Yearner final boss

First, Tony Stark. The biggest supplier of arms and guns. Your father used to have a contract with him, until Bucky and his men decided they wanted him to be their only supplier. And then, he had no time to meet with your father anymore.

Then, Alexei Shostakov, who was the most reliable connection to the Russian Mafia. Suddenly, he was no longer interested in business with your father; he was now working with Bucky Barnes.

Bucky was taking everyone who surrounded your father and HYDRA—and you were his next target.

He saw how you allured the men he needed on his side, how you talked to them to convince them to be part of a new business, how your hands roamed broad shoulders, slick suits, how your red lipstick never tinted any cheek—that was tacky, you just touched clothed skin and never with more than your velvety hands.

And Bucky saw how frustrated your father felt when he didn’t fall to your feet and never surrendered to his petitions.

Because, yes. Bucky could admit how beautiful, bewitching, and sexy you were. But he also saw and investigated how much you studied your targets, the plans you had for your father's businesses, and he never paid more than a glance.

“Steve, is that HYDRA’s princess?” Bucky said without even taking his eyes off you.

You caught his attention as soon as he saw you. You looked fresh, even innocent, to anyone’s eyes in that venue. You didn’t even reassemble your father.

Steve, his partner in crime, best friend, long–life wingman, understood at once that the interest was not just because of a pretty face.

Steve said your name, “Yep. That’s her. Freshly twenty–one, just came back from an interchange, I think she’s about to start working with daddy dearest.”

“Oh, is that so? What do we know about her?”

“If Corleone pays attention to her, we might be in trouble.”

“And why aren’t we worried?” Bucky drank from his glass.

“‘Cause he’s using her as a lure more than as a mind.”

“And why do we still call him Corleone? He’s getting older and no better.”

“Well—If we knew his real name, we would call it by it.” Bucky chuckled.

He didn’t talk to you right away. No, he knew better than that. He investigated you; he knew what your specialty was, how much you worked your ass off to become the woman who didn’t need her father to have your own name.

And he also saw how tired you were of being just a decoy for him; he saw in your eyes that you were hungry for more than just being a pretty face and a sexy body. So, he waited. He waited for years; he was in no hurry. You were brilliant, yes. But your father was an idiot who didn’t understand how to take advantage of such a brain.

‘Till your twenty–three birthday, James was only a name on your list to avoid, someone your father would scold you for hours if he saw you speaking with him. He was also the kind of frenemy your father had. He was not completely on his side, but he now controlled a lot of things, so your father had to play nicely with him.

“Happy birthday, princess,” James murmured in your ear as a hand roamed your back—it was not lascivious, it was grounding.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”

“Oh, don’t call me that, princess. I’m just what? Nine years older than you?”

“Enough to call you by your last name.” You smiled, taking a step back.

Your eyes flickered to your father, who tilted his head—he really expected that you would make a movement on him at your party. You stifled a sigh.

“Anyway, I hope you’re having an excellent night, Mr. Barnes.” Your hand lay on his chest, trying to soothe his suit, but he stopped you instantly.

“Don’t do that with me—I’m not interested in business with your father—I’m rather interested in you.”

You stopped for a moment—there hasn't been a man who didn’t accept your advances, and there was no man who knew you were leading him to your father’s business.

“When you get bored of being your daddy’s lure, give me a call. I know I can use that brain of yours instead of your body.” He winked and leaned closer to you, “Not that I wouldn’t want to use your body, but you must be tired of it.”

He took out a card from his inner pocket and handed it to you—you weren’t sure why, but you took it, and he disappeared into thin air, leaving you with more questions than answers.

When you got back to your father’s side. He scolded you the rest of the night for not getting James in. But, he got into you—something in his offering made you doubt everything.

The way he didn’t even take his eyes off of yours, or the way he didn’t even touch you more than necessary, made you feel seen after years of just being a piece of meat your father used to help himself.

You saw him on the other side of the venue, he was just leaning against a wall, Steve Rogers on his side, both cheered up his glasses in your direction.

And for a moment, his words struck your thoughts.

“Buck, you know she’s not gonna betray her father, right?” Steve said, putting down his drink.

“We would see, give her a few months—check how she didn’t throw my card away immediately?”

“I told you it was the worst idea you could ever have.”  You murmured following your father’s tracks.

Just an hour before his biggest deal got turned down—needless to say, that falling down had a full name: James Buchanan Barnes. That was personal; he wanted to piss your father off. The deal was to secure a part of the city that was just a hot spot for drug dealing, but he never had any interest until he learned your father wanted to take that part for some money laundering.

“Shut the fuck off, this wouldn’t be happening if you had fucked that fucking idiot.”

“What are you even talking about?” You stopped your pace to look at him, and he sighed.

“If you had fucked that fuckin’ Barnes and that idiot friend of his, Rogers, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Tell me that’s a fucking twisted joke of yours?” His assistant swallowed and looked away.

“I’m not fucking joking, do you see me laughing?”

Your father had always been bold about the fact that you were his bait, but he always said he would protect you as much as possible. Never being intimate with someone, never going too far just for a deal. Just some flirting and that was it.

“Oh, stop acting as a fucking prune, you knew exactly what your position was here.” He sighed, his assistant looked worried—even she could understand how hurt you were.

The restaurant was closed, the host waited for you at the entrance, his hand reached yours when you were getting out of your car, and he guided you to the most secluded part of the restaurant. Bucky was there.

Black slick suit, his woodsy scent with a hint of mint, hugged the whole venue. He stood up and walked to you, he took your hand and led you to an open chair, he helped you, and then took his seat.

“I was impressed when I heard your voice on the phone.”

“James—this can’t leave these walls, I shouldn’t even be here.”

“Take it easy, that’s why I closed the whole restaurant, I know Daddy dearest doesn’t know you’re spending your late night with me.”

You sighed, “James—this is not easy. I’m not even sure if I want to do it.”

“I won’t do anything you don’t want to. We don’t even have to make any kind of deal right now. I’m here with the purpose of listening to you. I don’t care what you have to say.”

“Oh, right. And then, when I’m all sensitive, you can fuck me or allure me to be part of your—”

He shook his head, “I know you’re used to being treated like a piece of meat, and I know your father treats you as such, but I’m not that kind of man. I’m not here to try to persuade you. You said you wanted to talk, I’m here for that.”

“James…”

“And stop calling me James, that’s only for men who need to know their place. Call me Bucky.”

“Fine. Bucky, I’m not willing to betray my father—I’m just tired.”

“Why are you still talking about your father? For God’s sake. Talk to me about you—your interests, why you are not like the rest of the mafia princesses who parade themselves around the block.”

He leaned on the table, his gaze never even flickering to your cleavage, something you had worn on purpose. You were expecting his gaze to land on it in the very first minutes, but he didn’t.

When the night ended, you realized how much you needed that. How much you needed a powerful man to look at you as if you were more than a pretty face. He took his time to learn more about you—why did you leave for an interchange, why didn’t you live with your father since your mother died? He took every small detail you spared and saved it on his chest as if it were a treasure.

“God, Bucky—you haven’t even said a word the whole night. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of small dick men talking about all their achievements, and you didn’t even spare a word.”

Months went by—Bucky didn’t even mention again that he wanted you by your side, he just took every crumble of tiredness you gave him, he appreciated how you went out with him on secret late nights just to talk. And you didn’t realize, but you had stopped trying to help your father, your ideas went on deaf ears, so it was better just to keep them to yourself.

That became a routine until one day you were walking to his office—he called you to have ‘a talk’, which meant he wanted to ask you to have a ‘sweet talk’ with someone. When you were about to open the door, you heard his voice talking to someone else on the phone.

“Of course I’m gonna use her! If that bastard of Walker wants to marry her, I’m gonna serve her on a silver platter. That’s why I brought her back.”

Your hands felt frozen; something on your chest hurt in that moment.

How were you just an asset to him now? You used to be his most precious thing; he could put the world on your feet if you had asked—and now he was willing to hand you to a man as if you were nothing.

You didn’t even open the door—you walked away and took your phone out, the phone rang twice before his velvety voice came through.

“Bucky, how much time is it gonna take you to pick me up from my dad’s?” He chuckled; a drowned snap of fingers sounded.

“They are on their way—do you wanna talk in the meantime?”

“Not really.”

“I’ll see you when you get here.” You hung up, and in less than ten minutes, a black SUV was parked on the street.

Bucky waited for you at the entrance of his building. For a moment, you thought he was going to take you to his house, but he remained as gentlemanly as he had been your whole time together.

He extended his hand to your back, and you walked directly to his office. No one dared to see your way, but everyone knew who you were—the real question was, what were you doing there?

The door clicked closed, and he guided you to his desk.

“Something to drink?” You shook your head.

“What do you know about a Walker?” You asked directly, Bucky finished pouring a golden liquid into his glass.

“A nobody who believes he can play in the big leagues.” He raises his eyebrow. “Why?”

“Well, he is someone in my father’s eyes. He wants me to marry him.”

Bucky had no chance to feign serenity; his hand gripped the glass enough to shatter it. “Fuck.”

You stood up, and he shook his head, “I will call someone to clean this up later. Please continue.”

“Well—that’s everything I know. I heard him over the phone telling someone he wanted to marry me, and he would gladly hand me over to him.”

Bucky sighed, “What do you need from me, princess?”

“What do I need to make myself clear? I don’t want everyone thinking I’m a fucking betrayer—I don’t want to come here and be someone who’s not trusted.”

He chuckled, “Half of the people surrounding us know how wrong your father has done to you. If you ever dared to go against his wishes, you would be praised.”

A sigh left your lips.

“I’m not telling you what you have to do. That’s on you. I’m just showing you that you have options.”

And that’s how you ended up working for Bucky Barnes. He helped you move out to a place your father would never know. You cut ties with him as soon as you left the penthouse he had gifted you. People seemed amused by the fact that you left him on his own. Not that you were of importance on HYDRA, but you were of relevance now with Bucky; he made everyone clear your voice mattered, sometimes even more than his own. Not just because he wanted to prove a point, but because you were the only one to call him out on his shit.

After a year, everything had settled—you had helped him to grow his emporium, and you became something important inside the organization. On the outside? You were just a worker at his casino. Even the employees who weren’t covering up thought you were just an employee.

And Bucky took his time—but when he saw you comfortable, he started flirting. It was subtle—now your late-night dates were a bit more romantic, he didn’t buy material things—no. He bought a book he knew you liked, he bought that one doll you told him once your father threw because you couldn’t play with it in front of his acquaintances.

He knew what strings to pull, and it was working, but you knew better than to fall for the man your father hated the most. One thing was to work for him, that was pure revenge, but having a whole relationship with him? Pure betrayal.

You were checking numbers with Yelena—the poor accountant who till last month, thought this was a serious business and not a whole façade. You let Bucky know she was perfect to work for both businesses, you learned fast that she was trustworthy, and a very intelligent woman.

“God—I won’t be able to learn all these numbers. I need to run a lot of things before catching up with this.”

“Stop the deprecating show. We chose you because we know you’re capable of this.”

Steve arrived at the venue and called out your name, “Bucky is looking for you.”

Yelena didn’t even raise his head—she was still too afraid to even look at anyone’s face.

“Keep working on this. I will be back in a minute.”

When you opened the door, Bucky was checking some papers on his desk.

“Look at my princess.” You rolled your eyes.

“What do you want, Bucky?”

“Tough.” He chuckled, “I just want to let you know that you have to be ready for the Gala tomorrow night.”

He patted his leg; he was always offering his lap for you to sit—even when you always rejected it, you sat on the desk in front of him.

You laughed louder than you intended. “You’re delusional if you think I’m going there.”

“C’mere, honey.” He tilted, and you shook your head.

But, he was in the mood—from time to time, his dominant self came out and didn’t accept a denial. He took you by the waist and sat you on his leg.

“That’s better, princess.”

“You’re insufferable, Barnes.”

“You weren’t here if you didn’t like it.”

You rolled your eyes—all this time, you had developed feelings for him, but you wouldn’t accept it, ever.

“You need to come. You need to give him a lesson.”

“And why would I?” You raised an eyebrow while you soothed his white shirt.

“Because he’s too comfortable running his mouth, telling everyone and their mother that you’re just my fuck toy—and even when I love the allegations, I hate a fucking idiot talking about a woman—nonetheless, his daughter.”

Your face turned hot, and you felt something tightening in your guts. You knew he was an idiot, that he could be hurt and stupid, you saw him badmouthing a lot of people, but to be running his mouth about you? It was another level.

Bucky noticed how your neck tensed, and he placed his hands on your shoulder.

“No one believes that you are anything to me. Not even a soul. Everyone who matters has seen you working your ass off. He’s just upset because we’ve taken a lot from him.”

“So what?”

“You give him the lesson he’s asking for—he wants to badmouth you? Let's give him something to talk about.”

“You just want to show up with me on your side, don’t lie.”

“Of course! That’s my prize—I want to parade you, to show everyone how a lady like you should be treated, and how all of them did you wrong.”

“So what? We go there and show up as a couple.”

He chuckled, his laugh sounded raspy, as if he was enjoying you saying that.

“Give me grace—I would love that, but you’re not going as my date—you’re going as my right hand.” His hand roamed your leg, not lascivious, but tender.

“You are going to put me in the best hotel, the best dress, a make–up artist, and I want you to pick me up, not one of your workers.”

He kissed your shoulder, “You’re simple to please.”

“And don’t expect sex.” You stood up, and he sighed with the loss of touch.

“As if I had expected it through the last year, darling.”

Bucky walked through the venue with you on his arm. Your red dress was stunning enough to make one or two gazes land on you, but when people saw who was by your side, the murmuring started.

Two men who didn’t even know your name a year back are now shaking hands with you after big deals were sealed with them months ago.

“You’re doing great, princess,” Bucky murmured, and you nodded.

“Then why am I feeling I’m about to be scolded?”

“‘Cause you haven’t totally cut ties with him.”

“Look who’s here!”

Your father’s voice came from behind, and your grip got tighter on Bucky’s arm. Bucky turned his body around just to soothe the back of your dress with care. A reminder that he was there.

“If it’s Corleone blessing us with his presence.”

“Shut the fuck up, Barnes. I’m not talking to you. Now, can you leave? This is a family matter.”

He chuckled. “I’ll be at the bar.”

He wanted to kiss you then and there—but he didn’t want to prove to your father you were just a fuck, he wanted to show him you were more than that.

“What the fuck are you doing with him?!” He growled, “You told me you were leaving all of this behind.”

“All of HYDRA. And I did.” You tried to play dumb.

“Do you know what this idiot has done to my business?” He tried to tower over you.

“The last thing? We took Fury’s business with us, besides some other things.”

“Look at you, talking as if you were a team—we all know he’s just fucking you.”

“He’s not fucking me—I’m his equal, he listens to me!” You said louder. One or two attendees turned their heads to you.

“I listened to you, too! You were just playing around, you were just trying to pretend you were a big girl! You’re a fucking child, you know nothing!”

You took a step back. His voice was getting louder, and even when you weren’t affected by it, you felt embarrassed.

“Don’t act as if I were the fucking danger to you—I did nothing wrong, and you just left to be with the prick who’s made my life hell.”

“Oh? Nothing wrong? You weren’t about to sell me to the highest bidder?”

“I—Who fucking told you that?”

“No one. God bless the day I went to talk to you, and I heard how you were telling someone you were going to get me married to a fucking nobody.”

He sighed. He didn’t have a way out, but something in him snapped. “Wait a fucking second, how do you know about Fury?”

A vein on his temple was about to explode.

“Guess Fury didn’t like my body—he preferred my ideas.”

You tilted your head and smiled, but suddenly his hand crashed against your cheek, making you fall. Before you could even stand up, a hand was already grabbing you by your back—Bucky was carrying you, while you saw how three men took your father by the arms, dragging him away from you.

“We are fucking leaving—I don’t fucking care anymore. I let him run his mouth, I let him disrespect you enough.”

You were tossed on his shoulder, his arm hugged the end of your ass to not let your dress expose anything, and you couldn’t even comprehend what just happened.

The way home was mute, no one said anything—but he held you tight, you were crying and whimpering on his shoulder, his hand stroked your hair tenderly, the other hand was on your back, your legs straddled his waist.

“You are not going to see him ever again,” He mumbled, “I’m gonna make sure he never comes back to a fucking event—fucking idiot. Slapping my fucking girl—”

‘My fucking girl…’ That took you out of your mind for a second. You lifted your head just enough to see him directly in the eyes.

“Oh, let’s stop pretending—I know you’ve been pretending you don’t love me since the first month you’ve been here. I didn’t mind, I was fine with whatever crumble you tossed my way, but that doesn’t mean you’re not mine, and of course that doesn’t mean a fucking idiot can touch you in any way.”

He stopped stroking your hair and cupped your chin to make you look at him, “You know you’re mine, right?”

Your eyes flickered for a second.

“Let me rephrase,” he cut the distance between you—your lips almost touching, “You know I’m yours, completely. And you’re my fucking queen. I could give you the sky if you asked me for it.”

You nodded, but words were taken out of your chest.

“Say it. Say I’m yours.” He ordered.

“You’re mine… and I’m your queen.” He smiled—a triumphant smile.

“And never forget it.”

You open the door expecting him to ask you to make coffee the way he likes or stand there with that sad little grocery bag he sometimes brings when he pretends he is not lonely.

The hallway throws you a Bucky, leather jacket clad, nose slightly red and one cheekbone carrying the dark, ugly promise of swelling.

For one full second, the fondness comes before the worry. Which is unfair. You should be above noticing that a scuffed-up Bucky Barnes looks like someone dragged a wet cat home by its collar and left it on your welcome mat. You should be above the stupid, soft warmth that rises in you when his eyes find yours and his shoulders loosen by a fraction, because he came here.

He didn't go to some all-night clinic or even Sam. He came here.

Your place.

As if your apartment has somehow become the place he goes when the world gets too sharp.

"Before you start, it looks worse than it is."

You keep one hand on the doorframe. Mostly because if you don't, you might reach for his face. "That's such a comforting thing to hear from a man who has been legally dead more than once."

A twitch in his mouth, that might a smile if you looked hard enough. It pulls at the split in his lip, and then the twitch disappears, punished by pain. 

"Can I come in?" he asks, even when he already knows the answer. He has eaten noodles standing barefoot in your kitchen, once sat on your floor for forty-five minutes fixing a wobbly table leg. Brought Yori here once for tea. But still, Bucky asks.

He had been in your apartment, in your life for months.

So yes, he can come in. Obviously.

"Unfortunately," you say, stepping back, "I have already seen your face, so now you're my problem."

"Was trying to avoid that."

"You failed. Sit down."

He listens, which should not be as satisfying as it is. He rarely listens without making a fuss, but now he listens, sits on your couch because you point at it. There is power in that. Terrible power.

He lowers himself onto the couch with a controlled stiffness that immediately makes your temper spike. Domestic temper, which basically means you're going to fuss over him for the next one hour. His right hand lifts toward his cheek, then drops like he already knows touching it will get him scolded.

"What happened?" you ask.

"Nothing."

You stare at him.

He stares back without missing a beat.

Bucky does this thing where he tries to out-silence people. You don't know who it works on, but it does not work on you. "James."

His eyes narrow a little. You do not use it often. Mostly because 'Bucky' suits him better in your mouth. Bucky is the man who leans in your doorway with takeout. Bucky is the man who grunts at your jokes and secretly remembers all of them. James feels heavier.

"Some guy got mouthy with Yori," he says.

That changes things. Of course it was Yori. Of course Bucky stepped in, because Bucky would rather let the whole city spit on him than watch Yori get pushed around.

"Got mouthy how?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

Bucky sighs like he's lost a fight with you. He has. "He was drunk. Didn't like being told to move out of the way. Yori said something back, because you know."

You do know, that is Yori. Unstoppable old man. Danger to himself and everyone trying to keep him alive.

"And then?"

Bucky looks down at his hands. His metal one rests open on his knee, fingers still, the flesh hand has raw marks along the knuckles. 

"I stepped between them. Guy swung. Landed one before I moved him back."

"Moved him back," you repeat. "Is he in the hospital?"

A beginning of a laugh is pulled from Bucky, buried under exhaustion and the tightness in his mouth. "No."

"Shame."

"Not trying to put people in hospitals anymore, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

That one should come with a warning label. He says it like he does not understand what it does. Or like he understands too well and has chosen to leave you alone with the consequences. You don't know which, you don't want to.

You turn toward the kitchen before your expression can betray you. "Hold that guilt complex. I'm getting ice."

"I don't need ice."

"You need something cold."

"Super serum."

You ignore that. Your freezer, a traitor, contains no ice. There is a frozen pizza, half a packet of parathas, and one bag of peas you bought during a period where you were health conscious enough to want to add peas to things.

You come back with the peas wrapped in a dish towel, you are not a monster. Bucky eyes them suspiciously. "Peas?"

"Yep."

"You said ice." But he takes the bag from you anyway.

"We're making do."

Bucky grunts, and presses it to his cheek with all the precision of someone trying to disappoint you on purpose.

You give him a moment to correct himself. He does not.

"Nope." The peas still aren't making proper contact with his face and it's genuinely offensive to watch. You're either a perfectionist or a control freak, probably both, and this half-assed attempt at icing is making your eye twitch. "You're doing that wrong."

His brows lift. "What?"

"You have to actually press them against the swelling, Barnes. Did they not teach you basic first aid in the forties?"

Amusement tries to sneak out, but it gets dragged back by pain. You hate that you want to kiss the side of his mouth just to see if the softness there would stay.

Shaking your head to physically push those thoughts away, you step between his knees and reach for the peas. "Move your hand."

Bucky answers in yet another one of his signature grunts, but obeys.

A normal man would grunt all the same, but Bucky's grunts have different meanings. What's worse is that you know what they say. "Injured men lose the right to complain," you respond.

"I'm not injured."

"Your cheek is changing colors while we speak."

"It's fine."

"Bucky, I swear, if you say super serum again, I'm putting the peas directly inside your shirt."

His gaze drops for one treacherous second. Just one. His eyes dip, catch somewhere around your chest, and return to your face immediately, like whatever he saw just burned him.

You should not do anything with that information. A wiser person would tuck it away, continue administering frozen peas, and perhaps reflect later while you're in your bed with your hands between your thighs.

You are not that woman. Well, you've been that woman. But right now, you want to be someone else, someone brave.

You take his wrist and guide the peas higher, pressing the wrapped cold properly against the darkened swell under his cheekbone. His skin is warm where your fingers brush him. "There. Full contact. Maximum efficiency."

"Didn't know there was a technique."

"That's why you come to me."

The joke, harmless a second ago, becomes something else in the narrow space between your bodies. Because he does come to you. Bruised, bored, lonely, hungry, irritated, restless. He comes over and pretends there is a reason. You let him pretend because you have been pretending too, in your own pathetic little way, acting like it is normal to know how he takes his tea, normal to hear his footsteps in the hall and know it is him before he knocks.

His metal hand lifts to find your hip. A natural next step done with caution, vibranium fingers curving over the soft fabric, cold through your clothes and intimate enough to make your whole body pay attention. He holds you like his hand needed somewhere to go and chose you. "You're cold," he says.

"That's because I'm holding frozen peas to your face."

His thumb shifts. One small glide which your body takes very personally.

"I meant your hip." It is funny because his arm is the cold one.

"Well, some of us are not walking space heaters."

His lips part around an answer, but nothing comes out. His eyes have dropped again, though this time they do not make it all the way down. They catch on your mouth.

Needing something to do with your hands, you adjust the peas. The angle is awkward from where you are standing, your arm starting to ache, and Bucky keeps turning his head by tiny increments like he cannot help tracking you. "Stay still," you say.

"I am still."

"No, you're being uncooperative when I'm just trying to ice your bruised ego."

"My ego isn't bruised."

It isn't. It's somewhere on the sidewalk where he got punched.

He exhales through his nose, that almost-laugh touching the side of your wrist. You should not feel it anywhere except your wrist, but bodies are stupid and yours is the stupidest one in the room.

You shift closer to get a better angle. His knees part a little to make space for you, automatic, the movement tugging your attention downward before you can stop it.

Big mistake.

Bucky's thighs are unfair. That's the only reasonable word for them. Unfair in dark jeans, spread just enough to fit you between them, muscle held under denim like a threat specially against you. The left one shifts, the fabric tightening, and you are suddenly forced to remember that this man can jump from buildings, bend steel, break guns apart with one hand. Also apparently sit on your cheap couch looking like sin.

Sin. The same thing you want to commit now.

The peas are slipping, or trying to. "Here," you mutter, mostly to yourself, and brace one knee on the couch.

Bucky is a statue most of the time, but it's different this time. Before, he'd breathe, now he doesn't.

You settle onto his thigh before you can think better of it, one leg bunched awkwardly beside his, your weight finding the hard line of muscle under you. You're lying to yourself that it's not his lap, just his thigh, and that makes it better. It is safer, only in theory. Because the second you sit, there's pressure exactly where it shouldn't be, your entire body registering the shape of him beneath you.

There's a debate about this situation in your head, whether it's a mistake or an excellent idea, you're still not sure. "Better angle."

While Bucky's metal hand is still on your hip, his other hand has dropped to the couch cushion, fingers digging in. Where he's looking at is the place that's currently ruining you. "Sweetheart."

Your hand keeps the peas to his cheek because if you stop doing the one medical-adjacent task available, you might have to admit you are sitting on Bucky Barnes' thigh and trying to grind down like some kind of teenager discorvering that shower heads could be used for one other thing than its intended purpose.

"What?" The innocence in your voice is so fake even the peas probably know.

The bruise moves under the towel, when he tightens his jaw. "Nothing."

"Bucky."

His hand flexes on your hip, the first real crack in the careful wall he keeps between his want and the world. Just fingers tightening and releasing. Heat crawls up your neck. Worse, lower. Between your thighs, where the seam of your shorts presses against you, where his thigh is so solid beneath you that even the smallest adjustment drags sensation through your body.

Barely anything, a tiny movement, you shift before you mean to. If he asks about it, you could say you were just getting comfortable.

He knows better than to ask about it. Bucky inhales through his teeth. The sound is quiet, gone almost as soon as it arrives, but it pulls your own version from you, coming out before you can stop it. "Oh," you breathe.

His eyes close for half a second. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't make that sound like you don't know what you're doing."

The peas have now become irrelevant. You still hold them there to maintain the dumb facade, even though you know he wouldn't mind if you'd dropped it. "Just helping you ice your bruise."

"You're sitting on my thigh."

"Yeah, for better angle."

"That's not what I'd call it."

What would you call it then? The question is at the tip of your tongue, but you body makes a decision, sliding just an inch forward, the pleasure moving straight to your clit. Bucky's hand clamps down on your hip with a restraint so thin it might as well be transparent. 

For half a moment, you expect him to do something, to lean back, stare into your eyes, but he does nothing. The momentary silence feels big, frozen peas still pressed to his cheek, sharing breaths.

It ends with a flex of muscle under denim, lifting pressure against you right where you are already to sensitive. "Bucky," you breathe.

His mouth parts. The split at the corner looks worse now, a thin red shine where the movement has tugged it open again, and your eyes go straight to it. Asking him if it hurts would be a good idea, so is getting him antiseptics.

But some ugly part of you wonders what his blood would taste like if you put your mouth there.

That is horrible. That is deranged. That is exactly the kind of thing a person should carry privately to the grave. But Bucky is watching your eyes track his mouth, a flex in his jaw tells you that he can see right through you and read your thoughts. "What?" he asks.

"Your lip. It's bleeding again."

His hand should leave you to maybe his lips, at least out of curiosity. But, his thumb moves at your hip again, enough to make your cunt throb against his thigh. He must know what he is doing. He absolutely knows what he is doing. The man has spent half your friendship acting like he is incapable of casual flirtation. But now, he is suddenly fluent in ruining you with his thumb. "Does that bother you?" he asks.

The answer should be yes. Normal people are bothered by bleeding mouths. Normal people do helpful things with tissues and cotton pads.

Your hand tightens around the towel-wrapped peas. "A little."

"A little," he repeats. There is an amusement in it, almost tender, also mean. "That why you keep looking at it?"

You want to blame the super serum for making him too observant, but the truth is uglier and funnier. Bucky has always been observant when it comes to you. He notices when you run out of sugar and pretends he bought too much, he knows when you have had a bad day just from the sound of your keys hitting the bowl.

And that is why he notices this too.

Traitorous and needy, your hips shift again, and his thigh flexes under you a second time.

That one is intentional.

"Bucky, can you please stop moving?" A hypocritical comment, rich coming from you, considering your body is the one that has been trying to climb him like a tree.

Bucky sees as much, his gaze dropping to where you sit on him, then back to your eyes with a raised eyebrow, asking multitudes. "Sweetheart." The word usually is unfair, right now is probably illegal, you nearly lose your grip on the peas entirely. "I can't if you're sitting on me like that."

The last thread of pretending snaps so cleanly you almost hear it. The peas slide from his cheek, hit his shoulder, then roll onto the couch between him and the armrest. Neither of you reach for it, don't even acknowledg it. The cold, damp towel leaves a mark on his shirt, which becomes refuge for your hand now.

Your other hand cups the uninjured side of his jaw and you kiss him before either of your mouths can ruin this with another half-smart comment.

The first press of your mouth to his is careful because of the split lip. Careful lasts about as long as a second, much less if you count it in milliseconds. His breath catches against you, flesh hand leaving the couch to fit itself around the back of your neck. He does it gently enough that you could pull away. He does it desperately enough that you have no intention of ever moving again.

His mouth opens under yours. Bucky kisses like he has been denied this for years. Maybe he has, maybe every quiet night in your apartment has been building toward this moment. His lips are warm, the hurt corner tender under your attention. When your tongue brushes the taste of blood there, the sound he makes is so raw you feel it between your legs.

You lick it again. A small pass over the split, more apology than bite, out of pure want and nothing else.

His hips jerk under you. "Fuck," he breathes against your mouth. There is nothing pretty about the way the word leaves his teeth. Pretty would have made this feel distant. This is all heat and breath and the heavy drag of his hands as they find your waist, your ribs, the lower curve of your back. He touches you like he is still trying to be decent and already failing.

You grind down before he can ask for permission he already has. A direct pressure to your clit makes make your thighs tense around his, and Bucky's hands clamp at your waist, guiding without taking over. The denim under you is rough, the muscle beneath it unforgiving, making your fingers dig into his shoulder. "Again," he says, more breath than voice.

A laugh from your lips goes straight into his, because of course he says again like hes asking for a demonstration, a redo.

Your mouth does the only thing your mouth is good at when it comes to Bucky Barnes, it talks. "You're very demanding for a man who came here for medical attention."

"Medical attention ended when you sat on me."

"You put your hand on my hip first." A feeble attempt at what, you don't know, another hypocritical comment maybe.

His grip tightens, mouth drifting to your jaw, rough stubble scraping in a line. "Yeah," he murmurs, lips moving against your skin, "that was my mistake."

"Was it?"

He answers by flexing his thigh again. Your body folds forward into him, the moan breaking out before you can swallow it. There is no dignity in the way you ride that pressure now, only the greedy search for the angle that makes your breath catch hardest. Bucky lets you find it. Worse, he studies you finding it. His eyes are half-lidded when you pull back enough to look at him, mouth red from kissing, cheek bruised, hair messy from your fingers.

You have seen Bucky Barnes irritated. Exhausted. Amused against his will. Soft in your kitchen at one in the morning, pretending tea is the reason he stayed.

You have never seen him look hungry like this.

Maybe, it should scare you, but it doesn't. It makes something in you preen, which is terrible. Truly terrible. The man has been through government experiments, wars, therapy, and one mutually beneficial friendship with you, and all you did was soak through your shorts while wondering if he would groan again if you bit his lip a little.

"You look at me like that a lot?" you ask, unable to keep your mouth shut, begging for humiliation, because he could easily say no.

His thumb slips under the hem of your shirt, finding bare skin. Possessive in the quietest way. "Yeah."

He makes you feel stupid for doubting him, for thinking he wouldn't be honest, it makes your hips falter.

Bucky would notice a bullet coming a mile away, you losing your rhythm on his thigh is hardly a thing, so of course he notices, and for a second the want in him softens. His hand moves up your back, palm spreading there, holding you close enough that your chest brushes his with every breath. "That scare you?"

Speaking would give away too much, you end up shaking your head.

"Use your words," he murmurs. You'd think he is teasing, but his own breathing is too ragged for smugness. "Need to hear you."

"No," you whisper. "It doesn't scare me."

His forehead tips forward until it nearly touches your clavicle, almost burying his face above it, breath warming your skin like relief escaped him without permission, like he has been holding that fear for months.

The softness you'd both acquired turns right back when you move again, his hands guiding you harder this time. Each roll of your hips drags wet heat through your cunt, the fabric growing slick enough that the friction turns smoother, dirtier, easier to chase. You can feel yourself making a mess. Worse, you can tell he knows. The faintest flare of his nostrils, the ruined sound in his throat, the way his fingers dig in like he is trying to keep from dragging you fully into his lap.

"You smell so sweet," he says before he can stop himself. He freezes for half a beat, like the words surprised him too.

Your own body freezes too. Which is worse? Bucky Barnes saying that or him looking almost devastated by his own mouth?

"Sorry —"

"Don't." You cut him off easily. "Say it again."

Bucky doesn't bless you by saying it again, but he does pull you in for another kiss. The apology is gone, the careful distance gone, his metal hand slides down to your ass, gripping you through your shorts. The cold makes you gasp against his tongue, and his flesh hand moves to your breast, palming you over your shirt with a rough sound of appreciation that makes you clench around nothing.

"Been trying to be normal about you," he mutters against your mouth. The words come out broken, like every grind of your hips knocks another confession loose. "Didn't work."

You drag yourself over his thigh again, slower now, meaner to yourself, letting the pressure build until your legs start to tremble. "You mean we could've been doing this since day one?"

"Well —"

"If you say something else, I'm getting off."

The laugh that leaves him is barely a laugh at all, more of a rough breath against your mouth. It warms his face for one stolen second, makes him look almost boyish, fond. "You are getting off."

"I'm getting off of you."

His flesh hand shifts higher, palm closing over your breast again, more certain now, more greedy, pointer finger and thumb finding your nipple, tugging, then soothing it with a slow circle. "We don't want that do we?"

Your mouth finds the side of his neck before sense can catch up. You bite him because he flexes his thigh at the same time, hand on your breast. The ruined sound he makes when your teeth sink is worth everything. His whole body goes rigid beneath you, then hotter somehow, his breath breaking at your ear. "That's it, take what you need."

Your hips roll harder, chasing the friction with a desperation that would be embarrassing if his eyes weren't so dark. The wet spot on his jeans is growing, undeniable evidence of how soaked you are, and when he glances down at it his breath punches out. "Fuck, sweetheart. She's dripping on me."

"Bucky —" your body stops moving, planting itself right over the wetness.

"No. Don't hide. I want to feel you ruin my jeans." His metal hand guides you into a new angle, pleasure spiking so sharp you gasp into his mouth. "There?" he asks, doing it again when you whimper. "That the spot?"

Your forehead drops to his shoulder, fingers clawing at his jacket while you ride his thigh like your life depends on it, the slick drag of fabric audible in the quiet room.

You woukd feel embarrassed if you could, but you just don't care. That's when you feel him, the hard length of him pressed against your knee, thick and straining against his zipper. Bucky Barnes is rock hard from watching you get yourself off on his thigh. From the sounds you're making, from the mess you're leaving on him. "You're — You're so hard."

His laugh is more of a groan. "Yeah. Happens when a pretty girl humps my leg."

The words go straight to your cunt. Your rhythm stutters, then picks up faster, chasing the edge that's suddenly right there. "Bucky, I'm —"

"I know." His hand moves from your ass to between your legs, thumb pressing against your clit through your soaked shorts. "Let me feel it."

White hot pleasure hits you, your face buried on his neck, unable to come up, to feel anything else but your wrung out body.

When you finally come back to yourself, you're trembling. Bucky's hand is stroking your back, gentling you down like you're not a depraved mess. "There you go," he murmurs. "That's my girl."

His girl.

You're too wrecked to think about what that means. 

"Bucky," you breathe.

"Yeah, baby?"

"Your turn."

MY MASTERLIST!

EXTRAS. It was supposed to be quick smut, but this is my first time writing tfatws Bucky, and you can obviously tell I got a bit too intense 😭 also let’s be honest, this was in no way a first aid…

It had been by mistake, really, that you'd found out about James. After your parents' nasty divorce, they'd liquidated their assets and gotten the hell out of dodge, to opposite sides of the country, leaving what was supposed to be their retirement home to you. Your job being remote made the move easy. You could dial in from anywhere, really, so why not a sleepy little town? It was nice enough, you supposed, but your first time seeing it was when you pulled the U-Haul truck into the driveway to start unloading.

Your neighbours were nice, if a little nosy, but you didn't foresee any real friendships there. But the house on the hill—you could see it peeking through lush trees—its roof crested with ravens, seemed interesting. You thought that maybe, as you drove past it for your first grocery trip, a young and hip whimsigoth might live there. It was a far-fetched hope, maybe, but so far everyone you'd seen in this town was married with kids, or an empty nester. You hadn't seen any twenty-somethings at all.

You weren't one to back down from a challenge, so you packed some muffins (store-bought—you weren't about to waste time in the kitchen if they were to be rejected) into a basket and set about heading up to the hill.

It had been the beginning of fall, at the time, but it seemed like all of the trees on the property had begun their change of green to yellow and orange earlier than the others in town. You wondered if it had something to do with being at a higher altitude. There were no cheery lawn ornaments like the homes near yours. No wind chimes or ceramic frogs or funny little gnomes. The grass had been cut, but it was mostly blanketed by leaves. Distantly, you realized all you could hear was the rustle of the branches in the breeze. There were no chirping birds. Tipping your head back, you saw the row of beady eyes on you, a silent brigade of midnight black ravens considering you, tilting their heads, snapping their beaks curiously.

There was no driveway, no garage, and also no car parked on the street. That was really what made you pause. But you braved the porch step, the wood so faded it looked gray, and fixed your fingers around the heavy knocker. It protruded from a ram's head, the ring clasped in its jaw. Maybe the homeowner was a pagan, or something.

There was no doorbell, so you knocked with enthusiasm, hoping it was loud enough. All the windows were covered by gauzy curtains in wine red or a faded cream, so you couldn't see in. The thin strips of glass on either side of the door were of the stained variety, different pieces making up a pattern you couldn't quite catch. All you could tell was that it looked dark inside.

You waited, tapping your foot against the soft wood. There was no welcome mat, either. Yet you hesitated to believe that the house was abandoned, because otherwise, who had taken care of the lawn? After a full minute of standing still, listening to the house, trying to tell if someone was coming to answer, you knocked again. The knock knock knock sounded like the banging of a gavel.

It seemed to do the trick, though. Another thirty seconds of waiting, the house completely silent, and then the door flew open. You stared in surprise at who stood before you.

He looked a little young to inhabit the place alone, as he blinked eyes of crystalline blue at you. But that wasn't what had you trying not to gape at him. No, the man before you stood in pajamas of black silk, an eye mask pushed up over his forehead, his brown hair sticking every which way. "I don't want whatever you're selling. And please, be considerate. I was resting."

His words curled around you like smoke, and it almost made you shiver. You didn't think his tone was meant to be seductive, but for some reason, it had you flushing. So, this mysterious stranger must work nights, or something. "Oh, I—I'm not trying to sell anything. I, um, I just moved in? Down the hill." You jerked a thumb behind you, as if he needed the clarification. "Just introducing myself."

He peered at you sleepily, looking largely unimpressed. "Are those meant to be for me?" His eyes travelled down from your face to the basket.

You'd forgotten it had been resting in the crook of your arm. "Oh, um, yes!" You unfolded the checkered dishtowel on top to reveal the muffins. "Best way to get into people's good graces is with food, yeah?" You were aiming for upbeat, though the feeling felt like it had been leached from you the second he'd fixed you with that disdainful look.

"No, thank you." He said tersely.

Of all the people you'd imagined to live here, he wasn't one of them. "N—no?" Who the hell rejected muffins?

You felt yourself deflate, your spine curling to hunch in on yourself. Rejection never felt nice. But then you remembered, as he went to close the door, that you weren't some pansy. He was already looking at you like you were slightly more stupid than the general population. You drew yourself to your full height, though he was still taller than you. It didn't matter that he'd been polite. You knew he was just trying to get you to go away.

"Is that all?" He asked, clearly ready to close the door in your face.

"I guess so," your eyes narrowed. "But for future reference, the considerate thing to do is take the damn muffins. I don't need to know if you immediately throw them in the trash."

He remained unperturbed. It was mildly infuriating. "Alright. Goodbye."

Before you could blink, the door was closed. You felt like the ram's head was judging you. "Dick." You muttered, turning on your heel.

You thought you heard something on the other side of the door, but decided not to pay it any mind. It wasn't until you'd reached the gate that you heard the door open again, followed by that same seductive lilt: "Close, but my name is actually James."

You didn't see James again for a couple of weeks. You didn't want to ask your other neighbours about him, but you certainly didn't stop them when they brought him up. From what you'd come to understand, people hardly ever saw him. In fact, you were probably the person that had spoken to him the most in recent months. He worked nights somewhere, though no one knew where. But it sounded like his house and lawn were always in pretty pristine condition, though no one ever actually saw him out there doing maintenance. He was, in large part, a great big question mark to your small town.

You planned to never interact with him again. The key word there was 'planned'. But one night, just as you were planning to cozy up on your new couch and watch an episode of the police procedural you'd been hooked on, there was a gentle knock on your door. You snuggled your cardigan around yourself—it was a wearable blanket, really—and padded to the front of the house. You assumed it was a neighbour with leftovers—they really loved bringing you food, pitying your single status.

It was dark out, the sky the blue of a jewel, but your porch light washed everything with yellow. You were more than a little surprised to see James standing on the other side. He was wearing a long black coat over what looked to be tailored trousers and an expensive looking shirt.

"Hello," he said.

Just the one word sounded musical. You kept your arms crossed over your chest. "Hi."

"I wanted to apologize for my behaviour the other day." it had been weeks, but you let it slide, curious as to where this was going. "I realized I never even asked for your name." He looked at you expectantly then.

Well, if you were going to be saying his name in vain, you supposed it was only fair… You gave him your own in a short, brisk tone. You didn't like how you felt when he repeated it back like a caress.

"Did you come all the way here just to ask for my name?" You shifted your weight, staring up at him.

"No, I thought we might get to know each other better. May I come in?" He all but crooned.

He must have thought that turning on the charm would get him into your good graces. "Um, no."

If you'd had your phone on you, you would have taken a picture of the clear shock on his face. "nNo?" He repeated, incredulous. The silky seduction had melted away.

You frowned. "No. Why would I, a single woman, let a strange man into her house at…" you glanced at your watch, "eight o'clock at night? Sounds like a recipe for danger, don't you think?"

It was very obvious to you that James had had no doubt in his mind that you were going to let him in, and this roadblock was something he hadn't considered. He didn't know how petty you could be. The crease in his brow smoothed out, and he met your eyes. You believed that his stare could have been hypnotic, if you weren't already disillusioned by his charm. He said your name again, and it gave you goosebumps along your arms. "I'm sorry for the way I acted. I unfortunately tend to be a tad irate when roused from sleep."

His tone was interesting, to you. The words he used, even. He didn't talk like anyone else you'd met. He fixed you with a pleading look. "I'm not a danger to you. I'd just like to talk to you. Please, can I come in? It's a bit cold."

You felt the irritation pass across your face. If he thought his handsomeness and dulcet tone could make you bend, he was wrong. "I already said no, dude. Come back tomorrow in the light of day and maybe we'll talk."

That was when you saw the frustration in his gaze. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, mussing it all the more, the toes of his shiny black shoes kissing the threshold of your home. For a split second, you thought he might force his way in. "I can't. I'm… indisposed. until evening."

You shrugged, unwilling to feel bad for making things difficult. "Well, I guess we'll never get to talk, will we?"

With that, you closed the door in his face, much like he'd done to you. You refused to shoulder any guilt. You didn't have to be nice all the time, and certainly not to him. Still, you, thought, as you made your way back to the living room, to the cozy cocoon of the couch, you wondered why he'd been so insistent.

You were surprised when you heard a knock at the door the next day. It was a little earlier than the day before, but it was still night time, and you were still unwilling to let James in. He stood on your porch looking totally out of place next to your rocking chair. "Hello. I came earlier today." he began, his tone pleasant, hands behind his back. "May I come in?"

You didn't hide your ire this time. "Do you remember what I said yesterday, or do you have selective memory?"

His mouth opened, then closed, a flash of something in his eyes that you couldn't quite decipher. Finally he said, though you detected an edge to his voice, "Yes, but like I told you, I was regrettably tied up."

"And like I told you, I'm not letting you into my house at night."

You caught the gleam of his teeth in the lamplight. He looked like he wanted to snarl at you, to snap. You got the feeling that it was a herculean effort for him to stay composed. "Would you listen, please?" he asked, his eyes locking onto yours. "I am not a danger to you."

For a moment in time, you felt suspended in honey. It had the cogs of your brain turning very slowly. He did seem harmless enough. Maybe social cues were hard for him. Maybe he just needed someone to take a chance, seeing as your neighbours hadn't tried to befriend him. Maybe you should invite him in, offer him some tea and a slice of cake. Maybe you could be friends after all. He gazed at you imploringly, eyes like shards of ice. He ran his tongue over his teeth as you considered, and that was what snapped you free of your stupor.

"Sounds like something a dangerous person would say." you bit out, feeling lightheaded and woozy. "Now go away, or I'll call the cops."

"Oh, you're a dreadful woman." He complained.

It almost made you laugh, the whine that escaped him. It made him sound like a little boy that hadn't gotten his way. "I'm merely trying to rectify the misunderstanding we had, and you're being incredibly unreasonable." he continued, spreading his hands.

At this, you couldn't help but smile. "You do realize that we could just talk right here, right? I mean, we're talking right now. And unfortunately for you, I thrive on being unreasonable."

"Horrible girl," he murmured. "Alright, have it your way."

You thought he meant that the porch discussion was a go. But no, instead he turned with a flourish that made his coat flap like a cape, and he stole down the steps and to the pavement, walking away without a second glance.

What a strange, strange guy.

You didn't see him again after that. Briefly, you'd worried that he'd try this line of questioning every night until you gave in (which you didn't believe you would), but the next night, there had been no knock at the door, and neither had there been the one after that.

You only enjoyed a week of quiet evenings, though. You had been informed, through word of mouth by your neighbours, that the water would be shut off tomorrow morning for a few hours. Apparently, most of your suburb went to the town hall meetings. It was old fashioned, you thought, to have to learn that information by being there rather than receiving a notice in your mailbox. And unsurprisingly, your mind slid to the house on the hill, to James.

You sincerely doubted that he would know about it. and against your better judgement, you thought it was only right to let him know. Begrudgingly, you made the trek to his house just as the sun had begun to set. You waved to your neighbour as you passed, pointing at James's house, and they nodded, continuing to hose down their car.

You didn't really think you were in danger. Especially not in daylight. But it didn't hurt to let people know your whereabouts, just in case.

The air was crisp and cool. Half of the homes on your walk had already decorated for Halloween, with pumpkins on their doorsteps and cobwebs strung across their windows. It crossed your mind that you'd have to buy a box of candy to give out, this year, rather than your usual wager, which was to keep it for yourself and hide with all the lights off.

When you got to James's house, you heard the mournful hoot of an owl, though you couldn't see one. It was still light out, just barely, his house awash in blazing orange. You caught the faintest glow from behind the set of cream coloured curtains on the left side of the house. So, he was home, and likely awake, if the theory of him working nights was to be believed.

When you went to knock, however, the ram's head greeting you like the last time, you paused. Right by your sneakered foot, in an uneven splotch, was a dark stain, about the size of a baseball. It was soaking into the wood, an unsightly mark. Your eyes trailed back the way you'd come, your body turning to the steps you'd just walked up. They were smaller, in an uneven line, but they were there. You saw them disappear off the path and into the grass. Your focus returned to the biggest one, right next to you, right at the door.

It could have been anything. Motor oil, black coffee, ink. The fading light made it hard to tell. But something in your gut said that it wasn't. Screw the ram's head. You settled your hand on the blackened handle and tried it. The door gave way under your fingers.

It opened like a yawning mouth, to a hallway with a runner of crushed velvet. The walls were a deep mahogany. A slightly dusty chandelier of crystal glimmered above your head. The floor was dark, but if you squinted, you could make out the trail. "James?" Your voice was more quiet than you'd meant for it to be, but you felt like it was all you could manage.

You suddenly envisioned him working in the garden, perhaps cutting himself with shears, and coming inside to try to dress the wound. It could have been anything, really. But you followed the path through a dated sitting room—the room with the cream curtains—and to a kitchen.

"Oh, fuck."

You didn't realize the words had escaped you until James's eyes, bright and alive, settled on yours. You were much more focused on the blood coating his mouth and chin. Specks of it splattered the collar of his shirt. You couldn't bring yourself to look at the doe, its leg still twitching, laying prone on the kitchen island.

It was a horrifying, gruesome sight. So were the red tinged fangs protruding from James's mouth. The entire thing was like a scene from a horror movie, and you'd never much cared for those.

James stayed put. "Don't scream," he said softly, "I'm usually much more tidy than this, but I have been incredibly hungry as of late."

He looked woeful, like a fallen angel, one hand extended towards you like he could hold you in place from there.

You didn't scream. You couldn't. Any air you'd had in your body was trapped somewhere you couldn't access. Your legs had locked up too, a bad sign. You had no idea how fast or strong he was, and instinct told you to run. You watched, disbelieving, as he wiped at his chin with his thumb. There was still an obvious streak of crimson there, and you both knew it.

"You are incredibly calm for someone witnessing this for the first time." He observed.

"Who says I'm calm?" As it was, your voice sounded shaky.

"I can hear your heart. I can smell your fear, but you haven't overreacted." He looked at you curiously. "Though perhaps you are in shock…?"

"Are you going to kill me?" you breathed. It was suddenly very, very clear to you that this was something you should never have seen.

He had the gall to laugh. "No, of course not. Not unless you share what you've seen."

You didn't believe him—why would he spare you under the promise of keeping such a horrifying secret? Sensing your doubt, he smiled. You didn't know if he was banking on his handsome features, but crusted with blood and giving you an eyeful of his fangs wasn't helping his case. "The pretty new neighbour found dead in her home? I feel that would invite more questions than I'd care to answer."

He'd stayed put at the counter. He watched your gaze move, against your will, to the doe. "Don't look at the animal, look at me," he murmured.

You were afraid to. Instead, you focused on the doe's ear, letting your vision tunnel. "If I run, are you going to chase me?"

"Will you keep my secret?" He sounded almost amused.

"Yes." You didn't know if you meant it yet, but it was the only right answer, the only way you could see yourself getting out of this house.

"Then no, I won't chase you. I'm not very good at that game. I get a bit… competitive."

At this, you did look at him. It made you inhale sharply, that statuesque beauty marred by blood. "So I can just… go? You'd let me leave, just like that?"

He spread his hands. "Come now, I believe we have a bit more of a conversation to get through first, no?"

"What's there to discuss? It's clear that you're a—"

"Don't say the term you're thinking. I don't much care for it." He said, dismissive.

You could only blink at his casual demeanour. Vampire danced on the tip of your tongue. You felt like you need to say it, to confirm it for yourself. But he continued. "Creature of the night is more apt. At least I think it is. I do more things than drink blood. I still have a soul." He sounded almost… delighted to be able to talk about this.

"Please," he said, gesturing to you—no, behind you. "Wait in the sitting room while I dispose of this," He patted the doe's flank, "and we can speak this further."

You took a stumbling step backward. He said your name, and you looked up. "Don't run," he said, mouth curling into another smile. "I'll be most disappointed."

You ran.

As soon as he'd begun to heft the deer over his shoulders, you had shuffled into the living room and waited until you heard the back door open. Then you bolted, finally finding your strength. You streaked through the door, letting it bang behind you, and pelted down the path and across the street. You felt like you were bounding down the hill at the rate of a bullet. The sun was gone now. All you could think was home, home, home.

You were breathing hard as you crashed through the door. Your hands shook as you locked it and leaned against it, your mind tumbling wildly. As soon as you were able, you staggered around the house, drawing your curtains. You pushed your dining table in front of the door, then turned on all your lights. You needed it, to feel safe. Of course, light didn't equal armor, but the illusion of it made you feel better.

It occurred to you, as you stood in front of your knife block, that you might actually be safe. It was night time now, yes, but… the two times James had come around, he'd asked to come in. He'd never forced his way through the door. Maybe it had just been him maintaining his façade of politeness. But maybe… maybe that old folklore was true? Maybe he couldn't come in unless invited. You decided it was a possibility, but you weren't about to blindly trust in it.

It was a good thing you had nowhere to be tomorrow. You had a feeling you were about to settle in for a long night of guard duty.

James had hoped, as he'd gone into his backyard, that you wouldn't run. He'd hoped you'd have a little more sense, a little more curiosity, to stay and talk. But he wasn't surprised when he heard the patter of your feet, the distant swing of the front door. He'd merely sighed as he began the long trek into the woods behind his house.

He thought, as he dug a shallow grave for the doe, that you had handled it remarkably well. You hadn't passed out or screeched in fear. You hadn't fallen to your hands and knees and begged for your life. And, he thought with reluctance, clearly you had some sense of instinct to protect yourself. You'd gone to the one place he couldn't simply enter.

The moon was low and round in the sky as he stood in the street in front of your house. Everyone here seemed to have a bedtime of nine pm. The road was quiet. He was in no danger of being hit by a car. He observed your house, the soft glow of lights on in every room. He could sense you, sense your heartbeat. He couldn't make out the churning of your thoughts. He had the vain hope that you would be more reasonable the next day. If you were going to keep his secret, it was only right that you knew all the facts.

But still, he watched your house for a little longer, every detail of it as clear as it would have been to you during the day. He listened to you moving around inside, a mouse in your cage. He wondered what tall tale you were telling yourself, what you were spinning to make it all make sense. The thought made him smile. Whatever it was, it was probably wrong.

You slept a little bit, after the sun came up. You'd camped yourself out in the living room, seated on the floor with your back against the couch. The knife in your hand clattered to the floor, and it roused you from your dozing until you crawled up onto the cushions and napped until mid-morning. You didn't really want to be conscious, at the moment. You were still wrapping your head around what you'd seen.

You didn't really believe James when he said he would let you live as long as you kept his secret. What was in it for him? There was no reason for either of you to trust each other. And what you'd seen of him so far wasn't entirely promising.

When you finally started your day, you remembered there was no water for the next little while, and you stood staring blankly at your shower, which you'd have to go without. Distantly, you thought James must be sleeping. It was a bright, clear day. His 'night shifts' now made sense, at least. The sun must be a real vampire deterrent. At least it meant that you were safe, for now.

Your day passed by slowly, which you were grateful for. You were anxious about nightfall. You had no idea whether he'd decide to show up at your door, try to convince you again to let him inside. You remembered the blood on his skin, the clear blue of his eyes, like he was fully alert. It made you consider the fact that he didn't hear you enter his house. Had he been taken over by blood lust, consumed by the taste and smell, to the point that he hadn't noticed? It was hard to believe.

When the sun melted away, you prepared to be vigilant again, though you knew you couldn't keep it up forever. As it was, you ended up falling asleep sometime in the night, only to wake up sore from sleeping on the floor. Your bones creaked as you stood and stretched.

When you left your house, intent on heading to the store for groceries, when morning came again, you found a note tacked to your door. It was on clean white parchment, tidy handwriting at its center.

You are formally invited to dine with me this evening. I promise that you aren't on the menu. - James.

Your eyes nearly popped out of your head. At the invitation, and at the poor joke. It did nothing to reassure you. Your first thought was to crumple the note up and fling it into his yard as you went past. You hesitated though, your hand not quite making a fist, not quite creasing the paper. Instead, you walked it back inside and left it in the dish you usually kept your keys on.

You weren't going to go, you decided. It was foolish. And there was no time indicated on it, either. Evening could mean four o'clock or eight o'clock, and you weren't keen to venture outside at night, not anymore.

But as you went about your day, the idea kept writhing in the back of your head. What if you brought yourself some protection? What if you went, but stayed firmly on the doorstep, firmly in the sunlight, where he couldn't get you? If that idea was true. You found yourself picking up more garlic than you needed to buy. If only you knew how to get your hands on some holy water… or a stake.

It was with great reluctance that you found yourself at the scene of the crime. You must be stupid, you decided, as you stepped onto the porch in the golden sun. It was just after five. A small assortment of things were hidden in your purse. You hoped you didn't have to use them. The bloodstain was gone from the wood, like it had never been there at all.

You didn't have time to knock, though you'd stood out there considering for a good few minutes. As soon as you raised your hand, the door opened, though James wasn't standing on the other side—at least, not where you could see. "Please, come in," You heard from behind the door.

You scoffed. "Not on your life."

You heard him make a tsk sound. "You're in no danger. I've left the curtains to the dining room open. you'll be perfectly safe in there."

You wanted to be suspicious, but you detected no lie—you'd seen yourself that the heavy red fabric you were used to seeing hadn't been blocking the window. You were quick, guard up, to scramble into that room. You heard the echo of the front door closing. And, with some dismay, you could smell garlic, along with butter and rosemary. So, the half-crushed bulb in your purse would be of no use to you, you surmised.

He disappeared into the kitchen, and you suppressed a shudder. The last time you'd been in there… Well, you'd rather not think about it. Especially not if you were expected to eat something. The wallpaper in the dining room was dated. It had probably been red once, but now it was a faded pinkish colour. The damask pattern was almost invisible to your eyes. The table was made of dark, polished wood, with matching chairs, the cushions made of golden fabric. It was a room made for lively dinner parties, you thought, the table easily able to seat eight people.

You chose a chair right near the middle, letting yourself wear the sunlight on your skin. Tiny dust motes danced through the air. "Do you drink wine?" James called, his voice echoing through the house.

Yes, you did, but something told you that you should have your wits about you for this meeting. "Water is fine."

You drummed your fingers over your thighs. It felt strange to sit here, waiting for him, for whatever he was going to bring out. What if it was something drenched in blood?

You were about to find out, you supposed. James came in carrying a pitcher of water first, filling a glass and setting it down for you. You gave him an uncertain smile, but waited until he'd gone again before picking it up and squinting at its contents. There was no telling if he'd drug you and drink you dry.

After sniffing the rim and deeming it safe—or so you hoped—you took a sip. It tasted just like the water at your own house. You took it as a good sign.

It was only a couple more minutes before he came back with two white plates. The first one he placed in front of you with flourish, the second directly across the table, before taking a seat. That side, you noticed, was just barely out of the sun. You hid a grimace. You'd be subject to that piercing stare, that catlike smile, the entire time.

You were mildly surprised by your dinner. It was a beautifully seared steak, nestled between roasted potatoes and asparagus. It looked like something from a recipe book. James was already cutting into his, a decidedly rare one, by the look of the piece he speared and put in his mouth.

"You can eat real food?" You asked, not reaching for your knife and fork, not yet.

He smiled, amused, and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. "Yes, I can. Though it's not very fulfilling."

"What do you mean?"

His eyes roamed the room as he thought of how to answer, before settling on you. "For you, I suppose it would be like chocolate. You can eat it and survive on it, barely. But it doesn't benefit you at all."

It was an adequate answer. "And the sun?"

He laughed then, before chewing on another piece of steak. "If you're asking if I'll turn to a pile of ash, the answer is no. But it can be extremely uncomfortable for me. Like a sunburn. It will make my skin peel and flake, and I'll become quite ill. I am able to withstand it more than I used to, though."

It was curious. James was answering your questions with seemingly no caution, like he believed you'd never repeat what you learned. Like he was certain. His eyes flicked to your plate, still untouched, before settling on you again. "Is it not to your liking?" He considered you for a moment. "Are you a vegetarian?"

"No," you picked up the knife and fork hastily, "I'm not. This is all just very weird. I'm sitting across the table from a va—"

"Ah, ah, ah," he chided, waving a finger. "We don't use that word, if you please."

You cut into your own steak. It was—thankfully—not nearly as rare. As you eyed his plate, you felt his own could have still been mooing in the field it came from. "What's your aversion to that word?" You met his stare as you took your first bite.

And damn it all to hell, you had to suppress a moan. Who knew that an ageless being could cook a steak so well?

Though you gave no outward reaction, James still seemed to know that you were enjoying the food. He seemed utterly delighted, in fact. He didn't respond until you'd stabbed a potato onto your fork and really began to chow down.

"The word carries a… negative connotation, for me. I was turned against my will." He looked to the window suddenly, his expression wistful. You suspected his mind was far away.

"I at death's door, you see. And then I wasn't, but I was reliant on that coven for decades. It isn't something I would wish upon my worst enemy."

You sat in the silence of the admission. You wondered how long ago he'd been turned, how long ago he'd been free from the rule of other vampires. You weren't exactly sure how open he would be. Instead of digging into his past, you sipped your water and asked, "Ever kill someone?"

He made an amused sound, though not quite a laugh, his gaze snaring you once again. "Of course I have. There's a steep learning curve. The human body is oh so delicate." His eyes roamed over your neck. "But I haven't in recent years. Most of my kind hunt for sport. The thrill of the chase, the unique taste of fear. It is a mere appetizer before the main course. I, however, prefer to leave my prey alive. I'd rather keep my sources around for repeat visits, rather than have to find new ones each time."

"And the doe?"

The half-smile he gave you then wasn't quite enough to bare his fangs, though his teeth still glinted. "I was very hungry. I hadn't eaten for a while. It can sometimes be easier to hunt in the woods, hidden by the trees. I didn't want to wait until dark to let myself into somebody's home."

At this, you couldn't stop yourself from gaping at him. "You don't—you don't mean that you take blood from people in town, do you?" Surely not. Qouldn't that have been the first thing your neighbours told you?

Your gobsmacked expression had James letting out a laugh, the sound rich, musical. Enchanting, really. "Why travel far when I have a veritable buffet right down the street? Though you shouldn't worry. They've all invited me in. They just didn't know that once they did, I was free to come and go as I please. And they don't remember, afterwards. I'm very good at what I do, now."

The knowledge made you drop your fork with a clatter. "Was that what you were going to do to me?"

You remembered his insistence at coming in.

He had the decency to look chastised, borderline embarrassed. "I apologize for that. As I told you, I was utterly ravenous. And you're new, fresh blood. I admit I was curious to know your flavour." He paused, before adding, "I'll do my best to behave myself around you, but you should know never to invite me in. I can't make the promise that I won't still try one day, if I'm desperate."

It should have scared you. But the second half of his admission, the gentleness with which he said it, had disarmed you. He seemed to be able to tell. "At least you're honest," you finally said.

"You aren't afraid. Why?"

"How do you know I'm not?"

He sat back in his chair. "I can get a glimpse of emotion. If they're strong, especially. But you aren't afraid. And your heartbeat is strong, healthy. You're taking this very well. Why is that?"

You shrugged. "I wish I could tell you. I don't really know, myself." You voice was little more than a whisper, your thoughts turning inward.

Because the truth was, you didn't know. For all that he was being perfectly gentlemanly right now, you'd seen him with blood on his mouth. He'd just admitted to you that he'd wanted to drink yours, to leave you none the wiser, a stupid little snack roaming around town. But there was something about him, about the way he'd spoken so openly, that had you believing him. You shouldn't have been sympathetic, but you thought that maybe he was lonely. If the only other vampires he'd known had been bad ones, it was no wonder he kept to himself. And you didn't doubt it was difficult to make friends with prey, because that was what you were. You'd grow older, and he'd stay the same. He probably wouldn't live here forever, not if he didn't want people to notice that fact.

You'd both lapsed into silence, your plates untouched. You were the first to resume. "So, what does this make us? This unholy alliance. Am I supposed to be your friend now?"

James considered you. "I suppose it does. I haven't had one in a very long time. I don't know whether I'll be very good at it."

The answer was melancholic. You wondered if he was thinking of that person right now, his last friend. "I guess we'll find out."

Against all odds, you did settle into some semblance of a friendship. You would visit him in the day, if he was awake, keeping to sunny spots of his house. He'd given you a grand tour, though he'd kept you at arm's length and stuck closely to the walls. He'd opened every set of curtains so that you would feel safe.

The attic had been your favourite room. The window was circular, made of stained glass, like the ones at the front door. The floor and walls were a grayish wood, and there was a grand piano tucked away in one corner. Various chairs, lamps, and side tables were clustered together. Much of it was turn of the century. You'd dragged your fingers along the keys, more noise than melody. "Do you play?"

"I used to." He admitted, leaned up against the wall out of the sunlight. "I was the entertainer for my coven most nights."

You knew that those weren't fond memories for him, though he still hadn't told you much more. "But you kept the piano?"

"I try not to think of it very much, but it's a hard aspect of my past to leave behind." He admitted.

Aside from the attic, it had been interesting, delving into his possessions. You'd seen many things that looked like they belonged in museums. looking through his armoire, you'd found remarkably well kept clothes from over a century ago. Judging by the way he continued to dress now, you believed he had a soft spot for the time he'd left behind. His current attire was much more modern, the tailored trousers and shirts, but everything carried an echo from the romantic period.

You could imagine it easily, James strolling a street at night, the roads lit by oil lamps, cobblestones slick from rain. And he would have been dapper in a top hat and long coat, a handsome young man on the hunt. You believed that smile could open doors without him having to say much of anything.

You liked listening to him when he talked. Sometimes, he sounded like someone from today's time. But most others, his speech was antiquated, like something he'd never quite shaken off. It was one of his more endearing qualities. He spoke like he'd come out of a classic novel.

James came to you, sometimes, though you kept it to your front porch. He hadn't asked to come in since the first time, but you would catch his eyes straying to your door while you talked. You didn't know whether he was curious about your own belongings, about how you decorated, or if it really came down to wanting to drain you dry.

You continued to dance this strange two-step with him, as the leaves turned brown and brittle. As Halloween passed, and you and he walked through town, looking at the groups of families decked out in costume, the decorations strung up in storefronts—everyone here seemed to take part, really. James almost fit in completely that night, standing beside you. He'd worn his more dated clothes. He looked like he was in costume. Of course, only you knew that it was the real him. The most you'd managed for your own costume was a headband complete with sparkly red devil's horns, picked up at the dollar general.

He'd smiled at a woman as you'd stopped at a crosswalk. You could see her flustered smile. If it had been daylight, you were sure you would have seen a blush across her cheeks, too. "Was that you using your evil powers on her, or is that just a quality you have?" You'd asked him, glancing sidelong.

The smile he'd given you was decidedly more toothy, his canines visible. "I've always been charming, creature of the night or not."

"Right…" your tone was dry, but it was only to cover your own reaction to his attention. You'd never admit it out loud, but sometimes looking at him was like staring directly into the sun. He was wildly dazzling, especially when he was having a good day.

On a good day, he was charming. It was dangerous, actually. More dangerous to you than his fangs or his speed or strength. It was dangerous because he had the ability to make your head spin with nothing more than a rakish grin and a few choice words. His chivalry was also unmatched.

But you also knew him enough by now to know there were an equal amount of bad days. He'd vehemently denied it, but when he was approaching hunger, he was quite difficult to deal with. Petulant, fussy, and altogether irritable, you'd send him away from you and tell him not to contact you again until he could act right. He'd usually part from you with a frown and a muttered, "You are a wretched girl. I'm being perfectly reasonable."

He would never admit to you that you were right, every time.

You couldn't get a sense of how often his feeds were. You didn't know if it depended on amount or the span of time, and you didn't want to ask. But you always knew when he had. Over time, his eyes would become less blue, more an icy gray. It would draw you back to when you'd discovered his true nature, to the piercing shade of blue they'd been after he'd drank from the doe. Blood brought life back to him, in a manner of speaking. You kept the knowledge to yourself.

After the year's first frost, you started seeing Christmas decorations popping up. The town square, a place that was known for holding events during holidays, had lights strung into its trees. It started to get darker earlier. It would soon be too cold to sit with James on your porch. Your visits would be more limited.

But for now, you kept to walking around town with him. You were safe among other people. As it was, you were listening to him complaining about the cold. You hummed, hands in the pockets of your puffy coat. "I would have thought you'd enjoy the winter."

He frowned at you. "The cold makes my reflexes slower. I may not be able to stand in the sun, but I crave the heat. Why do you think I chose a home with such a large fireplace?"

It was an interesting aspect to learn of. "How much slower?"

"Hmm?"

"How much slower does it make you?"

He exhaled with an irritated whoosh. "It depends on how cold it is, how hungry I am. I would still be faster than you," he said, looking you up and down, "but not by too much. If you had a stake, you'd have a better chance of using it."

You raised a brow. "Is your weird, witchy hypnotic power still strong?"

Because yes, you'd learned about that. He'd explained that it was something to do with pheromones and eye contact, though you didn't really understand. And you'd refused a demonstration.

"Yes, unless the person I'm using it on is strong willed. And we already know that you are."

"We do?"

At this, he looked guilty. "Well, yes. The first time I asked to be invited in, I, ah…" He ran a hand over his mouth. "I tried it on you. I wasn't at my full strength, but I still should have been able to overpower you. But you have a strong mind. I couldn't bend you to my will."

You scoffed, shaking your head. You weren't offended, not really. You could have guessed as much. "Just for that, I feel like I should be allowed to take a stab at you just once."

"Mmm, maybe one of these days, you will."

His comment drew you both inwards, for a time. Already you rejected the notion. You couldn't imagine a circumstance that he would allow himself to be so hungry and also in your presence, to the point of real, mortal danger. Of course, it was a possibility, a small part of you argued. But knowing him, knowing how his mind worked, at least a little… No, you didn't believe there would ever come a time where that would happen.

You'd just walked the perimeter of the square with him, passing by what was now a quite dead rose bush, sagging against a small cluster of nearly bare trees. James's gaze settled somewhere around your shoulder. "Hold still," he instructed, hand reaching for you, "you've got a leaf in your hair."

You shouldn't have felt such a prickle of awareness. You couldn't detect the touch of his fingers between your strands of hair, pulling the offending foliage free. The following touch, however, the barest brush of his fingertips on your neck as he pulled away, had you holding your breath. Inexplicably, you felt your heartbeat speed up. If he heard it, which you guessed he did, he was kind enough not to comment.

You pivoted, needing to break the contact. "Does hot chocolate do anything for you, or does it hold no appeal?" You asked, willing your voice to come out evenly.

He watched you for a moment, thoughtful. "It's not my preference, but I suppose I could be persuaded."

The trust between you had grown, though you were still careful to heed his warnings. James had asked you once, playfully, if he could come in after he'd walked you home. You'd almost said yes, not wanting the conversation to end there, your fingers frozen from being outside, but you'd denied him, like you promised you would. He'd given you a satisfied look, like he was proud of you for passing the test.

That didn't mean there weren't a couple of times where it hadn't been so light and breezy.

To your knowledge, James had used his power to get himself access to a few homes in the neighbourhood. He would go in when necessary, take what blood he needed, and steal away into the night once more without a trace of what he'd done. But you had a feeling that sometimes, James ignored his thirst in order to spend time with you. It was made more obvious one evening, when he was bidding you goodbye. Or well, he was supposed to. You were caught off guard when you turned to say goodnight after unlocking the door. Suddenly, he was right there. You caught his scent, smokey and warm, as he leaned over you, one of his hands finding purchase on the brick by your head. His voice was a low rasp by your ear. "We've had such a wonderful evening, my darling, why end it here? Let me come in with you, hmm?"

You felt like you'd had too much to drink, though you hadn't had a sip of alcohol. You were off-kilter. He certainly didn't stand in such close proximity to you like this often. You should have seen the signs of his hunger earlier—his eyes had been a more glacial gray, and he'd been a bit fidgety—but you had been distracted by the lighthearted debate you'd been having about what made books classics. He, being around for the birth of many of them, had had some interesting takes. And that was one of the things you loved most about being in his company. the ease of which you could let a conversation whisk you bad in time. He made you feel almost like you'd lived it, too. And now, you were dealing with the consequences of his company.

You came to your senses, though just barely. His eyes were boring into yours, but the briefest flicker of his teeth showed in your periphery. His mouth was just slightly open, and you got the idea that he was breathing in whatever intoxicating aroma your blood gave off, coursing through your veins like a current. You put a hand up, brushing the lapels of his coat. Of course, you'd be no match for him if he really wanted to bite you, but your hand on him seemed to give him pause. "I'm afraid I can't do that, James. When's the last time you ate?" You kept your voice soft, unguarded. You didn't want him to feel any guilt.

He blinked once, like he was breaking the spell, and then closed his eyes. You saw the guilt anyway. "I'm—I'm sorry, I forgot myself. I'll go."

He had put distance between you in the span of a second, already on the street. He turned to walk up the hill. "James?" You called out, tentative.

He didn't speak, but he stopped to turn and meet your eye. "It's okay. just please go and eat."

He nodded once, a complicated mix of emotions crossing his face, and then kept going. Even though you were friends, you were both very aware that he was predator, and you were prey, and that wasn't likely to change, no matter how comfortable you felt.

He was much more careful after that. You almost never saw his eyes as anything other than blue, and you started to wonder if maybe he was taking care to drink every time he planned to see you. It was sort of flattering, though you'd never tell him that. You got the idea that he wouldn't be very happy, if he knew.

You'd never asked James about his time with his coven. You knew it was a sore subject, and didn't want to risk upsetting him. You figured that if it was a story worth telling, he would come to you when he was ready. You could only tiptoe around the subject.

Your hunch was right.

Cold, crisp morning light filtered in through the attic window, and you stood in the center of it. James was tucked away in the shadows, dragging an idle finger across the piano keys. Even though he wasn't playing a composition, it still sounded musical to you, each note precise. "I know you said that you mostly played for others," you said, treading carefully, "but did you have any favourite songs?"

James shook his head. "They all played much the same to me. But my coven's leader preferred Horowitz or Rachmaninoff. We had private audiences with them many times."

It was the most he'd told you so far. You warred with not wanting to push it, and being wildly curious. You settled for the safest question you could ask. "I take it you played at your leader's request, then."

"Yes. Though they were more demands than requests." He pressed down on a key, the low thunk ringing across the room. "One could never say no to Johann."

Johann. Immediately, you didn't like the man. "And if you did?"

James sounded very far away, when he responded. Like he was coming to you from a different stretch of time. "Then you would learn what true pain felt like."

It was a foreboding answer. You stood in the silence, unsure what to say, but James turned on the bench to face you. His fingers played some sort of melody, even though he was no longer looking at the keys. "There's no use telling you his name, because you'll never meet him, but I supposed it makes the whole thing easier to tell. When I was with him, he ruled with an iron fist." His eyes flicked away, a distant expression painting his face. "Some of our kind don't care to use their power to make their feedings more pleasant to the host. Some drink up the pain and fear as well as the blood." He looked directly at you. "To Johann and his underlings, it was a fun, sick sport. Many of them were old enough to forget what humanity was."

There was a warning in those words, you were sure. James was telling you that while he might be affable and pleasant to interact with, there was potential that he wouldn't be, one day. That he would become a true monster, a yawning pit of hunger in the place of a soul.

"But not you?" you asked. In many fictional vampire tales, you remembered them saying that blood lust was an untameable beast.

He twisted away, back to the keys. "No, not me. My transformation was… traumatic." He laughed, though it was flat. "They usually are. But I refused to be like him, like them. It was my only way to defy him, to keep my conscience. I thought I would die under his rule, and I often thought my actions to resist were pointless. I didn't have any hope of being free." The admission sank in your gut like a stone. "It was pure luck that I got away, and that I managed to stay away."

You itched to cross the room and slide onto the bench beside him. To hug him and tell him that as long as you were around, he would only have blue skies and better days ahead. But you refrained, glued to your spot in the sun. There was nothing you could say to take from the decades of torture he'd endured. All you could do was make sure there was no way for it to happen again.

You both let the topic drop, unwilling to press on the wound anymore than you already had. He'd already given you much more than you'd ever expected to get. You admired him, cast in shadow. His side profile, the shape of his jaw. The way his hair fell across his forehead, only to be raked back by his nimble fingers. The cut of his clothes, so unlike what other men wore. He was like no one you'd ever met before, no one you would ever meet again. Your very skin felt warm at the thought, but you pretended it was just the sun heating you to your bones, instead. "What matters is that you are away. This town doesn't even have a population of twenty thousand. And unless Johann is looking to join the HOA meetings, this place probably won't be very interesting to him."

You didn't now what spurred it on. You'd known James for a full season, now. Christmas had come and gone, and he'd respected your wish to not exchange presents. Instead, you'd shared dinner on Christmas Eve before you left town to stay with your mother for a few days. It was the night before you were due to come back to what had become a cozy little town, to you. You had been trying to curb your enthusiasm, but your excitement to see James again couldn't be cured.

It started when your head hit the pillow. The sheets were cold, and you shivered, burrowing deeper under the blankets. The moon peered through the edges of the curtains, and you shifted away from the window, intent on sleep. And you fell through the layers of wakefulness, teetering right on the edge of deep, dreamless rest.

But you felt more than heard the rustle of fabrics. Distantly, with your last bit of awareness, you imagined it to be your own sheets, shifting with your movement. You thought you could almost smell something smokey, woodsy, rich. It was familiar. You couldn't place it. The tethers of consciousness were beginning to snap, but some part of you was still clinging on. The sigh, the soft murmurs were whispered to the recesses of your mind, like a caress. You thought you heard your name, but it was mumbled. A comforting touch, trailing along your skin like soft sparks of electricity. The graze of something against your neck. You felt it twice, three times more, before there was a firmer press. You thought it would hurt, the pressure, but instead, it felt like a release of every fear, every worry, tension you didn't even know you were carrying. Your own voice, slurred and thick as syrup.

"James."

You woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed, a hand flying to your neck. It was smooth, untouched, no slick blood. No wandering hands on your body. The air smelled clean. You'd dreamed it, dreamed him.

You should have been unnerved, uncomfortable with the idea. But your body, traitorous as it was, only felt a buzz of energy, a surge of contentment. A thread of… longing. You'd never asked James if being bitten was painful. He'd alluded to using his influence to make it as pleasurable as possible for his hosts, but you had no idea what that truly meant. Especially since his influence seemed to slide off you like water off a duck's feathers.

Would it really be so bad, to offer a vein to James? If he'd been feeding from the other residents in town like he said, he must have had some semblance of control. No deaths had been reported. The only murder you'd seen had been the deer. You had a feeling that causing the end of a life, at least a human one, would haunt James. Despite his lack of social gatherings, you knew that he enjoyed being among the living. You could see it every time you went out together. You thought that perhaps he yearned to soak up the sun with you sometimes, when you mentioned going shopping in the middle of the day, or walking your neighbour's dog as a favour. Was there really a threat of harm in being another source for him?

You rubbed at your neck again with a heavy sigh, before curling up in your bed once more.

Sleep was not to be had after all, it seemed.

You took care to erase the dream from your mind. To your credit, you greeted James normally, upon returning to town. You went for dinner at a popular restaurant as soon as the sun went down, and he asked you questions about your family, eyes curious in the candlelight. For all intents and purposes, your return was as unceremonious as it could have been, both of you on your best behaviour. But still, as you filled the silence, the thought began slinking around in the back of your head like an unwelcome guest.

You waited until you'd both ventured back outside. You paused under the awning as James reached to fix your scarf, fishing it from the collar of your coat to lay it properly around your throat. You'd become used to such ministrations, though sometimes you could feel your heart skip a beat. His tongue poked out just a little as he concentrated. "I think this colour suits you quite well," He said, straightening. "It brings out your eyes." His hands lingered a moment longer than they needed to.

You tucked your chin into the plum coloured cashmere. "This was one of my Christmas gifts."

The streets were mostly empty, the lamps dotted along the sidewalk illuminating the way. It was around a twenty minute walk, to make it to your house. Gallantly, James offered an arm, and you folded your gloved hand around it, leeching some of his body heat. The twinkle of stars overhead seemed to make the snow sparkle. You hesitated before speaking. "When you use your influence to feed… Is it taxing, for you? Does it take a lot of energy?"

You felt his eyes on you, but kept staring ahead. "…It depends," he started slowly, "on who I'm influencing, and how weak I am. I've built up a good enough rapport with most of my hosts. It's as taxing as lifting a pebble, for them. For you, to truly bend you to my will, it would be more akin to pushing a boulder uphill. I could do it, but it would take time and focus. There are some rare humans with such iron wills that it would be as difficult as trying to move a mountain. It's easier to go for a weaker, more malleable target than expend my energy working on a stubborn one. It takes less effort than physically overpowering someone, but it can still be draining."

"And… Have you ever had a host that you didn't need to manipulate? That just… offered themselves up?" You could hear with your own ears how unsure you sounded.

At this, James looked at you until you met his eye. "No, never. Any human that's done that has had some sort of altering of the mind. Some of my kind will push hard, even when their target is weak willed. And pushing too hard can splinter a human's psyche, damage them completely." He paused, swallowing, looking away. "Johann used to do that, sometimes. Keep the human around, half-gone and pleading to be useful, until he got bored of them."

An bird cawed as you passed the last of the shops, and you saw the brush of inky black feathers in one of the trees. You were starting to get towards the residential part of town. You hadn't truly thought through how you would offer your… services, as they were. But now you felt too afraid to. Not because you were scared of James, but because you were afraid he would say no. He hid it well, but he treated you as delicately as spun sugar. Even if you told him that he wouldn't have to try manipulating you, that you were willing, you knew he would turn inwards, blame himself for making you think it was okay.

Still, as you traversed, arm in arm with him, you considered it. Maybe you'd be able to work up the nerve, at some point, but it wouldn't be tonight. The tiny shred of your thoughts that you kept locked away peeked out then. They were the ones that made you imagine the sensation of James's mouth on your neck, his hands on your body, the way he might say your name. You desperately willed the ideas to dissipate into mist. You doubted he was interested in you that way anyway. A part of you bitterly thought, from time to time, that you were only close because you'd happened to divulge him of his secret. As far as you knew, you were the only human soul to know of his true existence.

You shifted the conversation to something lighter, instead focusing on what had gone on in town while you'd been away. "I take it you completely ignored the fireworks display that they put on for New Year's?"

He scoffed, drawing you closer when a heavy gust of wind buffeted you. "So much excitement over some loud noise and repetitive lights. I've never quite seen the appeal."

January brought some of the coldest temperatures you'd seen since moving here. And what better way to pass a day off than to while away the hours until nightfall than to lose yourself in the town's library? James had told you a little of the town's history, something he'd looked into during his endless spare time, and it was the perfect day for you to do so, as well. You'd already finished your work for the day. Remote jobs certainly had their perks. So you'd braved the subzero temperatures and settled in one of the wingback chairs near one of the big windows, flecks of snow idly swirling by.

You got lost in the archives. Newspapers going back one hundred years were still mostly preserved, with old, yellowed photographs of earlier residents. You noticed relatives of your neighbour, Virginia, easy to spot by their light hair and tall statures. Some last names stuck out to you as well, and you traced your finger over the likes of Wilson and Parker. Some of their offspring still lived here, too.

It was downright cute to read about winners of the annual gardening competitions—something that still went on to this day—as well as to spot when new traditions had been formed. You liked knowing more. If you were going to stay here for a while, it was nice to brush up on the town's history. At the very least, it would give you something to talk about at the next gathering you were invited to, rather than standing awkwardly to the side or clinging to a passing neighbour.

When you deigned to look outside again, night had already fallen, a soft dusting of snow across the pavement. The wind shook the branches of the trees planted outside. In the summer, the area in front of the window was an outdoor reading nook, but now, the benches were blanketed by ice. You stretched, standing and shuffling the archives into a neat pile to give back to the librarian. You weren't surprised to find James lingering by the front desk. He'd known of your plans, had offered to meet you when he woke up. He still looked adorably sleepy, his hair a bit of a mess, though you didn't know if it was bedhead or the result of the weather. He straightened when he saw you, brushing his hands down the front of his coat, though the fabric was already perfectly smooth. "I'll warn you, it's quite biting out there," He said by way of greeting, already extending his arm for you to take.

You waved a hand, unbothered. "Yes, well, I'm not as… delicate about the cold as some people."

He huffed when he pushed at the heavy doors. "You really are a wicked girl. I'm merely sensitive to it."

You weren't able to keep a straight face, nor hold in your laugh. "Sensitive is certainly one way to put it."

You loved moments like this the most, where there was nothing heavy to discuss. as much as you were unfathomably curious about James and his entire sordid tale, what you really enjoyed were the pockets of time that you spent together with no agenda other than each other's company.

The wind whistled as you cut through it together, up the main street. There were no cars or other people out tonight. Really, it was too cold to be traipsing about. Your fingers and toes were already starting to tingle with discomfort. You kept your head bent against the frigid air, your forehead practically touching James's shoulder from how closely you clung to him.

James's change in demeanor was as abrupt as a shift in the air. One moment, your laughter had been carrying across the street, and the next, you could feel the change in his body, muscles coiled with tension. It was like when you could feel the sky, close and low, an impending storm on the horizon. "No… I was so careful," He murmured to himself.

You didn't have time to ask him before your senses became aware too, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up in warning.

There had been no one there in one breath. By the next, he was standing a little ways away, under the intersection's stoplight. Tall, imposing. If Dracula had been based on anyone, it would have been him. He was stick thin, his long coat hanging off his frame. He was built more like a scarecrow than a man. You could make out his widow's peak even from the distance at which you stood. You didn't understand how he could look so sickly, the heavy circles under his eyes making them look sunken in. His skin was pallid—you could still tell, even though the only light was coming from the moon. You would have thought someone who took blood and life so voraciously would look to be in better health. You wondered if it had something to do with his humanity, or lack thereof.

You knew who he was, without having to be introduced.

"Ah, Bucky. it's been so long, my old friend. I've been looking for you for quite a while." He stood in the middle of the black street, the moon low and full, painting him in ivory.

Johann, in the flesh.

There was no time to run—no use to try. You knew you wouldn't get a single step before Johann would be there, snapping your neck as easily as a twig.

"Don't call me that," James snarled, teeth bared. You were rattled. You'd never heard him so affected before. He'd stepped just a little bit in front of you, your hand falling from his arm, like he was preparing for a fight.

"You've brought us a nice meal, I see." Johann was observing you, paying no mind to James. He cocked his head to the side like a magpie spotting a shiny trinket.

James reached behind him, finding your wrist and gripping tight enough to bruise. It wasn't on purpose. You believed he might have been as scared as you were. "Play along." It was whispered so quietly, you thought you'd imagined it.

To Johann, he said, tone firm, "I don't share my food. This one's mine; This whole town is."

Everything about you and James screamed tense, but there was nothing you could do except follow along with whatever he decided to do. You'd long since thought that James was a lover over a fighter, and you supposed you were about to find out. You didn't know if Johann would entertain the notion or not. He steepled his fingers together under his mouth, his eyes still on you, before making a soft tsking sound. "Ah, Bucky. You always were such a valiant boy." His tone was mildly chiding, like he was scolding a pet or a small child. "But do you really think I've come to you alone?"

James's fingers flexed on your skin. Whatever look passed on his face amused Johann. "Yes, yes. I've brought a few of your old friends with me. You remember Margaret, I'm sure? Aldrich? You always used to have fun together. Ivan too, yes. He's such a fan of quaint little hovels like this one." At this, he glanced around, his look of disdain clear.

The next thing he said was in a hushed whisper, almost too faint for you to hear, but it sent a chill racing down your spine. "If you don't wish to complicate things, you will give me the girl as an offering for forgiveness, and you will come along when I have finished here. Or would you like to see how many families we can eat our way through instead?" Johann smiled, then, like he was doing James a simple kindness.

You waited, your every cell singing with fear. But not for yourself. It had taken James years to get away from his coven. You were sure it would destroy him to go back. But he would do it, if it meant keeping you, and everyone else, safe. The silence made your skin hurt. Whatever Johann could see in James's eyes, he revelled in it. "I'll do you a courtesy, give you a day to decide, yes? Let this one," he gestured to you, teeth on show as he grinned, "say her goodbyes. That's the same courtesy I afforded you, you'll remember. I let you lay side by side with your loved one. Until then, Bucky. And do take care to be prompt. You know how much I hate being made to wait."

He was gone with a swish of his coat, like you'd imagined him there. Like he'd never been. The cold night came rushing back to you. You were shivering, shaken. Your teeth clicked together, the rattling uncontrollable. You weren't sure if it was due to shock or the weather.

You hardly noticed James's arm coming around your shoulders, tucking you close, nor the brisk pace he set. He didn't stop until you were blinking into the warm yellow light of the chandelier in his foyer. It looked so merry, the glow, that you really did start to wonder if you'd dreamed Johann up. It took a few minutes of him standing in front of you and rubbing his hands up and down your arms, inviting heat back into your body, before you zeroed in on the matter at hand. "They can breach your house. Invitations don't work for you, do they?" You asked it, but you already knew the answer.

"Yes, that's right."

"Come to mine, then. We'll be safe there while we figure out what to do." It was the easiest thing you'd ever offered up.

James gave you a searching gaze, hands stilling on your shoulders. The worry in his eyes was as clear as a neon light. "I told you never to invite me in."

"I trust you, James."

He looked wounded when you said it, instead of pleased. "No," He said brokenly. Saying your name seemed to cost him something, the way it was wrenched from him like it was a piece of his soul. "You should go. Once you're inside, you'll be safe. I can take care of it on my own."

He was putting on a brave face. It made you so impossibly sad. You knew that by 'taking care of it', he'd go to Johann. He'd bargain in some way to spare you, and sentence himself to more misery. And you were sure that this time, Johann would ensure that no repeat attempts to escape would work. "No. Come with me. Stay with me, please. You'll be safe too. He won't be able to get to you."

His touch on your face was hesitant, gentle as a butterfly's wing. Your lids fluttered at the feeling. "I need to keep everyone else safe. I can't do that if I'm with you. And what good is my life if I let humans die in my wake, when I'm the one he wants?"

You put your hand over his, holding tight, like if you were strong enough you'd be able to keep him there. "Let me do something. Let me help you."

James closed his eyes, like it was painful to look at you. He leaned forward, his forehead tipping to yours. "I promised you that you wouldn't be in danger. I have to keep that promise, you dreadful girl."

You felt tears gathering at the corners of your eyes, your throat tight. You had a horrible feeling that if you let him out of your sight, you'd never see him again. "James," you breathed. It was all you said. You couldn't force any of the other things you wanted to declare out. The words coated your tongue, your teeth, instead.

"Let me take you home." Home was imprinted in your skin, his lips brushing your forehead before he pulled away from you.

"Why did he call you that? Bucky?"

He flinched, eyes downcast. "It was something… something my sister used to call me. That's all. He used it to mock me."

It wasn't all, not by a long shot. But a story from the past wasn't going to help you, not now, and he'd already suffered enough. He swept his thumb across your cheek. "Let me take you home," he repeated.

You let him. James kept you bundled in his coat, the extra layer saving you from the biting temperature. Its hem reached your ankles as he walked with you, his steps quick, his hand firm on your back. You hurried down the hill together, to your house. When you unlocked the door and stepped in, you turned to face him. He gripped the lapels of the coat, more to steady himself than anything, but you imagined for a moment that it was because he couldn't bear to go. "He won't act right away. He likes to play with his food. He'll give me tonight, but it's all I have. I need to prepare."

"What are you going to do?"

He hesitated; he was considering lying to you. But his face softened. He was giving you the truth, instead. "I don't know."

He was letting go of you too quickly. You scrambled to catch at his wrists. "James," your voice was more steady than you felt, "I'm inviting you in. Please come in."

It felt like the air around you shuddered, like some great beast you couldn't see was shaking itself free of chains. You thought it impossible for James to look any more heartbroken, but his expression was more stricken than before. "You shouldn't have done that."

"It's a precaution. If your plan doesn't work, come here. Please. Please promise you will." You refused to let go of him, not until he agreed.

He hung his head. He was quiet for the space of three uneven breaths, before he whispered, voice catching on the wind, "I promise, you horrible, wretched creature."

It made you smile, despite the situation. You had never minded when he called you that. You dropped your hands from him, even though your body was shrieking at you to drag him inside. "I'll see you." You spoke like it was gospel. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He couldn't bring himself to be honest that time, so he chose the lie. "Tomorrow."

And then he was gone, the only evidence of him being there the scent of him, and his coat, still wrapped around you.

You paced in your kitchen. The cheery white and blue back splash bore witness to your strides as you thought, chewing on your lip. You had to help him. You couldn't just sit by and let him go back to Johann's coven. It wasn't fair, for starters, and it was just so morally wrong that it left you feeling like you needed a shower, as if you could scrub the idea of it away.

James would be furious if you used yourself as bait, you knew.

But you would be furious with yourself if you didn't do something. There were too many things to consider. Each idea you dreamt up was discarded in a steadily growing pile. Johann was very obviously a god compared to you. Even James would struggle to take him on. There was little that you could do. And you would probably fail.

You'd risk yourself for his freedom. You had this blind faith that he'd save you, if he could. That was what he was trying to do right now, by making you stay here. But even if he couldn't, you didn't care, if it meant that he could evade Johann. It was startling how sure you were. That you'd risk your life for him, without a second thought.

You clipped the corner of your counter with your hip as you turned sharply. Your eyes drifted up, not really seeing at first, but then they caught sight of your fireplace, across the house, in the living room. Tiny as a sprout, an idea started to take shape. You had no idea if it would really even have a chance at working. But as it began to form in your mind, wild, unfiltered hope started to build.

It felt like one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, to keep away from you. James had resisted contacting you for the rest of the night. He knew you wouldn't sleep, knew that if he just stood on your porch step and knocked, you'd welcome him with open arms. He couldn't do that. Not when he wasn't sure that he'd be strong enough to leave you when it came time to. Saying goodbye once had been hard enough. And he couldn't risk damning you. This penance had to be taken alone.

He worked through the night, quick and quiet. Just because he didn't enjoy the hunt like most others, didn't mean he lacked the skills. And he'd always been good at hunting big game. It came at a cost—it always did—but each kill he made brought him closer to the goal. Thinning the herd wouldn't solve the problem, but he was damn well going to make sure he did something about it before he condemned himself.

James was not strong enough.

He'd worked through the night, right up until first light. He felt himself dragging, but wouldn't allow himself to sleep the day away. He was too worried to do that. He was out of his house, a smudge of dark against the snow, as soon as the sun had started to dip away. He ignored the queasy ache he felt as the light grazed his skin, and kept at the job.

But then, right as the moon made her debut, he found himself on your street. He stood there, looking at your house. The shape of the roof, the dark gray of its shingles. The brick, which had been painted white by the previous owners. Your big rocking chair on the porch, its tasselled red cushion. James thought it would be the last time he saw it. He thought he'd already seen you for the last time, the night before. This was to be his final, silent goodbye. But then he saw a shift in the curtains upstairs.

You saw him. Of course you did; you'd been looking outside all day, sequestered safely indoors. Just because James couldn't handle the sun well didn't mean that Johann suffered as much.

You were moving down the stairs, shoes scuffing on the carpeted runner, and flying to the door as quickly as you could. You didn't want him to go before you could say something. You put one foot on the threshold, and—

"Please don't come out." he called, but his voice was soft, hushed, like he didn't want to disturb your neighbours. "It's not safe."

Your foot hovered there, defiant. You set your jaw. "I'll do what I like, unless you come in." You rested the toe of your shoe on the porch, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

He could see you were serious. You were surprised that he didn't try harder to sway you into staying in. You felt a pang in your chest, when he got close enough. His eyes were the silver of steel, flinty and tired. He didn't look well, not at all. His clothes seemed to wear him, instead of the other way around. You plucked at his sleeve with your fingers. "Come."

A sigh, a murmured, "terrible girl," but he allowed you to pull him in behind you, your hand slipping to his.

Having James in your house didn't feel any different than it had with him out of it. There was no ripple of awareness, no notion of a protective shell. The invitation has done it all, the day before. Just James, on the beige rug that hid the scratched floorboards. Just James, outlined by the open door, the black night, until you closed it, the lock snapping with a clunk. Just James, bleary-eyed and still, looking only at you, instead of the basket of laundry at the base of the stairs, or his coat that he'd left you with hung on one of the pegs on the wall, or the bills on the side table that you hadn't dealt with yet.

"You need to eat." Your voice betrayed your concern. You crossed your arms, unable to tear your eyes from him.

"There's no time for that. I don't have the wherewithal to hunt, let alone use my influence."

"I'm right here."

You'd finally said the words. They didn't seem the register, the meaning behind them, at first. Confusion furrowed his brow, and you longed to smooth it with your thumb. Then, all at once, realization crossed his face, horror passing soon after it. "Don't say that."

"James, please. You look like you're going to pass out. I'm here, and I'm telling you it's okay. Please let me help you."

He turned away, a hand covering his eyes. "No."

You didn't even think about what you were doing, but the next move you made was to close the distance between you and wrap your arms around him. Your forehead brushed his jaw. You felt it tense against your skin. "You're going to give away your freedom for me." You sounded braver, more sure, than you really felt. "I won't let you do that without offering something in return."

He'd stayed as still as a statue while you'd embraced him, but his body was warm. He settled, infinitesimally, into your hold. Slow as molasses, you felt his arms encircle you in return. You felt the shudder of his sharp inhale, heard the low sound in his throat, because that breath had made him inhale your scent. You wondered how enticing you smelled right now, when he was at his weakest. "You don't even have to influence me. I want to help you, James. Please let me."

"I…" He breathed into your hair.

Then he was really holding you, his arms firm, his hand stroking up and down your spine, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head. "You would do this for me?"

"I trust you. You won't hurt me. and you need this. I'd do this for you. I'd let you drain me dry, if it would give you a fighting chance." The admission floated free, tangled around you both like a thread.

He shifted until he was cupping your face, making you look him directly into those wide, gorgeous eyes. "I won't take a lot. Just what I need to… to get by." He swallowed hard, your eyes flickering to the movement and back.

"I want you to be at your strongest. Do what you have to."

Still, he hesitated, tucking you hair behind your ear, his fingertips grazing against you skin. You fought a shiver of delight. You hadn't realized how much you'd been craving the touch, any touch, from him. He trailed his hand from the shell of your ear down to the side of your neck, tapping his fingers gently. It was an idle rhythm, one that took a second to identify: it was La Vie en Rose. He'd played it once or twice in front of you, though never in full, and it was a song that you'd always liked. The melody played in your head, in time to his fingers. You felt your shoulders loosen from their tense, tight position, your head tilting a little to the side. "Relax, darling girl. Just relax."

He might not have been using any influence on you, but you could have been fooled. Your body seemed to uncoil at his words. The hand at your neck stopped tapping, turning into a soft caress. You almost wanted to close your eyes. You saw his fangs from the edge of your vision as he bent his head. "Your scent has always been breathtaking to me," His murmur, by your ear, made your stomach do a somersault. "I could smell you as soon as you moved to town. I've never been so seduced by one person's blood before."

You could feel your heart rate picking up, and you knew that James could, too, a breathy chuckle escaping him. "I told you to relax."

"I'm trying," you muttered, though you didn't sound very convincing.

It was infinitely harder to relax at the brush of his mouth right under your ear. You didn't know at first if it was supposed to be a kiss, or if he was just breathing you in. You became more certain at the soft, unhurried trail he left down your neck. It took everything you had to hold back a whimper. Your hands came up shakily, landing against his chest. You didn't know if you wanted to grab him, to hold on, or not. You felt like your atoms would shake apart and reduce you to nothing.

The first graze of James's teeth was welcome. The kiss he placed was messier, more open-mouthed. Your face grew warm at the idea of there being a mark left behind, the reddish colour of a hickey blooming in his wake.

The second touch of his canines was more firm. You didn't quite realize when he'd bitten you, at first. It was more like the prick of a thorn. You'd thought this would be the worst part, his fangs sinking into your flesh, seeking the red river beneath your skin. But instead, your eyelids fluttered closed, your mouth parting on a sigh.

You couldn't feel the blood leaving your body. You weren't really aware of anything, for a long, long time. Only James, one hand secure around your waist, the other cradling the other side of your neck, his lips at your throat. The quiet sounds of satisfaction he made, almost like a purr, his chest seeming to rumble beneath your splayed hands. Your head began to loll. You were sinking into a state of contentment you could only have dreamed of. Nothing else mattered except this. You wanted to curl closer, to lay against his shoulder, to become completely boneless in his wake, and let him take, and take, and take.

There was a small whine of displeasure that sounded like it came from a tunnel, a long way away. You didn't realize that it came from you, because James had stopped feeding. You swayed slightly on your feet, his tongue against your skin. Surely he wasn't done already? Why, he must have only just started! "James," your voice was slurred—you couldn't even tell if you'd spoken out loud or if it was in your head.

A gentle, fleeting kiss was placed over the spot that he'd pierced. "You're alright, my love. You'll be just fine."

At this, your eyes did close, and you felt yourself lean forward—or maybe you were falling—until your cheek rested by his collarbone. You felt very, very tired. The world went topsy-turvy for a moment, and it took a few long seconds to register that James had picked you up, swinging you into his arms, and was walking you into the living room. He was careful when he put you down on the sofa. Your hand shot out when he released you, touching his jaw, his chin. "Your eyes are blue again." Your voice sounded fuzzy.

They'd never looked so blue, you thought. Such a brilliant colour, rich and warm. And you were the cause. You gave him a lopsided smile. Worry creased his brow before he willed it away. "Lay back and try to rest. I may have taken a little too much, but you will recover. I swear it."

"I wish you could stay," you murmured, allowing him to push you back against the cushions.

"I wish I could stay, too." He held your hand in his, thumb rubbing across your fingers, before kissing your knuckles.

The resignation in his eyes felt like it could tear you in two. Distantly, a tiny part of you began to scream, to try to shake you back into wakefulness, into focus. "Do you have a plan?" You asked. You were forgetting why he needed one. Something important…

"To keep you alive." He started to let go of your hand, and you held fast, your other one coming down to stop him.

"I spent last night killing members of the coven one by one. They were scattered around, but I still managed to scent them and destroy them. I couldn't risk them coming back here on their own time, once I'm gone."

The explanation rang a bell in your head. That was right. The reason behind him drinking your blood. He was going away, to protect you. He lifted your hand again, though this time it was to look at your watch. He made a noise of frustration. "I have to go now. My time's almost up."

"Don't go." You pleaded. but you were too weak to put up any semblance of a fight. Even if you had been, it wouldn't have mattered. You were no match for him.

"I have to. For you. Remember? That's what this is all about." He touched your brow, your cheek, your jaw, like he was committing the shape of your features to memory, something to keep him alive once he was gone from you.

"Please don't leave me, James." Your voice sounded small, almost childlike.

He looked at the floor, but not before you saw the flash of anguish in those brilliant blue eyes. "I must. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

James tilted your chin up with his fingers, and pressed one final kiss to the corner of your mouth. You wished you'd had the wherewithal to pull him closer. "Our time together has been some of the best of my life. Please don't let my departure dampen your spirit. You are much too special to mourn someone like me." Then he stood, quick as a bolt of lightning, moving from your grasp. It took effort to sit up again, to try and reach for him, and he had already rounded the back of the couch, striding to the door, before you could try to stop him.

He gave you one last look at the door. If one look could speak, a novel would have poured forth, sprouting into existence, the pages filling with words upon words upon words. You could almost hear them, in the stretch of time where his hand found the lock and twisted.

And then there was nothing but the silence of your house, your slow, sad heartbeat, and a feeling of melancholy so strong you would have fallen to the floor if you'd been standing.

It took much longer than you liked to stop your head from swimming. You felt dizzy, like everything was just slightly off-kilter. But you didn't have time to waste. You had even less time than you'd hoped for. You knew James would likely go hunting for Johann, rather than just meet him. He might be giving in and offering himself up, but you doubted he'd simply lay down and show his belly.

You had the distinct feeling that Johann would know if you left the safety of your house. He expected James to bring you along, anyway, for you to be a sacrificial lamb. Well, you'd already decided that you would be. Just not in a manner that he might expect. If you were to die tonight, you wouldn't be the only one.

The walk uphill was hard. Harder still with what you carried with you, stolen from your neighbour's back porch. Your muscles felt like jelly. Each step was a battle, but you had to keep going. It was the only thing you could do, now. You should have felt the cold, but it didn't bother you as much as you thought it should have. You had a task in mind, and you'd damn well make sure you finished it.

James's house loomed at the top of the hill. Snow covered the roof, and like the first time, a group of ravens observed you curiously. They flew away as a group, a series of flapping wings and eerie caws, as you stumbled up the front steps. It was like they knew what was about to happen, and wanted to get the hell out of dodge. The gargoyle above the attic was a silent sentinel. Your footprints on the snow path were uneven. You were so, so tired.

The ornate looking key was made of iron. It fit in the lock easily. You'd had it since the day before, feeling it in James's coat when you'd hung it at your door. The ram's head kept a watchful eye on the street as you pushed through the door. Snow and slush slid off your boots and onto the rug. It was an antique, golds and reds and blacks in an intricate design, kept as clean as the day James had bought it. The velvet runner stretched down the long hallway.

The fireplace still had logs in it. You were glad—you didn't have the time or the energy to spend building it. You were anxious as you waited for the flames to catch. Once you were satisfied, listening to the crackle and pop! of the wood, a merry little tune, you moved to the next part of the plan. Your load became lighter as you traversed the stairs, weaving a path through the rooms. By the time you made it to the attic, you were able to discard what you'd been carrying, tucking it out of sight behind the piano.

The trips from the attic to all the other rooms in the house were the most taxing. Some lamps were small, the kind you'd imagine belonged on a nightstand. crystal and stained glass, oil and gas. Others were bigger, as tall as you. Lugging those around with both hands had you almost meeting your end at the bottom of the steps prematurely. But you managed, miraculously. You could imagine the cheery glow from outside. It might have looked like James was entertaining guests, from the way each room was lit up.

You stood in the sitting room for a few long minutes, feeling woozy. You might not have been able to smell the evidence of what you'd done, but it was making you lightheaded anyway. Or maybe that was the adrenaline you'd used up. But it wouldn't be long, now.

In fact, it wasn't long at all, as you stared into the flames. He didn't announce himself, only swept through the front door with ease, a brush of his coat, the tap of his boots.

Johann stared at you curiously. "Hello, little mouse. You came out of your house. Where is your protector?"

You made yourself look into those bottomless pits he called eyes. "Ridding the world of your kind, I'd expect." Your voice sounded thin, even to your own ears. At least if Johann killed you, you wouldn't be a very satisfying snack. You doubted you had very much blood left to give.

"And so you decided to offer yourself up to me here? How very poetic. What a gorgeous tableau it will be, for him to find your body here, in this place he calls home." You wouldn't describe the expression on Johann's face as a grin. It was too grotesque, too alien, to be called that, all teeth and no feeling.

His hands flexed at his sides, involuntarily. You thought he might be imagining squeezing the life out of you. "Come and get me then."

"Oh, sweet creature," he crooned, "I enjoy the chase much more. Run, little mouse. Let me enjoy the hunt."

It seemed that Johann was too excited by the idea to notice what you'd done. It had been your biggest gamble. Just because you couldn't smell it, just because it was odorless to a human, didn't mean it was that way to a vampire. But it seemed he was too distracted by you. So you'd give him the chase that he wanted. You needed him closer, anyway.

You slipped away into the kitchen. You couldn't hear Johann as you moved through the room, coming out into the dining room. The glow of the lamp in the corner bathed everything in yellow. You made your way back to the foyer. You couldn't anticipate the blow, but you definitely felt it in your ribs when you made impact with the wall. The gilded frame beside you shuddered and fell from its hook. Johann was silent as a wraith. But he let you go, watched with satisfaction as you wheezed, pressing a hand to your side. "Come now, little mouse. I want to taste your fear."

It was grim. You'd had a feeling he'd want to do it this way, to break you down until you were nothing, until you were battered and bloody, before sucking out your life. He let you dart away, halfway up the stairs, before a strong hand curled around one ankle and pulled. Your chin met one of the steps with a clatter, your eyes watering immediately. Your teeth rattled. Your ribs shrieked in protest. You clawed your way up, staggering to the landing.

And so the game went on.

Johann would let you get a little ways away before throwing you into walls, against furniture. Before yanking a handful of hair from your scalp. Before grasping at your wrist so tightly that you felt your bones bend a little before they snapped. Your scream was a long way off. It sounded like it came from under water. Blood had started to pour steadily from your nose. The last push had sent you face first into an ornate mirror. Your head was ringing.

You couldn't keep going. The spare room was where you decided to take your final stand. Decked out in blue and gold, the colours made brighter by the lamps dotted about, you made it to the window. You couldn't see the moon anymore. It was covered by the clouds, like it didn't want to bear witness to your death. You felt like you were going to throw up, you were so dizzy. Pain wracked every nerve. You had no idea how you were standing upright.

Panic finally started to take over when you couldn't get the window open. It was stuck fast, and you couldn't use the force that you needed with a broken wrist. Your nails started to splinter and break as you pulled and pushed, willing it to open, praying that it would.

"Little mouse, you are a fool to think you could get away from me. Where would you go? The only way out that way is down. Is that your wish?"

Johann was a spindly shadow in the doorway. Your fingers, slippery with blood, left marks on the white paint of the windowsill. Yes, your plan had been to go down. To make it out onto the overhang and try to scuttle down the gutter. It had been your only potential escape route. But it seemed the window had taken an oath to stay closed, and it would be keeping its promise.

Johann inhaled, eyes growing heavy. "Ah, there it is, little mouse. I wish you could smell it. Your fear is so exquisite."

He took his time, steps slow, as he crossed the room. You sagged against the window, too tired to move.

"Did your dear Bucky tell you that he begged me to save his sister? He thought I was an angel come to rescue them from harm, when we met."

His joy made you feel unbearably ill. "All that blood. What a wreck, that train collision. So many dead. So many dying."

Johann stopped in front of you. You had to crane your neck to meet his eyes, and it made your head throb. He looked behind you, then. His teeth gleamed. "Well, he's come just in time to see you meet your end."

Oh, no.

You'd hoped that James wouldn't have to see it. You didn't have time to register Johann's hand around your neck. One moment, you could breathe, and the next, your life was being squeezed out of you. And suddenly, you were cold.

The shattering glass didn't register for you for a long moment. But then you became aware.

Johann had slammed you through the glass. Blood was running from the back of your head, coating your neck. And he was holding you, dangling you like a worm on a hook, outside the window. Your hand scrabbled weakly at his wrist. "Do you remember, Bucky?" He laughed when you wheezed. His voice carried across the night. "Your darling Rebecca? She tasted so sweet when she screamed. I've never quite tasted a terror like hers, not since. But yours," He focused on you, instead of James, somewhere down below. "Yours might be close, little mouse." The curtains billowed around you, drawn out by the wind.

Your was name was shouted with a panic you should have felt. Instead, you were strangely blank. The pain in your ribs, your wrist, your head, fell away to a far-removed sensation. The cold was from the winter air, you thought. But it could have been the feeling of death's fingers reaching for you, too.

You let your hands dangle uselessly at your sides. Your fingers shook as you reached into your pocket. Your legs pinwheeled like they were trying to tread water, like they were seeking solid ground. "Shall I drop you, little mouse? Shall I let him try to catch you? Let him hold you as you die?"

Flick, flick, flick.

Whoosh.

The curtains turned gold, and so did Johann's coat. The lighter in your hand fell away, clattering off the roof and disappearing below. The fire was greedy, seeking anything it could reach.

He dropped you with a howl, his hands coming to his clothes, trying to pat at the fire, but it was no use. He was kindling in that room of gas and oil, the propane you'd lugged through the house. The fire was infinitely more hungry to feed than he was.

Your knees slammed against the overhang, jarring you and slowing your fall.

But you did fall. Gravity was a merciless goddess. She pulled you through the air. The house looked like a small, blooming sun. You didn't remember hitting the ground. All you could register was James, his arms around your prone form, his hands wet and red, his eyes wet too, and so, so blue. His mouth formed words, but you couldn't hear them.

Your plan had worked, and it was all you had set out to do. James would be free, now. A long, dark sleep sounded very nice, indeed.

James didn't know who had called the fire department. A neighbour had seen the house light up like a torch, he supposed. He heard Johann's shrieks of agony as he cradled you, tried to keep you conscious, but it was no use. The sirens racing uphill were all that kept him from panic. Johann was ashes by the time the firefighters pulled out their hoses.

You were light as a feather when James lifted you and brought you to the ambulance that had followed the firetruck up. They wasted no time. As soon as they saw you, they got right to work. The noise and chaos was deafening. James focused on your thin breaths instead. He thought you might have still been alive by sheer will. He'd caught you, but you'd both hit the ground hard, anyway. If he was injured at all, he couldn't tell. You were the concern. If you died…

The questions started as soon as the ambulance raced away. The local police were staring in amazement at the tinderbox on the top of the hill. James used any influence he had to pass off the most believable lies he could think of. It came down to him deciding on you house sitting for him while he was out of town, and an intruder breaking in. He couldn't explain the fire quite as well. It was chalked up to stray embers from the fireplace and the foolish amount of old lamps he'd collected.

As soon as he was able, James made it to the hospital. Your chart was very long. Internal bleeding, broken bones, a hell of a concussion… not to mention the blood loss. You didn't smell like yourself right now. The transfusion had muddied your scent, for the time being.

Your neighbours dropped by—half the town did, really—to drop off baskets of fruit and muffins, cards with well wishes, flowers and teddies. And James accepted them all on your behalf. It was the most the residents had seen of him. You hadn't woken up yet, but he wasn't concerned. You deserved to rest, after what you'd accomplished. You deserved everything.

He took the time to watch you, to listen to your breaths and your heartbeat, a cadence so familiar to him he could have played each beat on his piano. But the piano, like everything else in the house, no longer existed. Still, he tapped the matching rhythm against his knee, loyal at your bedside.

The day that your eyes fluttered open, James had already been gazing at your face. The bruise on your chin was so dark it almost looked black. He had no idea what Johann had done to give you that specific injury, but the doctor had said you were lucky you hadn't broken your jaw.

James scooted his chair forward until his knees brushed the bed and its starchy white blanket. His hand found yours, and he squeezed gently on your fingers. You did your best to squeeze back. You blinked at him, weary. "Did I actually survive that?" you croaked, your voice like sandpaper.

"You did." He helped you sit up enough to drink some water.

"Cool." You said with a wince, reaching a tentative hand to touch your ribs.

James gave you a look that was so severe, you shrank backwards. "You are the most foolish girl I've ever met. What were you thinking? You very nearly died." His anger was a quiet thing, but it was there all the same.

"Yes, well, I did factor that possibility in, you know. Figured it was worth it if I took out that monster in the process." You grimaced at the thought.

"How did you even…?" He shook his head in amazement.

At this, you had the audacity to look smug. "Virginia told me that she had bought this fancy, odorless propane for her husband's barbeque. I wasn't sure if it was really odorless, but it was the only thing I could get on such short notice. I guess I'll have to reimburse her…"

"That was so incredibly reckless."

You nodded sagely. "Well, so is collecting like, a million oil lamps. Probably wouldn't have been so flashy if I hadn't put those everywhere." You paused, out of breath. He could tell it was difficult for you to speak in your condition, but he had a feeling you wouldn't take kindly to being told to stay quiet. "I take it your house is toast, then?"

He nodded, bringing your hand to his mouth. He rested his lips against the backs of your fingers when he spoke. "It's barely more than a frame."

"That's okay. I have more than enough furniture at my house. You're not going to need much. Well, except for a new wardrobe."

You were talking like it was the obvious conclusion. That James, with no place to call home, would stay with you in yours from now on. He stared at you, wide eyed, at your easy smile. Your reaction to his expression was delayed, but your mouth flattened into an uncertain line eventually. You sounded decidedly more shy when you added, "If you want to, that is."

"Wretched girl. I'll go wherever you go, wherever you are. For as long as you'll have me."

It wasn't even close to what James wanted to say. He wanted to prostrate himself at your feet, to worship you until the end of time. And to keep you by his side for lifetimes upon lifetimes. He'd had the tentative, traitorous thought for weeks, but he'd never entertained it. It wasn't the time to now, either. But it cemented itself in his mind much more firmly.

"Be careful what you say. Forever is a long time." Your smile was back, a soft, sure thing. Like maybe you had a thought as to where his mind was at, even if he hadn't spoken it aloud, and you didn't mind one bit.

"Not with you. Forever won't be long enough."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who doesn't even hesitate. He's in your apartment within minutes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You try very hard not to stare at his forearms while he’s elbow-deep under your sink, only to fail. Your gaze slips, you might possibly drool if you don’t get it together. "Pipe's cracked," he mutters, more to himself than you. "You got a wrench?" You don't. He disappears back to his place and returns with a whole toolbox. He is efficient, making it seem like it's effortless, like he's done this a thousand times. You don't know he's broken many things, only this time he's fixing something. When you try to thank him, he just grunts and says something about how the building super is useless anyway.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you learn is a congressman, which explains the suits and the late nights. "You're a congressman and you're fixing my sink," you say, a little awed, delighted. He glances up at you, a tiniest quirk in his mouth, "well, the sink don’t care about that."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you start running into more after that. In the hallway, in the lobby, at the mailboxes. You're all sunshine and bright greetings, asking how his day was, if that bill he mentioned passed, did he see that the bodega down the street had started carrying those good empanadas? And he's... grumpy. Tired. Answers in grunts and short sentences. But he always answers. Always looks at you.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you bake cookies for the next week, chocolate chip with sea salt, still warm when you knock on his door. He opens it looking suspicious, like it might be someone selling him something. Only for his face to visibly soften when he learns it's just you holding out this little plate covered in foil and saying, "thank you for saving me from my sink last Tuesday." He takes them. Stares at them, and then at you like you've just done something completely insane. "You didn't have to do this," he says. With a smile in your lips, you're backing away already, telling him to enjoy. What you miss is the way he stands there in his doorway holding those cookies like they're precious, a redness creeping up to his neck and a smile curving his lips.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who mentions the cookies the next time he sees you. You're both getting mail and you're rambling about your day, about your coworker. When he says, "the cookies were good," you light up so bright he has to look away. "Yeah? I wasn't sure if you'd like them, I know some people think the sea salt is weird, but I think it really brings out the —" Mid-sentence, you stop flustered, recognizing your rambling. Bucky's almost smiling. "They were good," he repeats. If you were smiling the rest of the day, well, he doesn't know that. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you end up staying with when your power goes out during a storm. The whole building's dark except for his place. Backup generator, he explains when you knock, shivering a little in the hallway. "Sorry, I just — my phone's dead and I have this work thing tomorrow morning. I really need to set an alarm, so if I could maybe just..." He's stepping aside, before you even finish the sentence. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who makes you tea while you sit on his couch, wrapped in the throw blanket he'd tossed at you without a word. His apartment is nice. Lived-in but neat, books on the shelves, a few photos you can't quite make out from here. "Sugar?" he asks. Cocooned in the warmth, you nod. When he hands you the mug, his fingers brush yours and linger there for just a second, heat spreading up your arm. You fall asleep halfway through some documentary he put on to fill the silence, head lolling against the armrest. Bucky drapes the blanket over you and spends the rest of the night pretending he isn’t watching the way your face softens in sleep. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who helps you with grocery bags one afternoon when he catches you struggling with six bags at once. His phone is pressed between his ear as he takes all six bags from you, the metal arm making it look easy. He follows you to your door, while still remaining on the call, giving you this look like he can't decide if he's mildly annoyed or happy to help. The person on the phone is talking about polling numbers, when you mouth thank you, starting to leave, to get out of his hair, but he catches your wrist. Metal fingers wrap around, cool against your skin, a proper smile on his face. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches you sometimes through your window without meaning to. It's not intentional, not at first anyway. His window faces yours across the courtyard and you never close your blinds. He just happens to glance over one evening, nursing a whiskey, contemplating how badly his day went. You're just existing. Dancing a little to music he can't hear, oversized t-shirt hitting mid-thigh. You're so unselfconscious it makes his chest tight. His mind blanks for one whole second, seeing you bend over to pick something up, thinking you're not wearing anything underneath. The blood in his body heads south so fast he feels almost lightheaded. Then, he realises you're indeed wearing panties, just that they're the same colour as your skin. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who gets irrationally angry about it. If he can see you like this, anyone can. What if someone else is watching? What if someone sees you like this, sees what's his — He has to stop that thought right in its tracks, the possessiveness of it, the wanting. You're not his. You're his neighbor who smiles too much, brings him cookies and doesn't seem to notice that he's fucking obsessed with you. Your sunshine warmth seeps under his skin, makes the grumpy exterior thaw, until he feels what is … softness. He hates it. He craves it.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who shows up at your door three minutes later, knocking maybe a little too hard. You answer looking confused and adorable, still in that t-shirt, so pure he has to actively force his eyes to stay on your face. "You need to close your blinds," he says, voice rough, desperation slipping past. You blink at him in confusion. "Your blinds. You need to close them," he clarifies. You look even more confused, glancing back at your window and then at him. Now Bucky is scrambling. He's never scrambled for words in his fucking life, but right now his brain isn't working and all he can think about is the curve of your thighs and — "Too much sunlight," he blurts out. "It's bad for your furniture. The sun damage. And your eyes. Light pollution. It's a problem in the city, you should really —" He's rambling. Bucky never rambles.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches you watch him, this little furrow between your brows like you're trying to figure him out. Soon, a smile breaks into your face, metal fingers flexing against his side. Were you always this pretty? Where were you all his life? "You're worried about my furniture?" You sound delighted, charmed even, at your neighbour apparently worrying about your coffee table and couch. You reach out to pat his bicep like he's an overgrown puppy with muscles, this affectionate little gesture that makes him stop breathing completely. "That's really sweet, Bucky." Your hand is so small on his arm, the heat of it, he feels through his sleeve. "I'll close them, okay?" You're laughing a little. Bucky needs to leave before he does something absolutely dumb like kiss you or push you back into your apartment and show you exactly why those blinds need to stay closed.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who lies in bed that night, a bed he'd made, staring at your window, dark now. Blinds closed, like you promised. He can't see you now because of his stupid jealousy. He lies there like an idiot thinking about the glimpse he got of your legs, the soft skin of your inner thighs, wondering if you're as soft everywhere else, what sounds you'd make if he — He groans and throws an arm over his eyes. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who decides to just drop by the next day. No reason whatsoever, he's just being neighborly. All of it dissolves when you open the door in one of those oversized hoodies that swallows you whole, legs bare again, inviting his gaze like a touch. He's definitely staring. "Bucky, hi!" You seem happy to see him, stepping aside to let him in. "Just wanted to check on you," he mutters, a lie. He wanted to see you, but he can't exactly say that, can he? Your voice is chirpy as you move towards the kitchen, insisting him to drink something. He should say no. He should leave. "Coffee's good."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who sits in your kitchen while you make his coffee, unable to stop looking at your legs. You're padding around barefoot, humming under your breath. Every time you reach for something, your hoodie rides up a little more, testing him. When you sit down across from him on the couch, your legs stretch out, thighs spreading against the cushions. Bucky has to take a long drink of his too-hot coffee just to have something to do with his hands. He tries not to think about the way your thighs spread, thicker at the top, skin he wants to sink his teeth into.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you catch staring after a while. You glance down at yourself before bringing your eyes back to him, "is there something on my thighs?" You sound so genuinely confused, a little concerned, trying to look for whatever he's seeing. It's so frustrating, he wants to put his head in his hands. He wants you to be at least doing this on purpose, to know exactly what you're doing to him, for you to be some kind of temptress in disguise. At least then this would make sense. But you're not. You're just you, perfectly maddeningly sincere and innocent, asking if you've got something on your legs. "No," he forces the word out. You're still looking at him, waiting. He sighs, "there's nothing on your thighs." He needs to get out of here before he confesses that he'd indeed like there to be something on your thighs — specifically, his hands, his mouth, his cum. He finishes the coffee in one scalding gulp and stands up, thanking you. Already resigned to the fact that he'll be jerking off to the mental image of your thighs later. Again.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who gets invited to quiz night at some bar. He knows he should say no, he has early meetings, a PR team that would have a stroke if he just showed up somewhere unvetted. But you're looking at him with those bright, hopeful eyes, saying it would be good for his campaign, he could mingle with constituents, show them he's approachable and present. "They'd love you," you say, like it's that simple. He wants to tell you it doesn't work like that. He wants to tell you no. "What time?" he asks instead, your smile worth every headache this is going to cause.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who shows up, and immediately regrets showing up, not because of the people there. They're fine, he can do this in his sleep. But you're there with your stupidly cheerful friends, smiling bright and unapologetic. There's some bartender who keeps finding excuses to talk to you, giving you free drinks, leaning across the bar when he hands them over, smiling too much, getting on his nerves. You come back to the table with armfuls of cocktails, setting them down and tell your friends, "the bartender's so nice, he gave us all of these for free." You've got this soft, awed expression like you can't quite believe in human kindness.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who has to watch one of your friends lean over and say, "babe, he was hitting on you." You just laugh, shaking your head, "no, he was just being nice." "He was definitely trying to score," your other friend says. You're still shaking your head, taking a sip of your drink. "Why would he hit on me? I'm just... " you trail off. Bucky's gripping his beer so hard he's surprised the glass doesn't shatter. Nothing about you is just. You're the most magnificent creature he's ever seenc, charming without trying, perfectly sweet, this sunshine thing that makes him want to be better. And you don't even know it.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who can't be in love with you. It wouldn't be fair. You're too innocent for someone like him, someone who's been through what he's been through, done what he's done. You deserve better. You deserve someone who doesn't have his history, doesn't have this much blood on his hands, and someone who isn't already thinking about all the ways he wants to ruin you. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you cook for one evening, insisting he needs a real meal, something other than the takeout containers you've seen in his trash. He sits at your kitchen and watches you move around your space. You're telling him about someone who apparently hit on you at work. "But I don't think he was, you know? I think everyone's just seeing things that aren't there." You glance back at him, laughing a little, real confusion over your face, "like, why would someone hit on me?" He's heard girls do this before, back in the forties. Batting their lashes, playing coy, fishing for compliments. But you're not playing. You’re perplexed, brow furrowed, like the idea of someone wanting you is genuinely baffling.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who stands up, comes around the counter to pull you toward the couch. You make a little surprised sound but follow him. When he sits you down and faces you, there's an intensity in his eyes he's not had in years, never having cared enough. "What's so unbelievable about a guy hitting on you?" You blink at him, still confused, "have you seen me?" "Yes, that's why you gotta explain it to me," he says immediately, leaning closer. You're flustered, from his words or the proximity or his mere presence, he doesn't know. Words tumble out of you, about high school, about always being the friend, the ugly duckling, guys talking to your prettier friends instead. "I was just sorta there, you know. So I just… can’t believe someone would want to talk to me willingly."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who feels something crack in his chest. "I talk to you plenty," he says. You smile at that, soft and a little sad, "yeah, but you're Bucky." He's always wanted to be Bucky. Having lived many lives, having taken more, he's wanted nothing to be called just Bucky. But, his heart clenches at the way you say it, like he's somehow different, separate, not a real option. "I'm also a guy," he says, the words slipping past him. You go still, "well, yeah. I guess you are. You have... male stuff." He can't help it, can't help the way a laugh tears out of him. With you joining, the tension breaks for just a second. Bucky reaches out, finger hooking under your chin, tilting your face up to his, "do you know how much I like you?"

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches your breath catch, your pupils dilate, "...no." Your voice is so quiet. "Do you wanna know?" He asks. Pulse flutters in your neck, the soft skin hiding nothing to his eyes, you nod. "Can I show you?" His fingers are still on your skin, holding your gaze. "Yes," you breathe. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who kisses you like he's been thinking about it for months, hungry, possessive and a little — no, a lot — desperate. Your hands come up to his chest, fisting in his shirt, making this sweet little sound against his mouth that he swallows and pulls you closer. Into his lap, legs on either side of his hips. The second you're straddling him, he can feel how hot you are through the thin fabric of your leggings.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who keeps kissing you the next day, and the day after that. It takes nearly a week before things go further. Both of you on his couch, making out like teenagers, his hands roaming you everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding under your shirt to feel your skin. When he lays you back and settles between your legs, you're already breathing hard, already wanting. He kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, down to your breasts. When he gets your shirt off and sees you in your simple cotton bra, he's never wanted anything more in his life.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who takes his time with you. Kissing every inch of skin he reveals, sucking marks into your shoulders and the tops of your breasts, licking across your nipples until you're whimpering. Your hands are in his hair, tugging. When he bites down gently on the underside of your breast, you gasp so pretty he has to do it again. Harder. He mouths at your tits, tongue swirling around one nipple while his fingers pinch the other, gentle then firmer when you arch and moan his name. You let him, shy but trusting, fingers threading through his hair. He doesn't slow his ministrations until you're squirming beneath him.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who works his way down your stomach, kissing and biting, leaving a trail of marks that he wants to see later, wants to see blooming on your skin as proof that you're his. When he gets to the waistband of your shorts, he looks up at you. Sweat beading at your temples, you're panting and so fucking beautiful. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who is about to hook his fingers in your shorts when you sit up a little, catching his wrist. "Wait, let's not... not that." His smile drops, searching your face, as he asks "are you scared?" "No, of course not. I just — I haven't shaved," you sound so embarrassed, won't quite meet his eyes. Bucky's trying to figure out what the problem is, because he doesn't see one. "I don't care about that, sweetheart." "No, Bucky — I mean, I've never shaved. Like, ever. So it's probably —" He kisses you, cutting off whatever you were about to say. Kisses you until you're breathless and melting back into the couch. "That's even better," he murmurs against your mouth, sliding your shorts down, enthralled by the soft damp spot covering your panties. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who parts your thighs to look at your bare cunt, slick, swollen, soft hair covering your mound, glistening in your arousal. Bucky feels like he's going to lose his fucking mind, heart trying to beat out of his ribs. He leans down to press his nose against you. You smell like want, sleep and something uniquely you. When his lips brush against the soft curls, you make a choked sound above him. He parts your folds with his thumbs, tongue tracing the seam before exposing them more to his eyes.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who licks through your cunt slowly, tasting you for the first time and groaning at how sweet you are, how wet. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping hard, thighs trying to close around his head but he holds them open with his hands, spreading you wider. A needy, desperate sound parts from you when his mouth finds your clit, hood pulled back with his thumb, as he sucks it in. The sound goes straight to his cock, so he does it again. And again. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who eats you out like he's starving for it. Tongue fucking into you, lapping at your entrance, circling your clit and then flattening his tongue against it, while you writhe and sob, all the while his nose is buried in your curls so he can smell and taste everything. You're so responsive, so sensitive, already so close. When he slides one thick, calloused finger inside you, you clench around him so tight he has to close his eyes and breathe through it.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who works you through your first orgasm with his mouth and fingers, feeling you pulse, gush, actual tears streaming down your face while you sob his name. He keeps licking you through it, gentler now, until you're shaking and pushing at his head, overwhelmed. Only then does he pull back, kissing your inner thighs, the soft mound with curls of hair now impossibly wet, resting his head there while you come down.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who doesn't push for more that night. He holds you while you catch your breath, curl into his chest, hide your face in the crook of his neck. He wordlessly presses a kiss to your temple, understanding that whatever happened here was above needing words. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who is fucking obsessed with your body now that he's tasted you, seen you bare. The soft curves, the way your thighs shake when you cum, the dark hair between your legs that he wants to bury his face in every single day for the rest of his life. He makes you promise not to shave, ever, tells you he loves you like this — natural, soft, real. "Please don't change a thing," he murmurs against your stomach, kissing the slight swell there. "You're perfect. Every inch of you is fucking perfect." He maps your body with his hands, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you moan. The weight of your breasts in his palms, the give of your hips when he grips them, the way you taste when he licks the sweat from your collarbone. He's never been this obsessed with someone, never wanted to memorize every detail, every sound, every reaction.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who invites you over the next evening, cooking for you, feeding you. You know where this is heading. So does he. When he kisses you this time, it's softer. Sweeter. He takes his time stripping you down, kissing every new piece of skin he reveals, whispering things against your body about how beautiful you are, and how good you are for him. He stresses how long he's wanted this, since the day you knocked on his door. "I was a wet rat that day," you say. "The prettiest wet rat," he replies. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who lays you out on your bed, admiring your naked form, wanting and looking at him with so much trust, he forgets what he was doing for a second. "You sure?" Collecting himself, he asks you, even though he's so hard it hurts, even when he wants you more than he's ever wanted anything. "I'm sure," you whisper, reaching for him.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who fucks you — no, makes love to you — for the first time like you're precious. Slow and deep, watching your face the whole time, reading every micro-expression. You're so tight around him, wincing when he first pushes inside, walls clamping, soft tears bordering your eyelashes. He freezes, your tears stopping him, voice pained he asks, "you okay?" "Yeah, just — you’re a little big," you try to laugh, though a sniffle follows. He kisses you, stays still until you relax around him, until you're the one rocking your hips and asking for more.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who starts pumping into you that has you clutching at his shoulders, his back, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks. He wants them, your marks. He wants to wear your claim on him. When you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper, he groans your name, "fuck, you feel so good. So perfect. My perfect girl."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches you fall apart underneath him, face contorting with pleasure, tears gathering in your eyes again. He wants to memorize this. Committing to memory, exactly how you looked when you came on his cock for the first time. He glances down where you're joined, sees his cock disappearing into your cunt, the way your soft curls touch his everytime you join, glistening with your combined arousal. The sight makes him groan, thrust harder. "Look how pretty you are, takin' me so well." When he feels your pussy fluttering around him, squeezing him so tight he can barely move, he buries his face in your neck and groans. Three more deep thrusts and he's cumming too, spilling inside you with a low growl.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who stays inside you after, both of you panting and clinging to each other. Pulling back when he thinks you've come down from the high, he brushes the hair sticking to your forehead, and says, "I love you." Simple, truthful. You just... stop. Stop breathing, stop blinking. He can see you buffering, trying to process what he just said, and he huffs a quiet laugh, running his hands up and down your sides, touch both cold and warm on your skin. "Breathe, sweetheart."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches you come back online slowly, and you're smiling. This huge, incandescent smile that covers your whole face, making him fall even harder. "You know, I have a huge crush on you," you blurt out. A soft smirk plays up his face, "yeah?" "Yeah. I think — I think I'm in love with you too." His smirk becomes a real smile, soft and genuine, as he kisses you again.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who turns into someone completely different after that. His staff notices too. He's less grumpy now, less short-tempered. He smiles more. He takes lunch breaks at home, which he never did before, and comes back looking suspiciously relaxed. When someone finally gets brave enough to ask if he's seeing someone, he just grunts and changes the subject. But there's a lightness to him now that wasn't there before.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who is completely domesticated by the end of the first month. He cooks you breakfast, fixes everything in your apartment without being asked, carries your groceries, rubs your feet when you've had a long day. You walk into his place like it's belongs to you too, steal his hoodies, leave your things scattered around his apartment. He loves the evidence of you in his space. So much that he sometimes find it absurd, the need for two separate apartments, why he should be your neighbour still. 

BOYFRIEND!BUCKY who you catch staring at you constantly, while you're reading, while you're cooking, while you're just being you. "What?" you ask, laughing. He shakes his head, mirroring your laugh, "nothing. Just lookin' at my girl." You smile every single time, the soft one that says you're flustered, happy, even though he says it almost daily now. He loves that he can still make you react like that, how it gets to you even now. He especially loves that you're still a little shy with him sometimes, even though he knows your body as well as you do now, maybe more. 

BOYFRIEND!BUCKY who goes from grumpy congressman to soft, devoted partner, and everyone who knows him is baffled by the transformation. But he doesn't care what they think. He's got you, curled up on your shared couch in one of his shirts, smiling at him like he hung the moon. And for the first time in longer than he can remember, he's not anything else. He's just... happy.

MY MASTERLIST!

EXTRAS. Are these hcs? Are these porn with plot? Are these kie’s yet another dumb way of saying she loves Bucky? Who knows…

Bucky’s Blooms prides itself on its customer service, fresh floral arrangements, and client privacy, but damn, if this particular client isn’t getting under Bucky’s skin with his orders. Besides the fact that the man is clearly cheating on his wife and some other woman, he doesn’t tip Bucky’s delivery driver, Joaquin, when he orders the flowers.

“I’m not driving up to Tribeca and then all the way to Forest Park with no tip again, man,” Joaquin grumbles as you start on the familiar bouquets. “That’s a trek on a light traffic day.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says. “Why don’t you man the shop for a bit? I’ll make these deliveries. Besides, I need to stop in Bushwick for more craft paper and some other supplies.”

“No, I’m sorry, sir. I’ll go. I apologize for complaining,” the young man says.

“Really, Joaquin, it’s fine,” Bucky assures him. “I need some fresh air, anyway.” He finishes the bouquets, signs off on the handwritten notes with Your Husband and Your Man while trying not to let a shiver run down his spine at the two-timer, and heads out to the delivery van. “Be back in a couple hours,” he says as the shop door shuts behind him.

The drive up from Brooklyn to Tribeca isn’t far, but can take a while with traffic, so Bucky turns on the radio to tune out the noise in his head. It’s not his first time seeing something suspicious like this in the floral business. He's had to write his fair share of questionable notecards, but the fact that this particular client is so smug as to order the bouquets under his real name (yes, Bucky looked him up) on the same day every month, and even have the notecards spell out the situation for him is brazen and stupid and downright awful. He decides right then and there to tell the women about the situation, client privacy be damned.

The “wife” isn’t home when he delivers the bouquet, so he leaves it with the doorman and makes the trip back down to Queens. It’s a nice enough neighborhood, but clearly very different from where the man lives with his wife in Manhattan, and Bucky wonders how they met. They’re clearly from two very different social circles. He double checks the address on the GPS as he looks out the van window at what appears to be a bakery. The address matches, so he shrugs and grabs the bouquet.

As he walks through the bakery doors, he’s hit with the scent of cinnamon and sugar. It’s strong, and reminds him of something his mom used to bake years and years ago.

A head pop ups from behind the counter with a wave. “Welcome in! Let me know if you have questions- oh,” you trail off as you notice the flowers in the man’s arms. “Are those for me?”

Bucky steps up to the counter and eyes your nametag before nodding. You’re beautiful. “Looks like it,” he mutters as he hands the bouquet to you across the counter. The bakery is quiet and empty, and Bucky clears his throat. “I, uh- I own the shop,” he says, nodding to the flowers. “My assistant usually delivers them, but, uh- it’s me today.” Why is he rambling?

“Well, thank you. They are beautiful as always,” you say, closing your eyes as you breathe in the roses. Your eyes flutter open and Bucky thinks his heart stops. You’re something else, and he almost completely forgets what he came here to tell you.

“What is that smell? It’s so familiar, like…” he searches the recesses of his spotty memory for something nearly gone.

“It’s cinnamon coffee cake,” you say. “Fresh out of the oven.”

“Coffee cake,” Bucky says with a nod and a solemn smile, remembering how his mom used to bake that for special occasions. Sometimes there was no cinnamon, but it was better when there was.

“Would you like a slice?” You ask, setting the bouquet on the counter. “It’s still quite hot, though.”

“I- I’d love one. Thank you,” he says, pulling out his wallet to pay.

You wave at him to put it away. “On the house,” you say. “I know the drive out here is far from your shop.”

“Yeah, but that’s okay. It’s nice to get out of the store sometimes,” he says as you put a steaming slice of the cake in front of him on a Robin’s egg blue plate. “Wow, well, thank you.” Bucky makes a mental note to put something in the tip jar by the register before he leaves.

“I’m going to get a vase for these,” you say as you walk to the back of the bakery. Bucky blows on a piece of cake before taking a bite. It’s perfect - better than his mom’s was, actually. You come back with a milky white vase covered in a strawberry print and put the roses inside, fan them out, and set them on the counter. “Beautiful.”

“Do you want anything for the road?” You ask, nodding toward the glass case of baked goods.

“Actually, I need to tell you something,” he says, wringing his hands together nervously. “And I know I shouldn’t from a legal and business standpoint, but I can’t in good conscience keep deliverin’ those bouquets to you and not say something. You seem like a sweet person. You deserve to know.”

Your stomach plummets and your heart starts to race. Echoes of your mom and sister and friends saying things like “too good to be true” and “he’s probably married” play through your head like a film reel.

Bucky senses your anxiety and clears his throat, rethinking if he (a complete and total stranger) should tell you this awful news or not.

“Just tell me” you mutter, gripping the edge of the counter for moral and physical support. “Just say it.”

“He’s married,” Bucky says calmly, setting his fork down on his plate. His eyes search yours, which are quickly filling with tears.

You swallow down the lump in your throat. “And how do you know? You know for certain?”

“He sends two bouquets every month - one to you, and one to his wife,” he says. “Joaquin usually delivers them both, but the asshole never tips. That’s why I came today.”

You lean back against the counter, the pit in your stomach growing by the second. He was supposed to pick you up tonight to drive up to the coast for a weekend away at his cottage. You’ve never once been to his place in the city - not once. For months. That should have been a red flag, but he’s been so charming. You ignored all the signs. And now here you are, faced with the cold, hard truth in the form of yet another bouquet of perfect roses from Your Man. “I- uh, I’m not sure what to say,” you tell the man sitting in front of you. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I’m sorry I had to,” he says solemnly.

“I’d rather know now, you know, than… later.” After you’ve fallen deeper in love with the dickhead. You look back at the roses and shrug. “I can’t get rid of them. They’re too beautiful. Maybe I’ll just pretend they’re from someone else,” you say with a pained laugh.

Bucky smiles at your resilience and nods. “Just pretend they’re my payment for this delicious coffee cake. Just merchants trading goods.”

You genuinely laugh at that and nod. “So, you’re Bucky?”

“I’m Bucky,” he says, offering you his hand to shake. “I wish we were meeting under any other circumstance.”

You shake his hand - it’s warm and calloused. Bigger than yours. “Me too.”

“Are you going to be okay today?” He asks, putting both hands in his pockets. You now notice the glint of a prosthetic on his left and look back to his face.

“I’m going to be just fine,” you assure him.

“Okay, well,” he starts, looking back to the glass of the bakery case. “I’d love a couple biscottis for the road. Dealer’s choice.”

You smile through your sadness and walk around the counter, placing two into a paper bag for him.

“I’m paying,” he says, waving his wallet around.

“You’re not. I owe you one,” you say, crossing your arms.

“You’re stubborn,” he sighs, shaking his head. He pulls a twenty from his wallet and slips it into the tip jar anyway before stepping back from the counter. He knows he should say goodbye. This interaction is over, but there’s a tug in his chest that won’t let him walk out. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Aren’t you from Brooklyn?” You ask. The chances are slim to none that you’ll ever see him again.

“Yeah, but I have a feeling you’ll get flowers again,” he says as his back hits the door to exit the bakery. “Take care.”

———

One Month Later

The bell above the bakery door chimes as you’re elbow deep in a tub of frosting. “Welcome in,” you exclaim, not looking up from the counter.

“D’you have any coffee cake?”

Your head snaps up at the deep voice. He is standing there with a bouquet of pink lilies and a smile. “I told you you’d get flowers again.”

The End