#softdarkbucky
A/N: alright here we go! i love where this is headed, how bucky slowly transforms into the soft!dark!
Chapter Warnings: soft!dark!bucky, mentions of stalking, mentions of animal neglect, depictions of animal neglect, language
Gifs are not mine!
PART TWO
The equipment Bucky ordered comes in a shiny metal box that reminds him of the time the Wakandans offered him a new arm, a new war. But this time, Bucky isn’t fighting a war. He’s not even fighting. He’s observing. He’s setting up the binoculars near the window. He’s fine-tuning the microphones to an earpiece and a recording device. He’s making sure the motion sensors properly record movement and register in his computer.
It’s oddly reminiscent of some jobs he used to do for HYDRA. Although he wishes he could erase that part of his life, the time he spent observing and collecting data prove useful to him now.
The day outside is gloomy. The clouds seem to mock him, closing him into a space he’s been forced into anyway.
Bucky clucks his tongue.
“Has there been any dreams again?”
He turns to face his psychologist. She sits with a frown nettling her face, leg bent over the other, the tip of her shiny black boot white and apotropaic for Bucky.
“No,” he answers. Not since her. Not since Meatball.
“Are you having any sort of dream?” she asks, eyes briefly falling to her notepad duteously spread on her knee.
Bucky bites the inside of his cheek. Yes, he wants to say. So many. Of her and her big eyes and the way her smell seems to linger in the hall even after she’s left. Dreams of following her down a long, empty hallway, of pining her against a wall and watching the way her skin flushes, glows, under his stare.
“Not really,” he opts for, determining that confessing dreams of stalking a neighbor would not earn him points with both his psychologist and the government.
“Sam told me you ordered surveillance equipment?” she continues, chin in her palm.
Of course, Sam would not completely believe Bucky.
“There’s this neighbor,” Bucky starts, hands on his knees. “I don’t know who lives there. Honestly, all I’ve seen is their animals. And they’re being neglected. Left for days unattended. I sometimes see through the living room door that there’s no food.”
The doctor nods, writes, hums.
“Do you feel like that’s a good hobby to have, Mr. Barnes?” God, he hates when she calls him that.
“Animal rescue?” he tries, tone faking innocence.
She snorts. She sees right through his ruse. “Stalking.”
Bucky jerks ever the slightest. “It’s not that,” he groans. “It’s mostly… I feel useful, and I feel like I’m partaking in something good for once,” he sighs.
“Rescuing animals,” she says, writing something down in that little stupid fucking notepad.
“Yes,” he grits between his teeth. “I’m not waiting to kill someone,” he retorts, and immediately regrets it.
“Is that what you think I think of you?”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Sometimes.”
She smiles slowly. “I am only here to help you.” She readjusts in her seat. “And if you are constantly thinking that I’m here to undermine you, then this relationship won’t work. We won’t be able to move forward.”
He nods, biting back some remarks he should really keep to himself.
She stares at him for a few moments, then down at her watch. “Our hour is over, Mr. Barnes.” She settles back in her seat, scribbling some notes down. “Until next week.”
Bucky all but storms out of her office, past the receptionist who wishes him well, and out into the gloomy New York air. The office is a few blocks away from his condo, and he uses the time walking to keep his mind from conjuring images of strangling that woman to death.
When he gets to the back door of the complex, he notices a familiar figure coming his way. He schools his features into something more homely, warm, and magnetic. He tries to conjure the womanizer he was in the forties, but something about this girl, Elora, doesn’t make him want to be that: a jerk. He wants to be good to her. He knows he can be good to her.
“Hey,” he says.
She squints as she approaches him, and when she recognizes him, her face lights up. “Oh, hey!” She smiles and Bucky swears she’s the most beautiful creature on Earth. “James! Or Bucky.” She has a backpack on, the color of rust.
“It’s just Bucky,” he says, smiling, leaning a shoulder against the wall. She watches his nonchalance, and Bucky thinks he spies a moment of attraction flitting across her face. “Where you headed? Lost Meatball again?”
She chuckles, pushing hair behind her ears. Adorable. “No,” she says with a shy smile, crossing her arms across her chest. “Sorry about that. Or, I guess, thank you.”
Bucky nods with a faint smile.
“I’m just headed to that… apartment I told you about?” She’s acting cold, restrained now, as if she’s either afraid of him or afraid of what he’s going to say about her little jaunts next door.
“Still on that animal rescue mission?” he asks humorously.
That seems to dispel the tension in her shoulders, and she laughs. “Yeah, I’m going to feed them actually.”
Bucky nods, pushing from the wall. He can see the sparkle in her eyes as she assesses him. He knows she finds him attractive. He’s seen himself in the mirror a few times.
“Mind if I join?”
Her mouth parts and it’s the most adorable view Bucky has ever had.
“Really?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he answers, lifting a shoulder. “Always wanted to be the good guy.”
She laughs, unaware of the way Bucky stares at her with both hunger and longing.
“Alright, cowboy, let’s go!”
They walk across the street, and Bucky notices how Elora walks with her head high, not cowering and nervous. She’s done this before. She walks up to the basement sliding door of the aforementioned apartment and waits for Bucky to step beside her. From under the canopy of the upstairs balcony, her face is shadowed, cool, and she lifts a daring eyebrow to Bucky.
“So, what, do you know where the key is?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at the busy boulevard. “Or a barrette?”
She scoffs. Then she puts a finger to the knob and pushes, the door sliding open. Bucky smiles, holding laughter, and gives her an impressed raise of his brows.
“A woman with many talents,” Elora mumbles as she climbs in.
Once inside, Bucky closes the sliding door, and puts a hand to his mouth. It smells like excretion and rotting food. Or corpses. He wishes beyond anything that there are no dead animals here.
Elora behaves as if she lives here, bending down and retrieving food from her backpack. When she opens the bag, a few little kittens come stumbling into the messy, dirty living room. Bucky stands there, watching Elora crouched on the stained yellow carpet as she takes out cans of wet cat food.
“The dogs are in cages in the back room,” she says, jerking her chin towards the back of the apartment, and Bucky understands that as his cue to move. She hands him a bag of dog food, and when he takes it out of her hand, his finger brushes hers and fire licks up his palm. He tries not to fidget, or flinch away, but he’s wearing gloves, as always, to keep others from ogling his metal arm, and now he wishes more than anything that his flesh could have touched hers.
She doesn’t say anything about the touch. The gloves. She just shoves the bag into his hands and motions him to action.
He takes the dog food bag across the apartment, noticing the dirt stains on the kitchen floor, the mountain of rotting, dirty dishes in the sink, and that the walls are decaying.
The dogs, three pitbulls, are indeed in cages in what should have been the guestroom. Bucky holds back a gag. Some of the dogs have been left in their filth, and it stinks up the room. His heart squeezes at the sight of the animals laying down in tiny cages, their big bodies constrained to such a small enclosure. The dogs are looking at him, but none move. It as if they’re used to this: someone, anyone, not a master or friend, coming in and just feeding them.
“Heartless, right?”
Bucky turns and Elora stands in the doorway with a grey cat nestled in her arms.
“We should call someone,” Bucky says, opening the dog food bag, the dogs’ heads snapping up to attention.
“I’ve called animal health, rescue centers, even the police,” she adds. Then she shrugs. “They’ve all claimed insubstantial evidence. If I send pictures, they’re going to arrest me for B&E.”
Bucky nods, carefully opening the cage of the first dog.
“They don’t bite,” Elora says. “So, yeah, I come here sometimes and rescue some and send them to centers for neglected animals. Every time I come back, though, there’s more.”
Bucky groans, his heart burning, his head imagining scenarios of beating whoever puts these animals into such dire situations. Heartless fucker.
Bucky fills the first bowl and leaves the cage open. “We should take this one,” he says. “At least today. And tomorrow, we can come get the other one.”
Elora walks out and comes back in as Bucky is feeding the second dog. She hands Bucky a leash. “Feel free. She’s a female, by the way. I named her Claudia.”
Bucky snorts, closing the second cage on the other dog, heart wrenching as he sees the way the animal gobbles down food. How long have they been without food?
They feed the third dog, noticing burn marks on its haunches, and then leash up Claudia. She has difficulty walking, limping, her front paw badly injured from God knows what. Bucky follows Elora through the apartment, where she shows him the entire, disgusting situation. Bunnies in a cage with barely anything to do but sleep in their defecation. Birds in a cage left covered by a black, heavy cloak. More and more and endless kittens and adult cats. Bucky lets a few of the adult ones out of the back door, maybe to freedom or better homes, who knows.
As they walk across the street, Bucky helping Claudia along, the man can’t help but feel proud of Elora. His Elora. This incredible girl that risks her neck every time she walks into that apartment.
“Don’t ever go in there alone, ever again,” Bucky says as they near the parking of their complex.
She turns and frowns up at this man that she barely knows but appreciates. “Why?”
Bucky shakes his head, shakes the feeling from his bones, this feeling that wants to protect her from the world. He needs to bide his time. “Who knows when the owner can come back,” he answers. “They could be dangerous.”
She smiles, rolls her eyes, a behavior he will have to correct. “I can handle myself.”
Bucky’s shoulders tense. “I mean it,” he says, forcing himself not to grit his teeth. “You have me now. Use that.”
She smiles again, all teeth and cheeks and giddy innocence. “Sure,” she pipes up. “Now let’s get to my car and get these babies to a rescue.”
will be updating Meticulous later tonight! i have half a chapter done!
METICULOUS - PART THREE
A/N: OKAY SO AFTER THIS CHAPTER, IT GETS VERY SERIOUSLY DUB!CON, so if that’s not your thing, this story is about to get very triggering!
Chapter Warnings: soft!dark!bucky, mentions of stalking, language, mentions of violence
Gifs are not mine!
PART THREE
Bucky hates lying. He hates sitting in her car and pretending that the surveillance equipment is not for her. He hates it when he laughs and pretends to be a good man, a man with humane intentions, and promises to check up on Claudia when they leave the refuge. He hates lying to her, but when Elora brings them back and her perfume invades the cabin of the car, Bucky can’t help but continue his lies.
At her door, he’s already holding a small motion sensor in his palm, pretending to be a gallant young man and walking her home, even if they live in the same building. He hates it. He can’t help it. When she wishes him a good day and tells him that she’s happy he came along today, Bucky smiles and nods and tells her it was his pleasure. Then when the door closes, he sticks the tiny motion sensor at the bottom of her door frame and leaves.
He checks his phone, makes sure the device is connected to the sensor, and pockets it. Next time someone comes in or out of that apartment, he’ll be notified.
Bucky doesn’t want to be the bad guy; he doesn’t want to do this, not really, but the need deep inside, to know everything about this girl, to take care of her, is invading his entire being.
When she leaves her apartment the next morning, probably for work – Bucky will find out – he sneaks upstairs and easily breaks into her condo. He’s impressed by what he finds. Colors spring at him, and it’s a stark contrast to the dull grey and white of his place. Pink refrigerator. Forest green walls. Yellow accessories. The foyer and the living room are cozy. He finds a sock under the dark blue couch. He scrolls through her Netflix and finds she’s been binging The Office.
In the kitchen, he finds last night’s meal in the fridge in a plastic Tupperware. Spaghetti. He rummages through her cabinets. She’s into fine, delicate cutlery. He sticks a microphone, the size of his fingernail, under a cabinet beside the oven.
He walks slowly down the hallway, careful not to leave a trace. His feet are silent on the carpet. When he enters her room, he’s assaulted by the smell of her. It invades him. It reaches into every nook and cranny of his mind and fogs him.
His left hand, the metal one, the one he hates and he loves, balls into a fist.
Her bed, a queen size with a dark grey thick duvet, is perfectly made up. Her slippers are neatly by the foot of the bed. There’s a pajama shirt loosely thrown on the side of her vanity chair. She’s got bottles of skin care lingering on her vanity. A few hair ties. And Meatball.
The tiny little kitten raises its head from where he is lying down, rolled into a little ball on Elora’s vanity, the sun from the window drenching him in warmth. Bucky smiles at the kitten and proceeds to her wardrobe. He puts his hand on the knob and stops.
He is not a man who goes through women’s things. He doesn’t want to want it, but he does. He wants to see the clothes he’s never seen her in. Her underwear. Her bras. The things she wears to bed. The things she keeps for naughty, nighttime endeavors.
Bucky’s metal hand forms a fist again. He doesn’t want her to have nighttime endeavors. He doesn’t want her to have someone lying down next to her in that bed and touching her. He wants that person to be him, only him.
Bucky forgets the wardrobe. Another time, he tells himself. Breaking into Elora’s apartment was a treat. The only thing he had planned for this visit was to plant the microphones and the motion sensors. So he sticks a microphone under her vanity and pats Meatball on the head, careful not to disrupt any of the million serums on the desk.
After making sure nothing is out of place, Bucky heads out and carefully locks back the door with his pins. He feels satisfied as he walks down the hall, checking his phone to see if the microphones and sensor are connected, and just as he’s about to pass by the elevator, it dings and opens.
“Bucky!”
He looks up, startled, and immediately registers the stutter in his chest when he spots Elora, standing in straight blue jeans and a big brown sweater. She lights up like a Christmas tree when she sees him, her mouth splitting in a toothy grin. She’s holding a purse and waves at him with her free hand. As she steps out, Bucky notices a man stepping out with her. A man who stands a little too close to her.
“Elora,” Bucky says, smiling tightly.
Then she frowns, cocking her head. “What are you doing on my floor?” she asks.
Bucky laughs, tucking his phone back in his pocket as the elevator dings shut. The man Elora is with just stands there, staring at Bucky.
“I came by to tell you I got a call from the refuge today,” Bucky answers eloquently. “Claudia is doing fine. They plan on putting her up for adopting next week.”
Elora’s mouth falls open in both shock and happiness, and she turns to look up at the man beside her, and Bucky feels the anger rise in him like a tidal wave. Oh, how he wishes he was the man Elora would look at like that.
“That’s the guy I was telling you about,” she tells the man. “Bucky, this is Casper, my… friend.”
The hesitation before the word friend let’s Bucky understand that this Casper guy is maybe, just maybe, a little bit more than a friend. Or a potential boyfriend.
Casper puts his hand out to shake, a tight, unruly smile on his lips. Bucky shakes his hand, but he’d rather be choking that idiot to death.
“That’s such good news,” Elora says as the two men finish shaking hands. “We should celebrate!”
Bucky nods. He can’t help but measure the distance between him and her, between her and Casper. He smells her perfume, and he wants to reach forward and touch her skin.
“Maybe another time,” Casper says, and Bucky can’t help but notice how he answered for her.
“Maybe we should let her decide,” he answers, and it’s harsh. It’s blunt. It’s a punch to Casper’s face.
The man jerks backward as if clocked. “Excuse me?” he asks, tone low, menacing.
Bucky wants to snort. Elora’s face drops into a concerned frown. “Okay,” she says, elongating the word. “Maybe we should… maybe we should reconnect, soon, Bucky, okay?”
Bucky wants to tell her to kick Casper out, not him. He wants to take her purse and push Casper out of the way and walk her to her door. He wants to stuff a knife between Casper’s ribs until he’s taken his last breath in her presence.
“Sure,” Bucky says instead, giving Casper a tight, grueling smile. Then he nods at Elora. “You know my floor. Have yourselves a good night.”
He steps aside and down the hall. He hears their receding steps. His phone beeps, and sure enough, a notification of movement in Elora’s door was registered. When Bucky turns around, he sees the door close shut, and he can’t help but think, I’m going to get rid of him.
Fae!Bucky x Reader
Summary:The cottage has been in your family for many years, but your return has caught the interest of more than just the wildlife.
Words:3.5k
Warnings: Dubious Nature, Dark Themes, Fae Trickery, Soft!Dark!Fae!Bucky
Strange things started happening when you inherited the little cottage your family owned. It was originally your grandfather’s, and your parents had used it as a summer home when you were growing up.
But the cottage was always on the back burner. Up until recently, you were completely happy with your little suburban life. You liked the noise and the quick pace, and for a long time, you let the cottage fall to the wayside.
When you finally took the time to visit, tending to the cottage was only supposed to be a part-time job, but it surprised you. You had quickly fallen in love with its simplicity. It reminded you of the times you had been brought there when you were little.
The strange things first started when a stranded fawn happened upon the outskirts of the property. It was just a babe, helpless to the elements, and the mother was nowhere to be found. Instead of turning a blind eye you fed and nurtured it and sheltered it for the night. It wasn’t much, but you couldn’t just leave it out there all alone.
By the time the sun rose the next morning the fawn was gone. You didn’t expect it to stay, but it disappeared without a trace. As you were cleaning up the nest of blankets and rags you put together you found a stone. It was small and opaque and perfectly smooth, and you marveled at it as you crouched down into the dirt.
The fawn wouldn’t have brought this to you. Your careful fingers plucked the stone from the nest, and you turned it over in your hand.
It was moonstone.
It was a stone of protection. A stone for lovers.
But how did you know that? You paused with a careful breath, mechanically returning it to the spot you found it. It wasn’t natural. Cautious eyes scanned the line of the cottage out to where the property backed up to the trees. You weren’t as alone as you thought.
The stone was a gift.
It was one you could not accept. One that you would not accept.
You weren’t typically superstitious in the city, but with this place, you held it with high regard. Call it your father’s intuition or your mother’s careful nature guiding you, but you were not going to actively seek out any trouble in these woods.
Without sparing another glance at the stone or the woods you hurried inside. A nagging feeling in the back of your mind told you that there was work to be done.
The early rays of the afternoon sun eventually bled into a long, orange sunset against the west side of the cottage. The delicate curtains were drawn tight, and the house was locked up.
You didn’t stoke the hearth that night.
The only telltale sign of life from the cottage was that you left a small basket on the edge of your porch covered in a pleated red cloth. You had used up the last of your apples to bake something sweet. The buttered pie was left on your porch to extend an olive branch. All you wanted was peace and never meant to disturb the unseen creatures of the woods.
Sleep was hard to come by. Every rustle in the trees and flap of wings made you jump, and you eventually took to burrowing in a number of heavy quilts to block out the noise.
You felt like you were going to be sick, that the creatures outside would tear the doors off the hinges and drag you into the night. Your parents used to talk about the unseen forces that lived in the forest, but this was your first encounter with them. You didn’t have any idea of what to expect and were only armed with the knowledge that the forest folk had a sweet tooth.
The night dragged on and try as you might, your thoughts kept drifting back to the moonstone. You had never before grabbed the attention of the unseen, and you so desperately wanted to be swallowed up by the dirt.
You just wanted them to take the pie. You wanted them to take it and leave you in peace.
The morning met you with a warm swell, even without the heat of the fire. With sleepy eyes, you knew it was time to face the music.
The porch was bathed in a yellow glow as you unlocked the door and stepped into the sun, and the basket was exactly where you left it. Upon closer inspection, you noticed the pie was gone.
With a lofty exhale you hurried down to the stack of blankets you had left the day before. Tossing aside your fears you rounded the side of the cottage. The moonstone was also gone.
You couldn’t contain your sigh of relief. It was a good sign.
The following days passed without fuss, and you slowly fell back into your routine with a pollyanna heart. You were at peace with the woods once more.
You read books and baked bread and tried your hand at chopping wood. You sang songs from your youth and wrote and were content. If only your parents could see you now. They would be so proud of how brave you were, of how smart you were. That was why you moved out here, after all.
In a way, it was one last attempt to get close to them.
But no amount of city living could have prepared you for the overwhelming energy of the woods. Was it always this way? You couldn’t remember. You thought that it would be cold and lifeless and quiet, but it was the opposite. Everything was alive and watching. The birds sang and plants grew quickly, and everything was rich with life.
You would have thought it disturbing if not for the overflow of comfort that tended to wash over you when you felt all alone. Maybe it was your dad looking after you, even now. Maybe your mother was helping you with the gardening and the foraging. It was a soft reminder of them.
One afternoon when the wind was particularly strong the cries of baby birds could be heard throughout the forest. They must have fallen from their nest. You had been weaving together stretches of cloth in an attempt to repurpose the old material but were pulled from your work when the crying didn’t stop.
Your heart lurched in your chest. You were going to help them.
The nest had been blown from a high branch in one of the pine trees and had been overturned at the bottom of the trunk. You turned over the nest with caution, only to find three baby robins cooing and crying at the disturbance.
You frowned. The mother was nowhere to be found. The baby birds must have been scared half to death.
You were careful not to disrupt the nest and scooped the hatchlings up in your work apron as well as the nest, setting them down altogether on a sturdier branch. It was a branch at eye level, careful to keep the babes from the danger of the forest floor. You left your apron there for extra protection and warmth, and you came back not long after with berries for the hatchlings.
It was the least you could do. One of the biggest differences in city living was just how quickly you got the gratification of getting a job done. Making appointments over the phone, sending important emails, and having dinner delivered to your door. It was so fast in some ways.
At the cottage, everything took extra effort, and for a small moment, you felt that similar rush. It was gratifying.
It was all in a day’s work to help, and you were no stranger to simple comforts. Your parents had raised you here, just like this. It was quaint. It was just as rewarding.
Just the same as before, you checked up on the hatchlings the next morning before tending to the rest of the cottage.
The apron was still there, lodged into the tree branch with the nest but upon closer inspection, the babes were gone. There were no birds nor berries or feathers, and instead, the stem of a flower was carefully tucked into the nest. It was no ordinary flower, no. You were familiar with the kind. Dicentra.
Bleeding hearts.
The pink strand of flowers was a stark contrast to its surroundings. You knew the plant well enough to know that they grew only on the far side of the forest. It was farther than you had traveled in a long time.
A shiver spiraled down to your stomach and your eyes scanned the tree line once more. This time you didn’t even dare to touch the gift left for you.
Again, you turned in early for the night. This time you left half a loaf of bread with a berry jam and a jar of honey in the basket.
It all felt like a delicate dance.
The night was cold, much colder than the last time you decided to let the fire rest. The quilts helped to keep you warm, but your body was overcome with shivers, nonetheless. This time it came in the form of listening to howls outside the front door.
Something was out there. You felt it. You knew it deep in your bones.
You could almost hear something beyond the howling, something softer. It was the quiet hum of wind chimes, but each time you thought you heard it the sound faded into the night. And then you remembered; you didn’t have wind chimes.
Sleep claimed you faster this time, almost suddenly. You couldn’t have prepared for it, and your dreams were extravagant.
The dream had been filled with sweet songs and comfort, and then it dissolved into the darkness of the woods.
And then you were barefoot, stepping away from the cottage onto a bloody patch of dirt and grass. Your dream led you down to the spot where you first tended to the fawn, patches of blood and fur marring the nest of blankets you had made. Your legs were propelling you away before you could get another good look, and when you peered ahead a different trail led you to bloodied feathers and the broken remnants of the bird’s nest.
It was a disaster. It was as if a fox had gotten into the henhouse.
Tossing and turning, you were suddenly hot. The chill in your veins was replaced with a hot ache, feeling it in your belly and down to your toes, until you entirely forgot about the carnage you walked through.
Your nerve endings were on fire. You knew you were dreaming. You needed to wake up.
The blood had faded away into warm daylight, but there was no solace. You weren’t alone. There was a snap of a twig on your left.
You needed to wake up. Now.
A pair of dark eyes, almost glowing against the trees had found you. You turned, running blindly into the brush, but it was only getting closer. You could hear whatever was behind you catching up. You could feel its hot breath on the back of your neck. You tried to scream.
Wake. Up.
With a jolt you startled up, taking a moment to realize you were still in your bed. The cottage was locked up tight. You were safe.
A broken cry had gotten stuck in your throat as you held a hand to your chest. You were overwhelmed and terrified.
It was still early, well before sunrise, but there was no way you were going back to bed. Not after that.
Never, and you swore neverhad you felt such dread. And you had never once felt that way in the cottage. What once housed feelings of comfort and peace were twisted into such horrific dread.
A terrible realization dawned on you. You were all alone in the middle of nowhere.
You thrashed the blankets off your body, suddenly too heavy against your skin. You felt trapped. The weight of it all was too much, even if the rest of the cottage had only gotten colder throughout the night.
Perhaps you could build a fire. Maybe you would take a hot bath to distract yourself. Damn the fear of the outside; you were convinced your dreams were the biggest threat to your safety.
Your body was flushed, rattled from the aftershocks of the nightmare. With a pant you let your body collapse against the pillows, letting your arm cradle behind it for extra support before you froze.
But there was something there, under your pillow. Sitting up in alarm you tossed your pillow to the ground.
No.
There, carefully placed under your pillow, were the moonstone and the bleeding hearts.
No.
“You are going to freeze, doll.”
Your eyes snapped towards the direction of the voice. There, leaning against the fireplace a distinct figure hugged the shadows. Tall and imposing, the shadow dwarfed the room. Strong shoulders and dark hair drew your attention first. The voice was lustrous and masculine, making you blink twice before listening to the gravity of his words.
You could feel the temperature of the room drop. The figure wasn’t lying. It was much colder now, and a puff of cold air was pulled from you when you exhaled. You reached for a blanket almost mechanically.
When you didn’t respond you watched as the figure crossed one leg over the other in the dark. Your eyes had adapted as best they could, but with the curtains closed and the fire snuffed out your vision was still limited.
“Let me help.” The figure offered with a hum.
As if by magic the fire roared to life at his words. The room was illuminated in warmth and light, and you held a hand up as your eyes squinted shut.
This didn’t make any sense. This couldn’t be happening.
Your body was tense, and once your eyes adjusted to the light you could get a good look at the figure, at the man. His skin was pale against a dark head of hair and thick eyebrows looked curiously at you behind bright, blinding eyes. They were blue as the spring water. You couldn’t deny that there was a sharp edge to them. All of his features were striking, from the curve of his lips and the stubble along his jaw to his taught arms and thick legs.
His clothes were dark, maybe blue or black, but you couldn’t be sure. He was a shadow in the night.
A palpable concern ran through you.
Against the firelight, you couldn’t deny a glowing tint in his eyes. It was too similar to the eyes in your dreams.
He was no man at all.
Your parents could have never warned you about this.
“Did you not like my gifts?” You dared to ask, your heart beating heavily in your chest.
A smirk curled at his lips. The man pushed off the wall, towering over you.
“Oh, I lovedthem.” He emphasized with a hum. This time he stepped forward, and you watched with careful eyes. Your confusion must have been clear as day. His tone was jovial, almost teasing. “But I thought you would have liked mine a little more. I will have to try harder.”
You were so overwhelmed that you missed his last sentence altogether.
“I was taught to not accept anything from the forest.” You stuttered out with an air of innocence. And obviously,ignorance.
You couldn’t understand him, how he liked your gifts but wouldn’t leave you alone. Your parents’ worries had swarmed in your mind. All of your careful preparation was in vain.
The man looked at you, confident that you knew that he knew exactly what you were thinking. Dark hair fell in his face, and he tilted his head.
“I wonder why that would be?” He speculated with a formidable grin. Those blue eyes pulled you back, filled with mirth and mystery. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Goosebumps pricked at your arms and for a moment you were at a loss for words.
You couldn’t remember.
There must have been a reason why you didn’t take his gifts. Why would your parents tell you not to accept anything from the forest? Your head felt heavy.
“I -” You paused, confusion settling into your features. “I don’t know.”
At your admission, the man’s grin only widened. His hand moved up and under his chin. His cunning voice swelled around you, and he stalked forward with an animalistic prowl.
“But you did like my gifts?”
The softness of his question made it sound like it wasn’t a question at all. You hummed out a breath before looking up at him.
“I did.”
You figured there would be no trouble in playing along.
His lips curled up into a smirk, showing off white teeth against the light of the fire. His eyes were teasing again, clever, and full of mischief.
“Then what do you say?” He asked, almost condescendingly. “You’re sweet. You’re kind. You must have been taught your manners.” He urged the words out of you, his startling eyes locked on yours.
The man was hauntingly beautiful.
You couldn’t look away if you wanted to. You…you weren’t sure if you wanted to.
“Thank you for the gifts.”
The whisper was so faint that it faded off before you realized it was you that spoke. Your head was foggy, slowly realizing the trap that you were falling into. It was almost as if you could hear him when he didn’t even speak.
That wasn’t so hard, was it?
He had stolen away at your senses with a clever wink.
All of a sudden, your parents’ warnings were swimming through your mind.
“It is dangerous in these woods. Don’t accept anything from the forest. The forest folk will twist your intentions. They are clever and powerful.”
“They can trap you in the forest and make you lose yourself.”
“Don’t give them your name. Don’t accept their trinkets, and don’t thank them for their kindness.”
What was happening to you? Your hands slumped forward against your thighs, and you could hardly hold your head up. A wave of nausea made you steel yourself to the bed frame.
“Who - who are you?” Your tongue was heavy against your teeth, and your breathing was labored. Your body was shutting down against your will.
Yours. I am yours.
His words pulsated against your temples. He was shushing you now, gently to calm you, taking a step closer to the bed.
“Doll, you are taking care of everything out here. This cottage is a treasure, but who is taking care of you?”
A shiver ran down your back. Your mind was flooded with images of the moonstone and the flowers, and how you helped the fawn and the hatchings. Then it shifted back to the tremors in your dreams.
You watched helplessly as the man’s blue eyes completely darkened, a golden ring shining around his irises. It was him all along. He was watching you the whole time.
You couldn’t find your voice, a startling noise catching in your throat. You couldn’t speak. Trying to back up against the wall your limbs were heavy.
You couldn’t move.
Physically immobilized, it was as if he had all control. How was this possible?
He was closer now and you could smell the grass and the salt and the rain against his skin. He crouched down in front of you, eye level with you, sitting on the bed. His cool breath fanned against your face and with a gentle hand, he brushed a thumb against your bottom lip.
Soft lips curled into a sinister grin, showing off a set of sharp, white teeth. With as much strength as you could muster you looked back up into his eyes. The blue in his eyes was completely gone, swallowed by dark, glowing pupils.
It was stunning and terrifying all in the same breath. It wasn’t human.
Closer still he leaned in, moving his thumb down to your jaw. The ghost of his lips was against your own before he claimed his prize and your rapture.
His kiss was poisonous. It was earthy and powerful and it shifted into something saccharinely sweet. You were helpless to it, melting against him as his tongue lapped at your own.
A breathless groan passed from his lips and settled against your skin. He was all-encompassing.
Against your better judgment, your arms were pulled up from your thighs. Like a puppeteer was commanding the strings, one hand settled against his chest and the other was curled around his shoulder for support.
It was what he wanted.
With newfound strength, you held on to him with all of your might as he kissed you again. This one was exploratory, lingering from the corner of your lips to the apple of your cheeks and down your jaw. Your body was buzzing like a lightning strike.
It was him. All of the heat and power were emanating from him.
A dark fog swirled in your mind, fully possessed by the man that held you close. If you could only look back and see yourself, you would have seen how your eyes had gotten dark, mimicking his own. His free arm rested along your lower back, sharp nails digging against your skin. There was no escape.
You could hardly think as the soft rumble of his voice settled over you.
“Your heart is the softest place on earth. Let me take care of it.”
