cait's library

she/her. 26. sideblog!

[w1nter-fairy]

Wildfire

main masterlist

pairing: foreman!Bucky Barnes x ranch owner!Reader

summary: You were born to run the ranch, Bucky was raised to work the land. Somewhere between exhausting days of work, barn hookups and ten months of something neither of you dared to name you've crossed a line you can't uncross. But love doesn't mean the same thing to both of you. And when pride, class, and everything Bucky thinks he should be start pulling him away from you you realize loving him might not be enough to make him stay.

word count: 19.8 k (longest one posted yet omg)

warnings: +18 MNI explicit sexual content, unprotected p in v, oral sex (f receiving), secret affair, angst, mutual pining, class difference, miscommunication, power imbalance, harassment, attempted intimidation, physical violence, alcohol use, happy ending. | english is not my first language so I'm sorry for any grammar mistake or mystipo

a/n: as some of you may or may not know, I'm from Mexico so that means I grew up watching telenovelas full of drama and all of that, this idea came to me when I suddenly saw a picture in pinterest and my mind started thinking a lot of what if? I hope you enjoy it! dividers by @saradika-graphics & beta read by my girls @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysdecaflove & Denice ꨄ︎

read in AO3

The sun hasn't cleared the horizon when you step onto the porch, coffee mug in hand. The ranch is already awake. You can hear the low murmur of cattle in the distance, the sharp whistle of someone calling the dogs, the creak of the barn doors and machinery coming to life. This was your ranch. Your responsibility. Your pride.

You'd grown up with dirt under your fingernails and hay in your hair, your father's shadow stretching long over every fence post and pasture. He'd raised you to run this place since you were little. Mainly, because you were his only child, but also because he knew you would take care of the land accordingly.

Now the shadow is yours and you wear it well.

"Morning, wildfire."

The voice comes from near the equipment barn. You don't have to look to know who it is—you'd recognize that low rasp anywhere, the way he says that nickname with practiced ease.

Bucky Barnes leans against the fence, one boot propped on the lower rail, his work shirt already dusty though the day's barely started. His dark hair is combed back, a few strands escaping to frame his face, and his blue eyes track you as you descend the porch steps.

"Morning," you say, keeping your voice level professional. "Crew's here?"

"Most of 'em. Sanchez is running late—truck trouble. I sent Pete to pick him up." He straightens, falling into step beside you as you head toward the barn. "We're rotating the herd to the north pasture today. Fencing's solid, checked it myself yesterday."

"Good." You pause at the barn entrance, turning to face him. "What about the irrigation system? Johnson said there was a blockage in sector three."

"Already working on it, it should be cleared by noon."

You nod, taking a sip of your coffee. This is how it always goes—Bucky anticipating problems before you have to ask, handling details before they become emergencies. Your father had hired his dad twenty years ago, and when the old man got sick, Bucky stepped into the role like he'd be born for it.

Which in a way, he had been.

"You're thinking too hard," Bucky says, his mouth quirking. "I can see those gears turning."

"Well, I'm always thinking. Kind of part of my job."

"Yeah, well." He shifts his weight and for a moment, something flickers across his face, something soft and unguarded… you blink and it's gone. "Try to not hurt yourself."

You shoot him a look that would wilt lesser man. He just grins and tips an imaginary hat before heading toward the equipment barn, leaving you with your coffee and the creeping warmth in your chest that you refuse to name.

By midday, you're elbow-deep in the business of running the ranch, fielding calls from suppliers, reviewing feed costs, checking the schedule for the county livestock show next month. Your office is a converted tack room in the main barn, all exposed beams and the faint smell of leather and hay. You liked it here. It feels real in a way that glass and steel never could.

You're on the phone with the feed supplier, arguing about bulk pricing, when Bucky appears in the doorway. He doesn't interrupt, just leans against the frame and waits, and you're hyper-aware of his presence in a way that's become second nature over the past— how long has it been? Ten months since that first kiss in the summer heat, all sweat and impulse and that kid of chemistry that burns.

Ten months of this thing between you that has no name, no rules, no promises.

You finish the call—a victory, 10% discount— and set the phone down. "What's up?"

"Got a situation with the new colt. He's favoring his left foreleg, might be nothing, but I want you to take a look before I call the vet."

You're already standing. "Show me."

The colt is in the training pen, a gorgeous chestnut with a white blaze and too much attitude for his own good. You'd purchased him at auction three months ago, saw the potential in his bloodline and the fire in his eyes. Now he's limping, and your stomach tightens.

Bucky's already in the pen, speaking low and calm as he approaches the colt. The animal sidesteps, nervous, but Bucky doesn't rush. Just keeps talking, that steady murmur that works in horses and people alike, until the colt allows him close enough to run a hand down his neck.

"Easy, buddy."

You slip through the fence rails and approach from the other side, moving slow. The colt's ears flick toward you, but he doesn't spook. Between you and Bucky, he's boxed in by a kind of trust, and after a moment he settles.

"I've got his head," Bucky says. "Check the leg."

You crouch, running your hands carefully down the colt's foreleg, feeling for heat, for swelling, for anything out of place. The colt shifts but doesn't pull away, and you can feel Bucky's presence above you, solid and grounding.

"There," you murmur, fingers finding a tender spot just above the fetlock. "Minor strain, I think… it's not serious, but he needs rest."

"Figured." Bucky's voice is close—closer than you expected. You glance up and find him watching you with an expression you can't quite read. "You want me to call Doc Johnson anyway?"

"Yeah, better be safe than sorry." You straighten, brushing dirt from your jeans. "Good catch."

"Just doing my job."

"You do it well."

Something passes between you— a look, a breath, the weight of words unsaid. The colt stamps impatiently, breaking the moment, and you step back.

"I'll handle the rest of the rotations," Bucky says, his tone careful and neutral. "You've got that conference call at two, right?"

You'd forgotten. "Shit, yeah. Thanks."

"Anytime, wildfire."

There it is again. That nickname. The way he says it—affectionate and just a little bit awed, like you're something bright and untamed and worth admiring from a careful distance.

You walk away before you can do something stupid like ask him what it means, why he started calling you that. If it means what you think it might.

That evenings you stop by Miller's feed store in town to pick up supplements. Bucky's with you—he'd been checking on a part for the tractor at the hardware store next door.

Old Miller's behind the counter, and his eyes light up when he sees you.

"Well if it isn't the lady rancher herself," he says warmly. "How's business?"

"Good, been busy lately." You hand him your list. "Need these loaded up when you get a chance."

"You got it," he glances at Bucky. "And how's your foreman treating you" Working you too hard?"

It's a joke, everyone knows you're the one who sets the pace, but you see Bucky's jaw tighten slightly.

"Bucky runs a tight ship," you say. "Couldn't do it without him."

"That's good, that's good. 'Course your daddy always said the Barnes men were the best workers in the county." Miller starts pulling items from shelves. "You keeping busy, Bucky? Staying out of trouble?"

"Yes, sir" Bucky says evenly.

"Good man," Miller chuckles. "Though I gotta say, at your age, figured you'd have your own spread by now. Following in your old man's footsteps is fine work, but eventually a man wants something of his own, you know? Something to build on."

The words are casual, friendly even, but you see Bucky's shoulders stiffen.

"I'm exactly where I want to be," Bucky says, but there's an edge to it.

You pay quickly and get out of there, but the damage is done. Bucky's quiet on the drive back, staring out the window with that same look from earlier.

"Miller's an old gossip," you say. "Don't listen to him."

"He's not wrong though." Bucky's voice is carefully neutral. "I'm thirty-two and I don't own anything but a truck and a cabin on someone else's land."

"You own half the knowledge that keeps this ranch running," you counter. "That's worth more than—"

"It's not the same," he cuts you off gently. "And you know it."

You don't know what to say to that. Because in the world you both live in—where land equals legacy and property equals status— maybe he has a point.

But it doesn't make it right.

By the time the crew clocks out, the sky is bruising purple and gold, the heat of the day giving way to the cool promise of night. You make your rounds, checking that everything's secured, the animals settled, the equipment stored. It's a ritual, this final sweep and you always find peace in it.

You're in the main barn, running through inventory counts one last time, when you hear footsteps behind you.

You don't turn around. "Thought you left already."

"Had some things to finish." Bucky's voice is low in a way that sends heat curling through your belly. "Saw your truck was still here, figured you were doing your obsessive end-of-day check."

"It's not obsessive, it's thorough."

"Right." He's closer now, close enough that you can smell him—sweat and hay and something uniquely Bucky that makes you want to turn around and close the distance, and— "You done?" he asks and there's an edge to his voice that makes your pulse quicken.

You set down the clipboard and turn to face him.

He's still in his work clothes, shirt untucked and streaked with dust, hair falling loose from its tie. There's smudge of grease on his jaw and his eyes are dark in the dim light of the barn, and you know this look. Know what comes next.

"Yeah," you say, your voice already dropping to something lower. "I'm done."

The space between you evaporates. You don't know who moves first—maybe it doesn't matter. His hands find your hips, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to make you gasp, and your fingers curl into his shirt, yanking him closer. Then his mouth is on yours, hot and demanding, and you open for him immediately.

God, you'll never get tired of kissing him. The way he tastes like coffee and the mint he chews when he's working, the way his stubble scrapes against your skin, the way he kisses like he's starving for you.

His tongue slides against yours and you moan into his mouth, pressing closer, needing more. His hands slide from your hips to your ass, squeezing, lifting, and suddenly your feet aren't touching the ground anymore. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, feeling the hard length of him pressed against your core even through layers of denim, and the friction makes you both groan.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, walking you backward "You feel—"

"Don't talk," you manage, biting his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss. "Just—"

Your back hits the wall of the tack room and he pins you there with his hips, grinding against you making your head fall back and desperate sounds tear from your throat. His mouth moves to your neck, teeth and tongue and the kind of rough attention that you crave. Your hands are already fumbling with his belt, impatient, needing him out of these fucking clothes.

"Wildfire," he murmurs against your throat, and the nickname sounds different now. "Let me—"

He sets you down just long enough to yank your shirt over your head, his flannel following seconds later. Then his hands are on your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the fabric of your bra, and the sensation shoots straight between your legs.

"Off," you demand, reaching behind yourself to unhook it, and he helps, tossing it aside before his mouth replaces his hands.

The first pull of his lips around your nipple makes your knees buckle, makes you grab his hair to stay upright. He works you with his mouth—sucking, biting, soothing with his tongue—while his hands work open the button of your jeans. You're already shoving them down your hips, kicking off your boots in a graceless rush, and then you're standing there in nothing but your underwear, while he's still mostly dressed.

"Not fair," you gasp and he pulls back just enough to flash you a wicked grin before dropping to his knees. Oh. "Bucky—"

"Let me," he says again, and this time it's not a question. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs tracing the edge of your underwear, and when he leans forward and presses his mouth against you through the fabric, you nearly come apart right there.

"Jesus Christ," you manage, fingers tightening in his hair as he mouths at you, the friction not nearly enough. "Stop teasing."

He hooks his fingers into the waistband and drags your underwear down, helping you step out of them, and then he's right there, face level with your cunt, looking up at you like you're something sacred.

"You're so fucking wet already," he murmurs and then his tongue is on you and coherent thought becomes impossible.

He eats you out like it's his religion—long, slow strokes of his tongue followed by focused attention on your clit that makes you shake. Your fingers are fisted in his hair, hips rocking against his face, and he takes it all, groaning like your pleasure is his, like this is what he needs.

When he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you cry out his name.

"That's it," he encourages, voice muffled against you. "Let me hear you, wildfire. Let me—"

The orgasm hits you like a lightning strike, sudden and devastating, and you come with his name on your lips and your legs shaking and his fingers still working inside you, drawing it out until you're oversensitive and trembling.

He pulls back, mouth glistening, and the look on his face is pure hunger.

"I need you," you manage, still catching your breath. "Now."

He's on his feet in seconds, shedding his jeans and boxer in quick, efficient movements, and then he's sitting on the old wooden bench and you're straddling him, lining him up, sinking down onto him in one smooth motion that makes you both groan.

He feels so good, thick and hard and perfectly filling, the stretch of him always just on the edge of too much in the best possible way.

"Christ," Bucky grits out, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "You're fucking perfect."

You start to move, rolling your hips, finding the rhythm that works, and his head falls back against the wall, throat exposed, jaw clenched. You lean forward and bite the tendon in his neck, and his hips buck up involuntarily.

"Harder," you demand against his skin. "Don't hold back."

His hands tighten on your hips and he starts to thrust up into you, meeting your movements, and the angle is perfect—hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You brace your hands on his shoulders and ride him harder, chasing the pleasure building in your core, and he watches you with dark, hungry eyes.

"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs, one hand leaving your hip to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. "You look so beautiful like this, taking what you need from me—"

"Bucky," you gasp, rhythm faltering as the pleasure builds. "I'm—"

"I know, wildfire, I can feel that pretty cunt of you squeezing me so tight…" His other hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you cry out. "There you go, come for me wildfire. Wanna feel you come on my cock."

His touch and relentless thrust sends you over the edge and the orgasm crashes through you, walls clenching around him. You can hear him curse as he follows you over, spilling inside you with your name broken on his lips.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You just lay down breathing, tangled together in the half-dark of the barn, the smell of hay and sex and the summer breeze in the air, your bodies still joined, hearts pounding against each other.

Then—and this is different, this is new—Bucky doesn't pull away immediately.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest, and your head finds the curve of his shoulder like it was made to rest there. His hand slides up yous spine, tracing patterns on your bare back, and you feel him press a kiss to your temple.

That wasn't part of your routine. The sex? Yes. The intensity? Definitely. But this tenderness, this soft aftermath… that was new territory.

"Hey," you say quietly, not moving from where you're tucked against him.

"Mm?"

"You okay?"

He's quiet for a moment, then his hand finds your hair, fingers threading through the stray strands absentmindedly.

"Yeah," he says, but his voice sounds strange. "Yeah, I'm just… catching my breath."

You pull back just enough to look at him, and what you see in his face makes your chest tighten. There's something unguarded there, something raw and almost frightened, like he's said too much, shown to much.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and for a second you think he's going to say something important, something that will change the shape of this thing between you.

But then he blinks and the moment fractures.

He lifts you gently, helping you off him, and you both reach for your clothes in a silence that feels heavier than before. You watch him dress—jeans first, then his shirt, fingers working the buttons with a focus that seems excessive for such a simple task. He doesn't glance at you once.

"Same time tomorrow?" You ask, trying to sound casual, trying to rebuild the easy rhythm that's kept this simple for ten months.

He stills, shirt half-buttoned, and for a long moment he doesn't answer.

When he finally looks at you, there's something in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. Something that looks like longing and resignation all tangled together.

"Yeah, sure."

Not "same time, wildfire" with that hint of warmth. Just "yeah, sure". Like you're asking him to check the fences, not meet you here tomorrow night.

He finishes dressing in silence, and you pull on your own clothes, hyper-aware of every movement, every breath. When you're both decent again, he moves toward the door. Just before he reaches it, he pauses. Doesn't turn around.

"You know Miller's not wrong," he says quietly. "About… a man wanting something of his own."

Your stomach drops. "Bucky—"

"I'm just the foreman," he continues, still not looking at you. "Always will be. That's—" He shakes his head. "That's just how it is."

"That's not—you're more than—"

"Goodnight, wildfire."

The nickname sounds wrong in his mouth now. Distant like he's already pulling away.

Then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and you're left in the tack room, fully dressed now but somehow feeling more exposed than when you were naked.

You sink onto the bench, hand drifting to where his thumb had traced patterns on your back, and Miller's words echo in your head.

Eventually a man wants something of his own.

And Bucky's response: I'm just a foreman, always will be.

Like that's all he'll ever be. Like that's all he thinks he's worth. Like loving you—if that's what this is— means settling for scraps instead of building something real.

The thought settles in your chest like a stone, and you realize with creeping dread that something's changed. And if Bucky's convinced himself he's not good enough, that he can't give you what you deserve because he doesn't own land or have money or status… you don't know how to fight that. Or if he'll even let you.

The first sign that something's wrong comes three days after that night in the tack room. You're going over breeding schedules when Bucky comes in to report on the north pasture rotation. He's all business, standing near the door instead of leaning against the frame like usual, keeps his eyes on the clipboard in his hand.

"Rotation's complete," he says. "Moved the last of the herd this morning without issues."

"Good," you wait for more—the usual back and forth, the easy conversation that filled spaces between work tasks, but he just nods.

"Need anything else?" He asks instead.

You, you want to say. I need you to look at me like you did three nights ago. I need you to stop acting like a stranger.

"No," you say instead. "That's all."

He's gone before you can figure out how to ask what's wrong.

Within the days, things get worse.

Bucky starts sending Pete or Sanchez to give you reports instead of coming himself. When you do see him, he's never alone; he's always with the crew, always busy, always with a reason he can't try for long. The nickname disappears entirely. Now he calls you by your name, said in a tone so professional it feels like a reprimand.

Meals with the crew become exercises in studied avoidance. He sits at the opposite end of the table, talks to everyone but you and leaves as soon as he's done eating.

The nights are the worst. You wait in the barn like always, telling yourself you're just finishing paperwork, but he doesn't come. Not that night,not the next, not the one after that.

On the fifth night, you stop waiting.

On the sixth day, you corner him in the equipment barn.

"We need to talk," you say, closing the door behind you.

He doesn't look up from the harness he's mending. "Kind of busy."

"Bucky, what the hell is going on?"

"Nothing's going on, just work."

"That's bullshit," you move closer and he shifts away and the retreat stings. "You've been avoiding me for almost a week, you won't look at me, won't talk to me—"

"I talk to you every day, about work."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

His jaw tightens. "Don't know what else you expect from me."

"I want you to tell me what changed!" Your voice rises despite yourself. "I want you to tell me why you're acting like—like we're nothing to each other."

"We're not nothing." He finally looks at you, and his eyes are so carefully blank it makes your chest ache. "You're my boss, I'm your foreman, that's what we are."

"That's not— we're more than that. You know we are."

"Are we?" He sets down the harness, standing up. "Or was it just convenient? You scratch an itch, I scratch an itch, nobody has to call it anything more?"

The words hit like a slap.

"You don't mean that."

"Don't I?" His voice is even, controlled, and somehow makes it worse than if he was yelling. "Been thinking about it, about what this is, and maybe Miller was right, maybe it's time I figure out what I want instead of just—" He gestures vaguely. "Instead of this."

"Instead of me, you mean."

Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe— but it's gone too fast to be sure.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." You're trying to keep your voice steady and failing. "If you want to end this, Bucky, just say it. Don't make up excuses about figuring out what you want."

"I'm to making excuses." His hands clench at his sides. "You're running a multi-million dollar operation, you're smart, successful and I'm just—"

"Stop." You know where this is going and you can't stand to hear it. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."

"I'm the hired help," he says anyway. "That's the reality, and maybe it;s time we both stopped pretending it's anything else."

You laugh, but it's an ugly sound. "Is that really what you think you are to me? After everything we—"

"After everything, that's still what I am." His voice is flat. "That's all I'll ever be."

You stare at him, at this man you've known for years, loved for months even if you haven't said it out loud… and you don't recognize the stranger looking back at you.

"You're a coward," you say quietly.

He flinches. "Maybe I am."

"This isn't about what you are, this is about you being too scared to—"

"I need to finish this repair," he cuts you off, turning back to the harness. "Was there something work-related that you needed?"

The dismissal is clear and absolute.

You leave before he can see you cry.

The Hillside County Livestock Show is your least favorite event of the year, and that's saying something considering you spend most of your life covered in dust and dealing with literal bullshit. But there's something about the forced socializing, the political maneuvering disguised as friendly conversation, the way everyone sizes up everyone else's cattle like they're comparing dick sizes—it grates.

Still, you go. Because your ranch has a reputation to maintain, and because your breeding program produces some of the best cattle in three counties, and because your father never missed a year and neither will you.

You're standing near the action ring, catalog in hand, watching a decent Angus heifer go for more than she's worth, when you feel someone approach from your left.

"Impressive animal," a voice says. Deep, smooth, with the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no. "Though I'd say she's overvalued by at least fifteen percent, maybe is some sentimental bidding."

You glance over. The man beside you is older, mid forties probably, with silver threading through dark hair and a smile that has probably charmed plenty of people. Expensive boots, custom shirt, a watch that costs more than most people's trucks. Everything about him screams money.

"Sentimental bidding keeps the market interesting," you reply neutrally, turning back to the ring. "Besides, she's got excellent bloodlines, she'll be worth the premium to the right buyer."

"Spoken like someone who knows her stock," he extends a hand. "My name is Clayton Sheridan, I just purchased the Meadow brook Ranch, east of your property."

So this was your new neighbor. You'd heard someone bought old man Peterson's spread after he retired to Arizona, but you hadn't paid much attention to the details.

You shake his hand briefly. "Welcome to the area."

"Thank you, I've heard impressive things about your operation, fastest-growing herd in the county, certification for quality genetics…" His hand lingers a moment too long before you pull away. "It's rare to see a woman running a ranch this size… and running it so well."

There it is. There it's the compliment wrapped in condescension, the implication you're an exception rather than simply capable.

"My father raised me for it," you say, voice cool. "Gender doesn't have much to do with whether you can read a market or manage a land."

"Of course, of course." His smile doesn't falter. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise, just… admiration. It must keep you very busy, handling everything by yourself."

"I have an excellent crew."

"Ah yes, your foreman Barnes, isn't it? Son of your father's foreman?" Something in his tone makes your jaw tighten. "Lucky to have someone who knows the place so well, family legacy and all that."

You're trying to formulate a response that's polite but firm when you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Bucky, standing near the equipment displays about thirty feet away, his attention locked on you and Clayton with an expression you can't quite read.

Even from there, you can see the tension in his shoulders.

"Excuse me," you say to Clayton, not waiting for a response before you start walking toward Bucky.

But by the time you navigate through the crowd, he's already gone.

You get home from the show late, exhausted and frustrated. The house is dark and empty, and you should go to bed, but instead you find yourself walking to the stables.

Copper's in his usual stall, the big bay gelding lifting his head when you approach. Twenty-two now, long retired, but still your father's horse.

"Hey, old man," you murmur, letting yourself in. He presses his nose into your palm, warm and familiar, and you lean your forehead against his neck. "Long day."

He huffs softly, patient like always.

You're running your hand down his shoulder when you hear footsteps.

"Thought I saw the lights on."

Bucky's in the stable entrance, hands in his pockets.

"Couldn't sleep," you say.

"Yeah, me neither." He shifts his weight. "How's old Copper doing?"

"Good, little stiff in the mornings." You stroke the horse's neck. "I should take him out to pasture more."

"I can do it tomorrow if you want," Bucky offers quietly. "Give him a good walk, let him stretch his legs."

Something in your chest aches at the offer. Even with all this distance between you, he's still thinking about what you need.

"You don't have to."

"I know," he takes a step closer. "But Copper's important to you."

"My dad's horse," you say quietly. "He was the first horse I rode."

"I know," his voice is gentle. "I remember."

For a moment, the walls between you feel thinner. Like maybe you could reach across this space, say what needs saying. Then Copper shifts, and Bucky clears his throat.

"I should let you finish up. Just wanted to check you were okay."

"I'm fine."

It's obviously a lie, but he doesn't call you on it.

"Goodnight, wildfire," he says softly, and then he's gone.

"He still cares," you tell the horse. "He wouldn't check on me if he didn't, right?"

Copper just snorts and goes back to his hay.

You stay a while longer, taking comfort in the familiar routine of checking water, running your hands over Copper's legs to make sure he's sound, whispering all the things you can't say to Buck into the horse's patient ear.

When you finally head back to the house, you see Bucky's cabin light is still on.

Neither of you is sleeping tonight.

Clayton Sheridan doesn't understand the concept of boundaries, as you discover the next two weeks.

The flowers arrive first, expensive arrangements delivered to your door with cards that are just on the edge of appropriate.

Looking forward to being neighbors.

Thinking of you.

You throw most of them away.

Then, he starts showing up: at the feed store when you're picking up supplies, at the diner where you grab Saturday breakfast, at the county planning meeting where you're discussing water management.

"What a coincidence," he says every time, with that practiced smile.

It's not a coincidence and you both know it, but he keeps playing his game.

The gifts escalate: wine, a leather portfolio with your ranch name embossed, an invitation to some charity gala in the city, hand-delivered.

"I think we'd make quite an impression together," Clayton says when he drops off the invitation. "Power couple of the ranching community."

You haven't even said yes to coffee.

"I'll think about it," you answer, because outright rejection seems to make him more persistent.

Through it all, Bucky gets quieter, more distant. Like he's disappearing piece by piece.

You catch him watching sometimes— watching Clayton talk to you, watching the gifts arrive, watching you navigate the attention with gritted-teeth politeness. And every time, his expression is the same: resigned, like he's watching something inevitable play out.

Like he's already decided how this story ends.

Three weeks into Clayton's courtship, you're in the barn doing evening checks when Bucky appears in the doorway. Your heart jumps at the sight of him. This is the first time he's sought you out in almost a month.

"Hey," you say carefully.

"Hey." He shifts his weight, not quite meeting your eyes. "Wanted to let you know… the mare's showing signs, probably foaling tonight or tomorrow."

"Okay, you need help monitoring?"

"No, I got it." He starts to turn away, then pauses. "Your neighbor came by today. Sheridan, he was looking for you."

Your stomach sinks. "What did he want?"

"Didn't say, just asked where you were, when you'd be back." Bucky's jaw tightens. "Seemed pretty comfortable helping himself to the property."

"I'll talk to him."

"Sure." Another pause. "He seems… interested."

"Bucky—"

"Just an observation." His voice is carefully neutral. "A guy like that— successful, established. Probably looking to settle down with the right person."

"I don't care what he's looking for."

"Maybe you should." Bucky finally looks at you and there's something in his eyes that makes your breath catch. "Opportunities like this don't come around often."

"Opportunity?" You stare at him. "He's a stranger who won't take a hint, that's not an opportunity, that's a problem."

"Is it?" Bucky's voice is soft, almost sad. "Or is it exactly what someone in your position should be looking for?"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Means he can give you things, things I—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching again. "Just think about it."

He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in the barn with a sick feeling in your stomach.

Clayton makes his move the following week. You're at Miller's feed store, alone for once, when he corners near the grain.

"I was hoping to run into you," he says, blocking your path to the checkout. "Saved me a trip to your property."

"I'm kind of in a hurry—"

"It'll just take a moment." He steps closer, and you resist the urge to step back. "I've been patient, I think. Given you time to get to know me. And I'd like to think we've developed a… bond."

"Clayton—"

"Let me take you to dinner." It's phrased like a request, but it feels like a demand. "A real dinner, not as neighbors, not as business associates… a date."

"I appreciate the offer, but—"

"I know I can give you what you need," he continues, like you haven't spoken. "Partnership, stability. A merger of our operations could be incredibly beneficial for both of us. I know you're a smart woman, you have to see the potential."

There it is, the assumption that this is about business, about strategy, like you're an asset to be acquired.

"I'm not interested," you say clearly. "In dinner, in partnership, in any of it. Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but—"

"The wrong impression?" He interrupts you again, his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You've been accepting my gifts, letting me court you."

"I've been polite, there's a difference."

"Is there?" He is closer now, close enough that you can smell his cologne. "Or are you just playing hard to get? Because I have to tell you, it's getting old."

"I'm not playing anything," your voice goes cold. "I said no. That's final."

Something flickers across his face—surprise, then anger, quickly masked.

"You're making a mistake," he says quietly.

"That's my choice to make."

"Is it?" He glances toward the window, where your truck is parked. "Or does your foreman make your choices for you?"

Your blood runs cold. "That's none of your business."

"In a town this size, everything is everyone's business." His smile turns cruel. "You're fucking the help, everyone knows it. So stop acting high and mighty with me when you're spreading your legs for some ranch hand who'll never be able to give you what a real man could—"

"That's enough." The voice comes from behind you. Miller is standing at the end of the aisle with a bag of feed in his arms and steel in his eyes. "Mr. Sheridan, I think it's time for you to leave my store."

Clayton's expression smooths back into charm "We're just having a conversation—"

"I heard what kind of conversation you were having." Miller sets the feed down with a heavy thump. "And I won't have you speaking to a lady like that in my establishment. Time to go."

"This is ridiculous—"

"Now." Miller's voice is firm. "Before I call sheriff Morrison and have you removed for harassment."

Clayton looks between you and Miller, jaw tight with barely contained rage. Then, he smooths his expression into something coldly polite.

"Of course, my apologies if I caused any… discomfort." But his eyes hold a dark promise when they land on you. "We'll continue this conversation another time."

He's gone before you can tell him there won't be another time. Miller waits until the door closes before turning to you with concern.

"You alright, honey?"

You nod, but your hands are shaking. "Thank you for stepping in."

"That man's got a mean streak under all that polish," Miller says. "My wife had a cousin who dated a man like that once, all charm until you say no, then…" He shakes his head. "You be careful. Men like that don't handle rejection well."

"I will."

"And for what it's worth?" Miller's voice gentles. "Whatever that jackass said about you and Bucky? That's your business and nobody else's. Young Barnes is a good man, his father was good people and he is too. Don't let anyone tell you different."

The kindness breaks something in you and your eyes sting. "Thank you, Mr. Miller."

"Call me if you need anything. And tell Bucky to keep an eye on that one, Clayton Sheridan strikes me as the type to hold a grudge."

You pay for your supplies in a daze and load them into your truck with shaking hands. You should go home, go straight to your bed. Instead, you park near the stables.

Copper's in his stall, and he lifts his head when you approach, nickering softly.

"Hey, old man," you manage, voice cracking.

You let yourself into the stall and he immediately presses his nose to your chest, and that's when you break.

You cry into Copper's neck—from anger, from humiliation, from the way Clayton looked at you like you were something he could buy or break. From the fear that maybe he's right, that everyone is talking about you and Bucky, judging you, seeing something shameful in what feels sacred.

"He doesn't know anything," you whisper into Copper's mane. "He doesn't know us, doesn't know what we—"

But even as you say it, Clayton's words echo: Fucking the help.

Is that what people see? Not two people who care about each other, but something tawdry and wrong?

You're still crying when you hear footsteps.

"Wildfire?"

You straighten quickly, wiping at your eyes, but it's too late. Bucky's standing at the stall entrance, and even in the dim light, you notice he's been drinking. Not drunk yet, but there's a flush on his cheeks, a looseness to his shoulders that means he's had a few. And his eyes look sad, pained.

"You heard," you say flatly.

"Whole town's heard by now," his voice is rough. "Was at the diner grabbing lunch and Pete and Sanchez were with me. Table next to us was talking about how Sheridan got turned down by the ice queen rancher who's too busy fucking her foreman to see a real opportunity."

You flinch at his words.

"They didn't know we were there," Bucky continues, stepping into the stall. "Didn't know Pete and Sanchez were ready to flip the table. I had to practically drag them out before they started throwing punches."

"Bucky—"

"Then I heard the rest of it, how you rejected him at Miller's, how he got nasty about it, how old Miller had to throw him out." His jaw clenches. "And I wasn't there, I was checking fence posts while he cornered you and I wasn't fucking there."

"You couldn't have known—"

"I should've been there!" The words burst out of him. "I should've been the one telling him to back off, to leave alone, to—" He stops, hands clenching into fists. "But I can't, can I? Can't defend you publicly without everyone knowing exactly what we are to each other. Can't step in without proving every goddamn thing they're saying about us. Can't stand next to you in town and tell assholes like Clayton Sheridan that you're mine."

"I don't need you to—"

"Well maybe you should." His voice drops. "Maybe you should have someone who can do all that, someone who can take you out without counting cents."

"Stop," you cut him off, voice shaking.

"Why? He's right about one thing, wildfire. I can't give you what someone like him could. Can't give you respectability, or stability, I can't give—"

You cross the stall in two strides and kiss him hard. He freezes for half a second, then he's kissing you back something that feels like desperation… and fear.

His hands fist in your hair and you grab his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to erase Clayton's words, the town's gossip, the shame trying to creep into something that's never felt shameful before.

"I don't want respectable," you gasp against his mouth. "I don't want public dinners, or whatever the hell you think I need. I want you."

"You're upset."

"I'm fucking furious," you correct. "At Clayton for being an entitled asshole, furious at this stupid town for their gossip, furious for you thinking any of it matters—"

He kisses you again, harder this time, walking you backward until your back hits the stall wall. His body presses against yours and you can feel how much he wants this despite all his protests about what you deserve.

"We shouldn't," he breathes against your neck. "You're upset, I've been drinking, this is—"

"I don't care," your hands work at his belt. "I need this, I need you, please Bucky—"

Something breaks in him. He lifts you and you wrap your legs around his waist, and then you're fumbling with clothes, desperate and graceless. When he pushes inside you, you both groan like it's a homecoming and a goodbye all at once.

The sex is different this time. Rougher, more desperate. Like you're both trying to prove or forget something. Or like you're trying to hold onto something that feels like it's slipping away.

When you come, it's with his name on your lips and tears on your cheeks. He follows moments later, your name broken and his forehead against your shoulder. For a moment, you stay like that, connected, breathing hard, coexisting in the same space. Then he sets you down carefully and reality crashes back in.

You both fix your clothes in silence. The air feels heavy, charged with everything still unsaid.

"I'm sorry," Bucky says finally. "For drinking, for not being there when Clayton—"

"Stop apologizing." Your voice comes out sharper than intended. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Didn't I?" He won't look at you. "Miller threw him out, Miller defended you. And where was I?Where the fuck was I?"

"You were working, doing your job."

"My job." He laughs, but it's bitter. "Right, because that's what I am. The foreman, the employee, not the—"

"Not the what?" You push. "Say it."

"Not the boyfriend," he says quietly. "I heard what he said about you, about us. And I wanted to kill him, wanted to drive straight to his ranch and—"

"But you didn't."

"Because what would that accomplish? Everyone would know then, would see exactly what we are and—" He runs a hand through his hair. "Maybe they're right to gossip, maybe we are—"

"Would you please stop?" You grab his arm, forcing him to look at you. "Don't let him do this, don't let their gossip make this into something shameful."

"It's not shameful," he says. "But it's not right either. You deserve better than barn hookups and secrets, you deserve someone who can stand next to you proudly, take you to dinner, court you the way you should be courted—"

"I don't wanna be courted by anyone else!"

"Well maybe you should! Maybe you should want someone who can give you a normal relationship, someone who's—" He swallows hard. "Someone who's your equal."

"You think you're not my equal," you say slowly.

"I know I'm not." His voice is flat. "I'm the foreman, you're the owner. And no matter what we feel, that's the reality, that's what everyone sees when they look at us."

"I don't care what they see—"

"Well, maybe I do." He's breathing hard. "Maybe I care that I can't defend you without it looking like the hired help overstepping. Maybe I care that men like Clayton can say whatever they want about you and I have to just— just take it because what am I? What right do I have?"

"The right of someone who loves me," you say, and watch his face go white.

"Don't," he whispers.

"Why not? It's true, isn't it?" You step closer. "You love me, and I—"

"Don't say it," he backs away, hands up like he's warding off a blow. "Please don't say it."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't change anything!" His voice breaks. "It doesn't change that I can't give you what you deserve. It doesn't change that I will never be enough. I'll never be enough for you, wildfire. And the sooner we both accept that, the—"

He doesn't finish, just turns and walks out of the stall, leaving you standing there with Copper and the ruins of your heart. You sink down onto the bench and Copper nuzzles your shoulder gently.

"He's wrong," you tell the horse. "He's so wrong."

But the words feel hollow even as you say them. Because how do you fight someone who's convinced themselves they're not worth fighting for?

You threw yourself into work because work didn't require you to think about the way Bucky's jaw had tightened when you'd said the word "love".

Work was spreadsheets and feed orders and the county extension agent calling about soil testing. Work was quantifiable, solvable, something you could actually control… unlike the man who was currently avoiding you like you carried some contagious disease.

It had been two weeks since the stable. Two weeks of Bucky sending Pete or Sanchez to deliver reports that he used to give himself, two weeks of catching glimpses of him across the property—always busy, always moving, always just out of reach. When you did cross paths, his eyes would slide past you like you were part of the landscape, something to navigate around rather than toward.

"Boss?" Pete stood in your office doorway, hat in hand. "Bucky wanted me to tell you the irrigation system's back online, no more issues in sector three."

Bucky wanted me to tell you. Not "Bucky said", or "Bucky asked", like even the mention of his name in connection with you required careful phrasing.

"Thanks, Pete." You kept your voice level. "Anything else?"

"No, ma'am, that's all." He hesitated. "Though uh… if you need anything else, I can—"

"I'm fine," the lie came easily now. "Tell the crew I'll do the evening walk-through myself tonight."

After Pete left, you sat back in your chair and let your eyes drift to the window. You could see the training pen from here, the fence where you and Bucky had worked with the colt just weeks ago, where his hands had been steady on the animal's neck, his voice low and soothing, and the three of you—you, him, the skittish colt— were the only things that mattered in the world.

Your mind drifted before you could stop it, reaching back to a different summer. You'd been sixteen, and Bucky had been nineteen, home from community college for the summer to help his dad with the heavy work.

Your father had sent you both to check the fence line at the north property border, and you'd spent the whole afternoon trying not to stare at the way Bucky's shirt stuck to his back in the heat, the flex of his forearms as he drove new posts into the hard ground. He'd caught you looking once and grinned—that easy, boyish grin that always made your stomach flip—and you'd turned away so fast you nearly tripped over the wire spool.

Later, sitting in the shade of the truck bed sharing a canteen of water, he'd looked at you differently. Not like his boss' daughter, not like the kid who used to chase him around the barn.

"You've got dirt on your face," he'd said.

"Where?"

Instead of answering, he'd reached out and brushed his thumb across your cheekbone, so gentle it barely counted as touch. Your breath had caught, and then… so quick you almost thought you'd imagined it, he'd leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

Just a peck, soft and sweet and over in a heartbeat.

He'd pulled back immediately, eyes wide. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's okay," you'd whispered.

But he was already climbing out of the truck bed, putting distance between you, and the rest of the drive back had been silent. Neither of you mentioned it again, not that summer, not the next. By the time he came back to work full-time after his dad got sick, you'd both learned how to pretend it never happened.

Except you've never forgotten.

And now, seventeen years later, he was looking at you the same way: like you were something he wanted but couldn't let himself have. Only this time it wasn't because you were too young, or because he was overstepping with the boss' daughter. This time he'd convinced himself you were too good for him.

You pressed your palms against your eyes, willing yourself not to cry in your office in the middle of the workday.

Your phone buzzed, another text from Clayton Sheridan that you immediately deleted without reading. He'd been trying to "apologize" for a week now, messages that sounded sincere until you read between the lines and saw the entitlement still lurking here.

The afternoon sun slanted through the window, dust motes dancing in the golden light, and you forced yourself back to the feed cost analysis spreadsheet on your screen. Work didn't ask questions you couldn't answer, work didn't look at you with resignation and longing tangled together… work was safe.

So you buried yourself in it and pretended you couldn't feel the Bucky-shaped hole in your chest getting wider every day.

Bucky sat at his kitchen table with his laptop open and a beer he hadn't touched going warm beside him. The numbers on the screen hadn't changed in the last hour, no matter how many times he refreshed the page or recalculated his math.

$58,000 in savings. Fifteen years of hard work, of living cheap and saving steady, and that's what he had to show for it.

He pulled up another tab showing land listings in the county. The cheapest viable spread was listed at $425,000. The nicer properties started at $650,000 and went up from there.

He took a long pull from the beer, grimacing at the taste. The smart move would be to look further out, maybe two counties over where land was cheaper, but that would mean leaving the ranch, leaving you, and what was fucking point of building something if you weren't part of it?

His phone sat face-down on the table. He'd been staring at it for twenty minutes, trying to decide if he should call his cousin Hugh. He had made something of himself, built a successful business in Denver, bought a house. Hugh would probably tell him to forget the ranch work, come to the city, learn a trade that paid better..

But Bucky wasn't Hugh. He didn't want an office or a crew of subcontractors or a house in the suburbs. He wanted land, cattle and horses and the kind of legacy his father had helped build for someone else's family. He wanted to be able to stand next to you and not feel like he was taking something he hadn't earned.

His father's voice echoed in his head, rough from years of cigarettes and dust: A man provides for his family, son. You work hard, build something and give your wife and kids a life worth living.

His old man worked himself into an early grave trying to live up to that standard, died at sixty-two with nothing but a paid off truck and a pension that barely covered his medical bills. Bucky's mother had held it together with grit and his father's life insurance, but she's had to move into town and had to make herself smaller to fit into what was left.

Bucky had sworn he'd never put a woman in that position, that he'd build something solid before thinking about settling down… and then you'd kissed him in the barn last summer with dirt on your jeans and challenge in your eyes, and every promise he'd made to himself had evaporated.

Ten months of telling himself it was just physical, just chemistry, just two people scratching an itch. Ten months of lying to himself and to you and pretending it wouldn't end in exactly this kind of pain,

He opened a new tab for job listings this time. Foreman positions at other ranches—most paid about what he was making now, maybe five thousand more if he was lucky. Manager positions required degrees he didn't have. The oil and gas jobs paid better but required months away at a time, and what good was money if he couldn't be near you?

He closed the laptop harder than necessary.

This was about building something with you, about not being that guy who moved into your house, worked your land, lived off your success. He'd seen it before: men who married into ranching families and became permanent accessories, useful but ultimately replaceable.

His pride wouldn't let him become that.

But how the hell was he supposed to close a $400,00 gap? Even if he worked himself into the ground, saved every penny, made all the right moves he'd still be forty before he had enough to buy anything worth having.

And you'd be what? Waiting around for him to get his shit together? Turning down men like Clayton Sheridan who could give you everything right now? The thought of you with Sheridan made him want to put his fist through the wall, made him want to drive to that bastard's ranch and make it crystal clear that he'd never speak to you like that again.

But he hadn't, because what right did he have? He wasn't your boyfriend or your husband. He was just an employee, the man who was too proud to be with you on your terms and too poor to offer his own.

His phone buzzed, it was a text from Pete:

Boss asked me to tell you she's doing the evening rounds herself tonight, thought you should know.

Bucky's chest tightened. You were avoiding the crew now, doing the work yourself rather than risk running into him. Or maybe you didn't trust him to do his job anymore.

He typed back: Thanks, I'll check the north pasture, make sure everything's locked down.

It was cowardice, making sure he'd be on the opposite end of the property when you made your rounds. But he wasn't strong enough yet to see you and not break, he wasn't ready to look into your eyes and see the hurt he'd put there.

Not until he had a plan and could offer you something more than apologies and empty promises.

Bucky drained the flat beer and got back to work on the numbers. Somewhere in these spreadsheets, in these listings, in the careful mathematics of sacrifice and saving, there had to be an answer, there had to be a way to become the man you deserved… he just had to find it.

You found him in the equipment barn three days later, and this time you didn't let him walk away. You were done avoiding him.

He was replacing the hydraulic line on one of the tractors, his shirt off in the afternoon heat, and for a moment you just watched him work, watched the flex of his shoulders, the concentration on his face, the competent sureness of his hands. This was the Bucky you'd grown up with, the one who could fix anything, who moved through the wold with quiet capability.

The one you'd loved since you were sixteen years old.

"We need to talk," you said.

His hands stilled on the wrench, but he didn't look up. "Kind of in the middle of something."

"I don't care." You stepped into the barn, letting the door swing shut behind you. "You've been avoiding me for three weeks, I'm done pretending this isn't happening."

"Nothing's happening," his voice was carefully flat. "I'm working, you're working, that's all there is."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

He finally looked at you, and the exhaustion in his eyes made your chest ache. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to stop running," you move closer. "I want you to stop deciding what's best for me without asking me what I actually want."

"I know what you want."

"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you've built this whole story in your head about what I need and what you can't give me."

His jaw tightened. "You deserve someone who can give you a real future."

"I deserve someone who loves me," you countered. "Everything else is just details."

"They're not just details!" His voice rose, frustration finally breaking through. "They're the difference between being your partner and your charity case. I don't want to just be the guy who lives in your mansion, works your land and gets to be with you because you're generous enough not to care that he's got nothing to offer."

"That's not—"

"It is, though." He set down the wrench, finally giving you his full attention. "You're telling me the money doesn't matter, that the land doesn't matter, that I don't need to be able to provide anything because you've already got it all covered. You're telling me to just… accept the fact that I'll never contribute equally to this relationship, that I'll always be the hired help who got lucky enough to fuck the boss."

The crudeness of it made you flinch. "Don't talk about us like that."

"Why not? That's what everyone else is saying." His laugh was bitter. "And maybe they're right. Maybe that's exactly what this is—you slumming it with the help because it's convenient and exciting, and me being too stupid to see that I'm just a phase before you settle down with someone appropriate."

The accusation stung like a slap. "You think you're just a phase to me?"

"I don't know what I am to you!" His voice cracked. "Because you keep saying it doesn't matter, that we'll figure it out,that love is enough, but it's not! Not when I lie awake every night doing math that doesn't add up, not when I have to watch men like Clayton Sheridan circle you like sharks because I can't protect you… not when I know that staying with me means you'll never have a man who can stand beside you on his own as an equal—"

"You're my equal—"

"I'm your foreman! I earn in one year what you make in one month! We're not equals, no matter how much you want to pretend we are."

"Money doesn't make someone more or less valuable, Bucky. We—"

"It's not about value!" He ran both hands through his hair, pulling slightly like he wanted to tear something out. "It's about being able to build something together, about me being able to contribute more than just labor and good intentions… about not feeling like a kept man every time you solve a problem I can't afford to fix."

"So what do you want from me?" Your voice shook. "You want me to pretend I don't have money? Want me to apologize for inheriting this ranch? To make myself smaller so you can feel more like a man?"

"No! Christ, no, it's completely the opposite. I want—" He stopped, his jaw working. "I want to be worthy of you, I want to look at you without feeling like I'm stealing something that should belong to someone better. But I can't do that with fifty-eight thousand dollars in savings and a truck I've had since college."

Fifty-eight thousand dollars. That number hit you like a gut punch. He'd been counting, calculating, measuring himself against some impossible standard and finding himself lacking.

"Bucky," you said softly, stepping toward him. "I don't care how much money you have, or if you own land or if you live in that cabin for the rest of your life. I care about you because I love—"

"Don't," he backed away, hands up. "Please don't say that again."

"Why not? It is the truth."

"Because it doesn't change anything!" His voice was ragged. "You saying you love me doesn't change the fact that I can't give you what you deserve, doesn't change that I wake up every morning knowing I'm not enough or that I want to be the kind of man who can take care of you."

"I don't need you to take care of me, I can take care of myself, I just… I just need you to be here, to stop running from our love, to—"

"That's exactly the problem." His voice went quiet, deadly calm. "You don't need me, not really. You need a good foreman and a warm body in your bed, and I can be both of these things but that's not what I want to be. I want to be necessary, I want to provide for you. I want to build you a life instead of just existing in the one you already have. And you telling me none of that matters, that I should just be grateful that you want me anyway…"

He laughed, but it sounded like something breaking.

"I don't need your pity, ma'am."

The formality hit like a physical blow. Not wildfire, not your name, not even a cold distant boss. Just ma'am, with all the professional distance that implied, with all the class and power differential laid bare.

Your throat closed. "That's not— I'm not pitying you, Bucky, I'm trying to tell you that I love you—"

"And I'm trying to tell you that's not enough. Not when loving you means giving up every shred of pride and self-respect I have left."

"So what?" Your voice broke. "You'd rather have your pride than have me?"

"I'd rather become someone worthy of having you." He picked up his shirt, pulling it on with sharp, angry movements. "And I won't let you settle for less than you deserve just because you think you love me."

"I don't think I love you, I know I love you, I've been in love with you since I was sixteen years old." He froze, shirt half buttoned. "That kiss by the north fence, you think I forgot about it? You think I didn't spend the last decade wondering what would've happened if you hadn't pulled away?"

"Stop," the world was barely a whisper. "Don't do this."

"Don't tell me what I feel, Bucky, don't tell me I'm wrong about loving you, and don't you dare walk away just because you've convinced yourself matters more than—"

"Don't you understand? It's not about the money!" He shouted, and you'd never heard him yell like that, not in twenty years. "It's about what the money represents, about being able to look my father's ghost and say I built something… it's about not being the guy who couldn't make it on his own, so he shacked up with the rich girl who felt sorry for him. It's about not being enough, and I'm not, not yet. I have to at least try to become someone who can stand next to you without shame."

You stared at him, this stubborn, proud, heartbroken man and realized you were fighting a ghost. Not just his father's expectations, but generations of them… every man in his family who'd worked someone else's land and dreamed of their own. Every lesson about what it meant to be a provider, the man of the house.

"And what if you never have enough?" You asked. "If the math never adds up and the land prices keep rising and you're still chasing this impossible standard in ten years? What then?"

His silence was answer enough.

"You're going to let this destroy us," you said. "You're going to choose pride over love, over happiness, over us, because you can't accept that maybe your father's way isn't the only way. That maybe I don't need you to own land to prove you're worthy of me."

"It's not about what you need," he said quietly. "It's about what I need. And I need to be able to respect myself when I look in the mirror, which I can't do right now."

He moved past you toward the door, and you didn't stop him this time. At the threshold, he paused, but didn't turn around.

"I'm sorry, wildfire," he said and the nickname sounded like a goodbye. "I'm sorry I'm not the man you think I am."

Then he was gone, and you were alone in the equipment barn with the smell of motor oil and the wreckage of your heart scattered across the concrete floor. You sank down onto the workbench, pressing your palms against your eyes and let yourself finally break.

Because he was right about one thing: love wasn't enough. Not when one person had already decided they weren't worthy of it.

You were in your office when you heard a truck. The engine was too loud, too aggressive, not the familiar sounds of Pete, Sanchez or Bucky's trucks. Something was wrong.

You looked up as footsteps approached, uneven and heavy on the gravel outside, and Clayton Sheridan appeared on your doorway. The smell of whiskey hit you before his expression did.

"There you are," his words spurred slightly at the edges. "Been looking for you."

Your hand moved toward your phone on the desk, but he saw the movement and stepped fully into the small office, blocking the only exit. The space suddenly felt suffocatingly small.

"Clayton, you need to leave." Your voice came out steady, but without its usual steel. You were so tired lately, tired of fighting, of hurting, tired of everything. "You're drunk, this isn't—“

"This isn't what?" He moved closer, and you stood up instinctively, chair scraping back. "Isn't appropriate? Since when do you care about appropriate? You've been fucking your foreman for months, don't talk to me about appropriate."

"Get out of my office."

"Or what?" He was close enough that you could see the anger in his bloodshot eyes, the mean set of his jaw. "You gonna call your cowboy to come save you? Oh, wait. I heard you two had a falling out, guess even he figured out you're not worth the trouble."

The words hit hard, landing right on the wound Bucky had left bleeding. Your breath caught, and Clayton saw the flinch, the way you'd gone still.

"That's it, isn't it?" His voice dropped, almost soothing, which made it worse. "He finally wised up, left you all alone in this big ranch, and now you're realizing what a mistake you made by turning down a real man for some hired hand who couldn't even stick around."

You should tell him to leave again, move past him, get out of this small room, get your phone, do something. But you felt frozen, hollowed out, like all the fight had been burned out of you in that equipment barn when Bucky had called you ma'am and walked away.

Clayton took another step, you backed up until your hip hit the desk.

"I'm trying to be reasonable here," he was so close, invading your space, using his size to intimidate. "Trying to give you another chance, because despite you embarrassing me, rejecting me and making me look like a fool, I'm still willing to overlook it. Still willing to offer you a real partnership."

"I don't want—" Your voice came smaller than intended, and you hated how weak you sounded. But you were so empty, so worn down by weeks of heartbreak and loneliness and loving someone who'd convinced himself he wasn't worthy of being loved back.

"Don't want what?" Clayton's hand came up, palm flat against the wall beside your head, caging you in. "Don't want stability? Success? A man who can actually provide for you instead of living off your charity?"

You turned your head away, trying to duck under his arm, but he shifted and suddenly you were truly cornered, desk behind you, Clayton in front, his other hand coming up to block your escape route.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," his voice had gone hard. "I've been patient, I've been courteous. I've given you space and time and you've thrown it back in my face over and over, and I'm done being nice.

"Let me go," you tried to put command in it, but it came out defeated.

"Not until you listen and understand what you're throwing away by being stubborn about some ridiculous idea of love with a man who has already given up on you. He doesn't want you enough to fight for you, but I do. So you're going to stop being difficult and—"

"Get your fucking hands off her."

The voice came from the doorway, low and lethal, and you'd never heard Bucky sound like that. Clayton turned, hands dropping, and you could see him trying to recalibrate, trying to pull on charm or authority, but he didn't get the chance. Bucky had already crossed the small office and his fist connected with Clayton's jaw with a sickening crack.

Clayton staggered backward and hit the wall. "What the hell—"

"You don't fucking touch her." Bucky hit him again, this time in the ribs and Clayton doubled over with a wheeze. "You don't corner her, or come to her property drunk and put your hands near her talking like she's something you can intimidate into—"

He grabbed Clayton by the shirt and hauled him toward the door. Clayton tried to swing back, caught Bucky's cheek with a glancing blow, but Bucky barely seemed to notice. He shoved Clayton out into the barn aisle, following him out.

You stood frozen in the office, watching through the doorway as Bucky grabbed Clayton again and drove his fist into his stomach. Clayton crumpled, coughing and Bucky dragged him upright.

"You ever come near her again," Bucky's voice was shaking with barely controlled rage, "and I will fucking end you. I don't care about consequences, or going to jail, you don't get to scare her and make her feel small. Are we clear?"

"You're insane—" Clayton choked out.

Bucky shoved him toward the barn entrance. "Get the hell out."

He punctuated it with a kick to Clayton's ass that sent him stumbling forward. Clayton caught himself, turned back like he might try to fight, but whatever he saw in Bucky's face made him think better of it. He spat blood onto the barn floor and shot you a look full of venom before limping toward the exit.

"This isn't over," Clayton said.

"Yeah, it is." Bucky's voice was flat. "You're done. Now get the fuck off this property before I make you."

Clayton left, and you could hear his truck start up moments later, tires spitting gravel as he sped away.

Silence filled the barn. You were still standing in the office doorway, arms wrapped around yourself, shaking. Not from fear but from shock, from the crash of adrenaline, from everything finally being too much. Bucky turned to look at you, and his expression crumpled.

"Did he hurt you?" He stayed where he was, like he was afraid to get closer. "Did he touch you?"

You shook your head, the words wouldn't come.

"Jesus Christ," he ran both hands through his hair, pulling hard. "I was just walking back from the equipment barn, heard his voice and— If I hadn't been walking by, if I hadn't heard him say that shit about you, if he'd—"

He couldn't finish, his hands were shaking, knuckles already swelling and split.

"Bucky—" You managed, but your voice sounded wrong and distant, like it belonged to someone else.

"Boss!" Pete appeared in the barn entrance, Sanchez right behind him. They must've seen or heard the commotion. Pete took in the scene: you trembling in the office doorway, Bucky with blood on his knuckles, the tension still cracking in the air. "What happened?"

"Sheridan," Bucky's jaw was tight. "Showed up drunk, cornered her in the office. I handled it."

"Handled it?" Sanchez was looking at Bucky's hands. "Jesus, man."

"Is he gone?" Pete asked.

"Yeah," Bucky's eyes hadn't left you. "He's gone."

Pete moved toward you carefully, like you might spook. "Boss? You okay?"

You nodded, but it was a lie and everyone knew it. You weren't okay, hadn't been for weeks, and this had just broken something that was already cracked.

"Why don't you come with me?" Peter said gently. "Maria's at home, she can make you some tea, you can get away from here for a bit."

"I'm fine," but your voice shook on the words. "I don't need—"

"I insist," Pete said. "Just for a few hours, let us make sure Sheridan doesn't try to come back, let yourself breathe."

You wanted to argue, stay here and deal with this yourself, prove you didn't need protecting, but you were so tired of fighting, so tired of being strong. And the thought of Pete's warm, comfortable house, of his wife Maria's kind presence, of being somewhere that felt safe for just a little while…

"Okay," you whispered.

Bucky's face did something complicated. "I can stay here, keep watch—"

"No." Pete's voice was firm. "You need to clean up and cool down. Sanchez and I will handle security, you go home."

For a moment you thought Bucky would argue, but then he just nodded. His eyes met yours one more time, and the guilt and longing and helplessness in them made your chest ache. But he didn't say anything, he walked away, disappearing into the darkness beyond the barn, and you felt the distance between you like a physical wound.

Pete's house was warm and lived-in, smelling like the chicken Maria had roasted for dinner and the vanilla candles she loved. She met you at the door with soft hands and softer eyes, asked no questions, just guided you to the kitchen table where a chamomile tea was already waiting for you.

"Pete called ahead," she said settling into the chair across from you. "Said you had a rough evening."

"You could say that," your hands wrapped around the mug, seeking warmth even though you weren't cold. You were shaking again, small tremors you couldn't control.

Maria reached across the table and covered your hand with hers. "You're safe here, mija. Whatever happened, you're safe now."

You nodded, throat tight. Through the window, you could see Pete outside, on the phone—probably coordinating with Sanchez, making sure your property was secure. Making sure Clayton wouldn't come back.

The simple care of it broke something loose in your chest.

"Pete's a good man."

"The best," Maria's smile was soft, full of easy affection. "Drives me crazy sometimes, leaves his boots in the middle of the floor and falls asleep during every movie, but he's good all the way through"

You watched Pete through the window, the way he moved with easy confidence, the way he glanced back at the house, checking on his wife to make sure she was okay. There was something so simple about it, so uncomplicated.

"How do you make it look so easy?" The words came out before you could stop them. "Being together."

Maria tilted her head, studying you. "It's not always easy. We've had our share of hard times—money troubles, my mother getting sick, that year Pete threw his back out and couldn't wait for three months. But we're partners, you know? We figure it out together."

Partners. That word sat heavily on your chest.

"What if one person thinks they're not good enough?" You stared into your tea. "What if two people love each other but one of them is convinced… they don't have enough to offer?"

Maria was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was gentle. "This is about Bucky, isn't it?" You looked up, startled. She smiled sadly. "Honey, everyone knows you two have been circling each other for months, and everyone can see you're both miserable right now. Whatever he thinks he doesn't have… does it matter to you?"

"No," the answer came immediately. "It doesn't matter at all, I don't care about money or land or any of it. I just want him."

"Have you told him that?"

"Yes, multiple times, but he won't listen. He's convinced that loving me means being able to provide for me the way his father provided for his mother, the way—" Your voice broke. "The way Pete provides for you, and he can't. At least not in the way he thinks he should, so… he'd rather let me go than accept that maybe I don't need what he's supposed to give me."

Maria's eyes were sad. "Men and their pride, especially the good ones. They get these ideas in their heads about what it means to be a man, what they owe the women they love, and sometimes those ideas do more harm than good."

"So what do I do?" You hated how desperate you sounded. "How do I fight someone who's already decided he's not enough?"

"I don't know if you can, mija." She said it kindly, but it still hurt. "Sometimes people have to figure things out for themselves, have to learn that love isn't about what you can provide in dollars and cents.It's about showing up, being present, building a life together even when it's hard… But you can't force someone to believe they're worthy of love, that's something they have to find on their own."

You felt tears prick your eyes. "What if he never does?"

"Then that's his loss. Because from where I'm sitting, he's throwing away something real and good because he's too stubborn to see that you already chose him, that you'd choose him every day if he'd let you."

The tears spilled over then, you tried to wipe them away, embarrassed, but Maria just moved her chair closer and pulled you into a hug. You let yourself cry against her shoulder—for Bucky, for the relationship that was dying before it ever really lived, for the loneliness that had become your constant companion.

"I love him," you whispered into her shoulder. "I've been in love with him since I was sixteen years old and I don't know how to stop."

"Oh, sweetheart." Maria rubbed your back. "Maybe you're not supposed to stop, maybe you just have to love him from a distance while he figures things out. And maybe he'll figure it out on time… but you can't sacrifice yourself while you wait. Can't make yourself smaller or quieter just to make him comfortable with loving you."

You pulled back, wiping your eyes. "I don't know how to do this."

"None of us do," she smiled sadly. "We're all just making it up as we go."

Pete came back inside then, took in your tear-stained face and his wife's protective posture, and his expression softened.

"Everything's secure, Sanchez is doing perimeter checks, but the property's locked down tight." He hesitated. "You're welcome to stay here tonight, the guest room is ready."

You shook your head. "I appreciate the offer, but I should go home. I can't let Clayton chase me out of my own house."

"You sure?" Maria asked.

"Yeah," you stood, steadier now. "I'm sure."

They walked you to your truck, Pete insisting on following you back to make sure you got inside safely. The drive was short, and when you pulled up to your dark house, Pete waited until you unlocked the door and turned on the lights before giving you a wave and heading back to his own home.

You stood in your empty living room and felt the silence press in. You've always loved this house and all the memories that it contained, but lately it felt too big and lonely. Tonight it was just you and the weight of everything that happened.

You should eat something, shower or try to sleep.

Instead, you sank onto the couch and let yourself feel everything you'd been holding back—the fear from Clayton's visit, the heartbreak from Bucky's rejection, the bone-deep exhaustion of loving someone who wouldn't let himself be loved.

Eventually you dragged yourself upstairs, changed into sleep clothes and crawled into bed. The house settled around you with familiar creaks and sighs, and slowly, finally, you drifted into an uneasy sleep.

The smell woke you first. Acrid, wrong, burning.

You sat up in bed, disoriented. The clock read 2:17 AM. For a moment you thought you were dreaming, but then you heard it— the panicked whinnying of horses, the sharp crack of wood giving way. Fire.

You were out of bed and running before conscious though kicked in, flying down the stairs in your sleep clothes, your slippers hitting the porch steps, and then you saw it: the stables lit up against the night sky, flames already consuming the east side of the building, spreading fast through the old dry wood.

The horses.

Copper.

You didn't think or stop to call for help or consider the danger. You just ran.

The heat hit you when you reached the stable doors, but you ripped your shirt up over your nose and mouth and plunged inside anyway. The smoke was thick, black, choking, but you knew this building like you knew your own heartbeat, knew exactly where each stall was, which horses were where.

"I'm coming!" You shouted, voice muffled through the fabric. "I'm coming, it's okay!"

The first stall was Daisy's, the chestnut mare. You fumbled with the latch, hands shaking,a nod shoved the door open. She reared back, eyes rolling white with terror, but you grabbed her halter and dragged her toward the entrance. "Go, go, go!"

She bolted past you into the night, and you were already moving to the next stall. Juniper, the bay mare heavy with foal. She was screaming, hooves striking the stall door, and you got it open just as part of the roof above groaned ominously.

"Out!" You slapped her hindquarters and she ran, coat slick with sweat and far.

The smoke was getting thicker. You couldn't see more than a few feet in front of you, couldn't breathe without coughing, but you kept moving. Duke and Ranger in the double stall, the two yearling colts next, skittish and terrified but moving when you shouted at them.

Your lungs were burning. Each breath felt like inhaling glass, and your eyes streamed tears from the smoke, but you pushed deeper into the stable. Eight horses out. Copper was the only one missing.

His stall was in the back, farthest from the entrance, and the fire was spreading fast. You could feel the heat on your skin, could hear the ceiling beams cracking and shifting. You should leave, get out while you still could, but Copper was your father's horse. Your first horse. The only living reminder of him, and you wouldn't leave him.

"I'm coming, old man!" You choked on smoke, stumbled, caught yourself against a stall door. "I'm coming!"

You found his stall by memory more than sight. The smoke was too thick now, the world reduced to burning shapes. Your fingers found the latch and you yanked it open. "Copper! Come on, baby, we gotta go—"

He was pressed into the back corner, wild-eyed, making sounds you'd never heard from him before. You grabbed his halter, pulled, but he wouldn't move.

"Please," you begged, coughing so hard you nearly doubled over. "Please, Copper, please—"

He finally moved, and you were leading him toward where you thought the entrance was, one hand on his hater and one hand trailing the wall, it the smoke was everywhere now. You couldn't see or breathe properly anymore.

Your foot caught on something and you went down hard, hand ripping free from Copper's halter. You heard him bolt, heard his hooves on the concrete floor, and you tried to get up and call after him, but your lungs wouldn't work. The smoke was too thick and the world was starting to gray at the edges.

Get up, you told yourself. Get up, you have to get out.

But your arms wouldn't hold you. You collapsed face-down on the concrete floor near what you thought was the entrance, and distantly you realized you were going to die here in the stable. On the land you loved.

You couldn't breathe anymore, couldn't move. The smoke filled your lungs and the world went soft and strange, and the last thought before everything went black was of Bucky's face when he told you he wasn't enough for you and walked away.

Then nothing.

Bucky had been awake when the fire started.

He'd been lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way you'd looked when Clayton had you cornered in that office. The fear in your eyes, the way you seemed so small, so defeated, like all the fight had been burned out of you.

It was all his fault. If he hadn't pushed you away, if he hadn't been so goddamn stubborn about his pride and his plans, maybe you wouldn't have been so vulnerable when that bastard showed up.

He was still stewing in guilt and self-loathing when he smelled the smoke.

For a second, he thought maybe someone was burning trash, but it was 2 AM and the smell was too strong. He got out of bed and looked out his window toward his property.

His heart stopped.

The stables were on fire, visible even from his cabin, and he was running before his brain fully processed what he was seeing. Running toward the fire in just his sleep pants and boots he grabbed by the door, no shirt, no phone, nothing but pure animal panic driving him forward.

The horses were scattered in the yard, wild-eyed and panicked, and his first thought was relief—someone got them out, they were safe—but then he got closer and saw the stables entrance and his world tilted sideways.

You were lying face-down just inside the doorway, smoke billowing around you, and you weren't moving.

"No!" The scream tore out of him, raw and animal. He was at the entrance in seconds, dropping to his knees, hands on your back. "No, no, no, please—"

You weren't breathing. Your skin was gray, lips tinged blue, and there was ash in your hair and you weren't fucking breathing.

"Help!' He screamed it into the night, voice breaking. "Help! Someone call 911! Please help!"

He got his arms under you and lifted, staggering away from the entrance as part of the roof collapsed inward with a shower of sparks. You weren't breathing limp in his arms, a horrible dead weight, and he couldn't—

"Please, don't be dead, please wildfire, please—"

He laid you down on the grass far from the fire, hands shaking so hard he could barely function. Tilted your head back, checking for breathing… nothing. He pressed his fingers to your throat, searching desperately for a pulse.

There. Weak and thready, but there.

"Call 911!" He screamed it again, looking around wildly, but no one was there. Everyone was asleep or too far away to hear. "Somebody please help us!"

He started CPR, hands laced over your sternum, counting compressions like the training he'd taken years ago. Thirty compressions, two breaths. Your lips were so cold under his, and you still weren't breathing on your own, and he was going to lose you before he ever got the chance to tell you, that he'd been an idiot, that his pride meant nothing compared to you.

"Come on, baby, come on," he begged between breaths. "Breathe for me, please breathe. I'm sorry, I love you, please don't leave me, please—"

He continued, thirty compressions, two breaths. Your chest rose and fell when he breathed for you, but then nothing. No response.

"HELP!" His voice was wrecked, tears streaming down his face. "Please, someone help!"

Lights flickered on in the distance. There was a truck approaching. Thank god.

Thirty compressions, two breaths.

"You don't get to do this," he told you, voice breaking. "You don't get to die because I was too fucking stupid to tell you I love you. Come on, wildfire, fight, I know you're strong."

Another thirty compressions, two more breaths.

Your body jerked and you coughed, harsh and wet and he rolled you onto your side as you vomited up smoke and ash. You gasped, a horrible wheezing sound, but you were breathing. Your eyes fluttered but didn't open, and your breathing was labored and wrong, but you were alive.

"That's it, that it baby, breathe." He was sobbing openly now, one hand on your back and one stroking your hair. "You're okay, you're gonna be okay, just keep breathing for me."

Pete's truck roared up, and he was out and running before it fully stopped. "Jesus Christ— what happened?"

"She went in," Bucky choked out. "She went into the fucking fire, got the horses out and she— call 911, she's not breathing right, she needs oxygen."

Pete already had his phone out and was shouting into it about the address and fire and person down.

Sanchez appeared from somewhere, still pulling on his shirt. "Holy shit— is she—"

"She's breathing, but barely." Bucky couldn't stop touching you, couldn't stop checking your pulse like it might disappear if he looked away. "She inhaled too much smoke, she was unconscious—"

You coughed again, weaker this time, and made a sound like you were trying to speak.

"Don't talk," Bucky said. "Don't try to talk, just breathe, help is coming, you're gonna be fine—"

But you weren't fine. Your breathing was getting worse, more labored, and your skin was still that terrible gray color. He gathered you against his chest and pressed his forehead to yours.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so fucking sorry, I love you, I was just too stupid and proud and scared to—" His voice broke completely. "You have to be okay, because I can't do this without you, wildfire, I can't."

Sirens in the distance getting closer. The volunteer fire department, the ambulance. Pete was directing them, shouting coordinates.

You made another small sound, and your eyes opened just a crack. "Bucky," you breathed, barely audible.

"I'm here," he was crying so hard he could barely see. "I'm right here, I've got you, you're gonna be fine."

"Copper—"

"He's fine, all the horses are fine. You got them all out, you crazy, brave, stubborn—" He couldn't finish, just held you tight as the ambulance pulled up, as EMT's swarmed with oxygen and equipment.

They tried to take you from him but he couldn't let go, couldn't release you until one of them put a hand on his shoulder.

"We've got her," she said gently. "Let us help her."

He forced himself to release you, watched as they got an oxygen mask on your face, loaded you onto a gurney. Your eyes found his one more time before they put you in the ambulance, and he saw fear there.

"I'm coming with you," he told the EMTs.

They didn't argue. He climbed into the ambulance and took your hand, and as they pulled away, he pressed his lips to your knuckles and made you a promise.

"You're gonna be okay," he said. "And when you are, I'm gonna tell you every single day for the rest of my life that I love you. Gonna prove to you that I can be the man you deserve, that my pride was bullshit, that yore all that matters. Just— don't leave me before I get the chance. Please, wildfire, please don't leave."

Your fingers twitched in his, the barest squeeze and he held on like you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

The first thing you became aware of was the beeping. Steady, rhythmic, accompanied by a mechanical hiss that matched the uncomfortable pressure around your face. The second thing was the voice.

"—and I know I don't deserve it, I know I fucked everything up, but if you wake up, I swear to God, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Proving that I can be the man you think I am, even if I don't believe it yet."

That was Bucky's voice, coming from somewhere to your left.

"I'm sorry I pushed you away, I'm sorry I let my pride and my own stubbornness matter more than you, I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention when the fire started. I'm sorry for all of it."

You tried to open your eyes but they felt crusted shut, heavy. Your throat burned like you'd swallowed razor blades, and breathing hurt in a way that suggested your lungs had been through something awful. And then you remembered it all: the fire, the stables, Copper.

You tried to move or speak, but all that came out was a rough sound that might have been a cough.

There was movement immediately, a warm hand closing around yours. "Wildfire? Hey, hey, don't try to talk. You've got an oxygen mask on, your lungs need time to heal. Just— just squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

You squeezed, or at least tried to. Your hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

"Thank god," his voice broke on the words. "You scared the hell out of me, I've aged like ten years tonight."

You managed to get your eyes open finally, blinking against the harsh hospital lights. Everything was blurry at first, but slowly it resolved: white ceiling tiles, an IV stand, medical equipment beeping away. And Bucky, sitting in a chair pulled up close to your bed, still shirtless under the blanket someone had draped over his shoulders, covered in soot and ash, eyes red-rimmed.

He looked like he'd been crying. Bucky Barnes, who you'd never seen cry, not even when his father died, had been crying over you.

"Hey," he said softly, and his thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. "Welcome back."

You tried to speak, but the oxygen mask muffled everything, and your throat was too raw anyway. You lifted your other hand weakly, gesturing at the mask.

"No way," he caught your hand gently, brought it back down. "Doctor said you need to keep that on for at least another few hours, your oxygen levels were scary low when you came in, you inhaled a lot of smoke."

You made a frustrated sound, and he actually smiled. "I know, I know, wildfire. But just rest, okay? Everything else can wait."

But you didn't want to wait. You'd heard him confessing, apologizing, saying things you'd been desperate to hear for weeks. You needed him to know you'd heard and needed to respond, needed—

The door opened and a nurse came in, checked your vitals with practiced efficiency. "Good to see those eyes open. How's the pain level? Blink once for manageable, twice for severe."

You blinked once. Everything hurt, but it was distant, muted by whatever they had you on.

"Good, the doctor will be in soon to check on you." She adjusted something on your IV. "You're very lucky, young lady. Another minute or two in that smoke and we'd be having a very different conversation." Her eyes cut to Bucky. "And you should probably get checked out too. That cough doesn't sound good."

"I'm fine," Bucky said automatically.

"You performed CPR for several minutes and you've been breathing smoke residue all night, at least let me listen to yous lungs."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but the nurse had already pulled out her stethoscope with a look that said she wasn't asking. While she checked him over—pronounced him "borderline but not critical"— you watched him. Catalogued the soot in his hair, the redness along his eyes, the exhaustion in his body… He'd stayed all night.

After the nurse left, silence fell between you. Bucky was still holding your hand, his thumb still stroking your knuckles, but he was looking down at your joined hands like he was afraid to meet your eyes.

"The horses are all okay," he said finally. "Pete's got them in the training paddock and the north pasture. Copper's fine—spooked but fine. You got every single one out before you…" He swallowed hard. "Before you collapsed."

You squeezed his hand.

"The stable's gone, total loss. But Sanchez thinks the fire was deliberately set, he found evidence of accelerant near the east wall. The sheriff's already investigating, smart money's o Sheridan."

That should have made you angry, should've sparked fear or rage, but you just felt tired. You'd deal with Clayton later. Right now, all you cared about was the man sitting beside your bed, still covered in ash from pulling you out of the fire.

You tugged weakly at the oxygen mask, and this time Bucky didn't stop you, just helped you pull it down to rest under your chin.

"Wildfire—"

"Did you mean it?" Your voice came out as a rasp, barely audible, your throat shredded but you needed to know. "What you said earlier, did you mean it?"

His eyes finally met yours, and they were so raw it hurt to look at. "Every word, I love you. I've been in love with you for so long I can't remember what it felt like not to love you. And I'm sorry I let my pride and y stupid hang-ups about money and worth keep me from saying it. I'm sorry when I pushed you away when all you wanted was—"

"Bucky," you interrupted him, voice still rough. "I'm not gonna die."

He blinked. "What?"

"I'm not gonna die," you repeated. "So you can stop with the dramatic deathbed confessions."

For a second he just stared at you, then incredibly, he laughed. "You almost died and you're making jokes?"

"Someone has to lighten the mood." You tried to smile but your face felt stiff. "You look like shit, by the way."

"Yeah, well." He scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing the soot. "Watching the woman you love nearly die in a fire will do that to you."

The woman you love. He'd said it again, and this time the words settled in your chest like something warm and permanent.

"I heard you," you said quietly. "In the ambulance, and when I first woke up, I heard you."

His hand tightened on yours. "Then you heard me say I'm sorry, that I was an idiot, and that I'm going to spend every day proving I can be man you—"

"You already are." You cut him off. "You've always been, that was never the problem."

"Then what was?"

"You not believing it." You coughed, wincing at the pain in your chest. "You letting your father's expectations and your own pride convince you that you weren't enough… but you were always enough, Bucky, you were always more than enough."

He was quiet for a moment, just looking at you with those blue eyes full of things he'd never let himself say out loud.

"I thought I needed to build something first," he said finally. "Thought I needed to have land, money, something concrete to offer you, something that would make me your equal instead of just… the foreman who got lucky."

"I never wanted an equal. I don't want a business partner or a merger, or someone who can match my net worth. I just want you, the guy who checks on Copper because he knows the horse matters to me. The guy who fixes problems before I know they exist, the guy who punched Sheridan for cornering me and then ran into a burning building to save me even though—" Your voice cracked. "Even though I'd already gotten myself out."

"Barely," he said roughly. "You barely got yourself out, and when I found you lying there not breathing, I—" He stopped, jaw working. "I couldn't breathe either, felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest. And all I could think was that I'd wasted so much time, weeks we could have had together because I was too proud to accept that maybe love doesn't care about bank balances and property."

You brought your other hand up to cup his face, felt the scrape of stubble and the warmth of his skin. "Life's too short."

"Yeah, it is." He said leaning into your touch.

"I was at Pete and Maria's house yesterday before the fire," you ran your thumb along his cheekbone. "Watched them together, the way they move around each other, the easy affection, how simply it all looked… and I just wanted that with you so badly it hurt. Just simple love, coming home to each other, building a life together without all the weight and the expectations and the fear."

"I want that too," he said quietly. "But I don't know if I know how to do simple. Don't know if I can turn off the voice in my head that says I should be providing more."

"Then we'll figure it out together." You held his gaze. "I'm not asking you to change overnight. I'm not asking you to suddenly be okay with everything you're not okay with, but I need you to try. Need you to let me in instead of pushing me away when it gets hard."

His eyes were bright again. "What if I fuck it up?"

"You will," you smiled slightly. "And I'll fuck it up too. We'll fight and disagree and drive each other crazy, but we'll do it together."

He was quiet, and you could see him wrestling with it—the pride and the fear, but also hope, all tangled together in a know he'd spent his whole life tying.

"I don't have much," he said finally. "Don't have some grand plan, damn, I don't even have a shirt on right now, but I love you, wildfire. I love you so much it terrifies me. And if you're willing to take a chance on a stubborn idiot who almost lost you because he couldn't get out of his own way—"

"I'd give it all up," you interrupted. "The ranch, the money, the legacy… all of it. If it meant I could have something like what Pete and Maria have, If it meant I could have you."

His breath caught. "You don't mean that."

"I do," you held his eyes, let him see the truth "I love the ranch, the work, the land… but I would walk away from all of it tomorrow if it meant having a simple life with you. A small place, horses we actually have time to ride, mornings where we drink coffee together. I'd trade the empire for the everyday, Bucky, every single time."

"Don't say things like that, wildfire." He pressed is forehead to yours, careful with the oxygen tubes and the IV lines.

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me want to take you up on it, makes me want to say fuck the ranch and the town and everyone's expectations and let's just run away together."

"Maybe we should," you said.

He pulled back to look at you. "You're delirious from smoke inhalation."

"I'm serious," and you were. "Not today, or tomorrow, but maybe eventually."

"You'd really leave?" He searched your face. "You'd really walk away from everything you've built."

"For us?" You smiled. "In a heartbeat."

He kissed you then, gentle and careful with your injuries, tasting like smoke and salt and promise. When he pulled back, his eyes were wet again.

"I don't deserve you."

"Probably not," you agreed and he huffed a laugh. "But you love me anyway."

"I do," he said it like a vow. "God help me, I do."

"Then that's enough," you laced your fingers through his. "We'll figure out the rest, but right now, can we just… be?"

"Be what?"

"Together." You squeezed his hand. "Just two people who love each other… just us."

He settled back into the chair, brought your joined hands up to press a kiss to your knuckles. "Yeah, wildfire. We can do that."

You drifted off to sleep with his hand in yours and his voice soft in the darkness, telling you about how Copper had tried to break back into the paddock, about how Pete was already talking to contractors about rebuilding the stable, about how the sun was going to rise soon, and when it did, everything would look better.

One year later

You woke up to the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window and the smell of coffee drifting up from downstairs. For a moment, you just lay there, hand drifting to your still-flat stomach, the secret sitting warm in your chest.

You've known for three weeks, ever since you'd taken the test in the bathroom of the main house while Bucky was out checking the irrigation system. You'd been waiting for the right moment to tell him, something that matched the enormity of it.

You are going to be a father.

The other side of the bed was rumpled and empty, Bucky's watch still on the nightstand beside a book about investment strategies he's been reading. Your husband had surprised you over the past year while you've been scaling back the ranch operations, he'd been building something of his own. Nothing that took him away from you, nothing that required sacrifice or absence, but careful investments in stocks, a small stake in a friend's agricultural tech startup, some rental properties two counties over that he managed remotely.

"Not trying to match you," he said when he first told you about it, almost shy. "Just building something for us, for the future."

And now there was a very specific future growing inside you.

You pulled on one of Bucky's old flannel shirts, over your sleep clothes and padded downstairs barefoot. He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in jeans and nothing else, two mugs of coffee already poured.

Well, one mug of coffee… the other was herbal tea.

Your heart stuttered. Had he noticed? You've been so careful, switching to decaf when he wasn't looking, making excuses about wanting to cut back on caffeine.

"Morning, wildfire." He turned and smiled, and you searched his face for signs that he knew. But he just looked like himself—happy, relaxed, the permanent tension he used to carry finally gone from his shoulders.

"Morning, husband." You crossed to him, let him pull you in for a kiss that tasted like coffee and mint toothpaste. "You made me tea?"

"Figured you might want something different." He handed you the mug."You've been drinking less coffee lately, thought maybe you were getting tired of it."

Not suspicious, then. Just Bucky taking care of you the way he always did, paying attention to the small details.

"Thank you," you took a sip. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep." His hands settled on your hips. "Kept thinking about that trail ride you promised me."

"Did I promise you a trail ride?"

"You definitely did," he kissed your temple. "Said something about finally having time to actually ride horses instead of just breeding and training them."

He wasn't wrong. In the year since the fire, things had changed. You hired two additional hands, promoted Pete to co-manager, and started actually delegating tasks. The ranch still ran beautifully, but you and Bucky had something you'd never had before: time.

And soon, you'd need that time for something else entirely.

Your hand drifted to your stomach before you could stop it, and you caught yourself, turning the gesture into smoothing down the shirt. But your mind was already spinning—would you still be able to ride in a few months? Would Bucky insist you stop? Would he be overprotective, or excited or scared or—

"Wildfire?" Bucky's voice pulled you back. "You okay? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine," you smiled, probably too brightly. "I'm just hungry, should eat something before we ride."

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he just nodded. "I'll make breakfast, you sit."

You perched on one of the kitchen stools and watched him move around the kitchen with easy familiarity. This was your favorite part of the new life you'd built, mornings like this, just the two of you before the day really started.

Soon there would be three of you, and the thought made your chest tight with joy and terror in equal measure.

"Actually," you said as he cracked eggs into a pan, "what if we skip the trail ride this morning? We could go this afternoon instead, make a whole thing of it… pack a picnic, ride out to the creek, spend a few hours just existing."

He glanced over his shoulder a bit surprised. "Yeah? You want to play hooky from ranch work on a Tuesday?"

"We're the bosses, we're allowed." You wrapped both hands around your mug. "Besides, when was the last time we just took an afternoon for ourselves?"

"Good point," he played the eggs, added toast and brought it over to you. "We can do the morning checks, make sure everything's running smooth, then disappear for a few hours."

"Perfect."

The world came out soft, full of meaning he didn't quite catch yet, but he would. This afternoon, by the creek, you'd tell him about the baby, about your future, about how everything was about to change in the best possible way.

You just had to make it through the morning without giving it away.

By noon, you'd packed a basket with sandwiches, fruit, and the fancy cheese Bucky loved from the market in town. You'd also packed ginger cookies for the nausea that had been creeping in the past week, and a bottle of sparkling cider that you hoped would work for a toast.

Bucky was tacking up Duke and Ranger, and you were trying to calm your racing heart. You've told people difficult things before, you've fired employees, negotiated contracts, stood up to your father when he was being stubborn, but this felt bigger than all of that.

"Ready?" Bucky appeared in the tack room doorway, looking unfairly handsome in his worn jeans and work shirt, hair pushed back from his face.

"Ready," you grabbed the basket and let him help you mount Ranger.

You rode out in comfortable silence, taking the familiar trail north toward the creek. The autumn day was perfect—cool but not cold, the leaves just starting to turn gold and red. When you reached the creek, Bucky dismounted first and came to help you down, hands lingering at your waist a moment longer than necessary.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked. "You've seemed… I don't know, different today. Nervous, maybe?"

Damn his observant nature. "I'm fine, just happy."

"Yeah?" He smiled, some of the concern easing. "Me too."

You spread out the blanket you'd fought while Bucky loosened the horses' girths and let them graze nearby. The creek burbled softly, and the sun filtered through the trees in dappled patterns, and everything felt almost too perfect.

"This was a good idea," Bucky said settling beside you on the blanket. "We should do this more often, just disappear for a few hours."

"We should," you busied yourself unpacking the basket, hands shaking slightly. "Especially now that you've got your investments working for you, Pete can handle more of the daily operations."

"Speaking of which," he took the sandwich you handed him. "I wanted to talk about that. Remember the tech startup I invested in? They're doing really well, better than projected. My stake has almost doubled in value, and—" He paused, looking almost shy. "I've been thinking about diversifying more, maybe some agriculture projects or another rental property, something that can generate passive income."

"That's amazing, Bucky." And it was. You'd watched him transform over the past year from someone who measured his worth in sweat equity to someone who understood there were other ways to build security.

"Yeah, well." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I know I used to be weird about money, but this feels different. Feels like I'm building something that's ours without sacrificing time with you. Without having to choose between being present and being a provider."

"You've always been a provider." You set down your untouched sandwich. "But I'm proud of you for finding a way to do it that works for you."

"I had a good teacher," he kissed your temple. "You taught me that there's ore than one way to build a life together."

This was it. This was the moment. Your heart was pounding so hard you wee sure he could hear it.

"Speaking of building a life together," you started, voice shaking slightly. "There's something I need to tell you."

He set down his sandwich, his attention immediately focused on you. "What's wrong? Are you sick? Is it the ranch? Is—"

"Nothing's wrong." You took his hand, pressed it against your still-flat stomach. "Everything's right, actually. Everything is… perfect."

He froze and you watched understanding dawn slowly: the tea instead of coffee, the fact that you'd been tired lately, the way you'd been careful about lifting heavy things. All the small signs he'd noticed but hadn't put together.

"Wildfire," he breathed. "Are you—"

"I'm pregnant." The words came out in a rush, nervous and excited all at once. "About six weeks. I found out three weeks ago and I've been trying to find the right moment to tell you and I thought here, by the creek, it felt—"

He cut you off with a kiss, so deep and full of joy so pure it made your chest ache. When he used back, his eyes were bright with tears.

"You're pregnant," he said, like he was testing the words. "We are having a baby."

"We're having a baby," you were crying now too, laughing through the tears. "I know we didn't plan this, we haven't even talked about kids yet, but I'm so happy, I'm so—"

"Happy," he finished for you, his hands coming up to frame your face. "God, I'm so happy I can't even— I don't have words, I don't know what else to say except I love you and this is everything."

He pulled you into his arms, held you tight against his chest, and you could feel him shaking.

"Holy shit, I'm going to be a dad" he whispered into your hair.

"You're gonna be a great dad," you pulled back to look at him.

"I know, thanks to you. And this baby is gonna have everything they need, not because of money or any of that shit I used to obsess over, but because we'll be their parents."

"Yeah," you covered his hand with yours. "Yeah, they will."

"How are you feeling? Are you sick? Do you need to see a doctor? Should you even be riding? Jesus, should I have let you get on a horse—"

"Bucky," you laughed, cutting off his spiral. "I'm fine, I saw the doctor two weeks ago, everything looks good. I can ride for another few months as long as I'm careful. The morning sickness is mild, just some nausea, nothing terrible. I'm healthy, baby's healthy, everything's perfect."

"Everything's perfect," he repeated, and then his eyes went wide again. "Wait, does anyone else know? Pete? Maria? Have you been keeping this secret by yourself."

"Just me," you squeezed his hand. "I wanted you to be the first to know, wanted it to be just us, just this moment."

"Best moment of my life," he kissed you again, soft and sweet. "Well, second best, first was marrying you."

"Third best was punching Sheridan's face."

He laughed, loud and bright, and the sound of it made your heart soar. This was the man you'd fallen in love with, the one who could still laugh, who could let go of his pride and just be happy, just be present in the moment.

"We should celebrate." He reached for the basket, pulled out the sparkling cider you'd packed. "Did you plan this?"

"I hoped," you watched him pour two glasses. "Hoped you'd be happy, and this would be the right way to tell you."

"It's perfect." He handed you a glass, raised his own. "To our future."

You clinked glasses, sipped the sweet fizz, and then he was kissing you again, laying you back on the blanket with careful hands.

You laid there together as the afternoon sun shifted through the trees, talking about names and nursery colors and whether you'd find out the gender or be surprised. About how the ranch would need some adjustments, but nothing you couldn't handle. About how Pete and Maria would be thrilled, how the crew would rally around you, how this baby would grow up surrounded by love.

About the future you were building, not just the two of you anymore, but three.

He placed his hand over your stomach, and you covered it with yours, and for a long moment, you just sat there together, listening to the creek and the horses and the perfect silence of a life finally fully lived.

When you finally rode back, the ranch was settling into evening—crew heading home, lights coming on in the main house, the familiar rhythm of end of the day routines. But everything looked different now, felt different.

Because you weren't just coming home to the ranch you ran together. You were coming home to the place where you'd raise your child, whey you would see their first steps, teach how to ride their first horse, learn what it meant to work hard and love harder. Where they'd grow p knowing their parents chose each other every day and created a life worth living.

Bucky helped you dismount, hands lingering in your waist, his eyes soft with wonder and love and barely contained joy.

"Ready to tell everyone?" You asked.

"Ready," he laced his fingers through yours. "Let's go tell our family."

taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @wintersoldier-gal @globetrotter28 @elisexoxo-buckysversion @angelryex @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @buckysdecaflove @jai200700 @squishyfruitloop @broadwaybabe18 @abyy1838 @juniebjonesin @mostlymarvelgirl @gilwm @ghost-of-barnes @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog @weasleyswizarding-wheezes +add yourself here

[winteryn]

MY WIFE

18+ | MDNI - masterlist

PAIRING: ceo!bucky barnes x wife!reader SUMMARY: three times in which the new intern tries to impress her hot, grumpy boss, mr. barnes. or, three times in which bucky can’t stop talking about his lovely wife.  WARNINGS: use of third person & second person & pov changes (she/her pronouns for reader); pictures don't reflect reader's appearance; reader wears a dress; original character (I’m so sorry if your name is madison 🥲); ceo!bucky (who is a little mean, tbh); whipped!bucky (he’s pathetically obsessed); pregnancy stuff (trying for a baby); fluff; smut; daddy & mommy kink; one (1) use of ‘slut’; mention of cockwarming; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); breeding kink; office sex (so... kind of public sex?). WORD COUNT: 6k A/N: I had so much fun writing this one-shot at the time and re-reading it put me in such a good mood, ngl. hope you’ll enjoy!

The little ding from an elevator has never felt so ominous. Wanda, Darcy and Carol scurry away like thieves from a crime scene, abandoning their morning gossip by the copier. Scott almost drops his freshly brewed coffee, fatigue instantly melting off his features and shoulders tensing up, while Monica throws her phone in her bag, pretending she’s been working all along on an already strategically open Excel sheet.

Once the elevator doors part, the whole floor falls into a silent distress. Mr. Barnes steps out with the same expression he wears every single morning: lips pressed in a thin line, jaw clenched, and a faint, permanent scowl, as if the world had already disappointed him the moment he woke up. 

His suit is always impeccably ironed, not a single crease on his white, crisp shirt. His cologne—Tom Ford’s Beau de Jour—is never too strong, but it lingers in the air like a constant reminder of his authority. As far as his employees can remember, his left wrist has never been bare: a prized watch, very simple yet tasteful, that can’t strangely be associated with any expensive brand, rests there. He’s very protective of it, and nobody has ever dared to comment on its simplicity, especially after an unpleasant episode involving one of the company's previous clients, Mr. Pierce.

The older man attempted to touch it with a grimace, as a joke, he kept insisting after. Nobody ever believed Mr. Barnes’ blue eyes could turn even icier. His voice was tinted with a subtle growl as he intimated the man to get his filthy hands off his watch. Scott almost fainted when he noticed Mr. Wilson tightly press his lips together to avoid bursting out laughing.

Needless to say, Mr. Pierce’s company lost all its deals with Barnes Investments.

Mr. Barnes walks with purpose, the same black coat gently swaying with every clipped step and tie mathematically aligned. He doesn’t even glance at his visibly fidgety employees, his blue eyes hidden behind a pair of Ami Paris black sunglasses that he only removes once he enters his office, strategically located at the very end of the open space. 

He also doesn’t greet anyone. His presence alone is a daily roll call.

The CEO doesn’t talk much in general—not unless he absolutely has to. But when he does, one either ends up walking away with a quiet pride burning in their chest, or crying and shaking in the restroom. His words are sharp and efficient. A simple “fix this” could ruin an entire afternoon. A “this is unacceptable”, a week.

The worst thing is that he doesn’t even need to raise his voice, because his perpetual glacial calm is enough to make a grown man in his fifties tremble like a fawn taking its first steps. His disappointed silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the sleek desk, could send any adult into an existential crisis.

He doesn’t even need to walk past the desks to know what happens inside his company. Every attempt to impress him is ignored without mercy and humor is met with a slow blink, as if it were a personal insult to his entire bloodline.

Somewhere along the way, the office collectively settled on calling him Mr. Tightass behind his back. Despite that, the CEO puts equal attention in rewarding and commending his employees when credit is due. It still feels like talking with someone who has been constipated for a month, but coming from the strict boss himself, the praise is always very welcomed.

Every morning, he follows the same meticulous routine: he checks his schedule with his trusted assistant, Natasha; retreats into his office to scan the reports left on his desk, flagging all the things he disapproves of, and then closes the door behind him with a resounding bang that feels like an order to not be disturbed.

He is habit wrapped in a suit and polished shoes; an ongoing source of heart palpitations for the entire staff.

This is the environment Madison Carrell, freshly graduated from NYU, walks into two days later, with a smug smile and pink high heels, blissfully unaware of what lies ahead.

Wanda is the one designated to show her the ropes, and Madison’s first day unfolds in a tour of the office—from the rows of desks lining the wooden floor to the large glass-walled meeting room. They pause briefly in the break room, where the analyst takes her time explaining how the kitchenette works. That’s when a dull knock on the open door interrupts their conversation. There, Mr. Barnes slightly leans forward, eyeing Wanda with his usual blank expression.

“I need the volatility report yesterday, Miss Maximoff.” 

“Yes, sir. I apologize. I’ll bring it to your office right now—” He raises a palm, stopping her nervous rambling.

“No need, leave it to Natasha and she’ll bring it to me.” Mr. Barnes has already turned away when she remembers the girl beside her.

“Um s—sir, this is one of the new interns, Madison Carrell.” His head turns enough to marginally eye the girl, giving her a curt nod before he’s returning to his cavern.

“Was that… James Barnes?” Wanda’s eyes flit on the intern, grimacing at her wide, sparkling eyes.

“Yeah, that’s him. A real gentleman, as you can see.” She rolls her eyes, stealing a handful of cereal from the glass jar.

Madison quietly gasps, patting her skirt as if to ensure she looks presentable. “I didn’t think I would meet him today. I’ve been a fan ever since he was invited to speak at a conference at my university two years ago.”

Wanda blinks once, one eyebrow raising skeptically. “A fan?”

“Of course!” The blonde wheezes. “He’s a brilliant, successful man who has built this company with his own blood, sweat and tears from the ground up. You should be grateful he even glances your way.” She stares at the vacant spot previously occupied by the CEO, trying to fruitlessly contain a grin. “And he's very handsome.” 

“You know he’s married, right?” Madison’s head snaps toward the analyst, her smile suddenly replaced by a scowl.

“What?”

It’s impossible. She knows his Wikipedia page by heart and there isn't a single mention of a marriage, nor of his personal life in general.

“Yeah, and also very much in love with his wife.” The older woman nods, quite amused. Now she almost regrets telling her, nothing exciting ever happens in this office, after all.

Madison’s mouth curves up, looking almost sympathetic. “Oh Wanda,” the analyst's eyes narrow on the intern patting her forearm condescendingly. “Everything ends. Even marriages.”

The analyst simply smirks knowingly, already walking to the door. “Mh, if you say so.” She then eyes the blonde, nodding towards the open space. “C’mon, I’ll show you your desk. It’s right next to mine and Darcy’s.”

The break room is unusually quiet for a mid-morning. Madison stands by the kitchenette, pretending to tidy up a stack of colorful mugs while her ear is tuned to the hallway. 

“Move Stark’s call to Wednesday, and if he complains, remind him we received an equally convincing offer from Williams Enterprise.” The moment Mr. Barnes’ deep, commanding voice thunders in the hallway, she straightens, a toothy smile brightening her face as his measured footsteps get louder and louder, until he crosses the threshold of the break room.

He steps inside, heading straight for the coffee machine with his red ceramic cup in hand—it’s his third refill already. He presses the button, then crosses his arms with a rigid posture, his left foot tapping rhythmically. Impatiently.

Madison takes a second to adjust her locks, before she turns toward the man. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes!”  

He gives her a brief glance, nothing more than a flicker of acknowledgement, and a curt nod, before returning his frown to the humming appliance.

She clears her throat, refusing to let his disregard deter her. “I, um… I baked something. Thought I’d bring some in for the team.”

Mr. Barnes looks bored at this point, still not moving his icy eyes from the cup. 

She swallows. “They’re chocolate chip cookies, fresh from this morning. I figured you might like to try one.” As the CEO turns with his steaming coffee in hand, he almost bumps into the extended tray of sweets. He grunts, clearly annoyed at this intern’s insistence, and in that exact moment, his wife’s words echo sweetly through his mind.

“They’re your employees, Jamie. Just… Try to be a little nicer?”

With a sigh, Mr. Barnes places the cup back on the counter, before taking a cookie under Madison’s hopeful eyes. But her enthusiasm is abruptly torn to shreds as she watches him break the tiniest piece off, almost a crumb, then taste it with the air of someone challenged to eat concrete for money.

A low hum escapes him, thoughtful. He eyes the rest of the cookie distracted as he starts mumbling. 

“I wonder if my wife will bake cookies, she already made a pie two days ago.” 

Madison blinks. Why does he need his wife’s cookies? She's literally in front of him right now, with a tray full of them that she specifically baked just for him! Does he know how hard it was to keep the team away from them, then look for a good hiding place in the break room so they would go unnoticed? She had to wait here for hours, pretending to clean and look for random stuff every time a passing co-worker eyed her with suspicion.

Madison forces a chuckle, an idea quickly forming in her mind to not let the conversation die. “What kind of pie?”

His fingers lightly scratch the stubble on his chin, still pensive. “Apple. It’s my favorite.”

Her eyes lit up. “I make a mean apple pie! Next time I can—” 

“It was excellent. The crust was neither too flaky nor too hard. And the flavors were perfectly balanced.” He shakes his head, still impressed. Madison winces as he literally cuts her off, but by the hazy look in his eyes, she doubts he even noticed her talking at all. “She’s a baker, so she knows her deal. Always testing new recipes on me.”

Is he pouting? 

“I finished the whole thing in two days.” 

Madison stands there frozen, the paper tray cradled awkwardly in her hands as she watches Mr. Barnes swiftly set the cookie down on the counter. 

“I need to text her.” He murmurs, not even glancing at his cup as he moves hastily toward the door. “Tell her to make another one for tonight.”

And just like that, he disappears, leaving the untouched tray and Madison’s crushed expectations behind.

It’s not until Scott pokes his head in that her vacant stare finally moves. “Can we eat them now?”

Alright, so the first attempt to impress her boss didn’t go as well as she predicted. That’s okay! Madison wasn’t elected student body president by throwing the towel at the first obstacle.

The next occasion presents itself the following week. Wanda was tasked with drafting a counter proposal to Mr. Stark’s new project, which meant Madison could not only be present during the presentation, but also outline a section of the submission and prove to Mr. Barnes she deserves her place there—someone who belongs in his professional world, beside him, not a lowly baker.

Right now, they are on a small break after four boring hours spent discussing the billionaire’s proposal. From her peripheral vision, Madison catches Mr. Barnes coming back in the room, along with Mr. Wilson, Mr. Rogers and Mr. Stark. Her chest slightly puffs out, finally ready to spring into action.

“So I told him I didn’t give a fuck about fishing, and then he spent all night crying over his ex-wife—”

“Ask me about my lunch.” Monica balks at Madison, tilting her head.

“Excuse me?”

“Ask me about my lunch. Ask me where I bought those nice tomatoes!” She whispers, leaning sideways against the long table. Monica stares at her appalled, until their boss’ booming voice reaches her ears and her eyes roll to the sky. Of course it’s one of the new intern’s weird plans to catch Mr. Barnes’ attention. She can't believe Madison is still at it after ‘The Cookie Failure’, as Scott named it. 

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” She mutters reluctantly.

“Louder.”

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” Her yell attracts the attention of the four men and other nearby employees minding their own business.

Madison gives her a little coquettish giggle. “You mean the ones in the salad I had for lunch? Of course I grow them in my garden!”

Last week, Mr. Wilson teased Mr. Barnes about his prettily packed lunch—no, she was not eavesdropping... She just happened to be walking past his office at the exact moment highly confidential conversations have the bad habit of being perfectly audible. At some point, he mentioned that the lettuce came straight from his garden, so she concluded he must have a green thumb. 

Of course she didn't have the time, nor the patience, to grow fucking vegetables. No one would ever be able to tell the difference between store-bought tomatoes and homegrown ones, anyway.

Tomatoes were tomatoes. The internet agreed.

“My wife has a beautiful garden.” 

Madison goes still.

“Does she now?” Mr. Stark amusedly teases him.

She doesn’t blink for a moment, like her brain has briefly stopped accepting information.

“Last year she grew tomatoes so perfect the neighbors thought they were made of wax.” He pats the pocket of his black pants. “Hold on, I have pictures.” And everyone gathers around him. Like bees around a flower. Even Monica! 

“Look at the color! It’s incredible.” A few murmurs of agreement ripple through the room, no doubt praising her and her damn tomatoes.

“And these are her cucumbers. And her lettuce. And—oh, here she is mulching. She didn’t know I was there.” Madison almost has an aneurysm as a faint, unguarded smile appears on his lips. “She’s so lovely.”

Coughing, Madison raises her voice in a pathetic last attempt. “I, uh… planted some basil.”

And without missing a beat, Mr. Barnes destroys her while still swiping through the pictures. 

“My wife grows five varieties of basil.”

Then, he stops short, his finger hovering over the screen as his lips press together to hide a grin. That's when Mr. Rogers clears his throat, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. His head jerks up, blinking as if he just woke up from a dream. 

“Alright.” His frown returns. “Break’s over. Miss Maximoff, it’s your turn.”

“Shit.” Madison whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. She was so focused on looking up gardening tips these past few days that she completely forgot she also had to help Wanda present her counter proposal. Which entails talking in front of an entire board of stakeholders about things she only read in her university books. 

Suddenly, those stupid tomatoes feel like they’re crawling back up her esophagus, and a cold sweat breaks across her skin. She makes it to the massive presentation screen on unsteady legs, her hands shaking so badly she can barely grip the clicker. Behind her, Mr. Barnes stands and starts walking toward them, while the rest of the table settles back into their seats.

“Maximoff, I read the counter proposal last night. Good job. The section about forecasted performance—”

Madison perks up. “I drafted that section—”

“My wife caught five mistakes there. Be careful.” He concludes, not sparing her a single glance as he turns to make his way back to the head of the table. Still, she catches his breathy comment.

“Such a brilliant woman.”

Her fiasco at Mr. Stark’s deal sets Madison back a few steps. Well, did she even move forward at all? After a week of reflection—mostly spent on TikTok tutorials about “what men like in a woman”, a suspicious amount of “CEO mindset” content and questionable productivity hacks she saved at 2 a.m.—the intern decides to take a new approach.

It’s Friday when Madison plans to stay back at the office, knowing Mr. Barnes always finishes late on Fridays. He doesn’t like being bothered over the weekend, so he ensures everything is done before he leaves.

Silence settles heavily over the building once the team leaves, making it easy to catch the rustle of papers and the faint creak of his chair around nine, signaling he’s finally done. Her coat is already on as she stands near her desk, deliberately checking her bag as if making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything. When he finally opens the door, she lets out an exaggerated sigh, lifting her eyes and putting on her best expression of surprise.

“Mr. Barnes! I didn’t think there was anyone left at this hour.” The man stops abruptly in his quick advance toward the elevator, turning to face her. “I had to finish a few things for Wanda and I didn’t notice the time. I’m just so happy to be here time kind of disappears when you get into it. You surely get that, right?”

He stares at her, deadpan. “Who are you, again?”

Her eyes bulge out. “I—” She gapes. “Madison Carrell! The new intern!” She rushes out, bordering on a shriek.

“Right.” He mutters, resuming his steps as she quickly jogs to reach him. “No, I actually don't get that. If it were for me, I would stay at home, or help my wife run her bakery.” After pressing the button to call the elevator, he stares ahead, still looking so put together after twelve hours of work.  

James Buchanan Barnes—one of the richest, most hard-working people in the whole continent, two-time #1 on Forbes’ Top 100 CEO, and major partner at Stark Industries—longs to be a househusband just so he can stay with his wife? And run a fucking bakery?

“She’s always telling me I need to come home earlier.” He sighs, and to her shock, his mouth twists into something akin to a fond smile. “She worries so much about me. She sent me a selfie an hour ago and now I can’t wait to see her.”

Madison simply nods along, face frozen in polite agony while her bag takes the worst of it, her knuckles turning white as she crumples the poor handle. She just wasted four hours of her Friday night doing nothing only to hear the man of her dreams sing praises about a woman she’s never met, yet knows entirely too much about.

The ride in the elevator is excruciating. Mr. Barnes is too busy grinning down at his phone to entertain her, and Madison’s slumped shoulders are a testament of her crushed hopes. Once they’re outside, she notices a couple of people gathered in front of the window of a clothing store right across the street. They look like they are decorating for Christmas, strings of lights already up and various boxes blocking half of the sidewalk. Mr. Barnes shakes his head at the sight, and Madison catches it from her peripheral vision.

Of course a cranky and curt man like Mr. Barnes would be a grinch!

Such a shame she completely missed his soft smile.

“I can’t believe some people are already decorating for Christmas.” She scoffs. “C’mon, it’s still November! Who is the idiot that does that?” Turning her head toward him, her chuckle dies in her throat at his gelid expression. 

“My wife.”

Madison’s heart drops to her stomach. “W–What–”

“My wife is the idiot who decorates for Christmas in November.” His caustic reply sends shivers down her back. Madison's jaw falls to the ground, and for a moment she just stands there, toes curling in shame and cheeks flaming red. Her mouth opens and closes twice, not really knowing what to say or do in front of the man eyeing her with so much vitriol.

Maybe the ground should open right this instant and swallow her whole. It would hurt less.

“I—” 

“Goodnight, Miss Carroll.” 

“What—” She whispers, completely caught off guard. “It’s Carrell!” She shouts, but he’s already halfway to his black Jaguar.

“FUCK!”

Wanda is so engrossed in her conversation with Darcy about the umpteenth date with a loser she met on Tinder that the loud thump on her right makes both women jolt in surprise. 

It's Madison and she is... a mess. 

Her ponytail is barely hanging on, a few blonde hair sticking in the air as if she was just electrocuted. Her makeup only consists of some smudged gloss—a rough contrast to the full face she has been displaying every single morning since she set foot here at Barnes Investments. Darcy and Wanda exchange a look of worry as they spot the big brown stain on her light blue shirt, probably coffee. 

They’ve never seen Madison look so distraught in the two months she’s been here. 

“Honey, are you okay?” Wanda tentatively asks. 

“Okay? Why yeah sure! Why shouldn’t I be okay?” She grits out with a fake, entirely too big smile, while literally throwing her things on her desk. 

“You sure?” Darcy raises an eyebrow.

“Of course! I mean, my crush is happily married to a woman who apparently has a pussy made of gold, because he can’t stop talking about her for one damn second.” Her pencil case almost flies to the ground. The desk shakes under the heavy laptop mindlessly tossed on its surface. 

Her little outburst makes a few heads turn, prompting the two analysts to shoot on their feet.

“Hey, lower your voice!” Wanda whisper shouts. “I understand you’re disappointed, but did you forget said crush is also your boss?”

“No, Wanda. You don’t understand.” She growls out, looking like a feral dog. “Two days ago I had to bribe his assistant with a fucking thirty-five-dollar chocolate bar just to find out his coffee order! Do you know where Mr. Barnes buys his coffee from every. Single. Morning?” Wanda shakes her head, mildly scared as Madison leans forward, her right eye twitching. “From a fucking coffee shop on the other side of New York. It took me fifty minutes just to get there, only for him to tell me he doesn’t drink that shit anymore because that stupid wife of his says it makes him too jittery.” She mocks with a pout and a whiny voice.

“He switched to herbal tea, or something. Last week!”

“Stand back, she’s gonna blow.” Darcy whispers horrified. 

“It’s been two months and I know more about this alleged wife of his than about the fucking company! He describes her as she is some sort of goddess who knows everything! And who the fuck keeps two hundred pictures of vegetables in their phone?” 

At this point, Madison is having a genuine outburst, screaming and slamming her bag on the desk under her co-workers’ bewildered gaze.

“For God’s sake, is she even real?”

As if by magic, the ding of the elevator suspends the room in silence. Everything seems to freeze as the doors slide open, revealing a woman Madison has never seen before, cautiously stepping forward. Her A-line mini dress has a soft plaid pattern, the sleeves sheer and flowy. The skirt flares out with a gentle silhouette, half hidden under a long black coat.

The entire floor gapes, taken aback by the romantic, almost ethereal vision. There’s only one person who doesn’t seem fazed at all, and that’s Mr. Barnes, who abruptly opens the door of his office as soon as the elevator door shuts. 

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes immediately find Bucky's as he quickly makes his way to you at the end of the room. 

“Jamie.” His own lips twist into a grin when he finally reaches you, circling your waist with his muscular arms. 

“What are you doing here, doll? It’s your day off.” He mumbles, leaving a small kiss on your forehead. His blue eyes carefully take you in, poorly concealing his appreciation for your cute outfit, until they land on your bare legs. 

“Where are your tights?” He frowns, gently tugging you forward. “C'mere, let's sit in my office so you can warm up.”

“I wanted to see you.” You hum, keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground as your fingers pull at his suit jacket, so you can drag his face closer to yours. Once your lips are brushing against his ear, you whisper as quietly as you can, hoping only your husband will catch your words. 

“They're not the only thing I’m not wearing right now.” 

Bucky’s eyes widen, before his saliva goes down the wrong pipe, sending him into a coughing fit under your amused gaze. His employees try to not stare at the scene, but it’s so endearingly rare witnessing their stern boss turn into this blushing, pliant mess in front of a pretty girl. 

“Shit.” He swallows, awkwardly clearing his throat as he quickly recomposes himself. “Let’s go, sweetheart.” 

Everyone knows that at his core, Mr. Barnes is just a man pathetically in love with his wife, still, curious eyes follow you as he hastily guides you to his office with a hand on your back, his gaze not steering away once from your face as giggles unusually fill the open space.

“Thank God she came by.” Scott leans in, addressing the three women. “He’s always more lenient after her visits.” He elaborates, mainly for a flustered Madison, who releases her expensive bag, letting it fall on the floor with a dull thud, before storming off to the restroom. Wanda sighs, slightly shaking her head in exhaustion.

The man just stares at the two analysts with knitted eyebrows, completely confused. “What?”

“My pretty little slut, coming to Daddy’s office without wearing any panties.” Bucky grunts against the skin of your bare chest, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to keep you nice and still on his desk.

It’s been six months since you and Bucky have agreed to try for a baby. Six months of pure, unhinged, hot sex in his office. It just so happens that your husband has been at work during your fertile window for the past few months, meaning that he could use that as an excuse to have you bare and whimpering in his office for a few days a month. 

Never in his career has Bucky dreamt of actually having sex here, of all places. Sure, he fantasized about your warmth by his side during those hard nights spent here amongst mountains of documents—he, Steve and Sam worked overtime almost every day at the beginning; his company was too small and new to afford the luxury of going home at a decent time. 

And you supported him through it all, his perfect darling. 

So imagine his face when you showed up at his workplace one day, locking the door behind you before literally throwing yourself at him, your breath warm against his ear as you gasped out how badly you needed him to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name.

Honestly, it wasn’t his proudest moment. He ended up coming before you after only a minute top, too aroused as he stared at you eagerly riding him on his chair, a hand on your mouth to prevent any loud noise from spilling out as his employees kept working, not having the faintest idea about what was happening inside their boss’ office.

From that moment on, your little visits meant only one thing. 

“Fuck, Daddy you’re so big.” You whine, clinging onto his shoulders. 

He lets out an animalistic groan as he squeezes your hips bruisingly. “Say it again.” He growls, grinding his hips harder against you. “You know I love it when you call me that, baby.” 

“Daddy please.” He slams his lips against yours, moaning as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, he goes straight for your chest, sucking on your nipple. Bucky loves to play with your breasts, you always get so responsive when his fingers tug and flicker your pretty nipples. Sometimes he just palms them for comfort during particularly frustrating calls he gets on the weekends from bratty assholes who refuse to go through his assistant first. Or out of boredom, while watching a movie. Until you get all worked up and end up cockwarming him throughout the rest of the movie.

“Can’t wait for these to swell up, gonna take such good care of you when they get too heavy and sensitive.” His head moves, the tip of his tongue already out to give some attention to the other nipple. “Wanna taste your milk so bad, baby. Will you let me? Bet it's just as sweet as your pussy.”

“Bucky!” Your head falls back as his teeth gently graze your erect nub, pulling a little pathetic whimper out of you that echoes loudly in the room.

“Shh-shh.” Your husband soothes, his voice back at your ear, his breath tickling your damp skin. “Been thinking about your pretty pussy all day.”

Bucky sounds a little dazed, his voice hoarse with something primal as one of his hands travels from your hip to your abdomen. “You’ll look so beautiful with your belly all big and round and full. All because of me.” 

“Please.” You cry out, trembling as tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes. It’s too much. Everything is too much. Your hot skin rubbing against his soft clothes, his filthy words, the way his blue eyes look at you with barely concealed hunger... His big cock stretching you open for him to move as he pleases. 

“You’re so fucking wet, baby.” Bucky marvels, staring in awe as his length disappears inside you, the loud, squelching sounds heating your cheeks up in embarrassment. You’ve done this so many times, yet that sense of danger, of possibly being caught doing something so debauched in such a professional environment, never fails to make your stomach flip and your core throb.

“Everyone will know how good I fuck you, how good I am for my beautiful wife.” He growls out against your lips. “My gorgeous Mommy.”

Your whole body shudder as your tongues dance, your pussy clenching at the sensation of his thick cock plunging deep inside you. It makes your head spin, leaving you completely speechless as Bucky's hips speed up. 

“Fuck, Daddy!” A whimper involuntarily falls from your parted lips, and your eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, too big—” You gasp out the last word, his hips giving a particular brutal thrust that allows him to reach impossibly deeper.

“Yeah? I know, baby. I know. So big you can’t even talk properly.” He smirks. “Still, you take it so good, such a good girl.”

He covers your cheeks with sweet kisses, tracing a slow path down to the slope of your neck, where he makes sure to bite hard enough to elicit a surprised squeal from you.

“‘M gonna make you a mommy.” He pants harshly into your skin, his orgasm gradually approaching when you clench again. “The prettiest.” Thrust. “Sweetest.” Thrust. “Mommy.”

“Yes yes yes Daddy please!”  

Bucky’s low grunts and moans get louder as his fingers gently rub your clit, making your eyes roll back at the blinding pleasure. Your nails almost tear through the fabric of his half-open shirt.

“You’re so tight. Shit, I can feel you coming baby.” He moans, watching you nod quickly, and his voice drops a little. “Yeah? You finally gonna milk Daddy’s cock, pretty girl?” 

Your palm slaps on your parted mouth to stifle your lewd sounds. Your legs wrap tighter around his hips, and as he keeps thrusting faster and faster, your vision goes blurry and the knot in your belly finally snaps. 

“Daddy.” You whimper behind your hand, toes curling at the overwhelming bliss quickly hitting you. “Oh my God, I'm coming!” Your body wraps around him tightly as your hole clenches down, squeezing him so hard he almost chokes on his own spit. His fingers are cruel on your throbbing nub, toying with it until your hips jerk in overstimulation. You feel that hot pleasure everywhere—the base of your spine, deep in your gut, in your walls keeping him nice and warm. It’s always this intense with your husband: he knows what to say and where to put his hands so your orgasm hits you like a freight train, leaving your body exhausted yet quivering for more. 

“Fuck fuck—Daddy’s coming too.” He grits out, his thrusts messy and frantic, before his cock twitches, spilling deep inside you. “Shit—that’s it. Take it all, beautiful.”

Your chest is still heaving when you flop against him, forehead falling on his shoulder as your trembling fingers stay anchored to his shirt. His hands move to your asscheeks, thumbs leisurely stroking small circles into your skin as he tries to regain his breath as well. Yet, smugness drip off his voice. 

“Gave it to you so good you can’t even sit up straight, mh?”

You don’t have the energy to clap back, mewling with oversensitivity as he continues to gently thrust his softening dick lightly in and out of you, the mix of your juices trickling down and soiling the inner part of your thighs. Your lips part anyway to say something, but everything dissolves into an incoherent squeak when he gives your ass a light spank.

Bucky chuckles, proud of himself, his arms moving around your waist, hugging your body closer to his. “So gorgeous.” He coos, his eyelids fluttering close as the tip of his nose nuzzles your neck, breathing in your perfume, by now impeccably mixed with the scent of your favorite body cream. 

“So good for me. Fuck baby, I love you. I love you so much.” His hands gently cradle your cheeks, tenderly coaxing you out of your hiding spot as the strong urge to kiss you takes over his whole body. “Gonna have my baby and be the best mommy in the world.” He utters between sweet kisses. 

“Love you too, Jamie.” Bucky's lips curve softly at the way your eyelids barely stay open, letting you cuddle against his chest. His heartbeat never fails to speed up when those three magic words fall from your lips. 

“Think we did it this time?” You yawn tiredly, trying to keep your voice neutral. Still, your husband knows you too well after all these years by your side, instantly recognizing that hint of fragile hope in your question, and the faint change in your body, gone a little rigid.

His arms squeeze your waist once, before he drops a kiss on the top of your head, hoping it conveyed all his tenderness for your small family. That gesture, although little, instantly warms your heart, melting the tension off of your limbs as you squeeze his torso once.

“I have a hunch we did, my love.”

She just wanted to gather more information about your marriage from Natasha in a last, desperate attempt to convince herself she still had a chance. She is Mr. Barnes’ personal assistant, the only one who gets more than a single austere sentence out of him; the only one he calls by her first name. She must know something about his personal life. 

But Natasha was not at her desk. As a matter of fact, the small hallway was completely deserted, she noticed with a frown. 

And unfortunately, she had to find out the reason the hard way.

It's impossible to not notice the intern's pale face as she makes her way back to her cubicle, slow and stiff as her eyes stay fixed on nothing in particular. 

With a gentle voice, Wanda tries to strike up a conversation. “Hey, are you okay?”

Madison simply retrieves her bag, then turns away, Wanda barely catching her mumbled words as she starts walking toward the elevator. 

“I’m resigning.”

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💛

[bambiibun]

✦ DEVOTED HUSBAND! COLLECTION ⋆ valarr targaryen.

⋆ devoted husband! valarr who worships the very ground you walk on. he has always been fervent in every single one of his duties — sword training every morning, council meetings whenever they required him, and every request his father might make. but when it comes to marriage, duty is not what he feels. it’s passion and devotion. from the very first day you met, he placed his heart in your hands. he simply can’t help it. you’ve carved a home in his heart, and he loves you far too much to ever see your union as mere obligation.

⋆ devoted husband! valarr who fell in love with you at first sight, even before you exchanged vows before the Seven. he didn’t even know how to begin a conversation with you. naturally quiet and reserved, the usual composed and serene prince who always knew exactly what to say suddenly found himself stuttering like a nervous young squire. he kept averting his gaze, acting so perfectly chivalrous that it almost seemed rehearsed, which earned him a few soft, harmless laughs from you.

⋆ devoted husband! valarr who, once married, grew more and more confident with his beautiful wife. those small, restrained glances he once gave you slowly turned into fleeting touches and lingering caresses. valarr always moves slowly but surely, making certain that every action between you is fully consensual and desired.

⋆ devoted husband! valarr who begins to speak to you more and more, especially when it’s just the two of you in your shared chambers. curled up in bed, he murmurs about his day — who he spoke with, who he trained with, and how much he missed you in the moments you couldn’t be together. then he listens attentively to everything about your day, that calm little smile playing on his lips as he hears your sweet voice, gently stroking your hand and intertwining your fingers against his chest.

⋆ devoted husband! valarr who absolutely adores when you run your fingers through his hair. the feeling of your fingertips tracing the white streaks over his ears makes him melt like butter in your arms. he always says you have magic in your hands, and you’re starting to believe it — especially when your nails graze his scalp and he becomes incapable of pulling away from you for hours. sometimes he even falls asleep safely wrapped in your embrace.

⋆ devoted husband! valarr who can’t help but smile and blush faintly when his father asks how married life is treating him. he doesn’t even need to say a word for baelor to understand that he chose the perfect match for his son. valarr tries to keep his composure —he really does!— but it’s impossible when his mind fills with thoughts of you.

⋆ devoted husband! valarr who shows his devotion not only in private but also in public, whether in front of his cousins or other knights. he loves intertwining your fingers under the table during feasts, and he’ll whisper comforting words if he notices aerion’s gaze lingering too intensely on you. he promises he won’t let anyone approach or harm you, urging you to focus only on him — just him.

⋆ devoted husband! valarr who, even after the occasional small argument, always softens you with sincere apologies. he can’t stand more than a couple of minutes of silence without asking for your forgiveness if he’s upset you in any way. he never wants to fight with you or create any bad feelings between you. he only wants harmony with his wife, and if that means setting aside his pride and kneeling before you —no matter how silly the disagreement— he’ll do it without hesitation. he simply loves you too much.

⋆ devoted husband! valarr who can no longer imagine life without you. your affection, your jests, and even your little arguments give him energy every single day. he thanks the Seven for the incredible fortune of having you all to himself.

a/n. fluff time ! 🌸 sooo who's next? probably will make it a hcs series but i'm not sure yet — or perhaps i can delve deeper into a certain character for a scenario. (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠) send requests if you want my darlings. <3

[carmysdoll]

SHOW ME THE LIGHT , TELL ME A STORY !

𐔌 ⠀⠀𓂃 ࣪ ִ⠀⠀valarr targaryen x sweetling reader !

contains ᦸ hc + blurbs kissing physical touch sweetling and valarr hate aerion I think that’s all based on this req ٫٫ 3.5k

❛❛ give all you’ve got, under the moonlight, it’s yours for the taking…

Sweetling reader ! who was sent to live with her uncle and her cousins at the Red Keep, when she was just 12 years old. She flourished quickly under the care and guidance of her uncle. She missed her father and her siblings dearly, and despite the chaos of court, she truly was happy there. Her cousin Valarr, who was also her closest confidant, made it easier for her to settle in. He wanted her to feel at home. 

Sweetling reader ! who was relieved and filled with happiness when Baelor brought her into his office in the tower for the hand, to break the news of her betrothal to Valarr. Something Baelor and her father have been talking about for a while, but they wouldn’t proceed with it unless she was willing, which she thankfully was. They were wed once she turned 17 and Valarr 18; the celebrations lasted a week. The newlywed couple made sure that the smallfolk of King's Landing received food, coin, and supplies. They didn't want to start their marriage by being the reason the people starved and suffered just so their celebrations would be remembered.  

Sweetling reader ! and Valarr Targaryen who have been attached to each other's hips ever since she came to be his father's ward, them becoming betrothed and then married only made them even closer. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Valarr was a quiet but consistent lover; he would stay up and help her with her dragon dreams, would join her on her walks in the garden or her horse riding in the godswood, would bring her the finest jewelry, and listen to her play her harp for hours. Tales and songs of their genuine, gentle love would be remembered till the end of time.  

The morning light filtered through the stone-carved, high-arched windows, gilding your shared chambers in a soft glow. The air was warm—the fires had burned low overnight—and faintly smelled of a rich Smokey scent from the hearth and rose oil from the perfumed candles that still glowed around the chamber. 

Your husband was sitting propped against silken pillows, bare-chested beneath you. His hands rested lightly on your hips, reverent but not possessive. You wore nothing but a loose linen chemise nightgown; below it, the sheet pooled low around your thighs like liquid ruby. His face was flushed—partly from last night’s passion, partly because you sat so comfortably on his lap. 

“You’re so warm,” you cooed with a small smile, moving your hands slowly up his bare chest and leaving chills in your wake. Your husband was strong—not brute strength, but that lean elegance of a prince who trained daily. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist beneath sculptured muscle. The kind meant for ballrooms and jousts rather than war. 

Valarr Targaryen—soft as moonlight, his one eye of blue and the other of brown were looking up at you with reverence—breathed in sharply at your touch and the way you were looking at him, cooing in that voice sweet enough to make anyone melt. His skin was kissed by sunlight, hours you had spent the night before, littering him with soft kisses. 

“Warm?” He echoed softly—his own voice hushed. Lifting his hands higher up your sides beneath the thin chemise fabric slowly. His lips parted slightly—as if wanting to kiss you, but waiting for you. The space between you closed like a breath held too long. 

Your lips met his—soft at first, teasing—a gentle press of shared warmth that deepened almost instantly. Valarr responded without hesitation; his hands fully around your waist now, pulling you closer against him beneath the silk sheets as he kissed back with quiet fervor. No words, just heat and hunger in the morning stillness. His mouth moved skillfully against yours—trained by yours.  

He tasted faintly of wine from last night’s feast…sweet arbor red, but also something so uniquely Valarr. One of your hands trailed up higher to tangle in his hair. 

Your fingers tightened in his hair—gripping, possessive—not harsh, but with the quiet dominance of a dragon claiming what’s hers. The kiss deepened under your control: slow at first, then firmer as you tilted your head to take it further. He let you lead—the arch of your lips against his mouth dictating the pace—and only dared to breathe through his nose between kisses, returning for more like an addict given rare access. 

His hands stayed where they were: on your waist, now sliding up slightly beneath the fabric, warmly cradling you closer as if he were afraid the moment would vanish. 

“You touch me so gently. Did I tire you out last night?” You teased him so fondly, warm breaths panting against his lips before you nipped at his bottom one. He was always so gentle with you, but now it was as if he was holding back. 

You knew the reason why. 

Valarr’s breath hitched—hard—at the nip on his lip, a sharp little bite that sent fire racing through his body. A low sound escaped as a hum, a near-growl muffled against your lips as one of his hands finally slipped from your waist to curl around the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. The other slid beneath your nightgown—warm palm caressing bare skin. 

The kiss turned fierce—Valarr’s restraint snapping like a bowstring drawn too tight. No longer passive and restrained, but claiming, hungry and insistent. The Princely cool composure melted away completely. He kissed you with the fervor of a man who’d been holding back all night while watching you dance with lords in gowns that clung to every curve…who’d sat tensely next to his father, pretending not to stare longingly at his wife. 

Now his lips were everywhere—your mouth first, then trailing down your jaw with soft bitters before catching the sensitive spot just below your ear. His hands moved faster now: one still tangled in your hair; the other slipped further up your thighs under the fabric—fingertips tracing warm skin. 

Valarr’s breath stilled, the kiss breaking. 

His hand—still warm—softly brushed the curve beneath your nightgown. The baby bump, a miracle the court only just celebrated last night. The two of you had kept it a secret for as long as you could, sharing stolen knowing smiles whenever someone mentioned them having an heir. And now here you were: glowing with pregnancy, sitting on his lap—kissing him, teasing him—and yet so tenderly carrying their child. 

His touch turned reverent—not lustful, not possessive like before—but tender as a prayer. With infinite gentleness, Valarr rested both hands on either side of the soft swell, cradling it in awe. You lowered your forehead to his, your noses brushing against each other as he exhaled a shaky breath—a tender smile on his lips. No words still. Just love poured silently between two young hearts tangled together in destiny’s web. 

Valarr Targaryen who wanted to have a daughter. Who called the babe throughout the pregnancy, his little girl. Who was at your side, holding your hand through the whole birth, not caring about any of the ‘formalities’. Who could barely hold back his tears as he watched you hopelessly, praying to the gods for something he could do to make this easier. Who finally let the tears fall as he held his son, his boy. 

Sweetling reader ! who refused to have a wet nurse. She would feed and care for her son herself, with the help of her husband, of course. Who leaves it up to Valarr to name their son, he chose the name Maelor. A mixture of both of their fathers' names, something that had both of the strong men hold back tears. She was glowing; she took to motherhood beautifully. 

Sweetling reader ! and Valarr Targaryen who refuses to have Maelor out of either of their sights, only trusting him with their fathers or their trusted handmaidens, but that’s rare. They are both so utterly in love with their son and the little family they have. They spend more time in their chamber, cuddling up and just watching their son coo and move around; they are awed at everything. They love to go on walks together in the garden, and Valarr loves to hold him as they both listen to her play the harp. 

The chamber was quiet—warm firelight flickering across tapestries of dragons and deserts. The air smelled faintly of lavender, the herbs your maid had scattered in a small brazier to freshen up the room, the scent soothed the family of three. You stepped inside, your sworn shield pulling the door closed as he stayed in the hallway. Maelor remained asleep in your arms, his chest rising and falling softly beneath layers of soft wool linens. 

Your eyes drifted to where your husband was behind you, a small smile of fondness on your lips as you watched him start to undress from his formal attire. They wouldn’t be leaving their chambers for the rest of the night. They were only just now returning to their chambers because it seemed their son had become spoiled and could only fall asleep when he was in his grandsire Baelor’s arms as of late. 

You looked away before your mind started imagining having another babe with him, slowly moving towards the cradle, to lay your sleeping son in it. 

The cradle—carved dark wood, adorned with tiny silver dragons coupled around its edges—rocked gently as you laid Maelor down. His breath was soft and even, his lips parted in innocent sleep. You adjusted the linens around him once more, tucking them snugly under his chin to guard against the castle's chill drafts. 

For a long moment, you simply stood there watching your son. The firelight danced across his round cheeks and fluttered over those unfairly perfect lashes he’d inherited from his father. A pang hit your chest—not sharp like anger—but something quieter…sadder. He was growing so fast; soon your excuses to have him sleep in a cradle in your chambers instead of his nursery wouldn’t work any longer. 

Behind you—the sound of soft footsteps stopped. 

You felt his gentle hands on your waist, palms sliding across your front to carefully untie the knot of your robe while breathing in the scent of your hair with a happy sigh. The ruffle of fabric was quiet. Your eyes fluttered closed for a small moment at the feeling of him placing a gentle kiss on the warm skin of your shoulder once he slowly pulled the robe off you.  

“He sleeps just fine, my beloved; now it’s your turn,” Valarr promised sweetly with another gentle kiss to your shoulder, squeezing your arms softly before he took the robe into his hands and took a step back. You nearly frowned when you felt the warmth of his body behind you fade as he stepped back and laid your robe over the chaise. Of course, he knew what you had been thinking; he also noticed the lack of sleep you’ve been having over the past moons. 

You let out a dramatic sigh as you walked over to the large canopy bed, slipping off your slippers before sitting on the edge, leaning back on your hands. Valarr smiled warmly at the sight of you looking so prettily on their bed, waking over to you to stand between your thighs. You lift your chin to look up at your husband, smiling coyly as you try to explain why you weren’t tired. “My breasts still ache.” 

“Oh, do they?” Valarr pouted in faux sympathy as he slowly moved his hands up your thighs to your hips, not believing you for one moment but still playing along like the sweet husband he is. 

”Mhm…terribly so.” You copied his faux pout, wincing dramatically as you sat up straighter so you could be closer to him. Valarr stopped himself from laughing, reminding himself to be quiet and not wake their sleeping son. 

“How convenient.” He mused tauntingly as he dipped his head down, his nose softly brushing against your cheek before placing a feather-light kiss on it, then your temple, and lastly your lips. The kiss deepened just a little—slow, tender, full of unspoken love. His lips moved softly against yours with perfect rhythm—the kind that comes from years of kissing and knowing exactly how your mouth fits his. 

One hand moved from your waist to cradle your face gently while the other held your hip. The warmth between them was passionate yet peaceful—a feeling they felt deep in their bones. When you finally parted for air, you kept your forehead pressed against his, eyes still closed and breathing each other in. You whispered with a dramatic gasp, the corner of your lips fighting to twitch up into a smile, “Are you calling me wanton husband?”  

Without saying anything, he kissed you again—sweeter this time—and let his nose nuzzle yours once he pulled away. He could see the tiredness in your eyes, how you were trying to fight it. His thumb gently caresses your cheek as he places a long, soft kiss on your forehead, letting out an exhale before whispering with a smile, “Lay down with me before Maelor wakes up half the castle with his cries, hmm?”

Sweetling reader ! who had been a victim of Aerion’s relentless taunting and cruelty since she could remember. Aerion’s cruelty, lingering touches, and his obsession with her were the main reasons why Maekar sent her to stay with Baelor. Aerion didn’t just want to own her; he wanted to hurt her. His obsession wasn’t discreet either. 

Sweetling reader ! and Valarr Targaryen who didn't want to come to the tourney. They wanted to go to Dragonstone with Maelor and Matarys, but Baelor made it clear that they must come along to show good faith. The whole journey to Ashford, she was in the wheelhouse with 1-year-old Maelor and her 2 ladies-in-waiting. They didn't want to bring Maelor along because they worried too much, but they also couldn’t bear to leave him at the Red Keep in the hands of others, no matter how much they trusted them. 

Valarr Targaryen who’s hated Aerion with a fiery passion since they were children, and it only got worse as the years went on, seeing the way he treats his sister and how it affects her and continues to affect her. He kept Sweetling and Maelor close to his side the whole time they were at Ashford; he wouldn’t let Aerion near them; he wouldn’t let him hurt his family. 

“And he just stood there—looking at her with that vile love-sickened look.” Aegon shuddered dramatically as he retold the moment between his new friend Duncan and the pretty puppeteer Tanselle. Your younger brother was quiet and teary-eyed when you pulled him into your arms and brought him to your chambers, but now his shoulders seemed to be lighter as he told you of his small journey with this Ser Duncan the Tall. Aegon smiled and blew raspberries loudly at his nephew, who was waving the wood-carved dragon in the air with a coo. 

“Vile, love-sickened look?” You looked up from the silk scarf you were delicately embroidering to look at your little brother—who was sitting on the bear pelt rug in front of the hearth, playing with Maelor—with an amused smile. Your brother had such a way with words. Maelor looked towards you with his big eyes, just like his father's, at the sound of your voice. 

You smiled as he waved the toy at you, clumsily bringing his hand up to blow you a kiss—something he learned from his father. Your eyes softened as you watched him get distracted by his hand as if he saw it for the first time, dropping the toy to shove his fist in his mouth. Aegon groaned in disgust and gently pulled his fist out of his mouth before looking up at you. 

“Close to how Valarr looks at you.” He raised his eyebrows with a shake of the head, looking at you like you should already know the answer as he spoke in that bratty, knowing tone you knew too well. You scoffed at his brattiness, but you couldn’t stop the big smile from spreading across your face at the thought. The others could see the love your husband had for you. 

“Now you have it.”  Aegon gagged dramatically at the look on your face, how your eyes dazzled in love. Maelor tried to copy his uncle but ended up coughing, pouting at Aegon afterward. Dramatics sure did run in the family. You looked up from the silk scarf at the sound of the wood doors of the chambers opening. Aegon flinched and immediately looked towards the door, hoping to get news of Duncan, but only saw his cousin, your husband. 

“Aegon, your father is asking for you.” Your husband's calm voice filled the silence of the chambers once his eyes found his young cousin playing with his son. His gaze immediately then went to you; he could see the worry in your eyes as you noticed his tense demeanor, the way he clenched his jaw. Aegon’s shoulders sagged, and that familiar look of sadness decorated his face once again. 

His nimble fingers worked to take off his sword belt, laying it across the bottom of the bed he’d share with you. For tournaments, he usually liked to stay in his pavilion on the fields near the other men, but he couldn't risk leaving you and Maelor, not with Aerion walking around. Your own nimble fingers stopped embroidering as you watched your little brother gently squeeze your son's cheek as he muttered, “Goodnight, Maelor.” 

Aegon stood up; he looked so small in clothes that fit him perfectly, a reminder of how young he truly was. His eyes were downcast as he spoke, “Goodnight, sister.” 

He was turning around and moving towards the door before you could even open your mouth to say it back. Valarr stepped in front of him, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder as he looked down at the young prince, his voice soft and reassuring ”You know where we are.” 

“How angry is my father?” You asked your husband with a worried frown once the chamber door closed. Your eyes filled with worry as you watched him take off his boots and doublet, his jaw clenched and tension in his shoulders. Valarr gave you a soft but pointed look as he walked over to the two of you. “His anger is towards Aerion and Aerion alone.” 

Valarr smiled warmly and crouched down in front of Maelor, who was quick to babble and hold his arms out for him. Your husband was quick to grant his son's wish, picking him up and holding him close. He placed a kiss on his chubby cheek and then his temple as he breathed in his scent, something that always soothed the two of you. He whispered, “Hello, my sweet boy.”

“And Daeron—Is he well?” So many thoughts were clouding your mind, and it was starting to make it ache. You knew this Tournament was no good; you had felt it in your bones for many moons. Your hands trembled around the embroidery needle and the silk scarf as the dream and Daeron’s frantic whispers started to make sense. 

Valarr looked away from his son's big eyes filled with happiness to look into yours, filled with fear and worry. He held Maelor close with one arm as he walked over to you. He softly caressed your face before moving his hand to the back of your head. He leaned down and pressed a soft and long kiss to your forehead, whispering reverently against your skin, “My sweet wife.” 

“I just worry for Aegon; he’s already attached to this, Ser Duncan. Will the hedge knight be kill—“ 

”No more of this, my sweet; our fathers are seeing to this. You shouldn’t worry.” Your husband cut off your frantic, worried rambling. You sighed, and the tension that had found its way to your body started to melt as his thumb gently caressed your cheek, pulling you out of your thoughts. He wouldn’t let you get drowned in your mind again. 

”Tis’ late; both of you need rest—in my arms I would have it.” Valarr hummed with a sweet smile as he tried to sound stern, looking away from you to smile and place a soft kiss on Maelor’s nose. Maelor giggles and reaches up to clumsily grab at his father's nose. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight and the sound of your son’s innocent laughter as Valarr grabbed his small hand and pressed kisses to it. 

You carefully set the silk scarf on the small table next to your chair before you stand up. Smiling, you place a soft kiss on your son's temple before leaning up to place a kiss on Valarr’s jaw. Your husband's hand moves down to the arch of your back, pressing you close. You felt your worries and fears burn away under the feeling of your husband's touch and the sight of your son. 

You tilt your head with a teasing grin as you place your hand on Valarr’s chest, fidgeting with the soft cloth of his tunic. Your tone was playful as you dramatically bowed your head, “As my husband commands.”

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my….sweetling mlist & main masterlist ❜❜

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[fixalice]

Targaryen Prince who rips the favour you gifted of a lance belonging to a knight going against him in a joust after he’s won

And then using the same favour to tie your hands together as he pounds into your cunt. The ribbon tied so tightly it leaves angry red marks across your wrists reminding you exactly who you truly belong to.

[lalalovelyly]

My Dreamer

Valarr Targaryen X Targ!Reader (looks unspecified)

Summary: In which you seek comfort from your cousin

A/N: Unc still got it (hopefully)

You do not remember deciding to leave your bed, one moment you were there, tangled in your own sheets, your limbs twitching against the mattress as though you were trying to run from something your body understood before your mind did. The dream had seized you by the throat and pulled you under, down into that cold stone chamber where the air tasted of dust and decay and loneliness so thick you could feel it coating your lungs like oil.

The dragon was young. That was the worst part. It was so terribly young, no bigger than a hound, its scales the color of fresh cream, pale and luminous even in the darkness of that windowless room. But the sheen on its hide was wrong. Sickly. Patched with something dark and wet that might have been sweat or might have been something worse. Its breathing came in shallow, rattling gasps, its small ribcage heaving with the effort of simply continuing to exist, and it was alone. Utterly, devastatingly alone. No mother dragon to curl around it. No sibling to press close and share warmth. Just cold stone and shadows and the slow, inexorable approach of something it did not have a name for.

It was crying, a whimpering, keening sound that rose and fell like a child's sob. It kept lifting its head toward a door that was not there, straining toward someone who should have come, should have been there, should have loved it enough to stay. But no one came. No one ever came, and the little dragon's cries grew weaker and weaker until they were barely more than a whisper of breath, a thread of sound so fragile you wanted to gather it up in your hands and hold it against your heart.

You woke with that sound still ringing in your ears and tears cooling on your cheeks, your bare feet found the cold stone floor. Your hand found the door. The corridor swallowed you into its darkness, and you walked.

The Red Keep at night is a living thing. It breathes around you, the whisper of distant drafts through ancient stonework, the creak and settle of timbers older than your grandfather's grandfather, the skitter of unseen things in the walls. Moonlight fell through the high windows in silver sheets, turning the familiar corridors into something strange and dreamlike, though whether you were still dreaming or finally awake, you could not have said. Perhaps it did not matter. Perhaps you existed always in that liminal space between sleep and waking, between vision and reality. Valarr had once told you that was what made you who you were. He had said it like it was a gift. Like you were something precious, rather than something broken.

Your feet knew the path. Past the tapestry of Aegon's Conquest, the threads beginning to fray where Balerion's black jaws opened wide. Left at the alcove with the Myrish vase your mother kept meaning to replace, it had been cracked for three years now, ever since your brother Aelor had knocked it over chasing Aelora with a dead mouse. Up the winding stair where the torches had long since guttered out, where you had to feel your way along the wall with your fingertips, the stone rough and familiar beneath your touch.

His door, it was heavy oak, banded with iron, the grain worn smooth by centuries of hands pushing it open and pulling it closed. You stood before it in your thin nightgown, the hem brushing your bare ankles, your hair a wild silver-gold cloud around your shoulders, and for a moment — just a moment — you hesitated.

This was not something a woman of eight and ten did. You were a princess of the blood. You had ladies in waiting and maids and septas who would be horrified if they knew where you stood right now, what you intended to do. Grown women did not creep through the castle at night seeking warmth in a man's bed. Grown women did not wait to be held like children frightened of a storm.

But you were not like other grown women. You had never been like anyone. And Valarr had never once asked you to be.

The latch yielded under your hand without a sound. He never barred his door against you. Even after all these years — even after the nights of shared sleep had given way to propriety and distance and the careful performance of adulthood — he had never barred his door. As though some part of him was always waiting. As though some part of him knew you would come back eventually.

The room was steeped in shadow, thick and velvet dark. The hearth had burned down to embers, their orange glow casting just enough light to trace the outlines of the space. A heavy oak chair near the fireplace, draped with the tunic he had worn at supper. A small table bearing a half-empty cup of wine and a book he had been reading. His boots by the door, one standing upright, the other toppled on its side as though he had kicked it off carelessly, which he almost certainly had.

And the bed, its curtains half-drawn, the heavy velvet the color of dried blood. Beneath the mound of furs, you could make out the shape of him, the long line of his body, the way one arm was flung out to the side as though reaching for something even in sleep. His dark hair was a slash of shadow against the pillow, disrupted by that impossible streak of silver-gold that caught the ember-light and seemed to glow with its own inner fire.

Your heart clenched at the sight of him. It always did. It had been doing so since you were old enough to understand what the clenching meant, and perhaps even before that.

You crossed the room on silent feet, the cold flagstones biting at your soles. The air here was warmer than the corridor, warmer than your own chambers had been. It smelled of him — cedarwood and something sweet, like honey on fresh bread. You had known that smell since you were five years old and crawling into his bed for the first time, a frightened little girl whose mother had told her she was too old to sleep with her parents anymore. You had known it then and you knew it now, and it meant the same thing it had always meant.

Safe. Home. Him.

Carefully, so carefully, you lifted the edge of the furs and slipped beneath them, the warmth enveloped you instantly, so intense after the chill of the corridors that it made you gasp. You pressed closer to its source without thinking, drawn like a moth to a flame, and your feet — bare and frozen as river stones in winter — brushed against the solid warmth of his calves.

Valarr woke with a violent start. "Seven bleeding — " His voice was rough and slurred with sleep, cracking on the curse. He twisted in the bed, furs tangling around his waist, one hand flying out to grasp at a sword that was not there. His dark hair fell across his brow in disheveled waves, and the streak of silver-gold caught the ember-light like a scar of starlight. His eyes blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the shape beside him in the darkness.

"Y/N?"

The way he said your name — half question, half recognition, as though his body had known it was you before his mind caught up. As though you were something his very bones recognized.

"What in the name of the gods — it is the middle of the night." He pushed himself up on one elbow, the furs sliding down to reveal the bare skin of his chest. He slept in only his breeches, and the sight of him like this — sleep-warm and disheveled, the lean muscle of his shoulders shifting in the dim light — sent a flutter through your belly that you resolutely ignored. "What are you doing here? What is wrong?"

Your feet were still pressed against his calves. You could not seem to make yourself move them. They were so cold and he was so warm, and the last remnants of the dream were still coiling at the edges of your mind like smoke, waiting to drag you back under.

"Your feet," he said, his voice strangled. "They are — woman, they are frigid. Have you been walking barefoot through the snow? There is no snow. It is the middle of summer, how are your feet this cold?"

"I had a dream," you whispered.

The words came out strange, thin and distant, as though they had traveled a great distance to reach him. Your voice did that sometimes after the bad ones. It was as though part of you was still trapped in the vision, still standing in that cold stone chamber watching the little dragon die, and only the barest sliver of your soul had made it back to your body.

Valarr went still, you watched his expression shift. It was a subtle thing — the way the irritation bled out of him, replaced by something sharper, more watchful. His jaw tightened. His eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that made you feel seen in a way you rarely did. He knew. He knew what your dreams were, what they meant, what they cost you. He had known since you were children.

"Y/N." His voice was different now. Softer. The voice he used only with you, when there was no one else to hear. "We are not children anymore."

"I know."

"You cannot simply — if anyone were to find you here, in my bed, in the middle of the night — "

"I know," you said again, and your voice cracked on the second word.

Something in his face shifted. Broke open, perhaps. The sternness crumpled at the edges, and beneath it you saw the thing he kept so carefully hidden during the daylight hours, the vast, aching tenderness that lived at the core of him like a second heart. He sighed. It was a long sigh, a sigh of surrender and relief and something that might have been longing.

"Come here," he said.

His arm slid around your waist — strong and sure and so exquisitely warm — and he pulled you against him, your body molded to his as though you had been carved to fit together, your breasts pressing against the bare skin of his chest through the thin fabric of your nightgown, your legs tangling with his beneath the furs. His chin came to rest atop your head, and you felt his breath stir your hair, warm and steady.

"Your feet," he murmured against your crown, "are still a crime against nature."

"Apologies, my prince."

"I should make you warm them on someone else."

"You would never."

"No," he agreed, his arm tightening around you, pulling you somehow even closer. "I would never."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, a log shifting and sending up a brief flare of orange light that painted shadows across the walls. Somewhere far below, in the bowels of the keep, a servant was already beginning to stir, you could hear the distant clang of a pot, the muffled voice of someone starting the day's baking. But here, in this room, there was only the two of you, wrapped in furs and silence and the unspoken enormity of what you were to each other.

His hand moved on your back. Slow, deliberate strokes, up and down the curve of your spine. It was meant to soothe, and it did, you felt the tension bleeding out of your muscles with each pass of his palm. But there was something else in it, too. Something that made your breath catch and your skin prickle with awareness. His fingers traced the ridges of your spine as though he were memorizing them, as though he wanted to map every inch of you by touch alone.

"Tell me," he said quietly. "Tell me about the dream."

You closed your eyes. Behind your lids, the little dragon was still there, still dying, still alone. "There was a dragon," you whispered. "A young one. It was sick. Dying."

Valarr said nothing. His hand did not stop its slow, rhythmic caress.

"It was in a room with no windows," you continued, your voice barely above a breath. "A chamber of cold stone, somewhere I did not recognize. It was alone. Completely alone. It kept calling out — it was trying to reach someone, I think. Someone it loved, someone who should have been there. But no one came. No one ever came. It cried until its voice gave out, and then it just... lay there. Breathing. Waiting to die. And I could not help it, Valarr. I tried to move toward it but my feet would not carry me, and I tried to call out to it but my voice made no sound, and all I could do was stand there and watch it suffer and I could not — I could not — "

Your voice broke. The tears came then, hot and silent, spilling down your cheeks and into the fabric of his chest. You had not realized you were still crying. You had not realized the dream still had its claws in you this deeply.

"Oh, sweetheart." The endearment slipped from him like a breath, unthinking and instinctive. His arms tightened around you, crushing you against his chest, and he pressed his lips to your hair, not a kiss, not quite, just the pressure of his mouth against your crown as though he could press comfort directly into your skin. "Oh, my sweet girl. My dreamer."

"I could not help it," you sobbed, the words muffled against his chest. "It was so small, Valarr. It was so small and so frightened and so terribly, terribly alone, and I could not do anything."

"Shh. Shh, I have you." His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading through your tangled hair, cradling your skull with a tenderness that made your chest ache. "I have you, Y/N. You are not there anymore. You are here, with me. You are safe. You are not alone."

"But the dragon — "

"The dragon was a dream."

"You do not know that," you said, pulling back just enough to look up at him. Your vision was blurry with tears, but you could still make out his face — the sharp line of his jaw, the softness in his mismatched eyes, the furrow of concern between his brows. "You do not know that, Valarr. Sometimes they are not just dreams. Sometimes they are — "

"I know." He cupped your face in both hands now, his palms warm against your tear-stained cheeks, his thumbs brushing the moisture away with infinite gentleness. "I know, my love. I know what your dreams are. I know they are more than dreams. But whatever you saw — whatever is going to happen or might happen or has already happened somewhere far away — you cannot carry it alone. Do you understand me? You cannot let it destroy you. I will not allow it."

My love.

The words hung in the air between you, shimmering like heat haze. He had called you that before, in jest, in affection, in the casual way cousins sometimes spoke to one another, but this was different and you could see in his eyes the moment he realized what he had said.

He did not take it back.

"Valarr," you breathed.

"It was a sad dream." His voice was rough, rougher than it had been, as though the words were scraping against something raw on their way out. "A sad, cruel dream, and I am sorry you had to see it. I am sorry you have to see any of it. If I could take it from you — if I could bear it myself so you would not have to — I would. You know I would."

You stared up at him, your heart beating so hard you were certain he must feel it through the places where your bodies pressed together. His face was so close to yours. His breath fanned across your lips. His hands were still cradling your face as though you were something infinitely precious, something he was terrified of breaking.

"I know," you whispered.

"Good." His thumb traced the arch of your cheekbone, feather-light. "Then let me distract you. Let me give you something better to think about than dying dragons and cold stone rooms."

He shifted, settling more comfortably against the pillows, and drew you with him. You ended up half-draped across his chest, your head tucked into the hollow of his shoulder, your hand resting flat against his heart. Beneath your palm, you could feel the steady rhythm of it — thump-thump, thump-thump — grounding and real and so wonderfully alive. His arm curled around your waist, his fingers tracing idle circles on the curve of your hip through your nightgown. The fabric was thin, so thin you could feel the heat of his skin through it, and every circle his fingers traced sent a shiver of warmth spiraling through your belly.

"Your nameday approaches," he murmured. His voice had dropped to that low, intimate register that made your bones feel like honey. "You will be eight and ten. A woman full grown."

"Do not remind me." You pressed your face into the warm skin of his shoulder, breathing him in. "Mother is already speaking of marriage prospects. She has a list. With names and titles and little notes about their holdings."

"A list?" He sounded genuinely affronted. "Who is on this list?"

"I do not remember. Some Lord Something from the Reach. Onefrom the Vale with a very impressive castle and a very unimpressive chin. A Dornish prince who — "

"A Dornish prince?" Now he sounded outraged. "Absolutely not. Dornishmen are far too charming. You would be swept off your feet before the first course."

"Then perhaps you should do something about it," you murmured, and felt his heart stutter beneath your palm.

A pause. The fire crackled. Outside, the first pale hint of dawn was beginning to lighten the sky beyond the window, though neither of you acknowledged it.

"There will be a feast," Valarr said, his voice deliberately light in the way it always was when he was feeling something too large to speak directly. "Grandfather will insist. The Great Hall will be filled with lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, all of them stuffed into their finest clothes and pretending to enjoy each other's company. There will be roasted boar and lemon cakes and those little honeyed figs you like so much. There will be wine from the Arbor, the good vintage, the one Grandfather hoards for special occasions."

"You are trying to distract me," you said against his skin.

"Is it working?"

"...Continue."

His chest rumbled with quiet laughter, and you felt it reverberate through your whole body. "There will be musicians. Minstrels from as far as Braavos, if the whispers are true. A fire-eater — though Matarys will have to be restrained from attempting to join the act, given what happened last time."

"His eyebrows have never been quite the same."

"They grew back. Mostly. In a somewhat... fashion."

You snorted, undignified and unladylike, and Valarr's arm tightened around you. When you tilted your head to look up at him, you found him already watching you, his mismatched eyes soft and heavy-lidded in the dim light. There was something in his expression you could not name, something vast and aching and utterly unguarded. It was the way he looked at you when he thought you were not paying attention. The way he had been looking at you for years, perhaps, hidden beneath layers of duty and propriety and all the things a prince was supposed to be.

"And there will be a tourney," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, until it was barely more than a murmur. "The finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms will compete. They will ride in the lists and fight in the melee, and at the opening feast, they will all be watching the high table. Watching for a glimpse of the beautiful princess."

"A great many Targaryen women are beautiful ."

"None of them are you." He said it so simply, so matter of factly, as though it were an immutable truth of the universe. Fire was hot. None of the other Targaryen women were you. "And one of those knights — some strapping young lord, handsome and gallant and very determined — will approach the high table. He will kneel before the most beautiful woman in the hall, and he will ask for the honor of wearing her favor in the lists."

Your breath had gone shallow. His hand was still tracing those lazy circles on your hip, but the circles had grown smaller, more deliberate. His thumb had found the edge of your nightgown where it had ridden up and was tracing the bare skin just above your hipbone, back and forth, back and forth, as though he did not even realize he was doing it.

"The most beautiful woman in the hall," you repeated. Your voice came out breathier than you intended. "And who might that be?"

"She will be seated at the high table, beside her mother and her siblings. She will be wearing something in pale grey or soft lilac, because those are the colors she favors, and she will look as though she is half lost in a dream, because she always does."

"That is remarkably specific."

"I have given it a great deal of thought."

Your heart was beating so hard now you could feel it in your throat. "And this knight — this strapping young lord — he will ask for my favor?"

"He will ask. And you will grant it." His voice was a caress, as intimate as a kiss. "You will tie a ribbon around his arm — blue, perhaps, or silver, something that matches your eyes — and you will wish him luck, and he will carry that ribbon into every tilt, and it will be the thought of you that gives him strength."

"He will need it," you whispered. "There are many fine knights."

"He will unhorse every single one of them." Valarr said it with absolute certainty, the same certainty with which he might have announced that the sun would rise. "Every knight who rides against him will find himself flat on his back in the dust, wondering what in the seven hells just happened. The smallfolk will cheer. The lords will applaud. The other knights will grind their teeth and curse his name. And when the tourney is over and the victor's crown is presented — a wreath of winter roses, perhaps, or a circlet of golden leaves — he will take it and he will ride directly to the high table. He will pass all the other ladies, all the highborn maidens in their silks and velvets, and he will stop before only one."

"Only one," you echoed, barely breathing.

"Only one. Only ever one." His mismatched eyes held yours, and there was no jest in them now. No teasing. Only that vast and aching tenderness you had glimpsed earlier, laid bare and unguarded. "He will lower his lance and crown you his Queen of Love and Beauty. As he has done every year since he was old enough to ride in a tourney. As he will do every year for the rest of his life, so long as there are tourneys and crowns and the both of you to attend them."

"I wonder," you finally managed, your voice barely a whisper, "who that knight might be."

Valarr smiled. It was a slow smile, a smile that belonged only to you and had since the very beginning of things. And then he leaned down — slowly, so slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away — and pressed his lips to your forehead.

He lingered there, his mouth warm against your skin, his breath stirring the fine hairs at your temple. His hand had moved from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you closer, and you could feel the tension in his body, the restraint it took for him not to tilt your chin up and capture your mouth with his instead.

"I wonder," he murmured against your forehead, and you felt the words as much as heard them, a vibration against your skin that traveled all the way down to your toes.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes searched your face, as though memorizing every detail, the curve of your cheek, the part of your lips, the way your pupils had blown wide and dark. His thumb traced the line of your jaw with aching tenderness.

"You are warm now," he observed. His voice was still rough. "Your feet have finally stopped trying to murder me."

"The true mark of a successful midnight visit."

"Mmm." His thumb traced your lower lip, just barely — the barest whisper of a touch, and yet it sent electricity crackling down your spine. "You should sleep, my dreamer. The hour is late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. And I cannot have you falling asleep at breakfast. Your mother would ask questions. Your mother asking questions is bad for my continued existence."

"You are afraid of my mother?"

"Your mother is a daughter of the Vale. She could freeze a man with a single look. I am appropriately terrified."

You laughed, soft and breathless, and Valarr's expression softened into something so openly adoring it made your chest hurt.

"Stay," he said, and it was not a question. It was a plea. A confession. A prayer. "Stay here. Sleep. I will keep the dreams away."

"Will you?"

"Always." He pressed another kiss to your forehead, softer this time, but no less reverent. "I have been keeping your dreams at bay since you were five years old. I am not about to stop now."

You wanted to say something. You wanted to tell him what he meant to you, how he had been your anchor in a world that made no sense, how you did not think you could survive the things you saw without the knowledge that he was there to come back to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him, had loved him for years, would love him until the stars burned out and the world crumbled to dust, but the words would not come. They never did, not for this. You could speak prophecies and visions and truths no one else could see, but when it came to the simple, terrifying reality of your own heart, you were struck mute.

Perhaps he knew anyway. Perhaps he had always known.

"Close your eyes," he murmured, and his hand resumed its slow path up and down your spine, tracing the curve of each vertebra with the kind of devotion most men reserved for prayer. "I have you. I am not going anywhere."

You closed your eyes, his fingers traced nonsense patterns on your back. Letters, perhaps. Words he could not bring himself to say aloud. You thought you recognized the shape of them, the curve of a Y, the long line of an L, the simple cross of a T,  but you were too tired to be certain, too warm and too safe and too deeply, profoundly content.

"Valarr?" you murmured, already half-asleep.

"Mm?"

"I am glad you do not bar your door."

His arms tightened around you. His lips found your hair once more, lingering there, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with something that might have been tears or might have been love or might have been both.

"I will never bar my door against you, Y/N. Not if you come a hundred times. Not if you come a thousand. Not if the whole world burns down around us. My door will always be open to you. Do you understand?"

You understood. You understood more than he knew. More than you could say, and so you did not say anything at all. You simply pressed closer, tucking yourself into the curve of his body as though you had been made to fit there, and let the rhythm of his heartbeat carry you down into a sleep that was, for once, entirely dreamless.

The last thing you felt before consciousness slipped away was the brush of his lips against your forehead, and the whisper of words so soft you could not quite catch them.

But you did not need to catch them, you already knew what they were.

[oncerwinx]

The Northern Bride (2)

Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Stark!Reader

summary: short continuation of Northern Bride where you are expecting and Valarr is the source of Dragonstone's stress

warnings: brief mention of morning sickness

notes: Baelor next, then Jacaerys

wc: 596!

(Ako ning basura, ako lang ni) (Esta basura es mía, y solo mía)

this is not proofread.

You were with child. It was well known with how Valarr called upon countless maesters when you first had morning sickness and he feared you were dying. The maesters had to reassure him many times that you were indeed with child and it was nothing life-threatening. He only stopped when you made a comment about moving to a different chamber to get away from all his fussing.

Baelor even saw from his study's window how you would walk the gardens with a nervous Valarr trailing behind. The older prince tried to rein his son's worries in, but it was to no avail. Valarr was clearly underestimating how fast a woman with child could walk, or he was underestimating your stubbornness to prove him wrong. You walked faster the more he tried to keep up.

Valarr was plagued with worry regarding everything you did. You had to push his hand away when he tried to guide you to a bench or back to your comfy chambers that he had spared no expense indulging on. After a bit more strolling, you finally accepted his help and let him lead you back to rest. You supposed a deep nap would be good for your constant sleepiness.

The servants knew what to do once you were settled back into bed, there were different preparations to be done. The first was if Valarr would call for maids to help you bathe, or have chefs cook your favorite Northern dishes so that you would not be homesick, or have it absolutely silent near your chambers so that you may actually nap. 

You would never admit it out loud, but you have slept in or taken naps whenever you wanted to avoid people. Valarr was either oblivious or not caring of your true reasons, for he would make the servants go away and let you snooze away. He would have happily let you sleep for days on end if you didn't feel bad about taking advantage every now and then. You quite enjoyed not having to do any duties.

You were very accepting about the pampering and he knew people hoped for a boy badly, but he would not care if you were to give him a princess instead.

— —

A little girl named Rhaenys was born during the winter, true to her heritage. However, the cold only made Valarr fret more with the hearth and blankets. It was almost as if the cold was no issue for you. You would carry the little girl around happily and let her feel a bit of wind on her cheeks to make her laugh. 

The young princess of Dragonstone was spoiled heavily, but no one spoiled her even more than prince Baelor himself. The man was delighted to have a grandchild and would always carry her whenever someone would set her down. The sweet girl would babble and he would show off his beloved granddaughter to the whole court. 

Valarr would try to hold her again while Baelor ignored him and gave new toys to his grandchild. The little girl was squealing and wide eyed with the amount of dolls presented to her. You could only smile at how much love surrounded your daughter. You were glad to have a new family that was even closer than yours in different ways.

Valarr was smiling at you and the family you gifted him. He was surprisingly content with you and Rhaenys alone. He had no care for a son if it would strain you or if you simply did not want another child. He supposed he would have to make Matarys his heir if it came down to it.

oncerwinx2026

[jxerv]

silly thoughts | j.v

Pairings: Jacaerys Velaryon x Pregnant!Wife!Reader

Summary: Your husband didn’t greet you that morning, it made you really upset.

WARNINGS: Pregnancy, ormones, fluff

A/n: after seeing the results I wrote this. This is a little short, but sooo cute😩 (I need Jace)

masterlist | wc: 1.7k

IT WAS already late afternoon when Jacaerys finished his daily training on the beach of Dragonstone. The waves continued to crash against the rocks with their constant roar, while the salty wind tousled his hair, already damp with sweat. His breathing was still heavy from the exertion, his chest rising and falling slowly as he put away his training sword and ran a hand across his forehead to wipe away the drops trickling down his temples. The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson that reflected across the sea. His clothes were completely soaked with sweat and clung to his body with irritating insistence, but he paid it no mind. There was only one person he wanted to see after every training session, only one presence capable of turning exhaustion into serenity with a simple smile.

He crossed the great doors of the castle, welcomed by the familiar warmth of Dragonstone's halls. His footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor, while servants and guards offered quick bows as he passed. Jacaerys barely acknowledged them with a distracted nod. His mind was already elsewhere, focused solely on you. Ever since you had discovered you were expecting a child, every moment spent away from you felt far too long. It had become almost instinctive for him to seek you out the moment he set foot in the castle, to make sure you were well, that you needed nothing, that the pain accompanying your pregnancy was not too severe. You were his wife, the woman he had chosen and would continue to choose every day of his life. And the child growing within you represented the future he had always wanted to build together.

He found you in your chambers, seated before the great fireplace where the flames crackled softly, casting a warm light that enveloped the entire room. A heavy blanket lay over your legs, while one hand gently caressed your now evident belly in slow, almost unconscious gestures filled with a tenderness that tightened his chest every time he watched you. Your gaze, however, was lost in the fire, your eyes glossy, veiled with tears barely held back. Even when you heard the door open and immediately recognized his footsteps, you stubbornly refused to turn around. You continued staring at the flames as if he had not even entered the room.

Jacaerys' heart skipped a beat. All the calm he had gathered along the way vanished in an instant, replaced by immediate concern. Without even removing his training gloves, he quickly crossed the room and knelt before the armchair, trying to catch your gaze by lowering himself to your level. His dark eyes were filled with worry as they searched your face desperately for an explanation. "Why are you crying?" he asked, his voice far gentler than he had expected, as though he feared that speaking too loudly might shatter you further. One hand cautiously brushed the edge of the blanket, hesitant. "Please, tell me what's wrong."

Your lips trembled slightly, forming a pout that was as obvious as it was endearing. You took a deep breath, as if gathering all the courage you needed to confess the reason for your distress, something that felt enormous, even though a part of you already knew how irrational it was. "You've stopped loving me!" you finally whimpered, your voice breaking with tears and emotions that, in recent months, seemed to intensify without control. You kept avoiding his gaze, as if afraid that looking at him too long would make you cry even harder.

Jacaerys' eyebrows lifted again in astonishment. For a moment he remained completely still, unable to understand how you had reached such a conclusion. Then, seeing that stubborn pout and the deeply offended expression with which you pressed your lips together, a tender, amused smile slowly spread across his face. Before him stood the woman he loved, struggling against the tides of pregnancy hormones, and he found it all incredibly sweet. "And how did you come to that conclusion?" he asked with infinite patience, tilting his head slightly.

"This morning you left without saying goodbye, without giving me a kiss... nothing!" you replied immediately, as if you had been waiting all day for that moment to vent. You crossed your arms over your chest stubbornly, turning your face away so he couldn't read your expression. "You left as if I wasn't even there."

For a long moment, Jacaerys remained silent. Then he felt all the tension leave his shoulders in a deep sigh of relief. He had feared he had truly hurt you, that he had forgotten something important or unknowingly wounded you. Knowing that this was the reason almost made him smile even more, though he forced himself not to laugh. For you, that pain was real.

He stepped closer, slowly taking one of your hands in his. His fingers were still warm from training, but his touch remained incredibly gentle as he brought the back of your hand to his lips, pressing a slow, affectionate kiss against it. His lips indulged on your skin for a few seconds more than he intended to, the warmth of his mouth crawled upon your arm, leaving shivers on their way. "You were asleep." His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "I didn't have the heart to wake you, especially after you'd been up for most of the night because of the pain. I saw you finally resting so peacefully and it felt selfish to interrupt that sleep just to say goodbye." He lifted his gaze until it finally met yours. "And I don't think it's even possible for me to stop loving you." he continued, with the faintest hint of a smile.

Those words were enough to crack all your stubbornness. A muffled whine slipped past your lips before he gently pulled you against his chest, careful not to press against your belly. His arms wrapped around you with that steady reassurance that always made you feel safe, while one hand slowly began to stroke your back in slow, soothing motions. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat reached you clearly through the still-damp fabric of his clothes, and in that sound you always found a peace that was hard to explain. He stroked your back with one hand. "My sweet girl, why would you ever doubt my love? Have I ever made you question my feelings for you?"

You remained silent for a few moments, continuing to listen to his heartbeat as you sincerely reflected on that question. You sniffled softly a couple of times, absentmindedly wiping a tear against his tunic. Deep down, you already knew the answer. Jacaerys had never stopped showing you how much he loved you, not even for a single day. Every gesture, every act of care, every look he gave you spoke the same language. You lifted your face slightly, still pouting. "You're making me feel silly..." you admitted quietly.

He immediately shook his head firmly. "You are not silly at all." One hand rose slowly to brush your hair back behind your ear with disarming tenderness. "You have every right to be upset. I should have said goodbye before leaving this morning. Even if you were asleep, I could have at least left you a kiss on your forehead." His fingers gently caressed your cheek. "And for that, I'm terribly sorry. Will you ever forgive me, my love?"

You stayed silent for a few more seconds, pretending to consider your answer carefully. In truth, you had already decided to forgive him the moment he held you in his arms, but you had no intention of giving up that small advantage. Your lips curved slightly into a hidden smile.

"Only if you say the words you didn't tell me this morning." you murmured against his chest, your voice muffled by the fabric of his clothes.

A soft laugh escaped Jacaerys, full of affection. "As you wish, my girl." He gently lifted your face in his hands, looking at you as if you were the most precious creature to ever exist. "I love you." He placed a kiss on your cheek. "I love you." Another kiss, slightly higher. "I love you." Another, this time on the opposite cheek. "I love you." He continued without any hurry, smiling more and more each time he saw your pout melting away. "I love you."

In the end, you couldn't hold back anymore. A clear, bright laugh burst from your lips, filling the room and completely replacing the silence that had wrapped it just moments before. The pout vanished entirely, giving way to a radiant smile that made him forget all the exhaustion of the day.

Jacaerys couldn't stop looking at you. He would never stop marveling at how easily you could change his world with nothing more than a smile. His hand slowly slid to your belly, caressing it with infinite tenderness. "Is that enough now, my love, or must I repeat it endlessly to convince you?" he asked, amused.

You tilted your head slightly, pretending to think with great seriousness, while an ever-growing smile continued to light up your face. "Perhaps you could say it one or two more times."

He let out a quiet laugh, that warm sound that always melted your heart. Without needing to be asked twice, he went back to covering your face in small kisses, one after another, until you laughed even harder. Only when he saw your cheeks flushed and your eyes finally filled with happiness instead of tears did he pause, resting his forehead gently against yours. "I love you."

Perhaps, seen from the outside, that argument would have seemed foolish. Perhaps many would have smiled at fears born from nothing more than a forgotten goodbye. But for Jacaerys, nothing that concerned you was insignificant. If three words were enough to bring your smile back, then he would say them a thousand times a day without ever growing tired. If you needed to feel loved, he would always find a new way to show you, because his love knew neither measure nor pride.

You lowered your gaze, feeling warmth rise slowly to your cheeks. You tried, unsuccessfully, to hold back another small laugh. "I suppose I love you too." you muttered with feigned indifference.

[mareenaauditore]

Claimed in Ink

Dr. Brendon "The Shark" Park x Wifey! reader

Summary: Princess, Perlah, and Trinity gossip after hearing rumors from the Ortho floor about Park The Shark and some... tattoos? Warning: None... I think? Words: 1213 (Short one, sorry) Taglist: @my-whole-brain-is-crying @leksi-rae @chelle-1515 @minienix @mythologicallyversed @mxtokko @tears-of-acid-and-sluts @susp3ndedindusk @helenaellie @rei-scorpio @ivy-stuffs @dutch3-10 @catharticdesire @sidneysidney123 @fics-from-the-dead @eddiemunsonguitar @thedragonsrose @mynameisbaby9 @simply-lovley44 @dr3obsessed @mayabbot @bbblackmamba @harryswizzle @alphafemale-15 @rabbotseatcarrots @b38596012 @lipsunsmokedcigarette @pastlecow @kingtitus @stevieharrington71 @asfaraslifegets @noyaisasimp @loki-trickst3r @miahelen @xoxoloverb @brown-eyes-cello-and-books @seitmai @boricuas-fic-recs @outpostsworld @ohheyitssj @thedragonsrose @justanothersadperson93 @hcrm @vastscoutweapon @multifandom301 @travelingmypassion @carson1gg @mintoblobo @redhooduwu @twdhtgawm @annabethboleyn @ichibella @ramenblutte @happyendingarentreal @gardeniarose13 @jgoose13 @ilocuras24 @noxytopy @barnes70stark

Hello! I'm back, more or less, I feel a bit better. I know this is a short one and it's not much, but I needed to start gently. I hope you like it. Tell me what you thot in the comments.💜💜💜💜

The murmur in the Hub was the usual one for the late hours of the afternoon: a mix of monitor beeps, hurried footsteps, patient complaints, and the latest gossip of the day. You were typing quickly in the South 16 chart, focused on leaving everything spotless before the shift change, but your husband's name cut thru the air like a scalpel.

“Did you hear? Park the Shark has a tattoo” Princess said, leaning toward Perlah and Santos with a mischievous smile.

You stopped the movement of your fingers, but you didn't look up. You knew perfectly well which tattoo he was referring to; after all, it was your hands that were inked on the skin of his broad shoulders.

“Park?” Santos let out an incredulous laugh “But that man takes care of his body more than any of us. I highly doubt that's true. Where did you get that from?”

"One of the Ortho residents saw it in the locker room," Princess insisted in a whisper that echoed down the hallway. “He said they are fingerprints. Tattooed hands on his shoulders”

“Hands?” Perlah whistled, impressed “How... specific. I didn't imagine that from such a serious man. So we assume he's married? Because I don't think he would have tattooed the hands of a stranger.”

You felt a sudden warmth rise up your neck. "Yes, it is, and I'm less than two meters away from you, nosy," you thot with amusement. If they only knew what Brendon was like outside the hospital...

You finished the record and left the tablet next to the others, catching the group's attention.

“South 16 is already ready for the relay” you said in a steady tone, although inside you were dying of laughter.

“Honey, what do you think?” asked Princess “Do you think Park hides ink under his uniform? Or that he's married? I don't know if any woman would put up with his humor. It seems he enjoys biting”

“I don't get involved in those things, Princess. You know perfectly well. I will only say that he is an excellent surgeon, mood swings included” you replied with rehearsed neutrality “What he does with his skin or his private life is his business.”

You walked toward the locker room, feeling their curious gazes. Just then, the elevator doors opened and the imposing figure of your husband emerged. Brendon, impeccable in his surgical scrubs, with that severe and biting expression that had earned him his nickname.

You shared a single glance that said it all.

He didn't stop, but his blue eyes lingered on yours a second longer than professionally acceptable. You noticed how his jaw subtly tightened, a signal only you knew how to interpret: he was hiding a smile.

“Doctor L/N," he said with his deep voice as he passed by your side. It was just a brush of shoulders, but enough to make your skin crawl. Your husband knew perfectly well how to provoke you with the least effort.

“Doctor Park” you replied without your voice trembling.

You entered the locker room and leaned against the lockers, sighing before you started changing out of your uniform and into your street clothes. Barely two minutes later, the door opened. You didn't need to turn around; you would recognize the cadence of his steps anywhere. Brendon locked the bolt and crossed his arms, blocking the exit.

"So the rumor about your mark on my body has already spread, huh?" he said with that icy sharpness that terrified the residents. “I heard Princess as soon as I got off the elevator. Our "little secret" is starting to show cracks”

“I told you the residents have hawk eyes and that our colleagues are professional busybodies with a gambling problem” you teased, approaching him to gently tug at his stethoscope “Now everyone knows that the great Park the Shark has an owner. Does it bother you?”

Brendon took you by the waist, pulling you against him with a possessiveness that would have left the entire hospital speechless. His hands slid down to your hips as he sought your neck with his lips.

“It annoys me that they think it's just ink” he whispered against your skin, before biting you gently “I should tell them that these hands are real and that I have belonged to their owner for years.”

“Brendon, we're at work” you reproached weakly, although your fingers were already tangled in his neck.

“Then finish tidying up and let's go home” he growled with a dangerous urgency “Because if I have to endure another question from Santos about "my wife," I'm going to end up kissing you in front of everyone so they have something real to talk about.”

You let out a small laugh as he pressed you harder against the door, reminding you who was in control right now. You reluctantly pulled away, finishing closing your locker while he watched you with an intensity that made your legs weak. That look in his eyes promised a nite of passionate and unrestrained sex, good thing tomorrow was your day off.

You both left the locker room a couple of minutes apart. In the Hub, Princess and the others continued their bets on the "mysterious Mrs. Park," but when they saw Brendon pass by with his usual predatory stride, a deathly silence fell; Ahmad had the sense to quickly hide the bundle of betting money. Your husband didn't even look at them; he walked straight to the exit, but just before disappearing thru the automatic doors, he brought a hand to his shoulder and deliberately pulled aside the fabric, revealing part of the tattoo while giving you a fleeting glance full of promises.

Minutes later—after handing over to the nite shift—you found him in the parking lot, inside his BMW X-6 with the engine running. As soon as you closed the passenger door, Brendon didn't wait; he leaned over you, capturing your lips in a kiss filled with urgency, love, and all the words that couldn't be said in the halls of the PTMC.

"Tomorrow," he whispered against your lips, with breathless excitement and that fiery blue gaze he reserved just for you, "I plan to make the most of every minute of our day off to remind you why you married me and why I carry your hands etched on my skin, baby. You're not going to want to get out of bed.”

“I never want to get out of bed, Bren, not when I have you fucking naked next to me” you joked, leaning your head back against the seat “I love you, Big guy”

His hand moved from your cheek to squeeze your thigh with a silent possessiveness before starting the car.

“And I love you, my fucking beautiful, perfect, and intelligent wife”

You left behind the hospital, the mystery of the tattoo, and the "secret wife," while you sank into the leather seat, sighing with satisfaction. You touched your lower lip, still sensitive from his kiss, knowing that in your next shift Ahmad's bets and Princess's whispers at the Pitt would be the least of your worries; the truly interesting thing would be hiding the new marks Brendon planned to leave on you that nite and the next.

[cyber333angel]

Dex likes receiving when it comes to praise kink, sure. But when it’s him giving praise, I think I would combust and scream when he says “come on baby, bounce on it” SIR I NEED TO HOP ON THAT—

xoxo luv ur fics, they make me giggle before i sleep 😽💋

his hands just pulling you down harder and harder by your waist with every bounce you make, watching your face wince in pleasure so intensely. you’re clenching around his length feeling every pulsing vein of his in your hole, the stretch getting bigger the deeper you sit on him. “belly f-feels’full dex..” you whimper, grinding on his hips back and forth, his cock massaging your wet walls so well. and your attentive boyfriend is nodding along with you — a smile spreading in amusement. “i know baby, dick making you feel so good huh? can see it bulging in your tummy” he’s saying, applying hot kisses to your neck as if he was ravishing you. marking you up on your skin, you wouldn’t be surprised if there was marks in your belly too. if that was possible.

you feel so close to him with your tummy pressed to his chest, his thick bicep forcing your proximity and you could swear it was making him push deeper into your pussy. and you’re using him so well as you chase that special feeling that makes you unravel in his arms, crying as you sense him pounding up into you. “m’gonna cum!” you say arching your back, mind all fuzzy. your wetness pooling down on his cock, echoing the filthiest sounds in his lap, making dex rasps out a, “yeah? take what you need pretty girl, c’mon keep bouncing on it..such a good fuckin girl.” ughhh

[ifawnn]

dex laying down and jerking off in front of you while you sit in between his legs to get a good look. his strokes are hesitant and he's blushing and acting all shy. "faster baby, wanna see u get needy" the way you say it makes him try to hide his face because he's so shy, you slap his free hand away and smile innocently as if there isn't a throbbing cock in front of you .

[babybellabale]

HI BABES saw ur post w open requests and GAH GOTTA SHOOT MY SHOT I LOVE UR WORK SM

as much as i love ddba dex there’s just something thats so ughhh about s3/fbi!dex like his pathetic vibes are so endearing 2 Me… how about something ab his need for praise cuz i KNOW that man is desperate for it, even for the smallest things or actions (he probably won’t seek it out but will glance your way Just In Case &/being affectionate towards him bc we gotta give that poor man some love😭 GAH what do you think!!!! love u <3

more than enough (ben poindexter x reader)

dex needs you more than ever.

warnings?: kissing, praise kink, dex starved touch, comforting fbi dex after a bad day.

alright first off b*tch i love u!!! thnx for enjoying my works ugh im so so happy. yes 100% dex has a praise kink specifically fbi dex i mean cmon. im lwok swamped so i hope this isn’t tooooo short and satisfies your craving. more at end of post.

you don’t know how long he’s been sitting in the dark for, it was late and you just wanted to make sure the front door of dex’s apartment was locked.

“dex?” you called out softly. dex immediately stood up from the dining table, blinking harshly. “sorry- i didn’t mean to uh wake you.” he said quietly, his voice was lifeless as if he wasn’t here.

you walked up to him tightning the belt of your robe, “its fine i wasn’t asleep, just catching up on some reading” you smiled trying to ease up into his touch.

you grabbed onto his wrist and brought his hand to your chest, “dex, is everything okay?”

dex smirked, his undereyes were light red, his lips were red as if he nibbled on them. you could hear his heart beating.

“had a rough day at work” he lied, he didn’t tell you about fisk. about the lying and manipulation that took place. if he told you, he was sure you would leave him. and he could not bare that, no fucking way.

you swept the short strands of his hair away from his forehead, he melted into your palm. you were so soft with him, he didn’t deserve it.

“whatever is going on that you aren’t telling me..” you whispered hugging him. “i don’t care, you’re a good person, i love you dex. no matter what.”

ben felt his knees give out to him as he fell onto his couch, you kneeled in between his legs.

a year of dating dex, you knew what nights like these meant. whatever shit he had going on in his life didn’t matter as long as you were still in his life. so you whispered sweet nothings in his ear and you felt him fall apart in your arms.

“you’re doing good baby” you whispered folding the sleeves of his button up above his forearms. he intently watched your hands fold the white fabric.

somewhere along the process your robe loosened, revealing skin dex hadn’t touched or seen since yesterday.

you cupped his jaw in your hand, dex whimpered squeezing his eyes. something in you burned with pleasure seeing your big fbi boyfriend fall apart like that.

“my pretty boy.” your soft voice like a lullaby to him.

dex grabbed your neck and smashed his lips onto yours, he kissed you like his life depended on it. you moaned into the kiss, grabbing dex’s shoulders.

he scooped you into his arms, and slipped off your robe leaving you in just your underwear. he peered up at you with glassy eyes.

he tensely stared at you as he kissed across your collarbone. “good boy.” you cried softly.

dex groaned at your words, his lips traced down your chest. it was as if every kiss swept away the stress of work.

“oh dex.” you whined as dex kissed near your lips. “so good for me aren’t you?” you felt him nod against your shoulder.

“yes” he whispered against your ear.

dex felt the tension in his shoulders leave, he placed you next to him on the couch, you dropped your head on his shoulder. “…thank you- for uh” he tried to sound normal, as if he wasn’t on the verge of breaking down just by your touch and words.

you smiled and kissed over his covered shoulder, “i love you dex.”

dex smiled, a couple minutes later he picked you up and brought you to the bed. he watched you as you fell asleep, your hands still cupping his jaw.

———————————————————————————

idk if this is what you wanted queen 😓 i tried. i feel like im so bad at requests and dont do them justice 😭 im still learning.

[livfastdieyoung69]

flirty!reader lays her eyes on park the shark for the first time.

(part two!)

Now, you aren’t new to The Pitt. To the dayshift, maybe, but you have seen your fair share of the emergency room and its smoking hot doctors.

That’s one thing that had you looking forward to the day shifts you’d picked up for a pregnant nurse on maternity leave — getting to stare at all of the hot doctors (and nurses. Jesses a catch, not to mention Dana). You still miss your usual hotties of the night shift, though, especially now.

You sigh, leaning against The Hubs desk while you appreciate the three minutes of peace you’ll have for the day.

“What’s the matter, honey?” Dana, still flipping through a couple papers, asks from behind the counter.

“I miss my traumatized silver fox.” You frown, slumping further into your propped up hand. “I’m gonna have to pick up a night shift or something, I think i’m having withdrawals.”

Used to your bullshit, the woman smiles and shakes her head.

“You’ll be fine, sweetheart, just watch for Robby to put his glasses on.” She finally looks up from her papers to watch you perk up.

“Hm, good idea. God, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Hey — you busy? How many cut off feet have you preserved, think you could go show the newbie in Trauma 1?”

“I’ve yet to do a foot yet, somehow, but yeah, sure.” You push off the counter. “Can’t be that hard, huh?”

“Don’t jinx it!” She yells after your leaving form.

“Alright,” You enter the room to the sight of Dr.Langdon holding the talked of foot, clapping your hands. “Gimme that foot, stud,”

The new kids are smart, and very respectful, which is nice. Sometimes they think they’re already better than you because you’re ‘only’ a nurse and they’re on the way to becoming a full fledged doctor. They cling to every word you speak, and every question you give is answered correctly.

“OR is on the way.” Garcia slams the phone back into its slot.

“They say who?” Langdon asks. Garcia only glances at him, and looks back away. Langdon’s eyes close, and his head falls back with a quiet groan.

“What?” You ask, head swiveling between the two. “What’s the matter?”

Neither have the chance to answer before the doors open and in comes tall, dark, and handsome. You can’t help the way your eyes darken, or the smirk that overtakes your face as the towering man passes right by you, watching his broad back as his spitting tone cuts through the room.

You don’t hear a single word he’s saying, until he spins around to shift his glare at you.

“May I help you, handsome?”

“This was you?” He nods down to the patients bagged foot.

“Why yes it was.” You smile up at him.

“I don’t want any of these other fools touching any severed body part while you’re in this hospital, is that understandable?”

“Well, unfortunately, I am usually a creature of the night, but for the rest of my time on day shift, I will happily do that for you, hot stuff.” You wink, smile turning back into that wide grin, while he stares down at you for a second before turning back around to the rest of the room.

His stern tone starts back up, and the explanation of his plan for surgery sounds more like a command. He leaves quickly after, giving you one more barely noticeable glance.

“Who was that?” There’s a look of glimmering, absolute joy in your eyes that no one has ever had after that man leaves a room. The doctors don’t seem to notice your happiness, knees deep in work.

“That would be the Shark — Dr. Brendon Park the Shark,” Langdon tells you. “Best OR surgeon we got, but at what cost?”

“Huh,” You watch the doors, like the man will suddenly reappear. “Jaws has always been one of my favorite movies.”

Garcia glances up at you, squinting her eyes. “Were you not given enough attention as a child?”

“I’ll let you kids finish your fun in here,” You wave off, beginning to leave. “I gotta find me some shark bait.”

This might be even better than Robby in glasses.

[chiefdirector]

Bite Me | Brendon Park | The Pitt

Brendon Park did not get the nickname ‘Park the Shark’ from playing nice with others. An Orthopod through and through, one would be remiss in thinking Brendon was a gentle soul. At least not in the walls of the PTMC. Unless you happened to be a certain R4 in the Pitt; which, thankfully for you, you just so happen to be that R4 he is unusually sweet on.

At one point, the betting board had a corner dedicated to defining yours and Brendon's relationship. Robby, King, and Whitaker had $50 on you just being the person who pissed him off the least. Perlah, Santos, and Langdon had $30 on you being in a friends with benefits situation with the shark. Princess, Abbot, and Ahmed had another $30 on you having some blackmail on him. And there was one name at the bottom, which had later been covered in post-its from another bet, that had $100 on you being married to each other (that bet had suffered days of ridicule, “Seriously, who bet on the shark being hitched to her? Married? You just love losing money huh?”).

Eventually, the corner had mostly been overridden with new bets, but your coworkers never did let the topic die down.

“Seriously, how did you tame the shark?” Santos asked, as she sat down for the third time in an hour, once again attempting to catch up on her charts, “And can you get him to stop glaring at me every time he comes down for a consult.”

You laugh, “I don’t know what you mean, Trin. Park isn’t that bad, he is quite nice when you get to know him.”

“He hasn’t spoken to me in a month!”

Spinning around in your chair, you try and look serious, “Did you deserve it?”

“I mean… yeah, but still!” 

You spin back around to your own charting, “It can’t be that bad, have you tried just being nice to him first?” “No. That only works for you, because you’re so.. Sunshiney.”

“Sunshiney?” you laugh as you stand up, hearing Robby calling you from South 15. “Anyway, if you focus more on your work rather than on Park, then maybe you wouldn’t be so behind on charting.”

Santos waves her hand at you as you walk away, “Yeah, yeah, whatever”

Still laughing, you barely notice the gurney coming your way, or the fact that the paramedic moving it doesn't notice you either. Not until it comes crashing into you at full force. Subsequently, as you crumpled down to the floor, the string of expletives you let out were definitely not becoming for a doctor.

“Oh you motherfu-”

The paramedic, only then looking up from their phone, “Oh shit, are you okay?” They said as they reached down to help you help. For once, you were actually grateful for someone new to be in your space, as they hooked their arms around you and tried to hoist you back up.

Unfortunately, that meant all the weight went back onto your ankle, which you realised was sitting at a very unnatural angle. Despite it not breaking the skin, (which you are very thankful for) You could see how the bone was sitting wrong, and the quickly forming purple bruising is just a cherry on top.

“Do I look-” You start, before collecting yourself, “No I am not, look can you get me back into that chair there.”

You had been pointing to the chair you had just occupied before Santos had appeared in front of you, quickly changing your weight to be leaning on her instead of the paramedic (who had taken to just standing around with their mouth gaping. Seriously, how is this the person who is called out in emergencies?)

Finally, with someone competent, you are moved to a free bed in North 4. And before you know it you had at least three doctors and one med student all around you. It was strange, being on this side of the ER.

“What happened here?” Robby asked, pulling on his gloves as he swarmed the room, "Weren't you meant to be helping me in South 15?”

You pointed at your very bruised and crooked ankle which was being poked by Whitaker “I was until Dopey crashed their gurney into me and turned my ankle into a third grader’s art project.”

“Dopey?”

“Paramedic” You pointed to the other side of the glass, where he was still playing on his phone. “Can you just give me some tylenol so I can get back to work.”

“Nope. This needs an Ortho consult, Santos, call Park down here. Tell him it’s urgent" Robby smiled, trying to be friendly. As he turned back to you, you realised the smile was all from pure happiness. “You know, you’re not as nice as you usually are today.”

“Try having your ankle rearranged by a moving pile of metal, Robinavitch.”

“Bite me.”

Just as Robby turned to reply with even more snark, the curtain was drawn back quickly, revealing a frantic looking Dr. Park. “What happened? What did you do?”

“Why’d you assume it's me?” You say, trying to deflect some of the attention on you away. Being the centre of attention has never been your strong suit.

Brendon just pointed at your ankle as he moved around the bed to assess it. After what seemed like forever (read two minutes), he finally lowered your ankle softly down onto the bed. “Bruised, badly. But you’ll live. Now are you going to tell me what happened baby?”

You could feel the ER freeze up outside of your room at Brendon's name. You had spent years trying to hide your relationship from your coworkers, and up until now you had been doing a pretty good job. Although Brendon never seemed to be a fan in playing along.

“I fought a gurney, and lost.”

“That was clever.”

“Thank you,” you tried to smile at him, but god did your ankle hurt. Almost as if he had read your mind, he passed Whitaker an order for Morphine for you. “Stay with me?”

Brendon shifted you slightly, so he could climb into the bed and pull you into him. “Of course I will, and when the med student comes back with your prescription, I’ll take you home.”

“You know, this is all they’ll talk about for like a month solid.”

“Let them know that you're my wife. It’ll stop the interns from flirting with you.” He said in a suspiciously loud tone. Waiting a moment, he then pressed a kiss into your hair, trying to block your view of Ahmed dejectedly getting out the winnings from the betting pool. “And it’ll stop that stupid betting pool.”

“You could’ve asked them to stop, you know, they’re pretty scared of you.”

“I could have.. Although then I couldn't have placed the bet of us being married.” With that, he gave you one more kiss before standing. “I’m going to collect my winnings, I'll be back baby. Don’t move.”

Sighing, you throw your head back onto the pillow, trying to muster up the energy to be mad at him. But you couldn't because you knew what type of man he was when you married him. Well that, and the fact you know you would manage to get at least half of those winnings off Brendon before the end of the day.

masterlist

@fluentmoviequoter

im so back baby! Lemme know if you want to be tagged in more PITT content

[1nsignia]

18+ mdni, bruce wayne

—————————————————————————

lol my entire blog got flagged mature labeled so lets talk about bruce wayne 

i mean bruce wayne, the same man who couldn’t keep his eyes off you outside the yacht— more specifically, the bikini you were wearing. and who could blame him? you looked ravishing in it, the color complementing your skin tone and your body glowing under the sun.

it didn’t matter how beautiful the scenery was or how blue and clear the ocean was; no view could ever compare to the one bruce had— you, on top of him with lips on his and hands running on his toned and scarred chest

yes, on a chair and still on the outer deck of the yacht, mind you

one hand left your hip to slide in the bottom part of your bikini, only to slowly trace your wet cunt with his middle finger. you moaned on his lips, feeling your arousal drip in his touch 

“look at her” bruce whispered. if your mind wasn’t clouded, you would have heard the slight teasing in his voice. “already so eager”

his lips trailed down, tasting the salty remains of the ocean on your soft skin and using his teeth to pull down your top for more. it pulled out a breathless sigh from you, nudging your cunt more to his touch as a way of asking for more

but your actions would soon be answered the moment bruce’s mouth latched onto one of your boobs, his warm tongue circling and lapping on your hard nipples while his mouth sucked and got to work— all while his finger left for his hand to push the hem of your bikini aside for your throbbing cunt to be revealed

you pulled down bruce’s swim-shorts just enough for his cock to be revealed, its length hard and tip flushed. the fact that he already had a painful boner just from you in a bikini set was almost pathetic

he let out a muffled groan on your boob, the tip rubbing on your aching core sending sensations to both you and him. it wasn’t until bruce lined himself up and slowly inserted himself in that your touch almost trembled you moaned, knocking your head back with your lips slightly parted and back arched for more. but bruce took his mouth off your boob, his hand leaving your hips to bury itself in your wet hair and gently tilt your head down to meet his gaze— blue eyes narrowed with desire 

“eyes on me, sweetheart” he murmured, shifting his other hand so his thumb could push your bikini away while his palm was rested on your hip. “let me see you” bruce continued to push more of his length in you, hearing your soft sounds leave you as he continued to coo more. “thaaat’s it, always takin’ me so well.” 

he could never get enough of the way your pussy was always so warm, so tight despite it not being your first time with him, so inviting for him and only him. it was a drug so insatiable bruce couldn’t help but want more

the more you took him, the more your walls kept fluttering around his cock to adjust to his size. bruce had to groan and claim your lips with a hungry, passionate kiss to hold back a hiss. 

and if you think that wasn’t enough, just wait till you hear the words that come out of his mouth when he begins to drag his cock in you— deep and heavy in the type of way that had your back arching and your mouth gasping for more “fuuuck, just like that. keep suckin’ me in, baby” “god, you’re absolutely stunning”

“love this set on you so much, so—" thrust. “fucking” thrust. “much” thrust.

and when bruce finally had enough of pushing the fabric away and wanted both of his hands on your skin, he ripped your bikini bottom, not even thinking or even caring about the string tied on your hips he could have easily untied 

you gasped on his lips from the sound of fabric tearing, feeling both of his hands grip tightly on your hips and immediately speeding up the pace, the tip hitting that sweet spot vigorously “i’ll buy you another set” bruce promised on your lips with another thrust, more and more intense than the other. “fuck— make it the whole store” he groaned. “wanna see you model the whole collection”

now that’s what i call a hot girl summer. 

—————————————————————————

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©1nsignia— please do not steal, repost or reuse my work

[my-love-all-mine]

ᯓ Period comfort

Jason Todd x reader

summary: Jason comforts you while you’re on your period

warnings: mentions of menstruation & cramps, pet names (doll & princess), kinda short, ooc?

a/n: I’m sorry if this is bad I can’t think straight right now😭

I’m dying

Were the last words you had texted Jason today.

He tried calling you multiple times, yet had no luck in getting a response.

The sound of his motorbike engine filled the empty streets of Gotham, as Jason sped over to your apartment with worry.

Did something happen to you? Did someone do something? Did you hurt yourself?

He tried calming himself, arriving at your apartment.

No, panicking won’t solve anything. He’s gotta keep his composure.

Jason ran up the stairs without breaking a sweat, losing it once he arrived at your door and knocking on it like a maniac.

One could practically hear his heartbeat increasing when you wouldn’t answer. Thankfully, he remembered the spare key he always kept in his jacket pocket you gave him.

He barged into the apartment, almost knocking the door down in the process and looked around in distress.

“Doll? You here?”

The oddly shaped lump on your couch seemed to react at the sudden intrusion, your hands wrapping around the top and pullling it down. The moment you revealed yourself, was the moment Jason let out the biggest exhale ever.

He threw himself toward you, immediately smothering you with his arms.

“I was so worried [name], why the fuck would you tell me you’re dying.”

He spoke, voice slightly wobbly.

“Because I am dying.” You mumbled.

Jason let you go from his grasp, staring at you with wide eyes as he went on to twist and turn you, examining for an injury.

“What happened? Are you okay? Do we need to-”

You groaned dramatically and threw your hands around his neck.

“I’m not okay! My cramps are killing me, and I have a headache, and I’m tired, and I’m hungry! And I missed you!”

He finally let his shoulders release some tension once he understood the real reason for your despair.

He quickly put a hand on the back of your head, gently patting your hair.

“Oh, baby, that’s why you texted me that? I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. Jesus…you really scared me.” He breathed in.

“Need me to do something?”

You looked up at him, pouting as you whispered, “Can you make me a sandwich? And… get me some chocolate?”

He nodded at every word you said. “Of course pretty. Yes.”

Jason carefully let you lie back down, pulling up the blanket for the top of it to rest just under your chin.

The next few minutes were a blur. Your abdomen was killing you, making you whine and grunt at every cramp. The only thing you could make out in the room right now was the faint sound of Jason clinking together dishes in the kitchen.

After a few more minutes of absolute hell, you felt a hand tap on your side. Jason stood there, tray in hand, looking at your disheveled form.

He quietly sat down, laying the tray down into the coffee table as he took something off from it and guided it to your stomach.

You furrowed your brows before you felt a heating pad against your bare skin, immediately relaxing against the sensation.

“Better?” He asked. You opened your eyes to look at him and silently hummed.

Then, he went on to slowly feed you the sandwich he made for you, which you finished in a blink of an eye.

Jason started at you in awe. “Want some chocolate now?” He smiled.

You didn’t answer, just crawled over into his lap and layed your head down onto his shoulder.

He shushed you as one of his hands went to your back to gently caress you up and down.

“I’m glad you’re here.” You whispered.

He hummed as he lowered his head to peck at your shoulder, reaching behind him to grab the bar of chocolate you asked from him earlier.

He slid the bar between you, grinning softly at your confused face before you snatched it out of his hand.

“You’re annoying Jay.” You huffed while opening the wrapper and stuffing your mouth full of the chocolate.

He scoffed, “What? I thought you missed me doll.”

“Don’t push my buttons Jason.” You said sternly, squinting your eyes at him.

“Sorry princess.” Jason kissed you tenderly right above your cheekbone, wrapping his big arms around you in the process.

He brought you both down onto the couch, letting you nuzzle into him as you felt the tension in your body slowly leave you.

“Can always tell me anything you need to doll, remember that.”

He kissed the top of your head as you felt yourself drift off to slumber.

Ty for reading! Reblogs & comments are very appreciated<33

a/n: unrealistic because when a man tries to talk to me during my period I want to stab him </3

taglist: @starl1ghtgr4yson

[innorality]

aliendick!clark and pavlov conditioning

summary// you ended up realizing that making clark your lab rat would simultaneously be the best and worst decision of your relationship.

content warning// conditioning, mating press, doggy style, nasty filthy sex, creampie, clark is feral, clark has an alien dick, clark swears, improper use of x-ray vision, kryptonian breeding kink, squirting, clark is pathetic

2k words whew

with clark kent fucking you like that, you don’t think you’re making it out alive.

well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.

.

on monday, on the evening, you decided that you could begin your sick little experiment of conditioning on clark. after reading an article about it online, you wanted your alien boyfriend to be your lab-rat for it, and saw no apparent downsides to the experiment, so you went on with it.

starting with the trigger, you decided for it to be a duck emoji. weird enough for clark to be confused, not too weird for it to have him worrying like the sweetheart he is. ten minutes before you arrived home after work, you had sent him a singular duck emoji with no context or follow-up to it, which, as expected, had your poor clarkie as confused as ever. you smiled when he immediately texted back with ‘???’—success. as soon as you arrived home, you barely let him finish his questioning before pouncing on him, interrupting his sentence with a kiss he welcomed with open arms.

that night, you rode the man to the moon and back—gave him such mind-numbing pleasure that he couldn’t even bother to remember his previous confusion about the duck emoji.

and so, with the first day being a success, you repeated the process.

every day following that one, you would do the same thing—no texts or news all day, a duck emoji ten minutes before coming home, mind-blowing sex.

after a few days of repeating the process, you began to space out these encounters, opting to send the duck emoji every two to three days—a great way to keep the man on his toes, anticipating, waiting for the next time you'd send him that emoji.

then came the most awaited experiment—your greatest mistake.

it was on a friday night that you had decided tonight was the night. you had sent clark the usual duck emoji, smirking as he had immediately seen the text. however, when you arrived home, it wasn't like usual. usually, upon sending the emoji, you'd pounce on him and drag him to the bedroom. tonight, however? radio silence. well, not quite, but that's it felt to clark. you didn't give him those bedroom eyes you usually did on nights you were feeling particularly needy, you insisted on taking a shower all by yourself (he almost crumbled at that) and after dinner, you lounged on the couch to watch a tv show without even asking him to follow you! you just did!

the thing about clark kent is, he's a gentleman through and through. his ma had raised him to be one, and for christ's sake, he was superman! how could he not be a gentleman? but, he sympathizes with himself, you can't spell gentlemna without man, and clark was a man before he was anything else. a very aroused and hopelssly in love man, at that.

he stands awkwardly in the doorway of the living room, staring at you. you noticed, of course, but this wasn't unusual. clark has always had sort of weird quirks—you had always found them endearing. "is something the matter, honey?" your sirupy voice cut through his stream of thought, and suddenly his eyes focus again, gaze meeting yours.

clark has his phone in hand, and he brings it up to look back at the duck emoji you had sent. duck meant sex. you wanted this. he can indulge. you want this.

he knows you do. you sent the text, and he feels like he can almost smell your arousal and it's driving him fucking insane because he just wants to dive in it and taste it and fuck you everywhere so the entire place smells like you and-

in the blink of an eye, his phone is abandonned and he's on you, lips smashed against yours. you barely have the time to react but you do, arms now hanging around his thick neck. his hand latches itself onto your cheeks, fingers pressing into both of them, urging you to open your mouth. as soon as you do, his tongue, which was inhumanely long, snaked into your cavern, exploring its depths. he moaned at the taste of your saliva, almost melting into you as if the flavor of you was his ultimate salvation.

noticing the lack of air filling your lungs, he pulled away, his eyes softening at the sight of you catching your breath. "c-clark... what's... whta's gotten into you?" you licked your lips, face flushed. he looks at you like a puppy begging for its treat. "the emoji... you sent the emoji but you didn't... i thought..." his mind is a rush, moving at a thousand miles per hour as his entire body is begging him to rip your clothes off and take you.

he gives up, his head falling into the crook of your neck. "i just... i really need to fuck you, sweetheart." and as he's confessing this, his hand is gliding towards the waistband of your bottoms, sliding swiftly underneath it.

you think you could ascend.

you bite your lip, rendered mute at the sheer tension of the moment. "i know you want it, baby..." he scoffs, eyes closed. "can smell it."

curse him for being such a dangerously hot and multi-abled alien.

his hand makes its way underneath your panties, finger running through your slit, collecting the slick you've been trying to keep to yourself for the past hour. "ah..." you let out a low sound, almost imperceptible but clark was so hyper-focused on you that the little moan made him shudder.

he uses his forearm to push himself upwards, his hand escaping your bottoms to rush up to his mouth, and when you look at him, you gasp, feeling your walls clench.

because clark has never looked this feral.

his eyes were half-lidded and impossibly dark, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows your juices, eyes nearly rolling back at the taste. he moans, his cock twitching and growing inside his sweatpants.

"you're gonna give it t'me, right sweetie?" he asks in that low, sultry voice that he only allows himself to use when he'd rather die than not touch you.

the eager nod you gave him marked the moment you knew you were done for.

.

how long has it been? you don't know. you don't know anything, actually. your brain is fogged with how clark was pounding you into the fuzzy carpet, your eyes crossing when the buds running along his dick grazed against the ridges of your walls, the added sensation making you spasm. "f-ffuck-! clark- oh my god, ohmygod—" you can barely form a sentence, let alone link two words together when he knocks at your cervix, your tits bouncing in rhythm with every thrust.

and clark isn't even listening to you, his eyes laser-focused on the sight of his cock splitting you open repeatedly, a vein bulging on his forehead at his intense use of his x-ray vision. "look at that, b-baby... look..." and you don't even bother, too lost in the ecstasy. he sees it all though, the strings of your arousal clinging to his tip every time he pulls away, the ridged of your pussy hooking onto his buds, the contractions of your muscles.

he finally manages to pull his eyes away from the sight, only to be met with the even prettier, albeit messier sight of your fucked out face. tears and drool glossed your skin, your eyes rolled back nearly to the back of your skull, throwing your head back when clark's hips stutter against yours, a white-hot wave washing over him over the sight.

he stilled when his buds hardened and hooked onto your walls, pulling him impossibly deep as he shoots buckets worth of cum deep into your womb. "a-ah! holy sh- hmm, fffuck, baby- i- fuck!" he sobs, jerking down towards you and you moan at the feeling of him filling you up once more, droplets of his sweat dripping onto your buzzing skin.

despite his orgasm, he doesn't stop, "n-need m-moree- needa fill you up-! ah, fuck!" his voice jumps up an octave when his buds finally relax again, allowing him to keep pistoning into you. "d-don't stop, clark! please dont- oh-!" he suddenly grabs your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders before beeending down, succesfully folding you in half. his face is now slotted right in front of yours, and the eye contact is so intense you almost feel shy under his gaze.

a mating press. clark kent had you in a fucking mating press.

you get lost in his ocean blue eyes, barely able to keep the eye conatct when he fucks you almost like he hated you, digging in your pussy. "you're... you're so beautiful, honey... so fucking pretty- all f'me, yeah? all f'me?" you nod, hands pressing against the back of his head to bring him impossiby closer to you, "all for you, clarkie," you confirmed being hastily pressing his against you, imprisoning him in a feverish kiss. clark moans into your mouth, eyes closing. you jolt slightly when you feel a tear drip down on your cheek, peeling your eyes open to see clark crying.

he pulls away, gasping for air as his throat restricts. "i l-love you, love you s'much— need you so, ngh, so bad... wanna breed ya'..." he sobs, whimpering for you. seeing clark become such a slave to his love for you had an inescapable effect on you, and your orgasm was almost immediate. you came with a gasp, the pleasure being so heavy that your eyes had given up on their function, unfocusing and leaving you with the blurry image of clark's flushed expression. your back arched as cream dribbled out of your hole, creating a white ring around clark's base.

in the midst of your orgasm, he pulls out, making you whine for the few seconds your face isn't smushed against the carpet because in a matter of moments, your world tilted before you found yourself face down ass up for your boyfriend. he pressed a hand on your back, urging a deeper arch. "m'sorry baby, m'so sorry..." he apologizes for the his unceremonial behavior but his apologies fall on deaf ears as you couldn't be happier.

your hands clutch the fluff of the carpet when he slams back into you, kneading the flesh of your ass. "just... just need this. s'your fault for making me wait... so long.. to have you- ngh, gosh..." he's hypnotized by the rippling of your ass, and the way your back bends impossibly for a second each time he rams back inside you, pressing you further into the carpet.

with clark kent fucking you like that, you really don’t think you’re making it out alive.

well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.

your moans are rhythmic, matching the pace of his hips. leaning in, he wraps an arm around you to squeeze your tits, massaging them and rubbing your hardened nipples. "so obedient..." his comment makes your walls flutter around his fat cock. he begins to roll his hips, not quite thrusting. he presses against you, making you drool. "nghhh... fffuuuck... love you... so much.. c-clark-!" you slurred, going crazy at the sensation of his buds hardening slowly again, hooking onto your insides.

"w-want your cum-! want you to b-breed me!" you egged him on, "yeah? y'want it, baby? oh gosh, i'm cumming, m'cummingm'cumming-" he gritted, spilling into you once more. "oh my god! oh god, sweetheart!" he whined, your name escaping him as his hips bucked again, releasing rope upon rope inside you. his orgasm triggered yours, drops of your release trickled down onto the carpet before his hand snaked down to your clit, rubbing furiously and suddenly an intense stream released itself onto the now soaked carpet, the intensity of both of your orgasms making the two of you collaspe in a heap.

he layed on top of you, both of you catching your breaths. "i feel so... sticky." he remarked, "shit... i ruined the carpet." you groaned, knitting your eyebrows together.

a silence settled in, before you broke it. "i'm glad my experiment worked." a beat passes before he reacts, "experiment?"

"i tried conditioning you into associating sex with the duck emoji. it worked."

clarks hums, choosing not to react any further.

a few days later, minutes after the end of your shift, you receive a text from clark.

a duck emoji.

taglist : @mina-do-malik, @chroniclesofdyingmen, @onlyblackorpheus, @lanavelvetgoldmine, @kaerimango