelming clarity: he hadn’t lied out of indifference, nor from a lack of trust… but because he was learning, in his own clumsy and silent way, how to be a father.
“You forgot to put a… towel.”
You didn’t finish the sentence. Stevie beat you to it, letting out a small spit-up that landed directly on Bucky’s gray shirt, staining his shoulder and part of his back.
Bucky released a long exhale as he squeezed his eyes shut and wrinkled his nose slightly. For a second, he seemed torn between the instinct to pull away and the need to stay put, as if this were just another mission he had to get through.
You couldn’t help letting out a soft laugh.
You opened one of the drawers and took out a small baby towel, stepping closer behind Bucky to carefully wipe the corner of Stevie’s mouth. Far from being bothered, the baby let out a sweet little giggle as the fabric brushed her lips, her tiny hands moving slightly as if celebrating the attention.
Bucky opened his eyes, and his expression shifted slowly—from resignation to something like awe.
He loved hearing the two of you laugh.
“That’s Stevie’s way of marking her territory,” you joked lightly.
You were unaware of the sideways glance Bucky kept giving you as you tried to help, running the towel over the white stain on his shirt. When you finally lifted your gaze, you caught that faint hint of a smile as he looked at you with complete focus.
“I hear her laugh, and I hear you,” he said slowly. “I look at her, and I look at you.” He let out a brief nasal chuckle and shook his head.
Bucky adjusted the baby in his arms, changing her position so he could rock her gently. It didn’t take long before he turned fully, until the two of you were face to face.
You looked at him with tenderness, a silly smile on your face as you listened to your husband express himself like that—so sweet, so vulnerable.
“My genes barely even tried,” he joked, drawing a soft laugh from you. “But I’m glad they didn’t…”
He lowered his gaze to Stevie, then lifted it back to you, more serious now, more honest.
“I’m the father of a little girl who looks like you. Like the woman I love most.”
The weight of his words settled slowly in your chest, warm and deep. Stevie sighed, already half asleep, as if the rocking and the closeness of her parents wrapped around her completely.
“Then,” you murmured, “we’re raising someone dangerous.”
Bucky let out a low laugh and carefully wrapped his free arm around both of you, forming a small, improvised shelter in the middle of the night.
“Definitely,” he replied. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Bucky adjusted his hold, cradling Stevie with the care of someone holding something irreplaceable. The baby nestled against his chest, calm and completely trusting, and that simple gesture tightened your heart.
“I didn’t mean to lie to you,” he added afterward, not looking at you. “I just… wanted to carry everything myself first. I don’t really get tired—I can go days without sleeping—and this wouldn’t affect me the way it would you. I thought that was how I was protecting you.”
“Protecting doesn’t always mean carrying everything alone,” you replied softly. “Sometimes it means letting yourself be accompanied.”
Bucky nodded slowly. There were no defenses in him, no extra explanations—only acceptance.
The milk stain was still there, forgotten, like a silent proof of a night they didn’t plan to remember clearly, but that would stay with them all the same.
Stevie made a small sound, almost a sigh, and finally fell completely asleep.
“Look at that,” Bucky whispered. “She trusts us without knowing anything about the world.”
You smiled, caught between vertigo and peace.
Carefully, he released you and leaned down to settle Stevie into the crib. The baby stirred slightly, frowned as if protesting in her sleep, and then went still, breathing softly. Bucky stayed bent over her a moment longer, watching the gentle rise and fall of her tiny chest.
“Sweetheart, go get some sleep, okay?” he said quietly. “I need to clean the kitchen… I made a bit of a mess while preparing the bottle.”
You raised an eyebrow slightly, a soft smile forming on your lips as you imagined the “small mess” by his standards.
“You broke another bottle, didn’t you?”
Bucky didn’t answer. That silence was more than enough to confirm your suspicions.
“Don’t tell me it was the pink bottle with the little bears… that one is really cute.”
“Bed,” he ordered gently, leaning in to place a light kiss on your temple and giving your hip a reassuring pat.
Without any objection, you turned off the lamp carefully, leaving the room wrapped in warm shadows. Before leaving, you paused for a moment to look one last time at your husband leaning over the crib, watching his daughter with a mix of clumsiness and devotion, quietly learning what it meant to love in an entirely new way.
Summary: Your boyfriend is too anxious, or happy, to open his gift.
Word count: +500 words.
Tags: MDNI!, +18, sexual content (if you are underage, do not interact with this work or I will block you), pwp, established relationship, Valentine's Day gift, oral sex (f! Receiving), spanking, reader on all fours, biting, pussy nicknames, Bucky loves talking to pussies, Bucky dominant (?), Bucky pervert, it is suggested that Bucky and the reader will have anal sex and black kiss, no beta reader, no corrections (sorry, I trust this turned out decent), possible errors (my native language is not English)
Notes: I haven't written smut in a while and I tried to write something quick and short even though I'm sleepy. I promise to upload something more detailed and longer soon!
Masterlist.
You clung to the belief that it was a bad idea to have agreed to give Bucky what he had wanted so badly and had kept him obsessed for a couple of months, and you finally decided that this would be one of his Valentine's Day gifts.
That had led to you being upside down and embarrassed, with your wrists tied behind your back with a red ribbon and your bum in the air, while Bucky was planting kisses on your buttocks and the back of your thighs. And it had also led to you being terribly aroused.
"Oh, this beauty missed her man. She's so wet."
You let out a soft sigh as you felt Bucky's warm breath hit your skin and unconsciously arched your back slightly, pressing your chest against the mattress and lifting your bum.
Bucky let out a soft chuckle when he saw how eager you were and ran his hands over your thighs, caressing them and moving up to your buttocks to squeeze them. He couldn't take his eyes off the wet spot on your knickers and the way the fabric was tucked between your cheeks.
He was too hard inside his boxers, and the thought of being inside you, breaking in your hole, made him anxious.
His hands grabbed the waistband of your knickers and pulled them down until they were rolled up around his knees, and he groaned in his throat when he saw the folds of your pussy wet with excitement.
You moaned softly into the sheets and buried your face deeper into them when Bucky's thumbs parted your folds, exposing your entrance, drooling and tightening around nothing.
His index finger pressed gently against your entrance, making you clench your hands into fists and bite your lower lip.
"Baby, you're eager for me, aren't you?"
You knew he wasn't talking to you, he was talking to your cunt. Just the way he liked to do it.
"Bucky..." You whispered his name softly.
His finger moved away from your pussy only to give your bum a hard spank, making you shudder and moan a little louder.
"Quiet, I'm talking to my girl." He said brusquely, then returned to his honeyed voice. "Don't worry, I'll give you some of my love so you don't get jealous."
Bucky's tongue soon began to lick between your folds, causing your breath to catch as you felt him move up towards your eager entrance.
Your thighs trembled as you felt him enter, caressing your walls with deliberate slowness while his finger, coated with your wetness, caressed your tight ring.
You could hear him humming as he devoted himself to eating your pussy.
When his tongue slipped out of your pussy, he pressed his lips against your pussy, leaving a loud, messy kiss on your lower lips.
You wanted to moan his name, ask him to give you some relief with his lips, but you knew you would only earn yourself a spanking by interrupting him in his task.
You felt him sprinkle wet kisses on both your thighs until he reached your buttocks, getting closer to his final goal. His teeth lightly scratched your soft skin as his finger left your tight entrance.
"I should introduce myself to you, sweetheart," he murmured against your rear entrance. "Let my mouth get to know you."
Summary: Lee's plans for a quiet morning are interrupted by his girlfriend, who woke up hornier and more capricious than usual.
Tags: MDNI! +18, sexual content (if you are underage, do not interact with this work or I will block you), age difference (Lee in his forties), adult reader, porn without plot, p in v, unprotected sex (please use it), daddy kink, spanking (use of hand and belt), table sex, rough sex, dirty talk, Lee's ass fixation, creampie, no y/n, nicknames (use of slut). My native language is not English, so there may be possible mistakes (especially since my trusted translator isn't working). No corrections because it's 3 am and I'm going to schedule the publication.
Notes: I haven't posted anything in a while because I haven't managed to finish my drafts, but I finally had a burst of inspiration tonight after seeing the gif (which I found on Pinterest, by the way). I've been wanting to write something about Lee for a while now, and I finally got around to it today.
Masterlist.
The cool morning air gently caressed Lee's face as he gazed listlessly at the verdant horizon.
Sunlight filtering through the pines cast lazy patterns on the wooden planks of the porch, where he sat waiting in his rocking chair.
His mood, initially calm, was beginning to sour as he watched the sun slowly climb higher; soon, the walk to the lake would be unbearable.
The night before, just before you'd fallen asleep from the exhaustion of an intense night out, he'd told you he wanted to take you early so you could admire the view and maybe dip your feet in the water. But now it was getting late, and you still hadn't gotten up.
Minutes ticked by, and he was about to get up to go find you himself when the soft rustling of your bare feet on the wood stopped him in his tracks.
When the screen opened, I expected to see you ready, shoes dangling from your hands. Instead, you appeared disheveled, wrapped in his white sheriff's shirt, which fit you like a little dress.
"Good morning, darling." You crooned sweetly as you approached.
You settled into his lap naturally, as if it had always been your place. Your legs swung over the armrest, one arm encircling his neck and the other resting on his cheek, pulling him closer to leave a series of soft kisses on his skin.
His hands, almost instinctively, went to your waist and hips. His fingers tightened slightly against the fabric when you pressed your breasts against his, his fingers not feeling the lace of your panties beneath your shirt.
"We had plans for this morning, remember?" He murmured, with a hint of displeasure.
But you continued kissing him, tracing his cheek to his jawline, feeling the light brush of his stubble without it bothering you.
Your body moved gently against his, and your persistence finally betrayed you: you had woken up today particularly demanding of his attention.
"It doesn't matter… we can do it tomorrow."
And also… a little capricious.
He had to fix that.
Your hand gently pulled her face closer to yours, placing short, impatient kisses on his lips, which he didn't return, making you let out a soft moan.
Lee let out a low sigh, more resigned than annoyed.
The lake, the walk, the tranquility he had planned... All of that seemed to slip away with every second you tried to provoke him, to quell the hunger you'd woken up with.
"You always do the same thing, beautiful..." he murmured against your lips.
His fingers, which had been tense, finally relaxed, only to slide beneath your shirt. He squeezed the flesh of your hip before leaning his head back slightly to return your insistent kisses with that slow, sensuality you loved.
There was something about the way you settled in, the confidence with which you invaded his space, that disarmed almost any attempt to stand firm.
Almost.
Because Lee loved putting you in your place.
And you loved it when he did.
His hand on your back gathered the fabric into a fist, leaving your bottom exposed so he could caress and squeeze those perfect, tender globes of flesh.
"I should get you something shorter than my shirts..." he murmured huskily as his lips traced your jawline. "Maybe a cute apron, so I can watch that cute little bottom peek out every time you bend down to take the cookies out of the oven..."
The rocking chair creaked softly as he moved you just enough to make you feel his growing interest beneath you.
A small shiver ran down your spine as Lee's hand began to travel up your side until it reached your breasts. His thumb brushed against your nipple with deliberate pressure, and you let out a longing sigh.
"Damn, look at you," he whispered, his voice husky, deep with desire. "This little slut barely woke up and she's already craving Daddy's attention."
He caressed your entire chest. Calluses dug into your sensitive skin in a way that made you arch at his touch as your folds moistened.
Lee unbuttoned your shirt just enough to expose your breasts to the morning air, and his mouth latched onto them in a dirty, open suction, a suction that made you moan with delight at the attention you were receiving. Lee only pulled back to see it glisten with the smear of his saliva.
His hand moved back down to grasp your ass, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh as his hips moved up, rubbing his erection against you.
"You're a tease."
His breath hit your ear before his teeth caught your lobe, tugging playfully as his palm slapped your ass. The high-pitched sound echoed through the trees, accompanied by your squeal.
"Daddy likes to spank me..." you whispered, already incredibly aroused by the heat on your buttocks.
Lee's laughter was rough with excitement.
"Of course he does," he growled, delivering another hard slap that made you shudder against him. "A cute little ass, all red and marked, just for me... Fucking perfect."
"D-Daddy..." you squealed as his hand slapped harder, making your hips clench against his.
Your buttocks were painted a soft pink, the outline of his fingers imprinted on your skin, and a heat that only made you crave more, your pussy a testament to that.
“I’m going to drag you back inside,” he promised in his dark voice. “Daddy will show you what real spanking feels like when I have you bent over the table.”
His palm landed again, stinging more this time. Your gasp in response made his cock twitch beneath you, straining against the denim.
The rocking chair protested violently as he suddenly stood up, pinning your legs beneath your knees and placing his other hand on your back, while your arms clung to his neck.
You desperately sought his lips, kissing him with need and passion, feeling his tongue slip into your mouth as he managed to open the screen door and enter the cabin to take you where he promised.
You moaned in protest as Lee broke the kiss so he could release your legs and force you to let go. With his hands on your hips, he turned you around, bending you over the wooden dining table, your ass at his mercy.
His hands caressed your hot cheeks, pushing your shirt higher up your waist.
Lee's breath was ragged as he yanked off his belt. The leather slid through the denim belt loops with a hiss that made your thighs tremble.
"Look at you..." He growled. His free hand smoothed the hot curve of your ass. "All pretty and pink, begging for more..."
The first slash of the belt landed with a crunch that made you jump up on your tiptoes. Your answering cry echoed off the cabin walls as your fingers gripped the edges of the table.
"D-Daddy!"
"Harder," he demanded as his boot pushed against your foot, spreading your legs wider. "I want more of those sweet little sounds."
He dragged the cold leather between your legs, spreading your moisture across the material and making you moan for the brief attention where you needed it most.
Another lash, this one lower, right where your ass met your thigh, made your back arch wildly and your pussy drip even more. Your eyes soon watered from the pleasurable pain that was starting to turn your ass red.
The belt whistled through the air again, followed by another crack accompanied by your whimpers.
"You love that, huh?" His hand reached possessively over where the leather had kissed your skin. "You're all wet like the little slut you are," he growled.
His thumb slid between your folds, collecting some of your lubrication, and then two fingers went separately to your clitoris, rubbing it just enough to make you sob. But then he pulled his hand away again.
The next lash was deliberately harder, enough to make you jerk your hips forward and your pussy rub against the cold wood.
"Daddy... I-I need you so much, Daddy..." you moaned through tears. "I'll be a good girl and take what you give me."
Each strike of the belt against your sensitive skin made you sob and writhe against the table, finding pleasure in rubbing your swollen clitoris against the edge.
Lee's own hips jerked involuntarily as he watched you rub against him, staining the table with your aroused fluids. Your young, sweet, and angelic appearance contrasted sharply with the needy and desperate girl you truly were.
You were the dirtiest and most exciting image he had ever seen in his entire life.
It only took a few taps of the belt and the intense thrusts of your hips for you to gasp and moan your orgasm. A sharp, short one, leaving you not entirely satisfied.
His breath caught in his throat as your thighs trembled, and he dropped the belt to the floor.
"Ruined by just Daddy's belt marks on this gorgeous ass," he hissed, gripping your hips tightly.
One of his hands slid through the mess between your legs, collecting your lubrication before sliding two fingers inside without warning.
Your walls tightened around him instantly, and the moment his fingers curled, pressing and massaging exactly where they needed to, you arched your back against the table and sobbed with delight as your legs twisted.
His fingers withdrew, and before you could complain, the metallic click of your zipper being lowered kept you silent and eager.
Lee barely lowered his clothes enough for his cock to spring free, followed by the wet thud of his bare skin hitting your wet folds.
"Stay put," he ordered, his voice tense, as he guided himself to your hypersensitive entrance. "I'm going to give you what that greedy cunt has been asking for."
With a brutal thrust, he enveloped himself, up to the hilt, in your hot, dripping cunt. His groan joined your shattered sob as your walls contracted around him.
"Fuck! That's right... Squeeze me that hard."
His hips moved forward, pressing you harder against the table.
"Oh, God!" you moaned, trembling and tearful. "Y-You always fill me up so good, Daddy!"
Your hands went to your buttocks, which were hot and red from the previous rough treatment, to spread them apart and let him fill you completely with each violent thrust.
"Mine," he growled as his hand went to the back of your neck to keep you pressed against the wood.
The smacking of skin against skin muffled your moans as he thrust roughly, seeking his own orgasm. His grunts were harsh and heart-rending.
Lee realized you were close to orgasm because of the way your pussy was sucking him in harder and your moans and whimpers were higher than before because of the heat and tingling that swirled in your belly. He redoubled his efforts, further abusing your delicate pussy.
"S-Shit, baby." He groaned breathlessly. “I’m going to fill you up, you’re going to drip so much.”
His rhythm faltered, then stopped; his release flooded you with a groan that vibrated through your spine as you reached an overwhelming orgasm that left you breathless and weak.
The cabin fell silent, except for your shared gasps; he released the back of your neck and his forehead fell between your shoulder blades as he caught his breath.
Summary: The social season begins with the promise of the same old rituals: candlelit balls, measured conversation, and carefully arranged marriages. However, everything changes with the arrival of Dr. Barnes. Reserved, extraordinarily wealthy, and unnaturally handsome, the mysterious doctor immediately captivates London society. His impeccable bearing, sharp intellect, and vast knowledge have earned him a place among the elite, as well as the absolute trust of the Earl of Albemarle, who invites him into the most exclusive salons and introduces him as an irreproachable gentleman. For you, the daughter of a marquis, raised under the weight of duty and expectations, Dr. Barnes is a temptation you must never allow yourself. He does not belong to your world... and yet, he seems to understand you like no one else. But the love that begins to blossom between you is not only inappropriate: it is dangerous and impossible. For Dr. Barnes harbors an ancient and dark secret, one that dooms any hope of a shared future.
Tags: MDNI, +18, strangers to lovers, slow burn, mutual longing, attempt at a gothic romance, set during the Regency period (yeah, this is like Bridgerton x Twilight), Bucky is a vampire, Bucky is a doctor, vampire abilities (Dreamwalker and typical vampire abilities), age difference (again, Bucky is a vampire), discrimination for not belonging to the nobility, reader is 20 years old, reader is the daughter of a marquis, arranged marriages, machism of the period, limitations of women of the period, age differences in marriages, reader with her own desires, panic attacks, reader's mother is dead, very complicated relationship between reader and her father, possible historical errors, possible grammatical errors since English is not my native language.
The morning of your presentation dawned gray.
Not with a dramatic storm or a sky heavy with lightning, but with that particular kind of London sky covered in pale clouds that seemed to drain the color from everything they touched. The light was dull, almost sickly, filtering weakly through the clouds as though even the sun had decided to watch the day from a distance.
For you, there was no color at all.
There was no excitement.
No anticipation.
Only that persistent feeling of loss and emptiness settling heavily in your chest.
It was the beginning of a future that filled you with no hope.
It was the beginning of a life you did not want to live.
The night before, you had wished for rain.
Not a light drizzle, but a relentless storm that would turn the streets into rivers of mud and force everyone to remain inside their homes. You had imagined your father staring out the window in disgust, refusing to risk his reputation — and your white dress — in such dreadful weather.
But the sky had decided to remain merely overcast. Now, as the carriage moved slowly through an endless line of elegant vehicles outside the palace, your hands rested perfectly upon your lap.
Still.
Calm.
Every finger placed exactly where it ought to be.
You looked every bit the proper and elegant young lady.
Your governess would have been proud.
Your father also seemed satisfied… in part. Only in part, because he would never be completely satisfied when it came to you.
From the seat across from you, he watched with that same evaluating gaze he always used whenever something belonged to his reputation. Your dress was impeccable. Your posture correct. Your hair perfectly arranged.
Soft.
Delicate.
Modest.
Everything a marquis’s daughter was meant to be.
And yet he still disliked you.
Especially your expression.
Too serious.
Too empty.
Too much like mourning — though he would never admit such a thing and would always cling to the belief that it was merely rebellion.
Leah, seated beside you, remained silent. Her hands rested together on her skirt, her gaze lowered to a nonexistent point inside the carriage. You did not need to look at her to know what she was thinking. She understood far too well what this day meant to you.
At last, the carriage came to a stop.
Through the window, you could see other young women stepping down: white dresses, long gloves, delicate feathers adorning carefully crafted hairstyles.
All molded from the same pattern in which they had been raised.
Perfect young ladies, prepared to be… chosen.
A footman opened the door.
Your father descended first, immaculate in his dark suit and wearing the stern expression reserved for official occasions. Then he offered you his hand.
“Remember what is expected of you.” He said quietly as he helped you down.
It was not advice. It was a warning.
The interior of the palace was even more imposing than the exterior façade.
The marble floors gleamed like mirrors beneath the chandelier light. Uniformed servants guided families through the vast corridors while a constant murmur of elegant voices filled the air.
Perfume, feathers, and nerves floated everywhere.
The debutantes waited in an antechamber.
As you entered, the sound of conversation softened, becoming more nervous.
Some young women discreetly practiced their curtsies. Others adjusted details of their gowns or hairstyles. A few whispered among themselves, trying to guess who would become the queen’s favorite that season.
Your father was immediately absorbed into conversation with other nobles.
For the first time in weeks, you felt the urge to cry. Panic began to slip slowly through your body like ice beneath your skin. A chill formed in your abdomen. Your breathing, already restricted by the corset compressing your waist to impossibility, became uneven — too fast and too shallow. You could even feel your breakfast slowly rising in your throat.
The murmur of the room began to fade around you, as though the world were being covered in cotton. Your vision narrowed. Your hands started to grow cold.
The only thing that managed to pull you from the beginning of that storm was Leah’s voice… and her warm hand resting against your forearm.
“Breathe.” She whispered.
“I am breathing.”
“Not enough.”
A young woman beside you let out a trembling sigh, born from a fear entirely different from yours.
“They say the queen knows immediately who will be a success during the season and who will become a spinster.”
Another replied:
“My cousin fainted during her presentation.”
Leah shot you an amused glance, trying to anchor you back to reality.
“Do not do that.”
You managed something resembling a laugh.
“I was not planning to, but it is a good idea.”
A royal butler then entered the room. His face was stern, and the countless wrinkles around his eyes made it obvious how many generations of debutantes he had watched pass through that chamber.
He probably also knows who will be a success and who will become a spinster, you thought.
“The young ladies will be called in order.” He announced firmly.
The murmur died almost instantly, and you would have wagered that some debutantes and their mothers had stopped breathing entirely from nerves.
One by one, names began to be called.
Each debutante crossed the double doors into the grand hall where the queen awaited, ready to examine each of them from head to toe. After several minutes they would return — some radiant, certain they had pleased the queen or buoyed by a kind remark from her, while others came back pale as paper or with tears already slipping down their cheeks.
Your turn arrived sooner than you expected.
“The daughter of the Marquess of Blackthorne, accompanied by the Right Honorable Lady Blackthorne.”
You exhaled slowly as the white doors opened before you.
For one second, your heart stopped beating.
Your mind disconnected.
It was as though a part of you had shut down… simply to get through that moment as quickly as possible.
Your face remained perfectly composed, wearing the flawless smile expected of you.
Hundreds of eyes turned toward you the instant you entered. Nobles lined both sides of the hall watched with restrained interest while the soft music of a small string ensemble filled the space.
At the far end of the hall, upon a small platform, sat the queen.
Majestic.
Dressed in shimmering silks and jewels that captured the light of the room. Her posture was flawless, her expression impossible to read.
You walked down the center of the hall.
Every step was measured and graceful.
Your white gown glided softly across the polished floor while its train was carried by a page and Leah walked several steps behind you.
When you finally reached the throne, you stopped, holding your breath once more, and performed a deep, perfect curtsy full of respect while keeping your gaze lowered to the floor.
The silence lasted only a moment.
Then the queen spoke your name, her voice curiously warm.
“We have heard that your debut has been highly anticipated.”
You carefully lifted your gaze, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten beneath such unexpected attention from the queen.
That attention could only mean one thing.
More eyes upon you.
More suitors.
More expectations.
“It is an honor to stand before Your Majesty.”
The queen observed you for several seconds that seemed to stretch far longer than they should have.
Her eyes were sharp, far too perceptive, as though she were seeing something beyond your dress, your posture, or your surname. Then, a small smile appeared on her lips.
Under different circumstances, it would have filled you with pride, but now it only made you feel as though your ruin was drawing near.
“A young lady with… interesting poise.”
The comment stirred a faint murmur among the nearby nobles.
The queen lifted her hand slightly.
“Enjoy the season.”
It was a dismissal.
You curtsied once more before carefully stepping back.
When you turned to leave the hall, you felt the weight of all those male gazes upon you again.
Evaluating.
Calculating.
Imagining possible futures.
The doors opened once more to let you pass.
And you walked down the corridor far too quickly, feeling as though your heart were trying to escape your chest while the air around you once again became scarce.
Leah’s voice reached you from behind, distant and muffled, though in reality she was only a few steps away, trying to catch up to you as quickly as your gown and slippers allowed.
The only thing you wanted was to flee in the carriage and never leave the house again.
☆
Sitting before the mirror, all you could see was your reflection being carefully prepared by the maids. Being painted to appear softer and sweeter, your hair arranged meticulously into an elegant updo that made you look more refined.
Your gown — chosen by your father, of course — was made of ivory silk with delicate embroidery that captured the candlelight. It had been designed to make you appear exactly as society wished to see you: a young lady ready to be taken as a wife, nothing more.
The ball held by the new Earls of Albemarle terrified you. Though you were not the girl for whom the queen had risen from her seat to lift her chin and proudly declare her perfect, you had still received praise that, while small, carried significance within the marriage market.
The soft sound of your bedroom door opening pulled you from your thoughts for a moment, directing your attention toward Leah’s reflection as she entered carrying a flat square box of red velvet in her hands.
The maid, who had just finished placing a delicate tiara upon your head, stepped back to allow you to rise.
Leah looked you over from head to toe, releasing a restrained sigh as a faint smile appeared on her lips. A smile that said you looked beautiful, while also mourning the fact that you were about to enter a world you never wished to belong to.
“Your father said you were to wear this for your first ball.” She said as she handed the velvet box to the maid.
The moment the flat box was opened before you, your breath caught as you recognized the diamond necklace and earrings that had been gifted by the queen generations ago. The same necklace your mother had worn in that portrait hanging in your father’s study. The same necklace worn by so many women in your family.
Leah carefully lifted the necklace and fastened it around your neck, and the moment the clasp clicked shut behind you, you felt the weight of it — not merely the jewelry itself, but the weight of your father’s message.
Your life would be the same as your mother’s.
The earrings were placed into your hands, and with trembling fingers you slowly put them on one by one.
“I know this isn't what you want... But the queen's kindness might turn out to be a blessing in disguise; it might make it easier for you to meet someone nice... or at least tolerable. There are men like Lord Albryon who travel so much that he only sees his wife once a year.”
You exhaled as you slowly closed your eyes in bitterness upon hearing Leah try to find something positive in all of this, even after your father had already shown you the portraits of the bachelors whose attention you might accept.
“Please do not do that.” You whispered.
She merely nodded, pressing her lips into a soft smile as she rested a hand upon your shoulder.
You looked at yourself one final time in the mirror, mentally preparing yourself for the night ahead.
☆
The ball hosted by the new Earls of Albemarle proved even grander than Leah had hinted earlier that afternoon in Richard’s room.
From the moment your carriage stopped before the family’s London residence, you understood that the evening would not be an ordinary social gathering. The façade of the palace was illuminated by dozens of lamps whose golden reflections spilled across the polished stone steps while elegant carriages arrived one after another.
Uniformed servants helped ladies descend, gathering velvet cloaks and embroidered coats while gentlemen adjusted their gloves.
Your father stepped down first. Then he extended his hand toward you without even looking at you.
“Remember what you were taught.” He said quietly while helping you descend.
You did not ask what he meant.
You already knew perfectly well.
Smile.
Be charming.
Be flattering.
Do not argue.
Do not speak about books.
Do not mention your desires.
And, above all else, allow the proper men to give you their attention.
You walked arm in arm with your father, with Leah at his other side, forming a perfectly calculated image of familial harmony, though the reality was another story entirely.
You struggled to control your racing breath, to quiet the anxious pounding of your heart, while every step upon the polished stone felt like an inevitable march toward a fate you had always wished to avoid — a path drawn by others, one that left no room for detours, for dreams, or for choice.
You came back to yourself when a male voice addressed you.
“Welcome, Lord and Lady Blackthorne.”
The man before you was tall, impeccably poised, and possessed a beauty that was difficult to ignore. His blond hair caught the glow of the lamps, and his attire — elegant without descending into excess — spoke of wealth… but also of restraint.
Holding onto his arm stood a red-haired woman.
Her deep green silk gown flowed gracefully around her slender figure, accentuating an almost hypnotic beauty. Her perfectly composed face alone would have been enough to captivate any ballroom from the instant she stepped inside.
But it was not only her beauty. It was something more.
Both of them shared a presence… unlike anyone else’s.
A stillness too perfect.
An elegance almost unnatural.
A subtle coldness that contrasted with the smiles they offered.
And, without knowing exactly why, a faint chill ran down your spine.
“I am Steve, the new Earl of Albemarle, and this is my wife, Natasha, the Countess. It is an honor to receive you.” He said, offering a slight bow alongside his wife.
You and Leah performed elegant, perfectly executed curtsies. Your father, meanwhile, merely inclined his head slightly.
You knew that precise gesture very well. Carefully measured, it was enough to acknowledge their position… but not deep enough to grant true respect.
After all, in his mind, a marquess should never bow more than necessary before people of lesser birth.
“The pleasure is ours.” He replied firmly, keeping his chin lifted.
You did not need to think very hard to know what he was thinking. He was evaluating them with his gaze, just as he had done with other nobles before. No doubt comparing them to the former earls, already passing judgment in his mind upon the ball they had organized. To him, nothing ever rose to his standards.
You shifted your gaze toward the countess just in time to notice the slight arch of her brow as she observed your father, almost as though she had read every one of his thoughts about them.
For a moment, the air seemed to tighten.
Then a small smile, too subtle to be entirely polite, appeared upon her red lips.
“I do hope the ball proves to be…” She paused briefly, as though choosing her words with care. “to your standards, Lord Blackthorne.”
Her voice was soft, flawless, yet there was something else beneath the tone. Something barely perceptible that was not submission. Perhaps challenge — elegant and perfectly mannered, yet unmistakable all the same.
It felt as though someone had suddenly spoken in a language you also understood, and at last the faintest trace of a genuine smile appeared upon your lips, one the countess immediately noticed.
Your father’s expression hardened almost imperceptibly as he held Lady Albemarle’s gaze for one second longer before a smile bordering on condescension appeared.
“I have no doubt that it will be, lady.”
☆
When you finally crossed the threshold into the main ballroom, the murmur of elegant conversation and the sound of string music enveloped you immediately, like a tide both gentle… and inescapable.
The ballroom was immense.
Crystal chandeliers descended from the high ceiling, multiplying the light into shimmering reflections that slid across the polished floor where the first couples were already turning gracefully to the rhythm of a perfectly executed waltz. The walls, covered in mirrors and gilded panels, reflected a world in constant motion: fans opening and closing, practiced smiles, gowns in shades of ivory, pale rose, and soft blue that seemed to float rather than walk.
The air was heavy with perfume, candle wax, and sweet wine.
Your father wasted no time greeting acquaintances, dragging both you and Leah through the ballroom as though you were part of his carefully orchestrated presentation.
“My daughter.” He would say. “Her first ball of the season.”
And every time he did, a new pair of eyes settled upon you.
The gentlemen did not take long to begin writing their names upon your dance card, regardless of title or family. After all, you could not refuse those your father deemed unsuitable, because rejecting one meant rejecting them all.
The first dance was with the second son of a baron. A young man with proper manners and a discreet presence. His steps were precise, almost mechanical, and his conversation remained limited to only what was strictly necessary. There was no interest in his gaze, not even true expectation, merely obligation.
Somehow, that relieved you, giving you the impression that, much like yourself, he had been pushed into that place by duties that did not entirely belong to him.
“Thank you for the dance.” He said when the music ended, offering an impeccable bow.
“And thank you.” You replied.
The second dance was with a viscount, a man several years older than you and surrounded by unconfirmed rumors of bastard children with maids and prostitutes. His smile was far too confident, far too familiar for someone who barely knew you.
You barely spoke during the dance, unwilling to give him reason to mistake courtesy for interest.
“I have heard you enjoy horseback riding.” He said while spinning you effortlessly across the floor. “Perhaps you would care to accompany me tomorrow. We might… become better acquainted.”
His fingers tightened slightly at your waist, his thumb brushing against the fabric of your gown, hoping to provoke a blush or a shiver from you, but nothing happened.
“I used to,” You replied softly. “But I stopped after suffering a fall in the countryside.”
You lied without hesitation.
He did not appear convinced, almost offended even, but he did not press further.
The third gentleman… no. The third man was undoubtedly one of those your father wished to court you.
The Duke of Rosevale.
He was easily twice your age. A few streaks of gray showed within his beard and at his temples, though they did nothing to soften the rigidity of his expression or the severity of his bearing. He danced with perfect precision, without a single mistake… and without a single emotion.
“How many children do you wish to have?” He asked bluntly.
The world seemed to tilt slightly beneath your feet. For a moment, you feared losing your balance in the middle of the ballroom and becoming the evening’s most humiliating spectacle.
You were not prepared for that. Not for something so direct.
Your mind filled with possibilities, each one equally bitter.
To tell the truth, that you wanted no children.
To lie and offer an acceptable number.
To simply adapt yourself to whatever he desired.
“I wish to have four.” He continued before you could answer. “It is important that my future wife share that expectation.”
Your jaw tightened for the briefest instant before you managed to compose yourself again and you smiled exactly as much as was proper, fully aware of your father’s gaze upon you.
“Four sounds… appropriate.”
The following gentlemen were similar in essence. Only the titles and names changed. All of them fulfilling the duty society had dictated for them. All of them watching, analyzing, and evaluating the young women from head to toe. All searching within them for something that fit their predefined idea of a wife and the future mother of their children.
None of them seemed interested in anything else.
Not in thoughts or desires.
Not in anything that could not be measured through virtue, beauty, or convenience.
As you turned once more in the arms of the ninth gentleman, your gaze drifted across the ballroom and recognized several faces. Faces of young ladies who, like you, were being observed and classified. And yet, you knew who they truly were.
Bella Crane, whose kindness knew no limits, always finding ways to help those no one else bothered to notice.
Sarah Astor, whose voice could reach notes so pure they seemed impossible, as though they did not entirely belong to this world.
Hanna Bellerose, capable of mastering any instrument, transforming every sound into something alive, something that made people feel.
Elizabeth Hawthorne, with a library that astonished you and an intellect capable of leaving anyone speechless.
All extraordinary women — women who, if given the opportunity and the desire, could have become far more than wives, far more than mothers. Yet there they were. Turning, smiling, and waiting to be chosen by men who, in many cases, did not amount to even half of what they were.
The injustice of it tightened painfully around your chest.
You left the dance floor the moment your final dance ended, offering the closest thing to a polite excuse you could manage. You could feel your emotions gathering dangerously behind your eyes, threatening to spill into tears you could not afford.
Not there.
Not in front of everyone.
You had barely taken a few steps when you felt Leah’s gentle hand wrap around your arm.
“Do you remember the mysterious doctor?” She whispered with contained excitement. “Lady Albemarle introduced him! He is… fascinating. He has incredible stories. I am certain you would love listening to him.”
You felt the slight tug at your arm, her intention to guide you back toward the center of the ballroom, toward constant observation.
But you stopped.
“I am sorry, Leah…” Your voice emerged tighter than intended, caught in the knot lodged within your throat. “I need some air. Afterward… you may introduce me to him.”
Leah studied you for only a second longer, and that was enough for her to notice your shining eyes. She released your arm, though not before giving it a soft, almost comforting squeeze.
“Go.” She said.
And you did not hesitate.
You made your way through the guests, maintaining the polite smile etiquette demanded while your insides quietly unraveled. You did not stop until you found one of the open balconies tucked away from the noise.
The London night greeted you with a cool breeze that sharply contrasted with the suffocating warmth of the ballroom. The garden stretched before you, bathed in silver moonlight. Pale gravel paths wound between perfectly trimmed hedges, while the shadows of the trees stretched across the grass like whispers.
The distant echo of music and the murmur of the wind were your only companions.
Yet you still could not breathe properly. It felt as though your lungs had shrunk to the size of grapes, your bones were made of glass, and the weight of the necklace was breaking them one by one.
You placed your hands upon the cold stone railing and closed your eyes, holding back the tears you had managed to suppress throughout the night. Desperation was beginning to consume you, and one of your hands was already moving toward the necklace around your throat, ready to tear it away, when a voice made you stop.
“The first ball of the season is usually… overwhelming.”
The male voice came from your left. It was not loud, but there was something strangely soft and familiar about it that kept you from startling despite never having heard his footsteps approach.
You slowly opened your eyes, searching for the man.
He stood leaning one hip against the railing at a respectful distance. Shadows still concealed part of his figure, but you could distinguish the essentials: tall, broad-shouldered, dressed entirely in black, elegant… effortlessly so, without the unnecessary extravagance of the nobles inside the ballroom.
His voice was unfamiliar to you, and his accent made it clear he did not belong to London.
And then, the threads connected.
The doctor.
For one second, neither of you spoke or moved. Not until he stepped slightly forward and the chandelier light filtering through the open doors reached him, revealing his face.
He was younger than you had imagined and… far too handsome. His beauty was different, yet strangely similar to that of the earls. Too perfect, almost to the point of seeming unnatural.
His dark hair fell in deliberately careless strands across his forehead. His lips, softly curved, hinted at an expression that never fully revealed itself.
And his eyes… his eyes were the first thing that truly captured your attention.
Not because they were an especially striking shade of blue, but because they seemed to observe the world with an intensity that was far too calm and far too aware. As though he were accustomed to seeing things others did not. As though he carried all the knowledge in the world within him.
“Forgive me.” You finally said, recovering control of your voice. “I did not realize the balcony was occupied.”
“It was not.” He replied. “I arrived only a moment ago.
There was something curious about the way he spoke. Proper, certainly, but lacking the polished rhythm of London aristocracy.
“Then I suppose we both had the same idea.”
The gentleman’s faint smile deepened slightly, and you were already preparing to excuse yourself and return to the ballroom.
“To escape.”
The certainty with which he said the word caught you off guard and halted your plans.
“Take a breath.” You corrected diplomatically.
“Oh, of course.” He replied, his smile widening further.
Silence settled between you once again, allowing the music from the ballroom to drift through the open doors. You glanced back inside, thinking that with the beginning of another waltz, your father would soon begin searching for you once he realized you were no longer dancing with a gentleman.
When you finally dared to look at him again, you discovered he was still watching you. Not in the shameless manner some men had during the dances, but with something more curious. As though he were trying to understand you.
“Your first ball?”
You sighed softly while something resembling a defeated smile appeared upon your lips.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only a little.”
He did not seem to be mocking you with the comment, merely observing.
“Allow me to guess.” He continued gently. “You have spent the last several hours being introduced to gentlemen and dancing endlessly while they speak about their estates or their excellent reputations.”
A quiet laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it.
“Are you a fortune teller, doctor?”
“No, merely a good observer.” He said with a smile, briefly turning toward the ballroom. “Though I believe you may be one. How did you know I am a doctor?”
“You do not belong here.” You answered honestly. “And you have become quite the subject of conversation.”
A faint curve appeared upon his lips.
“I am afraid that is true.”
For some reason, the air upon the balcony seemed to have grown colder. Or perhaps it was simply you.
“I have heard… interesting things.” You added. “That you saved the earl and his wife.”
“Yes. I…” He paused, as though the word weighed heavily upon him. “saved them.”
You noticed it, though you did not know what to say in response, allowing another silence to settle between you. But for the first time since arriving at the ball, you no longer felt the need to leave now that you had finally found someone… interesting.
“We have not properly introduced ourselves.” He said at last. “James Buchanan Barnes.” He inclined his head slightly. “And you? Who is the lady escaping from her first ball?”
You offered a graceful curtsy and were about to give your name when footsteps interrupted you.
“Oh.”
It was Leah’s voice, surprised to find you standing beside Doctor Barnes.
“I did not expect to find you here, doctor.” Leah said as she approached your side.
“I needed some fresh air.” He replied naturally. “I am not accustomed to events such as this.”
Leah nodded before turning toward you.
“Your father is looking for you. He wishes to introduce you to Lord Willowmere for your final dance.”
The name fell like stone, and the calm you had found shattered immediately.
Lord Willowmere. A man your father’s age. With a dukedom.
The mere thought that he wished to pair you with that man — even if only for a dance — made your stomach twist.
“Forgive me, Lady Blackthorne.” Barnes interrupted gently. “But I have already requested the young lady’s final dance.”
Your eyes widened slightly at hearing James tell such a lie, but one glance into his eyes was enough to understand that he was helping you avoid dancing with an unwanted suitor.
“It is true.” You added quickly. “We were just about to go inside and write it upon my dance card.”
Leah stared at you.
You knew she was hesitating because of the negative opinion your father would undoubtedly have on the matter, believing it entirely improper for a young lady such as yourself to dance with a man who did not belong to high society — or even to London.
At last, she nodded softly.
“I shall inform your father.”
The tension upon your shoulders vanished at those words, and you were finally able to breathe again.
Leah began returning toward the ballroom, though not before casting one final curious glance over her shoulder.
When you were alone once more, Barnes stepped toward you and extended his arm in a clear invitation.
“We should return inside.” He said with a faint smile. “I would hate to miss our dance.”
You hesitated for only a second before accepting.
Your hand rested upon his arm, and a shiver ran through you at the contact. It felt different. Colder… yet firm and real.
☆
You reentered the ballroom accompanied by him, and that did not go unnoticed.
The conversations did not stop entirely, but some shifted direction. Glances began sliding toward the two of you — curious and evaluating, some barely concealed behind delicately raised feathered fans.
You walked with your back straight, maintaining the composure that had been drilled into you for years, while he guided you toward the dance floor with a natural ease that did not quite belong within that environment.
Your hand tensed slightly, clutching the fabric of his coat for the briefest moment as the first murmurs began to grow louder.
No matter what they said, you already knew what your father would see.
An insult.
Poor judgment.
Defiance.
And yet, none of that made you stop.
When you reached the dance floor, you stood facing one another, mirroring the position of the other couples awaiting the start of the music.
Everything appeared normal, except for him.
You noticed the way his gaze moved carefully through the room, not admiring the decorations or watching the ladies, but studying the gentlemen. Their posture. The distance between their hands.
As though he were learning… or remembering.
“Do you know how to dance, doctor?” You asked quietly, softly enough that only he could hear.
His eyes returned to you almost immediately, and then he smiled. There was something unexpected within that smile. A trace of embarrassment that did not quite fit with his calm and confident demeanor.
“I have not danced since 1683…” He murmured. “So I suppose I am somewhat out of practice.”
The comment was so absurd that, for a moment, you felt laughter rise within your throat, though you restrained it. Only the faintest curve touched your lips.
“Then I shall have to guide you.”
His hand settled at your waist while the other held yours. And once more, that shiver traveled down your spine because of the unnatural coldness of his hands, even through your gloves and the silk of your gown. It was far too distinct to ignore. Constant and unchanging, as though warmth simply did not belong to him.
The music began, and the first step was slow and measured. He hesitated for only an instant before moving with you.
He did not move with the effortless ease of the other gentlemen, but neither was he clumsy.
It was as though he were learning in real time and yet executing every motion with unsettling precision.
The waltz enveloped you just as it did every other couple, but for you it was different because you were not being evaluated. You were not being observed as a possibility. There were no expectations and no calculations, only presence.
“You do not seem uncomfortable.” He commented after several moments. “I thought you disliked dancing.”
“Compared to the rest of the evening… this is a relief.”
“I am glad to be an improvement.”
Your gaze drifted briefly toward the other guests, and upon noticing your father’s figure, you quickly looked back at James. And then you realized something.
He was not looking at your neckline, nor your hands, nor your posture. He was looking directly into your eyes, as though everything else were irrelevant.
“You do not belong here.” You said without thinking.
“I do not.” He replied simply. “London is rather… rigid compared to what I am accustomed to.”
Curiosity stirred within you with almost reckless speed.
“And what are you accustomed to, doctor?” You asked as he spun you gently.
“Freedom.” He said. “Moving without every action being observed… or judged. Crossing cities without announcing my name. Learning without anyone expecting anything of me.”
His voice was not nostalgic.
It was simply… truthful.
“The world is vast.” He continued. “Far more vast than people here imagine. There are places where medicine is not learned from books, but from the hands of elders, from herbs and roots. Places where languages change every few miles… and customs as well.”
You looked at him carefully.
There was something in the way he spoke. It was not the shallow fascination of other gentlemen who boasted about traveling and wasting fortunes on jewels or women. Doctor Barnes spoke with lived knowledge.
“Have you never left London?”
You shook your head softly before he spun you once more.
“And do you wish to?”
The question was gentle, but direct.
“More than anything.”
The words left your lips before you could stop them, and for the first time that entire evening, you did not regret speaking a genuine desire aloud.
His thumb moved slightly against your gloved hand. A minimal gesture that did not go unnoticed.
“If you had the opportunity...” He asked after a moment of silence. “Would you leave?”
Your entire world seemed to narrow to that question.
To that instant.
Remaining silent felt like accepting the fate imposed upon you, and that was something impossible.
“Yes.”
His lips curved faintly, though it was not a full smile. There was something else within it… something melancholic.
“Then London would never know what it lost.”
Your breath caught for a second.
You knew those words should have made you uncomfortable, that you should have begun placing distance between the two of you, yet you did not.
The waltz began nearing its end. You felt it in the rhythm, in the way the couples slowly began to slow, in how reality itself started returning.
“Doctor…” You murmured, uncertain of what you had intended to say.
“James.”
You blinked in confusion, tilting your head slightly.
“Excuse me?”
“Call me James.”
That was not appropriate.
It was not proper.
It was not prudent.
You parted your lips softly, ready to explain that such familiarity was improper after only a single dance, that a gentleman should never ask such a thing of a lady, but the words died in your throat when you noticed something strange.
His steel-blue eyes had darkened.
Not dark blue, nor a shadow cast by the lighting, but black — the kind of black you had seen only in polished obsidian.
“Your eyes…” You whispered almost breathlessly, your eyes widening in bewilderment.
For the first time, James completely lost his composure.
You saw the sudden tension in his jaw, the rigidity of his shoulders, and the way his fingers pulled away from yours almost violently, as though touching you burned him.
The final chord of the waltz echoed through the ballroom, and he stepped back immediately.
“Thank you for the dance.” He said in a low, hurried voice utterly unlike the calm control he had carried before.
You stood frozen for a second, still stunned by the change in his eyes. Your immediate instinct was to follow him and ask what had happened, but a rough hand seized your forearm harshly.
“We are leaving.” Your father said sharply. “Now.”
You barely turned your head toward him, and it was easy to see how fury hardened every line of his aged face.
He gave you no time to answer before dragging you away from the dance floor, forcing you to move through guests, decorated tables, and musicians who continued playing for the remaining couples.
And even beneath your father’s iron grip, you looked back, just in time to catch sight of James disappearing into the shadows of one of the corridors.
☆
“Do you realize what you have done?” Your father’s voice cut through the interior of the carriage like a whip. “You danced with the most unsuitable man in the room. You displayed yourself like a foolish girl and made a mockery of me.”
You sighed silently while staring out at the deserted storefronts, dark alleyways, and the soft glow of the lanterns illuminating the road home.
“People will start talking tomorrow morning.” Your father continued through clenched teeth. “A doctor? What were you thinking?”
Your hands tightened once more around the fabric of your skirt, swallowing the urge to rebel because with James, it had not seemed necessary to measure every word before speaking it. Perhaps because he was a man who seemed destined to leave at any moment, or because he simply could never be considered a real possibility.
So you remained silent, clinging to the hope that the quiet would allow you to think about James and the strange, unsettling transformation of his eyes.
It could not have been merely the lighting.
Was it an illness?
Some strange condition?
Why had he reacted that way?
And why had the earls seemed so alarmed?
Your breathing slowed as you remembered something else: the cold.
His hands had been freezing even inside the warm ballroom, colder than the winter air at Blackthorne Hall. Colder than the snow gathering upon the windows of the countryside estate.
That cold… It twisted your stomach because you had felt it once before. Many years ago, when you touched your mother’s hand during her wake.
A shiver ran down your spine.
That realization should have terrified you enough to stay away from him or forget Doctor Barnes immediately, yet you felt no fear.
Only a deep and dangerous curiosity.
“I forbid you from going near that man again.” Your father declared at last. “Did you hear me?”
☆
Once again, you sat before the mirror of your vanity, watching your reflection while the maid carefully removed the small pins holding your hairstyle in place. One by one, the strands began slipping over your shoulders until they fell in soft waves down your back.
The heavy, elaborate updo slowly disappeared, just like the mask you had worn throughout the entire evening.
Your face was already free of the makeup the maids had spent hours applying before the ball. No powder, no color upon your lips, no artificial blush painted across your cheeks. At last, it felt as though your skin could breathe again.
And yet, the pressure in your chest remained there as your father’s voice carried through the walls. You could not distinguish every word clearly, but the tone alone was enough to reveal his fury.
You thought of Leah.
Guilt settled over you immediately with crushing weight.
Leah had been the least responsible for the entire situation, and yet she was likely enduring the anger truly meant for you.
The maid removed the final pin from your hair before placing it upon the silver tray beside the rest of the jewelry.
“Did you enjoy yourself tonight, miss?” She asked softly, perhaps searching for conversation or simply trying to ease the heavy silence filling the room.
You did not answer immediately.
Your gaze remained fixed upon the mirror as you mentally revisited the evening — the graceless nobles, the endless hours upon the dance floor that had felt like torture, the life within society that you did not want — yet James’s image entered your thoughts uninvited.
You could not deny that, within this disastrous night, you had at least managed to find one interesting man among nobles who possessed nothing remarkable beyond their place within the hierarchy.
“I suppose… a little.” You answered at last.
The maid smiled faintly as she stepped closer to remove the diamond necklace from your throat.
The moment the clasp released, a sigh escaped you before you even realized you had been holding it. The tension gathered within your shoulders eased slightly.
Your hands immediately rose to your earrings, removing them one by one before placing them carefully inside the small velvet box.
You stood so the maid could help remove your gown. Her fingers began loosening the ribbons along your back while the fabric slowly slid down your body until it pooled around your feet in a circle of silk and embroidery.
Then you heard footsteps approaching, and from the sound of the slippers alone you knew it was Leah.
When she entered, the maid had only just begun undoing the laces of your corset.
There was something unsettling upon Leah’s face.
“Anne, I shall help the young lady. You may leave.”
The maid immediately stopped what she was doing, offered a small curtsy, and quietly made her way toward the door.
Leah stepped behind you and began loosening the corset ribbons with slow, precise movements.
“I am truly sorry.” You said at last, unable to continue bearing the weight of your guilt. “I never meant to cause problems between you and my father.”
She merely released a tired sigh while slowly loosening the garment that had been constricting your waist mercilessly.
“There are always problems with your father.” She replied calmly as she continued undoing the knot. “And honestly… I do not mind that you avoided dancing with a man like Lord Willowmere.”
A bitter feeling crossed your chest at the thought of the old duke.
“Then I do not understand why you seem this way.”
Leah finished loosening the corset and carefully removed it before gently turning you around to face her.
The moment your eyes met hers, you saw concern… and something close to fear.
“But why dance with Doctor Barnes?” She murmured in disbelief.
“He only helped me.” You answered naturally.
Leah stared at you for a moment as though unsure how to respond.
“Or perhaps he was taking advantage of the situation.”
Confusion settled across your face.
“Taking advantage? Leah, he was kind to me.”
“That does not mean you should trust him.”
Her tone was not severe. It was… cautious. As though she were trying to warn you about something she did not quite know how to explain.
“At the ball, you told me I should meet him.” You reminded her. “That he was interesting. That he had fascinating stories.”
“And he does.” She admitted quickly. “But that does not change the fact that no one truly knows him… or what his intentions were when he approached you.”
The room fell silent for several seconds, and with every passing moment you could tell Leah was struggling to say what she truly wanted.
“Leah, the fact that I accepted a dance from him does not mean I am enchanted by him.” You said softly, trying to calm whatever fears she seemed to harbor.
☆
The ballroom was packed with people, though none of them seemed truly clear to your eyes. Their faces blurred like watercolor smudges painted with a brush that was too wet every time you tried to focus on them, turning into faceless figures shrouded in silk, jewels, and dark suits.
The candles suspended from enormous golden chandeliers cast a strangely warm light—too golden, too soft—as if the entire room were shrouded in a dreamlike veil.
The guests’ voices reached you distorted, transformed into distant murmurs and incomprehensible echoes, even when some passed mere inches from your body. There was laughter, clinking glasses, and entire conversations unfolding around you, but they sounded muffled, as if you were listening to them from underwater.
The only thing that remained clear was the music.
The sound of the waltz floated flawlessly amid the blurred chaos of the room, every note of the violin and every chord of the piano resonating with unsettling precision within your chest. It was an elegant, melancholic melody that seemed to guide your steps even without you realizing it. And although the place was completely unfamiliar to you—even though you were certain you had never set foot in that hall in your entire life—fear never truly set in. There was unease, yes. A strange sense of unreality that slowly churned your stomach. But not fear.
You walked cautiously through the gaps left by the people as they laughed and drank around you. The women held fans decorated with lace and sparkling stones; the men raised crystal glasses filled with dark wine as they chatted near the marble columns. With every step, the polished floor reflected the candlelight as if it were liquid water. Your fingers absentmindedly brushed against one of the long tables laden with fruit, desserts, and silver dishes as you tried in vain to recognize something in that place.
Then you saw it.
A huge wall mirror stood between two columns, so tall it almost touched the ceiling. The golden frame was carved with exquisite details: intertwined leaves, blooming flowers, and angelic figures that seemed to watch you from the aged wood. You stopped in front of it and held your breath for a moment.
The young woman reflected there was you… and yet, at the same time, she wasn’t.
The dress you were wearing was completely different from any of the others you owned. The red fabric draped over your body like a cascade of dark wine, shimmering in the warm light of the ballroom. It was a deep, intense red—exactly the color you had always loved, yet one your father strictly forbade, considering it vulgar and unbecoming for a young lady. The long sleeves gently hugged your arms, while the black and gold embroidery snaked across the silk, forming patterns that looked as if they were handmade. Even the tiny stones sewn near the bodice sparkled discreetly with every breath you took.
Slowly, you raised a hand to brush the fabric near your waist, watching, fascinated, as it shone in the light.
For a moment, you forgot how strange the place felt. You stood there watching your reflection as if you were looking at someone else. There was something different about you besides the dress. Something in your posture, in the way you held your gaze, in the sparkle in your eyes.
You forced yourself to look away and pick up your pace.
Your footsteps echoed softly on the floor as you walked through the hall, taking in the enormous paintings hanging on the walls. Portraits of faceless men dressed in military uniforms. Pale-skinned women adorned with antique jewelry. Snowy landscapes under gray skies.
None of them looked familiar to you and then your shoulder bumped into someone. The impact was slight, but enough to make you take a step back.
“I’m so sorry…” You said immediately as you looked up.
The man turned toward you.
And for the first time since you arrived at that place, you saw a face that was completely clear. Your breath caught in your throat.
Dr. Barnes.
There was no mist obscuring his features, nor shadows distorting him. His blue eyes were perfectly defined under the golden light of the room, and his expression bore the same serene calm you knew so well. Dark hair fell slightly over his forehead, and he wore an elegant black suit with silver accents that looked as if it had been plucked from another era.
“Doctor Barnes…” You whispered, unable to hide the surprise in your voice.
He tilted his head slightly, and a small smile appeared on his lips.
“Miss.” His voice sounded soft, calm, dangerously familiar in the midst of that place. “I thought I told you you could call me James.”
You blinked several times, trying to shake off the daze that had enveloped you. Your throat suddenly felt dry.
“It’s not right to call him that…” You replied in a low voice, glancing around discreetly as if you expected someone to be watching them.
But no one seemed to be paying them any attention.
The blurry figures continued laughing, dancing, and chatting among themselves. It was as if the two of you were isolated from the rest of the room, trapped inside a silent bubble.
James kept watching you with that strange calmness.
“And who exactly would come to correct you?” He asked softly.
You frowned slightly.
“Someone might hear us.”
“No one here will care.”
His answer came immediately, firm, almost certain.
And it seemed true.
Your fingers tightened slightly on the fabric of your dress as you looked around again. The confusion inside you kept growing. Everything was too strange. Too real to be a dream and too impossible to be anything else.
Finally, you looked at him again.
“What is this place?” You asked at last, unable to bear the uncertainty any longer.
Your eyes scanned the room again, searching for any familiar detail: a familiar door, a recognizable face, something that would help you understand where you were. But you found nothing.
James looked around the room too, though unlike you, he didn’t seem confused. There was an unsettling calm in his expression, as if he already knew the answer long before you’d even asked the question.
“I don’t know.” He replied calmly.
Your brow furrowed immediately, for you were sure he had the answer.
There was a brief silence.
The music continued to play in the distance as he held your gaze.
Your eyes swept once more across the enormous candlelit hall, the antique gowns, the uniforms adorned with medals, and the golden ornaments covering every corner. You began to notice details you had previously overlooked: the men wore styles and fabrics far too old-fashioned to belong to your era, and the women wore jewelry that looked like relics impossible to find today.
Your breathing slowed slightly.
“That’s not possible…” You finally murmured.
James tilted his head slightly, watching you with such calm attention that it was starting to make you nervous.
“It doesn’t seem like it, I know.”
“No, Doctor Barnes, I’m serious.” You shook your head gently as you took a step toward him. “This has to be some kind of hallucination.”
The theory sounded ridiculous even to you, since the details were too real, and you didn’t even remember having a fever that would cause hallucinations.
He let out a small, barely audible laugh, more like an amused sigh than a real chuckle.
You opened your mouth, ready to keep talking, but you couldn’t think of anything else to say. Your gaze returned to the ballroom just as a couple glided past you, dancing slowly to the rhythm of the waltz. Their movements were elegant, perfectly synchronized, but their faces remained blurry smudges, unable to take shape. It was like watching shadows playing the roles of real people.
You shuddered.
“You seem to understand perfectly what’s happening.” You murmured.
The music continued to fill the ballroom as some guests began moving toward the center to dance. The sound of the instruments seemed deeper now, enveloping, almost hypnotic.
“Perhaps I understand it a little better than you do.” He replied.
“Then explain it to me.”
James glanced down briefly at your dress before returning his gaze to your eyes.
“It’s a dream.”
The word hung between you, and yet nothing really felt like one.
James took a step closer to you, close enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the chill of the night air that seemed to cling to him.
His proximity made your heart stumble uncomfortably in your chest. You looked down for just a moment but didn’t look away.
“If this is a dream of mine, I can’t think of any reason why you’d be here.”
The corners of his lips turned up in a faint smile that betrayed the fact that he had been expecting you to mention his presence in your dream.
“Oh, there certainly is.” He said in a soft voice.
James leaned slightly toward one of the nearby tables and took a glass of wine between his gloved fingers. The thick, red liquid swirled slowly inside the glass as he swirled it gently.
Your eyes remained fixed on the glass as he brought it slightly closer to his face, inhaling the aroma with an almost hypnotic slowness that was only broken when he looked up at you.
“You owe me something.”
You frowned immediately.
“Me?”
A small smile appeared on his face as he noticed your confusion.
“Your name,” He said, then took a sip.
The memory of the dance came flooding back to you.
That moment on the balcony.
Her question.
Your lips parting to answer, until Leah interrupted.
“You couldn’t tell me that night,” He continued. “And I must admit, I hate unfinished conversations.”
Your breathing slowed.
“So this strange dream exists solely because you want to know my name?”
This time he did smile.
And it was a soft, small, barely crooked smile, as if you’d hit the mark.
“It’s your dream,” He replied in a relaxed, almost playful tone. “So I must assume your conscience weighs heavily on you for not having told me on that balcony.”
You looked at him in surprise for a few seconds until a soft, amused snort escaped your lips—almost like a laugh—at his eloquent and clever reply.
James seemed to freeze for just a second upon hearing it. As if he hadn’t expected that sound, nor expected to like it all that much.
“That was terribly arrogant, Doctor.”
“James.” He corrected gently.
The gesture caused a strange warmth in your chest.
“And that doesn’t really answer my question either.”
“What question?”
“Why you’re here.”
He tilted his head slightly, watching you with that unbearable intensity that seemed to disarm you little by little.
“Maybe because you wanted to see me.”
Your heart skipped a beat.
“That’s absurd.” You said quickly.
“Is it?”
His voice dropped slightly, growing softer amid the music in the hall.
“Maybe I’m here because you’ve been thinking about me.”
The comment caught you completely off guard. Your eyes widened slightly as heat rose to your cheeks.
“That’s not…”
You didn’t dare deny it because it was true.
You’d been thinking about him the whole way back.
About his impossible eyes.
About his icy hands.
About the abrupt way he’d pulled away from you.
And he seemed to realize exactly the moment you understood that. The barely visible satisfaction in his eyes made you frown.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.” You murmured.
“I’m trying, but you’re making it hard for me.”
You laughed softly again, shaking your head slightly.
All of this felt dangerously normal.
Not the strange room.
Not the blurry figures.
Not the impossible dream.
But him.
Talking to James felt natural in a way that was starting to unsettle you more than anything else, even if it was just a dream, because you weren’t carefully choosing every word or trying to seem appropriate.
You were simply… yourself.
“I have to admit something.” He said after a few seconds.
“What is it?”
Her eyes briefly drifted down to the red dress before meeting yours again.
“This color suits you better than the pastel shades worn by London ladies.”
You blinked in surprise and then looked down at the dress on your body. That deep red you could never wear out because it was too flashy.
“My father would say it looks like the dress of a woman… of dubious reputation.”
James held your gaze for a few more seconds.
“I still think you look good in that dress.”
The air seemed to thicken between you, and it happened again. That strange sensation, as if something invisible tightened every time he looked at you for too long.
Your heart began to beat faster, and your hands clenched the hem of your dress.
“You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why?” He asked, tilting his head.
“Because you don’t know me.”
James’s expression barely changed, as if the melancholy that always followed him returned to his eyes with a painful gentleness.
“I think I know you better than you imagine.”
His reply made the heat drain from your body all at once, because it didn’t sound like his usual playful banter. It sounded sad—deeply sad. And the way he said it… God… It was just one sentence, and yet it felt far too intimate.
You looked away before he could notice the effect it had on you and tried to focus on something else, but that was when you noticed something strange.
The room was emptier—not completely, but several of the blurry figures had vanished. The couples were dancing more slowly now, as if they were tired, as if the dream were slowly beginning to crumble around you.
“James…” You murmured his name for the first time.
The deep sadness faded little by little from his gaze as he followed yours, observing the same changes you did.
“There isn’t much time left…” He looked back at you. “Her name. Tell me.”
The violin notes stretched out unnaturally, the lights in the hall flickered, and the blurry figures began to stop one by one.
Your lips trembled slightly from the unease caused by the strange scene, but you managed to whisper his name.
James smiled gently and murmured your name as if he were simply testing how it sounded in his own voice. He spoke it so calmly that it felt like a caress.
The mirrors exploded first, cracking from end to end before shattering like ice under invisible pressure, without making a sound. The lights went out violently, and the floor beneath your feet began to crack as the motionless figures in the room dissolved into dark shadows.
And despite all the chaos, you felt no fear as you noticed the calm way James was looking at you.
The entire room shattered like glass around you.
☆
You opened your eyes with a start.
Your breathing was slightly ragged as the sheets were tangled around your legs and your heart was still pounding against your ribs. For a few seconds, you didn’t realize where you were. Your eyes scanned the room, still expecting to find golden lights, broken mirrors, or shadows covering the walls; but there was nothing, just your room.
Your thick curtains remained closed, and only a small strip of morning light filtered through them, casting a pale line on the floor. The air smelled faintly of lavender and wood, just like every morning.
You slowly looked down at your body.
You were still wearing the same nightgown you’d gone to bed in the night before. Your hands trembled slightly as you clutched the sheets.
It had been a dream, and yet… It had felt all too real.
The unease clung to your chest like a shadow that was hard to shake off. You could recall every detail with sickening clarity: the sound of the music, the feel of the red silk brushing against your skin… and especially James’s voice saying your name.
It wasn’t like other dreams.
Those usually faded away as soon as you woke up, turning into blurry fragments impossible to piece back together. But this one remained intact inside your head, as clear as a real memory.
You sat up slowly in bed, bringing a hand to your forehead as you tried to gather your thoughts.
A soft knock on the door interrupted your thoughts before you could sink deeper into them
The door opened shortly after, and the maid entered the room carrying several folded fabrics in her arms. As soon as she looked up at you, her expression showed obvious surprise.
“Good morning, miss.” She said softly. “I thought you were still asleep.”
You blinked several times before reacting.
“Good morning…”
The maid moved quickly through the room and opened the heavy curtains. Sunlight flooded the room all at once, forcing you to squint slightly. The sky was just beginning to lighten, casting a bluish and golden glow over the outside world.
It was earlier than usual.
The maid continued working with quiet agility. She placed a pair of slippers carefully next to your bed and then went to the wardrobe to fetch a soft blue dress. The fabric fell elegantly through her hands as she spread it out on the mattress.
Your gaze remained fixed on the dress for a few seconds.
Blue.
Always blue, cream, or white.
Appropriate colors. Decent. Proper.
Nothing like red.
“Your father asked me to help you get ready early for when your suitors arrive.” The maid explained as she smoothed out the dress’s sleeves. “The bath is ready for you.”
The words hit you like a bucket of cold water.
Reality came crashing back all at once.
The duties. The expectations. The rules you had to follow as a young lady of high society. The carefully arranged visits. The polite smiles. The empty conversations. The men chosen for convenience and title.
Your chest suddenly felt heavy.
You slowly lowered your gaze to the crumpled sheets between your fingers while the maid continued to get everything ready around you.
And as absurd as it was, a part of you wished to return to the dream.
To that impossible place where no one expected anything of you, where you could wear red, and where James pronounced your name as if it truly meant something.
Summary: The social season opens with the promise of the same rituals as always: candlelit balls, measured conversation, and carefully calculated marriages. However, everything changes with the arrival of Dr. Barnes.
Reserved, extraordinarily wealthy, and unnaturally handsome, the mysterious doctor immediately captivates London society. No one knows his origins, nothing is known about his family or the source of his fortune, but his impeccable bearing and sharp intelligence have earned him a place among the elite, as well as the absolute trust of the Count of Albemarle, who welcomes him into the most exclusive salons and presents him as an irreproachable gentleman.
For you, the daughter of a Marquis, raised under the weight of duty and expectations, Dr. Barnes is a temptation you should never allow yourself. He does not belong in your world... and yet he seems to understand you like no one else.
But the love that begins to blossom between you is not only improper: it is dangerous and impossible. For Dr. Barnes harbours an ancient and dark secret, one that condemns any hope of a shared future.
Tags: MDNI, +18, strangers to lovers, slow burn, mutual longing, attempt at a gothic romance, set during the Regency period (yeah, this is like Bridgerton x Twilight), Bucky is a vampire, Bucky is a doctor, Bucky does not appear in this chapter (only indirect references), the reader is 20 years old, the reader is the daughter of a marquis, arranged marriages, machism of the period, limitations of women of the period, age differences in marriages, reader with her own desires, traumas related to marriage and pregnancy, death menmothe, reader's mother is dead, very complicated relationship between reader and her father, rumors, mentions of curses, possible historical errors, possible grammatical errors since English is not my native language.
Main masterlist. |Masterlist DWD. | Next chapter.
Your footsteps and the maid’s were the only sounds echoing through the hallways of the ground floor of the country house. You had always thought of it as a gilded cage: beautiful, spacious, filled with comforts… and yet designed to keep you inside.
Inside, learning to be a lady.
Inside, perfecting yourself for a role you had no desire to take in society.
Inside, without discovering anything of the real world.
The only occasional sound was the soft crying of little Richard, your half-brother and the future Marquess of Blackthorne. It was almost ironic to think that a child of barely ten months was destined to enjoy freedoms that were denied to you, even at twenty years old.
When you reached the study door, the maid knocked softly. Three measured taps, and after a brief silence that felt eternal to you, your father’s deep voice was heard from inside.
“Come in.”
You released a quiet exhale, trying to prepare yourself for whatever was about to come. You were certain it would not be anything good for you. The few times he had summoned you to his study had always been to announce decisions that directly affected your life.
The maid opened the door for you and stepped aside, allowing you to enter that cold space where your father spent most of his days. That study that always smelled of ink, leather, tobacco, and dying fire.
You walked forward in silence, pressing your hands together tightly as you crossed the room until you stopped in front of the desk.
Your gaze inevitably lifted toward the painting that dominated the room.
Your eyes rose to the portrait of your mother. A woman with a serene expression, dressed in pale blue and adorned with jewels, with a softness in her eyes that you had never seen in life. The artist had been generous with her. Too generous. Your mother had never possessed that calm; you remembered her pale, exhausted, with hands that trembled constantly and a deep sadness and emptiness no one dared to name.
She died giving your father an heir—one who did not survive either.
Your father’s throat clearing forced you to look away from the portrait. He remained bent over the desk, calmly writing on several loose sheets spread before him.
“It is time,” he said without lifting his eyes from the papers. “The next social season will be decisive for you.”
The pen continued moving with determination.
“It will be your debut, and I want you married during that season.”
Decisive.
Debut.
Marriage.
Those words weighed more when spoken by a father who never asked what his daughter desired.
The news did not surprise you.
You had begun to suspect it the day she ordered them to lower the hems of your dresses, tighten your corset... and lower your necklines to a level that bordered on what was considered appropriate.
You remained standing before his desk, now clasping your hands behind your back while your heart hammered against your ribs and your throat went dry. Your hands trembled—not from fear—you had learned long ago not to fear him—but from an old, constant frustration that seemed to live inside your chest.
“I do not wish to marry, Father.”
The pen stopped.
For a moment you thought perhaps you had spoken too loudly, that the defiance in your voice had been more evident than you intended. But when he lifted his eyes to you, his expression was exactly as it always was: severe, distant, impassive like the stone walls of Blackthorne Hall.
“That,” he replied calmly, “is not relevant.”
His eyes returned to the papers.
“You will marry because I say so.”
Of course it was not relevant. For men like him, a daughter’s marriage was not a choice. It was an agreement. A convenient alliance between families that never considered the heart of the woman involved.
“Women do not desire,” he continued. “They fulfill their duty. That is what you were educated for.”
Your gaze slid, inevitably, toward the portrait of your mother, and a knot formed in your stomach.
Was it also her duty to die?
The silence stretched too long, long enough for you to gather the courage to voice a desire far too turbulent for society—and for your father.
“I will not have children,” you said at last, quietly.
That, at least, provoked a reaction. Your father frowned slightly, as if he had just heard something profoundly irrational, something that went against the natural order of things.
“That does not depend on you,” he replied coldly. “It depends on your future husband.”
But it does depend on me, you thought.
You saw what no one else wanted to see.
You saw your mother slowly fade away between failed pregnancies and imposed silences. You saw your father ignore the doctor’s recommendations to stop the pregnancies to prevent a fatal outcome. You saw the physician leave her room with his gaze lowered while the maids cried in the corridors, trying to muffle their grief with handkerchiefs after losing the lady of the house. You also saw your father sitting in this very study the next morning, signing documents as though his wife’s death had been merely… an inconvenience.
He never cried for her.
He never spoke her name again.
He never loved her.
To him, your mother had been nothing more than a means to secure a male heir. And having given him only a daughter… she had been a failed means.
He waited only a few months before marrying again.
The next wife died before she could even conceive.
Then came another, who suffered the same fate as your mother.
And then another still, who never woke again.
With every wedding, the whispers in society’s drawing rooms grew louder.
Some spoke quietly of misfortune. Others, less discreet, began to whisper something darker: a curse upon your family’s title. A curse that prevented the birth of the next Marquess of Blackthorne and seemed to consume, one after another, the women who entered your father’s life.
For years, that rumor hovered over the title like a shadow.
Until Richard was finally born from his most recent marriage.
A healthy heir.
A male heir.
An heir—and a living wife who silenced society’s gossip.
But you… you could not help wondering if that supposed curse had truly disappeared… or if it was simply waiting.
Waiting for you.
“Father,” you said with a calm you did not feel, “I will not accept any arrangement.”
The laugh that escaped his lips was brief, dry, almost bored.
“You will.”
Because the world, after all, was not made for women.
A man could travel without permission, explore distant countries, discover new cultures, and return transformed into someone extraordinary.
A man could study at universities, debate philosophy and become a cultivated individual capable of holding important roles in politics, the army, and the administration of estates.
A woman… could embroider.
She could learn to manage her future husband’s money.
She could learn manners and etiquette.
She could smile at balls.
She could marry and have children.
And if fortune was unkind to her, she could die in a bed while giving birth to another man’s heir.
No.
Not that destiny.
If your father expected an obedient daughter, he had lost her the very day death took your mother.
“I want to study,” you said seriously. “I want to see the world. I want to live something more than balls and suitors.”
His expression hardened.
“What you want is irrelevant,” he said through his teeth, his patience exhausted, as he struck the desk with his fist. “Go to Leah now. She will give you the portraits of the unmarried nobles.”
Your lips parted, ready to protest, but he was faster.
“Now!” he shouted, losing his temper.
You barely blinked as you clenched your jaw. You were accustomed to his shouting whenever you challenged or questioned him. He had never raised a hand against you, but neither were you willing to discover whether he might be capable of it.
“I take my leave, Father,” you replied calmly, giving a slight curtsy.
Not too deep.
Not too respectful.
Just enough to avoid provoking another outburst.
You turned and walked toward the door, opening it with a haste you did not bother to hide. The maid startled slightly when it swung open abruptly.
You did not look at her.
You crossed the hallway and headed for the staircase with quick steps, your breathing beginning to grow uneven. Frustration and anger burned inside you like a silent fever.
You climbed the steps one after another, forcing yourself to inhale deeply several times before reaching the corridor of the upper floor.
You did not want to enter the baby’s room with that storm raging inside your chest.
You inhaled and exhaled for several minutes until you managed to control your emotions, just as every young lady of high society was taught to do.
Then you knocked gently on the door.
On the other side came a light, carefree child’s laugh.
“Come in,” Leah’s soft voice said.
You opened the door carefully.
Little Richard’s room was everything the rest of the house was not: warm, bright, filled with cream tones and soft fabrics. Elegant sofas covered with feather cushions, thick carpets, finely crafted furniture.
The very best.
The most delicate things.
All arranged for a child who did not yet understand the weight of the title that would one day fall upon his shoulders.
Leah was sitting on one of the sofas, holding the baby with an almost reverent tenderness as she gently rocked him. Richard babbled something unintelligible between small laughs, trying to catch one of the ribbons on his mother’s dress.
Every time you watched that scene, something in your chest tightened. An uncomfortable mixture of sadness… and compassion.
Leah was only a few years older than you.
And yet, she was your father’s wife.
The very image of everything you feared becoming.
No one had ever asked whether she desired that marriage. No one had offered her any choice.
She had been given away.
The silent payment of a debt her father could not settle any other way. And now she was there, seated in a room far too elegant, rocking the heir of a man she would never manage to love.
For a moment, you wondered if anyone had ever looked at your mother in the same way. If someone, at some point, had felt pity for her—or if they had simply watched her wither away… as though it were an inevitable part of the natural order of things.
Your fingers tensed slightly at your sides.
That would not be your fate.
Not if you could avoid it.
“I thought you would take longer,” Leah said as she adjusted Richard more comfortably against her shoulder.
The baby let out a giggle and clumsily swatted the air with one of his tiny hands, completely unaware of the tense silences and coldness that ruled the rest of the house.
You stepped a little closer, letting the door close behind you.
“He already spoke to you, didn’t he?” Leah asked gently, without a trace of reproach.
You nodded a few seconds later, making an effort to keep that fury from rising again.
“It wasn’t exactly a conversation.”
Leah released a small exhale, almost as if she already knew every word that had been spoken in the study. She did not press for more. She never did.
Perhaps because she understood too well.
You had never managed to see her as a stepmother. The word had always felt uncomfortable to you—too cold, too distant for someone who had never tried to take your mother’s place.
Leah was… something else.
Something closer to an older sister whom fate had placed far too soon into a life she had not chosen.
She never tried to correct you.
She never spoke to you with the condescension that so many married ladies used with unmarried young women your age.
She simply… understood you.
“Come,” she said after a moment, pointing to the small table beside the sofa. “Your father left these here early this morning.”
On the table rested a neat stack of portraits.
Carefully painted miniatures, each protected by a small frame or velvet cover, with a brief description of the gentleman written on the back.
Your stomach tightened slightly.
“Portraits?” you asked, though the answer was obvious. You knew why you were here.
Leah nodded, her expression a mixture of resignation and something close to irony.
“Portraits of suitable gentlemen.”
Richard let out a cheerful babble as Leah adjusted him more comfortably on her lap. Then, with her free hand, she took the first portrait from the stack.
“Your father has been… very selective.”
You sat across from her with some caution, and Leah handed you the first portrait.
A man with a long face, dark hair combed with excessive precision, and an expression so stiff it looked as though he had been painted while holding his breath.
“Lord Pembroke,” Leah explained. “The eldest son of a duke.”
You held the portrait for only a few seconds before dropping it onto the table with distaste.
“He looks unhappy.”
Leah let out a small laugh she tried to hide.
“Perhaps he was just uncomfortable during the sitting.”
She picked up the next portrait and handed it to you. This time it was a duke with two decades more life than you. Another solemn face, with a pair of eyes that seemed to observe you as though already evaluating the size of your dowry and your ability to manage a household.
“He looks unhappy too,” you murmured.
Leah handed you a third.
“The eldest son of the Marquess of Ashcroft. Though his father is… quite ill, from what I’ve heard.”
You sighed softly as you looked at the portrait.
They all looked the same.
Well dressed.
Well positioned.
Completely incapable of letting you be happy for even a single day of your life.
“They are all dukes or marquesses,” you commented.
Leah tilted her head slightly.
“Or about to inherit.”
Your lips curved with inevitable irony.
Your father’s list only included men of equal or higher rank than himself.
“How comforting.”
Leah set the portrait back on the table carefully. There were still several more you had not seen.
“I don’t think he’s thinking about your happiness.”
“No,” you replied calmly. “He’s thinking about his prestige and future connections.”
Little Richard began to play with another ribbon on Leah’s dress, completely fascinated by the movement of the fabric. Leah let him do so while she studied the portraits with a thoughtful expression.
“I received a letter this morning,” she said suddenly.
Your attention lifted slightly. At least some gossip might help distract you from the misfortune of having to search for a husband.
“From whom?”
“Lady Westhaven.”
Leah adjusted the baby gently as she lowered her voice and leaned slightly closer to you, adopting the role of a confidential informant.
“She wrote to me about the social season. It seems there will be… some interesting changes this year.”
“Changes?”
Leah nodded. She seemed genuinely happy to finally be listened to for the first time that day.
“The old Earl of Albemarle passed away a few months ago.”
You blinked, trying to recall the face of that man whom you had probably seen a few times at social gatherings. An older gentleman, if memory did not fail you, always surrounded by other nobles who spoke far too much about politics, repeating word for word what they had read in pamphlets without expressing a single original idea.
“Didn’t he have children?”
“No. Nor any living brothers. And his direct nephews died at the front.”
Leah picked up one of the portraits on the table and turned it absentmindedly between her fingers.
“The title passed to the only male left in the line of succession. A distant nephew. Apparently he has already settled in the family residence.”
“And?”
“And he is married.” she added. “His wife seems quite determined to make a good impression in society.”
“So they will host a ball.”
“A rather large one, according to the letter.”
Leah lifted her gaze to you with a small spark of curiosity.
“The queen granted them the first ball of the season.”
You sighed softly, though the excitement that such news would have awakened in another young woman only stirred a faint resignation in you.
“Exactly what I needed.”
Leah smiled faintly.
“There is more.”
“More?”
“Lady Westhaven mentioned that the new earl and countess are… a little strange.”
That caught your attention more than you expected. A curious spark returned to your eyes.
“Strange how?”
Leah hesitated for a moment before continuing.
“She doesn’t explain clearly. She only says that the new earl did not arrive alone. It seems he brought a gentleman with him.”
“A friend?”
“Perhaps.”
Leah frowned slightly, as if she were still unsure what to think of it.
“Though she seemed quite intrigued.”
“Why?”
Leah watched you for a moment before answering.
“Because no one knows who he is. Apparently it is his first time in London.”
Silence settled in the room for a moment until Richard burst into a small laugh, entirely unaware of the conversation.
“And his name?” you asked.
“They’re not certain… but he is a doctor.”
That made you tilt your head slightly.
“A doctor?”
Leah nodded, lowering her voice as though sharing a particularly delicious secret.
“The servants say he is the earl’s personal physician.”
She leaned a little closer.
“When he and his wife were on their way to London, their carriage had an accident. They almost lost their lives. According to the letter, other physicians said there was nothing to be done…”
Her lips curved slightly.
“But this doctor managed to save them.”
You leaned back a little on the sofa, letting out a soft sigh as you processed the story.
A mysterious doctor.
A nearly fatal accident.
A newly arrived noble with an ancient title.
“Miraculous hands,” you murmured with some irony.
Leah shrugged with a faint smile.
“Or extraordinary knowledge.”
Silence returned to the room for a few moments while Richard played with one of the ribbons on his mother’s dress, now with less enthusiasm as his nap time approached.
Then, finally, you spoke.
“For a moment I thought the title of the Earls of Albemarle would disappear.”
Leah was completely scandalized.
“Don’t say that!”
Your name escaped her lips between suppressed laughter as she covered her mouth to keep from waking the baby.
“You’re terrible.”
Your lips curved faintly.
But in the back of your mind, something kept circling around one detail.
Not the earl or his wife.
Not the ball.
The doctor.
A man without a title.
A man without a clear name.
A man who had appeared out of nowhere… saving lives when other physicians had already given up.
There was something unsettling about that story.
In the halls of high society, people always arrived accompanied by something: a well-known surname, an inherited fortune, a reputation carefully built over generations. Even scandals had history.
But that man seemed to have none.
Only a strange title for that world.
Doctor.
Not lord.
Not heir to anything.
Just a doctor… walking among nobles and ladies as if he belonged there.
Your mind tried to imagine him without much success.
Would he be old? One of those severe doctors who spoke little and looked at people as if they were experiments? Or one of those men excessively proud of their knowledge, always ready to correct anyone who breathed too close to them?
He was foreign—that much was certain.
Perhaps he had traveled enough to cultivate his knowledge and save lives almost miraculously. That would explain many things.
Perhaps that was why no one knew anything about him.
And yet even that explanation felt too simple for the way Leah had told the story… or for the way Lady Westhaven had written the letter.
And if there was one thing you had learned from observing the ladies of society, it was that nothing sparked more curiosity than a man who could not easily be classified.
A mysterious doctor.
An unexpected savior.
A strange guest in the house of a newly arrived earl.
You exhaled slowly, trying to push the thought away.
It did not matter.
In a few weeks you would be surrounded by nobles trying to evaluate you as if you were another piece in London’s marriage market. That social season would be decisive for you, if your father managed to have his way.
And yet…
Your mind returned to him. To the stranger. To the man who had appeared in the middle of a deadly accident and done what other doctors could not.
It was a story far too dramatic for real life. Too… novel-like.
Almost the sort of tale whispered beside a fireplace during winter.
A man who appears at the exact moment.
A man who defies the inevitable.
A man who saves lives when no one else believes it possible.
Your gaze drifted toward the window of the room, where the afternoon light was beginning to soften over the gardens of the estate.
For some reason you could not explain, that story stayed with you longer than it should have, feeding that quiet need to know that man.
Summary: The social season begins with the promise of the same old rituals: candlelit balls, measured conversation, and carefully arranged marriages. However, everything changes with the arrival of Dr. Barnes.
Reserved, extraordinarily wealthy, and unnaturally handsome, the mysterious doctor immediately captivates London society. His impeccable bearing, sharp intellect, and vast knowledge have earned him a place among the elite, as well as the absolute trust of the Earl of Albemarle, who invites him into the most exclusive salons and introduces him as an irreproachable gentleman.
For you, the daughter of a marquis, raised under the weight of duty and expectations, Dr. Barnes is a temptation you must never allow yourself. He does not belong to your world... and yet, he seems to understand you like no one else.
But the love that begins to blossom between you is not only inappropriate: it is dangerous and impossible. For Dr. Barnes harbors an ancient and dark secret, one that dooms any hope of a shared future.
General tags: MDNI, +18, sexual content (if you are underage, don´t interact with this work or I´ll block you.), strangers to lovers, slow burn, mutual longing, attempt at a gothic romance, set during the Regency period (yeah, this is like Bridgerton x Twilight), Bucky is a vampire, Bucky is a doctor, Bucky looks like he's in his thirties, the reader is 20 years old, the reader is the daughter of a marquis, arranged marriages, machism of the period, limitations of women of the period, blood (well... Bucky is a vampire), death, duels, vampire abilities (Dreamwalker and typical vampire abilities), age difference (again, Bucky is a vampire), age differences in marriages, reader with her own desires, traumas related to marriage and pregnancy, reader's mother is dead, very complicated relationship between reader and her father, discrimination for not belonging to the nobility, rumors, mentions of curses, insults, possible historical errors, possible grammatical errors since English is not my native language. Each chapter has its own tags, so check them before reading.
Here are some WIPs that I hope will catch your attention.
I am sure that I will end up publishing one-shots that are not included in this post because sometimes ideas come to me suddenly, I develop them and finish them quickly. Please be patient! I am committed to publishing everything that is here in due course as I want it to be quality content.
The WIPs are not listed in the order they will be published, as sometimes I get writer's block and can't continue, or university leaves me with no time to write.
⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚ One shots or Two shots.
𓂃⋆.˚ Strangers In The Night.
Pre-TFATWS! Bucky Barnes × F! Bartender! Reader.
Tags: Pre-TFATWS, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, Bucky using dating apps, nostalgic Bucky, alcohol consumption, sexual comments/jokes, old-fashioned Bucky, yearning Bucky, reader is a bartender, reader has a family, mentions of Sam and Steve, Bucky getting along with the elderly, reader laughing a lot at Bucky, Bucky enjoys making you laugh.
𓂃⋆.˚ Untitled yet.
University student! Bucky Barnes × F! Reader × University student! Steve Rogers.
Tags: MDNI, +18, Reader is a university student, Bucky and Steve are university students, Bucky and Steve play on the university football team, Rumblow is your ex-boyfriend, infidelity, threesome, more tags coming soon.
𓂃⋆.˚Untitled yet.
Knight! Bucky Barnes x Witch! F! Reader
Tags: AU: Fantasy world, witch reader, reader from Sokovia, orphan reader, mentions of death, Knight Bucky, beefy Bucky, slow burn, injuries, blood, wound healing, "She fell first, he fell harder," yearning Bucky, a bit of angst, no y/n, made-up herb names, reader has hair, MDNI, 18+, smut
