#vampire bucky

[digital-nocturne]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Very, very, messy loose sketch of vampire Bucky and human Steve for fun.

Also have to feed the part of my brain that needs occasional sub top Bucky x dom bottom Steve, thank youuu. Telling you rn steve was riding until Bucky was out cold.

Anyways, thank you so much for all the asks I’ve been getting I’m going to get back to answering them since I’m not feeling super motivated, hopefully I can get back on the ball and open my comms soon.

[mandoalorian]

taste of you [vampire!bucky barnes x f!reader]

Synopsis: You’ve always dreamed of him—ice blue eyes, a dangerous smile, and a hunger that feels too real to forget. But when dreams slip into reality, you find yourself caught between desire and damnation. He’s waited a century for you… and he won’t wait another night.

Rating/Warnings: 18+ explicit content, smut, unprotected p in v, fingering, public sex, dub-con (?), biting, horror elements, vampires obvs— mentions of blood, dream walking, allusions to stalking, allusions to murder, Possessive!Bucky, you are desperate, dark romance, alternate universe

Word count: 3600>

Author’s Note: My first ever supernatural themed fic? I don’t think I’ve ever wrote anything like this before so, I’m feeling super nervous to share. Vampire!Bucky was something @ava-starrs-girlfriend put into my head, and gave me the green light to share my idea on it!

── .✦ Bucky Barnes Masterlist

The first time you dreamed of him, it felt like drowning.

Not in water — in silk, in smoke, in heat. In him.

You were in a room that wasn’t yours. High ceilings, windows that bled moonlight, a bed draped in red velvet. Somewhere far off, a record hissed low, a mournful jazz tune threading through the air like incense. The kind of place that clung to you. The kind of place you'd never been, but somehow knew.

You stood barefoot on cold stone, your breath misting like winter. The air tasted of copper and something sweet — like wine on someone else's lips. Every hair on your body stood on end.

And then he stepped out of the shadows.

Tall. Broad. Dressed in black like the night belonged to him.

You couldn’t see his face — not really — just a glint of silver at his hand, and the glimmer of eyes too blue to be real. They raked over you with heat, dragging up from your ankles, your hips, your chest. Not leering. Claiming.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

You should have run. Instead, you stood there, heart galloping, blood roaring in your ears — because something inside you whispered you know him. Your soul reacted before your brain could. The fear melted beneath the heat curling low in your stomach.

His footsteps echoed softly as he crossed the room.

You didn’t breathe until he was right in front of you — close enough to smell. Spice and ash. Rain and old paper. Something ancient. Something wrong. Something perfect.

He raised a hand and ghosted his knuckles down your cheek. Cold skin that left a trail of fire. You shivered, and he smiled.

“Been a long time,” he murmured.

His voice was dark velvet — old-world charm stretched over something rougher, deeper, dangerous. Your lips parted, but no words came. His thumb traced your bottom lip, slow and reverent.

“Do you know why you dream of me?” he asked.

You swallowed. Shook your head.

He stepped closer, chest brushing yours. “Because I’ve been dreaming of you, too.”

Then his hand slid to your neck — not choking, just resting, his thumb pressed to your fluttering pulse. You tilted your chin without meaning to. His mouth hovered over yours, and the moment stretched — hot and thick and unbearable.

You whispered, “Who are you?”

His lips brushed your jaw. His breath stirred your hair. And he said, low and dangerous:

“Yours.”

You woke with a gasp, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, thighs clenched, heart pounding.

And still — still — you swore you could feel his hand on your throat.

It had been weeks since this man had started visiting you in your dreams, and now it was a nightly thing. Routine. Too much to be a coincidence. Hell, you’d hate to admit it, but part of you looked forward to it. His lingering touch and his words laced with honey. Your therapist could not find out about this. 

But your hand had drifted to your neck sometime after midnight — to that same spot where he’d touched you in the very first dream. You didn’t remember closing your eyes.

You didn’t remember slipping under.

But you remembered him.

The room was the same as always. Cold stone, velvet sheets, soft shadows stretching like fingers across the floor. But this time, there was no distance between you.

He was already there.

Behind you.

You felt him before you saw him — a presence at your back, heat pouring off him in waves. His breath ghosted over your bare shoulder, and you shuddered.

“You came back,” he murmured.

“I didn’t mean to.”

His chuckle was soft. Amused. “No one ever does.”

He didn’t touch you — not yet — but you felt the space between you shrink. Your body lit up like it was wired to his, like his nearness alone could bend your spine, tilt your head, open your mouth.

“I still don’t know your name,” you whispered.

“You will.”

You closed your eyes. “Are you real?”

That question hung between you, thick as smoke. He didn’t answer. Instead, you felt the press of his hand — low on your abdomen, fingers splayed just beneath your navel, grounding you, possessive without being forceful.

“I shouldn’t let you come back,” he said softly, lips at your ear now. “It gets harder to stay away.”

He dragged his hand upward, slow, slow, until your breath caught in your throat. When it reached your sternum, he splayed it flat, just over your heart. His touch was cold, but it burned. Everything in you turned molten.

Your body was betraying you.

“I wake up aching,” you breathed. “Why do I feel you after I wake?”

“Because I leave pieces of myself behind,” he said.

He turned you slowly to face him.

This time, you saw him.

Blue eyes, impossibly blue. Long lashes, dark brows pulled into a faint furrow — like he was constantly torn between tenderness and hunger. His mouth was plush and unsmiling. A scar split his eyebrow. Another carved through the side of his throat.

“Who are you?” you asked again.

He cupped your face with both hands, and this time his voice was hoarse, almost reverent.

“I’ve had many names,” he said. “But yours is the only one I crave on my tongue.”

Then he kissed you.

And it was nothing like you’d imagined. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet.

It was starving.

He kissed you like he needed it to live. Like you were something vital, something he’d been denied for too long. His lips claimed yours, his tongue slid deep, his hand twisted into your hair. You clung to him like gravity had failed, and only he could anchor you.

When he broke away, your lips were swollen, your chest heaving, and his fangs were showing.

Not fully.

Just enough.

“I shouldn’t touch you yet,” he whispered. “You’re not ready.”

Your voice was hoarse when you said, “For what?”

His eyes darkened. He leaned down, kissed the side of your neck — just a brush — and your knees almost buckled.

“To be mine.”

You woke with a moan caught in your throat, blankets kicked to the floor, skin flushed and slick with sweat.

And your neck?

Still tingled.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

You weren’t planning on going out.

You hadn’t slept properly in days. The dreams were getting worse — or better, depending on how you looked at them. Last night, you woke up gasping his name. You didn’t even know his name. And yet it was on your lips like a prayer, or a curse.

So when your friend dragged you out to a downtown club, you figured a little noise, a little vodka, and a lot of distraction might snap you out of it.

But the second you walked through the doors, your skin prickled.

Something was off.

It wasn’t the music — a throbbing bass-heavy track that vibrated in your chest — or the lights, which flickered in pulsing shades of red. It wasn’t the crowd either, though they pressed in tight, loud and laughing and drunk on Saturday-night sin.

It was the feeling.

Like you were being watched.

No — hunted.

You brushed it off. Dismissed the chill. Ordered a drink. Laughed when your friend pulled you toward the dance floor.

But that feeling stayed — low in your spine, coiled around your ribs. Like a string was tied to your chest, tugging you toward something you couldn’t see.

And then you did see him.

At first, he blended into the shadows above the main floor, just another dark figure in the mezzanine. But the moment your eyes locked, the rest of the world fell away.

Time stopped.

He wasn’t dancing.

He wasn’t drinking.

He just stood there — still as stone — with one hand resting on the brass railing, the other tucked into the pocket of a long black coat. His face was half-cast in shadow, but his eyes… those eyes.

They glowed faintly in the red strobe light. Icy blue. Familiar.

Dream-blue.

Your stomach dropped. You blinked hard.

No. No way.

He wasn’t real. He couldn’t be. He was just a figment — a fever dream stitched together by sleepless nights and too much alcohol and your traitorous imagination.

And yet…

He didn’t look away.

You did. You had to.

Your breath came shallow as you turned back to the bar, heart racing. You tossed back your drink like it could burn him out of your system. When your friend leaned in to say something, you barely heard her.

Because you could feel him still.

Watching.

Claiming.

Like you’d walked into his territory, not the other way around.

You turned back to the mezzanine.

He was gone.

A soft thud startled you — the bartender setting another glass in front of you. You shook your head. “I didn’t order—”

“It’s already paid for,” he said. “Guy said to give you this, too.”

A folded scrap of thick black paper.

You unfolded it slowly. Your hands trembled.

I’ve been waiting for you. — James Buchanan Barnes.

Your pulse stuttered.

And somewhere deep inside you, something clicked into place. The name. You knew it.

Not from this world.

But from your dreams.

You pushed the note into your bra and with shaky hands, whipped out your phone, the bright white light illuminating your face in the dark club. Sipping on your drink that the ghost had bought for you, you narrowed your eyes, focusing on the Google search.

James Buchanan Barnes. Brooklyn, NY.

No relevant searches. Just the obituaries for a man who died in 1945. Disappeared before the war could end. Left a surviving sister. Never seen again. That would make him at least 100 years old now. It couldn’t be…

That would be impossible.

You left the club before midnight.

Told your friend you had a headache. Lied through your teeth. You couldn’t tell her the truth — that the air in there felt too heavy, too thick with him. That you kept seeing those blue eyes everywhere. That you could still feel his gaze, sliding over your skin like a velvet rope.

You just needed air.

Needed to forget.

But the moment you stepped into the alley behind the club, the night folded in around you like a trap.

The city was loud on the other side of the brick wall — traffic, shouting, laughter — but here, in the narrow space between the buildings, everything went still.

You turned right.

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall beneath a broken red light, half-shadowed. Waiting.

Just waiting.

Your breath caught. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

His coat was open now, revealing a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hands were in his pockets. His head tilted slightly to one side, like he was studying you.

“Don’t scream,” he said softly.

You didn’t plan to.

Your body betrayed you instantly — pulse fluttering, mouth parting, that now-familiar ache building low and hot. Even your dreams hadn’t prepared you for how devastating he was in the flesh. Older than he looked. Timeless. Unnerving. Beautiful in a way that felt unnatural.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

You took a step back anyway. “Who are you?”

He didn’t move from the wall. Didn’t smile.

“You already know.”

You shook your head. “No, I don’t. You’re—this isn’t real.”

“I’ve been in your dreams for weeks.”

His voice was calm. Deep. That dark velvet again. “You’ve felt me watching you. Craving you.”

Your back hit the opposite wall. The cold brick grounded you.

“What do you want from me?” you whispered.

His gaze dropped — slowly — from your eyes to your lips, then lower. Taking you in, like he’d done from the shadows. Like he’d done every night.

“I want you to stop pretending you don’t want this too.”

You swallowed hard. Heat coiled in your gut. “You’re not—human.”

He stepped closer now, finally pushing off the wall. His boots were silent on the pavement.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

He moved like liquid shadow, fluid and controlled. When he reached you, he didn’t touch you. He just stood there, close enough to taste. The scent of him hit you — leather, smoke, something cold and earthy like a forest at night.

You tilted your chin defiantly. “You’ve been haunting me.”

His eyes darkened. “You called me.”

A beat of silence. Then:

“Every time you dreamed of me. Every time you whispered my name. Every time your hand slipped beneath your sheets with me in your head—you called me.”

Your cheeks burned.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “And now I’m here.”

Still, he didn’t touch you.

He just watched as you trembled beneath his gaze. As your body betrayed your fear — and your hunger.

“I should let you go,” he said, almost to himself. “You don’t know what I am. What I’ve done. I kill men who look at you the wrong way.”

Your breath hitched. Your thighs pressed together. A horrible, horrible part of you liked the way he said it. Like he’d already done it.

You took a step back, your gut telling you to run.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, voice low, smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous.

Your back hit the brick wall. You weren’t sure if it was fear or desire — maybe both — but your breath stuttered.

“You—” you began.

“I know,” he said.

He was in front of you now. Cornering you. Close. So close. The scent of him hit you — woodsmoke, leather, the faintest copper note that made your stomach twist with something primal.

“You shouldn’t be real,” you whispered.

He smiled then. A slow, devastating curve of his lips. He pressed forward — one hand gripping your hip, the other braced against the wall beside your head. Your gasp escaped before you could catch it, heat flooding your body.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, mouth ghosting your jaw.

You didn’t.

His lips trailed lower, to your neck, and lingered. He didn’t bite. Not yet. But you felt his breath there, the drag of his nose along your pulse.

“I’ve waited long enough,” he rasped. “Watched you. Hungered for you.”

His hand slid down your side, slow, claiming. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your dress, dragging up your thigh until you whimpered.

Your voice trembled. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I won’t,” he said, eyes glowing. “But I’m not going to be gentle either.”

His mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t a kiss, not really — it was a claim. All teeth and tongue, rough and demanding, like he meant to consume you. You moaned into it, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt as your body arched into his.

He groaned, low in his throat. Like the taste of you had undone him.

“Fuck,” he growled against your mouth. “You taste— exactly like I knew you would.”

Then he dragged your leg up around his hip, pressing you harder into the wall, the sharp bite of brick against your back barely registering over the dizzying heat flooding your core. His hand found its way to your thighs, his touch teasing, skilled, possessive.

You gasped at the sound: a faint, mechanical whir, like gears shifting. Metal. You blinked. The arm holding you up wasn’t flesh—it’s blackened steel, marked with strange golden runes and claw-like scars etched deep into the plating.

He saw the question on your face. The way your eyes flicked down to where his hand gripped your thigh like it was made for nothing else.

“They didn’t just turn me,” he growls. “They rebuilt me.”

His voice is like gravel dragged through blood.

“Who?” you breathe.

His mouth brushes your jaw, your throat. Not biting—savoring. His voice is low, hateful.

“Hydra. They called it an enhancement. A fusion of sorcery and science. Said a soldier like me deserved to live forever.” His nose skims your skin. “Didn’t tell me I’d have to feed to stay sane.”

Your breath stutters. “And now?”

His lips hover over the pulse in your neck.

“Now I’ve gone longer than I should. And you—” his hand slides between your thighs, metal fingers dragging over your panties like he’s memorizing you— “you’ve been dreaming of this. Of me.”

You whimper, hips lifting into the pressure.

His flesh hand slid up under your dress like he had every right to be there, dragging hot fingers along your thigh until they met your underwear. He didn’t pause. Didn’t ask.

Just hooked a finger under the soaked fabric and tore it aside.

A sharp gasp escaped you. His gaze darkened.

“I’ve imagined you like this,” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw. “Begging. Wet. Mine.”

He was everywhere — his mouth at your throat, his voice in your ear, his fingers pushing you toward the edge. Your body betrayed you with every sound, every roll of your hips into his palm.

And as the tension inside you snapped — as he held you through it, murmuring your name like a vow — you realized something terrifying.

This wasn’t the end of a dream.

It was the beginning of something you wouldn’t be able to walk away from.

He kissed like a man who was finally touching what he’d starved for, and you couldn’t keep up. Your body just responded, thighs trembling, hands in his hair, heart galloping like prey.

“So wet for me,” he muttered, voice guttural, feral. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Two fingers slid between your folds — slow, hot, claiming. He growled low at the way you clenched around him, like he felt how long you’d been dreaming of this. Of him.

“Is this what you needed?” he rasped, pumping them deeper. “When you touched yourself at night? You wanted this?”

You moaned — high and breathless — as his thumb found your clit and circled hard. He fingered you fast, rough, filthy, like he couldn’t get deep enough, fast enough. Like he needed to brand you from the inside out.

“Say it,” he demanded, his lips against your jaw. “Tell me you wanted me.”

“I wanted you,” you gasped, hips grinding into his palm. “I want you.”

He groaned — a broken, inhuman sound — and curled his fingers just right. You cried out, clinging to him as your orgasm built with terrifying speed.

“Come for me,” he hissed. “Let me feel it.”

You shattered in his hands — body jerking, thighs trembling, cries muffled by his mouth as he swallowed every sound, devoured your pleasure like it was blood on his tongue.

But he wasn’t done.

He pulled back — barely — just enough to undo his belt with shaking hands, shoving his pants low enough to free himself. You barely had time to register the size of him before he gripped your hips and slammed into you in one long, brutal thrust.

Your gasp turned into a cry.

“Fuck,” he snarled. “Fuck, yes. You were made for this.”

He fucked you hard, fast, grinding you into the brick with every thrust. One hand on your ass, the other in your hair, keeping you where he wanted you — pinned, shaking, his. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Could only feel him splitting you open and filling you, claiming every inch like it belonged to him.

“You’re mine,” he growled, forehead pressed to yours. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you whispered, dazed. “I’m yours.”

His rhythm faltered — something primal tearing through him. His face buried in your neck, lips brushing your pulse point.

“You don’t know what that means to me,” he breathed. “I’ve waited so long to find you. To touch you. To drink you.”

He hovered there, teeth scraping your throat — holding back with every ounce of strength he had.

“I want to bite you,” he confessed, voice trembling. “But not without you saying yes.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Do it.”

And that was all it took.

He drove into you one last time, groaning as he came — thick, hot, possessive. His hips stuttered, cock pulsing inside you — and then you felt the sharp sting of his fangs piercing your throat.

The pain was white-hot for a heartbeat.

Then it melted into pleasure.

Warmth, pressure, ecstasy. Your second orgasm tore through you as he drank — deep and reverent, like a man starved of salvation.

He held you through it, arms wrapped around you like he’d never let go, mouth sealed to your neck like you were his altar.

And when he finally pulled back, blood on his lips, eyes glowing with something ancient and broken — he kissed your mouth again, slow and deep.

You weren’t dreaming anymore.

You were his.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

[writing-for-marvel]

God, You Look So Good in the Morning

Vampire!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Prompt: “Oh what are you doing here? The sun is up!” for the January Jumble Scribbles Challenge

Warnings: implied sexual activities, fluff

Word count: 400

A/N: banners by @vase-of-lilies, title from the song I’ll Get the Coffee by Kathryn Gallagher

January Jumble Scribbles Masterlist

Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library | AO3

Your eyes flutter open, not to the sound of the alarm you set the night before, but the feeling of an arm wrapping tighter around your midriff.

It takes a moment for the realisation to hit you that Bucky, your one hundred year old, vampire situationship (because he hasn’t yet asked you to be anything more), who cannot be out in direct sunlight, is still in your bed from your carnal activities the previous night, rather than back in the gothic, cave like mansion which he calls home.

“What are you still doing here?” Panic fills your voice and your chest as Bucky opens his eyes for the first time that morning, squinting at how bright the room has become. “The sun is up!”

The obnoxiously handsome man, who prior to today had left without a peep before sunrise every night he spent at your place, simply smiles warmly, seemingly not a care in the world, as you jump out of the tangle of bed sheets to pull your curtains across fully.

“It’s not going to burn me to a crisp, dearest.” He chuckles, but silently swoons at how concerned you are for him. “It’s more like a mild allergic reaction - a bad hay fever.”

Your features soften at this news, and Bucky’s insides do a type of somersault in response to your somewhat embarrassed smile he hasn’t felt in over a century. One which appraises the deep feelings he has been trying to push out of his non beating heart for weeks.

Because there would be nothing more painful than watching someone you love grow old and die, then living quite literally an eternity without them.

“The sun hasn’t made you feel ill, has it?” You ask tentatively, cupping his face as if to check his temperature, clearly forgetting he doesn’t have blood running through his veins to cause a fever.

“Nothing that a kiss from you couldn’t heal.”

And that’s exactly what you do. Luscious, sensual and, if Bucky were still technically alive to give his beating heart to another, soul stealing.

He may have promised himself to never fall in love with a mortal again, not when he now walked with the undead, but the more you kiss him the more Bucky believes he might just have to break that vow for you.

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[buckybossanova]

BITTERSUITE

Pairing: vampire!bucky x vampire!reader

Summary: He promised you immortality, but you never asked what the price was. (or as nicole put it: “A horndog and a hopeless romantic go to a cat cafe…” )

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI, very cliche idea of vampires, yearner bucky, fem!reader, fingering, oral f! receiving, p in v, porn w/ plot, reader is a virgin, virginity loss, clothed sex, bucky goes by james here, uhm, finger sucking? licking? definitely licking... no use of y/n (oh the wattpad days...), reader is implied a vampire by the end, religious allusions/references

WC: ~3.0k

Nova Notes: god would you bite me in the neck? (pls get that reference) there's one line in here based of twilight, if you catch it you get a cookie. also....i was going to make this sad but then I got a tattoo and decided there's enough pain in the world, and everybody say thank you friends for helping me... masterlist for more! 𓆩^._.^𓆪 -> BILLIE BARNES & NOVA

You offered yourself up so willingly. You bared your neck to him, letting his teeth sink into you. In return? James took away what made you human, but that wasn’t the only price to pay.

James was once a soldier at war. A good one at that. For the glory of his God and the survival of the human race, he fought valiantly. He burned those the Sun rejected, he hunted those that hid behind the dark curtain of the night, he massacred hundreds of those locked out of Heaven. His brothers in arms fought alongside him—their bonds unbreakable. Or so he thought. 

Christopher, a friend since boyhood, fell prey to lust that made him into the enemy. James found him in the aftermath of a battle as he disposed of his fallen brother's mangled bodies. He saw Christopher hunched over, drinking the blood of a dead man, eyes glazed over with thirst, hunger, need. Fearfully, he retreated to his safe space: the church.

Alone, he prayed right before the altar. Like he always did after a big crusade. His bloodied hands were clasped around the hilt of his sword, eyes closed with his head tilted down as he kneeled.

“Heavenly Father, light my path and guide my steps according to Your will. Give me peace in my heart and soul, and let these demons corrupt me not. I pray my brother’s trapped soul be let free.” 

From behind, he felt a presence—familiar yet distant. Then, pain, but the betrayal was more unbearable than the transformation. He swore he would never tell a soul. Christopher didn’t believe him. The sin was far too great. The only way to make sure it was kept hidden was to force him to suffer the same fate. 

Once a soldier, then forsaken, James was forced to abandon his home. It was a solemn change. One that kept bringing heartbreak after heartbreak. He could no longer bathe in the sun or indulge in sweet treats baked with love. He was isolated—at least until he met you. 

You were so innocent, so pure. You had skin softer than silk, warmer than the bonfires he once burned his kind in. You had humanity, warmth, a kindness that died in him a long time ago. He was bewitched the moment he saw you. So, like any proper man, he charmed you. He used every trick in the book to get closer to you: he bought you flowers, walked you home, opened doors for you, spoke softly in your ear, held you close in a crowd…and it worked. You fell hook, line, and sinker.

You knew he was a flirt, you could tell just by his appearance: dark, slicked back hair, a chiseled jaw, striking blue eyes that contrasted with his soft, pink lips, and a sultry voice that rumbled in your ears. James was built to charm, but he never went farther than a kiss on the cheek. 

It was endearing for the first few months. He never let his touches nor his gaze linger too long. A true  gentleman, but you wanted more. It's not like you knew what exactly you wanted him to do—-your mother sheltered you from anything remotely profane—all you knew was how your body grew hot and buzzed with desire when he was near you. 

Women whisper about that sort of thing in private. Men who knew how to use their fingers were good, men who knew how to use their mouth were better. Those who knew how to use both? The best. The more you thought about it, the more intense your desire grew, from a small ember to a flickering flame waiting to be fed. 

You’ve heard of the ways women seduce men: makeup to emphasize their femininity, a tight corset to enhance their curves, styling their hair to accentuate their features. You tried all of it, but no matter what you did, he denied: “Soon, darling.” 

Soon never came. Weeks flew by and nothing changed. Kisses you’ve tried to prolong cut short, teasing touches guided away. You were sick of it. A few of your friends told you to talk to him, to ask him why he was starving you of what you wanted so desperately. The others advised you to ignore him, to let him feel what you’re feeling. And…You’re nothing if not petty. So, you ignored him. He tried to walk with you, you found a different path. He bought you flowers, you let them wilt on your doorstep. You avoided him for as long as you could. 

-

James hadn’t seen you in days. It drove him insane. He lamented to himself: had he pushed you away? He refused your advances to keep you safe; had he gone too far? Did you think you were unlovable? Undesirable? Neither were true. He wanted you more than anything, but that was the problem. By having him, you’d lose everything that makes you who you are. He would never make you suffer that way. Not like he did. 

In a desperate attempt to rekindle the spark, he invited you for dinner, maybe to get some forgiveness if he was lucky. Surprisingly, you accepted. His preparation was frantic: smoothing over the cloth on the dining table, setting the plates and utensils in perfect harmony, plating the food (he doesn’t particularly enjoy eating but he’ll suffer for you), and placing two lit candles on both sides of the centered vase with purple hyacinths.

Your knocks broke the silence of his concentration. He brought a hand to his hair and combed it back; presentable, he hoped. He opened the large oak doors to the sight of you, and all he thought about is how beautiful you look. Your dress was ankle length—modest, but the built in corset made your figure that much more tempting…bust pushed up ever so slightly. Not enough to be promiscuous, just enough to tease. 

He welcomed you in with an extended hand after he snapped out of his daze. You didn’t take it. Your footsteps echoed throughout his home—his very large, castlesque home—as the doors shut behind you. 

“Follow me,” he paused for a moment, “please.” 

You stayed silent but complied. He led you to a softly lit room with a decorated dining table. The food was still warm and it looked professionally plated. The flowers in the middle sprouted from the vase; the candlelight on both sides illuminated them. It was nice, very nice, but you didn’t accept his invitation for dinner.

“Why don’t you want me?” It was blunt, direct, straight to the point. 

“You are not like me.” He began to walk towards you. “You are not immortal, you do not feed off the lives of others. You nurture, you care, you do everything I cannot.” He brought a hand to your face, cupping it softly, “I cannot bear to live without you, but I also cannot take away what gives you life.” 

You’d be confused if you didn’t know exactly what he’s talking about. You’ve known for a while, actually. How he’s ice cold to the touch, how your outings have either been at dusk, dawn, or during the darkest parts of the night, how you felt the sharp outline of his fangs when you kissed him. You knew that if you stayed with James, that’s what you’d become: a creature that lurks where the shadows are, a creature rejected by God. You accepted that fate a long time ago. 

You grabbed his wrist, gently stroking the inner part of it with your thumb. Your eyes captured his gaze. “James… I want to be with you, and if that’s what it takes, then I accept.”

His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of doubt. He found none. You were very certain in your decision, which led you to now, offering yourself to him.

You peel your hair aside and tilt your head, allowing him to get a full view of your bare neck. Delectable, he thinks. His arms wrap around your waist to pull you close. He leans down to pepper kisses from the tip of your shoulder to the middle of your neck. He stops, letting his lips linger as your pulse thrums against his mouth. His eyes flick to yours. The intent in your gaze has not faltered, so he turns his focus back to your neck. 

His lips part into an O shape before sinking his teeth into your flesh. The pain takes over your veins–ice cold, frozen. It’s slow, ebbing at first, but then it rushes in like the cold tide. You tense up instinctively. He retracts his teeth to admire the two small holes in your neck, then moves back down to lick at the wound—probably an apology. His tongue continues to lave at the punctures before dragging itself along the expanse of your neck, up to your ear where he nibbles at your lobe.

You turn your head to capture his lips with yours. Your mouths meld together, licking and lapping at the open cavern of each other's mouths. The bitter cold still lingers, but the pleasure he gives begins to overwhelm you with a heat so different from before. It’s not human. It's hot like the eternal flames of hell you've been told his kind would burn in. If this is hell, you would gladly burn. His hands slide from your waist down to your ass. Groping for a moment, but then picking you up to carry you to another candlelit room. All the while he nips at your swollen lips. Eventually, he gently lays you down on the soft, silky comforter of his bed—wait, his bed? 

“You have a bed?” You manage to ask between kisses, “I thought you slept in…coffins, or something like that.”

James chuckles before responding, lips hovering above yours, “The bed is not for sleeping, my love.” 

Oh.

Oh. 

His hand trails the outside of your thighs before moving inward, pulling your dress up as it crawls painfully slow to where you throb. You feel him peel your panties aside. He parts from your mouth; a string of saliva all that connects you two. His hand retracts from its position, moving up to curl the saliva on his fingers. He looks into your eyes, deeply, as if searching for something you don’t even know is there. Maybe he found it because why you greedily accept his two fingers in your mouth is beyond you. James gives you a satisfied smile as you trace his fingers with your tongue. 

His other hand moves back down to your core. It’s wet, sopping, glistening in the candle light. A single finger drags across your slit from bottom to top, gathering the slick across it. It finds your clit, rubbing soft circles before traveling back down to prod at your opening. You suddenly become aware you’ve never done anything like this before. James, being the gentleman he is, stops when he notices your hesitation.

He bends down to whisper in your ear, “I’ll go slow. Just let me know if it becomes too much, sweetheart.” You hum around his fingers and he moves his focus back down to your pussy. Your hole crests around his finger as he slowly pushes in. It’s a weird feeling, you think. Like you’re full even though you didn’t eat. He curls his fingers and you let out a muffled moan. His lips travel down your body, grazing your mound before moving to your bud. He presses a featherlight kiss that sends a shiver of pleasure through you. His finger curls, over and over again to rub against that perfect spot inside of you. Which, until now, you didn’t know you had. 

He tilts his head and parts his lips to pull your clit into his mouth. You whine his name, thrashing a little bit from the overwhelming feeling. It seems to spur him on; he groans into your core. The vibrations only enhance the sensation of his mouth. 

He decides to push another finger inside. The ecstasy doubles; fingers working deftly inside of you, tongue nursing your pearl. A strange feeling pools in your lower stomach. Your abs tremble, hips jolting forward into his mouth. You moan loudly before pushing his head away. 

He removes his fingers—from both holes—before looking up at you. His face is covered in your slick from the nose down; his hair is frazzled and disarrayed. He glistens in the soft glow of light with a dazed look. “Too much?” He questions gently. 

You shake your head, “No… I just—it felt tight…”

He laughs, a genuine, boisterous laugh before crawling up and caging you with his body, “That’s supposed to happen.” He whispers as his nose barely grazes yours.

“Oh…I didn’t—I’m sorry—“

“No, love.” He brings his lips to your forehead, “You didn’t know.” 

Your breathing slows down before you speak again, “I would like to continue, if you want..” 

James’ eyes sharpen when his gaze meets yours. “Yeah?” His lip curls up at the end of his response. 

“Mhm.” You hum.

He pressed his lips against yours. Your noses bump; his mouth parts to drag his tongue over the seam of your lips. You part in return, granting his slick muscle entrance. 

You drag your hands down his clothed chest to his pants. The buckle clinks as you fumble with his belt. James brings one hand down to help, quickly releasing the buckle. You shove his pants down—and undergarments along with it—to reveal something you’ve never seen before. 

His cock is large, threatening almost. Actually, it might be threatening him with the way you can physically see it throbbing, bobbing back and forth. His tip leaks a thin, milky white fluid. One droplet peaks out of the hole before slowly falling down the side and hiding behind his balls.  

As he kicks his clothes off completely, you see it wave tantalizingly in front of you. You reach forward and grab it instinctively. James releases a sharp hiss which you mistake for pain. You jerk your hand back. He leans forward to press you further into the bed before moving your hand back to his shaft. You’re not sure what to do, but you try anyway. You fist his length, dragging down and up slowly before letting it go. It slaps against his abdomen; a wet patch forms as his weeping tip rests against his shirt. You reach for it again, guiding it—and him—towards you as you lean back. 

He doesn’t push into you like you expected; he rubs the underside of his cock across your slick expanse. One hand at his base bracing himself, while he places the other on your knee to part your thighs. It doesn’t take long for him to get impatient, though. His tip prods at your entrance like his fingers once did. Except this time you had a much bigger job to fulfill. He pushes in slowly. You let out a soft whine once his tip is all the way in. The stretch burns, but he seems to alleviate that with small figure-eights on your clit. He looks down at you for a second—just to make sure. You nod wordlessly, urging him to continue. He does. You, on the other hand, focus on the pleasure of the moment. 

James’ breathing hitches as he sheaths himself further into your silky walls, and with the help of your newly produced slick, his hips are flush against yours. You thought you were full before. You were wrong. So very wrong. Now, and only now, you are full. The hunger and pain you felt is gone, but the flame of desire inside of you bursts back to life. Finally, after so long, she’s being fed.

He pulls his hips back and then pushes forward. You feel every ridge, every vein, valley, and curve of his dick as he moves. His forehead rests against your own, his body flush against yours as he slides in and out of you. His breath is hot on yours. Whines and moans echo between the two of you—so much so that you’re not sure which noises are coming from who, but you blame his cock for that. 

You can tell he was trying to be a gentleman before: soft, slow, deep. Now? All he can think about is driving further into you. His hands brace your waist; to keep you steady, you think. No. His hands push your waist down towards him— and in turn your body— to slam you onto his cock. You arch your back in response, and he uses your new position to grind into your clit when he’s at his hilt. 

The tightness, once again, spreads at the bottom of your stomach. You clench unknowingly, and James takes notice. His thumb replaces his groin. It focuses on circling your bud, faster this time, to help send you over the edge. You jerk your hips upwards to meet his thrusts, the combination of friction inside and outside of you is maddening. 

Your breathing becomes shallow and quick, your legs twitch, your toes curl, and you’re suddenly overwhelmed with the sensation of electric pleasure shooting through you. You shut your eyes tightly as you throw your head back. The moans you yell out are staggered, broken, but it seems to push James over the edge as he buries himself the deepest he can—cock twitching as he groans into your neck. 

His breathing slows, now in sync with yours. He peels back to come face to face with you again. As he admires your sweaty, post-coital form, you come to realize that the price for immortality was never just your humanity, it was you. The entirety of you, and you’ve given him that—your body, your mind, your soul, for eternity. You just hope he can handle it. 

[massivespacewren]

An art I made because we were talking Vampire AUs. I'm using this to fill the free space on the winteriron bingo card from @winterironevents because why not :D

Big bad Vampire Bucky is all soft for his human boyfriend Tony.

(A Stony version of this will come soon too, probably…)

[mystictf]

Chapter 1: The Hollow Calls

Chapter 2: Something Watches

Chapter 3: The Monster in the Trees

Chapter 4: The Witch's Warning

Chapter 5: Full Moon

Chapter 6: Old Teeth, New Blood

Chapter 7: Letters from the Dead

Chapter 8: The Order of Ash

Chapter 9: What Hides in the Water

Chapter 10: A Taste of Power

Chapter 11: Hunger

Chapter 12: Moonlit Promises

Chapter 13: The Hollow Breaks

Chapter 14: The Order Strikes

Chapter 15: The Curse Revealed

Chapter 16: Sacrifice

Chapter 17: The Last Night

Chapter 18: Blood in the Hollow

Epilogue: In the Sillness, We Bloom

[imawreck]

Brooklyn Devil Masterlist

Author’s Note: This is just something I thought up and wanted to see where it could go. I love supernatural things and marvel so why not combine them? I used a lot of different perceptions of vampires within this fic, such as those depicted in Underworld, Blade, Vampire Diaries, etc., and they are not my original ideas. The art is not mine either, but the storyline itself is.

Pairing: Vampire!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: A modern supernatural twist on the Marvel Universe where Bucky and Steve are still super soldiers, but their enemy isn’t Hydra. It’s every supernatural lurking on earth. SHIELD is now the organization created to maintain peace and balance between humans and supernaturals, and the Avengers are the elite force of agents sent to take down the most terrible of monsters. What happens when one of their own is turned?

Warnings: Graphic violence, biting, mentions of blood, eventual pnv, probably plot holes multiple P.O.V.’s

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Heaven Scent

Fever Dream

Thirst

Bound

Bat-Bestie (In progress)

???

Playlist

Tags <3

@savannahrilee-blog / @verytyrantcat / @littlegreenjellybean

[lamambanegro]

bloodsworn part iv.

[vampire!bucky barnes x f!reader]

threw in a little friend vampire!steve rogers for the girlies*!! it's really started to get good (in my imagination haha)

*using girlies in the gender-neutrally way for all of us hussies

synopsis: Original series where y/n is a recently single Black millenial living in modern day Seattle. On a whim you take a backpacking trip through Europe and through a series of events, find that you are the mortal woman unknowingly promised to vampire king Bucky Barnes.

In this chapter it starts to get a little steamy, you're in Bucky's world of your own will now and you're starting to feel things. this one is LONNGG, but I swear it's worth it.

themes/warnings: language, power imbalance, worship, obsession, vampire human dynamics, violence, eventual enemies to lovers, smut (18+), slow burn

bloodsworn part. 1

bloodsworn part. 2

bloodsworn part. 3

bloodsworn part IV. the trial of days

You tell him you’ll stay. Seven days. That’s all. Seven days to learn more, to really understand.

Time moves differently here, stretched out between twilight and moonlit halls. On the first morning, you actually meet the woman who’s been tending to your rooms. Her name is  Lilianne. A quiet, sharp eyed human with olive skin and delicate curls. After a bit of back and forth, she starts to open up. With a basket of blankets on her hip, she tells you Bucky sleeps during the day and wakes at night.

"He is ancient," she says, now folding the linens at the foot of your bed with a flick of her wrist. "And the sun has no love for their kind.”

She looks up at you and then offers, “You might like to visit the gardens today. They are quite lovely this time of year.”

Your curiosity gets the better of you and you find yourself wandering the grounds soon after, the warmth of daylight giving you courage. The gardens are alive, lush, carefully kept by other humans like Lilianne. You spot a no nonsense, stout, bald gardener humming to himself while pruning a rose the color of spilled wine. You keep your distance and he nods at you, respectful. No vampires cross your path. Not yet.

That night, Lilianne informs you Bucky won’t return until the next night. A matter of “justice at the northern border.” You don’t ask what it means and truthfully you don’t want to know. But you sleep with the door locked and a book beneath your pillow, one he apparently left for you.

Poetry. Neruda. With a handwritten note:

“You strike me as a woman moved by Neruda. I thought this translation was better.”

You don’t remember saying that Neruda’s works were some of your favorites. Because you didn’t.

The next evening, your path crosses his as you're aimlessly drifting through the portrait gallery again. He appears without sound, dressed in all black, at your side and offers you his arm like it's still the age of kings. You glance at it and don’t take it. But you don’t walk away either. 

“There’s something I want to show you,” he says.

A few minutes and turns later, he leads you to the castle’s grand library. Which apparently, it has. You gasp as you pass the door’s threshold. It’s breathtaking with towering shelves and ladders on wheels. The moonlight spills in through stained glass. It’s so stunning that you forget your fears for a moment. Running your hand across the spines of books older than your country, you smile for the first time in days.

“You could lose yourself in here,” you murmur.

He shares faintly, “I often do.”

You realize you do feel something, not quite peace, but a silence in the space. 

“(Y/N), I have business to attend to. Please feel free to stay here as long as you desire.”

Bucky leaves you there and you pass the hours reading. You learn about the lineage of vampire kings, ancient battles for dominance, blood oaths that bound entire cities to their rulers. You study power, not just brute strength, but influence, loyalty, fear. One book is written like a diary, full of cold reflections from a queen who ruled for five hundred years before vanishing into legend. Her words stay with you “To rule is not to be loved. It is to be remembered.”

Another book traces the origin of vampiric bloodlines, noting which are extinct, which are hunted, and which are royal. Of course Bucky’s bloodline is one of the oldest of all, feared, strong and unbroken.

By the time Lilliane walks by to ask you if you’d like to eat, it’s been hours since you moved from the chair by the fire. Your eyes are bloodshot from reading, and there’s ink smudged along your wrist. You look up at her and your mind floats to Bucky. How, just maybe… There's more to all of this. 

The following evening, you meet another vampire, Steve. He arrives without ceremony, and the only one Bucky seems to allow near you. Tall, broad, and blonde, his eyes are cool but kind. Another vampire, yes. But somehow, your guard doesn’t rise. You find him sitting alone in a sunless courtyard, one leg stretched out, posture casual but focused. A half-played game of chess sits in front of him, pieces paused mid-battle. He rests with one hand pressed to his lips, deep in thought, and doesn’t look up when you approach, fully aware of your presence.

“I didn’t know vampires played chess,” you say.

Steve smirks. “Most don’t. Bucky insists. Says it keeps our minds from turning to rot.”

You linger at the edge. “Is that a thing? Your minds rotting?”

“After a few centuries, you’d be surprised how many forget who they were.”

You sit across from him. “And you haven’t?”

He finally meets your eyes. “I’ve forgotten plenty. But not everything.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What keeps it from happening?”

Steve leans back in his chair, studying you. “We all need someone. The right ones. And the choice to stay present. It’s easy to give in. To become just hunger and power. Most do.”

You’re quiet a moment, fingers brushing a knight on the board, eyes lowered, thoughts racing. “And Bucky?”

“He never gave in. He could’ve. He probably should’ve. But he didn’t. Even when it would’ve been easier.”

“Why not?”

Steve watches you carefully. “You.”

You laugh nervously, caught off guard. “I wasn’t even here.”

“No. But the idea of you was. The promise. The prophecy. Then the painting. It gave him something to wait for. Something to shape himself around.”

You sit back, trying to breathe around the weight in your chest. “I didn’t think monsters were capable of that.”

“Most aren’t,” Steve says. “But he’s not most. And I’m starting to think you aren’t either, are you?”

You swallow hard, shrug it off. “That doesn’t mean he’s not still dangerous.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Oh, he’s the most dangerous creature I know. But that’s not all he is. Not anymore.”

You glance away. A long silence. Then you say quietly, “You don’t seem like a monster.”

“I am one,” he says simply. “I’ve killed. Fed. Done things I’ll never atone for. But so have humans throughout history. The difference is, I know what I am and I’ve made my peace with it.”

You nod slowly, the truth of it sinking in.

And as Steve resets the board with practiced fingers, he adds, “I heard you spent some time in the library. If you ever want to learn more, I’ll teach you. Not just chess. All of it.”

You nod. Meet his eyes. “Thanks. For this.… I should go.” And you walk away with your mind swirling. 

The time is moving more quickly than you thought it would. 

On the fourth night, under a sky carved open by moonlight, you find yourself walking the high ramparts. You’re barefoot, your long robe clinging softly to your frame, the fabric thin and loose with wear. You didn’t dress for anyone. But now, watching the courtyard below, you feel suddenly exposed.

Bucky is training. Apparently, he has generals, ruthless, lethal ones, and they form a circle around him, taking turns attacking while he moves like a predator among them. Shirtless. Blood-slick. Unbothered. His strikes are brutal, efficient. There’s no hesitation in his violence. You think you’re supposed to feel afraid. Maybe you are. But your stomach flips instead.

You watch the way his jaw flexes as he drives his elbow into someone’s ribs. The way he doesn’t even flinch when blood spatters across his chest. The way his shoulders tense before he pivots. He is graceful, lethal, even...beautiful.

You're staring. Feeling things. More than you'd like to admit. 

Then he stills. No one touches him, but he stops like he’s caught a scent on the wind. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his head and sniffs once, just once, and turns to glance over his shoulder.

Right. At. You.

His eyes lock with yours. For one heartbeat, his expression is unreadable. Then something shifts, his lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something. And then he smiles. Not wide. Not warm.

Knowing.

You feel the heat crawl up your neck, spreading fast across your cheeks. Your robe suddenly feels too thin. Your skin too aware. You drop your gaze, heart pounding, suddenly furious at yourself for… what? Wanting him? For being seen?

But when you glance back, he’s already returned to the fight.

Still smiling.

You linger only a second longer before vanishing back into shadow.

After the courtyard, after the way he looked at you, you tried to shake it off. You’d told yourself you were just curious. That was all. Just a restless stroll. Just a fluke of timing. But you’d stood there far too long, heart skipping every time his muscles tensed, every time blood hit his skin like rain.

You didn’t mean to stay up late pacing the halls, rereading the same paragraph in a vampire history book over and over. But by the time the first blush of dawn crept through the castle’s high windows, your body gave out. You collapsed onto the bed, still in the thin robe, still buzzing with thoughts you couldn’t name, and slept straight through the daylight hours.

For the first time since arriving, you slept like one of them.

When you wake, it’s nearly night again.

The castle is different in those in-between moments, when dusk clings to the walls and the air feels charged. You sense it immediately. There’s a shift in the energy, a kind of tension pulling at the seams of everything. Brisk, deliberate footsteps echo outside your chamber. You rise and pull the robe tighter around you. Cracking the door open, you catch a blur of motion just before it disappears around the corner.

“Liliane,” you call softly.

She stops at the sound of your voice, pauses with an irritated little sigh before turning to face you.

“What is it?” you ask. “Is something happening?”

She studies you a moment, no scowl this time. Just tired eyes. Measured silence.

“A verdict,” she says. “A coven leader turned a child. It’s being carried out tonight.”

You hesitate, fingers curling around the doorframe.

“Can I see?” you ask. “Not… not from down there. I just want to understand.”

Liliane’s expression flickers, resignation, maybe. Or something more like reluctant trust.

She nods. “Come with me. But don’t speak.”

She leads you up a winding stone stair and through a narrow corridor, the walls close and cool. You emerge into a shadowed alcove high above a throne room, tucked between pillars. You feel like a secret in a thrilling way. She slips away again before you can thank her. From here, you can see everything, and you hope that no one can see you.

You press your hands to the cold iron railing, heart steady but alert. Below, the room stretches out like a cathedral of judgment. The light is dimmer here, the flames more restrained, casting long, flickering shadows across the marble floor. 

And there he is.

Bucky sits at the far end of the chamber on a throne that seems carved from the very bones of the castle itself with stone and iron. It’s not adorned with jewels or gold. There’s no softness to it. No velvet, no ornamentation and yet you can feel the power etched into form.

He sits like he’s always belonged there, like he’s never known another posture. One arm slung over the side, legs spread in that easy, commanding way that says everything without a word. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t shift. He simply is an apex predator at rest.

There are no weapons on him. He doesn’t need any.

He is one.

Even from this distance, you can see the hard line of his jaw, the way the firelight brushes against his cheekbones. His face is unreadable, not cold, exactly. Just... beyond reach. Like he’s long since stopped asking to be understood.

You shouldn’t be here.

And yet... you don't want to leave. At first, you tell yourself it’s just curiosity. That you want to understand the rules of this world. But the longer you watch him, the less you believe that.

Something in you is shifting. The more you see of him, the violence, the control, the restraint, the more your thoughts begin to change shape. You shouldn’t admire him. You shouldn’t want to be near him.

You shouldn’t feel safer in the presence of a monster than you ever did among men.

And yet.

Chains clatter across the marble below. Two guards drag a coven leader into the chamber, wrists bound in silver, head high despite the bruising. You don’t know his name. You don’t need to. The air in the room has already turned heavy and final.

You watch from the shadows above as Bucky shifts, barely. A tilt of his head. He doesn't stand. He doesn't raise his voice.

“The creation of child vampires is a crime punishable by death,” he says, each word clean and cold. Unapologetic.

The vampire in chains doesn't argue. The accused just stares back at Bucky, defiant, maybe, or resigned, you can’t tell. 

Bucky rises slowly from the throne, and it’s like watching gravity change direction. The atmosphere thickens around him. His body moves with fluid precision, not fast, but with that strange vampire grace, too smooth to be human, too efficient to be kind.

One blink, and he's standing in front of the accused. The next, he's behind him. For a split second, you don’t understand what happened. The coven leader is still upright, until he gasps, sharp and wet, and crumples to his knees. His throat is gone.

Ripped out so cleanly there’s barely a splash. Just the faintest splatter of blood against the stone, like rain. He collapses in on himself, eyes wide in a kind of dazed horror, mouth open around a sound that never comes.

The silence that follows is absolute. Like the castle itself is holding its breath. Bucky turns without looking at the body. As if he was never a threat. As if he was already dead the moment he walked in.

Bucky ascends the steps to his throne just as calmly as he rose, no urgency, no satisfaction. Only the terrible stillness of a ruler who has done this before. And will again.

You realize your own breath is caught in your chest. That you’ve been gripping the iron rail hard enough to leave marks in your palms.

But you didn’t flinch.

And that’s what frightens you most. Your instincts scream that this is when you recoil, when you turn away. But you don’t. You can’t.

Because what fills you isn’t horror. It’s something else. Something electric and low and dangerous. Something new. 

You wanted to see what kind of king he was. Now you know.

The throne room remains silent and Bucky’s gaze remains straight ahead. But you feel it. That prickle at the base of your spine. The undeniable sense that he knows you’re watching.

Knows you didn’t look away. 

Knows what that means.

You slip quietly back through the halls unnoticed. The torchlight seems dimmer. The air cooler. You keep your head down, your robe clutched tighter around you. You don't know what expression is on your face, only that it doesn't feel like your own.

You reach your chamber and close the door behind you gently. You lean against it for a moment, eyes closed, as if the wood could steady you.

And that’s when you see it. A card rests on your table and your pulse jumps. You cross the room slowly, every step measured. You lift the paper with careful fingers and turn it over.

Four words, written in crimson ink by a hand you now know by instinct.

Join me for dinner.

You pace. Once. Twice. Then find yourself standing in front of the armoire. You open it without thinking.

The clothes inside are beautiful. You hate that you can’t deny it. Luxurious silks, soft velvets, dark colors that shift with the light. Every piece feels expensive. Deliberate. As if someone knew your size and your taste before you did.

You run your fingers over the fabric of a midnight blue dress, pretending it doesn’t make your breath hitch.

You tell yourself you’re just picking something practical. But the dress you choose fits like it was made for you and you slip it on before you can change your mind. At the sight of yourself in the mirror, you freeze. You look… like someone else. Or maybe, someone you were always capable of being. It rattles you.

You almost don’t go. But you do. Out of curiosity. Out of fury. Out of something you don’t name. The dining room is small, candlelit, intimate. A single round table dressed in deep crimson linens. Your place is set with silver and porcelain. A full plate, real food, still hot. Your favorite, somehow.

He’s already there when you arrive.

Bucky sits with effortless stillness, one elbow resting on the arm of the chair, a tall goblet in front of him filled with something dark and slow-moving. He doesn’t look up right away, and for a breath you’re able to really see him. 

And gods, he’s beautiful.

Not clean or polished, but in a haunted way. Muscle beneath a dark luxurious button down that clings just enough to hint at what’s beneath. His sleeves are rolled up to the forearms, exposing the edge of a vein, a faint smear of something that might still be blood. 

And then his eyes lift to meet yours and everything inside you stills. For one charged, unguarded moment, he looks at you like he’s starving. Not metaphorically. Not politely. Starving.

Like he wants to consume every inch of you, not just your body, but your mind, your breath, the shape of your soul. His jaw tightens. The heat behind his gaze flares, raw, naked, almost painful. And then it’s gone.

Contained. Sealed behind cool composure, as if it never happened.

But you felt it. You saw it. And you can’t turn and walk away.

You sit and begin to eat. He doesn’t eat, of course. Just watches. You try not to let it get to you.

Halfway through the third glass of red wine, you’re a little looser. You know better than to let your guard down, but something about the heat of the drink and the crackle of the fireplace is disarming.

You stare as he raises the goblet to his lips. Sips.

“You’re wondering what it is.”

You glance at it, “I assume it’s not merlot.”

A faint smile, "No. It’s blood, (y/n).”

Your hand stops halfway to your fork. He doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t leer. Just offers the truth like a piece of himself.

“You said you wanted honesty. I drink when I sit with you because I want to mirror you. It’s not for hunger. It’s ritual to me. Intimacy.”

You take a long sip of wine to mask your reaction. It doesn’t help. You’re already drunker than you intended to be. Which is when the questions start. 

Fast. Slurred. Too many at once:

“What do you want from me, really?” “Do you miss being human?” “Do you ever dream?” “Why me?” “What happens to me if I say yes?” “What happens if I say no?” “How does it feel when you feed?”

He listens. Answers each one. His voice stays low. Controlled. But his eyes burn brighter with every truth you drag out of him.

“I don’t miss being human. They were small years, full of ache and hunger I didn’t understand.” “I dream every night. Always of you.” “You are more than a prophecy. You’re a promise. You are the only thing I’ve ever wanted that didn’t make me a monster to crave.” “If you say yes, I will spend eternity worshiping the ground you walk on.” “If you say no…” He pauses. Voice like stone.  “I will let you leave. But the night will never let you go. You’re mine in ways no map or border could protect.”

You go quiet. He lifts his goblet again, drinks deeply. A single crimson drop rolls down the corner of his mouth. And only now, only now, do you really see it.

The liquid is thick. Dark. Not wine.

He’s really drinking blood. I'm eating dinner with a vampire.  

You feel dizzy. But not from the wine. From the realization that no matter how civilized he acts, what sits across from you is not a man. It is a vampire.

And he wants you. 

You swirl your wine in the glass, watching how the candlelight bends through it. You’re a little too warm. A little too full. A little too emotionally compromised to be asking the question that slips out next.

“What does it feel like?”

He glances up, eyes half-lidded. “To turn?”

You nod, leaning back in the chair.

“It’s not pain, exactly,” he says. “Not at first. It’s hunger. A need that blooms all at once. You feel everything. Every heartbeat. Every shadow. And then it stops. And you wake up… other.”

You hum, swirling the wine again. “Other sounds lonely.”

“It was. Until you.”

The wine hits you in a sudden wave, flushed cheeks, loose tongue. Impulsively, you point to his goblet.

“Lemme taste it.”

His brow arches. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s blood, y/n. Not cabernet.”

You snort. “No shit. I’m not asking because I think it’s delicious. I just… I want to understand.”

He stares at you. Stunned. Like you’ve just suggested dancing on the altar.

“You are intoxicated.”

You grin. “And curious.”

He hesitates. For once, he doesn’t know what to say. So you reach out. He doesn’t stop you. You take the goblet carefully, still watching him. It’s heavier than your wine glass. The stem warm.

“One sip,” you warn. “Don’t get romantic about it.”

“I would never,” he deadpans.

You tip the glass. The taste hits your tongue like rust and raw meat. Your whole face contorts. You gag. Swallow. Immediately regret both.

“Oh my God, that’s disgusting.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then…

Bucky laughs. Not a polite chuckle. Not a smirk. A real, startled, beautiful laugh, deep and rough and entirely involuntary. Like he’s forgotten how it feels and you just reminded him.

You set the goblet down, tongue out in protest. “That’s what you drink? Daily? That’s disgusting. I’d rather die.”

“You might,” he says, still smiling.

You glare at him. “That’s not funny.”

But he’s still laughing. Still looking at you like you’re the last light in his world and he can’t believe he gets to stand this close to it. And just for a moment, in the quiet glow of that ridiculous dinner, you don’t feel hunted. You feel seen.

The warmth from the wine catches up to you slowly.

One moment, you’re teasing him, still flushed with the taste of blood and the surprise of his laugh. The next, the room tilts slightly. Your smile fades. Your limbs feel heavy. He sees it instantly.

“y/n?”

You try to wave him off. “Just… dizzy. I’m fine.”

But you’re already gripping the edge of the table, breath slowing, everything sinking deeper into a kind of soft.

“Come on,” he says gently.

He rises, and then he’s there, arms strong and careful as he helps you up, one hand steady at your back, the other guiding your wrist like you’re something priceless and fragile.

You should be embarrassed. You should pull away. But for some reason… you don’t. You let him guide you down the candlelit hallway. His touch never lingers too long. Never assumes. And yet, you feel it in every inch of you. The tension has changed. It’s not fear anymore.

It’s heat. It's gravity. It’s dangerous, but not the kind that threatens you. The kind that makes you feel wanted in the oldest, truest sense of the word.

Back in your room, he helps you sit on the bed. You reach for your boots, but your fingers miss the laces. He kneels in front of you. Quiet. And begins to untie them. You don’t speak. You’re too tired. Too drunk. But you watch his hands. The way he works gently, like even this is an act of reverence.

He sets your boots aside. Looks up. And you’re looking down at him. A vampire. A killer. A king. And yet, you’ve never been more cared for in your life. You reach out and touch the side of his face. His eyes close, just for a moment.

You whisper, “What are you doing to me?”

And he whispers back, “Nothing you haven’t already done to me a thousand nights over, in dreams I never thought I’d survive.”

Your heart twists. You don’t answer. You just lie back. Eyes closing. Breath softening. The last thing you hear is the door clicking shut as he leaves. But the echo of his voice stays with you, curling around your ribs like smoke:

In dreams I never thought I’d survive…

Sleep comes fast. And when it does… it isn’t quiet. You dream of him. Not as the brooding king who watches you from across the room, or the predator who kills without blinking. But closer. Warmer. You’re in your chambers, but it’s not your chambers.

The walls pulse with shadow and the candles burn too brightly. The bed is wider, draped in silk and midnight. You’re laid with your back on the bed, naked and bare, spread wide. And he’s there. Above you. Kneeling between your thighs, his shirt half undone, his eyes dark with hunger, not just for your body, but for you. All of you.

Your back arches. You reach for him before he even touches you, fingers fisting in his shirt. Your mouth finds his like it always knew the way. It’s slow, then frantic, then slow again, tongues tangled, breath shallow, a hand wrapped around your throat but not to harm. To anchor. His body pressing harder between your legs, the hard line of him grinding slow and deliberate against you through his pants.

Your legs tighten around his waist while your hands pull his cock free. You feel him, all of him, thick, heavy, barely restrained. Positioning him at your entrance, he rocks slowly into you, groaning softly, and it lights a fire low in your belly.

One hand slides from your thigh up your ribs, cupping your breast. His thumb grazes your nipple, and the way he watches your face when he does it, hungry, reverent, makes your whole body tremble.

And then, he lowers his mouth to your neck. You know what’s coming. And you want it.

You whisper, “Please.”

He hesitates. Just a flicker. Then his fangs sink in. Sharp. Deep. Intimate. And it’s not pain, it’s ecstasy. A rush of heat and light and surrender, like falling into something you didn’t know you craved.

You moan, shameless, open, trembling under him. His body moves against yours. Strong. Controlled. You feel every beat of your heart as he drinks. And you want to give him everything.

You jolt awake with a gasp.

Your sheets are damp with sweat. Your lips are parted. Your pulse is racing like you ran through fire in your sleep.

You’re alone. But your skin still tingles. Your neck…You reach for it. No bite marks. But the heat is there. The memory. And somewhere in the castle, you know, he felt it too.

bloodsworn part v.

TAGLIST: @bobbdylan