#dark!fic

You let out a sigh of relief as the sharp pain slowly fades, involuntarily bucking your hips against his face without realisation as it feels very soothing.

The wetness seeps out of you in embarassing amounts, which only serves as a device to mock you later when he does this all over again.

“Oh fuck— she's soaking f'me.” You hear his muffled voice, his breath felt warm in between your thights.

You drop your head in shame, because you can hear how disgustingly wet you've gotten due to his actions, the slurrping noises echo in your ears like a mockery and a reminder of how your body chooses to betray you everytime.

All because of him.

He feels his cock twitch in his pants, getting harder and harder each and every second. But he stays focused, continuing to devour your cunt like a man starved.

He groans into it, causing vibrations to shoot up in your core, making you shiver in an unwelcomed satisfaction.

He drinks up all the juices you were leaking like it was nectar, letting out satisfactory noises as if he's eating a fancy meal. You're chest breaks out involuntary moans no matter how much you try to contain them, which only makes him feral knowing that he's the reason, it makes him feel very validated to and egoistic.

“Mhm? At least some part of you is honest with me.” He mutters, rubbing salt into your wound, adding more to the shame you were feeling.

He presses kisses all over it, sighing when he feels your clit flutter in his mouth when he traps it in his mouth.

“Fuck, you're so divine baby. I love you so so so so so much.” He adds breathlessly, face flustered as he dines on your cunt.

You swallow the lump in your throat, toes curling in pleasure when you feel a familiar knot tighten in your stomach. You start squirming again, not wanting the knot in your stomach to snap and betray you wholly.

But it was impossible not when he's below you, working his mouth like he's desperate.

You brace yourself for the impact.

Yet, nothing happens, in fact, you feel the absence of his mouth which makes you look down, he had pulled away right before you could cum.

The feeling in your stomach fades, but not in a way that you expected it to, it left behind a frustrating ache that gnawed in your gut, it made you irritated. You let out a huff in disappointment reflexively.

You thought maybe he'd stop, maybe he's had his fill? whatever that means.

You expect him to pull you off him, but he doesn't do that, he reattaches himself again, once again capturing your cunt wholly, tongue prodding at your entrance as he slowly tries shoving the wet muscles in.

You're left confused, wondering what he's planning, but nonetheless you feel the knot form in your stomach again.

You expect it to snap, but once again, it's abruptly interrupted, leaving a sense of frustration behind. You open your mouth to question— but you're quickly shut up when you feel his mouth on you again.

He repeats it everytime you're near a few more times.

It leaves you more frustrated than ever, overriding every other emotion. You whine in disappointment as your orgasm is abruptly stolen once again.

You let out a frustrated cry, brows furrowed as you feel tears welling up in your eyes, you press your hips down, pushing your cunt against his mouth involuntarily as the irritation of being denied your bliss was driving you insane.

“What is it baby? Wanna cum?” He asked, huffing against your bud. You looked down, staring into his eyes as he gave you a smirk.

He was doing this on purpose.

“If you don't use your voice, I'll just have to keep on doing this.” He mumbled, pressing a kiss to your bottom lips.

You stayed quiet, trying to break away from his grip, hands tugging against the rope to loosen it but it doesn't work.

He starts his shenanigan once again, maneuvering you down and pressing you flush to his face.

You gasp, feeling your high build up slowly, you squirm against his face, pressing your cunt flat against his mouth but he turns his head away, causing you to almost collapse forward in exasperation.

“Please...” You bite your lip, voice coming out meekly.

“Please what baby?” He asks, smooching your inner thigh. “You want to cum?” He adds.

You nod, head moving up and down as you look at him with a neediness you've never experienced before.

“Beg.” He comands, thumb drawing circles on your thigh.

He is so fucking mean, asking you to beg for something you didn't want in the first place— usually he'd make you cum without asking you for anything, but today, he shifted his plans, dead set on making you betray your own self.

You didn't want to, but you know that he'll torture you like this for hours if you didn't.

“P-please, I want to cum.” You murmer, voice shaky as he drags his tongue across your slit after hearing that.

“More.” He tuts.

“Please, I wanna cum, I want to cum so badly. Please let me cum.” You beg, humiliation churning in your gut. “Oh fuck—!” You choke on your words when he pushes his tongue inside you. You could feel the warm muscle invade your depths causing you to see stars, your cunt clenches around it, trying to grip it but it causes the soft muscle to be pushed out instead.

He continues working his mouth, soft pants leaving from him too as he makes out with your pussy.

“Tell me you love me.” He utters, fingers digging into your flesh, causing a little amount of pain.

You shut your eyes, feeling the same knot build up in your stomach for the nth time.

“I'll stop if you don't. I can play the long game.” He threatens, slowing down but you panic, shaking your head.

“No! Please, I love you, I love you.” You chant frantically, not wanting him to stop as the knot begins to feel like it's about to rip apart.

“I love you— I love you so much! please please please,” You repeat it over and over again, earning a satisfactory groan from him. “Ahh! oh!— fuck fuck—” You choke, letting out a loud moan as your high crashes down on you.

It hit harder than any other orgasm you've experienced before, you collapsed forward due to the sheer intensity, face landing into the soft mattress of the bed that you learnt to call your home.

Your body twitched as you collected yourself, hips bucking into his face, riding your orgasm out. Your thighs trembled, body shaking visibly due to the aftermath of your orgasm.

His hands slide up your waist gently before they come down, he lifts one of your thighs planted on the side of his head to pull himself away from beneath and sits up straight as he turns to look at you.

You collapse to your side, hands still behind your back as you gasp for air, chest back and forth.

He smiles cruelly, pushing you onto your back before undoing his pants and lining himself against your freshly abused cunt, he could see the way it was still swollen, still throbbing in desperation.

“I love you too.” He cooes before pushing himself inside without a warning.

— gojo satoru, geto suguru, yuta okkotsu, yuji itadori, tamsy caines, dabi, katuski bakugo, + feel free to imagine any character you like!

all characters mentioned are all obviously aged up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky tried to fight.

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

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

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

“Unhand me, you foul whoreson!”

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

Fangs sank deep into Bucky’s throat.

The pain was immediate and blinding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then his heart stopped.

For one terrifying, endless moment there was only silence.

And then a new, monstrous strength flooded his limbs.

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

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

No longer the cocky mortal who believed himself invincible.

Now he was invincible.

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

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

He fucked them hard and mercilessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he vanished before dawn.

No attachments. No feelings. No mercy.

Just blood and pleasure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their eyes met.

And she knew.

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

Dolores only smiled, soft, unafraid, almost tender.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the plague found her anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

It only made everything worse.

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

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

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

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

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

Then she screamed.

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

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

The silence afterward was worse than any scream.

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

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

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

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

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

Then he rose.

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

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

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

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

He didn’t move.

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

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

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

He never looked back.

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

Then the wars found him.

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

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

He moved to Brooklyn in the early 1920s.

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

But peace never lasted.

World War II dragged him back in.

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

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

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

After the war ended in 1945, Bucky vanished again.

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

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

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

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

He was the shift.

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

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

Four hundred more years of numbness stretched ahead of him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You finally look up.

Holy fuck.

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

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

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

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

Your eyes go wide in panic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He waits until you’ve turned the corner.

Then he moves.

Silent as death, he follows you home.

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

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

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

He already knows one simple truth:

He’s never letting you go.

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

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

But he didn’t move right away.

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

You had left the curtains open.

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

Bucky’s fangs throbbed. His cock hardened instantly.

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

“God… why does this smell so good?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The apartment was small, cluttered and alive with you.

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

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

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

Vampires in Gothic Literature

Eternal life vs. eternal loneliness?

Do they feel love or only hunger?

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

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

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

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

Your bedroom door was ajar.

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

There you were.

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

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

He stepped closer.

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

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

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

But he stopped.

His hand trembled. The metal plates clicked softly.

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

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

He allowed himself one last indulgence.

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

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

Finally, with a ragged exhale, he pulled back.

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

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

Not yet.

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

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

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

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

It only grew sharper.

He didn’t even know your name yet.

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

And the night after that.

Until simply watching you sleep was no longer enough.

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

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

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

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

It was him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It sounded like both a prayer… and a promise.

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

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

The third night he touched you.

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

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

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

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

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

The fourth night he went lower.

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

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

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

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

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

The visits only got dirtier.

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

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

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

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

Your body knew the truth.

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

Bucky, meanwhile, was unraveling.

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

He needed to hear you moan his name for real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked up and your heart skipped hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The pleasure’s all mine, doll.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky’s obsession had grown teeth.

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

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

So the stealing began.

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

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

The nights had become his sanctuary and his torment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the real collection had only just begun.

Then came the panties.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His obsession only grew darker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was patient.

He was starving.

And the monster inside him was done waiting.

You, meanwhile, were spiraling.

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

Then more things disappeared.

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

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

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

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

But something was different.

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

No note. No card. No explanation.

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

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt.

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

You knew.

You knew it was him.

Bucky.

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

He had been in your apartment again.

He had taken things.

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

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

Your mind raced.

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

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

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

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

“…Bucky?”

The silence that answered felt alive.

Like he was still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

The game had truly begun.

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

You couldn’t take it anymore.

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

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

It rang only once before he picked up.

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

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

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

Silence stretched on the other end.

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

He tried anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His voice dropped, almost desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hung up without another word.

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

He whispered into the night, voice dark and possessive:

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

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

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

He hadn’t slept. He doesn’t anymore.

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

The way you had cried.

The way you had called him a sick fuck.

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

Every word cut deeper than the last.

He was going to tell you everything.

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

So he went grocery shopping.

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

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

His mind kept drifting to you as he shopped.

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

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

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

“Baking for someone special?” she asked.

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

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

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

As he worked, he practiced what he would say.

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

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

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

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

He checked the clock.

8:00 pm was approaching.

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

He was about to confess everything.

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

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

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

You stopped a few feet away, arms crossed tightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stumbled back a step. “Bucky-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He reached out slowly but you jerked away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were terrified.

You were furious.

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

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

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

Bucky’s shoulders tensed, waiting for the blow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The feast was incredible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He leaned forward slightly, watching your face.

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed hard, heart hammering.

Bucky’s voice dropped even lower, almost intimate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t run.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tension finally snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m yours- fuck, Bucky, I’m yours!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bed was empty. Or so you thought.

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

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

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

He must have been waiting for you to stir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The honeymoon phase didn’t last long.

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

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

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

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

But Bucky was losing control.

His obsession turned feral.

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

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

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

You knew.

You knew it was Bucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tears burned in your eyes. Your hands were shaking.

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

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

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

The silence that followed was deafening.

You should have screamed. You should have run.

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

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

You were horrified.

You were dripping wet.

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

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

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

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

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

You froze in his lap, every muscle locking up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You still held on tighter.

And that terrified you more than anything else.

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

The sickness came on fast. Too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were trapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So Bucky started hunting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t give you time to think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The city lights flickered outside the soundproof windows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How?” you asked.

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

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

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

Suddenly you were there.

Mud. Endless, sucking mud.

1917 - The Western Front

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

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

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

The vision shifted with brutal force.

December 1944 - The Ardennes Forest

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

Then the shell.

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

HYDRA came next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not yet.

The hunters had been watching for weeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky felt it the instant they grabbed you.

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

His vision went red.

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

Then the monster took over completely.

He stormed the warehouse alone like judgment day.

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

In front of you, he became something from hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then silence.

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

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

Then he saw you.

The monster shattered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The monster had won tonight.

And you were still his.

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

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

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

You told yourself you were safe. Cherished. Loved.

Tonight, that comforting lie finally burned to ash.

The hunger had been eating him alive for hours.

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

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

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

He gave it to you.

Then the flashback hit like a goddamn freight train.

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

His control fucking snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reality crashed over him like ice water.

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

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

In his panic he tried desperately to fix it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flew open.

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

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

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

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

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

🕸️ arachnid!peter whose only tell is the way the black of his pupils consume the white, a visual signal that pure instinct has taken over. that, and his uncanny silence.

🕸️ arachnid!peter who stalks you in the dead of night, often watching you sleep after he gets done with patrol. who sits in the corner of your bedroom, nestled in the dark crook of the goddamn ceiling, lying in wait.

🕸️ arachnid!peter whose every sense is focused solely on you. the way the scent of your shampoo and fabric softener intoxicates him, or how your voice would make his bones vibrate. the way he could hear the blood rushing under your fucking skin.

🕸️ arachnid!peter who often shows up unannounced and with zero hesitation to interrupt whatever you were doing before. who doesn't say a word as he bends you over the nearest surface, literally tearing the bottoms clean off your body.

🕸️ arachnid!peter who loves to leave marks on you, a physical reminder that he had claimed you. that you were his.

🕸️ arachnid!peter who fucks you hard despite your cries and pleas for him to stop, who goes harder with the insatiable need to be inside of you. he can't stop once he starts, instinct consuming his every action as he feels the way your warm walls tremor around his painfully swollen cock.

🕸️ arachnid!peter who finally speaks, and it's even more of a shock than the unsettling silence he met you with before. who growls in your ear, telling you of what a fucking slut you are, jesus. praising you for how well you take him, because fuck you're s'perfect, baby. made for me to fuck whenever i want. nothing but a fucking toy for me to take my frustration out on.

🕸️ arachnid!peter who loves to come inside of you over and over and over again, leaving you fucked out on the bed as he steps back to relish in the sight of you oozing his release. he loves watch as your quivering muscles push him out, proud to have claimed you inside and out with his fucking webbing.

🕸️ arachnid!peter who uses his organic webbing to his advantage, pinning your limbs down and gagging you. who traps your arms above your head until you've lost all feeling and your fingers have turned white. who fucking loves to use his webs as a plug to keep his come inside of you, especially after he's fucked you in the dead of night while you were asleep. who gets a kick out of knowing you'll wake up and have to feel what he did to you. what he left behind for you.

🕸️ arachnid!peter who loves to see you cry, even if the sight of your tears pulls a bit more of peter parker to the front. whose blackened eyes retract a bit, showing a glimpse of white - a flash of remorse - as he holds you and fucks you harder.

🕸️ arachnid!peter who hears your cries, and whose dirty talk devolves from a rasped god, such a pretty fucking crier. so desperate for my cock, you're fucking crying for it, to soft apologies, incessant pleas of i'm sorry, i'm s'sorry baby, don't cry. i'm sorry, i can't stop. you know i can't stop. it'll be over soon, you're doing s'good.

🕸️ arachnid!peter who follows you through the city as you walk home from work or the library at night, swinging through the streets and tracking your every movement. who hunts you down and strategically times his stride to pull you down a dark alleyway where he webs your mouth shut to keep you quiet and has his way with you.

🕸️ arachnid!peter who sometimes likes to leave the mask on. just the mask.

🕸️ arachnid!peter whose same primal need to fuck you is matched with the innate drive to take care of you after he's violated you. who takes his time cleaning you up and redressing you, making sure you properly rehydrate and don't push yourself the rest of the day.

********************************************

Your father often told you stories of his friendship with the Targaryen prince.

Prince Maekar, the extra spare, the fourth son of King Daeron II, the prince who would most likely never inherit the throne.

Because of his birth circumstances, Prince Maekar was not required to remain in the Red Keep the way his older brothers were. He was given free reign on where to receive education, and entertainment. He often wandered outside of King’s Landing during summers.

The Prince became especially fond of Duskendale.

Your father, Robert Darklyn II, was born the same year as Prince Maekar. More so, he was born the same month, as well as the exact same week. During Maekar’s summer trips to Duskerdale, your father was placed along with him as his companion. Their friendship grew stronger every year.

“A brother through everything but blood,” is how your father described him.

During your childhood, Maekar continued to visit House Darklyn each summer. You would see him often, though you did not speak to him. Your mother was very diligent in keeping you and your siblings away.

“He is a prince,” she would say to you, “He has no time for entertaining an unruly child such as yourself.” Your mother would say these things with a laugh, but you did not think they were a joke. She did find you unruly. Out of all your siblings, you were the one scolded the most often.

“Sometimes, it is better to listen than to speak,” she would tell you, over and over. But it is a lesson you were slow to learn.

Maekar brought his sons to visit Duskendale very few times. Around the age of eleven, your mother tried to merge the families together in the dining hall for their visit. But your father decided your siblings were too disruptive, so you did not communicate with the princes any further.

When Maekar’s wife, Lady Dyanna, began declining in health, he requested your father’s presence at the castle, desperate for the company of the only man he knew he could trust. He spent several months as a guest at the Red Keep. You and the rest of your family would visit him for two days at a time every three weeks.

You did not care to keep royal company. Your mother let you wander outside if you had a guard with you, saying it was easier to keep you out of trouble if you were out of the castle.

As a girl, you enjoyed fishing. Most afternoons in Duskendale you spent near the water. During your trips to the Red Keep, you found yourself often seeking out the lakeside.

“It is not good for a girl your age to still be interested in these activities,” your mother would tsk. “It is high time you began learning embroidery.”

But sitting by the lakeside kept you quiet and out of the way, so when the family visited the Red Keep, they would allow you to do so.

Most days, however, you didn’t even try catching fish. You just wanted to linger by the water instead of by the royals. They made you wary. Especially the boys.

You did not like Maekar’s son.

Daeron Targaryen was the eldest of all the children. He made you feel unwell when he was around. His eyes tended to...linger. Though, he was quick in his looks, and part of you would always convince yourself you imagined it.

Until once, during a feast held to celebrate the birth of Rhae Targaryen, Daeron sought you out in a way that could not be ignored.

You had been standing behind your family’s table when he found you. You had neither seen, nor heard him. It felt like he had appeared out of nowhere.

“You are the only one of your family members to not be dancing.”

His voice started you, causing your shoulders to flinch. He laughed at it.

You smelt alcohol on him. He was only five and ten, four years your senior, yet he smelled like an old drunkard.

“I am not good at dancing,” you said to him, hoping that would send him off.

“Perhaps you should give it a try with me.”

You felt put under pressure. You were shy to answer, “Thank you, Prince Daeron, but perhaps another time.”

You felt wary when he didn’t make any move to leave.

“I insist.”

Your stomach dropped.

…Could he do that? Could he insist?

“I feel unfit for dancing at the moment,” you say, slow and unsure. “But thank you.” You shuffle back a step.

His hand falls on your shoulder, “I will help you.”

You pull yourself from his touch. “I must repeat my refusal, Prince Daeron.” You step back again. “Perhaps one of my sisters-”

His hand reaches out and latches onto you. A sharp gasp leaves your lips.

“Allow me just until the end of this song.” He pulled on you. “Try it with me.”

You panic, trying to push his hand off, “Wait-”

He yanks you, his drunkenness causing him to use more strength then he intended, making you stumble forward. “You will have fun, I promise.” A laugh. “I’m sure you will enjoy it.”

You try to pull away, but it only results in another yank. This time, you stumble so hard you almost fall. “Prince Daeron!”

“They are playing music from Darklyn, haven’t you noticed-?”

“Let go of her this instant,” a voice spits.

You are quickly released.

A hand darts out and grabs Daeron from the back of his collar, tearing him away from you.

“Dismiss yourself from the hall,” came the swift and stern voice of Prince Maekar, whose fist shook his son by the back of the shirt. “Take yourself to your chambers. Now.”

“Father, I was only hoping for a bit of fun-”

“Remove yourself immediately before you embarrass me any further.”

“No one is even looking this way-”

“Which I am lucky for. I would hate for more whispers of my drunken son being overly abrasive to our guests. Go wallow over dreams in your private chambers.”

Daeron ripped himself from his father’s hold. His face was tinted red from embarrassment. His eyes fell to you, then back to Prince Maekar.

“Worry not, father. I am done here anyway. Your guests are very...” His eyes fell on you coldly. “…unentertaining. I will take my leave.”

Daeron exits the hall. As he does, you feel he is too close. You take a step to the side, barely missing a brush of his shoulder.

“Lady (Y/N).” Prince Maekar’s voice is still stern. “Go find your mother. Do not loiter alone.”

“I did not mean to loiter, Prince Maekar,” you are quick to say. “My-My father said to remain at our table, so that is where I have stayed.”

He exhaled loudly, like he was annoyed. You were not sure if the annoyance was at you, or his son. “Regardless, it is time to find your mother.”

Your eyes fell to the floor. You give an obedient nod. “Yes, Prince Maekar.”

You hurry to find your mother, but you feel too embarrassed to explain what happened.

At the end of the night, Maekar called a meeting with your parents and explained things himself.

After that day, you were kept at home with your young siblings when your family went to the Red Keep during the summer.

********************************************

There is a specific sound your husband makes when he is displeased with something his father has told him.

It is a low grunt, mixed with a scoff.

You hear this noise at breakfast the next morning, as food is being served around the table, and wine is already overflowing for the men.

“Daeron has been spotted,” Prince Maekar announces to the family.

Aerion was audibly disappointed.

Valarr frowns, leaning forward. “Spotted where?”

“At a tavern. It was a brief sighting from a guard. They claim the moment Daeron saw them, he took off, and they were unable to catch him.”

Baelor asks, “What of Aegon?”

“No sight of him yet.”

Aerion let out a low hum, bringing his third cup of wine up to his lips. “Perhaps Daeron killed the little rat and that is why he’s hiding.”

It is hard, but you manage to control your face from physically reacting to his words.

Maekar glares. “You will hold your tongue from making any further comments.”

“Apologies father, I am only trying to soften the blow for when Aegon’s body is found.”

You have never seen someone rile up another person the way Aerion riles up his father.

Or, perhaps you have. Perhaps this is what it looks like when people say you push Aerion to the point of striking you.

The maids whisper of your ‘uncontrollably tongue’. Just this morning, when Aerion ordered them into the tent to apply your makeup and hide any lingering bruising, you heard them gossip about you beneath their breath. “She enjoys his rage,” you heard one say. “She does not care who pays for it.”

You hate them, you realized just today. You hate the serving girls. They pull your hair too hard when braiding, they yank the brush too hard when brushing, they pull your corset too tight because they are angry with you.

They take their anger out on you, yet they do not dare harm a single hair on Aerion’s head.

Aerion, the one who sliced one of their faces open. He is not punished for it, you are punished for it, even though you have remained merciful to them. You do not make sounds when they hurt you, because you know Aerion would react badly to it. You let them mistreat you without complaint, because you know he would strike them if you made a complaint. You have protected them, yet they still lie about you, spreading rumors that you are as sadistic as your husband.

Even here, in the breakfast hall, you notice the way the cupbearer refuses to meet your eye as she pours more water into your glass, yet she smiles at the Princes when she fills theirs. You wonder what lies Madam Pricher has fed her.

“The entire kingdom holds its breath for the safe return of Aegon,” Valarr says to his uncle. “I am sure if anyone finds him to be in trouble, they will give him shelter and food.”

“Yes, because Ashford is so respectful towards royalty,” Aerion hums. He holds his glass to be filled. Another cup of wine. His fourth. You become nervous. It is his fifth glass that brings out his more horrible behaviors. “The same animals that stormed the arena.”

Valarr eyed his cousin. “Hm. If only it were Prince Aerion who went missing, they would have stormed the streets in celebration.”

A small chuckles leaves Baelar. You quickly bite the inside of your lip. You glance at Aerion for his reaction, only to see he is again staring directly at you, his eyes casing your face. You wonder what would have happened if you had smiled. You recall his earlier threats of whippings, and pulling nails off. You recall the way he held your hand to a desk, and tried to cut your finger off. Your body turns cold, and you turn your eyes to your lap.

“I will not joke about the health of my sons,” Maekar grunts. “The guard who let Daeron out of his grasp has already been reprimanded. I have all others on high alert looking for them. They’re believed to both be in the city.”

You risk looking at Aerion’s cup. He is halfway though with the wine. You realize you may have less than an hour before his mood turns drunk and violent.

“(Y/N),” Maekar calls out.

Your eyes snap his way, startled by being spoken to.

“You have been wandering the city. Have you heard any whispers about the boys?”

You cannot help but look to Aerion, as he has specifically told you not to say a word during meals.

“She has heard nothing.”

“I did not ask you,” Maekar quipped.

“Have you heard anything?” Aerion tests you. “Speak if you have.”

You imagine answering him, and being punished with a breakfast plate being smashed over your head. You keeps your mouth shut.

“There,” your husband says. “She has heard nothing.”

Valarr scoffs. “Has anyone checked to see whether or not Lady (Y/N) still had her tongue? Or has he cut it out already-?”

Baelar makes a small tsking sound, and Valarr quiets.

Aerion straightens in his seat, his eyes narrowing the slightest on Valarr. “My cousin worries for you, (Y/N),” he tells you loudly. “Aren’t you lucky, to have the future king so concerned for your wellbeing?”

You try to take yourself out of your body. You clasp your hands together, and you try to think of how nice the day is outside. How the wind keeps it from being too hot. How the flowers are all in bloom-

“Show him there is nothing to worry about,” Aerion commands you. “Stick out your tongue for him to see.”

Your face flushes hot, eyes widening at the request.

“Go on,” Aerion says again. “Put his concern to rest.”

Surely, this was only a jest. Your husband would not make you stick your tongue out like some trained animal in front of his family?

Baelar sighs. “Aerion-”

“Valarr is worried, uncle, let us relieve him.” His hand falls to your knee, and he gives it a warning squeeze. “Stick your tongue out. Now.”

Everyone stares at you, even the servants.

Humiliation makes your hands shake. His hold tightens on your knee. Slowly, you part your lips.

“I did not say open your mouth,” Aerion says. “I told you to stick your tongue out. If not, he’ll accuse me of planting a false one.”

“That is enough,” Valarr tells him.

Aerion brings his hand higher to your thigh, and you feel a pinch on your leg.

There is no getting out of this. And you suppose in the grand scheme of things, this is mundane in terms of things Aerion could demand of you to do.

So you obey him. You stick your tongue out, keeping your eyes on the wall to try to suppress some of the humiliation.

You shut your mouth quickly when Aerion begins to laugh. “Satisfied, Valarr?”

You do not look at him, but his voice is softer now. “I did not ask for that.”

Aerion pushes out his chair. There is still laughter in his voice. “Come, (Y/N). We are done here.”

You rise from your seat as fast as you can. You follow after him, face still hot with embarrassment.

When you exit the dining hall, you see Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty standing near the exit. They follow behind you and Aerion as you leave.

Your husband walks with a new strut. He chuckles. “How utterly bashful he became. He should know better by now than to make comments about things that belong to me.”

As a woman, you should have not been offended anymore by being told you ‘belonged’ to someone. Yet, it still irked you. To belong to a man was one thing, to belong to this man was your greatest shame.

A sigh leaves his lips. “At least he decided to hold his outburst until after I was done eating. It’d be a shame if he continued day after day ruining our meals.”

He ruined the meal?

Of course.

Valarr Targaryen. The future king. He was the one who ruined the meal.

You walk under a shaded archway of the castle. You are relieved to be in the cold shadow of the building. You risk wiping the sweat off your brow. Aerion remains walking with a fast pace, and he is hard to keep up with.

When you round a corner, Aerion grabs you and pulls you to a stop.

You quickly shift around, looking for any of the Ashford guards. Aerion has ledged you in a spot that has none. Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty still trail along, but they linger further back as they notice Aerion has stopped.

Your whole body tenses as Aerion brings his hand up to cup your face.

What does he want? What the fuck does he want from you?

“You know that’s what he wanted, don’t you? He wanted to see you open your mouth on command, and that’s why I gave him what he wanted.”

You swallow. You give a quick, obedient nod.

“No,” he drawls beneath his breath. “You don’t see it the way I do. You think of him as the good son. The courageous heir to the throne.” His hand moves to grip your jaw. “He is not as innocent as he pretends. Best believe the only reason he thinks of your tongue is to picture it running up and down his cock-”

You rip yourself from his grip, disgust on your features.

Ha laughs again. “Don’t be so naive to think it false.”

You physically bite your tongue so hard it hurts.

He is quiet, as if waiting for you to say something. When you do not, he presses further. “Unless you know it to be true? And perhaps you find enjoyment in it?”

You grip your skirts in fists, and you glare at him. He waits again. But you know better now. You do not speak.

But is he unrelenting. As if he wants you to speak. Because he wants to correct you.

“It seems my whorish wife gets excited at the thought of other men stroking their cocks to the thought of her.” He notices the way you flinch at the brazen words. He worsens his behavior. “Next dinner, I should give them something to really look at. I should just order you to pull up your skirts and show them your cunt-”

You shove his chest away from you, disgust drenching you.

He breaks out with laughter. His laugh, which you hate most out of anything in the world, is what finally makes you snap.

“How dare you speak to me with such crudity?” you spit at him, unable to handle the seething rage you feel.

“Crudity.” The word amuses him. “My, my, how sensitive you are for someone that enjoys whipping naked women.”

You turn away from him sharply. “Ser Thenty, I wish to be escorted to my tent-”

Aerion grips your upper arm and yanks you back to him. He is still amused. “Settle, woman.”

“You are barbaric,” you spit at him.

A laugh. “Barbaric?”

“I am your wife,” you whisper in a hiss, trying to rip your arm from him. He does not let go.

“I am aware.”

Your rage seeps through your words. “Yet you debase me so openly.” Your fists open and close on the fabric of your skirt. “Is it not bad enough to have me humiliated in front of so many spectators in the city, you must do so in front of the royal family?”

“I forgot how much my cousin’s opinion mattered to you.”

Aerion is jealous of his cousin, you remind yourself.

So you taunt him with the things he envies.

“The opinion of the future king will always matter over yours-”

Aerion hits you so hard that you fly back against the stone wall, barely catching your balance on it. Pain hinders you as you clutch your cheek.

“That is your only warning,” Aerion says to you.

Your hair falls in front of your face. You let it stay so that you do not have to see him anymore.

You make a quick attempt to get to Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher, who stand at the end of the small courtyard, watching. You manage to stumble only a few steps towards him before Aerion’s finger grip around your arm.

“Barbaric,” he repeats. “You find your own husband barbaric. Do you know how barbarians behave?”

“Let me go,” you say, your voice feeling raw as you hold back the tears forming in your eyes from the stinging slap.

“I will show you what it means to be debased so publically,” he tells you. “So that next time you will be more appreciative of the husband you have.”

He yanks you towards the willow tree.

“Stop it,” you whisper. You try to pull back, grounding your feet in the dirt. “Aerion-”

He flings your body towards the tree.

Your blood freezes as you watch his hands fall to his belt, and he unfastens the buckle.

No.

No.

He did not mean to do that here.

He would not abuse your body here. In someone else’s home. In someone else’s courtyard.

He was more than barbaric. He was a barbaric, hateful, spoiled, evil bastard.

You take a quick step back as his belt is dropped to the ground, and he begins to unbottom his britches.

“Behind the tree,” he orders you.

You do not move.

“Or not,” he says. “Who am I to care if we have more onlookers?”

“This is the Ashford’s castle-”

“It all belongs to the Targaryens.”

Your hands are shaking again, and your eyes dart to a single guard you see up ahead. “They-They will not forget this disrespect if word of it reaches them.”

You could picture the gossip now. The uncontrollable Targaryen son fucked his wife publically in an Ashford courtyard.

His whorish wife, they would call you.

Your eyes sting as you imagine what else they will say. You look back at the guard. Will he watch?

“They will survive.”

“It will reach your father,” you tell him, flinching as he steps closer.

His voice remains uncaring as he unbuckles his top coat, carelessly letting the jacket fall to the ground. “Gods, whatever will I do if my father hears?”

This could not happen. Not out in the open. Not in such a beautiful place. “No, Aerion, this-this is unacceptable-”

“I know. It’s barbaric, isn’t it?” he taunted with another short laugh.

You are desperate as you call, “Ser Thenty!”

“They will wait behind the gate of the courtyard.” Aerion shoos them away. “Go. A husband requires privacy with his wife. You will wait beyond the gate.”

They obeyed. They both stepped on the other side of the stone wall as if you were not begging for help.

“Behind the tree. Now.”

“Okay,” you whisper, taking a cautious step back. “Okay. Okay.”

He nears you. You wait for him to come closer, and the moment he steps behind the tree with you, you dart out the small opening behind it. You force your feet against the ground and try to run to Ser Thenty.

Aerion snatches you fast, gripping your hair and yanking you back behind the treetrunm.

He is laughing still like he is having the time of his life. “How pitifully slow you are.” With a firm shove, you tumble to the ground. Aerion kneels over you. “The more noise you make, the more of an audience we will have-”

“Get off of me!” you scream at him.

You writhe on the ground, using all your strength to try to get out from under him. He pins your hands down with ease, and amusement covers his expression. “You can either give me your body, (Y/N), or I will take it. And believe me, I would have much fun in taking it.”

It was all just a game to him.

Your torture was a game to this horrid excuse of a man.

Fire burns in your veins. You spit in his face.

You hear half a laugh before you feel the blow to your face.

You shut your eyes tightly, the slap causing your head to spin.

Aerion’s hand moves down your legs, which you writhe and kick with all your might. He grabs your skirt and lifts it to your waist.

Aerion frees himself from his trousers, and with abruptness, and no thought to your dryness, he shoves himself into you.

The pain of the harsh intrusion causes you to cry out.

Your brain tries to shut itself down. Your mind tries to leave this place.

Your husband makes a low groan, his hands tightening on your dress, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

You should be protected. That is what Prince Baelor promised you. He said you would have a knight that protects you.

But Ser Thenty is useless.

You have no idea as to why he is not serving his purpose, so you flood your mind with ideas as to how to make him.

You can do nothing but scream. So you scream.

You open your mouth and scream as loud as you possibly, possibly can.

It works in the smallest of ways. It catches Aerion off guard, making him pull his face back. He reaches out and grabs a broken tree branch, snapping off the top, and shoving it against your lips to force you quiet.

An idea sparks immediately. Your hands flies out to feel the ground beside you. You find a different branch, smaller, but enough to grip onto.

You recall exactly where you stabbed Aerion nights prior. So you grab the small stick, and you jam it in the exact same spot.

“Ah!” Your husband hunches back. “You fucking whore-!”

You rip the stick from your mouth, and slam the pointed end against his face. You hit his cheekbone, and you see the blood as you shove him back from you.

Flipping over, you try to crawl out from under him. He grabs you, yanking you back to him. You reach for something new, and you find grab a rock this time. You turn and slam it against his forehead. You hope it kills him.

But he only hisses in pain, his hand finding your throat, squeezing it so hard you see stars. He lifts you up by the throat, and slams you back to the ground.

Your hand flies out again feeling for anything you can teach. Your luck reappears as you feel a large, fallen branch. It is almost too heavy to lift with one hand, but you are able. You bring it up and slam it against his face. Once. Twice. Three times.

He screams louder.

One hand still pins down your shoulder, so to get it off of you, you turn your head and bite his arm as hard as you can.

Aerion rips his hand away, and you force yourself out from under him. You snatch the large branch off the ground, and you slam it down to his body. Then again, and again.

You hear him laugh. A long, elated laugh. “I am going skin you alive, you stupid whore-”

You slam the branch down against his head. You scream as you do so.

Aerion catches your wrist, yanking you down and knocking you off your feet. It does not make you stop. You grab his hand, and bite his wrist once more, as hard as you can. When he rips it away, you raise the branch as high as you could and bring it down on his head.

You want him dead. You hit him again. You want him dead. And again. You want him dead and gone and burning in hell-

“Lady (Y/N)!”

The scream was so loud that your whole body jolts, your heart sinking to your stomach.

“Get off of him now!”

You flinch so violently the tree branch drops from your hands. You fly to your feet and whip around.

Ser Donnel of Duskendale stands with a face red with anger. “Get away from him, you stupid girl!”

Your body quivers as you grip onto your dress, patting yourself down and making sure you are not exposed. “Ser-Ser Donnel-”

“Step away from the Prince!”

You take fast steps away from your husband.

Aerion had been right, your screaming had eventually drawn a crowd. There are more than a dozen guards near the entrance of the courtyard now, Ser Donnel’s harsh command the only thing keeping them from entering.

Your body stays tense with panic, but a different kind now. You are no longer fearing for your safety, you are fearing your punishment.

They are going to punish you for this. Oh god, they were going to hurt you for this. You wanted to burst into tears.

“H-He was-” You gulped. “He was-”

“Quiet, woman!” Ser Donnel hollers at you. He kneels in front of your husband. “Prince Aerion, do you require a maester?”

A lazy smile formed on his face. “Not as much as I require my dagger. Hand it to me so that I am able to slice that bitch’s throat open.”

“Ser Donnel,” you choke, “I was only defending myself-”

“For fuck’s sake,” he snaps at you. “I just witnessed you beating the royal prince with a tree branch. Have you any fucking idea what this will cause for you?” He grabs hold of your husband. “Allow me to assist, my prince.”

He raises Aerion into his feet. Your husband sways, before resting an arm against the tree trunk, leaning over, and puking out red wine. Ser Donnel wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“He forced me behind the tree,” you try to say rapidly. “He-Ser Donnel-He was forcing himself on me, and-” You choke on your own panic. “He would not stop, I did not know what else to do.”

There is a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. You see his anger subside the smallest amount, but his voice stays stern. “Yet it is you who will face punishment for this.”

You fall apart, breaking down right then and there.

“Quiet,” the knight orders you.

Aerion wipes his mouth, but stays resting on the tree with his eyes shut, wincing as he places a hand over his torn stitches. “Shove a fistful of dirt in her mouth to silence her.”

You wish you had the speed to grab Ser Donnel’s sword and kill Aerion with it.

Tears stream down your face. “Please, do not tell his father,” you beg the knight.

Ser Donnel places a hand on your jaw, turning your head back and forth. “Prince Aerion caused these markings?”

You did not know what your face looked like, but you assumed the slap to the face, hitting the ground, and having branches shoved into your mouth did some visible damage.

You shake from your crying. “I beg of you. I beg of you, do not tell Prince Maekar.”

“Prince Aerion, what was the cause of this?”

“My wife is excited by bloodshed-”

“He is lying!” you say to Ser Donnel. “He is a bastardly liar-!”

Ser Donnel hisses, “Hold your tongue!”

You had been trying.

All day, you had been trying your absolute hardest to hold your tongue. You stuck out your tongue on command, in front of the soon to be king.

You tried to hold your tongue but Aerion wouldn’t let you.

He escalated and escalated and escalated and you wish you had the strength to have driven that stick into his skull.

“I must take you to Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar at once.”

A sob escapes your throat. “No-”

“You have been warned about this,” Ser Donnel spits beneath his breath. “What did you think would happen?”

“He will not understand,” you cry.

“You will put yourself at Prince Maekar’s feet, and you will beg for his forgiveness.” Ser Donnell snaps. He gestures for the guards to move forward. “And if he is merciful, perhaps you can save yourself from the same fate you saw after your incident with Prince Daeron.”

The incident with Prince Daeron. Your body still shudders at the memory from your maiden years.

“No,” you say again. “Please. Aerion-” You suddenly grasp onto your husband’s hand. “Aerion, do not let your father hear about this.”

Aerion drags his hand over his mouth, and he catches a drop of blood that comes from a cut just above his mouth. “And why should I defend the whore who so viciously attacked me?”

“Please,” you cry again. “I am sorry. I will never dare do something like that again. Aerion-Aerion, I-” You search your mind for anything you think might trigger some form of sympathy.

You recall how calm Aerion was in his armor tent, how tender his words became when you massaged him.

So you force yourself forward, clinging to him, burying your face in his chest. “I beg for you to forgive me.”

You dare not look at his face. You keep your face against his chest, gripping his shirt like he is your hero rather than your tormentor.

“Do not let him force me inside, my prince. Please, I am sorry.”

There is a moment where you hear nothing, and you can only imagine Aerion is exchanging words with Ser Donnell through looks alone.

“Lady (Y/N) is my lawful property,” Aerion eventually speaks. “What she does is no business of my father.”

“Prince Aerion,” Ser Donnel urges. “I must warn you, he may hear about this through gossip either way. There are guards witnessing this, and they will tell tall tales if no disciple is given to her.”

“The disciple comes from me, not my father. She is mine, not his.”

You can feel Ser Donnel’s agitation. Yet he holds back any further comment besides, “Very well.”

“Come, (Y/N),” Aerion commands, pulling you away. “Let us return to our tent.”

You cannot bear to meet Ser Donnel’s eye. Aerion holds your upper arm, and he leads you out of the courtyard.

As you pass the entryway, your blood freezes as you see Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher waiting exactly on the other side of the archway.

Standing there.

As if nothing was happening.

As if they had not so clearly heard you screaming.

They begin to follow after you, as if nothing had happened.

*******************************************

You do not return to the Red Keep until the death of Lady Dyanna.

Your entire family makes the journey as soon as your father hears the news.

Never in your life had you seen a grown man weep until the day you arrive at the castle, and Prince Maekar greets you father with tears still in his eyes.

The Prince loved his wife. And your father loved your mother. You were raised with this belief-that husbands and wives loved each other. It was a kind thought in the cruel world.

“You will be on your best, most respectful behavior,” your mother told you all before the funeral. “The Targaryens are grieving. They should be met with empathy and compassion only. Does everyone understand?”

Your siblings were obedient. You tried to be too.

Yet, when your siblings were sent out to begin their walk to the funeral cathedral, you were the one held behind.

“It is very important to your father that you remain silent today,” your mother tells you with both hands on your shoulders. “Can you do this for him?”

“I do not speak out of turn,” you tell her.

“Yes, but...a proper girl must bite her tongue even when insulted. Do you understand?”

You did not. Yet, you replied, “Yes, mother.”

“Be respectful to the princes. Even Prince Daeron-”

“Prince Daeron is the one without respect-”

“(Y/N),” she criticized. “He lost his mother. The only words you should speak are condolences.”

“…Yes, mother.”

She gave a heavy sigh. “Go and behave. I believe in you.”

The funeral was a somber event. The princes lined the front of the building as people drawled on about the will and plan of the gods.

When it was time to leave, you followed after your siblings to the front of the building. “We will offer our sorrows,” your father tells you.

You walk along with your siblings, each of them offering condolences to the princes as they passed.

Maekar’s children are there, even the babies held by wet nurses. You divert your eyes as you pass the sons, as to not make eye contact with Daeron.

You stand next to your father as he passes his friend. “She was a beautiful, kind mother, Maekar. The kingdom will miss her.”

You do not know how it tumbles from your mouth, yet it does. Maekar stands so tall, so noble like. You are so young, you are not smart or well versed in how a kingdom works.

Stupidly, you try to console him by saying, “She would have been a well loved Queen-”

Your father’s hand clamps down on your shoulder, silencing you. “Forgive her,” he says quickly. “She is ignorant to titles.”

“All is well,” Maekar dismays. “She...would have done wonders as a queen.”

You are pulled away, and your father hisses, “What were you thinking? Maekar is a fourth son, he will never take the throne, his wife would have never been queen.”

“That is not certain-”

“Go to your mother,” he demands. “You will stay by her side for the entirety of the feast.”

“Why is there a feast?” you ask him. “You said the castle is in mourning-”

“Enough. Go with Ser Donnel,” your father commands you.

Ser Donnel, one of the guards from your home in Duskendale, was now a knight of the Red Keep. He was still loyal to House Darklyn and was the escort to your father during his visits.

“Little Lady (Y/N),” Ser Donnel greets you with a short laugh. “Your father has already warned me to keep my eye out for you.”

“Take her to the feast. Ensure she does not linger with any company,” your father commands him.

You are sent away with a knight like you are a criminal at risk of escape.

******************************************

What fucking use is he?

What use is that pathetic, empty-headed, cowardly, bastard of a knight.

There is rage in your eyes as you stare at Ser Thenty from across the room.

The feast was lively tonight. The first week of jousting had officially ended, and there was a city wide celebration thrown.

Aerion forced you along for it, despite your body aching from the earlier incident.

“You had been right not to involve my father,” Aerion had told you when the two of you got back to the tent. “He would have punished you publically. I will not.”

Aerion had settled on a…martial punishment.

It was brutal, but it was bearable. And you were grateful that he did not break any of your fingers as he so often threatened to.

You got off easier then you would have had Prince Maekar gotten involved.

“You were lucky for Ser Donnel arriving,” your husband told you. “I would have walked you back to the tent stripped naked had you hit me one more time.”

No, he wouldn’t have. That was something you were learning.

Aerion could not stand the thought of someone else seeing you naked. Your body belonged to him, and he wanted it to be only for him.

He would even force Ser Thenty to face the wall when he had his way with you.

Ser Thenty, who did nothing.

He was tasked to protect you, yet he would stand by and listen to you scream.

He would have allowed Aerion to continue to rape you right there in the courtyard. He heard you screaming and crying and begging for help, yet him and Madam Pricher stood by as if nothing happened.

You were wrong. Ser Thenty was not a good knight.

He was as evil as every other man.

You hated Ser Thenty.

You hated Madam Pricher.

You hated your husband.

You hated everyone at this feast.

Everyone was dancing and laughing like it was the time of their lives, and you were practically chained to your chair and living on the mercy of a tyrant.

You had nothing to look forward to. Nothing to keep you at peace.

Just...nothing.

Depression hits you with a numbness. You did not think, you only stared ahead, no thoughts in your mind. You sat empty headed and hoped you would die in the upcoming year.

You were numb to the point that when a cupbearer filled your cup with wine, you drank it.

And you kept drinking. You kept your cup to your lips, because it kept your husband from speaking to you.

Until Aerion suddenly snaps at you, “Slow down. You will be sick tonight if you continue that quickly. And I will not have patience with a sick woman.” He takes another chug of his own wine bottle, then wipes his face with his sleeve like an uncivilized child. “Pull yourself together or everyone will think low of you.”

Your insides twist. “They already think low of me for being your wife.”

“They would think low of you for being anyone’s wife, you do a horrible job at it.”

You stare blankly at the dancers that perform in the middle of the room. Aerion seems quite taken with them, yet part of you wonders if he only watches the women because he knows it get under your skin.

Aerion’s family sits far away from you two. You understand why. You take a moment to finally get a good look at Valarr, as you have never been able to before.

He is handsome, and perhaps that is why Aerion is so worried about you speaking to him.

Though, in another life, you would have found Aerion as the most handsome man in the world. But his attractiveness was ruined when he first opened his mouth.

Your eyes dart to Ser Thenty as he circles the room, before coming to Madam Pricher, who rests against the wall behind you.

“I will return in a moment, Madam Pricher,” you hear him tell her.

“Very well. Be swift.”

You glance behind you, and you see him leaving the feast hall.

Your anger blooms once more, spiking your heart rate.

“I feel as if I will vomit,” you tell Aerion.

“Hm.”

“I must step outside for air.”

“Convenient timing,” you hear him say, a hint of irritation in his tone. But your husband is angry about everything, always, so you do not care.

The room spins when you rise to your feet. You hold yourself still for a moment to make it stop.

You walk swiftly after Ser Thenty. He goes outside. In suspected privacy, he begins to lower his pants to urinate against the tree.

“Ser Thenty!”

He flinches, and quickly tucks himself away and recomposes himself. “Lady (Y/N), where is your chaperone?”

Anger bites in your voice, frustration deleting all your hesitation. “Is it not supposed to be you?” you accuse. “Were you not the one Prince Baelor charged with maintaining my safety?”

“What?” Ser Thenty fastens his pants as quickly as he can. “You should not be out here. Return to the feast inside.”

“What purpose do you have?” you drawl, the wine draining you of all common sense you had about decency. “What is the point of you following my husband and I if he is able to do whatever he pleases? Strike me whenever he pleases? Rape me whenever he pleases-”

“Lady (Y/N),” he cuts off sharply. “We are not meant to converse alone.”

“And you are not meant to witness my torture, you are meant to prevent it!”

“I apologize,” Ser Thenty tells you. “But there is little for me to do. Aerion is a Prince of the seven kingdoms. No matter my orders, I am forbidden from harming him.”

“So I was right in my doubt of you? You cannot do anything because you are a small, cowardly man?”

His tone loses patience. “You must return inside. We cannot be caught out here without a chaperone.”

You did not care for a chaperone. The wine gripped your heart and rid you of your common sense.

Your hand shoots out and you grab Ser Thenty, gripping his arm with a tight squeeze. “Are you not ashamed of yourself for this-?”

He shoves you, hard. So hard you stumble, your anger faltering as your mind reminds you this is a man capable of harming you.

“Do not touch me,” he snaps at you. “You know what your husband will do if he sees such a thing.”

“Of course I know what he will do! You are the one who ignores his actions-!”

“You are alive, Lady (Y/N). You are alive, without any broken bones. I am completing my duty.”

“You are a liar as much as a coward!” you scream. “You sat and did nothing as I called to you!”

“I would have went to you immediately if you were in actual distress, my Lady.”

Your heart spikes with blood curdling anger. “You walked away as my husband raped me!”

“He is your Lord husband,” Ser Thenty tells you. “A man cannot rape a woman that belongs to him.”

And there it was.

There was the answer right there, all along.

You do not get protection from a knight like a man would.

Because you are a woman, meaning you belong to someone.

Why would an object be valued over their owner?

Tears sting your eyes at the frustration of this life.

“You are a craven bastard!” you cry. “And I hope you are tortured in the pits of Hell for all you have allowed to be done to me!”

Heads are turning from the guards outside. More eyes have fallen on you too.

Ser Thenty appears flustered now, less bold under the attention.

“I am going back to the feast,” he tells you. “You should try to sober yourself. You are likely to upset your husband this night.”

You suddenly bend down, pick up a rock, and throw it at the coward.

Ser Thenty ducks it, his eyes widening.

You hear the insult he whispers. “Unrestful cunt.”

He leaves you alone with only the guards that pose along the tent.

You do not want to return inside. Inside is Hell. Outside is Hell. Everything is Hell.

So instead, you drop yourself on the ground with your back against the tree.

You hide your face, and you break down.

*******************************************

You pick at the food on your plate boredly as you watch the nobles dance their way around the hall. “Has a fourth son of a king ever become king himself?” you ask.

Ser Donnel stands beside your chair. He gives a nod as his eyes scan the room for trouble. “Aye. A few times in history. Though, is it not too common.”

“Could Prince Maekar be king one day?”

“It is possible. Though, not too likely.” He glances at you with curiosity. “For what reason do you ask?”

You lean back in your chair. “My father is angry that I told Prince Maekar his wife would’ve been a good Queen-”

“He told you not to speak,” came your sister’s voice from beside you. “You always have such stupid things to say-”

“Be silent,” you snap at her. “I am talking to my knight.”

“Your knight?”

You ignore her and say to Ser Donnel, “It would have been possible for Lady Dyanna to have been queen one day. And if she had been, she would have been well loved. What I said was not incorrect, why must I always be punished for speaking?”

“Because you don’t speak properly,” your sister tells you. “Mother says that is why they will have to arrange your marriage. You will never be courted because you are loud.”

“You will never be courted because you are nosy-”

“Girls, settle,” Ser Donnel chides. “We must keep respect on a day like this.”

“How is any of this respectful?” you ask. “People are drinking and laughing. They are meant to be crying.”

Your sister huffs. “You are still so very loud with your opinions-”

“Enough of you.” You push yourself to your feet. “I will be retiring for the night.”

“Your father requests you remain here until the feast is over,” Ser Donnel tells you.

You lean back in your chair with a heavy sigh.

“Prince Daeron is dancing,” your sister comments.

You say, “Prince Daeron is drunk-”

“(Y/N),” Ser Donnel chides again.

“He is stumbling,” you say. “He has stepped on his partner’s feet several times. She looks as if she is in pain from him. Should you not put a stop to it, Ser Donnel?”

“His mother has passed. Let him grieve how he needs to.”

A frown forms. You watch Prince Daeron, unimpressed.

Finally, the song ends and the girl he danced with rips herself from his grip and flees off the dance floor.

He is not able to find another partner by the time the next dance starts. So he returns to his table and slumps down in a chair beside his brother, Prince Aerion.

Prince Aerion is different then the others. There is a glare on his face as his eyes take in the events of the room. You wonder if he finds it all disrespectful as well.

His eyes continue to cross the room. Then, without warning, his eyes dart to you.

Heat rushes to your face and you quickly look away. You wonder if he noticed you staring. You risk a glance back, and see Prince Daeron whispering something to him. Both of them look at you. You quickly stare at the table, and try to convince yourself you did not see them.

But then the horrid unthinkable happens. You hear him.

Coming from your left, you hear his voice. “Lady (Y/N).”

Your head turns. Prince Daeron stands there, drunk as always, a smile too wide for his mother’s funeral feast.

“I was hoping to have that dance with you now.”

You look at Ser Donnel first, and it is clear this has caught even the knight off guard.

“Prince Daeron,” you slowly begin, “I am…still not well at dancing-”

“I do not mind.” He holds a hand out. “Shall we?”

His eyes are glazed over from drunkenness. You risk glancing at his shoes, which look heavy, and you imagine them stepping on your feet.

“I am very sorry, Prince Daeron, but my father has ordered me to stay seated-”

“Dance with the prince,” your sister urges you. Her voice drops to a whisper. “It is his mother’s funeral. Why are you being so cruel?”

You are jolted as Daeron puts a hand on your chair, pulling it out. “Exactly. It is my mother’s funeral. You would not reject me for a dance at this time, would you?”

“I-” Before a word gets out, he grabs your arm, and pulls you up out of your chair.

“Prince Daeron,” Ser Donnel speaks, “You appear unsteady.”

“I am perfectly alright.”

“I think it would be best if you took a break.”

“Your concern is noted.” Daeron’s hand remains on your arm. His head jerks towards the dancing. “Shall we?”

You do not know what to do.

So you try to think of what your father would advise. He would surely tell you to be respectful, and not to embarrass him.

Placing your hesitation to the side, you agree, “Perhaps you can accompany me for…one dance.”

As you are taken to the dance floor, you feel a sweeping nausea that you must suppress.

Daeron is an awful dancer. He refuses to use any proper dance moves, and he refuses to let you do any either. Instead, he pulls you into him. Your body hits his with a startled gasp, and his hands fall to your waist. He sways with you, though his swaying feels more like stumbling.

Your closeness is inappropriate. Your eyes dart around, fearing your father will see it.

At least those around you look sympathetic rather than judgmental. They know you do not want this dance.

“I have not seen you in so long,” Daeron says to you.

You turn your head as you speak, the alcohol on his breath almost too strong to bear. “My father prefers traveling on his own when he visits the Red Keep.”

“No,” he mumbles. A short shake of his head. “I have not…seen you. I saw you so often before. It’s as if you are…hiding from me now.”

You do not understand him, and you do not want to.

Moments pass without anything said.

“I am very sorry about your mother,” you tell him, because you do not know what else to say. “I cannot imagine your grief right now. I will pray that you are able to get through it.”

“Yes, my mother.” A light smile. “She would have made a very good queen.”

Your shoulders slouch, and you think he is mocking you.

Until he says, “One night, I saw my father on the throne with the King’s crown on his head. He did not believe me.”

It confuses you. “You…saw him?”

“Dreamt of him.”

You do not know what to reply to that, so you say nothing.

A larger smile rises to his lips. “You know, my brother-” He pauses, and laughs. He does not continue.

The music comes to an end. You try to take a step back from him. He does not let you.

“Once more,” he says.

It would embarrass your father if anyone saw you argue with Daeron, so you stayed where you were, and allowed him one more dance.

“You are ten and three now?” he asks you.

“Yes. Ten and three.”

“Have you become a woman yet?”

The question startles you. Your face flushes hot. “P-Pardon?”

“Have you bled yet? And entered womanhood?”

Yes. You began bleeding almost a full year prior to this. But it was not his place to know. You refuse to meet his eye. “No.”

“You would not lie to your Prince, would you?”

You glance around the room to try to see if your father is watching. “We mustn’t speak of such things.” Your voice wavers with your desperation to get away from him.

“Why not?”

You feel choked with embarrassment. “It-It is improper.”

Your eyes search for Ser Donnel.

“And what of maidenhood?” he asks. “Are you still a maiden? Or have the men in Duskendale already seen to that?”

You try to rip yourself from his hold. He holds you tight.

“That is an abhorrent, s-sinful thing to ask,” you tell him. “Let me go at-at once.”

“It is a simple question.”

He grips tightens on your waist so hard it makes you shout a panicked, “Ser Donnel!”

Heads begin to turn your way.

Daeron keeps a tight hold on you. “You needn’t be embarrassed. It is only a question-”

“Let go of me,” you try again, but with no resolve. You feel hot and unable to breathe.

He pulls you against him harder. “Take it as a compliment that your beauty has stirred such scandal among royal princes.”

“Please, let me go,” you have resorted to begging. “I do not wish to dance any longer.”

“He speaks as if he already owns you, can you believe that?” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Yet he mocks me for my behavior. He mocks me as if I do not have the power to ruin what he wants.”

His drunken ramblings mean nothing to you. “Please, my prince, my mother will worry if she-”

Daeron leans down, and he places his lips against yours.

A hard, painful, brute of a kiss. His face slams so hard against yours that the inside of your lip is cut from your own tooth.

You are struck with panic. Instinctively, you stomp your foot down onto his, you shove his chest away, and you slap him in the face as hard as you can.

The hall falls hauntingly quiet. The band has stopped playing, all conversations cease in an instant.

You have struck the King’s grandson, and everyone has seen it.

********************************************

“What has happened, Lady (Y/N), are you hurt?”

It is Ser Donnel that approaches you.

He has heard your cries from his post at the front of the feast, and he recognized them. Hearing you crying so often in your childhood, the tears ring as familiar as your voice.

You hide your face from him.

“Lady (Y/N), please, tell me. Has someone hurt you?”

“You know who hurts me,” you whisper.

“Do you require a maester?”

The words cause you to cry harder. “I require a divorce!”

“Lady-”

“I require a jousting accident that makes me a widow!”

“You should not say these things aloud,” Ser Donnel tells you.

“I do not care who hears!” you weep. You place your face in your hands and cry harder. “I wish for a window to jump out of and end my misery!”

A somber sigh leaves the knight. His hand falls on your shoulder. “The days will get easier, my lady.”

“No, they will not!” Your tears stream down your chin. “They get worse every day that passes! My husband ripped me from my home and forced me into marriage! Then he threw me into solitude for months! Now he has decided to use every waking minute to break my soul!”

You are so swept up in your emotions that for the first time in your life, you have no room to be embarrassed. You are a horrible wreck of a crying woman and you do not care.

“I am doing nothing but awaiting my death!” you scream with hot tears leaving your eyes. “I hate that evil man! I hate him! I-I-!” You cut yourself off by choking on your own son. You bury your face further in your hands. “I wish to never see his face again!”

Ser Donnel is silent. You cry beside him as if he was a confidant. You did know if he was, if anyone was, but you appreciated that he did not force you back to Aerion.

“I will write to your father,” he eventually tells you. “I will have a letter sent this very night, letting him know that there is…concern to be raised about your treatment. I will request his immediate visit to the Red Keep. He is sure to get there by the time we return from the tourney.”

“Aerion will have me dead by then,” you sob. “He will have sliced my throat and thrown my body to the wolves-”

“He will do no such thing, Lady (Y/N).”

“You have no idea what he is capable of.” You choke on your own tears. “He wants me dead, Ser Donnel. He wants to rip me to pieces and burn me to ashes.”

“He does not.”

“He despises me.” Your words are muffled. “And he wants every person to know it.”

“Have I not told you what he wants from you?” Ser Donnel asks. “He wants an obedient woman-”

“He does not!” You finally pull your hands from your face. “He riles me! You do not believe me, but he does! He wishes for me to speak out of turn because he wants to punish me in the most despicable ways!”

“Aerion was most insistent on your wedding. He would not go through such great lengths only to have you die by his hand.”

His words cause a stir in your body. They begin to sober you. “…What great lengths?” you whisper.

Ser Donnel seems to hesitate, as if unsure if he is spilling a secret.

“Aerion claims I was chosen by him,” you say. “But-My mother said it was his father who insisted on such a marriage between houses.”

“Prince Maekar, nor your father, would have ever wanted the houses bridged through Aerion.”

“What?” You do not understand, and the confusion makes your head ache even more. “Why-Why then was the marriage permitted?” Why were you given to that monster?

Ser Donnel glances towards the knights at the entry way. He lowers his voice. “…It was not permitted. Not by Prince Maekar, not by your father. Aerion went to his grandfather, the King, for permission.”

Your blood runs cold. “…The king?”

Ser Donnel seems uncomfortable now. “I fear I have said more than I should have.”

He stands, and you quickly reach out to grab his arm. “No. No, don’t go. Why did he go to the King-?”

“I have no authority to answer such questions,” he tells you.

“My life is on the line, Ser Donnel-”

“It is not,” he insists sternly. “Lady (Y/N), if your husband meant to kill you, do you think he would have spared you from facing his father after your violent actions against him this morning?”

“My violent actions were justified-”

“I have no doubt they were. He has always been a cruel boy, and I’m sure he wants you scared, but he does not want you dead. You will live through this. But be better about it.”

“What am I to do?” you ask him with a pitiful cry in your tone. “What will make him stop?”

“Perhaps obedience is not all he wants,” Ser Donnel tells you. “He is a jealous man, as I am sure you’re aware. He wants a good wife, but perhaps most of all a wife who knows she is his. Let yourself belong to him.”

Belong to him. Belong to Aerion. Is that not death itself?

Another long sigh from Ser Donnel. “I am sorry about this marriage, (Y/N). I warned your father about this. I told him that your sisters were the ones who were wifely, that you were the more troublesome. He had said himself that you were not meant for any marriage, with any man, especially not a man that is so…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “But it is done now. And I will ensure your father is made aware of your mistreatment.”

You stare at him, his words falling heavy on you. “…My father said I was not meant for marriage?”

He looked at you as if he pitied you. He probably did. “Do not lament over such things. Come, step inside. It is time to return to your husband before he notices your absence.”

*******************************************

Your mother holds you against her, pleading, “I will send her home immediately, my Prince. You will never see her here again.”

The hall is quiet, sounded by only harsh whispers that have spread through the room like fire.

“I apologize for her, she will be punished-”

Prince Maekar silences her. “Do not speak.”

Your body trembles, and your mother holds you tighter.

Maekar talks only to your father. “Your daughter has struck my son.”

“She will be punished for this greatly.”

“Mama,” you whisper, “He forced a kiss upon me-”

“Do not speak!” Your father shouts at you, his anger louder than Prince Maekar’s.

You hide your face in your mother’s dress.

Maekar’s voice is so cold it gives you shivers. “Your daughter has struck my son on the day of his mother’s funeral.”

Another man steps up to speak. You do not know, nor recognize him. “Perhaps this should be settled privately.”

“Perhaps not,” Maekar spits. “It was done publically.”

“She is a child, brother, and your son is not known for being gentle with girls.”

“The consequences of a woman striking a royal are stated clearly in the law book.”

Murmurs break out in the dining hall.

You’re confused by the voices jumping around. You keep your eyes shut tightly.

“Seven whippings.”

You hug your mother tighter. “I am sorry-”

“Shh,” she shushes.

“Please, my prince,” you hear your father say. “She is a stupid girl, but she is not a traitor to the crown. Give her a chance to correct this.”

There is more whispering done by your father and the prince, but you are too far to hear it.

Finally, Maekar announces, “A compromise has been made. She has the chance to bend the knee to Daeron. Here. Now. Bend the knee and ask for forgiveness.”

“(Y/N),” your mother whispers, pulling you away from her. “(Y/N), go to your father.”

You look around to see the crowded room stares directly at you. You walk to your father with shaky steps. Your eyes clouded with tears.

“Kneel down before Prince Daeron,” your father tells you. “Apologize for your sins and beg him for forgiveness.”

Your lips quiver. “Kneel?”

“Kneel.”

You finally lay eyes on Daeron again. He is slumped along a chair, but rises to his feet with a look of smugness. “Beg for forgiveness,” he says, “And maybe I will give it to you.”

The amount of people watching you makes you feel sick.

Your eyes return to your father. “...He was improper to me-”

“Kneel and apologize,” your father stresses through gritted teeth. “I will not ask again.”

Taking hold of your shoulder, he forcibly turns you and forces you towards Daeron.

“Kneel,” you are instructed again.

You stare at Daeron.

And suddenly, the worry you feel-you fear you feel-is replaced by nothing but complete and utter outrage.

How dare he?

How dare he rip you from your seat, force you against his body, ask about your womanhood, and force a kiss on you?

This drunken, perverted bastard disgraced you.

And you were meant to apologize to this fool?

You would not.

To apologize would mean to say you were wrong. He was wrong. He deserved more than a slap, and you will not claim you are sorry for it.

You whip back around to your father. “I will not bend the knee to him.”

Prince Maekar’s eyes grow wide with anger.

Your father spits, “Get on your knees-”

“He spoke of the most abhorrent things,” you announce. “He asked about my bleeding, and my maidenhood, and he forced a kiss upon me-”

“(Y/N)!”

“He forced his hands on me, and I will not apologize for defending myself against him!” you cried to your father. “He does not deserve any apology! I do!”

Maekar snaps at your father, “She will kneel, or she will be whipped.”

You speak before your father does, “Then I will be whipped!”

And so it was.

Maekar grants his friend the sole favor of allowing your father to whip you himself.

So right there, in the middle of the feast hall, in front of nearly every noble in the realm, you are bent over a table and whipped seven times.

*******************************************

Ser Donnel coaxes you to your feet. He leads you inside, ushering a nearby servant to wipe your eyes and fix your powdered face.

The servant returns you to your seat beside your captor.

“You were gone for a long time,” Aerion comments. His eyes are on the entertainment, but all his attention seems focused on you. “Where did you go?”

“I was only getting fresh air.”

“With whom?”

“Myself. And two guards.”

“Which guards?”

“I do not know the names. I did not speak to them.”

“You were out for so long without speaking?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” He snaps a finger in the air. “Madam Pricher.”

You feel a coldness as she steps forward. “Yes, Prince Aerion.”

“Who was my wife outside with?”

“I only needed a moment alone-“

“She followed Ser Thenty out, Prince Aerion.”

His eyes finally settled on you. “Did she now?”

The urge to begin weeping fell upon you again.

“Ser Thenty,” he all but snapped. “What business was so important you had to discuss it with my wife?”

The knight’s eyes dashed between the two of you. “She followed me outside, my prince. I did not ask for it. I corrected her immediately and excused myself, reminding her there should never be a time we are alone without a chaperone.”

Aerion’s hand moves towards you. You flinch, even though he merely places a gentle hand on your wrist. “You so often forget the rules I have placed for you.” His thumb brushes your skin. “What was so urgent that you needed to run after him like a whore left unpaid?”

You stared at the table in front of you, wishing you could sink into the floor.

“Answer me or I’ll beat it out of him.”

The threat of harm caused Ser Thenty to quickly say, “She felt I was not doing my job properly. I disregarded her and returned inside immediately.”

Disregarded.

That is exactly how you felt.

And it made you feel so cold.

But the chills truly hit your body when Ser Thenty added, without prompting, “Ser Donnel is the one she was out there with.”

Your heart skips a beat, your head snapping in his direction to stare at him with widened eyes.

“There were other guards nearby, but they were sitting out of range of being heard,” he continued. “I do not know what they conversed about.”

You stare up at Ser Thenty with eyes of horrific betrayal.

He has thrown you to the wolves to save himself.

You watch as your husband’s eyes darken. You try to quickly tell him, “He was only consoling my distraught mood-” You hiss in pain as Aerion’s hand snakes up the back of your head, tugging tightly on your hair.

His thumb brushes the back of your ear, his fingernail pushing deep against the skin. “And what secrets were being whispered into my wife’s ear by dear Ser Donnel?”

“There were no secrets-” You flinch, your mouth shutting as you feel the sliver of something sharp on your skin.

Your husband’s dinner knife. It is in his hand, pressed against the back of your ear. Your hands fly to push him arm away. “Aerion-”

“Place your hands on the table. If you cause a scene, you will not like the outcome you find.”

Your hands are trembling now, yet you force them flat against the table. You look around, desperate for someone to have noticed already, but it seems nobody has.

“Shall I take an ear?” Aerion taunts you. “To punish you for continuously not listening?”

You shut your eyes tightly. “Nothing was done, the-the guards can vouch for me,” you quickly spudder out.

He gives a short, unconvinced, “Hm.”

Your whole body flinches as you feel the sting of a small cut against the back of your ear. Your hand flies out instinctively to try to push him away, “Aerion-”

“Hands flat on the table.”

You force yourself to do so. But he presses harder. Your eyes sting with tears from the sharp pain.

Aerion leans forward, his face painstakingly calm. He brings his lips to your ear. “Was I not the one who saved you from Ser Donnel’s wrath just this morning?” he asks you. His voice mimics being emotionless, yet...something was there. You could hear something in that tone, whether it was jealousy or hatred, you did not know. “He would have ripped you from my hands and delivered you to my father to be whipped.”

You try, once, to get out of the situation. “Ser Thenty, he is hurting me-”

He presses the knife harder. A sharp cry leaves your lips. It turns a few heads of those sitting beside you. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. The small batch of blood you felt now becomes a trickle down your neck.

“You think he wants to spare you from this?” Aerion scoffs. “Do you think Ser Thenty does not see what a disrespectful cunt you are?”

“I am sorry.” You do not know what else to say.

You feel defeated by this world.

There is no more fight left in your body, it is just...pain. It is always pain, and it will always be this way.

The tears in your eyes begin to spill over.

“I am sorry. Please, forgive me.”

That is all you do anymore. Beg for forgiveness.

Your stomach churns with how sick you are of all of this.

“I-I did not call on Ser Donnel.” You try to keep your voice quiet and even. “He saw me in distress, because I was weeping. That is all. We spoke of my father. I-” The blood trickles down to your shoulder. “I would never call on him.”

His hold on you barely loosens. “You will repeat every word that was said when we return to the tent.”

“I will. I will repeat every word.” You are desperate for relief of this pain, so your hand moves to his thigh, and you clutch the material of his trousers. “I am sorry, husband, I did not mean to disrespect you, I-I know better. Forgive me.”

He is quiet a moment, but he finally pulls his hand away, the knife leaving with it. You shudder a long breath of relief.

He places a napkin in your hand, and pushes it against your ear. “Pull yourself together. The tears make you look so ugly.”

You hope you bleed out and die.

The edge of Aerion’s knife is coated in your blood, and it has dripped down to his wrist. He brings the knife to his mouth. You feel sick as you watch him draw the knife along his tongue, ingesting the crimson red until it is gone.

“Go clean yourself off,” he tells you. “The tears and blood will be gone when you return.”

You swallow. “Yes, Prince Aerion.”

You push out the chair quickly.

When you turn around, you see those two bastards just staring at you.

Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher watch you like nothing has happened. As if they were not your protectors that have been carelessly witnessing your torture.

A rage builds in your soul and you are unable to swallow it down.

You have been held hostage by your husband, living only by his mercy. And this pitiful excuse of a knight seems to think you deserve it? That it is your role of wife, that being beaten without complaint is you staying in your place?

Perhaps Ser Thenty would see his sins for what they were if he were the one forced to survive Aerion’s rage.

He threw you to the wolves. Did he not deserve for the same to be done to him?

“Ser Thenty,” you announce. There is an expression of guilt on his face. But you have seen enough guilt. That will not save him now. “You have failed me.”

His shoulders slouch. You hear the slightest chuckle from Aerion.

You wish to wipe that smile off your husband’s face with violence. But you have no violence that will harm him.

So you aim to harm that pathetic heart of his.

You steady your breath, your hand still holding the napkin to your ear.

“But you are my favorite knight,” you say. “So I forgive you.”

Ser Thenty’s eyebrows knit together in a frown. You can see your husband’s head turn to stare directly at you now.

With Aerion’s eyes on you, you take a step toward Ser Thenty, you raise yourself higher, and you place a kiss on his cheek.

The squealing of Aerion’s chair is so instant and loud it makes you flinch away.

Then you flee. You take off out of the dining hall, walking quickly down the hall as the door shut behind you.

Suddenly, there is screaming. More than one person screaming.

You heard Madam Pricher’s voice. “Prince Aerion! Prince Aerion, please-”

There is commotion so loud that all you make out is more screaming. Then the door slams open again, and billowing footsteps follow as guests storm out of the hall.

People are leaving-no, evacuating.

You walk fast, but there are people running now. They hit your shoulders as the crowd begins passing you.

One hand still covers your ear with a napkin. As the screaming grows louder, you raise your other hand, and you cover both ears.

********************************************

All you wanted was to escape the stifling monotony of this rundown, bumfuck-nowhere town. Where time seemed to crawl and every day bled into the next. There was nothing to do except drink cheap beer in collapsing barns with the people your age you could tolerate—which, frankly, wasn’t many. Your graduating class had barely scraped together two hundred students, and most of them were already neck-deep in their great-grandparents’ conservative, redneck ideologies, content to stay trapped in the same traditional, endless loop you were desperate to escape.

Entertainment options were laughably slim, unless you counted gossiping at the diner or staring at the peeling wallpaper of your living room. The highlight of the week was usually a herd of cattle escaping or a barn dance, where everyone pretended their lives weren’t as dull as dishwater.

It was no wonder that generations before had filled their houses to the brim with children. After all, raising a family gave them something to do, a purpose to cling to in the otherwise monotonous grind of small-town life. And maybe, just maybe, it helped fill the silence that crept in at night, the kind that even wolf songs couldn’t drown out.

It wasn’t all bad, you supposed. At night, the air hummed with the songs of frogs and crickets, a sound that felt almost sacred. The stars lit up the sky in a way that was impossible to see from the city, their light twinkling like scattered diamonds. Fireflies blinked alongside them, tiny, fleeting beacons in the dark. Those moments, rare and quiet, made this place almost bearable.

Almost.

But Christ on a cross, when the sun rose, it brought the same crushing realization: there was nothing for you here. Nothing except Sunday mornings at church, where people whispered behind hymnals and dissected the sins of their neighbors, the same people they'd smile brightly at as they prayed for blessings to come to them. At least they handed out free donuts. Small mercies, you thought bitterly, kicking at a loose pebble on the cracked asphalt beneath your feet.

You adjusted the straps of your backpack, the weight of it pressing uncomfortably against your spine. The highway stretched ahead in an unbroken line, a mirage shimmering in the distance, promising freedom just out of reach. All you needed was someone to pull over, just one car willing to take you somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t here.

You even went so far as to wear the most revealing clothes you could find, not that your wardrobe had much to offer in that department. A perverted driver was still a driver, and at this point, you were desperate. You’d taken scissors to an old shirt, hacking it into a crop top that bared your midriff. The fabric was frayed and uneven, but it did the job. Your shorts were another matter entirely, uncomfortably tight and clearly too small, leftovers from when you were a kid. The waistband dug into your skin, and you had to keep tugging them down to avoid cutting off circulation.

God forbid any girl showed an ounce of skin in this town. The stares you got on your way out were enough to make you want to sprint out, but you were banking on that very same scrutiny to catch the attention of a passing car. Modesty might have been the golden rule here, but you weren’t above breaking it if it got you out of this dead-end stretch of nowhere.

You felt ridiculous, humiliated even, but the thought of staying here was far worse than enduring the leering eyes of some old man. You were used to that already. Men in this town had a way of looking at you like you were an object on a shelf they might pick up, inspect, and set back down when they were done. You’d learned to ignore it, to shrug off the uncomfortable heat of their stares and the muttered comments you pretended not to hear.

This was just more of the same, except now you were using it to your advantage. If showing a little skin meant one of those creeps would stop and offer you a ride out of this godforsaken town, then so be it. Dignity wasn’t exactly high on your list of priorities right now—freedom was.

If only one of these fuckers would actually stop. You’d been standing here long enough to feel the sunburn creeping across your shoulders, sweat pooling at the small of your back. You threw your arm out every time, trying to look as pitiful, or enticing, as possible, but all you got in return were waves of hot air as they sped by.

Was it just your town where men stared at women like predators? Or was that just how men were everywhere? You had no way of knowing. Your entire life had been spent here, in this suffocating bubble of prying eyes and wagging tongues. Sometimes you wondered if the rest of the world was different, or if the same lecherous glances and whispered judgments waited for you on the other side of this horizon.

Still, staying here wasn’t an option. Even if the grass wasn’t greener anywhere else, at least it would be different grass. And different was all you were asking for.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by the thunderous roar of an engine, deep and rumbling, shaking the stillness of the road. A semi. Your heart leapt, both with hope and a twinge of unease. You’d heard the stories, truck drivers were lonely old men who’d fuck anything with a heartbeat, and even that was a stretch. The thought made your stomach twist, but desperation outweighed caution.

Throwing your arm out again, thumb raised high, you focused on the massive vehicle barreling toward you. The sheer size of it was almost intimidating, the largest thing you’d seen on the road. Its grill gleamed in the sunlight like a steel beast, and you could already hear the hiss of brakes as it began to slow down.

This was it. Maybe luck was finally on your side—or maybe you were about to make the worst mistake of your life. Either way, it wasn’t like you had much to lose.

The semi groaned to a stop a few yards ahead of you, its engine idling. The driver’s side door creaked open, and out stepped a man, an old man, just as you’d expected.

His hair was almost completely gray, though uneven splotches of the lighter color dotted his scruffy beard like it couldn’t decide whether to age gracefully or not.

The glare of the sun bounced off the truck, making it hard to get a clear look at him, but you could tell enough. He was much larger than you, his frame broad and solid like he’d spent his life lifting things far heavier than the backpack you hauled. His hair had a slight curl to it, messy and unkempt, like he hadn’t seen a comb in days.

He tilted his head toward the passenger side, gesturing with his chin as he spoke. His voice was deep, slow, and unmistakably southern.

"Well, don’t just stand there, girl. You need a ride or what?"

There wasn’t much kindness in his tone, but there wasn’t any malice, either. Just a bluntness that matched the heat of the day. Your hesitation lingered for a moment before you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat.

You all but scaled up the side of the truck, your legs shaky from a mix of exhaustion and the strain of hauling yourself up. The heat of the day clung to you, making every movement feel heavier than it should have. By the time you managed to get one foot inside, your muscles were screaming in protest.

The older man was already back in his seat, one wrist draped lazily over the steering wheel. He chewed on a wad of tobacco, the sound wet and unmannered as he watched you crawl in with a measured gaze. His eyes flickered up and down your figure, lingering just long enough to make your skin crawl. You swore you saw his hand shift subtly, adjusting himself as a low groan escaped your lips from the effort.

You settled into the passenger seat, the cracked leather sticking to your bare thighs. His stare lingered for a moment too long at the way they expanded before he finally spit into an old plastic bottle by his side.

“Where ya headin’, sweetheart?” he drawled, his lips curling into a half-smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

Now that the sun was no longer blinding you, you could finally get a good look at him. To your surprise, he wasn’t all that bad-looking. In fact, he was quite handsome in a rugged, weathered sort of way. His deep chocolate-brown eyes had a sad look to them, like they had seen more than they cared to share. His nose was prominent, giving his face a bold, defined structure that worked with the lines etched into his skin. Those wrinkles, instead of detracting from his appearance like you'd expect them too, seemed to enhance his features.

Your eyes flicked to his hands resting on the wheel. They were large, rough-looking, the scarred, calloused kind of hands that did hard labor. An old, scratched watch clung to his wrist, the leather strap worn and glass cracked, but still functional.

Practical, like him, you figured.

Despite the circumstances, you found yourself momentarily distracted by his appearance.

“Well?” he asked again, the smirk on his face still lingering as he spit tobacco into his bottle. “Where ya headed?”

You hesitated, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat. “Anywhere but here,” you muttered, your voice low but firm.

He chuckled at that, a low rumble that seemed to reverberate through the cab. “Fair enough. Lucky for you, I ain’t goin’ anywhere near here for a good long while. Buckle up, sweetheart.”

You slid your backpack off your shoulders, letting it rest on your lap as your fingers found the charms hanging from the zippers. You twisted them absentmindedly, trying to occupy your mind and ignore the creeping weight of his gaze. The truck didn't move. Confused, you glanced at the gear shift, expecting to see his hand on it. Instead, his hand rested on his thigh, his fingers tapping lazily against his jeans.

Looking up, you caught him staring at you again, his dark eyes locked on yours for a moment before shifting downward. He sighed, tilting his head slightly like he was deciding what to do next. Without saying a word, he leaned toward you.

Your breath hitched as he closed the space between you, his face so close you could almost feel the faint stubble on his jaw and the silver strands in his hair. His arm brushed your shoulder as he reached for your seatbelt.

"Seatbelt's stuck," he muttered, though you hadn't even tried to buckle it yourself. His large hands gripped the strap and gave it a few tugs, his breath fanning across your cheek as he grunted, the plastic clicked before the webbing slid free and he pulled it across your chest.

The motion seemed smooth at first, but you stiffened when his knuckles grazed the curve of your breast. He didn't pause or acknowledge it. His gaze wasn't on the seatbelt or even his hands, it was fixed lower, right where the strap pressed against your chest. His eyes lingered there shamelessly.

He adjusted the strap, tugging it tighter against your chest, his fingers brushing over the swell more than once. The way he moved was deliberate, too slow to be casual, like he was testing how far he could push before you said something.

It didn't feel accidental, but it wasn't obvious enough for you to call him out on it, either. Your throat tightened, and you froze, unsure whether to flinch or let him finish.

“There,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, as he clicked the belt into place. For a moment, he didn’t move, his face lingering close enough for you to see the faint lines around his eyes and the uneven streaks of gray in his beard. Then, without a word, he leaned back into his seat with a grunt, as though the small task had been a chore.

His hand moved to the gear shift, and the truck rumbled forward, pulling onto the road with a jolt. “Can’t have you flyin’ out the windshield,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.

You didn’t respond, your heart still racing from the unnecessary closeness. Staring out the window, you gripped the straps of your backpack tightly, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of his hands, unease prickling along your skin.

Joel glanced at the cracked dashboard clock, tapping it lightly with his knuckle as if that would somehow make the time change. "We’ll probably hit a truck stop in a few hours," he said, his voice breaking the long silence in the cab.

He finally broke the silence with a grunt and a glance at the dashboard. “’Bout two ‘til we hit the next one,” he said, shifting in his seat and rolling his neck like it ached. “Gonna pull in there, grab some food. Might get a room if the lot ain’t full.”

You didn’t look at him, just nodded a little, eyes fixed on the streak of pavement disappearing beneath the truck. “Okay.”

He glanced at you then, like he was waiting for more. When you didn’t say anything, he added, “They got showers too, y’know. Clean ones. Not five-star or nothin’, but they get the job done.”

“Cool,” you murmured, trying to sound neutral, like you weren’t clocking every word.

Then he smirked a little—just a flicker, barely there, but you caught it. “Don’t worry, you can have your own bed,” he said, voice low, tone meant to be reassuring but sitting wrong in your gut. “Unless, uh... you’d rather save a few bucks.”

You turned to look at him, your expression unreadable. “I’ve got cash,” you said, flatly.

“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Joel said with a chuckle, eyes flicking to your chest again, not even subtle about it this time. “Just jokin’ around.”

You looked away, jaw tightening.

He scratched his beard, shifting in his seat again. “You’re real quiet,” he said after a moment. “Kinda figured a girl like you’d be more talkative.”

“A girl like me?” you asked, without looking at him.

“Yeah,” he drawled, his tone casual as his fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “C’mon you ain't exactly dressed for church, honey.” He turned to you with a grin.

You rolled your eyes before you forced yourself to focus on the landscape outside, the golden hues of the setting sun casting long shadows across the empty fields. But even as you tried to tune him out, you could feel his gaze darting toward you. It wasn’t constant, but it was enough to set your nerves on edge—quick, almost imperceptible glances at your legs, your chest, the curve of your neck.

Every time you caught him, he shifted slightly, like he hadn’t been looking at all. His fingers rubbed idly against his thigh, the movement subtle but deliberate.

“Don’t get too quiet on me now,” he said after a moment, his voice breaking the uneasy silence. “A guy can only handle so much quiet before he starts gettin’ lonely.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m just tired,” you muttered, hoping that would be enough to end the conversation.

“Tired, huh?” Joel’s smirk widened as he leaned back in his seat, one hand lazily adjusting his belt. “Bet you’ve had a long day, stickin’ that pretty thumb out on the highway. Lucky for you I came along. Not everyone out here’s as friendly as me.”

The way he said “friendly” made your stomach churn. You shifted in your seat, pretending to adjust your backpack as an excuse to look away. “Yeah,” you said flatly, unsure of what else to say.

He chuckled again, a deep, gravelly sound that filled the cab. “You know,” he started, his tone turning thoughtful, “truck stops ain’t so bad. Some of ’em even got little diners... Hell, if you’re lucky, you might even find a little entertainment.”

You glanced at him sharply, but he kept his eyes on the road, his expression unreadable. You gritted your teeth, damn religious upbringings, you forced yourself to be polite and dryly humor his conversation. “What kind of entertainment?”

Joel shrugged, his fingers still idly tapping his thigh. “Depends on the stop. Some got TVs, little gift shops... and sometimes, you meet interestin’ people. Y’know, folks passin’ through, lookin’ for a little... company.”

Your pulse quickened, and you swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m not really looking for company,” you said quickly.

His grin widened, and he let out another low chuckle. “Didn’t think you were, sweetheart.”

You turned back to the window, your heart pounding as the shadows outside grew longer. The truck rumbled on, the uneasy tension between you thickening with every mile.

The truck’s turn signal clicked lazily, a rhythmic tick that cut through the hum of the engine as Joel guided the semi off the highway and into the glow of the truck stop.

The lights hit first, flickering fluorescents mounted on leaning poles, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The parking lot was littered with rigs and pickups, a few scattered sedans, and the occasional figure ducking in and out of the convenience store’s heavy glass doors. Beyond that, a rundown diner and a flickering neon sign that buzzed louder than it glowed. It wasn’t much, two diesel pumps, a few bent metal benches out front, and a crooked billboard advertising pie that probably hadn’t been served fresh since the Reagan administration, and behind it, the shape of a small roadside motel slumped under a sagging roofline.

Joel shifted the truck into park with a heavy hand and let out a grunt, stretching his arms above his head until his back cracked. His faded shirt lifted just enough to reveal a strip of his stomach, leathery and scarred. He caught you looking, not at that, exactly, just observing the place, but he smirked like you’d been staring.

“Not bad, huh?” he said, pulling the key out of the ignition. “Cozy little stopover.”

You looked out at the rows of trucks and diesel pumps, trying not to fidget. The stillness inside the cab after the engine died was sudden, as if the noise from the it had been cushioning something you didn’t want to feel.

You said nothing, unbuckling your seatbelt with a quick snap and reaching for your backpack, your fingers finding those familiar charms again. You rolled one between your thumb and forefinger, grounding yourself. The tension in your chest hadn’t left since you climbed into the truck. If anything, it’d only settled deeper.

Joel opened his door and climbed out with a grunt. “Food’s better than it looks,” he said over the roar of the diesel engine cooling off. “Diner’s got burgers, eggs, hash. All the heart-attack bullshit you could ever want.”

You followed after a beat, the door heavier than you expected. He waited for you at the base of the steps, one hand resting on the open door like he was holding it open for a date. You stepped down, trying not to flinch as his eyes moved with you, tracking every inch.

You stared past him at the diner, its windows fogged and glowing yellow under too-dim lights. A man smoked on a bench by the door. He looked tired. Everyone here did.

Joel jerked his chin toward the motel attached to the back of the lot. “Gonna check if they got any rooms left,” he said, spitting a wad of his chewing tobacco into the dirt. “You hungry, or what?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice flatter than you intended. “Starving.”

He grinned at that, like it pleased him. “Go on then, I'll meet'cha.”

Inside, the diner smelled like grease and bleach, two things that didn’t mix well. The waitress behind the counter didn’t look up when you entered, too focused on a crossword puzzle. Joel slid into a booth a few minutes after you had, patting the cracked vinyl across from him.

The seat felt sticky. He leaned back, one arm stretched lazily across the backrest like he owned the place, the other already reaching for a menu he clearly didn’t need.

“Go ahead,” he said, nodding at you. “Order whatever. I’ll cover it.”

You eyed him, unsure if it was kindness or another invisible string. He caught your look and smirked.

“C’mon. Not tryna poison you. Just don’t like eatin’ alone.”

You nodded slowly, glancing down at the menu as he watched you over the top of his.

Joel leaned back in the booth, the vinyl seat creaking under his weight. One arm sprawled across the top, the other cradling his plastic cup of water. He let out a long sigh, an exaggerated exhale, like he was trying to be noticed.

“Been on the road five weeks straight,” he muttered, glancing out the window like he might spot someone he used to know. “Start talkin’ to myself if I don’t get some damn conversation.”

You looked up, cautious. He smiled, but it was thin. Forced.

“Life gets quiet when you get to my age. Too damn quiet, sometimes,” he said, fingers tapping idly against the side of his cup. “Wife gone. Kids don’t call. Truck’s about the only thing still wants me 'round.”

He chuckled softly, but there wasn’t much humor in it. More like he expected a certain reaction and didn’t care if it was genuine.

“That’s why I don’t mind pickin’ up company when I can,” he added, taking a sip and eyeing you over the rim. “Makes the road feel less... long.”

You didn’t respond, just nodded faintly. He didn’t seem to care—he’d already settled into his little performance.

“Not askin’ for much,” Joel went on, looking down at his calloused hands. “Just someone to talk to. Hearin’ a pretty voice now and again reminds me I’m still 'round, y’know?”

His eyes flicked to your mouth when he said it.

“Hell, you don’t even gotta talk if you don’t want, face's pretty 'nough on its own,” he added with a little grin, eyes crinkling like he was doing you a favor. “I’ll just ramble on till I lose my voice. You can pretend I ain’t even here.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seems like you want someone to listen to you talk till your mouth hurts.”

That got a chuckle out of him. “Alright, fair,” he said, scratching at his beard. “I like a little attention. Guilty as charged.”

The waitress came over, tired eyes scanning the table. Joel ordered without looking at the menu—“bacon cheeseburger, extra pickles, fries, and a Coke,” before nodding at you to go ahead.

As you gave your order, you could feel his gaze on your face, lingering just a tad too long on your lips when you spoke. When the waitress walked off, Joel leaned back again with a grunt.

“Bet you think I’m some sad old bastard,” he said, smirking.

You tilted your head slightly. “You don’t seem all that sad.”

He laughed again, low and knowing. “Don’t gotta be sad to be lonely, darlin’.”

He said it so easily, like it was the kind of thing he’d said a hundred times before. Like it worked on someone, once.

There was something off about the way he spoke—too rehearsed, maybe. Like he’d said this all before. The “poor old man” routine. Alone on the road, no family, no one to talk to. It felt... thin.

Still, something about it tugged at you.

Maybe it was the way he sighed after every sentence, like he didn’t expect you to care. Maybe it was the worn in look behind his eyes.

You glanced down at your lap, your fingers twisting the zipper of your backpack until it bit into your skin.

You knew better. You really did. People didn’t get like this for no reason. Men didn’t hand out kindness for free. But even as your gut whispered caution, another part of you, smaller, quieter, felt bad for him.

He wasn’t pushing anything. Not yet. And you were tired. Not just from standing on the side of the road, but from months of going nowhere, of waiting for someone, anyone, to see you.

Joel caught your eye again, that half-smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t mean to lay it on thick,” he said, almost sheepish now. “Guess I don’t talk to people much these days. Gettin' rusty.”

You tried to smile, but it came out just as performative as his. “It’s fine. I get it.”

He tapped a finger against his glass, his tone softening. “You runnin’ from somethin’?” he asked, not accusing, just curious.

You hesitated. “Not really. Just… done with where I came from.”

Joel nodded like he understood. Maybe he did. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’ out. Some places don’t give you much reason to stay.”

His voice was quieter now, less performative. For a second, it felt more real. Or maybe you just wanted it to.

You studied him for a beat longer—his hands, his eyes, the worn creases in his skin. You could still feel the phantom touch of his fingers pulling your seatbelt earlier, still see the way his gaze had lingered a second too long.

But right now, he looked tired. Lonely. And something in you, despite everything, softened just a little.

“I appreciate the ride,” you said quietly. “Really.”

Joel looked at you for a second, then nodded once and leaned back again. “Ain’t no trouble,” he said. “Like I said, road gets real damn quiet.”

You both fell into silence after that, the kind that wasn’t entirely comfortable.

He’d tried to make small talk over greasy plates and chipped mugs of diner coffee—asked about your favorite music, your family, whether you had a boyfriend “waitin’ around somewhere.” He framed it as harmless banter, chuckling over his fries, talking with his mouth half full like it wasn’t meant to mean anything.

You mostly nodded, gave short answers. Your appetite had all but vanished the longer his eyes lingered on you.

They didn’t wander constantly, Joel wasn’t that obvious. But every so often, as you cut into your food or brushed hair out of your face, you’d catch him watching you instead of eating. His gaze would always drop quickly, back to his plate or the tabletop, but the silence between those glances felt thicker each time.

You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you were tired, overthinking.

But by the time he paid the bill and motioned for you to follow him outside, your stomach had twisted into something tight and uneasy.

The air had cooled a little with the setting sun. Crickets had started their nightly hum, and the truck lot buzzed quietly with the sound of engines cooling and the occasional burst of laughter from inside the diner. But your ears were filled with the sound of your own footsteps following Joel’s.

He led you past the edge of the lot, toward a squat, single-story row of motel rooms behind the diner. Faded numbers were bolted onto each door, and the porch lights above them flickered weakly, as if unsure whether to bother staying lit.

Joel stopped in front of one, jingling a key in his hand. “Only had one left,” he said, turning the knob. “Told the guy it’s just for a few hours’ shut-eye. Not like I’m settlin’ in.”

Your heart skipped. Just one?

The room door creaked open. Joel stepped inside first, tossing the key on the nightstand and flipping on the light. A yellow glow filled the room, bouncing off stained wallpaper and a twin bed with a faded comforter. The A/C unit in the window rattled weakly.

The moment you stepped into the room, something felt different.

Not in the air itself, the motel room still smelled like bleach and dust, but Joel’s presence had changed.

He didn’t say much after unlocking the door. Just let it swing open, stepped inside like he owned the place, and gave the room a lazy once-over. Gone was the exaggerated sighing, the talk of loneliness, the half-hearted chuckles meant to make you feel bad for him. Now he moved slower, more comfortably, like someone who’d settled into something.

You weren’t sure what.

He let the door close behind you with a click that made your pulse hitch. He didn’t bolt it, he didn’t need to. The message was already clear.

Joel walked over to the table near the bed and dropped the room key with a soft clink. His hand hovered for a second, then he sat in the chair near the window, stretching out with a tired grunt. One arm slung over the backrest like he was getting ready to stay awhile.

“Not bad,” he muttered, adjusting the waistband of his jeans before running a hand through his graying hair. “Could be worse.”

You didn’t answer. You were still standing near the door, backpack hugged to your chest like a shield.

Joel’s eyes flicked up to you. Slower now. Less polite. Like he didn’t feel the need to pretend anymore.

"You can sit, y’know,” he said. “Ain’t gonna bite.”

He grinned at his own joke, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were darker now. Not cold, just… sure. Like whatever this was, it was already decided in his head.

You moved slowly, choosing the edge of the bed farthest from him—you wished the separate beds calmed your nerves, they didn't. The springs creaked as you sat, and the sound felt too loud. You kept your backpack in your lap, your hands gripping the strap.

Joel let his gaze linger for a moment longer, then leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Y’know, most folks would be grateful by now,” he said idly, like he was commenting on the weather. “Free ride, free food, place to rest. Ain’t a bad deal.”

Your spine stiffened slightly. There was no edge in his voice, no threat. But there was something underneath it. Something that made your stomach coil.

“I am grateful,” you said carefully.

“Mm.” He didn’t sound entirely convinced. “You’re just real quiet is all. Hard to read.”

You didn’t reply.

Joel scratched at his jaw. “Guess it’s just been a while since I had company.” He looked at you again, head tilted, lips just barely curved. “It’s nice. Real nice. You're nice.”

You felt your shoulders tense. He wasn’t doing anything, not really, but you could feel it building. The shift. The subtle way he took up more space now, like just getting you through that door had changed everything.

Joel stood up, stretching again with a low groan, and walked toward the mini fridge. He bent to open it, empty, but lingered there a second longer than needed. When he straightened, he looked at you again. Still that same expression. Casual. Relaxed. Like this was just the natural next step in whatever he thought was happening here.

“I’m gonna go grab us some drinks,” he said, voice lighter now, maybe even cheerful. “You want soda, water, somethin’ stronger?”

You blinked. “Coke’s fine.”

He nodded, already halfway to the door. He paused, hand on the knob, then turned back.

“You lock that behind me if it makes you feel better,” he said, his voice quiet. “But I’ll be back in five. Don’t go disappearin’ on me.”

He winked. Not playful. Not mean. Just… like a joke he thought you were in on, even if you didn’t know the punchline yet.

Then the door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone.

The silence returned.

You sat still, backpack clutched to your chest, heart pounding a little faster than before. You weren’t sure what Joel thought this was. But for the first time, you were sure of one thing:

He thought he was owed something.

You weren’t sure why you stayed.

Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was the weight of your backpack digging into your spine for hours that made you too tired to run again. Maybe it was something worse, something harder to admit. That small, scared voice that told you: This is what you asked for, isn’t it? A ride. A room. A way out.

You told yourself it was fine.

But when Joel came back a few agonizing minutes later, holding a single room-temperature soda like it was some kind of gift, that thin illusion started to crack.

"Vending machine’s shot to hell," he said, tossing it onto the end of the bed like he expected you to jump at it. “Still good, though. S'just warm.”

You nodded, reaching to take a grab the bottle. You tried not to acknowledge the way your heart sped up as you leaned closer to him, your hand shaking.

Joel didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care. He kicked off his boots, grunted as he lowered himself into the creaking chair near the TV, and grabbed the remote from the armrest.

The television flashed on, its speakers crackling as static fizzled into some old cable rerun. The volume was too loud for the tiny room, but Joel didn’t adjust it. He just leaned back and settled in, letting the laugh track fill the silence like white noise drowning out your thoughts.

You nerves were so shot, you hadn’t noticed the bottle hadn't hissed when you twisted the cap.

When your leg started to shake it was just a tremor at first, barely noticeable. But it spread, up your thigh, into your stomach, into your chest. Your heart fluttered under your ribs, fluttered wrong. Your throat was too dry. The lights were too yellow. The TV too loud. His breathing, even and steady from across the room, was the only rhythm that didn't match your panic.

You stood quickly, too quickly.

“Bathroom,” you muttered, grabbing your bag without really knowing why. Just needing it close.

Joel gave a vague nod, his eyes barely lifting from the screen. “Take your time.”

The bathroom was even smaller than you expected. Dim light. Cracked tile. A fan in the ceiling that buzzed faintly behind the walls. You closed the door and leaned against it, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands.

Your reflection stared back at you, paler than before. Eyes wide. Lips dry.

You didn’t even notice you were crying until the first drop hit the sink.

You weren’t scared, not exactly. But something inside you was twisting tight, something old and instinctive that didn’t care about politeness or gratitude or second chances. Something that whispered, Leave. Now.

You splashed water on your face. Once. Twice. The cold shocked your nerves, grounding you just a little, enough to breathe. But your hand trembled as you reached for the towel, and you had to brace yourself before you looked in the mirror again.

You stared at your own eyes for a long time.

You could still leave. You hadn’t unpacked. Your legs worked fine. The door wasn’t locked.

But outside that door, Joel waited. Not a stranger anymore. Not really. And that was somehow worse.

You dried your face, turned off the faucet, and in front the door of the bathroom for a beat, staring at the crack under it, the yellow-lit room shared the space of flickering blue light from the TV.

“You alright in there, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice warm again, sounding gentle despite how he'd had to hollar over the TV.

You took a breath. Then another. You told yourself you were overreacting.

People were weird, sure. Joel was… weird. But maybe that’s all it was. Maybe your nerves were shot from being on the road, from standing in the sun for hours, from not eating enough. You were tired. That made everything feel worse.

One night. Get some rest. Ditch him in the morning.

That was the plan. Simple. Safe.

You pushed open the door and stepped out into the dim light of the room again, trying to slide your expression back into something neutral. Something nice.

You gave him a polite, too-sweet smile in return, it was automatic, from that church-girl buried deep in your gut. You didn't owe him anything, but you still felt like you had to at least perform gratitude. Like that was part of the deal.

It was tight-lipped, polite, instinctual. The same smile you’d been trained to give since you were a kid, the smile that didnt reach your eyes, that said I’m fine, thank you, don’t worry about me.

He smiled back.

Not kindly. Not broadly. Just this thin, smug little thing tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He tried to play it off like nothing. Reached for the remote. Adjusted his posture. But it didn’t go unnoticed, not by you. Joel looked over at you from the chair, his arms resting behind his head now, relaxed.

You crossed the room, easing yourself onto the top of the bed. The blanket was old and dusty and reeked of stale detergent. Still, it beat the side of the highway. You opened the Coke and took a sip. Flat. Warm. Still, it gave your hands something to do.

On the TV, that same crusty sitcom was still going. Joel had turned the volume up since you'd gone. The laugh track punched through the tiny speakers like a drill to the temple. The jokes came rapid-fire—loud, overacted, dated.

You weren’t really listening until one of the characters—a middle-aged man with a gut and a mustache—joked about slipping a woman something to make her “act with less prudence.” The studio audience howled. His female co-star gave him a fake slap on the shoulder with an annoyed glare. The scene moved on.

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t even smile.

Joel did.

Not loud. Just a low huff of a chuckle, amused. Right in time with the laugh track. Like it had hit a nerve in him. The wrong nerve.

You stiffened. Your spine straightened just a little more. You didn’t look at him.

It was the type of joke that made men laugh in bars when they’d already had too much and weren’t watching their tone anymore.

Joel’s laughter stopped as quickly as it came. But when you risked a glance, you saw it, that same smug curl at the edge of his mouth, his tongue poking briefly at the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on something he wasn’t going to say out loud.

You looked away.

It’s the show, you told yourself. It’s the show. He’s just laughing because it’s on.

But the hairs on your arms were standing up anyway.

You shifted around on the stiff mattress for what must’ve been the better part of an hour. The bed creaked with every movement, the scratchy comforter brushing against your skin like old sandpaper. You kept changing positions—legs folded under you, then stretched out, then pulled back in. Nothing felt comfortable. Nothing felt settled.

You kept reaching for the bottle of Coke on the side table, fingers brushing it absentmindedly before pulling back. The ritual repeated over and over until finally, you just brought it into your lap. The half-full bottle had lost what little fizz it had, but you held onto it anyway. The weight of it in your hands was something solid, something to focus on. It gave your fingers something to do besides twist the hem of your shirt or pick at your skin.

Joel hadn’t said much. The flicker of the TV lit up his face in little bursts. Every so often, he’d glance over at you. Not long enough to say anything. Just enough to make your body flare up with heat as your blood rushed.

You tried to focus on the show, but your brain had gone fuzzy. Not foggy, exactly, but distant. Like your thoughts were moving through syrup. Your limbs felt a little heavy, your eyes dry.

The Coke sat in your lap like a small weight. When you went to take another sip, you hesitated, your hand lifting slower than you expected. The bottle felt heavier than before. Not by much. Just enough for you to notice.

You frowned a little, blinked once, then twice. Maybe it was exhaustion. Your nerves had been running hot all day, your body could just be crashing. That had to be it.

Still… something felt off. You gripped the bottle a little tighter.

Your head rolled slightly on your shoulders as you tried to blink the haze away. You gave a small shake, like maybe you could rattle the exhaustion out of your skull, but it clung to you—draped heavy over your limbs like a damp blanket.

You weren’t that tired.

At least, you hadn’t been.

You blinked again. The TV was still flickering, the show’s punchlines rolling out like clockwork. Joel chuckled along with the laugh track, low and content. Like nothing was wrong. Like everything was exactly the way he wanted it.

You didn’t look at him. You just focused on the bottle in your hands.

It wasn’t spinning, but it felt like it could be. Your fingers curled a little tighter around it as if that might tether you to the present. You told yourself again that you hadn’t eaten properly. That this was just your body protesting the long day. That the motel room was warm, and Joel’s TV was loud, and your senses were frayed.

But still… your skin was buzzing. Not panic, just static. An edge.

You reached for your phone without thinking, fingertips fumbling slightly with the zipper of your bag. You didn’t even know who you’d text if you needed help, but the need to do something was rising in your chest, your instincts growing louder, like background noise you could no longer ignore.

“Feelin’ alright, sweetheart?” Joel asked suddenly, not looking at you.

You jumped slightly at his voice, your fingers freezing over your backpack. You glanced at him.

His eyes were still on the screen, but his smirk was back. Not wide, not obvious, just there. Subtle, like he was hiding something behind it and didn’t care enough to try hard.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Joel made a little humming sound, like he didn’t quite believe you, but he didn’t press. Just leaned back further in his chair, exhaling like a man pleased with how the day turned out.

You turned your eyes to the bathroom door again.

It wasn’t far. You could go in, close the door, lock it. Just for a minute. Just to breathe.

You planted your hands on the edge of the bed and pushed yourself up. Your legs didn’t respond the way you expected.

For a split second, it felt like they weren’t even attached. Your knees nearly gave out as you stood, a sharp, disconnected jolt rushing through your lower body like the numbness you get from sitting too long in one position, but worse. There was no familiar prickle of circulation returning, no tingling promise of sensation coming back. Just absence.

And something about that absence made your chest tighten.

You reached out, grabbing the wall for balance. The Coke bottle in your hand slipped from your fingers.

Behind you, Joel’s chuckle drifted lazily through the static of the television. Not loud. Just enough to make the air feel thinner.

“You alright there?” he drawled, voice a little too casual. A little too slow.

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Just, stiff legs.”

Your voice sounded strange even to your own ears, it was muted, distant. You could feel his eyes on your back now, tracking your movement more attentively than before.

You didn’t turn.

Didn’t say anything else.

You pressed your hands against the rough motel wall, the chipped paint cool against your skin. Your legs felt weak beneath you, shaking softly, and you couldn’t seem to make them move.

Your breath came fast and shallow, chest tightening with each inhale. The vintage chair creaked faintly nearby, a reminder that Joel was still in the room, still watching.

You didn’t look over.

Your eyes darted to the flickering TV, its pale light casting long shadows on the cracked wallpaper. It buzzed softly, filling the silence with pointless noise.

Maybe not so pointless.

You could hear him settle out of his chair, the scrape of fabric on denim. Joel’s footsteps shuffled behind you, slow and deliberate.

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” His voice was low, smooth, and far too casual. Almost mocking. It didn't sound like a question.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Instead, you pressed your palm harder against the wall, willing the tremors in your legs to stop. But the more you willed it, the worse it felt, like your body was betraying you, leaving you trapped between fight or flight, but doing neither.

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat, biting your lip to keep from shaking or crying. Your heart hammered so loud you were sure he could hear it.

You wanted to run. To scream. To disappear.

But you stayed still.

You didn’t realize he was approaching again until the floor creaked just to your left. A soft sound, but close. Too close.

“Hey, c’mon now,” Joel said, voice gentle in a way that made your stomach twist. “You don’t look too good. Maybe you should lie back down.”

His hand reached out, palm warm and rough as it hovered near your arm. Not yet. The faux tenderness in his tone didn’t sit right with the look in his eyes. They were too alert, too interested.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, though your voice was hoarse and small. You hated how it sounded.

“You sure? ‘Cause you’re swayin’ a little.” His hand landed on your arm this time, solid and steady. But he didn’t grip.

That should have made it better. It didn’t.

It was the stillness in his hand that made your skin crawl, how his thumb pressed, then circled slowly, like he was mapping out your pulse.

“C’mon,” he said again, guiding you gently, not forcing, but not offering space to resist. “Just for a minute. You’ll feel better when ya do.”

When... not if.

You let yourself be led. Partly because your legs still felt unsteady. Partly because you didn’t know what would happen if you pulled away.

He walked you the few steps to the bed, hand never leaving your arm, and helped you sit. His other hand reached for your shoulder, too familiar now, the way it rested there a beat too long.

You flinched.

Joel paused, then gave a soft chuckle under his breath. “Easy now. Ain’t tryin’ to scare you."

But when he leaned in to adjust the pillow behind you, his knuckles dragged against your collarbone. His other hand hovered lower on your side, not quite touching your hip—but close enough that the heat of it made you recoil inside.

“You’re all tense,” he murmured, gaze slipping down your frame like a slow leak. “Just breathe, alright? You’re safe.”

The worst part was how convincing his voice sounded.

But you knew better.

Your body knew better.

You sank down against the bed with a strange sort of heaviness, like your own limbs no longer belonged to you. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, a dry, musty scent rising up from the sheets.

You tried to sit upright, to keep your spine straight, but your body leaned without permission, your muscles slackened under the weight of your own breath.

Joel didn’t go back to the chair.

You heard the soft groan of the mattress again, felt the subtle shift beside you before your eyes caught up. He sat on the edge of the bed now. Right next to you.

Not touching, but close.

You turned your head toward him slowly, eyes trying to focus. Your brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton, every thought dragging through molasses.

“Why…” you started, but the rest of the sentence didn’t come.

Your tongue felt thick. Heavy. Wrong.

He smiled, small, faint. You might've miss it if you weren’t looking. But you were looking. Because watching him felt like the only thing tethering you now.

“You okay, sugar?” he asked again, quieter this time. Closer. He didn’t sound worried. Not really.

You tried to speak, but your words came out slurred, barely above a whisper. “M’fine…”

It took all your strength just to swallow the lump in your throat, even that felt like work. You could feel your pulse behind your eyes now, slow and sluggish.

Joel didn’t move away.

His arm rested across his lap, hand curled on his thigh. The same hand that had guided you here. The same hand that lingered too long.

His eyes weren’t on your face anymore.

You saw that.

You felt that.

Still, you couldn’t quite pull your body back. Couldn’t seem to make your limbs respond.

You were here. And so was he.

And something deep in your gut told you the space between you wouldn’t stay empty much longer.

Joel's calloused hands reached toward the strap of your bra that had peaked out from your shirt. He lifted it in his fingers almost carefully, letting it lead up to the top of your bra. Your mumbled incoherently at his touch. He shushed you softly.

He didn't speak anymore, he didnt need too. He brought his fingers back up to your collarbone before laying his palm across it, the strap caught between his fingers as he pushed it down your shoulder. His body leaned forward to press his lips to your collarbone. His beard was scruffy and sharp against your soft skin, like needles.

His lips were dry and cracked, the wetness from his saliva being the only softness. He pecked at the bone a few times before his mouth wrapped around it, sucking.

Your hands weakly moved to his shoulders, but his hands patiently wrapped around your wrists, pushing them to sit by your head. The bed dented down. Your writhed weakly. He continued sucking and nipping at the spot till a dark mark appeared.

The knot in your stomach churned as he licked over where he bit to soothe your skin, his beard felt like a hundred tiny needles digging into you. Red appeared around the purple. His thumbs pressed into your wrists, feeling your pulse as you whimpered. His mouth lifted for a moment, his breath hot on your irritated skin.

"Your hearts finally slowin' down sweetheart, ain't losin' ya am I?" He huffed with a humor only he had. His mouth wrapped around the mark again, his tounge tracing your collarbone as he hummed.

He hadn’t lied, your heart finally slowed, but the panic stayed lodged in your chest. Each beat hammered against your ribs, like it was trying to tear its way out and leave you behind. The thump in your chest spread your blood throughout your body, heat rising on your skin.

His hands weren’t tight on your wrists, his thumbs traced slow circles on your pulsepoints before sliding into your palms. His mouth kept defacing your shoulder. There was no violence in it, if anything, he almost seemed to be comforting you.

You couldn’t decide if that made it better, or worse, or if it changed anything at all.

Your knees dragged upward in another weak attempt to slip free, but your bones felt like wet cement, heavy and useless. You turned your head away with a thin whine, your body mustering what little control it had to spill tears that slid into your ears. Your chest heaved as you writhed.

Joel shushed you without cruelty, his hum low and pitying, the vibration running from his throat into your collarbone. His mouth scattered pecks over the marks fresh on your neck and shoulders before he propped himself on an elbow, still looming above you. One calloused hand smeared the tears across your right cheek while his lips caught the ones on the left—and you swore his tongue slipped out to taste the salt straight from your skin.

“Don’t cry, sugarpie… I ain’t gonna hurt you, promise. Didn’t mean to upset you none. I just get real lonely out on the road, is all.”

He looked and sounded so genuine, like he truly believed every word he spoke. His lips brushed your ear when he talked, his voice almost swallowed by the blare of the TV—and now you understood why it was so loud. Not that it mattered. The only sounds you could make were thin, mousey whines, easy to mistake for the creaks of the old bedframe or an actual mouse.

Your lips trembled as you turned your face from his hands, eyelids pressed tight. The only refuge you had was to pretend, if only for a moment, that none of this was real.

“Hey now… look at me. Let me see those pretty eyes, baby.” His voice stayed soft, but there was an edge of annoyance beneath it.

When you didn’t obey, his hand closed around your face, squeezing your cheeks until your lips puckered. He tilted your head toward him, but your eyes stayed shut. He clicked his tongue, then used his other hand to peel one eyelid open. Your iris was barely a ring around your blown pupil, whatever he’d given you was already winding through your blood, sinking heavy into your bones.

He smiled softly. “There she is…” he whispered, letting your eyelid flutter shut as his hand slipped into your hair, fingers combing slow like he meant to soothe. “Pretty, pretty girl.”

His lips met your forced pout in a mockery of a kiss, his tongue brushing gently against them, coaxing for a response you never gave. When you didn't reciprocate, he nipped at your lips gently.

He pulled back just enough to watch your face, your eyes still screwed shut, leaving you with nothing but the ghost of his touch. His hand hovered at your shoulder, and he grinned at the weak tremors rippling through your body. Slowly, he let his fingertips trail down to your hip, slipping beneath the hem of your shorts to trace the waistband, his blunt nail dragging a cruel line across your pelvis.

"It's okay, hun." He whispered as he slipped another finger into the waistband.

You felt his hand turn in your shorts, the pads of his fingers now touching you. You tensed but made no move to resist, not that you could. His hand slowly, painstakingly, moved deeper into your shorts. You quietly cried as his middle and pointer finger dragged across your clothed clit before it was quickly replaced by his palm, fingers down to your slit. Your heard a gravelly groan reach out of his throat.

"Fuck sweetie, you're soaking through your panties." He chuckled near the end of his words before exhaling heavily.

Your eyes wanted to shoot open, but only managed to lift with a furrowed brow. His eyes met yours, his bottom lip between his stained teeth. Confusion was painted on your features.

"Yeah baby, you're panties are fucking ruined." He huffed, his palm pressing onto your swollen clit.

A humiliating gasp was ripped from you as more tears fell from your eyes. No, no no no...

"Mhm, shit baby, see? Your body knows I'm not hurting ya, what was all that fuss about?"

The pads of his fingers brushed over your clothes slit, the wetness became more obvious as you heard a sickening squelch when he pressed them into your sopping hole over your panties.

"Ah... Joel.." you cried, your voice never felt smaller.

His hot breath fanned your face with a pant, "Yeah, baby, say my name."

You shook your head weakly, your eyes traveling down to where his hand disappeared into your shorts. You remembered you had hands as you tried to push his hand away. In your haze, you accidently pushed him closer, letting his palm rub harder into your clit.

You wanted to puke when your felt a shot of pleasure crack through you, you wanted to die when you felt your hips roll into his hand. Your voice cracked with a wordless 'No'.

Joel beamed, "You got such a needy pussy, baby... look at her, she wants so bad. She knows whats best for you... she just wanna feel good."

You grit your teeth as your hips rolled again, his hand meeting it with a circle of his own. Your nails dug into his forearm, but they barely made an indent. You felt his leg cross over yours as he hummed your thigh. His cock was hard in his jeans, the bulge large and visable despite your brain fog and the dark room.

His hand left your shorts for a moment, and you felt a wave of relief before you felt them fall straight to the button on them.

He unbuttoned them with one hand as he groaned, lifting himself to his knees. He grabbed at the waistband at both your hip bones and tore them down. You tried to cross your legs but one of his hands met your thigh and shoved it to the side, just long enough to get your shorts off.

He brought both hands to the back of your knees, dragging you down for his thighs to meet the back of yours. He spread you open and stared down like he was holding his fridge open, deciding what he wanted to feast on. He barely felt the tug of you trying to close them. In a last ditch effort you moved your hands to cover your crotch, and that's when you felt it.

You were completely soaked through, the wet spot making your white panties transparent. It was like something inside you broke at that moment. Your body had decided to completely betray you.

As if he noticed you resolve falter, he brought his hands to the side of your panties and ripped. One side, then the other. Throwing them across the room to land somewhere on the carpet. You bit into your hands as you stopped pulling away. Eyes distant but open, he would take it.

His hands lifted your shirt over your bra before he shoved that up too. It squeezed over the top of your breasts almost painfully.

"God bless you, baby... perfect fucking pussy," his hand slapped it as he leaned forward, "and perfect fucking tits."

His mouth wrapped around your nipple, tounge circling it wildly as he sucked the nub between his teeth. Your body reacted how it wanted, and you could only whimper and whine pathetically. He rested above you on one forearm while his other hand met your leaking slit again. His thick middle finger dragged up and down it, your wetness coating the pad. He brought it to you clit, circling slowly before he flicked it.

He moaned around you nipple when you jumped with a cry. The more your body reacted the more he seemed to lose it. He switched to the other nipple, "Gotta give her some lovin' too." He chuckled.

The actions repeated for a few minutes you think, your perception of time got foggy with each circle, flick, and switch.

The vibration from his groans tickled your breast, making your back arch further into his mouth. He was almost fucking drooling, copious amounts of spit shined your chest like you'd been rubbed down in oil.

He abruptly moved down, his hand leaving to grip your hips, holding them down as he settled between your legs. He licked a long stripe across your slit, shaking his head side to side as the muscle circled your clit before he sunk it into your organ. His hands moved to your chest as he tounge fucked you, fast and unrelenting. He only lifted from you to spit on you pussy before he flattened his tounge across your entire slit and diving back in.

Every groan and moan from his vibrated against your clit and the inside of you. You felt breathless and violated. And when a knot formed in your stomach that you couldn't decipher at first due to the sinking dread that had settled there, it was too late.

With a broken cry, you threw your head back as your legs shook around his head. His voice raised over the tv for a moment with how loud he growled against your pussy.

He detached from you before appearing in front of your eyes and shoving his hot tounge down your throat. You grimaced as you tasted yourself, your pussy still throbbing from your orgasm.

"Sweet as cherry pie, baby." He mumbled against your mouth. His tounge dragged along the inside of your mouth, just another hole to him. Along the ridges of the roof of your mouth to the back of your teeth.

He sucked on your tounge harshly before unlatching, raising back on his knees again with a hushed 'Fuck...' undoing his belt. The clink of metal echoed, as he stood. He didn't bother taking his jeans off, just shoved them down enough to release his raging cock.

He walked to the side of the bed, grabbing your arm and dragging you closer. His dick hung heavy as it twitched, face level with you. You closed your mouth tightly and turned your head, only to met with a gentle but forceful tap from the back of his hand. The same hand grabbed your jaw as he leaned down to meet your eyes.

"I'm only gonna say this once, you don't fucking bite. I don't wanna hurt you, sugar, but you bite my fucking dick and I'll knock your teeth out." He said it sternly with raised brows.

You only looked at him fearfully before he spoke again, "Do you understand?" You nodded.

He loosened his grip and brought his thumbs to the sides of your mouth, forcing it open. "Relax your throat, sweetheart. Be good for me, m'kay?"

What else could you do other then what you were told?

The tip leaked as he dragged it across your lips before he got an idea, backing up and manhandling you to lay with your head upside down on the edge. He returned to your lips, a couple heavy slaps of his cock landed on your cheek before he told you to stick your tounge out, and he slid into your warm waiting mouth.

He groaned as he moved till his balls touched your nose, stilling there for a moment as you suffocated. You whimpered around him as you brought your hands up, "Breath through your nose, sweetheart." He instructed.

He pulled out leaving just the tip in your mouth before he slowly bottomed out again. He didnt waste time changing the pace, his hips thrusted steadily. Drool dripped from your mouth as he fucked it, his heavy, twitching balls smacking your nose each time. He brought his hands to take your wrists, settling them on your stomach as he leaned forward so he could thrust harder. He panted and groaned, cursing occasionally inbetween.

One of his hands left your wrist to smack your pussy once before he lifted himself. Bringing one knee to the mattress, he stood as he thrusted downward into your throat. His hand enveloped it with a growl when he saw the shift inside of it. His eyes were locked on the bulge that appeared in your throat when he shoved it down.

His thrusts became sloppy as he got louder. He lean forward again, fully pounding your throat before hot seed filled it. You felt it hit your uvula in bursts, forcing you to cough and gag, your body desperately trying to suck in air through your filled neck. He stilled at the deepest point, his tip twitching to hit the back of your throat as you felt his balls tighten against your nose. He exhaled roughly before giving you one more slowly thrust, pulling out.

You gasped desperately, veins bulging in your face and neck. Your eyes were pink and your head was swimming due to it hanging upside down for so long. Spit and snot leaked down from your face along with his cum.

Kneeling next to you, he nuzzled your head with his own with soft shushing. "That's it, breath, honey... You did so good, took it so good. Made me feel so good, baby..." he muttered, kisses moving across your temple.

When your coughing subsided you breathed a sigh of relief that it was over, mumbling incoherently as your brain struggled to process. The fog lifted when you felt his hands around your ankles from the other side of the bed, dragging you to lay on it again. He crawled to join you before twisting you back around so your head was at the pillows.

Cries came more freely now as you saw his still hard cock scoot closer to your pussy. You head turned before narrowing in on a sheet of tablets sitting on the side table he'd been sitting at. Two blue pills missing.

Your throat burned as a weak cry tried to crawl out, but he'd abused it to the point of you loosing your voice. Pathetic squeaks falling from your mouth instead. You felt his cock slap against your pussy, it instinctively pulsed at the pressure. He pressed the tip to your clit, thrusting against it. Your back arched as your hips rolled with his, your brain was so fuzzy you didnt even register the noises spilling from your lips.

The stretch was sudden as he pushed into you. Your lips trembled around him as he slid inside easily. Your spit and already soaked his cock immeasurably, but the lube that leaked from you without permission added to it ease of which he came inside you without friction. You felt impossibly full when his hand came down to push on your lower stomach as he began working.

There was no build up, the speed was set from the jump as he hauled himself over you. His hips met yours with heavy thrusts, pounding into you without thought. The only time he let you breath was when he kneeled again, only to grab the back of your knees and shove them next to you head as he somehow fucked you harder. He felt no need to speak anymore, only occasion growls of how wet you were, which you hadn't needed verbal acknowledgement of. It was clear from the wet slaps that echoed in the room, bouncing off the walls and into your ears as you laid limp and took it.

Your mouth hung open as noises continued to force themselves from your throat, you had been so gone that you didnt flinch when you spit into your mouth, your throat instantly tensing as you swallowed it. You had lost almost all feeling, your hearing muffled, you took no notice of the impending release.

"Fucking shit baby... pussys so fucking tight 'round me... you gonna cum again? Hmm? You love this fucking cock, you know you do. You're body knows you do."

It went in one ear and out the other, you were reduced to a whimpering hole.

You didnt react when he pulled out to flip you onto your stomach, shoving one knee hip while the other stayed straight. He laid atop your seemingly lifeless body as he shoved himself back in and quickly resumed his previous pace. The cupped smacking sound reverberated with his pounding, your voice now muffled by the pillows you faced.

You felt his weight as his chest met your back and he rutted into you. Your fingers twitched with a mix of exhaustion, pleasure, and anxiety. He swiped your hair from your shoulder as he sucked another mark onto you from behind. Your voice raised a pitch as he thrusts began sloppy again.

"You're gonna make me cum again, honey... fuck yeah that's it, you can take it, knew you could." You whimpered as he lifted your hips, shoving you onto him just as harshly as he was fucking you. But you tightend around him all the same.

"Come on, cum with me, baby! Want your pussy to clamp down and suck my cum right out of my cock... milk me fucking dry, baby... lemme fill up that sexy fucking pussy!"

A scream was at the back of your throat as your body jumped like you were electrocuted. It came out as a broken cry as you shook violently. He didn't stop even after your orgasm run its course, only fucked you faster. Your hips pulled away as you mindlessly scrambled away from his unrelenting ones, but you were still under the influence of his roofie, and he was still so much stronger.

And so for another agonizing few minutes you shook and writhed and cried till he bottomed out. Cumming deep inside your abused cunt. You felt the warmth fill you as his tip hit your cervix, it spread quickly down to your opening where it leaked down onto the bed. He let himself to thrust a handful more times as he drained his balls inside of you.

And then he stayed there, his hand lifting your hips to keep it from leaking out. But there was so much, it filled your entire cunt. You felt his hands reached and pinch your slit closed around his cock. His mouth came to your ear as he whispered.

"Gotta make it stick... make sure you get nice and full."

You have nothing left in you to protest, only tears slipping by. You're so fucking dirty, cum and spit and snot and tears and sweat. The blanket your sprawled on feels like got left out in the rain.

You feel his cock soften inside you of before he pulls out. Two fingers immediately replace it, stuffing the little that leaks out back into your brushed pussy. You begin to lose your senses, your body unable to force itself to fight awake anymore.