#dark!bucky x reader

[slutdier]

𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬 𝑨𝑻 𝑭𝑰𝑹𝑺𝑻 𝑩𝑰𝑻𝑬 James “Bucky” Barnes has haunted the world for seven hundred years, cold, heartless and buried since the plague stole his last love. Until you, all warm sunlight and trouble, slammed into his night and woke the monster. Now he’s obsessed. Starving for your scent, your sleep, your soul.

vampire!bucky barnes x fem!reader

word count : 28,5k

warnings 18+ : no use of y/n, somnophilia, oral sex (f recieving), unprotected sex, forced turning, imprisonment against the reader’s will, dddne, graphic violence & gore, brutal murders, dismemberment, skull-crushing, throat-ripping, blood-draining, extreme rough sex (dw there’s soft scenes too), bone-breaking, bruising, bleeding, pain mixed with pleasure during sex, breaking and entering, theft of intimate items, constant surveillance, stalking & obsession, graphic biting, forced blood-drinking, blood-sharing memories, heavy blood kink, murder of the reader’s ex and other men, trauma flashbacks (plague death, war violence), suicidal ideation from bucky, heavy angst and toxic obsessive “love”

author’s note : my BIGGEST thank you goes to the loveliest anon who dropped a vampire!bucky request in my inbox 🫶💞 I’m literally a huge vampire nerd so this + my fave fictional man?? you KNOW I couldn’t keep it a tiny drabble… little heads up before you read… IT’S DARK..... so pls pls read the warnings first and then enjoyyy <33 (and I might be open to writing a pt.2 sooo lmk if you’d want that 👀)

Before the world burned with plague and death, James Buchanan Barnes was the most dangerously handsome bastard in all of plague-shadowed London. At twenty-four, he stood tall and broad-shouldered, with striking steel-blue eyes that could disarm a woman with a single glance, a sharp jawline and an easy, crooked smirk that promised both sin and salvation in the same breath.

His dark hair was tousled from brawls and eager fingers, his body toned hard from years as a mercenary, lean muscle, old battle scars and a swagger so confident it turned heads in every tavern, alehouse and alley from Southwark to Cheapside.

He knew exactly what he was. And he used it without a shred of shame or mercy.

Cocky to the marrow of his bones, sharp-tongued and arrogant as Lucifer himself, Bucky lived as though the world owed him pleasure, coin and willing flesh. By day he sold his sword to the highest bidder. By night he sold his body to any woman bold enough to meet his gaze. Tavern wenches with loud laughs and rough hands, blushing noble daughters sneaking out after curfew, widowed merchants’ wives starved for a man’s touch and painted whores in the stews, he fucked them all. Often two or three in the same night, sometimes all at once.

He never stayed till morning. Never asked their surnames. Never cared.

One humid summer night in a crowded Southwark tavern, he had a fiery red-haired barmaid bent over a stack of ale barrels out back. Her skirts were rucked up around her waist and he was pounding into her so hard the barrels creaked and shifted beneath them. He gripped her hips with calloused hands, lips brushing her ear as he growled low and filthy,

“That’s it, ye greedy little slut… take every thick inch of my cock. Moan louder, lass- let the whole fucking street hear how well I’m ruining this tight, dripping cunt of yers.”

She came with a shaking cry, knees buckling. Bucky laughed darkly, low and wicked and pulled out only to spin her around and shove her to her knees in the dirt.

“Open that pretty mouth,” he ordered, fisting his thick cock. “I’m going to spend down yer throat like the good little cocksucker ye are.”

She obeyed eagerly and he fucked her mouth until he spilled with a satisfied groan.

Two nights later, he found himself in a lavish merchant’s townhouse with twin noble daughters whose father was away on business. The sisters knelt before him in their fine shifts, taking turns sucking his cock while he sat like a king upon their father’s velvet chair. He tangled his fingers in their soft hair, voice low and dripping with filth:

“Look at you two proper little ladies… choking on a lowly mercenary’s cock like common whores in the stews. Share it nicely now- lick my balls while yer sister swallows me down. Good girls. I’m going to fuck both yer tight cunts senseless until ye can’t walk straight on the morrow.”

He took them one after the other on their father’s fine bed, then together, whispering the most depraved things between deep thrusts:

“Does it feel good, feeling yer sister’s slick all over my cock while I’m buried inside ye? Ye like being fucked like cheap sluts, don’t ye?”

The girls moaned and begged for more, and Bucky gave it to them until they were trembling and spent.

Later that same month, he fucked a widowed countess in her own marriage bed, her late husband’s portrait glaring down at them from the wall while he railed her hard from behind. He slapped her ass sharply, leaving a red handprint, and snarled against her ear,

“Bet that cold old bastard never fucked ye like this, did he? Say it, my lady- tell me how much better my thick cock feels stretching this neglected, dripping noble cunt of yers.”

“Better,” she gasped, pushing back against him shamelessly. “So much better- please, harder!”

He laughed, dark and triumphant, and gave her exactly what she begged for.

He never asked. He simply took, with that devastating smirk, those piercing steel-blue eyes and that rough, velvet voice dripping pure sin. Women dropped to their knees the second he crooked a finger and flashed that wicked grin. Word of him spread through the taverns and great houses alike: if you wanted a night you’d never forget, you sought out James Barnes.

To him, life was cheap and fleeting, especially with the dark rumors of a terrible sickness creeping ever closer from the continent. So why not wring every last drop of pleasure from it while he still could? Death was for the weak, the unlucky, the overly cautious. James Buchanan Barnes was none of those things. He felt invincible, already half-immortal in his own mind, a king of fleeting nights and stolen pleasures.

Until the night the plague finally found him in that filthy alley behind the tavern.

James had just finished with a laughing barmaid behind the tavern, still tucking his cock back into his breeches with that signature cocky smirk when the nightmare lunged out of the shadows.

The man was a nobleman once, fine clothes now stained and torn but the plague had rotted him from the inside. Black buboes swelled grotesquely on his neck and groin, his skin slick with fever-sweat and pus. His eyes, however, burned with something far worse than the pestilence. They were mad. Hungry. And his mouth was open, revealing long, sharp fangs glistening with saliva and fresh blood.

Bucky tried to fight.

Even half-drunk and sated, the young mercenary was no easy prey. He swung a heavy fist and caught the creature square in the jaw with a solid crack.

“Get the fuck off me, ye sick bastard!” he snarled, terror spiking through the haze of ale.

The nobleman’s strength was unnatural. He slammed Bucky against the slimy brick wall of the alley with bone-jarring force. The stench of death, decay and rotting flesh filled Bucky’s lungs, making him gag. He kicked wildly, cursed, and clawed at the creature’s rotting face, drawing blood and pus beneath his nails.

“Unhand me, you foul whoreson!”

But the dying vampire was too far gone. With a guttural, inhuman hiss, he struck.

Fangs sank deep into Bucky’s throat.

The pain was immediate and blinding.

James screamed, a raw broken sound that echoed off the narrow alley walls. It felt as though liquid fire had been poured straight into his veins. Every nerve in his body ignited at once. His back arched violently as the venom spread like acid through muscle and bone. He dropped to his knees in the filth and shit of the alley, clawing desperately at his own neck. Hot blood poured between his fingers, soaking his tunic.

“What… what the fuck have ye done to me?!” he gasped, voice cracking with raw terror. “Get off- get off me, ye devil!”

The nobleman collapsed beside him with a grotesque, satisfied smile still twisting his rotting face, finally dead.

Bucky’s vision blurred and doubled. His gums burned as though someone had shoved hot coals into his mouth. New fangs pushed through with agonizing slowness, splitting the flesh, flooding his mouth with the metallic taste of his own blood. His eyes felt like they were boiling in his skull, bloodshot crimson, pupils blown wide with unbearable pain. Every heartbeat slammed against his ribs like a war drum, each one slower, heavier, more labored than the last.

He vomited bile and blood onto the filthy cobblestones, curling into a tight ball as wave after wave of excruciating pain ripped him apart from the inside out. Nothing in his life, no sword wound, no tavern brawl, no brutal fuck had ever come close to this torment.

“I’m dying,” he gasped between screams. “Christ save me… I’m dying…”

Then his heart stopped.

For one terrifying, endless moment there was only silence.

And then a new, monstrous strength flooded his limbs.

The pain crested like a breaking wave and shattered. The fire in his veins cooled into something cold, sharp, and impossibly clear. His senses exploded. He could hear rats skittering through the gutters three streets away. He could smell the fear-sweat and ale on every patron still inside the tavern. He could taste the copper of his own blood like the finest wine he’d ever stolen.

James Buchanan Barnes rose slowly from the filth of the alley a different man.

No longer the cocky mortal who believed himself invincible.

Now he was invincible.

The arrogance did not vanish overnight. It simply twisted into something far colder, darker and infinitely more dangerous. A ravenous hunger gnawed at his insides like a living beast. He staggered out of the alley on unsteady legs, eyes glowing faintly red in the darkness, new fangs aching in his gums. The whole world smelled of blood and opportunity.

For the next three centuries he drifted across Europe like a handsome plague all his own, still devastatingly beautiful, now paired with an immortal predator’s lethal grace. He took lovers by the dozen and left ruin in his wake.

He fucked them hard and mercilessly.

In silk-draped beds of French chateaus, he would take haughty countesses from behind while their husbands slept in the next room. He’d grip their hips hard enough to bruise, pounding into them until they sobbed with pleasure, then sink his fangs into their offered throats as they came. Many begged for it, baring their necks willingly, whispering “Take me, my lord… drink” as he drained them just enough to leave them dizzy and addicted.

In moonlit forests of Germany, he seduced witches who offered their wrists and throats in dark rituals. He’d fuck them against ancient trees or on moss-covered altars, their bare breasts bouncing with every brutal thrust while they chanted his name like a god. He drank from them mid-climax, their blood mixing with their screams of ecstasy as he filled their cunts with his spend.

In the secret royal chambers of Spain and Italy, queens and duchesses summoned him under cover of night. They offered their royal throats like sacred gifts, spreading their legs and begging the beautiful monster to ruin them. He would fuck them on their own thrones or royal beds, merciless and unrelenting, leaving bite marks that they would hide beneath high collars and jewels for weeks.

Even peasant girls in haylofts and smoky inns were not spared. They offered themselves eagerly, wrists, throats, thighs, drawn to his dangerous beauty like moths to flame. He took them roughly against barn walls or on piles of straw, growling filthy promises in their ears as he drove into them:

“That’s it, lass… bare that pretty throat for me. Let me drink while I fuck this tight cunt raw.”

He was never gentle. He fucked like the predator he had become, deep, brutal and possessive. Many women left his bed limping, marked and forever changed, craving the bite of the beautiful devil who had ruined them for mortal men.

And when the hunger demanded more than just sex, he fed.

He drank from wrists held out like offerings, from elegant throats bared in candlelight, from soft inner thighs spread wide beneath him. He never killed them, not unless they deserved it. He left them alive, dazed and addicted, whispering his name in their dreams for years afterward.

Then he vanished before dawn.

No attachments. No feelings. No mercy.

Just blood and pleasure.

He moved from city to city, country to country, leaving a trail of broken hearts, bitten throats and ruined reputations in his wake.

Until the second wave of plague swept through London in 1665… and brought him Dolores.

It was a rain-soaked evening when James first met Dolores.

He was walking the narrow, muddy streets of Cheapside, hood pulled low against the downpour, when a young woman hurried around the corner with a heavy basket of herbs clutched to her chest. She collided directly with him.

She stumbled, nearly dropping her basket. He caught her elbow with gentle, steady hands.

“Forgive me, mistress,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “I was not watching where I-”

Their eyes met.

And she knew.

She saw the faint red glow in his eyes, the unnatural stillness of his body, the way the rain seemed to slide off him differently. She smelled the old death that clung to him like a shadow. Most mortals would have screamed or run.

Dolores only smiled, soft, unafraid, almost tender.

“You’re him,” she whispered, so quietly only he could hear. “The one the shadows speak of. The immortal with the devil’s hunger.”

James froze. For the first time in centuries, he was the one caught off guard.

“And yet ye do not run,” he said, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing. “Most women throw themselves at me for the thrill of the monster. They bare their throats and beg to be ruined. Why do you not scream?”

She looked up at him with calm, intelligent eyes, rain dripping from her lashes.

“Because I see more than the monster,” she replied softly. “I see a man who is tired. Lonely. Carrying centuries of sorrow in those beautiful eyes. Tell me, stranger… does the hunger ever let you rest?”

James stared at her, stunned into silence. No one had ever spoken to him like this.

That night, after she invited him into the back room of her father’s apothecary shop under the pretense of selling him a tonic, she offered him something far more precious.

“I know what you are,” she said softly, standing close enough that he could hear her steady heartbeat. “And I am not afraid. If you wish to drink… you may. But only if it brings me pleasure, not pain. I want to know what it feels like to be wanted by something eternal.”

James stared at her, stunned. No one had ever offered themselves to him like this, without fear or mindless lust.

“Dolores,” he breathed, tasting the name like a prayer. “Are you certain? I am no gentle lover. I have ruined women far braver than you.”

She cupped his face with gentle hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “Then be gentle with me, my James. Show me the man behind the hunger. Kiss me first.”

He kissed her slowly, reverently, as if she were the most fragile thing in existence. When she moaned softly into his mouth, he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against hers while his hands explored her body with aching care.

That same night, in the small room above the shop with rain pattering against the window, he took her virginity.

He laid her down on the narrow bed like she was made of Venetian glass. He kissed every inch of her, slow worshipful kisses down her throat, across her collarbones, over the soft swell of her breasts. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he worshipped her with his mouth until she was trembling and whimpering.

“Easy, my sweet Dot,” he murmured against her slick folds, voice low and tender. “Breathe for me. Let me make it good for you. I want to hear every sound you make.”

He licked her slowly, reverently, sucking gently on her clit until she came with a soft cry, fingers tangled in his hair.

When he finally pushed inside her, he did it so slowly, so carefully, whispering sweet, filthy praises the entire time.

“That’s it, love… breathe. You feel so perfect. So warm and tight around my cock. Such a brave, beautiful girl, taking me so well. Does it hurt?”

“A little,” she gasped, legs wrapping around him. “But don’t stop. I want all of you, James. Please.”

He moved with aching gentleness, rocking into her in slow, deep strokes, one hand cradling her face while the other stroked between her legs.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered against her lips. “My perfect Dot. Look at you, opening up for a monster like me. I’ve never felt anything like this. Never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

As she neared her peak, he kissed her throat and asked softly, “May I taste you, love? It will feel like pleasure… I swear it on whatever soul I have left.”

“Yes,” she breathed, tilting her head. “Take what you need. I want to feel you.”

He sank his fangs gently into her throat at the exact moment she came. She cried out in ecstasy, not pain, as his venom flooded her veins with liquid pleasure. He drank only a little, just enough to bind her to him while she clenched around his cock, sobbing his name.

“My James… oh God, James… it feels… so good…”

For the first time in three hundred years, the cold, womanizing predator fell in love. Real, terrifying, all-consuming love. Dot became his anchor, his light in an endless night. She made the hunger feel like home. They moved into a small cottage on the edge of the city, hidden behind overgrown gardens. He watched her work by lamplight, head bent over dried herbs and for stolen months he felt almost human again.

He was gentle with her in ways he had never been with anyone. He would fuck her slow and deep on their modest bed, whispering filthy devotion between tender kisses:

“My sweet Dot… so tight, so perfect for me. Look how beautifully you take my cock. I’d burn kingdoms for this cunt, for you.”

She would moan his name like a prayer, fingers buried in his hair, gasping “My James… my James…” as she came apart beneath him, safe in the arms of the monster who had chosen to be gentle for her.

But the plague found her anyway.

It started with a mild fever and a small swelling under her arm. Bucky begged her to stay inside. She insisted on helping the sick in the city “I cannot sit idle while people die, James.” Within days she was burning with fever, black buboes blooming across her neck and groin, coughing up blood.

He took her to the only hospital-like place that would accept plague victims, a filthy overcrowded pesthouse run by overworked physicians and nuns. The air reeked of vinegar, smoke, and rotting flesh. They bled her, applied useless poultices, and prayed over her while she grew weaker. Bucky waited outside in the shadows like an animal, listening to her faint cries through the walls.

When the doctors finally told him there was nothing more they could do “She is in God’s hands now” he snapped. He stole her from the pesthouse that same night, carrying her home in his arms while she shivered and whimpered.

“I’ve got you, Dot. I’m not letting them touch you again.”

Back in their cottage, he took matters into his own hands. Desperate and terrified, he forced his ancient vampire blood down her throat by the cupful. He reopened the bites on his wrists again and again, mixing his blood with herbal tonics she once made, performing every forbidden rite he had learned across three centuries. He even tried to turn her prematurely, sinking his fangs into her throat while she was still semi-conscious, pumping venom and blood into her failing body in a frantic attempt to save her.

It only made everything worse.

His powerful blood clashed violently with the plague already devouring her. The buboes swelled larger and burst. Her fever spiked into delirium. She screamed in agony as her body tore itself apart from the inside, convulsing so hard she bit through her own lip. The vampire venom accelerated the plague’s destruction, turning her gentle decline into a nightmare of pain.

In her final hours she was barely lucid. Bucky climbed into bed with her, cradling her burning body against his chest, rocking her as she gasped for air.

“Stay with me, Dot… please, my love. I can’t do this without you.”

Her eyes fluttered open one last time, bloodshot, fading but full of love. She reached up with a trembling, fever-hot hand and cupped his tear-streaked face.

“My James…” she breathed, voice cracking like glass. “I love you… even the monster. Don’t… don’t blame yourself.”

Then she screamed.

A horrible, soul-shattering scream as another wave of pain ripped through her. She clawed at her own chest and neck, eyes wide with terror and agony, whispering his name like a broken litany until her voice failed. Bucky held her through every convulsion, sobbing blood tears into her sweat-soaked hair, begging, praying, cursing God and himself.

She died just before dawn, limp and cold in the arms of the immortal who had tried everything and only hastened her suffering.

The silence afterward was worse than any scream.

Completely shattered, Bucky remained on the bed where they had been lying together.

Dot was still in his arms, limp and cold against his chest, exactly where she had drawn her last painful breath. He held her tighter, rocking her gently as if that could somehow bring her back. The silence in the small cottage was deafening, broken only by the distant rumble of plague carts outside and the crackling of the dying fire in the hearth.

Tears of blood streamed down his face as he pressed his lips to her forehead one final time.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered, voice hoarse and broken. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. Forgive me, Dot… forgive your monster.”

With trembling hands, he gently laid her back against the pillows, arranging her hair and pulling the quilt up to her chin like she was only sleeping.

Then he rose.

He moved through the cottage like a man in a nightmare, pouring oil from every lamp and bottle he could find. He soaked the floorboards, the rugs, the curtains, the herbs and dried flowers she had so lovingly collected. He drenched the wooden beams and the table where she used to mix tonics.

When the entire home was saturated in oil, he returned to the bed.

He stood over her for a long moment, memorizing her peaceful face one last time. Then he struck the match.

The flames roared to life with terrifying speed, greedy and hungry, racing across the floor and climbing the walls. Bucky stayed right there beside the bed as the fire reached them, the heat blistering his immortal skin. He watched the flames lick at the quilt, at her hair, at the body of the only woman who had ever truly loved him.

He didn’t move.

He stood in the flames’ glow, the inferno painting the small cottage in violent orange and red, until the roof began to collapse and the entire structure became nothing but a roaring pyre.

The last remnants of the man he used to be, the cocky mercenary, the arrogant lover, the creature who still believed he could be redeemed, died with her in that fire.

When the cottage finally collapsed in on itself with a thunderous crash, Bucky walked out of the burning ruins and into the night.

He never looked back.

After Dolores burned, Bucky wandered the world like a ghost for nearly two hundred and fifty years, feeding in the slums of Paris, hunting through the fog of Victorian London, drifting across continents with no purpose except to dull the ache in his chest.

Then the wars found him.

In 1914, when the world descended into madness, he enlisted under a false name and threw himself into the trenches of World War I. He fought like a shadow, slipping through No Man’s Land at night, ripping out German throats with his bare fangs while artillery shells screamed overhead. The mud, the blood, the endless screams… they felt like penance. He told himself the carnage was justice for every innocent life he’d taken, for failing Dot. He rarely fed on soldiers, only the cruelest officers and rapists among the ranks. The rest of the time he simply endured, letting bullets tear through him, healing slowly, welcoming the pain.

When the war ended in 1918, the emptiness followed him back across the Atlantic.

He moved to Brooklyn in the early 1920s.

New York felt different, loud, restless, alive in a way Europe no longer was. Brooklyn, with its brick row houses, bustling docks and working-class grit, reminded him faintly of the London he once knew. He bought an old warehouse near the waterfront under yet another alias and made it his lair. For a few quiet decades he tried to disappear into the rhythm of the city: working nights on the docks, boxing in smoky gyms, fucking nameless women in speakeasies just to feel something close to warmth.

But peace never lasted.

World War II dragged him back in.

By 1942 he was operating as a covert Allied operative, a ghost soldier who could walk through enemy lines and leave nothing but corpses. In the brutal winter of 1944, during the Battle of the Bulge in the Ardennes Forest, everything shattered. A German artillery shell landed too close. The explosion tore his left arm clean off at the shoulder in a spray of blood and bone. Vampire healing tried desperately to close the wound but the shrapnel was too deep, the damage too severe. He lay bleeding in the snow for hours before a secret HYDRA-linked unit found him.

They dragged him to a makeshift lab hidden in the frozen woods. There, while he was half-conscious and roaring in agony, they fused a prototype metal prosthetic to the raw stump, cold steel wired directly into his immortal nervous system. The pain was worse than the turning in that London alley. He screamed until his voice gave out as they bolted the arm into place.

When he finally woke, the arm was part of him, unbreakable, unnaturally strong and freezing to the touch. A permanent scar on the body that had once made women drop to their knees.

After the war ended in 1945, Bucky vanished again.

He returned to Brooklyn, the only place that still felt halfway like home. He kept the same warehouse, later converting it into a hidden penthouse high above the city as the decades passed. The metal arm stayed hidden beneath long sleeves and gloves. He fed only on the worst of humanity, mobsters, rapists, corrupt politicians and fucked to forget, never staying longer than one night.

As the years went on, the world changed… and so did the way people fucked.

In the roaring 1920s, flappers threw themselves at him in smoky speakeasies, lipstick-stained mouths whispering filthy promises while they rode him in dark corners. In the 1950s and 60s, women grew bolder, secretaries, housewives, beatnik girls who wanted danger. They offered their throats and wrists in motel rooms, begging him to bite while they came on his cock. By the 1970s and 80s, the sexual revolution turned everything dirtier. Women took him home and asked him to choke them, slap them, fuck them until they cried, sometimes filthier than he had ever been in his mortal days.

He gave them what they wanted. He fucked them hard and merciless in alleyways, penthouse suites and the backs of cars. He drank from them while they screamed in pleasure, leaving bite marks they would hide under turtlenecks and makeup. But it was never love. Never connection. Just bodies and blood to numb the emptiness.

He was the shift.

Many, many years ago, people fucked mostly for love, for marriage, for heirs. Now they fucked for fun, for thrill, for the sheer dirty pleasure of it and Bucky became their favorite sin. They threw themselves at the tall, silent man with the metal arm and the dangerous eyes, never knowing they were offering themselves to something ancient and monstrous.

Yet no matter how many women he took, how many throats he drank from, how many nights he spent buried in warm, willing bodies… the loneliness never left.

Four hundred more years of numbness stretched ahead of him.

A ghost with fangs, a metal arm that never truly felt like his own, and a heart that hadn’t truly beaten since Dolores died screaming his name.

Until one rainy night in 2026, outside a quiet Brooklyn library, a warm-blooded girl with a sunlight smile literally crashed into him… and everything changed.

You’re running on fumes, a broke stubborn waitress working chaotic double shifts at a loud hipster café by day and a quiet night-shift librarian at an old branch library by night. Your Gothic literature thesis is the only thing that still excites you: tragic monsters, obsessive love and beautiful creatures of the night that always end up destroying what they crave most. You laugh at how dramatic it all sounds.

It’s a brutal, pouring rainy night when fate decides to be cruel.

You’re leaving the library well past midnight, arms overloaded with books and thesis notes, your cheap umbrella doing almost nothing against the downpour. Head down, coffee in hand, you hurry down the slick stone steps and slam directly into a solid wall of muscle.

Your coffee cup flies out of your hand, splashing across his dark coat. Your umbrella spins wildly into the street. You stumble backward, nearly slipping on the wet pavement.

“Shit- I’m so sorry!” you blurt, face burning with embarrassment. “I wasn’t watching where I was going, I-”

Before you can finish, a large, surprisingly gentle hand catches your elbow, steadying you with effortless strength.

“Easy there, doll,” a low, rough voice murmurs, laced with an old-fashioned accent that doesn’t belong in modern Brooklyn. “You alright? That was my fault. Should’ve been paying better attention.”

You finally look up.

Holy fuck.

He’s stunning. Tall, broad-shouldered, with steel-blue eyes that seem to cut straight through you, sharp jawline and dark hair dripping from the rain. Danger rolls off him in waves, but his touch is careful, almost reverent.

He releases your elbow only to bend down and retrieve your soaked umbrella from the gutter, shaking the water off before handing it back to you.

You’re still flustered. “No, really, it was me. I’m such a klutz when I’m tired. Here- let me get you some napkins or something-”

He’s already shrugging off his long, clearly expensive black coat. Before you can protest, he drapes it over your shoulders. It’s warm from his body and smells like aged leather, rain and something darkly rich, like old wine and copper.

Your eyes go wide in panic.

“Wait- no, no, no! I can’t take this!” You immediately start shrugging it off. “This looks really expensive. How am I supposed to give it back to you? I don’t even know your name. I can’t just walk off with your coat like some weirdo-”

He places a gentle but firm hand on your shoulder, stopping you from removing it. His eyes soften, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest crooked smirk.

“Keep it,” he says, voice low and smooth. “You’re soaked to the bone, doll. You’ll catch your death walking home like that. I insist.”

“But it’s yours,” you insist, cheeks burning hotter. “What if I ruin it? Or lose it? Seriously, I feel terrible. At least let me get your number or something so I can return it properly-”

He shakes his head, that ghost of a smirk deepening. “It’s just a coat. I have others. You, on the other hand, look like you’ve had a long night. Keep it. Wear it home. I’ll survive.”

You clutch the coat tighter despite yourself, the fabric heavy and comforting against the chill. No one in this city is ever this… chivalrous. Guys your age would’ve already grumbled and walked away. This man is looking at you like your comfort actually matters to him.

“You’re really sure?” you ask softly, still hesitant.

“Positive,” he replies, eyes never leaving yours. “Besides… it looks better on you anyway.”

Your stomach flips. The way he says it, quiet, sincere, a little rough, makes heat creep up your neck.

You manage a flustered, stubborn little smile. “Thank you… really. Most people in this city would’ve just cursed me out and kept walking. You’re… surprisingly nice.”

Something flickers across his face, pain, surprise, hunger but it’s gone in a heartbeat. He hasn’t been called nice in over four hundred years. He hasn’t been looked at like a person since Dolores whispered “my James” with her last breath.

“You stay safe getting home,” he says quietly, almost like a command wrapped in velvet. “And maybe… watch your step next time, doll.”

You nod, cheeks still warm. “Yeah… I will. Goodnight.”

You give him one last awkward little wave and start walking, his coat wrapped around you like a shield against the rain. You can feel his eyes on your back the entire way down the block.

Bucky stands motionless in the downpour, fists clenched at his sides, metal arm whirring quietly under his Henley. Your scent, warm vanilla, rain and that sweet, pulsing blood underneath has already burrowed into his lungs like a drug. His fangs throb painfully behind his lips. He has to fight every instinct not to follow you right now and drag you into the nearest alley.

He waits until you’ve turned the corner.

Then he moves.

Silent as death, he follows you home.

Every step. Every turn. Close enough to protect you from anyone who might look at you too long. Far enough that you never notice the shadow trailing behind you.

By the time you reach your apartment building, he’s already memorized which window is yours.

He stands across the street in the rain, eyes glowing faintly red in the dark, heart dead for centuries cracking wide open with dangerous, all-consuming obsession.

He already knows one simple truth:

He’s never letting you go.

Bucky waited in the shadows across the street like a predator who had already decided his prey belonged to him.

He stood motionless in the pouring rain for nearly two hours, eyes fixed on your apartment window on the third floor. When the last light finally clicked off at 2:47 am, something dark and hungry uncoiled inside his chest.

But he didn’t move right away.

Instead, he stayed where he was, hidden in the darkness between two buildings and watched.

You had left the curtains open.

Through the rain-streaked glass, he saw you clearly. You were still wearing his long black coat. You shrugged it off your shoulders and held it up to your face, pressing your nose into the collar. Your eyes closed as you breathed in deeply, then again, slower, savoring his scent. A soft, almost dreamy expression crossed your face.

Bucky’s fangs throbbed. His cock hardened instantly.

You muttered to yourself, voice quiet but perfectly clear to his enhanced hearing:

“God… why does this smell so good?”

Bucky’s lips curled into a dark, predatory smile. He murmured under his breath, voice low and rough with dark amusement,

“People really don’t close their curtains anymore, do they? They have no idea who could be watching them…”

You laughed softly at yourself, shaking your head, then started changing. You peeled off your damp clothes, letting them drop to the floor without a care. For a moment you stood there in just your panties, stretching, completely unaware of the ancient predator standing in the rain across the street, staring at every inch of your body with black, starving eyes.

Bucky’s metal hand clenched at his side, plates whirring. Drool slipped from the corner of his mouth. He watched the way your breasts moved when you raised your arms, the curve of your hips, the soft sway of your ass as you turned. His breathing grew ragged.

“Beautiful,” he whispered to the night. “So fucking beautiful… and so unaware.”

Only when you finally pulled on an oversized t-shirt and climbed into bed, turning off the last light, did he move.

Silent as death, Bucky crossed the street, climbed the stairs to your building’s front entrance, and picked the cheap lock on your apartment door in less than eight seconds. He slipped inside like smoke, closed the door behind him, and locked it again with the same unnatural precision, so perfectly that no one would ever know he’d been there.

The apartment was small, cluttered and alive with you.

Your scent was everywhere, warm vanilla lotion, faint coffee from your shift, the sweet copper undertone of your blood pulsing just beneath your skin. It filled the cramped space like perfume made specifically to torment him.

Bucky’s boots were silent on the worn hardwood as he walked through your living room. Books and thesis notes were scattered across the coffee table. A half-empty mug of tea sat cold beside them. A worn blanket was crumpled on the couch. The mess should have annoyed the centuries-old soldier in him… but it only made the obsession sink deeper. This was your chaos. Your life. Your little mortal world he was about to invade.

His gaze fell on the open notebook lying on top of the pile. Your neat handwriting filled the page, underlined and circled in places:

Vampires in Gothic Literature

Eternal life vs. eternal loneliness?

Do they feel love or only hunger?

Real or metaphor for forbidden desire? Witches – power, seduction, danger… real?

Bucky read the notes slowly, a low, dark chuckle rumbling in his chest. The sound was soft, almost affectionate, but laced with something ancient and dangerous.

“Only if you knew, doll,” he whispered to the empty room, the corners of his mouth twitching into a predatory smirk. “Only if you knew.”

He lingered there for a moment longer, tracing one finger over your handwriting, before continuing toward the bedroom.

Your bedroom door was ajar.

He pushed it open slowly, the hinges giving a tiny protesting creak that made him freeze. You didn’t stir.

There you were.

Curled up in bed under a messy pile of blankets, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and a pair of soft cotton panties. Your breathing was deep and even, lips slightly parted, one leg kicked out from under the covers. So vulnerable. So warm.

Bucky’s fangs throbbed. His metal hand flexed at his side, plates whirring quietly.

He stepped closer.

Your scent was strongest here, concentrated, intimate, intoxicating. He could hear every heartbeat, every soft inhale and exhale. His cock hardened instantly, thick and aching against the front of his jeans. He hadn’t felt this kind of raw, physical need in decades.

On the floor near the foot of your bed lay a pair of discarded black lace panties, the ones you’d clearly worn earlier that day. Slightly damp from the rain and your long shift. The scent rolling off them made his mouth flood with venom.

He crouched down, metal fingers hovering just above the delicate fabric. The urge to snatch them was almost painful. He wanted to press them to his face, inhale you until he drowned in it. He wanted to wrap them around his cock the second he got home and fuck his fist while imagining burying himself inside you.

But he stopped.

His hand trembled. The metal plates clicked softly.

“Not yet,” he whispered to himself, voice barely a breath. “Don’t scare her. Not yet.”

With a low, tortured growl, he forced himself to stand. He backed away from the panties like they were burning him.

He allowed himself one last indulgence.

He leaned over your sleeping form, careful not to touch you and breathed you in deeply, dragging your scent into his lungs like a dying man taking his final breath. His lips hovered an inch above your neck, right where your pulse fluttered so invitingly. He could hear the blood rushing beneath your skin. His cock throbbed harder, leaking against his thigh.

He stayed there for a long minute, eyes closed, fangs fully extended, fighting every instinct screaming at him to bite, to claim, to take.

Finally, with a ragged exhale, he pulled back.

On his way out, he noticed his coat draped over the back of your couch where you must have taken it off before bed. The fabric still carried traces of both your scent and his. For a moment he considered taking it back… but he left it exactly where it was.

He didn’t want to take anything from you tonight.

Not yet.

By the time he reached his penthouse, he was shaking with raw, barely contained need.

The second the door shut, Bucky shoved his jeans down, freed his painfully hard cock and stroked himself with brutal, desperate strokes. He buried his face in the collar of his shirt, the one that still carried the faintest trace of your scent from when he’d stood so close to you and fucked his fist like a man possessed.

He came hard within minutes, spilling over his hand with a broken, guttural groan.

Even after the release, the hunger didn’t fade.

It only grew sharper.

He didn’t even know your name yet.

And he already knew he’d be back tomorrow night.

And the night after that.

Until simply watching you sleep was no longer enough.

The next morning, Bucky was already waiting in the shadows outside your building when you left just after 6:30 am, yawning, hair messy, clutching a travel mug of cheap instant coffee.

He followed you at a distance, ten blocks through the waking city, never close enough for you to notice. He memorized every little habit: the way you adjusted your bag strap, how you checked your phone at stoplights, the slight slump in your shoulders from exhaustion. When you finally stopped in front of a small, cozy café called “The Midnight Brew,” he lingered across the street for nearly forty minutes, watching through the large windows as you tied on your black apron and started your shift.

Only when the morning rush began to build did he cross the street and step inside.

The bell above the door jingled. You looked up from behind the counter and your breath hitched.

It was him.

Bucky chose the small table by the window, the one with the perfect view of you. A few minutes later you approached, notepad in hand, trying (and failing) to look professional.

“Hi… you again,” you said, a shy, surprised smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon. What can I get started for you today?”

Bucky looked up slowly, his steel-blue eyes dragging over your face like he wanted to commit every detail to memory. His gaze flicked briefly to your name tag.

“That’s a beautiful name,” he murmured, voice low and rough with that old-fashioned accent. “Suits you perfectly.”

Your cheeks instantly burned hot. You weren’t used to compliments delivered like that, slow, sincere and a little dangerous.

“Th-thank you,” you stammered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s… really sweet of you to say. Um, what would you like?”

“Black coffee. No sugar,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “And whatever your favorite pastry is this morning. Surprise me, doll. I trust your taste.”

You nodded quickly, scribbling on your pad to hide how flustered you felt. “One black coffee and a chocolate croissant coming right up.”

When you returned with his order, your fingers brushed against his right hand as you set the mug down. His skin was cool, almost unnaturally so, and the brief contact sent a shiver racing up your arm. You couldn’t help but notice that his left hand remained gloved in black leather, resting quietly on the table, the same glove he’d worn outside. You wondered about it for a split second but said nothing, simply offering him a small smile instead.

“Here you go,” you said softly, still pink-cheeked. “The croissant is still warm. Let me know if you need a refill or anything else.”

You hesitated for a second, then added, “Oh- I actually brought your coat with me. It’s hanging on the rack in the back. I was going to take it to the dry cleaners on my break because it got soaked last night. I can drop it off at the library tonight if you want, or… I don’t know, maybe you could pick it up later?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, something possessive flickering behind them. He shook his head slowly.

“Keep it,” he said, voice low and firm but gentle. “It looks better on you than it ever did on me. I have more coats than I know what to do with. I insist.”

“But it’s such a nice coat,” you protested, cheeks burning hotter. “I’d feel terrible if something happened to it. At least let me get it cleaned for you-”

“No arguments, doll,” he interrupted, the faintest crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Wear it when you need it. Stay warm. That’s all I want from you right now.”

You blinked, completely thrown by how gently but stubbornly he was refusing. No guy had ever spoken to you like this.

“…Okay,” you said softly, biting your lip. “If you’re really sure. Thank you again. Seriously. Most people wouldn’t have even offered their coat in that rain.”

Bucky’s gaze softened for just a moment. “Most people aren’t me.”

You gave him a shy little smile and hurried back to the counter, heart racing. For the rest of your shift you could feel his eyes on you, steady, dark and unwavering. He barely touched the coffee or the croissant. He just watched you move behind the counter like you were the only thing worth looking at in the entire world.

When the rush finally slowed, he stood up, left a very generous tip folded neatly under the mug, and paused at the counter on his way out.

“See you soon,” he murmured, saying your name like it was something sacred and secret. “Have a good rest of your shift, doll. Don’t work too hard.”

You could only manage a flustered nod, cheeks still warm long after he’d walked out the door.

That night, when he picked the lock on your front door and slipped silently into your apartment while you slept, he stood over your bed for a long time, breathing you in.

He leaned down, lips hovering just above the soft skin of your neck and whispered your name into the darkness like a vow.

It sounded like both a prayer… and a promise.

Over the next several nights, Bucky’s restraint completely shattered.

He came back every few nights, slipping through your front door like a ghost, locking it behind him with that soft, familiar click. At first he only watched you sleep. But the hunger quickly grew teeth.

The third night he touched you.

He leaned over your bed, cool lips pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your throat. He nipped at your skin, fangs grazing but never breaking it, sucking lightly until you whimpered in your sleep.

“Fuck… such a pretty neck,” he growled quietly against your pulse. “Bet you’d look so good with my marks all over it.”

He pushed your nightshirt up, exposing your breasts and buried his face between them with a low, filthy groan. His tongue dragged over your nipples in slow, wet circles before he sucked one into his mouth, moaning like he was tasting something divine.

“So fucking sweet… these tits are perfect, doll. Made for my mouth.”

His metal hand ghosted over your hips, fingertips barely brushing your skin as he fought not to grip hard enough to bruise. You arched unconsciously toward him, thighs pressing together.

The fourth night he went lower.

He eased your panties down your legs and spread your thighs wide, kneeling between them like he was worshipping at an altar. He dragged his tongue through your soaked folds in one long, obscene lick and groaned deeply.

“Jesus Christ… your pussy is dripping for me even when you’re asleep,” he rasped, voice thick with lust. “Such a needy little cunt. You taste so fucking good, baby. I could eat this pretty pussy for hours.”

He licked you like a man starved, slow, filthy strokes of his tongue circling your clit before pushing inside you, fucking you with it. He sucked on your swollen clit with wet, obscene sounds, metal fingers gently holding your thighs open.

“That’s it… grind against my tongue even in your sleep like a good little slut,” he murmured against your slick flesh. “This pussy belongs to me now. You hear me? Mine.”

You came hard on his tongue, thighs shaking, a broken moan slipping from your lips. He licked you through every pulse, drinking down every drop like it was sacred.

The visits only got dirtier.

Night after night he returned. He’d bury his face between your thighs for what felt like hours, tongue-fucking you, sucking your clit, growling filthy praise against your soaked cunt.

“Fuck, you’re so wet… creaming all over my tongue like you were made for this. That’s my girl. Let me taste how much you need me.”

Sometimes he’d slide two cool fingers inside you while sucking on your clit, curling them just right, whispering, “Tight little pussy sucking my fingers in even when you’re dreaming. Gonna ruin this cunt one day. Gonna fill you up and make you scream my name for real.”

You always woke drenched in sweat, thighs slick and trembling, panties pushed to the side or completely off. Fragments of sensation haunted you, cold tongue licking deep, a rough voice groaning filthy things, the faint scent of old leather and blood on your skin. You told yourself they were just extremely vivid, filthy dreams caused by stress and loneliness.

Your body knew the truth.

Every morning you woke up aching and empty, clit throbbing, sheets ruined. And every few nights the dreams returned, darker, wetter, more intense.

Bucky, meanwhile, was unraveling.

He left your apartment every time with your taste coating his tongue and his cock so hard it hurt. Back in his penthouse he would stroke himself raw, snarling your name as he came but it was never enough.

He needed to hear you moan his name for real.

He needed to sink his fangs into your thigh while buried balls-deep inside you.

And he was getting dangerously close to losing the last shred of control he had left.

A few days later, the universe seemed determined to keep pushing you together.

You were halfway through your post-shift grocery run, still wearing Bucky’s oversized black coat because the autumn air had turned crisp. It swallowed your frame, the hem brushing your thighs and you secretly loved how warm and safe it made you feel. Your basket was overloaded with pasta, fresh vegetables, a cheap bottle of red wine, and a pint of ice cream you were definitely stress-eating later.

You turned the corner into the pasta aisle and walked straight into a solid wall of muscle.

“Oh- I’m so sorry!” you gasped, nearly dropping your basket.

Gentle but strong hands immediately steadied you, catching your elbows with careful precision so you wouldn’t fall.

“Easy there, doll,” a low, familiar voice murmured. “You alright? That was my fault. Should’ve been paying better attention.”

You looked up and your heart skipped hard.

It was him, the mysterious, devastatingly handsome man from the rainy night and the café. He was wearing a red Henley under a leather jacket, his metal hand tucked discreetly into his pocket like always. His steel-blue eyes softened the second they met yours.

You blushed instantly. “I swear I’m not this clumsy all the time. I was trying to decide between spaghetti and linguine like my life depended on it.”

Bucky’s mouth curved into that faint, crooked smile that made your stomach flutter. His gaze drifted down, noticing you were still wearing his coat.

“Looks far better on you than it ever did on me,” he said softly, almost reverent. “I’m glad you kept it.”

Before you could respond, he smoothly took the heavy basket from your hands as if it weighed nothing.

“Please, allow me,” he said, already heading toward the checkout. “A lady shouldn’t have to carry all this herself.”

You tried to protest. “You really don’t have to-”

“I insist,” he replied gently but firmly, that old-world chivalry radiating off him. He held the basket in one arm and used the other to open the door for an elderly woman leaving the store, nodding politely to her. “After you, ma’am.”

You watched him, completely charmed and a little dazed. No guy your age ever acted like this.

At checkout, he politely waited while you paid, then immediately took all the bags before you could reach for them. Outside, he positioned himself on the street side of the sidewalk, shielding you from traffic like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The walk back to your apartment was short but felt electric. He carried every bag effortlessly, making easy conversation the whole way.

“Long shift today?” he asked, glancing at you with genuine concern.

“Yeah… double again. I’m exhausted but the thesis won’t write itself.”

“You work too hard,” he said quietly. “A girl like you deserves to be taken care of sometimes.”

When you reached your building, he didn’t hesitate.

“Mind if I help you up with these?” he asked, voice warm and sincere. “I’d feel better knowing they made it safely upstairs.”

You nodded, cheeks warm. “Yeah… sure. That would be really nice, actually. Thank you.”

You let him follow you up the narrow stairs to your third-floor apartment. Bucky carried all the bags effortlessly in one arm, walking just behind you like a perfect gentleman.

Inside your small, cluttered apartment, he set the bags on the counter and looked around with quiet appreciation, taking in the fairy lights, the overflowing bookshelves, and the half-dead plants on the windowsill.

“It’s lovely in here,” he said sincerely, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Warm. Lived-in. Feels like a real home.”

He rolled up the sleeve on his right arm and started helping you unpack without being asked, putting milk and eggs in the fridge, pasta in the cupboard, vegetables in the crisper, moving with surprising familiarity and care.

You noticed immediately that he only rolled up one sleeve. The left arm stayed fully covered, the black leather glove still firmly in place.

You tilted your head, curious. “Why do you keep that glove on? And you only rolled up one sleeve.”

Bucky paused for half a second, then gave a small, easy smile.

“Poor circulation,” he said smoothly. “Old injury from years ago. The left arm gets cold easily, especially in weather like this, so I keep it covered. Doctor’s orders.”

You nodded, accepting the answer. “That makes sense. Must be annoying, especially in winter.”

“Sometimes,” he replied, voice gentle. “But I’m used to it now. Doesn’t slow me down much.”

When everything was put away, you leaned against the counter, suddenly feeling chatty and comfortable in his presence.

“I still don’t even know your name…” you said with a shy smile.

He gave you a small, almost shy smile of his own and rubbed the back of his neck.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he said. “But everyone just calls me Bucky.”

“Bucky,” you repeated, liking the way it sounded. “Nice to finally meet you properly, Bucky.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, doll.”

You kept talking, gesturing with your hands. “So… what do you do, Bucky? You seem like you have your life pretty together. Do you work around here?”

He chuckled softly, leaning on the opposite counter. “I do some consulting work. Private security, mostly. Nothing too exciting.”

“Private security at your age?” You raised an eyebrow, smiling. “How old are you, anyway?”

Bucky’s eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. “Twenty-four.”

You blinked. “Wait, really? You seem… older. Not in a bad way! Just… more mature. Like you’ve seen some stuff.”

He gave a low, self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve been told that before. Guess I grew up fast.”

You kept talking, comfortable now. “I’m twenty-three. Still feel like a kid half the time. Working two jobs, trying to finish my thesis on Gothic literature. Vampires, monsters, tragic love stories… the usual dramatic stuff.” You laughed lightly. “Do you believe any of that is real? Like, vampires and witches and all that? Or is it just fun fiction?”

Bucky’s gaze sharpened for a fraction of a second before he smiled. “I think there’s more to the world than most people realize,” he said carefully. “Some legends have roots in truth. What do you think?”

“I go back and forth,” you admitted, leaning closer. “Sometimes I think vampires are just metaphors for forbidden desire or immortality anxiety. Other times… I don’t know. The idea of someone living for centuries, watching everyone they love die… that feels too real. Too sad.”

Bucky’s expression softened, something pained flickering behind his eyes. “It is sad,” he murmured. “Very sad.”

You kept going, excited to talk about your thesis. “Exactly! And witches- the way they’re portrayed as powerful but dangerous. Do you have any favorite books or movies about that stuff?”

He listened with genuine interest, answering carefully and making up plausible details while keeping his ancient truth hidden. He asked you questions in return, drawing you out, letting you talk about your terrible boss at the café, your fear of never finishing your degree and how overwhelmed you felt sometimes.

“Do you have Instagram or anything?” you asked, then quickly added with an awkward little laugh, “I’m not trying to stalk you, don’t worry. Just… if you maybe wanted to hang out sometime, or so I could reach out?”

Bucky let out a low, self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m afraid I’m terribly old-fashioned. No social media at all. But I do have a phone number.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful but suspicious smile tugging at your lips. “No social media? At twenty-four? That’s… suspicious. Are you secretly a spy or something?”

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Nothing that exciting, I promise. Just prefer real life over screens.”

You saved his number and sent him a quick text. When his phone buzzed, his smile deepened.

“There,” you said, grinning. “Now you can’t vanish on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, eyes dark and intense for just a moment before he softened again. “You get some rest now. You’ve earned it.”

He walked to the door, then paused and turned back.

“Goodnight, doll,” he said softly. “Lock the door behind me.”

You nodded, cheeks warm. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

He waited outside until he heard the lock click, then disappeared down the hallway with a small, satisfied smile.

But the second he was out of sight, his expression darkened with raw hunger.

Hearing you say his name in that sweet voice had nearly made him snap.

The gentleman act was becoming harder to maintain… and the monster beneath it was growing impatient.

Bucky’s obsession had grown teeth.

After the night he helped you with your groceries something inside him finally snapped. Knowing your name wasn’t enough. Hearing you laugh wasn’t enough. Standing so close to you and still not being able to claim you wasn’t enough.

He needed pieces of you. Tangible. Permanent. His.

So the stealing began.

The first time was the night after the grocery store. While you slept, he moved through your apartment like a shadow. He took your favorite perfume from the dresser, the one that smelled like warm vanilla and something sweet and uniquely you. He sprayed a little on his wrist before slipping the bottle into his coat.

Two nights later, he took the soft cream-colored scarf you’d been wearing the rainy night you first met him. It still carried the faint scent of rain, coffee and you. He buried his face in it the second he got home and didn’t let go for nearly an hour.

The nights had become his sanctuary and his torment.

For the first time, Bucky began invading your dreams like an incubus, silent, hungry, and unstoppable. He would wait until you fell into deep sleep in your own apartment, then slip into your mind with the ease of centuries of practice. You never remembered the full details in the morning, only waking with damp thighs, aching nipples, and a strange, lingering bite of exhaustion.

In the dream he appeared behind you, naked, massive, his metal arm cold against your fevered skin as he pinned you down in a bed that wasn’t quite yours. His fangs grazed your throat while his thick cock rubbed between your slick folds, teasing, never quite entering.

“Shhh, doll,” he whispered into your sleeping mind, voice low and velvet-dark. “Just a taste. I need you so fucking badly.”

He started with your wrist. In the dream he lifted your arm, licked a slow, reverent stripe over your pulse, then sank his fangs in deep. The pull was slow and obscene, wet sucking sounds filling the dream as he drank in long, greedy swallows. Your dream-self moaned and writhed, hips grinding against nothing while he fed.

When he was done, he sealed the punctures with long, filthy licks of his tongue, savoring the last drops. Then he moved lower.

He spread your thighs wide in the dreamscape, burying his face between them like a starving man. His tongue dragged up your inner thigh before his fangs pierced the soft flesh there too. Hot blood flooded his mouth, richer, headier, while his nose pressed against your dripping cunt, inhaling the scent of your arousal. He drank deeply, groaning against your skin, cock leaking steadily onto the dream sheets.

“Fuck… your blood tastes like sin,” he growled into your thigh. “Sweeter when you’re wet for me.”

He sealed that bite too, licking lazily over the twin holes, his cool saliva tingling as it closed the wounds. Only then did he allow himself to grind his massive cock against your soaked pussy, never pushing inside, just rutting until your dream-body came with a broken cry. He spilled across your thighs in thick ropes, marking you even in sleep, then vanished before you could wake.

You always woke up with faint, fading marks on your wrist and inner thigh that you blamed on restless sleep.

But the real collection had only just begun.

Then came the panties.

He started small. The black lace pair he’d seen on your floor the very first night, the sexy ones you wore when you wanted to feel powerful and desired. He took them while you showered, pressing the crotch to his face the second he was back in his penthouse. The scent of your pussy was still faintly there, musky and sweet. He inhaled so deeply his fangs throbbed.

A few nights later he stole the soft silk ones from your laundry basket, still slightly damp. He sucked the fabric into his mouth, tasting the faint traces of your arousal and detergent, groaning like a beast as he fisted his aching cock.

But what truly broke something inside him were the cute ones.

He found them one night while you slept, an entire drawer of soft cotton panties with little embroidered days of the week. Innocent. Everyday. Mortal. The kind of thing that made his ancient, dead heart twist with dark fondness and cruel hunger.

He picked up the pair marked “Thursday” and ran his thumb over the tiny lettering, a low, predatory chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“Mortals,” he whispered into the dark of your bedroom, voice rough with twisted amusement. “Still pretending time matters. Still marking your little days like you won’t eventually be mine forever. How fucking endearing.”

He stole the Wednesday pair that night, along with the Thursday ones for good measure.

His obsession only grew darker.

He discovered the small trash can in your bathroom. Inside were a few used tampons wrapped in toilet paper. The metallic, coppery scent of your period blood hit him like pure heroin. Centuries of memories flooded him, women on their cycles spreading their thighs for him, begging him to drink while their cunts were heaviest, bloodiest, most potent.

He stood there in your bathroom for a long minute, breathing deeply, cock straining painfully against his pants.

“Even your waste calls to me,” he murmured reverently, almost lovingly. “Your blood… every drop of it belongs to me.”

He took one of the wrapped tampons, brought it back to his penthouse, and spent hours with it pressed to his nose and mouth while he stroked himself raw.

Every few nights he added something new to his growing collection: a hair tie with strands of your hair still caught in it, the half-used lip balm from your bag that still carried the faint taste of your mouth, a well-worn hoodie that smelled like your shampoo, your sweat, and the warmth of your skin. More panties, both the slutty lace ones that made his cock leak and the innocent cotton ones with their childish little days.

He kept them all in a locked drawer in his penthouse like a sacred, filthy shrine.

When the emptiness clawed at him too viciously, when Dolores’s screams echoed too loudly in his skull, he would sit alone in the dark, open the drawer, and surround himself with you. He’d press your stolen panties to his face, inhaling the scent of your cunt like oxygen. Sometimes he wrapped the Thursday pair around his thick, leaking cock and fucked his fist with slow, filthy strokes, groaning your name like a broken prayer.

“Fuck… smell so good,” he rasped into the cotton, voice wrecked and desperate. “This little mortal pussy is going to be mine. I’m going to drink from it while you’re bleeding. I’m going to fuck it until you scream. Until you beg.”

Other nights he pressed the blood-stained cotton directly to his mouth and nose, sucking on the fabric while he jerked himself brutally, imagining it was your bloody cunt riding his face. Thick ropes of cum would splatter across his abs and chest as he came with a guttural snarl, over and over, until the drawer was sticky with his spend and the scent of you was mixed with his own.

“You’re already mine,” he whispered hoarsely into the silk and cotton, fangs fully extended, eyes glowing crimson in the dark. “Every pair. Every drop of blood. Every dream. Every breath you take. All fucking mine. Even if you don’t know it yet… you will. Soon.”

He was patient.

He was starving.

And the monster inside him was done waiting.

You, meanwhile, were spiraling.

At first you thought you were simply losing your mind from exhaustion and stress. The perfume? Maybe you’d moved it and forgotten. The scarf? You probably left it at the library. But when your favorite pair of silk panties vanished from the laundry basket and then the soft cotton ones with the little embroidered days of the week started disappearing too, real unease settled deep in your stomach.

Then more things disappeared.

A hoodie you loved. Your favorite lip balm. A hair clip you’d worn the day Bucky helped with your groceries. Even one of your thesis notebooks went missing for two days before mysteriously reappearing on your nightstand.

You tore your apartment apart looking for them. You started keeping a paranoid little list on your phone. You even wondered if you had a stalker… or if the stress was finally making you crack.

Then one evening you came home from a brutally long double shift at the café, feet aching, hair smelling like coffee and grease. You flipped on the light in your bedroom and froze.

His coat was still hanging on the back of your bedroom door where you’d left it days ago.

But something was different.

A single, perfect red rose was tucked neatly into the breast pocket.

No note. No card. No explanation.

Just one flawless, blood-red bloom with a long, elegant stem and sharp thorns that caught the lamplight like tiny blades. The rose was impossibly perfect, not a single petal out of place, fresh dew still clinging to the edges like droplets of blood.

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt.

You stood frozen in the doorway, grocery bag slipping from your fingers onto the floor. The faint scent of the rose mixed with the lingering smell of old leather from the coat, creating something intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

You knew.

You knew it was him.

Bucky.

The gentleman who had carried all your groceries without being asked. The man who opened doors, insisted you keep his coat, and looked at you like you were the only person in the world who mattered. The one with the old-fashioned manners, the low velvet voice and those intense steel-blue eyes that seemed to see straight through you, into places you hadn’t let anyone see in years.

He had been in your apartment again.

He had taken things.

And now… he was leaving gifts in his own coat, the one still hanging in your room like a claim.

You walked over on shaky legs and carefully pulled the rose from the pocket. A thorn pricked your thumb. A tiny bead of blood welled up instantly. You stared at it, then brought the rose to your nose and inhaled. The scent was rich, sweet, and heavy.

Your mind raced.

How long has he been coming in here? How many nights has he stood beside my bed while I slept? What else has he taken? What has he seen while I was unconscious?

Part of you was terrified. The logical, rational part screamed that this was insane. Dangerous. That you should change the locks right now, call the police, run as far as you could.

But another part, darker, quieter and growing louder every day, felt a rush of shameful heat low in your belly. The thought of him moving silently through your space, touching your things, watching you sleep… it made your thighs press together.

You sat down heavily on the edge of your bed, still holding the rose, and whispered into the quiet apartment:

“…Bucky?”

The silence that answered felt alive.

Like he was still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

The game had truly begun.

And neither of you were ready for how deep, how dark and how consuming it would become.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

It was 2:13 am and you were sitting on the edge of your bed in the dark, phone clutched so tightly in your shaking hands that your knuckles had gone white. Another thing had vanished today, your favorite silver necklace. But that wasn’t what broke you. It was the rose tucked into the pocket of his coat. The pattern. The way everything pointed straight to him.

Your thumb hovered over his contact for a long, trembling minute. Part of you wanted to throw the phone across the room and change the locks. Another part, the terrified, exhausted, furious part, needed answers. You pressed call.

It rang only once before he picked up.

“Hey” His voice was low, smooth, perfectly calm. “Is everything okay? It’s late.”

You didn’t even try to sound normal. Your voice came out raw, trembling with a volatile mix of terror, fury, and betrayal.

“It’s you,” you said, barely above a whisper at first, then louder. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Bucky. The perfume, the scarf, my panties, the necklace, it’s all you. You’ve been in my apartment. You’ve been watching me sleep. You left that fucking rose in your own coat. I know it’s you.”

Silence stretched on the other end.

On the fire escape right outside your bedroom window, Bucky stood completely still in the pouring rain, glowing red eyes fixed on you through the gap in the curtains. His metal hand tightened on the railing, slowly denting the metal.

He tried anyway.

“Baby, slow down,” he said, voice dripping with concern. “You sound really scared. Maybe you’re just stressed from work and your thesis. You’ve been so tired lately. I would never-”

“Stop.” Your voice cracked, but it was sharp with raw fury. Tears burned in your eyes as you stood up from the bed, pacing. “Don’t you dare lie to me right now. I’m terrified, Bucky. I’ve been checking my locks ten times a night. I wake up feeling like someone’s been touching me. And it’s you. You’ve been breaking into my home. Stealing my fucking underwear. What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Bucky’s jaw clenched hard. Drool slipped from the corner of his mouth as he watched you curl tighter into yourself on the bed, tears streaming down your face. His free hand flexed at his side, metal plates whirring.

“I was trying to protect you,” he said, voice low and careful, almost pleading. “I just wanted to be close to you. I’ve been alone for so long and you-”

“Close to me?” you snapped, voice rising in a hysterical, broken laugh that sounded more like a sob. “You’ve been sneaking into my room while I sleep! That’s not protecting me, that’s stalking me! I trusted you. You carried my groceries. You were sweet and gentle and now I find out you’ve been stealing my panties and watching me change? What kind of sick fuck does that?!”

Bucky’s red eyes flashed brighter. His metal fingers dug into the windowsill, cracking the frame with a quiet groan.

“I know it looks bad,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady but you could hear the strain. “But I’m not going to hurt you. I could never hurt you. I just… I need you. I’ve been alone for so long and you’re the only thing that makes me feel alive again. Please, doll. Let me explain-”

“Explain what?” you shouted, no longer caring if your neighbors heard. Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. “How you’ve been breaking in? How you left a rose like some twisted gift? I’m scared to even close my eyes now because I don’t know if you’re standing there watching me!”

You were crying hard now, terrified and furious and completely overwhelmed. Your voice cracked as you whispered the last part.

“I thought you were different… I thought you were safe.”

Bucky pressed his forehead against the cold glass, breathing heavily, fangs fully extended. For a long moment he was silent. When he spoke again, his voice was raw, almost broken, with very little hope left in it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words cracking. “I’m so fucking sorry. I know I’m messed up. I know I went too far. But I can’t stop. I won’t lose you. I won’t. Please… just come to my penthouse tomorrow night. Let me explain everything in person. No more lies. No more hiding. I’ll tell you everything. Just… please don’t shut me out. I need to see you. I need to make this right.”

His voice dropped, almost desperate.

“I know I don’t deserve it… but please. Tomorrow at 8. My penthouse. I’ll send a car. If you still want nothing to do with me after that, I’ll leave you alone. I swear it.”

You were silent for a long, heavy moment, shaking with fear and anger.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hissed, voice rising again. “You want me to come to your place? After everything you just admitted? After you’ve been breaking into my home and stealing from me? You have the nerve to ask me to walk into your penthouse like it’s some normal date? Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

Bucky’s breath hitched on the other end. His voice was quieter now, almost pleading, with almost no hope left.

“I know how it sounds,” he said, the words heavy. “I know I don’t deserve your trust. But I can’t explain this over the phone. I need you to see me. To see that I’m not going to hurt you. Please, doll… just one chance. I’m begging you. Tomorrow at 8. I’ll send a car. If you walk out after I explain, I won’t stop you. I swear on whatever’s left of me.”

You were silent for a long, heavy moment, shaking with fear and anger.

“…Fine,” you finally whispered, voice trembling. “Tomorrow at 8. But if you lie to me again, Bucky, I’m done. I mean it.”

“Thank you,” he breathed, relief and dark hunger mixing in his tone. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some sleep, doll. I’ll be thinking about you.”

You hung up without another word.

Bucky stayed on the fire escape for a long moment, staring at your shaking form through the window. Rain mixed with the blood tears sliding down his face.

He whispered into the night, voice dark and possessive:

“You don’t have to be scared of me, doll. I’ll make sure of that… one way or another.”

He vanished into the shadows, already planning exactly what he would say and what he would do when you came to him tomorrow.

The next day, Bucky moved through the city like a man on a mission.

He hadn’t slept. He doesn’t anymore.

Vampires don’t need sleep the way humans do. The closest he ever came was a kind of cold, motionless trance but even that had abandoned him since you entered his life. Instead, he had spent the entire night on the rooftop of his penthouse, standing motionless in the wind and rain, staring out at the glittering lights of Brooklyn below. Your terrified, furious voice played on repeat in his head like a broken record.

The way you had cried.

The way you had called him a sick fuck.

The way you had still agreed to come tonight even if it was only because you were angry and scared.

Every word cut deeper than the last.

He was going to tell you everything.

No more lies. No more half-truths. Tonight, in his penthouse, he would confess what he really was. And he was going to make it as… human as possible. As normal as a seven-hundred-year-old vampire could manage.

So he went grocery shopping.

He walked into the upscale organic market near the waterfront in the late afternoon, black coat on, sunglasses hiding his eyes, metal arm tucked into his sleeve. The fluorescent lights felt too bright, the chatter of normal people too loud. But he pushed a cart through the aisles with focused determination.

He started with breakfast ingredients for tomorrow, just in case you stayed. Eggs, fresh herbs, thick-cut bacon, ripe avocados, sourdough bread. Then he moved to dinner. He wanted something comforting, something that said “I care.” He picked out ingredients for homemade lasagna, fresh pasta sheets, rich tomato sauce, ground beef, ricotta, mozzarella and basil. He added things for a salad and garlic bread.

His mind kept drifting to you as he shopped.

She’s coming tonight. She’s terrified of me. She has every right to be.

He stopped in the baking aisle and stared at the rows of flour, sugar, chocolate and vanilla. He remembered you mentioning once that you loved chocolate cake when you were stressed. So he grabbed everything he needed, dark cocoa powder, heavy cream, eggs, butter and added a bottle of expensive vanilla extract.

An older woman beside him smiled kindly as she reached for a bag of sugar.

“Baking for someone special?” she asked.

Bucky gave her a small, tired smile. “Yeah… something like that.”

He hoped you would still want anything from him after tonight.

By the time he got back to the penthouse, his arms were full of bags. He spent the next several hours in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up. He prepped the lasagna, made the chocolate cake from scratch, even baked fresh bread. The entire penthouse filled with warm, comforting smells, tomato sauce simmering, cake baking, garlic and herbs.

As he worked, he practiced what he would say.

“I’m a vampire.” “I’ve been watching you sleep.” “I stole your things because I’m obsessed with you.” “I would kill for you.” “I want to turn you so I never lose you.”

Every version sounded insane. Every version made him feel sick with fear that you would finally run.

He set the dining table beautifully, candles, wine, flowers. He even picked out soft music. When everything was ready, he stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the feast he had made, and whispered to the empty room:

“Please don’t leave me, doll. Please… just listen.”

He checked the clock.

8:00 pm was approaching.

And for the first time in centuries, the ancient predator felt genuinely nervous.

He was about to confess everything.

And he had no idea if you would still be his when the night was over.

You arrived at his penthouse at exactly 8:00 pm, fury burning hotter than fear. The car he sent had been silent and luxurious but you spent the entire ride clenching your fists, rehearsing every accusation. When the private elevator doors opened directly into his home, you stepped out with your chin high, jaw tight, eyes blazing.

Bucky stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glittering city sprawled behind him like a dark jewel. The lights were low, candles flickering on the dining table. He looked almost… human. Nervous. Shoulders tense, hands shoved into his pockets.

You stopped a few feet away, arms crossed tightly.

“Start talking,” you snapped, voice trembling with rage. “No more ‘protecting me’ bullshit. I want the truth. All of it. Right now.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “I… I don’t know where to begin.”

“Begin with why you’ve been lying to me.”

He took a slow step closer, then stopped when you flinched. “I’m not who you think I am. Not… not completely.”

Your heart hammered. Something in his voice, the raw edge, the hesitation made the air feel heavier. “Bucky. What are you?”

For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then his shoulders slumped.

“I’m not human,” he said, voice low and rough, almost a growl. “Not anymore. Not for a very long time.”

The lights in the penthouse seemed to dim further. A chill crawled up your spine.

“What the hell does that mean?” you whispered.

His eyes, those beautiful blue eyes you’d trusted, began to change. The color bled away from the edges inward, flooding with a violent, glowing red. Not just red. Blood-red. Like twin embers pulled straight from hell, pulsing with unnatural hunger.

You stumbled back a step. “Bucky-”

His lips parted. There was a soft, wet click as his canines elongated into fangs, long, razor-sharp, gleaming under the candlelight. They looked strong enough to tear through flesh without effort. A low, involuntary growl rumbled in his chest, deep and animalistic.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, breath shallow. “Oh my God…”

He slowly raised his left hand. The plates of the metal arm shifted with a mechanical whirr-click-grind, like a machine waking up. The steel caught the red glow from his eyes, reflecting it back in cold, deadly shards.

“Bucky, what are you?” You asked again, fear finally overtaking the anger.

He took one more step forward, voice dropping into something ancient and broken. “This is what I am.”

The full transformation hit like a nightmare unfolding in real time. His skin seemed to pale further, veins standing out dark beneath it. The red in his eyes brightened, casting eerie shadows across his face. Those fangs, fully extended now, made his mouth look wrong, predatory. When he spoke again, his voice was layered with something inhuman, a resonance that vibrated in your bones.

“A vampire,” he said. “Turned in 1349 during the Black Death. I died in an alley with a nobleman’s teeth in my throat… and I woke up like this.”

You backed up until your legs hit the edge of the couch. “No. No, that’s not- this isn’t real.”

He rolled up his sleeve with deliberate slowness, revealing the brutal fusion where metal met scarred flesh. The seam looked raw, like it had been cauterized with fire and rage. The arm flexed, plates shifting with a menacing hum.

You stared, heart slamming against your ribs. “The glove… the circulation story…”

“All lies,” he admitted, voice raw. “I didn’t want you to see the monster. I thought if I could be James for a little while longer, you might not run screaming.”

He reached out slowly but you jerked away.

“Does it hurt?” you whispered, despite everything.

“Every day.” His red eyes never left yours. “It’s not mine. They tore the real one off and bolted this thing onto me while I was screaming. HYDRA made sure I felt every second of it.”

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Only the distant city hum and the frantic beat of your own heart filled the room.

Bucky’s shoulders shook as he continued, the words pouring out like he’d held them back for centuries. “I was arrogant. Handsome. Thought the world was mine. Then the plague came and a dying man made me eternal. I’ve spent nearly seven hundred years alone. Fucking. Feeding. Leaving bodies behind before dawn because nothing ever filled the emptiness.”

His voice cracked completely. Blood-red tears slid down his cheeks, actual blood, dark and glistening.

“Until Dolores. Dot. She called me ‘my James.’ She knew what I was and still loved me. When the plague took her in 1665, I tried to turn her. Forced my blood down her throat while she was still breathing. She screamed my name as she died in my arms. I burned the cottage with her body inside because I couldn’t bear to look at what I’d done.”

He dropped to his knees right there on the marble floor, arms wrapping around your waist like you were his last anchor.

“I’ve carried her screams for four hundred years,” he choked out against your stomach, blood tears soaking your shirt. “The wars. The mud. The explosion that took my arm. Waking up with this thing fused to me, roaring while they wiped my mind over and over. I came back to Brooklyn. Fed only on the worst people so I wouldn’t have to feel. Until that rainy night outside the library… when you smiled at me like I wasn’t damned.”

You stood frozen, sobbing, one hand hovering over his dark hair.

He looked up at you, eyes glowing like fresh blood, fangs fully bared, metal arm clenched so hard the plates screamed in protest. “I’ve been breaking into your apartment. Stealing your things. Tasting you while you slept. Listening to your heartbeat and praying I wouldn’t ruin you too.”

You shook your head, tears streaming. “You… you drank from me? While I was sleeping? You touched me, took my things like some kind of sick collector-”

“I know,” he whispered brokenly. “I’m a monster. A killer. I understand if you run. I won’t stop you. But please… I’m so fucking tired of being alone. You’re the only light I’ve had in centuries. Don’t take it away.”

The penthouse was silent except for your ragged breathing and his quiet, desperate sobs against you.

You were terrified.

You were furious.

You stood there, trembling, with Bucky’s arms locked around your waist and his face pressed against your stomach. The glow of his red eyes lit the floor beneath you like dying embers. His fangs were still fully extended, brushing against the fabric every time he breathed.

Your hand finally lowered. Fingers sank into his dark hair.

“I should run,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Any sane person would.”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed, waiting for the blow.

“But I’m still here,” you continued, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I’m terrified… but I’m not leaving. Not tonight. Not yet. You’re a monster, Bucky. A real one. But you’re my monster. And I hate how much that matters to me right now.”

A broken sound escaped him, half sob, half relief. He tightened his hold for one heartbeat, then slowly loosened it, as if afraid you’d vanish.

“Thank you,” he breathed against you. “God, thank you.”

He stayed on his knees a moment longer, forehead pressed to your hip like a penitent at confession. When he finally rose, the red in his eyes had dimmed slightly but the fangs still peeked past his lips and the metal arm still hummed with tension. He looked raw. Exposed. Almost boyish in his uncertainty.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, a shy human gesture that felt strangely out of place on a centuries-old vampire.

“I… prepared dinner for you,” he said softly, a faint flush coloring his pale cheeks. “I’ve been cooking since the afternoon. I wanted tonight to feel… normal. Before everything else.”

You blinked, surprised, still wiping tears from your face. “You cooked? For me?”

He gave a small, almost shy nod. “I haven’t cooked for anyone in… a very long time. I wanted it to be perfect.”

He led you further into the penthouse with gentle care, one hand hovering near the small of your back without quite touching. The long dining table was set beautifully for one, fine china, crystal glasses, silverware polished to a mirror shine. Tall candles flickered in elegant holders, casting warm golden light across the room. A bottle of deep red wine breathed in a decanter. Soft, old jazz played from hidden speakers, something slow and smoky from the 1940s.

You could see into the open kitchen: chopping boards with fresh herb scraps, a pot that had clearly been simmering for hours, an empty wine bottle he must have used in the sauce.

Bucky pulled out your chair like a gentleman from another century, then sat across from you. He didn’t touch his own plate.

The feast was incredible.

Bucky had clearly poured hours into it. A rich homemade minestrone soup steamed gently in a beautiful ceramic bowl, loaded with fresh vegetables and herbs. Next to it sat a generous serving of creamy garlic pasta with fresh basil and shaved parmesan. There was a perfectly roasted vegetable medley glistening with olive oil and sea salt, a beautifully seared steak with rosemary and garlic butter and a large tray of homemade lasagna, layers of tender pasta, rich meat sauce, creamy ricotta, and melted mozzarella that still bubbled from the oven. A basket of warm, golden garlic bread sat beside it, the aroma of butter and roasted garlic filling the air.

On a side table waited three different desserts: tiramisu dusted with cocoa, dark chocolate cake layered with silky ganache and fresh berries with whipped cream and mint.

You took your first bite of the pasta and actually moaned. “Bucky… this is amazing. When did you even have time to do all this?”

He watched you eat with quiet intensity, a small smile playing at his lips despite the fangs. “I’ve had a lot of time to learn things over the centuries. Cooking was one way I tried to feel… human. I started preparing everything this morning. I needed to do something with my hands or I was going to lose my mind waiting for you to say yes.”

You ate slowly, studying him the entire time, the way candlelight danced across his pale skin, the subtle shift of metal plates under his sleeve, the faint red glow still lingering at the edges of his eyes. The silence finally became too much.

“Bucky… why aren’t you eating anything?” you asked gently.

He gave a low, tired chuckle and leaned back in his chair, eyes soft but shadowed. “I can eat human food, doll. Some of us do it at galas or restaurants to blend in. But it tastes like ash in my mouth. No real flavor. No nourishment. Most of us vomit it up later, or it just sits heavy and makes us sick. If we rely on it too long, we get weak… malnourished.” His voice dropped, dark and intimate. “Nothing, nothing, compares to blood. Especially yours.”

You swallowed hard, heart racing, but took another slow bite of the pasta anyway. The rich garlic and herbs still tasted divine to you, even if they were nothing to him. Curiosity was slowly winning the war against your nerves. “So the garlic in this pasta… it’s really fine?”

He smiled faintly, fangs glinting in the candlelight. “Old folklore. Garlic doesn’t hurt us. It just smells strong. Some of us find it unpleasant, like it stings our nose but it won’t kill me. I actually like cooking with it. Reminds me of simpler times.”

You nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “Can you see yourself in mirrors?”

He let out a soft laugh. “Yes. Always have. The whole ‘no reflection’ thing was invented by Bram Stoker as a narrative device to show vampires lacked a soul. I still shave the old-fashioned way every evening.”

“What about sunlight?” you pressed, leaning forward. “Do you sparkle or burst into flames like in the movies?”

Bucky let out a genuine laugh, the sound low and warm, cutting through the heavy tension in the room. “No sparkling. That one always makes me laugh. I can go out in daylight- it just weakens me. The older I get, the more it burns if I stay out too long. Like a bad sunburn that never quite heals. That’s why I prefer evening dates. Sunsets are my limit on a good day.”

You kept going, emboldened by his patience. “Holy water? Crosses? What about stakes?”

“Holy water feels like a mild burn on the skin, like touching a hot pan for half a second. Crosses do nothing- never have.” He shrugged. “As for stakes… that whole ‘wooden stake through the heart kills us’ idea is mostly modern invention. In the old folklore they were just used to pin us down or immobilize us so we couldn’t rise from the grave. To actually finish one of us off, you’d need to behead or burn the body.”

He tapped his chest with a wry smile. “A stake would hurt like hell and slow me down, but I heal too fast. You’d have to be quicker than me and almost nothing is.”

You set your fork down, studying his face, the way the red glow in his eyes pulsed softly with every answer. “When do your fangs come out? Just when you’re hungry?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, the crimson flaring brighter for a heartbeat. “They come out when I’m hungry. When I’m angry.” His voice dropped into a rough growl that sent heat and fear twisting low in your belly. “And when I’m aroused. They’ve been out since you walked into the penthouse. Looking at you does that to me. Every damn time.”

Your breath caught. Heat flooded your cheeks. “So right now… they’re because of me?”

“Partly,” he admitted, voice rough with honesty. “Mostly. You walk in a room and my body reacts before my brain catches up.”

You bit your lip, fighting the strange flutter in your chest. “Do you… shape-shift? Like into bats or wolves or anything?”

He tilted his head, a small, dangerously charming smirk playing on his lips. “Some of the very old ones can. Bats, rats, owls, foxes, even wolves. I never learned how. Never needed to. I prefer this form. This body.” His metal fingers flexed slowly on the tablecloth. “It’s served me well for seven hundred years. Strong. Fast. Familiar.”

You nodded slowly, processing everything. “What about needing an invitation to enter a home? Is that why you waited for me to open the door sometimes?”

Bucky’s smirk faded into something darker, almost predatory. His red eyes gleamed with dark amusement.

“That one used to be real,” he said, voice low. “A long time ago. But we figured it out centuries back. Vampires invented welcome mats. Cute little loophole. Put one outside your door and boom you’ve technically invited every vampire in the world inside. Most people have them now without even realizing what they’re doing.”

He leaned forward slightly, watching your face.

“I never actually needed an invitation. I only picked your lock those first few times out of habit… and because I wanted to hear you invite me in yourself. I wanted to watch that sweet, trusting smile when you opened the door for me. I wanted you to choose to let me in.”

A deep chill ran down your spine. The candle flames suddenly felt tiny and useless against the growing shadows in the room.

“So you could just… walk in whenever?” you asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Anytime,” he said, eyes locked on yours, unblinking. “Day or night. Rain or shine. Whether you’re awake, asleep, or in the shower. I never have to wait outside again unless you explicitly tell me to leave. And even then…”

He let the sentence hang, the implication heavy in the air.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering.

Bucky’s voice dropped even lower, almost intimate.

“I’d probably still watch from the street… just to make sure you’re safe.”

You tried to push past the shiver of fear. “What about resting in a coffin with soil from your grave? Is any of that real?”

Bucky’s expression turned almost nostalgic, though there was a hint of darkness in his eyes.

“Mostly myth,” he said. “I don’t need a coffin. I don’t actually need to sleep at all- vampires don’t. The body doesn’t require rest the way a human one does. But some of us do sleep in soil from their homeland. It… grounds us. Keeps the centuries from driving them completely insane. I haven’t done that in a long time. The last time was right after the war, when everything hurt too much.”

The questions kept coming, almost like you couldn’t stop them. “Are all vampires pale and beautiful like you? Or is that just in books?”

Bucky gave a dark, low chuckle that vibrated through his chest.

“In the oldest stories, we were bloated, ruddy, purple corpses. Disgusting, swollen things that crawled out of graves smelling of rot, mindless demons driven by pure bestial instinct. No charm, no seduction, just mindless hunger.”

He smiled, his red eyes gleaming with something hungry and possessive. “But after the change… it’s different. The venom rewrites you. Makes you younger. More beautiful. More magnetic.”

“You get this pull, an almost supernatural allure that draws people in. Makes them want to get closer. Makes them easy to seduce… easy to drain dry without them even realizing what’s happening until it’s too late.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice velvet and smoke. “When I turn you, you won’t just be immortal. You’ll be… irresistible. Skin flawless. Body perfected. A face and presence that makes mortals ache to be near you. To offer themselves. To bare their throats without understanding why. That’s how we survive. Not just by strength- but by beauty. By hunger wrapped in seduction.”

You swallowed hard, a shiver racing down your spine at how casually he spoke about turning you. Like it was something he had already decided in his mind. “You keep saying ‘when,’” you whispered. “Not ‘if.’”

Bucky noticed your unease immediately. He reached across the table and gently took your hand, metal fingers cool but careful against your skin.

“You don’t have to worry your pretty head about it right now, doll,” he murmured, voice softening into that velvet tone that always made your stomach flutter. “I’m not going to rush you. I’m not going to force anything. When- if- it happens, it’ll be when you’re ready. I just… I can’t stand the thought of watching you grow old and die while I stay like this. I’ve buried too many people I cared about. I don’t want you to be one of them.”

He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a slow, reverent kiss to your knuckles, fangs lightly grazing your skin in a promise that made your pulse jump wildly.

“You’re already perfect to me,” he whispered against your fingers. “Human or not.”

You stared at him across the flickering candles, heart racing with a dizzying mixture of fear, fascination, lingering anger, and something far deeper. The jazz still played softly. The feast was slowly cooling on your plate. And the vampire who had just answered every terrifying question with surprising patience was still holding your hand like it was the most precious thing in his long, dark life.

“This is… a lot to take in,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s red eyes softened. “I know. Take all the time you need. Ask me anything. I’ll answer every question, no matter how dark. And I understand if it’s too much. If you want to run, I won’t stop you.”

You didn’t run.

Instead, you reached across the table and gently touched his metal hand. “I’m still here,” you whispered, fingers tracing the cool plates. “I won’t run.”

Bucky turned his hand over instantly, metal fingers carefully closing around yours like he was afraid you’d disappear. His glowing red eyes searched your face, raw and uncertain.

“There’s one more thing,” he said, voice dropping even lower, almost ashamed. “Sometimes… I can slip into dreams. Like an incubus. I’ve done it to you. Many times. I’ve made you dream filthy things while you slept. Made you feel my hands spreading you open, my mouth on your cunt, my cock buried so deep you were sobbing my name. You’d wake up soaked, thighs slick, aching so badly you had to touch yourself… and you thought it was just your imagination.”

Your breath hitched sharply. Heat flooded your face and lower, a sudden throb between your legs. “You… did that?”

Bucky’s eyes burned brighter, pupils blown wide. “Every night I couldn’t stay away. Even when I tried to stop myself. I’d stand in the corner of your room, hard as steel and push into your mind just to hear you moan for me in your sleep. I’m sorry. I know how fucked up that is.”

The silence between you crackled, thick, electric, heavy with fear, shame, and dark, undeniable desire. Your pulse thundered in your ears. You didn’t pull your hand away.

The tension finally snapped.

You stood up slowly, chair scraping against the floor. Bucky rose to meet you, chest heaving. The first kiss was slow and reverent, his hands cradling your face like you were made of glass. But hunger took over fast. The kiss turned deep, desperate, tongues sliding, teeth clashing. You moaned into his mouth and he answered with a broken growl that vibrated straight to your core.

He pulled back suddenly, breathing hard, fangs fully extended and gleaming. A thin string of saliva still connected his lower lip to your skin. He looked feral. Starving. Devastatingly beautiful.

You stared, heart pounding with something far beyond fear now. Curiosity and lust burned hotter. You reached up, cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Open for me, Bucky.”

His glowing red eyes flickered with surprise, but he obeyed instantly. Lips parting, he showed you the full, lethal length of his fangs. A low, needy growl rumbled in his chest, submissive and desperate, like he was offering himself up for your inspection.

You traced one fang slowly with your thumb, feeling the razor edge without cutting yourself. “Does it hurt when they come out?”

“Just a dull ache,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough and trembling. “Like an old wound. But right now… fuck, doll, it feels good. Because it’s you touching them.” His tongue flicked out helplessly. Thick drool slipped from the corner of his mouth, sliding down his chin as he fought the urge to bite.

You leaned in, eyes locked on his and dragged your tongue slowly up the length of one fang. The metallic tang mixed with his dark, cold taste, addictive and intoxicating. Bucky groaned deep in his throat, the sound broken and filthy. His metal hand tightened on your waist, hard enough to bruise, hips jerking forward involuntarily against you.

“Fuck… you’re gonna kill me,” he rasped, drooling openly now. Saliva dripped onto your chest as he watched you explore him with wide, submissive eyes. “No one’s ever… touched them like that. No one’s ever been brave enough.”

“Does drinking hurt?” you asked, still licking and teasing the sharp point, sucking gently at the tip.

“Only if I want it to.” His voice cracked into something dangerous and wrecked. “I can make it burn like fire… or feel like the best orgasm you’ve ever had. I’ve learned control over centuries. But with you-” He shuddered hard when you sucked harder. “-I don’t know how long it’ll last. Please… doll…”

You smiled, wicked and curious and took the entire tip of his fang into your mouth, sucking softly. Bucky snarled, the sound purely submissive and lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing. Clothes were torn away in a frantic blur, your shirt ripped down the middle, his pants shoved down just enough. He carried you to the bedroom, metal arm cool and unyielding against your bare back and laid you on the bed with surprising gentleness.

But the second your back hit the mattress, the hunger consumed him.

He worshipped you for what felt like hours. Mouth everywhere. He sucked dark, claiming bruises into your breasts, fangs grazing your nipples until you arched and whimpered. He licked long, messy stripes down your stomach, drooling shamelessly over your skin, leaving shiny, cooling trails. When he finally shoved your thighs apart and settled between them, his red eyes burned up at you with raw need.

“I’ve tasted you before,” he confessed, voice thick with shame and lust, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your inner thigh. “While you slept. Just little sips from your wrist or your thigh. Never enough to hurt you. Never while you were awake, watching me like this.” He groaned, hips grinding helplessly against the sheets. “I’m sorry… but I couldn’t stop. You taste like fucking heaven.”

His tongue dragged slowly through your folds, and the broken, desperate sound he made was almost worshipful. “Let me make it up to you, doll. Please. Let me show you how good I can make it feel when you’re awake.”

Before you could answer, he buried his face in your cunt. No teasing. He devoured you, filthy, wet, obscene sounds filling the room as his tongue fucked deep inside you, curling, thrusting. His drool mixed with your slick, dripping down his chin, soaking the sheets. Two thick fingers joined his tongue while his thumb rubbed tight circles on your clit. You came the first time with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head. He didn’t stop. He sucked your clit between his lips and growled, the vibration sending you over again almost immediately, sobbing his name.

Only then did he crawl up your body, cock heavy and leaking against your thigh. He was massive, thick, flushed dark, the head already glistening with precum and your own slick. You reached down with a shaky hand and stroked him, spreading the mess along his length.

“Bucky… you’re so fucking big,” you whimpered, eyes wide with a mix of awe and nerves.

“I know, baby,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing ragged and hot against your lips. “Gonna go slow at first. Breathe for me. I’ve got you. Tell me if it hurts, okay? I need to hear you.”

He pushed in inch by inch, stretching you open until you felt impossibly full. The burn was intense but perfect, bordering on too much. When he bottomed out, he stayed there, hips twitching, drooling onto your neck as he fought for control.

“Fuck… you’re so tight,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “So warm and wet for me. Taking every inch like you were made for this cock. How does it feel, doll? Does it hurt?”

“A little,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “It’s so much… but it feels good. Don’t stop.”

He stayed buried deep, rolling his hips in slow, careful circles, letting you adjust. “Good girl. Breathe. I’ve got you. If it gets too much, you tell me. Promise me.”

“I promise,” you whispered, legs wrapping tighter around him.

Then he started moving, deep, slow rolls of his hips at first, letting you feel every ridge and vein dragging inside you. The headboard creaked under his metal grip. Soon the pace turned punishing, hips snapping hard, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing obscenely through the room. He fucked you like he’d been starving for you for decades.

“Mine,” he snarled against your throat, fangs scraping your skin. “Say it.”

“I’m yours- fuck, Bucky, I’m yours!”

Your orgasm was building fast, walls fluttering around his cock. Bucky suddenly slowed, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in deep. His glowing red eyes locked onto yours, intense and pleading.

“Drink from me,” he rasped, slicing his wrist open with a fang. Dark, ancient blood welled up instantly. “Just a little. It’ll make everything feel better. So much better. Trust me, doll. You’ll feel like you’re flying.”

You hesitated, breath shaky. “Bucky… I don’t know if-”

“Please,” he whispered, pressing his bleeding wrist closer to your lips, voice desperate and feral. “It won’t hurt you. It’ll heighten everything. Every thrust. Every touch. Every single nerve in your body. You’ll come harder than you ever have. Let me give this to you, baby. Let me make you feel good.”

The raw need in his voice, combined with the way he was still buried so deep inside you, made you cave. You parted your lips and let him press his wrist to your mouth.

The first taste was overwhelming, rich, metallic, and strangely sweet, like dark spiced wine laced with raw power. His blood flooded your tongue and burned down your throat. Almost immediately, fire spread through your veins. Pleasure exploded tenfold. Every nerve lit up like live wires. The stretch of his cock inside you suddenly felt impossibly better, every ridge dragging against sensitive spots you didn’t even know existed.

“Oh my God-” you gasped, eyes rolling back, a broken moan tearing from your throat.

Bucky groaned loudly, hips snapping forward harder. “That’s it… good girl. Feel me now. Feel how deep I am. How full you are. Does it still hurt, doll? Tell me.”

“No- fuck, it feels… incredible,” you sobbed, legs shaking around him. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He fucked you through it without mercy, eyes glowing brighter, drooling onto your chest as he watched you fall apart.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growled, voice wrecked with feral hunger. “Drinking my blood and creaming all over my cock like a perfect little slut. So fucking perfect. So mine. You okay, baby? Not lightheaded?”

“I’m… I’m good,” you gasped, tears of overwhelming pleasure streaming down your face. “It’s so much- I feel like I’m burning up in the best way.”

He kept feeding you small sips as he pounded into you, each swallow making the pleasure spiral higher and higher until you were sobbing, shaking, coming again and again. The room spun. Your body felt like it was on fire in the best possible way, every thrust, every drag of his cock, every brush of his skin against yours amplified into pure bliss.

“Does it still feel good?” he panted, voice rough and concerned even as he fucked you like a beast. “Talk to me, doll. Tell me you’re okay.”

“Yes- yes, Bucky, I’m okay- don’t stop, please-”

He shifted higher, mouth trailing wet, open kisses up your leg until he reached your calf. Without warning, his fangs sank deep into the soft, sensitive flesh there, right below the knee, where the muscle was firm but yielding. The sharp, burning pain exploded through you, mixing violently with the overwhelming pleasure still pulsing from his blood in your veins.

The combined sensation sent you over the edge one final time, his fangs buried deep in your calf while his thick cock slammed into you with brutal, relentless strokes. You screamed, raw and broken, vision whiting out as your walls clenched violently around him. His hot, endless pulses of cum flooded you at the exact same moment, thick ropes painting your insides until it squirted out around his pistoning shaft with every thrust, slick and obscene. The wet, filthy sound of it echoed through the room, wet squelching, skin slapping, your mixed fluids soaking the sheets beneath you.

“Fuck- take it all, doll,” Bucky growled against your neck, voice ragged and possessive, his metal fingers digging bruises into your hip while his flesh hand fisted your hair. “Gonna fill this greedy little cunt until it’s dripping for days. You’re mine now. Every drop of blood, every fucking inch of this perfect body- mine.”

He kept rutting through his orgasm, hips snapping harder, chasing the last spasms of your climax until your thighs shook uncontrollably. The bedframe groaned in protest under the force, wood creaking dangerously with every punishing thrust. You were a mess, sweat-slick, cum-stuffed, blood trickling from the fresh bite marks on your neck and calf where he’d feasted earlier. The metallic tang of your blood still coated his tongue as he licked greedily at the wound.

Then it happened.

One particularly savage thrust, his cock slamming so deep you swore you felt him in your guts, made the entire bed collapse. The wooden slats snapped with a loud crack, the mattress dropping hard onto the box spring. You both jolted, still locked together.

“Oh fuck!” you gasped, eyes wide, a breathless laugh already bubbling up.

Bucky froze mid-thrust, cock still buried to the hilt inside your fluttering pussy, his glowing eyes blinking in confusion. “What the- did we just…?”

The absurdity hit you both at once. You burst into giggles, the sound bright and giddy even as his cum continued to leak out around where you were joined. Bucky’s serious, post-orgasm face cracked, and he let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated through his chest into yours.

“Shit, doll,” he chuckled, forehead dropping to yours, still half-hard and twitching inside you. “Broke the damn bed. Guess I don’t know my own strength when I’m buried in this tight, sloppy heaven.”

You grinned up at him, running your fingers through his messy hair, feeling the coolness of his skin, vampire cool, never quite warm like a human’s. “Mmm, worth it. You fucked me so hard I’m gonna feel you for a week. My vampire super-soldier broke the bed railing me like a damn animal. Kinda hot.”

He smirked, fangs still partially extended, glistening with your blood. “Animal, huh? Careful what you ask for.” He gave one lazy, deep roll of his hips, pushing his cum deeper, making you whimper. “Still hard for you. Could go again right here on the broken wreckage.”

You laughed softer this time, cupping his face. “Later, Buck. I’m wrecked. But… you’re not gonna sleep, are you?”

Bucky’s expression softened. He carefully pulled out with a wet sound, a gush of his spend following, dripping down your ass onto the ruined sheets. He sealed the bite on your neck first, slow, reverent licks of his tongue, warm and soothing, the healing properties in his saliva already knitting the skin. Then he moved lower, spreading your thighs wide to lap gently at the bite on your inner thigh, tasting the mix of your blood and his cum with a low, appreciative groan.

“Fuck, look at this pretty, used cunt,” he murmured filthily between licks. “All swollen and leaking my load. So damn perfect.” He pressed a tender kiss right over your clit before crawling back up.

He didn’t lie down beside you like a human would. Instead, he sat up against the tilted headboard of the collapsed bed, metal arm pulling you effortlessly into his lap so you were draped over his chest. His fingers, both flesh and metal, traced lazy, soothing patterns along your spine, your ass, the backs of your thighs.

“I don’t need sleep, baby,” he said quietly, voice low and intimate in the dark. “Haven’t in decades. I’ll stay right here, watching over you. Listening to that beautiful heartbeat. After everything… I can’t risk losing you too.”

You nuzzled into his neck, kissing the old scars there. “You’re not gonna lose me, Bucky. I’m yours. I chose this, chose you. The biting, the blood, the way you fuck me stupid… all of it. I’m not going anywhere.” Your hand slid down his abs, giving his still-hard cock a lazy stroke. “Even if you do break every bed we own.”

He let out a soft, relieved laugh, pressing kisses to your temple, your eyelids, your swollen lips. “Good girl. My perfect doll. I’ll buy a reinforced steel frame tomorrow. Maybe bolt it to the damn floor.” His voice dropped, more serious, thumb brushing your jaw. “You’re safe with me. I swear it. I’ll burn the world before I let anything touch you. You’re my light now. My reason.”

You smiled sleepily, body heavy and sated, the buzz of his blood in your veins making everything warm and floaty. “Mmm. Love you, my vampire. Even if you’re a creepy non-sleeper who stares at me all night.”

“Creepy, huh?” He nipped your ear playfully, then soothed it with his tongue. “Keep talking like that and I’ll spread these thighs again and make you scream my name until sunrise.”

“Promises, promises…” you mumbled, already drifting.

Bucky held you tighter, one hand possessively cupping your cum-filled pussy, the other stroking your hair. He stayed awake all night like that, cock half-hard against your thigh, silent blood-tinged tears slipping down his cheeks onto the pillow, heart aching with a love so fierce it terrified him. Your heartbeat was steady and strong against his chest, the last pure thing left in his long, violent existence.

And he’d protect it with every undead fiber of his being.

You woke slowly, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, your body deliciously sore and heavy with the afterglow of being thoroughly claimed. The first thing you noticed was the chaos surrounding you.

The bed was completely destroyed, slats snapped clean in half, the mattress tilted at a ridiculous angle on the broken box spring and white down feathers absolutely everywhere. They drifted lazily through the air like snow, clung to your sticky skin, tangled in your messy hair and dusted the dried streaks of cum and blood that painted your thighs and stomach. Feathers stuck to the dark bite marks on your neck and breasts, nestled in the crease of your ass and even floated gently off the ruined sheets every time you shifted.

The bed was empty. Or so you thought.

“Bucky?” you murmured, voice raspy from screaming his name half the night. A faint flutter of panic mixed with the warm throb between your legs.

Before you could sit up, the most sinful, decadent sensation hit you, a warm wet tongue dragging with deliberate, unhurried laziness up the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Each long, slow stroke pressed firmly against a fresh, throbbing bite mark, the one Bucky had left deep in the throes of last night’s passion. The feeling was possessive, almost worshipful, like he was savoring every drop of you.

A shiver raced through your body and a soft, breathy moan escaped your lips. You looked down to find Bucky right there between your spread thighs, his massive metal arm draped heavily over your hip to keep you pinned open for him. His mouth was latched onto that tender wound, tongue working in slow, reverent circles as he licked it closed, sealing it with his cool venom while tasting the last faint traces of your blood. The sting mixed with pleasure in a way that made your core clench emptily, still aching and leaking from how brutally he’d fucked you hours earlier.

He must have been waiting for you to stir.

When he felt you tense, he lifted his head just enough to look up at you through hooded crimson eyes that glowed with hunger and raw devotion. His lips were shiny, slick and stained vivid crimson with your blood. Feathers clung to his dark hair and broad shoulders like some filthy, fallen angel.

“Good morning, my sweet girl,” he rumbled, voice gravelly and thick. “Found you leaking all over the wreckage. Couldn’t resist cleaning up my mess. You taste even better in the morning- soft, warm and dripping with me.”

You let out a shaky laugh, glancing around at the feather explosion and broken wood. “We really destroyed everything, didn’t we? Feathers in my ass, feathers in my hair… I look like I got attacked by a pillow factory after the world’s hardest fuck.”

Bucky chuckled darkly, dragging his tongue slowly up your slit, collecting the creamy mix of his dried cum and your fresh arousal. “Mmm. Worth every splinter and every damn feather. I woke up hard as fuck just from smelling how soaked you still are. Been down here licking you for ten minutes, waiting for those pretty eyes to open.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. “Bucky… thank you. For last night. For letting me drink from you. It felt… God, it felt incredible. Like every nerve in my body was on fire and singing at the same time. I don’t know how to repay you for something so intimate.”

He crawled up your body with predatory grace, feathers shifting around you both, until he hovered over you. Then he kissed you deeply, hungrily, tongue sliding into your mouth so you could taste the copper of your own blood mixed with his cool sweetness and the filthy evidence of your combined releases.

“You never have to repay me, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips, brushing feathers from your flushed face with gentle metal fingers. “I’d drain every drop I have into you if it made you feel even half that good. Your pleasure is everything to me. You’re everything to me. Don’t ever thank me like you owe me. You’re my girl. My heart. I’d burn the world down just to keep you warm and safe in my arms.”

You smiled shyly up at him, that bashful look that always made his ancient chest tighten. “I still feel lucky. Every single time you choose me.”

Bucky groaned and pressed lingering kisses to your forehead, eyelids and the tip of your nose. “Stay right here in this ruined bed, baby. Don’t move. I’m gonna make you breakfast- you need fuel after I took so much blood and fucked you raw.”

You watched him leave the room completely naked, that perfect sculpted ass and broad back on full display, long angry red scratches running down his shoulders and spine, some deep enough to have drawn thin trails of dried blood. Guilt twisted in your stomach.

When he returned balancing a tray loaded with food, you sat up quickly, clutching the sheet.

“Bucky… your back,” you whispered, voice thick with remorse as he set the tray down on the tilted mattress. “I did that? Oh God, I’m so sorry, Buck. I got so lost in it, scratching and begging like a wild animal-”

He climbed onto the broken bed without hesitation and pulled you straight into his lap, sheet and all, so your back rested against his solid chest. His thick cock, already half-hard again, nestled hot and heavy against your ass. The scratches looked even more vicious up close.

“Shh, none of that,” he murmured, kissing your temple, then your ear. “I fucking love these marks. Every single one. Means my perfect girl lost control while I was balls-deep, pounding that tight cunt and flooding you with cum. Means I made you feel so good you turned feral. You wear my bites and bruises like jewelry… I’ll wear your scratches like badges of honor. That’s how it should be between us, doll.”

You still looked guilty, so he gently tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet those glowing red eyes. “Eat, baby. Before it gets cold. I made all your favorites.”

The tray held fluffy scrambled eggs with fresh herbs, crispy bacon, sliced strawberries and melon, buttered toast and cold orange juice. You relaxed back against his chest as he picked up the fork and began feeding you slow, careful bites, one hand continuously stroking through your feather-dusted hair while the other rested possessively on your stomach, thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin.

Every few bites he’d lean down and kiss your shoulder, your neck, the dark claiming bite marks he’d left. His fingers traced the vivid bruises on your hips and inner thighs with open, filthy pride.

“Look at you,” he murmured hotly against your ear, voice dropping into that low, dirty register. “All covered in my marks like a goddamn masterpiece. These pretty thighs bruised purple from my hands spreading you open while I railed you. This sweet little pussy still puffy, sore, and leaking my cum from how many times I filled you. And these gorgeous tits…” He cupped one gently, thumb brushing the bite right above your nipple. “Marked up so anyone who sees you knows exactly who owns this body. My perfect, filthy girl. So soft and sweet when you thank me for my blood… but you turn into a desperate little cockslut when I’m stretching this cunt open, scratching my back bloody and begging me to breed you deeper.”

You whimpered around a bite of toast, cheeks burning but you pressed back against his hardening cock. “Bucky… you’re making me wet again just talking like that. I can feel you getting hard against my ass.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “Good. That’s what I want. I love how sincere you are, doll- blushing and thanking me even after I’ve had you screaming and creaming all over my cock half the night. It makes the monster in me want to wrap you up and protect you forever… and it also makes me want to bend you over these broken slats and fuck you raw again until you’re crying and begging for another load.”

You turned your head, kissing his jaw tenderly. “I love you. All of you- the monster, the man, the way you take care of me even after you ruin me and break the bed.”

His arms tightened around you, metal and flesh, and he buried his face in your neck with a low, possessive growl. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in centuries, sweetheart. You’re mine. Every moan, every drop of blood, every scratch on my back… it’s all mine. Now finish your breakfast so I can lay you down in all these feathers and lick that pretty pussy until you’re shaking and soaking my face. Then I’ll feed you more. And if you keep thanking me so sweetly, I’ll let you drink from me again while I’m buried so deep inside you that you feel me for days.”

The monster was wide awake, completely, dangerously obsessed and he had never been happier.

The honeymoon phase didn’t last long.

What started as stolen kisses in the library stacks after closing quickly spiraled into something darker, more addictive and far more dangerous. You and Bucky fell into a secret rhythm that consumed both of you. You’d sneak out of your apartment at all hours, heart hammering and meet him in shadowed alleys, on empty rooftops, or in the back of his blacked-out SUV where he’d fuck you until you couldn’t walk straight. Some nights he’d show up at your door unannounced, eyes already black and take you right there against the wall before you could even say hello.

You started wearing high collars, scarves, and heavy concealer everywhere. Fresh bite marks bloomed on your neck, your breasts, the soft insides of your thighs. Some nights he bit you in three different places just because he couldn’t stop tasting you.

“You’re mine now,” he’d growl against your skin, licking the wounds closed with slow, possessive drags of his tongue while drool slipped from his fangs. “No one else gets to see these marks. No one else gets to touch what belongs to me.”

You lied to your friends. You lied to your coworkers. You told yourself you could handle the monster you were falling for.

But Bucky was losing control.

His obsession turned feral.

Your creepy ex Lance, the one who still drunk-texted you at 2 am calling you a worthless bitch for leaving him, was found dead in his apartment four days later. The news called it a “brutal animal attack.” Throat torn out. Body almost completely drained of blood. No forced entry. No fingerprints.

You stared at the graphic photos on your phone until your vision blurred.

Then there was that jerk from the café from two weeks ago, the one who wouldn’t stop cat-calling you, who grabbed your ass when you walked past and whispered what he’d do to you if he got you alone. He was found in the alley behind the cafe the next night. Same story. Throat ripped open. Drained dry.

You knew.

You knew it was Bucky.

When he showed up at your apartment that night, soaked from the rain, you were waiting for him. The printed news articles were spread across your kitchen table like evidence at a crime scene.

The second he stepped through the door, you shoved the papers into his chest.

“What the fuck did you do?!” Your voice cracked with fury and terror. “Lance is dead, Bucky. That asshole from the café is dead. Their throats were torn out. Was that you? Look me in the eyes and tell me it wasn’t you.”

Bucky didn’t even glance at the articles. His eyes were already pitch black, fangs partially extended, a thin string of clear drool slipping from the corner of his mouth as he stared at you like a starving wolf.

“I took care of them,” he said, voice low and rough. “They touched what’s mine. They scared you. They don’t get to keep breathing after that.”

You backed up until you hit the kitchen counter, chest heaving.

“You’re killing people, Bucky. Innocent people-”

“They weren’t innocent,” he snarled, stepping closer. More drool slid down his chin. “Lance sent you death threats. Pictures of you sleeping. The other one had videos on his phone, following you home, jerking off to you. I smelled what they wanted to do to you. I saw it.”

Tears burned in your eyes. Your hands were shaking.

“You can’t just murder people because they looked at me the wrong way! This isn’t protection, this is insanity!”

Bucky’s metal hand slammed into the cabinet beside your head, splintering the wood. He was breathing hard, drooling openly now, fangs fully extended and glistening.

“I would burn this entire fucking city to the ground for you,” he growled, voice breaking. “I already lost the only woman I ever loved. I watched her die screaming my name while I tried to save her. I won’t lose you too. I won’t. I can’t.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You should have screamed. You should have run.

Instead, you grabbed the front of his wet shirt with both hands and yanked him into a brutal, angry kiss.

He tasted like rain and blood and desperation. He groaned into your mouth, lifting you onto the counter in one motion and shoving your legs apart. His hands were shaking as he ripped your panties aside.

You were horrified.

You were dripping wet.

That night you rode him on your couch like you were trying to punish both of you, nails raking bloody lines down his chest while he drooled against your neck, fangs scraping your skin without breaking it. Every thrust was punishing and worshipful at the same time.

Afterward, when you were both panting and spent, you curled into his lap on the couch, still shaking from the intensity of it all. Your body ached. Your mind was a storm of fear and twisted desire.

Bucky buried his face in your hair, arms wrapped around you like iron bands, so tight it almost hurt to breathe. His chest heaved against your back. You could feel his drool, warm and slick, sliding down the side of your neck from his slightly parted lips. His fangs were still partially extended, brushing your skin with every ragged breath.

His voice was barely a whisper, raw with shame and something much darker.

“I’ve thought about it, you know,” he confessed against your throat, lips moving wetly over your pulse. “Turning you. Against your will.”

You froze in his lap, every muscle locking up.

He kept going, voice cracking painfully, like the words were being ripped out of him.

“I fantasize about it almost every night,” he whispered, the confession trembling. “Holding you down while you fight me. Pinning you with my metal arm so you can’t move no matter how hard you scream. Draining you until you’re weak and crying and begging me to stop… then forcing my blood down your throat while I’m still buried balls-deep inside you. Fucking you through the change until your heart stops and you wake up screaming with new fangs in your mouth.”

A broken, wet sob tore out of him. Drool and blood tears mixed on your shoulder as he pressed closer, almost rocking you.

“I imagine the way you’d hate me at first. The way you’d scream my name in terror while your body burns and breaks and reforms. But I’d keep going. I’d hold you through it. Because then you’d be mine. Forever. Safe. Eternal. You’d never grow old and die like Dot did. You’d never leave me. Even if you hated me for eternity… at least you’d be here. With me.”

His voice dropped into something truly terrifying, low, trembling, unhinged.

“Some nights when you’re sleeping in my arms, bleeding from my bites… I hold my wrist right against your mouth. I pry your lips open with my fingers and imagine forcing it down your throat while you’re still unconscious. I want it so fucking bad it physically hurts me to stop myself. My hands shake. I drool just thinking about it. I have to leave the room sometimes because I’m scared I’ll actually do it.”

You sat there in his lap, silent tears running down your face, heart hammering so hard it hurt. His drool was sliding down your collarbone. His blood tears soaked into you. You could feel his cock twitching against your thigh, still half-hard, like even confessing this horror turned him on.

You didn’t know if you were holding a man anymore…

…or the monster who was slowly going to destroy you.

Bucky’s arms tightened even more, almost crushing you against his chest. His voice cracked into a broken, childlike whimper.

“I’m so fucking scared I’m going to do it one day. I’m scared I won’t be able to stop myself. I’m scared I’ll wake up one morning and you’ll be like me… and you’ll never forgive me.”

He pressed his face harder into your neck, fangs scraping your skin, drooling openly now as fresh blood tears fell.

“But God… I want it. I want it so much.”

You sat there in the dark, trembling in the arms of the vampire who had just admitted he fantasized about violating you in the worst possible way and you still wrapped your arms around him.

You still held on tighter.

And that terrified you more than anything else.

Because deep down, some sick, addicted part of you wasn’t sure you would stop him if he tried.

The sickness came on fast. Too fast.

It started with a scratchy throat and a mild fever you brushed off, just stress from your thesis and late shifts at the café. By the second night in Bucky’s penthouse, you were shaking apart. Violent chills slammed through your body even as sweat soaked the sheets. Your lungs felt heavy, like they were filling with wet concrete. Every cough ripped through you like shards of glass scraping your throat raw. You couldn’t keep anything down.

Bucky watched it all with growing horror, red eyes wide and unblinking.

He turned his sleek, modern bedroom into a nightmare sickroom overnight. Humidifier hissing like a dying animal. Stolen IV bags hanging from a makeshift stand. Bottles of antibiotics he didn’t trust. Ancient herbal poultices that smelled like rot and grave dirt. Cold cloths. Thermometers. Nothing helped. Your fever climbed past 104. Your breathing turned wet and rattling, like drowning on dry land.

On the third night, you were barely conscious, convulsing in his arms as another coughing fit tore through you.

“James…” you rasped, voice barely more than a broken whisper, tears streaming down your fever-flushed face. “Please… take me to a hospital. I need real doctors. Tests. Medicine. I’m scared- I’m so fucking scared. I feel like I’m dying.”

His eyes flashed blood-red, fangs fully extended, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth in thick strings.

“No.” The word came out like a growl from the pit of hell. “No hospitals. They’re butcher shops. They’ll pump you full of poison, poke you with needles and watch you rot under those lights while they pray to a god that doesn’t give a shit. I watched it happen for centuries. I held Dot while she screamed in one of those places. I won’t lose you the same way.”

You tried to push him away, but your arms were limp and useless. “Bucky, please- I’m begging you. I’m terrified. I don’t want to die here like this. Let me go. Let me call someone.”

He didn’t budge. The metal arm wrapped around you like iron bands, cool and merciless, as he carried you back to the bedroom despite your weak struggles. You slapped at his chest, sobbing, screaming hoarsely.

“I’m scared! Bucky, don’t do this- you’re scaring me! Please, I can’t breathe!”

The heavy click of the bedroom door locking from the outside echoed like a coffin lid slamming shut.

You were trapped.

Hours blurred into days. The fever spiked so high the room started to warp. Shadows crawled across the ceiling like living things, reaching for you with clawed hands. You heard Dot’s screams, a woman you’d never met, mixed with your own wet, gurgling coughs. Sometimes you saw her face rotting in the corner, black buboes bursting, whispering that Bucky’s blood had killed her too.

Bucky never left your side for long. He sat like a gargoyle on the edge of the bed, eyes permanently black, blood tears carving constant red tracks down his face. Drool dripped from his fangs onto the sheets as hunger and terror twisted him into something truly monstrous.

He murmured hoarsely, pressing icy cloths to your burning skin. His voice cracked with raw desperation. “Stay with me, doll. Please. I can’t watch you burn like she did. I can’t bury another woman I love.”

When your breathing grew too shallow and your pulse fluttered like a dying bird, he made the choice.

He sliced his wrist open with a fang, dark, ancient blood welling up and forced it against your cracked lips.

“Drink,” he begged, voice shattered and desperate. “Drink for me, baby. Please. I won’t let you die.”

The blood burned like liquid fire down your throat, healing and poisoning at once. It dragged you back from the edge for a few hours but the fever only raged hotter. Your body rejected it in violent chills and vomiting.

So Bucky started hunting.

He locked you in with cameras watching your every shallow, rattling breath, then disappeared into the night like the predator he was. You woke once to the sound of the door and saw him covered in blood that wasn’t his, splattered across his shirt, matted in his hair. He carried thermoses of warm stolen blood, mixing it with his own before forcing it down your throat.

The penthouse began to reek of copper, decay, and terror.

When you finally clawed back enough strength to be lucid, you were still weak, still burning but fury gave you fire.

The second he walked back in with another thermos, blood still dripping from his chin, you slapped him hard across the face with everything you had left.

“You locked me in here!” you screamed, voice raw and cracking. “You imprisoned me like a fucking animal! I begged you, Bucky- I begged on my knees and you said no! I’m terrified of you right now. What the hell are you becoming?!”

Bucky dropped to his knees instantly, metal arm wrapping around your waist like a vice as he pressed his forehead to your stomach. Blood tears soaked through your thin shirt.

“I know,” he choked out, voice wrecked. “I’m a monster. I watched Dot die screaming because my blood poisoned her during the plague. She begged me to let her go and I held her down instead. I can’t- I won’t- do the same with you. Not you. Please don’t make me bury you too.”

You sobbed, fists pounding weakly against his shoulders. “This isn’t love, it’s control! You’re killing me slowly. I’m so scared of what you’ll do next. What if your blood makes me worse? What if I never leave this room alive?”

“I’m scared too,” he whispered, looking up at you with those terrifying black-red eyes, drool and blood mixing on his chin. “I’m so fucking terrified of losing you that I’d rather you hate me forever than watch you slip away.”

You yanked him up by his bloody shirt, tears streaming down your face.

He didn’t give you time to think.

“I need to be inside you,” he rasped, voice desperate and feral. “Right now. My blood, my cock- it will make you feel better. It will heal you. Let me fuck you. Let me fill you. I can make this okay. I can make you okay.”

You shoved at his chest hard, fury and terror giving you strength you didn’t know you had.

“No!” you cried, voice cracking. “Are you insane?! I’m sick, I’m scared and you want to fuck me?! I’m not some toy you can use to feel better about yourself! Get off me!”

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, eyes wild.

“Please,” he begged, voice breaking even as his cock pressed insistently against you. “Just let me in. Let me make you feel good. My blood is already in you. Let me finish it. Let me heal you the only way I know how.”

You slapped him hard across the face, the sound echoing in the locked room.

“I said no!” you screamed, tears pouring down your cheeks. “I’m terrified of you right now! You locked me in here like a prisoner, you fed me blood, you’re acting like a fucking animal- and you think sex is going to fix this?! Get the hell off me!”

Bucky froze.

For a long, terrible moment he just stared at you, red eyes wide, fangs out, drool and blood tears streaking his face. Then something in him shattered.

He dropped to his knees again, metal arm wrapping around your waist as he pressed his forehead to your stomach, sobbing openly.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, voice completely broken. “I’m so fucking sorry. I know I’m a monster. I know I’m scaring you. I just… I can’t watch you die. I can’t do it again. Please don’t hate me. Please.”

You stood there shaking, still furious, still terrified, but the raw pain in his voice cracked something inside you. You sank down slowly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as he trembled against you.

The fight dissolved into quiet, broken sobs from both of you.

He held you like you were the only thing keeping him sane, blood tears soaking your shirt, drool and fear mixing on your skin.

The city lights flickered outside the soundproof windows.

Inside, the air was thick with blood, sickness, terror, and the heavy weight of a love that might destroy you both.

And you still curled into his chest, listening to the dead heart that beat only for you… wondering how much longer you had before the monster inside him finally won.

The next night, after the fever finally broke and the blood-stained sheets had been burned, Bucky carried you to the roof of his penthouse.

The city sprawled beneath you like a glittering sea of lights, cold wind whipping across the concrete rooftop. He sat on the wide ledge with you curled in his lap, your back against his chest, his metal arm wrapped securely around your waist. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence was heavy, weighted down by everything that had happened in that locked room.

“I’m still pissed at you,” you said quietly, staring out at the city. Your voice was hoarse but steady. “You apologized, but it doesn’t just erase it. You tried to force yourself on me when I was weak and scared. That shit stays with me, Bucky.”

“I know,” he murmured, lips brushing the top of your head. His voice was rough with guilt. “And I’ll keep being sorry for the rest of your life if that’s what it takes. I hate what I did. I hate that I became that version of myself with you. I was terrified… but that’s no excuse. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I scared you. I’m sorry I made you feel like a thing instead of the only person I have left.”

You stayed tense in his arms, anger still simmering under your skin even as you leaned back against him. “Good. You should feel like shit about it.”

He exhaled shakily. “I do. Every second.” After a long pause, he continued, softer. “I want you to understand why I lose control like that. Not just hear the stories. I want you to feel them. All the years. All the deaths. All the reasons I’m so fucking broken that I’d rather force you to live than watch you die.”

You turned in his arms to look at him. His red eyes were haunted, vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache despite your lingering fury.

“How?” you asked.

Bucky pressed his wrist to his own mouth and bit down hard. Dark, potent blood welled up immediately, thick and gleaming under the city lights. He offered it to you, eyes glowing faintly red.

“Drink,” he whispered. “And I’ll show you everything. Please.”

You hesitated but finally brought his bleeding wrist to your lips. The taste exploded across your tongue: copper, power, and centuries of him. The world tilted violently.

Suddenly you were there.

Mud. Endless, sucking mud.

1917 - The Western Front

The stench hit you like a physical blow, rotting flesh, human shit, wet wool, gunpowder, and death. Freezing rain poured down in sheets. Artillery shells screamed overhead and detonated so close your teeth rattled. You felt Bucky’s constant, gnawing hunger like it was tearing through your own gut. He hadn’t fed properly in weeks. You moved like a shadow with him between the trenches, ripping out throats of German scouts under cover of night, drinking just enough to stay sane while the screams of dying men tore at what remained of his soul.

“I hated it,” his real voice murmured against your ear on the rooftop as the memory swallowed you. “But the screams reminded me I could still feel something.”

The loneliness was suffocating. Thousands of men all around, laughing, cursing, praying and he was completely, utterly alone. No one could ever know the monster wearing a soldier’s uniform.

The vision shifted with brutal force.

December 1944 - The Ardennes Forest

Bitter, freezing snow. Gunfire cracking through the trees like whips.

Then the shell.

White-hot agony ripped through your body as shrapnel tore his left arm clean off at the shoulder. You screamed with him, feeling the bone shatter, muscle rip, hot blood spray across white snow. He dropped to his knees in the freezing slush, roaring in pain while his vampire healing failed to close the massive wound.

HYDRA came next.

Straps biting into skin. Cold metal table. Blinding lights. You felt every bolt and wire as they fused the prototype metal arm directly into the raw, bleeding stump. The pain was apocalyptic. You thrashed in Bucky’s lap on the rooftop, whimpering.

“I begged them to let me die,” he whispered, arms tightening around you. “They wouldn’t let me.”

Decades of numbness followed. The metal arm never felt like part of him, just a constant, heavy reminder that even eternity could be mutilated. That even a monster could be broken beyond repair.

The blood-sharing deepened, flooding you with centuries of crushing loneliness in relentless flashes:

Nameless women fucked in candlelit rooms across Europe, then left before dawn because none of them were her.

Standing alone on a cliff in 1803, staring at the crashing ocean, wondering if he should just walk into the sunrise and end it.

Returning year after year to the ashes of that cottage in 1665, sitting among the ruins on the anniversary of Dolores’s screaming death, whispering apologies to the wind.

Feeding on killers in dark 1970s Brooklyn alleys, then returning to an empty penthouse to stare at the wall for days, sometimes weeks, with nothing but silence and ghosts for company.

Wave after wave of isolation crashed over you. Seven hundred years of it. You felt every agonizing second.

When the blood-sharing finally ended, you were sobbing violently in his arms on the rooftop, clutching his shirt like he might vanish. Bucky was crying too, silent blood tears tracking down his face.

“I’m not her,” you whispered fiercely through your tears, cupping his wet cheeks. “I’m not Dolores. I’m not going to die screaming in your arms. I’m choosing you, Bucky. Scars. Metal arm. Fangs. Murders. All the darkness. I see the monster and I’m still here. I’m still choosing you.”

He made a broken, wrecked sound and crushed you against his chest, burying his face in your neck.

“I don’t deserve you,” he choked out. “Especially not after what I did in that room. I keep waiting for you to realize that and run. Every single night I wait for it.”

You pulled back just enough to kiss him, slow, deep, tasting salt and blood and centuries of pain.

“I’m still pissed at you,” you whispered against his lips. “That doesn’t go away overnight. But I’m not running. Even when I’m terrified. Even when you scare the shit out of me. I’m staying.”

Bucky kissed you harder, almost desperately, metal arm holding you so tight it almost hurt. When he finally pulled back, his red eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them.

“You have no idea what you just did,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “You just gave a dead man a reason to keep existing.”

You stayed on the rooftop until dawn threatened the sky, wrapped in each other, the weight of seven hundred years of loneliness finally shared between two hearts, one living, one long dead.

But the darkness wasn’t done with either of you.

Not yet.

The hunters had been watching for weeks.

A group of ex-military contractors turned self-proclaimed “paranormal investigators,” they chased high-paying bounties and conspiracy forums. They’d heard the fragmented stories for months: an ancient vampire with a metal arm operating in Brooklyn, leaving bodies drained and throats torn out in back alleys. Most of them laughed at the vampire part, they figured it was some enhanced super-soldier gone rogue, maybe a Winter Soldier copycat. But the bounty was massive and the rumors were consistent enough to make them curious.

They’d been tailing both of you. Taking photos. Noting patterns.

And when they saw their opportunity: you, still pale and weak from the illness, walking alone to the corner store in broad daylight, they took it.

A black van screeched up beside you. Two men in tactical gear grabbed you before you could scream. A chemical-soaked rag clamped brutally over your mouth and nose. The world spun violently, then went black.

You woke up zip-tied to a cold metal chair in the middle of an abandoned warehouse on the edge of Brooklyn. The air smelled of rust, mildew, and old oil. Your head throbbed. Your wrists burned where the plastic ties cut into your skin. Six armed men stood around you in a loose circle, rifles held loosely, smirking like this was just another job.

The leader, a bearded man with a scarred face and cold eyes crouched in front of you, tilting his head.

“Well, well. Look who’s awake.” He grinned. “If your boyfriend really is some immortal bloodsucker, he’ll come running. If not…” He shrugged. “We’ll still get paid for the freak with the metal arm. Either way, jackpot.”

One of the others laughed, chewing gum loudly. “You really believe that vampire shit? Probably just some juiced-up psycho with a fancy prosthetic. We’ll put him down like any other target.”

Another poked your shoulder with the barrel of his rifle. “Bet she’s just some poor girl he’s been mind-controlling. Pathetic.”

You spat at the leader’s boots, voice hoarse but defiant. “You have no idea what you’re fucking with. Let me go. Now.”

The leader only chuckled darkly. “We’ll find out soon enough, sweetheart. Sit tight.”

Bucky felt it the instant they grabbed you.

The blood bond, the one he had strengthened every time he drank from you, every time he fed you his own blood, snapped taut like a live wire in his chest. Your fear. Your pain. Your confusion. It hit him so hard he dropped the glass of blood he’d been holding. It shattered across the penthouse floor.

His vision went red.

A roar tore out of him, raw, ancient, inhuman, shaking the windows and rattling the walls.

Then the monster took over completely.

He stormed the warehouse alone like judgment day.

The moment the steel doors exploded inward off their hinges, the hunters opened fire. Bullets ripped into his chest, his shoulders, his stomach, his thighs. Blood sprayed from the wounds but he kept walking forward through the hail of gunfire, eyes glowing bright blood-red, fangs fully extended, metal arm whirring violently as the plates shifted and spun.

In front of you, he became something from hell.

The first hunter raised his rifle. Bucky grabbed his arm, ripped it clean off at the shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, and beat the screaming man to death with his own severed limb. Bone crunched. Blood fountained. The man’s screams turned into wet gurgles until his skull caved in with a sickening crack.

The second tried to run. Bucky caught him by the waist, metal fingers sinking deep into flesh, and tore him in half at the torso with raw strength. The spine snapped like dry wood. Intestines spilled across the concrete in a steaming pile. The man’s dying screams echoed horribly as his upper body twitched on the ground.

The third got close enough to fire point-blank into Bucky’s face. Bucky crushed his skull in his metal fist while the man was still screaming, bone fragments and brain matter exploding between the vibrating plates with a wet, disgusting crunch. Blood and gore splattered across your lap and chest.

The fourth and fifth tried to flank him. Bucky moved like death itself, tearing one’s throat out with his teeth, ripping the other’s spine out through his back in a fountain of blood.

The last hunter dropped his gun, stumbling backward, piss staining the front of his pants.

“It wasn’t real- we didn’t think- please God, we didn’t know he was actually a fucking vampire-!”

Bucky grabbed him by the throat, lifted him a foot off the ground, and tore his throat out with his fangs in one savage bite. Arterial blood sprayed across the room like a broken hose as the man convulsed and died.

Then silence.

Only the sound of dripping blood, your ragged breathing, and the wet squelch of Bucky’s boots in the carnage remained.

Bucky stood in the middle of the slaughter, covered head to toe in blood and gore, chest heaving, fangs still fully extended, eyes glowing like twin hellfires. For a moment he looked every inch the ancient monster he was.

Then he saw you.

The monster shattered.

Bucky dropped to his knees in the pool of blood and viscera, crawling to you with shaking hands, fangs still fully extended, red eyes wild. The metal arm moved with terrifying gentleness as he reached for you first, slicing through the zip-ties with one careful claw so they fell away from your raw, bruised wrists.

“Doll- fuck, let me see you,” he rasped, voice cracking. His hands immediately started checking you, sliding over your body with desperate care. He turned your wrists gently, thumbs brushing the deep purple bruises left by the plastic ties. He ran his palms down your arms, your ribs, your thighs, searching for wounds, broken bones, blood that wasn’t from the slaughter around you.

“They hurt you?” His voice was hoarse, almost whimpering. “Tell me where. Did they touch you? Did they- fuck, I’ll kill them again if they-”

Only the angry red imprints from the zip-ties marred your skin. No cuts. No bites. No worse damage. Relief and guilt crashed over him at once.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, pressing his forehead to your stomach, trembling violently. “I’m so fucking sorry you had to see that. But they touched you. They took you from me. I couldn’t- I can’t lose you. I can’t do it again.”

He was covered head to toe in someone else’s blood and brains, gore streaking his face, fangs out, blood tears mixing with the carnage dripping down his cheeks. His massive frame shook as he knelt in the slaughter, clinging to you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

You were shaking too, sobbing quietly, your clothes and skin soaked in warm, sticky blood that wasn’t yours. The metallic stench was overwhelming. The screams still rang in your ears.

You should have been terrified. You should have been screaming.

Instead, that dark, addicted part of you reached for him anyway.

You grabbed his bloody face with both hands, fingers sliding through the gore, and yanked him up into a desperate, blood-slick kiss.

Bucky groaned into your mouth like a wounded animal, raw, broken, relieved. The coppery taste of death coated both your tongues as he kissed you back with centuries of fear and feral love. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you tighter against his blood-soaked chest while his flesh hand cradled the back of your head.

When you finally broke the kiss, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the carnage, you whispered shakily against his gore-stained lips:

“…Take me home, Bucky. Please. Just take me home. I don’t want to be here anymore. I just want you to take me home.”

He nodded frantically, blood tears still falling. “Yeah. Yeah, doll. Home. I’ve got you.”

He lifted you into his arms with ease, cradling you like something precious and fragile among the slaughter. Your head tucked against his neck as he carried you out of the warehouse, boots squelching through puddles of blood, leaving nothing but corpses and the heavy, metallic stench of death behind.

You clung to him the entire way, still trembling, still terrified, but refusing to let go.

The monster had won tonight.

And you were still his.

You woke up every day for three weeks telling yourself this was love.

Bucky had moved you into his penthouse the night after the warehouse massacre. No discussion. He simply carried your exhausted body through the elevator, locked it down with a code only his fingerprints could activate and whispered against your ear in that low, dangerous growl, “You’re never leaving me again, doll. Never.”

Your old life was gone. Your apartment, your friends, your thesis notes, they all gathered dust while your clothes now hung neatly beside his in the massive walk-in closet. Every night you slept naked in his silk sheets, the fabric permanently scented with blood, sex and the faint metallic tang of his ancient hunger. He fed you from his wrist, fucked you until you screamed, then held you like you were the only fragile thing left in his centuries-long existence.

You told yourself you were safe. Cherished. Loved.

Tonight, that comforting lie finally burned to ash.

The hunger had been eating him alive for hours.

You were on your back in the middle of his massive bed, legs locked tight around his waist as he fucked you with those deep, claiming strokes you’d grown addicted to. At first it felt fucking perfect, his thick cock stretching your dripping cunt wide open, dragging against that sweet spot with every brutal thrust, metal fingers bruising your hips while his mouth sucked dark, possessive marks across your tits.

“Fuck, baby… this tight little cunt is creaming all over me,” he growled against your neck, voice thick and raw. “Hear how fucking sloppy and wet you sound? Sucking my cock in like you were made for it. My perfect filthy girl.”

You moaned, nails raking down his back. “Harder, Bucky- please, I need you to ruin me-”

He gave it to you.

Then the flashback hit like a goddamn freight train.

You sitting on that filthy warehouse floor. Limp. Pale as death. Almost gone forever. Your head lolled weakly to the side, skin ghostly white, lips colorless, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. You looked so fragile, so close to slipping away that the sight nearly brought Bucky to his knees.

His control fucking snapped.

His hips slammed forward with terrifying force. The wet slap of skin turned savage, punishing. Pleasure twisted into sharp, stabbing pain that tore through your core like broken glass.

“Bucky- wait! Fuck- too hard!” you cried, voice already cracking. “Slow down, baby, please- shit, it hurts!”

He didn’t hear you. His eyes were wild, glowing crimson, fangs fully extended as thick ropes of drool poured from his mouth onto your bouncing tits. He pounded into you like a rabid, starving beast, driven by centuries of hunger and the primal fear of losing you again.

“Mine,” he snarled, the word vicious and broken, vibrating with pure desperation. “This fucking pussy is mine. You’re never leaving this bed. Never leaving this goddamn penthouse. I’ll fuck you raw every single night until you can’t even crawl away from me, you hear me? I won’t let death take you. I won’t let anything take you.”

Each savage thrust jolted your whole body. His metal arm crushed your hip with a sickening crack. Bone splintered. White-hot agony exploded through your pelvis like fire. You screamed, back arching violently.

“Bucky- stop! Fuck, my hip! It’s breaking- please, baby, please stop! I’m begging you! It hurts so fucking bad!”

He only fucked you harder, lost in the nightmare, hips snapping forward with inhuman power. Another vicious snap and your left wrist, pinned above your head, shattered with an audible pop. The pain was blinding, nauseating, shooting up your arm like lightning. You screamed until your voice broke, tears pouring down your face as you thrashed helplessly beneath him.

“Jesus Christ- Bucky, my wrist! Stop, please! It hurts so fucking bad- I can’t take it! Slow down, I’m scared! Please see me, baby, I’m right here- don’t break me!”

“Look at you,” he panted, drool dripping onto your lips and chin, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. “Taking my cock like such a good little slut. So fucking greedy for me even when you’re ruined. Gonna fill this sloppy cunt up until you’re dripping. Gonna keep you leaking my cum for days, baby. You’re never getting away from me. Never.”

Your ribs cracked on the next brutal thrust, one, two, three, sharp nauseating crunches that stole your breath completely. Blood bubbled up your throat and trickled from the corner of your mouth in dark rivulets. Your body went terrifyingly limp, only weak, wet gasps leaving you as he kept rutting into your destroyed hole like a desperate, starving animal.

“I almost watched you die once,” he growled, voice cracking between raw hunger and bone-deep horror. “Felt your heart slowing in my arms while you burned up with that fucking sickness. You were slipping away from me, right here in this bed. Never. Never again.”

His hips snapped harder, driving deep into you with every word.

“I will keep you here. Fill you. Bind you. You will never leave this penthouse. You will be my eternal companion… my blood, my breath, my only reason to keep walking through this damned night. I’ll drink from you every night until the hunger in me is quiet. I’ll hold you while you tremble and beg, and I will never let you go. You’re mine, my wife, my meal, my everything.”

You could barely speak now, only weak, broken cries leaving you between gasps. “James… please… it hurts… everything’s breaking inside me… I’m so scared… don’t let me die like this… please see me… I love you, just stop-”

He froze only when he felt how deathly still you had become, your body no longer fighting, just a fragile, ruined thing in his grasp, blood leaking from you in steady streams.

Reality crashed over him like ice water.

“No… no, no, NO! FUCK NO!” The roar that tore from his throat was inhuman, shaking the windows and rattling the walls until the glass trembled. He ripped himself out of you with a horrified shout, a flood of blood and slick gushing from your ruined cunt onto the silk sheets. He gathered your shattered body against his chest, rocking you violently as thick, black blood-tears poured down his face in rivers.

“I did it again- I fucking killed you!” he screamed, voice cracking into something ancient and monstrous. His metal fist smashed the headboard repeatedly, wood exploding into splinters, plaster raining down around you both. “I broke my baby- my perfect sweet girl- I crushed you like a goddamn animal! How the fuck could I do this to you?! After everything, after I swore I’d protect you, I still fucking destroy you! I’m a monster!”

In his panic he tried desperately to fix it.

He lowered his head and dragged his cool tongue frantically over the mangled ruin of your hip. Long, desperate licks, reverent, almost worshipful just like he did every dawn to the bite marks on your thighs. His cool venom should have sealed the wounds, should have soothed and healed. But the damage was catastrophic. Shattered bone jutted through torn flesh like jagged ivory knives. Blood poured freely. His tongue only lapped desperately at the crimson flow, mixing his saliva with your lifeblood, yet the wounds refused to close.

“Fuck- why isn’t it working?!” he sobbed, voice raw and cracking. “Heal, damn you- heal! Come on, baby, please heal.” He moved to your shattered wrist, licking over the crushed bones and swollen purple skin with frantic tenderness, fangs carefully retracted. “Heal, my love. My venom has always healed you before. Come back to me. Don’t leave me in this emptiness again. I can’t- I can’t survive without you. Please, don’t die on me!”

It didn’t work. Your ribs stayed caved in. Your insides were ruptured. Blood kept leaking from your mouth and between your legs. He traced every injury with guilty, starving strokes of his tongue, pressing wet, bloody kisses to your mangled hip, your ruined wrist, your trembling lips.

“I’m so fucking sorry- shit, I’m so fucking sorry, doll,” he choked out, rocking you harder against his chest, his entire body trembling with guilt and fear. “I tried- god, I tried everything. My tongue, my venom, my soul- nothing works when the monster in me takes over. I’m a horror. A starving, desperate horror who destroys the only thing he loves. Forgive me… please forgive me.”

Guilt, hunger and obsessive fear twisted violently inside him until his madness crystallized in an instant.

He slashed his own wrist open with a razor-sharp fang. Dark, ancient blood, thick and burning, gushed from the wound. He cradled your head with both hands, pressing your slack mouth desperately against the gash.

“Drink,” he begged, voice broken and trembling with terror. “Fucking drink, baby. Become mine forever. I cannot watch you die. I will not bury you. Take it. Let me damn you if it means keeping you by my side through all the endless nights. Don’t leave me alone again- I’m so scared without you. So goddamn hungry for you. Please… please don’t go. I need you more than I’ve ever needed anything.”

He held your head tighter, forcing the potent blood past your lips. Your body latched on instinctively, sucking with weak, greedy pulls even at the edge of death. The change ignited like liquid hellfire in your veins.

Your broken bones snapped and realigned with excruciating force, each crack wrenching agonized whimpers and jerks from your throat against his wrist. Your organs burned and rewrote themselves in waves of molten pain. Your heart stuttered violently… then stopped completely. The agony was worse than death, pure, liquid fire searing through every vein, every nerve, every inch of your soul as the vampire venom rewrote you from the inside out.

All the while Bucky kept himself buried deep inside your twitching, blood-slick heat. He rocked slowly through your torment, whispering hoarse, broken promises between every shallow, desperate thrust.

“I’m sorry, my everything… but you belong to me now. Eternally. I will hold you through every dark night. I will drink from you while you cry out my name. You will never grow old. Never slip away from me again. I love you too much- too desperately- to let death have you. Forgive me for what I’ve done… even if you hate me forever. This pussy, this body, this soul- it’s all mine now. Forever.”

Your eyes flew open.

Crimson. Glowing. Filled with an ancient, bottomless hunger.

New fangs pushed through your bleeding gums in sharp, painful bursts. You tore your mouth from his wrist, dark blood streaking down your chin and onto your chest, and stared up at him with pure, ravenous starvation.

“Bucky…” Your voice was hoarse, ruined, but dripping with dark, insatiable need. “I’m so fucking thirsty.”

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

taglist : @angel-bugz @sheriff-bodecker @arsenalofproblems @imanidiotsimpforhotmen @spdrveil @shackoflove @buckybunni @fancypeacepersona @noirecherie @xo4yu @vickynguyennn @avgdestitute @silveredpenumbrashark @latenightmatilda @thegirlfatherr @nonotwithoutu @sebastians-love @doelikedollz @wintersgirllost @ryswritingrecord @biggestfangirl @swansonnetts @herejustforbuckybarnes @avatarobsessedgirly @gilwm @bb-laufeyson @gibbsgirl7 @hnnhbananananana @metal-armed-muse @mollyherondale @sambuckystony @globetrotter28 @amidnightwish21 @mathcat345 @dilfsbaby @trashr0mance @buckysdecaflove @sunshineflowersandkisses @cryingb4by @emilyswortwellen @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @starspangledspanks @callmemadhatter @spookypersondinosaur @carolina-skies

requested by anon : Hi, I love your stories. If you're getting requests, I'd really like to read about vampire!Bucky. The reader would be a normal girl and he a very old vampire who becomes obsessed with her. It has a very dark vibe, but he feels VERY strongly.😭😭

[superbassbuck]

Nutshell. | bucky barnes (18+)

⤷ scientist!bucky barnes x experiment!reader

⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, daddy kink, dark!bucky, slight steve x reader, dubcon, stockholm syndrome, emotional manipulation, drugs, masochism and sadism, obsessive and possessive behavior, verbal abuse, mental illness, isolation, self-harm, mentions of the word "rape", angst, fingering, praise kink, innocence kink, medical malpractices, surgical inaccuracies, pet names, spanking

⭐︎ word count: 11.3k

⭐︎ a/n: please read the warnings listed before reading. i am not responsible for your media consumption. thank you to @danysdaughter and @iamthatonefangirl for giving me the courage to write this. clutching my shovel real close tonight ♥️

synopsis: You are Bucky’s most prized possession. Your mind, body, and soul were crafted by his own hands—he gave you life, and he could just as easily take it away. He never imagined he’d feel threatened by his own creation, until the day you began to have desires of your own.

← previous fic | main masterlist | next fic ➜

If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes for the definition of ‘insanity,’ he would tell you “Insanity is a severely disordered state of the mind.”

If you were to ask him what the cause of insanity is, he would say “It’s triggered by a combination of many things. For example, if one becomes too fascinated—too fixated—on something to the point that it takes a toll on their mental health. It can shift their reality and potentially drive themselves to the very brink. It is a common denominator, I’ve noticed.”

If you were to ask him if insanity was correlated with craziness in any way, he would reply with “That’s exactly what it is.”

If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes if he was crazy, he would say no.

Bucky never thought he was crazy—as a matter of fact, he was far from it.

From the day he found your corpse and brought you back to life through grueling experimentation, to the long months he kept you tucked away in the shadows of the hospital’s hidden basement laboratory—up until now, as he stood before you with a tray of cold hospital food in his hands.

No, he never thought he was crazy. Not then, and certainly not now.

“Darling? Daddy’s here,” Bucky murmured, knocking gently on the door.

He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting for a sound—that soft, gentle “come in!” he had taught you to say every time he arrived.

There was no sound.

Bucky smiled softly. He figured you were just asleep.

After looking around to ensure the coast was clear, as it always was, he pushed the door open quietly. As it shut softly behind him, a relieved breath escaped his lips at the sight of you.

There you were, lying on the cot on your side with your hands tucked beneath your cheek—sound asleep.

He couldn’t help his smile as he set the tray of food down on the table next to you. He sat at the edge of the cot, running his hand up and down your arm in a hauntingly slow motion. “I brought you dinner,” he whispered.

You only let out a sleepy moan. Bucky ran his hand down your hair, pushing it behind your ear. He frowned at how it felt beneath his fingertips. He had just brushed it this morning, and yet it was already a knotted, tangled mess.

“Come on, baby. Wake up. Your food’s not getting any warmer.”

He nudged you gently, but you still didn’t wake. He was beginning to grow impatient.

“Open your eyes for me,” he commanded, kneeling down as his voice rose.

When you still didn’t stir, his jaw clenched. Both hands found your shoulders, shaking you hard as he yelled in your face, “I told you to wake up!”

You jolted awake with a startled gasp, your eyes hazy with sleep as you stared back at the man in front of you. His grip on your shoulders was so tight it hurt.

He had yelled at you—what had you done wrong? Did you misplace something? Or was it simply because you had slept in?

Your master’s chest was heaving as he glared at you with wide, crazed eyes.

After finally getting your attention, Bucky’s breathing calmed slightly. Your eyes were wide with fear and your body was shaking, curling in on itself as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Your eyes—sunken, swollen, and bruised from his experiments a few days ago—were still prominent, and the sight of them made him feel even worse.

Slowly, he let go of your shoulders. “I… fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry, doll. I got ahead of myself.”

Your shoulders eased slightly, though not entirely.

“I just had a bad day,” Bucky went on with a sigh. “These idiots at the facility… they’re working me like a dog. They have me running all these labs, all these data sheets…” He rubbed the crease between his brows. “I’m just so tired. And all I wanted was for you to be waiting at the door to greet me.”

You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had to react carefully—otherwise, Bucky’s mood would only sour further.

“I’m sorry,” you said, pulling yourself off the short cot to meet him on the floor with a hug.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, your chest pressed against his. Bucky let out a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as his large arms wrapped around you. His hands splayed across your back, pulling you in even closer as his nose nuzzled the side of your head, breathing in your scent.

Rubbing alcohol, acetonitrile, and just a slight hint of lavender. His favorite.

“That’s it,” Bucky cooed into your ear. “You can be so forgetful, but at the end of the day, you always know how to make Daddy happy.”

He pulled away slightly to look you in the face. “Look at you, your hair’s a mess.” His frown deepened again as he tucked the stray hairs away from your eyes. “What did you do all day while I was gone?”

“I’ve been reading—or… trying to read the papers you told me to read.”

Bucky smiled, reaching for the hairbrush on your bedside table. His hands found your hair, dragging the bristles through the tangled heap.

“You mean the books?”

You nodded.

He sighed wistfully. “I wish I could hear you read them out loud to me, but I haven’t had much time these days.”

“I know,” you said, sounding a little more solemn than you’d like.

Bucky heard the disappointment in your voice, and his heart broke. “Turn around for me.”

Still sitting on the floor, you scrambled around until your back faced him. His hand bunched your hair from behind as he did his best to fix the mess you created.

“Tell me more,” he prompted, encouraging you to continue.

“The words make my head hurt,” you explained, staring at the floor. “It’s all just… a jumbled mess of text. I don’t even know what half the words mean.” Your finger traced the cold, laboratory tile. “My head has been hurting a lot, and the books just make me feel worse.”

Bucky’s brush went still for a moment.

Every time the headaches came, you would start pulling and tugging at your hair, crying in frustration. You would roll around on the cot, hit your head against the wall, or yank at your own locks—anything to rid yourself of the pain. But you didn’t know that those things only made it worse. All you knew was to hurt the things that hurt you.

“Sorry, darling,” he said gently. “I need to operate on your brain to help fix this problem. Maybe this next experiment will help you remember words better—help you gain some of that reading memory back. I’ll find the time for it, I promise. I’ve just been so—”

“—busy,” you completed the sentence for him, a bitter bite in your tone. “I know.”

He paused again, and it dragged out longer this time. “Excuse me?”

“I already heard how busy you were the first time,” you mumbled. “I don’t need to hear it again.”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched. He couldn’t believe this was happening. You were talking back to him?

He grabbed your shoulders, roughly spinning you around and making you yelp as you were forced to face him again. Before you could compose yourself, he pressed his face against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks with a hard squeeze.

“Where the fuck did this new attitude come from? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, huh?” he seethed. “Did you forget your place? Did you forget who brought you here? Who took your sad, cold body from the grave and gave you a new life?”

You winced as he squeezed your face even harder.

“I gave you life. I made your heart beat again. I gave your brain a mind and your body a purpose. And if you disrespect me one more time, I can take it all away just as easily.”

That tone of his made your heart start to race. It was like a trauma response buried deep in your nerves he had rewired. Your vision started to blur as tears began to well up, spilling down your face before you even realized you were crying.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it! I—I’m sorry, Bucky.”

You were apologizing profusely now, your hands hovering near his, not daring to touch him. You just wanted the pressure on your face to stop.

Bucky’s expression softened, just barely. He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing over your cheeks to wipe away the tears. He let out a long, weary sigh—the sound of a man burdened by… whatever it was you were to him.

He set the brush on the floor and pulled you back into his chest, hugging you once more.

“I’m sorry, doll,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry I had to do that. I hate when I have to talk to you like that, I really do.” He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. “But I have to make sure you understand. How else am I supposed to get through to you? You know I only do it because I love you. I can’t have you forgetting who takes care of you.”

You stayed frozen in his arms, hiccuping between sobs.

When Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, the small gap made you whine. He smiled in satisfaction. Of course—despite everything, you still needed him.

“There’s my girl,” he whispered. “Come here. Give Daddy a kiss.”

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, pushing yourself up from the floor just enough to press your lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. That was all you wanted, really—just a kind gesture to remind you that Bucky cared for you as much as he claimed.

But then his hands found your face again, locking you in place before you could pull away. His lips began to explore yours hungrily. He pushed his tongue against the entrance, sliding in to dance against yours.

A moan of satisfaction vibrated in his throat, then to his lips where you felt it.

He always kissed you like he was starving. He kissed you until your lips were swollen and wet, until you were panting and your heart was racing. When he was finally satisfied, he pulled away, catching his own breath as he trailed his thumbs over your bottom lip.

“Beautiful,” he praised breathlessly. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Despite how he had treated you just seconds ago, you couldn’t help but smile. Being praised by him always made the pain worth it.

But your salvation didn’t last. Bucky pushed himself off the floor with a grunt. He extended a hand to help you up, but you remained where you were on the floor.

“W-where are you going?” you asked softly, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

He checked the watch on his wrist. “It’s getting late, doll. I need to head home and get some sleep. I’ve got a long day tomorrow—gotta be up bright and early for some projects at the facility.”

Your eyes widened. He had left you alone all day, and he was leaving already?

“No,” you protested weakly.

Bucky tilted his head. “No?”

You couldn’t imagine another night of silence. “Please,” you whispered with a voice crack. “Please don’t leave me yet. It’s so quiet and lonely here.”

Bucky’s hand paused halfway through his hair as he let out a sigh. He looked down at you, his eyes looking almost mournful. “You’re breaking my heart, darling,” he murmured. “You know I hate leaving you, but Daddy’s got to work. I do it all for you, remember?”

When he took a step away from you, that’s when panic started to flare in your weak heart and desperation took over completely.

You scrambled across the tile, your fingers digging around the fabric of his trousers as you clutched his leg.

“Don’t go!” you begged, looking up at him through another round of tears. “I’ll be good. I’ll read the books. I’ll do the experiments without crying—just stay. Please, just stay a little longer!”

Bucky froze, eyes widened in surprise. He looked down at your hands wrapped around his leg. A part of him wanted to laugh at this little attempt of yours. You were a just a weak, fragile thing. He could push you off and leave—it’d be so easy.

But instead of doing that, he just stayed put and smiled. He liked this. He liked the way you were anchored to his feet, reduced to a trembling mess at the mere thought of his absence.

Slowly, he sank back down to his knees until he was eye level with you again.

“You really don’t want me to go, do you?” he mused with a taunting purr. He reached out, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at the hunger in his eyes. “You want me to stay here with you? In this cold, dark basement? Keeping you warm?”

You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.

“Tell me then,” he prompted, his thumb tracing your jaw. “How bad do you want it? What are you willing to do to keep me here tonight?”

“Anything,” you admitted desperately. “I’ll do anything.”

“Oh,” Bucky’s smile grew wide. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

You tried to keep a brave face, to hold your ground, but the relief was too great.

Bucky let out a short, amused huff as he reached down, hooking his hands under your arms to haul you up from the floor. “Okay, fine. You win.”

He stood back and reached for his neck, slowly loosening the knot of his tie. You watched, mesmerized and trembling, as he pulled the silk from his collar and draped it over the back of the lone chair in the room. His fingers moved to the top button of his white shirt, then the next, and the next, until they were all unbuttoned.

Then he moved to his belt. The sounds of it making you shiver.

“I’ll stay with you,” he promised, his tone as sweet as honey—designed to make you feel safe, even when you shouldn’t.

He folded the leather belt slowly. Painfully slow, his eyes never leaving yours.

“And before I head to the facility, I’ll do a quick experiment on you tomorrow. We’ll fix those headaches and get your reading memory back on track, okay?”

With one hand still gripping the belt, he stepped closer. His free hand cupped your face, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Think of it as my way of apologizing for my little outburst earlier,” he murmured against your skin. “I just want you to be perfect. I want you to be happy.”

He wasn’t leaving.

He was going to fix you.

You leaned into his touch as a small, fragile smile broke across your face. The tears you had shed before were no longer born of frustration—they were tears of relief.

“I love you, Bucky,” you whispered.

Bucky’s hand settled behind your head, rubbing gently to soothe you—the way a master might pet a loyal dog. He nodded towards the small cot in the corner.

“Lay down, doll.”

The light in the basement was always the same—artificial and blinding through the fluorescent tubes. After several blinks, you managed to force your eyes open against the piercing white light.

You let out a garbled groan. Your limbs felt extremely heavy, as if you were trying to move through deep water.

“Easy, doll. Easy.”

A deep, gentle voice cooed nearby. The cot creaked slightly as he sat beside you. As your vision cleared, you saw Bucky. He was already back in his professional attire—white sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The room already smelled like he had his morning coffee.

He looked refreshed, while you felt like you had been disassembled and put back together again.

Which… in a way, you had.

Your fingers drifted up to the pain that throbbed in the back of your neck. You shuddered at the feel of the surgical tape and the fresh incision.

“The experiment went perfectly,” he said gently, his fingers replacing yours to check the bandage. “Your reading should be much sharper once the grogginess fades.”

You couldn’t even find the energy to be upset about him drugging you in the middle of the night—even if you should have spent those hours cuddling instead. The only thing that mattered was that he actually stayed.

“You’re still here,” you rasped, your throat scratchy and dry. A weak, hazy smile pulled at your lips.

Bucky smiled. He reached for a glass of water on the tray, holding it to your lips so you didn’t have to lift your head.

“I told you I would stay, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.” He watched you drink, smiling as your dried lips softened from the liquid and the delicate column of your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “I even stayed through the morning to monitor your vitals. I’m going to be a little late to the facility, but for you? My baby? It’s all worth it.”

You leaned your head against his leg with a soft, content sigh. “Thank you for staying with me.”

“Always,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your cheek. “I have to go now—but when I’m gone, I want you to go back to reading your books.”

Disappointment settled in your chest, but the chemically induced state you were in made it too straining to fight back.

“I’ll be back soon with your breakfast.”

You didn’t care about food. All you cared about was Bucky. He was your true sustenance.

“How long?” you rasped, blinking up at him.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Alright?”

He leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. The cot creaked again as he stood up, and the sudden loss of his warmth made your heart clench painfully—more painful than the throb in your head.

“I love you, baby,” Bucky said, grabbing his blazer from the chair and heading for the door. “Be a good girl while I’m gone, okay?”

You nodded, and he offered a handsome smile. Then, he pulled the door open and shut it softly. The click of the lock on the other side finalized his goodbye, leaving you alone once again.

Bucky walked quickly from the hospital’s sub-level entrance, hurrying across the grounds toward the main facility. He looked like any other dedicated researcher running late for a briefing, but every time he left you, his mind remained back in the basement.

His mind was always on you.

His fingers fumbled with the middle button of his blazer as he forced his breathing to level out. He couldn’t afford to look ruffled. He turned a sharp corner near the east wing, head down as he adjusted his cuffs, and bumped squarely into another man.

“Woah, easy there, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t need to look up to recognize the voice.

“Steve,” Bucky exhaled, finishing the last button on his blazer with a tug. “Didn’t see you there. You’re up early.”

Steve’s gaze focused on the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes. “The shift change was a while ago,” Steve explained quietly. “I tried to page your office, but you weren’t there.”

Bucky waved a hand dismissively, stepping around Steve to keep moving towards his designated workstation. “Dead battery. I stayed late last night—lost track of time in the mounting data sheets—”

Steve extended his hand, landing on Bucky’s shoulder and forcing him to halt.

“You smell like…” Steve scrunched his nose. “Rubbing alcohol? Acetonitrile? That’s some heavy duty solvent for someone just looking at paperwork.”

Bucky’s heart let out a traitorous little thump. He gave Steve a deadpan look. “It’s a research hospital, Steve. What else am I supposed to smell like?”

Steve let go, but the look he gave his friend was anything but convinced. “You look exhausted. You’ve been spending every spare second in the south wing,” he sighed. “You’re my friend—and I worry about you, is all.”

Bucky averted his gaze. He didn’t have time for small talk. He had to review the latest labs and then fetch your breakfast. The longer he stayed out here, the longer you went hungry. Especially after the surgery, you needed to eat to recover properly.

“If there’s anything I can do to help loosen your load, even just a little bit, you know I’m always here.” Steve stepped closer, his voice lowering. “‘Till the end of the line, right?”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “Thanks, Steve. But I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly fine working alone,” he said, moving past him. Without looking back, he added, “I’ll let you know if my projects call for additional assistance.”

A few hours had passed, and ever since that interaction, it felt as though the universe had cursed Bucky with a jinx.

It was supposed to be a brief meeting—a few papers to peer review, perhaps a few charts to sign off on.

Christ, you were probably starving.

He could already picture it—your stomach curling in on itself, groaning and painful. He imagined your fragile arms wrapped around your belly as you cried in hunger. With the desperation that hunger brought, you might be clawing at your own skin. And since your body wasn’t being supplied with the nutrients it needed to recover, the post surgery throbbing in your head must be unbearable.

You could be pulling your hair or banging your head against the wall at this very second—and he wasn’t there to stop you.

He stared at the man sitting across from him. His boss’s frames kept slipping down his nose. His hair had more grease than the fast food joints across the street. His grimy hands shifted through the pages slowly. Painfully slow.

Bucky sat rigid, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. He couldn’t dismiss himself—this was his superior, for fuck’s sake. But the longer he sat there, restless and useless, the more his mind spiraled.

His eyes flickered from his boss, to the clock, to the door.

“Is something bothering you, Barnes?”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Just… need to use the restroom.”

The man’s eyes rose sluggishly to meet Bucky’s. He paused—a silence long enough for Bucky to have gone and returned already. “Make it quick.”

Bucky pushed himself out of the chair, the legs let out a loud creak. He lunged for the door. He thought about sprinting to the canteen to fetch you something, but it was all the way across the facility. He didn’t have the time.

“Fuck, fuck!” Bucky hissed to himself, pacing the hall just outside the office.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed nearby. Then, salvation appeared.

“Bucky? You doing alright?” Steve asked, glancing up from his papers to find his friend in visible distress.

Bucky froze, his breath getting stuck in his throat. Steve. The very man who had been with him through everything. Before he even came to the facility. Before he even made you. Steve was the one person he could trust with his life.

So why not trust him with yours? Just for the time being?

“Steve,” Bucky started with a frantic voice. The words tumbled out in a breathless ramble. “I need—I need your help. I’m stuck in a meeting with that grease trap Henderson, and she’s starving. She hasn’t eaten before the procedure and I can’t leave, but if she doesn’t get nutrients now, the rejection levels will spike and I’ll lose all progress—”

Steve blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what?” He shook his head. “Who are you talking about? What procedure?”

Bucky stepped closer, grabbing Steve’s forearm with a grip so tight, it made him grunt.

“The south wing, sub-levels. Level four. I have her there, Steve. A woman—” Bucky glanced over his friend’s shoulder, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. “I’ve been… helping her, fixing her. But I have her locked in for her own safety, and I can’t get to the canteen and back without Henderson noticing I’m gone.”

Steve looked at Bucky as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a friend. “Locked in? Bucky, what the hell are you talking about? There are no active patients registered in the sub-levels. If you found someone who needs medical attention, we need to report this to the board immediately—”

“No!” Bucky hissed, eyes wide and wild. “No reports, and absolutely no boards. They’ll take her away, Steve. Please. I need you to help me. You said ‘till the end of the line’, didn’t you?”

Steve stood there, frozen with the papers in his hands.

“A woman,” Steve repeated quietly. “In the basement.”

“She’s my everything,” Bucky pleaded with a vulnerability that Steve has never seen before. “Just get a tray. High protein—soft foods. Use your clearance to bypass the canteen line. She’ll try to talk to you—but don’t entertain her. Just… give her her food, make sure she didn’t hurt herself while I was gone, and then leave quietly, okay?”

Steve let out a long breath.

He looked around the hall, checking for witnesses, before turning back to Bucky with a grim, reluctant nod.

“Fine,” Steve whispered. “I’ll get the food. But Bucky… we are talking about this the second you get out of that meeting. All of it.”

“Thank you,” Bucky exhaled, a sob of relief nearly escaping him.

He quickly shoved the keys to your room in Steve’s hand.

“Thank you, Steve. I knew I could trust you.”

It had been hours since Bucky left. You were curled on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped tightly around your growling stomach, trying to breathe through the nausea of starvation.

The grumbling was unbearable. You couldn’t have slept the hunger away even if you wanted to. It felt as though your stomach were eating itself from the inside out. Had Bucky forgotten you? He had broken his promise—but he said he was a man of his word. So where was he?

The sound of keys and the lock being undone sounded like music. Your heart gave a hopeful leap. Bucky always knocked—three soft, gentle taps that signaled he was coming to take care of you.

Unless you were asleep, he always waited for you to call out “come in!” to let him know you were ready to be his good girl again.

But this time, there was only silence before the door creaked open.

You didn’t care about the lack of a knock. You were too desperate, too hungry, and too lonely. You scrambled off the cot, your legs feeling like jelly as you rushed towards the door.

“Bucky! You’re back, I—”

You stopped.

The man standing in the doorway wasn’t Bucky. But he was as tall as Bucky, dressed in a white button up similar to Bucky’s, but it wasn’t him. He held a tray of food, but the stranger’s presence made you too terrified to reach for it.

Your breath hitched, a panicked wheeze leaving your lips as you scrambled backwards. Your heels dragged against the tile floor until your back hit the corner of the wall.

“Who are you!” you gasped, your bandaged hands coming up to shield your face. “Who are you? Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”

The man froze, his blue eyes widening in horror as he took in the sight of you—the surgical tape on your neck, the oversized gown, and the way you were cowering like a wounded animal.

Steve knew he shouldn’t speak to you, that had been Bucky's direct order. But he couldn’t fight his own instincts.

“Hey, hey… easy,” Steve cooed. He stayed by the door, slowly lowering the tray to a nearby table to show his hands were empty. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

Despite the man’s kind and gentle tone, you couldn’t help the panic flaring in your heart.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you sobbed, pressing yourself harder into the corner. “He said… he said I’m not supposed to see anyone. He’s going to be so angry.”

“Bucky sent me,” Steve explained softly, taking a cautious step. “My name is Steve. I’m Bucky’s friend. He’s stuck in a meeting and he was worried about you. He told me you needed to eat.”

You sniffled. “… Worried about me?”

He reached for a piece of bread from the tray and held it out toward you, not moving any closer. “I know you’re scared. And I know you’re hurting. But you need to eat, okay? Then I’ll be on my way.”

You swallowed hard, glancing at the bread. He had spoken you so kindly, so soft and gentle, and to you, that felt like salvation in this lonely and cold room. Even if it wasn’t Bucky.

You took a hesitant step forward while Steve stayed still. He didn’t move until you approached him, treating you as if you were a stray cat. You grabbed the loaf with trembling hands, gave him a wary look, and he smiled.

“Not poisoned. Trust me.”

He tried to joke, but you didn’t laugh.

After a few seconds, you bit into the bread, letting the taste linger on your tongue.

Then, you started scarfing it down like a rabid animal.

Steve stood there, staring at you dumbfound as you ate. Without looking at him, you began to ravish everything else on the tray with your bare hands. He could only stumble back and watch in horror.

As you were occupied with the food, he took a mental note of your state. Your legs were marked with rows of stitches. Your skin was tainted with burn marks and various scars. You had bandages wrapped around your hands, wrists, ankles, and neck. Bruises decorated your body.

You looked exactly like a woman who had been plucked from the grave and brought back to life, but you were hardly living.

It didn’t take long for you to finish. When you finally looked up, you stared at Steve, waiting for him to disappear back through the door.

“I know I said I’d be on my way after you ate,” Steve explained slowly. “But Bucky also wanted me to check on your…”

He paused. He didn’t know what Bucky wanted him to check on exactly, but looking at you, it seemed as though everything needed to be checked. For now, he pointed to the freshly wrapped bandage around your neck.

“He just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

When you didn’t respond, he took it as a sign to step closer. You scrambled back immediately, and his gaze softened.

“I know this is scary for you. You haven’t seen or spoken to anyone besides Bucky, isn’t that right?”

You stayed silent.

“Have you ever been outside this room?”

Your eyes flickered to the door, then back to Steve. You slowly shook your head no.

“Well, the outside world is beautiful,” he began, speaking in a gentle tone. “There are lots of trees, flowers… animals. Like squirrels. You’d like the squirrels, they’re just like you—always scurrying around, especially in the courtyards.”

With each word, he moved closer.

Mentally, Steve was cursing himself.

He was a man of honor, yet he was currently violating his best friend’s trust while feeding a captive woman—Bucky’s woman—empty promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. He was falling back on his own medical training, using the standard practices he’d honed over years of patient care, hoping the routine would calm you as it did his other patients.

“Maybe Bucky will let you see it for yourself one day,” he lied. “But right now, your body is in no state for it. You’re fragile.”

He was close enough now to see the faint blossoming of blood staining your bandages.

“That’s why I’m here—to check on you,” he said, reaching out a hand slowly, palm up. “I just want to see how the stitches are holding up. If Bucky’s friend helps you, you’ll get stronger faster. And the stronger you get, the sooner you can go outside. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

You hesitated, your back still pressed against the cold wall.

“Bucky wouldn’t want you to touch me,” you admitted softly. “He always calls me his perfect girl—his good girl. He likes that I’m untainted and untouched by anyone else.”

Steve paused, his eyes widening slightly.

Ah. There it was.

That was how he could get through to you.

Against his better judgment and his friend’s wishes, he brought his hand up to your cheek. It was a gentle, steady touch—the kind of contact you had been waiting for all day.

“Just a quick look,” Steve whispered. “Just so I can tell Bucky you were being a perfect, good girl for him.”

You shuddered under his touch, your eyes closing slowly as you leaned into his palm.

That was all you wanted—to be Bucky’s good girl.

“Okay,” you nodded. “You can check me.”

You reached for the hem of your oversized gown and lifted it, baring yourself to Steve.

To you, this was simply the natural sequence of events. There was no shame in your movements, only the ingrained memory of how your sessions with Bucky always concluded.

The check up was just a prelude. The intimate inspection that followed was the reward.

Steve’s breath hitched, his face turning a bright shade of red when he realized what you were doing.

“No! No, no, no. You don’t have to do that!” he stammered, wrenching his head away. “I just… I just need to see the bandages. Just the neck and wrists. Keep—keep your clothes on, please.”

He was trying so hard to be a gentleman, his movements jerky and awkward.

“Bucky always tells me to undress so he can check me properly,” you said softly.

That concerned Steve. He let out a sigh. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen naked patients before, but this was different. He told himself all he had to do was check your stitches and leave. Quickly.

“Fine,” Steve rasped. His eyes tried his best to stay focused on your neck—not the curve of your breasts or hips, or the innocence of your bare slit between your thighs.

He stepped closer and his fingers traced the stitches of your neck.

His eyes met yours briefly, and his heart raced.

You had such a hazy, expectant look in your eyes.

“Okay,” Steve choked out, his voice cracking as he stepped back to put a safe distance between you. “I’m done. The stitches look... they look clean. I’m going to go now.”

As he turned to grab the empty tray, you moved.

You cupped his face the way Bucky always did with yours and pressed your lips against his.

Steve froze, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. His hands found your shoulders, giving you gentle shove that forced you back onto the edge of the cot with a yelp.

“No,” he panted, his chest heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, we can’t—I’m his friend, I’m not... why did you do that?”

You tilted your head, your brows furrowing in confusion.

“Because the check up isn’t finished,” you explained softly, your voice small and defensive. “Bucky says the examination isn’t over until he’s had his fill. He says that’s how I show him I'm getting better.”

“His fill?” Steve looked concerned.

“He says it’s part of the treatment,” you added, leaning forward slightly, searching Steve's face for the approval you were used to receiving. “Don’t you want to see if I’m better, Steve? Don’t you want your fill?”

The air left Steve's lungs.

His eyes traced down your body shamelessly this time—but not for the reason you expected. He took note of the faint bruises around your waist and thighs, and he felt sick.

Quickly, he crouched until he was eye level with you from where you were sitting on the cot. He clutched your shoulders, and you winced.

“Tell me,” Steve urged. “What is Bucky doing to you? Why are you in this state? How long have you been here?”

“I—I don’t—”

“Did he rape you?”

Steve expected a reaction—the typical trauma response to a word that heavy. Most victims would never confess it outright, but he could make out the answer from your reaction if you gave him one.

But all you did was blink at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.

“What does that mean?”

Steve didn’t know what to say. He let out a breath of exasperation and stood up. He couldn’t help you now, not with the risk of Bucky’s meeting ending at any moment.

“I have to go, but I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be back to get you the professional help you need.” Steve grabbed the tray and hurried to the door, his hand trembling on the handle. “Don’t tell Bucky what I told you. Please.”

The door shut quickly as he left.

But the lock didn’t click.

The hours following Steve’s departure were the longest of your life. You tried to do as Bucky asked—to sit on your cot and lose yourself in the pages of your books—but you couldn’t retain anything.

Your mind kept drifting back to Steve.

You liked the way he touched your cheek. He spoke of squirrels and trees and a world that Bucky never mentioned. Your gaze drifted to the door, and for the first time, it didn’t look like a shield protecting you from the world—as Bucky liked to call it.

It looked like an obstacle.

You knew you needed to stay put and wait for Bucky, but you couldn’t. You stood up and pushed through the door, moving carefully and slowly.

The hallway was bright, and as you wandered out, your bare feet felt freezing against the tiles. You didn’t know where the trees were, but you followed the hall, hoping it would lead to the courtyard Steve had mentioned.

You could already imagine it—running through the grass with Bucky, chasing the squirrels. A smile ghosted over your lips despite the tremor in your heart.

Then, a shadow fell over you.

“Going somewhere?”

You spun around at the familiar voice, a smile on your face so wide it made your cheeks hurt. “Bucky! You’re back! I was looking for the courtyard, I—”

The smile died the moment you saw his face. Bucky wasn’t happy. He had that scowl, the look you recognized whenever he was displeased, except now it was multiplied tenfold. His gaze was harsh enough to kill, and you could only imagine what he would do to you next.

His hand clamped around your upper arm, forcing you to cry out.

“Bucky, you’re hurting me!”

He hauled you back, dragging you down the hall towards where you had come from. He was breathing like an animal, his eyes darting around crazily to ensure the corridors remained empty—no witnesses.

He threw you back into the basement room, the door slamming shut as he locked it from the inside. He approached you as you collapsed onto the cot.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed in your face, his hands tugging at his hair in frustration. “What’s this talk about a courtyard? What was the plan, huh? To just walk out? To show everyone in this facility what I’ve been doing?”

“I just wanted to see—”

“After everything I’ve done for you!” Bucky roared, lunging to grab your shoulders and shaking you once, hard. “I saved you! I rebuilt you! I spent every cent, every hour, every ounce of my goddamn soul making sure you were perfect. And you’re choosing to run? You’re choosing to escape me?”

“No, Bucky, I—”

“You’re ungrateful!” He was spiraling, his eyes glazed with paranoia. “Someone saw you. Someone must have seen you. Who was it? Did you talk to someone? Was it the security feeds? I’ll have to wipe them. I’ll have to start over.”

You flinched at his cruel words. The pain in your arm was unbearable, but his accusations hurt more.

“No one saw me—”

“You can’t be certain!” he screamed in your face.

When he saw the tears welling in your eyes, he backed off slightly. His heart was beating furiously, and he didn’t foresee his temper cooling anytime soon. He let out a heavy sigh, releasing your shoulders. He couldn’t believe Steve had forgotten to lock the door—and now, he had filled your head with stupid ideas of going outside.

“I have to operate on you again,” Bucky said, walking to his desk. He removed his blazer and began rolling up his sleeves. “It’s a shame, really. I didn’t anticipate working on you so soon after your recent experiment.” He reached for the gloves, jerking them on. “I should even lower the dosage of the drugs, just so you could feel just an ounce of the pain I felt when I found you in the hallway.”

He glanced at you quickly before looking back at his tools.

“You did this to yourself, darling.”

You quickly scrambled off the cot, rushing to him and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “Please! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to disobey you, I swear! I—”

“I’ve been gentle with you,” Bucky said, his voice flat as he reached for a needle on the tray. He didn't even turn to look at you. “Maybe even too gentle.”

You held onto him tighter, burying your face into the expanse of his back as the fabric of his shirt dampened with your tears.

“Please, Bucky, please!” you sobbed. “I missed you so much. I was being so good all day. I read the books, just like you told me. I didn’t hurt myself. But it was so cold and so lonely.. and—and you were gone for so long. I just needed you. I just wanted to find you.”

Bucky didn’t move.

The hand reaching for the syringe hovered in the air, his fingers twitching. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your crying. He looked down at the needle, then slowly, he pulled his hand back.

“You broke my heart,” he whispered. “You think your fruitless words mean anything to me now? After I found you wandering those halls like I meant nothing to you?”

“I didn’t—”

“Actions speak louder,” he snapped, still facing away. “What will you do to make up to me?”

“Anything,” you sobbed against his shirt. “Anything, Bucky. Just don’t hurt me. Don’t operate on me—please. I’ll do anything.”

Bucky stared at the wall, then at the needle, as if contemplating. Without turning around, his hands moved to his waist, the belt buckle echoing in the room as he undid the lather strap with slow movements.

“Put your hands over the bed,” he commanded. “Bend over.”

Your breath hitched in anticipation. You wasted no time rushing to the cot, placing your hands over the edge and bending over—exactly as instructed.

Your heart fought in your chest as you heard Bucky’s footsteps approach from behind. You heard the clinking of the belt in his hands, and then the air hit your skin as he lifted your gown, baring your bottom to his gaze.

The cold leather of his belt dragged slowly across your skin, and you shuddered, bracing yourself.

“Are you scared?” he murmured from behind you.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling so much it was barely heard. “Yes, Bucky. I’m scared.”

He leaned in closer, his chest brushing your back. You could feel the warmth, the scent of his cologne. When he spoke again, his voice was a low rasp against your ear.

“Good,” he breathed. “Fear is the beginning of wisdom, darling. It means you’re finally remembering who I am to you. It means you’re remembering that the world outside is just a fantasy, and this—this room, this bed, and my hand on you—is the only reality you have.”

He paused, the leather belt going still against your thigh.

“I didn’t want to do this,” he lied, smooth and deceptive. “But you forced my hand. I have to drive those silly thoughts out of your head before they ruin you completely. Before they ruin us.”

The belt lifted away from your skin, then came down hard with a whack against your bottom, jolting you and making you yelp.

“You’re so confused now, aren’t you, darling? I have a friend—my best friend come feed you, and suddenly you think you’re free to wander about? He was a fool. And so are you.”

Another whack.

“Ow!”

“It’s disappointing, really. I thought we were further along, doll. I thought you understood that you’re far too fragile for the sun. You’d wither like a flower, my perfect girl.”

Then another, and you let out a soft and shaky moan that was more breath than sound.

He leaned over you, the belt resting lightly against the back of your thighs as he watched the way your body reacted. He was being mean—his words were supposed to make you feel small, stupid, and utterly dependent—but to you, the condescension only felt like a caress.

With every smack, every word, you were arching your back and pressing yourself into him.

“Look at you,” he whispered, his hand reaching down to tickle the inner curve of your thigh. “I’m punishing you for being a bad, ungrateful girl, and yet..”

He paused, his fingers sinking lower and brushing against the wetness between your legs. It was slick, his middle finger gliding right through the folds. You gasped as he poked his finger against the entrance, and he could already feel you clench.

“You’re soaking wet for me,” he voiced in a way that sounded like disgust. “Even when I’m hurting you, you’re begging for me. Is this what you wanted when you walked out that door? To be caught and punished by your Daddy?”

Your face warmed with embarrassment. “No! I swear, I didn’t—”

Your words were replaced by a shameless moan when you felt Bucky’s finger slip into your entrance. He was only halfway in, yet he slid into you so easily. The way you stretched to accommodate his fingers was a testament to how much you needed him.

Bucky snarled against your ear. He was disappointed. He hated your denial—especially when your own body was betraying you, your hips rocking back to sink his finger deeper into your needy cunt.

But more than that, he hated how hard he was getting. He hated how much he wanted to rip his pants down and fuck you so hard that you’d be left crying and begging for his forgiveness.

“You could have it so easy if you just told me the truth,” he taunted. “But you like the struggle, don’t you? You like the attention—whether it’s good or bad. And you especially like it when Daddy’s being mean to you.”

He withdrew his finger slowly, the loss making you whine. His hands settled at your hips, he lifted you until you were standing on your tippy toes.

“Look at how you’re leaking for me,” he mocked, his eyes dark as he examined you. “A little attention from Steve, a little walk in the hall, and you come back to me looking like this. You’re like a little animal, aren’t you? So confused, so easily worked up by the first human who shows you a bit of kindness.”

Bucky grabbed your hands, wrenching them behind your back. He worked quickly, looping the leather belt around your wrists and cinching it tight.

You winced at the pressure as he restrained you, leaving you even more helpless than you were before.

“You’re right,” you whispered, face pressed against the cot. “I’m helpless. I can’t… I can’t function without you, Bucky. Please don’t leave me again. Hurt me. Kiss me. Just do anything so I don’t feel empty.”

Bucky hummed in approval.

He took a step back, and you heard the rustle of fabric and a zipper sliding down from behind. He didn’t utter a single word as he freed himself, but the sudden change in his breathing told you everything.

He began to stroke himself slowly. The sound was agonizing—that silky friction of his palm against his shaft, the shlick shlick noises of him spreading his pre-cum over and around his tip.

Every slide of his hand made you want to turn your head to look, to witness him in this state, but you knew better than to move.

You clenched your thighs together, your cunt pulsing as it reacted to the filthy noises. You were desperate to feel him, but you remained bound and helpless—exactly where he wanted you.

“Fuck,” he cursed, his breathing labored as he jerked himself off faster. “I should just finish right now. Let it all my cum drip to the floor—leave it there for you to stare at while I walk back out that door.”

His breathing grew even heavier. His movements quickening as he fucked his fist.

“But you’re so needy, aren’t you?” he whispered. “You wouldn’t let a single drop go to waste, would you, doll? You’d fall to your knees and lick it right off the tiles like my little pet, just to have a taste of me.”

You shuddered as his footsteps neared, flinching when his hand came up to cup your chin. He forced you to arch your back, making you strain to look up at him from over your shoulder.

“Is that what you are? My little pet?” He pressed the head of his cock against the curve of your ass, subtly rocking his hips forward. “My sweet girl that only functions when I’m inside her?”

“Bucky,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut. “Please. I can’t take this anymore.”

“Since you wanted to wander those halls so badly, I’m going to make sure you don’t have the strength to do it again. I’m going to fuck you so hard, doll, that you won’t be able to stand on those pretty legs for a week.”

One heavy hand landed on your hip, squeezing the flesh tight to hold you steady, while the other gripped his length, positioning himself at your entrance.

Then, surprisingly slow, he began to slide in.

The sensation was overwhelming. He was big—far too big. He knew you were fragile, and despite his harsh words, he didn’t want to truly break you just yet. That would ruin all the fun.

The stretch was slow and agonizing, yet perfect. You let out a broken sob, your fingers clawing at the thin mattress of the cot as your body was forced to accommodate him. He was thick, filling every inch of you, stretching you until you felt like you might break, yet your muscles tightened around him desperately—clinging to him like a hug that refused to let go.

“God,” Bucky hissed, his face twisting in both pain and pleasure. “So tight—even after last night…”

He kept pushing until he was completely sheathed inside, his dark curls tickling the curve of your ass when his pelvis finally met your bottom. He stilled there, his chest rising and falling as he waited for your body to accommodate him.

You could feel every ridge, every pulse inside, and in that moment, you wanted to cry.

You were so happy. Moments like this made your heart feel too big for your chest—because, despite everything, you were becoming one with the man you loved so dearly.

“Look at you,” he groaned possessively. “Taking all of it. Built just to hold me. Designed to take every inch... even if it hurts.”

Bucky began to move, his hips rocking violently as he started fucking you like an animal starved—as if he had been starving for this even longer than you had.

His hips slapped vulgarly against yours, and your eyes widened at the sudden, cruel change of pace.

“Oh—my!”

The cot beneath you began to groan, the frame creaking and rattling against the floor and the wall with every thrust Bucky gave you.

He leaned forward until his chest was against your back, his hand reaching around to grip the belt binding your wrists, using it like a handle to wrench your arms higher and force your chest deeper into the flimsy mattress.

“One taste of my cock and you’ve already forgotten everything that fool Steve told you, haven’t you?”

His pace became erratic, using your body like a sex toy. You were cock drunk for him, you were being his perfect, restrained little pet, your face buried in the cot pathetically while he claimed every inch of your body.

“You’re so pathetic, sweetheart,” he whispered affectionately and cruel. “Completely helpless. You can’t even touch yourself while I do this to you. You have to just lie there and take whatever I decide to give you.”

He slammed into you again, his cock rubbing deliciously against your tight, wet walls as they squeezed him for dear life.

“Ah, fuck... maybe if you keep being a good girl, I’ll let you suck on it later. How does that sound, hm?”

You nodded desperately against the cot, and mewling was the only answer you could manage.

The mere idea of being allowed to serve him like that—to have him look at you with something other than disappointment—it was all enough to make your head spin.

Bucky laughed darkly, you could feel his stomach vibrating as he was pushed up against your back.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Good girl. Daddy loves you, baby.”

Tears of overwhelmed pleasure started to spill down your cheeks at his admission.

He loved you.

Those four words were enough to make you fall apart right then and there as his approval was far more intoxicating than the pain and pleasure.

“Really? I—I love you too! I love you so much!” you squealed. Your cunt clenched around his shaft—squeezing him tight as if your body could prove just how much you loved him back. “I love you so much, Bucky. I love you. I love you.”

Bucky drawled out a long, tortured groan at the feel of you squeezing him. Buried deep inside you, he could feel you trembling, your body wound so tight it was nearly unbearable.

“That’s it,” Bucky cooed, his pace losing its rhythm as he fucked into you harder—chasing that delicious, sweet release. “You’re never going to walk away again.”

He leaned down, his pressing against your sweaty shoulder as he poured his devotions into your ear.

“I love you. Do you hear me? I love you more than anything. I’m the only thing you need. Just me and my love. You’re never leaving me again, doll. You’re staying right here where you’re safe—where you’re mine.”

He was chanting it now, a litany of possession that made your eyes roll back as you started to see stars.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

“Don’t you ever leave me,” he growled, his hand tightening on the belt and jerking your bound wrists one last time. “Tell me you’re staying! Tell me!”

You couldn’t hold back anymore. He was fucking you so thoroughly, telling you exactly how much you meant to him, and you were desperate to show him he was your entire world.

“I’m staying! I’m yours!” you sobbed before you cried out in a pleasure that was so hot—it made you dizzy. Clenching your legs together, your pussy pulsed and convulsed as you let the pleasure wash all over your body.

Your entire frame shook and trembled, but Bucky didn’t let up. Every shake and vibration from you was just a stroke to his own pleasure, and before long, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock painting your pussy with his cum.

It was hot. It was too much.

He stilled, remaining plunged inside as he fought for his breath. Silence consumed the room. Then, the sounds of his seed—spilling out of your abused pussy and onto the tile floors took over.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Like a clock.

Bucky shuddered against your neck, the heat of his breath tickling you. He stayed draped over you as he slowly began to press soft kisses to your cheek, then to the curve of your jaw.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your bare lower back while you warmed his cock with your body.

“My good, sweet girl. You did so well for Daddy. You always do.”

The atmosphere of the following morning was nothing like the night before.

Bucky had stayed the night with you. Again.

You were tucked over his arm, your head resting against his shoulder as you traced idle, wandering patterns across his bare chest. He was snoring peacefully, a soft sound that filled the quiet room.

Your heart felt full as you stared up at him with wide, adoring eyes.

His chest rose and fell in perfect time with his breathing, and you snuggled closer to his side.

“I love you,” you murmured, your finger tracing the outline of his abs. “I love you so much.”

Bucky slowly blinked awake, his eyelashes fluttering before he finally looked down at you. His eyes were clouded with the hazy, peaceful fog of a deep sleep he rarely ever got to enjoy.

“Morning,” he rasped.

A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took you in, his eyes softening at your adoring expression. “My girl.”

He slid his arm further under your neck, hooking his hand around your shoulder to pull you in until you were pressed tight against his side. He tucked his chin over the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair with a contented groan.

“Stay right there,” he murmured, his eyes drifting shut again as he squeezed you against him. “Don’t move. Just let Daddy hold you for a minute.”

And so you did. You both lay there for a long time, soft and snuggled up in each other’s arms.

But the peace, the silence, and the comfort didn’t last long.

The door—the one Bucky always made sure to lock with such clinical precision—was suddenly eclipsed by a violent crash that you made flinch.

Bucky bolted up, his body going rigid as his eyes snapped wide to the door.

“Bucky?” you gasped in fear, clutching his side. “What… what is that?”

“Fuck! Fuck!” Bucky hissed, the panic in his voice only startling you more. He threw his arm across your chest—not in a cuddle, but as a barrier, pinning you firmly behind his large body—as if hiding you.

He turned his head to catch your eye, a look in his blue orbs that you’ve never seen before. “Don’t—don’t say anything, got it? Not even a single breath of a fucking word.”

The door was kicked open, and a blinding flood of tactical lights and shouting turned your once private sanctuary into a war zone.

“He’s here! Target identified! Get him off her!”

Men in dark tactical gear you had never seen before swarmed the room, taking over the space that had once belonged purely to you and Bucky.

Before you could even process the intrusion, several agents tackled the very man who had been protecting you. The cot creaked and groaned as he fought to stay by your side, but even his strength was useless against so many men.

“Get your hands off me! Get away from her!” he roared, his voice louder and more frantic than you had ever heard it. He was terrified. You had never seen him lose control like this.

“She’s mine! You have no right—she’s mine!”

Bucky was going insane, fighting and kicking against the restraints of the officers. Everything happened so fast as the room blurred into chaos.

All you could do was sit there on the edge of the mattress and sob, reaching out for him in a confused daze.

“Bucky—”

Before your fingers could even brush his back, Steve was already there.

He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head against his chest to shield your eyes from the sight of the agents pinning Bucky to the cold tile floor.

“Don’t look,” Steve cooed, using that same comforting tone from the very first day you met. He held you tightly, his hand cupping the back of your head as he rocked you slightly to still your trembling. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I promise... he’s never going to touch you again.”

The sound of metal cuffs clicked in the room, accompanied by Bucky’s screams of your name.

“Get your fucking hands off of her!” Bucky seethed from the floor, his face pinned hard against the tile by a set of gloved hands.

“You traitor!” he roared, the word tearing raw from his throat. “You fucking traitor!”

Steve tried his best to ignore his crying friend, clutching your body tighter against his. You began to sob, your fingers clawing at Steve’s arm to let you go—to go back to him.

As the agents hauled Bucky towards the door, his feet scuffed and slid violently against the tile floor.

He twisted his head back, his hair a sweaty mess as his face was twisted in a rage that terrified you. Yet, despite the fear, his eyes stayed locked on yours until the very last second, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.

“Don’t listen to a thing Steve tells you, baby!” Bucky screamed, fighting against the agents. “He doesn’t know you! He doesn’t love you like I do! He’s just trying to tear us apart—”

Even with a dozen people there to ‘protect’ you, guilt settled in your chest.

Was this all your fault?

Did this happen because you wandered the halls the other day? Because you had dared to talk to Steve?

“You belong to me—only me!” Bucky continued to roar, forcing you to listen to him instead of your useless train of thought. “Stop ignoring me—say something!”

All you could do was sniffle and sob, muttering broken apologies into Steve’s chest that Bucky couldn’t even hear over everything else that was going on.

“I’ll come back for you,” Bucky promised as they dragged him out. His voice rang through the cold hallways that had once been empty, but were now teeming with strangers. “I swear it—I’ll find you!”

Bucky and the men rounded the corner, and his shouts began to fade. The basement grew quieter. Much quieter.

Everything you’ve known and loved had been stripped away from you within seconds. What were you to do now? Who was going to take care of you? You wanted to hate Steve for doing this—but he said he was protecting you. But Bucky also promised you the same thing countless of times.

You didn’t know what was real—what was right or wrong, and you don’t think you ever will.

With the sudden and unexpected loss of his presence, your mind felt… lost. But deep in your gut, a feeling you tried so hard to suppress out of fear for betraying Bucky, you felt relief.

Steve let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping.

“He’s gone,” Steve whispered, his voice partnered with a guilt he couldn’t quite hide.

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

“He’s gone, sweetheart. He’s never going to hurt you again.”

And for some reason, those very words only hurt you more.

The interrogation light shined directly into Bucky’s face, but he had grown so used to the glare that he no longer flinched.

Heavy cuffs bound his wrists, he only stared lifelessly at the metal biting into his skin. By now, the chains wrapped around his ankles felt as familiar as socks. His eyes were sunken into dark hollows, and his hair had grown out, lank and unkempt. You probably would have thought he looked ugly.

“James Barnes.” The man across from him sat down with a heavy huff.

His glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his pudgy fingers rifled through a thick stack of papers. With his greasy hair and impatient sighs, he looked exactly like Bucky’s previous boss, Henderson.

Bucky hated it.

The interrogator leaned back, watching the man across from him.

“The woman was dead before you found her,” the man began neutrally, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You robbed her grave, took her body, and performed several experiments on her—somehow managing to bring her back to life.”

Bucky stayed quiet.

“Where did you expect this experiment to go?” the man pressed, flipping a page in the file with a dismissive snap. “Would you have returned her to her family? To the friends she had before she passed?”

Bucky hadn’t blinked in three minutes, and hadn’t spoken for longer.

“What made you choose her, of all the other freshly buried bodies in that cemetery?”

Nothing. Not even a breath of a word.

“What was she to you?”

Bucky’s eyes remained hollow, his expression indifferent. He might as well already be dead.

“Did you love her?”

Bucky’s head tilted—just slightly.

Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the interrogator’s.

“More than anything,” Bucky replied.

He didn’t look away from the interrogator, but his mind was already miles outside the concrete walls of the facility.

Behind his hollow eyes, he was already calculating. He felt the metal around his wrists, but he didn’t feel trapped. He felt like a spring being pushed down, gathering all this tension until he inevitably snaps. He could see it clearly—the precise moment he would finally break free.

It had been years since has been held captive. Since everything was taken away from him.

He wondered what you were doing right now. Without him there to guide your schedule, were you lost?

He imagined you in a park somewhere. He pictured you chasing squirrels, or perhaps laying in the grass and staring at the sun until your eyes ached. Or maybe you were reading one of those books he used to leave by your bed. He hoped you were reading. It kept your mind active. The books were good for you.

He’d find you.

It wasn’t a question of if, only a matter of when. He’d knock on the door of your new home—three times. Then, like the perfect girl you always were for him, you’d reply with “come in!”

The interrogator cleared his throat, leaning in closer.

“James,” he called for him, bringing his attention back. “Would you classify yourself as ‘insane’?”

For the first time in years, Bucky’s lips quirked into a smile.

Insane?

What kind of question was that?

“No.”

anyway how writing this fic found me

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

← previous fic | main masterlist | next fic ➜

[blowingbarnes]

Ya gotov otvechat'

a/n: READ THE WARNINGS! I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION. This has not been proofread, I feel like I just got out of a gangbang.

Pairing: Soldat!Bucky x SHIELD!Reader (takes place a little before CATWS) Warnings: SMUT! 18+ MINORS DNI!!! DARK!Bucky, NONCON/DUBCON, masturbation (f&m), somnophilia, p in v, creampie (?), fingering, oral (f receiving), drug/roofie usage, dumbification if you squint, dacryphilia, nicknames. The Asset is an unreliable narrator <3 Word count: 6.4k Summary: The Soldat had been observing you for weeks. One day, looking at you from the rooftop one building over isn't enough anymore.

part 2 here

It had been 245 days since the Asset was assigned to do surveillance on HYDRA's most sensitive operation to date. Project Insight was going to launch soon enough, and for that Nick Fury had to be gone.

Efficient. Precise. Mechanical.

Surveillance. Intelligence. Elimination.

Like blinking. Like breathing.

He sat on a rooftop across the street from Steve's apartment, using the scope of his rifle to see more clearly across the way. Empty, as it always was at 8:03pm on Thursdays. Steve wouldn't be home for another 28 minutes.

The Asset didn't feel much. Didn't feel anything, really. Nothing but the uncomfortable grip of the muzzle around his face, and the stiff leather and kevlar around his body.

And he didn't say a single thing about it. Because the Winter Soldier never complains, only complies.

But one day, he felt really, really bored. And his scope wandered to your apartment balcony windows, right to the left of Steve's.

He took in the little string lights you had put on the railing, twinkling like stars against the warm summer weather, and the little outdoor mat you put out along with a comfy outdoor chair for when the weather was nice enough for a cup of tea looking down to the city lights.

He adjusted the scope. Slowly.

Curtains not quite closed.

There. You.

Back turned to the glass, you moved across your living room barefoot, your arms lifted above your head as you tied your hair. Loose shirt. Soft shorts. Skin.

Soft, supple skin his eyes took in as he moved his gaze from your ankles, to your calves, and up your leg, until he reached the smallest hint of ass cheek that was peeking out from under your shorts.

Soft, supple skin he wanted to bite. And suck. And spank if you gave him a reason.

But in his mind, he wouldn't need to. Cause you'd be so good for him, wouldn't you?

That was 94 days ago.

And in 93 nights, he watched you. Sure, yeah, he had to watch Steve, make sure intel was up to date, but Steve got home a little later than you, and went to bed a little earlier.

Which allowed him exactly 186 minutes of just observing you. He allowed himself the small treat of letting his eyes follow your every move for about three hours a night.

He knew your routine. He knew you liked takeout from the little Japanese place three blocks down, the knew chamomile and lavender tea was your go to when you couldn’t sleep, and he knew you fell asleep with a spoon in your mouth from late-night ice cream more than once.

That was easy. He got that intel about 9 days in. And then something else started brewing.

Not duty, not rage. Something so much worse in the eyes of HYDRA. Curiosity.

Hunger for something he thought was lost about 62 years prior after many times in the wiping chair. Hunger in the shape of heat pooling low in his stomach, hunger in the shape of you spilling something on your shirt and taking it off to reveal nothing underneath before tossing it in the hamper and pulling another one on.

68 days ago, he lingered too long.

He saw you turn off the lights and light a candle in your room, placing it in the dresser by the door, across your bed. He watched you put on little white earbuds, get comfy in bed while downing your second glass of red wine, and figured you were gonna listen to rain sounds like you did a couple other times.

The Asset was packing up his rifle, and then he saw movement. Followed by the shadow of your oversized shirt being thrown carelessly onto the armchair by the bathroom door.

He tilted his head, crouching down again with the scope, eyes narrowing at you until he processed the image before him.

The sweet, sweet image that was definitely not for his eyes. No, his eyes have seen the insides of dead bodies who only met their end because of him. His eyes have seen torture, murder, arson, and every other bad thing you could think of.

Surely, the same eyes could not be graced with seeing you bite your plush lips as one of your hands rolled a nipple between your index and middle finger, and the other tickled its way down your stomach until in found the heat between your thighs.

He shifted uncomfortably on the rooftop across the way. Heat blooming up his chest and down his crotch, making his neck chafe and his pants feel impossibly tight.

He groaned deep when he saw you curve your back forward and plunge two fingers inside of yourself. Fingers he knew were much thinner and shorter than his, and not even comparable to the dimensions of what’s resting heavy between his legs.

It was cute, really.

The way your brows furrowed and your hand pumped your digits in and out like that was going to satisfy you. No… you needed about two inches of width and nine of length.

Which Bucky would gladly give to you.

He watched you chase a high, a whimper escaping through your curtains and into his serum enhanced eardrum, making it vibrate like the air above hot asphalt: soft, barely there.

Somehow, his tactical pants got tighter.

He watched your body contort, watched you turn on your stomach, making the sheet fall from your body. His eyes grazed the curve of your tricep, evident in the candle light as you worked your fingers in and out, slapping your clit with the heel of your hand.

He didn’t miss the expression on your face when your hips moved faster, chasing friction until a relieved look took over your face and you buried your face in your pillow to catch a breath.

That same night, his boots made the first contact with the soft fabric of the rug in your room.

He waited until you were asleep, all cleaned up, having discarded the panties you had on before into the hamper. He was silent, stealthy, deadly.

The thud of each step was soft, muted. He kept an eye on your sleeping frame, and told himself he was gathering more intel. He removed his glove off of his flesh hand, letting himself revel in the fabrics hung in your closet and tucked away in your dresser.

As if HYDRA would care that your perfume smelled like orris and vanilla, or that your lipgloss had tiny little specks of golden glitter in a sea of pink, or that you color coded the softest sweatshirts in your closet.

They would, however, care that he went through your hamper and took a pair of lacy, powder blue panties and put them in his back pocket. The Soldat had no wants of his own, and they certainly did not order him to do that.

That was the night he crossed a line.

He stood by your hamper with every intention to leave, he couldn’t be gone much longer or they’d wonder where he was and send his handler.

But then you moved.

Mindless, conscience far away in some dreamland brought to you by the sweet smelling wine leftover in your glass.

You turned to face him, eyes still closed, cheeks still flushed, body still entirely too naked. Your leg swung up to rest flexed, making you cuddle your pillow in a mountain-climber position, giving the hungry beast inside of him a view of the perfect feast: the needy, wet lips of your pussy.

He really, really should’ve left. But the hardness of his cock and the heaviness in his balls told him differently. Told him to make a choice for himself for the first time in God knows how long.

And he chose to take a deep breath inside of your safe haven of a bedroom, inhale a scent that was sweetness, soapy from your bath bombs, and just you, and pull his pants open with the most agonizing pace ever known to man, to make the least amount of sound possible.

The second his hand wrapped around his cock, he bit back a hiss. The discarded blue lace still tangled in his fingers, rubbing the skin, making the leaking tip even more needy.

His breathing got heavy behind the muzzle. His eyes couldn’t decide where to stay planted on: your cheeks, one squished into the pillow; your lips, letting out soft little puffs of breath in response to whatever dream you we're having; the slope of your waist, the curve of your ass, or the barely spent folds of your pussy.

God, he’d make good use of you. Rut into and rub you until you were puffy and sore and slick, and then do it some more just for good measure.

You tossed in your sleep again, laying on your back with your right leg tilted outwards and he just about lost it. One day he’d paint you with his release, leave you sticky with his cum until the morning, after hours of making you cry and sob on his cock driving in and out of you.

For tonight, he’d settle for cumming in your panties just picturing you beneath him, willing and wanting, while his hand jerked him faster.

He spilled over his own hand and the blue lace, the discreet little pink bow on the front of it now soaked, covered in cum. Like you would be, soon enough.

He placed bugs in your apartment that night.

One behind a painting of a cheetah you had hanging on your wall in the living room, one behind the bookcase by the TV, closer to the door, and two in your bedroom. One in the light fixture and one hidden on the underside if your bed frame.

It took you three days after that to notice something was... different.

It was laundry day, and no matter how many promises you made to patron saints that didn't exist, you just couldn't find your favorite pair of panties.

"You probably just forgot it in the dryer and now it's in some random hamper in the building causing relationship problems to an unsuspecting couple." Nat joked when you told her about it.

You just chuckled and agreed. Had to be, right? Wouldn’t be the first time something travelled to the wrong hamper. Hell, you got one of Sharon’s scrub tops in your laundry the other day.

It had been a particularly taxing day on the sparring mat, Steve probably made you sweat about six pounds off, and there was a bruise blooming somewhere from a hit you were too fatigued to dodge.

So, a little glass of wine and your favorite audio would surely solve the problem. Loosen all the tight muscles in your body and help lull you into a restful seven hours of sleep.

Your AirPods were dead, so on speaker it was. The link was much too easy to find. A solid performance you often came back to.

The Soldat saw both Steve's and your lights flick off at the same time, and his scope focused in on the open window that brought the warm summer breeze into your room.

Static crackled low in his ear as he turned on the device, and shortly after he heard your dreamy little sigh as he saw you set the phone on your nightstand and get comfortable in your bed.

The voice coming through the speakers was low, manly, rough. Commanding. He thought you were on the phone with somebody, and the thought of you touching yourself to please someone other than him made jealousy bloom in his chest, bitter little monster it was.

It didn't take him more than a couple of lines to realize it was a recorded audio, relief washing through his chest for a split second before it tightened again, with desire this time.

Hearing you follow the instructions the faceless voice gave you, it wasn't soft or slow. It was deliberate. Commanding. Every word an order disguised as pleasure.

"Hold still… I didn’t say you could move." "You can take it. Just like that."

He could hear how wet you were through the audio, the slick sound of your wetness mingling with the whimpers you let out when the voice told you to "Hold it... You haven't earned it yet."

"Say you're mine."

"I'm yours, please..." Oh the sweetness in your voice, pleading so pretty. Wouldn't be enough for him, though. He watched you make yourself cum way too fast, not even keeping pace with the recording this time, and thought about all the ways he could punish you for disobeying.

Would he edge you for hours? Maybe every night for a week? Or since you wanted to cum so bad you disregarded his orders, you should. He'd make you cum over and over again until your eyes crossed and your brain gave out.

The night when he snuck in, he added another line to his newly acquired collection. He touched you.

Passed out and deep in your subconscious, you didn't even flinch. You nuzzled into him, actually. The cool metal of his hand coming to graze your cheek bringing relief from the hot humid air.

You had your leg flexed again, and he just had to feel your skin against his. He told himself he'd go after that.

And his hand grazed lower, warmer, until it reached the curve of your hip, and the flesh of your ass cheek.

He squeezed, making you sigh into the pillow, not even budging, just one little grip and he'd go. He swore it.

And then another.

And then his hand travelled lower, until it found the warm slick of your pussy. The smallest whimper left your lips, almost imperceptible, at the feel of his index and middle finger parting your folds, once, then twice, then collecting the wetness that started to tease out of you.

Responsive little thing, weren’t you?

You stirred, brows furrowing when he rubbed lower at the bundle of nerves that hardened beneath his fingertips, and the crease between your brows deepened when he stuck two fingers inside of you.

Just a feel.

One feel of your velvety walls tight around his fingers, fluttering around him when he curled them to rub against the sweet little spot inside of you.

Then he’d go.

He had to.

You had come plenty that night, he didn’t have to make you do it again. In fact, he shouldn’t, you came too fast. Didn’t listen to directions.

He made the mistake of pulling his fingers out of you, and your hips instinctively chased after the friction.

He should go.

His lips wrapped around his fingers, licking the sweet juices off of them and reveling in the taste like someone would a sweet, juicy peach.

He groaned low in his chest, and the line got pushed just a little further. He knelt by the bed and spread your cheeks, movement that had your pussy clenching around nothing, attracting him like moth to a flame.

His mouth watered. Actual drool pooling between his teeth and onto his tongue, begging to make you slick all over. Ordering him to taste your sweet nectar and suck you dry.

The Soldat never complained, only complied.

Before he could think about how terribly bad of a decision that was, he leaned forward, tongue darting out of his mouth and onto your glistening folds, eliciting something between a whine and a gasp from you.

If there was any kind of super soldier MDMA, he was sure he found it then.

Both of his hands cupped your ass now, grabbing firmly enough to dig into the skin, pulling you closer to his face as he nuzzled further, flattening then curling his tongue up and down your slit before it plunged in and he sealed his lips around you.

Your whines got a little louder, still very obviously asleep, and he rutted his hips against the bed.

When he flicked your clit and gazed it with his teeth, you yelped, and he was sure he was thoroughly fucked. But you didn't move further, didn't get up and scream and try to grab for the gun he knew was under your pillow, you just kept pliant, unconscious, and delicious under his control until he decided you'd been good enough to cum.

You'd let him in, been a good little toy for him to play with, put on a show, and let him taste you. He could let you cum.

He felt your walls tighten around his tongue while his thumb rubbed your clit, and took that as a sign to see just how tight you could get. Deft fingers pumped in and out of you again while he sucked your clit until you came with a breathy whine, and barely a shuffle of your body chasing friction.

Needy little thing.

“Okay,” Natasha said as she breezed in, flipping through a classified file like it was a fashion magazine. “What’s with you?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve looked like you’ve seen a ghost all morning.”

You hesitated. "I just… had this weird dream last night.”

Nat’s brows arched immediately. “Weird how?” You sipped your coffee instead of answering. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re flushed.”

You rolled your eyes. “Jesus, Nat—”

“Oh my god.” She dropped the file and grinned like a shark. “Was it dirty?”

You stared at her for a second too long. “No way,” she gasped. “You did have a dirty dream.”

“It wasn’t like that—” you started, but your voice caught. Because it was. You'd had your share of dreams like that, but none like that. None that you could still feel the next day.

Nat leaned back in her chair, folding her arms with a smug look. “Let me guess: tall, mysterious, dangerous eyes, probably some masked psycho from one of the horror movies you insist on watching before bed you’ve convinced yourself you could ‘fix’ with your mouth—”

“Nat—”

“Was it Steve?” she teased, waggling her brows. “Tell me it was Steve.”

“No,” you said too quickly. And maybe too defensively.

She tilted her head. “So… who, then?”

You stared at your coffee. “I don’t know. Didn't see his face.”

"Oh, so it was from the back, huh?"

"Natasha!"

The candlelight flickers the same way it always does. Your sheets are clean. Your hair’s damp from a shower. The same wine bottle from the night before sits untouched on your nightstand.

Everything should feel normal.

Your phone is already queued up with the usual — the audio you’ve played dozens of times when you need to forget the world, to relax, to release. You slip your earbuds in, press play, and sink back against the pillows.

The voice starts — low, commanding, steady.

"Don’t move. Hands where I left them."

You shift slightly, waiting for that familiar ache to start in your stomach, for your body to respond on autopilot. But nothing stirs.

You blink at the ceiling, adjusting your position. Maybe you’re just tense. The audio keeps going.

"You’re mine. Say it."

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t hit the same. You press your thighs together to no avail, feeling only static. You huff, and you puff, and you look for other audios. A couple peak your interest, you try them, and the same thing happens.

Then you stumble so far back into the username's plethora of posts that you ended up right back onto last year's Kintober, and an uncommon title catches your eye.

You get comfortable and press play.

It's rougher. There's special effects. The clicking of a lock, the rustle of fabric, a muffled scream against hands too rough to touch, and the soothing but rough voice just shushing the listener.

"Wouldn't want to be bad now, would you?"

For some dark and twisted reason, that's the audio that makes you gasp into the pillow on your stomach, knees propping your hips up while your shoulders stay down, touching yourself in the privacy of your own home, alone.

Well, with Bucky.

He heard you.

He heard you beg, and plead, and all of your "no, please!", "please stop!" with barely any conviction at all turn into "please let me cum" and "I'll be so good." like you weren't in complete control. Like you weren't pretending he was doing all of that to you.

But you didn't wanna be, did you? You wanted someone — him — to take control of you, of your body, so you could be a brainless little thing for him to use. So he could fuck you until you couldn't think of anything else but how full you felt with every ridge of his cock dragging in and out of you.

So he snuck in, beelined to your fridge, and dosed the bottle of wine you had in there.

Not too much, just enough to keep you pliant, loose, willing to understand that he was doing that for your own good — and his.

The cork gives that soft little pop and you pour the wine onto the glass, fresh sheets on the bed and the smell of violet, star anise, and vanilla from your bath bomb was clinging to your skin.

By the third sip, you’re back on the couch. Your limbs feel fine. A little loose, maybe. Relaxed. That’s what the wine’s supposed to do, isn’t it?

But your fingers feel slower on your phone screen. Like there’s static between thought and action. You thought about watching a TV show or a movie, but nothing seemed interesting enough.

You made your way to your room, and the room spun for a second when you got up at first. "No more port wine on an empty stomach, got it." You chuckled.

Ditching the robe in your bathroom, you grabbed the lotion and a pair of underwear from the dresser in your closet, light dusty pink this time.

How nice of you to make your skin even softer for him, dressing it in the prettiest lace you could find. He decided to observe from closer tonight, sitting right outside your balcony window.

You didn’t even register the lights outside were off.

The swoosh of the sliding door opening was muted by you humming something under your breath, spreading the lotion up and down your legs as it absorbed.

He was quiet like a cat coming in, sneaky beast ready to ambush you. God, you were so pretty. Like an innocent little doe not even knowing what was about to hit you.

When you registered the weight of a broad chest pressed to your back, leather digging into your skin, his hand was already over your mouth, muffling your screams.

You kicked your legs around trying to escape, but it didn’t even phase him.

Did that make him chuckle?

He tried to shush you, in between the ghost of a “let me go!” and a sob, the plopped you down on the bed, straddling your hips with his hand still over your mouth, the other one holding your wrists above your head.

Icy blue eyes stared at your tear rimmed ones. “If I take my hand away are you gonna be good?” Your squished cheeks nodded under his grip, harsh breath coming out of your nose, his brows perked up slightly and he slowly took his hand away from your mouth.

“HELP! PLE-“ He groaned in disapproval and his hand went right back to where it was before.

Clicking his tongue, he spoke again. “That was a bad, idea, baby.” A sob ripped through you and you squeezed your eyes shut. This had to be a nightmare, that was the only conceivable explanation. “No, no, don’t close your pretty eyes.”

His voice was low with desire, but soft and adoring like he was giving you what you always wanted. You could feel his breath over your face when he talked, the heavy weight of him covered in kevlar, dirty boots digging into your crisp white comforter tainting the fabric like how he was about to taint you.

"I heard all that begging, sweetheart." Wet lips kissed your jaw, and it made your skin crawl with the same strength it send jolts down your body. "You wanted me to take control, right? Wanted me to do whatever I wanted to ya."

Your eyes widened and you shook your head, another sob ripping through you, words muffled behind his palm. "Gonna give you another chance to tell me what you want, okay? Don't make me punish you."

You nodded, a little more dizzy than a couple of minutes before.

A beat of reluctant silence after he removed his hand let your hiccup be heard loud and clear in the room. "Please, just go." Your lips trembled around the words, like you didn't fully mean them. "I'll stop looking into-"

"Oh, honey.. This has nothing to do with that." His hands released your wrists and held your face in between both palms. "Though they're not gonna be happy about it either, I'll tell you that much."

Confusion flashed before your face, and that damn furrow between your brows and the pout on your lips as the gears turned in your head made him want to rip you apart just so he could be the one to put you back together.

"No, you... This... This is all mine." His hands roamed lower, thumb grazing the curve of your breast by your ribs.

"You don't have to do this-" He grabbed your face in his hand and got impossibly close to you.

His tongue came out to collect the salt of your tears pooling by your temple. "I do." He took a moment to savor the taste. "I really do." He caught your arm as it was aimlessly exploring under your pillow. "I took care of that too."

And you looked at him in horror. "You didn't think you were alone all this time, did you?" And as if looking for a weapon he had already discarded took the bit of grace he was about to give you away, he grabbed both of your wrists in one of his hands again, tying them to the headboard with something from one of the many pockets in his suit.

“Please, don’t do this, please…”

He just smiled at you. Wolfish and knowing. “But you’re enjoying it, baby.” He kissed down your neck and bit your collarbone, making you wince. “See?” Rolling the stiff peak of your nipple between his fingers.

You shook your head again. “No, I don’t, please—“

“No?” His face tilted, as if the question wasn’t rhetorical. “What’s this? Mmm?” His hand went to the front of your panties, rubbing slowly, making the fabric dance on top of your skin with the barrier of slick that had pooled there. “So wet, sweet thing… just like the other night.”

He saw a flash of recognition on your face, and you don’t know why your tummy flipped instead of bile rising in your throat. “You thought it was a dream, didn’t you?”

His fingers pressed harder, and you got dizzier. “No dream could make you cum like that, baby… I didn’t mean to… was greedy…” he kissed down your body, lips brushing against you with every word.

He nuzzled against the fabric of your panties. The lace felt softer against his face than it did against his cock all those nights ago.

“Y’can’t blame me, though… smelled so good, I had to get a taste.” He bit your lip through the lace and you hissed.

Bucky pulled it all the way down your legs, thick string of arousal connecting your pussy to the fabric until he pulled it far enough from you.

Stray tears kept coming here and there, and you kept squirming, flexing one leg quickly to try to kick him away, but he was too fast.

Holding your left thigh with his right hand and the other ankle with his left, he clicked his tongue again. “Now, angel, what did I tell you about being good? Mm?” He kissed over the bone of your ankle and bit down on it, not hard enough to leave a mark but hard enough to sting.

His lips soon found the crease of your thigh where it met your hips. “Please, stop…” He didn’t respond to that. Well… not verbally, at least. Your eyes squeezed shut at the eerily familiar feel of his lips on you, kissing you open as he held your thighs apart. “Oh, God—“

He licked, and sucked, and bit like the solace for his miserable existence could only be found in the oasis between your legs. Squelching was loud in the room already and it only got worse when he put two fingers inside of you.

"S'tight, baby." He looked up at you for a second before his gaze dropped down to where he was drinking you from, chin shiny with your wetness. "Don't want me to stop, d'you?"

You nodded your head and he shook his. How long was it gonna take for you to realize the only answers he'll take are the ones he wants? "'Fraid I can't."

When he curled his fingers inside of you, you felt like you were underwater. Your chest felt too tight and the coil in your stomach kept getting smaller and smaller, thighs clamping around his head like you wanted to keep him safe from the Siberian cold he would inevitably return to.

You tried squirming away from him at the same time your feet pressed hard onto his back to prevent him from leaving. As if he'd go anywhere.

You came on his face with a mewl and against your conscious will, which was wearing thin by the second. All of your limbs felt heavier, looser, you blinked slowly, only for your eyes to get back their focus on the fly on his pants, getting undone by flesh and metal.

"See how good it is when you behave?"

Tears welled your eyes again when you realized what he was doing, hovering over you pushing his bottoms down just enough to free, quite literally, the biggest cock you've ever come in contact with.

It hung heavy and thick from his waist, red with want as he kissed under your ear. "S'gonna feel so good, sweetheart. You'll see." He reached down and grabbed the base of his dick, rubbing the head up and down your puffy slit.

He kissed you, all tongue and teeth and you've never been disgusted to taste yourself before, but the fact that the wetness was proof of your own betrayal made it bitter.

"Please, you don't have to do this, please, don't!— ah!" Begging so sweet just wasn't enough, cause he knew your body was begging sweeter. He pushed in, blunt head of his cock breaching you open.

"Fuck! No, no, no, please!"

"More?" He pushed in another inch. "Well, sure, angel, anything for my eager little slut."

"No! Stop! I- mmmnnghhh!" He pushed all the way in until he felt your folds on his pubic bone. You eyes closed in pain and he grabbed your face to make you sit still.

"No hidin' from me, darling. C'mon. Look at me." Your brows were scrunched up in discomfort, disgust, glossed over lips shining up at him. Teary eyes spilling. "Crying so pretty f'me."

He pulled out, then pushed back in, whimper coming out of you along with the feeling of the sting from his thickness. "Yeah? Jus'like that."

"Please, just—" Your words came out muffled by his hand squeezing your cheeks together.

He chuckled, as if that wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to you. "Please, what? Fuck this pussy harder? Being too soft, too caring, too good to you?"

You had no answer. "If you keep being good maybe I'll give you my cum. Mm? You'd like that wouldn't you?"

"No, I'm not on— please—"His fingers stopped bruising your thigh and started rubbing your clit, and he felt you clench around him. "Oh, she would."

Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.

"S'okay, pretty thing. Y'can feel good, nothing wrong with that." Except there was everything wrong with that. The more you pleaded the less the words felt like actual words to be said, and not just what you were supposed to say. "Feels so good having you wrapped around my cock."

You bit your lip to stop a moan from coming out and let out a whimper instead. "You can tell me, it'll be our little secret." Another punctuated thrust. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

You'd blame it on the wine if anyone asked. You'd blame it on your want and will to live. No one besides you and him would ever know you nodded when he asked you that, even less that you meant it. "Atta girl."

His other hand came to pull your bottom lip from between your teeth, way too gentle for what was actually going on. "Let me hear you, baby... Need it."

You released the flesh from its prison, and something between a moan and a yelp made its way out of your throat, scratching and burning in its wake. "Feels... so- oh! Good! Good.. So full."

He smirked against your breast, taking a nipple into his mouth. "Mmmhmm, and you don't want me to stop, d'you?"

You shook your head fast. "Please..."

"Please, what?"

A beat of silence.

And then surrender. "Please, don't stop." If your voice was any quieter, it would be silent.

Whatever demon possessed Bucky in that second, it had teeth so pretty you just wanted him to sink them into your skin and eat you whole.

He kissed you more forcefully, and this time you kissed him back, arms straining against the restraint, legs tightening around his waist, moaning into his mouth when he spoke to you. "There she is. Was that so hard, sweetheart?"

Your eyes rolled back when he put your legs over his shoulder, kissing the inside of your knee before leaning over you and pressing his chest against yours. "Pussy so good, gonna make me cream all over it."

Another clench, and the chuckle vibrated deep in his chest, making your nipples harden more in the process. "What was all that "no" nonsense, hmm?"

"I don't...?" Your head was spinning. Swimming in a sea of oxytocin and whatever roofie he definitely put in your wine.

"S'okay, you don't have to do anything but what I say." His thrusts got erratic, faltering, almost as if he was holding himself back from falling from a precipice he wanted to jump off of with you in his arms. "Can feel y'choking me."

"So— fuck, I'm so close, please."

"Gotta ask nice, baby. You've been trouble tonight." If he was any deeper inside of you he would literally split you in half. You were sure you'd be sore for at least a fucking week.

"Please let me cum on your cock, please." Your tears tasted different now, like he finally tainted something good, spilled red wine on white silk. "I'll be good, I promise! Ah!" A specially harsh thrust made you hesitate.

"Don't know if you deserve it, angel..."

"Please!" You were sobbing now, raw burn of his fingers against your clit driving you mad, you were so close you could taste it. "I'll be good! I'll comply!"

That snapped something inside of him. Whether it was familiarity, rage, or whatever other blindly carnal feeling it was, it made Bucky see red, bloodthirsty to wring every single drop of free will from you.

"Y'promise?" You nodded. Please, please, please. "Slova, kukla." Words, doll.

"Da." Yes. You bit your lip again, straining your neck to look up at him so closely your lips brushed when you talked.

"Gotovyy?" Ready?

"Ya gotova otvechat'" Ready to comply.

His fingers rubbed harder, both deeper and faster circles, and his hips did not cease their movements driving his cock in and out of you. Every drag of his leaking head inside of you felt like fireworks exploding inside of your veins.

He bit your lip so hard when you came around him that it bled, and his tongue soothed the skin.

He fucked you through your orgasm, and pulled out much too soon for your liking, leaving you empty with a whine from you and a dissatisfied groan from him. "Don't think you deserve my cum t'day, angel." What the actual fuck was wrong with you? "Next time, yeah?"

Next time?

Why did your pussy throb at that?

His flesh hand came to jerk himself off on top of you while the metal one kept your thighs spread for him, it took barely any time for him to spill thick ropes across your lower stomach and pussy with a groan of your name and sweat glistening on his forehead.

"Y'look good all painted with my cum."

You didn't realize your eyes were closed until you forced them open in response to his fingers tickling your stomach, playing with his cum, dragging the thick fluid further down and smearing it over your spent folds.

She's not even as spent as he could make her.

You moaned in response, and your gaze caught his. Without looking away he repeated the motion, except he pushed it further down, stuffing his cum inside of you, contradicting himself.

"That's it, sweet thing... Just take it." You really couldn't do much of anything else. If the roofie didn't turn your brain to mush, the two orgasms and the 19% wine would've done the trick just fine.

His voice seemed so far away, but so close. Like a siren calling out your name ready to drown you in damnation. "Fuck, look so good all used up."

You felt the coil in your belly tighten again, not even you with the hottest of audios had gotten yourself over the edge and back at it again so fast. "Too much." You tried to squirm away, but his grip was too strong.

"Never too much, baby." He put a third finger in and rubbed the heel of his hand against your clit every time his palm slapped down as he went all the way in. "Just right."

You might've been the first human being ever to see your own frontal lobe live. Or at least that's what you through when your eyes rolled back again and you became a babbling mess under him, soaking his fingers and the sheets beneath you.

The next day, he was gone just as swiftly as he had come in. Nothing was out of place, everything was perfectly normal save for the throbbing ache between your legs and the cum stain in your sheets.

Like it hadn't been the best thing that's ever happened to you.

Months later, when he was chasing Steve down the causeway in Washington, he didn't even remember you. His hand wrapped around your throat and threw you onto a parked car's windshield like he hadn't made you face the deepest, darkest parts of yourself.

A/N: ANYWAYYYYYYY thanks to the BWA for freaking out with me over this. Hopefully we all got wet together <3 I have too much free time and a mind much too dark. thanks @heldbybarnes for telling me to write this <3 I literally gave myself a 4k word cap and this monstrosity came to life. I make plan, @houseofhyde laughs in my face:

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @opheliabbarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @sheriff-bodecker @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd

[lillyrob]

Actual footage of me patently waiting for my favorite author to upload😫😫😫

[ddarlinggirl]

𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖊'𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖙𝖔𝖌𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗, 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎: welcome to the abyss, please enjoy.

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: INCEST, this dove is extremely dead, noncon, dubcon, manipulating, gaslighting, stockholm syndrome, drugging, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex

15.8k | summary |

there'd always been something a little off about your uncle. you didn't know just how off until the year your parents hosted christmas. but it didn't stop there.

You had never taken it upon yourself to get to know your uncle well.

James, or as everyone called him, Bucky, had always been sort of strange, or at least that was the feeling you were left with every time you encountered him. He was all at once shy and loud, huddling in corners or sitting quietly at the dinner table, and then suddenly sharing an anecdote and being the only one who found it funny. You got the impression that nobody cared to be the one stuck beside him at family events. He just didn't seem to get the social cues that the rest of you had learned to navigate.

He laughed too hard at things you said that weren't meant to be jokes. Sometimes, you'd feel like you were being watched, that pinprick of awareness, and he would be openly staring at you, his eyes not flickering away with the shame of being caught gawking. Once when he'd stayed over for a few weeks in the summer, you'd woken up and found that he was just standing in your doorway. His company was off-putting, to say the least, though no one had mentioned it, at least not to you. It was just a privately known fact.

You remembered Thanksgiving a few weeks ago. You hadn't been listening to him when he talked, because he was at the other end of the table. You'd been more focused on your cousins trying to snatch food from your plate. But every time he finished saying something, he would call your name and say, "You agree, don't you?" and you would furrow your brow and nod, though you had no idea what you were supposedly agreeing with or to.

There was a family photo you had taken last year, all of you clustered together around your grandmother's tartan couch. No one had noticed immediately, not when observing to just make sure that everyone's eyes were open and no one was sneezing or yawning, but your uncle had definitely been leering at you. Looking at you with a secret smile, his head tilted just so, rather than looking directly into the camera like everyone else.

Every time you got tagged in something on social media, he would be in the comments, leaving messages like, "My niece grew up to be such a gorgeous young lady!" or, "She's my favourite! What a darling girl!"

Maybe your uncle, a man who had been single ever since you could remember, was just one of those guys. He couldn't speak or interact with the fairer sex without giving off a particular vibe, even when it came to family. There was just something about him that missed the mark of charming completely, and landed somewhere further afield. He was family, so you would never outwardly say there was something wrong with him, but you couldn't exactly say that there was something right, either.

Your parents wanted to be the ones to host Christmas and New Year's this time around. It was a rotating responsibility, and this time it had fallen on your immediate family's shoulders. You were home from college for a few weeks, and with no siblings to share the burden with and an extra room at the house, Bucky was to be staying with you and helping out.

You'd had to be the one to pick him up at the airport, your parents still working right up until the holidays started. It was your beat up old Suburban, a car you'd had since you were seventeen, but he'd insisted on driving back because you'd "come all this way just for me!"

He'd hugged you at the airport, before you'd ushered him back to the parking lot. You hadn't intended on the gesture, but suddenly he'd been in your space, and your arms had been stuck limply at your sides. The hinge of his Tortoiseshell glasses had scraped the side of your temple as he'd brought his face close to yours. Though you'd gone rigid at the proximity, you'd noticed he smelled good, at least, something earthy and rugged, though looking at him, you didn't get the impression that he went on fishing trips or cut firewood as much as some of your other uncles did. At least, he didn't go on any of their yearly excursions.

You'd done your best to forget the awkwardness of the interaction once you'd made it to the car, but that memory had been almost immediately replaced by a more uncomfortable one, his hand finding your knee as he drove. It was weird—there was no other way to explain it. But he'd looked over and smiled during the first red light, murmuring, "I'm so glad to be spending the holidays with you, sweetie."

"You mean our whole family, right…?"

He didn't answer your quiet inquiry, but you knew he'd heard you because he'd still been wearing a faint half-smile on his face as he'd turned back to the road ahead.

Your uncle was staying in the room next to yours. Your mother had considered turning it into a crafting room, but she'd never gotten around to it. Your own room was still sort of childish, since no redecorating had taken place and probably wouldn't until you moved out for good. Your bed still had frilly, lace bed skirts. Your coverlet and pillows were a patchwork of florals, your curtains gauzy and light.

The bathroom across the hall was all yours, unless there were guests. You hated that fact. You were used to not having to share, and suddenly having to double check that the door was locked or that you weren't about to barge in was one of the cons of having a tight-knit family.

The morning after your uncle had arrived, you'd all had a hasty breakfast together, him, you, and your parents, before they sped off to work. He'd announced that he'd be taking a shower, but you hadn't heard the water in a while, no shudder of the pipes or whisper of the overhead fan. It must be unoccupied by now, right?

When you twisted the handle, to confirm your suspicion that the room was empty… or so you thought. Upon opening the door, your uncle was just standing there with a towel wrapped around his waist. His glasses sat on the sink's counter top, the lenses fogged with steam. The silver in his hair was muted by its dampness. You'd never noticed before, how blue his eyes were, obscured as they were by his glasses. And you'd certainly never known that he wasn't as lanky as you'd previously assumed. His bare, muscled abdomen was highlighted by the stray droplets of water trailing from his shoulders. "Oh, my god! I'm so sorry!" You said, backing out meekly and darting to your room, closing the door behind you and leaning heavily against it.

You felt embarrassed, plain and simple. You'd always been very careful to not walk in on anyone. It was mortifying on both sides. But he hadn't said a word at your apology. He hadn't even blinked an eye. He'd just smiled at you, that strange, private smile that seemed to have become one held in reserve for you and you alone.

You stayed in your room for the rest of the day, unnerved.

Your parents still had some last minute shopping to do. Your other relatives were supposed to be flying in, and since they were going to be out and about already, your parents would be picking them up as they arrived. You cursed the fact that you'd done all of your own shopping weeks ago.

That morning at the breakfast table, it had been mostly quiet aside from the scraping of forks and clink of glasses and cups. Your mother had been absorbed in her phone, your father reading through news articles on his tablet. Only you had heard your uncle say, "Looks like it's just you and me today, huh?"

You hadn't replied.

When your parents left in a flurry of mittens and coats and hats, you were unsure as to what you should do. You couldn't just up and leave, not really. That was rude, and you'd already done it yesterday. There was also nowhere for you to go. A storm would be rolling in at some point, and none of your friends lived close by. Lingering in the foyer with him was awkward, the both of you having been there to usher your parents out the door. He looked at you curiously. "What are your plans for the rest of the day?"

Begrudgingly, you mentioned that you still had gifts to wrap, and the offer of help wasn't one you could refuse without making it obvious that you wanted to be away from him. Every time he passed you the tape, his hand kept lingering on yours, your fingertips brushing. He kept getting in your space when it wasn't strictly necessary. At one point, you thought he'd done it to sniff your hair or something equally insane, but why would he do that? Sure, he was a little bit creepy, but he wasn't that kind of creepy… right?

You spent much of the time after that arranging things under the tree and cleaning, trying to make sure the house was up to your mother's standards. You knew she'd be too tired to straighten up when she returned later. Your thoughts were interrupted, a tea towel half folded in your hands, by your uncle's voice. "Hey, do you want some hot chocolate? It just started snowing. It'll be so festive!"

You were glad you weren't facing him—you couldn't stop the quirk of your brow and the incredulous expression you wore. He sounded so… excited. Childishly so, the statement having ended with a peculiar little guffaw. But, what was the harm in saying yes to something as simple as some cocoa?

It turned out that he didn't appear to make it very often. The powder was still grainy, lingering at the bottom of your cup and coating your tongue, but the whipped cream and marshmallows made up for it, you supposed. You'd both stood by the big window at the front of the house and watched the driveway slowly get covered with snowflakes as the street lights came on. It was perhaps the most normal occurrence you'd ever had with him.

Something about the warmth from your drink, the lights of the Christmas tree, and the soft build up of snow had your eyelids drooping, sleepiness taking hold. It was late afternoon, the sun gone and the world outside taking on hues of blue. A hand rubbed at your back, a comfort. "Do you want to go and take a nap? You look like you're going to drop at any minute, sweetie."

With a tired nod, you agreed, your feet dragging as you handed him your empty mug and moved down the hall to your room. You all but face planted into the pillow. You didn't even remember the seconds between wakefulness and rest.

You were in dreamland, you were certain.

The lights were dim in your room, the faintest of holiday glows. It was snowing outside, you briefly remembered. Everything seemed quiet and suspended, like you were living in your own little snowglobe. You felt incredibly warm, as if you'd sunk into a bath or buried yourself in furs.

You didn't remember taking your jeans off. You would have thought you'd be shivering without your flannel pajama pants on, the ones with polar bears all over them. Your comforter wasn't that thick—it was one of those all-year ones, and you usually had to grab a couple of spare blankets from the hall closet. But you were about a degree away from feeling like you were burning up. For the moment, you still settled in the territory of pleasantly warm, caught between just right and too hot. You honestly felt a little floaty. You settled deeper into the mattress.

Your brain felt like it was walking uphill in a storm, struggling to clear a path into rational thought. Maybe you shouldn't fight the sleepiness that still clung to you. Your consciousness shuffled around a moment longer, before something, some sort of recognition, clicked into place. You were warm, yes, but the heat was concentrated on your back. It felt like you were laying against a radiator.

Oh. There was a body behind yours. There were arms around your waist. You could feel breath on the back of your neck, soft moans in your ear. You frowned, puzzled. You didn't have a boyfriend that could have snuck in for a sweet snuggle. So who was in your bed?

Who was rutting up against you like that?

Why was it making you feel so lightheaded, all these sensations warring with your mind's want to sleep?

You were muddled, your mind a swirling current, each thought a silver fish darting out of your grasp. If you couldn't feel the softness of your sheets, your pillow, you might have thought you were at sea, the gentle rock of the bed much like the low, rolling waves of the water.

You didn't have the wherewithal to go stiff, your body still loose and relaxed. Something was off, but you couldn't summon the fear; it wouldn't, or couldn't come to you. "So perfect. Little angel. Always knew you were special. Just for me."

The words were groaned against your neck, and with the faintest hint of startled surprise, you realized who it was.

You tried to turn around, mumbling, "What are you—" but a hand snaked it's way up your body and clamped loosely over your mouth, stifling the question.

"Shhh. Shhh, angel. It's okay, it's just me. Don't worry. I was having such a good time with you earlier, I didn't want it to end. Let's just stay like this, okay?"

But what did 'stay like this' mean, exactly?

Oh.

It meant that you knew what had happened to your jeans. They'd been tugged off of you while you'd slept, and your panties were now hooked to the side. Your uncle was rubbing his cock against your folds and bumping against your clit every time he moved.

You knew that you should be fighting him off, using every ounce of strength you still had to get away. He was you uncle, for God's sake. The one that would send you birthday cards with fifty dollars in them. The one that always made your dad give you the phone when he called, so that he could say hello and ask how you were. But now he was making your toes curl involuntarily, and he was pressing kisses to your shoulder, and his hand was still over your mouth, the skin of his palm hot, a burning touch.

"It's good for you, yeah? Just want to spend time with you. Want us to have a nice day together. This is nice, right? Tell me you like it." He had been rambling, but now he moved his hand away from your mouth to wait for the words he wanted to hear.

You couldn't speak. You were too stunned and caught between the wrongness of it all, coupled with the bizarre rightness of the feeling.

"Hey." His voice was sharp all of a sudden. His hand moved to your throat, pressing hard, feeling you swallow. "Tell me you like it."

It was a demand. He sounded scary. But he also sounded desperate.

"Y-yeah. It's nice…" The words were slurred, but you felt him smile against your skin.

"I knew you were special. I knew we had a connection, you and me."

All you heard for a few long seconds was his laboured breathing, and then your own, the air rushing back to you in a dizzying rush as he stopped gripping your throat so tightly. "You'll give me a little more, won't you? You'll let me in. Come on, I've always been kind to you. Give me a little something back?"

What does that even mean, you thought. You were just trying to deny what you already knew. He was still squeezing your throat, a tiny bit, but you didn't think it was on purpose. It was a reflex—he was excited. He couldn't help it, you didn't think. He might just cum on the spot.

Your silence was frustrating. His other hand was tight on your hip. "Tell me. Say yes. I don't want to be angry with you. I don't want to tell your parents you've done something bad. Let me."

And so you found yourself nodding. His switch between pleading, almost sweet, and controlling, bitter, was too much for you to process. You panties were so wet that they felt sticky.

It was just the tip at first. You thought that he'd intended for it to stay that way. But it made you gasp, and the way you'd clenched had him groaning into the back of your neck. He mumbled something you thought translated to, "I can't help it," and before you knew it, he was all the way in.

You didn't even register it happening, your reaction delayed by a few slow seconds. You sucked in a sharp breath. Oh. How was it possible to feel so full? He was squeezing at your throat again and muttering into your hair.

You only got a small warning, a graze of teeth against your skin, before he was biting at the side of your neck. He wasn't even moving all that much, like he couldn't decide if he wanted to pin you down and go at you relentlessly, or to keep it shallow, just to focus on the way your body was responding. "I knew you liked me, honey. You always acted like you didn't, playing hard to get. But you liked me the whole time, didn't you? Bet you used to dream about this."

He was wrong. You definitely never had. Ever. But he sounded delighted, like it was some great revelation, his voice all breathy as he stroked his hand up and down your hip. He'd created a whole narrative in his head, mistaking your politeness for interest.

When you came, you were shocked.

Maybe you were more turned on than you'd ever felt in your life… But that was surely just biology, no? You were getting fucked; this was just your body responding. That was all. You were also half-loopy, still fighting for full consciousness. But he was nuzzling against your neck and sucking hickeys into your skin. "My little angel. There you go." He was cooing in your ear. He sounded so proud of you for understanding just how much you needed this. "You love me, don't you? If you love me, you'll let me cum inside. That's what people do when they love each other. Tell me you love me, sweet girl. I wanna hear you say it."

You were coming down from the high, still sluggish, still slow on the uptake. Too slow for his liking. He was getting a little mean, a little more desperate, with every second that passed. He was groping at your chest, pinning you closer to him. Grinding into you like an animal, and you began to register the sensitivity you felt. "Say it." He practically spat the words at you. "Say it!"

"I, um, oh—"

The second orgasm hit in a wave, and you felt distinctly that he was angry about this. It was his turn now. Not yours. Why were you being so greedy when he was trying to make love to you? He'd been so chivalrous. "Say it."

"I love you." You managed to gasp the words out.

You couldn't tell if you meant them or not. Family said that sort of thing automatically, didn't they? But he sighed as soon as he heard it, like it had triggered him to cum on command. He was suddenly filling you up even though you already felt too full for words.

He didn't leave your body even after he'd emptied himself out inside you. He stayed there. He was panting and scattering wet, messy kisses against your neck, your jaw, your shoulder. "I knew you loved me. I knew you did. I love you too, princess. My perfect girl. You can rest now, go to sleep. I'm gonna stay right here and keep you safe from any nightmares."

You couldn't decidedly say whether you wanted him to stay or not, but he kept talking. "Remember when you were little and I put stars up on the ceiling for you to keep the bad dreams away? You don't need those anymore. You have me."

Oh, no…

You'd just let a devil in through the gate, it seemed, signed on the dotted line to get out of a bind, not realizing you'd just sold your soul.

"No one else will understand our love, sweetpea, so we've gotta keep it between us, okay? You don't tell anyone. Our love is special. It's just for us."

The words sent a shiver down your spine. His voice was so soft and gentle, but his grip on you was utterly possessive. He was holding you so tightly that you felt claustrophobic. "Next time we make love, you're gonna face me so that I can see it in your eyes. Doesn't that sound nice?" He nipped at your earlobe. "It sure does." He answered his own question.

He didn't notice that you hadn't said a word. "And one day, you'll come and live with me. And we won't have to hide anymore."

Between Christmas and New Year's, your uncle was trying his best to be nonchalant after that day you'd shared together.

He'd had to lie through his teeth when your parents had come home and asked where you were. "She's just taking a nap. I'm sure she's fine," he'd said.

But all through that week, he couldn't stop looking at you in complete adoration. Every time you made eye contact, you were quick to look away, because God, what the hell had you done that day? You were disgusted with yourself.

And he was so… careful. His hand on the back of your chair, but only when no one was looking. His palm would slide up to the back of your neck, or he'd tug at the ends of your hair. He kept making you snacks and drinks, though now you felt wary and distrusting after what had definitely been a sleeping pill or two crushed into your hot chocolate. But he kept doing it in a way that would bring you closer to him. You'd have to go over to his side to take the glass, or bowl, or plate. He wouldn't just drop it on the side table for you. You'd have to come and take it from him.

You were beginning to learn that he liked the little bits of control. In fact, he ate it up like candy.

He'd left you alone otherwise. There had been no going into your room, no sitting too close.

Except for once, when you had been in the kitchen. Everyone from your parents and cousins, to aunts and uncles were in the living room. It had been a Christmas movie marathon. You'd been alone, getting the last couple bowls of popcorn ready, when you flinched, hearing his voice say, "She probably needs some help! Not enough hands!" along with a laugh, called over his shoulder to the rest of your relatives.

You didn't even have time to brace yourself before your hips were digging into the edge of the counter, because he'd boxed you in, hands on either side of you on the marble, breath hot on your neck. You could feel him against your ass. His teeth scraped against the shell of your ear. '"I like this game we're playing, where you pretend to be disgusted with me. I know you're just trying to hide how much you wish we could be together. We can't let them know, honey. They don't get it. They won't get it. Gotta be real careful with you. You're so precious."

You were frozen stiff. You didn't turn around, because you were scared to see the look in his eyes, probably half-wild. You heard movement in the hall. "Hey, hey," he crooned, a hand running over your ribs. "It's okay. No one's comin' in. Don't be nervous, it's just me."

But you were nervous. Why the hell wouldn't you be? He was too close to explain it away as innocence, should someone enter the room. Somebody called his name, then yours, and he pressed a kiss to the spot where your shoulder and neck met before stepping away, grabbing the popcorn bowls. "We got it, comin'!"

And then you were alone in the kitchen again, but his voice was still echoing in your ears.

You were on edge the entire night. That was good, he thought. He wanted you to feel anticipation. He wanted to wind you up. He wanted you overloaded with want. He wanted you needy, wanted you to cling to him next time, to cry and hold him close and tell him that you loved him, and to mean it.

Meanwhile, you had been unable to sleep, after everyone started to drop off for the evening. You were worried he'd come to your room, invite himself in.

He didn't.

You looked like hell in the morning. He was playing mind games with you, you knew that. But you couldn't say anything because someone else was always there. The blessing and the curse of family, you supposed. What would you even say, anyway? That he was wrong? Crazy? Well, he was crazy, that was for sure. You'd never given any indication that you felt anything for him in that particular way. He was family. But he was crazy enough to think that you were just being coy, not honest.

You couldn't even shower without wincing every time you heard noise in the hallway. You were scared he'd open the door, scared he'd come through the curtain and you'd have to face him, just like he said. And you'd be fully aware, no sleeping pills in sight. You turned the water on hotter, used the pain of the heat to ignore the ache in your belly. It was your fear, the bitter tang of it, not anything else, surely... Right? Bringing up the memory of that night was traumatic. Not... not a Polaroid of a moment that made you feel damp. Water was the only wetness you should have been feeling. That was all, right?

When the New Year's party came around, you thought that maybe he was all talk. That he'd used up all his nerve by drugging you, and then the pseudo threat in the kitchen. In fact, the whole night he seemed borderline disinterested. He only passed by you once, a hand on the small of your back as he squeezed between you and the wall, but the touch was more perfunctory than lecherous. He was intent on getting to the table with the drinks and platters all laid out. Half of your family was gathered around the TV, watching the New Year's show, waiting for the ball drop. The others were in the basement, karaoke and games galore down there. And you felt like you could finally breathe.

Well, that was your first mistake.

Bucky was quietly fuming because he knew he couldn't kiss you at midnight. He couldn't even try to get away with it, because your family was not one that did overt affection. He couldn't pretend to explain it away. But he'd noticed that your guard had dropped. Maybe you would even leave your desk chair where it was supposed to be, tucked in front of your computer, instead of up under the doorknob.

Yes, he knew about that little trick. He arranged his features into a pleasant smile as he talked with your cousins, acting like he was interested in their little stories. But his eyes would always find your frame, your quiet anxiety slowly leaving you as the night wore on. And that only meant that he'd be able to get what he wanted, soon. He just couldn't bear to hold himself back for much longer.

Midnight was announced with silver streamers and gold confetti popped from little crackers. The younger kids had all cheered, high on sugar and excitement, while everyone over the age of eighteen celebrated with a chorus of, "Cheers!" and "Happy New Year!", with smiles and hugs shared.

Some of your relatives made the tired walk to their cars, parked in the driveway and out on the street, while others made their way down to the basement, where cots and sleeping bags had been set up. You streaked off to your room quickly and quietly, scrubbing your makeup away with a wipe and changing into your pajamas. You weren't ready to go to sleep, not yet, but you were ready to relax, alone, for a while. Maybe you'd catch up on social media until you fell asleep holding your phone. It sounded like a fine idea.

Your bedside lamp and the glow of stars stuck to your ceiling were the only illumination, other than your phone's screen. You busied yourself with liking friends' pictures and wishing a good year to anyone you could remember to contact. You were half propped up on your pillows, enjoying the solitude, listening to the faint voices of your extended family as the living room continued to empty.

You forgot about the lingering threat, the one that was supposed to be sleeping in the room next to yours.

You were reminded when the radiance of the hallway light momentarily blinded you, an outline standing in your now open doorway. All at once, you sat up, your phone falling away when you should have gripped it more tightly, threatened to record him if he didn't go away. You uncle closed the door behind him with the softest of clicks. Your eyes adjusted; he was already unbuttoning his green plaid shirt, and the pattern looked more garish to you than it had surrounded by the rest of your family. "You look so cute, waiting here for me. I knew you wanted me to come in. I could tell by the look you gave me before you left."

What look? You hadn't given him any sort of wanting gaze, not sultry tilt of your head, of that you were sure. You hadn't even glanced in his direction, too afraid to chance it, to catch him already staring at you. "I—I didn't—"

The plaid slid from his shoulders, and then he yanked the white t-shirt that had been underneath off, too, his glasses a soft clatter on your nightstand.

"Stop," you found your voice, though your body still cowered, paralyzed with fear, "Please—please stop. You don't have to do this."

You wondered if he had any mercy in him, or if there had ever been any at all. Maybe he'd been born without it. "Baby, I want to learn what you like the best. Why would I stop?" The words were a gentle hush, wild grass ruffled by a strong breeze.

Panic rattled through you, threatening to shake your bones. You scrambled upright as he got closer, your palms pushing down flat against the mattress, your shoulders knocking into the headboard. The feeling was a heavy weight in your gut, an anvil, crushingly heavy. But there was something else—you noticed it, the barest whisper in the back of your head. His eyes tracked the movement of your tongue swiping across your lips. Panic, your heartbeat as fast as a rabbit's, yes. But the other thing… was it? It couldn't be… anticipation?

It was gone almost as quickly as you'd realized it, like a winking star in the night sky. You pressed yourself against the headboard as if you could melt into it, through to the wall, and safety beyond. The mattress dipped under Bucky's knees as he crawled over you, bracketing your legs. It was a tactic to pin you, and it was successful. As your eyes darted left and right, seeking an escape route, they flashed once down his form, like someone else had taken control of your sight. Taut muscle, tanned skin. His belt buckle was shaped like a star. Would it leave a mark on your thigh? Would it be forgotten under your bed, collected when the sun rose over a fresh, new year?

His hands slid over your shoulders, resting for a minute. They felt heavy, heavier than they should. It felt like he was going to push and push until your head was underwater, until you'd drown, bubbles escaping your mouth in place of screams. One of his hands moved up, cradling the side of your neck. The heat was blistering. "You did so good for me the last time, darling girl. I know you're gonna be that way again, aren't you?"

Blue, blue, there was the blue, the twin lakes you'd drown in, caught between their tides, whirlpools of cobalt. Blue engulfed your vision, his eyes looking into yours. Determination was set in stone—you could see it in his jaw, the shape of his brow. He blinked once, like he was sending the right answer through the air and into you. Be good. It will be okay. It'll be over before you know it! But still, the animal instinct in you told you to buck, to wriggle away, anywhere that you could go on the floral island that was your bed. But there were no life rafts, not here. No sticks to form a message, S.O.S., across the beach of your blankets.

Bucky let out a displeased huff as you weakly kicked at him, but he remained relaxed, perfectly poised. "Now, I'm not gonna tie you up, honey. That's not what happy couples do. Just be a good girl for me, yeah? So that I don't have to."

You imagined it for a moment. Your wrists, chafed red and raw, the sting from the brown leather of his belt. He'd probably kiss the marks, stare into your eyes as he did it. It made you feel sick, the wetness that gathered between your thighs. Wrong, wrong, so wrong. Happy couples. What you knew of happy couples were courting, romance. Flowers at the door, dinner by candlelight. Grand gestures, for the sake of showing the world that you were in love, and that love was beautiful, and that it should be celebrated. It was not an imposter under your covers at night, vermin with no exterminator to call. But if you needed to play act, to get this over with, so be it. Your body was already doing its part, a subtle hum in your blood. If you pretended he was a normal man, a stranger you'd met at a bar, it would be okay. You gritted your teeth as you admitted to yourself that he'd seemed to have known what he was doing, the last time.

You nodded diplomatically, as if you were only agreeing to do the dishes, to do the laundry, something so mundane, so simple. Not this, not offering your body up, not letting him in, a second time.

It started with a kiss, satisfaction on your uncle's face, the smoothing of his brow, the quirk of his lips, mission accomplished. You willed yourself to play make believe, to conjure up the idea of another person before you, another man's hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head just so, drinking breath from your mouth, and blood too, when you bit on his lip hard enough to draw it. It was your one act of defiance, all you could manage. It only served to please him. You heard the growl, a claiming of territory, could taste it on your tongue. You couldn't—wouldn't—allow yourself to get lost in the feeling. Your hands, still firm on the mattress, itched to move, but you kept them still as statues. You didn't want to know what his chest felt like under your palms. You didn't want to know if your nails would leave scratches, pink lines to mark your place.

It was a slow slide, not an avalanche. You didn't know between which breath and the next, when your head had reunited with your pillow, your back against the sheets. Did you look like you were laying on a field of daisies, bluebells, and violets? Was your hair fanned out around you, an angel's halo? Your stomach was all aflutter, a toss up between curdled milk and a molten river.

You were doing your best to relax, given the circumstance. Tense muscles might make it hurt. A path was drawn, one you imagined to be tattooed in black ink. Jaw to ear to throat. Collarbones to the neckline of your camisole, the lace trim pulled down. Your breasts were a rest stop. He stayed there awhile, and again you fought, your mind at war with your body. This was wrong.

This is wrong! You screamed, but it only came out as a sigh, stirring the wisps of his hair. The travel resumed, your camisole gone. You were now a barren, naked expanse of ground to cover. Sternum, straight south, navel. He veered right, a scrape of teeth against your hipbone. You said a silent goodbye to your shorts, flimsy cotton with bunnies printed on them.

Then—startling clarity, you'd come up for air, when he reached his final destination. "Stop, stop. Please. Please stop…"

Did you say it out loud? You thought so, but the shudder you felt at the base of your spine at the first lick of his tongue, undeterred and unhurried, made you think that you hadn't. No hesitation, not from him. Your eyes burned with unshed tears. Did you cry because you were scared, or did you cry because of the sensation? The hum of contentment against your clit, the brush of fingers against your folds. The first intrusion, the second.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Unlawful, corrupt, felonious.

"Delicious, sweet, mine."

A shockwave tore through you, and you gasped like a fish on land. He travelled back the way he came; hipbone, navel, sternum. Collarbone, throat, ear, jaw.

Bucky looked at you then, saw your lashes, the tears that seemed to glitter on them in the soft amber glow. Such a gorgeous swell of emotion, his eyes seemed to say, choosing to believe they conveyed your fidelity.

You'd asked him to stop, begged, even. But your baser instincts willed your muscles to go slack, to twine your limbs around his, to give in with a satisfied purr, after the clink and hiss of the belt buckle, his jeans, his boxers. Then your brain would shriek, the sound jarring, echoing around your skull, the mantra of "stop, stop, stop!" singing through your blood.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered in your ear.

You felt like a balloon, filled with air. Like you couldn't get any fuller, or else you would pop. Your arms had moved of their own accord—you didn't remember when your wrists had locked around the back of his neck, nor did you know when your nails had started to bite into his skin. Bucky seemed to like it, though. He stayed gentle with you, but gentle didn't mean shallow. It didn't mean quick, or thoughtless. Vast, infinite, unfathomable, were more fitting.

It turned out, you had not been at your capacity. Your detonation begot his, a collide of natural disasters. Devastation, you thought, painted white from the inside out. Damnation.

But the soft touches on your face, lips to your forehead, fingers stroking your hair back, didn't suit that description. Dedication. Devotion. That was what they felt like, as you fell into the bottomless dark.

"Dearly beloved…"

He would be leaving tomorrow. You would be safe in your home, though you didn't think you'd ever feel safe in your skin again. How could you? You stumbled out of bed groggily. There had been no drugs in your system this time, but your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, weariness the taste of ash. The bed was cold—he'd left sometime after you'd passed out. Left you there alone, naked, but at least he'd covered you up with your blankets afterward, had tucked you in, even. Listen to you, making an excuse for him, for finding the good in a bad situation. Your shoulders were hunched as you dressed back into your pajamas. You held your shorts for a moment, before putting them on. You felt the soft fabric between your fingers. You had half a mind to burn them, to see them blacken and disintegrate.

The pajamas didn't feel like enough, so you found your fluffy, pink bathrobe and swaddled yourself in it, tying its belt tightly at your waist, fluffing up its collar to hide your neck. You didn't know if he'd been careful about marks, or not. You couldn't bring yourself to make a pit stop to the bathroom, not yet. You didn't want to look into your own eyes. You didn't want to remember the explosion of stars in your head, after the second wave had taken you under, or over, or through. You remembered anyway. The memory tingled like you'd electrocuted yourself. You examined your hands. You remembered digging your nails into his nape. Your knees bumped together as you thought of them locked around his waist.

To the dining room, then. You could handle him for one more day, even if time was as slow as molasses. It would still pass.

Only, of course, you were the last one up. You trudged out into daylight, stark and gray through the windows. There were your parents, crowded around one end of the table, and there was your uncle, sitting there too. Bright smiles were exchanged at the sight of your unruly bedhead. "There you are," your mother said. At the sight of you, she stood and bustled to the kitchen to fix you a plate.

You sank into the empty seat beside hers, and across the table, Bucky demurely sipped from his coffee mug. As if he hadn't been inside your room, inside you mere hours ago. It seemed that it was much later than you'd thought; your extended family seemed to have all gone. How had you managed to sleep through the ruckus?

When your mother came back, a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in her grasp, your father said, "I think it's a great idea, by the way."

He said this to Bucky, not to you, as you woodenly shovelled food into your mouth. The conversation at the table turned to a buzzing drone, until you zeroed back in, who knows how long later. "She'll love that, won't you, Pumpkin?"

Pumpkin was your father's nickname for you. Your eyes slowly cast from the plate, the ring of roses printed on its edge, and up to your father. Your expression must have portrayed puzzlement, because your mother patted your shoulder good-naturedly. "Your uncle was saying that you'll be staying with him after your exams are over. You're going to help him fix up his house?"

She said it like this was a reminder about a topic that you'd already been aware of. All you could think was, no. But you couldn't summon the adrenaline, the fear, the horror at the idea. You had gone numb. So that was how he'd do it. He'd trap you up there all summer. And why would you say no? Your parents knew you had no plans after April—you'd thought maybe you'd get a job at the ice cream parlor, save up some money, but that hadn't been set in stone. It appeared that your future had been planned for you.

Your mouth opened, but before you could even think of an appropriate protest, you caught the hard, sharp gleam in your uncle's eyes. It was there and gone in a flash, like a trick of the light against his glasses, before he grinned at your father, your mother. "The old place need's a woman's decorative touch. I know I can trust our girl to do right by me."

He said 'our' but you heard 'my' anyway. You knew that was what he'd meant. And he knew that you knew, if the touch of his shoe against your foot, under the table, was any indication. A warning, a reminder, a promise, a threat, all rolled into one.

You thought back to the barbecue, last year. It had been at your aunt's house, and while the rest of your extended family had been bathed in sunlight, dotted around the lawn in folding chairs or laid out on the grass, your uncle had been hidden in the shade of the covered patio, a polite smile on his face as he sipped at his beer. It had struck you as odd, at the time, because one of the things you knew best about him was that he was an outdoorsman. Your dad and his many brothers, your uncles, including Bucky, had grown up camping and fishing. He might not have done much of that stuff anymore, but you were sure that that day's weather should have seen Bucky standing by the grill, turning over the burgers, or perched by the pool.

The realization felt like a bucket of icy water poured over your head. The only other person hiding out on the porch that day had been… you. Too engrossed in a summer romance you'd picked up from the library, only willing to go as far as the patio furniture and not one step more into the loud, lively family affair. He'd been there with you in mind. He hadn't done anything then, just stayed close. He'd asked if your book was any good, if reading was a new favourite hobby of yours. It had been a set of questions proposed in his usual, awkward manner, head ducking as he ran a hand over his hair, then glancing up with a shyness that would have been more at home on a teenager's smitten face.

You remembered this exchange as you watched your father pull out of the driveway, Bucky beside him in the passenger seat. He was gone, for now. But it was with a sinking certainty, for you, that he'd been a much more thorough planner than you'd thought, and you were sure that these months apart would only make the game that much more fun, for him.

Manipulation was a subtle game, as delicate as a silkworm's thread. Bucky was very, very good at it, he thought. Or he should have been. He had just been too overcome with lust over Christmas, something he chastised himself for. He was supposed to use that trip to lay the groundwork, to convince you to come to him this summer, of your own volition. But seeing you that day at the airport, feeling the warmth of your embrace, your soft body in his arms, the smell of your shampoo… He'd forgotten himself. He'd slipped.

Never mind, plans could change. And he'd managed it, anyway. His old house was in a rural area, a build from the 70s, in dire need of renovation. Of course, he could do much of it himself. But it was the perfect excuse to have you around. You were a helpful young lady, of course. You would probably have all sorts of ideas. After all, it would be your home someday, too.

He stood in the kitchen, the cracked linoleum peeling and yellow under his feet. Would you want tile, or wood? He could picture your silhouette, the shape of you, in front of the sink. You'd like the picture window, overlooking the backyard, the way it dipped off into the forest. He'd get you state-of-the-art everything, if you wanted. You'd pick it all out. He didn't think the walls would be green, anymore. Maybe you'd choose blue.

He'd rip up the old carpet in the living room. Refit the fireplace, so that it matched the mantelpiece. Install bookshelves on either side. You liked books.

The only thing he wouldn't compromise on would be the bedroom. Oh, you could decorate it however you liked, of course. But there would be no California king sized bed. Cozy nights together could only be achieved in something smaller. Closeness to you was a gift, and it was one he would cling to with everything he had. Someday soon, you would be falling asleep in his arms. He just didn't know how long that would take.

Spring began to mature into summer in a blink of an eye. You'd already felt that winter had slipped from your grasp, the snow melting into blossoms right when they were supposed to, though it had felt too fast, to you. And try as you might, you'd been fruitless in your attempts to find a way out of going to Uncle Bucky's house. You had willed your last exam to stretch and bend time like taffy, but you still found yourself blinking into the sunlight of your school's parking lot, other students talking about internships and backpacking trips instead of agonizing about the hottest months, the most hellish ones.

How fitting, to experience the devil's flame, the heat licking up your back in the shape of a tongue.

All too soon, your car was loaded up with a duffel bag and two suitcases. Your ticket and passport were safe in your mother's manicured hands, and you sat in the back, feeling like a kid again, as your parents drove you to the airport. They were all smiles, believing their baby girl to be having a gorgeous summer in a rural area, to see greenery and smell flowers and fresh air. To see wildlife and blue skies and rolling fields. They didn't know that those things would all take on shades of gray, for you.

The flight took no time at all, and as the plane descended, so did your mood. You hadn't thought it could get any lower, but you had discovered a rock bottom underneath the false floor in your head. The crowds of other travellers passed by you in a blur, a smudge of backpacks and crying babies, a smattering of languages and squeaky wheels. Your name in a scratchy scrawl, written across white card stock, jumped out at you from the crush of loved ones waiting to welcome their family members home.

There he was, no shame at all. A smile on his face, the calling card in one hand, a lopsided bundle of wildflowers in the other. You planned to roll your suitcases right past him, to force him to walk with you, or to lose you entirely, but your feet had stopped short, a few feet away. His eyes lit up, sapphire blue, pinning you in place.

Your uncle seemed more relaxed than you'd ever seen him, shoulders straight, posture loose. He tucked the card stock under his arm, and pulled you into him. You stumbled forward, brought into a hug that squeezed the air from your lungs. How was he so strong, only hugging you with one of his arms? His forearm, at that? It made you realize how gentle he really had been with you. How much worse it could have gone. "I'm so glad that you're finally here, sweetpea. We're going to have an amazing summer together, you and I."

It was murmured against your hair, and you could have sworn a horde of ants had crawled down your spine, making you itch. You no longer knew if it was a promise that held a double meaning, though you could guess.

You were mildly surprised by his car, a tan coloured Chevy, and an old one at that. Its interior was all brown leather, worn but clean. You wondered if he's restored it himself, but you didn't care to ask. You didn't want to humanize him. He'd taken your bags, spilled them into the backseat and the trunk, and switched on a cassette tape. You didn't hear the music, not really, too focused on the bluest sky you'd ever seen, through the windshield. The airport had been a tiny one, and there was nothing for miles around. You believed you'd be in the car with no one but him, for at least an hour. Probably more. You wanted to watch the speedometer, to see if he drove extra slow, to draw the moment out. Instead, you closed your eyes and feigned sleep, and prayed that he'd leave you be.

You did fall asleep, for a little while. The smoothness of the road giving way to gravel had roused you from your rest, and all at once it came crashing back to you, where you were. Blue sky, still, though the sun looked like a ripe orange, beginning its descent. Trees in varying shades of green. The gravel belonged to a long, winding driveway, amidst tall grass. They flung themselves against the sides of the car, ping! ping! ping!, greeting you as you drew closer to the house.

It was bigger than you'd thought—you'd assumed it was to be a bungalow. It was one story, but it was longer, a great big rectangle made of faded, sickly sage panelling. The shutters looked like they had been white once. The flowerbeds weren't overgrown, at least. It looked like your uncle had started on that, already. But as for the rest…?

The screen door, when you got to it, squealed like a piglet. The foyer, a box of a room, was dingy, but at least it was clean. Disrepair more than neglect, truth be told. You knew that your uncle was a bit of a neat freak. His glasses were always spotless, shoes polished, shirts neatly tucked into trousers. His footwear, you noticed, was lined up neatly against one of the walls. Bile rose in your throat as your own joined them.

You thought you would retch, when he opened one of the doors down the hall with flourish. It couldn't be, but… it was.

It looked like your room, at home. Ruffled bed skirt. Coverlet of quilted floral. You cast your eyes up, and… there. Glow in the dark stars. Nothing was a perfect match, but it was scarily close. The desk chair was painted white wood, and you were sure if you looked closer, you would see flowers across its back. From the corner of your eye, you noticed that Bucky almost looked bashful. "I wanted you to feel at home here," he said, shyly. "How did I do?"

He wanted your approval?

His earnestness made your stomach hurt. "It's certainly close," was all you could muster, but it seemed to do the trick, for a beaming smile was shot your way.

"I'll give you some time to unpack, and then we can have some dinner, alright?"

Unpack. Right. Because you were staying here for the foreseeable future. Was this how a spirit felt, watching as their corpse was lowered into the ground, covered by earth, sealed in a wooden tomb? You were choking on worms, feeling them crawl down your throat. If Bucky saw the glassy sheen over your eyes, he didn't comment.

The door closed with the quietest of clicks, and your sobs were muffled into the neckline of your sweatshirt.

Your first few nights made you feel like you were laying on a bed of nails. Every shift of the house settling made you wonder if tonight would be the night that he came into your room. You couldn't understand, when the sun broke over the hills in the morning, why he'd let you be.

In fact, since you'd gotten here, Bucky had been perfectly cordial. The first day had been his worst. But after that…? Maybe… Maybe it had all been a terrible mistake. Maybe something was wrong with him, and he needed help. Maybe that had been a break in a pattern, what he'd done to you. Sometimes you still felt the ghost of his breath on your mouth. But awake, standing in the same room as you, he stayed a respectful distance away. If he did touch you, it was to pat you on the back, or to help you down from the ladder, as you switched out light bulbs.

You were distracted, maybe, waiting and watching for signs, not allowing yourself to get lost in re-imagining his house. All that you had done so far was choose the light fixtures. He hadn't argued against a single choice that you'd made, so far. Had approved, complimented, smiled. Stood next to you, head tilted to the side, eyes closed, like he was trying to see what you did, the potential that could be fostered and grown. You could almost believe that everything was normal.

There was one blip in the system, so far, but it had been you more than him. You'd been standing at the sink. The sun had gone down, and the trees of the forest down the hill had looked taller, darker. Shadowy. You could envision all sorts of creatures of the night that could dwell in there. You hadn't noticed Bucky sidling over to you, your hands submerged in soapy water, fingers loose around a spoon.

When he ducked in your direction, you'd flinched and turned your head. Your brain told you that he'd been attempting something, though you didn't know what. But his gaze didn’t cloud over or darken when you recoiled. He just apologetically slid an empty glass into the water, skimming your hand, and then grabbed a dishtowel. "I'll dry," he said, and you wondered if you had been making him out as worse than he was.

"I'll go to the hardware store tomorrow and pick up some paint swatches, unless you want to come with me? That's probably a better idea—you'll know exactly what you want, I'm sure. Better than I will."

You didn't hear yourself mumble a faint agreement, but you must have, for your lips moved, and his eyes twinkled behind their frames.

Privately, Bucky smiled. He had infinite patience, unlike the first time. You were on his turf, a lost little lamb separated from the herd, after all.

Town was miles away, but the weather was nice, and so, then, was the drive there. Bucky had rolled the windows down and you'd gulped in the air, saw the fuzz of dandelions dancing in the breeze. Four-way stops were aplenty, here. There was a slightly bigger city, beyond, but most things that Bucky left home for were here, in a centralized zone with no more than ten streets.

The workers at the store, in their red polo shirts, knew him by name. They greeted him with smiles, and he did the same, pressing a light hand to your shoulder blades to steer you to the wall of swatches.

A riot of colour stared back at you. You stared blankly, before turning to him. "What colour schemes do you like?" Your voice sounded robotic, even to you.

"Oh, I'm easy, sweet girl. Whatever you like, we'll get." His hands rested in his back pockets.

"Really? What if I want to paint the whole house pink?" You hadn't meant to make a joke, but it had come out anyway, and he laughed.

Your heart did a cartwheel, unexpectedly. You'd never heard him sound so comfortable before. It was unlike the laughs you had heard from him in the past, surrounded by the rest of your family. It was unlike anything you'd heard at all. Rich, deep, smooth, like a first sip of coffee in the morning. It made the corners of his eyes crinkle, behind his glasses. You wondered if he laughed a lot, here in the town he called home. If happiness was the cause of the barest beginnings of crow's feet.

"Well, I'm sure we'll have the prettiest pink house for miles around," was his response.

You faltered, then. We'll instead of I'll, like you had a stake in this house, too. Like you'd stay to see the finished product. Like you'd stand in the renovated kitchen and toast to your success. You realized then, that you'd leaned towards him. You could feel his body heat through your shirt. You put deliberate space between you, then, picked up the closest handful of swatches, and pretended to ruminate over the different shades. You hoped that your shaking hands weren't obvious.

The days bled together.

The heat should have been sweltering, but Bucky kept you cool with a steady supply of water, chock full of ice, condensation dripping from the glass. It seemed like as soon as you'd finished one, he'd be standing next to you with another, holding it up to your mouth so that you wouldn't get lilac paint on anything but the shutters. He'd brush hair from your face, the touch casual, intimate, like he'd done it a hundred times before. Part of you wanted to shrink back, but the softness of his fingertips was pleasant. You almost wanted to tilt into it.

It was nice, for a time. Touches like that, you learned that you could handle. They were not a grope or a squeeze, a summoning to hold you closer. His hand would fall away and you'd track his movement, watch him swipe the back of it over his forehead. You heard yourself clicking your tongue. "Don't—you'll cover yourself in paint."

Your hands did not seem to be your own, as you lifted the white cloth you'd kept safe in your pocket, and dabbed at his face to wipe away the sweat. They seemed to be a stranger's, but they were your nails and your fingers and your knuckles. The sun couldn't overshadow the brightness of his teeth, the way they formed a perfect, satisfied smile.

The flowerbeds had you knee deep in dirt, as you pulled at stray weeds, keeping the chrysanthemums and dahlias free and clear. And your uncle would be right there with you, scratching your initials into the soil, then smoothing them over with a spade, like he was etching it into the very ground, letting it sink into the earth, an unfounded truth. It was boyish. You pretended not to see, and your feelings muddled, two street cats slinking into their respective corners after tangling together. Your steadfast trepidation was starting to crumble.

He plucked one of the flowers free and turned to you. It was slightly withered, not as strong as its siblings. He looked like a dork, a sparkle in his eyes as he tucked the stem into the front pocket of your overalls and fixed your sun hat. "A daisy for my daisy."

You held up a thistle. "This is all I can offer you."

Your voice was decidedly deadpan, and his laugh could be heard across the hills. "Whatever you give, I'll take, honey."

Slowly, new clothes began to appear in your wardrobe. One dress became two, became three, four… With each step of renovation completed, it seemed another was placed with care, tucked behind your other clothes. They were pretty, with skirts that would fan out if you spun. You didn't try them on. You didn't acknowledge them, either, but you searched Bucky's face every time you stepped out of your room in jeans and a t-shirt, instead of a dress, to look for anger, to look for spite. It was never there. Only a brightening of his features, like when you walked in, the lights had turned on.

Bucky had not kept many things from his childhood. You knew this, because there hadn't been much to go through when sorting through his belongings to 'donate, keep, sell, trash'. The bins you'd picked up with him at the store were only half-full. You felt like you'd brought more with you from home than he had in the whole house. You did find yourself cross-legged on the floor, however, on the area rug he'd put down over the spots where he'd ripped up the carpet.

The photo album was big, leather bound. James Barnes was etched into its cover. When you flipped through it, there were a few photos from childhood, a couple wherein you spotted your own father. Then there were a series of blank pages. Thinking that to be it, you resolved to close it and tuck it away, back in its place. The glossy plastic revealed one last photo, to your surprise.

Bucky, around your age. He was looking away from the camera, with what you believed to be a Walkman in one of his hands. Headphones covered his ears. He had a mustache. He didn't have one now. What struck you, though, was the way your heart had kicked into high gear. Handsome, if a little awkward, had popped into your brain. You traced his outline, the navy blue of his shirt. He was still handsome now, you thought, before banishing the idea. But if he'd looked this attractive back then, why had he never gotten married?

You wondered how old he had been when he had needed to start wearing glasses. The number of years it took before he had started to go gray at the temples, uneven streaks of it through the dark brown. You wondered, if you took him to a department store and got him new clothes, a haircut, and different glasses, how much younger he would look. Would he be angry, if you asked that of him? Would you finally see that switch, that part of him that you knew was lurking below the surface, a sleeping bear, waiting to be awakened?

You closed the album, and put it back in the cabinet.

The picture found a new home at the bottom of your sock drawer.

Bucky was not angry with you, when you'd casually asked about his attire. He'd looked down at his shirt, another plaid one, buttoned to the top, and chuckled. "I guess I am a few years behind. Are you going to give me a makeover?"

You acquiesced, because there was no way out of it now. You'd rolled the dice; it was time to play the game. "On one condition," he said, holding up a finger. "You can do whatever you want, but you have to wear one of the dresses I got you."

It seemed an easy enough trade. You picked the one that looked the least like a housewife's uniform, something that wasn't so form fitting, before leaving the half-finished house with him in tow.

It turned out to be easier than you thought. You stuck to neutral colours—no more plaid for him—and started weighing yourself down with shirts, jackets, jeans. You were eyeballing the sizes, but you knew that under all of that green checker, there was a chiselled body. You were reminded of this fact again when Bucky stepped out from one of the dressing room in blue jeans and a black t-shirt. The sleeves hugged his biceps. He seemed painfully self-conscious, eyes darting between you, the floor, and the long mirror stuck to the wall. "Do I look okay?"

It was a fight to keep your jaw hinged closed. You stepped forward and carefully took his glasses from his face, stood on your toes to mess up his hair. He should really stop with the gel, you thought. He looked better when it was wilder. He looked younger, too. "Put this on." You passed him a jacket, made of sturdy leather.

The effect was instantaneous. You half-expected women to come out of the woodwork, the second it settled over his shoulders. You stood side by side in the mirror. You noticed, belatedly, too busy staring at him, that you were both smiling.

A lady stopped on her walk past you, a baby in the shopping cart. She smiled, too. "How cute. Are you letting your girlfriend play dress-up?" She asked, like it was an inside joke.

Bucky slipped his arm around your waist, and to your shock, you let him. "Just a little bit. Anything to make her happy, right?"

The stranger and Bucky exchanged a laugh. Your face was still frozen in a rare state of happiness. A split second of contact had felt like a steel bar, holding you down, but it melted away into something else. Something like… security. Safety.

When the woman moved along, Bucky unfurled from you. He looked you right in the eye. And you said nothing except: "These glasses are outdated. We're getting you new ones. Maybe contacts, too."

You hated thunderstorms. The rain lashed down. It felt like the foundations of the house were going to come loose, that you and it were going to wash away down the hill. It was so dark, you could hardly see the silver needles falling from the sky, but you could hear them. The roof was tin, about the only thing that wasn't going to be replaced during this renovation, and it was a consistent rumble above your head.

Bucky should have been back already. He'd gone to the bigger city, the one further away, to look for a specific style of doorknobs that you'd had your heart set on. You huddled on the floor, a shiny hardwood that you'd picked out. The fire was lit, turning everything shades of orange and yellow and red. The new TV still hadn't been connected yet. There was no comforting lilt of a sitcom to soothe your nerves, and you didn't feel like perusing his music collection in his absence.

Thump, thump. You barely heard the sounds over the noise of the rain. They still made you jump, skittish. You hoped it was your uncle. It seemed an alien notion, to long for his company. But despite your complicated thoughts about him, you'd do anything for the feeling of safety. Company was better than loneliness.

When you undid the latch, pulling the heavy wooden door in, and pushing the screen door out, he stood before you, slicked with rain, despite the coat. His hands were full of bags of takeout, along with what you were sure were the doorknobs. He smiled at you, like he wasn't soaked to the bone. "I'm sorry I took so long, lovebug. Thought it would be nice to take a break from cooking tonight, hm? Help me bring these in?"

You noticed the other bag at his feet, and when you lifted it, you heard the clank of soda cans rattling around. Obedient to a fault, you obeyed his request, only alone while he shucked off his coat and boots. The low coffee table was to be your destination. Chinese food was laid out across the scratched surface, no worry about water rings from the Coke, because it was still a refurbishing project. Before you could pluck up a spring roll, however, Bucky leaned closer to you, brought a hand to your cheek. Was it a burn, or a balm? You were beginning to confuse the two. "You doin' okay? I remembered on my way home that you don't like storms."

"I'm fine. It's not so bad when I'm not alone." When you're with me.

"That's good. But hey, if you get scared when you're trying to sleep later, just come and get me, alright? I'll look after you."

Like you did over Christmas? The question in your head almost took on a longing quality. You shoved a roll into your mouth, trying to ignore the burn in your blood, the zing of electricity you felt in your skin. "Okay."

You thought of the way that animals showed their fear. How a horse's eyes would roll about their skull, showing the whites, the huff of nervous breaths from their soft snouts, the uneasy swish of their tails. Was that how you looked, trapped here? Or were you more similar to a fox, its dainty foot caught in a trap, shredding through skin, muscle, bone, terror seeping from its russet fur?

The nearest neighbour was a ten minute drive away. The nearest store, double that. Walking would take a while, and you had a feeling that you wouldn't be left alone long enough to make the trek. Your only chance at that would have been the night of the storm. And besides, Bucky could always spot you on his return. You shuddered to imagine him steering the Chevy onto the shoulder, the tires spraying up gravel. The way he'd be so eerily calm, you thought. His rage had only showed in intimacy, in your bed. He'd roll down the window, and say, "Get in," the passenger door cracked open when he'd lean across to push at the handle. And you would, because he had a car, a great, heaving machine with which to mow you down, and you only had your hands and your mind, and those were not nearly sharp enough to get you out of danger. So you'd get in that car. And you wouldn't know how bad the punishment would be, or when it would come. If it would. You had a feeling he would deliver justice on his own terms, not yours.

But your bigger fear was not about him. It was about you. Because what scared you more than that, than any of those runaway thoughts, was the bottom line: you found yourself not wanting to search for freedom. It scared you that you did not feel more scared of this realization. Fear of lack of fear. Why hadn't you escaped with his car keys on the first night? Put your foot on the gas and sped down the twist of the road, back to that airport? Gotten on the first flight to anywhere?

Instead, you picked up the feather duster again, ran the plumes through your hand. You tickled the mahogany mantelpiece with it, too spotless to really accrue dust, and touched your fingers to the edge of the gilded gold frame above it. The frame was empty, no pretty picture in its depths. It looked new, the glint of the floor lamp making it shine. That same lamp would turn the silver in his hair to strands of the gold, a perfect match. It had been engraved carefully, with swirls that reminded you of the sea. You could fit the curve of your fingernail into its grooves. You wondered how much it had cost him, if it would be too heavy for you to lift and steal, something to pawn if you crept out in the dead of night. Would the dew show the shape of your footprints?

You looked at its empty center. In a blink, you imagined a picture there. Horrifying, that your mind had conjured up the idea of one with both of you together. A family portrait, in more ways than one. The thought was a maggot, eating at your brain. And you were nurturing it, not expelling it. You were allowing it to burrow.

You heard the creak of the screen door. It made you jump, your shoulders hinging up near your ears, chin tucking down to your chest. The clunk, scrape! of the woodblock he used as a door stopper. Then a hum, a familiar tune. You remembered it, from the record he had played the first night you'd been here. The one he'd made you dance with him to, your hand clasped in his, your head against his shoulder. If anyone had seen your silhouettes through the threadbare curtains in the window, they would have thought you were a married couple, keeping your romance alive. But all you could focus on, at the time, were the lyrics of the song, crooned in a woman's voice, and then the echo of Bucky's, a whisper in your hair, a breath against your skin. You heard it now, "and we'll be together, forever and ever," as he came to stand in the archway. You spun towards him, the skirts of your dress whirling along with you. "Help me with the groceries, sweet girl? I'll give you a treat if you do. I picked it special for you."

He was wearing the new clothes you'd picked for him. Jeans, t-shirt, leather. His hair wasn't gelled back, his old glasses replaced with contacts. He looked like somebody's boyfriend.

Sweet girl. You'd come to like that name. No one else was called that, just you. Like pulling the stopper on a drain, your thoughts dispelled, and you moved to help, letting him tell you what he'd picked up. The raspberries went into the new fridge. The cabinets had been refinished, and everything fit tidily inside.

The treat turned out to be a caramel apple, one he unwrapped carefully and handed to you. "How is it?" He asked, on the first bite.

"It's sweet."

"Not as sweet as you."

You no longer liked your bedroom. Well, you'd never loved it. Nor the one back at your parents' house. It had been designed by your mother, and this one was a near-perfect copy. But it wasn't you. Bucky's bedroom, however, was almost finished. The walls had been painted a colour that was a bit more blue than gray. The bed was made of oak. The dresser, too. The rug was soft underfoot, because you'd thought about the bite of cold hardwood on a winter's morning, and decided that something should dull the ice. There were perhaps too many throw blankets, but Bucky hadn't minded. The lighting was gentle, warm, and you had insisted that he needed a tall plant in one of the empty corners, to "give life to the room".

But you studied your own, ruffles and pink and yellow. White wood and floral everything. It wasn't you, and it never had been. The only thing you'd ever picked for yourself had been… the stars.

When Bucky was out in town, you laid across his bed, arms stretched wide, as you looked at his starless ceiling. One of the blankets was faux fur, dotted like a fawn's coat. His pillows were so fluffed, you were surprised that they hadn't burst. Calm, this room said. Safe. Maybe you had designed it with yourself in mind.

You didn't doze, but you did get lost somewhere in your head, because you didn't hear the front door, only the slight creak of the floor by the room's entrance. From your periphery, you could tell he was watching you. "What are you doing in here?" It was posed playfully—he didn't actually have a problem with it.

"I wish this was my room."

Silence, for a minute. Then a couple of footsteps. He was still far away. "Do you?"

"I think I made it for me. Sorry." It wasn't a real apology, flat on your tongue. It was more an admission than anything else.

"You can have it. Anything I have is yours." The words were followed by the dip of the mattress, Bucky sitting on its edge. You would have to stretch your arm, your fingers, to brush the curve of his knee.

Silly thing was, you believed it. He would give you this room. He hadn't done anything, not really. What had happened over the winter had happened months ago, and miles away. It couldn't be explained. Honestly, you could have been treated worse. If you thought hard enough, you could think of guys that you knew who had been far less kind than he had been. If anything, once you had relinquished any shred of power you may have held, he'd treated you like gold. "Will you sit with me?"

He already was. He said as much, a hand resting on the fawn blanket. You flopped your arm over the bed, limp as a noodle. "Sit with me?" You asked again, and this time your wish was granted, because it hadn't really been sit. It had been forget the world, lay down beside me. And he did.

His shoulder brushed yours, after your folded your hands over your ribs. Now you both stared at the empty ceiling. "Would you like stars in here?" He whispered.

"I don't think I need them. Not when I have you."

Tentative and delicate, it felt like a first date, or a dance at the prom. The sheets were pale gray, a shade darker than a dove's wing. They felt cold. The A/C was on high. If you hadn't been outside cleaning the windows today, you would have never believed that it was the height of summer. One side of the sheets flipped down, then the other. A mirror image, you on the left, and Bucky on the right, climbing into the bed, pulling the blankets up. All the throw blankets were on your side. Your side. His contacts were gone, replaced by his new frames. Black, stylish. He propped himself against the headboard and picked up the book on his nightstand. The lamps were twin suns, dialed down to their gentlest setting.

A list ran through your head—the physical one had been left in the living room. Tiles for the bathroom. A new sink and counter top. What about a vanity? Towels. Shower curtain, unless you installed a glass door. His closet needed more shelving. You wanted to showcase his vinyl collection in the living room, the cassettes too. So many things to do, still…

"You're thinking very loudly, over there."

Bucky's voice interrupted you, working hard in your ideas factory. "I left the list on the coffee table."

He was already sliding his bookmark into place. "Do you want me to get it for you?"

"No, it's okay. We're already here. It can wait for tomorrow." You snuggled deeper under the covers, pulling them high, up to your chin. You fumbled one hand out from under them to tap blindly at the nightstand, before you grabbed and pulled at your lamp's chain. Darkness swallowed your side of the room.

We're already here. How quickly you had gotten used to we, and our. Our home, our living room, our bed…

You heard Bucky slide his book across his own nightstand, the rattle of his own lamp's chain. Complete blackness. No stars in sight. You rolled onto your side; he did the same. Your pinkie brushed his. You thought was an accident, until it happened again. Shy, a question.

Less shy, your answer, inching closer.

The closing statement, a hand slipping through the dark to land at your waist, to pull you into orbit. Earth and sun, a steady stratosphere.

Lips on the crown of your head.

And finally, sleep.

The stars were taken down. The bed frame, desk, chair, given to a family in town that needed them. Your room, or rather, your old room, was to be whatever you wanted. A library, a music room, a guest room, with your own vision in mind… the world was your oyster.

The barrier had toppled over. It wasn't with some great sweeping storm, a hurricane ripping it away by its nuts and bolts. It wasn't some bloody, knock-down fight. It was a biodegradable decomposition, instead. You were waking up in Bucky's arms every morning. Sometimes he would kiss you, and you would let him, your lips molding to his, your fingers running through his hair. He'd whisper things into your skin. They sounded like oaths, to you.

You were never alone. Trips to town were made together. Sometimes, hand-in-hand. You'd wash dishes, he'd dry. He'd twirl you around the living room while a record played. The house wasn't finished quite yet, but it didn't matter.

Sometimes you heard a buzz in your head, like a fly. A quiet, weak warning. But what about… You shouldn't… This is…

But you'd bat it away, and it would fade.

This house was cozy, lived in, and yours. You tasted the air when it started to change, when the breeze would carry a chill. College was calling, and so were your parents. But you'd begun to think… What if you did your schooling online, this year? What if you found one closer?

What if you stayed?

Explanations were ready on your tongue: the house wasn't finished yet, it was more than Bucky could manage. You liked the area, you weren't ready to leave. The change of scenery was refreshing, and no one else in your family lived on this side of the country. He was by himself here. He needed you.

Your fingertips tapped on the kitchen table. It was round, dark wood. The vase at its center was full of dahlias, the ones from the flowerbed by the front door. Your laptop lay closed in front of you. Your lip was caught between your teeth, a nervous hum in your body.

"Lonnie said he could get us a quote at a discounted rate for the plumbing in the bathroom," you heard from down the hall. He was back.

You didn't answer, your back to the open arch. You only turned when Bucky padded into the room, stopping short. "What's the matter?"

Did you looked worried? You didn't know. You must have. "It's about… It's about school."

He stood straight, like an arrow. It made him look taller. You saw his throat move when he swallowed, like you'd handed him a bitter pill.

"I want to defer for a year."

"I—you—what?"

"The bathroom reno is gonna take longer than we planned—"

"You're gonna—"

"—If I want to get that marble tile, it's not going to be finished until October—"

"—put off school—"

"—And then we really should talk about the basement—"

"Angel."

You stopped your explanation. Looked up into azure flames. "I want to stay."

"You want to stay." Bucky echoed the sentiment.

"I want to stay. Is that okay?" Now you looked down, at your hands. Your fingers twisted in your lap. What if he… didn't want you to?

An obscure worry slammed into you like a train. Had every single interaction been read completely wrong? You no longer knew which way was up, or which way was down. Everything was water. Above your head, below your feet, no matter which direction you swam.

"You want to stay. With me?"

You nodded, foolish tears pricking your eyes. Had you made a mistake? Fingers on your chin—you didn't know when he'd gotten closer. Crying was embarrassing. You sniffed, not meeting his eyes, even as he tilted your face up. His thumb wiped stray salt water away. "My darling girl. This is your home. Of course you're staying."

You saw it then, when you looked at him: certainty. Like there had been no other answer. Like you'd both swiped a knife over your palms and scattered blood over this land, signed it as yours together, and so it would stay that way, and you would stay too. Stay with him. You'd be with him. You'd be together… forever and ever.

The kiss was sweet—you tasted like raspberries. It dissolved into laughter, breathless and nonsensical.

Staying.

Staying.

You were staying.

But not in this room, not at this table. As soon as you stood, Bucky lifted you, strong hands under your thighs. They locked around his hips like you'd done it before, muscle memory you didn't know you had. Unsteady kisses and unsteady breaths were the road map to his bedroom—your bedroom.

The blankets were soft under your body. The sunlight cast you in gold. "Bucky," said like a prayer.

"I'm here," said like a vow. "I'm with you," said like a promise. "You're mine," pressed into your skin with a sinner's mouth.

Your dress had buttons down the front, a tie at the waist. It was as easy to unwrap you as it would be a gift. It rippled off the bed like a cascade of water, a pool of blue over the rug. Blue everywhere. Blue on the floor, on the walls, in his eyes. Blue, blue, blue.

But you felt all shades of red, burning hot from head to toe. A kiss like a bruise, and then a caress. A bite at your neck, followed by the slide of Bucky's tongue. "My sweet girl, mine. Knew it all along. Knew you loved me." He pulled away from you, hovered above you. "Say it. Say you love me?"

Another time and place, worlds away, those words demanded from you as you fought for consciousness. Snow had been falling, then. Now, it was all sunbeams and the twittering of birds. "I love you."

"Say it again."

"I love you."

The most blinding smile you'd ever seen, followed by a pledge. "I love you, too, my darling girl."

Now it was your turn to unwrap your gift. Off came the shirt. You didn't know where it went—it could have grown wings and flew, for all you cared. The same belt with the star buckle. The metal was warm in your hands. Warmed by the friction of your bodies. A successful tug had it sliding from the belt loops with a sigh. Button, zip, pull.

Bare, both of you, and you remembered fear, but it had faded like a photograph left to the elements. Try as you might, you couldn't summon it, now. All you felt was want. All you wanted was completion, belonging. Your thighs were slick, and it was painfully obvious. About as obvious as Bucky's own want. Suddenly the fire was gone, replaced by a timid, mousy reach of your hand, closing around him.

The sharp intake of breath made you pause. Had you done it wrong? But when you focused on Bucky's face, his eyes had fallen shut, his jaw slack. You moved experimentally, then paused, waiting for…

"Good girl. You're makin' me so happy. Just like that."

You got the rhythm down, the twist of your wrist, your hand. The words poured over you like summer rain. But you kept looking at Bucky's face, kept listening to the sounds that kept falling from his mouth like music notes. Whatever had happened in the winter was not the same as what was happening now. You wanted to hear more.

Just when you thought you would see his great undoing, his hand closed over yours, and you stilled. "I don't want to… not yet. Not now."

Bucky put your hand in his, and brought it up to his mouth. He kissed your knuckles, his eyes on yours. "It'll be different this time. You know what you want now, huh?"

A submissive nod, your hair loose about your face. A kiss to your palm, next. "Just took you some time. That's okay, I'm patient. I knew this day would come eventually."

He liked to talk during this carnal act, you remembered. But it would be different now. He was right; you had only needed to come around to his way of thinking. He laid you back, and your head hit the pillow. Your legs jolted after he spread them, running his fingers across your folds like he was playing an instrument. You'd be making some sort of noise, soon. His fingers were replaced by the head of his cock. It made you quiver, the electric current that seemed to shock you as he coated himself in your wetness. "Better than last time. You want me."

"Please."

"All you gotta do is ask nice, baby. I'll give you the world." A serene smile, a brush against your clit.

"Please, I want you," your voice sounded thin, "please."

He was all the way in before the last word had entered the air, and you were hip to hip, chest to chest, your shriek swallowed by his mouth. He laced your fingers together. "Good? Or do you need time?"

You could only respond by squeezing his hand, a low whimper caught in your throat. He answered aloud for you. "Good. Fuck, I've been waiting for months to feel you again."

One roll of his hips, then stillness. "Knew from the first time that you were for me."

Roll, pause. "Knew you were special."

Roll, pause. "You're my girl. So special."

Slow as a wave at sunset, and as deep as the ocean. Bucky kept you in the tide, far from the sand. This was your real first time together, you decided. The others didn't count. He'd had problems with control, and that was fixed, now. You were the only girl in the world, the only one that mattered. He only stopped murmuring praise to kiss you, and your free hand tugged at his hair with each particularly deep stroke, one that made your heels dig into the plush of the bed. You could feel the fur of the fawn blanket tickling the soles of your feet.

Everything had narrowed to him. What was he to you? There was a definition that the rest of the world knew, but you forgot what it was. All you knew was yours and mine.

"We're gonna go together, sweet girl. Wanna feel you with me. Got it?"

"Yes." The word was broken in half.

His hand untangled from yours to smooth your hair back from your face. "Good girl," he cooed, "let go for me."

Like a one-two punch, milliseconds apart, your body spasmed around his. A groan by your ear, teeth on your lobe, and a burning spill. Liquid metal, red hot, poured into a mold. You were floating away on a cloud. Your stomach lurched, but you didn't feel sick. You felt full of butterflies, full of him, full of possibility.

You were staying.

You were staying, and so you wouldn't have to try to capture this feeling, to bottle it up, because you'd get to experience it again, in your bed, in your home. The rest of your thoughts were whisked away a kiss that was so wet, you weren't sure if one or both of you were drooling.

Then Bucky laid beside you, and you stared at the ceiling again, your skin sticky, arm pressed against his.

"You've never needed the stars. You've always been the brightest one."

The fear you'd felt, or thought you felt, when you'd wake up at night, the worry that you'd turn over, towards the door, and see a shadow in its arch, had banked like embers in a cold fireplace. Your terrors had become less. You didn't know when it had happened, when it had crossed to another feeling. What was it? It felt like it was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn't place it. Was it… safety? Now a darkened doorway meant you weren't alone. When had that become a comfort?

It meant that someone had arrived, that somebody had walked down the wood panelled hall, turned the brass knob. That they'd mimicked you, followed your path. And that they—he—would keep following it, taking the same proverbial fork in the road. He'd round the bed. He'd climb under the covers, dove gray. He'd find you there, in the black night, as if you'd been lit from the inside out, a flame in a glass jar. Once, that had felt like the blade of a guillotine balanced across your neck, the hands of death grasping at your wrists, your ankles.

Now, you tucked yourself into the warm touch, grasped for it like an alcoholic would with a bottle. Now, those arms meant shelter. That heartbeat was a song on a station tuned to you, and you alone. You would feel hands in your hair, lips at your jaw, your shoulder, your temple, and you'd be whisked to the land of dreams. Fear didn't exist there. Maybe it never had.

You scanned the copse of trees beyond the window. The wind blew, and you could see the rustle of the leaves, could imagine the whistle of the cool air. Fall was coming. Those leaves would be turning yellow, soon. Confusion, a fleeting panic, like a startled deer running through the forest, galloped across your brain. The dishes were put away, and you moved into the living room, all warm browns and handcrafted furniture. And then… an almost pleasant numbness, a radio's static gone silent. You fixed the picture above the mantelpiece, and you smiled.

Why had you ever been so afraid?

[charliesinbox]

dad!bucky - sex education cw: incest, dubcon, creampie, corruption kink, innocent!reader

bucky barnes is not a bad man. in fact, he is the complete opposite. a family man, an honest businessman, a father. he is a good man — at least that is how he presents himself.

however, when bucky is alone with you, he begins to question whether he knows what good really means.

you aren't a sheltered kid by any means, but your heart is too pure for your own good. you used to come home from school talking about the horrors that you see — public displays of affection, bruised marks on people's necks, and so on. these are typical things for teenagers, but you can't even talk about it without getting furiously embarrassed.

bucky used to think it was sweet, thought you would grow out of it when you went off to college. but you graduated still with limited awareness of how things worked in the real world.

you're a pretty girl, bucky has seen you blossom into the woman you are today and he's gotten glimpses of what it means for both of you to age. bucky with his graying hair and deepened wrinkles. you with your growing confidence while maintaining the sort of naivety that still has him protective.

you don't even know what you're doing to him.

he shouldn't be having such thoughts about his own daughter but he can't help himself. on your weekly movie nights, you're cuddle up next to him, head on his shoulder, body curled into his broader frame as he keeps an arm around you.

when you do so, bucky can see down your loose tank top, a poor excuse for pajamas. your tits swelling, gorgeous mounds that peak. he even gets a peek at your nipples, pert and pushing against the flimsy fabric.

he drags his eyes away, swallow thickly as you tuck yourself into him. you've always been touchy and he's never had a problem with it. not until steve pointed out once how much you've grown. then he can't seem to stop paying attention.

the way you smell right after you shower, a lingering floral scent wafting from your damp hair. your skin soft and dewy, that stray droplet from your bath trailing dangerously between the mounds of your breasts. your embarrassed expression, thighs squeezing together where they peek out from underneath your towel.

when he catches you dancing in the kitchen while you cook. curves of your ass underneath your tiny shorts, your tits bouncing when you bounce from corner to corner. you dipping your finger into the sauce and sliding it over his tongue for a taste. the little flutter in your eyes that you can't even explain when he sucks on it, blue eyes trained on you to watch every shift on your face.

you've always been playful, climbing on top of him to try and wrestle the television remote from his hand so you can throw on your trashy reality show, almost completely oblivious to how hard he's getting in his pants whenever you're squirming on his lap, right on top of his cock, in your tiny shorts that ride up your ass.

bucky compromises and tells you, "fine, you can watch it, but come sit on your old man. i miss cuddling with my little girl."

you smile sweetly at him, almost simpering. you think of it as a sweet moment of his dad missing his kid. unbeknownst to you, he has to bite back a moan when you settle yourself comfortably on his lap and your smaller hands bring his big ones around your waist.

you lean back against his chest and bucky flattens one hand on top of your bare thigh, silky skin beneath his fingertips, and the other on your stomach to press you deeper against him.

you're much too distracted by the couples fighting on screen to notice how his hands begin to wander. he does it slowly at first, testing the waters. he reminds himself that this is merely a father showing affection for his daughter.

he rubs your thigh slowly, fingers dipping in between your thighs until they fall apart as his own legs spread. his other hand strokes your stomach, going lower only so he can sneak it under your camisole and place his hand over your warm skin.

you're rambling about one of the cast members when it falls away into a squeak. "dad, that tickles," you giggle breathlessly.

that is when he realizes that his sinful hand has drifted down between your thighs, to that warm little mound that he's just itching to explore. "sorry, sweetheart," he murmurs. "should i move my hand?" he asks, hurt bleeding into his voice enough for you to sink deeper into him.

he doesn't do it intentionally — the guilt-tripping. you're just soft-hearted and you can't help but want to please your father. "no, it's okay," you whisper.

"has anyone ever touched you here?"

you hum distractedly, eyes still glued on the screen. "no."

"have you ever touched yourself here?"

you finally blink in confusion at him. "why would i do that?"

bucky freezes. you're in college, he would think that you would have some semblance awareness of sex and masturbation. you've been exposed to the kissing growing up but he supposes he's never had taught you what it means to pleasure one's self.

so when he does what he does next, he tells himself that this is for your own good. this is for your experience. you don't know right from wrong so who better to teach you than your father?

"because it'll feel good."

you tilt your head. "really? why?"

"you have a lot of nerves down here. when you stimulate it, you can feel your entire body responding."

squirming, you still seem a still doubtful. "i don't know..."

"wanna let your old man try? i can teach you," bucky says. he has to nip on his tongue to stop himself from pressing too hard and too fast. this is already crossing many lines he has drawn for himself.

but when you're on top of him and you're freshly showered and you're soft and warm, how is he supposed to resist? he is a mere man after all.

"does it hurt?"

"mmm," he muses thoughtfully, "maybe in the beginning because you've never done it before. but i can help open you up."

"i don't know what that means," you admit almost bashfully.

"it's okay, just lean back and relax."

despite his words, you tense when he slips his fingers beneath the loose fabric of your shorts. his fingers brush over the cotton. damp.

"you're wet," he murmurs. he doesn't think you even know what that means.

"what does that mean?"

"means you're feeling good with me," bucky smiles. he has to swallow a hungry groan when he applies just enough pressure over that wet spot in your panties.

you jolt slightly in his hands. "that—"

"it's okay, relax," he shushes you. "watch your show."

you do try. you try your hardest, but bucky knows it's hard for you to focus when he's rubbing slow circles over the fabric with his thumb. the cotton is sticky and moist as it absorbs what he says is your pleasure. and it does feel good — your mind is buzzing with a pleasure you can't name. an unknown enjoyment that you're unfamiliar with.

when his thumb presses up higher, against that little spot, you jolt in his hand. a gasp ripping from your lips. "dad!"

"it's okay."

"it feels weird," you whimper.

"only for a little bit. it'll feel good, i promise. you trust me, don't you?"

you nod weakly, unable to find the voice or energy to protest.

bucky's fingers can't help but tug the gusset of your panties to the side. this is it. if he crosses this line, there is no coming back. his heartbeat sings in his veins, fingers drawn to your core like a magnet. the first touch of your pussy lips has him biting down on a moan.

you're so wet and you don't even understand why you're wet. you're so fucking sweet.

"this feels funny, dad," you say, nerves seeping into your words. "I don't know if this is right."

that should've been a sign for him to stop. he should've ended it there and apologized. but he thinks that he's been a good enough father so far, why can't he reward himself with a treat? he raised you to be good, so why can't you be good to him too?

"trust me, sweetheart. you're in good hands. just watch the movie. let your dad make you feel good."

a whimper slips past your lips when bucky dips a tentative finger in. you let out a squeak but you're sitting tense, obedient, on top of him. you're such a good girl for him. it only emboldens him as he pushes a finger fully into you, shifting so you can lean back against his chest and spread your legs even more for him.

"that's a good girl. you listen so well to me, baby."

"mmm," you whine, squirming. "feels— feels weird. it doesn't feel like— enough."

bucky stiffens at that. "'s not enough for you?"

your face contorts as you look down at where his finger is buried. "it doesn't feel full. just feels like teasing."

"you want another finger in you?" bucky murmurs, fully aware of what he's asking.

"mhmm," you nod, "please."

and who is bucky if not a good father? he eases another finger inside of you, one that wrenches a gasp from your chest. "how's that feel?"

"better but—" you wince, "it hurts a little."

that's because you've never had anything down there. the thought makes his cock ache. it's your first time filling yourself up and you're using your dad's fingers to do it.

"relax for me," he whispers, lips against your neck. "it'll be better if you don't tense up so much. i'll stretch you open. i need to get you ready."

"ready?" you echo dumbly as bucky begins to scissor his fingers open inside you, opening up your walls slowly like he's wading into deep waters.

the words had slipped out. you don't even know what comes next, how much bucky wants to feed you more than just his fingers. you're going to be learning more about your body tonight — and your father's.

"i'm going to put something else inside of you. it'll feel even better."

you hum, dazed as he pushes his fingers in and out of you slowly, allowing your juices to soak his digits completely. the squelching echoes, mixing in with the sounds coming from the show that you're no longer watching.

"what're you going to put in?"

bucky's heart jumps against his ribs. "do you want to see it?"

your teeth sink into your bottom lip, hesitant. but you nod anyway, curiosity getting the best of you. bucky doesn't move you off his lap, instead, he just pops open his button and slowly frees his cock without removing you.

his cock bounces, slapping against your pussy where you're sitting. you let out a small gasp and bucky groans at the sight of how big he is, how deep he'll be going inside of you.

"that's—" your words catch, "that's your penis, isn't it?"

"mhmm," he murmurs. "you learned that in biology class, didn't you?"

"yes," you whisper, "but that's only supposed to be for reproduction. you can't— i mean, you shouldn't be doing any more with it."

bucky lets out a pitying sound. "no, sweetheart, this can be for so much more. I'll show you what else you can do with it. how good it can feel. yes, you can use it for reproduction but that's not all."

he doesn't need to be thinking about reproduction right now. the thought of knocking up your mother to create you, only to have that strong desire to breed you too. he'd love to fuck his cum deep inside you, you probably don't even have birth control. the education system is too fucked to have taught you properly about safe sex.

"how would— um, how would it feel good?"

"you just have to put it in you, sweetheart."

your eyes widen, jaw falling open. "put that in me? that's so big, i can't possibly fit it."

"bucky nearly creams then and there with your words. how you could say such things with that face, purity and innocence clinging to your every syllable.

"we'll make it fit," he says softly, "you can sit yourself on me so you have more control. take as much as you can, slowly."

reluctance flickers across your eyes again and bucky, in his gut-wrenching impatience, has to resist lifting you up and dropping you straight down until you're crying. he has to play this safely. he can't scare you away yet.

"don't worry, dad's got you."

you plant on your hands on your knees as you lift yourself slowly, positioning his tip at your entrance. his cock twitches at the sight of your pert ass in his line of sight, his fingers twitching with the urge to smack it just because. he'll spank you another time, after he rewards you perhaps.

however, with how wet you are, the head of his cock keeps slipping, bumping instead against your clit. bucky has to push against his urge to fuck up into you every time it happens. finally, your hand wraps around his cock, catching him off guard. his hips jump at the unexpected touch but you're too focused on notching his tip inside you.

then it finally snags and the stretch is immediate based on your gasp. even the head of his cock is thick, leaking and red. he should put on a condom, should teach you how to be safe, but he's already dripping precum and the white liquid on your pussy lips has him throwing caution to the wind.

you slowly sink yourself down, lips parting, eyes widening with every inch you take. bucky is almost impressed when you manage to take in half of him before you grimace.

"hurts," you whimper.

"it's okay," he coos, "just pull out and then go back down again. you can keep doing that until you can take me all the way in."

you're still listening to him, doing as you're told like the sweet girl that you are. at least he's not lying, the more you ride him, the more inches of his cock you can take inside of you.

every time you sink down, your pussy clamps down around him and he has to squeeze his eyes shut, throw his head back against the couch as he tries his best not to finish so quickly. but his little girl's cunt feels like heaven around him, even more so when he remembers how he had been part of its creation.

he is a good man. he is simply helping his daughter understand how the world works, how her body works. how she can find pleasure.

when moans begin to fall from your pretty lips, bucky himself allows himself to groan from deep in his gut. his fingers find your hips to help ease you up and down, he can see how your pussy opens up to swallow his cock.

however, it is only when bucky begins to match your movements, lifting his hips just as you sink down, that your movements falter. it's as if there's an opening in the lustful haze that has clouded your judgment, a peek into the light.

you stop yourself and turn back to look at him. "dad, wait. stop. i don't think i want to do this anymore."

"i promise it'll get even better, sweetheart. you haven't even gotten to the best part yet."

"it feels so... wrong."

bucky strokes your face gently, pushing the hair away from your pout. "it can't be wrong if i'm telling you it's good for you. I'm your dad. you wanna be a good girl for your old man, don't you?"

your entire body goes taut, a whimper slipping past your lips. "i am a good girl."

"i know you are," he coaxes, "so open up your legs and let dad get his fill. you wanna make me happy, don't you?"

you nod, albeit slowly.

"good girl. my good, sweet girl. you've always been so good to your dad." bucky urges you to keep going, to keep riding. "tell me how it feels. i wanna hear it."

"f-feels good."

"what feels good?" he nudges you. "you can call it a cock, sweetheart."

you test the word out on your tongue and bucky almost cums into you. your sweet little lilt saying such a vulgar word while you fuck yourself on your dad's cock. it's what every man dreams of.

"your cock feels so good inside me," you moan, wanton need dripping from your every word.

"call me dad, sweetheart, be polite."

you bite your bottom lip and peek back at him. "your cock feels so good inside me, dad. thank you for making me feel good."

bucky can't help himself then, the last shred of his self-restraint burning away into ashes as he grabs your hips and begins to fuck himself up into you. your body lurches forward with every thrust, only for him to snatch you right back into him.

protests fall from your lips but they fall on deaf ears. all bucky can hear are your needy moans, the whimpers and the cries of pain. "stop, dad, please. not too hard. it hurts. you're hurting me!"

"not hurting you, sweetheart. you'll learn to take it. you'll learn to take dad's cock the way he likes it."

"n-no! no more! i don't want to do this anymore," you sob.

guilt is what he should feel, but his cock only thickens and twitches inside of you when he hears your tears. it's so cute seeing you cry around his cock, reminds him of your mother the first time she took his fat cock too. like mother, like daughter.

like her, you'll learn to enjoy your father's cock. he gropes your tits as he drives his cock deep inside you, pulling out every desperate cry from your lips until he can feel you squeeze around him. he knows you're getting close now. that orgasm — no matter how much you deny it, he knows what you want. what you need.

and what you need is for your father to take what he needs.

"you're going to cum, sweetheart. i feel it. you're close."

"c-cum?" you repeat through your cries.

"that's when you feel really good. you just need to take it, honey. take all of dad's cock. take all of my cock and my cum."

"dad, please—" just as you say it, he sees your body seize. the orgasm wracks through your being like lightning, a sudden flash that has you seeing stars. your mouth opens in a loud gasp as you jerk with every wave of pleasure that crashes through you.

that's all it takes for bucky to fuck one more time into you before he's spilling warmth. liquid heat filling your insides, clinging to your walls as you slump back against him.

"w-what is that?" you ask, "what's that inside?"

"that's daddy's cum inside you."

you tilt your head in confusion, exhaustion heaving in your chest. sweat has the two of you sticking together, two people becoming one.

bucky smiles, satisfied.

"maybe we should do a refresher on your biology class. how do you think a baby gets made?"

requested by anon: could you make a dad!bucky who takes his daughter virginity? and reader is naïve and really inexperienced requested by anon: Omg your blog is literally perfection 😎 i love the way you write for dad bucky. Idk if you take requests, but would you consider writing something about the first time dad bucky crosses the boundary with his daughter? What would the start of their perverse relationship be like? Would it be nonconsensual? I can see bucky molding his daughter into the perfect play thing, until she breaks and enjoys it, but idk if you're comfortable writing something that dark 🫣

a/n: i apologize for disappearing for a while. life has been a little rough lately so I'm not fully back but wanted to share what i managed to finish. thank you for your patience 💛 — divider by @/pxrce-lain

[buckysleftbicep]

no one else 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!dark!bucky barnes x fem!reader (non-con)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, non-con sex, forced oral (f and m rec), forced deepthroating, orgasm during assault, creampie without consent, size kink, physical restraint, verbal degradation, coercion, emotional manipulation, fear responses, delusional obsession, absolutely no consent throughout (please read all the warnings)

summary: you have a boyfriend, but bucky could care less. he waited, watched, let the fantasy of you rot until all that was left was his need and obsession.

word count: 4.1k

author's note: hi my loves! i took a break from writing dark fics, and i'm finally back with them! this fic consists of non-consensual sex, everything's in the warnings, please read them first! thank you for stopping by, love you guys and stay safe out there! 💌

It always started with you. Always.

Your face. Your laugh. The scent of your shampoo drifting down the hallway when you passed him, but it didn't matter. What mattered was that it lingered, stuck to his lungs like smoke. 

And it always ended the same way, him alone in the dark, jaw clenched, cock in hand, your name bitten into the curve of his tongue like a sin he wasn’t ready to repent for.

You didn’t know what you did to him. Maybe that was the worst part. The sweet, casual devastation of it. 

The way you flitted around the compound like a fucking angel, smiling at everyone, throwing out kindness like it cost absolutely nothing. You moved with the easy, blameless confidence of someone who had no idea they were being watched.

Worshipped. Studied. 

Every time you called him “Bucky,” you were wrapping a noose around his neck and pulling it tighter—and hell, you didn’t even realise.

He could handle the smiles, fuck, he could even stomach the soft laughs, the way you bumped his arm in the hallway like you were allowed to touch him, like you didn’t understand what that touch did to him. 

What he couldn’t handle… was the other guy. The one you dressed up for.

Tonight you wore black. A silky little thing that looked painted on, hugging your curves like it had been tailored just for him to rip off. The neckline dipped low, too low, and the hem barely reached your thighs. It moved when you walked, swaying like it knew exactly what it was doing to him. 

And the heels—fuck—the heels clicked against the floor with every step, each sound a god damn warning bell in his skull. 

Danger, danger, danger.

He would’ve dropped to his fucking knees and kissed them if you let him.

But you didn’t let him.

Instead, you let him. That boyfriend, that placeholder.

That soft, safe, civilian little fuck who didn’t know the first thing about what you needed. Didn’t know what it meant when your hands trembled, didn’t see how your pupils dilated just a fraction every time Bucky entered the room. Didn’t notice that your body responded to him.

Not your boyfriend. Him.

Bucky knew what to do with you, he’d dreamed it a hundred times. 

A thousand. 

No—he’d planned it. Every scenario. Every sound. Every twitch of your hips as he forced them apart. Fingers buried in your hair, tears on your cheeks, thighs shaking around his face. His cock, thick, heavy, yours, slamming into you from behind while you sobbed his name into the pillow like a prayer turned sacrilege.

You’d fight. Of course you would. You’d cry. Say no. 

But your body would betray you. He knew it would.

That was the part he thought about the most. 

The moment where your “no” would melt into a “please.” The way your voice would break. The moment you realised—no one would ever fuck you the way he could.

You would beg for it, not with words. Never with words. You wore temptation like a crown and never even noticed who you were ruling.

He tried to be good. Fuck, he tried.

He left gifts. Dropped as many hints as he could. Brought you coffee when you looked tired, memorised the way your eyes lit up at stupid little things like that advertisement about adopting abandoned puppies. He laughed at your jokes and waited for you to look at him the way he looked at you.

But you didn’t.

You were blind. Blind and soft and so goddamn ignorant of the way you made him ache.

Until tonight.

Because tonight… Bucky wasn’t waiting anymore.

He was going to show you.

Bucky let himself into your room exactly forty minutes after you left. Picked the lock with practiced ease and entered without hesitation. Sat on the edge of your bed like he belonged there. 

The shadows welcomed him. The silence swallowed the sound of his breath. He stared at your pillow like it was something sacred. Inhaled your scent. Let his fingers curl around your blanket like they were already touching you.

And then he waited.

He waited for the sound of heels on the floor. For the delicate click of your key sliding into the lock of your room. And when the door opened, when you pushed into the room with a breathless little sigh, humming under your breath, drunk on cheap wine and a forgettable man—he felt it.

That hunger. That rage. That need.

You didn’t scream when you saw him.

You should have.

You just smiled, sleepy, unbothered. That same stupid sweet smile that used to make his chest burn before it made his cock twitch.

“Hey, Buck,” you said, your voice warm and airy. “What’s up?”

Still glowing. Lipstick smeared at the corners of your mouth. Perfume clinging to your throat like a lover’s kiss. Hair mussed from hands that didn’t belong to him.

His vision tinted red.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched you reach for your earrings, humming like he wasn’t in the room, like he wasn’t staring at you like prey.

Your back was turned. Your neck was bared.

He wondered if your boyfriend had marked you. He hoped not.

Because that was his job.

You turned to face him then. And something in your expression shifted.

“…Is everything okay?”

“No,” Bucky said, standing. “Not really.”

He moved slowly. Controlled. Like something that had waited years to pounce.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. His voice was soft. Careful.

You blinked. “Bucky—”

“I mean really thinking, sweetheart, every night. For weeks.”

You stepped back. Just one step. Subtle. But he noticed.

“We’ve talked about this,” you said carefully. “You know I—”

“Have a boyfriend,” he finished.

He chuckled. A hollow, bitter sound.

“Yeah. I know.”

He crossed the distance between you in two long strides. His shadow swallowed yours.

“You think he makes you happy?” he asked, voice quiet. Dangerous. “You think he even knows how to touch you?”

Your lips parted. “Please don’t—”

“Does he know how wet you get when someone puts their hand on your throat?”

The air stopped moving.

“Does he know how you clench your thighs together when I walk past you in the gym?”

You inhaled sharply. And something inside him snapped.

“You wore that little black dress for him?” he whispered, his fingers brushing your bare thigh. “Or was it for me?”

“Stop it,” you breathed, shrinking back.

But it was too late.

He grabbed you—fast, brutal. Vibranium hand clamped around your wrist, dragging you forward, slamming you against the wall.

You gasped, the impact jarring.

He loomed over you, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. You could smell him—leather and sweat and heat. 

“Let me ask you something,” he said, his voice low and rough, almost amused. “Has your boyfriend ever filled this little pussy up ‘til you cried?”

“Bucky, stop—”

“Ever made you come with his mouth while you begged him to stop and keep going all at once?”

Tears welled in your eyes, but he wasn’t done.

“Ever pinned you down,” he murmured, voice dipping lower, “and fucked you so good you couldn’t walk the next day?”

You shook your head.

Not no.

Just fear, shock, and disbelief.

“Thought so,” he muttered. His hand tightened on your wrist. “You’ve been walking around here like you don’t belong to someone. Like this body isn’t mine.”

Your breath hitched.

“I tried being patient,” he said, almost to himself. “I really did. But you keep wearing things like that. Keep smiling at me like you don’t know. You keep fucking pretending.”

He smiled then. Sharp. Crooked. Hungry.

“Tonight, I’m going to give you exactly what you’ve been asking for.”

Your lips parted. To beg. To scream. To say no.

But he kissed you first.

And it didn’t matter anymore.

You didn’t make it to the door.

Bucky dragged you backward, one hand still locked around your wrist while the other slid up your thigh—rough, possessive, not fumbling but practiced. Confident. Like he’d touched you a thousand times in his head and knew exactly how and where to hurt you best.

You struggled and he laughed.

“You’re so soft when you squirm,” he muttered, spinning you in his grip and slamming you back into the wall. 

The picture frame above your bed rattled. Your hands clawed at him, trying to shove him back, but he just grabbed both wrists and pinned them above your head with his vibranium hand. The other curled beneath your jaw, thumb dragging over your lips.

“You think that little boyfriend of yours would fight for you like this?” he whispered, tongue flicking against his teeth. “Think he’d bleed for you? Kill for you? You know I would.”

His mouth found your neck. You gasped as he bit down—not gentle. No. Hard. Bruising. Like he wanted to leave proof behind, like he wanted your skin to remember him.

“Bucky—please,” you breathed, trembling.

“Shh,” he said, grinning. “We’re past talking now, princess.”

And then he dropped to his knees.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t worship. It was hunger. Obsession. Something primal he’d been starving down for too long. You kicked at him—once, twice—until he grabbed your thighs and threw you backward onto the bed. 

The world spun, the mattress dipped. And before you could scream, he was between your legs like a man possessed.

“Don’t fight me,” he said softly. “You’ll love this part.”

He yanked your dress up to your hips. Cold air kissed the tops of your thighs. And then—

“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, voice dark with lust. “Look at you.”

Your panties were soaked through. A fragile wisp of black lace that did nothing to hide the heat between your legs. 

Bucky’s pupils blew wide.

“You wore these for him?” he asked, voice mocking. “These cheap little things?”

He hooked a finger through the fabric and ripped. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the room. Torn lace fluttered to the floor. 

You sobbed, curling away from him, but his arms caged you in. Knees pinning your thighs open. Shoulders wedged between them. His face so close you could feel the heat of his breath fan over your exposed cunt.

“Look at this pretty pussy,” he whispered. “So wet for me already.”

“It’s not—Bucky, don’t—”

“Liar,” he growled, and then—

He devoured you.

Tongue hot, thick, rough as it dragged up the full length of your slit. His nose pressed deep into your folds, inhaling like your scent was a drug he needed to stay alive.

He moaned into your cunt, mouth working in wet, messy circles that made your hips jerk against your will.

Your fists beat weakly at his shoulders. He didn’t care. Didn’t stop.

He ate you like a man starved, tongue stroking deep, wide, purposeful. His lips closed over your clit and sucked, pulling the sound right out of your throat. 

A loud, shattering gasp you didn’t mean to make.

“Oh, baby…” he laughed darkly. “You didn’t know you needed this, did you?”

“Please—” you sobbed. “Stop—don’t—”

But your body betrayed you, your hips rocked into his face. Your thighs trembled. And when his vibranium hand pinned your stomach flat to the bed, holding you still, you whimpered.

That was all the permission he needed.

“Yeah,” he growled. “That’s it. Let me hear it. Let me hear what he’s never earned.”

He fucked you with his tongue, fingers digging into your thighs so tight you knew they’d bruise. Your vision blurred, your spine arched. You were crying and gasping and wet in a way you couldn’t stop, couldn’t control, and he knew it.

“Practically begging me to fuck you,” he rasped, voice soaked in triumph.

And then it hit.

The orgasm slammed through you like a fucking car crash. Your body convulsed, mouth open in a soundless cry as wave after wave shattered through your core, your clit throbbing against his lips as he sucked every last tremor out of you with vicious, greedy delight.

You didn’t mean to cum. You didn’t want to.

But you did.

Hard.

Your thighs shook violently, your eyes flooded. And Bucky moaned into you like your pleasure was his oxygen.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was glistening.

“I knew you’d taste good,” he said, licking your slick from his lips. “Fucking knew it.”

You curled into yourself, shaking, broken. Eyes wide and wet and ruined.

He didn’t care.

Because now, he was standing. Unbuckling his belt. And pulling out the one thing you were never meant to see.

His cock.

It was thick. Heavy. Veined. Leaking at the tip. Too big to be real. The kind of size you only ever joked about. The kind that hurt.

You stared. He smiled.

“You gonna cry about it?” he asked, stroking the length slowly, watching your expression twist. “Or are you gonna open that pretty little mouth and say thank you?”

You tried to crawl away, he grabbed your hair and dragged you forward.

You didn’t want to look at it. Didn’t want to see the way his hand curled around that monstrous length—slow, possessive strokes like he was showing off, like he knew the size alone would scare you. 

And it did. It fucking did.

Thick. Hard. Veins raised and pulsing under flushed skin, the tip angry and red, already leaking for you. Too big, too much and your heart sank when you realised he was stroking it with practiced ease, already imagining how deep he’d stuff it down your throat.

“Bucky…” Your voice was barely a whisper.

He grabbed your hair and forced your eyes back up to his. “Open your mouth.”

You shook your head, trembling. “Please, don’t make me—”

His grip tightened. “You came for me. I tasted it. Don’t play innocent now, baby.”

You whimpered as he pushed your face down, his cock dragging across your cheek, smearing precum across your flushed skin like a mark of ownership.

“You’re mine,” he said softly. “All those nights I lay in bed thinking about this pretty little mouth… All those fucking times you laughed at my jokes like I couldn’t see through it. Like I wasn’t good enough.”

He pressed the swollen head of his cock to your lips. “I am good enough princess, I’m the only one who deserves you.”

You tried to turn away. He didn’t let you. He forced your mouth open, sliding the tip past your lips. 

Salty. Warm. Violent.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Don’t be shy.”

You gagged immediately as the thick weight of him pushed deeper. Your throat clenched, but he didn’t stop.

His hips rolled forward slowly, deliberately, dragging his cock deeper inch by inch like he wanted to feel every tear slipping from your eyes as your mouth stretched around him.

His hand cradled the back of your head, holding you in place as your jaw ached, your throat spasmed, and saliva spilled from the corners of your lips.

“There you go,” he groaned, head falling back. “Just like that, princess. This mouth was fucking made for me.”

You choked, pulling at his wrist, but he was unmovable.

“Look at you,” he murmured, gaze dropping back to yours. “Crying so pretty for my cock.”

He rocked his hips again. Deeper. Rougher. You gagged, coughed, nose pressing into the base of him as your throat convulsed helplessly around the intrusion.

“Fuck, yes,” he hissed. “That tight throat. You feel that? Feel how deep you’re taking me?”

You could barely breathe. Your lungs screamed.

He pulled back—just enough to let you gasp—and then shoved back in with a grunt that made your whole body flinch. Your lips were slick with spit and precum, chin dripping, hair tangled in his fist like reins.

“I could fuck your throat for hours,” he growled, voice wrecked. “Could keep you down there all night if I wanted. You’ll take it and you’ll learn. Your little boyfriend won't recognise you when I’m done.”

He gave one last brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and you let out a broken, strangled sob.

He held you there. Trembling, gagging. 

Then finally—finally—he pulled out.

You collapsed onto your hands, coughing and choking, spit dripping from your mouth to the sheets.

But it wasn’t over.

It was never going to be over.

Because now he was grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach like a ragdoll, dragging you to the edge of the bed.

“Bucky—please, I can’t—”

“You will.”

He yanked your hips up, spread your legs.

You weren’t even sure when he’d fully undressed you—but now your ass was bare, your thighs trembling, your cunt wet and swollen and exposed to the cold air. You tried to twist away. His hand came down hard on your ass.

SMACK.

You cried out.

“I said,” he gritted, lining the thick head of his cock up to your entrance, “you’re mine.”

He pushed.

Your breath caught. You felt the pressure first—terrifying, splitting pressure—then the pain. Stretching.

Too much.

“It’s not gonna fit,” you sobbed, voice high, panicked. “Bucky—it’s too big—”

He grabbed your jaw, forcing your head back toward him.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispered, eyes burning. “I’ll make it fit just fine.”

And then he slammed into you.

You screamed.

The force of it knocked the air from your lungs. The burn was unbearable, your walls stretched to accommodate him and failed. Every inch of him was violent, forcing you wider, deeper than you’d ever been taken before.

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned, hips grinding against your ass. “So tight. So fucking tight.”

You were crying again, face pressed into the sheets, hands clutching the blanket like it might save you, stop the way your body was being pulled apart from the inside.

But he didn’t slow down.

He fucked you with brutal thrusts, each one harder than the last. You sobbed into the pillow. Your thighs shook. But his grip only tightened. One hand on your hip, the other on the back of your neck, pinning you down like prey.

“You like this,” he hissed. “Your cunt’s gripping me like a fucking vice.”

You hated him, fuck, you hated him. Most of all, you hated the way your body betrayed you.

Because somewhere in the pain, the burning, the shame—you started to moan.

And he heard it.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “I knew you could take it. Knew you’d fucking love it once I broke you in.”

His pace turned punishing, skin slapping skin. Sweat beading down his temple as he fucked into you with mindless need.

You felt it—your climax, that horrible, traitorous heat building between your legs again. You tried to resist it, bite it back, choke it down.

But it came anyway.

You clenched around him, spasming, crying out as your body convulsed on his cock, the pleasure so sharp it almost felt like pain.

“Oh, baby,” Bucky moaned, voice raw. “You wanna cum for me again?”

You were sobbing. “Please, no more—”

But then he bent low, lips against your ear, and whispered, 

“I’m gonna cum inside you.”

You stiffened.

“No—Bucky—don’t—please—”

“I’m gonna fill this perfect little pussy up,” he gritted, driving into you even harder. “Stuff you full. You want it, don’t you?”

“No—”

“Say it.”

You shook your head.

“Fucking say it.”

His hand gripped your throat.

And in the weakest, most broken voice you’d ever heard from yourself, you whispered, 

“…fill me up. Please.”

He groaned, deep and ragged, and came with a violent thrust that made your legs buckle. Hot, pulsing ropes filled you as his body trembled over yours, cock twitching, breath ragged, forehead pressed to your back.

“You’re mine now,” he murmured, voice low and content. “Every inch of you. Every hole. Every fucking drop.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

He stayed inside you. Stayed buried deep. And when he finally pulled out, thick warmth spilled down your thighs and soaked the sheets.

You didn’t move for a long time. You couldn’t.

Your body was frozen in the wreckage—legs parted, cunt throbbing, slick dripping down your inner thighs and soaking into the sheets beneath you. The air clung to your skin like sweat and salt, thick with the scent of sex and sweat. 

Your limbs shook, your spine refused to obey. Nerves shot and frayed, lungs still working to remember how to breathe. Everything ached, your jaw, your throat, your pussy. Even your ribs, stretched from sobbing, from screaming. 

Because it wasn’t over. You knew that even before you heard it. Before the mattress dipped under his weight. Before you felt his fingers brush your cheek with that awful, twisted tenderness that made your stomach roll like bile. 

Not rough this time. Not greedy. Just… soft. Gentle.

That was worse.

“Shh, sweetheart,” Bucky murmured, voice low again. Quiet. Almost sweet. Almost like he cared. Like he hadn’t just ripped you in half and made you beg for it. 

“You did so good for me.”

You flinched.

He only hummed, casual and pleased, and leaned closer—mouth warm against your skin as he pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips, like he had the right. Like it was his. Like he hadn’t just stolen it from you.

You jerked your head away. Disgust pulsed through you like electricity. But it didn’t matter.

His hand followed.

Fingers curled around your jaw, firm but not cruel. Not now. He guided your face back to his with the ease of a man who’d done it before—who planned to do it again.

His thumb dragged across your tear-streaked cheek, slow and soothing, like he was calming a frightened pet.

“I know you’re scared,” he whispered, lips ghosting against your temple now. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be. Not anymore.”

You tried to speak. You didn’t even know what you would’ve said..

“I’ve got you now.” Another kiss, this time to your hairline. Gentle. Sickening. “No one’s ever gonna touch you again. Not him. Not anyone.”

He laid down behind you, chest pressing to your spine, his arm draping possessively over your middle.

You felt his cock, still half-hard, still sticky from the mess he left inside you, settle against your ass. His breathing slowed as he sank into the warmth of your body like he was slipping into a dream.

Like this was home. Like this was what he’d earned.

“I should’ve done this sooner,” he murmured, voice thick with something you didn’t want to name. “All that time I wasted… trying to be gentle. Trying to wait.”

His hand slid lower, fingers brushing over the curve of your stomach, dipping toward where your thighs were still wet. 

You tensed instinctively.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he continued, far too calm for someone who had just broken you. “Didn’t want to hurt you.”

His fingers moved slower now, tracing the edge of your hip like he was thinking. Calculating. 

“But you like it, don’t you, baby?”

You sobbed softly, silently. Pillow soaked. Every breath a betrayal, every second a reminder that you were still here. Still under him. Still his.

“That little pussy of yours didn’t lie,” he chuckled darkly, “Gripped my cock like you fucking needed it.”

You turned your face away again.

He followed.

Kissed the slope of your shoulder. Your neck. Breathed you in like you were something sacred, something his, something he owned now.

“Your boyfriend would’ve never given you that,” he murmured. “Would’ve never taken care of you the way I will.”

He rolled your limp body further into his. One leg slung over yours, pinning you completely. Caged. Trapped. 

His hand twisted into your hair and tugged gently, like he wanted you to listen, like you hadn’t already heard too much.

“You don’t need to ask permission anymore,” he whispered, breath hot against your skin. “You don’t have to say no. You’re mine now and I take what’s mine.”

You shook your head. Weakly. Broken. “Please… don’t…”

He smiled. You felt it against your skin, warm and cruel.

“I’m going to keep you, you know.”

Your stomach turned.

“You won’t have to pretend anymore. No more dates. No more makeup. No more tight little dresses for other men.” His voice dropped, words curling into your ear like a threat. “You only dress like that for me now.”

You cried harder. He didn’t care.

His fingers drifted lower again, between your thighs. Slid through the slick mess still leaking from you. The mess he put there. The mess he made.

“God,” he groaned, almost reverent. “You’re so full, look at this. Look what I did to you.”

You tried to close your legs. He didn’t let you.

“I’ll fuck it into you again in the morning,” he whispered, voice already thick with sleep. “Until you can’t remember his name.”

You froze.

He kissed your shoulder one last time. Lingering. Possessive.

And then he closed his eyes.

Like this was love. Like this was normal. Like this was only the beginning.

And he had no intention of ever letting you go.

a/n: this fic was a blast to write, it probably includes everything from my wildest imagination. i hope you enjoyed it and if you did, please leave a comment or a reblog, it helps motivate me! 🥰

[castielscaplan]

With the Lights Off

Summary: You should feel safe with him. He’s your closest friend, the one who watches over you, the one you trust enough to fall asleep beside without worry. But when your guard is down, when you’re at your most vulnerable, he lets the obsession he’s been burying finally consume him.

Warnings: somnophilia, noncon?, fingering, Dark!Bucky, Possessiveness, Obbessive behavior, Toxic dynamic

WC: 395

Read on ao3! Tag List!

The next night, you barely noticed the change. You went to bed early, exhausted, drifting off the moment your head hit the pillow.

But Bucky noticed. He always did.

He’d waited until your breathing settled into that slow, rhythmic pattern that meant you were deep enough to dream. Only then did he slip into your room, silent as a shadow.

He sat at the edge of the bed, watching you. He should’ve felt guilt. Maybe even shame. But instead, he felt a vicious thrill clawing at his chest—the same one that had consumed him the night before when your body had welcomed him in your half-sleep.

You shifted beneath the sheets, murmuring his name faintly, and that was all the permission he needed.

This time, he didn’t bother with slow touches. His hands dragged your shorts down, leaving you bare beneath the blanket. He admired the sight, the soft vulnerability of you. The way you spread open without even realizing.

“Look at you,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Waitin’ for me, huh? Can’t fool me, doll.”

You stirred, eyes fluttering half-open, lips parting as if to speak—but Bucky was already pushing himself inside you.

The sudden fullness had your back arching, a muffled gasp spilling out. You blinked in confusion, groggy, dream-slow. “B-Bucky…?”

He hushed you with a hand over your mouth, leaning close, his hips grinding steady and deep. “Yeah, sweetheart. Just me. Just a dream. Don’t wake up.”

Your body clung to him, too weak to resist, too drowsy to understand. He pounded into you harder than the first time, his self-restraint snapping. The mattress creaked beneath the force, his metal hand locked around your thigh, keeping you wide open for him.

Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes—not from fear, but from the overwhelming flood of sensation your half-asleep brain couldn’t process. Bucky kissed them away, groaning against your cheek.

“You don’t even know how perfect you are for me. Nothin’s ever gonna stop me from takin’ what’s mine.”

When he came, it was violent, shuddering, his seed filling you in a way that made his possessive streak ache with satisfaction. He stayed buried inside, grinding lazily, savoring every second of your limp, pliant body around him.

And when you slipped fully under again, lost to unconsciousness, Bucky whispered against your ear, “Tomorrow, doll. I’ll be back tomorrow.”