Let Me Get What I Want

by blkgirlmora

Summary:

When James “Bucky” Barnes — a rich, restless white boy from Brooklyn — drifts down to Louisiana looking for something new, the quiet town of Delacroix doesn’t know what to make of him. No one knows where he came from, why he’s so wealthy, or if there’s a lucky someone waiting back home.

One humid summer night, a haunting melody draws him into a small, glowing club — The Falcon’s Nest — where the Wilson siblings are singing their hearts out. Among them is Sam Wilson: charming, sharp-tongued, and determined to build a future for his family.

Bucky is captivated. Entranced. Consumed.

As their paths intertwine, Sam starts to realize there’s something darker behind Bucky’s charm — something ancient and hungry. Because Bucky Barnes isn’t just another rich stranger passing through town. He’s a vampire… and he’s utterly obsessed with Sam Wilson.
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Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want-The Smiths
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/120chMwflvIApZdt1CyW7B?si=qkY_9IqLT4uavt8TVx8pmg

FLASHBACK

Pain came first. A sharp, throbbing pulse that shot through Bucky’s skull as he clawed his way back into consciousness. The world was a blur of dim orange candlelight and damp brick walls, and the copper tang of blood clung to his tongue. He winced, instinctively lifting a hand to his head, only to be yanked back by the harsh rattle of a chain. His arm—warm, heavy, unyielding—was shackled to the wall.

For a long moment, all he could hear was the slow drip of water from somewhere above him. Then came footsteps. Soft, deliberate, echoing across the stone floor.

Bucky squinted through the haze. A pair of black, polished shoes came into view, gleaming faintly under the light. His heart skipped.

“S—Steve?” His voice came out hoarse, broken, but full of desperate hope.

The figure chuckled, low and smooth, the sound curling through the dark like smoke. “Guess again.”

The accent hit him before the face did—thick, unmistakable, Russian. Bucky’s stomach turned cold. He blinked hard, trying to focus, and the shape before him sharpened. It wasn’t Steve. Not even close. The man’s skin was deathly pale, his hair neatly parted and brown, his posture sharp and cruelly elegant. He looked human—until he smiled.

“Please… please don’t hurt me, sir.” The plea slipped out before Bucky could stop it.

“Oh, I won’t hurt you,” the stranger purred, voice dripping with false kindness. “I just need… a little drink.”

He stepped closer, and the flickering candlelight caught on something inhuman. Fangs—long, razor-sharp, glinting white as bone. Bucky’s breath hitched, a chill crawling down his spine. His body refused to move. Every instinct screamed run, but the chains held fast. The man crouched, moving with the effortless grace of a predator. His eyes—God, those eyes—glowed a deep, burning red, reflecting the blood trickling from Bucky’s temple.

“Hold still,” the man whispered, leaning close enough that Bucky could feel the unnatural heat radiating off him. “It’s going to tickle.”

Then came the bite.

Pain flared bright and white-hot as fangs pierced the soft flesh of his neck. Bucky screamed, thrashing against the chains, but the man’s grip was iron. The pull at his throat was relentless—a deep, sickening suction that made his vision go white at the edges.

“STOP! PLEASE—STOP!” His voice cracked, the words echoing weakly off the stone.

But the man didn’t stop. He drank like he’d been starving for centuries.

Bucky’s strength drained with every heartbeat. His limbs went numb, the edges of his vision clouded with black. He thought about death—what it really looked like. He thought about his sister’s dog, small and still in a shoebox, how peaceful it looked once the color faded. That same lifeless pallor was creeping through his own body now. His heartbeat faltered. His soul felt like it was slipping away.

Then—silence. The man pulled back, blood smeared across his lips, eyes fluttering in satisfaction. Bucky sagged forward, barely conscious, his breath a shallow whisper. Through the haze, his mind began to play tricks on him. The monster’s face blurred and shifted—brown hair turning golden, blue eyes softening into something familiar.

“Steve?” Bucky croaked. He felt a warm hand brush through his blood-matted hair, a gentle touch on his cheek. His lips quivered into a weak smile.

“It’s gonna be alright, Buck,” Steve’s voice whispered.

Then something pressed against his lips. Warm. Metallic. The taste hit him instantly—rich and heavy, like wine with iron underneath. His body reacted before his brain did. He drank.

It burned and soothed all at once, flooding his veins like wildfire. Strength surged through his limbs. His vision sharpened, the colors too vivid, too alive. The taste was intoxicating—wrong, forbidden, but irresistible.

When the man finally pulled his arm away, Bucky gasped, blood staining his mouth. The pain was gone. The fear too. All that remained was hunger—strange and powerful. He looked up through dazed, bright blue eyes, now sharper, colder than before.

The stranger smiled, fangs glinting again. “So gorgeous,” he murmured, brushing Bucky’s chin with his thumb. “My creation.”

Bucky blinked, confusion and instinct warring inside him.

“I am Zemo,” the man said, straightening. His voice carried that same unshakable authority, every word like a command. “And you, my dear pet, will be my soldier. You will jump when I say jump, speak when I say speak, and protect me—no matter the cost. Even if it means your death.” He smirked faintly. “Though that may be… difficult for you now.”

Zemo tilted his head, eyes gleaming crimson. “If you refuse, I’ll leave you here to starve. But if you obey… you’ll have all the blood you could ever crave.”

Bucky stared at him—helpless, newly reborn, trembling under the weight of hunger he couldn’t name. Slowly, he nodded.

A smile crept across Zemo’s bloodstained lips. “Good,” he said softly, like praise to a loyal dog. “You’re learning already.”

He reached up, unhooking the chains with an almost tender touch. The heavy metal clattered to the floor, echoing through the dark.

Zemo straightened his coat and stepped back, admiring his work. “Now then,” he murmured, voice low and cruel, “let’s get started on your training… my beautiful little fledgling.”

END OF FLASHBACK

Bucky Barnes had been in New Orleans less than a week, and he was already restless.

The mansion was beautiful—towering spires, black iron balconies, stained glass that caught the moonlight just so. Gothic and grand, just like Zemo would’ve liked. He’d inherited it easily enough; forged documents, falsified wills, a few well-placed threats. After all, no one was going to question a man with the icy charm of a noble and the eyes of a killer.

He should have felt satisfied. He was free. Zemo was dead by his hand, his chains finally broken. But immortality had a cruel sense of irony—it left him with too much time to think.

Now, sitting alone in his cavernous parlor with candles flickering against the velvet walls, he could only feel it again: boredom. The kind that sank into his bones and gnawed at the edges of his mind.

So he went out.

The French Quarter was alive in a way that almost mocked him. People laughed, stumbled, flirted under the gaslight glow, the scent of rum and sugar in the air. Humanity—messy, fleeting, loud. All of it so terribly mundane. The pulse of a thousand hearts thrummed around him, and to Bucky, it was just noise. Food.

He was about to turn back when he heard it.

A voice.

Not a scream. Not the groan of the living or dying. But a song.

It sliced through the night air like silk—rich, smooth, and magnetic, tugging at something deep within him. It was beautiful in a way he hadn’t remembered beauty being for centuries. It called to him.

The sound led him down a narrow street to a club glowing in amber light, the name above the door written in looping gold script: The Falcon’s Nest.

As soon as he stepped inside, the air shifted—warm, perfumed with whiskey, sweat, and sin. Card tables lined the walls where men shouted over their bets; lovers pressed into dark corners; the piano hummed softly beneath the clinking of glasses. But none of it mattered. Because there, on the stage, was the source of that siren call.

Two of them.

A woman with flawless curls that bounced at her shoulders, her skin shimmering under the stage lights. She wore a gold corset that hugged her curves and caught the glow of every candle, tassels swaying with each calculated step. And beside her—

Bucky forgot how to breathe.

The man’s voice filled the room like warm honey, deep and decadent with a teasing edge. He moved with the rhythm, hips swaying just enough to keep every pair of eyes locked on him. His white shirt gleamed beneath a gold-embroidered corset, matching pants clinging to his frame, white loafers polished to perfection. His curls were slicked into soft finger waves, shining under the stage lights.

Masculine, yes—but with a softness that made Bucky’s chest ache. Power wrapped in grace. Beauty with a bite.

The crowd was already enraptured, cheering as the Wilson siblings—because there was no mistaking the resemblance—moved in perfect synchrony. But to Bucky, the world had narrowed to one thing: the man’s voice.

His angel.

When the song ended, the club erupted in applause and whistles, the kind that filled the room like smoke. Bucky didn’t move. He couldn’t. His eyes followed the siblings as they bowed, laughing, radiant under the hot lights.

The man on stage blew a playful kiss to the crowd—and then, as if sensing Bucky’s stare, locked eyes with him.

That smile. That wicked, knowing little curl of the lips. And then—a wink.

If Bucky’s heart still beat, it would have stuttered.

The lights dimmed as a new man took the stage. Sharp pinstripe suit, easy grin. “That was our devil darlings and owners of this fine establishment—Sam and Sarah Wilson!”

The room cheered louder than before. Bucky caught himself smiling, the name tasting sweet on his tongue. “Sam…” he murmured, savoring it. The syllable rolled off his tongue like sin and silk. He could almost taste it—liquid gold.

The announcer continued, “They’ll be here all night if you’re interested in business, pleasure, or whatever else comes your way.” The crowd laughed. “And I’m Rhodey, the pianist you’ll be hearing all evening. So relax, drink up, and enjoy yourselves!”

A roar of approval followed, glasses clinking as the piano swelled again. Bucky raised his glass of red wine, smiling faintly as the crowd toasted around him. He wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes were on the stage door, on the faint glimpse of gold disappearing into the back hall.

He didn’t care about the drinks, or the games, or the chaos of mortal vice.

He wanted Sam Wilson—the angel who sang like sin and shimmered like sunlight through whiskey glass.

And Bucky Barnes always got what he wanted.

!

The music from the main floor pulsed faintly through the walls, a low hum beneath the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. The backstage dressing room smelled of powder, sweat, and sweet perfume—silk and sequins draped over chairs, a cracked mirror rimmed with golden bulbs throwing soft light over the Wilson siblings as they caught their breath after their set.

Tony sat at the vanity, sleeves rolled up, cigarette hanging from his lips as he counted the night’s earnings with quick, practiced hands. “Sammy!” he called, not looking up. “There’s some pretty boy asking for you at the bar.”

Sam looked up from where he was fixing his shirt cuffs, brow furrowing. “Pretty boy?”

“Oh!” Sarah chimed in, undoing the laces of her gold corset with a sigh. “You mean that white boy that was staring at you like you were a five-course meal?”

Tony snorted. “That’s the one.”

Sam blinked, smoothing a hand over his hair, making sure the finger waves were still crisp. “What white boy? Riley’s at the bar, ain’t he?”

Sarah nodded, finally slipping the corset off and fanning herself with her hand. “Yeah, he is—but this one’s different. Not Riley. He’s… well, he’s pale, sure, but not just white. Maybe mixed with something? I can’t tell.” She shrugged, eyes scanning the mess of costumes on the rack. “Either way, he’s got that rich man energy. Real quiet. Real mysterious. The kind that tips in hundreds.”

Sam rolled his eyes, reaching for his mustache comb. “Great. Another one of your mystery men. You sure he ain’t just some drunk tourist?”

Sarah smirked, slipping into her satin robe. “Drunk tourists don’t wear suits like that. Looked tailored. Italian, maybe. And damn, he’s handsome.”

“Girl,” Sam said flatly, “are you serious right now? I oughta tell Misty how you talkin’ about this man.”

Sarah just laughed, walking over to fix a curl that had fallen loose from Sam’s sleek waves. “And I’ll tell Riley there’s another white boy asking for you.”

Sam froze, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “You play too much,” he muttered, but she only grinned wider.

“Oh, please. Riley’s been giving that poor bar counter the death stare all night. If looks could kill, that pretty boy’d be in the ground already.”

Sam groaned, leaning back against the vanity. “Lord, give me strength. What if he just wants somethin’ simple, like a business deal? A man that rich could keep this place open for years if he wanted to.”

“Exactly!” Sarah said, eyes lighting up. “This might be our chance to finally get that roof fixed. And maybe upgrade the stage lighting while we’re at it.”

Sam bit his lip, thinking it over. She wasn’t wrong. Money was tight, and charm only went so far when rent came due. A stranger with deep pockets could be a blessing—or trouble. Usually both.

He sighed, defeated. “Fine. Whatever. But you’re coming out there with me.”

Sarah squealed, grabbing a sequined dress off the rack and shimmying into it with practiced ease. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Sam just shook his head, muttering under his breath with a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, but you love me,” Sarah sang out as she fastened her earrings.

Outside, the piano started up again—Rhodey’s smooth melody signaling another wave of customers. Sam took one last glance in the mirror, straightening his collar and fixing his cufflinks. He caught his own reflection for a moment: confident, polished, charming. The face he showed the world.

But somewhere deep in his chest, a flicker of curiosity burned.

Whoever that mysterious man at the bar was, he had Sam Wilson’s attention now.

Walking behind the bar, Sam and Sarah moved with both confidence and grace Sam’s sharp smile was familiar to every sinner in Delacroix; Sarah’s laugh was the kind that made people fall a little in love, just for a second.

Riley spotted them first. His glare, the one he’d worn all night, melted into something gentler as Sam approached. “There you go, prettyface,” Riley said, sliding Sam his usual bourbon with a twist of orange. His voice was gruff, but the affection in it was undeniable.

Sam caught the look and smirked. “You’re sweet when you’re jealous, you know that?”

Riley scoffed, but motioned down the bar with his chin. “That guy askin’ for you? He’s at the end. Don’t like the look of him, though.”

Sam turned his head—and froze.

The man at the end of the bar didn’t belong to The Falcon’s Nest. He was pale, yes, but not lifeless—his skin glowed faintly, kissed by the kind of softness that came from a good life or an expensive moisturizer. His eyes were striking—icy blue that lit up the moment they met Sam’s. He wore a navy blue suit that fit like sin, a black tie, silver cufflinks, and long brown hair that brushed his shoulders, a little unruly, like he didn’t care enough to tame it. The scruff on his jaw was just long enough to burn if he kissed someone’s neck—or their thighs.

Sam’s pulse skipped. Just once, but enough that he hated himself for it.

The stranger’s lips twitched into a small smile when he noticed Sam looking.

“Calm down,” Sam muttered, tearing his eyes away and sipping his drink to cool the warmth rising up his neck. “He probably just wants to help the club. Just gonna see what he’s about, okay?”

Sarah hummed knowingly beside him, linking her arm with his. “Relax, Riley. Ain’t nobody stealing Sammy from you,” she teased.

Riley sighed, still frowning. “I don’t like the looks of him, but fine. Go see what he wants.” He leaned over and kissed Sam’s cheek before stepping aside.

“Always so dramatic,” Sarah muttered fondly, tugging Sam forward.

They crossed the bar, heels clicking against the tile, the smell of whiskey and cologne thick in the air. The stranger’s gaze followed them until they stopped in front of him.

“You askin’ for me?” Sam asked, resting his hand on the bar, tone half-curious, half-challenging.

The man smiled, charming but not smug. “Yes. I wanted to tell you I loved your performance. It was like watching two angels sing.”

Sam frowned, unimpressed, but Sarah giggled—already enchanted. “Aw, thank you, honey. You got a name, stranger?”

He took her hand gently, pressing a kiss to her knuckles like he’d stepped out of another century. “James Buchanan Barnes,” he said, glancing at Sam through his lashes. “But everyone calls me Bucky.”

Sarah all but melted. “Such a gentleman,” she gushed.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Je ne vois pas l’intérêt. Il a l’air du genre d’homme dont Maman nous a dit de nous méfier.”

Sarah elbowed him sharply. “Tu ne le connais même pas encore ! Il a l’air d’un homme gentil.”

Bucky smirked, amused. Then, in perfect French, he replied, “Laisse-moi une chance. Je te promets que je ne mords pas.”

Both Wilsons froze.

Sam’s brows shot up. “You know French?”

“Oui,” Bucky chuckled, switching back to English. “I travel a lot, read a lot. Learned it while I was in Paris.”

Sarah beamed, delighted. Sam, on the other hand, eyed him warily. “You from New York? I can hear it.”

Bucky tilted his head. “Used to be. Got bored of the city. I move around now. Guess I’m not built to stay in one place.”

Something in the way he said it made Sam’s lips twitch, softening despite himself. “So what brings you to Delacroix, then?”

Bucky smiled. “Just passing through. I’ve been on the road for a while, needed somewhere to catch my breath. It’s beautiful here.”

Sam leaned in slightly, elbows on the counter. “Yeah, well, we try to keep it that way for anyone who might wander through.”

Sarah noticed the shift—the subtle spark, the weight in the air—and decided to make herself scarce. “I’ll let you two talk,” she said, winking at Sam. “It was lovely meeting you, Bucky.”

Bucky gave her a polite nod, but his eyes stayed on Sam.

“So,” Bucky began, turning slightly toward him, “tell me about this place. It’s… very…” He glanced around—the couples pressed together in the dim corners, the gamblers shouting over cards, the slow rhythm of Rhodey’s piano. “Eccentric?”

Sam laughed. “That’s one way to put it. Here at The Falcon’s Nest, we like to indulge in our sins.”

He came out from behind the bar, sitting next to Bucky, his presence warm and magnetic. “I’m a preacher’s son, you see. My daddy—God bless his soul—he built a perfect little world. Thought he could preach the sin outta people. But me?” Sam’s voice softened. “He kicked me out for dancing with boys. So I built a place where people could live free. No judgment. Just life.”

Bucky listened closely, his expression unreadable but his eyes softer now. “That’s… beautiful, Sam. Really.”

Sam smiled, a real one this time. “Thanks.”

Bucky let his gaze wander, half amused. “Though I gotta ask… why are people just—” he gestured vaguely toward the darkened corner where two men were clearly occupied—“having sex out in the open?”

Sam burst out laughing, full and genuine. “Because sex ain’t a sin, sweetheart. It’s human. It’s natural. You really think Adam and Eve got kicked outta Eden for eatin’ a fruit?”

Bucky snorted, shaking his head, but his grin said he was enjoying this.

“Exactly,” Sam went on, leaning closer. “If sex was such a sin, why’d God make it feel so damn good?” His accent thickened on the words, smooth as whiskey.

Bucky’s smirk turned slow, lazy. “You’ve got a point. Especially when it’s with the right person.”

Their eyes met—blue on brown, sharp on soft. The music faded into the background, the air charged between them.

Sam was the first to look away, his throat bobbing. “Yeah. You’re right about that.”

Bucky finished his wine, standing as the clock neared dawn. “I should go. Sun’ll be up soon.”

Sam stood too. “I’ll walk you out.”

Outside, the moon bathed the street in silver light. The humid air carried the faint buzz of cicadas. Bucky turned to face him, the moonlight catching on his scruff, his smile almost tender.

“You’ve got a beautiful mind, Sam,” he murmured. He reached for Sam’s hand and pressed a kiss to his skin—soft, deliberate.

Sam’s heart stuttered. He’d had his hand kissed before, but never like this. Never with that kind of careful reverence that made his stomach flutter.

“You’re welcome anytime, Mr. Barnes,” Sam said, voice a touch shy.

“Please,” Bucky said, smiling—sharp and sweet all at once. “Call me Bucky.”

Sam chuckled, the blush on his cheeks impossible to hide. “Okay, Bucky. Have a good rest of your night.”

“Never heard it sound so pretty,” Bucky muttered under his breath, too low for most to catch—but Sam did.

For once, he didn’t know what to say.

“Goodnight, Sam,” Bucky said finally, turning to disappear into the night.

Sam stood there for a long moment, heart still racing, the air still buzzing with whatever that was.

Bucky Barnes was a stranger. A traveler. Trouble wrapped in navy and charm.

And yet, as the moonlight washed over him, Sam found himself smiling.

Maybe trouble was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

Head over Heels-Tears for fears
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LET ME GET WHAT I WANT

Notes:

HOPE YOU ENJOYEDDD MORE TO COME