#vampirebuckybarnes

The woods felt wrong the moment you stepped into them.

Too quiet. Too still. Even the air felt heavy, like it was watching you.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, glancing back the way you came—but the path was gone. Just trees. Endless, dark trees.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath. “Lost. Perfect.”

A branch snapped somewhere behind you.

You froze.

“Hello?” Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “Is someone there?”

Silence.

Then—another sound. Closer.

Your heart started pounding as you turned slowly, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs refused to move.

A figure stepped out from between the trees.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in dark clothes that seemed to swallow what little light filtered through the canopy. His hair brushed his shoulders, damp as if he’d been standing in the rain long before it started.

His eyes caught yours—and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“Are you lost?” he asked, voice low, calm… too calm.

You swallowed. “Yeah. I—I can’t find the trail. Do you know how to get out of here?”

He studied you for a long second. Not just looking—assessing. Like he was trying to decide something.

Then he nodded. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

A strange chill crawled up your spine.

“I wasn’t planning to be,” you said, attempting a nervous laugh. “I just… wandered off.”

His gaze lingered on you again. This time, it felt sharper. Hungrier.

Before you could question it—

Thunder cracked overhead.

You flinched as the sky opened, rain pouring down in seconds, soaking you to the bone.

“Come on,” he said, already turning. “My place is nearby.”

You hesitated.

Every horror story you’d ever heard flashed through your mind.

Strange man. Woods. Isolated house.

But another crack of thunder shook the sky, and the rain turned freezing.

You didn’t really have a choice.

“Okay,” you said quickly, hurrying after him.

—

His house appeared out of nowhere.

One moment, just trees—and the next, a dark, old cabin sat between them, barely visible through the rain.

No lights.

No sound.

No sign anyone else had ever been there.

Your stomach twisted.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside without looking back. After a second, you followed.

The inside was dim. Sparse. No electricity—just candles already lit, flickering like they’d been waiting.

“How…” you started, then stopped yourself.

He moved across the room with quiet, unnatural grace, grabbing a towel and tossing it to you.

“Dry off.”

“Thanks,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

You stood there awkwardly, dripping onto the wooden floor, suddenly hyper-aware of everything.

The silence.

The darkness.

Him.

He was watching you again.

Not your face.

Lower.

Your stomach dropped.

“Um…” You tightened your grip on the towel. “Listen, I really appreciate the help, but…”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

For a second, the room went completely still.

Then—

He laughed.

It wasn’t loud. Not cruel.

But it wasn’t normal either.

“No,” he said, stepping a little closer. “If I wanted to hurt you… I wouldn’t have brought you inside.”

That didn’t make you feel better.

Not even a little.

Another step.

Your breath hitched.

Something had changed.

His expression was tighter now. Controlled. Like he was holding something back.

“You’re bleeding,” he said quietly.

“What—? No, I’m not—”

But even as you said it, you realised - your period

And the way his eyes darkened—

Oh.

Oh.

You took a step back. “It’s just— it’s nothing, I—”

“I know what it is,” he said.

His voice had dropped lower now. Rougher.

Hungrier.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“How?” you whispered.

He inhaled slowly.

Too slowly.

Like he was savoring the air.

“I can smell it.”

Your stomach flipped.

Every instinct in your body screamed at you now.

Run.

“Hey,” you said shakily, backing toward the door. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me—”

“I won’t,” he snapped.

The word came out sharper than before.

He froze, like he surprised himself.

Then he dragged a hand through his hair, turning away from you.

“You need to stay back,” he muttered. “I’m trying… not to lose control.”

Your breath came fast now. “Lose control of what?”

He didn’t answer.

Slowly, he turned his head—and when he looked at you again—

His eyes weren’t the same.

Darker.

Glinting.

Something not human flickering behind them.

And when he spoke—

“You really shouldn’t have come here.”

Your pulse roared in your ears.

“…What are you?”

A long pause.

Then, very quietly—

“A mistake.”

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the room for just a second—

And you saw it.

The sharp edge of fangs.

Gone as quickly as it appeared.

You stumbled back, hitting the door. “You’re—”

“Yes.”

The word landed heavy.

Final.

Your hand fumbled for the handle behind you, but he moved faster—appearing between you and the exit before you could even blink.

You gasped, pressing yourself against the wood.

“I said I wouldn’t hurt you,” he murmured, voice strained, like every word cost him something. “And I meant it.”

“Then let me go,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes.

For a second, you thought he might.

That maybe this was some twisted misunderstanding.

But then he inhaled again—

And his jaw clenched hard.

“You don’t understand,” he said, barely holding it together. “You’re standing in a room with something that’s starving… and you smell like—”

He cut himself off, taking a sharp step back.

Like he was afraid of himself.

“I’m trying,” he said, almost to himself.

Your fear flickered—just slightly—into something else.

He hadn’t touched you.

Hadn’t even tried.

Despite… everything.

“Then keep trying,” you said softly.

He looked at you, something conflicted flashing across his face.

“You should hate me,” he said.

“I don’t even know you.”

Another pause.

The storm raged outside, thunder shaking the walls.

Inside, the tension was worse.

Finally, he moved—slowly this time—stepping away from the door.

Giving you space.

“I’ll take you out of the woods when the storm stops,” he said quietly. “Until then… stay as far away from me as you can.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t run.

Even though you could.

“Okay,” you said.

He nodded once, turning away again, shoulders tense like he was fighting a battle you couldn’t see.

And for the rest of the night, you stayed on opposite sides of the room—

Listening to the storm.

And to the sound of something dangerous…

Choosing not to be.

—

The storm didn’t let up.

If anything, it got worse.

Rain hammered against the cabin like it was trying to get in, wind howling through the cracks in the walls. The candles flickered violently, shadows stretching and twisting across the room.

And him—

He was unraveling.

He told you his name. Bucky hadn’t looked at you in what felt like forever. He stood on the far side of the cabin, one hand braced against the wall, head lowered, breathing slow and controlled—too controlled.

Like if he slipped for even a second, something bad would happen.

You tried to stay still. Quiet. Small.

But the silence between thunderclaps made everything louder.

His breathing.

Your heartbeat.

The distance.

Your fingers fidgeted nervously, picking at the skin around your nail—something to distract yourself, something to do—

Until—

“—shit,” you whispered.

A sharp sting.

A tiny bead of red welled up at your fingertip.

You didn’t even think about it.

Not at first.

But he did.

He went completely still.

Not tense.

Not strained.

Just… still.

Like the world had stopped.

Slowly—too slowly—his head lifted.

You felt it before you saw it.

That shift.

That pull.

“Don’t,” you said quickly, instinctively closing your hand.

Too late.

He inhaled.

And the sound that left him—low, unsteady—sent a chill straight down your spine.

“That’s… different,” he murmured.

His voice wasn’t the same anymore.

You swallowed. “It’s nothing. Just a cut—”

“No.” His head tilted slightly, eyes locked on you now. Darker. Focused. “No, that’s not—”

He took a step forward.

Then stopped himself like he’d hit an invisible wall.

His jaw clenched.

“Why does it smell like that?” he asked, more to himself than you.

You didn’t have an answer.

But you could feel it too now—the shift in the room.

The tension had changed.

This wasn’t just hunger anymore.

This was something sharper.

Pulling.

“You should stay back,” he said, but the words lacked the force they had before. Like he didn’t entirely mean them.

Or didn’t want to.

Your heart was racing now—but not just from fear.

You looked at your finger.

Then at him.

He hadn’t hurt you.

Hadn’t even come close.

Even now, he was fighting it.

Fighting himself.

Slowly, cautiously, you stepped forward.

“Hey,” you said softly.

His head snapped up. “Don’t.”

But you didn’t stop.

“It’s just blood,” you said, even though you both knew it wasn’t. “You’re in control, right?”

His expression twisted. “You don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Then help me understand.”

Another step.

Now you were too close.

You could see the tension in every line of his body, the way his hands flexed like he didn’t trust them, the way his eyes kept flickering to your hand—

“I can hear your pulse,” he said quietly. “I can feel it.”

“Then don’t lose control.”

Your voice was softer now. Steadier than you felt.

You lifted your hand slightly.

Not forcing.

Just… offering.

His reaction was immediate.

He backed up a step like you’d burned him.

“No.”

But his eyes didn’t leave your finger.

“You need it,” you said.

“I don’t take from people.”

“You’re not taking,” you whispered. “I’m giving.”

The storm roared outside.

Inside, everything held still.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then—

Slowly—

He stepped forward.

Every movement was careful. Measured. Like he was walking a line that could snap at any second.

“Last chance,” he said, voice low, rough. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

You just nodded once.

That was all it took.

His hand came up—hesitant at first—hovering near yours like he was afraid to touch you.

Then his fingers closed gently around your wrist.

Cold.

So cold it made you shiver.

He paused there, eyes searching yours one last time.

And then—

He leaned in.

The moment his lips brushed your skin, everything changed.

Not sharp.

Not violent.

Careful.

Controlled.

But the second he tasted your blood—

He froze.

A quiet, broken sound left him.

And then he lost ground.

Not completely—but enough.

His grip tightened just slightly, breath hitching as if something in him had snapped awake.

Like your blood wasn’t just feeding him—

It was doing something else.

“God—” he whispered against your skin.

You felt it—the shift in him. The way his control wavered, then strained back into place like it was barely holding.

It only lasted a few seconds.

Maybe less.

But when he pulled away, it was abrupt.

Like he’d forced himself to stop.

He stumbled back from you, releasing your wrist instantly, staring at you like he didn’t recognize what had just happened.

“What… was that?” he asked hoarsely.

You swallowed, your pulse still racing. “I don’t—”

“That’s not normal.” He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing now. “That’s not— I’ve fed before, I know what it’s supposed to feel like—”

He stopped.

Looked at you again.

Something like realization—fear—settled in.

“That wasn’t just hunger.”

Your stomach dropped. “Then what was it?”

His voice came quieter now.

Worse.

“Need.”

The word hung between you.

Heavy.

Unsettling.

He shook his head immediately, like he could undo it. “No. No, that’s not—”

But even as he said it, his eyes flickered back to you.

To your hand.

To you.

And the way his expression tightened—

Horrified.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “I shouldn’t have—”

He backed away further, putting distance between you again like before—but now it felt different.

Not just to protect you.

To protect himself.

“Because now,” he said quietly, voice rough with something dangerously close to panic, “I don’t know if I can stop wanting it.”

The silence after his confession stretched thin.

I don’t know if I can stop wanting it.

It lingered in the air between you, heavier than the storm, heavier than the fear.

You flexed your fingers slightly, still feeling the ghost of his grip, the cold of his skin, the way he had reacted.

Not just hunger.

Something worse.

Something deeper.

And then—

A different kind of discomfort hit you.

Subtle at first.

Then not.

Your stomach tightened as reality crashed back in, grounding you in something painfully normal compared to everything else.

You shifted your weight, glancing down for a second before looking back up at him.

“…Hey,” you said, a little awkwardly.

He didn’t answer right away. He was still watching you—but more carefully now. Warier. Like you’d become something unpredictable.

“I, um…” You cleared your throat. “I need to use the bathroom.”

His expression didn’t change.

“Bathroom?” he repeated, like the word didn’t quite register.

“To—change,” you said, quieter now. “My pad.”

The reaction was immediate.

His jaw tightened.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“You can’t,” he said, sharper this time.

A flicker of irritation cut through your nerves. “I can’t just not—”

“You don’t understand,” he interrupted, running a hand through his hair again, pacing once before stopping. “You can’t leave blood here. Not like that.”

You stared at him. “It’s not like I’m planning to redecorate your floor—”

“That’s not what I mean.” His voice dropped, strained. “I can already smell it. Every second it’s stronger. If it’s… out, if it’s—”

He cut himself off, visibly forcing the thought away.

Your stomach sank.

“Oh.”

Right.

This wasn’t just awkward.

This was dangerous.

You wrapped your arms around yourself slightly, shifting again, more uncomfortable now.

“Okay… but I don’t exactly have a choice,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m already bleeding. If I don’t change soon, it’s going to soak through my clothes.”

His eyes snapped to you again at that.

Not predatory.

Not exactly.

But intense enough to make your breath hitch.

“You’re saying it’s going to get worse,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” you said bluntly. “That’s how it works.”

He looked away immediately, like that information alone was too much.

For a moment, he didn’t speak.

The storm filled the silence again—rain, thunder, wind rattling the cabin.

You could practically hear him thinking.

Calculating.

Struggling.

“There’s no bathroom,” he said finally. “Not really. Just a back room.”

“Fine,” you said quickly. “That’s all I need.”

“No.” Again, firmer this time.

Frustration flared. “What do you want me to do, then?”

He hesitated.

And that hesitation told you everything.

He didn’t know.

Because every option was bad.

Let you go alone → more blood, more scent, less control.

Keep you here → same problem, just closer.

Send you outside → worse than anything in here.

You exhaled shakily. “I’m not trying to make this harder, okay? But this is happening whether we like it or not.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“I know.”

“Then help me figure something out.”

He went still again.

Then, slowly, he looked at you—really looked this time. Not just as a threat.

As a problem he didn’t want to hurt.

“…I can’t let you out of my sight,” he said.

Your brows knit together. “That’s—kind of weird, given the situation.”

“It’s not about control,” he snapped. Then softer, strained, “It’s about making sure I don’t lose it if the scent spikes.”

That… made sense.

In a terrifying way.

“So what,” you said carefully, “you’re just going to stand there while I—?”

“No.” Immediate. Tense. “I won’t look.”

You let out a disbelieving breath. “That doesn’t make this less awkward.”

“I’m aware.”

Silence again.

You shifted uncomfortably, wincing slightly.

“Bucky,” you said, more serious now. “I’m not kidding. I will bleed through my clothes.”

His jaw clenched hard at that.

Like the words physically hit him.

“Then we do it fast,” he said.

You blinked. “We?”

“I’ll stay by the door,” he clarified quickly. “Back turned. You go into the back room. Keep it contained. Wrap whatever you use. Don’t let it—“

“I get it,” you cut in gently.

He stopped talking.

Breathing.

Thinking.

Then gave a short, stiff nod.

“…Okay.”

You hesitated before moving, studying him for a second.

“You’re sure you can handle that?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His eyes flicked to your hand again—where the smallest trace of blood had already set him off earlier.

Then back to your face.

“No,” he said honestly.

That made your stomach flip.

“But I don’t have a better option.”

Fair enough.

Slowly, you stepped toward the back of the cabin.

He moved immediately—positioning himself near the doorway like he said, turning his back to you, shoulders tense, head slightly lowered.

Putting distance.

Giving you space.

Trying.

You slipped into the back room, closing the door most of the way behind you.

Not fully.

Just enough.

For a few seconds, everything was quiet except the storm.

Then—

From the other side of the door—

You heard it.

His breathing change.

Sharper now.

Less controlled.

Like he could smell it already.

Your hands shook slightly as you worked quickly, trying not to think about it—about him just a few feet away, about what your blood was doing to him, about how close things already came to going wrong.

“Almost done,” you called out softly, more for his sake than yours.

No response.

Just the sound of him gripping onto control with everything he had.

When you finally finished, wrapping everything as carefully as you could, you hesitated before opening the door.

“Okay,” you said quietly.

He didn’t turn around.

“Is it contained?” he asked, voice tight.

“Yes.”

A beat.

Then another.

Slowly, carefully, he nodded.

“Good,” he said.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t relax.

And when you stepped back into the room, you realized why.

Because even like this—

Even careful.

Even controlled.

It was still affecting him.

You could see it in the way his shoulders were locked, the way his hands trembled just slightly at his sides.

And the way he refused to look at you.

Like if he did—

He might not stop himself this time.

The shift is instant.

You feel it before you hear it.

Bucky goes completely rigid.

Not tense like before—not struggling.

Still.

Predatory.

His head tilts slightly toward the door.

And then—

Knock.

Three slow, deliberate hits against the wood.

Your stomach drops.

You hadn’t heard anyone approach.

No footsteps. No branches snapping. Nothing.

Just—

There.

Bucky moves fast.

One second he’s across the room, the next he’s right in front of you, his hand gripping your arm—not rough, but firm enough to lock you in place.

“Don’t move,” he whispers.

His voice is different now.

Low.

Sharp.

Dangerously focused.

Another knock.

This one harder.

More impatient.

“Barnes,” a voice calls from the other side of the door. Male. Smooth. Wrong. “I know you’re in there.”

Your breath catches.

Bucky’s grip tightens just slightly.

“Be quiet,” he murmurs, eyes locking onto yours. “No matter what you hear.”

You nod quickly.

He releases you just as fast, stepping back—putting distance between you and the door.

Positioning himself between you and it.

Always between you and it.

A third knock.

Then—

A slow drag of something against the wood. Finger nails, maybe.

“I can smell it,” the voice says, quieter now. Almost amused. “Don’t make me knock again.”

Bucky exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s bracing himself.

Then he reaches for the handle.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

“Stay behind me,” he says under his breath.

And then—

He opens the door.

The storm howls louder for a second as it swings open, rain blowing in—

And there’s a man standing there.

Tall. Pale. Dark hair slicked back, clothes untouched by the storm like it avoids him.

His eyes flick past Bucky—

And immediately try to look past him.

Bucky shifts instantly, blocking the line of sight.

“There’s nothing here,” he says flatly. “You’re mistaken.”

The other vampire smiles.

Slow.

Knowing.

“Funny,” he says. “Because I’ve been following that scent for miles.”

Your pulse spikes.

Bucky doesn’t move.

“Then you should keep following it,” he replies. “Because it doesn’t lead here.”

A pause.

The man tilts his head slightly, studying him.

Then he leans forward just a fraction—

And inhales.

Your stomach twists.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “No… it definitely leads here.”

Bucky’s posture changes.

Subtle.

But unmistakable.

More grounded.

More dangerous.

“You need to leave.”

The man’s gaze sharpens, something darker flickering behind it.

“And miss out on whatever you’re hiding?” he asks. “I don’t think so.”

He shifts, trying to step past the doorway—

And Bucky blocks him immediately.

Faster than you can track.

A low, warning sound builds in his chest.

“Don’t.”

The other vampire pauses.

Then slowly looks back at him.

Really looks this time.

And something clicks.

“…You’ve already tasted it,” he says softly.

Your breath catches.

Bucky doesn’t respond.

Doesn’t need to.

The silence says enough.

The man smiles wider.

“Well,” he says, voice dropping, “that explains the territorial attitude.”

“Get. Out.”

Bucky’s tone is no longer calm.

It’s controlled violence.

Barely contained.

“You don’t get to keep something like that to yourself,” the man continues, ignoring him completely now. “Not when it smells like that.”

Your pulse hammers louder.

You can feel it.

You know they can hear it.

Both of them.

Bucky shifts again, subtly forcing you further behind him.

Shielding you completely.

“There’s nothing here for you,” he repeats.

The man laughs softly.

“You’re lying.”

“And you’re trespassing.”

Another step forward.

Another block.

Closer now.

Too close.

The air between them feels like it could snap.

“Move,” the man says, voice losing its softness.

“No.”

A beat.

Then—

“You think you can stop me?” the other vampire asks.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Certain.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

The man’s expression darkens slightly.

“You always did have a stubborn streak,” he mutters. “But this isn’t about you.”

His eyes flick again—trying to see around Bucky.

Trying to see you.

“Whoever’s back there,” he calls, louder now, voice smooth again, coaxing, “you don’t have to hide. I’m not the one keeping you locked up.”

Your chest tightens.

Bucky’s shoulders tense hard at that.

“Don’t listen to him,” he says immediately, not even turning around.

“I’m just offering options,” the man continues lightly. “Because trust me—if he’s already fed, he’s not going to stop.”

Bucky’s fist clenches.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think I do,” the man says, amused. “I know what that kind of blood does.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Charged.

Then—

A quieter, more dangerous shift.

“Last chance,” Bucky says.

The storm cracks with thunder behind them.

The man smiles again.

“Or what?”

And for the first time since you met him—

Bucky doesn’t look like he’s trying to hold himself back.

He looks like he’s about to let go.

—

The shift from tension to violence is instant.

One second they’re staring each other down—

The next—

Bucky moves.

He slams his hand into the other vampire’s chest and shoves him back off the porch, the force enough to send him skidding across the mud and gravel.

“Leave,” Bucky snarls.

The other vampire barely reacts to the impact.

He just straightens slowly… then smiles.

But it’s not amused anymore.

It’s feral.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he says, voice dropping into something uglier. “Not when you’ve got something like that in there.”

His eyes flick past Bucky again—locking onto you for just a split second.

And that’s all it takes.

“I think I’ll drag her out,” he continues, almost conversationally. “Suck her dry… and make you watch every second of it.”

Your blood runs cold.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate.

“Not a chance.”

The words are sharp. Final.

And then—

The other vampire lunges.

Too fast.

Faster than before.

A blur of movement straight for the doorway—

For you.

But Bucky is already there.

He intercepts him mid-step, slamming into him with enough force to crack the wooden frame, both of them crashing into the side of the cabin.

The sound is violent.

Wood splintering.

A low, animalistic snarl tearing from both of them as they collide.

You stumble back instinctively, heart racing, trying to get out of the way—

But they’re everywhere.

Too fast.

Too strong.

The other vampire swings—Bucky blocks—grabs—slams him into the wall hard enough to shake the entire structure.

The man recovers instantly, twisting, striking back—

A blur of fists and movement you can barely track.

Then—

He breaks away.

And he’s coming straight at you.

Your breath catches—

You try to move—

But you’re too slow.

A hand shoots out—

And then—

Bucky is there again.

He grabs the other vampire mid-lunge, yanking him back, twisting his body away from you—

“Stay back!” Bucky snaps.

You stumble further away, but your foot catches on something—

The edge of a chair—

And suddenly you’re falling.

Hard.

Your head slams against the side of the table—

A sharp crack—

Pain explodes behind your eyes.

For a second, everything goes blurry.

Warmth trickles down your temple.

Blood.

The scent hits the air immediately.

And everything stops.

Not physically—

But instinctively.

The other vampire freezes for half a second.

Then his head snaps toward you.

Eyes wide.

Hungry.

“Oh, that’s—”

His voice breaks into something desperate.

“—that’s even better.”

Bucky feels it too.

You see it in the way his entire body goes rigid.

The way his breathing stutters.

The way his control—

fractures.

The other vampire lunges again.

Pure instinct.

Pure hunger.

But Bucky doesn’t block him the same way.

He doesn’t just defend.

He attacks.

There’s a crack as he grabs him mid-motion, slamming him into the floor so hard the boards groan beneath them.

“You don’t touch her!” Bucky roars.

The other vampire snarls, fighting back, teeth bared now, fully feral as the scent floods the room.

“You can’t keep that from me!” he spits. “You think you can control it? You can’t even control yourself—”

That’s it.

Something in Bucky snaps.

Not control.

Not entirely.

But restraint.

His movements change—sharper, more brutalz

He doesn’t just hold the other vampire back—

He overpowers him.

Pins him.

Hands locking around his throat with terrifying strength.

The other vampire struggles, clawing at him.

But Bucky doesn’t budge.

“You picked the wrong door,” Bucky growls.

And then—

A sickening crack.

The body goes still instantly.

Silence crashes down just as hard as the storm outside.

You’re breathing fast, vision still swimming, hand pressed weakly to your head.

Bucky stays there for a second, unmoving, like he’s making sure it’s over.

He grabs it by the collar, dragging it across the floor and out the door, tossing it into the rain like discarded trash.

Thunder cracks overhead.

He stands there for a moment, staring down at it.

Then mutters, low and cold—