it is what it is

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky tried to fight.

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

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

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

“Unhand me, you foul whoreson!”

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

Fangs sank deep into Bucky’s throat.

The pain was immediate and blinding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then his heart stopped.

For one terrifying, endless moment there was only silence.

And then a new, monstrous strength flooded his limbs.

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

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

No longer the cocky mortal who believed himself invincible.

Now he was invincible.

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

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

He fucked them hard and mercilessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he vanished before dawn.

No attachments. No feelings. No mercy.

Just blood and pleasure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their eyes met.

And she knew.

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

Dolores only smiled, soft, unafraid, almost tender.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the plague found her anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

It only made everything worse.

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

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

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

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

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

Then she screamed.

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

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

The silence afterward was worse than any scream.

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

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

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

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

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

Then he rose.

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

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

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

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

He didn’t move.

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

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

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

He never looked back.

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

Then the wars found him.

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

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

He moved to Brooklyn in the early 1920s.

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

But peace never lasted.

World War II dragged him back in.

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

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

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

After the war ended in 1945, Bucky vanished again.

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

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

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

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

He was the shift.

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

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

Four hundred more years of numbness stretched ahead of him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You finally look up.

Holy fuck.

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

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

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

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

Your eyes go wide in panic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He waits until you’ve turned the corner.

Then he moves.

Silent as death, he follows you home.

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

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

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

He already knows one simple truth:

He’s never letting you go.

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

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

But he didn’t move right away.

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

You had left the curtains open.

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

Bucky’s fangs throbbed. His cock hardened instantly.

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

“God… why does this smell so good?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The apartment was small, cluttered and alive with you.

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

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

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

Vampires in Gothic Literature

Eternal life vs. eternal loneliness?

Do they feel love or only hunger?

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

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

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

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

Your bedroom door was ajar.

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

There you were.

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

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

He stepped closer.

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

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

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

But he stopped.

His hand trembled. The metal plates clicked softly.

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

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

He allowed himself one last indulgence.

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

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

Finally, with a ragged exhale, he pulled back.

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

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

Not yet.

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

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

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

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

It only grew sharper.

He didn’t even know your name yet.

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

And the night after that.

Until simply watching you sleep was no longer enough.

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

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

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

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

It was him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It sounded like both a prayer… and a promise.

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

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

The third night he touched you.

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

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

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

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

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

The fourth night he went lower.

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

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

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

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

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

The visits only got dirtier.

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

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

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

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

Your body knew the truth.

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

Bucky, meanwhile, was unraveling.

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

He needed to hear you moan his name for real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked up and your heart skipped hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The pleasure’s all mine, doll.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky’s obsession had grown teeth.

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

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

So the stealing began.

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

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

The nights had become his sanctuary and his torment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the real collection had only just begun.

Then came the panties.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His obsession only grew darker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was patient.

He was starving.

And the monster inside him was done waiting.

You, meanwhile, were spiraling.

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

Then more things disappeared.

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

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

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

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

But something was different.

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

No note. No card. No explanation.

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

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt.

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

You knew.

You knew it was him.

Bucky.

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

He had been in your apartment again.

He had taken things.

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

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

Your mind raced.

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

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

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

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

“…Bucky?”

The silence that answered felt alive.

Like he was still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

The game had truly begun.

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

You couldn’t take it anymore.

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

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

It rang only once before he picked up.

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

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

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

Silence stretched on the other end.

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

He tried anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His voice dropped, almost desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hung up without another word.

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

He whispered into the night, voice dark and possessive:

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

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

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

He hadn’t slept. He doesn’t anymore.

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

The way you had cried.

The way you had called him a sick fuck.

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

Every word cut deeper than the last.

He was going to tell you everything.

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

So he went grocery shopping.

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

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

His mind kept drifting to you as he shopped.

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

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

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

“Baking for someone special?” she asked.

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

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

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

As he worked, he practiced what he would say.

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

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

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

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

He checked the clock.

8:00 pm was approaching.

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

He was about to confess everything.

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

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

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

You stopped a few feet away, arms crossed tightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stumbled back a step. “Bucky-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He reached out slowly but you jerked away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were terrified.

You were furious.

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

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

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

Bucky’s shoulders tensed, waiting for the blow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The feast was incredible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He leaned forward slightly, watching your face.

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed hard, heart hammering.

Bucky’s voice dropped even lower, almost intimate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t run.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tension finally snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m yours- fuck, Bucky, I’m yours!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bed was empty. Or so you thought.

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

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

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

He must have been waiting for you to stir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The honeymoon phase didn’t last long.

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

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

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

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

But Bucky was losing control.

His obsession turned feral.

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

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

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

You knew.

You knew it was Bucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tears burned in your eyes. Your hands were shaking.

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

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

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

The silence that followed was deafening.

You should have screamed. You should have run.

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

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

You were horrified.

You were dripping wet.

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

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

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

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

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

You froze in his lap, every muscle locking up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You still held on tighter.

And that terrified you more than anything else.

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

The sickness came on fast. Too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were trapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So Bucky started hunting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t give you time to think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The city lights flickered outside the soundproof windows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How?” you asked.

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

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

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

Suddenly you were there.

Mud. Endless, sucking mud.

1917 - The Western Front

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

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

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

The vision shifted with brutal force.

December 1944 - The Ardennes Forest

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

Then the shell.

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

HYDRA came next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not yet.

The hunters had been watching for weeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky felt it the instant they grabbed you.

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

His vision went red.

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

Then the monster took over completely.

He stormed the warehouse alone like judgment day.

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

In front of you, he became something from hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then silence.

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

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

Then he saw you.

The monster shattered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The monster had won tonight.

And you were still his.

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

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

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

You told yourself you were safe. Cherished. Loved.

Tonight, that comforting lie finally burned to ash.

The hunger had been eating him alive for hours.

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

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

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

He gave it to you.

Then the flashback hit like a goddamn freight train.

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

His control fucking snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reality crashed over him like ice water.

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

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

In his panic he tried desperately to fix it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flew open.

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

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

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

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

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Saturday means the same coffee stand on the corner where the barista with the chipped purple nail polish starts making his drink the second she sees him coming. It means the farmer’s market under the green-striped awnings in the square, where he buys a loaf of crusty sourdough from the old Polish couple in stall fourteen and fresh eggs from the woman who always insists the yolks are brighter in spring. It means peaches if they’re in season, because one summer in Wakanda he had bitten into one so ripe it had run down his wrist and made him laugh out loud in the middle of a field, and ever since then peaches have felt like proof of life. It means flowers some3times, too, if the apartment feels especially bare. Something cheap and cheerful in a mason jar on the kitchen counter. Something that says a man can make a home even if he was taught for years he did not deserve one.

It is a good routine. A hard-won one. Bucky likes the honesty of it, the way these small rituals ask nothing of him except that he show up.

This morning, June sun already warming the pavement, his paper cup of coffee hot in his hand, he feels almost light. The market is crowded enough to buzz but not so packed he gets hemmed in. A violinist near the fountain is playing something bright and quick. Someone’s kid is trying to pet every dog within reach. The air smells like basil and strawberries and the faint yeasty sweetness of fresh bread.

Bucky buys his loaf first. Then tomatoes. Then a bunch of green onions. He pauses at the peach stand, testing one for give with his thumb, and decides they need another week.

By the time he reaches the citrus table, the vendor is rearranging pyramids of lemons in rough wooden crates, their skins bright and dimpled in the morning light. Bucky reaches automatically, already picturing chicken piccata for dinner, and another hand reaches at the same exact moment.

Your fingers brush his.

The world splits open.

One second he is standing in the farmer’s market with coffee on his breath and sunlight on the back of his neck, and the next—

Neon. Laughter. Chapel bells tinny through cheap speakers. Your mouth, painted the color of a ripe cherry, open on a breathless laugh. White satin clinging to your hips. A fake Elvis in a rhinestone jumpsuit grinning around too-big teeth beneath a plastic crucifix bolted crooked over the altar.

Bucky gasps.

The bag of lemons slips from both your hands and tumbles to the pavement, yellow fruit rolling in wild directions as if they’ve been startled too.

The vision doesn’t stop there. Visions of different lifetimes flash through his eyes like he’s watching the life of ten different couples all at once. 

A steering wheel under his palms, worn smooth with use. Summer wind through open windows. You in cutoff shorts, feet on the dashboard, singing badly and loudly while the road curls ahead of you like a dare.

White sheets. Lace curtains breathing in a warm midnight breeze. Gold band on your finger catching moonlight where your hand presses against his chest. Your mouth moving against his throat with a broken little sound that is half laughter, half prayer.

A rough cabin wall. Splintered pine under his palm. You in a wool shift with your hair braided down your back, cheeks wind-burned, smiling over your shoulder as foxes cry somewhere out in the dark and a baby sleeps in a cradle by the fire.

Smoke and jazz and blackout curtains. East London. Silk black as sin against your skin. Your hand catching his by the wrist before he can disappear back into the war.

A beach. Bright afternoon. Children shrieking at the tide. Orange drinks sweating in glass pitchers while he kneels in the sand with his sleeves rolled up, helping a little girl press shell fragments into the turret of a sandcastle, and you walk toward him laughing, sunlight at your back so fierce it turns you to gold.

Then all of it is gone.

The market snaps back into focus so suddenly it hurts. Sound crashes in—vendors shouting prices, stroller wheels rattling, the violinist sawing away by the fountain. Bucky stumbles backward a step. Across from him, you catch yourself on the edge of the citrus crate, looking exactly as wrecked as he feels.

Your eyes lock on his.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Bucky’s heart is pounding hard enough to bruise. “You saw that too.”

It isn’t a question.

In this world, everybody knows about soulmarks and first-flashes. Knows that when you meet the person your soul is tied to, memory can strike like lightning. Some people get a single image. A porch swing. A train platform. A hand in a hospital room. Some get a rush of several lives at once, enough to leave them reeling for days. Most people dream of it when they’re young. Spend adolescence looking at every stranger a little too long. Wondering when it will happen, if it will happen, whether the person on the other end of them is alive or halfway across the planet or just around the corner.

Bucky stopped wondering a long time ago.

HYDRA did not leave much room for destiny.

You swallow. “That was not normal.”

“No,” he says, voice rough. “No, that was… not.”

The lemon vendor is gathering the fallen fruit with admirable indifference, the kind that says he has seen stranger things at this market and will see stranger still. “You two need a minute?” he asks.

You make a sound that could be a laugh or a near-sob. “Maybe five.”

Bucky buys the entire bag of lemons because it feels like the least insane thing he can do, then follows you blindly toward the edge of the square where there’s a row of benches under a sycamore tree. The shade dapples your face when you sit, and for one unmoored second he knows the pattern of it. Not from now. From somewhere else.

He stays standing until you glance up at him and pat the spot beside you with a shaky hand.

“You’re real?” you ask once he sits.

He almost laughs. “I was about to ask you that.”

You rub your palms over your knees as if trying to ground yourself. You’re wearing denim shorts and a white tank top and sunglasses pushed up into your hair, and you look like someone who belongs to summer. Not delicate exactly, but bright. Alive in a way that makes Bucky’s ribs ache. “I know this is a weird question,” you say, “but are you going to tell me your name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you fake-Elvis-groom in my head?”

“Bucky,” he says automatically. Then, because he has spent years relearning how to offer the softer pieces of himself without flinching, he adds, “James. But people call me Bucky.”

Your mouth curves, the first real smile since the vision hit. “I’m glad to know at least one of us looked better in Vegas.”

He huffs out a breath that is almost a laugh. “I looked good.”

“You looked reckless.”

“That too.”

You tell him your name, and the moment it lands between you something in his chest settles with a frightening kind of certainty. Not because fate says so. Not because the universe stamped your names together in some cosmic ledger. Because the sound of it moves through him like recognition. Like stepping into a room he did not realize he had been trying to get back to his whole life.

For a while neither of you says anything. The market hums on around you. Somewhere nearby, a dog sneezes. Someone drops a crate. Bucky stares at the paper sleeve around his cooling coffee and tries to swallow around the strange thickness in his throat.

“I’ve heard of people getting strong first-flashes,” you say at last, quieter now. “But not like that. That was… a lot.”

“A lot,” he agrees.

You tilt your head toward him. “How many do you remember already?”

He thinks of the chapel. The truck. The bed with the lace curtains. The cabin. The club in London. The beach. “Six,” he says. “You?”

“Same.”

A breeze stirs the leaves overhead. It smells like sun-warmed bark and citrus oil.

“I don’t know what to do now,” you admit.

That, strangely, is what steadies him.

Because Bucky knows that feeling. Knows what it is to be handed something overwhelming and not know where to put it. Knows that survival sometimes looks like doing the next smallest thing instead of solving the whole impossible shape at once.

He glances toward the coffee stand, then back at you. “You want to start with coffee?”

You look at him for one long beat, then laugh softly, incredulously, like maybe you can’t believe that is the question that just saved you from bolting. “Yeah,” you say. “I think I do.”

So that is how it begins.

Not with thunder. Not with immediate declarations. Not with some cinematic collision that resolves every loneliness in a heartbeat.

With coffee. With your hand wrapped around a paper cup. With the two of you sitting at the edge of the market, dizzy on each other’s borrowed memories, learning the outlines of the present slowly enough to survive it.

He learns that you come to the farmer’s market most Saturdays too, though usually later. That you always buy flowers you don’t strictly need. That you live twenty minutes away in an apartment with bad plumbing and excellent light. That you work in graphic design and keep odd hours and have a weakness for peaches even when they’re underripe. You learn that he is in therapy. That he likes routine because sometimes routine is the difference between drifting and staying. That his apartment in Brooklyn is small but his windows face west and the light there in the evening is good. That he cooks. That he bakes bread when the weather turns cold because kneading something until it rises feels like a miracle he can participate in.

He does not tell you everything that morning. Not about HYDRA, not about the winter that lasted decades, not about the names he no longer answers to. But you do not push. Maybe because you can feel, in the strange echoing chambers of whatever ties the two of you together, that he has already been dragged open too many times to count.

When you part, it is almost noon.

You both hover awkwardly by the fountain, neither one wanting to be the first to say goodbye.

“So,” you say, shifting the bouquet of daisies and feverfew you bought somewhere along the way into one hand. “Do soulmate rules say we’re supposed to immediately move in together now, or is there like a grace period?”

Bucky smiles before he can stop himself. “I think there’s paperwork.”

“Tragic.”

He glances at the lemons peeking out of your canvas bag. “You still owe me half of these.”

You grin then, bright and quick and devastating. “That sounds fake.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s a reason to see you again.”

Something softens in your expression. “Okay,” you say. “Then I’ll take the fake reason.”

He gives you his number. You type your own into his phone and hand it back, your fingers brushing his again. No flash this time. Just warmth. Just the sharp, impossible awareness of skin.

“All right, Bucky Barnes,” you say. “Text me when you want to split custody of the lemons.”

He watches you walk away.

At the corner, you turn and look back.

The city seems to hold its breath.

Then you smile at him one more time and disappear into the crowd.

Jesus Christ on a plastic sign

The Vegas lifetime comes back first.

Not all at once. In drips. In flashes that catch Bucky at strange moments over the next few days, as if the memory has been jarred loose and is still deciding how much of itself to reveal.

He is washing dishes on Tuesday night when he looks down at a ring of soap suds circling the drain and suddenly he is twenty-six—or thirty, or some other age in some other body—and the air smells like desert heat trapped in asphalt. He can hear slot machines from the lobby below the motel balcony and your laugh from inside the room, where the air conditioner is fighting a losing battle and you are standing in front of the cracked mirror pinning your hair up with bobby pins you bought from the gift shop downstairs.

“Tell me again,” you say, smiling at him through the mirror, “why exactly we’re doing this.”

Because you had met forty-eight hours earlier in line for dollar margaritas and spent the night talking until sunrise on the motel roof. Because you had missed your flight on purpose. Because he had looked at you over watery eggs in a diner the next morning and known, with the same bone-deep certainty he feels now on a Brooklyn Tuesday in a kitchen lit by one warm overhead bulb, that life was sometimes simplest when it was ridiculous.

Because you had asked if he wanted to get married as a joke and then kept grinning at him after he said yes.

“Tax benefits,” he answers solemnly, sitting on the end of the bed in his borrowed suit jacket.

You laugh. “Romantic.”

“Practical.”

“Liar.”

You cross the room barefoot, white dress swishing around your thighs. It is not really a wedding dress. It is a satin slip from a resale shop with a tiny champagne stain at the hem and thin straps that make him forget his own name every time he looks at you. You stop between his knees and hook your fingers in the lapels of his jacket.

“Tell me not to do it,” you whisper. There is laughter in your voice but something trembling under it too, a softness that asks to be taken seriously. “Tell me we’re being insane and I’ll call it off.”

He looks up at you and feels his whole impossible life narrow into one clean, brilliant line. “I think,” he says, resting his hands on your hips, “that if we don’t do this, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life wondering why I let the best idea I ever had walk out of a motel in Vegas.”

Your expression cracks open into something so nakedly happy it almost undoes him.

The chapel is tiny and tacky and perfect. The plastic crucifix is screwed above a velvet curtain backdrop. The fake Elvis officiant keeps winking like he personally invented love. You say your vows through laughter because your bouquet is made of silk roses that smell faintly like dust and the minister’s sideburn is half detached. Bucky can barely get the ring onto your finger because his hands won’t stop shaking.

Afterward, you run into the sun with your shoes in one hand, your new husband’s name in your mouth as if you were born to say it.

On the sidewalk outside the chapel, there’s a sign for a twenty-four-hour wedding package with JESUS CHRIST LOVES YOU printed above a blinking arrow in red bulbs, and the whole thing is so absurd that you double over laughing. Bucky catches you around the waist before you can fall.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he says into your hair, tasting the words.

You lift your face to his, eyes wet from laughing. “That sounds made up.”

“Probably is.”

You kiss him anyway.

In the present, water runs cold over Bucky’s hands in the sink. He blinks hard and finds himself staring at a plate gone slippery in his grip.

He dries his hands, sits on the edge of the counter, and texts you before he can think better of it.

Got another one. Vegas.

The reply comes so fast it is almost a breath.

me too

Then, after a beat:

did we really get married because the line for margaritas was too long and we needed something else to do?

Bucky smiles helplessly at his phone.

we were committed to the bit

You start texting every day after that.

At first it is practical. Did you remember this detail? Did the chapel carpet have stars on it or was that just me? Do you think the fake Elvis was secretly judging us? 

But the practical gives way to easy almost before either of you notices. He sends you a picture of a dog in a raincoat outside the bodega. You send him a photo of the flowers you bought even though your rational brain said you didn’t need them. He tells you when therapy goes badly. You tell him when work is making your eyes cross. By Friday, your name on his screen feels less like a surprise and more like the continuation of something that was already in motion long before lemons hit pavement.

The next Saturday, he finds you at the market before he reaches the citrus stand.

You are standing at the peach table, frowning at a fruit in your hand with the seriousness of someone evaluating a gemstone.

“You know those need another week,” he says.

You glance up and smile in a way that makes his whole body wake up. “I know. I’m being optimistic.”

“Reckless.”

“Wow. You meet one man in Vegas and suddenly he thinks he knows you.”

He laughs, and there is no fear in it this time.

You spend the morning together again. Coffee, bread, flowers. At the tomato stall your shoulder brushes his and warmth skates down his spine, but no memory comes. At the herb table he tucks a stray basil stem behind your ear and your breath catches, but still nothing.

It hits later, when the two of you are leaving the market and pass an old pickup truck parked crooked by the curb, windows down, classic rock spilling tinny from the speakers. You stop dead. So does he.

Your head turns toward him.

His chest caves in around a heartbeat that is no longer entirely his own.

Winding roads, doing manual drive

In that life, you are eighteen and everything feels enormous.

Summer stretches in front of you like a dare. The town is small enough to suffocate if you stay still too long, so you never do. Bucky has a beat-up blue truck with a sticky clutch and a radio that only works when you slap the dashboard in exactly the right place. He teaches you how to drive manual in the abandoned church parking lot at the edge of town, laughing every time the engine stalls because you keep popping the clutch too fast.

“You’re mean,” you tell him, gripping the steering wheel.

“I’m helpful.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Because you cuss like my grandpa.”

You cut him a glare so ineffective it makes him grin wider. He reaches across the bench seat to guide your hand to the gearshift, his palm warm over your knuckles.

“Slow,” he says. “Feel it catch. Don’t force it.”

Outside, cicadas scream in the heat. The sun is dropping behind the trees, turning the windshield gold.

You try again. This time the truck lurches, shudders, then rolls forward smooth as breath.

“Oh my God,” you say, startled into laughter. “I did it.”

Bucky looks at you the way boys in movies are always supposed to look but almost never do in real life—like the sight of you happy is enough to rearrange his whole future. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You did.”

Once you know how, you drive everywhere with no destination at all. Back roads. County lines. Winding stretches of blacktop between soybean fields and creeks and gas stations with flickering signs. You drive because gas is cheap and the cab of the truck is a world no one else can enter. You drive because Bucky’s knee pressed against yours feels better than anything either of you have a name for yet. You drive because being young and in love can make movement feel holy.

Sometimes you pull over on the shoulder just to watch the sky bruise purple over the fields. Sometimes you kiss at red lights until the truck behind you honks. Sometimes you park at the overlook above the quarry and share a bag of gas station peanuts while Bucky tells you all the places he wants to see one day, voice gone soft with wanting.

“Anywhere specific?” you ask.

He shrugs one shoulder. “As long as you’re there.”

You laugh because you think he is teasing. Then you look at him and realize he is not.

The air changes.

He reaches up, pushes a strand of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. “I know we’re eighteen,” he says, trying for casual and failing spectacularly. “I know people say that means we don’t know anything. But I know this.”

Your breath catches.

Behind you, the truck ticks and cools in the dusk.

“I know,” he says again, “that I could drive with you forever and never get tired of the road.”

Then he kisses you, and the whole wide summer tilts.

The memory drops away while a bus sighs to the curb and someone nearby curses over a jammed stroller wheel.

You are breathing hard. So is Bucky.

“That one hurt,” you say quietly.

He knows what you mean. Not because it was bad. Because it was good in the simple devastating way only youth can be. Because watching some other version of yourself love with that much unguarded certainty feels like pressing a bruise you didn’t know you had.

“You drove stick,” he says.

“I was bad at it.”

“You were terrible.”

You laugh then, startled and watery, and he thinks he would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound.

There is a diner half a block away with cracked vinyl booths and a waitress who calls everyone honey. He nods toward it. “Come on.”

“Is this where we process our cosmic psychic episodes now?”

“Pancakes seem medically necessary.”

So you sit across from each other in a booth smelling faintly of syrup and coffee grounds while the waitress tops off your mugs and pretends not to notice that the two of you keep staring. The market bag rests by Bucky’s boots. Your flowers lie across the seat beside you like a witness.

“You ever think about what it means?” you ask after a while.

He traces a thumb over the seam of his coffee cup. “The past lives?”

“The soulmate thing. Any of it.” Your gaze is steady on his. “Like… are we supposed to just trust that because we loved each other before, we automatically will now?”

Bucky is quiet for so long, the waitress comes by to ask if he wants more bacon.

When she leaves, he exhales. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I think maybe it’d scare me if it worked like that.”

You nod once. “Me too.”

Because obligation is not love. Because destiny without choice starts to look too much like a cage.

Bucky leans forward, forearms on the table. “I don’t want this to be automatic,” he says, surprising himself with the urgency in his own voice. “I don’t want you because of… cosmic paperwork.” Your mouth twitches at that. He presses on. “I want to know you. Now. Here. I want whatever this is to be because we choose it.”

Something in your face softens so completely it leaves him winded.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat. “Then we do it the hard way.”

His mouth curves. “Dating?”

“Scandalous, I know.”

He looks at you across the table, sunlight striping the booth through the blinds, and feels a piece of his life click gently into place.

“Yeah,” he says. “Dating.”

The smile you give him then follows him home and waits with him through the week and sits with him at the edge of sleep. It is still there when he picks you up for your first actual date on Thursday, when you buzz him into your apartment building wearing jeans and a green top that makes your eyes look unfair, when he spends ten whole seconds forgetting why he came.

You cook together in his kitchen because restaurants feel like too much too soon. Lemon chicken. Roasted potatoes. Salad with too much parmesan because you insist there is no such thing.

It is simple. It is easy in the kind of way Bucky once would have distrusted on principle. You move around his kitchen as if you’ve already learned its shape. You lean against the counter and steal bites from the pan. You laugh when he pretends to guard the sauce from you and do not look startled when he laughs back.

After dinner, you help him wash dishes. After dishes, you stand by the open window drinking wine while the city breathes warm and loud below.

“I had a nice time,” you say, glancing at him over the rim of your glass.

His pulse kicks. “Good.”

“I’m serious. For a man who hoards lemons as a manipulation tactic, you clean up pretty well.”

He snorts. “I’ll put that on my dating profile.”

“You should. Honest branding.”

He smiles, and you smile back, and the air between you changes.

It is not sudden. Not violent. Just the slow, unmistakable tightening of a thread.

He sets his glass down first.

You do the same.

When he steps closer, you do not move away.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, because in every life he has ever loved you there has been want in it, but in this one he wants the shape of your yes more than he wants air.

Your eyes go soft. “Please.”

He kisses you carefully at first, because he is not eighteen in a truck anymore and he is not some reckless fool in Vegas with rings in his pocket and a grin too wide for his face. He is a man who has taken years to learn how to touch gently. Who knows what damage carelessness can do.

But then your hand lifts to his cheek and your mouth opens beneath his and the careful part of him turns molten.

The flash hits so hard he breaks the kiss with a gasp.

You are hit by it too. He sees it in the way your pupils blow wide, the way your hand clutches the front of his shirt.

“Oh,” you breathe.

The apartment falls away.

Early nights in white sheets with lace curtains

The room is small and gold with lamplight.

In that life, you have been married for six hours.

Your shoes are by the door. Your veil lies in a pearly heap over the chair back. Somewhere downstairs the last of the wedding guests are still laughing over cake and champagne, but up here the inn is quiet except for the tick of rain against the lace-curtained window and your own uneven breathing.

You stand with your back to Bucky near the bed, fingers trembling where they rest at your throat. The silk of your nightdress skims the backs of your knees. Your wedding band glints like a promise.

He has never seen anything more beautiful.

You are not delicate. Nor candlelight that makes you look like something painted. You are real in all the ways that matter most—nervous and wanting and trying to be brave.

You glance at him over your shoulder, and the vulnerability in your face brings him to his knees faster than reverence ever could.

“We don’t have to,” he says softly.

Your brows draw together. “I want to.”

“I know.” He steps closer, slow enough to stop if you need it. “But I want you to know we don’t have to do anything tonight except be married.”

Something in you loosens. Relief. Love. A tenderness so intense it almost aches to look at.

“I want to be married,” you whisper.

He smiles, cupping your jaw. “You already are.”

“No,” you say, eyes luminous. “I mean like this. Here. With you.” Your breath shakes. “I want tonight.”

He kisses you then, gentle enough to ask, deep enough to answer.

The nightdress slips from your shoulders a little at a time. He learns your skin by lamplight and fingertips, by the soft sounds you make when he touches somewhere that matters, by the way you cling to him when pleasure finally starts to outrun nerves. The white sheets twist around your legs. The lace curtains stir in the open window. Rain cools the room, but your bodies are all heat.

You are not shy for long.

He kisses his way down the column of your throat, your collarbones, the slope of your breast. Your fingers knot in his hair when his mouth finds your nipple and he sucks gently, then harder at the sound that tears from you. By the time he lowers you onto the bed your hair is loose around your shoulders and your face is flushed and he is so hard it hurts.

“Bucky,” you whisper, reaching for him.

“Tell me what you need.”

You laugh softly, dazed with wanting. “You. Obviously.”

He smiles against your mouth, then works two fingers between your thighs and nearly loses his mind at how wet you are for him already. Your hips jerk. Your eyes flutter shut.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “There you go.”

He takes his time because he can. Because there is no war waiting outside this room, no clock to race. Because after the vows and the music and the endless hands grabbing at you all day, he wants this moment to belong only to the two of you. He strokes you until your body learns the shape of pleasure under his hands. He brings you apart once with his fingers, your back arching off the bed, then again with his mouth until you are clutching the sheets and crying his name into the rain-soft dark.

When he finally settles between your thighs, braced on one forearm, your gaze on his is wrecked and certain all at once.

“You still sure?” he asks, voice gone rough as gravel.

You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him down until your foreheads touch. “I have never been more sure of anything.”

He pushes into you slowly, giving you every inch with a care that feels like worship. The stretch of you around him steals the breath from his lungs. Your mouth opens on a gasp. He stills.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod, biting your lip. “Move.”

So he does.

Slow at first. Then deeper when your nails dig into his shoulders and you lift to meet him. The bed creaks softly. Rain taps the window. He kisses you whenever your face crumples with feeling, every thrust turning more desperate as your body opens for him. You cling to him, legs wrapped around his hips, whispering his name like a secret you intend to keep forever.

When you come, it is with your mouth against his throat and tears bright at the corners of your eyes.

He follows with his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with it.

Afterward, you lie tangled in white sheets gone warm and wrinkled around you, the lace curtains stirring like breath. He draws lazy circles over your stomach while you trace the line of his mouth with one sleepy fingertip.

“This counts as a successful wedding night,” you murmur.

He laughs softly. “Good. I was hoping.”

You turn into him, already half asleep. “Anywhere is home,” you whisper, the words blurred at the edges with exhaustion, “if you’re in the bed.”

He never forgets them.

When the memory releases you both, Bucky is still standing in his apartment with his chest heaving and your hands fisted in his shirt.

The kitchen light is too bright. The city outside the window too loud. He can taste you without ever having had you in this life.

Your face is flushed all the way down your neck.

“Well,” you say after a stunned second, voice frayed. “That was wildly inconvenient timing.”

He laughs once, brokenly, because if he does not laugh he might combust.

“You okay?” he asks.

Your gaze lifts to his, honest and heated. “Ask me in five minutes.”

He brushes his knuckles over your cheek, a touch so careful it is almost absurd after what you both just saw. “I mean it.”

“I know.” Your hand slides down to cover his where it rests against your face. “Yeah. I’m okay. A little overwhelmed. A lot turned on. But okay.”

Heat hits him hard and immediate. He closes his eyes for a second.

You laugh softly. “Right. Sorry. That was—”

“Don’t apologize.”

When he opens his eyes again, your expression has gentled. “Bucky.”

He knows what you are asking. Not just whether he wants you. That is almost insultingly obvious. You are asking whether he can separate memory from present. Whether he can stand in this kitchen and want what is in front of him without letting the weight of every before crush what could be now.

He answers by leaning down and resting his forehead against yours.

“I want this,” he says quietly. “But I want our first time in this life to be ours.”

Your breath leaves you in a rush. So does some tightness in his chest he hadn’t fully realized he was carrying.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses you once more, soft and lingering. Then he walks you home because if you stay the night he is not sure either of you will survive your own restraint, and because there is something holy in wanting badly and still choosing patience.

At your door, you touch his wrist before he can step back.

“For the record,” you murmur, eyes warm, “that other us had very good taste.”

He grins helplessly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I get it now.”

Then you kiss him quick and disappear inside with a smile that haunts him for days.

The weeks that follow feel like being built from the inside out.

The flashbacks do not stop, but they become less like ambushes and more like weather—still sudden, still powerful, but no longer catastrophic. A scent, a sound, a patch of light can call one up. Sometimes you text each other in the middle of the workday with fragments: did you remember the red truck in the mountain life had one broken taillight? or I think Bucharest-you stole that robe from the hotel. Sometimes a memory arrives whole when you are together and leaves both of you laughing or aching or red-faced in its wake.

In between, you date.

Real dates. Present-tense ones.

You go to a bookstore in Cobble Hill and accidentally spend two hours arguing about whether people who dog-ear paperbacks can be trusted. You sit in the park eating takeout and watch a wedding party take photos under the arch. You make pasta in your kitchen and burn the garlic because you are too busy kissing against the fridge. You let him meet your friends, who like him immediately and try not to look too smug about it. He tells Sam about you over beers and gets stared at for a full ten seconds before Sam breaks into the kind of grin that means Bucky will never hear the end of this.

And slowly, because slowness is another name for mercy, you get used to the fact of each other.

One night in late July, you fall asleep on Bucky’s couch halfway through a movie. Your head ends up in his lap, your bare feet tucked under his thigh, the credits rolling blue light over the room. He does not move for an hour because the weight of you there feels too precious to disturb.

When you wake, drowsy and disoriented, you blink up at him and smile.

“There you are,” he says before he can stop himself.

The words do something strange to the air.

You sit up slowly, blanket slipping down your shoulders. “What?”

He swallows. “Nothing. I just—”

But then the memory comes, not violent this time. Gentle as smoke.

You see it in each other’s faces as it arrives.

Sleepyhead ’cause all the fucking foxes kept me awake last night

The cabin is barely more than one room and a stubborn prayer.

In that life, winter has a vendetta against you. The land is raw and half-finished around you—trees felled and stacked, fields only partly cleared, the nearest neighbors hours away by horse. Everything aches. Your hands, your backs, your hope.

And still, you build.

By day Bucky swings an axe until his shoulders burn and your tiny patch of earth starts, slowly, to look like something that might feed you come spring. By day you mend, cook, scrub, carry water, keep accounts in a little ledger with cramped neat writing, and somehow still find the energy to laugh when the hen gets loose again and wreaks havoc under the table.

By night you sit by the fire mending his shirts while he carves handles for tools and the baby—your daughter, round-cheeked and solemn—sleeps in a cradle made from wood Bucky planed himself.

It is not easy. God, it is not easy. There are weeks when the roof leaks and the wind gets through the chinks in the walls and your flour goes sour and the loneliness of so much open land makes your chest feel flayed raw. There are days Bucky comes in from the field looking so worn you have to bite the inside of your cheek not to cry.

But there is you. There is him. There is the little sleeping weight of your child and the fire and the bed you built with your own hands.

Sometimes that is enough to make hardship look almost like devotion.

One night in early autumn, the foxes scream outside the cabin so long and loud that neither of you gets any real sleep. By dawn you are cross and bleary-eyed, hair half falling from its braid as you stand over the hearth trying to stir cornmeal mush that refuses to thicken.

“Sleepyhead,” Bucky says softly when he comes up behind you.

You elbow him weakly. “I’ll kill you.”

He laughs into your hair and wraps his arms around your waist anyway, his chin settling on your shoulder. Outside, the new fence leans and the world is still cold and demanding. Inside, his body is warm all along your back.

“We’re doing it,” he murmurs after a while.

You blink at the pot. “Doing what?”

“Building it.” He turns his face into your temple. “A life.”

The words are simple. They hit with the force of revelation.

You tip your head back against his shoulder and close your eyes. In the other room your daughter stirs. The foxes have gone quiet. Morning light pushes pale and stubborn through the little window above the table.

“We are,” you whisper.

He kisses your cheek. “Told you I’d build you something.”

You smile, tired and full to aching. “You built me everything.”

The memory fades with the warm dim glow of Bucky’s living room around you.

You are still on his couch, the television a muted wash of menu screens no one bothered to turn off. For a while neither of you says anything.

Then you reach out and lace your fingers through his.

“That one felt different,” you say.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Not youthful. Not fevered. Not all heat and spark and want. That life had been built plank by plank. Through work. Through weather. Through choosing each other when the choosing was made of practical things—fences, soup, babies, roofs, morning fires.

It lands in him heavier than some of the others. Maybe because recovery has taught him what it means to build anything worth having by hand.

“I liked them,” you say quietly. “That version of us.”

He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “Me too.”

You glance around his apartment then, at the bookshelf he assembled crooked and fixed himself, at the herb pot on the windowsill, at the loaf of bread cooling under a dish towel on the counter.

“You’re doing it too, you know,” you murmur.

He looks at you. “Doing what?”

“Building a life.”

The thing in his chest, scarred and careful and too often braced for loss, goes very still.

You squeeze his hand. “It’s a good one.”

He kisses you then because there is no other answer big enough.

By August, you keep a toothbrush at his place.

By September, there is a sweater of yours folded over the back of one of his dining chairs, two hair ties on his bathroom sink, a half-used bottle of your fancy conditioner in his shower that he is under strict orders not to touch. None of it is dramatic. None of it is announced. The shape of your presence simply grows until it feels absurd to remember the apartment before it.

The flash that takes you next comes in early October, on a rainy Thursday when you duck with him into a jazz bar in the West Village to escape a downpour.

The room is all amber light and low ceilings and cigarette-scarred booths preserved from another era. A singer in a black dress stands by the piano, crooning into a microphone. Bucky goes still before you even make it to the bar.

You know before the memory hits what it will be.

The note hangs in the air.

Then London rushes in.

late nights in black silk in east london

The war has made everything look dimmer around the edges.

Bucky is young in the way only war can make a man young—old enough to be exhausted by it, young enough to still be surprised by beauty. He is stationed overseas for too long in a city stitched with blackout curtains and ration books and the bruise-colored exhaustion of people trying very hard to act as if life is still ordinary.

Then one wet December night, a fellow soldier drags him down a narrow stairwell off an alley in East London and the whole world changes shape.

The club is hidden beneath a tailor’s shop with no sign out front. Music seeps through the floorboards before the door even opens. Inside, the room glows low and gold around the edges, tables crowded close, voices pitched just above the band. Women in silk and men in uniform and civilians with danger in their smiles. Someone is laughing at the bar like the war has never existed. Someone else is dancing with one shoe off.

And there you are.

You should not stick out. You’re not center stage or demanding attention. You’re leaning one hip against the bar in black silk gloves and a slip dress that gleams when you move, listening to the pianist with your head tilted slightly as if you know a secret about the song.

Bucky sees you and forgets how war works.

Maybe he forgets how breathing works too.

“Careful,” his friend  mutters, following his line of sight. “That one looks expensive.”

Bucky barely hears him.

When you look over and catch him staring, you smile. Not coy. Curious, amused, entirely too direct. Then you lift your glass in a tiny salute.

He is doomed.

Later, after he has found enough courage or foolishness to cross the room, you tell him your brother runs supplies out of the docks and your mother thinks this place is scandalous and your favorite thing in the world is men who look like they’d fall apart if a woman in black silk talked to them too long.

“I am not falling apart,” he says, already half gone.

You laugh, low and delighted. “No? That’s a shame. You’d be awfully handsome doing it.”

You dance with him before midnight. Then again after. The band slows, the room blurs, and you fit against him so easily it feels less like meeting and more like remembering a step he somehow learned before birth.

Outside, the rain has stopped. The alley smells like wet brick and smoke.

“Are you always this easy?” you ask when he walks you to the corner.

“Only in London.”

“Convenient.”

You stop beneath a streetlamp draped in wartime dimming paint. Your lipstick has worn soft at the edges. His gloves are damp. Somewhere far off, a siren starts and then dies.

“I don’t know how long I’m here,” he says, because war steals the illusion of endless time from a man pretty quick.

You look at him with that same level, fearless steadiness you will carry in every life. “Then don’t waste the nights you’ve got.”

So he doesn’t.

He spends every free hour he can find with you in that black silk East London life. Dancing in hidden clubs. Eating chips from newspaper parcels by the river. Kissing in doorways while the city holds its breath between bombings. Falling in love so fast it would look irresponsible to anyone not living under the same shadow.

On his last night before shipping out again, this time to Bucharest, he finds you in the club after closing, curled barefoot on the stage in your black dress with your knees drawn up, humming to yourself while the pianist smokes by the door.

He sits beside you. The stage creaks.

You do not ask him if he is leaving. You already know.

For a long moment you just lean into him shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the dark.

Then you take his hand and lace your fingers with his as if you have always had the right.

“I hate war,” you say flatly.

“Yeah.”

“I hate that it teaches people to love in a hurry.”

He turns to look at you, but your face is tipped toward the empty room. “Maybe,” he says after a while, “it just teaches people not to waste time pretending they don’t.”

That makes you smile a little, though your eyes shine.

When you finally kiss him, it feels like grief and promise all tangled together.

“I’d have found you anyway,” you whisper against his mouth.

He believes you.

Presently, the jazz bar swims back around you in amber and brass.

Your hand is flat over your heart. Bucky is gripping the edge of the bar hard enough his knuckles ache.

“You were terrifying in that one,” he murmurs.

You blink at him. “Terrifying?”

“You had me done in about twelve seconds.”

Your laugh spills out warm and bright enough to make nearby heads turn. “Good.”

He stares at you, at the woman in front of him and the woman in black silk and the impossible thread between them, and something old in him loosens. That London memory is the first one that brushes directly up against the era he remembers in his bones. The first one that lets him feel, without the cold hand of history around its throat, that he once had youth. Flirtation. A version of himself that existed before damage became the loudest fact in the room.

Later, walking you home under a shared umbrella, he tells you more.

Not everything. Not all at once. But more.

About Brooklyn in the forties. About enlisted men and too much bravado and the way the world sharpened at the edges when war started circling. About the years after, in pieces, with pauses long enough to breathe in between. You listen without interrupting except to ask where it hurts. Not where it happened. Where it hurts. The difference matters so much he nearly stops in the middle of the sidewalk.

At your building, rain dripping from the umbrella’s edges, you cup his face and kiss him like he is something to return to, not something to be rescued.

That night he sleeps six straight hours for the first time in weeks.

The last of the big memories comes in November.

By then, the market has become yours together. Saturday mornings are no longer Bucky’s alone. They are yours in the plural, so natural now he sometimes forgets to be startled by it. Coffee for two. Bread for two. Peaches finally back in season for a heartbeat before the weather turns. Your fingers hooked through one of the canvas bag straps while he carries the heavier side.

At the stall with the glass-bottled lemonades and orange sodas, you reach for a bright neon-orange drink at the same time he does.

The glass knocks against his ring finger.

Sunlight slams through him.

Neon orange drinks on the beach

Salt lives in the walls of that house.

Here, you and Bucky live in a little coastal town where everyone knows everybody’s business and no one minds much as long as you bring enough food to the potluck. The house is white clapboard with a porch swing and chipped blue shutters. Sand collects in the doorway no matter how often you sweep. Wind rattles the windows in winter and smells like sunscreen in summer.

You have children in that life. Three of them.

A girl with your laugh and Bucky’s serious eyes. A boy who climbs everything he’s told not to. A baby still soft at the wrists who rides your hip with one fist full of your shirt.

The beach is five minutes from your front door. On hot afternoons you walk there loaded like pack animals—blankets, towels, snacks, toys, a cooler that bumps against Bucky’s leg every other step, the toddler already whining for the ocean before you’ve even crossed the dune grass.

It is a beautiful chaos. Your favorite kind.

The day memory gives you is bright enough to ache.

The sky is clear blue from edge to edge. Your youngest is asleep under the shade tent with one plump foot sticking free of the blanket. Your son is digging a moat around a sandcastle with all the focus of a man handling explosives. Your daughter, solemn with purpose, is handing Bucky shell fragments one by one so he can decorate the towers properly.

“No, Daddy,” she says with immense patience. “That one goes there.”

Bucky, thirty-something and sun-browned and already half buried in sand because the children have no respect for rank, nods gravely. “My mistake.”

You come down from the boardwalk carrying a tray of neon-orange lemonades in plastic cups, ice clinking. Condensation slicks your fingers. The sun catches on the rims of the cups until they glow like tiny lanterns.

Bucky looks up when your shadow falls across the sand.

Even after years, even with sunscreen on your nose and beach hair whipping your cheeks, he looks at you like there has never been anyone else worth the trouble of sight.

“You’re my favorite person,” he says as you hand him a drink.

You arch a brow. “Even over the tiny tyrants?”

“Depends. Are they giving me lemonade?”

Your daughter takes her cup in both hands and squints up at you. “Mama, Daddy made the castle wrong.”

You laugh. “I’m shocked.”

“It was sabotage,” Bucky says.

The children shout over each other. The baby wakes and starts fussing. A gull swoops dangerously low near the pretzel bag. The tide inches closer. Everything is loud and sandy and sticky and imperfect.

It is paradise.

Later, when the children are collapsing in a sugar crash on towels striped green and white, Bucky stretches out beside you and tugs you down until your head rests on his chest. The ocean hisses and folds itself a few yards away.

“You think,” he says after a while, fingers combing absently through your damp hair, “we’ll ever get tired of this?”

You tip your face up. “The beach?”

“This.”

The life. The family. The ordinary miracle of it.

You can feel the answer in him before he says it. In the steady beat under your ear. In the salt-warmed skin of him. In the children making sleepy, disgruntled sounds nearby because even paradise requires snacks and naps and somebody always getting sunscreen in their eye.

“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think so.”

His mouth brushes your forehead. “Good.”

Because in every lifetime, it turns out, what the two of you build is not grandeur.

It is a table. A bed. A road. A cabin. A dance floor. A beach towel in the sun. A thousand tiny places where love gets to put its shoes by the door and stay awhile.

When the memory loosens its grip, you are back at the market with cold glass sweating in your hand.

You are crying.

So is Bucky, though he only realizes it when you reach up and wipe at his cheek with your thumb.

“That one was rude,” you say thickly.

He laughs through the ache in his throat. “Yeah.”

It isn’t the children, not really. Though that got him. It’s the ordinariness of it. The ease. The way love in that life had settled into the bones of things so thoroughly that joy looked almost plain. A beach day. Lemonade. Sand. A family.

A future.

You look at him with tears still bright in your eyes. “Do you ever think maybe that’s why it keeps happening?”

“What?”

“Us.” You glance down at the bottle in your hand, the impossible orange brightness of it. “Not because we’re destined in some giant dramatic way. Maybe just because every time the universe throws us somewhere new, we keep making the same choice.”

The market blurs around the edges.

Bucky takes the bottle from your hand and sets both your drinks down on the stall so he can hold your face in both palms.

“I think,” he says, voice low and unsteady, “that no matter where I find you, you keep teaching me that a life doesn’t have to be extraordinary to matter.”

You inhale sharply.

He goes on because he has spent too much of his existence losing time, losing names, losing chances to say what needed saying. Because he will not waste this one.

“I loved you in a chapel with a plastic sign. In a truck on back roads. In a bed with lace curtains. In a cabin when we had almost nothing. In London when the whole world was on fire. On a beach with kids climbing all over me and sand in places there should never be sand.” Your mouth trembles around a laugh. His thumbs catch the tears on your cheeks. “And every time, it wasn’t because things were perfect. It was because it was you.”

Your hand covers one of his. “Bucky—”

“In this life,” he says, holding your gaze, “I don’t care what fate says. I don’t care what we were before unless it helps me be better to you now. I just…” He exhales, helpless in it. “I just know I am more myself when you’re in the room. And I want to keep choosing that. For however long I get.”

Something breaks open in your face.

Then you are kissing him in the middle of the farmer’s market, November wind cold around your ears and strangers surely staring and lemons probably within a three-yard radius somehow, and Bucky does not care about any of it.

When you finally pull back, you rest your forehead to his and laugh wetly.

“You took forever to say that,” you whisper.

He blinks. “I did?”

“Yes.” You kiss him once, quick and smiling. “It’s okay. I was going to let you.”

That night you come home with him.

Home, because that is what it is now no matter how recently he learned to say it.

The apartment smells like the rosemary chicken you cooked together and the bread he baked that morning and the cold air that followed you in when he opened the door. Your overnight bag sits by the couch. Your laughter is still in the walls from where you nearly dropped the oranges while making cocktails because he kissed your neck and ruined your concentration on purpose.

There are no visions this time.

No past lives pouring through the cracks.

Just the two of you in the warm gold hush of his bedroom, lamplight soft on the sheets, your sweater slipping from one shoulder as you sit on the edge of the mattress and look up at him.

“This is ours,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You reach for him.

The first time you make love in this life is not a reenactment of any before. There are echoes, maybe. The same reverence. The same hunger braided with tenderness. But this is its own living thing, shaped by who you are now—older in different ways, scarred in different places, more careful and more certain all at once.

He undresses you slowly, like unwrapping something he intends to keep. You do the same for him, kissing each mark on his body as if introducing yourself to every chapter. When your fingers brush the long scars at his shoulder and side, you do not hesitate. You just look at him for permission and then kiss them too.

His throat goes tight.

On the bed, he takes his time. He is afraid this time, rather he wants to feel every second of being chosen with full knowledge. Your skin under his mouth. Your breath hitching when he drags his thumb over your clit. The way you smile against his lips when he says your name like a marvel. He works you open with his hands first, then his mouth, until you are clutching the sheets and half laughing, half sobbing because pleasure in this body, in this life, feels new and familiar all at once.

“Bucky,” you whisper when he comes back up over you, eyes dark and wrecked.

“I’ve got you.”

You nod, hands framing his face. “I know.”

When he pushes into you, slow and careful, your mouths are open against each other. He feels your body welcome him in inch by inch, feels your legs tighten around his hips, feels the tremor that runs through you when he finally settles deep. It is overwhelming in the simplest way. Not because of memory. Because of presence. Because you are here. Because he is too.

He moves. You move with him.

Outside, the city keeps being itself. A siren in the distance. Somebody laughing on the street. Heat clanking faintly through old pipes. Inside, his bedroom narrows to breath and skin and the soft wreck of your voice. You scratch lightly through his hair and murmur yes against his mouth and he nearly comes from the sound alone. He holds himself back long enough to watch the exact moment pleasure overtakes you, the way your eyes go bright and your body arches up into his with a cry he feels all the way to his ribs.

He follows soon after, buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, your names tangled together in the dark.

Afterward you lie under the sheets while the room cools around you. Your head rests on his chest. His hand drifts up and down your bare spine. The curtains are plain cotton, not lace. The sheets are soft gray, not white. The city outside is Brooklyn and not some inn in another century. It does not matter.

You draw lazy circles over his sternum.

“You know,” you murmur sleepily, “I think I liked every version of you.”

His fingers still for a second. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You tilt your chin to look at him. “But this one might be my favorite.”

Emotion catches him so hard it almost hurts.

He bends and kisses your forehead because if he tries to speak right then, he will probably embarrass himself beyond repair.

Months later, when winter gives way to spring and then, at last, to summer again, Saturday morning finds the two of you at the farmer’s market under the same green-striped awnings where everything began.

Bucky has two coffees in a cardboard carrier. You have a bouquet of sunflowers tucked under one arm. The bread guy waves. The peach stand is finally, gloriously in season. The lemon vendor clocks you both and grins like he has been expecting to see how this turns out.

“Need a bag today?” he asks.

You glance at Bucky. Bucky glances at you.

Then, smiling, you both reach for the same lemon on purpose.

No flash comes.

There is no need.

Your fingers lace together instead, easy as breath.

The square is bright with morning. The violinist by the fountain is playing something warm and sweet. Coffee steams between you. Peaches perfume the air. Beside you, your soulmate—your chosen person, your present-tense miracle—squeezes your hand.

And because love, in the end, is often this simple, you walk the market together like you have done it all your life.

Maybe you have.

Maybe you will again.

Either way, the peaches are ripe, the bread is warm, and Bucky Barnes is laughing at something you said with his whole face open to the sun.

It is not a dramatic ending.

It is better.

It is a life.

And every ordinary second of it feels, impossibly, like falling in love again and again.

ᝰ dockworker!bucky x mermaid!reader (mini series) — a grumpy dockworker reluctantly rescues a stranded, wounded mermaid, fully intending to send her back to the sea—until the thought of losing her becomes unbearable.

ᝰ truck driver!bucky x waitress!reader — a lonely truck driver used to spend most of his life on the road starts planning entire routes around the waitress who always remembers his name.

ᝰ reclusive alpha!bucky x hurt omega!reader — a tired, reclusive alpha notices the omega who moved into the neighboring cabin to escape her past is barely taking care of herself, so he quietly dedicates himself to looking after her.

ᝰ bouncer!bucky x spoiled princess!reader — a stern club bouncer has long since accepted that his favorite part of every shift is keeping an eye on the pretty rich girl who drives him crazy.

Your father had found you then. Rushing into the room with all the urgency of a king going to his weaponry before leaving for war.

He had clutched you close almost immediately. Whispering soothing words to your disoriented ears.

His words lay unprecedented to you as he ushered you to speak and you asked him why you were here.

The look on his face, as you still remember it today, was of pure horror. Your own child not recognising you, asking who they were must have done immense damage to his old heart that had spent years serving the kingdom and only now had received the joy of having a kid.

His fortune, like most Kings had been limited to wealth and warships and army and arsenal. But never did it extend itself onto his wives, none of whom could bear children until you.

Your mother had died—giving birth to you—of a rare condition that years later the doctors would recognise as hemorrhage but the healers at the time were incapable of saving her. Limited by the medicine and knowledge of their time.

And so, Hydra, despite being the pioneer of medicine and advancements in the fields of war and politics worldwide, could not save its own queen.

Such was the irony of the King's life, yearning for a child all his life and losing the dear wife who gave him the greatest gift of all before she herself got to relish in the joy of being a mother and leaving the said desired kid for him to raise.

But the gods willed his misfortune to not end there. And you, at the tender age of five had fallen sick to an anonymous disease that once again no healers in the country could neither identify nor cure.

He had gone to the ends of the oceans to find the best of healers for you when you fell sick.

The treatment had left you frail and fragile, or so your father believed when you didn’t recognise him after waking up from the fever induced slumber you had fallen into for weeks.

And such was your condition now. You were the princess. The person of highest power after the king himself. The sole heir to the huge kingdom and its wealth. Yet you were a prisoner of your own body.

You couldn’t leave the castle because of the danger of enemies attacking you. You couldn’t go to the woods becuase of the dangerous wildlife there. The gardens were too dangerous because the plants may spike an allergic reaction. The armoury was out of limits because your body was too fragile for too much physical effort.

They said books would interest you instead. That you’d have maids for friends. That there would be an abundunce of jewellery and cosmetics and artifacts to entertain you. That you should rather study court tactics and politics and peace treaties instead.

And that was how all the traces of your identity before you were crowned the princess have remained buried beneath the weight of the crown and responsibilities that became bars of the enclosure that is your life as a princess ever since.

Because having power and having knowledge are one thing. Having freedom is another. Since despite having the skill to rule out the judgement of s case based on your own conscience, you would have to rely on your father’s interests when it came to giving verdict.

Such was the irony of your royal life.

The crown that everyone desires, the one that stares back when you look in the mirror is made of thorns, each one digging into your skull with every desicion you have made as the authority of this kingdom that you knew was morally incorrect but beneficial to your father so you made it.

And within the depths of your heart, you knew that the mystery behind the prisoner—the man labelled as beast—was an ugly truth that he was there not because he desrved it but because he was victim of the king’s grand schemes.

At some level, you respected your father, you really did, knowing how well the kingdom has flourished in his reign, knowing how much he had to sacrifice for his subjects and at what cost the peace in the kigdom was achived and maintained.

What you didn’t enjoy was that every good thing in this land had been recieved at the cost of his morals, his conscience.

And even though you might not know war and politics as well as he did but you knew this much, that a kingdom which is reigning at the expense of innocent lives, doesn’t last very long.

And after today’s occurences, after getting caught by rumlow outside the prison, you knew what the next morning will bring.

But this time, you knew one thing for sure, that you would not let anyone’s scheming run over your conscience. For you had answers to find. And you would get those answers, whatevr it might take.

The summons arrived before breakfast. You had scarcely slept. Again. The image of the silver cell lingering stubbornly in your thoughts.

The prisoner.

The Winter Soldier.

The man from your dreams.

Every time you attempted to think of something else, your mind wandered back to the underground chamber. To the shock in his eyes. To the pain behind his sileence.

To the recognition in his eyes, that said he knew you but before you could ask how, the night had ended and you were left yearning for knowledge, yet again.

A maid informed you the first thing in the morning that His Majesty wished to see you immediately. Which was never a promising beginning to any morning.

But you went. Because what else was there for you to do than follow the king’s orders and be a good obedient wife for the man he chose for you.

The royal audience chamber awaited at the heart of the palace. Its high vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadow above, while sunlight streamed through towering stained-glass windows depicting kings long dead. Banners hung between marble columns. Gold gleaming everywhere.

Normally the grandeur soothed you. Today it felt suffocating.

Your father sat on the throne, untouched by the gravity of your desperation. The king's expression, stern.

The sight alone made your stomach sink.

Brock stood beside him, soft smile masking the evil behind his eyes. His expression was far worse than the king. Polite and controlled. Almost pleasant. The sort of pleasantness that never reached his eyes. The sort that always made you uneasy.

You curtsied. "Your Majesty."

Neither man invited you to sit. An unfortunate sign.

The room remained silent.

Your father stood up, folding his hands behind his back. "You were found near the lower dungeons last night."

Straight to the point.

You swallowed. "I—"

"We are not asking whether it occurred." His voice cut across yours. "We know it occurred."

The words settled heavily in the chamber. You looked briefly toward Brock. His expression remained perfectly composed. Yet there was satisfaction hidden beneath it. A quiet satisfaction.

As though he had expected this outcome and he was enjoying it.

Your father continued. "The lower dungeons are forbidden." You remained silent, knowing better than to talk over him. "The passages beneath the palace are not places for a princess."

"They are dangerous."

You thought of the man locked within a silver cage, then the words used for him. Dangerous. The word felt strangely misplaced.

Before you could stop yourself, you said quietly— "He didn't seem dangerous."

A stupid desicion.

The moment the words escaped your mouth, both men froze. The silence that followed felt enormous.

Brock was the first to speak. "You saw him." Not a question. A statement. His voice had become colder.

You lifted your chin slightly. "Yes."

Your father closed his eyes briefly. As though you had just confirmed his worst fears. "You spoke with the prisoner?"

"No."

That at least was true.

"Then count yourself fortunate." Your father's tone hardened. "You know nothing of what resides beneath this castle."

You wanted to laugh. Because that was precisely the problem. Nobody would tell you anything. Nobody ever told you anything. "Then perhaps someone should explain it."

The words slipped out before caution could stop them. The king's expression darkened. Brock's eyes narrowed.

You pressed forward anyway.

Because for once you were tired. Tired of secrets. Tired of being treated like a child. Tired of everyone deciding what you should know.

"What has he done?" you asked.

Neither answered.

"What crime deserves that?"

Still nothing.

You could feel your frustration growing. "He isn't a beast the city makes him out to be." Your father's jaw tightened. "He is a prisoner."

"He is dangerous."

"How?"

Brock stepped forward. "That is not your concern."

Something inside you snapped becuase for once you'd had enough of being dismissed. Enough of being ignored.

"Everything in this kingdom becomes my concern eventually." The words emerged sharper than intended.

A mistake.

Immediately you saw both men's expressions change. Your father looked horrified. Brock looked offended.

"My lady," Brock said carefully, "you would do well to remember your station."

You stared at him. "My station?"

"Indeed." His voice remained smooth. Controlled. Almost gentle. Which somehow made it worse. "You need not concern yourself with matters of governance."

You blinked. "I am to be queen. And the matters that are related to my kingdom, become my concern, eventually"

"Eventually." He repeated, smile never leaving his face. "But there are matters best left to those equipped to understand them."

The patronizing tone made heat rush to your cheeks. You knew precisely what he was saying. A pretty princess. A future wife. Not someone meant to ask questions. Not someone meant to think.

You looked toward your father. Waiting. Hoping. Surely he would object. Surely he would—"Your betrothed speaks wisely."

The disappointment hit harder than you expected. Your father continued. "There is a reason these matters are kept from you."

"Because nobody trusts me."

"No."

His voice sharpened. "Because you are young."

You nearly laughed. Young. Old enough to be married. Old enough to produce heirs. Old enough to represent an entire kingdom. Yet apparently not old enough to ask questions.

The absurdity of it stung.

“I might be young, your majesty. But i am not foolish” Your words now had a bite to them that you didn’t bother hiding “And I might not know what crimes the prisoner has done to be kept in that dungeon” You stepped forward, a show of power that made both men freeze “But I know for a fact that no crime is heinous enough to deserve suffering of that sort”

"Enough." Your father's voice echoed through the chamber. “Keep talking back and you shall face consequences”

You fell silent. The king took a long breath. Then spoke in the formal tone he used during decrees. "The matter is settled."

Your stomach dropped. "You are forbidden from entering the lower dungeons again." The words rang like chains locking into place. "You will not approach them."

"You will not inquire further."

"You will not speak of the prisoner."

Your hands clenched, trying to hide the tremor in them.

Brock added calmly, "And should curiosity tempt you again, I suggest you remember that queens must possess discipline."

Something about the statement made your chest ache. Not because it was cruel. Because it was dismissive. Because he spoke as though you belonged to him already.

As if your thoughts required his approval. As if your life had already been decided.

Your father nodded. "This discussion is concluded."

That was it. No explanation. No answers. No trust. Only orders.

You stood there for a moment. Looking between them. The king. Your father. The man who was supposed to protect you. The man who had once crossed oceans to find the best of healers for you. The man who now seemed more concerned with obedience than understanding.

Then Brock. Your future husband. The future king. A man who smiled often, yet somehow never made you feel warm. A man who spoke kindly, yet never made you feel heard.

Suddenly the audience chamber felt far too small. The walls too close. The air too thin. You curtsied stiffly, mostly because protocol demanded it. Before turning and walking away.

Quickly.

Before either man could see how much their words had hurt.

The doors slammed shut behind you. The sound echoed through the corridor. You didn't stop walking. Slippers struck the marble floor harder than was proper for a princess.

Servants scattered from your path. You barely noticed. Anger burned hot behind your eyes. Anger, frustation, sadness, confusion, all tangled together.

The entire palace suddenly felt like a gilded cage. Every hour planned. Every decision made for you. Every path chosen. Every question silenced.

Princess. Future queen. Future wife. Titles. Responsibilities. Expectations.

Yet somehow never freedom. Never choice.

You thought of the silver cell. The irony nearly made you laugh. The Winter Soldier sat imprisoned beneath the castle.

And yet, for one brief moment, looking into his eyes... You had felt less trapped than you did now.

The realization was terrifying.

You hurried down the corridor toward your chambers. Fighting the sting behind your eyes.

Because for the first time in your life, you found yourself wondering something dangerous. Not what was hidden beneath the castle. Not why the Winter Soldier appeared in your dreams.

But whether either of you were truly free at all. Because the great palace with all the luxury a person could ever need, was still a prison when it came at the cost your freedom.

The remainder of the day passed in a haze of resentment.

You remained within your chambers by choice, claiming a headache severe enough to excuse you from courtly obligations. No one questioned it.

Perhaps they believed your father's reprimand had upset you. Perhaps they simply preferred not to deal with a difficult princess. Either way, the solitude was welcome.

Rain had begun sometime after midday. Now evening shadows stretched across your chamber whilst droplets traced winding paths down the tall windowpanes.

You sat curled within the alcove beside the fire, a book lying forgotten in your lap. You had not turned a page in nearly an hour. Your thoughts refused to settle. Again and again your mind returned to the dungeon.

To the silver cage.

To the prisoner.

To those eyes.

The more you remembered, the less the stories made sense.

A monster.

A beast.

A creature so dangerous that ancient magic was required to contain him.

And yet...

You had seen no monster. You had seen a weary man sitting alone in a cell. A man who looked more sad than dangerous. A man whose first reaction upon seeing you had been shock rather than violence. A man who had warned you to flee when the guards approached.

The image stubbornly refused to align with the tales.

A knock interrupted your thoughts.

You frowned. "Enter."

The door opened and your stomach immediately tightened as brock stepped inside.

Of fucking course.

The future king looked immaculate as always. Dark clothing embroidered with silver thread. Hands clasped neatly behind his back. The image of control and composure.

The sort of man painters adored. The kind who never appeared ruffled by anything.

The door shut softly behind him. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Brock offered a small smile. "I feared you might still be upset."

You lowered your gaze to the book. "I am well."

A lie. An obvious one and he seemed to recognize it. But after the commotion you had caused in the assembly today, you didn’t have it in you to be truthful.

He crossed the room slowly, and settled into the chair opposite yours. The fire crackled between you. And for a while he simply watched the flames. As though carefully considering his words.

Finally he sighed. "I did not come to argue." You remained silent, knowing better than to interrupt, "I know this morning was unpleasant."

His voice had softened considerably. Gentler than it had been before your father. "I understand why you are angry."

That almost made you laugh. He understood nothing. He never could. A prince who had grown up having others get accustomed to his desires so he wouldn’t have to adjust, could never understand the princess who spent her days staying trapped in her room because her father was too afraid to let her outof his sight.

A commander who had armies bow to him and his questions answered before he even had to ask them, would never understand the misery of the lady whose pleas went unheard and her questions unanswered.

Still, you kept your expression neutral.

Brock leaned forward slightly. "You think we are keeping secrets from you."

You thought? No. You knew. Yet again you remained silent. There was no arguing with someone as arrogant as him when you knew he would never confess the truth.

"I suppose," he continued, "that from your perspective it must seem unfair."

His tone was patient. Kind. Reasonable.

The exact tone one might use when calming a frightened child. You hated it. You were no child, if anything your conscience worked better than their strategies but then again, men like him never bow to women likw you, who knew the power they hold for themselves.

"The truth is that we are trying to protect you."

There it was. Protection.

Such a lovely word.

Such a useful word.

Your king and his aide could justify almost anything with it. Protecting you from knowledge. Protecting you from choices. Protecting you from freedom.

Brock continued speaking. "The prisoner beneath the castle is not what he appears."

Despite yourself, your attention sharpened immediately.

"You've seen him."

You nodded once.

"Then you understand why the illusion exists."

Your brow furrowed. "Illusion?"

A flicker of emotion you couldn’t quite place, passed through his eyes. The first sign of satisfaction. As though he had finally reached the point he'd come to make. "Yes."

He sat back. "The man you saw is not truly a man."

You stared at him.

Brock spoke carefully. Deliberately. As if he were reciting something rehearsed. "The creature beneath the castle is ancient. The oldest records describe him as a shapeshifter. A predator." he met your eyes before continuing, "A beast capable of taking whatever form best suits his purposes."

You thought of the dream. The white wolf. The river. The forest.

Your heartbeat quickened.

Brock noticed and mistook the reason for fear. "The magic surrounding his prison suppresses his true nature." He gestured vaguely. "The form you witnessed is part of that enchantment."

You frowned. "So you're saying he's pretending?"

"No." His smile returned. "The magic is pretending for him, supressing his powers enough so he can be tamed"

The explanation sounded convenient. Far too convenient. You had spent your entire life surrounded by politicians. You knew what half-truths sounded like.And this sounded remarkably similar.

Brock's voice softened further. "You are fortunate." Something in his tone made your skin crawl.

"Fortunate?"

"Very." The smile never wavered. "You were alone. Unprotected. If the enchantments had weakened..." He shook his head slowly. "As foolish as it sounds, you might not be sitting here now."

The statement lingered in the air. Waiting. Expecting fear. Perhaps gratitude. Perhaps obedience.

Instead you found yourself remembering something else. The look on the prisoner's face when the guards approached.

The urgency.

The concern.

The warning.

You remembered him urging you to leave. Not because he wished to hurt you. But because he feared what would happen if you were discovered.

That memory sat strangely beside Brock's story. Like two pieces from entirely different puzzles. But you have spent enough time reading books in archieves to know that the truth of a story merely depends on the person who is telling it.

And most certainly, this was brock’s perspective of the story but you couldn’t unsee what you saw in that dungeon. Nor could you unhear the warnings given to you.

So you realised with frightening certainty that the only way out of this is to lie through it. To project an illusion of fear and obedeance, realistic enough that when you inevitably work toward finding the answers you want, nobody would suspect you.

So you asked quietly, letting your fingers fumble in your lap to show fear without saying it "Does he attack people?"

Brock hesitated. Just briefly. The pause was tiny, as if calculating the truthfullness of what he was seeing. “He has."

Not yes. Not a direct answer. Merely he has. Another carefully chosen phrase.

You looked into the fire. Thinking.

The longer Brock spoke, the more certain you became that not only he was telling you merely his perspective of the story but also that he was telling you only enough truth to support a larger lie. Or perhaps a larger secret.

The realization settled heavily in your chest.

At last Brock stood. "I know you dislike being forbidden from things." His smile returned once more. Gentle and Practiced. "But someday you'll understand that not every locked door should be opened."

He stepped closer. Resting a hand lightly atop yours. You resisted the urge to pull away. "Trust me."

The words nearly made you laugh. Trust him?

A man who answered questions without answering them. A man who spoke of protection whilst hiding entire portions of the truth. A man who seemed more interested in controlling your curiosity than satisfying it.

Still you smiled. A small smile. Carefully crafted. The sort of smile expected from a princess. "I understand."

Relief flickered across his face. "You do?"

You nodded. "Yes."

Another lie. A much better one this time. "I was frightened after what happened."

Brock visibly relaxed. A good sign.

You lowered your eyes. Playing the obedient daughter. The obedient future queen. "The dungeon was a mistake."

"Exactly." His voice warmed immediately. "I am glad you see reason."

You nearly rolled your eyes. Instead you smiled again. "I do."

Satisfied, Brock squeezed your hand once before releasing it.

A few minutes later he left. The door closed behind him. Silence returned. You remained perfectly still until his footsteps vanished completely.

Then your smile disappeared. Instantly. You stared into the fire.

Thinking. Calculating. Scheming.

The prisoner wasn't a monster. Of that much you were now certain. Perhaps he was dangerous. Perhaps there were truths still hidden from you. But whatever secrets lay beneath the castle, they were not the simple story Brock wanted you to believe.

A beast. A curse. An illusion.

No.

Something far stranger was happening. Something connected to your dreams. Something connected to the legends.

And if neither your father nor Brock intended to tell you the truth...Then you would find it yourself. No matter what it took.

Everyone kept telling you not to ask questions. Which only convinced you that the answers were worth finding.

Slowly, you rose from your chair and crossed to the window. Rain lashed softly against the glass. Far below, hidden beneath countless layers of stone, the Winter Soldier remained imprisoned.

Alone. Waiting. Wrongly punished.

The memory of his eyes surfaced once more. And with it came a dangerous certainty. That the truth of the winter soldier, the white wolf, is etched into the very stones of this castle and no matter how hard they tried to bury it, it has to come out one day.

And when it does you’re sure it will not only change your life but everyone else’s in the kingdom too.

Dividers by @/uzmacchiato

Series Tag list : @redstarleftarm, @sweetserendipity65, @sambuckystony, @nymphhbabiee, @darlingdenise, @venigrantrogers, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @bstan01, @phoenix-in-writing, @singulartoast, @danerb67, @onyx8514, @globetrotter28, @buckysdecaflove, @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog, @herejustforbuckybarnes, @v33mustdie, @star-yawnznn, @buckybsdoll, @orionnebula23, @draincleaner0, @sebastians-love, @yapeez, @oliviaxxivz, @sleepy-k0i, @mood-pancakes, @shitbewild, @jeonshook, @mathcat345, @apenny4thots, @hardpaperbagelthing, @mrsevans90, @getgo-snow, @captainsoldierss, @rainydays9248

“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”

“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.

“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”

Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”

Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”

“Have I met him?”

“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”

You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.

Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”

You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.

“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”

“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.

You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.

You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.

Out steps a mountain of a man.

Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.

“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.

“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”

His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.

“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”

He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.

“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”

You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.

“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“

“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.

Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”

Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.

Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’

But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.

“Try it again,” an order, not a request.

Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.

“Terminal clamp.”

You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.

“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.

“Pop it,” he calls out.

You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.

You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.

Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.

“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”

He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.

“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”

“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.

“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.

“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.

Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”

You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.

“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.

“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”

A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”

A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”

You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.

“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”

Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.

He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”

He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”

“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”

He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.

“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.

“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”

His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.

“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“

“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.

“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“

“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.

“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.

Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”

That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.

“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”

He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.

“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.

“Shit—“

You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.

You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.

It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.

That’s worth celebrating.

You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.

You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.

You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.

Bucky.

The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…

You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.

As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.

You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…

You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.

Nothing.

Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.

Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.

Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.

With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.

You really wish you kept those beers.

When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.

Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?

The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.

You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.

You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.

You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.

Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.

When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.

Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.

He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.

You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.

You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.

You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.

But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.

Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.

The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.

Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.

But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.

By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.

You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.

“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.

He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.

You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.

So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.

On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.

You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.

Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.

Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.

You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.

So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.

This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.

The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.

Occam’s Razor strikes again.

You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?

Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?

Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.

Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.

It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.

You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.

The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.

You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.

“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.

“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”

“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”

She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”

You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.

“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”

“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.

“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”

There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”

You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”

“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”

“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”

“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.

You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.

“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.

“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.

“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.

“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”

You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.

“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”

You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”

Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”

Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.

“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.

“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.

“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”

A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”

You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.

While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.

You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.

Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.

You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.

It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.

Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.

Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.

The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.

“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.

Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.

“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.

“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“

“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”

She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”

You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.

You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.

You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.

Your lips part.

Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.

He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”

You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.

“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.

Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”

“Then you should drink with us.”

“Not interested.” You blink.

“…why not?”

He shrugs.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.

A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”

“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”

Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.

Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.

Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.

Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.

Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.

Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.

You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…

Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.

This turns out to be easier said than done.

You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.

Then a knock interrupts.

You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.

Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.

“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.

Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”

His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”

Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.

“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”

He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”

“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.

“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”

“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.

“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.

“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.

“Then at least let me watch.”

Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.

“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.

“Smells good.”

His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.

“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.

“I told you not to call me—“

“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”

Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.

“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”

From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“

Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.

“You asked me to fix your shower.”

“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.

“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”

Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”

He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“

“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”

“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”

“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”

He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.

“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”

You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”

“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”

You scoff.

“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”

“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”

With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.

“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.

“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.

“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”

You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.

“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”

“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”

He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”

“What night?” Bucky grunts.

“The night we were drinkin’.”

He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”

“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”

He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”

Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”

He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”

Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.

“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”

“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”

“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.

“It’s — well, I’m just—“

“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.

“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”

You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?

You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.

“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.

“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.

“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.

For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”

You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”

“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.

“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.

“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.

Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.

“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”

You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”

“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.

“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”

“I thought you got things to do today.”

“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”

It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.

A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“

“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—

“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.

“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.

“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.

“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”

Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”

He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”

Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.

“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”

“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.

“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”

You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.

“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.

“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.

“And?”

You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“

Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”

He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”

A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.

The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.

A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.

A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.

Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.

A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.

But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.

You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.

When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.

You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.

You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.

Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.

You take a large sip of beer for courage.

“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”

You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.

Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.

“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.

Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.

“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”

Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”

“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”

“I doubt that.”

“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”

“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“

“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”

There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.

“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”

He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”

Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.

Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.

You blink.

“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”

Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”

“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.

“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”

“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”

“I got what?”

“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”

Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”

The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.

“Uh…”

He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?

You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.

“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.

“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.

“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”

“Please don’t,” you groan.

He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—

“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.

You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?

But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.

For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.

Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.

Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.

When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.

“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”

By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.

You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”

Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”

Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”

She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”

“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.

“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.

“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“

After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.

Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.

That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.

The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”

Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.

“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.

“Good to see you again, Viz.”

You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.

But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”

“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”

“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.

“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.

“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.

“Nat’s just a friend.”

“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”

The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.

Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”

You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.

As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.

You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.

“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”

You’re dragged away before you can say a word.

Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.

As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.

Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.

Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.

Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.

“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”

A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”

“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”

“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”

“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”

“Maybe four years ago,” he says.

“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.

“Whaddya mean?”

He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“

Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.

“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”

The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”

“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”

“Nope — not Texas.”

You pout. “Gimme a hint.”

“East coast.”

You stare.

“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.

“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”

“Worse. Brooklyn.”

Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”

“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.

“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”

“A story for another time.”

He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.

“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.

He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.

“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.

You balk. “I never said that—“

“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.

“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.

Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”

“Yeah — do you know him?”

He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.

“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”

“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”

Bucky nods. “Good…good.”

Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.

“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.

“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”

You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.

Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.

“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.

You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.

“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.

“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.

Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.

“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”

“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.

“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”

“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.

“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.

“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”

You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—

“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”

Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—

“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.

The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.

“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.

“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”

Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”

You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”

Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”

She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.

“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.

“Thought I’d walk you back.”

You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”

“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”

“You can see my door from here.”

“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.

Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”

“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”

You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”

“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”

“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.

Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.

“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.

Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?

“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.

“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.

“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.

“You think that’s enough to stop me?”

Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”

Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.

It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.

Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.

But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.

You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.

Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.

Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.

While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.

You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.

“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.

Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.

“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.

Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.

So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.

When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.

You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.

And then you hear it.

It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.

A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.

You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”

Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.

Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.

Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.

You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.

Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”

You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.

His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”

Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”

“But you didn’t.”

The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.

“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.

“Bullshit,” he counters.

“It’s the truth—“

“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”

You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”

“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”

There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.

“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.

“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.

“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.

You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.

But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.

“I know,” you whisper back.

This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.

He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.

You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.

You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.

And then he kisses you.

Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.

You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.

His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.

The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.

“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.

His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.

And then he gently pushes you off his lap.

Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.

“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”

“Then why did you stop?”

He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.

“I know. You shouldn’t.”

Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”

He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”

“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.

“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”

You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”

“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”

“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“

He barks out a humorless laugh.

“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”

All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—

He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“

“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”

Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.

“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”

His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.

“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.

He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.

The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.

Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”

Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.

He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”

Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.

“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.

The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.

Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.

What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.

Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.

But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.

And Bucky…

You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.

You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.

His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.

He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.

Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.

On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.

Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.

You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.

So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.

The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.

But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.

You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.

The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.

But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.

“Where’ve you been?”

You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.

“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”

His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”

You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.

“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.

“What for?”

“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”

He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”

A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”

Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”

Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”

He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”

A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”

“You need money?”

“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“

“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”

“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“

“Because it helps me to not think about you!”

The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.

“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.

“Gee, thanks.”

“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”

“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”

“Kid…”

“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”

“That’s not why I’m here—“

“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”

Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”

“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“

Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.

You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”

You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”

He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”

Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”

“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”

His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.

Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.

But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.

His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.

“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.

“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”

The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…

“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”

He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…

You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”

As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.

Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.

“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”

You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.

“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”

Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.

“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”

A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.

Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.

You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”

Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.

“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”

He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.

You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.

It’s the easiest decision to make.

You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.

Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.

“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”

“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”

He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”

Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”

“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.

“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.

It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.

“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”

His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.

“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.

Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.

“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”

Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.

Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.

Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.

“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”

You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”

“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.

“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.

But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.

But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”

His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.

“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”

“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.

“More, Bucky, please.”

He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.

“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.

His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.

You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.

“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.

“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.

“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”

You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.

“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.

“But—“

“No.”

You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.

Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.

Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.

He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.

“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.

“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.

“S-so— so good—“

“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”

“…m-more?”

Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.

He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.

“Bucky,” you warn.

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”

A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.

“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”

The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”

He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.

The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.

He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.

“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.

He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.

Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.

You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”

He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for you old man, don’t you?”

“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.

“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”

His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.

You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.

You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.

With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.

His good girl.

“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.

“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”

A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.

Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”

The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.

“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”

“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”

“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.

“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”

Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.

The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes and you’re clawing at his back, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.

Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”

You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.

“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, pulling you in for a bruising kiss as his hips pummel into yours.

“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”

Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.

His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.

“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”

His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.

“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”

Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”

All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.

“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.

“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.

“Shit—“ you exhale.

Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.

“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”

He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.

“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”

His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.

“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“

Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?

“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.

Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.

“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.

“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”

He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.

A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”

There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.

“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”

Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.

“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”

You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”

“Me? Never.”

A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.

“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.

“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.

His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”

A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”

He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”

You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.

“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”

Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.

Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.

sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!

good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!

Most laughed the stories off as little more than idle gossip or folklore spun to frighten badly behaved children, while others were perceptive enough to change the subject. Lord Kage was wealthy and well-connected enough that no officials ever questioned his unchanging appearance over the decades. He was powerful enough that no magistrate or imperial official dared investigate his affairs. Lord Kage paid his taxes, entertained the right nobles, and kept Ba Sing Se’s elite well supplied with pleasures they could never publicly admit to enjoying.

Despite Lord Kage’s vast wealth, everyone understood that neither riches nor influence could silence the whispers of high society or the common folk. Those whispers spoke of the grand crimson manor tucked between neighbouring pleasure houses at the far end of the Pleasure Mile, with its lantern-lit balconies and silk-draped rooms. They spoke of the flowers that inhabited its halls, none of which ever appeared to wilt. Much like a peach pear, one could savour its sweet flesh and get lost in the ghost stories murmured in the dark over campfires. However, if one wasn’t cautious enough and bit too deeply, they risked chipping a tooth on the pit at its centre, because in Ba Sing Se, everyone knew that wherever there were whispers, there was always a rotten truth at its core.

As a girl, like many others, you had been fascinated by those stories. After lessons, you and your friends would linger at the edge of the Pleasure District, peering down the streets you had been expressly forbidden from entering. You would stand on your tiptoes between the crowds, trying to catch a glimpse of the House of the Evening Bloom. From a distance, it had hardly looked sinister. Just another elegant manor of dark-polished wood and red-painted pillars, with curved, barrel-tiled roofs that glowed red beneath rows of lanterns when dusk settled over the city. You used to dare each other to sneak as closely as possible, to witness those fabled unwilting flowers. Were they truly as beautiful as society claimed, and did they only bloom at night? You had imagined rare orchids hidden behind the shoji, night-blooming jasmine unfurling beneath moonlight, exotic peonies brought from distant corners of the world.

But you’d never once imagined the flowers were girls.

Girls who had once been just as young and foolish as you, girls with painted lips and empty smiles, girls given the names of flowers in place of their own.

Girls who never grew old.

Girls who thirsted for blood.

And above all, you had never imagined that one day Lord Kage’s attention would settle upon you. Or, that over a century later, you would no longer remember the sound of your true name, only the one he had given you. Because what were you, if not just another unwilting flower in the garden of the House of the Evening Bloom?

There was a rumour, floating like a petal in the wind—a whisper passed from flower to flower, that the Blue Spirit had been sighted in Ba Sing Se.

Although none of you were permitted to step outside the confines of the House of the Evening Bloom, lest you be dragged back screaming, you were all keenly aware of the happenings beyond its walls. Men liked to talk in pleasure houses; they would boast over cups of sake or baijiu, eager to impress whichever flower they had chosen to entertain them for the evening. Merchants bragged of their adventures and riches, generals recounted tales of military victories, and government officials often spoke too candidly of politics after enough wine. It made the flowers, and likely every other courtesan lining the Pleasure Mile, remarkably well-informed despite never truly participating in the world they heard so much about.

You and the others received little compensation for your work—silks and jewels, a place to hide from the sun, a steady supply of blood to stave off the gnawing hunger. Gold was meaningless when every coin you earned ultimately found its way back into Lord Kage’s coffers. No, information held far greater value within the House. Over the decades, the flowers had begun trading whispers amongst themselves. A noble's scandal for details of a political appointment, rumours of war bartered for stories of a distant province she would never see again. It was a pathetic sort of currency when viewed from the outside, but one many of you clung to all the same. The gossip symbolised the world beyond the lacquered gates that still existed, a reminder to stay grounded as the time ticked by and the House remained unchanged year after year.

So, when one patron mentioned the Blue Spirit, the flowers listened. When another repeated a similar tale several nights later, you all remembered. When a third swore he had seen the masked hunter himself stalking the lower ring of the ring, the rumour spread through the House like wildfire.

Tales of the Blue Spirit varied depending on who recounted them. Some claimed the Blue Spirit was merely a man. Others insisted he was something far older, a spirit sent to punish creatures that had overstayed their welcome in the mortal realm—and that was why he wore the blue oni mask, to conceal a face beyond comprehension. Entire covens were reportedly wiped out beneath his blades—century-old demons and beasts, powerful enough to command cities and armies, reduced to little more than cautionary tales and ash. One merchant—though thoroughly drunk and petrified—swore that he had witnessed the fabled man emerge from the Foggy Swamp one evening, with the severed head of a Jorōgumo attached at his hip. Because when it came to the Blue Spirit, details changed, but the outcome never did. He brought death to those deemed monstrosities by the mortal world.

He was a Warden—a monster hunter.

Unsurprisingly, the House of the Evening Bloom had grown restless in response to the talk of his presence in Ba Sing Se. What had once been mere whispers suddenly felt tangible enough to taste. The thought of the masked Warden climbing the manor steps, twin blades in hand, should have frightened you.

It certainly frightened Madame Yoru.

The Mother of Blossoms maintained the same cold composure she always had, but you had noticed there was a strain beneath it these days. Courtesans were snapped at for the slightest mistake, servants hurried from room to room with their heads bowed in the hope of not incurring her wrath, and even the most favoured flowers appeared careful not to linger too long in her presence. If Madame Yoru was worried, then perhaps there was some truth to the rumours after all…thatthought had settled over you with a sick sort of clarity, and you had allowed yourself one dangerous thing: hope.

Though, unfortunately, it was difficult to entertain such thoughts with Madame Yoru’s nails currently digging into your jaw. The Mother of Blossoms stood before you in a haze of crimson silk and gold jewellery, her sharply painted lips stretched into a smile that had never quite reached her eyes. She was beautiful and elegant, yet monstrous. Just after you had readied yourself to enter the parlour to begin a night’s work, she had cornered you in the hallway with a particularly murderous look and forced your face up to meet her gaze. Her dark eyes swept over your face with open disapproval.

“You’re becoming a poor investment,” she tutted.

You remained silent—you had learnt there was little point in arguing.

“You were once one of Lord Kage’s favourites,” she continued. “Men crossed the Earth Kingdom itself to spend an evening in your company. Lately, however… you appear determined to waste his generosity.”

The word generosity almost made you laugh the moment it slipped from her tongue. As if sensing your wayward thoughts, Madame Yoru’s grip tightened.

“You mope, you sulk, you spend every free moment hiding away in your rooms as though sorrow were a particularly attractive accessory.” She paused with a sneer, assessing your reaction for any sign of defiance. “Men do not pay for melancholy, Spider Lily. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Madame,” you uttered in response.

“Good.” Her thumb brushed across your cheek with mock affection.

“You are wilting, my dear girl.” She murmured, and that callous, predatory smile of hers had returned. “And all of Ba Sing Se knows that the flowers here do not wilt.”

Your gaze lowered as Madame Yoru leaned in closer, breath cold against your ear. “If you fail to earn your keep tonight, then perhaps another few months in the box will remind you to be grateful.”

For a long moment, everything fell silent. The noise that had wafted down from the parlour—chatter, laughter, the shuffle of footsteps and the clink of cups—faded away, replaced by a sudden, piercing ringing that filled your ears as a sob clawed its way up your throat. Absolute, indescribable terror seized you so suddenly, so violently, that a wave of vertigo washed over you. It wasn’t a gentle lapping at your ankles, but a tidal wave—powerful and large enough that the impact knocked the breath from your lungs and caused you to lose your footing, your body being thrown and spun wildly in the imaginary current. If you were still human, you would’ve emptied the contents of your stomach onto the floor. But in that moment, you couldn’t even find the words. Could get a breath past the lump in your throat, not blink away the tears stringing at the corners of your eyes—

No.

No, no, no, no.

You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t go back there. You couldn’t do it, no, you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it again. They wouldn’t send you back, right? You wouldn’t go back there. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it—

Madame Yoru had always been frighteningly perceptive when it came to her flowers, and she caught your reaction at once. The widening of your glassy eyes, the visible tremor that rattled through your body as you gaped at her, still speechless, rooted in place and defenceless—

You couldn’t do it. They couldn’t send you back. You couldn’t do it again—

Madame Yoru hummed, satisfied, wearing the look of someone who had found the knife and knew exactly how to twist it. Only when she had satiated herself on watching you come apart into a thousand tiny pieces, did she finally release your jaw.

“Run along, Spider Lily.” She gave your cheek a little pat, though with the ferocity with which she executed it, it felt closer to a slap. “Best find a client before it’s too late.”

It was the sting across your cheek that finally pulled you from your spiralling thoughts. Your feet carried you down the corridor before your mind could catch up, silk whispering around your ankles as much as your own consciousness as you walked.

You couldn’t go back.

The thought repeated itself over and over, drowning out everything else, that tidal wave of panic returning every time you thought you’d wrenched yourself from the waters.

You couldn’t do it again. You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t go back again—

You would smile, let them touch you, and take whatever they desired. You would perform. You would endure every humiliating moment of it if it meant avoiding the alternative. Because all the flowers knew that the House would never dare beat them. A misplaced blow could split skin and damage a face, leaving a mark no amount of powder could fully conceal, and the Red Prince did not tolerate damage to his property. He had perfected other methods of breaking in his flowers and keeping them broken.

You couldn’t go back there, not again—

You forced the thought away before it could fully form and willed your hands to stop shaking. The world around you blurred into crimson silk, polished wood and the warm glow of lantern light as you stumbled forward. You only became fully aware of your surroundings again when the grand doors of the parlour stood open before you. With Madame Yoru’s threat still echoing through your skull, you stepped inside.

The House of the Evening Bloom was designed to impress. The parlour occupied the very heart of the manor, rising through two lavish storeys, with the high ceiling above hidden behind silk banners and hanging lanterns. Black-and-red-painted pillars rose to support balconies that encircled the upper levels, allowing wealthy patrons to observe the entertainment below from private vantage points. Performers played soft melodies from raised platforms while servants drifted through the crowds carrying trays. The air smelt of oudh incense—potent enough to disguise the scent of predators.

At the centre of the room, sat the flowers. The display platform rose in broad tiers, forming a pyramid of embroidered cushions and low-backed seats. From a distance, it resembled a carefully arranged bouquet, every flower positioned to best display her beauty for prospective buyers. To outsiders, the hierarchy likely appeared backwards. The women seated closest to the floor on the lowest tiers of the display belonged to the most sought-after courtesans. They were the favourites; they occupied the lowest rows because they were the easiest to reach. Patrons entering the parlour naturally gravitated towards them first, and those women had spent decades ensuring it remained that way. They laughed loudly, flirted shamelessly, and guarded their positions by tearing one another apart whenever an opportunity presented itself. Many had been in the House long enough that they scarcely remembered life beyond its walls. The higher tiers belonged to everyone else—the timid and overlooked, the freshly broken, the ones men admired from afar but rarely approached. In recent years, you had found yourself preferring the solitude of the top; it was far more peaceful than the dogfight down below, even if the Mother of Blossom’s threat hung around your throat like a noose.

You climbed the platform in silence.

You couldn’t go back.

Layers of crimson silk flowed around your legs, embroidered with golden spider lilies that shimmered in the lantern light. Golden and tortoiseshell ornaments adorned your carefully arranged hair, delicate chains and ivory-carved blossoms brushing your shoulders with every step. Settling onto your cushion, you scanned the room.

You wouldn’t go back.

Below, the evening had already begun. The men laughed over their cups of sake, baijiu and wine. Flowers smiled and entertained, weaving between servants and guards as they pulled clients into private rooms.

The performance was underway.

And as you folded your hands neatly in your lap, and fixed a pleasant smile upon your face, you allowed only one thought to echo through your mind.

You had to be chosen tonight.

After an hour of observing from atop the display, a disturbance near the entrance diverted your attention from the creeping dread that still lingered despite your best efforts. Ordinarily, you would not have cared. The House of the Evening Bloom was never truly quiet. Patrons drifted in and out throughout the evening, servants hurried along, and every so often, a drunken noble would become convinced that his wealth entitled him to more attention than he had paid for. Such disruptions were common enough that they rarely merited more than a fleeting glance from the flowers.

This disturbance, however, carried an alarming scent.

Your attention shifted immediately. The man standing near the entrance looked entirely unlike the usual clientele who frequented the House. There was no silk draped across his shoulders, no expensive rings embellishing his hands, nor the carefully cultivated confidence of a noble accustomed to buying whatever caught his eye. In fact, he looked as though he had spent the past month on the road. Dust stubbornly clung to his boots and the hem of his clothing. A worn pair of dao swords were strapped across his back, with a small saddlebag thrown over his shoulder. His dark hair had fallen loose from whatever effort was made to tie it back, framing a face marked by an old, marbled burn scar that extended across one eye and down his cheek.

Despite his scar, or perhaps because of it, he was handsome. Beautiful, even.

Not in the polished way of wealthy men, but in the manner of a blade that had seen years of use. There was something undeniably striking about him, from the broad set of his shoulders to the strong, calloused hands hanging at his sides. He possessed the lean, powerful build of someone accustomed to surviving by skill rather than privilege, a man who carried every possession he owned upon his back and trusted only his swords.

Most importantly, he smelt… dangerous.

It was faint beneath the oudh incense and lotus perfume that saturated the parlour, hidden beneath road dust, sweat, and woodsmoke, yet your senses recognised it immediately. Judging by the way heads began to turn throughout the room, you were not the only one. One by one, the flowers detected it, then the guards, then the servants. The mortal patrons remained blissfully unaware, continuing their conversations and laughter without interruption, oblivious to the silent ripple that had spread through the House of the Evening Bloom. Yet beneath the music and chortling, an unspoken understanding had settled over every undead creature present.

A Warden had entered the room.

Beneath the aroma of travel and humanity, something far more familiar lingered—the scent of death. Not the rich scent of fresh bloodshed, nor the stale odour of a battlefield long abandoned. It was something deeper than that. Something that seemed to soak itself into a person over the years, settling deep beneath the skin until it became impossible to wash away. You had encountered Wardens before; every flower in the House had. No matter how often they bathed, no matter how expensive the oils and balms they wore or how carefully they disguised themselves amongst ordinary travellers, they all carried that same scent eventually. It clung to them like a second shadow, marking them as surely as any uniform ever could. And this Waren was especially ripe with it.

“You’re not welcome here, friend.” Your gaze shifted towards the entrance, where two guards had stepped into his path before he could properly pass through the threshold into the parlour. “And Lord Kage isn’t receiving visitors tonight.”

A subtle tension settled across the room. The servants continued their work, carrying trays between tables. The musicians played on without interruption. Flowers laughed at jokes they had likely heard a hundred times before and poured sake for patrons eager to believe themselves charming. The performance continued, yet beneath it all, every eye remained fixed upon the stranger standing in the doorway.

It was never a good omen when a Warden appeared at the House of the Evening Bloom. Over the decades, dozens had attempted to destroy it—Lord Kage, being an impossibly old vampire, had naturally amassed some enemies along the way. Some foes came seeking glory; others sought coin. A handful simply believed themselves righteous and powerful enough to purge the Red Prince and his coven from the mortal realm. Most had perished before reaching the upper floors. But what unsettled you was not that this Warden had come—it was how causally he had done so. There was no attempt at stealth, no disguise beyond ordinary clothing, no effort to conceal the weapons strapped to his back or the purpose that seemed to radiate from him. He stood before the guards with calm patience, despite being a man willingly walking into a den of creatures powerful enough to reduce entire districts of the city to bloodless husks. His stoic expression never wavered. If he felt fear, he hid it remarkably well.

“I have business with him,” the stranger’s voice carried easily through the room, rough from disuse. His tone suggested he was accustomed to being obeyed, or perhaps even feared. Not because he demanded it, but because few people were foolish enough to argue with him once he had spoken.

“Business,” one of the guards scoffed. “What business?”

“Personal.”

The guards exchanged a look. “You’re not with the Crimson Ward.”

At that, the stranger’s eyes narrowed slightly, “No.”

Several flowers perked up immediately—you weren’t the only one listening. The Crimson Ward were the only Wardens authorised to enter the House and sample its goods without scrutiny. Lord Kage employed and paid them generously to deal with troublesome do-gooders and fellow, overzealous Wardens alike. Most of the Crimson Ward had long since discovered that guarding a wealthy vampire lord was significantly easier and more profitable than hunting one. You knew for certain that the scarred man was not among their number; you would have remembered him otherwise.

“Then Lord Kage won’t see you.”

“He will.” The certainty in his voice made the guards hesitate. There was no arrogance in his tone, no bluster. He sounded as if he were merely stating a fact—whatever this man had come here for, he was completely convinced he would get it.

You found yourself leaning forward slightly.

Eventually, one of the guards sighed. That alone released some of the pressure rising in the room. “Your name?”

The Warden hesitated for half a breath. “Lee.”

A lie. You had spent a century listening to people deceive one another. The falsehood was obvious. Apparently, the guards recognised it as well. Their expressions soured, but after a moment of consideration, they stepped aside.

“We’ll send word.” There was no kindness in their tone, rather something closer to a snarl. “Indulge a little in the goods, won’t you? It’ll be some hours before Lord Kage can see you.”

Unbothered, the stranger inclined his head and entered, posting himself near one of the pillars at the entrance, appearing entirely unmoved and uninterested by the dazzling display of women before him. The reaction from the lower tiers was immediate—Peony was first from her seat, moving with the effortless confidence that had made her one of the House’s most sought-after flowers. Her crimson robes swept across the floor as she approached him with a smile that had ruined countless men.

“You’re certainly causing a stir,” she purred, a hand stroking down his dusty outershirt. You could only find yourself surprised that she had lowered her dignity enough even to consider looking at dirt, let alone touching it. The Warden looked at her politely enough, clearing his throat as he stepped away from her touch.

Undeterred, Peony continued. “If Lord Kage is occupied, perhaps I could help pass the time?”

“I’ll wait.” The answer arrived so quickly and with such finality that a small crease appeared between Peony’s brows.

Nearby, Orchid stifled a laugh, and moments later, she tried her own approach, only to receive a similarly disinterested response. Camellia followed shortly after. Then Jasmine. You watched the rotating exchange unfold with growing fascination. None of them managed to hold his attention for long, and the rejection irritated the lower tiers considerably. The stranger answered their questions cordially, offered little in return, and continued to scan the room. That, more than anything else, confirmed your suspicions.

While the flowers vied for his attention—the looks they exchanged were nothing less than feral, like a street dog guarding its next meal—his gaze continued to drift across the room. He studied the exits, the balconies, the guards stationed throughout the parlour, and the patrons occupying the surrounding tables, cataloguing each detail unabashedly. A Warden without question, a dangerous one at that. Perhaps—if you dared to consider it—an opportunity. The thought arrived unexpectedly, carrying all the recklessness that hope often brought. You should have dismissed it; any rational person would have. Yet before you could reconsider, before you could remind yourself of all the reasons why such an idea was foolish, you found yourself rising from your seat.

The movement immediately drew attention. Conversations faltered, and several nearby flowers turned to stare. Regular visitors to the House of the Evening Bloom had long since learned that Spider Lily rarely descended from the upper tiers to hunt. In recent years, you had become something of a fixture there, content to remain beyond reach. Most men admired you from afar, too intimidated by your melancholy to ever approach. The fact that you were moving now was shocking enough to silence an entire section of the parlour. You ignored them—ignoring people had become a particular skill you’d developed, along with making a man finish before he even had a chance to stick his cock inside of you. Gathering your skirts, you descended the platform. Whispers rippled down the display in your wake, but none were bold enough to stop you.

The soft rustling of silk followed every step. Gold and tortoiseshell ornaments chimed softly amidst your hair. Around you, conversations resumed in hesitant murmurs, though more than a few eyes continued to track your progress down the tiers. Your gaze never left the stranger, and as he noticed the whispers, he looked upwards—towards the display, towards you.

The change was immediate.

You’d spent decades studying people, studying men, learning the subtle shifts in expression and posture that revealed what words often concealed. You recognised it the moment it happened, the instant his attention focused on you and the room simply… disappeared from his awareness. The guards, the flowers, the patrons, the exits he had been so carefully cataloguing—all of it vanished, and all his eyes could do was remain fixed upon you.

Even from across the parlour, you watched as he inhaled sharply, a breath that seemed to shudder in his chest as he took you in entirely. His shoulders stiffened imperceptibly before relaxing again, and for the first time since entering the House, he looked almost uncertain about what to do with himself. It was almost amusing. Peony had practically draped herself across him and earned little more than polite indifference, yet now he stared as though he had forgotten what he was saying… or thinking, or perhaps where he even was.

You continued your descent, neither of you looking away. By the time your feet touched the parlour floor, the whole room felt strangely distant. Peony gave you a miffed expression that implied she had every intention of exchanging words with you once dawn broke. But none of it mattered—by the time you reached the Warden, your course had already been set.

Lord Kage rarely granted audiences to unknown visitors, particularly Wardens. Any meeting required trust, and trust within the House was established through a simple test. A Warden intending to kill the Red Prince rarely spent an evening in the company of one of his flowers. Those willing to drink sake, share a bed and permit themselves to be fed upon were generally considered safe enough to entertain—at least long enough to determine whether they posed a genuine threat.

You circled the stranger in a slow, lazy loop, close enough to smell the road dust and steel, close enough to confirm that beneath the scent of death lingered something warmer.

Human. He was entirely human.

Your gaze flicked briefly to the burn scar before returning to his eyes, observing how, for the first time since he entered the House, a sliver of emotion leaked through his stoic expression, his brows twitching ever-so-slightly.

“You smell of death, Warden.” You hummed, not even offering him a smile. “You need a bath.”

It wasn’t a request; the words left your mouth before you could reconsider them. Turning, you began walking towards your private room without waiting to see if he followed.

You already knew he would.

And sure enough, moments later, the sound of footsteps echoed behind you as the House of the Evening Bloom watched in stunned silence.

You closed the shoji behind you, shutting out the noise of the parlour echoing down the corridor. Your private entertaining room was mostly quiet, with only faint sounds from neighbouring rooms and the servants' corridor seeping through the walls. Like everything in the House of the Evening Bloom, the space was crafted for beauty. Tatami covered the floor, and silk wall hangings featuring cranes and plum blossoms decorated the walls. Embroidered cushions surrounded a low, polished table near the entrance, while a raised sleeping platform at the back was draped with sheer red silk curtains. Twisted wood carved into flowering branches outlined the edges. It was less of a bed and more of a stage upon which Lord Kage’s prized flowers were expected to bloom.

It was a quiet, feminine gasp that drew your attention, your head twisting fast enough that the dangling accessories in your hair clinked together. Beside the Warden stood a servant girl, a tray clasped to her chest. She was cowering in place, clearly startled as she had just bolted upright from her previous position seated at the low table. The Warden did not appear particularly surprised or bothered by her presence. He dumped the worn saddlebag that had been slung over his shoulder haphazardly at her feet, along with his dao swords. They landed heavily enough that the girl jolted—the poor thing looked as though she had seen a ghost. You suppressed a smile.

She was probably no older than seventeen when she was turned, maybe nineteen at most. Like most servants working for the House, her role didn't tell the whole story. Any patron who took a moment to look at the servants would see that everyone in the manor was unusually beautiful. In truth, she was a fledgling, a flower in training. Just another one of the many unfortunate souls still undergoing the long and often brutal process required before Lord Kage deemed them suitable for receiving clients—there was more to being a flower than simply perfecting the arts of pleasure. Newly turned vampires were dangerous creatures. Their hunger ruled them completely, and few possessed the restraint necessary to feed without killing. Before they could be trusted with patrons, they were subjected to years of training, punishment and correction until they learned precisely how much blood to take and when to stop. Lord Kage liked to call the experience of laying with a vampire a little death—ecstasy from the orgasm, but also the adrenaline of sacrificing the body to be fed on, with the trust that the taker would stop before the afterlife came knocking.

When Lord Kage or Madame Yoru weren’t tormenting the fledglings, it was the other flower’s turn to sink their fangs in. Perhaps that was why you’d become soft over the years, offering the fledglings some reprieve by letting them hide in your rooms. You’d once been the golden girl of the House of the Evening Bloom, the type to lash out, the one who ruled the bottom of the display like Peony or Orchid. You’d allowed them to turn you into the monster they wanted you to be. You weren’t sure what had been the turning point in your attitude—maybe the day you realised none of it had ever mattered, that you’d lived a fuller and freer life in the few decades you’d spent as a mortal than in any of the centuries you’d spent as an immortal. As a result, you had rarely entertained guests in recent years. Most evenings, the fledglings could slip into your room under the pretence of cleaning or preparing you for the night, stealing a few precious moments of peace away from the endless demands of the House.

Judging by this one’s expression, however, she had not expected her moment of peace to end so abruptly—particularly not with a Warden. You simply inclined your head at the girl, and she was quick to rush to your side, practically quivering behind you. You squared your shoulders, and with a practised smile, you turned to face your guest.

“Are you a sake or a baijiu man?” You inquired.

The question caught him slightly off guard. You got the impression that, despite his self-assurance, he wasn’t the type to frequent brothels. Now, out of the parlour and fully under the weight of your attention, you wondered if he expected you to pounce on him then and there? Or maybe he simply didn’t appreciate the art of building tension.

“Tea is fine.”

You arched a brow. Most men requested alcohol before anything else; it gave them the sense that they were more witty and important than they actually were. It gave them the confidence to perform under the scrutiny of an experienced, beautiful woman—or maybe simply the guts to let you plunge your fangs deep into their neck.

“What type?”

“Jasmine.”

That surprised you more than it should have; the answer felt strangely domestic coming from a man who smelled so strongly of bloodshed. Nonetheless, you masked your disbelief with a perfectly composed smile, inclining your head. You waited for the servant girl to move, but quickly realised she was still cowering behind you. Your gaze slowly shifted towards her as you glanced over your shoulder expectantly.

“You heard him, Petal. Have the kitchens prepare tea, and ask the boys to bring up water for a bath and a change of clothing—these are filthy.” You gave the Warden a pointed look, and he huffed in response.

The girl blinked.

“Oh. Yes, Miss,” she replied, bowing so swiftly that she almost lost her balance.

The Warden chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he rubbed a hand along his sharp jaw, watching as she vanished through the shoji. “I thought the point of these places was to get your patrons undressed, not dress them up?”

You clasped your hands together, slinking forward with slow, graceful steps.

“It is,” you hummed, coming to a stop before him. “Doesn’t mean I can’t treat you a little, hm? Can’t have you wandering back onto the street in those, the Pleasure Mile will think we serve any ruffian who comes knocking at the door.”

“So, it’s all about appearances and money then?” He asked, his voice lowered now that you had drawn closer. His amber eyes surveyed your every move. “Eliteism… it runs rich with you vampires, doesn’t it?”

You grinned wide enough to show your fangs, testing him with your next words. “It isn’t always about money. You’re not only here because of the mercy of my master, but also on the account of your trade. You can pay in other ways if you have skills deemed useful enough—that is what the Crimson Ward does.”

He scoffed at that. It didn’t take a genius to understand he didn’t think favourably of his kin, likely taking issue with the fact that the Wardens had taken the easy route out by serving the Red Prince rather than killing him. His tongue darted out as he wet his bottom lip, his eyes trailing down the expanse of your silk robes, catching on each embroidered detail.

“I take it they call you Spider Lily?” He asked, the subtle irritation in his expression neutralising. “They’re embroidered on your robes.”

“Yes, very perceptive of you,” you dipped your head. “And what do they call you?”

“Lee.”

The lie arrived quickly this time, and you gave him a sly look. “Your real name, I mean.”

The Warden looked mildly inconvenienced—as if debating feeding you another lie was worth the gamble. A reluctant sort of resignation settled across his features as he must have decided you were far too perceptive to fool.

“It’s Zuko.”

“Zuko,” you drawled, testing the sound and taste of it on your tongue. “It suits you, it is handsome sounding.”

Stoic as ever, he didn’t so much as blink at your praise.

“What is yours?”

A laugh escaped you before you could control yourself, a palm flying to cover your mouth.

“My name?” You giggled. “Spirits—if you had asked me several decades ago, I might have had an answer.”

You twisted your wrist, your hand gesturing as if flicking the thought away. “In truth, I don’t even remember anymore.”

The lie slipped easily from your tongue, and if he didn’t believe you, he didn’t let it show. With a sigh, you felt the fleeting amusement drain from your body; instead, a quiet intensity settled as you met Zuko’s eyes.

“When they turned me into one of them, they remade me,” you uttered. “The girl I was before is dead. She has to be dead, because she never could have survived this place or these people. So I killed her, I tore her apart until she no longer existed. So understand when I say that even though I may smile like her, and speak in her voice, and wear her skin, inside I am something monstrous—”

You cut yourself off as the shoji slid open, servants flooding into the room. The serious look that had taken command of your features dissolved as you smiled in that artful way you had mastered, ushering in the two young men carrying a large, wooden bathing tub. More followed, emptying steaming buckets of water into the tub before retreating. When you glanced back at Zuko, he remained rooted to the spot. You could have sworn there was a crack in his stoic composure. Perhaps your eyes were simply fooled by the lantern light, but for a fleeting moment, as he watched your performance, a look of pity crossed his features.

By the time the servant girl re-entered, carrying a tray with jasmine tea carefully balanced in her hands, the bath was filled, and the other servants had excused themselves with quick bows. You watched as she placed the teapot and cups on the low table before stepping back with a bow of her own. However, unlike the others, she didn’t leave. She lingered, if only for a moment—just long enough to fully draw your attention. When you looked at her, meeting her gaze with the full weight of your eyes, she immediately lowered her eyes. Still, she remained in place, as though she had something she desperately wished to say.

“Run along now, Petal. You wouldn’t want the Madame to catch you gawking.”

The girl’s spine straightened, startled as though she had been caught stealing. Colour rushed to her cheeks, and she immediately dipped into a hurried bow. “Y-yes, Miss Spider Lily.”

She turned towards the door and made it all of about two steps before stopping in her tracks.

Your brow furrowed, “Petal?”

The servant girl hesitated, fingers twisting in the fabric of her sleeves. The inner struggle she faced was evident on her face—initially, fear reigned. She took a few more steps until concern clouded her features, and the guilt weighing on her conscience eventually triumphed. Spinning around, she blurted out the words, probably before she had a chance to think better of them.

“Miss Spider Lily, be warned! I overheard the guards and Madame Yoru, they’ll be watching through the hole in the wall—!”

The words died abruptly on her tongue, and her eyes darted towards Zuko. Only then did she seem to remember that the Warden was still present, and mortification flooded her expression.

Between the private rooms, there was a narrow, dark corridor. It was intended solely for servants to move discreetly through the House. It saved the fledglings from weaving around temperamental flowers and clientele who often reached a point of blind lust that they would fuck anything that breathed. But it was not only a safety measure to protect patrons from the fledglings and their uncontrollable thirst, as it also served as an observation point. Each private room was not as private as one might think, as each one had a concealed hole somewhere within. It wasn’t a large hole, just large enough for one to hold a single eye up to the gap and spy without being noticed. One of Madame Yoru’s favourite activities was slipping into the hidden corridor, sliding open the shutter and checking that the flower within was blossoming to expectations.

“Oh,” you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Oh, dear.”

The poor girl looked ready to throw herself from the balcony. Crossing the room towards her, you reached out and gently cupped her cheek. “Thank you, sweet girl.”

You knew, deep down, she was only trying to do you a favour, out of whatever kindness was still left within her undead heart, even if she were simply stating the obvious. The tension left her shoulders immediately at your reassurance. Her gaze lifted to yours, and the look she gave you landed twisted and uncomfortable in your chest. You had seen it before, in Petal, in countless servants before her. An unspoken attachment formed between frightened young women trapped beneath the same roof. Perhaps it was because you listened when others didn’t. Perhaps it was because you remembered what it felt like to be new here and how easy it was to become cruel. Whatever the reason, Petal had attached herself to you years ago. You felt sorry for her, sorry for all of them—the girls who came before, the girls who would come after—each one believing themselves special enough to escape the fate waiting for them.

Your thumb brushed her cheek once. “Hush now, and go before you are missed.”

The girl nodded, and this time she obeyed. The shoji slid shut behind her, leaving you alone with the Warden. His interest seemed piqued by the unfolding events, and he watched expectantly as you let out a shuddering breath, silence settling over the room. For a breath, your thoughts drifted. You hoped, no, maybe you even prayed to the Spirits that no meddling ears had heard the girls' outburst. The House of the Evening Bloom was a dangerous place for those at the bottom of the pecking order. The slightest indication of betrayal or spilling House secrets in front of a client, a mysterious Warden no less… she would be doomed to the box.

A creeping sensation snaked over your skin—cold. So very cold, and dark… and quiet. It had been so quiet, so quiet that your own thoughts had sounded like the tolling of a bell against your skull. And your legs, oh your legs and your back, how they had ached and ached. The gnawing hunger had ached too, until the scent of iron and fear all blended into one, and you would press your lips against the tiny holes and scream and scream and beg—

The Warden cleared his throat.

“From what I have gathered, I won’t be able to meet your master until I lie with you and allow you to feed from me?”

His voice startled you enough that you realised that for a fleeting moment, you had allowed your mask to slip. Nevertheless, he was straight to the point, and you found yourself liking that. He certainly didn’t seem eager to dig into whatever haunted you. You shook off whatever strange, maternal feeling that had overtook you and spiralled into despair. You turned away, crossing the tatami towards the bathing tub, leaving those terrible thoughts far behind. Steam curled lazily from the water’s surface, filling the room with its warmth. You perched yourself lightly upon the wooden edge. While trailing your fingers through the water, you considered the question.

“You are correct,” the corners of your mouth faintly lifted. “All Wardens who pass through our doors must face this test.”

An empty reflection stared back at you as you disturbed the surface, ripples breaking up the shimmering surface.

“If it reassures you, being fed upon is not painful—most patrons become rather fond of it. It heightens the feelings of pleasure during sex; some say it’s the best way to experience orgasm.” You glanced up at him, catching the tail end of his eyes narrowing, as though he were attempting to determine whether you were mocking him. You held his gaze, expectant. He crept closer as he replied.

“What I have heard is that it is addictive. That all those merchants and noblemen out there are no better than those who frequent opium dens.”

His hand vaguely motioned back in the direction of the parlour, and your head tilted in thought.

“Well, yes. That has been said too. It’s a biological thing, I imagine, to make our prey relax. Some find themselves feeling a little lethargic afterwards, depending upon how much blood is taken. Is it not said that the calmer the animal at slaughter, the better the meat?”

The Warden didn’t appear to like that answer, a scowl hanging from his lips as you laughed airily. You pulled your fingers out of the water, then gave them a quick shake to get rid of the droplets.

“Part of our hunt is to become… irresistible,” you reminded him.

Then, apparent that he had nothing more to say, and having allowed the silence to linger just long enough, enough that it rattled you a little—silence bothered you now, much like the dark, it came with the taste of iron—you spoke a single word, regaining control of your own simmering sanity.

“Strip.”

Going off your prior assumptions that the Warden wasn’t one to frequent such places, you had anticipated resistance from him. A snarky remark, perhaps? He seemed fond of those. A challenge, even? At the very least, a flicker of hesitation? Rather, Zuko merely held your gaze before reaching for the ties of his outer shirt. There was a practical, matter-of-fact element to his movements, as though removing one’s clothes—in front of a probable enemy at that—was no different than sharpening a blade or cleaning mud from a pair of boots. Most men who entered your chambers either treated the act as a performance or approached it with nervous anticipation. Instead, he shrugged off the first layer, dumping it atop his saddle bag. Beneath it was a lighter layer, old, stubborn stains soaked into the fabric. Old blood, a mixture of his and others, dirt, sweat, rain… you caught it all in a single whiff. It certainly painted the picture of a man who lived one contract to the next. You watched silently as he grasped the collar, tugging it over his head in one fluid motion. And as you had expected, bare skin revealed all. There was obvious strength in his build, powerful arms and broad shoulders shaped by years of repetition—training, battle, survival. Your eyes drifted down his sculpted chest, lingering on the scars that marked portions of his skin. A rather large impact branded his midriff, similar in severity to the mark on his face, and joining it was a collection of scratches and gashes. Some were faded, nearly white with age, while others remained fresh. You wondered briefly how many creatures had left their mark upon him before he had buried a blade in their hearts.

You were so intrigued by the thought, in fact, that it took you a delayed second to realise that during your pondering, he had already loosened the tie of his pants. Before you had the mind to relish in the reveal, to coax or tease, to enjoy the drawn-out tension of it all, he was already standing completely naked before you. Your eyes drifted down, following the trail of coarse hair to where his cock hung between his muscular thighs. Larger than most, you would give him that—but—did he know how to use it? That was the real question. You found yourself studying him longer than necessary, long enough that he noticed. One dark eyebrow lifted as he watched you expectantly in return. The silent question amused you enough that your lips tugged into a smirk, and from your position perched on the edge of the tub, you motioned towards the steaming water.

“You’ll do.” You teased, which earned the smallest twitch of irritation from him—you considered that a victory. “Get in.”

Without protest, he stepped towards the bath. Steam curled around him as he lowered himself into the wooden tub, water sloshing softly against the sides. You grasped a washcloth, soaking it in the rising water as he settled himself. As he leaned back, sighing through his nose and resting his arms on either side of the tub, some of the tension left his posture. Though not all of it—even at rest, he carried the impression of a drawn bowstring. His amber eyes lifted through the steam to watch as you wrung out the rag. The scent of cypress soap mingled with his musk of death as you placed the cloth against his shoulder and began working away the grime accumulated from weeks on the road. Zuko seemed content to sit in the silence that had fallen between you, leaving only the occasional splash of water as you worked from one shoulder to the other, alternating between soaking and wringing out the cloth.

With a splayed hand, you leaned closer, the washcloth sweeping across his chest, past the line of the water to his sculpted abdomen. You were close now, close enough that your breath fanned across his cheek, close enough that the sleeves of your robes were soaked as your fingers paused just above his groin—

Zuko’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and your eyes snapped to his neck.

His blood smelled delicious.

You could sense it now that you were inches away, the subtle thrum of his heartbeat, the blood pumping through his veins… how many days had it been since you had a full meal? You hadn’t thought you were that hungry, but now, faced with his neck right there, you were ravenous—

“You don’t seem to be afraid of me.”

His observation startled you out of whatever bloodlust-induced trance you had found yourself in, your hands immediately finding his thigh as you swept the washcloth down his leg. You glanced up at him, only to find he had been watching your every movement intently.

“Should I be?” You asked, innocently.

His expression remained unreadable.

“No, I’m here to kill the Red Prince, and anyone who stands in my way.” His husky voice made you go unnaturally still for a beat. “If you stand aside, I will show you mercy.”

If he had expected your reaction to be more instinctual or guttural to his reveal of intentions, something more reasonable to such a threat, he didn’t show it. His heart remained beating steadily, his breath even. You slowly straightened your spine and looked down at him. A smile pulled faintly at the corner of your mouth, which then surfaced into a giggle.

Mercy.

If only he understood what mercy looked like to someone in your position.

“You’re rather blunt, aren’t you?” You murmured, the giggle still on your breath. As if anyone within the House of the Evening Bloom was not aware of his intentions. A Warden simply didn’t just show up to enjoy the goods—no, there was one of two reasons: one, to join the Crimson Ward, or two, to kill you all. “I can’t tell if you’re brave, or simply a fool.”

“Hmf,” the sound he made might have been a sign of amusement or annoyance. With him, it was difficult to tell.

The conversation lapsed again as you worked the washcloth down his arm. Water glistened against his skin, tracing the old scars and faded marks. There were more of them than you had initially realised, smaller nicks that hadn’t been immediately obvious in the low light. Your eyes eventually drifted upward, towards the awful scar encircling his left eye. Without really thinking, you reached forward. A single, damp finger trailed a wet line down the warped flesh.

“How did you get this—”

His reaction was immediate, his whole body flinching as his hand shot up, water splashing as he closed his grip around your wrist. You grasped the edge of the tub harder with your other hand, steadying yourself as you teetered from the sudden motion.

“My father had…” His head turned to face you, his mouth opening as he ran his tongue over his teeth, and then slowly released his hold. “...interesting ideas around how to best punish his children.”

The answer caught you off guard—you had expected something far more heroic, some grand tale of his journeys as a Warden. But as you had come to understand, it appeared Zuko was not one for boasts. You twisted your hand where it was still loosely encircled in his grip, pulling his arm towards you as you placed his palm face up in your lap.

“He did that to you while you were a child in his care?” You asked, head dipping as you focused on his hand. You swept the soapy washcloth down his forearm to his wrist, then across his palm, lacing your fingers with his as you worked the suds between each digit.

The thought of a parent doing such a thing to their child felt deeply wrong. The memory of your own father had faded over time, but what remained was gentle. A hand resting atop your head, ruffling your hair. Laughter around the dinner table. The sensation of being carried to bed, the feeling of safety as you were tucked under the blanket. Those were from earlier on, but the older you had grown, the murkier those happy memories became. You supposed your father had hurt you once, too. Not in a physical manner but rather… expectations that had crushed parts of your soul. Expectations that had strained and bittered your relationship. As you massaged the mound of his thumb, pushing your soft digits against the calluses of his palm, he spoke up once more.

“Does that surprise you?” He asked quietly, though there was thickness to his voice, like he was on the edge of letting a groan slip out. “That some of the worst monsters out there are human?”

Your eyes flickered upward, your fingers continuing to massage down his forearm to the crease of his elbow. You realised how beautiful his eyes were in the low light, like molten honey. His pupils dilated as he awaited your reply, the weight of his full attention solely resting on you. You had been human once. So had Peony, Orchid and the other flowers, Madame Yoru, too, and even Lord Kage himself. You didn’t know at which point you had slipped between human and monster, or if the monster had been within you all along. Maybe that was why all those who remained in the House of the Evening Bloom became the way they did in the end—hungry, spiteful, depraved—because you had all always been that way.

“No,” you uttered. You dropped his arm back into the water to wash the soap off. Slowly, you stood, circling the tub. A trail of water dripped from your sleeves onto the tatami as you perched on the opposite side. Your attention turned to his other arm, and you repeated the same process of carefully working soap between each finger. The task gave you something to focus on besides his distant expression.

“My father was a cruel man. He tried to make me cruel, too, but I was always… resistant to his teachings. He said, I was disrespectful and weak for always questioning him, so he challenged me to an Agni Kai.” Zuko continued, and your brows rose. A firebender—you supposed you should not have been surprised. Many Wardens were benders of some kind; the elements often came in handy when hunting particular beasts. Firebending, especially, since so few creatures possessed an immunity to flame itself. You dimly recalled ancient stories of some of the first Warden clans originating in the Fire Nation, before their trade and message spread beyond borders. “After I was defeated, he banished me. Said I couldn’t return home until I became a real man, brought pride to my ancestors and regained my honour.”

His gaze drifted somewhere beyond the room, beyond the House of the Evening Bloom, likely beyond Ba Sing Se itself. “I became a Warden shortly after, like my Uncle, and have walked that path ever since.”

You considered his words, eyes cast down, as you pressed your thumb down his forearm, massaging the hard muscle just beneath the skin. “Well, most would say the path of a Warden is an honourable one.”

A scoff escaped him, though the sound held little amusement. His arm slipped away from your grip as he dipped it back under the water, washing the soap and grime away. “I wouldn’t say that for that Crimson Ward of yours.”

There was genuine disdain in his voice now, enough to make you glance up from the soapy water, a teasing lilt to your voice. “You really don’t like them, do you?”

“They’re an insult to our trade,” his jaw tightened. “Cowards are what they are.”

You found yourself curious despite everything; Wardens rarely spoke about one another—at least not in your experience. Yet something told you that if Lord Kage’s hired hunters and Zuko ever crossed paths, his blood would not be the one to follow shortly afterwards.

Your hand slid under the water once more, scrubbing the washcloth along his submerged thigh, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The lantern light danced across the water’s surface, casting shifting reflections over damp skin and wood alike. You found yourself studying him again as you swept your palm down past his knee, your chest dipping lower towards the water’s edge.

“Does your father know you are a Warden?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Zuko’s gaze lowered to the water, watching as you slowly rose, levelling your spine.

“Oh yes,” there was something dark settled behind his stoic, amber eyes. “Some years ago, I returned home. He was happy to receive me, saying I had become a true man during my banishment. That his judgement had been correct all those years ago.”

The bitterness in his voice was hard to miss. The water shifted quietly as he leaned back against the tub, elbows resting on the edge on either side of him. His broad chest expanded as he sighed. You placed the washcloth over the side of the tub with a quiet slap, water trickling down the wood into a puddle below. You found yourself reluctant to break the silence, yet curiosity won in the end.

“What did you do?” You asked softly, though the words were not accusatory.

The bathwater was beginning to grow lukewarm, the tendrils of steam that had drifted lazily between you now gone. It was the warmth of his body that made up the space between you, that and the weight of his gaze that had somehow grown more scathing than it had been previously.

“I did what any honourable Warden would do if they came across a monster,” he answered with absolute certainty and complete absence of regret or guilt. “I killed him.”

Absolute silence followed, and Zuko watched you from across the narrow gap separating you, waiting. Almost as if he was expecting something, though what exactly, you couldn’t say. Your expression remained carefully neutral, save for the slight crease between your brows as you studied him in return. His pupils were fully dilated now, swallowing almost all the amber in his eyes. Beneath the water, his heartbeat remained strong and steady, each pulse loud enough for your sharpened senses to detect. You could almost imagine seeing the faintest ripple spread across the surface with every thump of his heart against his ribs.

You were hungry, so very hungry, it had been days since your last feeding—

The distance between you suddenly felt even smaller, especially as Zuko leaned forward. Water sloshed against the sides of the tub as he shifted, one arm leaving the edge so his palm could brace against the rim. His gaze dipped briefly towards your mouth, lingering there for a moment that felt a little too long to be accidental before returning to your eyes. His hand snaked around your waist, damp fingers settling against the silk gathered at your side, and before you could fully process the gesture, he was drawing you closer.

One moment, you were watching him and the next, his mouth found yours.

Instinct took over, decades of training clicking into place as you half gasped, half moaned into his mouth, automatic and reactive. He swallowed your breath whole, groaning as your hands skimmed up his shoulders to the hair at the nape of his neck, threading through the damp strands with a tug. His head lulled back, a chuckle rumbling in his chest as your lips parted, then met again properly. His head slanted as he adjusted his grip on your waist, tugging you even closer. His tongue teased along your bottom lip before sweeping into your mouth, and for a fleeting moment, you met him halfway, allowing him to pull you under—

A thought struck you suddenly. You hadn’t heard the telltale sounds of Madame Yoru stalking down the hidden corridor, nor the quiet scrape of the shutter being slid open—

You pulled away abruptly, chest heaving from the effort. Your hand slipped from his hair, down his shoulders to his chest as you pushed back, putting a small but deliberate distance between the two of you as he tried to chase your lips.

“Patience, Warden,” You huffed, watching as he tried to calm his own breathing, one hand still gripping your waist. His expression was guarded, save for the faint narrowing of his eyes as he tried to determine why you had stopped. “You haven’t even had your tea yet.”

Gently, you removed his hand from your side, then rose from where you sat. He didn’t look the most pleased about it, but nevertheless, he relented to your authority. You motioned to the pile of clothes and towels the servants had left nearby before turning back to where the teapot sat on the low table. As you knelt upon one of the cushions, you heard the slosh of water behind you as he rose from the tub. The patter of water over the tatami followed as he stepped out, unhurriedly crossing the short distance to the pile. You kept your gaze averted, not out of bashfulness but rather not wanting to encourage any lingering lust that coursed through his veins before the right eyes were watching.

Your attention drifted to the clay teapot that had been quietly brewing all the while. Your fingers brushed against the warm surface, along the delicately painted cherry blossom petals that embellished its curve. As you gripped the handle and carefully poured the steaming liquid into the cup furthest from you, you could hear the rustle of fabric. By the time you lifted your gaze, placing the teapot back down, Zuko had half-heartedly dried himself off. The small towel hung low across his hips as he settled down onto one of the cushions across from you. He accepted his cup without thanks, eying you as he took an audible sip, the scent of jasmine merging with the cypress soap and the underlying aroma of death.

“How did you end up here?” he asked. For a brief moment, you couldn’t tell if he was asking because he was genuinely interested in an answer, or if he simply wished to distract himself from the fact that his cock was half-hard. A weighted silence settled over you both again.

You smiled at him over the rim of your cup, although it was empty. That was a trick the Madame had taught you years ago, to at least pretend to be mortal. The best way to please a client was to make them feel at ease, and the best way to do that was to make them forget entirely that they were face-to-face with an undead monster. You had learnt to pretend to drink alongside them, to hold your wrist and hand in the perfect position that implied weight, to act as though your cup was always overflowing even when it was bone dry.

“Lord Kage took a liking to me.” The answer came easily. Only because it was an answer that had been practised countless times over the decades, one that had been drilled into you since your arrival. But even if your answer was flawlessly spoken, with the perfect inflexion and sweet, empty smile to match, displeasure flickered across Zuko’s expression.

“When were you turned?” He asked.

You leaned back slightly. Normally, you wouldn’t have entertained such questions, rather you would have artfully steered the conversation away, but you already knew there was nothing normal about anything that had unfolded so far. The memories were distant, a faded quality to them, the edges fraying the more you tried to hold onto them. The harder you reached, the more they seemed to slip, until you began to wonder if you weren’t remembering the moments themselves at all, but rather the memory of memories. Details blurred and condensed until your mind filled in the gaps incorrectly, like they were events that happened to someone else entirely. Sometimes you felt like two beings were warring within you—Spider Lily and the girl you once were. Those fragments felt like they belonged to her, the girl, your true self. But you weren’t her anymore, you were Spider Lily. And no matter how much that girl tried to claw her way out, she was trapped, deep underground in that box. And you had learnt that the only way you could survive was to become the monster, to become Spider Lily, to become just as terrible as the rest of them.

“I couldn’t tell you,” you finally replied after a pregnant pause.

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember pieces.” Your fingers tightened around the cup. “After a while, the years all blur together. Seasons become decades, decades become centuries.”

A faint smile graced your lips. “Though, I remember it was spring.”

The Warden’s brow quirked.

“I was supposed to debut after the summer solstice—my mother had spent all winter preparing the last of my yomeiri-dogu, my father a dowry to ensure I would be secure.” As your eyes lifted to meet his, you could see the pieces clicking together as he realised exactly the type of wealth and status you had once been born into. “I was supposed to be the catch of the season… but I couldn’t help but feel terrified.”

At the time, you believed you had been afraid of marriage, of leaving your home, family, and friends, of marrying a man who would have been a stranger to you. But in recent decades, you began to wonder if, deep down, you had known all along. Perhaps you had a premonition of what was to come.

“Terrified of what?” Zuko’s rumbling voice asked.

“Of making a mistake—” you laughed softly. Your reply had layers to it. It hadn’t just been the idea of making a mistake during your debut, of tripping over your own feet or making a fool of yourself. It had been the fear of making a mistake by marrying, of committing yourself to a life of lies. “—Of marrying a stranger, only to become some trophy wife within a gilded cage.”

The answer seemed to surprise him, and you knew you could both see the irony within your words.

“I had seen my mother live that life, and I did not wish to repeat it. I wanted to… continue school, travel, fall in love. So I ran away.” Your brows knitted together. “I ran away, and made it all of what? A few blocks? Only to end up within another cage entirely, I—”

You reeled yourself back, smoothing over your expression with a pleasant smile.

“I think I was nineteen at the time, maybe twenty at most.”

A beat passed as Zuko studied you, and a wavering thought wondered if he was undergoing some horribly misguided attempt to try and discover a flicker of humanity left within you. Madame Yoru and the guard still weren’t at the spying hole; the most you could do was steel yourself.

“Do you remember who ruled at the time?”

You snorted. “No.”

“No?” He repeated, eyes narrowing.

Did he think you were lying?

“It’s funny, isn’t it? How a girl’s mind works?” Your thumb traced the rim of your cup. “I remember the colours of silk everyone wanted that year and the styles we wore our hair in. I remember the rose hip and hibiscus perfume my friend wore and how she always took her tea lukewarm with honey. I remember the boy I spent months pretending not to like.”

Your smile turned distant.

“But Kings? Wars? Politics? No, not a single recollection.” You shook your head. “It’s all so ridiculous now, thinking back on it.”

The Warden grunted in response, displeased. For a second, you thought that he would allow silence to fall over you both again, to allow himself some peace as he drank his tea, while you sat across from him pretending to do the same. In contrast to your expectations, he spoke up once again.

“I take it that you were turned against your will then?”

The question made you hesitate, and suddenly you had the uncomfortable realisation that this entire time he hadn’t been interested in your replies, but rather your reactions. You lowered the empty cup you had been nursing, properly lowered it until it connected with the table with a soft clunk. It wasn’t a graceful movement, not perfected and artful in the way Spider Lily would, but rather the actions of a girl caught entirely off guard. You looked up sharply, and he simply stared with a smug expression.

The mask slipped. A short, bitter laugh escaped you. “You think any of us are here willingly?”

Zuko’s arrogant expression didn’t change.

“Lord Kage likes to collect pretty faces. Girls, boys—anyone who catches his attention,” you spat. “He turns us and brings us here to be broken in and serve. There’s nothing more valuable than a whore that doesn’t age.”

“And if you refuse to serve?” Zuko questioned.

“Oh,” you hissed. “I think we both know there are plenty of ways to break a person, immortal or not.”

“They beat you?”

“No,” you muttered with a mocking little pout. “You really think Kage would damage his own merchandise?”

“What does he do then?” The Warden pried.

Your gaze drifted towards the floorboards, and for a fleeting second, you could feel it. That creeping darkness at the edges of your vision, shaking hands against rusted iron, and the stench, Spirits the stench—

Your eyes snapped up, and you found he was watching you intently as you teetered dangerously on the edge between reality and a dream. Eerily, you spoke.

“They put us in a box.”

“A box?” he repeated, confused.

Realising he was baiting you for more information, your expression twisted. You sucked in a deep breath, planting your hands hard enough on the low table that the teapot rattled. For a moment, you juggled between indifference and performance, before finally settling on one of your practised, pleasant smiles, even if there were a few cracks in it.

Zuko looked mildly vexed by your sudden withdrawal. It was entirely obvious to you now that he didn’t seem concerned anymore with covering up his true intentions with his line of questioning.

“Are you finished with your tea? I can pour you—”

“You want something from me, don’t you?”

Despite the abruptness of the Warden’s interruption, his tone and expression were entirely calm, perhaps too calm. Your smile fell while his only grew, your composure fully cracking. You pushed up until you were kneeling on the cushion, hands braced against the table as you stared across at him. Had your intentions truly been that obvious? A horrible thought dawned upon you, enough to make a cold chill run down your spine. If it had been that obvious, had the others noticed, had Madame Yoru? Is that why she was taking so long to take a peek? Were they all out there, secretly planning Spiritsknew what—

You couldn’t go back.

You couldn’t go back to that box—

“You willingly came to me. You walked down from the display and sought me out, not the other way around—”

“Careful, Warden.”

The warning came smoothly, so smoothly that the look in your eyes would’ve made any normal man quiver with fear. As you knelt, slightly towering over where he sat, still naked aside from the towel that clung around his hips, an unnatural stillness took over you. It was the kind of stillness only an apex predator on the hunt could hold. Zuko looked unimpressed.

“Is it revenge on your master?” He queried, leaning forward with an emboldened expression. “You want me to kill him, to create enough of a commotion for you to escape?”

Your eyebrows scrunched, head tilting as you examined him with a perplexed expression.

“Escape?” You laughed, though it was humourless. “There is no escape from this place.”

You cut your laugh off shot, expression abruptly steeling as you stared at him, speaking with complete and utter seriousness and sincerity. “The only escape from this place is death.”

That finally seemed to throw him, his face screwing up in confusion. The first genuine surprise you’d manage to get from him all evening. You leaned further over the table, until your faces were inches away, until you could feel his breath tickling your lips. Your next words would require his full attention.

“I want you to kill me.”

“What?” Zuko barked immediately, bewildered.

The words felt strangely easy once spoken aloud, like a weight had been lifted off your tired shoulders. You smiled steadily and unwaveringly, as though you were discussing the weather and not proposing your own execution. “I will help you get an audience with Lord Kage, as long as you promise to kill me before you leave this room.”

The silence that followed was palpable. All Zuko could do was stare, obviously struggling to contain whatever emotional leakage was slipping through the cracks of his usually stoic expression.

“After your master is dead, you will be free to leave this place—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you muttered. “Unless you are the Blue Spirit himself, I do not think you are capable of killing the monster that is Lord Kage. I appreciate the sentiment of your mercy, but the only true kindness you can show me at this point is ensuring I am dead regardless of whether you defeat him or not—”

“What if I am him?” Zuko cut over you, and you blinked.

“What?”

“What if I am the Blue Spirit?”

A scoff escaped you before you could stop yourself.

“If you were the Blue Spirit, we would not be having this conversation. I would already be dead,” you sneered. “So, I am asking you a favour. After I fuck you and feed from you, enough of a performance to get them to trust you, I need you to kill me.”

You watched his expression harden, yet he didn’t even flinch as you leaned in close, a sharp, seductive smile pulling at your lips. You couldn’t even hear his heart change from its steady beat as your breath ghosted his bottom lip. “Do you agree to this?”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed, the scar pulling tight as he leaned backwards sharply, establishing some distance. “Why would I agree to that?”

Anger flooded your face, your fangs peaking out over your bottom lip as you hissed at him.

“I need you to grant me that one mercy. It shouldn’t be hard for you, should it?” The low table groaned under your weight as you dug your palm harder into the surface, the wood nearly splintering under your inhuman grip. “You are a Warden, after all.”

“Hold on—”

His voice sharpened for the first time all evening, and you knew he was about to argue. But the words had scarcely left his mouth before both of you went deadly still in unison, hearing the warning sign you’d been waiting for since the moment you entered the room. It wasn’t anything immediately obvious, no raised voices or knocks at the door. Just footsteps, unhurried, circling the room in the inner, hidden servants' hallway tucked between the walls.

Your head turned instinctively towards the far wall of the room, near the raised bed platform. Anyone ordinary or unfamiliar with the House of the Evening Bloom would have heard nothing more than servants passing by, but you knew better. You had learned the rhythm of those footsteps years ago. Madame Yoru wasn’t one to hurry; she was the worst type of predator—the one that liked to torment and toy with her food long before the thought of ending its misery ever crossed her mind. She wanted you to hear her. The heavier tread alongside her steps was likely one of Lord Kage’s guards. The Madame to confirm you had performed and earned your keep, and the guard to confirm that the Warden had allowed himself to be defiled and filthied by his enemy.

Instinct took over just before the footsteps paused. You surged to your feet, sweeping the low table aside with far more strength than any mortal woman could possess. It skidded across the tatami, a sharp crack sounding as it struck the opposite wall. The clay teapot and cups rattled violently as lukewarm tea spilt across the floor.

Zuko didn’t bother questioning your actions or urgency as you closed the distance between you, just as the cover on the eye-sized hole on the far wall slid open.

You tumbled to the floor, him flat on his back, the towel twisted and barely covering his lower half as you straddled his hips, kissing him. There was nothing gentle or hesitant about it; it was intended to be heard as much as seen. Your fingers tangled into the loose strands of his damp hair as you pressed yourself close. He groaned into your mouth, tongue sweeping against yours as his hand settled on the small of your back. You arched into his touch, only the silk of your robes separating you as you teasingly ground your hips against his already rehardening cock. The movement earned an irritated little grunt from him, and he pushed himself up. You followed the flow of his movements, allowing him to manoeuvre you as you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist.

Zuko lifted you as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Blindly, he guided you both to the bed, your lips working desperately and needily against one another. Perching himself on the edge, he settled you onto his lap, the mattress dipping beneath your combined weight. When you finally drew back, the Warden eagerly chased your lips. You huffed out a breathless laugh, resting your forehead against his. The towel had been lost at some point, leaving him completely bare beneath you. You dragged your fingernails across his shoulders and chest, giggling as he kissed a wet trail of kisses along your jaw and neck.

Slipping gracefully from his lap, your bare feet met the floor without a sound. You slowly rose to your full height between his spread thighs. His cock stood flushed and heavy against his stomach, the head already glistening with precum that caught the lowlight. You met his gaze with a knowing smirk, taking two measured steps backwards, fingers finding the fastening of your robe.

Was he performing as well? All too aware of the unseen eyes that were watching from behind the wall? Or had genuine lust slipped through the cracks of his restraint? The question flickered once before you snuffed it out. Zuko had been caught in your web the moment you kissed him, and already the persona of Spider Lily had settled over you like a second skin, fangs digging in. Given the irregularities of the evening, it was startlingly easy to push every opposing thought aside. Decades of training had carved this routine into your bones—the slow reveal, the calculated arch of your back, the precise tilt of your chin. Your mind would quiet, it always did when you let the mask take over. There was no room for doubt when every movement had been rehearsed and executed a thousand times.

You were numb to it.

The embroidered silk loosened around your frame. You eased it from your shoulders, letting the crimson fabric slip down your arms in a slow, liquid cascade. The Warden’s brow lifted, the only outward sign of interest, but neither of you could deny how his eyes tracked the motion hungrily as the robe peeled away from your breasts. Your peaked nipples caught briefly on the silk before the garment continued its descent, sliding over the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, until it pooled in a shimmering circle at your feet.

You stood bare before him. Zuko remained seated on the edge of the raised bed, elbows braced behind him, amber eyes dragging over every inch of your exposed flesh with unapologetic focus. His gaze lingered on the swell of your breasts, the drip of your navel and the smooth line of your thighs. You stepped out of the robe at your feet with unhurried grace and closed the short distance between you. Your bare skin brushed the inside of his knees as you sank slowly to the floor. Your fingertips trailed down the hard lines of his abdomen, mapping each scar and ridge of muscle before your lips followed, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the same path. Zuko’s breath stuttered ever-so-slightly, his throat working as you settled between his thighs. His heartbeat thrummed beneath your mouth, quickening with every brush of your lips, the steady pulse of blood rushing just beneath the surface. The closer you drew his thigh, the stronger the scent became—rich, metallic, threaded with the faint sweetness of arousal. It filled your senses, and the barely restrained hunger that had been growing within you honed. You could smell the artery pulsing beneath his skin, the blood hot and eager, and the need to taste it clawed at the back of your throat. Your tongue flicked out, tasting the salt and the clean bite of remnants of cypress soap, but it was the iron-rich promise beneath that made your mouth water.

There was an ache in your belly, a deep, gnawing ache. You’d known aches in your time. The ache of slick heat between your thighs, never to be satisfied. The ache of sobs that rattled your chest and tears that stained your cheeks. But this ache had nothing to do with desire or agony, but rather everything to do with the veins pulsating so close to your teeth.

With no warning or even an indication of what was to come, you sank your fangs into the saddle-worn, meaty flesh of his inner thigh. The Warden hissed, the sound breaking into a low groan as your mouth sealed over the punctures. His blood flooded across your tongue, thick and warm, laced with the tang of adrenaline. It was far richer and cleaner than the thin, alcohol-tainted taste you were used to from clients. You swallowed greedily, each pull sending a fresh wave of heat through your own veins.

It took everything within you not to consume him entirely, to suck him dry until only a husk remained.

No.

No, you had to remind yourself.

Your hunger would settle, and soon it would not matter at all. You needed him alive for your meeting with Death to come to fruition.

The aphrodisiac in your bite hit him almost instantly, your eyes catching how his cock twitched hard against his stomach, another bead of precum sliding down the flushed head. His thighs trembled beneath your hands as pleasure rolled through him. You lingered a moment, savouring the taste with a muffled, wanton moan, then forced yourself to draw back enough to lap at the bite wound. Your tongue moved in slow strokes, sealing the punctures with saliva, while Zuko’s breath came ragged above you. One of his hands found your hair, fingers threading through the strands and dislodging a few of the gold and tortoiseshell pins that held it in place. The soft clink of metal against the tatami barely registered over the sound of his breathing.

You looked up at him through your lashes, lips still wet with his blood and smiled.

“You taste… delicious,” you murmured, voice low and velvet-smooth, every syllable curated for the audience you both knew were watching.

His molten honey gaze burned into yours as you braced your hands on his knees and rose from the floor. Blood still slicked your lips and chin, thin streams trailing down your throat, pooling along your collarbones. You leaned in again, pressing your mouth to the hard plane of his stomach, then higher, kissing and licking your way back upward in a glistening, sticky path of spit and blood. His muscles jumped beneath your lips.

Reaching his chest, you paused, breath ghosting over his nipple before your fangs sank into the firm swell of his pectoral. The flesh gave way with a soft, wet pop, and fresh blood welled up against your tongue. Zuko groaned roughly, his body convulsing beneath you as you drew another slow mouthful from the wound—

The moment did not last long.

With a low growl, his hands clamped around your waist and hauled you upward, dragging you onto his lap in one powerful motion. Your knees settled on either side of his hips, and the length of his cock was wedged between your bodies.

The aphrodisiac-like effect in your bite was taking hold fast. There was nothing left of the cool, calculating Warden who had walked through the door. His breathing had gone ragged, pupils blown wide and dark, the grip on your waist unconcerned with care. His fingers dug into your skin with bruising force, pulling you closer, rutting his cock against your belly in short, desperate rolls of his hips. His heart hammered against your chest, every exhale carrying an edge of a groan he couldn’t quite swallow.

“I can tell,” you cooed, voice syrupy-sweet, “that my bite is taking effect on your system now.”

Zuko’s only answer was a strained, half-irritated grunt, his jaw tight as he fought to keep some thread of control. His eyes were heavy-lidded, lashes fluttering, but the tension in his body told you he was losing the battle fast. Very much aware of the watching eyes from the wall, you continued teasing, hips grinding a slow circle that had his blunt nails biting deep enough to leave marks.

You smiled against his throat, listening to the rush of blood just below the surface.

“That’s it, Warden. Feels good, doesn’t it?” You hummed, taunting. “Understand why men get addicted now? Are you going to get addicted to me too?”

Zuko’s only answer was a strained, wordless sound caught somewhere between indignation and raw need—his sharp jaw set in a way that spoke of a man fighting to keep his composure.

“That’s alright,” you whispered, breath hot against the shell of his ear. “I like you better when you don’t talk, Warden.”

His cock remained trapped between your bodies, each lazy roll of your core smearing his warm, slick precum across your stomach. With the taste of his blood still in your mouth, a wicked thought crossed your mind. “Want to taste yourself?”

Pulling back enough to meet his eyes, you could see the internal battle that raged within him—pride, restraint, the knowledge that this was still a performance? You were unsure. And, as if relenting to some hidden urge, he finally mustered a nod, his eyes glazed over.

Your mouth hovered over his, close enough that the word brushed his lips. “Open.”

He obeyed without hesitation.

You gathered the mixture on your tongue—thick saliva laced with the copper tang of his blood—then let it drip slowly. A long, glistening strand stretched between your mouths before it broke, the warm, pink-tinged glob landing half on his waiting tongue and half across his lower lip and chin. Zuko flinched at the sensation, a low, involuntary sound catching in his throat, but he didn’t pull away.

You watched the slow motion of his throat as he swallowed, his eyes fluttering half-shut like the taste had hit him like a drug. With a soft giggle, you used your thumb to smear the remaining mess across his lower lip, pressing it onto his tongue so he could taste every drop.

To your surprise, he reciprocated the motion, tongue sweeping over the pad of your thumb. You watched intently as he savoured the taste, suckling and nibbling at the digit—

A flicker of arousal pooled warm and unwelcome between your thighs, surprising enough that you felt your cunt flutter in response as your composure faltered. Before he could catch his breath, you withdrew your finger and leaned in again, your mouth crashing against his in a messy, open kiss. Your tongues slid together, the taste of his blood shared between you. His lips parted wider as he chased the flavour, a groan rumbling from his chest. Your hands framed his face, holding him steady as you licked into his mouth, sucking his tongue.

While he was distracted, you rose smoothly onto your knees, guiding the flushed head of his cock between your thighs. The moment you began to sink onto him, Zuko’s hips jerked upward in a helpless thrust. The kiss broke on a rough, breathy moan that spilt from his throat into yours, and you took him in one slow motion, until your hips met his and he was buried to the hilt inside you. The stretch forced a shallow sound from your own throat, more for the watchers than from any real pleasure, but the heat of him was undeniable. You could feel every thick inch pulsing within your walls as they adjusted around him.

Once you were fully seated, you began to move, hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm that dragged him in and out of you. Each rise and fall was calculated, each squeeze of your inner muscles timed to wring the most reaction from him.

Zuko groaned. His hips bucked up to meet yours, driving himself deeper, and you felt the exact moment his control began to fracture. Your fangs found the strong column of his throat, and the skin gave easily beneath your bite, his hot, rich blood flooding your mouth in a sudden rush. Zuko’s cock jolted hard inside your cunt, pulsing in time with every swallow, his hips stuttering upward in short, desperate thrusts as the pleasure of your bite crashed through him. His head tipped back, a broken groan tearing from his chest, and you felt him throb and twitch as if the act of feeding was dragging him closer to the edge with every mouthful.

“You’re losing control, Warden,” you whispered against his throat. A thin line of blood escaped the corner of your mouth, rolling hot and sticky down your chin. “I can feel it.”

Your hand pressed flat on the centre of his chest and pushed. Zuko went willingly, letting you tip him onto his back until he lay flat against the sheets.

Still straddling his hips, you moved on him with the same poise you had perfected over decades, each rise and fall of your hips made to look desperate while remaining entirely controlled. Your inner walls squeezed him at carefully chosen intervals, timed to the rhythm of his breathing so he would feel every calculated flutter. Every moan pitched just right—soft at first, then louder, breathy, the kind of sound that made men feel powerful. Your hands rested lightly on his chest, fingertips tracing idle patterns across his skin, but your real focus stayed locked on his face. You watched the subtle twitch of his brow, the way his throat bobbed when you clenched just right, the faint flare of his nostrils when you sank to the hilt. You were looking for the smallest flicker of a reaction that told you whether to slow down or grind harder. The head of his cock was dragging against sensitive places you knew were better to ignore. You noted the way his breathing had quickened, the slight tremor in his thighs, and the way his eyes rolled back as he lost himself in the sensation. All good signs—you catalogued each one.

When his grip tightened, and his hips began to lift to meet yours in short, involuntary thrusts, you decided it was time. You let your performance build, your moans growing louder, more breathless, your body moving with just the right amount of desperation. Your head fell back, exposing the long line of your throat, and you let out a carefully crafted cry—high, broken, the sound of a woman coming undone. Your walls fluttered around him, your thighs trembling on cue as you rode out the fake climax, every detail flawless.

But when you looked down again, Zuko’s eyes were no longer half-lidded with pleasure—they were sharp, focused, and unmistakably irritated.

His jaw was set, mouth pressed into a thin line, and his hands had gone still on your hips—

He hadn’t finished.

The tension in his body wasn’t the kind that preceded release; instead, he was watching you with growing displeasure. You felt the shift immediately. The air between you changed, the heat of exasperation swelling. His gaze pinned you in place, and you could see the realisation dawning in his expression: he had seen through the act.

Fuck.

He hadn’t orgasmed.

He hadn’t even been close, like somehow within those last moments he had willed himself not to, just to prove a point, but worst of all—

He knew you had faked it.

For an uneasy moment, you wondered why he was so angry. After all, wasn’t this entire arrangement for the benefit of Madame Yoru and the guard? A performance meant to earn their trust so he could reach Lord Kage? Your pleasure had never come into the equation—only your ability to seduce and filthy what was supposedly an honourable Warden. When had he even noticed the moment your moans turned scripted, your body moving on muscle memory rather than genuine need? The entire evening, it seemed the Warden was determined to unearth something solid beneath the act, as if he were deeply offended by the idea of interacting with Spider Lily, but rather desired you, the girl hidden behind the mask.

“Finished with your fun, are you?” he growled.

Before you could answer, he flipped you over in one swift motion. Your stomach met the sheets, and his hands pressed down hard—one between your shoulder blades, the other pinning the small of your back—so you couldn’t even lift your hips or escape the weight of him. Using his knee, he spread your legs wide, every inch of you open and helpless beneath him.

“What are you—?”

“Does that act really work on other men?” He snarled low enough that only you could hear it. You squirmed under his weight, not entirely from discomfort or the desire to be free. An intense, unwelcome pulse of heat flared low in your belly at the sudden dominance in his tone. “Kind of pathetic, really.”

How had he managed to fight through the aphrodisiac so cleanly? You could only hazard a wild guess that he or Warden’s as a whole must have built up defences to such tricks. Zuko leaned down until his chest was flush against your back, his breath searing against your ear.

“You truly thought I wouldn’t notice that you didn’t finish?” His hand swept over the curve of your spine, fingers sliding between your thighs to stroke through your folds. The touch made both of you pause—his fingers came away slick.

The realisation that you were genuinely wet, genuinely aroused, startled you.

“Pathetic little courtesan act, moaning on cue like I’m some green client you can play. You feel that?” He dragged his fingers through the wetness again. “That’s real. You’re drenched.”

You were suddenly, painfully aware of Madame Yoru’s single watching eye behind the hole in the wall. You could imagine her straining, trying her best to hear the words being rasped into your ear.

“Why do you care?” you hissed back, voice tight. “I’m just trying to help you—”

He cut you off with a hard, deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs. You cried out, body jerking beneath him.

“If I noticed,” he growled against your ear, hips already snapping into you in a brutal rhythm, “then they certainly did. We’re going to have to make it more believable if I’m going to see your master.”

“Fuck—!” The word tore out of you raw as he drove into you again and again, the angle forcing every thick inch to drag against places you’d spent decades ignoring. You squirmed, trying to adjust, but his weight kept you pinned flat, unable to do anything but take it. Your hands fisted the sheets, knuckles white, and for the first time in years, the sounds spilling from your throat were desperate and involuntary.

You weren’t acting anymore.

The pleasure was building too fast, and Zuko seemed to have forgotten this was supposed to be a performance. His grip on you was possessive, his breathing uneven with something that felt dangerously close to real hunger. You were too far gone in the overwhelming sensation to stop it now.

“Fuck—Warden—”

His fingers slid into your hair and yanked, gathering a fistful at the roots and hauling your head back until your throat arched in a taut line. The sharp pull sent a bright sting across your scalp that only enhanced the pleasure already tearing through you. He drove into you again, the wet slap of skin loud, your mouth fell open, each thrust forcing another, a high, shameless moan to spill out of you before you could catch it. The shock of it hit like ice water. This wasn’t part of the act—

Your walls fluttered around him without permission, your thighs trembling, heat coiling and snapping low in your belly so abruptly that you couldn’t breathe. Every plunge of his cock was too much and not enough, and you couldn’t stop the noises pouring out of you, gasps, whimpers, broken little cries that pitched higher each time he bottomed out.

Zuko leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, and hissed words directly into your ear, breath harsh.

“Shut the fuck up,” he commanded. “I’m trying to work here.”

“Ah—fuck, I—I can’t—” The words tumbled out before you could stop them. Your hands clawed at the sheets, and you realised you were shaking—actually shaking—because the pleasure was cresting too fast, and you had no control over the way your body answered him.

His hand came up, palm clamping over your mouth, then two thick fingers pushed past your lips and pressed down on your tongue, trying to muffle the sounds. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes.

“Mmf—please, I’m—mmm—” Your voice cracked, the words muffled around his fingers, and the realisation that you were begging, truly begging, sent another helpless flutter through your cunt.

You couldn’t stop it, couldn’t fake it, couldn’t slow the way your hips tried to push back against him, even though he had you pinned flat. A choked sob left you, half-moan, half-cry, and you felt your walls clamp down around him. The pleasure kept building, surging higher, and you knew there was no stopping it now. You were lost to it, lost to him, and the only thing you could do was moan around his fingers as he fucked you through it. You couldn’t tell anymore if he was still playing his part or if the aphrodisiac and the heat of the moment had finally cracked his restraint. Every snap of his hips drove him deeper, the angle forcing the thick head of his cock to drag over the exact spot you needed him—

“I can feel you’re close,” he breathed into your ear. “Make it real this time.”

You quivered around him, the pressure inside you winding tighter and together until it burst. A raw, broken scream tore out of you, muffled against his palm, your body locking down hard, pulsing and clenching so violently that your vision spotted. You convulsed beneath him, thighs trembling, a flood of slick coating his cock as the orgasm ripped through you.

“Fuck, there you are,” he snarled, voice rough.

He didn’t stop.

He kept driving into you through the aftershocks, using the frantic, fluttering squeeze of your cunt to chase his own release. The wet, obscene sound of it filled the room, the slap of skin against skin loud enough that you knew Madame Yoru and the guard could hear every filthy detail. His fingers stayed buried in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue while his other hand kept you pinned flat. He used the tight grip of your body like a man starved, hips burrowing in short, brutal strokes that dragged your orgasm out until you were sobbing against his palm, over-sensitive and shaking.

You felt his rhythm falter for the first time, hips stuttering, and then he buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan. Heat flooded you in thick pulses, his cock twitching hard as he emptied himself inside you, grinding through the last shuddering waves until he finally stilled, chest heaving against your back.

The room was thick with the sound of both of you panting. Zuko’s weight still pressed you into the mattress, his breath hot against the nape of your neck, each exhale shaking slightly as he came down. You lay beneath him, body limp, every muscle trembling in the aftermath. Your mind was reeling, struggling to catch up with what had just happened.

You had orgasmed.

Really orgasmed.

There had been no performance, no calculated moan, no careful scripting of your reactions. A strange mix of disbelief and fear curled in your chest.

Zuko shifted above you. With a low grunt, he pushed himself up onto his hands, his softening cock still nestled inside you. To your surprise, he didn’t pull out. Instead, one of his calloused hands left your shoulder and began to stroke down the length of your spine, palm warm and unexpectedly gentle. You stayed perfectly still beneath him, too stunned to move, the steady rhythm of his hand grounding you even as your thoughts spun wildly.

The hole in the wall slammed shut with a sharp crack. Madame Yoru and the guard were obviously satisfied with what they had seen. At the sound of their retreating footsteps echoing in the inner corridor, you shot upright so quickly that Zuko’s cock slipped free. Before you could even register the loss, you were on him.

Your lips crashed into his, hands fisting his hair and dragging him down into a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. He met you with equal force, one hand clamping around the back of your neck. The taste of his blood still lingered between you, and you poured every tangled, confused feeling into his mouth.

When you finally tore away, both your breathing was ragged, foreheads touching. You could feel his seed beginning to ooze out of you, and all you could do was swallow down the dread lodged in your throat.

Steeling yourself, you finally spoke, your voice scarcely more than a whisper—

“I need you to kill me now.”

For a long moment, Zuko simply looked at you.

He slowly leaned back, putting a few inches of space between you. The warmth that had temporarily blossomed vanished as his expression settled back into that familiar, unreadable mask. It was that stoic look you’d become accustomed to in your short time together, that hardness that swallowed every flicker of emotion before it could fully surface. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was angry with himself; he certainly gave off that impression. Perhaps, even if just for a moment, he had forgotten why he was here—forgotten Lord Kage, forgotten the House of the Evening Bloom and all its flowers. If only for a fleeting second, it was just your two souls meeting—like two stars colliding in the darkness—like the Spirits had willed that you meet on this one fateful day before you were both cast back out into the abyss. Regardless, it seemed your repeated request had shattered whatever illusion he’d allowed himself to entertain.

Without answering, he rose from the bed in one smooth motion. You dared to hope that his silence was a reluctant sort of acceptance. You remained seated, tracking him with your eyes as he crossed the room. His broad shoulder blades flexed beneath weathered skin as he bent to retrieve your discarded robe. For a second, you foolishly thought he meant to hand it back—

Instead, he tossed it at you.

You jolted as the embroidered silk struck your chest, sliding down your lap.

“You’re going to kill me, right?” you asked, voice tight.

He ignored the question entirely, as well as the pile of clean clothes the servants had left out. Returning to his discarded dirty pile, he dragged his blood and sweat stained undershirt over his head, followed by the heavier outer layers that carried the dust of half the Earth Kingdom upon them.

“Warden,” you tried again, rising to your feet as you gathered your robe around yourself. Humiliation curled hot up your spine. “We had a deal—”

He let out a slow breath through his nose as he adjusted his scabbard over his shoulders. “Just run away.”

You scowled, a bitter laugh escaping before you could stop it. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

You thrust your arms into the sleeves of your robes with more force than necessary, fingers fumbling against the silk as anger began to eclipse despair. “That the only escape from this place is death.”

Only then did he fully look at you, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowed in irritation. “Can you even hear yourself—”

A deafening crack echoed through the room as the shoji slid open so violently that it rattled in its frame. At the sound, Zuko had immediately assumed a fighter’s position, feet placed a shoulder-width apart, fists raised, while all you could do was gape in disbelief.

Peony stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling in quick, furious breaths, dark eyes fixed entirely upon you—

“You stupid, greedy bitch.” The words left Peony before either you or Zuko had the sense to react. All you could muster was to stare back at her in complete and utter bewilderment. You couldn’t believe she had the gall to march in, especially knowing the Zuko hadn’t left your side yet.

“Peony—” you started.

She crossed the room in three quick strides—entirely ignoring Zuko, who tracked her every movement with a Warden’s assessment—and slapped you hard enough that the force made your head turn. Pain blossomed across your cheek as your balance faltered, one hand flying instinctively to your face as you recoiled in shock. It took you a few baffled seconds, but you eventually lifted your head to look at Peony. She was trembling, not with fear, but with fury.

“I claimed him,” the words came through clenched teeth. “I was there first.”

You blinked at her, still dazed from the blow. Of course, the flowers often fought among themselves; the environment had always been built to pit you against one another, you were each other's competition after all. Though it was historically in the form of public humiliation or a not-so-subtle tongue-lashing, never anything this unbelievably reckless and blatant. But it seemed Peony had long passed the point of caring about consequences.

“The moment he walked through the doors, everyone saw it.” She took another step forward, eyes frantic. “He was mine.”

You couldn’t place her distress. You had expected her to be angry with you, yes, but this fury came from another origin entirely, like beyond the resentment was all-consuming fear. Deep down, you knew this had the stench of Madame Yoru’s meddling attached to it.

“Peony—”

“No,” she snarled. “Don’t you dare.”

The decades of polished smiles and practised elegance you had observed her hold over the years fractured all at once. The closer you stared, the more you noticed the details out of place. The slight smudge of her painted lips bleeding into her white face powder, the decorative pins in her hair slightly askew, eyes glistening with unshed tears—

“You’ve spent years sitting up on your little perch, pretending you were above the rest of us.” She jabbed a finger towards the direction of the display beyond the walls. “Too miserable to work, too miserable to smile, too miserable to earn your keep. Leaving the rest of us to deal with the disgusting, filthy scraps.”

She took another step forward, a manic laugh slipping past her sharp lips. “But the moment a handsome Warden walks through the front doors, suddenly Spider Lily remembers how to descend?”

Your jaw tightened, teeth grinding. “He chose me.”

“Oh, spare me.” Peony laughed with a gasp, clutching at her chest before her dark eyes narrowed with a hiss. “You challenged me. I wanted to drag you off him the moment you left the parlour.”

She pointed her finger at your chest. “I would have, if Madame Yoru hadn’t ordered me to wait until your little performance was over.”

Peony smiled wider, shoving your shoulder with a single, hard blow. “You’ve always been Lord Kage’s favourite, haven’t you? It has to be why Madame Yoru still keeps an embarrassment like you around.”

She shoved you hard again, hard enough that your calves struck the edge of the bed, her hands catching your robes as she made a fist around the embroidered silk. “I’ll make sure you pay for this. I’ll see you stripped of every scrap of favour you have left.”

“And when Lord Kage hears about this—” she yanked you forward, “—he’ll put you back in the box.”

Your hands instinctively flew to her wrists as dread washed over you, your breath hitching—

Her smile had turned vicious, knowing exactly what she was doing to you. “This time they’ll leave there until you forget your own n—”

Her hand drew back, intending to strike you once more. You braced yourself for the impact, frozen in place by just the mere mention of that box. But Peony faltered, her body jerking. You felt her grip loosen, her jaw going slack, a mixture of shock and horror flooding her features.

Confused, she slowly turned her head, and you followed her gaze.

Zuko was no longer half-dressed on the opposite side of the room. The Warden didn’t even seem to be present, replaced instead by a figure wearing a weathered, blue oni mask that obscured their face. But it was only when twin amber eyes met your gaze through the narrow eye slits that the scene before you clicked—

The Blue Spirit stood before you. Zuko, the man you’d spent all evening with—teasing him, sharing stories from a childhood you’d long since pushed to the recesses of your mind, drinking his blood and allowing him to fuck you senseless—was the Blue Spirit. You felt sick, yet almost laughed aloud at the same time. Was this what the Spirits had rewarded you with after a century of waiting and agony? Was this what fate had considered necessary? Two stars, burning fiercely in the night sky, only to explode on contact. Two stars destined to bring destruction to this place, like locusts to a garden. The petals would shrivel, and the flowers would wilt, and the House of the Evening Bloom, the greatest garden in the Earth Kingdom, would finally perish.

Peony’s eyes widened.

“No…” the word barely escaped her lips, and you followed her gaze down her robes. A wooden stake was punched cleanly through her chest, the pointed tip peaking out through a tear in her robes. For a moment, you both stared down at it, disbelief washing over both your faces.

Then the flesh around the wound blackened.

“Peony—” you gasped.

Lurching forward, your instincts overpowered reason, your hands catching her shoulders just as her knees threatened to buckle. For the briefest of moments, you thought you had caught her—until she began to fall apart. The flesh beneath your fingers cracked with a dry, splintering sound, fine fractures appearing across her throat and jaw. It spread over the rest of her body like frost across glass. You watched, horrified, as the colour drained from her skin. Flecks of ash lifted from her cheeks, drifting weightlessly between the two of you.

Her mouth opened as if to scream, but nothing came out.

Peony collapsed inward—not to the floor, but instead through your grasp—dissolving into a cloud of grey ash that slipped through your fingers and settled softly across the tatami. Her crimson robe crumpled a heartbeat later, folding neatly into the empty space where she had stood, as though the woman inside it had never existed at all. The room fell deathly silent, your gaze fixed on the pile of ash. Your empty arms were still outstretched where Peony had stood mere seconds before, your hands curved around nothing. Slowly, very slowly, you lifted your eyes. Zuko—the Blue Spirit—stood motionless, stake still clenched in one hand. The carved, wooden oni mask concealed every trace of expression, but something about the way he stood unnerved you all the same.

And to your disgust, and absolute horror… You couldn’t muster a shred of sadness or grief for Peony. Neither of you had been close, no, one did not make friends in the House of the Evening Bloom. But you had been trapped all the same, two gilded cages directly opposite each other so you could watch the other pace like a wild animal.

No, the only thing you felt was envy—envy that she had been taken, freed from this place, and you had not.

With wide, glassy eyes, you swallowed and slowly lowered yourself to your knees. The movement stirred the ashes scattered around Peony’s discarded robe, her essence swirling briefly across the tatami before it settled once more.

“Go on, do it,” you breathed. “I’m ready.”

The mask tilted, and you couldn’t help but feel there was something almost animalistic about his silent assessment. When he finally spoke, his voice was muffled behind the carved wood.

“No.”

You stared at him. “...No?”

A laugh bubbled in your chest, tight and high as your chest shook. Zuko remained still, towering above you, watching with what you could only imagine was disdain. It was only as tears began to blur your vision, thick, fat droplets pouring down your cheeks and under your chin, that you realised your laughter had morphed into ugly sobs. They rattled your entire body, rattled you so thoroughly that each wail went a wave of pain and nausea through you, your body folding in on itself as you braced your palms against the tatami.

The longer you sobbed, and the longer he silently watched, the hotter the flicker of resentment deep within you began to burn. Your head snapped up, your tearful expression pulled into a snarl as your voice rose despite yourself, finally unconcerned with anyone overhearing your demands.

“Why?” you shouted. “Why won’t you just kill me?”

Zuko scoffed—actually scoffed—and through the slits in the mask, you could see his eyes narrow. “You said only the Blue Spirit stood a chance of killing Lord Kage, that the only reason you wanted death first was because you believed no other man could achieve it. That you were afraid of the consequences of running if he didn’t fall—”

“Stop—”

“So I will kill him. I will kill him, and you will be free.”

“Zuko—”

“Run, run while you still can. You still have a few hours before the sun rises—”

“This wasn’t our deal!” You snarled, finally cutting over him loudly enough that he paused his spiel. “You agreed to kill me.”

He went quiet in a way that made you think he was making a face behind the mask, and his tone hardened as he finally replied. “I never agreed to anything.”

“You don’t seem to understand, do you?” You snapped, exasperated. Sniffling, you wiped at your face with ash-stained hands, anger finally forcing you back into your kneeling position to meet his eye fully. “Everyone and everything I have ever known is dead! They are all bones and dust in the earth now—where would I go, who could I even turn to? There is nowhere for me to run!”

“Then make a new life for yourself.” His voice was sharp enough to cut as he stared down at you, a hint of coldness in the way he held his shoulders. “You survived, what are you so afraid of?”

You laughed again, bitterly, looking at him as if he had lost his mind. Your next words came out in a snarl. “I haven’t seen the sun in years. I am a relic of a time that no longer exists! I don’t even remember my own name—how am I supposed to simply make a new life?”

“You remember enough, even if you pretend you don’t.” Zuko sneered. “That much is clear.”

“I thought you were supposed to be honourable,” you taunted. Maybe if you angered him enough, he would snap and kill you. Maybe if you provoked him, he would abandon the moral high ground, which he appeared determined to sit upon. “I thought as a Warden you were supposed to kill monsters, not fuck them."

The blue oni mask tilted again, his shoulders rising with a deep breath—the only sign that your words had affected him—before slowly settling. The fingers that had been curled into a fist at his side relaxed, the accusations you had hurled fizzling out as he denied you the reaction you desired.

“You’re not a monster,” he muttered, almost pitying. “I never thought you were.”

His softheartedness surprised you enough that you paused, chest heaving, voice trembling. You were a fool. A fucking fool. Kneeling before him, his seed still inside you, begging him to kill you when it was obvious he had never seen you as a threat. For all his callousness and coldness, you’d never expected the Warden to look beyond the act, to want to look beyond the mask.

“I am broken,” you confessed, head hanging low. “I am broken beyond repair. No matter what I do, I will never be free of this place.”

Whatever begninity had overtaken him waned; the familiar sound of a scoff reverbrating from behind the mask. “You are only broken if you allow yourself to remain that way. Pull yourself together.”

You swallowed hard, nails digging into your palms. “Do you know what they do if we disobey? If we try to run away? He will hunt us down, no matter where we run or where we hide. He will find us, and he will drag us down into that box—”

“What box? You all keep talking about this damned box—”

Your eyes flickered to the floor as his voice faded, shrinking in on yourself. Zuko shifted his weight, an uneasy mood sweeping over both of you as he realised your expression didn’t match the reaction he had anticipated.

Darkness flooded your mind, the weight of silence, walls pressing in…

You couldn’t go back.

“What is the box, Spider Lily?” Zuko repeated himself, his tone suddenly and eerily calm.

You couldn’t go back.

“The box…” You began, although your words sounded distant now, muffled and warped. It reminded you of the quiet mornings when all the clients left and the House fell into silence. You would bathe yourself in the lantern light, then slip under the surface, holding yourself there until your lungs burned. “It’s beneath the manor. They keep it past the cellars and wine stores in a room made of stone.”

A tremor passed through you as you instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself, unable to look up at the Warden.

“It isn’t large,” you continued after a long, shuddering pause. “Not much taller than a child. It’s wide enough to fit one person, but only just. You can’t stand or lie down. The best you can manage is crouching—knees tucked against your chest, your back bent, and your head lowered.”

“The cramps start after… I don’t know.” You frowned, frustrated, eyes locked onto the tatami, Zuko’s boots at the corner of your vision. “Hours, perhaps. Maybe days. It’s impossible to tell how quickly or slowly time passes. But eventually, your body knows time has passed, your muscles seize and give out. You slump over from exhaustion.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, the room around you disappearing—the darkness, the silence, the phantom iron walls—

“Eventually, you stop trying to find a comfortable position, because there isn’t one.”

Zuko was deathly silent and still across from you.

“It is completely dark, so dark you can’t even see your own hands in front of your face.” Your breath hitched. There was a reason why you and many of the other flowers always kept your rooms lit, even when morning broke. “And silent too, so very silent.”

“You’d be surprised how loud silence can become—at first, you listen for footsteps, voices, anything. Your own mind becomes so loud, so you try to distract your thoughts. You count, you recite songs, poems, recipes, anything your mind can grasp onto.” You laughed softly, a disturbed little sound. “Then you begin hearing things that aren’t there.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, rushing out like a tidal wave—

“You hear conversations, laughter, people calling your name, scratching and knocking at the walls. I used to hear my mother singing—” You abruptly cut yourself off. You hadn’t meant to admit that.

You exhaled loudly. Loud enough that your shoulders shook as you finally dared to look up at the Warden. Only the blank oni mask greeted you.

“They never feed you at the same time, they’re careful at making sure you don’t recognise patterns. They don’t want you knowing whether it is morning or night… whether you’ve been there for three days or three weeks. They want you disoriented and afraid.”

Your eyes narrowed as you recalled it.

“But the hunger…” Your hands drifted to your stomach without thinking. “It becomes so terrible and all-consuming that you stop caring. You find yourself licking the inside of the box, because the iron tastes of blood. You convince yourself the rust tastes sweet.”

Another tight laugh bubbled to the surface, caught somewhere between your teeth.

“When they finally do feed you, they pour it through tiny holes in the lid.” Your voice was bitter as you recalled it. “And even if you’ve spent hours telling yourself that you’ll keep your dignity, that you won't give them the satisfaction of seeing you beg, you throw yourself under it. You scramble for every drop—it runs down your face, your clothes, the floor. And they laugh. They stand above the box and laugh while you lap it from the floor. They laugh while you beg for more.”

You held the oni mask’s stare, sullen as you recalled it, the sensation of sticky, half-congealed blood running over your head and face, of sucking the clots caught in your hair. “By the time they let you out, you’ve forgotten why they even put you in there in the first place. So you beg forgiveness for a crime you can’t even remember committing.”

“I’ve been in the box three times,” you admitted. “I don’t know how long for, but I am certain it was months, if not years. All I can remember is that when they opened that lid, I thanked them. I thanked them for their mercy and kindness. That I begged them to put me back to work instead of sending me back to that darkness—”

Zuko turned abruptly. He didn’t so much as spare you another glance before striding towards the shoji. His boots struck the tatami with enough force to make the floorboards underneath creak. You still couldn’t read his expression beneath the oni mask or fully discern the emotion behind his silence, but everything he refused to say was revealed in the stiff set of his shoulders and his precise, clipped movements. A predator, a hunter, a killer—whatever the label, he effortlessly adopted the persona within moments, just as casually as you changed into your robe each evening.

He reached the shoji in three long strikes, his hand shooting out. The wooden frame shuddered violently from his grip, his fingers punching through the paper before he realised the force he’d used. For a heartbeat, he remained locked in place, head bowed ever-so-slightly as though overcoming whatever storm threatened to surface beneath the mask. You had a sickening realisation. The longer you watched his mannerisms, the more obvious it became.

He was furious.

When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerous enough to send a chill through you.

“I am going to kill your master.” His fingers tightened around the frame until the splintering wood creaked. “And then I am going to burn this place to the ground. You’d be wise to run while you still can.”

He slid the shoji open, and the distant, faded sound of sanxian strings and the laughter of drunken patrons floated down the empty hallway. You lurched to your feet, so quickly your knees nearly buckled beneath you.

“No!” The word tore from your throat raw. Your foot caught in the discarded folds of your robe, pitching you forward. You stumbled blindly across the room, crashing hard against the abandoned bath. The heavy wooden tub lurched at the impact, long cold water sloshing over the rim and soaking the sleeves of your robes. You barely felt it, your attention locked onto his back as he began to walk away. The one person capable of ending your ongoing, century-long nightmare was disappearing into the hallway. “I need you to kill me!”

A sound escaped your chest, and you shoved yourself away from the path, palms skidding over the wet timber. Half crawling, half stumbling, you threw yourself after him. Your vision blurred so thoroughly by tears that the doorway became little more than a smear of light. But, by some miracle, you caught him just before he crossed the threshold, your knees striking the tatami with enough force that your teeth clattered as you clung to his ankles.

“Please…” The word came out as a sob. You clutched at the worn leather of his boot, as if your sheer desperation could anchor him in place.

“I need you to…” Your forehead dropped against his shin. “Please… please.”

Your shoulders shook uncontrollably. The tears came harder now, droplets pattering across the leather as your breath dissolved into ragged sobs.

“I need you to free me. I can’t…” You choked. “I can’t do this anymore.”

With a quiet exhale through his nose, Zuko looked down. The carved blue mask peered at you, molten honey eyes lost to the shadows. Ever stoic, he shifted his stance. Not to comfort you, but rather free him himself. Stepping back, he broke your grasp with a firm tug. Your hands closed around empty air.

Without another word, the Blue Spirit disappeared down the corridor.

As the shouting began, you remained collapsed in the doorway, hands still outstretched, sobbing so violently that you were sure your ribcage would cave in.

You did not know how long you had remained on the floor. Time had become meaningless again, dissolving into the same shapeless darkness that had swallowed entire decades of your existence. At some point, the tears had stopped falling quite so freely, though your cheeks remained damp and tight with salt. You stared blankly at the tatami beneath your face, following the woven igusa with unfocused eyes.

Beyond the room, there had been screams. The crash of splintering wood as furniture was thrown, the pounding of hurried footsteps through the corridors, and the shoji slamming open and shut. The carefully rehearsed illusion of the House of the Evening Bloom—the laughter, the music, the flirtation—had collapsed into naked panic. You had barely reacted to any of it. The sounds reached you, distant and distorted. Every cry blurred together until they became little more than white noise—like an earthquake, or the sound of blood rushing in a silent room.

At some point, others had tried to rouse you from your catatonic state. Patrons, fellow flowers, the servant girls you had tried and failed to protect. They had pleaded with you, begged you to move before the flames creeping through the manor swallowed you whole.

Unbeknownst to them, you welcomed the idea.

Each of them eventually gave up, leaving you where you lay. All too terrified by the fire—or maybe rather they were fearful of the Blue Spirit that still prowled the halls. The scent of smoke grew stronger as time passed. At first, it had been faint, an almost pleasant layer to the oudh incense that permanently clung to the walls. Then came the heat, creeping beneath the shoji, filling the room one slow breath at a time. You couldn’t quite find the will to care, to even react to the fact that the House of the Evening Bloom was quite literally burning before you. You simply watched as the smoke became thicker, listening as the walls and roof groaned and shuddered around you. If this was how it ended, then perhaps it was fitting.

You had resigned yourself to your fate, that was, until the shrill voice of Madame Yoru sounded over the chaos. It was as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over you, waking you from your fugue state, suddenly aware of how hot and suffocating the room had become—

“You!” She hissed, and you slowly lifted your head. She no longer resembled the immaculate Mother of Blossoms. Half of her elaborate hairpins had come undone, black hair hanging loose around a face streaked with soot. One sleeve of her expensive, crimson robe had been burned away entirely, exposing blistered and blackened skin beneath, yet she seemed oblivious to the injury.

Her usually cruel expression had melted into something feral, for once her immaculate posture and composure were shattered. She stalked towards you with a snarl. Her nails buried themselves deep into your hair before you even managed to push yourself upright. Agony exploded across your scalp as she dragged you across the tatami.

“What have you done?” she shrieked. “Do you understand what you have done?”

She threw you, hard. You struck the edge of the low table, which was still pushed up against the wall—one of the ornate carved legs splintered on impact, collapsing onto your side.

“What did you tell him—?”

A kick caught you in the ribs.

“What deal did you make with him—?”

You curled instinctively around the blow, arms shielding your head as another strike glanced off your shoulder. Smoke was pouring through the open doorway now, the ceiling groaning above you. Madame Yoru seized your sleeve, hauling you upright, only to slap you hard enough that your vision flashed white.

“I never understood why you were his favourite,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “You were always weak and ungrateful. I should have let you starve in that box—”

Her hand shot towards your throat, and you stumbled backwards instead, managing to wrench yourself free as silk tore beneath her fingers. Instinct seized what little remained, and you tore out of the room. Stumbling down the hallway, you dodged upturned furniture, fallen beams and splintered shoji. Somewhere behind you, Madame Yoru screamed.

You burst into the parlour, your hand flying to your mouth as a series of hacking coughs tore from your throat. Thick smoke clawed at your lungs with every inhale, while a wall of blistering heat rolled across your skin so fiercely that your eyes watered. You knew you should’ve kept running, should’ve sprinted out the doors into the street beyond, taken in the world before the sun crept over the horizon, lost yourself in the maze of Ba Sing Se… but instead you were rooted at the centre of the room. Your gaze drifted upward, and you laughed.

The display was burning.

The great tiered platform, once the pride of the House of the Evening bloom, had become little more than a towering pyre. Flames climbed hunrgily from perch to perch, devouring lacquered timber until blackened and spilt apart with deafening cracks. Silk cushions shrivelled, embroidered fabrics curling in on themselves before erupting into showers of glowing embers. How many nights had you spent up in the highest tiers, looking at the men below? How many times had you prayed never to descend those steps again? One by one, the carefully placed seats where you and the other flowers had spent decades waiting to be chosen gave way. You watched as it collapsed inward, showering you in a spectacular burst of sparks and hot wind.

The fire spread greedily across every familiar corner of the parlour. The paint of the red and black pillars crackled, the draperies that had once enshrouded the room billowed as pillars of flame, and the lanterns that had once hung above were lost in the smoke. The low tables lay overturned amongst shattered porcelain, abandoned cups of sake and baijiu bubbling.

Your laughter caught in your throat as movement stirred beyond the smoke—at the mouth of the corridor stood Madame Yoru, and with no hesitation and fangs bared, she lunged.

But to your surprise, and maybe horror, she made it all of half the distance before a blur of blue and black crossed your vision. And much like Peony, Madame Yoru was frozen in place, mouth agape in confusion as she slowly looked down at the wooden stake protruding cleanly through her chest.

Almost immediately, cracks spread across her skin, the shrill sound of her scream cut short as her body fractured, collapsing into a pile of ash that scattered across the burning floor, revealing Zuko. The masked Warden’s chest was heaving, visible wounds poking through slices in the fabric of his clothes. Despite it, deep down you knew. You knew that if Zuko was standing before you… That if the House of the Evening Bloom was burning around you… No, Lord Kage would never have allowed it. So it could only mean… You knew it could only mean that…

Lord Kage, the Red Prince of the Pleasure District, was dead.

The monster was dead.

The Blue Spirit had killed him—he had done what centuries of Wardens before him had failed to accomplish.

He had killed him.

Your knees buckled, and you collapsed before him, a sound caught somewhere between a cough, sob and a laugh escaping you. Suddenly, the smoke no longer felt so unbearable, nor did the heat radiating from the fires surrounding you. As Zuko stepped closer, over the pile of robes and the scattered ashes Madame Yoru had left behind, you raised your chin to meet his gaze with a sniffle. Up close, you could see the full extent of his wounds; some were deep, but nothing life-threatening or crippling. You could even see the bite mark you’d left on his neck peeking out at you from under his undershirt. Blood and ash were smeared over the oni mask, and you studied the blank, smiling expression carved into the wood.

“Lord Kage is dead.” Zuko finally spoke, loud enough to be heard over the roar of the flames, though his voice was gravely from the smoke. “You’re free now.”

Free.

The word felt foreign.

You smiled up at him, not the practised smile of Spider Lily, but simply your smile. Perhaps the first honest smile you had worn since entering the House of the Evening Bloom. And it seemed to tell him all he needed to know, as he didn’t appear surprised as you reached out with trembling hands for the stake still clenched in his fist. He did not stop you as you guided the sharpened point towards your chest, resting it directly over your undead heart.

Still smiling, though tears blurred your vision, you pressed it into your skin, just hard enough to feel the promise waiting on the tip. When you finally spoke, there was no performance left within you. Only the girl Lord Kage had stolen all those years ago, asking for one final act of mercy. You curled your fingers around his and spoke what you hoped would be your final words.

“Kill me.”

“But what if it’s not fine,” you’d pleaded. “What if there’s a- A storm, or more people than we thought, or- Or Bucky gets hurt-“

“Who is in charge of Bucky’s health?” Yelena had cut you off with a pointed look, and you’d swallowed.

“I’m not- I wouldn’t say in charge-“

“You make him eat vegetables. That is in charge.”

“I make all of you eat vegetables-“

“You don’t make me eat vegetables,” Walker had muttered, and you’d flipped him off.

“That’s because I hate you.”

Walker had scowled, Ava—pressed against the wall of the room and clearly trying not to be involved in this conversation—had snorted, and Yelena’s mouth had twitched.

“See,” she’d given you a winning grin. “You are a natural leader. You will be fine.”

“I will not be fine-“

Bucky had said your name, and everyone in the room had gone still. He’d been left out of this meeting. From Yelena’s wide eyes and Ava’s smirk, it hadn’t been hard to work out that it was on purpose.

“What isn’t going to be fine,” Bucky had muttered, and Walker and Yelena had an exchanged sharp, you do it looks.

Walker had lost the glare off, sighed, and turned to Bucky with a wide, winning grin.

“You’re taking the scout on her first mission, buddy, congrats- Shit- Hey-“

Bucky had stormed forward, metal hand flexing like he was thinking about wrapping it around Walker’s throat. He’d stopped himself, shot you a strange look, and jerked his head.

“Out,” he’d grunted, before pausing and adding, “Please.”

The please hadn’t been necessary. You’d almost run out the room with a nervous look back, a little worried you were going to come back to a bloodbath. The glass was supposed to be fully soundproof. You’d still been able to hear muffled, furious shouting. 

Bucky had stormed out after almost an hour, given you a tight look, strange look, then stomped down the hall. Yelena had given you a thumbs up. You’d—foolishly—hoped that meant you were off the hook.

It hadn’t.

You’d been dropped in Norway with Bucky a week later, an hour after planned—Alexei wanted to bring his camera, and wouldn’t hear anyone tell him no—with plans to be picked up in the morning.

“Stay close,” Bucky had muttered, not meeting your gaze. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You’d nodded, your voice barely more than a  breath. “James, I- I don’t know what you’d do.“

“Then don’t do anything.” He’d snapped.

You’d shrunken into yourself. You knew he didn’t like this—you weren’t a big fan either—but the bristling, electric anger almost radiating off of him, it wasn’t anything you were used to. Bucky was usually kind to you. He opened your doors and brought you muffins from the bakery down the street. You made him watch movies when he couldn’t sleep, and he asked you questions about pop culture when he was confused. You had a good—confusing, but good—relationship.

Yelena likes to tease that he like likes you. You try to punch her in the face, and always miss. He doesn’t. He couldn’t. He’s Bucky Barnes, and you’re a dork with a computer that he’s nice to because he’s a good man.

A kind, handsome, perfect man with a jawline you’d kill to kiss and hands you’d die to hold. A man who remembers your birthday when you sometimes forget, and knows your coffee order, and lets you push him around even thought he could crush you with a single hand. You’d like him to crush you with that hand. Maybe pin you down with it and split you open and kiss you with those soft lips that always ghost with a smile at your stupid jokes.

You never should’ve told Yelena about your tiny, little, totally manageable crush on him to begin with. It’s going to be the death of you. You’re sort of starting to worry that this was Yelena’s grand plan to finally make you talk to him. If it was, you’re actually going to kill her, or hire someone who can.

Because it started raining. And after it started raining, lightning cracked through the sky, and thunder followed, and you and Bucky got slowed down. Slowed down enough that—combined with the weather conditions—Alexei couldn’t come pick you up. And you had to find a hotel in Norway.

And the only room left had one bed.

And you’re going to jump off the balcony and pray that Bucky doesn’t catch you.

“You should take a shower,” he mutters, tossing your bag onto the couch. “I’ll go find some extra clothing.”

You nod, pulling at the sleeves of your drenched shirt. “I- I can take the couch-“

“No.”

You sigh. “Bucky-“

“I’m on the couch,” he shoots you a stern look, bracing his hands on his hips. “And you’re on the bed.”

You swallow, and nod. Arguing with him right now doesn’t seem productive. You’re lucky he’s still talking to you after the mission.

It didn’t go poorly. In fact, given everything, it actually went better than you could’ve hoped for. But Bucky is still looking at you like you’re a problem, and it’s making you sort of sick. You don’t want to be something extra that weighs on his shoulders. Don’t want to be an extra layer of ice, pressing down on his chest when he’s already the one keeping you both together. It’s already cold enough as it is.

You shower. Bucky finds clothing—an oversized, thin fabriced shirt that just drapes past your thighs—and follows after you. Neither of you say much, and you try not to let the silence feel like poison, but it’s hard. He’s never been quiet with you this long, but you’ve also never been in this kind of situation with him before.

“Alexei will get us in the morning,” he mutters, stepping out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around his waist. “Then we’ll get you home.”

“Oh- Okay.” You flush, staring down at your hands. His chest is broad, and bare, and warm looking. The rivers of scars over his shoulder and pecs look like they’d be easy to map, and the dip of his towel show off the strength of his stomach. Thick and muscled, soft in all the right places, probably easy to wrap yourself in, and-

Bucky mutters you name, and you’d stopped staring at your hands without thinking. You clear your throat and slide into the bed, grabbing your phone with shaking fingers and pretending to be deeply invested in the blank lock screen. In your periphery, Bucky doesn’t move for a long moment. You dare to look at him under your lashes, and find him staring back.

“Bucky?” You ask softly, and Bucky’s throat bobs. “Are you-“

“You did good,” he grunts, and you blink, heat rushing between your thighs.

“I- I did good?”

He nods tightly. “Today. You did good.”

“Oh.” You swallow, unable to break his gaze. “I- I didn’t do much-“

“You got me through the lab. You listened.”

“Anyone can listen, James.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches, and he huffs something close to a laugh. “You’d be surprised,” he mutters, grabbing his warm clothing off the arm of the couch. “And don’t sell yourself short, doll. You listen real well.”

Your mouth falls open, and you think you might be frozen in place. Bucky retreats back to the bathroom, and you’re not even sure what to do with yourself. You’re sure he didn’t mean it like that, but god, it would’ve been nice if he did. Your head certainly takes the thoughts and runs with them. Bucky over you in this same bed, that metal hand pressed against your stomach, cooed praise and light orders of take it and make some noise for me, doll. The gleam in his eyes when you’d listen, the way he’d feel buried inside of you, the burn of blue eyes as he’d watch you come apart, driving into your cunt over and over and over-

“Night,” Bucky grunts, and you blink at him through the dark.

“Night,” you breathe back, and for a second, you just stare at each other.

Bucky’s gaze softens slightly. You could swear is does. And maybe it’s just a trick of the light, but his gaze drags down the fabric of your sleep shirt, catching on your bare thighs and spread legs. His tongue darts over his lips, and you press your thighs together, shifting nervously on the mattress.

He looks back up to you, jaw working tight. 

“Night,” he mutters again, and you swallow.

He goes for the light, and you glance at the couch. It’s small. More of a sectional than a functional piece of comfort.  

“Bucky?” You say, before you can think better of it. “Do you- Do you want to sleep in the bed.”

Bucky freezes, his hand on the light switch. You swallow, pulling the sheets higher up your body, and Bucky mutters your name. “You don’t have to-“

“Are you going to be able to sleep on the couch?” You whisper, and his jaw ticks again.

“That’s not your shit to worry about-“

“Alexei’s going to talk the whole ride home,” you push, and his throat bobs. “And you- You get really grumpy when you don’t sleep.”

Bucky chuckles. “I get grumpy, huh.”

You nod, and he sighs. His hand curls into a fist, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to tell you no.

“I- I really don’t mind-“ 

“Alright,” he cuts you off, words short and clipped. “You win.”

You blink, and try not to smile when he hits the lights. The streetlamps outside let you see his figure, walking over to the bed. You force yourself not to hold your breath, and lie down like everything is perfectly normal.

The mattress dips. Bucky lies flat and stiff on his back, slowly pulling the sheets over his body, and you turn away, trying to hide the flush blooming over your face.

This was a mistake. That’s clear now. You adore him too much, and you wanted to help, and it made you forget about the actual consequences of Bucky being right there, next to you, wearing only sweats and emitting heat like a furnace. The bed feels smaller than it did a moment ago, but that might just be the size of him. Your fingers brush, and his hand jerks away like he thinks you’re going to burn. You twist further over, pulling the blankets with you.

“You’re hogging,” Bucky grunts, and you pull your knees a little into your chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble, trying to loosen your grip. “Just- Cold.”

It’s not cold. It was, before he climbed in next to you. Now it’s impossibly humid, like you’ve been dropped in to a hot spring. Bucky sighs, and doesn’t take the slack of the sheets you offered. You shift in the bed, trying to make yourself smaller, trying to offer him more space.

The minutes crawl past you. It’s been an exhausting day, but you’ve never been more awake. You’re worried he can hear your heartbeat. You’re worried he can smell the arousal, pooling between your thighs whenever your feet brush. You’re almost curled fully into a ball, the sheet wrapped around you like a cocoon. A restless, anxious pill bug of a cocoon, trying to find a spot on the bed where you’re not painfully aware of Bucky’s presence.

His hands, brushing near your spine when you roll the wrong direction. The steady sound of his breath, that should be calming but only works you up more and more. The line of his jaw when you risk a look, and the flutter of his lashes as he stares at the ceiling. At least he’s not sleeping either. You can be grumpy together, in the morning.

“You’re movin’ too much,” Bucky grunts, and you’re flushing so deeply you’re worried you’re going to light on fire.

“Sorry,” you breathe, and he sighs.

“’S fine.”

You think he might just give up and go back to the couch, but he doesn’t. You consider taking the couch yourself, but you’re stubborn. You asked him to do this, and if you try to go to the couch, Bucky will just throw you back to bed and take the couch himself.

That’s a nice idea. Strong arms wrapped around you, manhandling you, folding you over and tossing you wherever he pleases like a fuckdoll.

You risk another look, and almost whimper.

He’s staring at you in the dark, that strange, hooded look gleaming in his eyes. Your heart pushes into your throat, and your fingers dig into your hips as you hold yourself. Neither of you seem to be able to think of anything to say. Bucky licks his lips again, his eyes darting down to the arch of your neck, and your breath catches. The air seems to be pressing over your skin like a shroud. You’re not sure what to do with yourself but try to breathe.

This must be a dream. Bucky wouldn’t look at you like that during the day. And if it isn’t a dream, he probably doesn’t mean it the way your sleepy, addled brain thinks. He’s always had the same effect on you as a strong drink. Making you a little loose-lipped and foolish and delusional. There’s a reason you don’t go out with him. You’re not trying to ruin the good, steady friendship you’ve had for so long.

“I’m sorry you got stuck with me,” you whisper, and Bucky frowns.

“Stuck with you?”

“On- On the mission.”

His frown deepens. “I’m not stuck with you, that’s-“

He cuts himself off, rolling onto his back with a groan. He runs a hand over his face, and you swallow, pushing up a little to hold his gaze.

“It’s okay, I- I get it-“

“I wasn’t stuck with you,” he cuts you off, tone surprisingly stern. “I mighta been- Harsh,” he lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “But listen to me, I’m never- I like havin’ you around, alright? Never stuck with you.”

“But-“

“You matter,” he grunts, staring firmly up at the ceiling. “I don’t like this ‘cause you- You’re not supposed to be in these kinda situations, doll. That’s it. Don’t think it’s anything else.”

“Oh- Okay.” You whisper, and Bucky’s eyes dart to yours.

“Got it?”

You nod, and he sighs, looking back to the ceiling. His arms are still crossed, and he doesn’t look cold, but just lying there without blankets, it can’t be comfortable.

“Bucky?” You say softly, and he grunts. “Do you want the blankets?”

“I’m good-“

“We could share,” you add quickly, and he shoots you an amused look.

“I tried to share. You’re the one who kept yankin’ them away from me.”

You flush, wrinkling your nose. “They’re small-“

“They fit the mattress. Should fit two people.”

“Well, they didn’t think one of those people would be you.”

Bucky raises his brows, and your eyes widen.

“I- I just mean- You- You’re very big, and- I’m smaller- The sheets are smaller, and you’re big-“

“Said I’m big already,” he drawls, and you’re going to smack him.

“Well, you are,” you snap, yanking the sheets fully around you. “And now I’m not sharing. Because you’re being a butt.”

You flip over, burying your face in a pillow when Bucky laughs. It’s a low, deep sound that rolls through your body, almost making you dizzy. You feel the mattress shift behind you, and curl further into yourself.

“Your heart is racing,” he mutters, low and rough, and you’re sure you’re dreaming now.

“Your heart is racing.”

Bucky chuckles again. That’s a dangerous sound. He shouldn’t be allowed to make it.

“You’re bein’ bratty tonight,” he murmurs, a large, light hand tracing over the curve of your hips. “It’s cute.”